Ok, I’m putting this online but am not sure if I’m all that happy about it. Partly because it was hashed together in about half a day while on holiday so needs a lot of work, partly because of the subject. But whatever, this is the internet. It was built for this sort of crap.

You should note the events in this account are fictional. They are however not glorified and do represent everyday encounters I may have at any given time, as a door-to-door, gas and electric salesman in the UK. I have been doing the job for several different companies for the last 6 or 7 months so when you speak with 40 to 50 people a day, you get both ends of the spectrum. Frequently. I have excluded the names of my colleagues but their behaviours are accurate.

A morning at the door

It’s too early for this shit I can’t help thinking as we drive on the A40 to some small Oxfordshire town I haven’t bothered to learn the name of. A small group of eccentric and boisterous men accompany me on the way to our area of work for the day and despite my best efforts I am unable to zone out from the baffling talk that bounces around the vehicle.

Our morning conversation typically involves the exchange of work tips, ideas and sales scripts, but more often than not degrades to legitimate absurdity and/or ruthless peer to peer abuse. The driver and ‘Hungarian’ are in a heated discussion over the merits of the Hungarians unique sales script. To my left, my colleague (a 10 year veteran of the trade – a truly rare individual), is explaining in great detail the noise a piglet makes when you pick it up and rub it in a very certain way, (nothing dodgy, but it requires some particular hand movements). It sounds more like a dolphin I think to myself, but in order to prevent the topics continuation I keep quiet. Unfortunately, every time we see a field, he’s likely to reintroduce the explanation of the piglet rubbing technique, and being Oxfordshire, there are a lot fields.

This may or may not sound like the fairly typical banter of a group of mostly young  men on their way to work, but it does serve a utilitarian purpose. In our line of work it is crucial that you have a positive mindset, particularly in the morning. It also helps to get your argumentative and conversational skills warmed up. Its not a conscious exercise but it all helps. Genuine friendliness is transmitted just like forced friendliness. As we all know, the majority of human communication is voiceless.

This particular morning however, my colleagues efforts have had little positive effect in rousing my lively ‘work personality’. I step out of the van at my ‘patch’ for the day wishing I had managed to squeeze in a third, and preferably a fourth cup of coffee. My colleagues wish me luck as I gather my tools of the trade: black pleather presenter with product documents I have never read, contracts, a pen and my tobacco.

“Good luck Ed, remember it’s all about meeting some lovely people,” my piglet rubbing friend tells me. “Thanks dude, take it easy.”

“Hey Ed?” the Hungarian calls through the van window.

“Yeah…” I respond. Shit, too late. I should have seen this coming.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Wow, thanks man. You have a lovely day too. You‘re awesome.” He grins at my honey thick sarcasm.

As the van pulls away I begin my typical pre-knock routine. Do a quick scout of the streets I have been given to knock, select the most promising, then head to a secluded spot nearby where I can have a smoke and maybe take a leak if need be.

I find a small parking lot with a pretty lame looking tree. Above me the English sky is it’s typical grey, not bad weather to work in, but not exactly heart warming. I role a cigarette and sit myself down against a brick wall.

What the fuck am I doing here? Seriously, how did I end up doing this shit? These are not new questions to be asking myself. I mean lets look at this from an abstract perspective. My job is to go and knock on strangers doors, feed them scripted lines, deceive them, mislead them if necessary. Say whatever I have to to get inside their house and make them sign a form they don’t particularly want to sign. Now don’t get me wrong, in  most cases we are saving people money on their gas and electricity costs, so whatever deception we utilise works out in their best interests anyway. Most of the time. You also need to understand that the UK has such ruthless competition in this and other industries that many of these areas are knocked by salesman on a weekly basis. These people have decades worth of experience dealing with door knockers. Deception is a necessary evil. Technically, anyone can do this job. It doesn’t require a particularly high IQ. But it is not easy. It can be brutally hard; sole destroying. Most new recruits don’t make it past their first week.

And besides, my personality type doesn’t naturally ere towards sales. I’m analytical and passive. I sometimes need to work at confidence. I could bore you with over detailed psycho-analytical reasons as to what that means but basically I’m better suited to a career as a teacher, IT consultant or whatever.

So it was these and other existential bullshit thoughts that ran through my mind this particular morning. Why? I arrived in the UK about a year ago with a two year working VISA. The intention with this VISA is that you spend those two years working and using the earnings to have fun and travel through Europe. Enjoy my youth and put off the whole 50 year career thing, just for a little longer. I have a design degree and a good two years full time experience in that industry. Unfortunately all of that didn’t count for shit when the UK’s worst recession in at least 30 years started to bite. So as it stands, I’m doing fuck all travel, I work a uniquely shit job, haven’t managed to do a great deal of social networking except for fortunately meeting some great guys through the job.

The answer to the question of why, is of course money. Currently I earn £50 for every deal I sign that does not get cancelled. If I sign 15 deals in a week I earn £60 for those deals. If you do the work and are competent at your job, it is not difficult to sign 3 deals per day. It is not unreasonable to earn £1000 in one week. It’s not easy but it is achievable. This is most likely one of the highest paying jobs you will find that requires no qualifications to do. I can earn more per week knocking doors than I could designing and building websites.

Just three deals dude. I ditch my exhausted cigarette at my feet and attempt to work myself up to knock the first door. Instead I role a second cigarette. The first door is always the hardest and this morning it feels more difficult than usual. As I smoke my lungs to a soppy black mess, I begin to mentally prepare. Just chill dude, its the same old shit. Knock enough doors and you’ll get your deals. It’s a numbers game after all. I tell myself this but subconsciously suspect its a lie as well. Time ticks by and the sky doesn’t get any less grey.

“Ok, fuck it” I say to no one except my own subconscious. I stride towards the first door with a purposeful gait and turn on my charming but businesslike alter-ego. I have purposely chosen a street that appears somewhat poorer than others nearby. Personally I find the lower income demographics to be more inclined to listen and probably more gullible also.

