We've Landed on the Moon: Iceland at a glance

Gazing from afar, just near enough to taste the sulfur that clings to each lung in a diseased clump, the land aims to morph in a grotesque means. Here our path winds to and fro, lost between its many folds and blank canvases. Veiled by a curtain of green velvet carefully swathed over its jagged tips, a city sits patiently. Frayed and forgotten, it waits, but what for, its innocence cannot justify. After being pierced through its deep crimson heart by a Volcanic spire, the city remains pinned to the life it sings to remember. It remains somehow distanced, lost in a pensive thought, wading through a bottomless sea in search of an end. Even a serrated blade could not cut the bonds that mend the two.

On a calm day, when the wind is passive and doesn't bite, you can hear the torn melodies from a city that continues to forget, a city waiting for nothing in particular.

Dare to Au Pair: Round Two

To say my first job as an au pair didn’t go quite as planned would be an understatement. It had its ups and downs just like any other shrill seeking, terror causing, havoc reeking, heart attack causing roller coaster would. So when faced with the opportunity for round two, I first ran for the hills, then hovelled up in a corner with a blanket over my head for a good while until lastly, I faced that scaly dragon in what I can only describe as an act of delirium.

Some may ask, why if I was so unhappy with the first family would I put myself through the same kind of hell? Well, I can answer that in three short and bitterly sweet words: I was broke. With no prospective employers ringing my cell and not a dollar (Sorry, Euro) to my name, I was up shit creek without a paddle. So I got on the old Google machine, and through a very selective process, found the family that was going to rock my au pairing world.

I was in over my head, they said with despair. Three young boys would surely do my head in. And they did. Aged one, two, and three, these blonde haired and blue eyed wonders tested my limits every day. They pulled my strings along with my hair, but they also grew on me. Unable to rouse an angry thought, they could transform my day with a simple hug. We spent countless hours playing peek-a-boo, discussing tractors, and drawing pictures; singing songs and hanging clothes out on the line; chasing birds out of the house and baking cookies; drinking tea, spilling it, and cleaning it up; and it never once dawned on me that this was my job. I wanted to spend my days off at home, chasing those monkeys up and down the hallways and couldn’t help but detect something missing when they weren’t around.

But after four months it was time for an end to this run-on fairy tale. I wanted to stay, I really did; A part of me knew I somehow belonged smack in the middle of this trio. But the voice of reason became louder and louder and I soon realized that as much as I wanted there to be, there was nothing left in Ireland for me. I had made great friends, seen wonderful things, and my experiences would always be in my back pocket, but there was a world waking up outside those doors and I knew I couldn’t pass that up. So with one last hug to each of them, I watched as my heart was split and sealed into three equal pieces and locked away for a rainy day.

A Naked Norwegian

Norway is home to some of the most interesting architecture in all of Scandinavia. From its iceberg shaped Opera House to its bejewelled parliament building, Oslo never ceases to amaze. But one display of Norwegian art has people undressing...I mean talking. Slightly hidden on the outskirts of the city centre, Vigeland Park acts as a barrier between right and wrong. Now don't get the wrong impression; there are many different kinds of wrong, and this particular case of wrong rides the thin line between shocking and entertainment and occassionally crosses over into outlandish country.


Inspired by Frognerparken's obsession with nudity, the Vigeland Park entrance is scattered with bits and pieces reflecting his life's work. From his experiences with angry baby syndrome to creating the world's biggest orgy. Frognerparken's hands work wonders.

The best part about the whole thing is that while sheltered tourists flock to the park with draw dropping anticipation, camera in one hand and smelling salts in the other, the locals couldn't be bothered. On a sunny day the Norwegians all seem quite at ease with this appalling display of nudity. They spread themselves out on the green for a quick nap, catch a few rays next to the angry baby, and throw plastic discs between rows and rows of buns of steel.

With many of us growing up in "shh" societies, I can't help but wonder if we've gone one step too far in covering up what we were never meant to hide. It was exhilarating to say the least to let loose nad have a little fun, to embrace an art form we really shouldn't get all sweaty palmed and flush faced about. So I say hats off to the Frog man for showing us the goods and reminding us all of what's hiding beneath those trench coats and galoshes.

