Ahhhh, Jamón, to think of all the good times we’ve had together.

Also, this guy.

Yes, one C.Iverson was awaiting our arrival in our hotel just east of the city. It was so good catching up with the Ivonator, especially because he had been to Barcelona before. Hell, to hear him tell it he’d been El Mayor for 10 years. Despite the fact that his local knowledge seemed only to involve the ability to avoid points of interest he was trying to find, he led us a merry dance down La Rambla and around town.

Barcelona is a fantastic city and the architecture is truly unlike anywhere else in the world. That is a cliche, to be sure, but of this town it’s actually true.

They’re planning on finishing that in 2026, by the way. Started in 1882. Contractors!

Sadly, in some kind of karmic balance redress for the perfect weather and pop-up-random-ham-festival we’d scored in Madrid, the weather was for the most part dreary and bleak. It all but forced us into Barcelona’s many bars and restaurants to eat, drink and generally enjoy life. #firstworldproblems. Accordinly, we thought we’d double down on the weather and hit up the local Ice Bar.

But in these parts, about the only thing better than a bar is a tapas bar.

Many plates of different, delicious food = happy Mike. It checks out.

Big thanks and love to Ives. More pics here – catch ya next time somewhere soon, chico.

No sooner than we’d strolled into Madrid’s famous Plaza Mayor, we stumbled upon an impossibly large white pavilion. Surrounding signs proclaimed the glorious news:

Sweet baby ham.

If there’s one thing the Spanish know, it’s cured meats. And wine. And beer. And food generally. An- well, the Spanish know quite a bit, as a weekend in Madrid revealed, but here this was all about the Iberico.

Inside, the walls were lined with dozens of stalls, from each of which hung the wares of as many different producers. Aproned men solemnly attended their hams, delicately slicing off paper-thin pieces and arranging them on plates. I imagine brain surgery to be carried out with less precision and care.

We selected our booth using that great old traveller’s rule – the busiest damned stall we could find.

These guys look happy. And who wouldn’t be?

What could be tastier than a plate of delicious ham?

In case you thought that to be rhetorical, the answer is: A plate of delicious ham, and a cold Spanish lager.

Madrid was fantastic, by the way. A beautiful city, filled with beautiful people.

But nothing – I repeat, nothing – beats a random ham.

So declares the sign at Checkpoint Charlie, the notorious former crossing-point between East and West Berlin. Though the sign remains, there’s no wall here now; no gruff East German military searching cars for escaping citizens; the only East-West stand-off today is between Japanese tourists and the flag-waving, US-uniformed German actor demanding €2 for photo-opps.

Tasteful.

We had limped into Berlin, not exactly ‘fresh’ from the beer halls of Munich and sworn off alcohol for at least a day or so. It’s fair to say we were looking for a little more culture than (admittedly fantastic) Maß biers and Oom-Pa-Pa. It’s also fair to say that this truly amazing city did not disappoint. Moreso than anywhere we’ve ever been, its painful and confronting history is simply unavoidable. Even quiet, unassuming back streets carry subtle reminders that the simple act of walking down them wasn’t always possible.

Some stretches of the wall remain intact; in the North of the city, a stretch has been restored that gives a fairly chilling idea of the absolute fucking madness that this wall was.

The area between the two walls was known as ‘the Death Strip’. Hard to believe this once encircled one half of an entire city.

And it is truly a magnificent city. The heart of the Mitte or downtown is known as Museum Island: funnily enough, it’s an island filled with Museums (how very Germanic these naming conventions are). There are some amazing buildings here, all of which take on a much more sinister tone when you realise this is the very site of those packed Nazi rallies and marches seen in grainy black-and-white footage. Take the Altes Museum:

Or, as it was one day in 1934…

Our walking-tour guide clearly knew her audience when she said, “This square was where the Nazis burned books… you know, like that scene in Indiana Jones.” I just KNEW that series was historically accurate!

These many excellent museums, displays and monuments all dedicated to presenting, in at times graphic detail, the horrors the city has in the past inflicted, and endured. The at first oddly abstract but ultimately engaging Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe is one such experience.

Yet another nice touch is the East Side Gallery; a stretch of the wall that has been covered in art. Some abstract, some poignant, and some famous.

