It's Tuesday, so that must have been Belgium...

12:50pm, Copenhagen Kastrup Airport, 11 August 2009

I'm sitting in a cafe at Kastrup Airport south of Copenhagen, picking at my leftover wedges, listening to “Rocket Man” on the PA system, waiting for my flight to Bergen (on the Western fjords of Norway) and trying to collect my thoughts on the last twelve days. In that time I've visited five different cities: Copenhagen, Malmö, Brussels, Bruges and Antwerp; I've met many new people; I've taken over one thousand photographs; I've attempted to speak Danish, Dutch, French and Swedish (none of them with much success, although as always my pronunciation of the four words I can remember is just lovely) and I have turned twenty-three.

Forgive me, vicarious travellers, for not posting anything sooner, but I think from that brief summary you might be able to gather why I haven't!! It is difficult to start...although I boarded that train in Stockholm just twelve days ago, it feels like much longer...

My X2000 high-speed train to Malmö left Stockholm's grand Centralstationen at 7:21am and very quietly (at least from the inside) rocketed south through the Swedish countryside. The scenery was slightly unreal...like something from a chocolate box or a children's book, and the relative silence of the train as it hurried along only added to the impression of something fantastical. Thick green pine forests broken at intervals by lakes – sudden shocking expanses of silver water – giving way further south to fields of waving yellow grain, and all of it interspersed with cute little red and white half-timbered houses, barns and summer cottages. I spend the journey nibbling at my food supplies, writing postcards, staring out at the countryside and reading Silence of the Lambs to counteract the impression that I had crossed over into Toyland.

In Malmö I had a picnic beside the canal in the sunshine – sharing my slightly squashed strawberries with a overly-friendly bumble-bee – before decoding a Swedish ticket machine and boarding an Øresundståg to Copenhagen. The Øresund Bridge between Malmö and Copenhagen must surely be one of the most astonishing works of engineering in the world, an eight-kilometer bridge and undersea tunnel carrying road and rail traffic across the Øresund between Sweden and Denmark via an artificial island just off Copenhagen. The bridge is 7.8km long and 204m high; this connects to a 4km artificial island, which itself is the beginning of a further 4km undersea tunnel to the Danish mainland. I took advantage of the tremendous views on offer by falling asleep, only stirring when the train slid into Køpenhavn H and disgorged me and my bags into the startling Danish sunlight.

Totally disoriented, tired and sore from my stupid shoulder bag, I blundered out into the centre of Copenhagen, and proceeded to write the whole place off as ugly, dirty, noisy, cluttered with too much ugly 70s high-rise and basically inferior to Stockholm in every way. I flounced down to the hostel I'd booked, City Public Hostel on Absalonsgade, and immediately had my disappointment reinforced. It appeared to be school which was closed for summer and hastily retro-fitted as a hostel. Everything had a partly institutional, partly temporary feel, and it wasn't even cheap.

By the next morning, Copenhagen was beginning to look much rosier. It was still not as pretty as Stockholm, but a good night's sleep, a shower and a shave, and a lobby full of friendly Aussies (from Geelong, no less...) do wonders for one's open-mindedness...

I spent the day wandering in Copenhagen, and once I got out of the centre, I found it much more attractive. Having been a bit sad to leave Stockholm on the verge of its apparently very exciting Pride Week Parade, I was surprised to find Copenhagen hosting the World Out Games. There were dykes and drag-queens and gay Nordic men in tiny shorts and angel wings as far as the eye could see. I felt bad for every gay person I know for not being there...it was some party! Feeling rather out of place as a straight man, I climbed up a church tower (around 390 steps) for a fantastic view of the city, walked along the canals looking at cute wooden boats and wandered through the rather sad remains of the “Free Town” of Christiania. Once apparently a thriving commune, it now resembles the Royal Melbourne Showgrounds if that was taken over entirely by aging hippies, dodgy carnies and drug-dealers. So a bit like the Royal Show then, but without the cows. I visited the Christiansborg Palace complex in the center of town. This is the seat of the Danish Parliament (which I couldn't find), and was in the past the Royal Residence. After being burned down and rebuilt for the third time (with no incarnation last more than about 50 years) the Danish royals apparently gave the whole thing up as a bad job. Now they use only the Royal Reception Rooms, which I had a guided tour of. They are very beautiful, and have a library straight out of “Beauty and the Beast”. I also thought I saw Mary & Frederick (HRHs) in the gardens nearby with their little princes, but not being an avid reader of New Idea, I couldn't be certain...

