Version 1: Francais. English. Businesspeak.
Version 2: Montpellier. Paris. Fair Haven. Beach Haven. New York. Fair Haven. Philadelphia. Fair Haven. New York. Tarrytown. Fair Haven. New York.
Version 3: French University Dorm. Hilton Paris Hotel. Irv&Iris' Apt. Home bedroom. 12th Street. Alex's couch. Home. Nathan's couch. Home. Dan's couch. Tarrytown Estate Hotel Room. Home. Sublet #1. Sublet #2. Air mattress on the floor of my East Village apt.
From a life of motion through limbo to a new routine.
Less meandering, more musing?
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Friday, August 10, 2007
Fire at Night
I spent three weeks studying French in the city of Montpellier, located on the southwest coast of France. Days were spent in arduous, arduous study. Nights were spent exploring the winding medieval lanes of the old city. On one such hazy evening we were meandering back from "Irish Bar" (It is a rule of travel that every city has an Irish pub, popular among the expats.) when beneath the soaring portico of an abbey was a small cadre of fire-wielders (-dancers, -players, -performers?). Some juggled, others twirled, and still others simply breathed fire in massive spurts. To see such a performance on stage, or in the middle of a crowded tourist square would have been impressive. Stumbling across it underneath a massive gothic abbey at 3am made it truly remarkable. We stood transfixed for thirty minutes admiring the performance that existed but for its own sake. I snapped some discrete photos. A friend, however, took some less candid shots and one thing led to another before we quickly walked away (ok, we kinda fled, I mean they had fire). Below are the fruits of my candor.
The Scene
Dragon
Flamedancer
The Scene
Dragon
FlamedancerSaturday, August 4, 2007
Stanza D'Attesa
The low point of my travels last summer was missing my flight from Milan to Helsinki; it was wasted time and money, unnecessary stress and frustration. This summer Milan struck again. What should have been a 10-hour journey by train from Milan to Montpelier lasted 22-hours. Without detailing the infuriating bureaucracies that resulted in this mishap, I'll simply say that the benches in the Milano Centrale's waiting room are immaculately uncomfortable. The Stanza D'Attesa (waiting room) is the only place to pass the hours from 1am - 6am in the station. The police roundup up the station's homeless, beggars, tramps, and ignorant tourists and herd them into the room. It's only furniture are massive wooden benches, short in width, and with ungainly armrests bisecting their length. People employed varying strategies to surmount this ergonomic nightmare in a futile bid for sleep. Many took their shoes off. Socks are smelly. Those who did succeed in sleeping tended to snore.
I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my brave Ipod for lasting through the night.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Italian Food
...is really, really good. Paparadelle, prosciutto, pecorino, parmigiana, pomodora, porcini, etc. That's just one letter of the alphabet. Check out this blog for a much better written account of Italy's epicurean delights.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
On Albania
I spent six days in Albania. It was the least developed, least comfortable, and strangest country I visited; for all of these reasons it was also the most interesting. A few thoughts from my travels.
Tirana
The capital of Albania, a jumble of traffic-choked roads, amicable cafes, pastel-colored concrete apartments, steel & glass corporate towers, and a bewildering lack of street signs. The power went off for six to eight hours throughout the day. This included the traffic lights. The hostel I stayed at used an electric water pump. It was around 100°F most days. Still, the hostel's basement provided some refuge. The staff was disarmingly friendly and sincere. The other travelers were good-natured, always willing to share their rakia. After two days in Tirana I went along with them to a music festival in...
Durres
One of the larger coastal towns, and the site of this year's Mjaft! music festival. The decision to go to this festival was governed by the infallible logic of why not? So I went. One minor event of note was our entrance into the concert area. I was with one other American and a Macedonian. We had some bottles of wine in our backpacks. Normally, backpacks are checked for this. As we approached, the Macedonian noticed this, and quickly explained in English that we were all Americans. They let us walk right by. Go figure.
Jal Plazh
Two exhausting days later we left the music festival on a quest to reach Jal Plazh. We heard of this tiny 'student beach' from some Albanians at the festival. They described cheap camping grounds, communal dining, abundant nightlife, and unspoilt beach. We were sold. Getting there was another matter. We hailed down a passing bus to get to Vlore. There, we relaxed, went swimming at a tiny cliffside beach, ate lamb, and then hailed a furghon (minibus) to Orikum. Orikuum is not a large town. We were sitting around kind of stumped, when a private taxi with a passenger speaking American english asked us if we needed a ride. We reluctantly agreed, and despite protestations never agreed to a price. The passenger was the driver's cousin; he operates a pizza parlor near Madison, Wisconsin, but often visits family in Albania. We chatted during the hour ride to the remote beach, which was much farther than anticipated. Did you know Albania produces excellent honey, but is not allowed to export it? Finally we arrived at the nearly deserted beach, were asked to pay an exorbitant sum for the taxi, haggled down to an acceptable price, and set off. The beach wasn't the student paradise we expected, but was blissful in its own, more relaxed way. We evern managed to borrow a tent from an Albanian family and 'lodged' for free.
Our Beach
The Crew (Aleksandar, Matt, Me)
The beach from above (just before dawn)
Tirana
The capital of Albania, a jumble of traffic-choked roads, amicable cafes, pastel-colored concrete apartments, steel & glass corporate towers, and a bewildering lack of street signs. The power went off for six to eight hours throughout the day. This included the traffic lights. The hostel I stayed at used an electric water pump. It was around 100°F most days. Still, the hostel's basement provided some refuge. The staff was disarmingly friendly and sincere. The other travelers were good-natured, always willing to share their rakia. After two days in Tirana I went along with them to a music festival in...
