Aug 1 2010

My friend, I make nice price for you!

So the last two weeks have been eventful; I realize I’ve missed some stuff but I will just roll it into future posts. I’m currently sitting thousands of miles from my last post, less than 100 yards from the Red Sea in the Egyptian city of Dahab, about 150 km south of the Israeli border.  Dahab is famous for great snorkeling and diving (it is pretty great), but isn’t built up or crowded at all.  And it’s cheap. And I don’t mean Fallon, Nevada cheap.  I mean dirt cheap.  My room, which is about 90 seconds if you walk slow from the water, has good air conditioning, three beds, and a private bathroom, and costs less than 11 dollars a night.  For three beds.  Like I said, cheap.  If you are really on a tight budget, you can let your sun-baked body rest outdoors on a hammock for less than three bucks.  But I splurged and went with the A/C.  Hey, I’m on vacation right?

Dahab is a budget traveler’s dream.  And it’s absolutely beautiful.  The town is quaint, there are no big hotels, people are friendly.  It honestly feels more like Mexico than Egypt, especially if you are on the water.  It has miles of great reef that you can explore just off the coast, including the ‘World’s Most Dangerous Dive Spot,’ a 400 ft sinkhole called the Blue Hole.  You can see the mountains that line the coast of Saudi Arabian province of Tabouk just across the sea, and at night you can see the lights from the city of the same name.  Good meals can be had for a few dollars. It’s relatively inaccessible as there isn’t an airport that is that close.  And this means that it’s not crowded.  There are a few Egyptians, a few Americans, but the other people that are vacationing this time of year are mostly German and Russian.  And there just aren’t that many people. Dahab has sunshine and beach weather all year long, and is so chill and relaxed that I wouldn’t mind having a beach house here.  If I’m ever an international fugitive, don’t tell the FBI about this blog because I will probably be hiding here.

Before Dahab we made our way down from Jerusalem to Eilat, where I had been staying.  Eilat is the southern most city in Israel.  Eilat is a great beach city too (it’s been called the Miami Beach of Israel) and I will definitely spend more time there on another trip.  From Eilat, we crossed the border into Egypt.  Egyptians are some of the most warm, friendly people I have ever met.  Sometimes they can be too friendly; that usually means they want to sell you something.  You suddenly have tons of ‘friends’ who will sell you anything you want (and plenty of stuff you don’t) for a ‘nice price.’  The initial price might not be so nice, but if you like to do a little haggling, you can get some great stuff for great prices.

Anyone who has ever spent time in Egypt is familiar with the concept of baksheesh.  Baksheesh is basically a tip given to someone after they have performed a service for you, much like you would tip a skycap or bellhop in the West, but in Egypt it has evolved into so much more.  Visiting the tourist sites around the city, you will run into countless people hanging around offering various random services in order to get baksheesh.  Some of these border on the ridiculous, like a guy in some ruins at Saqqara (the site of the lesser known step pyramid) who told us not to take pictures inside the ruins and then wanted money.  A ‘tour guide’ followed us into the complex at the Giza pyramids, told us useless information, took a couple of photos, and then was not at all hesitant to voice his displeasure regarding the ‘small’ tip that we gave him.  It’s difficult to wrap your head around at first, but it’s how things work here.  Egypt has so much to offer, and as home of the only remaining site (the big pyramid at Giza) out of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, it’s a must see.

Hailing a cab is not even needed in Egypt. If you are on the street with luggage, they will find you in seconds.  Right after crossing the border, we were headed to the bus station local bus station (the border city with Eilat is called Taba) to get to Cairo (about 350 km away) but barely got past the border control before we were offered a service taxi (a van for hire) to Cairo for a pretty reasonable price.  We made it across the Sinai and through Suez without incident. I can’t adequately put into words the experience of driving in Cairo.  It’s absolutely mental.  Lanes become completely irrelevant, horns are used to communicate position and intent in lieu of directional signals, and for some reason, the Cairo natives don’t drive with their headlights at night.  Even more amazing than the way that they drive though, is the fact that they don’t crash.  All I saw in my time in Cairo was a car and a van trading a little side paint (which was apparently no big deal because they didn’t even bother to stop).  They almost always almost collide, but somehow never do.  Friends that have spent time in big cities in the Caribbean have told me stories on stuff similar to this, but I’ve never seen anything like it.  I like big crazy cities, but Cairo will make you crazy.  Get in, see the sights, get out.  Go to Dahab.
Next post: Petra, Jordan.