This house is a good example. The low brick wall surrounding the front garden, typical of English properties, is on a slight lean with several crumbled sections. The garden plants are alive but hardly manicured. The curtains in the window are a white lace that with age have become a light grey.

I knock the door and intentionally take a large step back, turning my body to the side. Every conceivable element of my presentation is intentional and thought out. The spaced, side-on stance reduces a defensive reaction from the occupant when they open the door. I thumb through my pages of notes as I wait for the occupant. When they answer, I briefly continue thumbing the pages, pretending I haven’t noticed them immediately, or that the information on those notes is more important than their time. All business, not kiss-arse salesman. Then I look up at the mid 40’s woman who opens the door. Her interior is dated but not untidy. She has the usual array of ugly porcelain statuettes that the English are infatuated with. Perhaps they believe they will become antiques one day. Realistically about 100 years beyond their time.

Holding up my badge I say, “Yeah hi, I’m just from the gas and electric,” there’s no such thing as the gas and electric, but she doesn‘t know that. A look of suspicion immediately crosses her face. “We’re just dealing with a few concerns and actually quite a few complaints we’ve had from some of the residents in this post code,” which also isn’t true but it leads her away from that fact that I’m selling. I say this sentence with carefully orchestrated hand gestures and punctuation.

“Oh, what complaints?” she responds. I begin running through a script/process/questions designed to lead her to believe there may be an error with her billing and to obtain a copy of the bills themselves.

Before I make much progress she holds up her hand, “Thank you but I’m happy with my bills.” I’ve heard this objection a thousand times before and respond with scripted lines I‘ve used almost as many times. “No honestly, we’re happy with our supplier, but thank you for your time.” It’s obvious she’s not having a bar of it. She was polite enough though so I respond with a genuine smile and wish her a good day.

The next two doors I knock I receive no answer from. I enter the gate to the third and take note of the heavily rundown exterior and wildly overgrown, if not dead garden. The paint has peeled from the window sills and there are old newspapers degrading to mush next to the door. I knock and take my stance away from the door.

The door opens and a faint smell of wet dog wafts from the interior though there is no sign of a dog living at the property. The interior looks as if it was installed in the 60’s and not cleaned since. Probably not far from the truth.

“What do you want?” a grizzled, elderly man barks at me from the door. I look up at the look of pure irritation marring his already heavily marred face. A surge of matching irritation builds within myself, but unlike him I expertly mask it with a smile, a polite greeting and the first line of my script.

“Yeah well, I haven’t complained and I don’t have to talk to you.” With just these few lines I have a pretty good understanding of the gentleman’s personality and likelihood of signing anything, which is to say slim to nonexistent. It’s irrelevant how much you can save him, he will never change. This becomes a crucial skill you pick after you knock enough doors.

I’ve met a hundred obnoxious old farts like him before. You get the vague sense that his passion for life waned long ago, along with his ability to strive for a better tomorrow. Its not necessarily that life has been unkind and he has become disillusioned. Perhaps some combination of unimaginative parenting and a bland utilitarian schooling have created a being destined to merely exist and not to take ownership over his life. Shit, I don’t know. Maybe he’s just an arsehole. People like this give England a bad name.

I feed him some bullshit about just needing to ask a few questions, mostly intended to prevent him from slamming the door in my face. It works and he continues listening, if reluctantly. I ask him several key questions: “Do you know the scale of tariff you’re currently on?” They never do. “Do you pay both your bills in the same way for gas and electric?” His irritation is growing at a visible rate until he says, “Look, I don‘t want anything to do with this. Now go away, I’m busy.”

I allow myself a brief moment to toy with the fantasy of swinging my presenter in a wide arch that would connect soundly with the side of his face. You degenerate swine. You’d never see it coming. Whoa! Dark vibrations I know but I’m only human. That’s a normal response anyway, right?

Instead I take a more rational course. One that still allows for a small degree of satisfaction but doesn’t result in immediate imprisonment. I choose to ignore his responses and answer with an endless string of meaningless questions. It serves no purpose other than to waste as much of his time as possible.

“That’s fine, but do you pay both your bills quarterly or monthly?”

“I pay by direct debit, but I’m not interested.”

“Oh, I understand, no problem. And do you know how much you pay per fuel, per month?”

“I have no idea , but I am quite busy.”

“That’s OK, I’m with you 100%. Completely understand what you’re saying. Have you had any changes to your supply in the last two years?”

His frustration grows with every monosyllabic answer. Eventually his tone distinctively changes; he’s getting pissed. So I thank him for his time and leave before he has the opportunity to slam the door in my face.

Now, I’m not saying this behaviour is acceptable or even remotely professional. However, if I can walk away from an unpleasant knock feeling like I have come out on top, not to mention giving myself something to chuckle at for a while, then I’ll do what I must. Besides, if he had given me a polite “No” I would have politely left. Screw him.

The next hour is spent receiving similar results. Fortunately no more horrible old men, but few people demonstrating interest. I manage to take a look at the odd bill, but the customers are either ruled out of the deal because of their age or low consumption, or they simply don’t care. I break up the time with the odd smoke.

Eventually I come to a door. It looks no different to the rest. Same low income demographic, same semi-maintained exterior. I hear a small dog bark inside as I approach the door.

“Hello, what are you after then?” The woman, probably in her late 50’s, who answers appears no different to any other, but she stands in the centre of the door frame not peering from behind the door as if it could offer some form of protection. The dog, a small Jack Russel, bounds to my feet, yapping with all the excitement of a child. Behind the woman, her husband slowly wanders up, taking mild interest in the interaction.

I bend down, “Hey buddy, how you doing, aye?” I rub his head vigorously before looking up to begin my script with the woman. She listens intently without saying much. She says she has no idea what her rates or, nor what her monthly payments are but that she suspects they’re too high. I mentally tick of a list of criteria that make this a worthwhile interaction to pursue. The tiniest detail can spoil a deal. Whether the customer is in hideous debt, or I respond to slowly with a response to an objection. In this case things were lining up nicely, evident by her saying, “Hold on, I’ll just go get my bills.”

