… or how I almost got stuck in a bog.

Yesterday, my photographic spider senses were tingling. I looked out my window (which overlooks a lovely 2-acre sculpted garden) and thought to myself ‘my, we might be in for a frosty sunset.’ Now, I got the sunset bit wrong, as the cloud cover was simply too heavy, but I did capture a little frosty moment above the lovely little Ashdown Forest in Sussex.

It’s a great photo, but I thought I could do better! So, heading down the hill you see in that photo, I stumbled across a lovely wide, open, frosty scrub land.

This photo isn’t quite so good (it’s just not as interesting), but I do like how it feels almost… Siberian. I forced the colours to come out very cold, and washed out. Dismal, I guess you could say. English and grey.

So, having taken that photo, I thought ‘Oh, wouldn’t it be nice if I could compose a photo with that tree in the foreground, and the hill falling away below me, with the town’s lights in the background…’, and started trudging down the hill. I guess those of you from more interesting climates might be more used to bogs, quagmires and swamps, but here in England they’re certainly not common. I was a little surprising then when my foot sunk about 30cm into brown, sticky (and smelly)… bog. Not deterred, and avidly chasing THE killer photo, like all real photographers should, I strapped the camera around my neck and trekked on, using my tripod to test the ground in front of me, like a REAL explorer.

About half way to the tree, with no sign of the bog drying out, and realising I’d left my mobile phone at home, I decided to abort and scramble to safety. Yes, I wussed out without taking the photo… but to be fair, I didn’t think my tripod would balance very well in the middle of some mire. Better to escape with my life, and an unboggified camera.

Anyway, I’ve been looking at two new ultra-wideangle lenses to replace my venerable, awesome but-not-quite-wide-enough Canon 17-40L. I don’t shoot on full-frame-sensor bodies unless I’m in a studio, so the 17mm on my Canon 450D comes out at a not-so-wide 26mm. Both Sigma and Canon provide some awesome ’small sensor only’ (APS-C, for the geeks out there) lenses: Canon 10-22mm & Sigma 10-20mm. Both seem virtually identical in reviews, some even placing the Sigma above the costly Canon in terms of sharpness and chromatic abberation. Now I’m just waiting for a good deal to pop up on Ebay, or for one to appear at one of my local camera shops, and then I’ll wow you with some English landscapes!

(This follows on from my eventful stay in Istanbul — you can read part 1 or part 2 of my Istanbul story, if you want to ‘catch up’! There are photos in this story, towards the end.)

After a 3 day stay in Istanbul I said goodbye to the creepy carpet salesmen, the beautiful mosques and ankle-breaking cobbles (Rome was worse on the cobble-front, but only just). I jumped on a rather large commercial jet down to Antalya, the beach tourism capital of Turkey — Istanbul has the culture, and Antalya has the mile-long golden beaches and 18-30 clubs. Just a slight change from its role as naval base for Pergamon back in 150BC.

I didn’t see much of the beaches, mind. I was too busy exploring the lovely ‘old city’ of Antalya (called Kaleici) which was a lot more exciting than the over-developed touristy strip that ran the length of the beach (and thus the entire city). It was on the way back to lovely hotel (some kind of huge, converted barn), from the old city, that I took a shortcut through the ghetto.

I didn’t know it was the ghetto at the time, obviously. You see, I have a very good built-in compass. I can run around a very busy city all day and then work out which side-road I can take to ‘cut the corner’ back to my hotel. It’s a great ability, and it’s saved me a lot of time during my travels. It’s also led me into some interesting places… like the Antalya Ghetto. I think the first hint was the smell; the smell hit my senses like hammer. Hoping to ‘push through’ this entirely new and unpleasant smell, I started to descend into some kind of subway (I have no idea why in hindsight, but it was in the right direction, so…)

I reached the bottom of the stairs and looked around.

Now, I’m sure most of you will agree that pet stores are fairly cruel to the animals. It can’t be fun for the animals, caged up day after day, awaiting some kind soul to buy them. I tell you, pet stores had nothing on this underground pit of animal depravity. I’d found the source of the smell; hell, I’d hit the mother lode of all disgusting smells — pet shop after pet shop. In what was obviously some kind of shopping mall 10 or 15 years ago, there was now about ten (10!) shops peddling poorly nourished pets. This was pet central for Antalya, I guess. I won’t go into too much detail, as it’s probably fairly upsetting to read about, but let’s just say that you shouldn’t put 10 rabbits in a meter-square cage. And not clean it out for a week.

Moving on from the Petshop Promenade of Doom… the highlight of my stay in Antalya was undoubtedly my trip to Thermessos (historically Termessos), the unsurmountable and unconquerable Pisidian city that sits a mile up the mountain of Solymos (it’s actually in the Taurus Mountains, which I didn’t know until now — that’s my star sign!). Because of its location (at the top of a damn mountain), and because Alexander the Great decided that it wasn’t worth the effort, it’s now one of the finest-preserved ancient cities in the world.

About half way into the climb up the side of the treacherous rocky mountainside, a path strewn with sharp-as-glass ancient marble chips, I began to realise why Alexander gave up. It was that kind of wise decision that probably let him conquer and rule the expansive Macedon empire.

Being less-wise than the Great, I continued to pick my way up the path. I knew I was getting close when I started walking over meter-thick chunks of marble that were once the outer city walls. It was rather odd climbing up steps made of the crumbled remains of a 2500 year old city. I knew now why the guy at the ticket office (you have to pay about 1 euro to be allowed onto this highly touristic mountain climb of death) took one look at my tarantulan legs and said in broken English ‘They will be useful!’

I finally crested the last few meters of the climb and was rewarded with a staggering view over the valley below the mountain.

The photo shows what much of the run-down city was like: nature meets ancient civilisation. The past 2500 years have left the city in pretty bad shape, with all sorts of rare plant species growing through and around ancient temples of Zeus and Artemis. It was pretty spooky walking around an ancient city, not a sound to be heard except for the chirp of crickets. I didn’t see a single person for my entire stay… in June!