In amongst all the death, destruction and horror it’s easy to nearly forget that the Berlin of today is also filled with great cafes, restaurants, pubs and nightlife. I did try to rally the troops for a trip to some Euro-trash club – perhaps to load up on glo-sticks, and unleash the Clarke-robot on an unsuspecting continental crowd. Luckily enough for all involved, in the end we managed to content ourselves to a wee-hours-of-the-morning stint in a sufficiently dodgy Berlin bar.

Don’t look directly into that shirt, by the way. It will steal your soul.

A few more pics of Berlin here.

I hate this blog. For months it made me sick. I live in a lovely part of the world but reading about Kate and Mike’s exotic adventures filled me with pure jealousy. The amazing places they went, the characters they seemed to meet, Mike’s never ending quest to eat his way around the world; it all annoyed me. But then I did something about it. I decided to book a ticket to Europe to be part of one of their next adventures.

I arrived in London to be met at the gate by Mike who felt it hadn’t been long enough to forget what each other look like so there was no need to make a sign with my name. A change of heart at the last minute saw him snatch someone else’s sign.

Mike and I found each other OK, but Mr Yang might still be walking around Heathrow.

With no time to waste it was off to Craven Cottage for Mike, Kate, Matt Cottrell and myself to experience our first ever Premier League match with Fulham FC taking on Blackburn. Whilst Fulham’s home ground lacks the size and grandeur of a Wembley or an Old Trafford, I loved the charm of the suburban ground and it was a great introduction to’ the beautiful game.’

After the match it was off for a pint. Mike blames me but it was he who said we should go to a pub which turned out to be the first Aussie bar he and Kate had been to in the six months they’d been living in London.

We high tailed it after one and found somewhere a little more English where we settled in for dinner and a couple more beers.

London is a great city but having spent time there before I was keen to get out into the countryside to visit some friends before shooting over to Ireland. Contrary to what I’ve been led to believe, there aren’t leprechauns running around and no one says “Top of the mornin” but some things about Ireland are very true.  And I’ll start with Guinness. For years my Irish mates have said Guinness is only good in Ireland and having only tried it in Australia I was of the opinion that Guinness was an acquired taste which is a polite way of saying its rubbish. There are many theories as to why this is the case; some say it’s because the keg is closer to the tap in Ireland; others say it’s because it doesn’t travel well or that the water used around the world is not the same as the water they use from the Wicklow Mountains.  Maybe it was the keg, maybe the water, maybe it was the way I had come to appreciate the Guinness story or maybe it was that after an hour and a half of doing the tour I was dying for a beer, but the Guinness I had in the Gravity Bar with its 360 degree view of Dublin was magnificent.

ED: Geoff drinking in Ireland - how it might have looked...

St Patrick’s Cathedral, Trinity College, Temple Bar and the home of Gaelic sport Croke Park were all part of a brilliant few days in Dublin with the tour of Croke Park particularly exciting as the visit on the Thursday saw preparations for the Gaelic football final on the Sunday.

I would have dearly loved to been in Dublin to experience the passion of what I think is an amazing sport but that would have to wait for another time. Munich was calling. Oktoberfest beckoned.

This is a place where the oldest law on the books relates to beer, and what can go in it. That law is still strictly observed – crime, meanwhile, runs free. But the beer! And at no other time is the amber liquid more front-and-centre than a certain time in September/October.

Into this brief sojourn we managed to rope (without a whole bunch of effort, it should be noted) a few co-conspirators.

The Players

“German” Geoffrey Adams

Geoff couldn’t walk down a Straße without being asked for directions or generally addressed in German. Maybe it was the hat. Geoff was also known as simply “Single”, and alternately, the ‘happiest man at Oktoberfest’.

Tom “Lazarus” Webster & WonderAsh

And Yea, on the seventh stein he rose again and walked among us. There’s people who buy daft green felt Bavarian hats, then there’s people who double-down on a black wide-brimmed Cowboy special. Well played, Larry. Well played.

And Superman isn’t the only one who wears a cape – this gal could put away steins faster than a speeding train, in a single bound. She also possesses compromising photos of everyone, hence only compliments here.

Kate “Wally” Andean:

Lost in the joy, lost in the moment… lost in Munich. Wandering the streets of a foreign city after drinking your own weight in beer is not advisable. Luckily she doesn’t weigh much.

Mike “It’s a Bavarian Men’s Neckerchief, OK” Clarke:

Well. It was.