She hurries off, not wanting to delay the ‘official’ waiting upon her at the doorstep. Her husband and I start up a warm conversation about World War Two aircraft that I’ve noticed several framed prints of on the wall.

She returns moments later handing me the bills expectantly. Funnily enough I already know exactly what their rates are from the previous questions, but I peruse them intently, with a look that gets more concerned by the moment.

“Mmm, yeah look. There are a few things which concern me about this bill.” I start highlighting a list of issues with the bill, such as their rates and poor discounts. I explain to them that their rates should be closer to a figure that I make up on the spot. Despite working for this particular company for a good 3 months, I still have only the vaguest idea what our rates are. I can name exactly every other providers but our own. Why? Because I will always tell them something that is appropriately lower than what they are currently on. Unbelievably, no matter how many times I tell people they have to check the rates of a provider to know exactly what they will be charged per unit, they almost never ask to see ours. It’s happened maybe once in the last three months. And just as infrequently for the previous provider I worked for. If people trust you and you speak with conviction, they will believe anything you say. Anyway, I’m still saving them money, just not as much as I lead them to believe.

The faces of the couple grow darker as I speak. “Well, why is it they can get away with charging us so much?” the husband chimes in over his wife’s shoulder.

“Well there is a reason for this and it is all to do with the deregulation. Has anyone ever explained this to you?” my response is precisely timed and impossible not to invoke interest. My deregulation script has been hashed together from a selection of other company scripts, industry information and some of my own sheer bullshit. Whether it’s true or not makes no difference as long as it leads the customer in an understanding that they would be foolish to decline.

“No, I don’t know anything about it,” says the husband. The wife looks on vacantly.

“Well, you’re not the only ones,” I say with a merry chuckle. “I’ll give you a quick rundown and then you’ll have a better idea of why this is happening.”

“Well, you had better come in then.” Ha. No way. Hell yeah I’ll come in.

The invitation is a sudden surprise. It is uncommon to be invited so readily into a home. Usually I have to ask to enter on the pretence of needing a flat surface to write on or whatever else will work. Usually it’s a pitched battle of persuasion and subtle dominance. This is a good sign. When you enter a persons home, their perspective of you subtly shifts. Usually only friends and family are allowed within their family spaces and this ‘cognitive dissonance’ can be a powerful tool.

I also know very well that from this point, under these circumstances, there is very little this couple can say to stop this contract being signed. Once inside their house with their bills, I have roughly a 85-95% chance of signing the deal. From here it’s only a matter of building rapport, feeding further deregulation information and ensuring they don’t cancel. Maybe try for a cup of tea if I can swing it.

As I said, the people you meet exist on a spectrum. At one end is that shit-bag old man, and at the other are lovely people like this couple. I fell a slight buzz of adrenalin simmer me up to a warm, charming edge. In this job, and in life, it is kill or be killed, figuratively speaking. And as I step inside I know it’s my time to kill. Or you know, that but not sounding quite so violent.

Well, after living in London for five months and sucking any available credit from cash machines, I reached a make or brake situation. The outcome of that was applying for a position as a gas and electric subscription, door-to-door salesman in Coventry. No that’s not the most rediculous typo ever. It is however the hardest job I have ever had and probably one of the most difficult full stop.

It is however a great opportunity to learn some new skills and build character. It can also be very lucrative so the rewards are very real.

Unfortunately it means I have little time or energy to focus on creating new material. Also I roasted the GPU in my laptop so it’s out of commision at present.

I will get back into creating some new content but don’t expect it anytime soon. If you want to know when I post some new stuff send me an email at ed.hatricksmith@gmail.com with the title “Updates”.

Ciao

There are few things in life that promote the development of character and allow for rich experiences than moving to another country. For New Zealander’s like myself, London and the UK has always been considered a right of passage – a portal into the big, bad world.

Unfortunately the recent global economic shit-storm, has had a legitimate and dire impact to many people’s lifestyle in London. Protesters have taken to the streets to vent their frustration at capitalism’s failure to protect the interests of the people.  Unemployment is having a perceivable effect which results in a lack of advertised jobs, increased competition for job roles and the regular site of acquaintances losing their positions.

However, is this enough reason for you to change your plans and dreams? In a city the size of London, there is always some work. And if you find yourself in a role that is less than expected then at least you can be comforted by the fact that you live in one of the most exciting cities on Earth. AskMen.com have just rated London as the fourth best city to live in, despite the recession.

With these conflicting views I feel it is important that you guys be educated in what to expect. As your all big and ugly enough to understand typical relocation issues, I will focus on those relevant to the current economic cesspool. And to offer a balanced picture of London life I will use… pictures of London life.

The reality of the UK recession

There is no denying that the UK has been severly impacted by the recession. A large portion of the nations GDP comes from London and as a banking city, a great deal of Londons GDP comes from finance. Now I am certainly no economist. In fact, I struggle to even take much of an interest in the subject, however some figures do help make a point.

As of February of this year the unemployment rate is at 6.3%, that’s over 2 million people and the highest  it has been since 1997. As far as unemployment rates mid-recession go, that’s actually not that bad. But what it does mean is that as a migrant or a job seeker with limited to no UK experience, there is a lot of competition for jobs.

I can speak on this subject first hand. I arrived in London at the start of November last year. In the 5 months I have been here I have applied to on average 5 jobs a week, at least. In the first 3 months that average would have been closer to twice that. That 5 month period has allowed me to hone my C.V., portfolio and application letters to a fine state of precision. How many interviews have a had in that time? 3. That’s a pretty terrible success rate, even for me.

There are of course exceptions. Teachers for example are always in high demand. My flat mate Tanya managed to find work in a deli within 2 weeks.

What can you do to increase your results?