By rustytravel
3
Jul 18 2010

So this French guy walks into a bar…

This is not going to be a few paragraphs of French jokes.  I promise.  Ill admit that I looked for ways to get out of going to Paris. I tried to do the French Riviera instead, which has a reputation of being a lot more laid back, but logistical problems with staying in Montpelier made Paris the only realistic choice. I had a good time in Paris and I really like the city, a lot.  It is beautiful, has so much culture, history, and things to see, and there is a certain magical quality to Paris that cant really be described. Its Paris.  Those who have been there will understand.  I will also admit upfront though, I did my best to blend in with the other Europeans as far as how I dressed, looked, etc.  I spoke English with a vague accent when talking to the French, and I also have a European Union drivers licence, which can be shown in place of a passport for ID purposes.  Show up with an American flag shirt and shout loudly in your best Arkansas drawl and you might have a slightly less pleasant experience than I did.

Wednesday was Bastille Day, which commemorates the storming of the Bastille in 1789 (which was a big symbol of the French revolution), and is roughly equivalent to the 4th of July in the States.  They even have fireworks (some say it is one of the worlds best shows, I would agree, but Pamplona still takes the cake for me, mainly because of the proximity of the spectators to the launching pad, which means the concussion blasts are felt more powerfully and add to the visual effects) launched from the Eiffel Tower, which was pretty spectacular.  There wasn’t as much festivity in the air on the 14th as I would have thought though, and apparently I wasn’t the only one that thought so; the Economist ran an article about recent allegations that President Sarkozy took an illegal campaign contribution from the billionaire heiress to the L`Oreal fortune and how that had (despite being adamant that no such thing took place) dampened the mood of the holiday.

France is a place that people rarely evokes apathy from people when brought up in a conversation in America.  Its either ‘those (expletive deleted) French’ or ‘oh, I loved the month I spent in Paris’ ; there is no middle ground, you either love it or hate it.  My friend, when he heard I was in Paris reminded me ‘you know how I feel about the French.’ Although, come to think of it, hes never been to France.  And doesn’t know any French people.  Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, most of the people I know that don’t like the French have never been to France.  Hmmmm. Interesting.

That said, there is (as a general rule) normally at least a kernel of truth in every generalization.  Are the French a slightly snooty and elitist? Yes.  Are they rude? No, for the most part, they are pretty nice and most are friendly and have no problem directing you to a Metro station or whatever.  Will they ignore you if you speak English? No, especially not if you are polite to them.  At least start off with bonjour when addressing them.  Will they they refuse to speak to you in English? Depends on the person, but normally not.  They do love to speak back to you in French sometimes though, but its nothing you cant understand.  A lot of Parisians just don’t know English well enough to speak to you, so what may sometimes be perceived as rudeness is just an inability.

After spending a few days amongst the French, I can understand why they are a little snooty and elitist.  It is the same reason why some wealthy people get an attitude.  It is the same reason why some pretty people get an attitude.  It is the same reason why some smart people get an attitude.  It is because they have something that other people do not.  I’m not saying its right, I’m saying I understand.  Its a pretty great place they have.  The food is great, the architecture is great, the art is great, the shopping is great, the ambiance of the city is great. There is only one Eiffel Tower, one Cathedral of Notre Dame, one Arc de Triomphe, one Sacre Coeur.  You cant see those anywhere else on the planet.  And the Parisians know it.

Other generalizations are completely true.  Do the French have amazing bread? Yes, it is excellent.  Do they have amazing pastries? Yes, probably best in the world.  I really don’t know how they do it (I expect lots of butter and a couple hundred years experience) and I cant adequately convey the pleasure that comes from eating a cheap Parisian breakfast of a couple of random pastries but its sort of like spending the night over at a friends house as a kid and discovering in the morning that they have multiple boxes of chocolaty cereal (the kind your mom wont buy) and they don’t care how many bowls you have.  The USDA might just say forget it and ban them if they had to give you the nutrition facts, but man are they good.  Is their other food good? No, good would be selling it short.  Some of the flavors are just above and beyond anything that we Americans are used to eating on a regular basis.  Parisian chocolate mousse is absolutely incredible.  I also had the best non-Kobe (wagyu) cheeseburger of my life at a random cafe near the Seine.  And that’s coming from a self admitted cheeseburger snob.  In all fairness, the use of French cheese on the burger might technically be cheating, but my hands are tied.