My second day was even better. I made friends in the hostel lobby with an Englishman named Tom, and together we caught the train up to the palace/fortress at Kronberg in Helsingør. Never heard of it? Yes you have. In English we call it Elsinore, and it's the fictional home of Bill Shakespeare's Prince of Procrastination, Hamlet himself. In real life, it was a symbol of Danish power and a practical weapon in control of the entrance to the Øresund. From the cannons on top of the walls, it was easy to see how the incredibly narrow straight and the prevailing winds could be used to force ships into the range of the guns and thus extract the “Sound dues” demanded by the King's treasury and the salutary dipping of the topsail demanded by his sense of self-importance. For anyone getting bored by the history, I also looked at the gorgeous carvings in the chapel, explored the very cool, almost pitch-black catacombs under the fortress, and (for the Gilbert & Sullivan fans) learned what a Ravelin is. It's a sort of defensive island within a moat, between inner and outer gatehouses. Now I just need to discover what the hell a Mamellon is, and I'll be the very model of a modern Major-General...

On returning to Copenhagen, I had one last walk through the city, checking out Castellen, the city's fort (still in military hands), the Little Mermaid (terribly underwhelming), the Danish Resistance Museum (terribly sad, but made me feel good about humanity), the Amalienborg Palace (a palace in the round...) and the University quarter. Then I headed to the train station where, after a few false starts (Danish trains apparently don't work in the rain) I crossed the bridge to Malmö, this time actually taking in the magnificent views of the Øresund.

There is apparently a saying that runs “When one is tired of Malmö, one is tired of life”. This could be considered a slight overstatement. A good breakfast smörgåsbord, a light drizzle, a plate of reasonably-priced meatballs, a twisted skyscraper, a collection of interesting museums (helpfully all in the same place: the Castle) and some amusing Welshmen are all very well, but hardly left me ready to write to Dr. Philip Nitschke...even when you throw in the vintage tram, the walk in submarine and the nocturnal animal house with its cute sugar gliders. Still, I had a reasonably entertaining time given that I had only one day to explore Sweden's third largest city.

Of course, I had only one day because I was spending my twenty-third birthday in Brussels with one of my oldest friends. Yes, you did forget my birthday. (Unless you didn't of course, thank you to those people, who are staying in the will). I was offered a bed (or a floor, at least) for as long as I wanted, and in the end I stayed for seven nights, leaving early this morning.

“What on earth does one do for six and a half days in Brussels?” I hear you wondering. “We didn't sign on for vicarious travel to the dullest capital city in Europe.” (feel free to suggest/share stories of duller European capitals in the comments below, by the way)

Fear not friends, for Brussels is the kind of town where having a local guide opens doors to a much more exciting lifestyle. And, while I lacked a true local, I did have perhaps the greatest Francophile and Europhile ever to come out of the ANU, my dear old friend Trina. My seven nights on Trina's floor (actually...six nights, and one on her friend's bed with about five other people in advanced stages of unconsciousness after a crazy housewarming party – actually the only one who didn't sleep on that bed was the hostess – she slept on the couch!) were actually an absolute godsend, and I'm sure I overstayed my welcome, although Trina insists not, and even gave me waffles to take on the plane with me...I'm nibbling on one as I write this...

