Synopsis: A tale of two New Year’s Eves.
Characters: Two of the usual suspects – Prague and St. Petersburg.

Two evenings, both alike in indignity,
In the life of Bettina (where we lay our scene),
From juniper gin breaks out the new revelry,
Where Borovička and beer made usually civil hands unclean.
Hourly from forth the morning hour of ten,
This star-cross’d pair took her life;
Come evening, piteous misadventure began,
With Coke bottle-mounted firework strife.
Children launched their arsenal from the snow,
Ran away as it toppled, shooting across the frost
In a Žižkov park – far above the city below.
Something, something about spectacular fireworks over Karlùv most…

Darn! I’ve lost any sort of rhythm. You’d think that anyone could be a poet with a master like Shakespeare providing the template, but I’ve disproved that in a grand fashion!

Like a dud firework, that was a fizzer…

An eye-opening New Year’s Eve was had in Prague – perhaps more so than St. Petersburg – because in Prague it was freezing cold, but not too cold, so it was possible to be outside to witness the anarchic chaos of the firework hazard in the hilltop park, whilst watching the official show over the Karlùv most (the famed Vltava-crossing Charles Bridge) below. On second thoughts, maybe it was too cold to be outside, but many of us were in/on high spirits from the “Slovak Jägermeister”, Borovička, so external factors like temperature had little bearing on the festivities.

The Russian New Year’s Eve was a little more spontaneous in that no-one knew if it would be too cold to go out until just before midnight. Like tentatively testing the water with a toe, people emerged from their houses, realised it was quite “temperate” for the end of December and remained on the streets drinking Sovietskoye Champanskoye and dancing to various pumping beats from the disco kiosks (they were like stationary carnival floats, I’m not sure how to describe them – other than that they were a lifesaver! Whenever you felt too cold walking home along the street, you just stopped, had a brisk dance, and then resumed the journey!)

As for this NYE… stay tuned…

My favourite postcard from Russia – even though the post office and I weren’t on speaking terms, I couldn’t resist their glitter postcards. I kept this one for eternal new year good luck because of the not-at-all-tacky Sovietskoye design…

My favourite on-the-road Christmas happened in Barcelona a few years ago. It was during the two months of sleeping on buses and spending the waking hours wandering the grand cities of Europe (the so-called ‘Tour de Eurolines’), so I knew that there wasn’t much happening over a vast geographical distance in the way of an urban White Christmas. I instead hightailed it in the opposite direction, and went towards Spain.

First stop – Andorra. If the snow wasn’t going to come to me, I’d go to the snow and get in a day of skiing before spending Christmas in Barcelona. In the Andorran capital of Andorra la Vella, I met a Brazilian traveller. We got talking and I foolhardily offered to help him learn to ski the next day. It was a big call, but I thought it was possible. But clad in jeans and yearning for crystal blue oceans in which to scuba dive, he looked sorely depressed on the slopes. With the pained expression of a wet cat, he retreated to the safe confines of the bar and left me alone for the rest of the afternoon.

By the time we got back to the town to catch the bus to Barcelona together, he was thoroughly annoying me. Whilst he was some sort of navigator by profession, he couldn’t even find his way in the single duty-free-lined shopping street of Andorra la Vella. When I confronted him about his total inability to discern left from right, he sheepishly conceded that he was usually dependent on GPS. Plus there was the whole issue of “lost in translation.” He insisted on “being the man” and doing the talking, but as he was translating his question posed in Spanish, into Portuguese in his head (you could almost see the internal cogs turning through his facial expression), and then into English for my benefit, it became quite an unwieldy process during which time I just asked the question in English and had a much quicker and comprehensible reply (and anyway – the official language of Andorra is Catalan!)

By the time we got to Barcelona, I was eager to ditch him, and still buzzing from skiing adrenaline, I found an American girl who, I’m sorry to say, got quite an ear-bashing and we were up for half the night in the hostel talking about our travels. She was leaving the hostel the next day though, to cat-sit for a British woman who was going home for the holidays. We nonetheless agreed to meet for a drink the following evening – during which I actually met the British woman who also invited me to stay in her apartment over the holiday period.

Score! But what random backpacker luck! The Christmas we spent together was marvellous – we did the decorations and Christmas dinner and everything.

It even snowed when we went together to the mountain-top monastery of Santa Maria de Montserrat, so I managed to have my White Christmas in Spain after all!

Set against an impressive backdrop of the largest Gothic church in northern Europe, the Weihnachtsmarkt am Kölner Dom or Christmas Night Market at Cologne Cathedral is truly spectacular to witness.