If you make it to Paris, you have to go to the Louvre and see the Mona Lisa as well as whatever else interests you, even if you aren’t incredibly inspired and drawn in by art.  The Mona Lisa is smaller in person.  Oh and her smile looks faked to me, but then I’m a skeptic.  I like Napoleon paintings (I have my reasons) and saw of few of those that were pretty great.  There were also a number of artifacts from ancient Egypt and Persia; looking at some of this stuff, you can only imagine the journey its taken over the last how ever many thousands of years to end up behind glass in the middle of Paris, and all the stories that it would tell if it could give an accounting of what its been witness to.

The palace at Versailles is about 30 minutes by bus from the outskirts of Paris.  Its so impressive that its almost hard to imagine someone living there, even if he was the king of (at the time) one of the most powerful nations in the world. So much history happened here as well, from events of the French Revolution (the king living in a truly giant house away from the people he was supposed to be taking care of surely didn’t cause the revolution, but it didn’t do much to appease the people either) to the signing of the treaty to end the First World War.    More impressive than the actual main palace are the grounds, which extend back for thousands of acres and feature a lake in the shape of a cross called the Grand Canal.  Definitely worth a visit if you are at all interested in history.

If you already love Paris, great.  If you have never been, especially if you may have some of the misconceptions about the French discussed above, swallow your pride and go.  You may be surprised at what you find.

Jul 13 2010

Food Pics

Here are the food pics taken with my phone that I haven´t had a chance to upload.  Pics from my camera are uploading now and should be on the blog soon.

British Fish and Chips

I guess the concept of low carb never really caught on in Britain...

Tapas portion of calamares al la romana (fried calamari)

Grilled sea bass served with potatoes and peppers

Budget lunch - the ubiquitous bocadillo (Spanish hoagie) - bocadillos de jamon (ham) were much more popular, but the ones with chorizo y queso (sausage and cheese) were much tastier - Diet Coke becomes Coke Light in continental Europe

Tapas portion of patatas bravas (lightly fried potatoes wedges with a tomato and cream sauce)

Gambas a la plancha (grilled shrimp)

By rustytravel
2
Jul 12 2010

Viva San Fermin! – Running with the Idiots

I’ve had my share of brushes with danger in my almost 24 years on planet Earth.  I narrowly escaped a massive car accident in a remote desert in Mexico by what can only be attributed to divine intervention.  I was standing 15 feet away and felt the heat from the fireball of a huge explosion when a transformer box that had been damaged by a drunk driver in Los Angeles blew up on the street in front of a friend’s house.  Running with the bulls tops the list without a doubt.  
 