A Note on The Norsk

Thanks to Ryanair, the close proximity between Norway and Ireland, and my ever growing impatience at being stationary for so long, I packed a single carry-on bag and jetted off to Oslo for Easter holidays. This new ound sense of spontaneity left me feeling light hearted and more enthused for Scandinavian culture than ever before.

With my knitted scarf knotted tightly around my throat, my jacket buttoned all the way to my chin, and my body braced for a wintry blast, I steppe doff the plane and was greeted by none other than a warm ray of golden sunlight. No harsh winds encircled me, and I need not make any effort to trudge through knee deep snow. It was 25 degrees in Norway in april and I was a little over dressed.

During my spasm of impulsive behaivour, I had failed to investigate anything about my destination and my lack of research left me standing deer eyed and covered in my own sweat and ignorance. To be perfectly honest, I was a little disappointed with the lack of Arctic weather, but I shed the extra layers and headed towards town anyway.

Now before I start contradicting myselfself, let me just say that Oslo is the most expensive city in Europe. And yes, many people claim this for cities throughout the continent, but let me tell you friends, teh Norwegians mean business. A simple pint of beer can cost you up to 10 Euro, the bus ride from the aiprport to the city centre maybe 25, adn even the cheapest hostel will ride the 30 Euro line. The only thing free in oslo is the air, and even that comes with a polluted price.

Because of my little wallet and Norway's greedy hand, I became what we all do at some point while backpacking; desperate. Despite my previous frustration with couchsurfing, I logged on with a fresh start at my finger tips and finally found two Norwegians that were willing to take me in. They were kind hosts, and their efforts exceeded their wants, but I still felt like something was missing. It was difficult at first, trying to fit the mould of a perfect guest. But what I found as the days dragged on was that adaptation is the key to every traveller's survival. Being flexible, open-minded, and downright elastic is what allows you to keep going. So I searched my backpack for even a shred of silver lining and in turn took that extra step out of the way, allowing me to get back on track and well on my way.

A Connemara Pony

 Along the western coast of Ireland, stretching the length of Counties Galway and Mayo, hides one of the country's greatest kept secrets; Connemara. From the Twelve Bens Mountain range to the Roundst
one Bog, this particular pearl shines without comparisson. Being the birth place of countless fairy tales, a retreat for many artists, and a completely untouched haven for cattle grazing and herding, Connemara is the stuff dreams are made of. It's as if every tall tale or common misconception about Ireland must have somehow stemmed from the deep valleys of Connemara, the "real emerald" of Ireland. Now that doesn't mean there are regular scheduled leprechaun hunts, lucky charms growing on trees, or even my personal favorite, a tall dark and sexy glass of water with bulging muscles and a nice tan pacing up and down the road looking for a foreign damzel (if there was, I would have found him by now). But what it does mean is the grass is greener on this side with its layer upon layer of rolling hills and free roaming sheep. There are more pubs than churches that dot the dusty gravel road, and as undefineable as it always has been, there is a certain magic that rests among the many weaving streams and wild forests.Connemara is also home to a plethera of organic salmon farms, free range sheep, and of course, the Connemara pony. Going back to the 1500's, little but butch Scandanavian ponies ran amuck through the rocky bogs of the region, tireless in their search for true love. Then, as if their prayers had been answered, they were delivered the most studly of studs; the Spanish Armada horses. Unable to keep their composure, the little ponies threw themselves at the Spanish stallions in a fit of passion. And so what we're left with after that short but steamy affair is the Connemara pony.
There's much to be had in Connemara for those willing to welcome it. Although it's rich in both culture and history, Connemara doesn't cater to your typical tourist. So, go out on a limb, try something new, and open yourself to a whole different world. Like the Irish phrase goes, Cead mile failte, a hundred thousand welcomes.

"Connemara is a savage beauty" Oscar Wilde

St.Patrick's Day in Ireland

The streets, alive with color, glisten with a hint of something special, something unspoken. Lovers embrace, strangers congregate, and the pints keep on flowing. Children with painted faces laugh and play as they chase the trails of waving flags. Galway errupts into a sea of orange, green, and white. Foreigners embrace the nation with a steady handshake, and I smile knowing I was a part of something good.

