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…’

The British Museum is shrouded in controversy, and for a long time, it was my arch-nemesis. Wherever I went in Mexico, Greece or Cambodia, it seemed the British Museum had already beaten me to the bounty. I would rant long and loud about colonial piracy and academic pillage to anyone who would be unfortunate enough to be within earshot, and I decided from an early age that we were mortal enemies.

That was, until I actually stepped across the threshold of the Great Court and plunged myself into a world of wonders. An instant convert. I’ve since spent hours, days, months in those hallowed halls, studying the Rosetta Stone, ogling at the Elgin Marbles and amazed by the Assyrian sculpture.

Needless to say, on my recent visit to London, I rushed back there to see ‘The First Emperor: China’s Terracotta Army’ exhibition. It was actually one of the main reasons influencing my decision to trip back across the Channel.

I gratefully scooped up an available late-night ticket, braced myself for the crush of the crowd, killed time drinking coffee – and then finally, my time with the Terracotta Warriors had come (no, I hadn’t gone to Xi’an when I was in China, if that’s your next question).

It was fantastic, what more could I say? The details of the sculpture, the grandeur of the First Emperor’s eternal empire, the immense process of construction and creation… and also the madness/genius/vision that would compel one to launch on such a project (Hey, but if the young King of Qin could untie the ‘Warring States’ to become Emperor over a united China, defying death is a comparatively slight task!)

Of course the first thing I was greeted with on my return was Qin Shihuangdi’s men staring back at me. Seems they’re traipsing around the world on a museum tour of duty. Next stop: Pinacothèque de Paris… That’d be about right, wouldn’t it!?!

Call my curiosity limited, but I can’t understand why anyone would spend any time wondering if there was life in outer space. There is plenty of life on Earth to contemplate, why bother going any further?

Luckily enough, Paris spares me the issue of donning my ethnographer’s hat or safari cap, and has already collected and displayed it all for me at the Musée du quai Branly.

A word about the museum – it contains an expansive collection of artworks and artefacts from Africa, Asia, Oceania and the Americas in a unique aesthetic setting. Day or night the premises is stunning, and (no surprise) I was completely taken by the Asian exhibits, particularly those from Siberia and Central Asia.

This recently opened treasure-trove of world cultures is a treat for anyone curious about the world in which we live. It’s a must-see for those wondering about non-European culture (of which you get a bit beaten over the head with in the rest of Paris.

A visual feast, magnificent layout and respectful treatment of the cultures on display (it doesn’t feel like an anthropological zoo) makes the Musée du quai Branly an international experience in itself.

Sure it’s a romantic overview of world history, but what’s Paris if not the city of romance?

The French don’t usually get things wrong in the kitchen. But I’m perpetually confused when I hear people talking about blini here. The term “blini”, in my understanding of the issue, is Russian for crêpes. Maybe the difference (perhaps?) is that the French product is “blini”, while the Russian “блины” should be transliterated as “bliny.” Either way, order a блины in Russia, and you’ll end up with pretty much the exact spitting image of a French crêpe.

In terms of recommendations of how to spend a holiday in Russia, I’d tell anyone to sample the delights on offer from the Teremok bliny kiosks dotted around St. Petersburg and the small restaurants in Moscow. Yes, Teremok is a fast-food chain, but don’t worry, it’s a total league above BlinDonalts (strange but true – this greasy fast-food chain puts even the best Russian fare to shame). For starters, I’d take the salmon, cream and dill or creamy mushroom bliny (but they’ve cut back on the cream in recent years – a real shame. Avoid the mushrooms with cheese; it’s a mere shadow on the creamy mushrooms…). Dessert would be a toss-up between the apple and caramel or the creamy sweet tvorog cheese with peaches (anything with condensed milk is also heavenly). If the sugar hit hasn’t caused your teeth to fall out by this stage, I recommend topping it all off with a honey beer…

Hang on, where was I? Oh yeah…the blini in France, by contrast, are small, thick pancakes intended to be decked with salmon or caviar. They are more like a cross between American-style pancakes and pikelets.