Durres
One of the larger coastal towns, and the site of this year's Mjaft! music festival. The decision to go to this festival was governed by the infallible logic of why not? So I went. One minor event of note was our entrance into the concert area. I was with one other American and a Macedonian. We had some bottles of wine in our backpacks. Normally, backpacks are checked for this. As we approached, the Macedonian noticed this, and quickly explained in English that we were all Americans. They let us walk right by. Go figure.
Jal Plazh
Two exhausting days later we left the music festival on a quest to reach Jal Plazh. We heard of this tiny 'student beach' from some Albanians at the festival. They described cheap camping grounds, communal dining, abundant nightlife, and unspoilt beach. We were sold. Getting there was another matter. We hailed down a passing bus to get to Vlore. There, we relaxed, went swimming at a tiny cliffside beach, ate lamb, and then hailed a furghon (minibus) to Orikum. Orikuum is not a large town. We were sitting around kind of stumped, when a private taxi with a passenger speaking American english asked us if we needed a ride. We reluctantly agreed, and despite protestations never agreed to a price. The passenger was the driver's cousin; he operates a pizza parlor near Madison, Wisconsin, but often visits family in Albania. We chatted during the hour ride to the remote beach, which was much farther than anticipated. Did you know Albania produces excellent honey, but is not allowed to export it? Finally we arrived at the nearly deserted beach, were asked to pay an exorbitant sum for the taxi, haggled down to an acceptable price, and set off. The beach wasn't the student paradise we expected, but was blissful in its own, more relaxed way. We evern managed to borrow a tent from an Albanian family and 'lodged' for free.
Our Beach
The Crew (Aleksandar, Matt, Me)
The beach from above (just before dawn)Thursday, July 19, 2007
Over the River and Through the Woods
Today, on my journey into Albania I saw...
...Two bored guards working the border crossing
...A castle on a hill
...A donkey cart piled with the jumbled heap of a broken car
...A rusted railway bridge enjungled by monkeying youths
...Ten watermelon vendors on a single stretch of highway
...An old woman setting off on a long dusty road
...Hundreds of concrete bunkers rotting in the countryside
...A blazing red Vodafone billboard
...A dry riverbed filled with refuse
...Checkpoints manned by police officers in well-starched uniforms
...A rickety one-lane bridge for two-way traffic
...Countless donkeys tethered in the fields
...A boy clutching 2 white wreaths followed by a small procession
...Towering power lines strung across the agrarian plains
...A road construction sign translated into flawless English
...A tapestry of colorfully painted apartment buildings
...A student learning to drive (Autoshkolle)
...A bright yellow hummer
...A sign proclaiming "Welcome President Bush"
...The tangled traffic of Tirana's central square
...Two bored guards working the border crossing
...A castle on a hill
...A donkey cart piled with the jumbled heap of a broken car
...A rusted railway bridge enjungled by monkeying youths
...Ten watermelon vendors on a single stretch of highway
...An old woman setting off on a long dusty road
...Hundreds of concrete bunkers rotting in the countryside
...A blazing red Vodafone billboard
...A dry riverbed filled with refuse
...Checkpoints manned by police officers in well-starched uniforms
...A rickety one-lane bridge for two-way traffic
...Countless donkeys tethered in the fields
...A boy clutching 2 white wreaths followed by a small procession
...Towering power lines strung across the agrarian plains
...A road construction sign translated into flawless English
...A tapestry of colorfully painted apartment buildings
...A student learning to drive (Autoshkolle)
...A bright yellow hummer
...A sign proclaiming "Welcome President Bush"
...The tangled traffic of Tirana's central square
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Sorry Warwick
I have a new favorite castle - the Fortress town of Kotor, Montenegro. Lying on the base of Southern Europe's largest fjord, this majestic walled town has ramparts that crisscross the mountain rising behind it. A rugged Balkan Gondor (are the words rugged and Balkan redundant?). I can see how Montenegro held out against the Ottoman Empire for so long. The battlements were built up over the course of many centuries, and their haphazard and semi-ruined state made for perfect adventuring.
After spending seven grueling days on the beaches of Croatia, I was ready for some hiking. I paid the nominal entry fee, received a map detailing the various paths (coded for danger levels: "safe", "hazardous", "highly dangerous"), and set off. I suppose I should have prepared a bit more as I ran out of water after the first 20 mintues (did Chamutal teach me nothing?). Still, I kept climbing, eventually reaching the summit of the 1500 or so steps. The mountaintop breezes were reinvigorating. The views were magnificent. I understand why man constructed the tower of Babel. Or maybe I just like scenic vistas. I somehow strayed off the "highly dangerous" path during my descent. I think I found a goat path though, based on some pebbly clues. I brushed nettles aside and steppled carefully down the crumbling stone stairways. It was fun. Just as dusk was approaching I reached the walled town and returned triumphantly to my hotel for a much needed shower.
After spending seven grueling days on the beaches of Croatia, I was ready for some hiking. I paid the nominal entry fee, received a map detailing the various paths (coded for danger levels: "safe", "hazardous", "highly dangerous"), and set off. I suppose I should have prepared a bit more as I ran out of water after the first 20 mintues (did Chamutal teach me nothing?). Still, I kept climbing, eventually reaching the summit of the 1500 or so steps. The mountaintop breezes were reinvigorating. The views were magnificent. I understand why man constructed the tower of Babel. Or maybe I just like scenic vistas. I somehow strayed off the "highly dangerous" path during my descent. I think I found a goat path though, based on some pebbly clues. I brushed nettles aside and steppled carefully down the crumbling stone stairways. It was fun. Just as dusk was approaching I reached the walled town and returned triumphantly to my hotel for a much needed shower.
