Auf Wiedersehen pet
This is it. We’re about to fliege out of here for a place in the sun, first a couple of days in Dubai and then on to Abu Dhabi on Saturday. So there is packing to do this morning, the challenge of getting everything back into suitcases already full when we left New Zealand.
Our last gasp at speed tourism in Germany was yesterday with a two-hour trip to Koln, or Cologne as you English-speaking say, to look at the Dom, a huge gothic cathedral which dominates the centre of the city.
The origins of the Roman Catholic church on the site date back to the fourth century, the building of the Gothic cathedral starting in the 12th century and finishing in the nineteenth. And they complain about tradesmen these days. But what a building, if Westminster is big and ornate, this is huge and exquisite. More than 100 metres tall at its highest, 12,000 square metres of roof area and 10,000 square metres of windows. This must be true; it is in the guide book.
Scratching the surface of Germany has been great. From figuring out how the language and rail system works, to places such as Bad Homburg (an ill-fitting hat?) to the balcony at the Hotel Adlon in Berlin from which Michael Jackson famously dangled the baby, there have been simple pleasures every day. Mind you, that pleasure was somewhat diminished at finding Bad Martin adjacent to Saint Martin in Koln.
Finally, the last supper, schweinehaxe, our favourite, a succulent shank of slowly cooked pork, with sauerkraut, and fried potato followed by a shot of jagermeister, a drink with all the consistency and taste of cough medicine, but which we are sure is much better for you. Another drink, sir?
Danke sehr

Silver service
It is four hundred kilometers, 3 hours and two minutes precisely, and three train station changes from Dusseldorf to Pforzheim. And the same return. It might seem a long way to go for lunch, but it was silver service. Fine wine, delicious soup and a shank each of tender lamb, with sorbet to follow. Such is life for the unemployed,
On Tuesday we met friends Philip and Susan Bagshaw who are in Pforzheim awaiting the birth of their daughter Hannah’s second child, so this was an opportunity both to catch up with them and to take our last long ride on German rail. What better way to spend a day? Pforzheim is unlike any other German city we have visited, modern, or should we say, new. The town was completely obliterated by English bombs in February 1945, just before the end of the war, with 83% of its buildings wiped out, the reason being that precision instruments for the German troops were thought to be being made there. Hannah lives in an apartment right in the city centre with husband Ekaitz, a professional ballet dancer, which raises an interesting point. Most large towns and cities here have their own professional performance arts companies, generally supported by central government. Can you imagine a town the size of Hamilton, which is about the size of Pforzheim, having its own professional ballet troupe, with performances six days a week? Dancing cows maybe.
We arrived back in Germany Monday night, although it was a close call. If getting into England was easy, the opposite was true of getting out through security at Stanstead airport. Very slowly, one at a time, shoes off, belts off, jewelery off, watches off, pockets empty, jackets off, wallets out, laptops out, easy as you go. Only recently, after the All Blacks rugby test against the English, Fleur was so delayed she missed her flight and had to stay another night. Perhaps a policy to encourage illegal immigration? “It was just too difficult to get out your honour”.

The rules of engagement
The rules were simple for the world pillow fighting championships, held last Sunday in London. The last person standing would be the winner and pillows were not to be filled with bricks or other sharp objects. As challengers, the Moodie children were to be treated as one, meaning both had to be knocked off their feet for them to lose.
It seemed unfair, two on one, but I fought on bravely. Ali was first down, felled by a single blow to the back of the legs, later unfairly claiming there had been cheating involved. Next down, Marty, as Samira clobbered him unexpectedly from behind with a blow from a pillow clearly filled with books and other hard objects. It was over, the fight an honourable draw.
We head back to Germany today, leaving behind our generous hosts in Ealing, the Moodies and their delightful children. We arrived with 8 pounds each a fortnight ago and leave still with seven pounds and 85 pence apiece, having eaten them out of house and home and systematically worked our way through the wine cellar. Other treats have included Italian and Egyptian restaurants (right near the famous Ealing Studios), the rugby, and, yesterday, Anousheh took Kaelene to the Tate Modern while we blokes snoozed on the couch. We saw squirrels in the back yard, but missed the foxes fighting the other night in the front garden in the pouring rain. We found the Oxfam second hand record shop by Ealing Green, and Primark, the new and proudly proclaimed ethical-trade department store. Ethical, that is until they were exposed on TV as buying from sweat-shop manufacturers.
We have a pattern when we visit places. It is to fritter away much of our time leaving so many things still to be done and seen. This trip is no exception; we’ll just have to come back.