Pfft. That’s all I can say about that.

When it comes to religious matters, I’m usually left in the liturgical dark. I’m interested in as far as cultural feasts and festivals, but I always get things a little confused.

For instance, when I was a kid, I heard that an old cure for hiccups was to say ten Ave Marias. So I did just that (‘Ave Maria, Ave Maria‘ etc, etc, ten times over) and wondered why the problem remained. Only later on did I find out that Ave Maria is actually the Latin name for the Hail Mary prayer, and buggered if I was going to chant that ten times over. I just resorted back to holding my breath…

I’m equally muddle-headed over all the goings on for Easter. I knew when the chocolate was delivered, and that was pretty much my scope of concern. But I’ve become interested in Fasching festivities over the past few years (garish costumes, overindulgence, pancakes – how could I resist?)

Borrowed, stolen, adapted – call it what you will – from pagan European traditions, the pre-Lenten period is one of carnival and celebration. It’s as good an excuse as any to kick out a long winter and welcome the coming spring. Maslenitsa in Russia, for instance, corresponds both to the mythological Slavic sun festival and the Christian pre-Lenten feasting on dairy (at this stage, meat is already forbidden). Russian pancakes (bliny) are a symbol of Maslenitsa because they are round and golden and thought to represent the sun.

In France, Mardi Gras (“Fat Tuesday”) is celebrated as the last day of carnival, much to the delight of the school children, who get to wear fancy-dress costumes to school. It’s like a French Halloween, but without the focus on the ghoulish and ghastly.

Whilst Mardi Gras is associated with the Shrove Tuesday or Pancake Day of the UK, Australia and Canada, there is a slight difference. The annual French festival associated with crêpes is called Chandeleur. It’s held on February 2nd, and is often linked with Mardi Gras because the dates are often similar. If you notice a recurring theme here, you wouldn’t be half wrong. French crêpes, like the Russian bliny, are thought to have solar symbolism and also fulfil the very practical purpose of using up all the eggs, butter and milk before Lent kicks in.

Mmm… my mouth waters at the thought of it all!


This is the only photo I have of Guillaume's magnificent crêpes. It's got nothing to do with Chandeleur or Maslenitsa though - he was cooking up a storm for our St. Petersburg housewarming party. It was one of those nights - as you can see - with the red wine of the "sangria" already streaking the walls. Don't worry - even though it was on the stove, it wasn't being served hot - we were just a little short of surface space!

Sex, sex, sex. If that doesn’t improve my Google search potential, I don’t know what will (although I’m a bit worried, because when it comes down to it, my last post was essentially about sexy young Russian girls in bikinis… hmm…).

But last weekend had an inadvertent theme: sex in Paris.

Huh? Am I revealing a little too much about my life? Not at all! It was a sexy weekend in the sense of a literary orgy and flaccid surrounds of city strip club strips.


I wasn’t the only one taking this photo!

Let me elaborate… the National Library of France (BnF) has opened the doors of hell and exhibited their sealed section collection for the first time. That’s right, the notorious enfer (‘hell’ – the name given to the restricted section of a library) of the BnF is on display, warts and all, in the exhibition ‘L’Enfer de la Bibliothèque, Eros au secret’ (‘Hell at the Library, Eros in secret’). Gathering together the literary works of writers of the calibre of Sade and Apollinaire with graphic etchings and Japanese ukiyo-e (floating world) prints made a fascinating exhibition. Maybe a little too much repetition on a theme, but still an interesting historical overview.

Any art historians out there – can you tell me if actual female models were used for mid-17th century pornographic etchings? Because the “women” in question had the most perfectly sculpted biceps (and that’s mentioning nothing about their chiselled buttocks…) that I’ve ever seen in a woman (except ballet dancers… but I’m talking a totally different build!)


