Ship Livin'

Here on the ship, when someone whispers, it seems to echo around every cabin and resonate throughout the dining halls within about five minutes. I think the speed that rumors travel here probably defies some law of physics, which I suppose is to be expected when you cram 500 students onto a floating island with no other distractions besides each other. (This also produces some other intriguing results, but I'll get back to that another time.) 

There are always plenty of stories being passed about; Girl X snuck alcohol on-board by disguising vodka as mouth wash using green if you bribe him enough, the Captain will let you drive the boat etc., etc. Many of them tend to relate to secret alcohol stashes, as the ship's strict drink regulation (3 drink maximum, no chugging, no getting drunk.) has turned the topic once again into a taboo: It's wonderfully clandestine, and such tales are frequently whispered through cupped hands and giggles at dinner time. I think it's brilliant. Once you finish high school and/or turn 21, your options for innocent rule-bending shrink sizably. Anything that's still prohibited will likely get you a prison sentence: not so fun. But here on the ship, you get to enjoy the hilarity of real rules all over again. Not that I would dream of testing such things, of course, but hearing the (mostly fabricated) stories of the quest to get round the system is endlessly entertaining. 

But there's another upside too. When the evening comes, all we have is each other's company. There are no bars or clubs to go to, no shots to take, it's just you, me and that cup of tea and that's just about it until bedtime. It's wonderful. You sit and talk, talk and sit, fill up your mug from the endless coffee machine and listen without distraction because you really don't have anywhere else to be. Tonight we sat and watch the sun slowly sink behind the ship's wake, turning the clouds a dusky pink. Emma brought out a stash of German dark chocolate biscuits: we were in raptures. (Ship food will do that to you). Tea, biscuits and blankets kept us there for hours, telling stories from our very different upbringings, and the moon kept sliding and slipping through the clouds and we would stop talking intermittently to watch it rise anew out of a silvery tuft, and it was beautiful every single time. It was a simple, wonderful way to pass an evening, and made me very happy. 

Berlin, and the Ultimate Hole In The Wall

Something quite unexpected happened this weekend; I think I fell in love with Germany! Most of all with Berlin. The people there seemed deservedly proud of their surroundings; Berliners know they live in a place which is truly in the midst of a cultural revolution. They are shaking off any dusty, ill-advised stereotypes and heading with full force towards becoming a city that could be considered a work of art in itself. There was a palpable feeling of creativity in the air; I felt like I could spread my arms and I'd touch a hundred different art, music or food movements all at once. It seemed that if it wasn't happening in Berlin, it wasn't really happening. We spoke to an American immigrant who found himself infatuated with the place and eventually moved here for good. He explained this feeling of change in the air: "This is that period when Berlin finally becomes that city that it so longs to be". What a wonderful time to visit.

The whole weekend was enlightening, and the highlight was a particular bike ride which I felt I had to get down on paper, so here goes!

"On yer bike!" was a phrase coined by British politician Norman Tebbit in 1979, when I was merely a twinkle in my mother's eye. It's pertinence to rioting and unemployment was before my time, but it's a philosophy I love to take with me whilst traveling. As much as I enjoy pounding cobblestone streets with my partner in crime (a pair of beat up Birkenstocks), with only a few days in a city you get to see a lot more on two wheels. Berlin was the perfect playground; not only was it flat, but it was also completely unchartered territory. This was my first time visiting Germany, and I could feel the tingling of anticipation that awaits me whenever my feet first hit the floor in a totally new city.

We hop off the bus and on to a pair of clumsy beach cruisers, their tired wheels squeaking with clockwork regularity. For me, the feeling of that first minute of peddling is unparalleled. Sometimes I think those brief moments encapsulate everything I love about traveling; the city lays before you, bathed in the golden light of a late afternoon. It's the same afternoon sun as the sun at home, of course, but somehow it's more iridescent, more beautiful because it shines on strange streets and strange faces and the air almost prickles with possibility. You press down, test the resistance of the pedals and in that second are thrown forward by the momentum of discovery. There's a feeling of invincibility there. Your senses are heightened, and you peer into every side street, every shop window, every passing face and grin at the unfamiliarity of it all. In these moments, there is a romance to everything. Things like laundromats and bakeries and skulking smoking teenagers make you smile. I have never smiled at a laundromat in London! This is why I like traveling. It turns me into a child; wide eyed, completely enraptured by the smallest details that would normally pass in a flurry of banality. I am happy to simple exist and to observe, peddling and grinning, grinning and peddling, the afternoon sun warm on my back.

As some of the best journeys do, ours had no real destination. We wound our way through trendy streets filled with concept stores, through large squares covered in chalk art and beat boxers performing to crowds of afternoon wanderers. We turned onto a main road and followed it in what felt like a hopeful direction, when a hole in the wall to our right appeared out of nowhere. We peer in and dismiss what looks like a building site; scaffolding and planks scatter the concrete, and all is still. We were about to ride on when a piece of wood nailed to the wall caught my eye. Scratched into the wood were the words: 'Culture Cave'.

Intrigued, we  stepped through the make-shift doorway, and straight onto the page of someone else's travel essay. It was the kind of ethereal place you only ever hear about when you listen, green eyed, to your friend's dramatized travel tales. Like the time they "were lead by this grubby nomadic goat herder to this totally authentic local spot" down a back alley of a village in the rural Tajikistani highlands. The type where you 'ooh' and 'ahhh' and secretly don't really believe it was quite as cool as it sounds, or you act pleased for them but grumble and wonder why things like that never happen to you because you always seem to end up in some "hidden bar" with fifty other Lonely Planet clutching, disappointed looking 20-somethings. Well, in Berlin, it happened. We found paradise!