The kiwi boys are alright
As with any winter weekend at home, there is a feast of rugby here with the last round of pool play in the Heineken Cup, the six nations’ equivalent of the Super 14, and it seems as familiar as Super 14 with what appears to be half of New Zealand's professional players here. Martin and I headed off on Saturday to watch the Harlequins match against the Scarletts, one of the Welsh franchises. The twenty-five quid each to get in was steep by comparison to home, particularly with no big screens and no ground clock, however the grounds are small and stands close to the action which is great for atmosphere. The last time I was at the Stoop, the home ground of the Harlequins opposite the massive Twickenham stadium, Zinzan Brooke was playing, or at least resting on the back of rucks and mauls looking every bit like a man on his way to retirement. On this occasion it is a whole lot more competitive, Nick Evans was at fullback for the "mighty quinns" and still in dazzling form following his naming as Etihad Airways player of the month in December. Reagan King was at inside centre for the Scarletts, scoring an excellent try.
Back home, we watched the very classy Luke McAllister for Sale over Clermont, one of the French clubs, and then the Ospreys with Marty Holah, Filo TiaTia (with his 38th birthday coming up and still playing like a man possessed) and, briefly, Jamie Nutbrown win against Leicester, with Scott Hamilton on the wing. Leicester's other Cantabrian, Aaron Mauger was out with injury.
Today, Munster, with Doug Howlett, and Rua Tipoki, played Montauban with Shannon Paku. It had been our intention to watch the match in the comfort of a Munster supporters’ pub, or even off the couch, but we were sidetracked by Anousheh's generaous diversion to an Italian restaurant for lunch. Home too late for Munster we watched the second half of Bath, with Joe Maddock on the wing, drawing 3 all with Toulouse with Byron Kelleher at scrum half, in an absolute mud bath.
The only blemish on the weekend’s sporting activities, the cancellation of the most important match, that of Ali Moodie’s Ealing Trailfinders, due to adverse ground conditions.

Well I never, the House of freaking Lords
It happened completely by chance that we found ourselves inside Westminster, but there we were, photographed and felt up, waiting in the Central Lobby for entry to the public gallery of the House of Lords. One came out, perhaps the elderly member for Upper Ramsbottom, or so we thought from the way he walked. Stooped, bow legged in knee high boots, tight black pants, bow tie, black tails and a white wig pulled back into a bun. Utterly splendid, just as a lord should be.
As it turns out, he was probably only a messenger. The lords and ladies are a pretty ordinary looking bunch, although some lack chins as my wife has observed of the English male. We were seated in the “Strangers Gallery” and it was the second reading of the Equal Pay and Flexible Working Hours Bill, what better legislation for us to chance upon. The Bill, sponsored by Conservative Party member Baroness Morris of Bolton, with support from Labour’s Baroness Vadera, was debated in a sort of love-fest way. Each side oozing commendation on the other and being wonderfully familiar with one another. As an example, for the completeness of your reading pleasure, I memorized Baroness Morris’s reference to Labour’s Lord Morris (no relation, he’s black) of Handsworth as an example..
“When the noble Lord, Lord Morris, said that he agreed with everything, I thought of how, in these difficult times, people sometimes seem to be on different sides of the argument. We had a wonderful supper together the other night, when as a good Tory I bemoaned the fact that I banked with the RBS (Royal Bank of Scotland), which is now almost entirely owned by the Government, and that my mortgage is with the Britannia, which has now merged with the Co-operative society. The noble Lord, Lord Morris, said that for all his life he had been campaigning for a mixed economy, but he never thought that it would be the banks that were nationalised and the Post Office that was privatised. It just goes to show that, in these times, arguments really are all over the place.” Lord Morris of Handsworth chuckled graciously.
To conclude we stood for the ceremonial exit of members as the House rose, the Lord speaker arising from the “woolsack” followed by a chap carrying the ceremonial mace. The woolsack is like a big beanbag on the edge of which the Lord speaker perches, legs crossed and looking as relaxed as she could be at home watching television and knitting. Most unlike New Zealand
What we forget and what photos never do justice to, is just how ornate Westminster is. Anousheh described the outside as intricate as lace, and it is utterly magnificent. So too the inside, the Hall adorned with brass plaques showing where people were tried, sentenced to death or even lay in state over the years. “This table marks, with as much accuracy as can be attained, the place where Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford, stood in this hall during the impeachment for high treason brought against him before the House of Lords, upon the accusation of the House of Commons: 22 March – 29 April 1640 – 1”. This, next to where the Queen Mother lay in state following her death in 2002.
Perhaps our favourite inscription was on the statue in the Lobby of John Earl Russell, an MP from 1813, twice Prime Minister and described as a strenuous advocate for parliamentary reform. Queen Victoria described him differently, as “Selfish, peevish Johnny”.
After a jolly good feed of Cornish pasty and sausage roll in the Jubilee cafeteria, we left.

