Worldcup in Barcelona

The last time in Barcelona is not a good memory. Not Barcelona's fault. She was just the wrong place at the wrong time.

Or maybe I should not have been there. Or perhaps I was precisely supposed to be there, just to be able to endure the toughest moment in my life which would come a few days later.

But not this year. This year Barcelona carries no heavy weight, just suntanning, good food, enjoying friends. Oh yes, and the football world cup. Spain has not done too well this time, but in Barcelona some people may actually be rooting for Holland, so no big deal.

We are based in the Olympic Village (rather than some nice barrio) with easier access to the Barceloneta beaches. Priorities.
This time there is no Heineken Ice Bar on the beach to give us funny stories to recount years later. This is the time of the Rock bar with true Catalans and 70's music in Gracia, Opium with thousand drunk foreigners in Barceloneta, beach bar with big screen to watch Brazil and Holland before sunset, Pakistanis selling drinks illegally on the beach.

And "bomba" tapas for good memory.

Le baiser du Cinquantenaire

Love in Brussels mid-summer night does not go unnoticed, especially during the just discovered Noa Moon's cheerful Paradise.

Moon? You serious? After the post from a couple of days ago?

Half-moon

Tonight my friends ordered half-moons for dinner at the usual Italian restaurant. And tonight that I feel no interest in sleeping, a half-moon rose at east, big, hazy and in the colour of amber.

I always loved the moon. I used to dream that from a little door hidden behind the sink in the bathroom of my childhood home, you could go directly to the moon. And it was peaceful and nice up there. It was never clear if there existed a way to go back to my bathroom but, in truth, in my dream there was no hint that I was even thinking of looking for a way back.

And then there are the memories of a splendid moon seen from a desert in the middle east, an implacable one during a sleepless night in a hospital, or a bright one shining through the window of someone who could have been special and never wanted to be.

But today there is no full moon. Today this is a half-moon, like this half-baked story, or this half-hearted message. Beautiful still. Fully beautiful, I dare to say. Rising and shining. And yet half. And so will she remain. For a while still.

Wedding in Chia

Who needs travelling to the Caribbean when you have got Sardinian beaches like Tuerredda?

And a great way to start summer: scenic wedding on the beach, great party afterwards and, icing on the cake, a couple of days to spend on stunning beaches.

After having seen the north of Sardinia, Santa Teresa, Alghero and Maddalena years ago as well as Villasimius in the south more recently, once again a great time in Chia. Looking forward to the next teaching invitation - else I would need to plan a real holiday around Oristano. Tough.

And Cagliari is always a pleasure, even when being there for the fifth time. Will 2014 be in the records as the year of repeating the good stuff discovered in the past? Best ice cream in town in Piazza Yenne, best ciccioneddas alla campidanese and saffron meatballs at Sa Piola, best views from Libarium at Bastione Santa Croce. Unfortunately my favourite Ristorante 51 no longer serves the great fish I had come to appreciate a few years ago. No problem: new addition to the list: Luigi Pomata and his tuna tartare on a bed of cream of buffalo mozzarella (!).

Back to the Holy Land

Plans for the long weekend? Not yet.
Tel Aviv? Ok.

That is how much it takes me to plan another (fifth or sixth? I do not even remember) visit to my friends living in the holy land. That, and a Jetairfly ticket, this time even directly from Brussels instead of Liege.

And so here I am again: flip-flops, summer dress, straw hat and sunglasses, walking along sderot Ben Gurion, enjoying the free wifi, choosing the coffee shop for today until finally heading to the beach until sunset.

And after sunset, it is time for the gastronomic part. The result is two new additions to the lists of great places to go and eat in Tel Aviv: Onza, a bit posh and very refined at the Jaffa flea market, and friendly, cozy Dalida in Florentin.

Admittedly, having 35 degrees in May is perhaps a bit exaggerated but, after all, better to stock up a bit of heat. God knows what Brussels summer will look like (*).

