I rate Zagreb.  It is, without doubt,  one of the cleanest cities I have ever visited.   There is a friendliness to the people that is almost universal.  Plus Croatian words are so ridiculously difficult to pronounce that you don’t feel obliged to even attempt learning anything more than the most basic terms (The word for Square is ‘trg’  I only come close to getting it right if I have a mouthful of food and try to make bird noises)

As a city/culture there are a few obvious gaps. There is no such thing as a breakfast menu – that meal is almost always eaten at home by Croats. Supermarkets don’t exist (a good thing)  but it is difficult to buy bits and pieces (glue for example) . People are encouraged to smoke near any Australian they see, and they do.  (Smoking is the national past time –  even the Three Wise Men at the nativity play outside the cathedral were having a quick smoke before they took their gifts into the stable. I guess you need a smoke after following that star all the way to Croatia. Particularly if they flew in with Air Serbia )  Coffee shops don’t sell any food at all,  just coffee. The coffee however has been fantastic.

We have been each morning to Eli’s. The owner has won a number of international barista competitions and he is a perfectionist. This morning one of his customers was pouring champagne or pear brandy for everyone and handing out pieces of cheese. Because you can.

The food markets are probably even better than the IGA in Rosewood,  which obviously gives you an idea of the quality!  Even if breakfast is a non-event, we have certainly eaten well in the latter part of the day.   We spent the day today getting the ingredients for Christmas lunch – pork fillets with an orange sauce,  baked vegetables and a pear dessert to follow.

Anyway time to cook dinner – a stew made with pjrzcij ,  csztnija,  dbrvnkija,  and vino.   Should be good.

  Hey Nat and Mitch,

Schrödinger walks into a bar and asks, ‘Has anyone seen my cat?’
The bartender says,  ‘I had a look. It’s dead.’

(Just imagine kids,  if you became disciples this fine humour would appear as if by magic every time I post a blog.   How good would that be?l

)

Bloggers gauge their success by the number of followers.
In just two years of blogging I have already passed the three followers mark. 😄
I was hoping for 12 disciples by year’s end- this is the season of miracles after all……

(Mind you, neither of my children are followers. Is that the cock I just heard crowing Ms and Master Judas-Evans?
In an attempt to get you to follow I’ll even give you both another nerd joke:

A Freudian slip is when you say one thing but mean your mother)

I don’t know if any of my four disciples have ever flown Air Serbia.  I suspect not.  It tends to be an experience that is shared by retelling, perhaps as a means to afford healing, so I would have heard. The flight to Belgrade from Rome was with Air Italia; smooth, efficient, great service -just as you would expect from a major airline. It didn’t quite ready us for the next leg.

Linda and I were amongst the first commercial passengers to fly Belgrade to Zagreb as the route had only just been opened.  The last planes to navigate their way from Belgrade to Zagreb were Mig fighter jets and Serbian bombers.  In the war of the ’90s approximately 25% of the Zagreb economy and infrastructure was destroyed by Serbs and their allies.  The war only finished when Croatia launched the biggest ground offensive in Europe since the fall of Berlin and took back all its territory, thereby forcing an end to hostilities. Croatia launched itself into the EU, prosecuted most of its war criminals and zoomed ahead, Serbia sulked and stagnated.

The plane we were on predated that conflict.  People had carved graffiti into the wooden seats (Sjlobidan loves Krsnina I’m guessing.) The hostie told everyone to stack their baggage in the overhead lockers – this would have worked if your entire baggage consisted of just a wallet and a handkerchief.  She then suggested putting it under the seat in front of you as she had heard that was what some airlines allow.  No chance of anything fitting there.  “Can you squeeze it down near that space where you legs might just fit when there’s no luggage?”. Nope.  ‘Perhaps nurse it or leave it in the aisle,’ was her final suggestion.

She and the male purser didn’t have much time to organise the cabin as a fight had broken out behind us and they felt obliged to help sort it out.  The fight was made more vicious as it was between father and daughter.  They were screaming at each other over who got the aisle seat and who’d had to have luggage where their legs were meant to go.