Monday, July 16, 2007
A Day in Dalmatia
Hvar, Croatia
9:30 am - Leisurely wake-up at sobe (private rooms rented by empty-nest Croatian women during the tourist season)
10:00 am - Depart for town center, store bags, purchase snacks for picnic, and rent scooters.
11:00 am - Scooter on windy roads out of town, up the mountain, along the cliffside perched over the sea, past the cool ocean breezes, through the chilly tunnel, beyond small towns, cars passing by, blazing along straightaways, finally arriving halfway across the island at Jelsa.
12:30 am - Cappuccino at a local cafe. Picnic of bread, cheese, prosciutto, nutella and bananas. Lounge at shady pebble beach. Swim in the sheltered bay, practicing underwater flips. More lounging. Listen to Ipod. Shift into the sunlight.
2:30 pm - Return by scooter to Hvar town, gliding faster with growing comfort, thinking into turns, motion almost as real as a video game, Cassady, wind-watered eyes and ocean breezes, gas station refuel then return.
5:00 pm - Retrieve luggage and proceed to bus station. Endure 20 inexplicably torturous minutes waiting in jumbled crowd to board one bus (essential to catch ferry to next destination) as the driver slowly sells each ticket and the sun bears down and people are cutting in line and there is hardly enough space on the bus though finally we make it on standing in the crowded aisle.
6:00 pm - Board ferry to Split. Take seats on shady benches. Journalling, reading, music, and watching the islands pass by.
8:30 pm - Arrive Split, bargain on price for a sobe for the night, then accept and follow middle-aged woman to her apartment.
8:45 pm - Drop off bags, shower, decompress, then head out for dinner
9:15 pm - Dinner at Black Cat Bistro. Wonderful change of pace from relentlessly Italian options of pizza, pasta, seafood available elsewhere in Dalmatia - balsamic curry pork chop with grilled vegetables and delicious wine. A fortunate discovery though there is little doubt it will show up in the next edition of Lonely Planet Croatia.
11:00 pm - Wander the labyrinthine streets of Split's Old Town the former retirement palace of Roman emperor Diocletian. Pockets of bustling nightlife are connected by the impossibly narrow and quiet alleyways that pass for streets.
12:30 am - Return to sobe and retire for the evening.
9:30 am - Leisurely wake-up at sobe (private rooms rented by empty-nest Croatian women during the tourist season)
10:00 am - Depart for town center, store bags, purchase snacks for picnic, and rent scooters.
11:00 am - Scooter on windy roads out of town, up the mountain, along the cliffside perched over the sea, past the cool ocean breezes, through the chilly tunnel, beyond small towns, cars passing by, blazing along straightaways, finally arriving halfway across the island at Jelsa.
12:30 am - Cappuccino at a local cafe. Picnic of bread, cheese, prosciutto, nutella and bananas. Lounge at shady pebble beach. Swim in the sheltered bay, practicing underwater flips. More lounging. Listen to Ipod. Shift into the sunlight.
2:30 pm - Return by scooter to Hvar town, gliding faster with growing comfort, thinking into turns, motion almost as real as a video game, Cassady, wind-watered eyes and ocean breezes, gas station refuel then return.
5:00 pm - Retrieve luggage and proceed to bus station. Endure 20 inexplicably torturous minutes waiting in jumbled crowd to board one bus (essential to catch ferry to next destination) as the driver slowly sells each ticket and the sun bears down and people are cutting in line and there is hardly enough space on the bus though finally we make it on standing in the crowded aisle.
6:00 pm - Board ferry to Split. Take seats on shady benches. Journalling, reading, music, and watching the islands pass by.
8:30 pm - Arrive Split, bargain on price for a sobe for the night, then accept and follow middle-aged woman to her apartment.
8:45 pm - Drop off bags, shower, decompress, then head out for dinner
9:15 pm - Dinner at Black Cat Bistro. Wonderful change of pace from relentlessly Italian options of pizza, pasta, seafood available elsewhere in Dalmatia - balsamic curry pork chop with grilled vegetables and delicious wine. A fortunate discovery though there is little doubt it will show up in the next edition of Lonely Planet Croatia.
11:00 pm - Wander the labyrinthine streets of Split's Old Town the former retirement palace of Roman emperor Diocletian. Pockets of bustling nightlife are connected by the impossibly narrow and quiet alleyways that pass for streets.
12:30 am - Return to sobe and retire for the evening.
Monday, July 9, 2007
"It's the flower-shaped building"
One unmistakable legacy of communism is the bizarre architecture of the innumerable public works and other buildings from the era. It's difficult to capture in words just how massive, looming, and unattractive these buildings are. Yet they're still functional and thus still standing. Below are photos taken while wandering the center of Skopje, Macedonia.
This last building is the main post office, where I incidentally had to run a quick errand. The woman running my hostel described it as a "flower" with a noticeable chuckle. After staring at it for a few minutes, I decided it might just resemble a church or flower, though one that has been sucked through the uglifying concrete vortex that is the Soviet aesthetic. That said, the woman who worked behind the counter could not have been kinder or more patient.
This last building is the main post office, where I incidentally had to run a quick errand. The woman running my hostel described it as a "flower" with a noticeable chuckle. After staring at it for a few minutes, I decided it might just resemble a church or flower, though one that has been sucked through the uglifying concrete vortex that is the Soviet aesthetic. That said, the woman who worked behind the counter could not have been kinder or more patient.
The Flashing Green Man
For whatever reason, I'm not particularly good at crossing streets. In New York, I'll often be the one person left on the near shore after others have artfully weaved through the traffic.
