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…’

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…

European cities have the perfect remedy for the glum onset of winter and the Oh-No-vember blues… It’s called December. As the chill sets in, many set up a central outdoor ice-skating rink for the festive season and then the fun ensues!

Paris has two main rinks; the central, larger and far more popular at Hôtel de Ville, and a smaller one nestled between Montparnasse tower and train station.

Not eager to join the mile long queue at Hôtel de Ville, Guillaume and I just settled in on the side to watch the sophistry and stumblings of the mixed-ability skaters. The next day, earlier in the morning, we had more luck at Montparnasse. It didn’t seem to be the case at first, as from a distance we could just see a sizeable line snaking around the skating venue. As we got closer realised that the people weren’t waiting for skate hire, but… theatre tickets!?! We asked just to be sure, and couldn’t help but wrinkle our noses. I love theatre, don’t get me wrong, but with the ice-skating just there with no queue – time to reconsider priorities, I think!

So we had a great time on the ice. Who would have thought that circling repeatedly, dodging the crowd (him) and trying to avoid spectacular spills (me) could have been so much fun? I think it’s great when a city puts on a bit of a romantic show with an ice-skating rink because it’s usually at one of the city’s most picturesque spots.

In Paris, one can whirl around with the Hôtel de Ville as the backdrop, the lighting provided by an adjacent carousel. In Copenhagen, the main square Kongens Nytorv is dolled up for skaters, with Royal Danish Theatre and the equestrian statue of Christian V as onlookers. In Cologne, the venue is in the midst of the homely seasonal warmth of the Christmas markets. It provides such a buzz… even in damp, cold, rental boots and the knock-kneed awkwardness of a foal trying to learn to walk…

Comparatively confined for space, there weren’t any of these shenanigans going on in Paris. But this video is skating at its funniest – showy spunkrat Evgeni Plushenko doing his thing to Sex Bomb by Tom Jones. 10 points to the costuming department!

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!)

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.

There’s a lot to be said about 1990s European rock music from former Eastern Bloc or Soviet Union countries. Unfortunately for this discourse, I wasn’t anywhere near by at the time, so I’ll have to leave it to someone else.

I have, however, been privy to many reminiscences of young Russian rock fans (many of whom weren’t actually old enough to be consciously there at the time either) during street busking sessions. I’m sufficiently well versed in the standard repertoire of the troubled adolescent troubadour, and think that the time is ripe for this blog to move from Eurovision pop to hall-of-fame power ballads.

There is one German song which still gets repeat performances in the pedestrian thoroughfares of St. Petersburg and Moscow. Recounting a journey following “the Moskva [River] down to Gorky Park” to eventual metaphorical freedom and a wailing electric guitar solo, ‘Wind of Change’ by Scorpians is… admittedly… super-daggy.

Despite its cheesiness factor, I used to think this was the most profoundly political and emotionally-stirring song EVER when it was released. Admittedly, that was 1991, and I was eight going on nine, so I wasn’t in a position to be the most astute commentator on current affairs (as a friend once put it “Berlin Wall? Who cares, I’m going back to play in the sandpit”). But amongst the nostalgia of childhood, I undeniably have a soft spot for “Wind of Change” and, yes, you will catch me whistling along with the intro, imagining that I too am holding a sparkler in Potsdamer Platz…


‘Wind of Change’ by Scorpions

While we’re on the topic of coffee, I’d like to make the natural progression to quirky national laws. The two are intrinsically linked, as you will soon behold…

My parents have just come back from a holiday to Peru. It seems that according to one particularly near-sighted law in Lima, the owners of a building don’t have to pay tax on the structure if it is incomplete. Fair enough, that makes sense, you’re probably all thinking, but the result is a city full of otherwise-functioning buildings without roofs. It was the first news I received from them… only afterwards did I hear about Machu Picchu, Lake Titicaca and the Peruvian deserts.

Which triggered a recollection of a particularly memorable coffee shop in the arts district of Hamburg. The coffee shop adhered to a minimalist white colour scheme, with a stand for the coffee machine in the corner. In the middle of the room stood a colossal structure, which looked conspicuously like a mound of chairs wedged in concrete, covered by a standard issue bed-sheet. There were cool kids perched like cappuccino-clutching canaries everywhere, and the coffee-drinking throng spilt out onto the streets.

I ask my companion, a Hamburg-local, about the meaning of the central uber-artsy-installation. Turns out that according to the law, chairs are a necessary factor to make a cafe really a cafe… and any “cafe” cafe must provide a toilet. So therefore, any coffee-related bowel movements of the clientele had to be relocated to the public toilet in the park, the un-cafe could take cool subversion to a new level and all concerned could marvel at the unique room decoration. Logical, I guess…

Welcome to October! I’ll take it upon myself to be the official greeting committee for this most insidious month. Why? Well, October seems to have some pretty impressive credentials… the Bolshevik October Revolution… Oktoberfest… see what I mean? But let’s look closer at October’s apparent claims to fame.

The October Revolution of 1917 could be, by the pedantic out there, rendered as the October (Old-Style) / November (New-Style) Revolution. It occurred either on November 7, under the Gregorian calendar, or October 25, according to the Julian calendar. The anniversary of the Revolution was celebrated in the Soviet Union on November 7th, which got me wondering at first why exactly it was known as the October Revolution.

Bavaria’s most famous event, Oktoberfest, predominantly occurs in September (so do your research before turning up to this one!). Depending on how the days fall, the festival is either seventeen or eighteen drunken days, ending on one of the first three dates in October. This leaves an awful lot of un-credited September in this so-called October festival.

Now I’m not normally one for conspiracy theories, but I am prone to a rant every now and then. What’s the deal, October? How can we continue to perpetuate these fallacies!?! A word of warning to anyone who thinks they might be born in October, better have another look at your birth certificate…