To experience St.Patrick's Day in any country is a priveledge. To partake in the celebration in Ireland is a whole other ball game. Arriving in Galway city at 1pm on March 17, I was greeted by bumper to bumper traffic, tourists lost in the hustle and bustle, and a bursting bladder. I found parking, a washroom, and a growing crowd I just couldn't resist. The cobblestone streets that made up Galway's city centre vibrated with the hurried steps of a million bodies anxious to partake in the festivities. Street performers sprinkled the alleyways and played tunes from all walks of life. Children clapped along to their Irish flutes and borons and tossed coins into their open cases .

The smell of popcorn rose over the heads of each spectator while the cafe next door emanated a freshly brewed aroma. As I shuffled through the dense crowd, I found myself fighting for space against the patio chairs and tables that lined the sidewalk. Queues for pubs ran out the door and around the corner while their table tops remain littered with drained Guinness glasses.

When I was finally able to break free from the growing crowd, I found my Swiss and German friends; Claudie and Hanna, burried beneath the madness. Arm in arm we braved the streets and took to the pubs, anxious to get the ball rolling. Three hours later we were short two bottles of wine, our pockets jingled a little less, and we were now three friends richer. As the night went on we shuffled from pub to pub, eyeballed a few bartenders, and let loose in the streets of Galway.

By 2am we were in desperate need of our grungy and uncomfortable single-beds that awaited us. So we carried on through the alley ways of Galway until we found our run down, sad excuse for a hostel and climbed all too willingly into our assigned bunks. Four hours later and too far into a deep sleep to know where we were, we were woken by what I can describe as no better than a very confused and highly intoxicated individual. He practically threw himself from the door way to the other side of the room with a single drunken lurch and in doing so cracked his head on the metal frame of the bunk bed. But this gentleman wasn't the worst of our worries. After he finally found what I assume was his bunk and not someone else's, a loud banging from the other side of the door had us all sitting upright.

"Tommy! Tommy you arse, open the door! Ahhh feck!!! Tommmmmmmmmmmy!"

This continued on for about 5 minutes, in the meantime waking up the entire hostel, until the first stumbling idiot shook himself out of a coma and opened the door. Now there were three stumbling idiots and the two who were waiting ever so patiently outside the door were fuming. A brawl immediately broke out, the three drunkards stumbled and fell over one another until I couldn't take it anymore. Now I'm a patient person, but this was getting ridiculous. So by the power vested in me I told those idiots off and they soon fell into a drunken stupor.

The next morning Hanna came running into our room with a grave expression strewn across her face. When asked what was wrong she was speechless. She merely motioned for me to follow her into the bathroom where we found the most god awful mess either of us had ever witnessed. The stench was enough to choke a horse and we gasped for relief from its burning sting. Apparently someone had misjudged the location of the toilet and that someone had the runs. As horrified as we both were, our thoughts immediately settled on the three boozers who were happily snoring away. Nonchalantly we stomped around the room, turned all of the lights on, and yelled at the stop of our lungs until all three douche bags were up and adam.

As they lay in bed they recalled the previous night's events.
"Tommy why were you yellin' at the toilet last night?" Asked Idiot number 1.
"What do you mean, I wasn't."
"Ahh sure. We could hear ya from in here. You were screamin at it tellin it to go fuck off." Piped up Idiot number 2.

By this point I couldn't hold back the laughter that was dying to escape and in between each giggle I said, "I know why..." Curiousity boiling, Idiot number 1 demanded an answer. Casually I said, "Well, there's a bit of a mess in the washroom."

"Dude, Tommy did you get sick last night?" Idiot number 2 asked out of utter disgust.
"Guess again," I muttered.
While Idiot 1 and 2 shoot out of bed to investigate, Tommy curled up under the covers in utter embarassment. It took about a minute until the silence was broken by horrified screams and muffled laughter coming from the bathroom. Tommy is sure, for the rest of his life, to be remembered as the lad who pooped on the floor.

