1 - 5.  Spreewald in Berlin.  It used to be the place to go for East Berliner's.  Abandoned after reunification and left to rot while liberated Germans holiday-ed wherever they pleased.  I was very lucky to get entry and went and shot there.  You could almost hear the Oompah bands and smell the wurst but it had been empty for  20 years.

6. A truck stop a few miles from my home town. Always spooked me and I've never stopped there in fear of a Dusk til Dawn scenario.

My pics.
Models from www.naked-dance.co.nr (NB.link doesn't work - website seems to be gone? Please let me know if it's been relocated)

Paris is a terrible fucking cliche in books and movies, with all its despair and poetry and romance and death. But truth is, its a terrible cliche in the flesh. When we travelled around Europe as a family (I was nine), we didn't go to Paris. Toulon, Saint Etienne, Bordeaux but not Paris...Mum said something about a terrorist attack there. In hindsight, perhaps it was just too expensive for my parents to take two hick kids to one of the most expensive cities in the world. We were four kiwi's traveling squashed in a campervan and on a diet of canned tomatoes and packet spaggetti. Where would we camp? Passing its outskirts on our travels, Paris became a kind of mysterious city to me, somehow not of this world. I imagined it walled and sealed off to us and other poor travellers. Back in NZ I built my Mecca up; reading Hemingway, Miller, Nin, Proust, watching Les Amants du Pont-Neuf. My Paris was musty, filled with damp basements lit by candles. Cheap Bordeaux served in tumblers. Absyinthe fueled fights/sex/conversation. Grey stone bricks the size of double beds. Hunched old women in fur; glossy creme brulees; pastel macaroons; extortionately priced toasted cheese sandwiches at tabacs filled with haughty smokers. Every pause and gaze loaded with meaning, with yearning.

I made my first trip to Paris with Andy 11 years ago. He bought a bottle of cheap red wine, a 50c baguette and led me to Sacre Coeur at dusk. Such a fucking cliche. I loved it so much I thought I'd die.

"When good Americans die they go to Paris." Oscar Wilde

My photos of Paris