Photo: Keeping out the riff raff at Westminster

No sense of direction
I am sure we have an inborn sense of direction. Instinctively we are conditioned to know the north from the south and east from west. But this all changes for us antipodeans when in the northern hemisphere. The sun is in the south, not north and it is so easy to head in the wrong direction. In most cities our inbuilt GPS can be readjusted with the assistance of a few landmarks, but not so London and I blame the underground (as much as I love it). Even after eight or more visits here, I still get lost in the city and have little idea of the relationship of various parts of the city to each other because usually we just go from place to place on the underground, popping up like moles to see or do as we want and then disappearing underground again. This doesn’t connect the geographical dots.
Yesterday, from Trafalgar Square we got on the bus to Piccadilly Circus, only to find it is only one block away and we could have walked quicker than the bus. Bussing is part of the remedial action we have adopted to get a better sense of the place and we are now travelling as much as possible on the top deck of buses, usually wrestling other passengers from the front seats for the best vantage points. From these we have seen all sorts of things previously undiscovered or had simply forgotten about. St Clements, from the nursery rhyme, the Royal Courts of Justice and literally hundreds of buildings ranging from the ultra modern of the wharf developments to the elaborate of our historical past.
If the need for penance over getting lost becomes overwhelming, the bus home takes us past Wormwood Scrubs.

Me too
We see from a distance that, hard on the heels of President Obama’s moratorium on pay increases for senior US government officials, Prime Minister John Key has urged the Remuneration Authority not to increase New Zealand members of parliament salaries. Now that Helen Clark has gone, the “me too” policy adopted by Key before the general election seems to have shifted focus to Obama. Let’s hope he applies the copy-cat policy more broadly.
But here we are in the London we are used to, grey and raining. Our friend Martin, with whom we are staying, has brought a brand spanking new Mercedes Kompressor, a two door convertible, which he has allowed me to convert a couple of times to weave my way through traffic to the station. Worrying that he had gone too far in trying to recapture his youth, the purchase caused him exactly three sleepless nights, but he’s over it now.
We are having a pretty relaxed time, even realizing yesterday that we haven’t even been down and wandered the Thames embankment. But we have prowled around, feeding and watering ourselves well, and enjoying the city from the top of double-decker buses. One of the good things about travelling like this is seeing things you either didn’t know existed or had forgotten about. Yesterday, in this fashion, we chanced upon the New Zealand memorial in Hyde Park, it is brilliant. It is just across the road from the original Hard Rock Café (karma), so we’ve done our third Hard Rock so far on this trip. Kaelene has a bit of catching to do, as we’ve only visited two Ikeas. I understand that this will be remedied in Abu Dhabi as Jade has a new apartment to furnish.
So what have we done? Richmond (Mick Jagger wasn’t home), about 50 DVD stores (the stock of which is now depleted), all the designer stores that Chelsea has to offer (where chauffeurs wait outside minding very flash cars, Bentleys mostly), Carnaby Street (to seek out the memories of youth), the Beatles store (ditto) and the Marylebone High Street. There is a bespoke cobbler just off the Marylebone High Street; I went in there once with my cousin who was told by the proprietor that the price of his shoes started at 1250 pounds. Six pairs would suffice I thought.
Don McGlashan was sold out tonight, so we will go the embankment tomorrow and ponder the Nick Cave lyrics:
And thinking about London, nothing good ever came from this town,
And if the Thames weren’t so filthy, I would jump in the river and drown

Barracking for Obama
What must they be thinking now, those southern folk? When an intelligent and charismatic, but coloured, man is inaugurated as President of the United States to replace their jester, a man who was, in his own words, so misunderestimated.
Just prior to the election I heard a southern man interviewed, asked for his opinion on the possibility of an Afro-American as president. His response that it was unthinkable, the only black man ever allowed in his house a servant.
I am sure that Obama’s inauguration speech will be analysed to death, so I won’t start but to say that probably never has an incoming president delivered such condemnation of their predecessor. Few too would have been capable of such superb oratory, a clear and powerful message, and to offer hope for a better world. Can it be presumed that Bush understood some of it? No doubt Chaney did.
The pity is that, at the same time, New Zealanders have voted in a vacuous prime minister and a government that stands for nothing enlightened or progressive.
Obama has got off to a good start with the media. His faltering during his inauguration oath been edited within moments, the television replays showing a perfect performance. Let’s hope it lasts.

