Message Incoming from the Icy Waters of the North Sea

Hey hey, it’s the Ferro’s coming atchya for some more Mayonnaise eating, salty Liquorice devouring, clog wearing, ship sailing good times.  We’ve left Amsterdam for now, though Kat and I shall return, General MacArthur-style, to wreak havoc once more.  Our solitary night in this famously risqué city was reconnaissance, a precursor if you will, to our “proper” night on the town on our second, familyless visit in a few days.  We scouted the red-light district, the clubs, the bars, and selected a few choice shows to patronage.  Should be a hell of a time, we’re not planning on sleeping that night, at least until dawn, might even make some new friends.  Don’t count on photo’s though, cameras frowned upon in Amsterdam’s seedier areas.  That’s the future, though, you want to hear about the present.  Or past, as the case may be.

As I said, we left Amsterdam and sailed upcanal to Alkmaar, a very cute town with the usual assortment of neat houses, good cheese and large churches.  Most of our days are spent in the act of sailing, we generally arrive at our destination about four, after five to seven hours of sailing, just enough time to walk around and explore a bit before getting ready for dinner.  The good ship Naarden is home to seven seafaring souls.  My aunt Jospehine, uncle Rex and their children Amy (14), Ryan (11) and Alice (9) and Kat and I.  We previously had four more guests, aunt Helen, uncle Bill, cousin Andrew, but they left in Amsterdam for parts unknown.  The younger members of our intrepid crew make for a boisterous life at sea with never a dull moment.  Alive has taken to living on the roof of our vessel inside a doona, which has led to several near-decapitations as we pass under the very low bridges I mentioned earlier.  Ryan has also decided to see how close he can get to almost falling in the canal without actually doing so.  This in addition to dodging the pleasure boats, Dutch locals and large coal, grain and oil carriers that also ply the waterways with means there is rarely a dull moment to be had, despite our sedate pace of between six and ten kilometres per hour. 

I’m currently in Edam, of the cheese fame, and Kat and I will soon be visiting Gouda, also of the cheese fame, and Haarlem, of the black people in America fame, which I’m hoping has as many colourful pimps and barber shops as its stateside cousin.

  After that, a couple of nights to wreck up Amsterdam, and then a train to Munich for the star of our adventure, Oktoberfest 2010.  That, however, is a story for a different day.  My next transmission will most likely be from a dingy Amsterdam hotel room, with a killer hangover and several bruises from sources unknown.  Until then, get commenting below.  For now, Ferro’s out.

I’m on a boat, m*%#^%fu*@#r!

(Disclaimer: I'm uploading this from a MacDonalds WiFi, it's to slow to upload photo's.  I will do so when I have a chance.  For now, just use your imagination.)

 So I continue my tradition of writing from moving vehicles, though this was is at the sedate pace of 6kms an hour, at below, rather than above, sea level.  Most of Holland is, in fact, below sea level, necessitating complex series of dykes and lockes that keep the North Atlantic from pouring in and drowning everyone.  Cousin Tim is steering with his feet (see photo) an Kat is reading a book about Cleopatra from my lap.  The radio is playing some godawful Dutch dance music, (they love that s#%t here.) and everyone else is on the boat forecastle, watching the ducks and geese swarm for food and the cute little Dutch houses float past.  At this sedate pace, we’ll make Amsterdam, 30kms away, by nightfall, even though we started at nine thirty this morning.  Canal boat is not the best means of travel if you are in a hurry.  Our party is split into the three boats, the imposing Naarden, filled with the cool, hip young crowd of cousins, the luxurious Maarken, with the elder Van Lieshout men, (John and Henk) and the stodgy, struggling Woeden, with the boring oldies.  We, being the leaders and captains of industry of tomorrow, and leading the way, with the others behind. 

We whiled away the morning on deck, drinking tea, eating crackers with liverwurst and cheese and generally having a relaxing time  I’ve generously offered to cook my famous spaghetti bolognaise for dinner.  Should be interesting, cooking in a tiny boat kitchen for eleven people.  We’ve already gone through a lock, which is pretty cool, and about three drawbridges, which can be a little nervewracking.  Not half as much as the bridge we just went under, which didn’t open.  We had a good five millimetres of clearance though, so it was all good. 

Short entry for now, I’ll do another when the mood strikes.  I’d love some more comments, so get your write on and TELL ME stuff.  Whats the goss back in Australia?  I love you guys, BUT F&CK YOU!  But seriously, I love you all.  SHUDDUP, F#@K YOU!

Adam and Kat out. 

“Never thought I’d be on boat.  Never thought I’d see the day, a big boat coming my way.  I’m on a boat, I’m on a boat, take a good hard look at the motherf&#$ing boat….”

Weert to the Max.

(Disclaimer: I'm uploading this from a MacDonalds WiFi, it's to slow to upload photo's.  I will do so when I have a chance.  For now, just use your imagination.)

Hullo all

The above image is a panorama from the top of the church at Weert, my mothers home town.  The happy chap on the left is Wesley, a fabulous fellow who treated the younger members of the congregation to a night on the town, dutch style.  

