First year of freedom

I arrived in Europe one year ago today. I landed with a limited 182 euros, following a run-away roadtrip in the states, and the name of a hostel. A week later and I was down to 20 euros and still just the name of the hostel. It worked out, I didn't become a bum, well not in the traditional sense, and I got a job at the hostel. From there it was pretty plain sailing from a survival point, although Barcelona was a bit of a stretch and as was the beginning of winter on the streets of Amsterdam. With one year down, any development is difficult to identify. I am a few countries away in Italy now but still working in a hostel. No real progress there. I have no huge savings to boast of, and little memorabilia. But there have been positives. For example I;

1. Perfected the Captain Planet dance medley.
2. Purchased shoes off the feet of a guy on the street.
3. Didn't die.
4. Developed an incredibly believable arm-wrestling background for myself.
5. Picked up an array of colourful sunglasses.

A very satisfying year. Achieving more than that would be overly ambitious. I did manage to have one goal, which was to pay little notice to reason and logic and special attention to the feint itches and tickles of my slightest whims and desires.

The utter freedom led me to choosing exactly what I wanted and that has been exhilirating, inspiring and even challenging.The books resonated with me, the people inspired me and the experiences encouraged me. Here's to another one.

Venice is a fish

With an awkward gap of a few months between the Winter season in Austria and Summer season in Greece, I was lost as how to pass the time. I considered another return to Amsterdam, or even the dreaded London to see friends, but at the last moment a friend from Miami pulled through and got me a job in a hostel in Venice. This would provide me with an opportunity to achieve a long-held dream. For years I have wanted to be a gondolier in Venice. Seriously. I just thought it would be cool. I was under the false belief that my grandmother came from Venice and that maybe I had a bit of gondolier blood in me. I found out when I was about eighteen that my grandmother's family came from Sicily, the other side of the country. This shattered my world. Nevertheless, I have always felt an attachment to Venice. It could have something to do with one of Sean Connery's Bond movies, when in the final scene Bond floats away with his girl on his side and the bad guy defeated. That also just seemed cool. So I came to find out just how cool it is.

The Hostel

Working in a hostel is practically the only way I could come to live here. Finding accommodation and a job in a traditional manner would prove impossible, especially considering the ludicrous prices for rent in Venice. It also happens to be a nice little arrangement, the hostel provides free board, food, drinks and daily friends, all in a 400 year old palace on the Grand Canal. The hostel is fairly central and a short walk to St. Marco's square. It is in a large building, and was in fact a palace that was built for a leading Venetian family in the 15th century. The hostel takes up all of the second floor. Busks feature along the welcoming staircase and the entrance has magnificently high ceilings which are adorned with sculptures of chubby babies with wings. The hostel can take about forty people but the occupancy floats around the thirty mark. My job has is three fold, I organise the beds, handle the check-ins and setup the meals. Organising the beds is a saga in its own right. The hostel only has a license for five beds per room, but have as many as fourteen guests in each room. The police often have routine checks of all tourism enterprises and will show up demanding to be allowed in to make an inspection. Due to this, a large part of my working day is spent taking down and hiding beds and putting them back up at 5 o'clock, once the police have called it a day. On Sundays I don't have to do it, because the police don't work on Sundays, which is a nice change. (It is through this aspect of my job that I was introduced to the Italian concept of fregatura which is indispensible for anyone living in Italy. A fregatura is doing something in a way which is not exactly legal, not exactly honest, but just this side of outrageously bad. It is a way of life in Italy.)

The Check-ins have become a passion of mine, or at least a large aspect of my entertainment. At first I explained everything in a sensible and straightforward way, which quickly got boring. It then evolved into great rambling performances that could freak out the guest, and question their decision to stay there or I could be down right rude if the guest gets in anytime before 10am. Generally I have perfected my routine answering the questions before they are answered, and satisfying any nerves or qualms, especially after explaining why their bed will only be ready at five. I tell them the truth. Some people try guess where I am from and most fail horribly. There are cheaper rates for females which half explains why 90 percent of the guests are females. We are currently coming to the end of Europe's spring break and many of our guests in the last few weeks have been obnoxious Americans studying in Europe, although not all are obnoxious and some are even agreeable. The guests from Canada, Mexico, Britain, Ireland, Norway, Australia and Brazil (basically everywhere except America) have been awesome and a highlight of the job.



