Blog 12

All animals are equal... some are more equal than others.

Nicolae Ceauşescu was not a very good communist despite ruling Romania for twenty-four years. You see, communism aims to decrease the excesses of the elite in order to create an environment in which workers gain more access to the fruits of their labour. Nicolae thought that communism meant taking all of the money and building the world's second largest building as a personal palace. Wrong. Bad Nicolae. You fail ideology class... but excel at architecture.

In my experience, most countries that have lived through a period of dictatorial rule are grateful for their new freedom but hold out a little wistful affection for the past. Not Romania. They hate Ceauşescu with a passion and take every opportunity to publicly and officially state this fact. In the national museum of peasantry there is an entire room dedicated to the hate for this man and his regime. The are spittoons next to busts of the great man, plus Lenin and Stalin.

I can understand the Romanian sentiment. Bucharest is an ugly city, but I don't blame it for this. Every building is an ideological testament to anti-individualism, resembling large blocks of concrete stacked methodically skywards. Even the parks and squares of the city have been designed with control of the people and promotion of the leadership in mind. For example, the boulevards are excessively wide, allowing for military processions and easy crowd control while the squares have multiple entry points for easy mobilization of the army to any potential protest. The main Boulevard runs alongside the palace which is a grandiose and spectacular monstrosity overlooking a great square. Between the balcony and the square is a steep grassed hill with ample room for tanks – a constant reminder of the distance between leader and people.

In order to redesign Bucharest he first needed to knock down the old city. It wasn't until I came to Brasov that I realised just what a crime this was. Brasov is one of the secondary cities and it is breathtaking in its medieval beauty. Ceauşescu bulldozed an even grander city in Bucharest. What a twat. But hey, we can't have the people gathering in little alleyways, plotting schemes now.

Despite the poo history, Romanian people outside the capital have been delightful, helpful to a fault and remarkably adept at English. Yesterday I visited Bran castle, the once haunt of Vlad Tepis – otherwise known as Dracula. Sure, he might not have lived here and he didn't really drink blood, but he did impale people on big poles and mount them at the city limits still living so their deaths would scare crap out of invading forces so I still think he's kinda creepy. The churches and castles of the area (Transylvania) are very gothic and awesomely evocative. The 'Brasov' sign perched on the nearby mountain like a Hollywood sign is a little lame, but hardly on a par with old Nicolae's antics.

Before flying to Romania I spent a few wonderful days in Perugia, the capital of Umbria in Italy. It is a tidy university town built on a steep hill, so the layers of history are very exposed. One catches a hyper modern mini metro one carriage train ride thing up the hill and through a medieval fort to reach the most stunning views and impressive churches. The food was spectacular and I met a very cool crew of fellow travellers. It is always a little sad to say farewell but this is also the highlight of solo travelling.

The next few days will see me hike up a mountain and stay in a shack then catch a sixteen hour bus to Istanbul, Turkey.

I'm off to eat some more cabbage... and perhaps a sausage. When in Transyvalnia...

Blessings,

Matt.

Blog 11

Italy outstrips its reputation.

I sit on a lounge chair perched on a grassy precipice, overlooking the Umbrian countryside. In the distance stands a basilica, its imposing dome reaching at least seventy metres into the sky. Despite this, the impressive building is dwarfed by the hills behind, creating the effect of a massive natural amphitheatre. If I crane my neck around to look behind me, I see the pale orange buildings of Assisi, ringing the hillside. This is where St Francis lived, heard the call of God, died and is now venerated in countless places. The impressive basilica that houses his remains sits on the far edge of the hilltop, looking for all the world like a gigantic pier, stretching out to the world.

St Francis is renowned outside the church for seeing the good and beauty in the natural world. As I walked through the olive groves up to the town proper today, small flocks of little birds tumbled through the air and dived through the treetops. St Francis could not have helped but see God in them. Whether or not he managed to preach sermons to them as some biographers would suggest is up to someone else to decide.

It is always a minor disappointment when one enters the basilicas built for particular saints or on special sites. The buildings are spectacular but they fail to grasp the essence of the person. For example, how would one design a massive testament to poverty and simplicity, as the church has tried to in the shrine to St Francis? Sure the buildings are stunning, but he lived in a cave. Tomorrow I go in search of the caves. So far I have been moved in far greater ways by the humility of the saints than by the size of our testaments. I wonder when we will learn.

My journey to Assisi started in the Cinque Terre, or 'five lands'. These are five small villages built precariously close (or overhanging) cliff tops along a breathtakingly spectacular coastline of blue sea and steep vineyard covered hills. The specialities of the region are wine and anchovies, fresh from the ocean. Both were amazing. Until fairly recently, the only way to get between the towns was by foot. There are pictures everywhere of village women carrying huge baskets of grapes and fish over the rocky hills to market. We emulated their feat sans grapes by walking the length of the five towns. It took us about five hours plus a stop for anchovies and gelato.

From the Cinque Terre, I travelled through Pisa (one leaning tower) and onto Rome. Rome is quite simply awesome. Not in the teenage 'Twilight is so awesome' way, but in the 'I am actually awestruck' way. You have all heard of the landmarks, but the feeling of being amongst such gratuitous artistic grandeur is quite intimidating. The city has certainly benefited from being the centre of two seriously rich and influential empires. The result is a city that seems to grow monuments like a fruit tree grows oranges.

