Essouira, Morocco
Before coming into the internet cafe, I spent about a half an hour bartering with two young ladies and a young man, who usually sell womens slippers, for an old, leather bag, that definitely has a history, but with my little French and their little English, that history will forever remain a mystery. The price ended up being 100 Dirhams and a banana, approximately 14.45 US Dollars. However, after paying them, we all took a bite of the banana. I dined this evening with an English guy named Chris that I met on the balcony of the new hotel I moved to today. We ate at a small local kitchen restaurant where the locals eat. I ate there last night and wanted to provide the cook and owner, Abderachim, some repeat business. Not to mention the food is delicious and cheap. We each paid 25 Dirhams for tajine, a traditional Moroccan dish, and a pot of sweet mint tea. I discovered this little local restaurant nook yesterday, which is literally right off the main street but no tourists seem to find it - kind of like Harry Potters Diagon Alley - when I had lunch with Ahmed, the man who puts thousands of sardines through small hooks every day. He lead us there, and now I have the secret key and password. (Jordan apparently feels like typing random things as he is feeling wonderful.)
Today I was supposed to meet up with some people I met last night. We agreed on noon at the beach nearest the port. I was there for forty minutes and they didn't show up. So I headed off down the beach, listening to U2's, "Beautiful Day," to cheer up. I don't know if I mentioned it before, but for most of my time here in Morocco, I have had a sort of intense, underlying, internal discomfort. A sort of painful, emotional gnawing in my guts. As I meandered along the beach, away from the meeting point, I felt this same deep sadness intensify. I didn't understand it and I felt like crying, so I thought it a perfect time for a video journal entry. I took out my camera and recorded myself describing what I was feeling and exploring it as I went. I cried and I realized that what I was feeling was homesickness. I hadn't understood what I was feeling until now. And when I was able to identify it, it pretty much took the power out of it. As I walked on down the beach, I slowly felt better and better. It was no longer some unknown beast terrifying me in the dark. I had shined the light on it, to reveal a scared little mouse. Eventually I reached my destination. Pieces of a large, crumbling old tower or fortress that had seemingly fallen from the sky, landing and shattering right where the ocean met the shore. I sat atop a large piece of debris and wrote, shot video, took pictures, listened to music, and was moistened by sea mist. I felt so much better. The homesickness was gone and it was replaced by a joy, comfort, and excitement to explore Morocco. It was as if a new world had opened up. A muddy pane of glass was removed from my frame of vision and I could see the world anew. I can't tell you what a relief I feel now. By the time I was ready to leave the ruins, the tide had come back in, and my once stepping stones were now underwater, with slightly violent waves rushing over them. I timed it out and quickly scampered through the water, dashing from one rock to the next in order to beat the impending watery beast commonly referred to as a wave. He thrashed the bottom of my pants, but I got away otherwise unscathed. I walked back to my hotel with a renewed bounce in my step, a smile in my heart, and my pockets laden with shells and stones that I had compulsively collected. I got to the hotel in time to watch the glorious sunset and I said, "Thank you." Today was a beautiful day and I didn't let it get away.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
P.S. Thank GOD for beds
Essouira, Morocco
I just wanted to add that I am SOOOO looking forward to sleeping in a real bed tonight. Last night I was in a tiny, cramped, freezing bus with obnxious, torturous rather, Arabic music for 15 HOURS. The two nights before that, I slept on mats in the desert. And the night before the desert, I was on another night bus, though not as cramped or cold. I Love Beds.
I just wanted to add that I am SOOOO looking forward to sleeping in a real bed tonight. Last night I was in a tiny, cramped, freezing bus with obnxious, torturous rather, Arabic music for 15 HOURS. The two nights before that, I slept on mats in the desert. And the night before the desert, I was on another night bus, though not as cramped or cold. I Love Beds.