One answer to the recession
Dear Gordon Brown,
I have noticed, when travelling by rail, that quite a few people in your country tip rubbish over their back fences. Not just paper and bottles and household scraps, but old couches and fridges and an occasional car body. It is most unsightly, particularly for someone such as me who desires order and cleanliness.
My suggestion, should you wish to consider it, is to create work schemes whereby those corporate chiefs, money traders and investment bankers responsible for the current recession, are forced to do something useful by cleaning up someone else’s mess. It should not be hard to track down those responsible and set them to work, it would be a small price for them to pay for the chaos they have caused.
While at it, these people could scrub down the graffiti, not the street art, but the mindless scrawling that serves as little purpose here as it does at home in New Zealand.
I hope you will consider my suggestion as would make my holiday in your country much more satisfying and pleasant.
Thank you for your consideration,
Kaelene Churton
PS. I really enjoyed seeing your picture in the National Portrait Gallery. It makes you look much less dour and humourless than the newspapers say you are.

Blenheim Palace revisited
We have an audacious identity theft to report. At Paddington Station, London, Spy Valley Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc being sold across the bar as an Australian wine. Such larceny, right up there with the claimed ownership of pavlova, Phar Lap and Crowded House, was uncovered as we waited a train on Friday evening to Oxford for an intended weekend of wholesome living. To put things right, the only responsible thing to do was to clear the bar of all traces of the offending product – the major side benefit being that the resulting unruly behavior was assumed to be Australian. Appropriate retribution in the circumstances.
The real damage was done later in the evening by several fine bottles of Sileni Estate Hawkes Bay Merlot, resulting in my cousin, next morning, insisting on a lengthy walk through the grounds of Blenheim Palace in the Cotswolds to clear heads. Winston Churchill was born there, apparently in a closet, and the owning family now that of the 11th Duke of Marlborough. The 2100 acre parklands are open to the public for a charge of about 10 pounds, although there is a free right of passage if you are a local entering from one of the small villages originally part of the estate. We must be local, we have been here before and, on the previous occasion, photographic evidence reveals both Kaelene and my cousin Jani in sunglasses to subdue the effect of sunlight on ailing bodies. This seems to be a habit here, on my last trip we bicycled down the Thames tow path, from Kennington to Oxford, for the same spiritual and physical cleansing.
Blenheim Palace, now a world heritage site, was created to celebrate victory over the French during the Wars of the Spanish Succession. It was a gift to the First Duke of Marlborough, the military commander who led the allied forces into battle in August 1704 at Blindheim.
The parklands, created by Capability Brown, contain more than half a million trees and gardens, including one mysteriously called the pleasure garden. As the accompanying photo shows, we found a pleasure tree of our own.

The world our oyster
The shop at the London Transport Museum provides a fantastic insight to the psyche of this nation. Where else could you buy the complete series of Omnibus Routes of London, volumes one to five, or The Extension of the Jubilee line, 1968 to 1973? What next, a history of Central Line escalators, from the Napoleonic era to the present day? Currently available for purchase a complete set of DVDs giving a driver’s eye view of every tube line. The Bakerloo Line, What the driver sees, and so on. This is the underground; don’t they realize it is dark down there? Or perhaps it is the same DVD, just with different covers.
The tube itself provides a similar insight into the stoical Brit reserve. Etiquette again. While the young are absorbed in their IP3 players, the older read newspapers and no-one, but no-one, make eye contact or talks to others. Except, that is, for us, but only to acknowledge an unprovoked assault on another passenger. This came as I hauled a heavy suitcase onto a packed, rush-hour tube, swung it round in a manner resembling an Olympic hammer thrower in a desperate bid to get on board and secure seat, and whereupon, with its full momentum, the case crashed into the leg of a suited gentleman with a force sufficient to separate limb from torso. Exhibiting the true character which put the Great into Great Britain, the gentleman graciously apologized for my carelessness and I, just as graciously, accepted.
One thing worth mentioning is the oyster card, a pre-paid debit card which is used for bus and tube fares. Only it is clever enough to calculate the most effective concession fare for the day or week and adjust the card’s balance accordingly. Small things might amuse small minds but, given there are about 5 million users of the tube system, this is very sophisticated indeed. How does it know?
But to culture. Yesterday we went to the National Portrait Gallery in Trafalgar Square to an exhibition by Annie Leibovitz, who made her name as a photographer for Rolling Stone and then Vanity Fare and Vogue. She has done some stunning work, including the famous John Lennon in foetal pose lying on Yoko Ono, the pregnant Demi Moore Vogue cover and many of the Rolling Stones themselves and other stars. But this was more a personal exhibition, recording the illness and death of her friend, Susan Sontag, the election to Senate of Hilary Clinton, the birth and early years of her children and a few landscapes. Familiar stuff for us, Wadi Rum and Petra in Jordan, Venice, and Sissinghurst, the garden of Vita Sackville-West in the South of England.
Currently we are in preparation for a weekend trip to Oxford to stay with cousin Jani and her husband Rob. Last time there, we cycled down the Thames tow path, rendering backsides black and bruised, so perhaps this time we will stick to walking.