St.Patrick's Day means something different to everyone. For some it's green Heineken, painted faces, and stumbling crowds. Others it's shamrocks settling in a creamy pint, defecating on a bathroom floor, and clapping your hand on the back of the fellow beside you in an act of pure comraderie. For me, St.Patrick's Day was a last hurray with some, a reunion with others, and a night I'll never forget.

Bohemia: Prague in a Nutshell

After six months of being on the road I was taken in by a warm smile from home. Ronny had just moved to Prague to attend Med. School, and I, I was her free loading friend that jumped at the chance of a guided tour through one of Europe’s most beautiful cities. Prague is home to many artists such as Franz Kafka, author of, quite possibly one of the most painfully difficult books to get through, “Metamorphosis”. Although this novella consists of only three chapters, reading it in high school nearly led me to stab myself in the eyes with a fork if it meant I didn’t have to look at it ever again. But aside from its literary feats, Prague nurtures its musicians with a gentle hand.

On any given night, cafes, bars, and pubs alike erupt into a plethora of melodies, feeding the city’s many starving artists. But what most visitors to Prague don’t realize is the hidden city of Bohemia that thrives beneath the one caught on camera. Here the locals legally carry pot in their pants pocket, master quite possibly the hardest language in the world, and, of course, eat steaming plate after plate of roast pork and dumplings.
Before visiting the Czech Republic, I didn’t think there was any country in the world that loved potatoes more than Ireland: I was wrong. Czechs are the creators of some of the best and fattiest food I’ve ever tasted in my life. It was like the entire city put up this front of being cold, unsociable, and unfriendly just so they could save all the good stuff for themselves. Like that little old lady in the market line up practically burning a hole through the back of your head, was all because you grabbed the last ripe tomato.

On my first morning in Prague, I awoke to find the city covered in a light blanket of snow and was forced to bundle up tight before fighting my way out into the cold. Fuelled by our equal passion for fine architecture and even better food, Ronny and I took to the cobblestone. The air was fresh and the chilling sting against my skin reminded me of winters at home. Linked arm in arm we strolled down alleyways, crossed bridge after bridge, and spent the afternoon reminiscing about summers spent together. It was the strangest feeling talking with Ronny, my old friend that I felt I was re-introducing myself to. I was an ocean away from the life I’d put on hold and a million more miles from the person I knew I could be. But, for the weekend, I was home.

"Then I fell asleep with the strange feeling of wanting to be different from what I am or being different from what I want to be, or perhaps of behaving differently from what I am or want to be." -Anne Frank

Benny From Kilkenny: Couchsurfing unveiled

Taking the web world by storm is a new social networking sensation called Couchsurfing. It’s a website designed to connect travellers from around the world in one easy location. Here people can meet via profile interaction and through various online messages can arrange accommodation in either party’s home country. The nature of this site is as innocent as they come; travellers of all ages just looking to learn about a culture through its people.

Where do I sign up? Drawn by the appealing possibility of free accommodation and a local guide, I decided to give this web site a go. But soon I began to discover a kind of Pecking Order that naturally occurred amongst Couchsurfers. Each profile strived to be more “creative” and “interesting” than the previous and many of the members that I came across were looking for someone merely to brag to. Feeling a little in over my head, I timidly sent a message to a Welsh girl living nearby. I was shocked, to say the least, when I received a reply but was grateful when I finally did meet her to find that we had a little more in common that I expected.
Powered by my sudden luck, I stuck to Couchsurfing and sent out messages to people in the neighbouring villages. I began meeting other au pairs, exchange students, travellers, and even locals. Things were looking up. But surfers be warned; many profiles you find are descriptions of what the member thinks of themselves. Occupations such as: full-time dreamer, forever undecided, professional student, currently stickin’ it to the man, and many other rainbow coloured pieces of b-shit are sure to be found with each click of the mouse.

One memorable experience put me off Couchsurfing for a while; Benny from Kilkenny. Being a lady killer in his own mind, this “well-travelled” and “cultured” young man took life with a grain of salt, a slice of lemon, and a quick shot of tequila. After spending nearly 2 hours with this greasy haired monkey, I had mapped out every possible escape route in the pub and was debating a quick getaway.