The Truth of the Desert
Essouira, Morocco
I feel at peace in this moment, other than a slight headache, but the last few days have been incredibly intense. I awoke yesterday in the Moroccan portion of the Sahara desert, called Erg Chebbi. I tightened my shoe laces, donned my zhilaba and turban and proceeded to hike one of, if not the highest dune in that desert. I eventually reached the top, panting, utterly exhausted, mouth stinging and metallic-tasting. And then the glorious sun climbed upon its throne in the sky. For most of my time in the desert, I was plagued with one of my deepest fears, that of lack, of not having enough. Incessant thoughts about how much I was paying for the camel trek, which wasnt even that much, kept buzzing through my mind. I kept mathematically caclulating how much that equalled in all sorts of different terms. It was extremely unsettling. I spent two nights, and about a day and a half in that desert. And when we began our return to the village, I, perched atop my camel -fondly referred to as Jimi Hendrix- that fear was still pursuing me. Fortunately I remembered the solution that had come to me the night before and I decided that no matter what, no matter how intense the discomfort or fear, I was going to live in the solution. For me that solution is to practice abundance. It is simple yet not always easy. Regardless of how many seemingly logical rationalizations try to prevent me from being generous, I will prevail and practice abundance. I feel very good about this decision and in the few times I have done so already, my feelings tell me I am doing the right thing. Morocco can be a very overwhelming place, especially for a single traveler. I think when I return here, down the road, I will come with a friend or family member. And despite all the tourist predators and chintzy tourist crap and tourist prices, there are moments where it is all worth it. Earlier today, I sat on the rooftop terrace of the hotel I am staying in and I watched the sunset as the strong ocean winds whipped my face and shirt. And there was a man named Youssef, a cafe owner in the town called Rissani, near the desert. Someone had given me his name and number. I had called him from Fes to tell him I would be arriving. When I got there, he invited me in like a brother, giving me food and tea and a random trinket hanging on his wall. (He looks like a small, Arabic version of Guy Pierce with bad teeth.) And tomorrow I am going to have lunch with a fisherman whom I met this evening and talked to for a half an hour as he put tons of little hooks through sardines. Albeit few, there are decent people in Morocco.
I feel at peace in this moment, other than a slight headache, but the last few days have been incredibly intense. I awoke yesterday in the Moroccan portion of the Sahara desert, called Erg Chebbi. I tightened my shoe laces, donned my zhilaba and turban and proceeded to hike one of, if not the highest dune in that desert. I eventually reached the top, panting, utterly exhausted, mouth stinging and metallic-tasting. And then the glorious sun climbed upon its throne in the sky. For most of my time in the desert, I was plagued with one of my deepest fears, that of lack, of not having enough. Incessant thoughts about how much I was paying for the camel trek, which wasnt even that much, kept buzzing through my mind. I kept mathematically caclulating how much that equalled in all sorts of different terms. It was extremely unsettling. I spent two nights, and about a day and a half in that desert. And when we began our return to the village, I, perched atop my camel -fondly referred to as Jimi Hendrix- that fear was still pursuing me. Fortunately I remembered the solution that had come to me the night before and I decided that no matter what, no matter how intense the discomfort or fear, I was going to live in the solution. For me that solution is to practice abundance. It is simple yet not always easy. Regardless of how many seemingly logical rationalizations try to prevent me from being generous, I will prevail and practice abundance. I feel very good about this decision and in the few times I have done so already, my feelings tell me I am doing the right thing. Morocco can be a very overwhelming place, especially for a single traveler. I think when I return here, down the road, I will come with a friend or family member. And despite all the tourist predators and chintzy tourist crap and tourist prices, there are moments where it is all worth it. Earlier today, I sat on the rooftop terrace of the hotel I am staying in and I watched the sunset as the strong ocean winds whipped my face and shirt. And there was a man named Youssef, a cafe owner in the town called Rissani, near the desert. Someone had given me his name and number. I had called him from Fes to tell him I would be arriving. When I got there, he invited me in like a brother, giving me food and tea and a random trinket hanging on his wall. (He looks like a small, Arabic version of Guy Pierce with bad teeth.) And tomorrow I am going to have lunch with a fisherman whom I met this evening and talked to for a half an hour as he put tons of little hooks through sardines. Albeit few, there are decent people in Morocco.