I could sense the male purser’s frustration.  He’d done everything needed to make it into the airline business as part of the cabin crew on an international airline.  He could speak a number of languages including English.  He’d done well at school and done well at the training college. He took enormous care with his uniform, always having matching accessories. And he cared deeply about his bodily hygiene.   Despite all this he ends up on Air Serbia flying back and forth between Belgrade and Zageb on a plane that should have lost its airworthiness certificate in 1979. In his heart of hearts he knew his Mother was right.  There is no future in air travel in Serbia,  a young man is better off becoming a bus driver.  Or a pig farmer like his father.

As my friend Remmington would say – ‘Life can be funny like that sometimes’

Better let you go Farquar
Ross of the Balkans

The problem with attempting to speak Croatian to the locals is that the whole language was invented in 1256 by some bloke with a really shit scrabble set.  King Krjckic (Croatian for Peter) lost most of the decent consonants and quite a few vowels over the years but made up a new language anyway with what he had left. Impossible.
Thankfully smiles and laughter seem to be a language that is universal – with the possible exception of Hungarians and US Border Control.

Apart from language difficulties we are just loving the locals and the chance to spend some time exploring this place .

Ross

Mitch – promised a joke just for you if you become a disciple:

Schroedinger’s cat walked into a bar and didn’t.

There are parking suggestions rather than parking rules.

Vespas rule.

Even Ferraris get stuck in traffic

Even homeless people have dogs

Ross knows not to go near a set of scales.

We arrived safely – the trip was a bit boring really. Boredom becomes excitement as soon as the plane lands.
(I do think Myrl was Italian – there must be some genetic reason for me loving Italy this much.)
Ross

 

 

 

Waiting to board my Emirates flight to Dubai….. When I sent out the details of my flight on #illridewithyou I didn’t quite expect this many women in hajibs to turn up in response to my offer. Even some who look like they work as hosties!  Still if it is my protection they need, then as a Man of Empire…..

Seriously though, Linda and I were overseas during the Cronulla riots in 2005. We were both ashamed to know that we were citizens of a country that had spawned this hatred. The number of times I’ve been tearful reading #illridewithyou posts restores my faith in Australians. Heading overseas it is a completely different feeling to that of 2005.

There are plenty of others in history who have refused to bow to terror.  King Christian X gets all the credit for riding around Copenhagen wearing the yellow star during the Nazi occupation – his 1943 version of #illridewithyou. Although wearing the Star of David or the yellow J was something he would definitely have done if asked – he never actually did those things, the story is an urban myth. He did show Danes by his daily ride without bodyguards that, despite the Nazi invasion, none of their values had changed.

What did happen throughout Denmark though is just as heartening. For the historians or for those who are looking for acts of courage look up the story of Georg Duckwitz.  Ordinary Danes stepped up in a big way. Out of more than 6000 Jews in Copenhagen the Nazis only found 202 on the night of the big roundup in 1943. German-born Georg was the hero, along with the neighbours and friends of Jewish families. King Christian X set the example – not through the mythical wearing of the Star of David but though his many other acts of resistance to the Nazi terror. Georg and others followed their King’s lead.

It is possible to fight fear through kind acts. The Danes -including Georg Duckwitz, – and Aussies Rachael Jacobs and @sirtessa have shown us how it’s done. My heroes.

Better let you go Farquar

For a number of years Linda and I travelled to and from Europe with a stopover in Hong Kong.  Apart from the incredible food, one of the attractions of that city is a wonderful tailor.  Jim’s Tailor Workshop is owned by a bespoke tailor who is always highly recommended by the expat community.  The workers he employs all proudly wear the red prancing horse badge on their left lapel – given only to master craftsmen. The cloth is the best in the world – fine Italian wool, heavier British or German cloths, Egyptian cotton, Japanese silks, and their garments are always reasonably priced, especially given the quality of each piece .  We went a number of times to have the some of my favourite items of clothing sewn – suits, shirts, trousers.   Yet still I always found it awful to enter that shop because of one man. Henry.

Henry works front of house and is responsible for all measurements. I don’t think he has Aspergers, it is unlikely that he has been injected with truth serum or has been hypnotised – the brutality of his language probably arises from English being just one of the many languages he speaks apart from his native dialect.  But in any case he lacks anything even remotely similar to the kindness of subtlety.

Linda would always get the same response from Henry when being measured – “Miss Linda, hip same as last time.” or “Miss Linda – stomach same as last time.”  Then it would be my turn.