The festival of San Fermin takes place from July 7th-14th in a town called Pamplona in north western Spain, in Basque country.  Popularized outside of Spain by the Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, it now draws over a million people from every corner of the globe for that week.  It’s an absolute mad house. As far as comparing the scene to something in the States, the blanket of trash in the streets and the level of public intoxication (the drink of choice is sangria, a kind of Spanish wine punch) could be rivaled only by Mardi Gras in New Orleans (so I´m told). The feature of the festival is of course the encierro, the 8 am daily running of the bulls, where about two thousand people, all of whom, including yours truly, who are a bit crazy, run from six bulls on cobblestone streets along a half mile course through the streets of the city center and try not to be gored.  In any other modern country on the planet, anything even remotely like it would be shut down about two seconds after it came to the government´s attention, but it is fully sanctioned here.  The run ends in the Pamlona bull arena, and the bulls are separated from the participants.  Those who have completed the run and moved fast enough to enter the arena after the bulls (entering ahead of the bulls is seen as unsporting and is met with the Spanish version of boos from the packed arena).  Then, three younger bulls are released (one at a time) into the arena.  They are still quite large (about 700 or 800 lbs, compared with the 1200 lb fully grown bulls from the run) but their horns are taped off so that they cannot gore anyone.  The runners that were able to get into the arena then have the pleasure of being thrown around by these bulls (yes they do throw you).  Although only 15 people have died since they started keeping track in the 1920s, a couple hundred people get hurt every year; most of the injuries are not from the horns but from falling and being stepped on by the bulls, and most of them are not incredibly serious. 
Australians are some of the most politically incorrect and foul-mouthed people in the world.  A certain four letter word (although common in the States as well) is, as my friend from Brisbane explained, more like a comma to Australians (its actually used more than commas). They are also some of the most genuinely honest, laid back, accepting, open minded, friendly, fun loving people in the world. And they absolutely love to travel and have a good time.  I love Australians.  The east coast of Australia (where Sydney, Brisbane, and the barrier reef are) is in many ways similar to California and I feel like people from either place have much in common with each other.  Out of people from any other country, Aussies always take the best trips.  A couple from Perth that I met in the laundromat was six months into a nine month trip across parts of Asia and Europe.  A guy from Adelaide that did the bull run with us was going to buy a motorcycle here in Spain and cruise it down to Morocco.  The organizer of our bull run trip doesn´t even bother to live in Australia anymore; he splits his year with summers in Barcelona and winters skiing in the Alps.  If you travel, no matter where you are in the world, you will run into Australians.  When you do, listen to their stories and take their advice. They have probably been to every city you have and every one that you want to visit and more then willing to chat with you about it. 
I got a spot on a chartered bus (the best way to get to Pamplona, as the trains are absolutely packed during the week of the festival and are notorious for pickpockets) ran by some  Australians (who else) that operate a group of bars and activities for English speaking tourists and expats here in Barcelona.  We left Barcelona around 2 pm for the 5-6 hour bus ride to Pamplona.  It took about 9.  Although it was a really nice bus (even had air conditioning, which is almost non-existent in continental Europe) we broke down outside of Zaragoza.  Our jovial bearded bus driver Javier put on his coveralls and went to work but to no avail.  At one point we were flanked by the local version of AAA to the rear and the Spanish police (one of whom looked quite like Fidel Castro minus the cigar) to the front.  The bus couldn´t be fixed on the roadside but after getting to a gas station and trying some more, we were on our way again. 
 
We arrived in Pamplona minutes before the fireworks began at 11 pm.  I haven´t seen better fireworks anywhere, not even 4th of July in Washington DC (although I suspect that Wednesday night´s Bastille Day fireworks in Paris will be give these a run for their money). The band (Los del Rio) that put out the song Macarena that became an international hit in the nineties gave a free concert in the main square.  The city starts to quiet down around 3 or 4 am; a lot of people are in Pamplona without a hotel and sleep for a few hours amongst the trash and bottles in the park, although I don´t recommend that unless you want to donate your camera and the contents of your wallet to a local ´charity.´ 
 
The adrenaline starts to kick in around 6 am, when the night starts to fade.  Despite not having slept at all since the previous night, any sluggishness or even thought of being tired is completely gone.  I would be lying if I said I didn´t have second thoughts, if only briefly; watching the run from behind the relative safety of the barriers seemed like a much more prudent choice.  But then prudent and fun are often mutually exclusive. 

We got onto the course of the run about a half hour before the start.  It is still wet from the cleaning crews removing all the broken glass and trash and was completely packed as the police were still blocking part of it to escort some VIPs through.  The Spanish clap and sing songs to women on the balconies of the apartments above the street that they find attractive, and after no sleep and liters of sangria they aren´t very discriminating.  The Italians that were packed in next to me looked quite nervous.  All I could think to myself was that we all must be completely nuts for doing this.  One news article that I saw was entitled ´running with the idiots.´ People spend their whole lives locking the doors of their homes, wearing seat belts in cars and putting on helmets to ride bicycles, and here was a group of people completely willing to throw all that away for the experience, the adrenaline rush and the bragging rights.  There has got to be something slightly off there. 
 
The idea is to pick a place along the course and run as much as you can, jump off to the side when the bulls are going to overtake you, let them run past, then follow behind the bulls in order to make it into the arena before they shut the gates. I decided to start my run just beyond a turn called La Estafeta, which is known in English as Dead Man´s Curve.  It is about halfway down the course. The part that I was going to run was straight and uphill.  The last minutes leading up to the rocket that signals the start of the race fly by.  I don´t think I have ever tied my shoes with more care or precision in my life. 
 