I think my favourite moment was standing at the focus of a 5,000-seat theatre and singing at the top of my lungs. Well, more like shouting. For a brief moment I was transported back in time, to a time when great Greek orators and philosophers such as Demosthenes or Plato ruled the roost and enlightened people the world over hung onto their words. For a moment, standing there, I was one too! Hopefully I wasn’t just experiencing the past; hopefully it was more of an omen of things to come.

I’m afraid there’s no cliff-hanger to this little story, I just wanted to talk about my exploration of Thermessos. The next story is a whole lot more exciting though, as I decided to venture into a rather deep cave, a mile up another mountain and about 10 miles from the nearest town. Obviously I didn’t die or anything, or I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale… but it was a close call. My bones almost joined those of our ancestors that made their home in the caves of Karain 200,000 years ago!

(Assuming we have a maker, of course… It would be hard to meet a big primeordial clump of star dust. He wouldn’t be very talkative at least)

This continues from story from Thermessos, Antalya in Turkey.

Descending from Thermessos was a lot quicker than the hazardous climb up. I got to enjoy the view all of the way too, as I was less focused on trying not to pass out from the strain. The only exercise I get is when I’m on holiday, so it always comes as a bit of a system shock when I decide to throw my unfit and moobed geeky body into a mile-long hike up a mountain.

Catching my breath, I knocked on the window of the taxi to wake up my driver (he’d locked the door, even though there wasn’t anyone else for miles around). For most people, a trip to Thermessos would be enough to fill a whole day of a holiday; not for a traveller that’s travelling alone! I could hardly head back to the hotel in the middle of the day. I didn’t fancy sitting on a beach. The only real option was to continue exploring; it was why I came to Turkey, right?

So I’d hired this taxi driver to drive me around Antalya for the day. It worked out very cheap — far cheaper than one of the tour groups — and I could go anywhere I liked! I think it cost about 30 euros to be driven around for 6 hours; I couldn’t complain… or could I? <dramatic beat>

We had arrived at Karain. The taxi parked and I stepped out. I was greeted with a little museum with yet another ominous path leading up an even steeper-looking mountain than Thermessos’.

‘Here we go again…’

This time it only cost me about half a euro and at least the first 100 meters of the climb had a nice all-weather path. After that it turned into rocky shelves cut into the mountainside, but beggars can’t be choosers. God knows there was no one to complain to anyway. It was well into the afternoon now and I was getting pretty hot. I was running out of water fast. I figured I should probably take some nice photos, so at least when the hunting dogs finally discovered my corpse I would have a lasting photographic legacy.

I was almost the top when I took that photo. Apparently the plains you see below are highly fertile, and the reason the cave of Karain has been inhabited since the Paleolithic age. These cave men would’ve gone out to hunt and then returned to these caves (safe havens, due to their seclusion, and the fact they’re a mile up a mountain…) to prepare and cook their food.

The caves of Karain are incredibly special because historians have tracked continued inhabitance for 25,000 years. People lived in them until 1700AD! That means while the Egyptians were building pyramids, or the Sumerians were discovering polytheism, people were hanging out in the caves of Karain. They might’ve discovered how to work iron or bronze in these caves; they are old. Prehistorically old.

Tt was pretty cool, then,  to be traipsing around these dark, deep caves. Sitting and enjoying a sandwich where cave men might’ve once sat and spit-roasted wild boar. Of course there was a few romantic scrawlings carved into the walls, but I felt that was only fitting, considering how many people have probably had sex there, over the years. Imagine how many generations were conceived there, over a 200,000 year period. I was probably sitting in the most sexed-up spot in the world!

It was after eating my sandwich, and a little more wondering around, I suddenly wished Turkey had embraced tourism a little more. I’d taken one turn too many and suddenly found myself in a rather dark and dank portion of the cave. Quickly whirling around, looking for some hint of the way out, I lost my footing and fell onto my ass.  I then started sliding down a rather steep ramp and finally faceplanted into one of those rather spikey-looking walls that you can see in the photo above.

‘Ow.’

I sat still for a while, trying to regain my senses. I was concussed, but fortunately I’m blessed with a very rational mind. I only screamed for help a couple of times before I realised it was stupid. No one could hear me scream (hah). I’m not sure how long I was there — there’s no sunlight in there — but it was probably for an hour or so. It was actually the thought of my poor taxi driver sitting, waiting at the foot of the mountain that drove me to think of a solution; well, and the fact that I was way too young to die.

Extending my telescopic monopod, I used it to support my weight as I slowly got to my feet. I gradually worked my way out of the cave, one step at a time. After a day trip into the middle of no where, it was definitely time to head back to civilisation and the associated luxuries… like paths… and other people.

I did manage to take one hell of a photo from outside the cave though. It was ironic that the profession that had almost killed me — chasing the perfect photo — also saved my life. Go monopod!

I spent another couple of days in Antalya (you can find more photos in my Turkey collection) but finally I said goodbye to the tourist trap, packed my bags, and headed off to Izmir… and Ephesus!

This continues on from my hot air balloon flight over Cappadocia in central Anatolia, Turkey. If you like, you could also read about all of my adventures in Turkey.

Below us, as we flew over the unique, wild moonscape of Cappadocia, were thousands of hand-carved dwellings and churches. From above, we couldn’t make out much — just valley after valley of ancient villages and cities. I couldn’t wait to get down there and actually explore on foot; getting lost in some of the most ancient man-made structures on Earth is a dream very few people can fulfil, but I was about to!

I’d booked a small tour to Goreme (Göreme) National Park for later that day. Just three of us, and a tour guide. To say I was excited would be an understatement. Fortunately, I would be sharing the tour with a lovely, young American couple — and Americans can’t get enough of hairy, bouncy easily-excitable British guys!

Cappadocia and its ancient cities are so unique and so special that it’s actually a UNESCO ‘World Heritage’ site. That’s no surprise, considering some of the world’s most ancient, recorded history occurred there: It was the home of the Hittites in the Bronze Age and later provided considerable resistance to Alexander the Great, even as he was riding high on the wave of a world-spanning empire after destroying the Persian Empire.