Friday, November 23, 2007
My Thanksgiving Day
Fes, Morocco
I am a little irritated as flies occasionally alight on the side of my face. I have spent the morning wandering around the old Medina, bargaining with vendors, being declined the ability to take pictures of old men, and observing little boys trying to cut off pieces of sugar cane from a large stick. It is interesting, although I am feeling a little burnt out. It might be because I only got about five and a half hours of sleep last night. Or it might be because of all the effort in declining the constant offers to guide me around the Medina or to sell me drugs, which usually comes after I decline the guide offer. I dont know if that last sentence is grammatically correct or even understandable but at this moment, I dont care. Yesterday when we finally arrived at the bus station in Fes, I was pounced on by a scammer guide, like a cat on a mentally retarded, three-legged mouse. Note: I just glanced around the internet cafe to see where the noise is coming from as it seems someone is watching a movie. I happened to notice another patron viewing a hardcore pornographic movie on his computer. The same thing happend in Madrid, so I guess its not just Moroccan guys. But either way I could have done without that. Anyway, back at the bus station last night, a couple from the bus offered for me to share a taxi with them to their hotel which cost 80 Dirham a night. In the confusion, I dont really know how or why I was confused, but the Moroccan managed to confuse me long enough for the couple to walk out the door. For the next two and a half hours, I deeply regretted having not gone with them. I asked many people about finding a cheap hotel near the Medina. One guy suggested that I get a cheap hotel nearby and visit the Medina in the morning. I didnt want to find a place and sit around in the new part of town, which resembles an Arabic Chicago, albeit Ive never been to Chicago. So I continued on, declining an offer to stay at the house of a young man that I asked for information about a cheap hotel. I was afraid I would be sodomized and robbed in the middle of the night. At this point, I was consumed by fear. I was seething with anger at the hustler from the bus station and the fact that I was alone and without lodging in a big, totally foreign city. I happened upon some Australian people who seemed to know where they were. We all sat down to have a coffee and they let me look up some places to stay before giving me the pages on Morocco, from the guide. Grateful to be speaking English and the companionship, I treated them to the warm beverages. However, that was only a temporary reprieve from the cold, harsh world that existed outside the doors of that little cafe. I continued on for the next two hours from hotel to hotel and they were all full. I visited about seven. My pack seemed to grow exponentially in weight from each hotel that was booked. And my back was now in serious pain. I found another place that was also sold out, but the guy told me to sit down and he would make a few calls after he finished eating. So I sat and massaged my back. He found me a place down the street for 100 Dirham. I agreed and headed off to the hotel. After dropping off my pack, I returned to the soup kitchen I had passed on the way, where locals dined. I approached the entrance and was trying to figure out how to order when the guy sitting near the doorway understood my desire to eat and ordered for me. I realized -- or invented -- that this guy was like a young mob boss who ran that neighborhood, or at least that restaurant. I feasted on my greenish soup, chunk of bread, and sweet mint tea. Through the course of my Thanksgiving dinner, I was aware of the nearby boss smoking, presumably marijuana, from a long wooden pipe, as well as possibly selling drugs to passersby. After my second glass of tea, he invited me to his table. I sat down and he ordered me a third glass. He then began making conversation in French or Arabic, neither of which I understood. And his friends were able to translate one or two words in English. At some point the topic of my zilaba came up -- which I happened to be wearing, as I am now. He asked how much I paid. I told him. Then I believe he offered to buy it from me for 10 Dirham more than I paid, approximately 1. 50 US Dollars. As I consciously raised the language barrier and pretended to be very confused, three thoughts ran through my mind: 1- I do not want to sell my zilaba, 2- If I were to sell my zilaba, I would not sell it for such a tiny profit, and 3- This man could potentially rob me of my zilaba, video camera and money, and ditch me in a dark alley somewhere and no one would do anything about it. I kept up my faux misunderstanding long enough for the subject to change. Although the conversation took a potentially-expected, though even more uncomfortable turn. Mr. Bush. The boss casually joked about the assassination of our President using gestures of a gun and slapping the back of his head. I politely nodded and smiled, hoping the satellites that were now videoing that conversation couldnt catch my face, from their angle in space. As I write this, I realize that it will come up in some database somewhere, but as those were the mere ramblings of a drugged, Moroccan hoodlum, I am not worried. I took some pictures of the scene before heading off to purchase some honey-glazed pastries. I ate my dessert and finished off the Swiss chocolate that I bought in Lugano weeks ago. And after journalling and reading, my Thanksgiving day ended as I drifted off to dreamland in a small hotel room in Fes.