Eastern Europe is worse. The drivers are more reckless. They unfailingly speed, not that speed limits are well-marked. Many of the older cars spew forth a tractor trailer's worth of blackish smog. There are also motorcycles, mopeds, and bicycles. You can throw into this mess a fair number of trams, city buses, cable buses, coaches, the occasional donkey cart, and the indomitable old woman pushing her shopping contraption across the 5-way intersection. Sidewalks often count as additional lanes or parking spots. Traffic lights, where present, are mere suggestions of conduct. Below is the helpful signal I faced at a busy Macedonian intersection:
Apparently the bottom light bulb is 'walk' while the top light bulb is 'wait.' I suddently felt oddly nostalgic for the flashing green man.
Eastern Europe is worse. The drivers are more reckless. They unfailingly speed, not that speed limits are well-marked. Many of the older cars spew forth a tractor trailer's worth of blackish smog. There are also motorcycles, mopeds, and bicycles. You can throw into this mess a fair number of trams, city buses, cable buses, coaches, the occasional donkey cart, and the indomitable old woman pushing her shopping contraption across the 5-way intersection. Sidewalks often count as additional lanes or parking spots. Traffic lights, where present, are mere suggestions of conduct. Below is the helpful signal I faced at a busy Macedonian intersection:
Apparently the bottom light bulb is 'walk' while the top light bulb is 'wait.' I suddently felt oddly nostalgic for the flashing green man.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
St. Pococurantis
I have a confession to make. I'm sufferring from church fatigue. Here is my past week in Bulgaria. Sozopol - 3 churches. Nesebar - 7 churches. Varna - 2 churches. Veliko Tarnovo - 4 churches. That's just the past week. I've seen churches from the first centuries of christianity. Roman churches. Byzantine churches. Underground cave churches. Gothic churches. Neo-gotchic churches. Eastern Orthodox churches. Greek Orthodox churches. Modern churches. Ruined churches. Painted churches. Restored churches. Churches in session. Churches in atheist nations. Tours of churches. Empty churches. Churches at night. Churches in the rain. I've seen a lot of churches.
I have not, however, given up on churches. Like a bacteria adapting to the latest antibiotic, I've developed countermeasures again the pennicilin of ennui. Sometimes I'll pay excessive attention to a single detail, perhaps the facial expression on a saint or the texture of a candelabra. Other times I'll try to imagine the church as it was centuries ago, gregorian chants reverberating between the stone walls. Adventuring beyond the designated pathways can revive a church as well; a closed door is not a locked door.
Still, these strategies require effort. On certain days the call of the hammock wins out over the church bells. I readily succumb to indolence and cease the impossible struggle of soaking in every experience while traveling. For these reasons, it was all the more rewarding when I happenned upon a church that genuinely captured my interest. No special effort required. I'll allow some photos to capture the essence of its hauntingly austere interior.
Still, these strategies require effort. On certain days the call of the hammock wins out over the church bells. I readily succumb to indolence and cease the impossible struggle of soaking in every experience while traveling. For these reasons, it was all the more rewarding when I happenned upon a church that genuinely captured my interest. No special effort required. I'll allow some photos to capture the essence of its hauntingly austere interior.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
If at first
I went windsurfing for my first time today (in Varna, Bulgaria). After a 20 minute lesson in semi-english, I paddled out into the water. I was determined. I knew I could do this. Windsurfing looks really easy. Then I stood up on the board. I teetered. Splash. Repeat. 8-year olds were merrily cruising past me. The next two hours were an important lesson in humility. I did, however, keep trying. On my last attempt I managed to sail out, turn, and make it back in without falling. It was quite rewarding in a "well at least I didn't make a complete fool of myself" kind of way. There was even a glimmer enough of fun in that last run to keep me open to more windsurfing in the future. Hopefully next time my whole body won't ache as it does right now.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
East West Up Down
[A long, albeit long overdue post about my time in Turkey]
The minaret-studded skyline of Istanbul is most prominent in the bluish haze of early evening. The monotony of drab 4- and 5-storey concrete buildings that sprawl for miles from the city center is punctuated by these thin spires. Five times daily they issue the call to prayer that echoes above the urban din. Daily business continues as usual if a bit more quietly. At night the music on rooftop bars halts, though conservation continues. After two weeks in the country one is still caught off guard each time the strange words burst through the torrid air...
One of the most anticipated legs of our journey was the 4-day boat cruise on the Mediterranean coast. We had heard stories from other backpackers of the reverie, camaraderie, and exuberance of these worry-free excursions. Owing to such expectations, our dismay was all the more profound when we met the other 8 people on our cruise. There was a family of 5 from Pennsylvania, and their eldest daughter's boyfriend. When the mother told stories they often involved the help of angels from the good Lord above. And there was an elderly couple. Music off at 10pm sharp. If traveling has its downs, we found ourselves looking up from the depths of the Grand Canyon when we saw our company for the next four days.
About 20 minutes from Sultanahmet (historic center of Istanbul), along the main highway towards Ataturk Airport, lies Dünyagöz hospital. With 9 locations throughout Turkey and Europe it is the largest private eye hospital in the world. The quality of care is remarkable, the staff friendly, the doctors competent, and the entire operation shockingly efficient. And all at a reasonable cost. That it is successfully expanding throughout Europe is little surprise...