Coming up to ‘modern’ history, and birth of Christ, Cappadocia was a safe haven for religious types. While Christians the world over were being persecuted for their cultish beliefs, priests were holing up in the hand-hewn caves now found in Goreme National Park. While it’s impossible to date when the structures actually became churches, it’s believed there were sites of Christian worship long before Emperor Constantine ratified Christianity as the religion of the Roman Empire.

Today, Goreme has the remains of the oldest churches in the world. To tell you that it’s weird to walk through a hole in the wall and find a 10th century Byzantine fresco would be a gross understatement. Around 900AD, the monastic complex at Goreme was carved out, and within 300 years, scores of churches were cut into the earth itself. Fast forward to today and there are still more than 10 fantastically preserved churches; churches that you can simply walk into!

What I found interesting was how small these churches were. Perhaps due to the constraints of their tools, or their knowledge of engineering, the largest churches were only 3 or 4 meters square. You’re walking into a single room — soom of which were vaulted — literally plastered with murals and frescoes. I wonder if they were small for another reason though: perhaps these churches were built back when religion wasn’t about being grandiose and self-important. Once upon a time, religion was probably about prayer, and finding solace in some greater entity than ourselves. A small room, with a priest, would be more than suitable for that, right?

Somewhere along the line, probably hand-in-hand with advances in engineering, churches became bigger, vaster and more pompous. If you’ve been to a truly huge cathedral, I think you can relate to that feeling of awe and wonderment as you cross the threshold and look up at the stained glass window above the altar — but that’s the majesty of the building, not God touching you. I assume that churches grew in size as faith swelled, and their eagerness to reach the firmament increased. It’s the same reason banks are always large, imposing structures — they inspire you to trust and believe in whoever dwells within, whether it’s the bank manager or high priest.

I don’t want to get too stuck into the topic of religion, as it’s rather obvious that the churches in Goreme were certainly not used as some kind of control structure; there were simply too many Churches for a single priest, or some particular rites of worship, to prevail! They were meant only as places of worship; vestibules of silence where you could be on your own, or with God.

We poked around for a few hours, scampering from room to room, trying to avoid the incredibly hot summer sun. There were houses, baths and even halls where they would gather to eat (but again, they were small, only a few meters across). My favourite features, though they scared me senseless, were the pitch-black escape tunnels that ran out of the city into adjoining valleys.

Building a city at back of a valley is already fairly hard to penetrate — you have to climb a mile-long incline to get there, with almost no cover — but, if an aggressive force actually made it to the top, there were a few tunnels that had been carved, by hand, out of the solidified volcanic ash.  These tunnels — which could be longer than a mile! — would enable the women and children to safely escape to another valley.

They also enabled poor, hapless, home-sick tourists like myself to escape to… ’safety’. Egged on by some hopelessly enthusiastic American (’Dude, I bet it’d be totally awesome…’), I finally steeled myself and climbed up some near-vertical stairs into the escape tunnel itself.

What followed was an experience I don’t really want to relive, but I will anyway, for your sake and certainly not mine. The stairs you see in the photo were just the beginning — there were two more flights, each one more run-down and life-threatening than the next. On the last flight, before the tunnel itself, the American in front of me slipped, fell, and broke the torch he was holding.

We were plunged into complete darkness. Most people have never experienced real darkness — the kind of darkness that you only get when you’re surrounded on all sides by at least 100 meters of rock. You’d probably consider a dark, moonless night ‘quite dark’; dark enough to bump into other people, at least. Let me tell you, a moonless night is about 10 times brighter than that escape tunnel — an escape tunnel that I was sure would shortly become my final resting spot. How ironic.

‘Eric?’ I called out quietly. I don’t know why I called out quietly; probably because of some primordial urge to lay low and pray the velociraptor doesn’t eat me.

‘Seb?’ came back the hushed, not-quite-so-enthusiastic voice of Eric the Enthusiastic American.

‘You’re right, this was totally awesome.’

‘I think I’ve busted my ankle, Seb. I can’t move.’

And so we crawled on in darkness. Or rather, I crawled on, using my super-human inner geek-strength to drag Eric behind me. Minutes went by, and soon hours. Scrapes from the jagged lining of the tunnel turned into bruises when we tumbled down some stairs and ended up in a pile of scared, sweaty man flesh. But we persisted, and eventually — about 2 hours later — we emerged into another valley to be greeted by a beautiful Anatolian sunset.

We were cut up and bleeding, shaken and stiff, rendered blind by the return of the sun. Worse than all that though: we had no idea where we were. The agreed meet-up time had long past, but when you don’t know where you are, it’s very hard to know where to go. Somewhere, Eric’s wife was eagerly awaiting his return.

I stood up, and looked down at Eric’s scratched, crumpled heap of a body.

‘She’ll be wondering where I am, Seb…’

‘I’m not the most athletic person in the world, Eric. I’m not sure I can carry you all the way to safety, after dragging your broken ass through a mile-long half-meter-wide tunnel…’

He grunted pathetically up at me. I sighed deeply.

And that’s how I walked off into the sunset, with an American called Eric in my arms.

I took yet another wrong turn and looked around. It was 10am, but down here in the maze-like bowels of Venice it could’ve been 10pm. I’d been up since 4am and the caffeine from the cup of coffee on the plane was wearing thin. Breakfast would’ve been lovely and there was certainly the tantalising smell of food in the air, but following my usually-acute sense of smell had already led me into three dead ends.

A couple of geriatric Italians grinned at me toothlessly from a doorway. Even if I attempted to ask them for directions in Italian they would feign illiteracy.

I stared at them and grinned back, making the shape of a gun with my index finger and thumb. My over-sized canines had done most of the work, but I had to admit: the finger-gun was a nice touch. Pointing it at the pensioners I asked: ‘Dov’è Al Doge Beato?‘ They showed me, with a nervous succession of frail arm movements, where I might find my humble abode for the next two days: The Blessed Duke, the Happy Duke — something like that.  It sounded cheesy, but it was charming– everything in Venice is lovely.