When I last left you, I had spent one day in Holland at a family friends house, so I will continue with stories that have happened after that.  The very next day, we were driven from Helmont, (the family friends home town) to Weert (pronounced Wi-ert) and met up with the rest of the family, a total of 32 people.  We were (and are) staying at a hotel called the Golden Tulip, where basically half the hotel is Van Lieshouts.  As before, our first day was spent getting settled and having a look around town.  The second was where the adventure really starts.

It was decided that the family would take a nice bicycle ride around the south Netherlands.  For those of you who don't know, Holland is literally the flattest place on earth, so it's perfect for cycling, and EVERYONE does it, all the time, everywhere.  We discovered quickly that the nearby bike hire place couldn't provide enough bikes (i guess he doesn't get 35 person families every day).  A few calls later and we found a place, the next village over, that had the required number.  A short train trip and some bicycle related confusion later,  we were on our way.  

Now, I know from experience how difficult it is to get a group of people to do anything, like order pizza or walk through a door.  So imagine trying to get a large group of related people to agree on how to cycle across Holland.  The first hour was ride 10 meters, stop for 20 meters to argue about where to go.  Just as Kat and I decided to just go our own way and meet them eight hours later at the Hotel, they seemed to get their act together and we picked up the pace.  Soon enough, we had got through the congested (though cute) city center and were riding through Dutch countryside consisting of brussel sprout farms, prancing deer (delicious) and quiet northern European forest roads. 

We stopped for morning tea at a little country style inn, and promptly ate her entire supply of Vlaai, (which is a type of Dutch fruit tart, similar to apple pie), to the great disappointment of the next group of visitors.  By the way, Vlaai was the only thing she served.  OH SNAP.

The ride continued, punctuated by short busts of interest.  I’ll put these in bullet form for ease of digestion.

-Kat getting electrocuted by an electric fence after stealing a pear and apple from a farm.  I also stole them, but was unharmed.  I’m just not very conductive, it seems.

-Rain appearing, then leaving, returning again, and generally spending the rest of the day not sure what to do, though it rained enough for us to get pretty wet.  Except for mum, who brought a raincoat.  Clever.

-Every time a car would appear as a distant speck on the horizon, shrill screams of “CAAAAAAR!!! STICK TO THE RIGHT!” from one of my more over protective relatives.  This would be repeated, at increasing volume and frequency as the offending vehicle inched closer.  This was often on a basically deserted road, wide enough for a semi trailer.  Shockingly, no one was killed.

-Somehow missing lunch, and arriving home at 3:30.  I had thus far narrowly avoided resorting to cannibalism by chewing on mandrake roots and unripe mulberries, which were as bitter as they sound.  I quickly found the nearest inn and ordered a beer and a burger.  That too, was as good as it sounds.

We then basically chilled in our hotel until dinner, when we decided to eat downstairs at the “Wok in Weert”, an all you can eat stir fry and teppanyaki bar.  The buffet of choosing your ingredients for the chef to stir fry was awesome, though I didn’t brave the kangaroo meat, helpfully labelled “Skippy”.  No, I’m not making that up.  After that, a few episodes of 30 Rock on cable (The one where Liz is going out with the guy in a bubble, from Mad Men.) and sleep.

Eight AM breakfast of more unusual (though tasty) bacon and we had a full day of touring Weert, including climbing the Weert church, visiting the town center, the school attended by many of my relatives old school and the house where my grandmother raised 13 children.  This was still owned by the lady my grandmother sold it too in 1969, over fifty years ago.  She graciously opened it for us to look at, and we spotted the place where a four year old John Van Lieshout carved his name into a beam. 

Some local family friends who have stayed with us, (by us I mean various Vans) were throwing a BBQ for us that night.  We drank beer from the tap, lots of wine, ate dutch salads, homemade sausages, sang to traditional Limburg songs and danced like the Dutch, that is to say, not very well, but with heart.  A famous Limburg singer came and sang a few songs for our family, including a special love song for the newlyweds (us).  By about nine thirty, everyone was pretty sloshed, including Kat and my whole family. 

The BBQ wound up at ten, but the younger crowd (myself, Kat, my sister Michelle, my cousins Anna, Tim, Andrew and Tanya and our new friend Wesley, whose parents owned the house we BBQ’d in.  We decided to meet at 12 in the hotel foyer for to sample the local nightlife, and passed the time alternating between Jack Daniels and coke and vodka and contrieu shots in the hotel bar.  To tell the truth, the rest of the night is a bit of a blur.  I remember beating both Andrew and Tanya at pool, Kat getting a free stein of beer through means that as her husband, I’d probably rather not know about,  tequila shots, more beer, dancing and general havoc.  We finally called it a night at 3:30, walked back to the hotel and crashed, hard. 

We had a few more days in Weert, in which we had some fun activities like shooting 18kg rifles that shoot enormous lead pellets at tiny little black squares and lots of walking around churches and towns.  Our final night was spent at another big family dinner, this time in the old Mint, which had been converted into a pub.  The double Brewed Beef Tea was a standout, and EVERYTHING is served with Belgian style chips and whole egg mayonnaise.  Awesome, I don’t even need to ask.