No doubt your Mother has already given you these pieces of advice, but you don’t listen to her so it may help coming from me. There are two key points I can give you:

Be prepared

• Have your employment documents prepared – Have your C.V. written and preferably proofed by someone familiar with C.V’s who can give you some advice. Ensure your portfolio, if you need one, is very professional and tuned to perfection. Do not forget copies of your references.
• Have ample savings – It may be a considerable time before you find work. Try and save beyond the specified requirements of your VISA savings.
• Be frugal – The desire to immerse yourself in the wonderful London nightlife is intense but try be refrained. I’m all for partying but it can still be done with an eye on your wallet. Also most of the museums and galleries are free making them a great option for a day out.

Consider all options

• It is easy to pass up on what seems like a poor work option. However, several months down the line you may have regrets. I have had this experience. Remember you can always take a position and continue to hunt for work. You may create some upset, but this about your life, not theirs
• Consider roles that are outside of your normal criteria. Not only does this open up a wider range of opportunities but can lead to some unexpected changes in career and personal development.
• Consider a destination other than the UK – There is a whole world out there and many places less effected than the UK. Don’t ask me to name any, but they must exist somewhere. Right?

Don’t let a little poverty get in your way

I know I have painted a somewhat gloomy picture of the situation here. But it is important that you know and understand the current climate. Yes, its bad. Yes, it’s hard to find work. Yes, I have lived off canned Kronenbourg and cereal for 5 months straight. But does that mean you should change your plans to travel here? Hell no!

If you want to wait for the economy to come right, you are going to be waiting a long time. There is seldom a good reason for you to put off an experience that is going to have an immeasurable impact on your life. Although hardship is difficult, it will make you stronger and offers value in itself. Kronenbourg and cereal will make you stronger. Not physically but… mentally, or something. Anway, good luck with that shit.

Pictured: the most God-aweful place imaginable

I have done some foolish things in my time. We all have. Even when you know quite clearly that what you are doing is unsafe, pointless or completely illogical, there is still that voice in your head that says “Do it bro! It’ll be wicked and girls will think you’re the man, if they were around to see it.” To anybody else, it looks retarded. But you, you’re oblivious.

In men this self denial driven shenanigans eventuates as extreme sports such as Free Running. For woman it usually emerges as excessive fake tans.

I usually consider myself to be a reserved and sufficiently sane individual, void of the worst of these self destructive urges. Last Saturday I proved this assumption false by walking home after a party, through… Victoria Park, *gasp*.

What’s the big deal?

I know what you’re all thinking – “Ooh, Ed walked through a park at night. Who gives a shit buddy.” Well, there are certain factors that come into play in this scenario that make this a particularly bad park to walk through.

Allow me to elaborate:

1. Victoria Park is unsafe at night
   This is the heart of London here. Also the park is big. So big it can not be effectively patrolled at night. It is for this reason that after 8:30pm they close the gates at all the entrances. Walled off by 140cm tall steel pole fencing, it becomes an oasis of nature in the heart of human culture. Just like in that movie The Village but without dorky technophobe villagers.
   This still doesn’t prevent criminal activity. Crime even occurs during day hours, as this news report about a cereal knife attacker in 2003 will attest. On top of that, there is always the risk you will be burgled by rogue con-artist squirrels as you eat lunch. Squirrels are cute… until they out smart you and take your lunch. Punks!
2. I had been at a party
   If you know me at all and this includes brief chance encounters, you will know I like a good beer. Usually followed by another 10. Saturday was no exception to this rule. If my headache on Sunday is any indication, I surpassed that 11 beer margin substantially. When in this state I am typically hilarious, intelligent and suave – the life of the party. Though to be fair that’s based purely on my personal recollections.
   Anyway, my point is that not only was my judgement dangerously impaired, but I had developed a sense of inebriated immortality. ‘Actors’ from shows like Jackass make their money in this state.

What happened?

I left the party at… sometime between the hours of 02:00 and 05:00. The booze was running dry and paranoia was replacing my normally rational thought patterns. I had begun to ramble like Hunter S. Thompson in Fear and Loathing (Johnny Depp). When I get into this state, I typically either loose the last vestiges of my coherency or make a rapid departure before any further loss of face occurs. I took the later option.

“The people in here are freaks… Save yourself man… Make your preparations and go before it’s too late,” I mumbled as I scoured the cupboards for any remaining liquor, “Ha,this should do nicely.” I commandeered a bottle of Malibu with a couple hundred mills left in the bottom.

Coconut liquor in hand, I fled into the night, trying in vain to hear the noise of ill intentions over the blare of my iPod.

Malibu doesn’t make you look like a target. Does it?

Upon arrival at the park I was greeted by the inevitability of jumping the fence and entering the black interior of the park. I stopped and reconsidered taking the safer, longer path skirting the edge of the park. My laziness quickly put an end to indecision and I clambered over the fence trying desperately not to drop the precious Malibu.

From entrance to exit I had approximately 400 meters of dark, ominous footpath to traverse. Lined with enormous oaks and dotted with likely pervert ambush sites. I took a pull from the Malibu and set off.

My heart gradually quickened along with my step. I reached the tennis and cricket nets aware that this area held the most suitable concealment for the fiends and paedophiles. And then… I reached the other side and the greatest challenge of my journey thus fare.

The fence loomed before me in the dark, lit from behind by street lamps. The light beckoned with the promise of security. I finished the last of the Malibu which was now wrecking havoc on my motor skills.

Despite the equal heights, I found the fence on the far side drastically more difficult to climb, further complicated by an unnecessary urge to hide from any road traffic. After about 10 minutes of unsuccessfully  trying various spots along the fence I decided that I either needed to man up and force the jump or walk some 100 meter distance to a more suitable climbing spot. The answer was obvious. I fortified my resolve and hauled myself over the fence. Miraculously I succeeded unharmed and without torn clothing.

The rest of the walk through the ghettos that lie between the park and home was uneventful. I had survived the journey without being stabbed, shot, maimed or loosing my cell phone.

What is the point of this story?