Perhaps ‘lovely’ isn’t quite the right word; ‘quaint’ better describes the almost-complete dilapidation of the city. As I walked on, almost everything is in an awful state of repair. There’s something about floating in the middle of a warm and windy salt-water lagoon that really eats away at the paint and brickwork. A few bridges and labyrinthine turns later, I stood outside my hotel: a canal-side, turn-of-the-millennium building — and I’m not talking about a few years ago! My room looked out over a canal on one side, and had a floor-to-ceiling double-door leading out onto an ancient stone balcony on the other. It wasn’t cheap, but considering nothing in Venice is, I thought I’d splash out.

‘You can’t miss Piazza San Marco, just head towards…’ I zoned out as he begun gesturing wildly with his hands. It was obviously an Italian thing, pointing and gesticulating; some kind of sign language that I wasn’t privy to. He noticed the blank look on my face. ‘I’ll get you a map.’ Armed with my map and camera and finger-gun I looked around and then at the map, trying to catch my bearings. Picking one of the three paths that headed south at random I felt like one of my other namesakes, Sebastian Cabot. He’d been a major player in Venice back in the day and he’d probably had less difficulty navigating Venice than me — he ended up exploring Brazil for the King of Spain! — but I gave it my best shot. I’d already decided ahead of time that ‘getting lost in Venice’ would be one of the primary objectives of my trip. Losing myself as I cut between two buildings that were no more than half a meter apart; disappearing amongst the endless serpentine alleys, lost to the world. Venice isn’t big, but you only need walk 50 meters off the beaten path, turn a few corners, and you’ll find yourself alone, standing beneath the imposing facade of a  Gothic church or Renaissance house.

First up was a trip to to the Piazza — the only real open space in central Venice and the home of most major landmarks in Venice. There’s also a huge clock tower in the middle which, as you’d expect, grants a spectacular view of the ancient core of Venice.

There are museums and churches aplenty in Venice, much like every major city in Italy, but they pale in comparison to the ones in Florence and Rome. I could easily spend hours writing about the 50 churches that I visited during my trip, but that’d be boring! (Unless you like churches a lot… like me!) Perhaps you can now understand where my recent interest in dissecting religion has come from — you can only spend so long basking in the shadow of such an ancient, powerful institution — Roman Catholicism — before something goes ‘pop’.

Venice was home to the very first Jewish Ghetto, a Venetian word that probably derives from ‘iron foundry’, or a corruption of ‘Judaca’, the name given to the streets in which the Jews were confined to in Venice. This is where Jewish segregation all began, though this ghetto didn’t enforce labour like later incarnations around the world — it was merely separation from the aggressive and violent Christians. Set up by the incumbent Duke to protect rather than enslave, the Jews probably sought refuge there — they definitely weren’t free to leave however! It was also around this time that Jews became, um, Jewish: Catholic law prevented money-lending, but Jewish law did not. Jews also became the best doctors because most medical texts at the time were in Arabic, a language that Italians and Venetians struggled to understand.

The Venetian Ghetto existed until Napoleon came along in 1797 and removed all of the gates that had penned them in for 250 years, though some early documents could put it over 700 years! All that remain are the hinges that held those gates, but the Jewish love of money lives on! (Remember, it’s not our fault though — blame the Pope!)

It was a little sad, walking around the dirty, tired streets of Venice, a city that had once been the most affluent city state the world has ever seen. The Queen of the Adriatic was one of its many names, a name that makes you wonder just how opulent and vibrant the city had been 600 years ago. For centuries, Venice was ruled by merchants – a republic, led by aristocratic merchants, their sole purpose being to make more money (something they did very well. What most people don’t know is that Venice actually held an empire — a small one, mainly consisting of the Aegean islands Crete and Cyprus, but an empire nonetheless. They had a sizable military force, and their navy of 3,000 ships were almost invulnerable in their stronghold of a lagoon. Most were merchant ships but often converted into warships when piracy flared up in the East, or when they played a large part in the Forth Crusade — the crusade often viewed as the final schism between Catholic and East Orthodox religions — a role in a war that would ultimately spell the end of the Byzantine empire. Not bad for an unnavigable flyspeck of an island!

And the scary bit? It was all made possible with money; a leader with almost unlimited resources and support from a loyal, trusting republic:  that’s capitalism.

Welcome to my first American special: Why Americans are awesome. I appreciate that I haven’t actually written a whole lot about America, so you might question my authority — and rightly so! I’ve visited a few times — about two months in total on five individual trips. I don’t claim to know everything about the States but as you probably know by now, that won’t stop this entry from being highly opinionated. Bear in mind then, as you read this, that ‘awesome’ doesn’t necessarily mean really neat, though it often does. Awesome means ‘awe inspiring’ — mouth-agape and stupefied — something you tell your kids about! Awww-sum, dude!!!

That’s why I chose that word in particular. America is awesome, no matter which facet you gaze upon. Either in military might or economic growth, America rules supreme. From the sheer vastness of their natural splendours — Yosemite, Yellowstone, The Grand Canyon — to the rich oil and gold and mineral reserves, America really is an adventurous place.

You have to imagine what it would’ve been like for an Irishman, pushing west across undiscovered America. How it must’ve felt to experience those sense-shattering sights. Mountains, glacial valleys, geysers — it would’ve been overwhelming! As I explored America, I liked to think I felt an inkling of the awe that those tiny colonies of trailblazing frontiersmen felt centuries ago as they pushed west across the New World.

It is perhaps no wonder that Americans retain an adventurous glint in their eye and bounce in their step — an enthusiasm and appetite for endeavour that precious few nations have. I guess, unlike many other countries, they still have something to be enthusiastic about. They’re still looking through rose-tinted spectacles left by their one-sixteenth Irish-blood great grandfather.