On London
There is something special about being in London. Just being here and taking in the air, no matter how grimy. The people, the streets and stations of the Monopoly Board, double decker buses and black cabs, the West End and winter sales. Most of all, the underground, you really know you have arrived when back riding the tubes. As has been said, when you are tired of London, you are tired of living.
Some things have changed. Ye Old Surgeon, our pub in Tottenham Court Road, has disappeared without trace and the area now congested with Starbuck s and Subway stores. But although Ye Old Surgeon has gone, we did find scampi and chips, this time with mushy peas, the pub advising that its meat is well hung and traces of nuts to be found in some dishes. Vileness of this nature should be reported to the authorities.
While here we intend doing our bit for the recession. Yesterday’s pub lunch, offering free the remainder of the bottle on the purchases of two glasses of red wine, prompted Kaelene to order ten glasses. Such is her stamina shopping was only temporarily slowed.
The big Tower Records store in Piccadilly has changed its name and last night’s news announced it is to be being placed in administration, their term for receivership. CDs and DVDs are being discounted at ridiculous prices and we will be off early today to exploit their misfortune.
On the other side, I notice that we seem to be double-handedly saving the banks from their recessional woes. Not only has the dollar continued its collapse against the euro, it is losing ground against the pound, which in itself is failing, and changing money now costs more than $NZ20 a pop comprising about three separate charges. We’ve decided to let our own receivers move in.

Old Blighty
We have a tradition in London. To state our arrival we force our way past the crack dealers and beggars at Oxford Circus and head into Tottenham Court Road to wash down a meal of scampi and chips with a warmish pint or two at a pub called Ye Old Surgeon.
We arrived last evening on an Air Berlin flight which took 50 minutes, followed by two hours of train and tube travel to reach the Moodie household in Ealing. The chap at the ticket office commented that it had obviously been some time since we were in the UK, the style of ten pound note handed over for the tube tickets now being obsolete.
Things have clearly changed, and I’m not sure I am ready for it. The tube ticket man was chatty and helpful, just as the immigration man at Stanstead airport was friendly and engaging. What has happened to the long queues and surly interrogations about the length of our stay and whether we are going to work illegally, sell drugs or become prostitutes? I could have been honest and listed unemployable on my immigration card, but instead I lied and described myself as a professional wrestler. The officer didn’t bat an eyelid.
Not everything has changed, fortunately. After being starved of television for a month, we feasted on news (but couldn’t find a full feed of George Bush’s final press conference) caught the last ten minutes of Coronation Street (no giving away the plot) and then, for a taste of home, the start of the live coverage of the last one day cricket match between New Zealand and the West Indies. We have been out of circulation a while as there are players (such as Guptill and Broom) in the New Zealand team we have never heard of.
But enough of this, scampi and chips await.

The new pariah
There is here, we have discovered, a new pariah. The non-smoker, those exiled to the outside of restaurants and bars, left to huddle under canvas awnings, extracting whatever warmth they can from gas-fired heaters while smokers enjoy the warmth and comfort inside. To drink or eat inside is unquestionably on their terms. The bars stink, the oxygen-less air brown and putrid, extractors apparently not yet invented in this part of the word.
While we have become reconciled with this in the city, we went last Friday evening to a suburban pub for the weekly after-work drinks with the teachers from Fleur’s school. Most lit up and within minutes we were engulfed in a pall of smoke. The teachers who don’t like it simply don’t come.
And it is not just the pub. In Kortrijk, in the south of Belgium, we went to the cafeteria at the local train station, into what we imagined as the sanctuary of the non-smoking area. This is sectioned off by a waist-high partition on the other side of which everyone, but everyone, contributes to the creation of a cloud of hanging smoke, a cloud oblivious to the non-smoking barrier. For babies and young children, the inhalation of second-hand smoke apparently all part of the rich experience of growing up.
It is the opposite of home and I blame Helen Clark, for we are the new pariahs.