I am a little irritated as flies occasionally alight on the side of my face. I have spent the morning wandering around the old Medina, bargaining with vendors, being declined the ability to take pictures of old men, and observing little boys trying to cut off pieces of sugar cane from a large stick. It is interesting, although I am feeling a little burnt out. It might be because I only got about five and a half hours of sleep last night. Or it might be because of all the effort in declining the constant offers to guide me around the Medina or to sell me drugs, which usually comes after I decline the guide offer. I dont know if that last sentence is grammatically correct or even understandable but at this moment, I dont care. Yesterday when we finally arrived at the bus station in Fes, I was pounced on by a scammer guide, like a cat on a mentally retarded, three-legged mouse. Note: I just glanced around the internet cafe to see where the noise is coming from as it seems someone is watching a movie. I happened to notice another patron viewing a hardcore pornographic movie on his computer. The same thing happend in Madrid, so I guess its not just Moroccan guys. But either way I could have done without that. Anyway, back at the bus station last night, a couple from the bus offered for me to share a taxi with them to their hotel which cost 80 Dirham a night. In the confusion, I dont really know how or why I was confused, but the Moroccan managed to confuse me long enough for the couple to walk out the door. For the next two and a half hours, I deeply regretted having not gone with them. I asked many people about finding a cheap hotel near the Medina. One guy suggested that I get a cheap hotel nearby and visit the Medina in the morning. I didnt want to find a place and sit around in the new part of town, which resembles an Arabic Chicago, albeit Ive never been to Chicago. So I continued on, declining an offer to stay at the house of a young man that I asked for information about a cheap hotel. I was afraid I would be sodomized and robbed in the middle of the night. At this point, I was consumed by fear. I was seething with anger at the hustler from the bus station and the fact that I was alone and without lodging in a big, totally foreign city. I happened upon some Australian people who seemed to know where they were. We all sat down to have a coffee and they let me look up some places to stay before giving me the pages on Morocco, from the guide. Grateful to be speaking English and the companionship, I treated them to the warm beverages. However, that was only a temporary reprieve from the cold, harsh world that existed outside the doors of that little cafe. I continued on for the next two hours from hotel to hotel and they were all full. I visited about seven. My pack seemed to grow exponentially in weight from each hotel that was booked. And my back was now in serious pain. I found another place that was also sold out, but the guy told me to sit down and he would make a few calls after he finished eating. So I sat and massaged my back. He found me a place down the street for 100 Dirham. I agreed and headed off to the hotel. After dropping off my pack, I returned to the soup kitchen I had passed on the way, where locals dined. I approached the entrance and was trying to figure out how to order when the guy sitting near the doorway understood my desire to eat and ordered for me. I realized -- or invented -- that this guy was like a young mob boss who ran that neighborhood, or at least that restaurant. I feasted on my greenish soup, chunk of bread, and sweet mint tea. Through the course of my Thanksgiving dinner, I was aware of the nearby boss smoking, presumably marijuana, from a long wooden pipe, as well as possibly selling drugs to passersby. After my second glass of tea, he invited me to his table. I sat down and he ordered me a third glass. He then began making conversation in French or Arabic, neither of which I understood. And his friends were able to translate one or two words in English. At some point the topic of my zilaba came up -- which I happened to be wearing, as I am now. He asked how much I paid. I told him. Then I believe he offered to buy it from me for 10 Dirham more than I paid, approximately 1. 