They’re big and brash

No matter which way you look at it: over wide, beautiful vistas or around the orbital curvature of an obese chest, Americans are by far the biggest race in the world. It’s no surprise, considering the seemingly never-ending expanse of their virgin habitat, that they’ve evolved into the largest of the Homo neanderthalensis. Animals tend to grow to occupy a given space — in high-density areas, animals tend to be smaller. America is huge and its population equally expansive.

The equation isn’t quite so simple though. The reason Americans are so large is because they are so self-sufficient. They have so many natural resources and such huge swathes of land suitable for agriculture that they have an abundance of cheap, locally-grown food. Couple in the fact that tropical conditions are available just short boat ride away, across the Gulf of Mexico, and it’s really no surprise that Americans are big (see Appendix A).

The brashness comes from being big and knowing you’re a force to be reckoned with, both on a global scale thanks to a huge military, and in the dusty, windswept saloons with your natural body armour. The confidence that Americans ooze is one of the (desirable?) traits that separates Americans from the rest of the world. Perhaps it’s because they’ve never really tasted defeat like most other Western nations, or just because they’re still so incredibly young in the grand scale of history.

The rest of the world knows about its weaknesses only too well. Americans are sure that they have some weakness, some flaw, somewhere… they just don’t stop to think about it. Maybe they’ll stop to think about it after yet another conquest — following yet another war that they can’t possibly lose. Because losing has never been an option.

That’s why Americans are confident.

They don’t have a class system… kind of

While the rest of the Western world is still battling with an archaic, feudal hand-me-down class system, and the undeveloped world still qualifies its leaders by the size of their ears or gonads, America is essentially classless. In England you can spot a millionaire from 100 meters. In America… good luck! A millionaire might wear a suit, or he might just wear jeans and a t-shirt, depending on how he feels. Or what’s fresh out of the washing machine.

This is because America is primarily made of new money. There are certainly a few British-occupation throwbacks — old, rich slavers  — but most rich people in America today made their own money. They struggled against adversity to become stupendously rich. Capitalism might be frowned upon by many other developed nations but people forget that America has only had a couple of hundred years to catch up with the rest of the world! Without capitalism, America would probably still be a farming country (and some of it is!)

It’s only classless by definition though. Americans still strive to be better than their neighbours, it’s just more of a low-key, Cold War affair. Bigger cars. Greener lawns. Smaller dogs. Prom, rodeo and Mardi Gras queens. Beauty pageants. Bigger cows; riding rowdier bovines and horses. America is competitive. Without a defined class system, with nothing more than the equivalent of a league of comparitive penis lengths, Americans go out of their way to be bigger, better, faster and wholly more awesome than everyone else.

That continuing, never-let-it-lie attitude of trying to one-up its compatriots and the rest of the world has resulted in their global supremacy.

You can buy anything

Thanks to capitalism everything in America has a price. Really, anything; it’s shocking and at the same time strangely impressive. In most of the Western world, manners, deference, politeness and etiquette grease the cogs of society. In America it’s money. A big, toothy smile helps too — but mostly it’s cold, hard cash.

My trips to America have been liberating. I’ve known that at any time, as long as I have some money in my pocket, I’m safe; I’m enabled. I can (and did) literally anything I could think of. You’ll have to wait for my travel stories from America before you hear about those!

Back in England and Europe I’m fettered, restricted by social norms and expectations: who I’m friends with matters, and possibly who my enemies are too. I don’t think it’s any surprise that people searching for a new beginning travelled to the New World where there were no limits to what you could do or accomplish — no more arbitrary limitations  imposed by your family’s history or religious affiliations — just an as-far-as-the-eye-can-see, unspoilt horizon and only one way to measure and compare success: money.

Appendix A: American Food

I’ll continue this tomorrow — there’s simply too much awesomeness in America for one blog entry — but for now, I want to leave you with some truly amazing culinary (I use that word loosely) creations, ripped off from thisiswhyyourefat.com.

The thing I love most about this one is the piece of lettuce. God bless America.

Two Danish pastries. And bacon. And is that the yolk of a sunny-side-up fried egg I see in the mix too?

You probably scrolled off this one quickly because it almost looks internal. Entitled ‘The Cornhole’, this… creation… this… monstrosity means I’ll never be able to look sweetcorn in the eye again. Or anyone else for that matter.

I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again: God bless America.
That’s a chocolate cake with crispy bacon sprinkles. You can’t see, but right now I have tears running down my cheeks.
Salty-wet trails of pride. The tears of someone that has glimpsed true beauty in the form of cake.
America, you truly are one of a kind. Thank God.

America’s so awesome that I ran out of space yesterday! I’m going to continue where I left off, but not without first wowing you with a recent discovery of mine: The Heart Attack Grill. Words don’t really do it justice, so just watch this little video segment from a very serious-sounding TV news reporter.

With that out of the way — Christ, those nurses were hot, eh?  Did you see that ‘A wheelchair ride to your car’ is on the menu? My kind of establishment! — it’s now time to conclude why Americans are AWESOME.

Guns don’t kill people

There’s something about America and the celebration of firearms. It’s probably tied into what I said yesterday about Americans being big and brash — what better way to win an argument or ensure the cessation of all disagreement than with an automatic shotgun? If that doesn’t work, how about equipping it with a clip of armour-penetrating grenade rounds that can be fired off in under two seconds?

Apparently, it’s your God-given right to bear arms in the United States. Well, not God-given, but granted by the second amendment — which was probably divined under the omnipresent supervision of God. Most things back then were, don’t worry — anyway, constitutionally, Americans are allowed to own a firearm. 200 years ago, y’see, there was still some risk of a tyrant leader forcing their way to the top. It was actually sensible that localised militias were maintained in case of emergency — in the event that they would have to help maintain the republic (by shootin’ the dictator).

