When asked, I like to compare our time here to climbing a mountain. It begins with excited anticipation. You make a start but soon the reality sinks in; you realise you have a long climb ahead. Then it’s pain the whole way, with a few spectacular views from the top. After getting back down as fast as you can, you stop and realise what it is you just did and ask yourself, “why don’t we do this more often?”.

It’s been a long time since I updated my blog, but now that the coming of summer has thawed the icy veins of my depression I feel motivated to reflect upon my life once more; today it’s chess. Chess has been played for thousands of years, but I only really joined in over the course of the last 12 months. A year ago, whilst wandering the grounds of the school, I noticed the old gardener and his young apprentice battling it out on a regular basis and eventually my curiosity overcame my bashfulness; now I am the apprentice, getting a regular thrashing by both the chess master and his 12 year old protege.

Playing against these guys I really feel like a monkey on a typewriter. We usually play Monday and Friday afternoons, by the end my brain feels like a tin of mushy peas having solved two or three check mate problems, played a 5 minute blitz game followed by one or two full games; not to mention translating Russian to English in my head!

Today I got to live one of my dreams and visit a cymbal factory, and what’s more, one in the spiritual home of modern cymbals - Istanbul! The long trek from my cosy hotel in the historic Sultanahmet district to a drab industrial estate an hour to the west was immediately justified when I was greeted by some grubby young teenagers who assured my signed questioning that I had, at last, arrived at the Istanbul Mehmet Cymbal factory. You’ve just got to …

… good choice.

A few glasses of Turkish tea and my own personal guide to the Istanbul Mehmet cymbal vault kept me busy for a good three hours. While I must admit I had previously not been taken by the relatively new entrants to the cymbal market, having an opportunity to thoroughly examine and test the complete range gave me an appreciation of some of the fine cymbals they have on offer. I am pleased to say that I found many more cymbals worthy of adoption than I could afford, or justify, to purchase, nonetheless, I left with a little more than token purchase. After the dizzying highs of a dream come true I was given the royal tour of the factory.

The roller that turns obtuse little alloy nuggets into the basic cymbal plater.

The cymbal press that shapes the all important cymbal bell.

Into the fire, magic happens here.

The furnace holds a number of cymbals at a time. After this they are plugged into water. This process alters the structure of the metal.

That characteristic and essential hole is vigorously punched.

The edges of the cymbals are trimmed to ensure a true circular shape.

The unlathed cymbals await lathing, hammering and polishing.

Here the craftsmen lathe, hammer and polish the cymbals to give them there distinct sounds. The finished products are tested for quality before being stamped with the company logo and branding. Then some crazy foreign snaps them up and has to lug them all the way home to their country of origin.

Just in case you want to know, I purchased:

• 13″ Xperience X-metal Hi-hats
• 16″ Xperience X-metal China
• 6″ Turk Splash
• 6″ Hand & Stick Splash (for Lauren)

Of course, you can imagine buying at the factory in Turkey means great value. The above haul cost me less than buying one piece from a retail outlet in Australia. Plus they threw in a cymbal bag and a bunch of stickers!

Need I say more? But yet I will. I’m enjoying a week in Istanbul and one highlight is the availability of real seafood. Unfortunately the “seafood” available in Kiev is more like stinky river fish; only God knows what’s in the water. Istanbul is right on the Sea of Marmara so there is no shortage here. Here I’m enjoying a freshly grilled mackerel sandwich by the sea on a cold and blustery winter’s day, and only $3!

Maybe it’s the twenty cent baguettes, perhaps it’s the massive range or even the untypically Ukrainian feeling of space but there is something about the French supermarket chain “Auchan” that draws Kievites by the, seemingly, millions. I’ve never been stuck in a shopping trolley traffic jam long enough before to contemplate that industrial sized supermarkets could be designed to actually be filled with patrons; I just thought the scale was provided to cater to a western appreciation of personal space. My hat goes off, however, to the managment of Auchan for providing an equally ridiculous number of checkouts AND actually staffing them (take that Furshett!!).

This is Blaine. This is me. And this is my dumpster. Fortunately for Blaine, he was in time to experience some of the Kiev “Love” as I call it (not the mail order type). Long queues for simple things, overcrowded buses, no hot water, no running water (on occassions) and general daftness. His slothful presence will be missed.

Firstly, I apologise for the uncharacteristic facebookesque portrait. In early September I accompanied two classes of grade eight students to Crimea and the Black Sea. Yes, the Black Sea is actually. And quite nice for swimming at this time of year. But one piece of advice; don’t go there for the beach, do I really need to explain what a soviet beach front looks like … ?

Wire fences, stones, a cheesy strip mall obscuring the beach and a lot of fat, leathery people. Not a whole lot of swimming, however, despite the water being very nice. Instead I recommend a charter boat out to the cliff face, away from all the tourists, and swimming off a boat.

Also, bring your own food and chef. I’d have done better starving for five days.

On the 22nd of August I turned thirty. Lauren and I celebrated the following day with a buffett breakfast at the new Hyatt in Kiev. Any words of wisdom at this early stage in life, you may ask? Find a great woman and don’t waste any time getting married to her; aside from that, the last 30 years are pleasant yet slightly surreal blur.

My last supper in Rome was a sad occassion. Italy was the penultimate stop on our trip and it would be a delicious yet meloncoly farewell. Spaghetti and clams tossed in olive oil and butter with garlic, chilli and garnished with chopped parsley. Sigh.