In Jerusalem,of course, things are different and we would be meeting and talking to Jesus (literally).

Icing on the cake, the smoothest departure I ever had. Perhaps due to my new passport showing no signs of my suntanning in Tunisia or climbing in Jordan, nearly no question asked at the security check. Except the typical embarrassing ones such as: "why such a big suitcase if you are coming just for a weekend?" Ahem.

Point taken. Next time I will stay longer.


(*) update from yourself in July: good you soaked some good sun back in May and even got a little burned. Your July in Brussels will be 15 degrees and no-stop rain. You were happy that Israeli security was smooth and did not make you miss the flight back? You will regret that in a few weeks, darling.

Treviso city

This year this blog is busy with several short trips .

And so one day the destination was orderly, clean, cute Treviso. 

Where people tell you that you are a bit far from your hotel and it turns out it is a 10-minute walk. 

Where every two years a bunch of people gathers and gets excited talking about actions for damages in a cartel case or access to the last mile.

Where parties must stop at 1:30 am and there is no way to either look for the next one or call a taxi to drive you home.

Koningsdag on the Amstel

There are several eccentric things one can do in her life.

Visiting the Roman museum in Dublin; trying to go clubbing in sleepy Bonn on a weekday; looking for a slice of pizza in Casablanca; go walking along traffic-jammed Rue the la Loi to get the feeling of Brussels; bringing your hairdrier at the Ngoro Ngoro campground; paying a Bedouin with credit card in the desert around Petra.

But age brings the wisdom - or mainstream-ness - and one may happen to end up doing also normal stuff, such as going back to Holland on the most Dutch of the days, Koningsdag, riding a bike for 20 km along the Amstel, finishing with a picture of a windmill and a slice of appelgebak.

And yet, why  would one be too normal or too obvious. Why not getting a fine for speeding (by some extra 9 km) on an empty 5 lane-highway where the silly speed limit is set at 100 as a compromise with the environmentalist party?

Time for lakes

There are times when you hit the road and set off for 3 or 4 thousand km. 

The destination does not matter too much. And the memories you like to keep are journey events, not monuments or places: a mountain pass closed to traffic in the middle of night, missing an awaited call while making it through the Gotthard tunnel, mixing up city names on the GPS and ending up going around the Zurich lake for an hour, discovering that in Luxembourg a bottle of water costs 25 cents.

Besides, all in all, it was a ride from lake to lake: Zurich, Lucerne and Como, all the way down to Monticchio. 

Rich, beautiful, famous Como lake, mentioned in literary masterpieces, surrounded by the stunning Alps, home of celebrities and source of wonderful photos.

 

But Monticchio, what's that? Just a low profile, uncared, unknown volcanic lake in the deep south, home and source of some of the best (and yet ignored) mineral waters around.

Possibly another of those symbols of a land not believing its own promises.

Un tempo piccolo

Stavo per dirti che ho smesso di provare a dare un senso alle cose che succedono. E avrei aggiunto che le bastonate prese ti insegnano la serenità per prendere la vita come viene.

E avrei mentito. Forse solo per non perdere l'occasione di dire una frase a effetto.
Perché invece non sopporto le cose che non hanno spiegazione. Un padre che muore, un uomo insistente, uno che non insiste, un no grazie di fronte a un'offerta che non si poteva rifiutare. E continuo ad perderci la testa e le notti, finché il tempo, galantuomo, mi passa una tazza di tè e nuovi indovinelli da risolvere.

Diventare grandi.

Sitting on an unstable tabouret

At the end, not more than two months did spring last.

In some parts of the world (or is it just for some people?) it is not summer which comes after spring but a new winter. After hopes have been blossoming together with nature, everything froze again and disappointment is all the more bitter. And all the more compelling the question: will I be able to endure yet another winter?

Another hour, another day, another week slowly go by, swinging between the acknowledgment that the brightest memories of this out-of-season spring will stay with you and the frustration for not getting the reason why all this had to abruptly finish.
Hanging in the balance as if sitting on a too tall barstool.