So tomorrow we pack up for the boats, where we begin our adventures on the Dutch Canals, sailing up to Amsterdam, then Edam (of the cheese renown) and to Gouda (er, also famous for cheese.  The Dutch love their cheese.) 

So tune in next time for the next instalment of the adventures of the Ferro’s, Waterworld-style!

Land of Cheap Beer and Crazy Showers

Greetings from the Netherlands!

The most important thing you need to know about the Netherlands is that beer is cheap.  Like, really cheap.  I just bought a six pack of Le Trappiste Witte Bier, (about $20 in Aus) and it was $5 EU.  FIVE EURO!  It is literally cheaper to drink good beer here than softdrink, water or wine.

The other interesting this about europe is that when we go to restaurants or are at people houses and guests, when we ask for water, we get very odd looks.  People here drink beer, wine or coffee.  That is pretty much it.

So we've had a look around an ancient castle, which is part arsenal and part art gallery, i took a couple of snaps.  We also had a shower is the worlds most technologically advanced shower at a friends house.  It had 17 jets, a light, a sauna built in, seating for two and a radio!  That was a laugh, I'll tell you that.

That'll do for now, talk to you suckas in a few days.

Oliver Kelly, crying over his missing friend, Adam.

Route Canal

Arrivaderci, Italia.

Me writing these blog entries on planes is becoming a common thread.  It’s really just about the only time I have to do so, since during the day I’m doing stuff and at night I’m busy till late, and absolutely wrecked. 

So goodbye for now to Italy, our time here was great, and we’ll for sure be back, but Stage 2 of The Ferro’s in Europe must begin.  This stage begins with us heading to Holland for a few weeks of adventures and exploration, not to mention an insanely massive family reunion in Weert, (my mothers family side this time. )  Family reunion with 150+ people should be interesting.  Luckily, they should speak English. Mostly.

So our last two days in Italy were spent exploring some local towns like Palmanova, an town built in a 16^th century star fort, Graddo, the North Italian version of the Gold Coast and most impressively, Venice itself, which was spectacular.  Funny though, I always thought of Venice as a fairly small place, but it’s absolutely massive!  We spent about ten hours walking around, and didn’t see half of it.  Got some great photo’s though, I’ll upload one from the highest point in Venice, the tower of San Marco square.  We also toured the famous Murano glass factories and toured the Grand Canal.  Stunning stuff, see photos.

That should do for now.  My apologies for this not being a very detailed account, but I don’t want to bore you guys with overt detail.  Not every entry, anyway.  I’ll write again in a few days about Holland, and maybe describe the family reunion.  After that, we have the excitement of Amsterdam and the pure, unbridled awesomeness that will be Oktoberfest in Munich.  That, however, is the future.  For now, caio!

The Ferro’s.

Invading Italy.

The view from the master bedroom of Villa Ferro in Nespaledo, Italy.

(Due to lack of internet, I've been writing these entries and unable to upload them.  If you haven't done so yet, please read "Freshin your Drink, Gov'na" before this one.)

(I would like to preface this blog entry by saying that I’m about 40% drunk.  Why am I drunk?  To know that, you will have to read the following.  I apologise for another epic, monumental entry, but I’ve had quite a first day in Italy..  I can only suggest, dear reader, you grab another cuppa, a few timtams, sit back, relax, and watch the show…..by reading.

Amongst my close group of friends, we have a saying.  The saying goes as thus, usually directed at Kat (my wife) “Would you say Adam is In His Element?”  The saying has multiple layers and meanings, but the jist of it is that at certain times and in certain places, I am totally at home and my enthusiasm for my various passions come out.  At least, that is what I like to believe it means.  A good example would be walking out of the film Inception from Southbank cinemas, when I’m full of ideas and conjecture of the aforementioned movie, and vociferously spitting for these opinions to whoever will listen.  Another might be at a friend’s birthday at a restaurant, when I have a delicious meal in front of me and a beer in my hand.  The individuals who usually make the “Element call” are Mr Luke Tierney and Mr Lee Cikuts, and good on ‘em.

But I digress.  If the aforementioned are Adam Ferro in his elements, I want now draw you a mental picture, a brain movie, if you will.  I want you, dear reader, not to read and know, but to Hear, See, Smell and Taste what I have experienced in the last 12 hours, (slightly over).  I will start with what I just did, and then skip back, Memento-style, to the beginning. 