"If life hands you lemons, make lemonade." One of the best legs of our journey was the 4-day boat cruise. Seldom has my existence been so care-free. The days were spent lounging on deck, diving off rocks, swimming for the sheer sake of it, playing cards, reading (Sometimes a Great Notion), sleeping, and eating the delicious meals. Nights were spent drinking with the elderly couple, the father (turned out to be a pretty cool dude), and the crew. We sang songs, played more games, and around midnight the three of us raided the Albatros, a nearby ship. At least we tried to. Despite our elaborate preparations (mainly a series of not-so-covert clicking noises) the captain caught us boarding ship, and threatened to kill us. We were pretty sure he was joking but aborted our mission all the same. On the night we pulled into our final port, we met up with the crew and their Turkish sea captain friends (including our adversary) for some more festivities. We rode to bars in the back of a pickup truck driven by a one-armed captain named "Mr. Hook" (a good third of the other arm was lost to a shark off the isle of St. Martin) who occasionally raised his good arm out the window to join us in toasts. The youthful energy of these middle-aged men was contagious.
The streets of cities large and small are teeming with felines. Meals neither indoors nor out are immune to their plaintive stares. A dollop of butter wins purring affection. Kittens prance about equally engaged in the game of survival. Though still intolerably cute, there is something different, more abrasive, in the simple act of watching them clumsily navigate a few stairs...
Our first overnight bus ride was from Istanbul to Capadoccia. It was 11 hours long. At 5 minutes 'til departure we thought we had the bus to ourselves. At 1 minute 'til, we were shooting each other looks of abject horror. Our section of the bus had filled with a small preschool's worth of children. They cried, laughed, and scrambled about with the naive disregard for personal space unique to children. Our second bus was from Capadoccia to Olympos. 13 hours. Malfunctioning air conditioning. A dubbed Wayan's brothers movie until 1am. Turkish stand-up at 5am. All blasting over the speakers. The chain-smoking gentleman to my left repeatedly drifting towards my shoulder in sleep, before jolting awake and repeating the process. Selcuk back to Istanbul - more of the same. "Two birds with one stone" is the idea behind overnight bus trips. They bear greater semblance to a bizarre 3rd circle of Dante's imagining, complete with the complimentary gift of lingering neck pain.
Even the smallest towns in Turkey seem to have at least one internet cafe. Most are overrun by adolescents playing the latest games (shoot 'em ups, sports, and warcraft III seem the most popular), talking over instant messenger, browsing used car listings, and watching videos on YouTube. Everything the adolescents of our country do, but relegated to internet cafes by the absence of home computing. The only surprising aspect of these cafes is the nearly complete absence of social interaction among those gathered there.
Though the Turkish food we were eating became a bit repetitive (likely our own fault), we were treated to an entertainingly novel dining experience in the port town of Fethiye. There was a fish and produce market in the center of the city where we shopped and haggled over a wide array of sea foods and meats. After purchasing some sea bass (undeterred by previous incidents) and filet mignon, we brought it to a nearby restaurant where they grilled it, provided bread and salad, and prepared a delicious steak sauce, all for a nominal fee. Our enjoyment of the meal was best demonstrated by our return for lunch the next day.
As the first hints of dusk approach, chairs and tables are set up everywhere outside and tea is served. Middle-aged men engage each other in games of backgammon, rummikub, and cards. Both the tea and the games flow long into the evening, along with the idle chatter they engender. The ritual repeats itself daily, a tranquil routine of neighborly fellowship...
Many days of our travels in Turkey involved touring ancient Greek, Roman, and Byazantine ruins. The last two days of this were spent in 50 degree weather. Centigrade. 120 degrees Fairenheit. The scorching dry air sucked the energy right out of us. Kevin was starting to go a little crazy, though Jesse and I weren't too far behind. Our main respite from the heat during these tours was the stop at a carpet factory. Three out of our three tours involved stops at a carpet factory. "Did you know a carpet is not a purchase but an investment?" "It can take up to ten years to hand-weave a single carpet." "Carpets from the Hereke region are the most highly valued because of the labor-intensive double-knotting silk patterns." Needless to say, I had absolutely no intention or desire to buy a carpet.
The steady tide of capitalism is sweeping across the landscape, every few waves venturing further ashore. In the countryside the advance guard of this march are the Shell gas stations, the ATMs, and in larger outposts the Carrefour supermarkets. Their convenience is unquestionable, though their ubiquity and conformity seldom questioned.
Among the many remarkable sights we experienced in the surreal landscape of Capadoccia was the underground cities. The soft yet durable sandstone constituted an ideal medium from which early Christians could carve out underground cities as havens from persecution. It is difficult to describe the organic layout of these caverns that extend 7 storeys into the earth. During our tour of one of them we experienced something akin to the joy a child feels upon arriving at a sprawling new playground. We darted in and out of different alcoves and veered as far from our tour group as the lighting allowed us. At one point we discovered a ventilation shaft that descended into utter darkness. In our infantile curiosity we dropped a coin down it and counted the seconds until we heard a clattering. As simple as it may have been, this act of exploration and discovery was exhilarating.
[5 points for everyone who reads this entire entry]
The minaret-studded skyline of Istanbul is most prominent in the bluish haze of early evening. The monotony of drab 4- and 5-storey concrete buildings that sprawl for miles from the city center is punctuated by these thin spires. Five times daily they issue the call to prayer that echoes above the urban din. Daily business continues as usual if a bit more quietly. At night the music on rooftop bars halts, though conservation continues. After two weeks in the country one is still caught off guard each time the strange words burst through the torrid air...
One of the most anticipated legs of our journey was the 4-day boat cruise on the Mediterranean coast. We had heard stories from other backpackers of the reverie, camaraderie, and exuberance of these worry-free excursions. Owing to such expectations, our dismay was all the more profound when we met the other 8 people on our cruise. There was a family of 5 from Pennsylvania, and their eldest daughter's boyfriend. When the mother told stories they often involved the help of angels from the good Lord above. And there was an elderly couple. Music off at 10pm sharp. If traveling has its downs, we found ourselves looking up from the depths of the Grand Canyon when we saw our company for the next four days.