In Place du Jeu de Balle a broken saxophone lies abandoned on a bed of old cutlery. Will someone who understands a sax ever get the idea of looking down, knowing it is just a cutlery stall? Who could ever think they all were just pieces of the same metal?

For a moment I wished I understood saxophones.
Now I wish someone understood we are not all the same piece of metal.

That time of my life

Strange time it was. What time was it? Time of wishes and expectations. There were struggles and fights too. And high temperatures. With mood swings, unbearable weakness and unstoppable energy.

D'altronde, così sembrava pensarla anche il cavallo emo dello Chateau de la Hulpe.

Blame it on the unexpected sun, on the sudden outburst of pollen, on the yellow light - or maybe on the purple leds. A day feels like the end of the world, another one feels like the beginning of life. Which is actually the same thing.

Alla fine era solo un compleanno a Bruxelles.
Oppure: all'inizio era solo un compleanno a Bruxelles. Dice: it's my party and I cry if I want to. Ma non è che si deve per forza piangere.

In fact, at the end, a smile is just right, because of happiness or because of an unforeseen song from many years ago.

No, I am not going

I thought about it but I am not going to watch Philomena.

Let us start from the beginning, from Terence, the ancient Roman playwright and his most famous work Hecyra, i.e. the mother in law. In this play there is a girl who is raped by a drunk idiot. Later the girl is married to the son of the lady of the title but when he discovers that she is pregnant from the rape, he sends her back to her parents. Happy ending: it turns out that the idiot who raped the girl was none other than her future husband, so he can take her back and live happily ever after. The lucky girl's name was Filumena.

Then there was Eduardo de Filippo. He also wrote about some Filumena. A strong and pragmatic lady, former prostitute who wants to marry one of her ex clients from whom she had a child and with whom she lived most of her life. He is a conventional, selfish and clueless idiot but he is wealthy and she needs him to take care of all her three sons and not just the one she had from him. Since she does not reveal which one is the son, he reluctantly accepts the deal.

And finally came Philomena the movie, this Irish lady who had a son when she was very young. The boy was taken away from her and she spends most of the film going around the world looking for him.

So, whoever gets this name seems to be a single mother, to get a lot of crap from life and love a bunch of useless men.

I think I will be waiting for a movie where Philomena looks like this, speaks 15 languages, is black belt in judo and aircraft pilot and travels the world killing bastards until she is promoted head of the CIA. Or pope. Or dies. Still have to make up my mind.

Brianza my love

Oh yes, I almost forgot.

In one of my wherabouts, I have been to Brianza and visited Monza, including the (desert) F1 circuit where information is provided bilingually - or almost.

It was a pleasant stay all in all, done bits of targeted shopping in the main street (did not find out if there was another one though) and, most of all,  survived a 'challenging' cuisine - successfully managing to avoid cassöla for myself and for our muslim observant colleague who had not quite caught the main ingredients of the typical dish.

Batik of change

The moment I saw this silky batik in a little shop in Koh Lanta, I knew where it would fit.

There are different types of batik and this one is not for wearing, it is to be hung on the wall. Its colour and the decoration were just perfect for a certain wall. And it was also the perfect memory of a beautiful land: to be hung close to the shores of a familiar sea, as a reminder of the exotic beauty of an Ocean far away. And after all, a souvenir has more value if it has a meaning, if it fits someone and no one else. Well, it took me more to write this down that to actually buy it.

Life is full of unexpected contingencies and it just so happens that the batik never made it to its perfect spot. The batik is in great shape and is now in Brussels, waiting for its final destination. But the wall to which it was destined is none of my business any longer. And so, the souvenir will stay here for a while, in the no-man's land of the unplanned, until I find its new home. 

Things happen sometimes and then a souvenir from Thailand unwillingly becomes a batik of change.