A room, neither small nor large.  Timber floors, a stone fireplace in the corner and an ancient wood fired stove at one end.  The centrepiece of the room is a large timber L-shaped table, the walls are covered in paintings, drawings and pictures of old stone buildings.  They look like what you might see when researching 17^th and 18^th century Venetian (Venice) life.  You eyes thus occupied, your nose is filled with the aroma of fresh porchetta di risotto (pork sausage risotto), homemade vitella (veal) and a sweet, unnamed, local bianco de vino (white wine).  Your ears are just as busy as your eyes.  The seats of the table are not empty, but filled with the smiling, warm, laughing faces of people who started the day as distant blood relatives, but through their kindness, generosity and sheer love of le dolce vita (the good life) have quickly become friends who you would gladly have stay in your own home as long as they desired.  You don’t speak their language 100%, but you can get every fourth or fifth word, and that enough to get the general message across.  The air is full of laughter, calls for more drinks, queries of your recent wedding and cheeky but innocent jibes at your Australian/Dutch/Italian heritage.  In one hand you have homemade limoncello (lemon liquer) and in the other you are grasping the fingers of your gorgeous wife.  This, you think as you take a sip of the slightly sweet/ slightly sour limoncello, is truly Ferro in his Element.  In fact, it’s the absolute, positive, most unimpeachable definition of Ferro in his element that there ever was, and possibly ever will be.  If Ferro at Inception was a 2 of FIHE scale (Ferro in his element), right now you are a 1’7426, and that number is steadily rising.

It’s truly a thing of amazement and beauty when the barriers of language are broken down by common blood, loves and la familia (family).  But I’m getting ahead of myself, and forget that you, reader, probably have no idea where or when I am, and also have no idea how I got here.  I must also confess, I am writing this blog before I have finished my LAST blog entry, which as I now write just a file on my laptops hard drive.  I’ll get to that once I’m done here.  At 2am.  By the way, I woke up at 3am.  YESTERDAY.

Last time we spoke, I believe, (I’m getting metaphysical here, as I haven’t actually yet written the end of the last blog you read.  Is your head exploding yet?)  I had just crashed into bed after what I thought was a wild day and night in London, and the drama of the lost bag and Very Late Night. 

So now I’m in Italy, having caught the redeye from London.  Rather than make this a literal blow by blow of what I’ve done, I’ll merely try and convey the various emotions and share the experiences of my day.  I’m afraid to do this, the reader (ie you) may need to know something of my background.

My Aunt Maria

My family history in a very condensed form.  My father, Edi Romano Ferro, is from a small town in Northern Italy called Nespaledo.  He is one of five children, Edi Romano, Renzo, Luigi, Katerina and Lena,  My mother is from the Netherlands, but you’ll hear a lot more about that in future updates.  My father died of pancreatic cancer when I was about 16, and my mother, who speaks Italian, has kept in touch with my relatives over there, such as my cousin Amleto, my aunt Maria and many more.  Nespaledo is a tiny town, and the Ferro’s are a well-known family.  In fact, we own the biggest house in the village, of which I will do an entire separate update about (with photos), tomorrow, godwilling.  Before today, I last visited these people when I was seven years old.  Picture a young seven year old kid, surrounded by people who were friendly enough but speaking in what sounded like total gibberish to my seven year old ears.  I was scared, I was unable to communicate an all I wanted was my mum.  Most of you, I hope, can identify with that on some level.  It was a fun holiday, but hard to remember.

So now that seven year old is twenty seven.  He has a beautiful young wife, a freshly invigorated lust for life and has recently moved in with his sister in London to get out and explore the world.  He knows that he has to spend a few days in Nespaledo to see the relies and kiss a few cheeks, but it’s not something he is really looking forward to, since he has very little memory of these people.  All in all, it sums up neutral, from an emotional standpoint.  I (switching to personal tense) have no strong feelings one way or the other, I could 

take or leave going to Nespaledo.

And that really was my state of mind, right up until seeing my cousin Amleto on the train station in Udine.  But once we arrived in Nespaledo, and my Aunt Maria literally was waiting at the driveway beaming at us, I can only describe it as feeling like coming home.

I must pause here and explain.  Even I was confused and a little shocked.  I haven’t been here in almost two decades!  I haven’t spoken to these people and I know but a little Italian..  On the surface of the matter, we have little in common.  But from the moment that car pulled up, and I greeted Maria with a smiling “Ciao!” I can honestly say that I’ve never felt more at home in my life than here amongst the quiet grape vines and swaying corn fields of Northern Italy.  Every house is a picture perfect stone villa, every second person on the street on the street sees my mother and cries “Carla? Carla Ferro?, Romano Ferro  moglie?”  (Stop, are you Carla Ferro, Romano’s wife?) 

Our more than gracious host Amleto (my fathers sisters son) was our guide for the day.  It began innocently enough with lunch, as we arrived in the early afternoon from a 3am London flight and train trip.  Maria had spent the day preparing a meal for us.  We lugged out bags upstairs, and then made confortable in the kitchen to talk about la famiglia (family).  Soon enough, in the Italian fashion we were sitting eating a delicious pasta dish and drinking local white wine.  Kat, not being used to true Italian eating style, didn’t realise that pasta is only the first dish before the main dish is served, in this case polla a la fungi (chicken and mushrooms).  I graciously helped her finish her surprise “second lunch”.  I also accepted an expresso after the meal.  Being of Italian blood, not to mention Romano Ferro’s son, I felt it would be poor form to decline.  I certainly felt, not only then but throughout the day, that it was my job show that my fathers legacy was alive in my family.  I endeavoured to say yes to whatever was thrown my way, even if my understanding of what I was agreeing to was basic at best.  This caused interesting repercussions later.