50 US Dollars. As I consciously raised the language barrier and pretended to be very confused, three thoughts ran through my mind: 1- I do not want to sell my zilaba, 2- If I were to sell my zilaba, I would not sell it for such a tiny profit, and 3- This man could potentially rob me of my zilaba, video camera and money, and ditch me in a dark alley somewhere and no one would do anything about it. I kept up my faux misunderstanding long enough for the subject to change. Although the conversation took a potentially-expected, though even more uncomfortable turn. Mr. Bush. The boss casually joked about the assassination of our President using gestures of a gun and slapping the back of his head. I politely nodded and smiled, hoping the satellites that were now videoing that conversation couldnt catch my face, from their angle in space. As I write this, I realize that it will come up in some database somewhere, but as those were the mere ramblings of a drugged, Moroccan hoodlum, I am not worried. I took some pictures of the scene before heading off to purchase some honey-glazed pastries. I ate my dessert and finished off the Swiss chocolate that I bought in Lugano weeks ago. And after journalling and reading, my Thanksgiving day ended as I drifted off to dreamland in a small hotel room in Fes.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Le atekelem Arabia and things of that nature.
Chefchouan, Morocco
*Note: Please know that I am typing on an old, French and Arabic keyboard, in a small mountain village of Morocco, so please excuse any and all typos.
I am warm and comfy in my newly purchased Zilaba, a full length robe like garment with a pointy KKK style hood and two small slits in the sides to put your hands through. My particular one is dark brown with small dark brown stripes and smaller white stripes. The man wanted 380 Dirham for it. I bargained him down to 290, approximately 42 US Dollars. However, I didnt buy it right away. I walked away and checked out prices at other shops. I did return eventually after asking Mustafa -the young man who runs the place Im staying - and he said 300 was a good price. Whether I overpaid or not, I dont care because now I am warm and stylish, maybe except for the fact that I am wearing my green raincoat/windbreaker over the zilaba.
I arrived yesterday from a rocky three hour ferry ride from Algeciras, in the South of Spain, to Tangiers, Morocco. The slight initial sprinkling became a drenching downpour. Most of my belongings are still drenched and hanging to dry in my room, as I type this. I eventually found my way to the bus depot and bought a ticket for Chefchouan. I achieved this by warding off several men who wanted to find me a taxi or accompany me through the dangerous streets that I would have to walk through -- according to the man. There was also an old lady from the boat who seemed to be helpful and friendly, in exchanged for me helping lug her 5 heavy bags from the ship. However when we got to the taxi and I didnt have the 2 Euros to pay for the ride, she hopped in the car and they took off without so much as a second glance. I asked directions from two different posts of checkpoint guards, and possibly also policemen. When revealed that I am from the US, the second checkpoint officer got a glimmer in his eyes and began enthusiastically talking about the beauty of Los Angeles and the discos in Las Vegas. I dont think he had ever been there, these were just faraway fantasies. I thanked him and was about to say goodbye when he took off in the opposite direction, blowing his whistle and chasing after a couple young rapscallions who had run by the gate. After realizing he couldnt catch up with them, he shrugged and turned around. I began to head off for the bus station when he called to me and waved goodbye excitedly. I waved back, and as I turned around to continue on, I believe he was still waving. I waited for several hours in the bus depot, journalling, reading, and munching on snacks I had purchased earlier in the day -- around which time I somehow lost my sweater/jacket. The bus finally arrived in Chefchouan around 11:30ish PM. It dropped me off on the side of a lowly lit road, supposedly near the bus station. Within minutes, a police officer had come out to help. However he only spoke French, so he held my umbrella as I fumbled around my moist mochila -- لسيبسشيب سيتمنسيمبنتس سمينتبس ث تثهçس. Mochila means backpack. Thats what I was trying to type when my keyboard became possessed and began spewing Arabic characters as you can see above. Anyway, the kind policeman patiently got rained on as I looked up the words hotel and inexpensive, in my little French phrasebook. He pointed me up an incredibly steep street and told me to ask the police up there -- all this was in French mind you. Panting, I reached the top of the hill and headed down the main boulevard. I