Fear of oppressive/tyrannical leadership is a common trait amongst all democratic republics and begun way back in Roman times. Today though, there isn’t really a reason to own a lethal weapon, other than because your neighbours do. And other bad drivers. Do Americans really think that owning a gun makes them safer? I can’t get my head around that one so I’m just going to label that particular logic as ‘awesome’ — perhaps there is a method in the madness. Perhaps you really can whip your gun outta your glove box and shoot ‘im dead faster than he can squeeze the trigger.

Maybe, if the mugger knew you weren’t packing heat, he’d carry a baseball bat instead of a gun? Broken ribs instead of dead on the cold floor.

I still remember the day I first saw an automatic submachine gun, at the airport, cradled gently, reverentially, in the arm of a police officer. I was meant to feel safe; I had never been so afraid.

McDonalds and Starbucks — globalisation — American havens the world over

Most non-Americans reading this will probably have bumped into an American tourist at some time or another. More than likely this would be in a Starbucks or McDonalds — the American’s there to pur-chase a slice of cake that’s just like my momma’s home cookin or a cup of hot, national-pride piss. I’ve found the best way to enjoy Starbucks coffee is to drink it fast while it’s still hot; burn all of them there pesky taste buds off! You then have a tongue that’s ready to sample the finest of American mud. Like KFC: they tell us it’s chicken, as we’re biting down into that slippery, spicy succulent morsel we try our damnedest to believe it is chicken — but is it really chicken? Starbucks tell us they serve great coffee. They wouldn’t lie to us like KFC, right?

(As an aside, the gangster slang ‘homeslice’ originates from from the phrase ‘a slice of home’, i.e. someone that reminds you of what it’s like to be back home. How cute is that? Starbucks, your American homeslice, the only solid bastion in a sea of crazy foreigners; seriously, Europeans, go check out a Starbucks in a busy city like Paris or Rome and just marvel at the number of Amerkins you find.)

The unstoppable sprawl of globalisation is an almost-uniquely American thing. The fast food chains, music, film — television. I’ve seen a news clip of a religious fanatic in Iraq decrying Americans as imperialist pigs with Friends and Joey’s inane face plastered on the TV behind him — you couldn’t make that kind of sweet irony up. A lot of people actually learn English from syndicated TV and Hollywood films and pop music — it always amuses me when I meet a local resident in Turkey or Croatia or Serbia that has an American accent. I wonder if they know just how funny it is?

Realising fairly quickly that they couldn’t actually take over the whole world (damn those commie Ruski pigs) they had to settle for the next best thing — CAPITALISM! Once you’ve reached national saturation there’s only one option left: go multinational! There’s a place in Portland, Washington there are actually two Starbuckses opposite each other. Either side of the street. That’s saturation and that’s why I have more Starbucks stores in London than in New York — I’m not complaining though — their coffee might be shit, but their ice-blended coffees with whipped cream on top… mmm.

(I did a little research, and it turns out ‘two Starbuckses on the same street’ is actually a smart move intentionally deployed by Starbucks. Each cafe would be decorated differently and thus serve a different kind of clientelle! So that’s actually quite smart, Mr Starbucks…)

I don’t think globalisation is intentional though, it’s just a side-effect. In the olden days, only the richest of merchants would have offices in more than one city. Today, our technology-rich world is an environment tailor-made for America’s big corporations. They’ve capitalised on their vast reserves cash to quickly spread their long, gribbly, money-grabbing tendrils all over the world. That’s not to say the rest of the world has suffered — far from it. We’ve reaped a lot of benefits of such quick world-devouring expansion (though there are plenty of arguments against the culture-destroying aspects of globalisation). We have globalisation to thank for cheap fast food (hooray!), a lot of employment and a huge amount of consumable entertainment. Kudos has to be given to Americans for finding some way to conquer the modern world without nukes.

The first black president!!

Apparently, this is fairly big news. Also, curiously, the USA is the first country to have a dildo shaped like their head of state (pun intended, animated and totally NSFW). I can’t wait for the first British-born Indian-parented Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. Thinking about it, I don’t think there’s ever been a black president in any of the European countries… Maybe I should another entry  on why Europeans suck!

A turkey, stuffed with a chicken, stuffed with a duck. Wrapped in bacon. Perhaps America’s greatest invention: The Turbaconucken, courtesy of thisiswhyyourefat.com.

Walking through the cobbled, dark, dilapidated streets of Florence — literally ‘the flourishing’ — it’s hard to believe that it was once the capital of the Renaissance, an artistic movement whose graceful wings would harbour the finest contemporary artists, the fluttering of which is still felt today. Undeniably beautiful, in its own rustic way, Firenze today is one of the most attractive and charming cities in the world but… what would it have looked like 500 years ago at the peak of its opulence, at the zenith of the Medici family’s power? What would it have looked like before ‘faithful reconstructions’ and centuries of war-torn damage?

It’s a feeling that haunts me whenever I explore ancient sites and cities, a nagging itch that I just can’t shake: how did it look in its hey-day, before tourism and smogged industry? I’ll never know — we’ll never know. In Ephesus, Turkey, that realisation was hammered home: I could be walking around the greatest and most beautiful city that has ever graced this world, but it would forever just be an image in my mind and nothing more. I can run my hands over fallen columns, their reliefs painstakingly chipped and carved to a level of manual craftsmanship that we’ll never see again, imagining what Ephesus might’ve looked like, felt like, but it won’t bring the city back to life. There its remains will lie, feeding imaginations of adventurous tourists until the end of time.

Back in Florence, at least there haven’t been any earthquakes (the most common cause of destruction in ancient Turkey was earthquakes, and the small fact of building accidentally on marsh land). Much of what you see today, picking your way over the ankle-turning cobbles of doom is authentic, aged, well-preserved. But it’s not really the buildings I’m here to see, it’s what’s inside: the finest collections of Gottis and Donatellos in the world, housed under wonders such as Brunelleschi’s dome, the Duomo, a construction of 4 million bricks that is still the largest masonry dome in the world.