The Brave pilots of Tricolore. So patriotic,
their planes literally shit the Italian flag.

Anyway, after our lunch, we walked ten minutes up the road to Amleto’s house to grab some bicycles and explore.  By a ridiculously serendipitous turn of events, on this very day was an enormous festival called Festivale di Tricolore (The Festival of the Three Colours), where the local airbase was home to a festival featuring Italy’s best and most famous aerial stunt pilots.  I wont go into to much detail here, but see photo’s for visual splendour.  Also, not only was this festival this particular day, but particular YEAR of this festival was the 50^th anniversary, so it was especially huge.  People had travelled from all over North Italy in camper cans and coaches to see it, and conveniently, we were a ten minute bike ride away.  Clearly, despite being not especially religious, someone up there still likes me.  (See Found Sunglasses, last entry.)

We then spend the next three hours cycling the back roads of Italian wine country to find our home again, as many roads were blocked off for the festival, necessitating a roundabout route home.  Of course, in true Italian, (and especially Ferro) fashion, we soon got hopelessly lost after Amleto decided to take a “shortcut” through a nearby cornfield.

Not a bad place to get lost.

I pause here briefly to say that if you ever have a choice of where, anywhere in the world, to get lost, make it in Norther Italy, on an absolutely gorgeous Autumn damn, amongst fresh vineyards and cornfields, with your cousin, his son, your wife, your sister and your mother. You can literally close your eyes, stick your finger out and point and you when you open you eyes, you are pointing at a postcard worthy photo. 

"And then he rode off into the distance."

We made our way unhurriedly home, stopping every fifteen minutes to chat to a lost-lost second cousin/best friend/ex-neighbour.  These encounters would usually begin with my mother introducing herself as Carla Ferro, followed by my sister Michelle, myself (Adamo) and Kat (Katerina).  The men then usually followed this up with “Che Bella, Katerina!” (Catherine is so beautiful!) and much cheek kissing and exclamations of “Com’e vai?” (How are you?)  I seriously doubt Kat and been called beautiful by so many men since we started dating.  By this time it was around 7 30pm, and we had an enormous dinner organised for us that was to start at 7pm at Amletos house with all the Ferro’s and their various sub-relations from the area.  Amleto wasn’t worried, they would wait for us, no matter what.  I tried, in my broken, mutilated Italian, to tell him that we would be late, but he clearly didn’t care,  “So what?” he said “They didn’t expect us to arrive before eight anyway.”

He was right on the money, by the time we got home, had the world’s quickest shower and walked up the road to Amleto’s house, it was almost exactly eight.  The next series of adventures, fuelled by amazing, true Italian food and homemade alcohol was about to begin…..

Here I must again diverge from the narrative path.  The reason I do this is because I feel that if I do not you, dear reader, will not understand the significance of events that follow. 

Amletos meat storage locker. Notice two
entire sides of proscuitto.

It many Wealthy western countries, notably Australia, England, America, etc, food is a means to an end.  People eat because if they do not, they bodies will wither and die.  Even the minority in these places who appreciated and seek out quality food, and appreciate that food is linked to other facets of living, still dissociate food from the daily grind.  You eat well when you can, but if push comes to shove, you eat what you have to.  Not only this, but if I want to drink wine or eat pork, I go to the shop and buy it.  Commerce equals food, swap currency for food.  It’s as built into our DNA as survival and reproduction.  We don’t even know that we do it.

Me halving a chuck of pancetta.  I was tempted
to just find a quiet spot and eat it all.

Italy, at least where my family is from, food and eating is not like that.  Food IS life.  Not just food, but the preparation and love of food.  It’s hard to explain in words (hell, it’s hard for me to explain to myself) but people essentially associate good food with good life.  To give an example, today we rode many kilometres all over Udine and Nespaledo.  How many fast food, MacDonals, Pizza Hut style take away joints did we see?  ZERO.  NONE.  I literally mean that there is not a crappy, greasy, shitty McFood outlet ANYWHERE in the region.  In fact, upon mentioning this to Amleto, he relayed to me (through my sister the translator) the story of the lone MacDonalds that opened in Udine (a town of over 50 000 people) and SHUT DOWN after six months because no one ate there.  Why the hell would you, when for your whole life you’ve had homemade prosciutto (salted ham) formaggio (cheese) and local fresh fruit and vegetables?  Vegetable gardens are so prevalent in Italy that they have a separate word for them (orto), and literally everyone has one.  Amleto, who isn’t some crazy ancient famer, but a modern electrician working on the road network, makes his own salame, proscuttio, formaggio, pancetta, not to mention no less than TWENTY DIFFERENT fruit liquers.  By the way, when I say he makes his own limoncello (lemon liqueur), I mean he literally grows the lemons on his own land, picks them with his own hands and ferments them in jars in his own cellar which is dug under his own house.  Same goes for Cherry, Orange and Cumqaut alcoholic brews.  It’s an entirely different culture and attitude towards food and the social act of sharing food with loved ones, whether they be friends or family.  Very cool.