Lucky for us, due to the other million people who also chose to brave the cold on that mid-December Saturday evening to witness the spectacle, no-one was going anywhere fast, which gave us plenty of time to lean back and relax in the crush of bodies, just to really appreciate the atmosphere. The evening was one of crowds milling around the glüwein stalls, clutching hot, spiced red wines as if they were some kind of heat-emitting lifebuoy.

As we moved on to the wooden-hut markets of the Alter Markt (Cologne has six Christmas market sites), it was all my childhood Christmases come at once. Instead of waiting for a crumpled, smoke-infused parcel to arrive from Austria containing the season’s gingerbread, I had all the lebkuchen, marzipan and roasted chestnuts that I could ever desire, with only a frosted breath separating us.

Granted… I am a pig… but while we’re on that topic, let me just give a thumbs up to the German bratwurst (sausage), perched on a fresh white bread roll and liberally smeared with senf (mustard) or the sliced and saucy currywurst. Accompany it with some steaming hot deep-fried rösti (potato pancakes) with apfelmus (applesauce), and you’ve got a meal that’s to die for – I only hope my arteries didn’t take that literally…

A learning experience all around, I also found out why the Cologne Cathedral or Kölner Dom is so impressive. The answer is hinted at in the three crowns of the Cologne coat of arms, which represent the Magi or Three Kings, whose bones are supposedly kept in the golden sarcophagus above the high altar of the cathedral. Construction of the present-day Kölner Dom began in 1248 to house these relics – and took over 632 years to complete!

(It will possibly also take 632 years for me to launch my newly-resolved health regime… but I have 2008 to think more about that!)

From the streets of St. Petes…

St. Encil… geddit!?!

As a female, there’s only one thing in life you need to look out for – and that’s a greeting from a recently shaven French man. I decided to investigate the town responsible for this death of fresh air, Cologne.

The fourth largest city in Germany, Cologne is endowed with a magnificent cathedral, world famous Christmas markets and local specialty beer, Kölsch. Lucky for us, the Thalys train was also having a 10€ special from Paris to Cologne – so why not?

By the way of an aside – at that price, it’s almost cheaper to catch the train to Cologne to drink rather than venturing out for the weekend amongst the exorbitant drink prices in Paris! But now I’m on that topic, I may as well persevere – next instalment: The Christmas Markets (stay tuned!)

Kölsch is a pale-coloured, top-fermented, hop-accented, filtered beer that must be brewed in the Cologne metropolitan area. It’s tossed back in slimline 200mL glasses, with consumption often just marked by tally marks on coasters. Our weekend began with a fortifying Gilden to help brave the cold of the evening, and finished with an adieu Früh on Sunday morning. In keeping with an egalitarian tradition of drinking (apparently Karl Marx once noted that his revolution would not work here, as the bosses and workers drank at the same pubs), women and men of all ages can be seen enjoying a Kölsch.

The ritualised service from the waiters was interesting to observe too. We made the mistake of trying to order from the bar at the labyrinthine Brauhaus Früh. Unlike the smaller bars, at this colossal venue with its Roman foundations and medieval upper, we had to wait for a waiter to arrive, take our order, and then place two coin tokens on a wooden locked box in front of the barman, who poured two beers and then cleared the slate (so to speak) by pushing the tokens into the slot of the box. We sat nearby, watching this process transfixed, as often the transaction took place in silence.

I take back any throw-away comments I may have made previously about discovering the coolest thing ever on the internet.

Because now I have surely found it. Yep, that’s right, the cyber-world of devoushki blogs. For anyone who ever needed to wear suede stiletto-heeled boots after a snowfall, diary of a devoushka muses on life’s little essentials like “Is HRH the Duchess of Cornwell (formerly Camilla Parker Bowles) a devoushka?” and records the correspondence of one devoushka to another.

(My answer, for the record, was NO WAY, she’s far too horsy.)

Devoushka is the word for “young woman” in Russian, but it’s not just that. It’s a concept, a mentality… but unfortunately one totally foreign to me (like Stacey in the travels of Stacey I prefer sneakers to stilettos – but check out her photo of the damage that heels can do to the pavement!).

So I have a question – it’s one that’s been on my mind for a while. Do shpilki (stiletto heels) work like ice-picks for the feet on icy streets? Is there actually some benefit to wearing them in winter? I’ve been developing this theory of “amazing practicality” for a while (too scared to attempt it in practise – Russia is not the place to learn to wear heels, like for novice surfers in Australia, I feared the wrath of the experts), but anyone I’ve asked has assured me that, no, shpilki are as hard to navigate on winter streets as first appearances conveyed.

Well…?

This was the closest I ever got to snapping a photo of the ultimate gathering of devoushki and honorary international members of the devoushkahood. Even though it was contestants from the “Mrs. World Pageant” I’d say they snaffled up a ring pretty much the day after their high school graduation.