But who am I kidding? The Raphaels are beautiful and the Da Vincis spectacular but the Michelangelos…

Passing through security, I turn to my right. There he stands, in plainly flaunted view, at the end of a long, vaulted avenue. Lined with other priceless sculptures that receive scarcely more than a fleeting glance, the avenue serves just one purpose: to heighten and hone my senses, to zoom in on what I’ve come to see: David. Lit perfectly and elevated, his head and gaze are level and contemplative. I wonder if there isn’t some small measure of irony in the monstrous size of Michelangelo’s finest masterpiece. Surely he anticipated, as he chipped away at a eighteen-foot block of flawless marble that his creation would be imposing. Maybe he was allured by the nickname the local authorities had given the raw block of marble: The Giant; perhaps Michelangelo felt that he was simply carving out the rock’s destiny. But who cares: David is huge. David dwarfs you and absorbs the entire room, sucking in your attention like a miniature black hole. Dare to meet his gaze and he defies you, just as he defies the world with the wordless challenge issued by his engraved face and form.

Aged just 26, Michelangelo would spend two years chipping away at a brave new portrayal of the Biblical figure King David. Most artists had presented David after his battle with Goliath, victorious; Michelangelo created a more ambiguous work, a piece so rich in detail that there are many possible interpretations: does that look of contemplation come from his decision to fight the giant, or is he looking up serenely having just vanquished his foe?

Only one person knows for sure and I hope he took the secret to his grave — where would the fun be if there was only one possible reading? The creation of art is only part of the process; admiration and interpretation are both required to make it complete, to make the work whole. The purpose of art, after all, is to create an effect.

Walking through the streets and museums of Florence, as tired and ancient that they may be, the art still roused within me vibrant and vicious images of life during the Rennaiscence. 600 years have passed and yet the art still stirs visitors such as me to stop and think and admire these great masterpieces. I wonder if any of our contemporary creations will be still be considered art six centuries from now.

I would regale you with more tales of Florence but the fact is: I don’t think I could say anything new or interesting about it. It’s beautiful, it’s rustic and probably has more masterpieces per square kilometre than anywhere else in the world but it’s all been said before. Instead, I thought I’d tell you a fun story from just outside Florence, in the rolling hills of Tuscany, Italy.

It all starts, as most things do, with a vision. In this case, literally a vision from the highest point in central Florence.

I was out of breath having just climbed the huge, never-ending hill behind the ginormous Palazzo Pitti (really, it’s disgustingly huge and pretty ugly to boot). While still nursing a full-body lactic acid build-up I decided to climb onto a rather narrow, precarious-looking wall and try to take a photo. That’s probably why the photo isn’t all that great — I was busy focusing on not falling off, and trying to catch my breath.

I don’t know who lives in that rather charming villa, but at that moment I decided to try and find out. I’d been trudging around the very small, densely-packed streets of Florence for three days and the view made me realise: I’m right in the middle of Tuscany, one of the most beautiful regions in Europe! With that epiphany I wasted no time and fled down the hill back to my hotel where I dumped my camera and any other valuables. I kept just my phone and some cash, and a piece of paper with my home address on it — why? I had no idea where I was going nor what I was going to do once I got there, wherever there might turn out to be. I didn’t want to put a total dampener on my trip and get mugged, so leaving the camera behind made sense, along with my credit cards and forms of identification (identity theft is serious business…!)

That means you don’t get any of my photos for this particular story; you’ll just have to imagine the horrors I’m about to describe.

I took the first bus that was heading out of town. I think it went west, but that’s just a guess — to this day, I don’t know where I went.  Looking at a map now it could’ve been Scandiaci or Rinaldi or… who knows? The bus slowly motored its way beyond the city limits and wound its way through the hilly, serpentine roads beyond. I stayed on the bus for about 15 minutes until I was far enough away to be out of my comfort zone, but not so far that I couldn’t get a taxi back if shit hit the fan. I hopped out with a Grazie to the bus driver and looked around — a nondescript road lined by nondescript turquoise-grey trees (olives?) — perfect; Tuscany!

Following the avenue (original, non-American definition) into the dark, unlit town I started to wonder if this was actually a good idea. Why do ideas always start off sounding really great? Something about the thought of eating chocolate cake is better than the actual eating? Did I mention that it was October and the sun was setting quickly behind the seemingly-uninhabited settlement; it was a very pretty sight, but quite unnerving too. What now, Seb? I stood in the middle of the town and looked about hopelessly.

It looked something like this only, um, darker — amazing how hard it is to find images of Italian villages in the dark…

There was only one building with lights on, a little way out of town and up a hill. Well, I either go and check if anyone’s in, or head back to Florence… Yet again, after the climb, I was out of breath. Holidays are, ironically, the only time I actually get cardiac exercise (I need a girlfriend). I raised my hand to knock but at at the exact same moment the door swung inward, the bright light framing and silhouetting a short, almost-spherical figure.

“Buonasera” a voice said said and I repeated it back to the shadowy person in acknowledgement, smiling apologetically for my English accent. There’s an uncomfortable moment where I can’t see their eyes but I know they’re looking at me, sizing me up. The shadow eventually steps back to hold the door open, revealing a quizzical middle-aged Italian woman whose every sense is boring into me. She sighs.“Prego, prego.” Reluctantly I am waved in and she shuts the door. Then she deadlocks it.

I follow her further into the old farmhouse, running my hands along pocked oak beams, nibbled for centuries by woodworm. The walls are rendered and bumpy, whitewashed in the simple, continental fashion. Brickwork appears in places, no doubt replacing damage sustained by continued use for — perhaps –  500 years. We reach the kitchen and I’m greeted by a wall of smiles — wonky, missing-toothed smiles, but happy faces nonetheless! I smile back at all five of them, not really sure of what the standard greeting for such an occasion is:

Hi, I’m a tourist with more money than sense, but I fancied a taste of real Italian food, so here I am, invading your lovely 16th century farmhouse with my fast, hairy, British body that is a good foot taller than your door frames;

I was pushed off the bus by a nasty driver, and I’m hungry and I have no where to sleep and I’m scared of the dark… so… if you could kindly look after me…

Considering I know almost no Italian, I had to settle for Buonasera, mi chiamo Sebastiano!!! which seemed to do the trick. Before I know it, I’m being ushered to the head of the table while the youngest son grabs some more cutlery. Over my left shoulder unnamed hands pass me crusty bread while the eldest son grins and passes me the olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Plates are being placed before me faster than I can clear them: salamis and prosciutto, lemon-marinated olives and bruschetta, slices of tomato and buffalo mozzarella — that was just the appetiser!