Epiphany in Rome

Rome has not appeared in a post for a while, despite my having been there a few times a year. Somehow it feels a little odd talking about a visit to Rome. Perhaps, it is a bit like having to figure out whether you are still in love with your ex: when in doubt, do not mention.

Yet, I did not have to figure it out: of course I am still in love with the city. And anyway, who said Rome is the past only?

Be that as it may, there you go, I am back again for a couple of days and fully sinking in the homecoming nostalgia awakened by the once familiar smell, nuance of blue of the sky, winter unexpected warmth. In fact, the sky is so blue and the sun so shiny that it feels more like March (or May, if you are in Brussels).

Yet, it is 6 January, Epiphany or la Befana, the last day of the Christmas holidays and the whole population seems to be taking a stroll in the city centre. So, it looks like I may not be able to walk through the crowds and make it to Piazza Navona today. In the meantime, the jet lag has kicked in, probably helped by those bucatini all'amatriciana flambé at Trattoria Vecchia Roma. In fact, I would not mind a nap in the sun. And as always I would not mind staying here a bit longer. But my plane leaves tomorrow morning early and the show must go on.

Koh Lanta

It took us a while and a bit of a struggle but eventually we found our little piece of paradise in Koh Lanta - leaving aside the fact of staying at a place called "Palace Hill" where only one of the two words was an accurate description of the - ahem - hotel. 

The best thing about our Palace was the affiliation to the "Palace beach", a more accurate match of name and architecture-location and also the best place to splurge with daily massages (even Thai massages for the brave), a Chung at sunset (Singha tasting too watery after a while), fresh fish and prawns barbecue on the beach and spilling the beans with new friends.

In the programme, also an excursion to the "four islands", of which we actually saw only one, due to the impossibility of convincing us to leave that beach after a mere half hour.

Concluding the stay with a fun mega-tuktuk ride to "Last beach" (or Bamboo Beach), at the not-so-far end of the island, to escape, just for a few hours, the lineup of restaurants and massage centres.

Ready to go back home. Or not.

Jet lag in Bangkok

Lack of time, lack of information, lack of energy. And plenty of sunshine, plenty of gold, plenty of people. So did the visit of Bangkok start, on a long day with very little sleep and very little food.

It felt like being in a dream, where things are new, funny, messy, shining but one does not fully feel them. 

According to the news, somewhere in town there were riots and protests against the government, but not quite at the Grand Palace, at the Pagoda or at the Wat Pho temple, home to the 43 metres long reclining Buddha and supposedly the birthplace of Thai massages.

In a few days the rebels plan to "shut down" the capital, but that will be after we are gone. And, anyway, now is time to explore the route to the southern beaches rather than the one to democracy in Thailand. 

More Bangkok indulgence before leaving? Highly recommended: a hot Tom Yam and Pad Thai for dinner and a B52 or a Mojito at the Asiatique Riverfront. 

Searching for paradise

Probably this is what everyone came here for. Thai beaches appeared in so many occasions as illustrations of paradise that people from all over the world now expect to find heaven everywhere in the Andaman sea.

And so the tourist thinks that perhaps that is going to happen just in one of those organised tours with fellow hopefuls, on that cute long tail boat the travel agency booked for you or on a fast speedyboat. Oh well, if nothing else is available, perhaps a liner ferry service to paradise will do too.

One is certain to find what he is looking for here. The price to pay is having to elbow your way through paradise across thousands of others sharing the same quest.

Most dream beaches here in South Thailand seem to be victims of their own success. Leonardo di Caprio winks from the Koh Phi Phi brochure, small archipelago Ko Khao Phing Kan is best known as James Bond island after Roger Moore's adventures here in 1974. As a result, long queues, paradise pics featuring some hundreds visitors, swimming your way through a cave to a hidden lagoon via a human traffic jam of sort.

Everything Thai seems so beautiful and so cheap. And so crowded of tourists.  Makes you fear it won't last for long.

Happy 2014

And that's it for now.