About 20 minutes from Sultanahmet (historic center of Istanbul), along the main highway towards Ataturk Airport, lies Dünyagöz hospital. With 9 locations throughout Turkey and Europe it is the largest private eye hospital in the world. The quality of care is remarkable, the staff friendly, the doctors competent, and the entire operation shockingly efficient. And all at a reasonable cost. That it is successfully expanding throughout Europe is little surprise...
"If life hands you lemons, make lemonade." One of the best legs of our journey was the 4-day boat cruise. Seldom has my existence been so care-free. The days were spent lounging on deck, diving off rocks, swimming for the sheer sake of it, playing cards, reading (Sometimes a Great Notion), sleeping, and eating the delicious meals. Nights were spent drinking with the elderly couple, the father (turned out to be a pretty cool dude), and the crew. We sang songs, played more games, and around midnight the three of us raided the Albatros, a nearby ship. At least we tried to. Despite our elaborate preparations (mainly a series of not-so-covert clicking noises) the captain caught us boarding ship, and threatened to kill us. We were pretty sure he was joking but aborted our mission all the same. On the night we pulled into our final port, we met up with the crew and their Turkish sea captain friends (including our adversary) for some more festivities. We rode to bars in the back of a pickup truck driven by a one-armed captain named "Mr. Hook" (a good third of the other arm was lost to a shark off the isle of St. Martin) who occasionally raised his good arm out the window to join us in toasts. The youthful energy of these middle-aged men was contagious.
The streets of cities large and small are teeming with felines. Meals neither indoors nor out are immune to their plaintive stares. A dollop of butter wins purring affection. Kittens prance about equally engaged in the game of survival. Though still intolerably cute, there is something different, more abrasive, in the simple act of watching them clumsily navigate a few stairs...
Our first overnight bus ride was from Istanbul to Capadoccia. It was 11 hours long. At 5 minutes 'til departure we thought we had the bus to ourselves. At 1 minute 'til, we were shooting each other looks of abject horror. Our section of the bus had filled with a small preschool's worth of children. They cried, laughed, and scrambled about with the naive disregard for personal space unique to children. Our second bus was from Capadoccia to Olympos. 13 hours. Malfunctioning air conditioning. A dubbed Wayan's brothers movie until 1am. Turkish stand-up at 5am. All blasting over the speakers. The chain-smoking gentleman to my left repeatedly drifting towards my shoulder in sleep, before jolting awake and repeating the process. Selcuk back to Istanbul - more of the same. "Two birds with one stone" is the idea behind overnight bus trips. They bear greater semblance to a bizarre 3rd circle of Dante's imagining, complete with the complimentary gift of lingering neck pain.
Even the smallest towns in Turkey seem to have at least one internet cafe. Most are overrun by adolescents playing the latest games (shoot 'em ups, sports, and warcraft III seem the most popular), talking over instant messenger, browsing used car listings, and watching videos on YouTube. Everything the adolescents of our country do, but relegated to internet cafes by the absence of home computing. The only surprising aspect of these cafes is the nearly complete absence of social interaction among those gathered there.
Though the Turkish food we were eating became a bit repetitive (likely our own fault), we were treated to an entertainingly novel dining experience in the port town of Fethiye. There was a fish and produce market in the center of the city where we shopped and haggled over a wide array of sea foods and meats. After purchasing some sea bass (undeterred by previous incidents) and filet mignon, we brought it to a nearby restaurant where they grilled it, provided bread and salad, and prepared a delicious steak sauce, all for a nominal fee. Our enjoyment of the meal was best demonstrated by our return for lunch the next day.
As the first hints of dusk approach, chairs and tables are set up everywhere outside and tea is served. Middle-aged men engage each other in games of backgammon, rummikub, and cards. Both the tea and the games flow long into the evening, along with the idle chatter they engender. The ritual repeats itself daily, a tranquil routine of neighborly fellowship...
Many days of our travels in Turkey involved touring ancient Greek, Roman, and Byazantine ruins. The last two days of this were spent in 50 degree weather. Centigrade. 120 degrees Fairenheit. The scorching dry air sucked the energy right out of us. Kevin was starting to go a little crazy, though Jesse and I weren't too far behind. Our main respite from the heat during these tours was the stop at a carpet factory. Three out of our three tours involved stops at a carpet factory. "Did you know a carpet is not a purchase but an investment?" "It can take up to ten years to hand-weave a single carpet." "Carpets from the Hereke region are the most highly valued because of the labor-intensive double-knotting silk patterns." Needless to say, I had absolutely no intention or desire to buy a carpet.
The steady tide of capitalism is sweeping across the landscape, every few waves venturing further ashore. In the countryside the advance guard of this march are the Shell gas stations, the ATMs, and in larger outposts the Carrefour supermarkets. Their convenience is unquestionable, though their ubiquity and conformity seldom questioned.
Among the many remarkable sights we experienced in the surreal landscape of Capadoccia was the underground cities. The soft yet durable sandstone constituted an ideal medium from which early Christians could carve out underground cities as havens from persecution. It is difficult to describe the organic layout of these caverns that extend 7 storeys into the earth. During our tour of one of them we experienced something akin to the joy a child feels upon arriving at a sprawling new playground. We darted in and out of different alcoves and veered as far from our tour group as the lighting allowed us. At one point we discovered a ventilation shaft that descended into utter darkness. In our infantile curiosity we dropped a coin down it and counted the seconds until we heard a clattering. As simple as it may have been, this act of exploration and discovery was exhilarating.