found the policeman and they politely accompanied me to a hotel. The bigger of the two incessantly, knocked, banged and rang the doorbell until the sleepy hotel manager opened the door and infomed us they were full. We continued on to another place that charged signicantly more than I wanted to spend, having forked over 25 Euros the night before for an insect-inhabited, port-town room. I continued on alone, thanking the officers for their assistance. Eventually after climbing another steep incline and wandering around a labyrinth of white and blue connected buildings, which I believe to be the Medina, I found my little Oasis -- Pensiones Cordoba. It was warm and dry and for 70 Dirham a night, it was Heaven. Mustafa, the aforementioned pension manager, showed me around the corner to a little hole-in-the-wall where I purchased a mug of fruit and green yogurt, and a sandwich that contained tuna, small slices of ham, pasta salad, pickles, onions, tomatoes, green olives and ketchup. I also purchased a bottle of water from another nearby shop and we headed back to the pension. I devoured my food, perched atop a hard pillow, while Mustafa and Abdul watched Argentina and Colombia duke it out on the soccerfield, on TV.
I have always said that I Love the rain. And I do. However, I must say that it is not the most ideal condition to experience the beauty of this wonderess country known as Morocco.
*Note: Please know that I am typing on an old, French and Arabic keyboard, in a small mountain village of Morocco, so please excuse any and all typos.
I am warm and comfy in my newly purchased Zilaba, a full length robe like garment with a pointy KKK style hood and two small slits in the sides to put your hands through. My particular one is dark brown with small dark brown stripes and smaller white stripes. The man wanted 380 Dirham for it. I bargained him down to 290, approximately 42 US Dollars. However, I didnt buy it right away. I walked away and checked out prices at other shops. I did return eventually after asking Mustafa -the young man who runs the place Im staying - and he said 300 was a good price. Whether I overpaid or not, I dont care because now I am warm and stylish, maybe except for the fact that I am wearing my green raincoat/windbreaker over the zilaba.
I arrived yesterday from a rocky three hour ferry ride from Algeciras, in the South of Spain, to Tangiers, Morocco. The slight initial sprinkling became a drenching downpour. Most of my belongings are still drenched and hanging to dry in my room, as I type this. I eventually found my way to the bus depot and bought a ticket for Chefchouan. I achieved this by warding off several men who wanted to find me a taxi or accompany me through the dangerous streets that I would have to walk through -- according to the man. There was also an old lady from the boat who seemed to be helpful and friendly, in exchanged for me helping lug her 5 heavy bags from the ship. However when we got to the taxi and I didnt have the 2 Euros to pay for the ride, she hopped in the car and they took off without so much as a second glance. I asked directions from two different posts of checkpoint guards, and possibly also policemen. When revealed that I am from the US, the second checkpoint officer got a glimmer in his eyes and began enthusiastically talking about the beauty of Los Angeles and the discos in Las Vegas. I dont think he had ever been there, these were just faraway fantasies. I thanked him and was about to say goodbye when he took off in the opposite direction, blowing his whistle and chasing after a couple young rapscallions who had run by the gate. After realizing he couldnt catch up with them, he shrugged and turned around. I began to head off for the bus station when he called to me and waved goodbye excitedly. I waved back, and as I turned around to continue on, I believe he was still waving. I waited for several hours in the bus depot, journalling, reading, and munching on snacks I had purchased earlier in the day -- around which time I somehow lost my sweater/jacket. The bus finally arrived in Chefchouan around 11:30ish PM. It dropped me off on the side of a lowly lit road, supposedly near the bus station. Within minutes, a police officer had come out to help. However he only spoke French, so he held my umbrella as I fumbled around my moist mochila -- لسيبسشيب سيتمنسيمبنتس سمينتبس ث تثهçس. Mochila means backpack. Thats what I was trying to type when my keyboard became possessed and began spewing Arabic characters as you can see above. Anyway, the kind policeman