Although old Phuket town, half an hour away from Patong, does retain some charme, the impact of mass tourism on this part of the country is not for the better.

Farewell Phuket.

Patong

There are probably other places like this one or maybe even worse ones . Yet it has something disturbing, in its atmosphere of total disregard for nature and architecture, for people's body and soul, for respect or dignity, all in the name of what some consider to be big fun.

It did not help that the organiser commented with a pinch of pride her successful booking in the famous and beautiful Patong beach, promising dreamlike midnight swimming, just minutes before finding ourselves stuck in hoards of drunk crowds, scooters, touts, hookers and rubbish.

Our accommodation also gives clear hints of its target customers. Mostly sport channels on (free) TV, dark towels and slippers, and an inside window with a view on the shower to be enjoyed while comfortably lying on your bed.

But New Year's Eve party sports thousands of paper lanterns beautifully raising from the beach to the sky. Better to look up at them, forgetting about the dump and the drunken staying down on earth.

Hopefully 2014 will be a better year for all.

Happy new year.

Not going

Summer is almost over and there are all the places where I did not go to be talked about.

I did not go to the Loire valley where a majestic chateau still holds a reservation in my name, which I have already paid and will probably never use.

I did not go to Sorrento, where the beauty of the town, the blue of the water and the intense taste of the food welcomed and spoiled my friends but not me.

I did not jump into the clear bays and lagoons of Malta, always a land of summer memories.

And all the places I did not visit, all my missed opportunities, they all have a story, are part of my story, make my life what it is and will make myself what I am.

Oslo city

I did not forget the last stop in our trip.
Less exciting times and more relax, good food and shopping: Oslo, big ships, long walks and the last couple of days of the Norway trip.

A pleasant city, nice to discover, manageable with an efficient public transport system, not too big and not choked by traffic. Its harbour may be less characteristic than Bergen and less stunning than Svolvaer, but perfect to sip a glass of fresh white wine (at the price of a whole bottle), facing the long sunset in the clear blue sky.

Yes, on time for the aperitif we did have clear blue sky, yet in the few hours before, we managed to experience: cold rain, shining sun, chilling wind, cloudy sky and shining sun again. Starting to make sense of this "outdoors" fashion style most Norwegians in the streets seemed to favour.

Norwegians. We really liked them. Besides being beautiful people with big blue eyes, they were very kind, friendly and helpful throughout our visit. Whether it was free access to their wifi to help us find a place to sleep or file a flight plan, getting us in and out of an international airport without checking any ID, giving an advice on their favourite Aglianico from Irpinia to accompany the entrecote, the people of Norway made an excellent impression on a bunch of tired pilots (and passenger).

To NordKapp and back again

The D-day has finally come.
A few hundreds more km to fly, some difficulties to overcome (northern airfields closed during the weekend being the most pressing in the morning) but the target is within reach, weather permitting.

Departing from Svolvaer, passing at 1.500 feet through a wilder landscape of "wave" clouds and snow-topped mountains, dotted here and there by sparse wooden houses.
A quick pit stop to refuel in Hammerfest and off again, flying over the 71st Parallel and the northernmost point in Europe.

And so Nordkapp was conquered, by doing some formation flying and low passes over the Nordkapp signpost and close the mountain side - a bit too close maybe, for the amusement of the tourists but also risking to be taken down in a rotor, thereby prematurely ending our adventure.

Not that the other days flying was 100% quiet and smooth, but today we definitely exceeded the daily dose of turbulence, crappy weather and hold-your-breath landings, enough to be able to enjoy a quiet dinner and the Tromso midnight sun marathon - and a quiet jet liner flight tomorrow to go back south.

Adventure time is finished, it is time to leave the little Diamond parked in the arctic city of Tromso, for somebody else to take it back home. And it is also time to lean back, relax and savour the memories of emotions, discoveries, fears and expectations of these days.

Bye Charlie Romeo, till next time.