Well, there isn’t really one. Though I guess at a stretch it could be that people are not good at assessing risk, whether that is because the park is a legitimately dangerous place or if people pay too much attention to the media and hearsay.

Or a more likely lesson is that you just spent 5 or 10 minutes of your time reading a story that goes pretty much nowhere. What does that tell you about your choices with online material? Nothing? I thought as much.

There comes a point when many travel blog writers will throw down their pens/keyboards and say, “I’m bored of this shit, I wanna do something else.” For most this will occur years, perhaps even decades into their career. It has taken me approximately two months. I think it is fair to say that not travelling would have some impact on this. But more likely it is the result of some form of cerebral epiphany, where my mind has stepped beyond the contemporary bounds of travel writing into something that’s got like, awesome stuff… and things. Or whatever.

The life of the travel blog writer is fraught with danger and reckless behaviour, I assume. Therefore the progression of my interests would invariably lead me to immersion in one place in particular. The most dangerous, shady-character infested, saliva drenched place I know. My local train station.

Introducing The Homerton Rail Project

In every day life the most unassuming objects or locations can often be the most intriguing. That is not the case here. For those of you unfamiliar with Homerton, which I assume is all of you, it is the place I now call home. I live within a 30 second walk from the station and can hear the whistle of the conductors at the station as I lie in bed at night. I can see the elevated platform from my window and have received many a suspicious look from the vagabonds who call it home. Perhaps in retrospect, I am the who appears out of place.

Homerton station acts as a hub for much of my activities. It provides direct overground service to Highbury & Islington and Stratford tube stations, which in turn provide access to London as a whole. It is therefore interconnected with almost any outing or social event I am involved with. This connection has fostered and developed into a solid love / hate (or should that be love / fear?), relationship.

The above photo pictures the home of our local hobo / mechanic “Robert”. A charming fellow, if you’re female. I must at this point apologise for the somewhat limited detail the photo provides. But walking past this gentleman’s lair with camera in hand, attempting to take discreet, stealth snaps is ill advised. Us travel blog writers are at home in all sorts of threatening and perilous environments but even I would shy away from Robert and his two massive dogs. And his grisly hobo/ mechanic buddies with their paper bag bourbon,  their oil barrel fires, and collective menace.

To be fair I am sure he’s a lovely chap given the chance. I simply have no desire to give him that chance as my flight or fight instincts over power civility.

This is the view of the alley leading away from the station. To the right of where I am standing to take this picture, is roughly where my room is situated. Also in this picture you will note the mounds of snow, piled up by the joyous and youthful small children of the area as they frolic. Those children are likely the spawn of ice demons and some woman who, while not made of ice, is still as cold and heartless as a blizzard on the surface of the moon.

They look like ordinary kids but when they’re lobbing great hunks of snow an ice at your window at 8:00am when your still in a state of booze related coma, you see through the veil of deceit. When you’re minding your own business, taking photos of people with a zoom lens and no consent, they’ll mercilessly pelt you with frozen balls of terror, until you run screaming and crying like a small child for the sanctuary of your house. Demon children inhabit the station. Beware!

Final words.

As much as I enjoy, and I mean really enjoy making a mockery of this little part of London, it’s apparent that I would not be investing time and effort into this form of documentation if our codependent relationship didn’t hold at least some affection. Despite the vast, unmissable flaws, the overpopulated housing, graffiti and filth, Homerton has a certain charm character. What it lacks in unique and quaint traits, it certainly makes up for in mediocrity and dishevelment.

I have lived in the area for over two months now and it has scratched out a place in my heart, be it a small, disrespected place.

At the end of the day, I have chosen to share it’s character with you, not so much to make fun of, it but so that you can have a glimpse into my Home (my Homerton. Get it? Sorry, I had to), and the environment I am a part of. It holds a portion of my existence and I will forever remeber it with fondness and mild fear.

I have something new and special in the works titled The Homerton Rail Project. It will reflect a radical departure from my previous writing as well as the tedium I face as an unemployed man living in London. It could be either a baffling, nonsensical waste of time, or the single most inspired, imaginative waste of time, I have ever produced.

I expect there to be some intensive conceptualisation for this, not to mention production time. Please accept no estimate on a completion date. I will begin work on it immediately but may be hindered by an overwhelming desire to do other things, London can be very distracting.

Take it easy.

I’m not sure if you all have noticed but it’s been a while since I last wrote a post. I will assume the lack of concerned emails implies that you are too distraught to use a computer… So anyway, I am now a resident of the epic city of London and have been wholeheartedly dedicating my time to my personal and professional prosperity here (read: I have been partying a lot). Again the blog has suffered from being porly ranked on my priority list. The positive side is that I have finally completed my online portfolio. If you want to take a look and help me critique, your opinions will be… considered. Here’s a link.

Amsterdam. Woooh! Amsterdam. Man, I actually can’t remember all that much of it. And not for the reasons that your all thinking. Well, not primarily because of those reasons. I think what it comes down to is that aside from the nightlife, coffee shops and the odd museum there is not all that much to remember about Amsterdam. It is a bustling, exciting place and I genuinely loved it but that probably has much to do with my interest in… the more popularised tourist attractions of the city. Aside from these however there really is little to mention. To be fair my impression may have been tainted by weeks of travelling some very incredible places.

I had just bought a new lens for my camera. I was sober I swear.

Some of my highlights of Amsterdam:

• The Van Goph Museum – We went to the Van Goph museum on a drizzly, cold morning. It took Kyle and myself a good 30 minutes to find a lighter beforehand (Note: If you are in Amsterdam, pick up a lighter when the opportunity presents itself. They can be frustrating to track down when needed). However once we did, we quickly partook of the excellent local produce and proceeded to the museum. I can highly recommend the experience as the museum is excellently designed and full of some amazing works by a true master, as well as some of his contemporaries. And I am not just saying so because I was baked.
• Coffee shops – It’s Amsterdam. Part of the cultural experience of this city are the local coffee shops, and not just because of the opportunity to smoke horrendous amounts of grass. The shops are often visited by a unique and varied array of individuals. The ambiance produced by considered selection of music and mood lighting can create cosy little areas that are brilliant places to pass a few hours. One evening we enjoyed some tasty chocolate space cakes. Several hours later we were laughing at some youths at a takeaway store who were clearly struggling with their stoned communication. It wasn’t until we experienced the same difficulties that we noticed the stupefying effects of the cakes. Good times. I think….
• The street path lights – Now this one is going to come off a little random but, this is about my highlights so bear with me. Along the sidewalks of the streets, they have these little lights that are capped in stainless steel. The lights sink into the ground during the day and pop back up at night to divide the road with a purple margin. They were freakin’ awesome.

