Today I felt that my Crans-Montana mountain dreams had come true. The crowds abated, the runs were smooth and clean… It’s a pity I couldn’t see more than half a metre in front of me, but I can’t have everything or else I’d just be spoilt!

Instead of the Saturday morning rush that I had expected, the opposite eventuated. As it was raining down below and a dense cloud up on top, only thousands (not millions) tackled the Swiss slopes today. Plus, Saturday morning is apparently the exchange period when people leave in the morning and arrive in the afternoon, or something of the sort. Not the day to buy or top-up your lift passes, I guess.

I had a few runs in the middle section (which also had the benefits of only half-rain, half-whiteout) and then came home for some tea and cake. This in itself deserves some airtime because I found a “Tyrolean Cake” at the supermarket, and I was eager to test its authenticity. First bite, ah yes, traces of marzipan – could quite possibly be Austrian!

I was also drawn to the brand name – “Betty Bossi” – could you imagine working with here in the kitchen? It would be hell! But, come to think of it… that could quite possibly have been my nickname in the second grade of school!

But on further research (don’t, dear readers, think you’ve stumbled across a blog of mere speculation – these are the hard facts!) it emerges that there has never actually been a Betty Bossi… the culinary dominatrix never actually existed but is a fictitious product of a Swiss margarine manufacturer (oh well, next they’ll tell me that there isn’t an Easter Bunny either!)

I’ve travelled throughout Europe in most of the ways imaginable. ‘Plane, train, automobile’ can provide a basic enough framework for a description, but that’s only a starter morsel. I’ve done some hair-raising driving in Greece and Germany (ok, so it wasn’t really hair-raising, it was just me having to adjust to driving on the other side of the road), I’ve hitched, I’ve hiked, I’ve shared more than a few rides and I think I’ve already mentioned enough about turning bus-seats into beds.

Trains, you want trains? I’ve dedicated the equivalent hours of a full twenty-five days of my life to Russian trains. That’s not twenty-five instances where I’ve caught trains, but entire twenty-four hour periods spent bumping along to the Arctic North, the Caucasus Mountains or the vast expanse of Eurasian eastward spread from the Ural Mountains to the Pacific Ocean (let’s just lump it together as ‘Siberia’ for simplicity’s sake, shall we?)

I figured that little stat out in a long three days going from Kazan to Ulan Ude (I haven’t managed to determine how many “McCafe 3-in-1” super-sweet sachets of coffee I’ve drunk though… that would be numerically impossibly off-the-scale!)

I’ve cycled, motorbiked, boated, rafted, skied (I’m really grasping at movement straws here!), flown… yes, flown – but not just in aeroplanes.

I’ve even been tandem paragliding in Austria, which was an amazing first for me, because usually I’m terrified of heights. Well, I’m a bit of a phobia-butterfly, I like to flit between whatever’s going around (do you know what I mean? One doesn’t tend to think about vertigo when plunged into unknown surrounds in the pitch black, or about being scared to the dark when at the edge of a twenty-storey building…)

But the paragliding was nice. It didn’t convert me into an adrenaline junkie, but it was all very lovely and picture-perfect floating down over the wonderfully-scenic medieval Tyrolean town of Lienz (which, by the by, happens to be my father’s hometown, so I am a little biased in my glowing praise!) Ok, I’ll have to qualify that last phrase – it was all very nice and wonderful except for a painful wedgie throughout the flight and a clumsy crash landing to conclude!

Always one to copy trends rather than set them, I decided to have my own Paris transport strike. I was on a ticket-buying “grève” after the last metro strike, and I figured that if any inspectors stopped me for a ticket, I could always just show them my rendered useless Emir Kusturica concert ticket – it should be worth about 30 carnet tickets.

This “political” act didn’t last very long, because the truth of the matter is that I’m a bit of a wuss. If I don’t have a ticket, my shiftiness is written clearly across face. I dabble in it, but I’m not made for prolonged fare-evasion.

Anyway, my strike had me thinking about my favourite European fare evasion stories, and what I’ve done to get out of paying the fines. There was one time in Graz where we just forgot to get tram tickets (honest!) and an imminent train to Vienna saved my skin, but not that of my Austrian companions.