[5 points for everyone who reads this entire entry]
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Hammocks
The world needs more hammocks. In the shade. Preferably tied between two orange trees. Not too far from the beach. Nestled in a mountain valley. With ancient ruins dotting the hillsides. Life in Olympos is a good life.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Sea Bass
One rule of travel is that where there are tourists there are scams. In the Czech Republic unbelievable exchange rates are often accompanied by counterfeit currency. Taxi drivers throughout eastern europe are notoriously dishonest. And if a lone woman that is incredibly attractive happens to be talking to you, chances are it's not because she likes your personality.
With these stories in mind, my two travel amigos and I found ourselves sitting down to a very pleasant dinner in the Taksim neighborhood of Istanbul. It was my birthday. We ordered mezes (small plates) - they were delicious. We drank two bottles of excellent and cheap Turkish wine. We soaked in the ambience of the bustling nightlife. The english-speaking waitstaff could not have been friendlier.
Then we ordered our entree. The waiter recommended the fresh sea bass. He said it would be enough for all three of us. It was to be served grilled and delicious. He explained that it weighed 1.5 kg, which would be sufficient for the table. It sounded great. Just before completely agreeing to this we naturally inquire about the price. Our waiter's english suddenly falters. Is price that complicated a word? He repeats that the fish weighs 1.5 kg. Great, I'm glad we won't be starving, but how much does it cost again? "Telephone." is his reply as he walks back into the restaurant. Something seems fishy.
We patiently await his return, our skepticism growing with each passing minute and sip of wine. We grab the attention of another waiter and explain our situation. "We would like to know how much our fish is going to cost." He nods in appreciative concern and retreats inside. More time passes until the original waiter returns with an uncooked and gutted fish on a plate. He explains again how much it weighs, how fresh it is, the name of the fisherman that caught it (almost), etc.
"And how much is it?"
"It is an excellent fish."
"But how much does it cost?"
"150 Lira" (about 115$)
All of the other entrees ran about 10-14 Lira. We were livid. We firmly explained that we don't want the fish, that he never told us the price, and that we refuse to pay for it. He continues to describe how beautiful this fish is, that they already purchased it, and that it will in fact be enough to feed all three of us.
This is where the hero of our story emerges. Jesse Feinberg, a mild-mannered political science student by day, leaps forth from his seat, eyes ablaze from the unjust embers of the evening. Our hero demands the check be brought forth immediately, and refuses to be seated until this request, nay, command is attended to. The waiter, at first bewildered by this righteous indignation, falters, before returning to the kitchen and retrieving our bill. The bill includes the 150 lira charge for a fish that only appeared at our table in its uncooked, and freshly gutted state. The waiter demands the 250 lira total for our bill. Jesse, a brilliant glow emanating from his corporeal form, removes the 100 lira we owe for the meal we asked for, slams it down on the table, looks the waiter in the eyes, and proclaims that we are paying for what we asked for and not a cent more. The waiter realizes he has more than met his match, accepts our offer, and defeatedly retreats from our table. We leave the restaurant having narrowly escaped the voracious jaws of a tourist scam.
Jesse Feinberg, you're my hero.
With these stories in mind, my two travel amigos and I found ourselves sitting down to a very pleasant dinner in the Taksim neighborhood of Istanbul. It was my birthday. We ordered mezes (small plates) - they were delicious. We drank two bottles of excellent and cheap Turkish wine. We soaked in the ambience of the bustling nightlife. The english-speaking waitstaff could not have been friendlier.
Then we ordered our entree. The waiter recommended the fresh sea bass. He said it would be enough for all three of us. It was to be served grilled and delicious. He explained that it weighed 1.5 kg, which would be sufficient for the table. It sounded great. Just before completely agreeing to this we naturally inquire about the price. Our waiter's english suddenly falters. Is price that complicated a word? He repeats that the fish weighs 1.5 kg. Great, I'm glad we won't be starving, but how much does it cost again? "Telephone." is his reply as he walks back into the restaurant. Something seems fishy.
We patiently await his return, our skepticism growing with each passing minute and sip of wine. We grab the attention of another waiter and explain our situation. "We would like to know how much our fish is going to cost." He nods in appreciative concern and retreats inside. More time passes until the original waiter returns with an uncooked and gutted fish on a plate. He explains again how much it weighs, how fresh it is, the name of the fisherman that caught it (almost), etc.
"And how much is it?"
"It is an excellent fish."
"But how much does it cost?"
"150 Lira" (about 115$)
All of the other entrees ran about 10-14 Lira. We were livid. We firmly explained that we don't want the fish, that he never told us the price, and that we refuse to pay for it. He continues to describe how beautiful this fish is, that they already purchased it, and that it will in fact be enough to feed all three of us.
This is where the hero of our story emerges. Jesse Feinberg, a mild-mannered political science student by day, leaps forth from his seat, eyes ablaze from the unjust embers of the evening. Our hero demands the check be brought forth immediately, and refuses to be seated until this request, nay, command is attended to. The waiter, at first bewildered by this righteous indignation, falters, before returning to the kitchen and retrieving our bill. The bill includes the 150 lira charge for a fish that only appeared at our table in its uncooked, and freshly gutted state. The waiter demands the 250 lira total for our bill. Jesse, a brilliant glow emanating from his corporeal form, removes the 100 lira we owe for the meal we asked for, slams it down on the table, looks the waiter in the eyes, and proclaims that we are paying for what we asked for and not a cent more. The waiter realizes he has more than met his match, accepts our offer, and defeatedly retreats from our table. We leave the restaurant having narrowly escaped the voracious jaws of a tourist scam.
Jesse Feinberg, you're my hero.
Monday, June 11, 2007
A Bus Ride in Tel Aviv
Sorry Parents. I had to. Don't have a heart attack - I'm perfectly ok.