Midsummer

With the official start of summer, we crossed the Arctic circle and reached the Lofoten archipelago, landing in Leknes and Svolvaer, not before playing a bit in the skies above the islands in formation with the sister aircraft (meet Charlie Sierra, twin of our Charlie Romeo, a bit under the weather, like all of us).

The air gets finer and clearer, the colours brighter and the water calmer. The night disappears and we enter dreamland Svolvaer bay.

It is midsummer night, people are out celebrating until late (what is late anyway?), some are jumping naked in the ice-cold water to show either prowess or recklessness. The reflexes on the water have something magic and soothing for the spirit.

Feeling like time stopped, we should nevertheless try to get some sleep. We still have a mission to accomplish, the 71st parallel is waiting for us.

In the Sognefjord

And a beautiful day it was.
Beautiful for walking around pretty Bergen, "the most beautiful small town in the world", according to my guidebook.

And perfect also for flying out of it and deep into the Sognefjord, home to breathtaking lascapes, and to a minuscule, almost invisible landing strip on the side of a rock. No flying in the clouds or away from a storm today, but once again excellent piloting skills deployed to land in Sogndal.

The second leg today brought us high up again, over the central mountain range, overflying a glacier and doing a 360 loop to check the small aircraft in the backyard of a house (where else would you keep one if you lived in Gerainger?). One last loop to note the score of a football match while overflying Alesund and finally we can land 400 km further north-east, in Trondheim.

A long way done but not even half way to our destination Nordkapp. In fact, we still get sunrise and sunset. And an Italian restaurant at dinner time. Tomorrow this has got to change.

Northbound

Half a year ago it was down under. Now it is definitely up and above: jumping on a Diamond 40 - an old friend met almost 3 years ago, Delta Echo Sierra Charlie Romeo - heading Nordkapp for Midsummer.

Wishing I could help with piloting next time, for the time being I'm performing my usual photographer's role, sometimes flight attendant, passing vfr charts or water.

And off we go, right after the Ryanair Boeing. 1500 ft, overflying the Affligem tower (yes, there is more than just a brewery in Affligem), heading north Germany for the first leg, passing quickly over the Netherlands - Dutch controllers just seem to want us fast out of their skies.

Three hours later we are in Husum, family run (sort of) airfield, big man with big belly and basic English at the radio, free cups of coffee for everybody, a storm on our way north and another one coming from the south. Better to go quickly and better to be above the clouds than below them. Beautiful flying in cotton at times at 10.000 feet.

Feeling confident for being high enough and with radar control, we can make it all the way through the bad weather and to Bergen. Note to self: no problem to go through the clouds or to pass airport security without even showing an id but no way you can find a place to sleep in Bergen without a reservation.

Tomorrow, we are told, will be a beautiful day for flying.

May break

Do not worry about that sunscreen, in May the sun does not bite.

This short trip to Mallorca will probably be remembered for this statement made on the first day and regretted on the first evening - after about 8 hours in the sun and a slightly burned chest/shoulders/nose/other.

The upside: some kind of colour to show off with friends once back the city where being hit by the sun does not rank very high in the list of possible threats.

Funny Mallorca

Mallorca seems kind of trilingual: Spanish, Catalan, German. You can be informed by reading the Mallorca Zeitung and, in certain areas, it is hard to find tapas, so better settle for some Berliner kebab in case of hunger pangs.  

Seductive Mallorca

Mallorca towns are very pretty, well cared and well kept, shining in the sun. The countryside landscape gets dramatic when the end of a sharp bend reveals a little cala or hills plunging steeply into the sea. 

Getting spoiled in Mallorca

It does give some kind of satisfaction not to have to pay a fortune for a good dinner, tasty snacks with Cava or for a pretty summer dress, with the shop owner giving you, on top, the belt from another dress - just because you liked it. And to drink a nice bottle of Spanish wine, with the waiter pouring two additional glasses and serving dessert and champagne, all on the house.