Brussel. We were fortunate enough to have an old uni friend and his partner (Alistair and Kenny), as hosts while we visited Brussel. Not only did we benefit from their local knowledge but they were generous enough to accomodate us for a good half week.

Brussel itself was in my opinion, not too dissimilar from Auckland. Of course much larger and with a massively greater concentration of chocolatiers, but with many likenesses also. Although we spent a good two or three days there, but had probably seen the majority of it’s tourist draw cards after half a day.

A chance shot at a park in Brussel.

Fortunately it is relatively easy and inexpensive to travel in Belgium. We took advantage of this to spend a day at the popular tourist spot Brugge (or Bruges to the Poms). Brugge is one of those European towns that appears to have been uninfluenced by the last half Milena of progress. It is spotted with many impressive churches and cathedrals. This combined with some fantastic shopping makes it a popular destination for travelers. It is quaint, pretty and makes you feel as though you have stepped back to a different era. There is no reason not to visit if you are in Belgium.

The canals of Brugge.

London - the arrival at least. As London is now my home, I will of course dedicate specific entries to my experiences here. However as it is the last stop of our travels I think it deserving that I record my first impressions here.

We arrived in London on a brisk, yet clear blue day. We had accommodation arranged at a friends place (Tom and Jess from our time in Berlin), so we quickly proceeded there. By the afternoon it was cloudy and drizzling. That evening it began to snow. On our first evening in London it snowed for the first time in October for like 50 years. A very pleasant welcome. I mean that too, I have never really experience weather like it so it has some novelty value.

The view from the roof of the warehouse of the Olymic athletes village construction.

The converted warehouse we were staying at has an incredible social ambiance to it. A warm, friendly environment that regularly degrades into debauched revelry. At about 2am on our second night there, as I was trying to process another excessive quantity of alcohol, I was disturbed from my sleep by someone calling. Something about what was called caught my attention. I focused more intently to what was being said:

“Hello? Police”

I snapped wide awake. After throwing on some clothes I rushed to the hallway to see what could possibly draw police inside. I was met by several intimidating, batten wielding, plain clothed policeman. As it turned out they had been patrolling the area and had found our door unlocked so thought it wise to wander inside. And not before freely taking a look through the property and subsequently commenting on the numerous items of drug paraphernalia (not mine, I swear). Fun times.

I am not sure if that level of police presence is supposed to be comforting or intimidating. The people here have a weariness about them that must come from experience. I am regularly warned of the dangers of the streets here. ‘Don’t trust anyone’, ‘Don’t look people in the eyes’. Yet despite this I have yet to see any form of aggression or delinquency. London is a place where complacency will eventually lead to some form of mishap, yet it would diminish your experience if you avoided certain activities or locations from fear danger. It’s just another big, overpopulated city where people are just trying to get by. And its awesome.

The tour. With fond memories of the previous free walking tour we had participated in in Florence, we made our way to Paris square, home of the epic Brandenburg gate. Here we joined up with another free tour. Operated by a European “free” walking tour outfit (free in the sense that you don’t have to pay however tips are obliged), the information and experience we received from the very enthusiastic guide, were invaluable. You can go and visit the Holocaust memorial (pics can be viewed in the pics page), or see Checkpoint Charlie but the guide really made the events and history come to life for us. It altered our entire perception of the city and can’t be recommended enough.

The town. We were fortunate enough to have some friends, Tom and Jess, join us from England. We spent a good deal of time over the next few days patrolling the less “upmarket” areas of Berlin. Due to the harsh economic environment, Berliners have lived in for the past century, the city still has pockets of grungy, dark warrens that are just fantastic. Tom was exceptional at ferreting them out. He was more aware than us that these dilapidated and battle scarred burrows were home to a vibrant culture of art and design. Berlin has a very strong creative undertone and this combined with a low income culture produced some amazing displays often created from scrap rubbish. We also encountered a variety of amazing second hand stores.

The nightlife. We were told by our tour guide that Berlin has a vibrant nightlife. Unfortunately we were there on a Monday and Tuesday. This however was not going to prevent us from enjoying some of the unique venues (and booze), that can be found around the city. Place we visited:

• A bar that looked like a cross between a war movie set and an H.R. Geiger artwork. Probably there since the war, it had a brutalised interior with twisted metal sculpture. Very industrial and very awesome.
• A lounge bar that had the feel of an underground bunker (and possibly once was). Operated by a Haitian (maybe Jamaican), chap. Bob Marley and classic blues were the music of choice.
• A bubbling cocktail bar where we spent over 10 Euros each on a cocktail, which probably isn’t that bad. It still felt like robbery though as we were probably just paying for the slice of pineapple in the glass. I thought we were ordering booze, not fruit.
• A late night American style eatery, full of drunkards (I include myself in that). At around 6 Euros a meal we were expecting Mc. D’s level food yet received huge orders. It looks like the Berliners love their massive meals as much as the rest of Germany.

Impressions. By the end of my time in Berlin I was in a very somber mood. I dedicated half a day to backtracking some of the stops on our tour to photograph them properly. The city felt like it was acutely aware that it had been in some way responsible for a great deal of suffering (though the Nazi’s and Russians are far more culpable). For a large European city, the people felt particularly humble. Warmer and more open the most. Less caught up in the significance of their materialism. It is this combination of humble warmth that made me fall in love with Berlin. Of all the cities I have visited so far, Berlin is the one I would most like to live in. In fact if I can learn a little German I may just attempt that.