Setting up breakfast is a straightforward deal but dinner is the day's great event.
Every night we prepare a 3 Euro dinner for the guests. It is generally a variety of pasta but lasagne, gnocchi and pizza make appearances too. The gnocchi and pizza are made from scratch and are half day affairs. My bosses take great pride in their dinners and the guests realise that. Initially the guests will endure awkward and plodding conversations regarding day trips and travel plans. But after the 'Surprise Sangria' has been unveiled, drinking games kick off, similarities are recognised, defences dropped and discarded and any awkwardness quickly vanishes. After dinner, the guests are louder and happier and the drinking games are picked up at one end of the table while the other side chats freely. After an hour or so we head to the bars.



My Bosses


There are four of them. Four thirty-something friends who own four hostels; one in Milan, one in Florence and two in Venice. Diana and Alberto are brother and sister, Matteo and Andrea are friends with Alberto. They bounce around from hostel to hostel spending a week here and a week there. It can happen that three of them meet up for a few days just for a party it seems. As I mentioned, they are behind the dinners and the kitchen is their playground. As Diana has explained to me, "The kitchen is where we have our funny". They pump the music, which features 70's disco, Italian favourites and Jamiroquai. They smoke cigarettes, drink wine, sing and dance all while milling around and contributing to the cooking. Andrea or Alberto will over see it and keep focused on the job while the others perform. More than anything though, they argue vehemently. It is classic, they throw their arms around in wild gesture and are emphatic with every point. Every conversation is a raging argument, a constant ranting, and I was convinced that only someone who is furiously angry will shriek that loudly. I was wrong. After every argument they burst out laughing and spin around for another cigarette to light or glass to full or song to pick or pot to stir. The kitchen is one big celebration. Friends come over and join the festivities and their riot intimidatingly looms over the hostel guests. Their party is much more raucous than the collection of travelling strangers.


Venice



I spend the time I have free in the afternoons joining guests on random explorations, trips to nearby islands, and quests to different areas of Venice. We always get lost. We wonder down the smaller alleys, investigate the curious squares and trust our instincts. My personal mission for the moment is to get gelato everyday. There are free exhibitions and churches to check out too, I do if there is nothing else going on. There are ferries to sneak onto for free trips along the grand canal. There is much on offer but best is just to wonder. I head back to the hostel at fivish to put the beds back up.


Venice Nightlife

Venetian nightlife is pretty limited. There are some clubs on the mainland but on Venice itself, there are few places that play music or where one can dance. There are a few plazas with small bars surrounding them that spill crowds onto the plazas. The most popular one is Campo Santa Margarita which is popular amongst the students. The bars are tiny and just big enough for us to squeeze in, order a drink, and squeeze out. The most popular drink is a Spritz, the 'Venetian cocktail', which is pink and fruity and is made with either Aperol or Campari, and is dirt cheap. If you're lucky you will get an olive on a stick with it or generally a slice of blood orange. I tell the guests they have to get this signature drink and ordering is made easy for the large group. Standing outside we are bombarded by rose sellers from Bangladesh. The bars play no music and close early. Not so vibrant. Some nights we seek out random bars to prolong the night or try our hand at the unpredictable wharehouse club, Zona Bandita which operates with what sounds like one blown speaker, but generally the afterparty heads back to the hostel, where we play music and finish off the sangria and our night.




End Note: I have recently moved to the other hostel in Venice, where myself and an Afghanistani guy called Ateek run the show. It is dingier and dodgier and we can do what we like. It is not a palace.