I guess some more Spanish explorations would do no harm.

Eau de Cologne

I have been several times in Cologne, each time for just a partial visit. Sooner or later, I will hopefully manage to have the full picture.

First time, as a party destination, reached by local train from Bonn - not exactly renown for nightlife, I am told. Another time, a stroll in the shopping area and a couple of drinks in the Heumarkt. Then there was the time of that workshop outside the centre.

This time, on a Easter eve which was colder than a Christmas eve, the day was good for climbing up the bell tower of the Cathedral, drinking a few Koelsch from those tiny long glasses and freezing to the bones while walking along the Rhine.

Very clean, very neat, difficult to imagine the Carnival craze. Maybe next time.

Taking stock

31 days away, almost 10.000 km in one continent, 11 flights, 12 beaches, 4 BBQs and 2 fish&chips, 3 pizzas, 3 ice creams and even 2 pastas (Asian noodles not included).

26 cities, 1437 photos, 1 (sort-of) dive, 20 degrees temperature excursion on the continent, 40 degrees excursion upon return to Europe.

12 Sauvignon blanc, 1 Chardonnay, 8 Shiraz, 5 Australian lagers, 1 Japanese drink tasting like bubblegum.

A dozen kangaroos (half of them dead on the road), a few wallabies, about 20 koalas (all alive), a thousand penguins going home for dinner at dusk, 5 crocodiles, 3 shadows of sharks, dozens of parrots, hundreds (dead) jellyfishes, thousands colourful butterflies.

1 heat-induced headache, zero colds, zero sicknesses, 1 big smile.

Waving away the end of holiday blues

Back to Queensland for the last destination of the OZ tour, to towns with fancy names such as Noosa and Surfers Paradise. A bit posh the former, very laid back the latter. Small summer houses versus sky high hotel buildings. Roasted butternut pumpkin tortellini with sage butter at Gaston's there, fish and chips on the beach here. One thing in common: waves. Big ones, both places a surfer's dreamland.

If you did not take your board along, no worries, you can still go in the water to perform the local beach ritual: confined in 50 metre stretches delimited by flags, it is allowed to jump against the coming waves, in sync with the rest of the crowd, under the supervision of lifeguards and helicopters (safety first).

Sure, a long relaxing walk is always an option, the city will provide spotlights to make your sandy steps safe at night ('safety first' must be the unofficial title of the OZ anthem). Or just take the car, for an unforgettable ride between waves on one side and forest on the other. Speed limit on the beach is 80 km/h, 50 in "urban" areas (oh well, camps) and police is very strict. Whilst driving with high tide is not really recommendable, the beach is the best road to get to Fraser Island, where in fact, the beach is the only road available - as well as the only runway and unofficial cemetery of those hundreds blue jellyfishes.

With traces of sun on my skin, of sand in my shoes and Flathead fish&chips in my stomach, it is a little hard to pack up dirty clothes and good memories. Besides, the suitcase is almost exploding. A koala bear or a bottle of Shiraz too many?

Sydney - and the others

Darwin is an odd place. Temperatures and humidity make an impenetrable wall, there is no real centre or place to go for a walk, the beach and its waves are artificial, public transport stop at 6:30 pm - where would you want to go anyway?

Adelaide is a nice and relaxing spot to chill out, especially when coming back exhausted from the desert: a wine-tasting ride, the beach at Glenelg at sunset, cappuccino and panettone for breakfast. Besides, all the best restaurants are Italian - and closed between Christmas and New Year, what a fortunate coincidence.

Melbourne is shining and cheerful. Walking over Flinders street, Swanston and Elisabeth streets and Federation square to the Southbank is simply a pleasure. The skyline is beautiful, eating good food is a local pastime, and the king of noodles operates in the neighbouroods and makes giant portions. And - at last - restaurants do not close at 9 pm.