The adrenaline that kicks in when the first rocket is fired is unbelievable.  It takes about a minute for the bulls to get to Dead Man´s Curve from the starting point, but it felt so much shorter than that.  As soon as I saw runners rounding the corner, I turned and ran as fast as I could up the street. You can get an idea of how far the bulls are behind you by the expressions of the spectators on the sides.  When I felt like I shouldn´t risk a horn to the buttocks any longer, I cut off to the left side and got as close to the wall as possible.  The feeling of seeing the pack of bulls lumber up the route just a short distance from you is absolutely indescribable.  Making sure that all the bulls had passed, (most of the serious injuries/gorings have happened when a lone bull gets separated from the others, often at Dead Man´s Curve) I jogged up the rest of the course and was quick enough to make it into the arena.  I didn´t feel too inclined to stick around to be tossed around by the ´baby´ bulls, so I climbed out and watched the action.  Even though their horns are taped off, they can still do some damage; one of the guys on our bus group found out the hard way by taking a hoof to the head and going unconscious. 
 
The monumental job of cleaning the park had started by the time we headed back to get on the bus.  You almost wonder why they even bother before the festival is up, as its going to be exactly the same if not worse the next night.  We got back to Barcelona with time to shower and find a place to watch the World Cup final.  If you haven´t heard by now, I´m not quite sure what rock you´ve been living under (even under your rock you probably heard the celebrations from the bar I was at, I think I sustained permanent hearing damage), but Andres Iniesta scored the game winning goal for Spain four minutes before the match (scoreless up to this point) would have gone to a shootout to determine the winner. 
 
Next stop: France; I have a bed on tommorow´s night train to Paris. I´ll try to get the pictures going either later tonight or tomorrow.  Next post: Bastille Day (Independence Day) in Paris.

Jul 11 2010

Dos botellas de agua, por favor.

The first thing that hits you when you arrive in Barcelona in July is the humidity.  Then the fact that people aren´t speaking English. Then the fact that there are tons of people crowding the streets, shouting, singing, drinking, lighting firecrackers. On a Wednesday night.  Spain advanced to the World Cup Finals just before I got to the city, and the party was in full swing.  Never seen anything like it.  My flight was delayed out of London for over an hour, this meant that we missed the game.  The pilot was giving updates but then stopped for no apparent reason. Maybe he was rooting for Deutschland.

The next day, you realize that it´s not just English that is gone, it´s Spanish as well.  Barcelona is part of Catalunya, the Catalan region of Spain which it sort of autonomous but not really.  Catalonians have their own language, which is sort of like if you mixed mixed Spanish and French at 70/30 and added some Portugese.  For example, agua becomes aigua.  The name Paul in English normally goes to Pablo or Paulo in Spanish, but the Catalonian take is Pau (as in the Laker´s Pau Gasol, a Barcelona native) If you speak Spanish, a lot of it can be understood when its written, but spoken it can through you for a loop sometimes.  A lot of the native Barcelonians are all about Catalunya.  Their flag (which has alternating red and gold horizontal stripes) can be seen all over.  Most advertisements, billboards, and placards are in Catalan.  Some hardcore Catalonians don´t see themselves as Spaniards and make a point of rooting against the Spanish national soccer team. Books could be (and most definitely have been) written about Catalunya and its struggle for autonomy from Spain, so if it interests you, there is plenty of information on the subject.

The people of Barcelona are very fit and healthy.  Spandex suited road bikers and joggers are in abundance.  They don´t really do ugly here in Catalonia either.  Everyone has great hair, with or without the mullet that is so popular all over Europe. But Barcelona takes the cake for the most outrageous versions of this current Euro trend; some of the guys, on the beach especially, had hairdos that would would make Joe Dirt´s cut look appropriate for testifying before a Congressional committee.  The Mediterranean is just a short walk away (where Russian billionaire businessman and philanthropist Roman Abramovich’s yacht Pelorus was moored the other day), and the hot and muggy summer afternoons don’t invite those in the more casual tourist part of the city to put too much emphasis on wearing clothes. The crowd in Barcelona in general (and there is a crowd, it is absolutely packed this time of year, it seems like whole German cities are on vacation here together) can be easily put into two groups: tan and not so tan.  Even the tourists from the rest of Europe (maybe the Italians excluded) are easily spotted as foreigners.