Flashback #2 Trent's Head

It was a joyous occasion. We were happy and loud and laughing and spitting in the face of the night. Well, a bottle of Jagermeister will do that to you. It was my third night in Austria and we were off on a random mission to some bar in the mountains. There were six of us. Myself, Flo (an Austrian friend from the pub crawl in Amsterdam), Martina and Rosa (two local girls) and Pixie and Trent. The idea was to hike up the hill at night to some relatively close bar, have some drinks and then the grand finale would be to sled down the hill on a skibop. We had some practice drinks at home, and had some practice skibops at the base of the hill. Spirits were high and it took a brisk ten minutes for us to reach our destination.

It was exactly what you picture an Austrian bar in the alps to be. A trickle of smoke rising from the log cabin, no doubt a gulaschsoup or gluwein on the broth. Discarded skis and sleds framed the entrance as we traipsed in and the jovial warmth slapped us in the face. Benches and tables made up the room and despite being relatively full we managed to find a vacant table. A round of beers and Jagermeisters was ordered as reward for our mild exertion. As we settled in, I noticed what was happening around us. There were two men dressed in full mountain regalia, one playing an accordion, the other a guitar, parading around performing apparently popular Austrian folk songs. The people in their seats swayed and sang with the songs in utter revelry and the three Austrians amongst us too joined in the chorus. The musicians were in their element, prancing on and off the tables and sang each song with more gusto than the last. After a few more rounds it was go time and we headed out to get on our skibops. In essence, a ski bop is a dildo glued upright onto a plastic plate, ergo the name penis bopping that Martina gleefully referred to it as. In our state we were barely finding our feet to prepare ourselves for flight. It was planned to be a no holds barred dog fight to the end. Organization was shocking and as the first one hurtled down we all threw ourselves onto our penis bops and down the piste. Squeezing the penis, squealing, and having no real idea how to do what I was trying to do, I managed to make it to the bottom unscathed. We all did. In quick succession. Except Trent. He eventually showed up, we glanced at him, took no real notice and continued our shrieking. Trent got up, trotted over and casually mentioned that he had hit his head. That is when we saw it. The blood. It was thick and dark red, almost like gulasch soup. In our excitement we did a horrible job of not freaking out.

“Oh my fuck, Oh my fuck, Oh my fuck. OK Trent you’ll be fine”.

“What?”

“No don’t worry, you’re not gonna die…. Is he?”

“What?”

“No its a mere flesh wound. You’ve just been drinking so that’s why it is thick and covering your entire head and neck and back and won’t stop bleeding… let’s go to the hospital.”

“Fuck, that’s a lot of blood.”

What we figured out, once Pixie confessed, was that Trent fell off his ski and Pixie following close behind hit Trent in the head with his sled and carried on going because ‘he thought it was me’.

We arrived at the hospital, Trent shaky, the girls worried and the guys ecstatic at the outing and some gore. Trent was taken into the operating room immediately and our unruly gang was left in the waiting room. We busied ourselves doing wheelies on the wheelchairs and expressing our horror/delight at how much blood Trent had lost. His scarf and jacket were soaked with it.

Trent would later report that we were not the only ones who freaked out. While we were celebrating in the waiting room, he was lying on the metal operating table, and under the care of the night nurses all he could make out between the two of them was “Scheisse, scheisse, scheisse”. They were not doing anything because the injury was so severe that they were waiting for a senior doctor. They kept on looking at and poking his head, repeating “Scheisse, scheisse, scheisse”. His bleeding had not stopped and lying on his chest, face sideways, the blood was slowly rising, eventually forcing one eye closed and nearing his nostrils. It was about that time that he became very cold , and recognizing the symptoms of shock, got a little worried and asked the doctors for a blanket. The senior doctor arrived, the bleeding slowed, the wound sutured, head bandaged and a dishwasher’s life saved. He eventually came out of the operating room to see us and get ready to go to bed.

We were regailing each other with drinking injury stories, when Trent appeared.