This post is already far too long, so I'll have to just give the absolute highlights of the week. Firstly, a big shout out to any and all of Trina's friends who I met in Brussels, especially Rowan and Maaike, who were both so hospitable and asked only for foot massages and dirty secrets about Trina in return. On my birthday I wandered through the Art Nouveau wonderland of the Musical Instrument Museum, with its rooms of bagpipes, accordions and talking drums, its marvellous seven-belled valve trombone, and other instruments so weird I couldn't identify them (especially not with labels in Dutch and French); then Trina and I ate cake in her kitchen and we drank beer and ate fantastic choose-your-own-adventure stir-fry in Place du Chatelain. The following day for lunch I ate frites from the Best Little Frite-house in Brussels (reference entirely for Josh, who would love frites) toured the European Parliament building, which was fascinating to an EU novice like me, and spent the evening drinking mango juice and smoking strawberry shisha in a flat overlooking the Red Light District. Maaike provided binoculars for entertainment – I think I saw some guys break into a car...

I made two trips to Flanders on Trina's railpass: the first to Bruges, the second to Antwerp. In Bruges (hehehe) I wandered into a little church and sat listening to an organist practicing, before chatting to an ancient Benedictine nun who asked me (in Dutch, German, French, and eventually English) if I played the organ and then confessed that she had (at approximately 85) started learning so she could play at Mass! I took a boat cruise, ate more frites (which are freiten here, and God help you if you accidently say bonjour or merci...), climbed a belfry, ate a ridiculous amount of chocolate and walked all over town taking an absurd number of photographs. In Antwerp I explored every facet (pun for you sir) of the intruiging Diamond Museum, marvelled at the Brabant-Gothic meisterwerk of Antwerp's enormous seven-aisled cathedral (with its many excellent Rubens'), and ate delicious waffles with melted chocolate from a stall in the remarkable turn-of-the-century train station.

I saw the grand and beautiful high-baroque and high-gothic guild halls of Grand Place, the nineteenth-century elegance of the Galleries St-Hubert, the proto-fascist exuberance of the Mont d'Arts and the Gothic splendour of Notre-Dame d'Sablon. I wandered aimlessly through picturesque gardens, reading, writing postcards and eating ice-cream in the shade of grand avenues of oaks . I ate chocolate-coated strawberries so good that Trina and I agreed they were an adequate replacement for sex. I drank at least 6 different types of beer (not a lot for Brussels, where one bar has over 3000 different types), rode the filthy but surprisingly efficient underground trams and metro all across town for free, because nobody pays in Brussels (the city can't be bothered paying for revenue enforcement...too much like hard work), played “never have I ever” in a bar at 2am and partied in the open air outside the enormous Palais de Justice.

Indeed the only downside of the entire trip has been that Brussels Airlines managed to shred my bag somewhere between Copenhagen and Brussels. The poor thing looks like it's been dragged across bitumen all the way from Denmark...they have offered to repair or replace, but how the hell am I going to get one in Europe. I have bought a strap to hold it together and am hoping it all holds out until Uppsala. If need be I'll ship it to Australia and send the bill to Brussels Airlines ]:-)

This post must end here, it's already too long. I'll try to update a bit more often in the future...but I can't promise much. Next stop, Norway!

PS: There are photos coming...I just forgot the cable...

EDIT: I fail at technology...photos will happen, but probably not until I'm settled in Uppsala...which actually isn't that long. Thursday, hopefully...

Leaving on a jet plane...and arriving on same.

9:30pm (Stockholm time), CityBackpackers Hostel, 29th July 2009

I'm not sure if it has really sunk in yet, but I am going to the far side of the world. I'm already there, actually...