Catalan food is for the most part fresh, flavorful and from the ocean. Spanish portions, even for main courses, are quite small compared with the norm in the States, which undoubtedly contributes to their level of fitness.  The city is full of restaurants of all sizes that serve tapas, which are basically appetizer sized portions of local favorites.  Tapas are eaten throughout the day, but enjoying some with friends or family seated outdoors around 10 pm is very traditional.  Patatas bravas are one of the most popular; these are sliced and lightly fried potatoes covered in a tomato cream sauce.  The calamari I had was excellent, and the grilled sea bass, served with potatoes and wonderfully colored peppers, was far and above the best bass I’ve ever tried.  Paella de marisco, although technically not Catalonian but Valencian, is very popular in Barcelona.  It features rice, with shrimp and other seafood, and is as great as anything else here.

Tibidabo is a hill (easily accessible by bus from the city) about 1000 feet high that sits back from the city to the west and features and cathedral and theme park (interesting combo, right?).  I thought the amusement park would somehow cheaper the tranquility and peacefulness of the church, but it didn´t at all.  The air is much cooler then in the city center and the crowds are gone.  The cathedral (which is apparently not that old) is quite beautiful and the views from its upper deck are absolutely stunning, you are able to see pretty much the entire city, as well as the ocean beyond it and the valleys around.  If you ever visit Barcelona, this is must see.

Didn’t have proper access to a computer for the past few days; will put up a new post again tomorrow.  Topic: El Festival de San Fermin in Pamplona, the highlight of which is the running of the bulls. Absolutely insane.

Jul 7 2010

I don’t believe in jetlag… well maybe just a bit.

When you cram ten million people from every corner of the globe, and of the most diverse backgrounds and circumstances into a city, it makes for an intense cultural expirience.  There is no type of ethnic food you could possibly desire or even know about that you wouldnt be able to find somewhere in London.  Walking down the street in front of the shops at Oxford Circus, you are just as likely to hear Arabic, Swedish, Czech or Korean as you are to hear someone speaking English.  None of my friends (ones I have just met excluded) that  live in London are British by birth, they all moved here seeking some unique job opportunity, education or experience that they could not have found anywhere else.  New York City is probably the only other place on the planet that is really comparable, a city that I have not spent any time in.  For me the closest paralell is San Francisco, but it is absolutely dwarfed by the vast expanse that is London.  It takes at least an hour by bus (if traffic is light) to make the journey from Seven Sisters in north east London (where Im staying) into the center of the city, traveling to the opposite side can easily consume several hours. 

The obvious class disparity is more apparent in London than in any other city I have been to on the planet.  Im a car guy (a ‘petrol head’ as they would say here) and its second nature for me to notice whats on the streets wherever I travel. I have never seen such a high concentration of luxury cars ever, not in affluent parts of Los Angeles, not in Silicon Valley, not Miami Beach, definitely not anywhere else.  Contrast that with immigrants who can barely speak English, barely make their rent payments (which are quite high and apperently collected every week instead of monthly) and are lucky to even have legitimate employment.  The ‘European Dream,’ which is basically the American Dream (perhaps slightly altered) and the ideals of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness are very much alive here, but not everyone gets to take part. 

The significance and popularity of the World Cup (and soccer in general) has so much more depth here than it does in the States.  The NFL Super Bowl is watched by just over 100 million people every year.  Considering that there are more than 300 million people in the US, those are pretty poor stats.  That means that two thirds of Americans dont even bother to watch it.  But for the English, watching their team in the World Cup is everything. It is their football, their basketball, their baseball all rolled in to one.  A friend (who is from continental Europe but lives in London) mentioned that she had told some Londoners that she was indifferent when it came to soccer; they told her that she had moved to the wrong country. The whole population lives and dies with their national team. And it only comes along every fourth year.  After the team were disqualified this year (after a poor performance against the Algerians) their own fans booed them off the field.  Yesterday morning on British television they showed a clip of some pundit saying (half jokingly) that the whole country is going to crap and the loss is evidence of this.  I can’t really put this into perspective for Americans, but it would be sort of like if the US went to the Olympics in 2012, didn’t medal in anything, and then that same year, a group of guys from Slovakia challenged the New Orleans Saints to a football game and beat them.  But only much worse. 