Sydney, however, is the star. Vibrant and laid back, healthy and voluptuous, daughter of captives and queen of culture. Mountains behind, a long bay at its heart and the infinite Ocean in front, with the majestic Opera House as its gate and Fort Denison as its outpost-turned-restaurant.
Take a ferry to Manly and enjoy the view and the breeze, the sea, the parrots and the windy beach. Or drive to Bondi beach, big waves, able surfers and good fun. But also a hike in the Blue Mountains to greet the Three Sisters or a stop at Penrith to greet an Italian-Australian family and enjoy old-style Italian hospitality and all the food that this implies.

So many things, so little time, so much desire to go back there again.

In Uluru

It is 44 degrees today and rangers' notices hung on isolated poles in the desert invite people not to go hiking today under the scorching sun. Red desert all around this solitary road. It is hard to believe that road sign on the left-hand side warning that the same road can be subject to floods. "When it rains every 7 or 8 years, it does happen" confirms Jenny, our tall, blond, solid local driver for today.

Snakes, lizards, scorpions and the other regular inhabitants of the area have all disappeared: who can be so fool and stay out there with this weather? But those fools have travelled thousands km by plane, car and coach only to see the show of these million-year-old rocks, shaped by the movement of the Earth and by the forces of nature, change colour as the sun marks the different hours of the day.

The show does not disappoint and, accompanied by a glass of good Chardonnay at sunset, the foolish tourists can happily go back to civilization with their load of pictures and heat-induced headaches.

Great Ocean road

Wow, many times wow, at every stop, at every bent, at every lookout point.
Watching cliffs sculptured by the waves and the winds during millennia can be breathtaking. The Arch, the London bridge (fallen down, fallen down), the Loch Ard gorge where ships used to wreak in the 19 century and the amazing 12 Apostles (which are not really apostles and not even 12, but after all, it does not matter).

This must be quintessential Australian. A beautiful landscape, tough natural evolution, strong sunshine (burning despite the chilly wind), large beaches with huge waves and blond surfers, long roads and kangaroo/koala warnings all along.

Carcasses of several kangaroos killed in road accidents are testimony that those warnings are not unnecessary. But luckily the forest along the lighthouse road is great for koala spotting: sweet koalas clinging on eucalyptus branches, trying to grab some of those yummy (?) leaves are very rewarding for the sun-burnt travellers.

A walk on the beach at sunset, a nice dinner in a restaurant overlooking the shores, a short walk to the lighthouse split-point. Anything would do today. Anything on this road will be right to keep the magic going. What a glorious end of the year.

So this is Christmas?

So many times we hear people having troubles coping with Christmas, because of lack of time to buy all the presents or because of sadness for the lost childhood happiness of this time of the year. Or perhaps because the whole world is upside down and things seem completely out of tune.

Imagine a huge Christmas tree in the main square of a town, when outside is 32 degrees and you are sweating every minute of the day, unless you are swimming in crystal clear water at 28 degrees with a bunch of clown fishes - and jelly fishes.

Imagine it is Christmas eve in a frontier town: 20.000 inhabitants and 50.000 snakes, bars close at 6, one restaurant remains exceptionally open until 9, there is no place to go before the midnight mass and you should probably not go anyway because it is highly recommended not to stay out in the streets at night. And you are sweating again.

Imagine it is 45 degrees Celsius now, in a splendidly red desert, there is a swimming pool with palm trees and a receptionist offering you some chocolate:
"oh, thanks, this is so sweet of you"
"no, it is Christmas".

Imagine Santa coming in many different forms: as a scarecrow carrying the just harvested hay or - rather obviously - on a surf board or on a SUV disguised as a reindeer with a red nose.

Imagine still to catch a plane around noon and have your Christmas lunch 10.000 mt high. And lunch is a frozen chicken sandwich. And imagine you finally land, it is 25 degrees (and you are complaining) and at last you can sit in a normal restaurant - the only one open in town - and order a typical - which you never ever had before - Christmas lunch: stuffed turkey and Christmas pudding.

Merry Christmas down under!