I dearly hope that “Cockney Tavern” was a vulgar pun…

Afterwards we went to have cheap beers at Pigalle before a gig of Taraf de Haïdouks (a gypsy band of Latcho Drom film fame) at the Elysée Montmartre. The concert was awesome, but Pigalle is a red light district like any other – Hamburg’s Reeperbahn, Sydney’s King’s Cross – a reputation for the seedy, but an overwhelming tendency toward the tacky. Even with the impossibility of not noticing the neon-lit street displays of 1980s lapdancers, the fact that the bars offer whisky, tequila, vodka, gin or rum by the bottle, shots by the metre, and pitchers of “kamikaze” really blurts out that you’re in a “special” end of town.


Sorry that this shot is so blurry, but it was the best of a bad bunch. Those guys are really moving fast up there!

It’s funny how silly things trigger memories. I’m sitting at the moment in my attic (“apartment”) in Paris, clad in a bikini top and leisurely absorbing some vitamin D and flirting with the futile hopes of abandoning some of my winter translucence and adjusting the contrast between my moles and freckles and their stark white canvas.

But this isn’t a post about me and my body. Oh no, far from it. If you’ve ever dipped into this blog before, you’ll be able to guess that this somehow relates to a story about Russia.

What amazing foresight! For it just so happens that I have a story about Russia!

I used to love going to the top of snow-capped mountains in the more temperate months and internally chortle about all the sexy young things (ie. Russian girls) who would shed their clothes at the summit, pose seductively in a bikini, and then don their coats again. It was all so contrived. Snow, mountains – must have my bikini for a perky, peak shot.

I have a great photo (got to love that mountain scenery!) but I have no idea where it’s stored away, so I’ll just describe it. Two fine young Russian devoushki are posing on the snow in their scanty best, and a fully-coated, felt-booted, head-scarved babushka is pushing through the scene.

Which reminds me: Russians tan standing up. I also love Black Sea beaches in the summertime just for people watching (not for the “beach”!)

…and as I’m back and forth between the window and the computer to write this post, all my adjacent neighbours have probably reached the conclusion that there’s a Russian couple living on the seventh floor…

Even though I’m living in Paris at the moment, I don’t write very much about France here because I save it all for my other blog. But with summer fast approaching (I have 20/20 anticipation, ample imagination and more than a few pinches of wishful thinking), I thought I’d better devote some space to trotting around the French capital.

Oh no, sorry, got it muddled up again (I’ve only been living here for six months, I’m prone to forgetting sometimes) – capital of the universe. When will I get that right?

But apart from all the prowess and pretension of Paris, there are still some ace places to go to unwind. My favourite of the month? Well, former train station and current “indie-rock & electro club” La Flèche d’Or certainly takes the cake.

It oozes with underground cool and it knows it. It’s not a new place, and reputation undoubtedly precedes. Housed in the ex-Gare de Charonne (1867-1934), La Flèche d’Or takes its name from the 1920s Paris-London train that passed through Calais and Dover at a speedy 110km/h. Remnants of the station are still visible, like the circular rail tracks visible from the restaurant – but you’re more likely to be distracted by the gold framed stage or the lips lighting.

Gigs are free, and the reason why I’m so enraptured by the place is an awesome performance I saw the other night by Australian siblings, Angus and Julia Stone. Wow, wow, wow – that cute couple certainly knew how to bring the “house” down!

But my final word on the place will cast any doubts from your mind that all is sweet at a Gold Arrow soiree… the beer is crap.

I had to warn you.

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!

[...] It doesn’t normally follow that one would undertake an activity where legs can be broken, heads split and fingers sliced off underfoot willingly [...]

For a more realistic portrayal of the perils of skating – check out this funny post from Funabroad. Plus, if my video of Evgeni Plushenko was a little tame or lame for you thrillseekers out there, have a look at this one. When I first watched it, I thought ‘Oh yeah, haha, what a blunder’ and then realised that ice-skating could provide the backdrop for the next Hollywood slash and stab film… ouch ouch ouch!

Actually… I think French black comedy Serial Lover has already delved into that point!

Not enough ice for you? Here’s some stock pics from the Europe trotted archives! The first is an impromptu ice sculpture from some flea markets in Berlin, and the second is the view from my apartment window in St. Petersburg…