So we arrived at dinner, and after much kissing and greeting we sat down for the first course, which was a antipasta of proscuitto, salame, artichoke, eggplant and bread, (everything home made, of course.)  Our beverages consisted of homemade sweet white wine (again) and a homemade champagne like drink called Pressecco.  The second course was a pork sausages risotto, and finally roast veal with peas and marinated eggplant.  To say it was delicious would be a criminal understatement.  The meal was punctuated with passionate half Italian, half English conversations on topics ranging from the distance from Udine to Munich and the poor quality of Australian XXXX beer to the average age of marriage and why Kat and I were drinking water with dinner.  (Italians will look at you odd if you drink tap water or milk by itself.  Milk is for coffee.)

Amleto pouring Cumquat liqueur for us.  Kat looks scared. 

Italian shot glass.  See the thing next to it?  Thats a jar, and
it's not that far behind them.

This the evening proceeded, many laughs were had, and after the food had been cleared away, Amleto starts to bring out the aforementioned liqueurs.  We started with no less than three different cherry liqueurs, then the cumquat one, followed by grappa infused with Rosemary and Sage (that one was seriously strong.)  Amleto saved the best for last with the Limoncello, which was absolutely divine.  I should mention here that Italian shot glasses are to normal shot glasses as a Volkswagen bug is to an Airbus A380.  Kat was attempting to politely declining each drink, but since she didn’t have the necessary language skills, I signed her up for every single one.  And to her credit, she put away almost all of them like a champ.  Way to Represent Australian drinking prowess, sweetie.  By this stage, I had imbibed a fairly serious amount of alcohol, as well as having about 4 hours sleep in the last 48 hours.  I knew when Amleto tried to get me to follow his son Thomaso into a nightclub in town that it was time to call it a night. 

So Kat, Maria, Michelle and myself all picked ourselves up and headed back for some sleep.  I, knew, however, that I had some serious blogging to do, and this started typing what you are now reading.  And with that, I sign off for some well deserved sleep.  Stay tuned, tomorrow I will be visiting an ancient town built in a Napoleon area fort that makes some of the most famous cheeses and meats in Italy, and will endeavour to write again when I have a chance.  But for now, this is the Ferro’s saying, goodnight.

Freshin' your drink, Gov'na?

(Fair warning, this is an epic entry.  Grab a cuppa and prepare to do no work for the next half hour.)

Hullo all, The Ferro’s coming atcha for another update. 

Busy busy busy is a good way to describe our days since the late night arrival at Heathrow.  As I type this, I find myself once again in a flying metal coffin, though this one is sitting on concrete rather than miles above the earth, (that may change by the time this entry is through though).  I initially tried to write this last night at midnight, but as I had to be up at 3am for this flight (London to Venice).  My wife rightly pointed out that sleep might be a good idea.

Paddington Station, London.

So, where to begin?  The first “proper” day in London began at 5am, when my body told me it was not 5am in London, but rather 2pm next Wednesday.  Still, after a token attempt at going back to sleep, I decided to begin my day.  Kat and I had much to do, we needed to sort bank accounts, figure out the London tube system, meet up with Jess Waine (another Aussie in London), get Oyster cards, foreign currency, etc etc.  We started with a light brekkie, (Vegemite on Toast) and headed into Woolwich, the sort of town center nearest to my sister apartment.  The walk from Michelle’s to the tube station at Woolwich, which is a beautiful walk along the banks of the Thames, takes about 20 mins.  We headed into town and pretty much spent most of the day exploring.  By the early afternoon the spectre of jetlag reared its head and we crashed, rising for a light dinner.  End of day one, very little to report. 

Day 2, however, proved interesting throughout.  We (btw, I’m flying over green English countryside now) woke up again at six, and left the apartment at nine.  As before, we headed into Woolwich, but this time we caught the DLR (train) to London proper.  Or rather we caught three different trains.

The London rail system has to been seen to be believed, both in scope and complexity.  Rather than a train company, a la’ Queensland Rail, London is made up of about twenty separate rail providers, each who provide services to different areas.  For example, we catch the DLR (Docklands Light Rail) to London, then as we roam London we get the Underground, and to visit a friend we caught the Overlander.  It’s certainly takes some getting used to, and we spent many hours peering at our London Rail guide, debating the merits of catching Underground to Popler station, then crossing to Bond  st, then getting off and walking to Oxford St, etc etc.  Still, by the end of the day, Kat and I had caught no less than fifteen trains to various parts of London. Our to do list included

-Visiting the Italian Consulate in the la-de-da district of Eaton Square.  When someone lives in a tiny three bedroom townhouse but has a Bently, an Aston Martin and a Maserati Quadroporte outside, you know housing prices are steep, to put it mildly. 

-Heading to the bank to try and get British bank accounts.  Long story short, we were essentially told to get a “Passport Account” especially for students and travellers. Conveniently for them, there’s eight pound a month in fees.  Kat and I politely declined by expressing our displeasure at this arrangement, and conjectured that our consultants mother was a prostitute who practiced poor personal hygiene.