He entered through the side door and in an instant I took in the picture. He was dressed in a hospital gown, head heroically bandaged around his ears, hobbling in, hanging onto a drip, looking very sorry for himself, and rightfully so. The sight of him appearing through the door threw ourselves onto the floor in hysterics, pounding the floor with our fists at the this. The noise we were making was beyond laughing, it was an impossible gasping for air, giggling and coughing and shrieking. We just could not believe Trent’s get up. It was too good to be true. Too classic. Too awesome. Rosa had earlier seemed irritated with how terrible friends we were. We explained to her, “Hey he’s not dead, so it’s all good”. She didn’t agree.

Trent spent the night high on morphine and dined out on a slice of bread and jam in the morning. We went out and had a few more drinks, boasting of our adventure and Trent’s misfortune. He survived, with this anecdote and a cool scar for the chicks to dig.

The green blur that was St. Paddy's Day in Dublin

Nothing has ever quite tingled my drinking senses as much as the notion of spending St. Patrick's day in Dublin. So when the chance arose at the end of the ski season in Austria I pounced on it as swiftly as a drunk Irishman on a free drink. I merrily pictured myself painted green, with leprechauns frolicking at my feet while Irish lass's would continually fill my Jameson in my right hand and my Guinness in my left and I would talk for hours with the local lads about Bryan O'Driscoll being God, Thierry Henry rotting in hell and Bono being a twat. This was pretty much spot on, except leprechauns have a feisty disposition and do not frolic.

And so I found myself on a local bus at midday on the 17th of March headed into Dublin and every bar that would have us. Our crew for the day was the flotsam of a ridiculous birthday party of our hosts brother that kicked off our stay and the effects of which were still being felt. (I managed to roll my ankle in a retarded attempt at climbing stairs and throughout the day every time I stepped in a certain way it crumpled on itself.) There were seven of us who knew each other from the Amsterdam pub crawl and had used this opportunity as a reunion of sorts. We also had at our disposal two local guides, Dave and Larry, who had neglected any sleep as a precursor for the day when everyone is Irish. The twenty or so people left at the house were still recovering from the party the night before and we would only see them later that night.

First on the agenda was to find a drink, which was not too difficult, there are more pubs in Dublin than people. We started off with a Bulmers, which is an Irish cider and a delightful way to get back on the wagon. With our whistles whet, and us sufficiently disorientated we headed to the grand attraction of the parade. We caught the parade on Dame street, a wide street in the Temple bar district and soon spotted an ideal viewing point. We scaled a truck and from that vantage point could take in the parade. There were young girls in traditional Irish dresses dancing along leading different animals on tacky floats. It took us a moment to take this in and quickly made our next assessment which was to drop this parade like it was hot and hit the next bar. The police arrived on the scene to assist us in our dismount of the truck, even giving us a hand down. Apparently there was Irish dancing on St. Stephen's Green and other traditional shenanigans but we paid little attention to that and all of it on the bar scene. I do not know what any of the many bars we went to were called but they were all crammed full of revelers and raucous, exactly what we were hoping for. We quickly established a healthy pace of barhopping with one Guinness at each the prerequisite.
Dublin on St. Paddy's day is exactly what you imagine it to be, the vibe is boisterous, the people are rowdy and clad in green, the streets are humming with performers and drinkers united in celebration of Patrick and his eviction of the snakes. That is the legend attributed to this fine day – that good old Patrick rid the island of snakes a là the Pied Piper. The people of this serpent free land have since rejoiced in this absence and the rest of the world has joined in.
We set about exploring the Temple Bar district one bar at a time taking in the vibe and a whole lotta Guinness. Each bar we visited would evoke a comment from Dave or Larry on the quality of the Guinness at that particular place. My Guinness knowledge was limited; I didn’t know that the kegs need to be stored two metres directly under the bar for optimum taste, and that each bar has a different quality of Guinness and I also didn’t know that if you drink a load of it it gives you the shits. That was not a pleasant surprise. Pretty soon the day took on a ruby green haze, with a steady flow of Guinness and a constantly funny tummy. I sang Cape Town’s praises and interrogated every local about what living in Dublin is like. The responses were varied, generally everyone loves Dublin but it does have its shortcomings. The Celtic Tiger that economically exploded in the late nineties has died a horrible death and as has the general morale of the city. Jobs are non-existent and on top of that it is one of the most expensive cities in the world. The rent on Grafton street, the pedestrian shopping street, is more than any street in New York or London. This is the reasont that I managed to burn through almost two months of earnings in less than a week. No one, however, was too bothered by all of that at that moment.
Somewhere between our fourth or fifth bars, while we were having a kebab break, a passing girl stole a prized green hat off of Dan (a fellow Amsterdam pub crawler), the livewire Australian took no time to throw his jacket on the floor in outrage and gallop after the brat. As soon as his jacket hit the floor, a nearby teenage knacker, showing good initiative, grabbed it and bolted. I faked a chase and hobbled to a nearby pole while a few in our party took up the chase immediately followed by a gang of the thief’s cronies. Soon enough everyone returned empty handed and a little bemused. This first-hand experience with Ireland’s juvenile youth was a minor speed bump but soon enough we were gathering ourselves at another bar. The blur of afternoon bars settled down in the evening when we found a guy dominating old Irish songs and classic pop songs in an intimate venue called Palace Bar (I know this because I have their coaster) . By this stage we had forgotten that inhibitions even existed and were merrily joining in on all songs with arms on the shoulders of the surrounding strangers. With our voices warmed up, we gathered ourselves with some red bulls on a street corner and headed to the club and our rendezvous with the gang. The club, Pygmalion, was on a completely different level to our entire day, playing pounding techno on the darkened dance floor with a swanky lounge upstairs to chill out in. This change of scene gave us a boost to end the day and night on a high. All in all, it was an awesome day, an epic party and the perfect excuse to visit a city whose main attraction is the charm of its people.