The world pillow-fighting championships

As we prepare to leave Germany for two weeks in the United Kingdom, Marty “Mighty” Braithwaite has been in training to defend his world champion pillow fighting title in Ealing, London against challengers, Ali “the Professor” and Samira “the Persian Princess” Moodie. After one month’s preparation on a solid diet of Bratwurst sausages and German beer, Mighty Marty will now use his belly instead of a pillow to defend his title. He will also make up the rules, decide the winner and disqualify children who go to school when bouts are scheduled.

Speed tourism, no strings attached
We have decided our style of tourism is like speed dating. Quick and superficial and, if we want to go all the way, there is usually a cheap hotel nearby, no strings attached. Whether it is a one or two night stand, the relationship is entirely without commitment, founded on nothing more than the pursuit of immediate gratification. Perfect.
While this trip is not about tourism in particular, it is inevitable that we will discover and want to explore new places.
An hour or two here (Koblenz and Brugge), three hours there (Nuremburg), an overnighter here (Mainz, Ieper and Amsterdam) and a two-nighter there (Berlin), this is the life for us.
Reaching places usually takes far longer than the time actually spent there, but, again, consistent with speed dating, the preparation takes longer and can be as much fun (sometimes more so) than the date itself.

First we take in Amsterdam, then we take Berlin
We got off to a bad start, we and our South African guide in Berlin. Undeterred by unmistakable signals that his views were not in receipt of a sympathetic audience, he held on doggedly to his assertion that Helen Clark had outstayed her welcome as New Zealand’s Prime Minister. Not so our waiter at the Hard Rock Café in Amsterdam who, on learning we were from New Zealand, offered, without prompting, that Invercargill seemed like a nice kind of village. He was, we learned, an enthusiastic fan of The World’s Fastest Indian, somewhat refreshing that he knew of a New Zealand movie other than Lord of the Rings.
But back to Berlin. Just as Philip, our guide in Ieper, was enthusiastic and keen to share with us his knowledge, the South African seemed keen only to expose us to his opinions. After giving his, by then predictably negative, view of the German school curriculum, he questioned whether we were teachers in the sort of accusatory way that suggested we were probably personally responsible for any failings of the New Zealand curriculum whether or not we were teachers.
Checkpoint Charlie, between the East and West of the cold-war Berlin, is a major anti-climax, our guide continues in his deadpan way. He tells us that it is nothing more than the original checkpoint, and that the adjacent checkpoint museum is disorganized and stiflingly overheated. Most definitely to be avoided if you are at all menopausal, he says, looking Marty directly in the eye.
The coup de gras, after a treatise on the need for German trade unions to lessen their stranglehold on the German economy, was the inevitable question of what we did for a living. Kaelene’s response, delivered with more than a glint of menace, that we are trade unionists, was not an answer but a challenge. Undaunted, our man offered his view on the value of the internationalization of labour unions, but was rather surprised, or perhaps disbelieving, that university staff would want to be involved in unions.
Notwithstanding, it was a fascinating excursion: the sight of Hitler’s bunker, the ruins of the Gestapo, SS headquarters and Reich security main office, Goebbel’s propaganda ministry, Checkpoint Charlie, remains of the Berlin wall, museums, churches, embassies, the Reichstag, Brandenburg Gate, and the Jewish Holocaust memorial. All from the comfort of a warm van with the outside air temperature reaching, at best, minus 6 degrees, from on overnight low of minus 18.
Two days earlier we left Dusseldorf under heavy snow, a blanket which spread across most of Germany and Holland providing quite a stunning winter wonderland and weather cold enough to force us into extra layers of clothes and Kaelene to purchase a Russian fur hat. In a way it was quite fun to wander the streets of Berlin in the snow and ice.
Of course, in Amsterdam it took me all of my time to prize Kaelene away from the streets where scantily-clad young women appear to work as window mannequins, a variety of shows offer live displays of interesting human contortions, and a five-story museum of erotica provides the anthropological context. We also learned that 14 coffee shops have had to stop selling marijuana because of their proximity to schools - the result of anti-smoking regulations rather than a problem with the drugs. Aside from that, Amsterdam was just as it should be. Bicycles, canals and just a great place to get around, but no doubt better in summer.
Next stop, Luxembourg.

