How do the Dutch manage to stay so trim? I bet it’s got more to do with the 15,000km of cycle tracks rather than the dietary staples of potatoes and margarine.

Or perhaps it’s because of a ban on foie gras, the controversial French delicacy, which is still “fatty liver” no matter how you spin it (‘a liver that has accumulated a large quantity of lipids through lipogenesis or the transformation of maize carbohydrate and fatty acids’ with ‘unique nutritional and organoleptic properties’… hmm… very unique…)

It may be part of French cultural and gastronomic patrimony, but it doesn’t make it any healthier! I was actually surprised the first time I came to Europe and was confronted by the amount of fatty and deep-fried food on offer. Isn’t this supposed to be from the recent realms of the New World?

But Old World junk food can be as fast as it comes, something I try to push from my mind whilst wolfing down pub fare like smažený sýr (a thick, bread-crumb-coated slab of fried cheese) in a bread roll on the streets of Prague or some hot and oily rösti (potato pancakes) in Germany. I’m still yet to try the deep-fried steak from Serbia, Karađorđeva šnicla (Karadjordje’s steak), or the Bavarian schweinshaxn (deep-fried pork knuckle)!

What really takes the cake – or in this case, the chocolate-smeared animal fat – is salo from the Ukraine. Stereotyped as indispensable for the Ukrainian as vodka for the Russia, salo is a chunk of pig fat. Plain and simple. I think this description best dispels any salo myths: ‘unlike lard, salo is non-rendered pork fat. Unlike bacon, salo has little or no meat.’ Ouch! Talk about a direct hit. Not this, not that, just fat.

“Salo v shokoladi” (salo in chocolate) is a humorous expression akin to the English “chalk and cheese” – but it became reality in a Kiev restaurant a few years ago. This sweet salo, dubbed the “Ukrainian snickers”, is even more gut-churning than a deep-fried Mars Bar.

But as for my favourite of all strange snack foods (with a milder accompanying health warning) is the Russian sirok, which I’ve nicknamed “chocolate cheese.” It’s a little chocolate-coated bar, filled with a light and flavoured tvorog, and best served cold. Sirok is almost like a small chocolate coated ice-cream, but filled with a curd cheese like the French fromage blanc or Italian ricotta. It comes in all sorts of chocolate, fruit or even jam-filled flavours, and I am certain that this was the real scientific breakthrough of the Cold War (forget that space race, the Soviets just mastered cheesy confectionary!)

I haven’t met anyone else who shares my passion for this “chocolate cheese”… although I have a sneaking suspicion that the perpetual popularity of singer Tom Waits in Russia might have something to do with a misinterpretation of his “immaculate confection” song Chocolate Jesus…

‘It’s got to be those chocolate cheeses… makes me feel so good inside…’

Here’s one from the memory archives, lifted out tenderly and gently disposed of all its accumulated dust… let’s just call it ‘fame brushes past’ and go from there in all its glory.

It all took place some years ago in a Turkish coffee shop, on the ascent to Prague Castle. I was with a Slovakian friend who was introducing me to the wonders of sahlep, a traditional Turkish milk-based drink, served hot and sweet, garnished with powdered cinnamon. Sahlep powder is apparently the dried powdered roots of one of two types of mountain orchids, and the drink is best when it’s thick and creamy.

You can see what had all my attention at that particular moment in time.

All of a sudden my companion started tugging at my arm and trying to convey in an unsubtle hissed whisper that I look over his shoulder without actually looking over his shoulder. All of a sudden he was lost for words and started half-giggling (the women serving behind the counter completed the other half of the collective giggle, as they stopped work and stared too).

It was… get this… Karel Gott.

I had the same reaction too. Who?

In hushed tones I had it explained to me that Karel Gott was akin to the Czechoslovakian Julio Iglesias, and that his mother would just die if she knew that we had seen him.

‘So, we go get his autograph?’ I queried, as the momentous nature of the occasion was a little lost on me.

This suggestion was dismissed with a daggered glance, and a ‘if you dare do anything as embarrassing as talking to Karel Gott, I’m going to kill you’ recommendation.

Pfft. The man, the legend, was doing an interview with some journalist type, which quickly concluded. They got up to leave and all eyes followed their departure. As they reached the door, Gott brushed past me to reach for his coat, saying ‘excuse me’ to me in English.

And then they left.

I wasn’t allowed to talk to Karel Gott, but it seems he decided to speak to me.

That’s about the pinnacle of my non-illustrious record of meeting famous people…

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…

I must explain why Eurolines was my key to surviving my first year in Europe, although really it’s very simple.  Accomodation.  I thanked my lucky stars the day I found that Eurolines had a two month unlimited travel pass, night buses, and a low-season discount.  What seemed perfectly appealing did have its drawbacks though.  The accommodation was a bus seat (although being able to sleep quite compactly, I could crawl up in foetal position and get a good night’s sleep if I had both seats to myself), and “low-season” meant “middle of winter”, so it was quite chilly for the numerous 4 and 5am arrivals.  But what I would do is spend 5 nights in the bus, waking and wandering the cities to which I had been spirited overnight, and then a few nights in a hostel for a shower and a proper bed.  I loved it.  If I couldn’t get a ticket to somewhere, I’d just go elsewhere.  I think my itinerary read something like: Budapest – Amsterdam – Dublin (as there weren’t any tickets to Stockholm when I first wanted to go, I spent the weekend in Ireland instead) – Amsterdam – Stockholm – Copenhagen – Paris – Madrid (rest, relax… shower…) – Andorra (a day of skiing in the

Pyrenees, why not?) – Barcelona (more time…) – Frankfurt – Warsaw – Krakow (even more time…) –

Prague.

  I’ve overcome my initial attention-span deficit and I am now able to stay in a place for longer than three weeks without getting itchy feet.  Maybe I can stretch it to four weeks now… 

But no, I was recently able to stay in the one place for a year and a half – however, as it was Russia, the biggest country in the world, I could quite contently “trot” at my own pace for vast distances and through diverse cultural and geographic regions without having to deal with the bureaucratic visa rigmarole of leaving Russia’s borders.  But more about that later…

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?