I confess that I felt quite homesick for a hour or so my first day in Stockholm. Just wanted to pack it all in and come home. It's not a good feeling – akin to depression in some ways. It probably didn't help that I was hungry and extremely tired from being awake (or no more than half-asleep) for such a long time: 14 hours awake in Singapore + 13 hours flight + 2 hour transfer at Heathrow + 2 hour flight to Arlanda + 8 hours of wandering Stockholm = 39 hours without decent, proper, lie-down-in-bed sleep. I actually cheered myself up with whacky schemes for cheering myself up: having Hannah kidnapped by hired goons and shipped to me for company, somehow getting adopted by a kind Swedish family, hopping over to Old Blightey and borrowing a Tardis from the BBC...the list goes on. It actually made me feel better, silly as it sounds. The pizza helped too though :-)

I'm not quite sure how to write about leaving Melbourne. The actual physical process is bizarre to be frank: simultaneously exciting and routine. Successfully completing it on time and on target is reassuring, even comforting; the realization of the finality of the act is quite terrifying and unsettling. You walk through that door, down that air-bridge, and you're not going back. You can't, really. And from that point on, anything could happen, but certain things wont – Sunday Roast with the family, doing the Age quiz with friends over coffee in Union House, falling asleep holding your girlfriend close against you, walking home from work over Princes Bridge in the evening listening to the skirl of Auld Lang Syne from that piper who only seems to know three tunes, riding a tram into the junction for sausage rolls from Jenny's. And for these things you exchange the prospect of adventures as yet unknown. This absence and presence of possibility is exhilarating, but also sad and a little scary.

So all in all, I wont describe the scenes of departure. Too sad and complicated for me, and probably dull as ditch-water for you, those living vicariously through my travel blog. You know who you are...

I will say unequivocally that I hate most aspects of flying. I derive some small enjoyment from just three: the part of the take-off when the wheels first leave the runway and you experience that sense of floating, the view (when there is one) and the roar of the air-brakes the plane uses to slow down quickly after landing. Everything else was predictably average through to awful: seats, leg room, toilets, company (except the two nice old ladies from Perth on my SIN-LHR flight – big shout out to them as they cruise down the Rhine!) and of course, food. I wont go on about it, but just how do they make it SO bad in SO many ways? Of the good things, only the view merits further discussion...even if the air-brake noise is pretty cool...

Australia from the air is really a breathtaking sight. The sun rising over the Western district, casting copper light over the vast volcanic plains. Cotton-wool clouds pooling and puddling in the valleys of the Blue Mountains. The greyish-greenish-purple of the eucalypt forest spread over seemingly endless undulations. Roads like scar tissue on the dusty red skin of western NSW, the Murray a streak of green doubling back on itself over and over into the distance. The terracotta rooftops of Sydney, Adelaide's corrugated iron glinting grey between swathes of park, the mottled reds and browns and grey-greens of the centre.

Oh my, how patriotic I'm feeling (being overseas will do that to you):

I love a sunburned country,
a land of sweeping plains,
of rugged mountain ranges
and beer and prawn-juice stains.

Or something like that, right...?

This shit just got real...

There's no avoiding it now.

I've received the confirmation letter. I've confirmed the confirmation letter. I've received the letter confirming the confirmation of the confirmation letter. I've shown both letters to the Faculty Office, who confirmed both the confirmation and the confirmation of the confirmation.

And today, I bought a plane ticket - British Airways from Changi International to Heathrow to Stockholm Arlanda (and return).

It was actually remarkably cheap...about $1250 AUD. And with Simon covering the Singapore-Melbourne legs with his mountains of frequent-flier miles (thank-you rich generous uncles and BHP Biliton) that shaves a tidy little sum off my estimates for the trip.

Incredibly, despite all the planning and the research, and the months of talking about it and saving for it, and the small rainforest that was felled to provide all the paperwork, it's only this afternoon that it finally feels like I'm going.

And it's suddenly very, very real; exciting and terrifying in proportions I'm not sure I can pin down just yet...

There's still quite a lot to do: get tickets to and from Singapore, find insurance, confirm my scholarship, apply for a visa, work out what I'm taking, buy something to pack it in, find someone cheap to ship it there, frantically learn more Swedish...

All on top of studying for exams, writing my American History essay, working two jobs, eating, sleeping, organising a farewell party, and of course spend time with my family, girlfriend, friends and sundry others who might notice my absence from July to February.

Eight weeks and counting...