The view from Michelle's Apartment

-Walked to Oxford st to fix our broken Travelex cards, which has 3000EU that we can’t use anywhere.  To all future London travellers, Eaton Sq to Oxford St is a few cms on a map, but in reality is about an hour walk.  (The Rail map is not to scale.  At all.)  Long story short, we have to get a new Travelex and withdraw our euro as cash.  I was bummed.

Hopefully, Australia's next immigrant.

-Ate a yummy lunch of burger and Oreo milkshake.  This brilliant invention needs to emigrate to Australia, like, now.  Also, my burger came with a pickle.  Not a sliced pickle on the burger, an actual whole pickle.  I dipped it in mustard and ate it, and it was good.  Kat didn’t get a pickle.  I was bummed again. (see above).

-Train tickets from Amsterdam to Munich.  Kat and I foolishly thought than when we got to Amsterdam, we would just, kinda,” get”, somehow, to Munich for Oktoberfest.  Again, my map and scaling skills failed me as I found out that this is an 800km journey, and my brain failed me as I realised that perhaps Kat and I weren’t the only people who might be heading from Holland to Germany for Oktoberfest.  (Kat just looked out the plane window and is literally talking to the French countyside.  Marriage: Annulled.)  So off to the St Pancras International Train Station (does  anyone else read that as St Pancreas?  The patron Saint of Bile and Digestion, maybe?)  to organise some tickets.  My brain (again failing) thought this would take about twenty minutes.  However, the staff at St Pancr(e)as have a system that is almost beautiful in it’s total inefficiency.  It’s truly bureaucracy in action. 

Upon arrival, you stand in line, as per usual.  But upon reaching the front  of the line, you are told you have merely been in line to get a number to get in the REAL line.  So I got my number (41) that was four away from the person they were currently serving.  I should also mention that for some reason, Two staff serve each customer, and there were only two staff.  So Kat and Carla (my mother) and I sit on some nearby chairs and wait, were I eavesdrop on a young Aussie guy talking to a Belgian chick, and massively talking up how dangerous Australia is. (“There’s about a person a week eaten by sharks.  And watch out for Kangaroos, they’ll punch ya face in.”)  and waited.  And waited.  And waited.  I didn’t get it, each person was talking about half an hour to get a ticket.  I guessed they must be planning some elaborate journey that includes the Gan, Transiberian, Silk Road, Swiss Alps and Rocky Mountain Railways.  I began chatting to the Belgian girl (innocently, I’m a married man) and found out she was a ballet dancer heading home to Antwerp.  She just wanted a Eurostar ticket from London to Brussels.  Piece of cake, I thought, should take two minutes.  And Kat and I were next.

An hour later, it’s our turn and I realise why it takes so long.  These guys have no effing idea whats going on.  It’s seems to me that when you tell them what you want, they literally just google “Train, Amsterdam to Munich” and see what pops up.  No database, no timetables.  Then they print out a list of every train and begin a deep discussion about which one you would like.  After finally settling on one, they fuss around for fifteen minutes trying to print tickets, getting confused about boarding passes and in general acting like it’s their first day.  Hell, I could do this home.  Moral of the story, the staff at St Pancras should stick to praying to the god of Stomachs, and leave train travel to people who can organise it.  Read: Everyone else.

-After a brief visit to my sisters place of employment, we met up with Jess in Camden for the actual fun part of our day.  And boy howdy, it was fun, more than making up for the trails of the day so far.  Also, we had managed to ditch my mother by then, so my mood improved considerably. 

Camden is a fascinating and seriously cool place.  It’s hard to make a comparison to an area in Brisbane.  The closest thing I can think of is the valley, but a million times more interesting (Catherine et al, 2010).  Everywhere there are punk clothing stores, tattoo and piecing places, giant metal scorpion hanging front shopfronts, old style pubs next to nightclubs, the list goes on.  And then, five minutes down the road is a market which is crammed with chinese food vendors (3 pound a box!), second hand clothing, a store that sells nothing but gothic corsets and Cyber Dog, a underground store slash nightclub that only sells fluorescent underwear, bras and shorty shorts.  Oh, and that’s just in the first street.  I have a feeling that we will be spending many a night in Camden.

Hello, Italian Alps

So Jess, Kat and I went to a 2-4-1 cocktails place and ordered drinks, (Mint Julep for me, Kat got some god awful creamy passionfruit thing.)  Of course, I downed both of mine, (we had two each) and kat got through a whole half of her first, so I had to come to the rescue and polish  (BTW, the Italian Alps are outside my window, and they look freakin’ AMAZING!) off her other drink.  Naturally, Kat was drunk and I didn’t feel a damn thing.  We then hit up the aforementioned cheap chinese and started back to Jess house in Acton, another three trains away. 