It was wonderful to visit the Vatican and feel overcome by the size of this monument to Christ, but once again – he was born in a barn! That said, our God self humbled and I guess this is our way of raising the profile again. Just don't think about where the money came from. Matt Maher has a song in which he calls us to 'lift high the banner of the cross' and as I listened to it in St Peter's square I looked up to the heights of the dome and thought 'I wonder if that is high enough?' Oh, the Sistine Chapel really is that good. Top job on the paintwork ninja turtle.

Onwards and upwards. Where to next? Perhaps some Greek islands I think... but who knows. I am certainly finding time to think, pray and discern.

Note: I went to the caves. They were stunning – indescribably beautiful and serene. It was hard for me to turn my back and walk away. They were two hour's hike up the nearby mountain, but the view was spectacular all the way. I think St Francis would eschew his basilica for the sanctity of this mountain if he were to return.

Note: I need more synonyms for spectacular. Any help?

Blog 10

In this fine and entertaining installment of Matt's travel adventures...

• Matt decides not to jump from the belfry In Brugges
• The Dawn breaks in Villes Brettoneux on ANZAC day
• The stylish people of Paris are too cool for Matt
• A French motorist runs Matt off the road
• The journey is restarted a second time

Good day fine reader(s). I write to you from the very comfortable (and quite empty) train carriage that is taking me from Eastbourne to the airport. This train, a one hour journey in a perfectly kept train with a little table for each passenger and stunning views of the country side is costing me three pounds. Did you hear that Melbourne airport? That's five bucks for the equivalent of Ballarat directly to the airport. Ho hum. It's just gone 7am on Sunday, hence the lack of fellow travellers. There is one girl who keeps nervously watching her pack. Perhaps she is a first time traveller, perhaps she thinks I look dodgy. Perhaps both.

I am on a train rather than a motorcycle due to an unfortunate mishap on the roads surrounding Paris. "I just did not see you," said the driver of the Mercedes that hit me. I was driving in the centre lane when he hit my bike from behind, forcing me into the right hand lane, where a kindly truck-driver stopped so he would not kill me. Jolly good that. Long story short I returned to the UK to sort out the insurance mess and was passed around the different arms of my British insurer until told, three days later, to call the French. I did so and had the matter under way within an hour. Good old French. If only they could drive. I now await the response from the insurer – I should be right.

Things were going swimmingly before this, so I will tell you the good things.

I rode to Dover and caught the ferry to Calais in France. This a very short boat crossing of just on two hours, but one that the German navy utterly failed to complete for two years during WW2. True, we didn't have the RAF trying to stop us but nevertheless, I think it shows a lack of effort on the part of the Germans, who usually have a reputation for getting stuff done. When I rode out into France I panicked and rode to Belgium. I should note that nobody, anywhere, checked my passport. Not in Britain, not in France, not in Belgium and not even when I picked up my ticket in the first place. Note to terrorists.

I high-tailed it for a little town I had been meaning to see – Brugges. Anyone who has not seen the film In Brugges is hereby instructed to do so. Tonight. It is a postcard town built around a beautiful square and populated by a fifty fifty mix of tourists and kamikaze bicyclists. I asked the hostel manager what the local speciality was at dinner time. Hot chips. Awesome.

In the morning I headed for Ypres, the town that was literally flattened during WW1. Everything there is a reconstruction and they have done a marvellous job. Much of the fighting on the Western Front was done in and around Ypres and the countryside is littered with the cemeteries of allied soldiers. These sites are very eerie. They are always perfectly manicured and respected, with books of the dead and guest logs available. I do wonder what happened to the German bodies. I tried to ride the In Flanders Fields driving route but got stuck in a disused parking lot so decided instead to ride to Paris.

I didn't make Paris. I got bored with riding so stopped instead in the city of Amiens. Also part of the Western front, Amiens did manage to keep many of its buildings, including a spectacular cathedral. It was when wandering around this church that I met an Anglican priest from Britain who told me all about the ANZAC day service that would be happening the next day in Ville Brettoneux, just twenty minutes up the road. The Australian foreign minister would be there as would a bunch of other seemingly important folk. What time? Five thirty.

I got up at 4:30 and climbed out of my tent which is quite a feat for this staunchly unpatriotic boy. After finding the town and walking the mile up a winding path to reach the Australian War Memorial, I took a place at the back of a crowd of one to two thousand. As a ghostly light began to appear over the massive stonework of the memorial, the service began. We said how great we were and the French representatives told us we were, indeed, splendid. Australian soldiers liberated Villes Brettoneux from Nazi occupation in 1945 so I can understand that the residents would have been suitably grateful at the time, but the mantra seemed to be wearing thin. As the sun rose over the army bugler playing the last post I couldn't help but be impressed by the grandeur of the moment, but I returned to Amiens unchanged in my unpatriotic ways.

To Paris! I am not stylish enough to visit Paris. Everything you have heard is right. The city is achingly beautiful, wonderfully romantic and eminently cool. If only they could drive. I spent three days exploring the city, visiting the Louvre, the tower, the arc and the alleyways. My hostel was right near the Moulin Rouge, which turns out just to be the most classy strip joint in the red light district. I ate endless pastries and joined in a class in fine art. I thought that last one was very Parisienne. I really can't say anything about Paris that hasn't already been written. So I won't.

After spending a few days at Barry's checking out insurance I am now in Italy! The pizza is good, the weather lovely and the views spectacular. I am in Cinque Terre, 'the five lands'. But I shall tell you more about them next time. There is a sunset to catch...