As we round the corner, the Spree river stretches out before us like a gorgeous glistening serpent. Lining it's banks were rows of old fashioned sun chairs and brightly colored hammocks. They swayed happily to the sound of minimal house which the Germans do so well,  and the music mingles with the afternoon breeze giving it texture and warmth, flowing from a DJ booth set just above the vegetable garden and beside the sunflower patch. A small labyrinth is marked with wildflowers and poppies, and sand warms the soles of our feet as we cross to a small wooden bar serving german beer. An old fashioned street lamp sits casually next to a woven totem pole, on which hang shells, feathers and a white model owl, surveying the scene. Somehow none of it seems incongruous.

 Two beautiful German girls stand behind a barbecue grilling organic meat, and the last of the September sunlight traps in the tendrils of smoke that drift upwards towards a dusky purple sky. A girl in dungarees walks barefoot around the garden, watering the flowers with a russet red watering can. She pauses every once in a while to gaze contentedly out at the river, stretching her arms skywards before returning to the garden.

We lie here for a long while. The sun set and we stayed, swinging in our hammock, occasionally catching each other's eye and laughing at how odd and perfect it all was.

And here I am with a smug utopia story. Sorry about that. You probably have a quiet smile, and might be wondering about my tendency for hyperbole and 'creative license'. Or maybe you're getting on your bike, and we can trade stories when you're back with a smile on your face and a new paradise found!

How to get there: 

The CultureCave is open until November 2013

Rent a bike, cycle to Alexanderplatz, and takes signs for Ostbahnhoff. If you see the Barbie Dreamworld exhibition on your right, you are headed in the right direction. Turn down the street with a big Lidl and a gas station, and keep your eyes peeled for a hole in the wall on your right. About a 10 minute cycle. 

Muzer Russia' soft side.

Hello from Mother Russia!

I'm taking a travel writing class here on the ship (it's a tough life). This week our professor asked us to encapsulate our Russian experience in the space on the back of a postcard. I add this disclaimer in case this seems a little flowery- but this is mine.

This weekend, I said Checkmate to Russia. She met me with a cold, unforgiving exterior; with unrequited smiles and the smell of spilled vodka. With air laden with paint stripper that made my eyes burn and settled on the back of my tongue, filling my mouth with bittersweet words about the country and her people.
But under the soft 2am glow of a Dumskaya street lights, her brittle skin finally broke before me and out spilled a glorious community of rebels; of pioneers, of youth who flood the streets in these golden hours to simply exist. To bask in the warmth of their collectivity, in the collective refusal to stoop heavy under the yoke of the system, the government, the feudal society that threatens to curl snake-like around their youth and crush it.
These are Dumskaya's found souls. Yura, a beautiful immigrant from Belarus, stands before me speaking in perfectly coiffed cockney accent that he picked up from watching British gangster films when he was a kid. His eyes wink with the orange warmth of the street lamps as he turns and smiles: "We are the first generation to become Gods." And I believe him, I really do.

Not sure how I fitted all that on a post-card, but I managed. My teacher liked it though, and read it out in front of our class. At this point I resembled a small beetroot as I thought it sounded pompous. Talking of beetroot, I don't ever want to eat a cubed-beetroot-raw-salmon-egg-cucumber-salad ever again. This creation from popular chain Teremok sat aside such alternatives as mystery meat dumplings with smiley faces on them and sour cream laden borscht. Sadly, Russian cuisine did not provoke either my squealing or mild blasphemy, and those of you who have eaten with me know this isn't difficult. I haven't given up, however, as I'm sure not being able to understand a single menu may have worked against me, which meant I often ended up with a banana pancake for dinner.

The best foodie experience of the weekend is a chance encounter with a infamous donut shop. It is tucked down a side street and full to the brim with suit-clad locals, who seemed to attack the task of eating their treats with the great Russian solemnity and stoic determination reserved for many other activities; dancing, conversing, petting puppies and cloud watching. Russia did indeed seem like a very serious place, donuts were no exception. We knew we were down to business when everything is slammed down on the table with a reassuring force; the kind only used by those patrons who know their grub is good, but couldn't give a rat's arse if you don't agree. The coffee has the same attitude: presweetened and with milk, because frankly, gold toothed mama behind the counter couldn't care less if you don't take sugar in your coffee. It's got that no-bullshit, slap you in the face kind of sweet that makes your teeth ache and you feel guilty because honestly, it tastes SO good. Afterwards you may never want to have a proper grown up coffee ever again; black and bitter because that means you're a serious adult.
A small family kitchen bustles with the lunchtime rush, and an old tangerine haired lady chats rapid Russian to her friend while churning out these delightful light and comfortingly greasy treats. We sit around dipping them in our coffee, doodling in our journals and smiling because we've found a little corner of sweetness and our adventure has just begun.

Russia was a place of contrast for me. I say we checkmate'd Russia, because by the time we left, I loved her for rather than in spite of her challenges. Because after you get two shots of vodka spilled on your skirt by a surly teenage waiter who just stares at you when you expect an apology, your thimble of local paint stripper tastes even better afterwards. And when you get shouted at by an old babushka for falling asleep in Russia's best art museum, our laughs echoing off the walls make it worth it. And when your outstretched camera gets batted aside by four people in a row, the final reluctant photo captures so much more emotion. And when the two old women sitting in your seats for the ballet refuse to move, on the grounds that they are Russian, it's pretty funny to watch their sour expressions when you get moved to a better box across the theater. And when, upon leaving the theatre, you find yourself pulled into the midst of a golden, student filled street that practically pulses with energy, and you're having mind blowing conversation with young radicals and your ears are filled with street side guitar and your mouth with lyrics in your newly acquired russian accent…well then the world shows you it's soft side, and you are reminded again WHY you travel. It all makes sense.