Henry would take out his tape and start to make funny clicking sounds as he measured various body parts.  He would look at his notes, sip tea or pick at some noodles, measure again then make huffing sounds and write down some mandarin characters.  After that the comments would start:

‘Your neck still very fat’
Polite embarrassed smile from Rossco.

“Your chest same as last time – but more fat under arms now.” 
‘Yep, thanks for that Henry’

” You so short  – but your stomach very fat”
  “That’s quite enough thanks Henry”

“You have skinny hip, no muscle, but big, fat stomach. ‘
“Be quiet now Henry!

‘You have bandy legs – probably from big fat stomach – hehehe’ 
‘WHY DON’T YOU JUST SHUT YOUR STUPID GOB HENRY!!!”

I would always leave Jim’s Custom Tailors carrying beautiful hand sewn clothing but feeling like a sideshow freak. Linda would leave giggling and with a knowing smile,  Henry would be left making those clicking and huffing sounds as he wrote the new measurements on my file.  The whole process would have to be repeated 3 days later with the canvas patten, then 4 weeks later again with the finished product.  And always the same observations about my body from Hong Kong’s Mr Diplomacy – Henry and his bloody tape measure.

I love Hong Kong.  I love the food, I love the clothes I love the Harbour  – but my God,  I hate Henry with passion.

Sort of pleased we’re going to Europe via Dubai this time – just for my own healing, but still very fragile ego.

Ross

Our son Mitchell is travelling by himself through India as we (don’t actually) speak.  Being a true Cunnington-Smythe he too has the travel bug.

It was pointed out by Lady Cunnington-Smythe that Mitchell is almost my exact doppelgänger – Farley Jr. indeed!!!!

A wager – 1 rupee for anyone who can tell us apart in these photographs…………….

The Balkans

It’s not toooooo long now until Linda and I head off to the Balkans and three cities we have never previously visited – Zagreb, Ljubljiana, and Venice.  I don’t know how Venice has been missed from previous itineraries. We have been to Italy about half a dozen times and missed the Grand Canal.  Very careless.

I know why Ljubljiana has been missed – probably because it’s very difficult to spell. This makes it hard for airline pilots to enter into their autopilot – particularly those who do not speak Slovenian.  Plus Slovenia itself is very small (I know blokes from Rosewood who could mow Slovenia.)

Zagreb has been off the radar because until relatively recently it was still being shot at.  But Venice?

Anyway – here’s a link to the itinerary:

https://www.tripit.com/p/ECECA52AD36A19C09E01700DB357DC16

I went yesterday to an outer suburb in search of a charger for my speakers.  Waiting for the bus home  I chatted to (where I just wrote ‘chatted to’,  read signed at, laughed with and did charades for) a group of women at the bus stop who were going into the Florence city centre to visit their bambini or to do shopping.  Then I stepped onto a bus.

If you have been to Italy you understand two things, the uniforms of officials are impressive and the rules around transport are stupid.  As soon as I stepped on the bus man dressed in a VERY striking uniform came up to me – I thought to sell a ticket, he thought to fine me 50 Euros for not having a ticket.  He wanted my passport – it was in the apartment.  He wanted 50 Euros cash, I didn’t have 50 Euros cash.  I was happy to get off the bus as it hadn’t even left the stop, he wanted to hit someone because he was in a uniform and wasn’t getting what he wanted.  Then the Number 56 Bus Ladies made their move.

The woman who I initially asked for directions started yelling at the conductor, her friends joined in and soon the whole 56th Bus Battalion swung into action.  In the end an old lady gave me one of her tickets and stamped it for me, cursing the official with what were apparently good, ribald Tuscan insults  causing great laughter (what is Italian for ‘big hat, small ????).  Finally the inspector retreated in disgust at the next stop and I got escorted by some feisty, old, laughing women back into the city.

Although I have been considering hiring a push-bike to travel around, what I would really love is to a hire scooter.  It would be much better than walking or catching buses. And I can picture myself riding a scooter through the streets of Firenze.  Sadly Linda can also picture me riding a scooter through the streets of Florence, however the image she gets is vastly different to mine.  It won’t happen. (If I did  hire a scooter I think the legal term is ‘irreconciliable differences’).  So for now it is shank’s pony or the bus.  And as I travel around Florence I can ponder how much different recent European history may have been if Mussolini had enlisted feisty Ladies Bus Battalions instead of relying on his Italian men in those wonderful uniforms.  Makes you wonder.

Ross