The Tale

What a place it is. Part carnivale, part festival, part halloween and all love. One minute you are sampling the best half roasted chicken you’ll ever taste, the next you’re struggling to lift a gloriously full stein to wash it down.

Then, you’re on a dodgem car.

It’s sheer madness, and it is the most fun you can have in a glass.

In two days at the festival we rollicked our way from tent to tent, from sitting serenely and nursing our delicious beers to standing atop our chairs, joyously crashing steins into steins of strangers and belting out our own lyrics to German songs.

To sum it up: It’s crazy, hilarious, both traditional and touristy, occasionally cheesy, oh-so-boozy and brilliant. A couple of days is more than enough – but we will be back, my friends. We will be back.

More pics here. See you all there in 2012.

Tonight, here’s the same viewpoint (Source: http://yfrog.com/gysnrnlj)

It’s by no means the worst of the riots, but still a shock to see it coming so close. Stay safe, Londonites.

All this because Amsterdam has been reduced to Britain’s grubby, messy party destination of choice. It seems to be viewed a bit like Vegas without the gambling, the glitz or the hotel slippers. Of course it’s always had something of a reputation, but as soon as we boarded the plane it was clear: we were the only ones who were not in either (A) obnoxious chav packs, (B) balding, overweight and already drunk middle-aged stag/bucks parties or (C) balding, overweight and already drunk middle-aged hens parties.

Add to this heady mix a bunch of over-excited 18-20 year old Americans fuelled by the thrill of being ‘legally’ allowed to partake in various activities, and you have an uber-touristy crowd that is decidedly low-fucking-brow.

This is, truly, a shame.

Thankfully, the immediate company we were keeping was improved with the presence of super-cool friend and current Euro-roamer-extraordinaire, Mandy D.

The city itself is a joy to explore, once you get away from the used-toilet-bowl part of town that is the red light district. Canals filter like veins from the town centre and beyond, lined with trees and bicycles. The buildings slant, lean, twist and generally display a complete disregard for architectural integrity.

The waterways become a way of ascribing distance: “Oh, that looks like it’s about 4 canals away.” This navigatory technique isn’t the most accurate, but it is the most fun.

For beer, it is very hard to stray from the shamefully obvious choice of Heineken. Especially when you’re in the Heineken factory.

It’s hard not to feel anything but love for this delicious Dutch nectar.

As for food, fries and mayonnaise may not sound like much of a delicacy, but until you’ve greedily shovelled them from a greasy paper cone into your mouth at 2am on a cold and rainy Amsterdam street, you’re probably not qualified to comment. We basically subsisted on these Frits the entire time – morning, noon and night.

These are the only Amsterdam cones we were interested in.

On that point, much is made of the pot and the sex but it’s fair to say Kate, Mandy and I found the whole coffee-shop thing a bit of a yawn, really. Mandy’s account of this is funny (and depressingly accurate), check it out.

All in all we touched back down in London a little over 48 hours after we left, and managed to have a cracking good time in between. A few more pics are here.

To ease the pain, we’ve been keeping ourselves pretty busy, getting out and about in London and welcoming guests from home.

First to sample our hospitality were Maz, Mo and Rose (“Razmo”), who spent a busy few days in London at the start and end of a big European adventure. A highlight was definitely a delicious meal at Barbacao (quickly becoming our favourite place to eat).

After again being impressed with Jamie Oliver’s food, we were pretty excited to get the opportunity to see him cook live at his own Feastival event, held to raise money for his numerous charities. The man is a whirlwind, and sure knows how to put on a good show.

We’ve also had a visit from our dear friend Amanda, during which we were happy to instruct her on the most important feature of summer in London – drinking on the street.

We are looking forward to her return shortly. We’ve been adding photos to our London album, if you want you can check them out here.

This bad boy is British delicacy at its best. Hiding beneath its golden-crumbed exterior is a delicious layer of sausagey-goodness. Because after all….

Deeper still you encounter the hard boiled egg: first the white and then finally the yolk, nestled inside the lot like the last Babushka doll. It’s like a Kinder Suprise for adults – only the toy is, you just ate one.

Whilst you can buy them at supermarkets, delis and corner stores, nothing beats ordering one over the bar on a lazy Satdy arvo. To be washed down with a pint of real ale.

Lovely Jubbly!