Another time in Berlin, I had a non-validated (intentionally) child (unintentionally) ticket. My friends there suggested that I do this on the way back from the airport, and as we realised that I was pinged, we subtly separated and they merged into the crowd. As I got off with the ticket inspectors, they discretely disembarked and waited for me a safe distance away. I – alone, in English and all mock sincerity – feigned that I was genuinely surprised that I had to pre-buy my ticket and I was waiting for the conductor to come around, like in St. Petersburg trams.

My academy award winning performance, however, would have been on a tram in Sarajevo, Bosnia. I was caught by the ticket inspectors who gave me a grilling in a mish-mash of Deutchlish (or is it Engleusch?) and I did my confused innocence routine. They asked for my address, I didn’t know it. They asked for my money, I didn’t have it. In the end, I suggested they come to my Turkish Quarter hostel, because I only knew it from a bit of left-right-left ad hoc navigation. They kicked me off at the next stop, but first brought me up next to the driver, who obviously didn’t realise they were in the middle of a bad cop-bad cop routine. He started gesturing with hand signals in no uncertain terms that they might have fancied me. Oh man, could it get any worse? He could have just said it; I wouldn’t have understood… but instead he thought it would be far more ingenious to mime it… ai-ai-ai!

Come to think of it, I have been fined once – on the Helsinki metro. I had no qualms about giving them my Russian address. There wasn’t any way that was getting paid – it was once a blue moon that our mail actually made it to me anyway!

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!)

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.

I’ve already mentioned, somewhere at the outset, that I think Vienna is ace. But why the attraction? In fact, why be attracted to any city? It’s still just somewhere to seek one’s livelihood and pursue distraction at a much faster tempo.

But in the absence of raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens (although I’m sure in Vienna one can find cream coloured ponies and crisp apple strudels, doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles…), what do I rank as my favourite things in Vienna?

The list is simple (though far from exhaustive) and contains my “top two”: the Secession building (as featured on the Austrian 50 euro cent coins) and Fernwärme incinerator (as never to be featured on any currency).

Let me elaborate…

Like Montmartre in Paris groans from the hangovers of Vincent van Gogh, Pablo Picasso and Amedeo Modigliani, the Succession building echoes with the footsteps and artistic visions of Gustav Klimt. The building, designed by Joseph Maria Olbrich and constructed in the last gasps of the nineteenth century, is an icon of Art Nouveau (or Jugendstil) architecture, topped by a colossal gold-leaved dome.

Modern, old-worldly, excessive, natural, gaudy, refined… the Secession building is simultaneous contradictions. Furthermore, it houses Klimt’s Beethoven Frieze (1902), a 34m long homage to composer Ludwig van Beethoven.

The work presents a full spectrum of humanity suffering for happiness. Depicting yearnings, desire, grief, and wantonness, the human figure is depicted both in monumental isolation, and as accompanied by the nightmarish fancies of the ‘hostile forces’ of Sickness, Madness and Death, and (somewhat reassuringly) the ethereal muses of poetry and the arts. Yes, a little on the intense side, but it must be seen to be believed!

The Fernwärme garbage incinerator, on the other hand, is fantastic and practical! It’s ‘Who Framed Roger Rabbit’ meets Antoni Gaudi (I’m sure this is the official genre) animated architecture, plus it disposes of the city’s waste. Watching the gold mosaic glittering in the sunlight, I can’t help but think that it’s a far cry from my local rubbish tip!

An obvious side-effect of a Eurocentric education is an inkling to set forth across the continent, mapping out places where events from history books took place in Technicolor and not just in fine-print packed into paragraphs and henceforth crammed into young heads. This curiosity more often than not develops into the more serious condition of wanderlust, and then, as I’m lead to believe, into dromomania, a passion or uncontrollable impulse to wander or travel, a malady (or blessing) by which I’m seriously afflicted.

The first time I went alone to Europe was when I was 18. Having finished high school and saved my pocket money, I was determined to somehow stretch this meagre amount to last for a whole year without working. Thanks to numerous relatives, generous students willing to share their dormitories, Eurolines and Eastern Europe, this was possible. I was also lucky enough to have well-travelled parents, with well-travelled friends, who had sent their teenage sons and daughters to stay at my parents’ house, and thus the doors of Europe where open for me.

My favourite places in Europe – what I think of as the majestic golden triangle of Vienna, Budapest and Prague; countries of the former Yugoslavia, the Baltic states and Scandinavia, anywhere in Southern Europe blessed by an ocean, and most definitely anywhere with either a picturesque mountain range or a comprehensive recycling system or bicycles as a recognised and supported form of public transport. Have I covered it all yet?