Flashback #1 The Rod and Reel

January 2009 -ish

If you have ever been a poor traveler or broke student you will be more than familiar with the importance of predrinking. As too with sneaking in sachets of alcohol to sporting events and clubs, hiding bottles of wine in parking lots, beers in bushes, half-jacks in jackets, and vodka bottles in handbags. Pre-drinking is key to obtaining optimum drunkeness (somewhere between a numb face and performing failed stagedives) and minimal spending. In Aspen, a ritzy town with extravagant prices pre-drinking wasn’t an option but a necessity. Enter the Rod ‘n’ Reel and the perfect answer to our then perturbment.



We were staying an hour’s bus ride from the town of Aspen, where the action, clubs and Brazilian girls were. We could drink on the bus in our gatorade bottles spiced with cheap vodka, which we did, but we stumbled upon a better solution. Aspen itself is the Monte Carlo of North American skiing. There I walked past Heidi Klum in the street (she acted casual about it), caught a lift with Hilary Swank (she too, masked her giddiness) and rubbed shoulders with other celebrities in equally abritrary ways. And while these stars were living the high life in their mansions and hotel suites we were drinking in public parks in -20 degrees celcius, changing rooms and our preferred Mcdonald’s where the Rod ‘n’Reel came to prominence. In the land of the free, unlike Africa, refills are free at fast-food outlets. This blew our minds at first. Being African and therefore losing our shit at anything vaguely free we took full advantage of this. A friend from home, Ian Greig used to build up his thirst and at the end of the day would“get his money’s worth” for a small coke continuously refilled for the two hour period he would spend there. We slowly caught onto how this could slip into our predrinking ritual - perfectly. What was perfect was that 1.75 litres of Vodka was a relative steal (despite the imminent blindness), there was an upstairs area, no security and the added bonus of a framed fishing rod and reel to add to the aesthetics. To add to the attraction, the clubs we were interested in, primarily Chelsea’s and primarily on Wednesdays Ladies’ nights, was one street away. Talk about location. With this discovery, we approached this new drinking venue with all the abundant fervour and passion that we naturally showed for intoxication.