Today is a good day to be in Sweden.

I happened to spend one December 13 in Sweden, on which day I thought that I’d died and gone to budget backpacker heaven. Initially unbeknownst to me, I had stumbled into Stockholm on Saint Lucia Day, a feast holiday celebrated in Scandinavia, Italy and the Balkans.

Swedes mark the festival by eating a traditional saffron bun, the Lussekatt, which were in complementary abundance on each shop counter. I’m not ashamed to admit that it was “shop till you drop” meets “all you can eat” for me that day – although the “shopping” was much more of the window / browsing variety!

Like St. Petersburg and Venice, Stockholm is a city spread across an archipelago, and I spent the rest of the afternoon on island of Djurgården at Skansen. The world’s oldest open-air museum, Skansen is really a must-see. It depicts the Nordic rural architecture and social conditions throughout pre-industrial Sweden from the 16th to early 20th centuries. From the Sami camp of the far north right down to the Skåne farmstead of the south, about 150 dwellings are exhibited, the majority of which date from the 18th and 19th centuries.

Most importantly, the girl crowned the national annual St. Lucia is brought by horse-drawn carriage to Skansen on December 13, where there is a celebration and fireworks display. Accompanied by a crown of candles, a choir of girls in white and a catchy tune, the St. Lucia and her parade are really quite charming, illuminated by the warm glow of candles.

With the feast day of Saint Nicholas just passed, and Saint Lucia’s Day approaching – just to mention two December heavyweights – it seems an appropriate time for musing about the various European pagan festivals and their Christianised contemporary equivalent.

In France, it’s hard to turn a blind eye to Saint’s Days, as most calendars list the corresponding saint for every date.

In Italy, it seemed that I timed my visit to Venice with an alternate carnevale. Whilst I was sitting and enjoying a quiet aperitif, the dark, wood-panelled wine bar surrounds were invaded by purple hologram witches hats, face-painted ghouls and red-horned devils. They sang out “trick or treat” (well… the Italian equivalent) and hopped around in Halloween merriment.

The girl behind the bar gave them a tomato. They cracked some smoke bombs on the floor in disgust and with a whirl of colour and sound, they bustled out again.

I was also lucky enough to spend St. Martin’s Day with friends living in an Austrian village a few years ago. Also known as Martinmas, this holiday is the feast day of Martin of Tours, and its celebration is scattered through Western Europe. Typically, the festival involves a sumptuous supper of goose (with some sort of delectable orange sauce, if I recall correctly). Luckily, all traditions were not adhered to, and the following forty-day fast was conveniently cast aside!

From interesting article about French wine and the customary festivities accompanying the new wine of a season, I’ve learned that in medieval times the vineyard owners would rush to get their wine on the market first for a better price. The Fête de la Saint Martin in early November conveniently coincided with the wine releases, and this apparently coined the euphemism ‘the Saint Martin blues’ for a hangover.

While I’m on the topic of traveller/tourist, the only thing I really hate – and it’s time for grudges to emerge here (I’m surprised that I’ve held out for so long) is the backpacker bitching sessions about Lonely Planet or whatever other colossal guide book they’re lugging along to contribute to future chiropractic bills.

This is the most boring conversation that has ever taken place on well-trod “off the beaten tracks” (especially re: the China Lonely Planet)… but if you don’t like it, don’t bring it. It’s that simple.

A guide book is not an essential item like passport or visa. And if you don’t like it, keep it to yourself. No-one wants to hear how elevated above the trite cliché of backpackerdom you are by dissing Lonely Planet et al. It’s just adhering to the stereotype down to the minute details. There is nothing more boring that hearing the gripes of the born-again anti-guidebooker. So there!

In a child’s imaginary world, inanimate objects come to life of an evening and have the capacity for infinite adventures and mischief. With the passage of a few years of wisdom and time spent backpacking, one realises that this is in fact true.

However, the “other world” is solely inhabited by plastic bags, which become animate and migrate to the opening of backpacks, eager to escape at the first possible opportunity. This is usually in the early hours of the morning, in a hostel dormitory room inhabited by drunken late-comers, snorers, coughers and key rattlers.

Due to the lack of youth hostels in Russia, I got used to either renting a private room, sleeping the accommodation rooms at train stations, or even staying in shared doubles in hotel rooms.

I’ve just been reading this amusing post about “Going from Traveller to Tourist in 5 easy steps”, and am a little alarmed at the ominous signs emerging. I’ve started going away for weekends with someone else, a sure sign of the traveller turned tourist road to ruin, and whilst I’m avoiding the transition to a little suitcase with wheels, my travel companion has a largely unused one in his possession (but I think that’s a French thing…)