Riding a bus in a city to go from one point to another is generally unremarkable. Waiting entry fare squeeze to back give up seat for old person watch storefronts pass exit. But this was in Israel. A nation's where history is revised daily. Just five years ago riding a public bus was considered immensely dangerous due to the frighteningly frequent bombings. Just five years ago. However, Israelis say they are much, much safer now - for now at least.
I found the immanency of danger and war to be one of the most remarkable aspects of my time in Israel. The signs of this were not always obvious. There were no sirens blaring, no news of tragedy during my trip, yet it hung in the air as the buzz of insects on long summer days. All throughout the country young soldiers (mandatory military service of 2-3 years begins at age 18) carrying M16s waited at bus stops and wandered the country side. Our trip was escorted by at least two armed guards at all times. As I climbed the stunning ascent to the ancient fortress of Masada during sunrise F-16s soared overhead. On our approach to a lusciously green canyon ravine we saw tanks maneuvering in the distance. Time and memory in this country are defined not by birthdays and anniversaries but by the beginnings and endings of war.
Israel is an immensely beautiful country, yet all throughout it were signs of a military existence constantly preparing for a rupture in the nation's ephemeral tranquility. I will not dare venture to pass judgement on the situation. All there is for me to do is sympathize with those on both sides of this horrifying conflict for all of these symbols of actual or potential violence that scar their daily routines.
Riding a bus in a city to go from one point to another is generally unremarkable. Waiting entry fare squeeze to back give up seat for old person watch storefronts pass exit. But this was in Israel. A nation's where history is revised daily. Just five years ago riding a public bus was considered immensely dangerous due to the frighteningly frequent bombings. Just five years ago. However, Israelis say they are much, much safer now - for now at least.
I found the immanency of danger and war to be one of the most remarkable aspects of my time in Israel. The signs of this were not always obvious. There were no sirens blaring, no news of tragedy during my trip, yet it hung in the air as the buzz of insects on long summer days. All throughout the country young soldiers (mandatory military service of 2-3 years begins at age 18) carrying M16s waited at bus stops and wandered the country side. Our trip was escorted by at least two armed guards at all times. As I climbed the stunning ascent to the ancient fortress of Masada during sunrise F-16s soared overhead. On our approach to a lusciously green canyon ravine we saw tanks maneuvering in the distance. Time and memory in this country are defined not by birthdays and anniversaries but by the beginnings and endings of war.
Israel is an immensely beautiful country, yet all throughout it were signs of a military existence constantly preparing for a rupture in the nation's ephemeral tranquility. I will not dare venture to pass judgement on the situation. All there is for me to do is sympathize with those on both sides of this horrifying conflict for all of these symbols of actual or potential violence that scar their daily routines.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Itinerary
23 hours until departure.
I have yet to book a return flight, but I'm figuring on late August.
That gives me about 90 days.
Here's the current plan (subject to change without notice):
Organized tour throughout the country via the Birthright Israel Program. It's nice having others plan things for you.
Backpacking with two friends throughout the Eastern half of the country. General route consisting of
My solo journey begins here. I intend to make my way up the Black Sea coast to
Alexander the Great. That's about the extent of my prior knowledge of this country. Sometimes it can be fun to have almost no expectations about a destination or experience.
The newest country in
Croatia [July 18th - July 24th]
The southern half of Croatia, the Dalmatian coast, was one of the most stunning locales I visited last summer, and as of now I see no reason not to spend a few days back there this time around.
This part of my journey is very open-ended, save for visiting a friend who is working at a restaurant in a small Italian town about an hour south of
After spending nearly two months on the road, it should be a nice change of pace to settle down in a single location for a few weeks. I'll be taking french classes a few hours a day, but not much else the rest of the time. I'm very excited.
Paris and Homeward [August 25th - 28th]
I might spend a few days in
Friday, May 4, 2007
Endings...
Though I intend for this blog to serve primarily as a journal of my whereabouts and wanderings this summer, I see no reason not to begin it now, at the end of things. Okay, it's not really the end of things, but I will be done with college in a little under two weeks. I will no longer be considered a 'student'. Chances are, I'll never again have to write a 15-20 page paper (size 12, Times New Roman) about "The History of Playgrounds," be responsible for identifying different categories of Gregorian chant, or be expected to explain the physics of cloud formation (never really got this one anyway).
I'm not going to try to editorialize about what this ending means. I imagine I won't really grasp how much things have changed until many months after it is over. It is often difficult to appreciate the value of something until it is lost.
As much as I am in semi-denial about college ending, I am also incredibly excited for this summer and beyond. I move out of New York in mid-May and intend to be in motion more or less through the beginning of September. Based on my experiences last summer, I won't come anywhere close to keeping in touch with people as well as I would like to. I see this blog as a chance to at least share a few words about what I've been up to. I'm still deciding how frequently to write, what kind of subjects to write about, what style to use, etc., but I imagine that will all develop with time. For now I just want to develop a rhythm of actually posting entries.
I'm not going to try to editorialize about what this ending means. I imagine I won't really grasp how much things have changed until many months after it is over. It is often difficult to appreciate the value of something until it is lost.
As much as I am in semi-denial about college ending, I am also incredibly excited for this summer and beyond. I move out of New York in mid-May and intend to be in motion more or less through the beginning of September. Based on my experiences last summer, I won't come anywhere close to keeping in touch with people as well as I would like to. I see this blog as a chance to at least share a few words about what I've been up to. I'm still deciding how frequently to write, what kind of subjects to write about, what style to use, etc., but I imagine that will all develop with time. For now I just want to develop a rhythm of actually posting entries.
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