We rendezvoused at the bottle store where we had an account under the name of ‘The Barton Boys’. This was the name of our blinding vodka and would spark obvious amazement by the staff each and every time we insisted on buying this 1.75 litres of loveliness. I think we bought 18 bottles in the month of January 2009. That’s not bad considering we barely had money for food, but lets not fuss on priorites. The excitement, like in every bottle store, was ripe and we skipped off with our loot to the oasis that is Mcdonald’s. Giggling, we each ordered one small coke and ran upstairs and set upon our business of getting wasted in public.

We were merrily making our way through our first drink in the far corner of the upstairs level when we noticed our company. Two stalls away were two large men in overalls and a young woman. After peeking at them a few times we noticed that one of the overalled men was in on this game of ours too. He was also intermiitently spicing up his 7up. We were instantly buzzing by the possibility that we had stumbled upon a secret society, a glorious underworld and decided to spark up a conversation with our apparent drinking buddy. He took no time to impress us with his drunkeness which was vastly beyond ours. He stood up and made the slightly baffling claim that he was in fact Sasquatch. It was only slightly baffling because he did look woodlandish, and had a hermit-esqueness to him. He pronounced that he was in fact Sasquatch and that we should take a picture of him to send into the tabloids if we wanted some quick money. Despite this exclamation we befriended the behemoth and even shared our drinks with him. His effect on the events dissipated when his drunkkenness overwhelmed him and a quietness presided and soon enough we were at his previous level and heading out to devastate dancefloors, steal drinks, inadvertantly insult girls and other usual shenanigans. And so the illustrious ritual of the Rod ‘n Reel was instigated.



With the succes of the first meeting, word spread of the location’s excellent proximity to the clubs, cheap mix and festive environment and the second meeting had more members with some regulars, such as Sasquatch. We were ecstatic to see him again, screaming “Sasquatch”in baffled hysterics. He too was there drinking again, as I assume he did every day.
(There were various 'Sasquatch Sightings' throughout the season. Callum claimed to have seen him walking around the Buttermilk ski slopes holding a spade and looking busy. I personally saw him two more times. One was when he impossibly snuck into this fancy party that was held at my place of work, a restaurant\bar where I dominated as security, and he stomped around helping himself to the free drinks. He was still in his overalls and I have no idea how he got in, but I certainly wasn't going to kick him out. The second and last time I saw him was in a square where there was a live band playing. He had found a seat a few meters away from the band, had the ever present spiced up gatorade bottle with him and between screams of encouragement for the band had muffled sobs and I saw him crying quietly to himself. That was a pretty sad scene but I will rather choose to remember the good times related to Sasquatch.)
The highlight of this second Rod ‘n’Reel session, as they were being referred to after the decoration of our drinking corner, was Sasquatch taking off his overall and pants. I cannot recall why but I do recall that it did happen, all the way down to his underpants, to his delight and our shock. Before long we were having farewell parties at The Rod, and were getting too rowdy for the exasperated staff who were threatening us with calling police. To be fair, we were too brave for our own good, taking no effort to hide our innebriation, our cackling increasing with every visit on our way to refill our ‘small cokes’,spilling our drinks and laughing about it, leaving the place a shambles and being allround drunkards. And in an instant we were all banned from Mcdonald’s, which made that Jeff’s third place in Aspen to be banned from.

It didn’t last for long, but the prime of the Rod ‘n’Reel was sublime, a certain ‘beating of the system’, and allowed us to remember very little of those nights that started with a bottle of 1.75 litre Barton, a small coke and Sasquatch taking off his pants.

When in Austria, do as the Austrians (just not Joseph Fritzl)