Yes, they mention the war
On the serious side, both Amsterdam and Berlin have excellent memorials and records of the Second World War, provided in a way which pull no punches and are particularly poignant. Ann Frank’s house in Amsterdam is fascinating, with displays containing short excerpts from her diaries and audio-visual interviews with her father and other people involved in the hiding of her and her family from the Nazis. The house, a hiding place at the back of the Frank’s business, is preserved as it was, right down to the original markings on the wall recording the height of the children as they grew.
In Berlin, the ruins of the Gestapo headquarters and the Holocaust memorial give a good historical context and provide a blunt record of what actually occurred. The systematic way in which the persecution of the Jews and others gained momentum, the gassing of thousands with car exhaust, and with the deaths at Auschwitz described generally as murder, rather than the victims dying, or being killed or executed. The barbarism of Himmler in particular is described and that Goebbels gave all seven of his children Christian names starting with H out of respect for Hitler. A good parent, he eventually poisoned all seven to death before he and his wife topped themselves.

Train etiquette
There are the quick and the dead. Or those with seats and those without. We have a Eurail pass for Germany and the Benelux countries (Belgium, Luxemburg, and the Netherlands) but such travel can be confusing when you know neither the rules nor the language. Seats can be reserved at an additional cost on intercity express (ICE) services but not on ordinary intercity or regional trains. This results in an absolute scramble as most don’t reserve on ICE trains and it becomes sheer luck whether or not you can secure a seat. Last night, on an ICE service from Brussels to Cologne, none of the seats in the carriage were marked as reserved when we got on (there are little digital displays), then they were all marked as reserved, and then all marked as reserved from Brussels to Cologne (Koln), only for the displays to then change again to show all seats reserved from Cologne to Frankfurt. When we got off at Cologne, there was no sign of new passengers for Frankfurt.
In the rush for seats there is no respect for age or infirmity, and while most seem to try and push through the middle doors at once and then spread out through the train, Kaelene has encouraged me to take a more rugby-like approach. Instead of trying to dominate through the middle, I should go wide like a speeding winger and board at the front or rear, leaving her to follow. This results in us getting good seats while others are left to stand for the nearly-three-hour journey. It shows that age and cunning can still occasionally prevail over youth.
On the regional services in Belgium, kids remain seated while elderly stand or sit on the steps (between two-story carriages), others straddle several seats at once, apparently not noticing or caring that others stand.
Having said that, the ticketing office people are very patient and helpful as we figure out how the system works- and, more particularly, how to find the right train when our intended station is not the primary destination of the service.

Belgium
A light dusting of snow greets us on 2 January as we get up relatively early to head to Belgium, first to Brugge. We are told that the locals were naturally delighted when their city was to be the location for the film “In Brugge”, but when it was released officials reacted much as the Kazakhstanis did with Borat to be portrayed as so dull. Notwithstanding their displeasure, you can still buy a map which sets out scene locations; and what a city it is. Beautiful old architecture, cobbled streets, canals, and a thriving Christmas market, still running in the New Year. In particular, the local basilica is stunning, small by comparison to the huge churches which have been constructed over the centuries in this part of the world, with beautifully painted panels and ornate fittings.
On to Ieper, to show Kaelene some of the WWI historical sites I experienced in 2007. The difference is that this is January. “I’m going to tell my wife I’ve met some mad kiwis,” the tour guide we have hired cheerily greets us with. Not only is it freezing cold, but fog sets in cutting visibility to not more than a few metres in places which is a pity as it means that some of the battlefield perspectives can’t be gained. At our first stop the fog is indispersed with light, swirling, snowflakes while we listen to the guide’s rendition of local history. Still, we get to see the remains of a field hospital, Tyne Cot and Essex Farm cemeteries, the location of the first gas attacks, some trenches and a museum. The previous night we watched the last post ceremony at the Menin Gate.
Thank god for Belgian hot chocolate.
Back home, after 6 hours of train journeys, we prepare to head to Amsterdam and then Berlin over the next few days.

Mayhem on the Dusseldorf promenade
As midnight looms, New Year’s Eve, crowds stream onto the promenade on the banks of the Rhein, for fireworks to see in the new year. We are expecting a Christchurch City Council-type controlled public extravaganza, off one of the local bridges, but this is not to be. It’s a BYO fireworks free-for-all with people bringing their own and simply letting rip. Skyrockets are set off like hand-held mortars, only the lame requiring a bottle or safe launching pad. This means fireworks going everywhere, any number in any direction and we fail to escape shrapnel on several occasions. Sheer mayhem but no-one seems to mind the odd loss of life and limb as police and paramedics are on hand to deal with the maimed.
None of this no-drinking-in-public here either; the alcohol serves only to lessen accuracy and any sense of caution or safety of those setting off the fireworks. The ground is absolutely littered with rubbish, spent fireworks and empty bottles. The latter is something of a bonanza for the homeless who are picking up as many empties as they can possibly load on stolen supermarket trolleys, presumably for the refund money which is quite high. Naturally Kaelene is concerned about cleaning those cobblestones.
Looking to escape the mayhem, and the Turks fighting each other in the streets, we head to the relative sanity of an Irish pub (yes, a contradiction, we know) and have a second New Year celebration as they countdown to midnight in Dublin.
Whoever was it said that Europeans have a sophisticated approach to drinking? We Germans sure know how to party.