If you intend on visiting Europe I highly recommend making Berlin one of your destinations. Learn what you can about the its history during World War 1, 2 and the rise and fall of the Berlin wall. It was truly rewarding.

Some of you may have noticed a general black out of communication on my part. I would love to put this down to something interesting such as having my typing fingers broken by an Italian mafioso. Or perhaps I had finally lost the constant battle I fight with chronic laziness. Unfortunately it was neither of these and can be more closely attributed to a relentless travel pace and a lack of easy net access. And laziness of course.

Anyway, let me pick up from where I left off…

Venice. Most of you will be fairly familiar with Venice, thanks to T.V. and Hollywood. Long canals, lined by tall Italian buildings and with men steering gondolas filled with tourists snapping pictures. It is exactly like that. It is a beautiful place and the Italian architecture and sense of style is inherent in all you see. However despite this my experience of the place left me underwhelmed.

I know, I know…  But let me put this into perspective. When we arrived in Venice, it was quite late. We had travelled from Stuttgart, were still very hungover, and had yet to traverse the many canals and bridges that would lead us to our hostel. By the time we had reached our destination we were pretty worn. This fatigue was not to be alleviated by one nights rest and so it permeated most of our time in Venice.

Another important aspect of Venice is that it is a tourist city, which means it is hideously expensive. It is apparently the most expensive city in Italy and judging by the internet prices (at least 6 Euros per hour), which are always a good measure, I would say this is true. Venice is lined with some incredibly beautiful shops, some of the best presented retail I have seen, but it inevitably rules out backpackers as a target market.

In retrospect I now know that for backpackers, the truly valuable draw cards are some of the galleries and the art works they contain. It would be sensible to research some of the numerous masterpieces on display before arrival.

Venice is an amazing place that you absolutely need to see, but unless you are either wealthy, or an art enthusiast, I would not recommend a long stay.

Split, ( Croatia ). By now you should have picked up on the mood that had settled on us by the end of our time in Venice – tired.

The long distance travel has taken its toll…  ( ooh dramatic huh!  )

One of the great aspects of having the Eurail train pass we had was that it allowed for a great deal of flexibility in our travel plans. We decided to utilise this flexibility and, upon the advice of some friendly Germans who were going hiking in the Alps, seek out a place that lacked the bustling pace and confines of the cities. Our attentions settled on the Mediterranean and the coastal city of Split, Croatia.

This turned out to be a fantastic decision. However the journey there pushed our boundaries and our resolve as backpackers, perhaps more than any other we had travelled. We caught an overnight train at about 9:00pm that left Venice and travelled through Slovenia to the Croatian city of Zagreb. At 4:00 am we arrived in Zagreb only to wait until 6:50am for a train from Zagreb down the coast to Split. We were not happy about this but without an alternative we sat and drifted in and out of sleep, paranoid of the occasional lurker wandering the halls.

The train from Zagreb to Split was from 6:50 until about 1:00pm. Kyle and Shay had donned their usual pleasant demeanor’s but I could see the weariness beneath. This second train had all the makings of a torturous ordeal however we were quickly soothed by the stunning Croation countryside and several stern coffees.

From Split we travel by bus for about 30 minutes down the coast. A lesson we learn – It is easier to get information from locals than from information booths. Very few of the locals speak much English but at least they try to help. Go figure.

Eventually we reached our hostel and are quickly charmed by the grandmotherly woman who looks after the place. It turns out that it’s off season in Croatia and, being the only guests, we were treated like royalty. Mia spoke no English so if we attempted to ask a question she would call her daughter to act as translator, even though her English was also limited…

So we spent about three days sunning it up on the oration coast, diving (they had a diving board over the water), into the Mediterranean sea and generally letting our bodies and minds catch up. It was exactly what we needed.

Salzburg. It was around this time that a new set of plans was birthed. It would involve meeting up with some friends of ours, Tom and Jess who live in London, in Berlin for a few days. An excellent idea but it would require further restructuring of our itinerary. This proved to be challenging but we eventually settled on a route that would takes us from Split back to Zagreb and then overnight to Salzburg.

Salzburg is just within the Austrian side of the border they share with Germany. The town is most famous for being the location of the film The Sound of Music. It still has a strong tourist following based upon this. In fact our hostel screened a DVD of it on a nightly basis. And yes I did watch it, but only cause there were heaps of chicks there…

Salzburg itself is a very picturesque place. An enormous castle (not sure what its called), dominates your view, from almost vantage point in the town. Salzburg suffers from similar tourist trap problems as Venice in that it is quite expensive, however the stores and shops are stunning. All designer brands are represented there and their displays almost rival those of Venice. Its great to wander through but unless your wealthy don’t expect to buy much other than some chocolate an a coffee or two.

We did however discover a gem worth mentioning. There is a discreet beer hall that has its origins as a monks drinking hall. It has probably been there for centuries. We found it through Lonely Planet, and would never have known of its existence otherwise. The entrance is fairly plain with few signs. Once you enter you wander through a series of hallways and stairwells that eventually open out into a cavernous series of drinking halls and food stalls. It has a very similar feel to a beer festival. There are hundreds of people in each hall, great 1 litre steins of beer and meet. Beer and meat for dinner yet again. Austrians know how to have a good time.

Coming Soon: I was going to include Berlin in this post also but in retrospect the experience was too special to lump in with this. It was a sobering but very rewarding event. Stay tuned for a detailed report.

Leading up to the festival

When we booked our airline ticket’s, what must have been about 7 or 8 months ago, we made a slight oversight. One that turned out to be a fantastic opportunity. We were to depart for Rome via Bangkok on the 2nd of October. From Rome we planned to travel through Italy and into Europe, eventually arriving at our final destination in the U.K. Unfortunately this itinerary lacked the leniency to allow us to attend Oktoberfest. We were sorely disappointed.