The liftie gives me a slight nod as he buzzes me in the side door of the Gondola Hut. I skip the line and climb into the gondola with a clammer of boots and bags and goggles and gloves. This 22-minute gondola ride before work allows me to gather my thoughts and tame my looming hangover. As the gondola rises through the pine trees and the morning mist I get a view of the neat and compact village of St Johan in Tirol. The town lies on the intersection of two rivers in the Austrian Alps, it has three supermarkets, five bars and one beer brewery. The town isn’t as vibrant as Kitzbuhel, the larger and better known resort down the road, but it does have a charm to it that small ski towns inherently have; a healthy comaraderie amongst the seasonal workers, a welcoming environment, and karaoke Wednesdays. At the top of the mountain I strap on my board not far from a sign that tells me that Johannesburg is 8360 km away (I am not too phased by this as Honolulu is 12430 km away). The steep hill that intially daunted ,now exhilirates me and I am at work in a matter of well-carved moments.
The place I work at is a slopeside lodge and restaurant and in summer it is an alpine pasture (if I close my eyes and breathe slowly I can hear Heidi and the trademark echoes of her yodelling). I am the kingpin food runner performing such jobs as vacuuming, polishing cutlery, serving food, clearing tables, snow plowing, acting busy and intermittently hiding in the bathroom playing Sudoku on my phone. I perform all functions except taking orders and handling the bills because, “I am a dirty South African and cannot be trusted”. There is another food runner who started shortly after I did. Initially I thought they were trying to phase me out because the boss had “caught me staring at the wall” one too many times but I soon learnt she is simply here on an internship for hospitality training. Her name is Suzie and she is sixteen. I know. We would make a dynamic duo if it were not for the fact that we struggle to commmunicate. We kind of just humm around each other doing our own thing.

The rest of the small team of staff are typically Austrian and hence a little different. There are three waiters. Alex, a forty-something wounded drinking hero, smartass, and entertainer. I work with him most which is trying because he is as patient as an irritable child. Then there is Charlie,a sexed up fat man who ignores the fact that I don’t speak German and has a hysterical laugh. He could be my favourite. Topping off the trio is Katharina, a peppy ray of sunshine in this otherwise demented environment and also happens to be the boss’s daughter, so extra points for her blonde scalp.
The kitchen staff, like most, are an array of off-beat characters. The head chef is a shrivelled little man with a stringy goatie and a quiet manner and has picked up the nickname of ‘test tube baby’, quite rightly too. The daytime dishwasher is a crazy-eyed Croatian whose name is something that begins with a Z and so we have no choice but to call him Zoltan. The night time dishwasher is in fact two guys who share the job, two Australian ski bums who I met in Amsterdam, who hooked me up with this job, Trent and Pixie. They are happy drifters and all-round good drinking buddies. They are the guys who I stay with when in town, who are kind enough to let me sleep on their floor. The Boss is an acclaimed somellier in Austria, gracious host and naturally I dislike her purely for being my boss despite her being very nice.
The entertaining aspect of the staff dynamic is that each one considers the next one completely crazy, with sufficient reason too. The kitchen staff think the waiters are crazy, the waiters think the kitchen staff are crazy and they are both right. This cycle of looniness is epitomised with a tune that everyone whistles. Throughout the day everyone - kitchen staff, waiters and barman all whistle the same tune of a deranged circus song. Do doo da lud do doo… it is irritating and maddening but I catch myself humming it too, am I becoming one of them?
Each one of them, apart from Pixie and Trent stay up on the lodge on the piste which I strongly suspect lends to their wackiness, I spend four days a week up here so I manage to retain some sanity, while simultaneously also contracting the batty behaviour.
There is the mutual craziness of the shared cabin fever, the frustration of a stunted lifestyle and lack of a robust social life. On the quieter nights, however, we sit around the kitchen table helping ourselves to beers, gluwein and schnapps and get merry and forget the dramas of the day and gain some perspective in drunken serenity.
Initially my casual manner, unabashed clumsiness and lack of German did nothing to endear me to everyone. The clumsiness especially was a problem. Every clatter of a knife or cling of a plate on the floor was always me. They knew it without looking. It still is, but they have come to accept it as I have had to my ntire life. This place has actually managed to drive some hard work into me and I am by no means as lazy as I was when I first arrived, I have even ceased the bathroom Sudoku. My German continues to lack.
When I tell customers I don’t speak German, “Ich spreke kein Deutch”, they cannot quite believe nor accept it. “No German? No German?” they mutter to no one in particular, looking around quite astounded and disappointed. “No German” they say quietly again to themselves, finally believing. This is when I consider telling them about what I have had to endure in my effort to learn German. A wise man, a man who knows about these things and these matters, a man you don’t question, our barman, told me upon my arrival that the secret to learning German is to think and live like a German speaking person. Fair enough.
“You have to try think like them, you have to get inside their minds”. I nodded, imagining the inside of their minds. “You have to mimic them” he told me.
“I have to eat a schnitzel everyday?”
“Yes” he concurred, clearly impressed.
I couldn’t quite believe it either but I liked shnitzels back then and I was attracted to the lack of effort involved in this osmosis effect of learning a new language. One week into the schnitzel diet, the nightmares started, the schnitzel mares, as I have come to refer to these savage experiences as. They are innocent enough and in fact start just like normal dreams but suddenly the conversation becomes German and in turn completely frightening. I wake up in a cold sweat with the taste of schnitzel in my mouth. There is nothing more grotesque than a random dream interrupted by an angry German and the only explanation I can think of is the schnitzel diet. By now I am fully addicted to these delicious lunchtime indulgences and there is no answer to this tribulation. My German remains useless and non-existent.
Despite the torment of the schnitzel mares, it is a sweet deal here. I get free accommodation, free food (I can raid the kitchen at will, which supports and encourages my schnitzel addiction), free beer and hot chocolate, so my only costs are snowboarding and drinking in town coupled with an acceptable salary so I am not complaining. I also get to cut the first tracks in the morning before the gondola starts up and at night I leave work with a torch, freshly groomed tracks awaiting, the lights of St. Johann below and nothing but the swoosh of my board to be heard.
Beyond work there is snowboarding, ski shows, apres ski, live music, destroying karaoke, sledding, Swedish ski instructors to ogle at, and setting personal records for paleness. I finish up this job within the week, and after two months of mild devotion, I am more than ready for my reward of a week of snowboarding and chilling out, followed by a week in Ireland.