From Koblenz to Mainz
This where the superlatives begin, and so too the geography lesson. Taking notice of our Eurail guide, we have been down the Rhein Valley (as we Germans spell it), from Koblenz to Mainz, but instead of rail we travelled by car thanks to Fleur’s friend, Thomas. To get there, our first autobahn experience, and at around 140kph, there are plenty of cars that leave us in their wake. This may be the only country in the world where signs stipulating a 130kph maximum speed limit means to slow down.
From not having heard of Koblenz, we find a 2000 year old city, at the confluence of the Rhein and Mosel rivers, and a real treasure it is. The altstadt, or old town, has cobbled streets filled with splendid Gothic churches and buildings, just the thing for antipodean tourists to gawk at in amazement, and indiscriminately start taking photos like the Japanese tourists at home we (now used to) mock. A huge, imposing, monument of Kaiser Wilhelm overlooks the meeting of the rivers, it is immense and, like the Arc de Triumph, it is hard to capture just how commanding it is on camera.
From the rather featureless countryside between Dusseldorf and Koblenz, the Rhein Valley is stunning. It is real picture postcard stuff. Towns ribbon each side of the river against a backdrop of steep hills, upon which at various vantage points are castles and other ruins. Many of the villages have the remnants of Roman and medieval walls and, above the town of Oberwesel, we visit Schonburg Castle.
At various points the sides of the valley are vast vineyards, looking in places to be on a slope of at least 45 degrees. Quite how the vines are tended and crops harvested we are not sure, but we don’t envy those with the task.
As dark sets in we arrive in Mainz, another city we had never heard of, but one founded as a Roman military base in 13 B.C. So it has been around a while. Our night of luxury is to stay in the Novatel, from which we head down to the altsadt for dinner and, again, what a surprise. At night it is breathtaking, the town set around the Kaiserdom Cathedral, appropriately named St Martin’s, a Romanesque bascillica and, again, cobbled streets and beautiful old buildings. This is the town where Gutenberg invented book printing we are pleased to report.
Intending to enjoy our night of luxury, we inspect the hotel’s spa, contemplating an early morning swim and sauna, but it is more like we are the ones inspected. The attendant, a solid, fierce-looking fraulein in a crisp white uniform reminds us of Nurse Rachitt from One flew over the cuckoo’s nest, and we have visions of being flailed with birch branches (for our own good). Regrettably, we sleep in.
The drive home, the next day, is along the other side of the river, stopping first where, as legend has it, seven brave hearted virgins were transformed into a reef of seven rocks, onto which the siren Loreley is supposed to have lured passing sailors to their death. In the real world, Thomas and I climb around 350 steps to a particular lookout point, only to find we could have driven up had we turned off at the next village. Despite the climb just about killing me, the exercise helps the body combat the cold. Cold which reminds us of Central Otago in winter, with the ground solid white from the hoar frost and icicles hanging from rocks.
The final stop is at Marksburg castle which, said to be the best-preserved castle on the Rhein, and set 150 metres above the town of Braubach. Again stunning.
At home, roast pork and red wine for dinner before heading out for New Year’s Eve.

Cold enough to freeze
As the cold unrelentingly permeates every pore, I am reminded of an interview by Kim Hill of someone who had recently returned from a trip to Antarctica, Graeme Sidney, the artist, I think it was. He illustrated to Kim the effect of the cold by referring to the condom vending machines at Scott Base. They dispensed three sizes, he said: Small, even smaller and inverted.
In summer it is different. The Germans have a healthy attitude to nudity and most of the major cities have public parks where it is the accepted norm to strip right off and make the most of the fresh air and sun. Ironically in Munich, the Englischer Garten is renowned for this most unlike English pastime.
Jade tells us that, when she was working for Emirates, the hotel in which the airline put flight crews up in Frankfurt was adjacent to that city’s main park for such recreational nudity, something which always came as a shock to new and unsuspecting crew members, particularly those from Muslim and other more inhibited countries of origin.
Footnote: Kaelene has brought a new pair of boots as a first step towards being a German in winter. The shop at which she brought the boots sells the equivalent of snow chains, for footwear. Amazing but true!