It was about eight when we got to Jess’ house, an old townhouse.  Lee and Luke, it’s a spitting image of your place in Glebe.  Anyway, we were introduced to the three other ladies who lived there and three friends there for some drinks and laughs.  Me and eight girls, story of my life.  I put away two glasses of the British version of Passion pop, chatted to a Sydney girl about Muse, cupcakes and why there was undrank (is that a word?) absinthe in the cupboard.  They were all heading out to the Pub, but Kat and I decided to beat a hasty retreat and get home for some Zs, which we badly needed.  Fate, my broken brain and British rail colluded, however, to deny us even this simple pleasure.  I will explain.

Upon leaving Jess, we headed to Acton Overlander station and caught the first train to Stratford.  However, two stops in, Kat turned to me and asked me to get something out of my backpack.  I gave her a blank expression for a second as my brain realised that I hadn’t taken my packback on board.  For what seemed like a horrific hour, but was probably only a few seconds, Kat and thought that our passports where in that bag, as we had needed them to open bank accounts.  We quickly rummaged through Kats bag and realised they were in fact in there.  After my heart starting beating again, I did a mental inventory and remembered that only thing of value in there were my prescription sunglasses.  I couldn’t believe it.  Why?  Why does god hate my sunglasses?  For those who don’t know, less than 24 hours before leaving for our Vietnam holiday, Kat and lost my last pair of sunnies.  I had to spent three weeks running around Vietnam and Malaysia without any, and trust me, it sucked.  (The holiday was still awesome though.)  And now, again less than 24 hours before leaving for a large holiday in Italy, Holland and Germany, my sunnies were gone.   Remember, I can’t just go to Myer and get another pair.  Not only is there a significant dollar cost involved (about $700 a pair) but they take between one and two weeks to be made.  I  felt like such and idiot, I literally wished that my clone walked into the train so I could fight myself.  Instead, Kat and I got off and caught the next train back to Acton to check on the platform.  They weren’t there, as I expected.  We left our names and my sisters phone number and left, knowing we still had at least an hour and a half train ride back to Woolwich.  We were damn lucky, we only just made the last train back from Popler to Woolwich, otherwise we would have been stuck somewhere in London.  After an additional twenty minutes walk from Woowich to Michelle’s, we crashed into bed  about twelve thirty.  It had taken three hours to get from Jess’ to here. 

The story has an unlikely, though happy, ending.  My bag, with glasses intact, was handed in and Jess picked it up on her way to work.  I met her the next afternoon and got it back, just in time for our holiday.  Maybe god was just testing me.  Or maybe I was damn lucky. 

That’s it for now, I’m off.  See my next entry for the first non-english speaking entry of The Travels of the 

Ferro.

London Calling

Hullo all

Just a quick update tonight, Kat and I are massively, outrageously wrecked.  We've arrived at my sisters place in Thamesmead and have five days before heading off to the Netherlands for the start of our adventure proper.  Our voyage has gone something like car-plane-train-plane-train-bus-walking-train-bus.  And all in the same jeans, t-shirt and most disgustingly, socks.  However, I'm showered and eating some rather good tomato soup, so feeling much better.

And now, for some much needed sleep.  Goodnight all, will update later in the week.

Ferro's out.

Ferro's on a Plane

The Hill Clan mourn the "loss" of their daughter at Brisbane Airport.

As I write this, the helpful screen in front of my chair is telling me we are at 39 459 feet, travelling  759km per hour and the outside temperature is a chilly  -48c, only slightly lower, I’m told, than the average summer day in London, my eventual destination.  Kat, my newly-minted wife, is frantically swaying her giant box of Maltesers to and fro in an attempt to dislodge some from the tiny hole that the Mars corporation saw fit to provide.  It’s loud, it’s annoying, and if there wasn’t at least three crying babies less than two meters away, the massive bearded dude next to me would be making a thing of it.  I, being the gentlemen I am, would immediately need to rise to the occasion and defend my ladies honour, insisting that we both head outside and settle this like men.  That would, in the current circumstances, not end well for either of us.

Nevertheless, here I am, winging my way to London, to live for a couple of years aboard.  And you, reader, will hopefully join me and my wife on our adventures, through the magic of the internet and the written word.  And photos.   This blog is to chronicle my misadventures through Europe and the UK, and to provide a link to all our dearest friends and family back home.   Feel free to leave comments and whatnot at the bottom. 

Kat contemplates spending the rest of her life with me.  Not shown: tears.

Obviously, not much has happened so far.  The usual packing, checking, printing, etc etc.  Our party to the airport for our almost-midnight-flight included Kat’s parents and sister Bonnie.  I have to say though, Kat’s mother tearful confession that Kat has “ruined Christmas” as we hugged her goodbye was both hilarious and sweet.  It’s evident that Joanne Hill will miss her daughter dearly.  If you ever manage to actually use the internet and read this Jo, don’t worry, she’s in good hands.  Only two of my ex-wives have died, and only one of them was my fault.

That’s it for now.  My next entry will probably be in London once I arrive at my sisters apartment, though if anything interesting happens before then, I will let all you suckas know. 

The “New” Ferro’s, signing off.

P.S Having trouble posting photo's right now,will edit later.