To my friends, For my friends

Hello friends and welcome to a little personal project of myne! If you are reading this, you have taken a break from your day and made the effort to come this far. Thank you, you are a true friend! Or you are bored. Either way I am grateful. In a nutshell, this is a travel blog.

Do not fear, I am not going to recall the tedium of my day to day living because not even I am interested in that shit but rather I will plainly chronicle the entertaining aspects of my life, the festivals, the parties, the bicycle accidents, the sleeping in churches and the two months of living in a Nazi stronghold. I have no sneaky vendetta, secret agenda or deeper crusade other than to report on drunken antics, random but increasingly common embarrassing moments, and the odd indulgence in personal thoughts such as why pensioners love floral (it has nothing to do with their talent for snoozing), the attracions of the single glove (preferably leather), and the ideal pasta to sauce ratio.

Another year has been devoted towards plain old hedonism and upcoming events and attractions for this year are St. Paddy’s Day in Dublin, Queen’s Day in Amsterdam, the Summer in the Greek Islands, random music festivals, Oktoberfest in Munich and that is about as far as I can plan for now. Of course obscure experiences will be commonplace, let’s hope.

YOU are one of very few people who will ever read this so well done on being a part of such an elite club. With that in mind feel free to leave filthy comments on any and all posts and simultaneously let me know who be reading this. Consider it an indirect group email to my close friends as that in reality is the case.

In the coming weeks I will update stories gathered over the last year, a series of flashbacks (the Teeth Saga, La Tomatina, the Rod ‘n’ Reel, the California roadtrip, Trent’s head and many more) that many of you would have missed out on so as to thicken the soup that is this endeavour and build some momentum. So I urge you to keep on popping in and supporting the cause. You could be a part of something very special, well, not really, but I thought I’d just throw that out there.

I hope to be able to get my shit together and buy an acceptable camera one of these days. The idea is to put together avant guarde (cool word) photo essays, have some fun with it, and add another dynamic to this.

If I can lighten your mood and bring a smile to your day then that would make it all worth it for me. That would validate the excessive drinking, scaring small children in the street and surviving on chip rolls eaten on park benches. All for you my friends – This goes out to my homies. So, tune in, turn on, and drop out.



Peace! Matt