Through some brilliant detective work, Kyle stumbled across a reference to the Stuttgart Beer Festival. After discussing it’s existence with myself, and several minutes of squealing like excited schoolgirls at their school ball, we determined that reaching the venue on our schedule was indeed feasible. From this point we bent all of the force of our will to attend this event. Sacrifices were made (seriously, BIG sacrifices, on my part at least).

So we set the plan in place to travel from Florence in an overnight train to Munich, then catch a second train to Stuttgart. All of this went off fairly well. We coughed up the extra 20 Euros for sleeping bunks, which at the time we considered unpleasant but from our current, less naive perspective consider a blessing.

Shenanigans – A day at the festival

After offloading all our packs to the hostel we were accommodated at, our excitement building at an unhealthy and alarming rate, we set off to the Cannstatter Wasen. Cannstatter Wasen is the grounds where the festival is held and our first visual impressions is that it is more of a fair ground or amusement park than a beer festival. However before we got adventurous, we had a primary objective that needed to be met. Line our stomachs with some German beer.

The beer halls, which are more like huge barns, are lined up in a row with the proprietor being a particular beer manufacturer. We picked one of the halls (the closest I believe), and charged on in. This is where our normality for the day ended. Inside the halls are row upon row of tables with benches, packed to the brim with thousands (literally, I think they hold around 5000 people each at a guess), of Germans. Around the edges are vast arrays of service areas and kitchens with banks of roasted chickens, streams of service people and cooks. The center piece to the halls is a stage with a local band singing local beer drinking songs and chants. The band is accompanied by the majority of the crowd.

As you can imagine we were quickly bewildered. We had no understanding of how it all worked and our German was limited to “gutentag”. We picked a table and sat.

The great thing about the system at this event, is that they have service staff who wander around and attend to your orders. You can order all your food and beer without ever having to leave your spot. If they could find a way to not have to make bathroom breaks, it would be flawless.

The beer comes in big 1 liter tankards. They are very satisfying to clink together.

The food is practically all meat, with the exception of the odd bread roll. The servings are massive.

So, all there is is meat and beer. And people selling cigars. It is the manliest place on the planet, (with the exception perhaps of the music). We fell in love almost instantly and proceeded to nail back a few of the local beverages. Kyle and I giggled incessantly. We received funny looks.

Here’s a brief account of what followed, though these times are a rough guess. My memory is a little hazy.

14:00 – We shift to the second in a line of four barns. This barn has a more boisterous audience. We  too become more boisterous. We begin to learn the basics of the chants and songs.

14:40 – We select our first amusement ride, buy tickets and join the cue. It is a roller coaster with rotating seats. We laugh our asses off. Who knew beer and amusements rides would mix so spectacularly. Surely the Germans are the cleverest race on Earth.

15:30 – We enter a third tent. We head straight to a table at the front of stage. There are Irish men there. The Irish are adept at spotting fellow drinkers and we quickly made friends. They nudged closer to Shay. One tells me he was in the IRA. I am glad I wore a t-shirt with guns all over it. It was awesome.

16:00 – Kyle and I are smashed. We decide to go for our second ride. I know about this only because Kyle showed me the photos the next day. Even now I have only the vaguest of memories. The ride was a very tall swing thing, that spun around in circles. Again we laughed hysterically. At least I assume we did.

17:00 - We go off in search of the other section of beer halls. The place is a maze of carnival like entertainment; lights, people and… you guessed it, more beer. It is still not dark.

18:30 - I have a realisation that I no longer know where Shay and Kyle are. Surely they had just been next to me, (I would find out later that I had been distanced from because they were having “issues”). I immediately understand that I will probably not see them again, knowing full well the likelihood of my finding our rendezvous location. I spend an unknown amount of time meandering through the dazzling lights and entertainment.

Sometime after 19:30 – I sit down next to a group of girls and attempt to strike a conversation. One of them speaks a little English. I am immediately attracted.

About 20 seconds later – Some dude comes and sits next to me. Very close next to me. I am sandwiched between him and the German girl. He has an ethnic look to him, (perhaps Islamic, I am not sure). I assume he is trying to sell me something. He is smaller than me, I am drunk and fearless. The conversation goes like this:

Me: “Dude, I don’t want to buy anything thing.”

Him: “thejtlčka tljsakr sdasdasd.”

Me: “What do you want bro? I don’t want any of your stuff,” to the German girl, “Can you ask him what he wants?” She says something to him but I don’t think she really understands my question.

Me to Him: “No Rolex, no Rolex. OK?”

I begin to get a bit pissed off at this dude. I assume he is trying to sell me something or he is going to pick my pocket. Aggression seems like a logical defensive strategy.

A look of irritation mixed with bewilderment clouds my face.

Me: “Yo! Get away from me man. I DON’T WANT TO BUY ANY OF YOUR SHIT.”

This has no effect. We sit there in silence for a few minutes. I make idle chit chat with German girl. Eventually they say they have to leave, so they get up, including Him, and wander off. I guess he was with them or something. Perhaps I was hitting on his girl.

The aftermath

So at some point in the night I tire of the whole deal. I have only vague memories of the final events of that time but know that at some point I hazarded the local rail system to get back to the hostel. Apparently I was successful because I woke up safe in my bed the next morning. Unfortunately we had an early train to catch and both Kyle and I had hideous hangovers. As it turns out German beer is not so friendly the next day, (though it could be closer related to a quantity issue).

Final thoughts of the event

Pace yourself with the drinking. Not only is it somewhat expensive over the course of a day, but it is all to easy to get ahead of the locals in terms of intoxication.

Try to give yourself some rest time for the day after. Traveling 13 hours by train afterwards, is a torturous ordeal.

If you ever get the chance to go to any German beer festivals, take it. I would even suggest attending the Stuttgart festival over Oktoberfest as it has very few tourists and is perhaps easier to take in. We absolutely loved the experience. It will be a part of us for the rest of our lives and will no doubt be a big draw card back to Germany for years to come.