This guy was absolutely hittin’ em out of the park with one liners like:

“I’m a lot like a cigarette, people just can’t get enough”.
“So you’re from Edmonton, EH? I hear that’s a shit hole.”
“I hate Irish people; they’re all drunks.”
“So… any plans for tonight?” (Insert wink here)
“Yeah, most people say I’m pretty cultured.”

But despite my little pessimistic beat-down of this online phenomenon, this was only one example of what you will find on Couchsurfing. So my advice to you is to re-read profiles, check each member’s references, and give it a whirl because like that box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gunna get.

Tinkering Gypsies

Whether they like it or not, every country is home to at least one distinct ethnic or racial group that takes the world by storm. These people shock and confuse the hell out of your average Joe and do so in a manner that dictates their definition. When investigating Ireland and Great Britain's cultural merchandise, the Travellers (or Tinkers as they are also known after their dealings with recycled scrap metal) are sure to pop up somewhere along the lines. Dating back to the 5th century, travelling gypsies began as nomadic groups that survived off the land. Today, over 2,400 travellers still roam the back country of Ireland and Great Britain.

Travellers are generally referred to in a negative context and have been classified as thieves, anti-social, uneducated, and well rounded con artists. Because of their nomadic behaviour, complaints have been raised about their choice of camp sites. Some of which have included and are not limited to private land, front lawns, alongside shorelines, and as some might put it, “where ever the hell they feel like it.” But for many travellers facing eviction comes on a regular basis and many families are left with no place to go. Although they have equal access to public funding and welfare, only 1% of Gypsies live to the age of 65, a shocking statistic to see in this day and age.

Now don't get me wrong, these people aren't walking around in brown paper bags and digging through trash cans. I can see where society's perception of this group may become hazy; driving around in caravans with no electricity doesn't really yell MacBook 2011, but travellers value their own traditions, place a heavy emphasis on religion and spiritual healing, and of course most Gypsy women support a Bend it Like Beckham closet. Currently in the UK, at a settlement called Dale Farm, hundreds of settled Travellers fight for the right to live in harmony and without discrimination from their neighbouring village of settled society.

But what we know about these people is strictly derived from our preconceived notions of them. Studies about their well being and way of life are inconclusive and true investigation will be hard to come by. Gypsies don’t cue for an interview and sure as hell won’t be cooperative if approached by a writer for The National Geographic. They live by the seat of their pants; speaking in their own tongue, neglecting society’s constant pressure to become literate, and of course refusing to integrate into "normal" society. The Tinkers now stand at the most discriminated against ethnic group in Ireland, a shocking truth that makes you question how far we've really come in the fight for equal rights.

Celtic Tiger: Financial Crisis

Between the late 90's and early into 2000, the Irish economy peaked. Ireland was transformed from one of Europe's poorest countries to one of its richest over night. People flocked from countries such as Romania and Poland to relish in the high minimum wage, low corporate tax, and social benefits. Contractors were in such high demand that a person could throw a tool box in the back of a truck and never go without work. But with steady incomes came the quick burning hole in each working man's back pocket. Banks were signing loans left right and centre, ignoring credibility and any inclination that this easy ride might come to an end.

But what had originally started as simple economic growth transformed into a unstoppable greed machine. Young couples barely settled took out loans and invested in multiple properties, hoping to make a decent amount of coin to coast off of. And it worked for a while. The housing demand in cities, vacation destinations, and even land itself went through the roof. And when the money became white hot in Ireland, investors stretched their hands from the pockets of their neighbours across the pond to The United States where thousands of hectares of land were purchased. Then in 2008 the American economy came to a stand still. The market took a turn for the worse and when banks began collecting their share of the borrowed cash, heads were lowered and pockets were turned out empty. No one had anticipated the downfall of one of the greatest economic feats Ireland had ever seen. As of 2010, unemployment rests at a whopping 14% alongside 10 years of non-regulated inflation. And now the money tree sits in the corner in a shriveled dry heap, if only to be forgotten until the tides of change turn once more.