In order to have a truly uniquely British experience, I went to a pub, watched the match between Uruguay and the Netherlands (congratulations to the Dutch on their win).  A friend of mine joined me at the pub after she got off work, just after the game had concluded, and asked me who had won.  I told her that the Netherlands had, and she was disappointed because she had hoped that Holland would be victorious.  I cut her a break because although her English is almost at a native level, it is not her native tounge.  If you do not understand why this was funny, then a.) English is not your native language or b.) you should have payed more attention in high school geography class.  I ordered fish and chips at the pub.  Ive had fish and chips many times in the States, but this was better, different somehow.  American tarter sauce is bland and unengaging, while the British version is absolutely delicious.  The fish (haddock) was expertly fried. Chips are not chips in the Amerian sense of course, we know them as french fries, though etomologically neither disgnation is entirely appropriate, seeing as how they are neither ‘chips’ or have anything even remotely to do with the French. 

I love London.  I love the diversity.  I love the culture.  I love the hustle and bustle.  I love the excitement.  I love the conglomeration and availibility of eveything.  They weather has been great while Ive been here (mostly sunny, low 70s, low 20s C) but Im told Londoners are only blessed with this for about two weeks a year.  My only complaint about London is that (don’t hate me Brits) it’s not foreign enough.  If I sit on a plane for 11 hours, I at least expect the people at my destination to speak a different language, eat strange and exotic foods, have radically different fashions, but that’s not the case here.  Despite all the differences between the States and the UK, and after more than 200 years of being under different flags, they are still remarkably similar. 

The London Stansted airport is a common jump off for Londoners to take their summer vacations and is abosolutely packed today, although mostly with continental Europeans returning home after their trip to England.  Next stop for me: Barcelona. Oh and even though they will probably lose tonight, VAMOS ESPANA!

May 12 2010

“For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake.” –Robert Louis Stevenson

Some people just don’t have the itch to travel.  My mom is one of those people.  I love my mom with all my heart, but there are many things that we don’t see eye-to-eye on.  Traveling is one of them.  When I was planning this trip, she asked me if there wasn’t something else that I would rather spend my money on.  My response was “like what?”  But the question got me thinking, if for only about 90 seconds:  could the money and time be better utilized doing something else? For someone in my situation (a college junior with limited discretionary income), there are a million different places where the money could and probably should go.  But, for me though, the answer will always be no.

And that is because I do have the itch.  Bad.  Last year, for example, I basically quit my job and booked my ticket the day after an opportunity arose to go to Central Europe. I sit in Economics class and while I understand the concept of marginal cost, I just don’t care. My mind drifts from the lecture and from the flyover state that I go to school in to distant cafes where the waitresses are tan and don’t know English, and bustling open-air markets with their myriad of colors, maze of booths, shouts of bartering and the smell of grilling lamb.  Something within me always wants to be on the go, seeing, experiencing, tasting the new.   I have a deep contempt for the ordinary, the mundane, the monotonous.  Travel offers an escape from the everyday, a chance to become a little kid again and experience everything for the first time.

This summer, I will be attempting an ill-conceived thrash across the Old World, improvising my way across three continents and through thousands of years of history.  I started this blog to share the journey (and hopefully many more) with my family and friends.  If you don’t have the itch, then just enjoy the pictures and stories which will follow.  Feel free to occasionally post comments such as “Wow, that must have been amazing!” or “That’s crazy, I’m so glad those gypsies didn’t end up cutting off your left foot!” to let me know you care.  If you are anything like me though, what you will see and read are not merely pictures and stories, but glimpses of happiness.  Lao Tzu, the Chinese philosopher considered the founder of Taoism, gave us this bit of wisdom: “A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving.” I hope for my sake that I never arrive.  And I invite you on the journey.

For those who don’t know me, some background:

  • I grew up in and will forever be from Northern California, which is one of the best places in the world
  • I temporarily live in Utah
  • I am studying business
  • I love laughing, capitalism, learning languages, traveling, club music, history, eating, people watching, humid sunny days (think south Florida), girls with accents and anything that has an engine
  • I hate cold weather, hypocrisy, disrespectful people, traffic jams and bad food
  • In addition to my native English, I am fluent in Hungarian, proficient in Spanish, and on my way to learning more