All told I think we had a total of five courses and about ten different dishes, each one washed down with the finest of Chiantis. There was even some fava beans, but the Hannibal Lecter joke that I delivered fell on unappreciative ears. Dessert consisted of biscotti dunked in thick, syrupy dessert wine that tasted like a pound of sugar diluted in water. And then coffee, of course, with a port chaser. Finally, after nodding and smiling through various stories — no doubt the standard, embarrassing family tales that are always brought out at special occasions — I curled up in front of the dying embers of their living room fire and fell asleep.

Sadly there was no dog to lick my toes, or a farmer’s daughter  to deflower but beggars can not be choosers, right? I’d succeeded in experiencing the familial Italian way of life and in eating lots of proper Italian food.

Next, I’m going to try and tackle the story of the Venetian jail without getting myself into trouble. But I reserve the right to skip right onto Rome…!

Phop, phop, phop.

The sound of a fan mere inches from my gonads. The slightest of  slips and, in spectacular fashion, all hope of future Sebastians goes down the drain. Earlier, some of my leg hair got caught between the blades and it hurt like buggery. A small price to pay for wind-chilled testicles though; if they get too hot it can make me impotent, right?

I took my shirt off hoping for a slight reprieve and it worked for a while. But now I’ve soaked through the chair I’m sitting in and not only am I hot, I’m sticky. Sticky.

I’m amazed that my keyboard hasn’t yet short-circuited. I’ve been looking into getting one of those plastic covers that they use in McDonalds to prevent them from getting gunged up with grease. Mind you, death-by-keyboard-electrocution has to be the best way a geek can go…

It’s made all the worse by spending 80 to 90% of my waking life in front of three computers, four screens and an amplifier that generates enough heat that my cats always flock to it in the winter. It’s about 3 kilowatts in total, which is great in winter… but not in the summer. Perhaps I should get out more I often find myself thinking as I swing around in my computer chair, waving my arms about like a retard and desperately trying to create a breeze.

But in a brief moment of clarity I realise I shouldn’t be moaning or despairing: melting into an amorphous puddle of goo in a bedroom surrounded by high-tech equipment with a tall glass of cold, clean water is a lot more desirable than passing out in the wild undergrowth of Central Anatolia, Turkey.

And so it is, with gooey stumps that would make a leper proud, with gangly digits that were once well-formed and finely-honed typing machines, I write this entry.

I had planned to write something else, something deep, but the pervasive heat is debilitating. Instead, I’m going to tell you about the few times I’ve almost died of heatstroke or dehydration. What a thrilling topic for a blog entry. I’ve interspersed a few pretty photos to make it less boring.

June 29th 2009, Sussex, England

(See picture at start of entry)

Consumed four pints (2 litres) of water… and sweated it all out again through my fingers. Laptops should be outlawed in the summer. Sat outside in the sun for a while hoping the breeze would somehow utilise the sweat that glistens from every part of my body. No breeze, just felt like my brain was being baked while still safely within the confines of my skull. The feeling of sweat dripping from under your arms onto your hips and legs is quite unique, but not entirely unpleasant.

July 2007, Cappadocia, Turkey

In hindsight it was perhaps rather stupid to take a taxi ride out into the middle of nowhere and then pick my way over the weird and wonderful ‘moonscape’ terrain of Cappadocia. On a normal day I guess it would’ve just been silly, but in the middle of summer with temperatures reaching over 40C (100F) and only a small bottle of water it was stupid. I was very nearly a winner of my very own Darwin Award. As with most of my recent exploits, it was obviously to take photos — and it was probably worth it, despite the near-death experience. Check out the lovely hand-carved cave that I found while crawling along the ground, gasping for air and praying that someone would find me, or I would find civilisation. This is probably over 1500 years old!

Somewhere in South England, 1996

I actually keeled over in some woodlands by school, back when I was 12. We’d been exploring (as kids do, when they go to private schools in the countryside and they’re skipping a class they don’t like) and… I guess I pushed it too hard. I’ve never been the fittest person in the world — the thought of exercising just for the sake of being fit is completely foreign to me — I always thought I’d rather be reading or sitting in front of a computer learning something.  The pen is mightier than the sword, right?

Anyway, where was I…

Yes, I passed out in the woods and my friends had to carry me back to school. I am told that, to avoid getting into trouble, they conjured up a great story that involved me being bitten by a snake. Unfortunately, we had leaves and twigs in our hair — oops!

Ostia Antica (30 miles from Rome), October 2008

Instead of Pompeii I decided to go to Ostia Antica, an ancient ruin that has always been overshadowed by its volcanically-preserved sister. I think Pompeii is meant to be in better condition but a) Ostia Antica is only half an hour instead of 4 hours from Rome, and b) it’s almost completely devoid of tourists — so I went to Ostia and it was awesome! Except for the nearly-dying bit.

For the 8 hours I was there I saw three people — and we’re talking about a large city that once had a population of 75,00 people! Originally it had acted as the harbour city of ancient Rome between the 7th century BC and 4th century AD, and some pesky Arab pirates finally caused its downfall in the 9th century. Anyway, I ended up very lost in some ancient Mithraic catacombs; lost and without water.. in the dark. Let me tell you something: ancient religious sites are scary. Dark and scary and damp and silent… except the occasional skitterings of creatures you will never see. I will write about it properly as my travel stories of Italy have finally reached Rome — but the point is… actually, I don’t know what the point is.

Why am I writing in this weather? I’m going to look for another fan…