patiently got rained on as I looked up the words hotel and inexpensive, in my little French phrasebook. He pointed me up an incredibly steep street and told me to ask the police up there -- all this was in French mind you. Panting, I reached the top of the hill and headed down the main boulevard. I found the policeman and they politely accompanied me to a hotel. The bigger of the two incessantly, knocked, banged and rang the doorbell until the sleepy hotel manager opened the door and infomed us they were full. We continued on to another place that charged signicantly more than I wanted to spend, having forked over 25 Euros the night before for an insect-inhabited, port-town room. I continued on alone, thanking the officers for their assistance. Eventually after climbing another steep incline and wandering around a labyrinth of white and blue connected buildings, which I believe to be the Medina, I found my little Oasis -- Pensiones Cordoba. It was warm and dry and for 70 Dirham a night, it was Heaven. Mustafa, the aforementioned pension manager, showed me around the corner to a little hole-in-the-wall where I purchased a mug of fruit and green yogurt, and a sandwich that contained tuna, small slices of ham, pasta salad, pickles, onions, tomatoes, green olives and ketchup. I also purchased a bottle of water from another nearby shop and we headed back to the pension. I devoured my food, perched atop a hard pillow, while Mustafa and Abdul watched Argentina and Colombia duke it out on the soccerfield, on TV.
I have always said that I Love the rain. And I do. However, I must say that it is not the most ideal condition to experience the beauty of this wonderess country known as Morocco.
Monday, November 19, 2007
New Friends
Madrid, Spain
I'm currently at an internet cafe in Madrid as it gently hails outside. I arrived this morning on a night train from Portugal. I leave in a few hours for Algeciras in the South of Spain. I have spent the past few days in Porto, Portugal. I spent the first two days there sleeping and planning the rest of my trip. My couchsurfing host let me just do my thing at her place. Then she left town Friday morning, so I moved on to another host. I spent the next two days with my second host's housemates, a sweet Spanish girl who frequently smoked and one night wore a green gem under each eye, named Ainara and a lovely and attractive Brazilian couple, Sophia and Gabriel. We had a great time and we really connected. The first night, we went to a bar where there were free moldy chestnuts and neverending boxed wine. People were singing kareoke to classic Portugese songs and a little boy sang a Spanish song entitled, "Tengo la camisa negra." The following night we wandered around from one bar to another and eventually returned to the first one we were at and proceeded to play pool for the next four hours, with the occasional dancing interlude. It was a lot of fun, and when we decided to leave at around 5 AM, I was somehow no longer sleepy. (It's strange to be in a foreign country and all of a sudden, Natalie Imbruglia's "Torn," starts up on the radio as it has just now, and I'm flooded with a faint sense of nostalgia and comfort.) Ainara and I sat in the kitchen after we returned from the bar. She sliced and ate an apple. A few times on this trip, that moment included, I thought about meeting that person again down the road, ten, twenty years from now and how awesome it will be to remember that time we, for example, sat in a kitchen in Porto at five in the morning while one of us ate an apple and we were young and full of dreams we had yet to accomplish. Yesterday I slept in. We strolled to a grocery store and after much belaboring about what Gabriel would and wouldn't eat, we bought a bunch of food (for less than 8 Euros) and continued on to their friend, Miraldo's house. On the way, we walked through the oldest public park in Porto, and quite possibly Portugal. There were about twenty old men huddled around a small card table with four guys shuffling and dealing cards. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to pull out my video camera and shoot some video, capturing the curious glances at first and then the irritated scowls as I continued to record them. I must declare that Portugal has some of the cutest old people I have ever seen. I just wanted to go on record saying that. And furthermore, I think the Tourist department of Portugal should focus more on this quality in their advertisements. I think it would have a big pull. So, Ainara and Sophia prepared a delicious meal last night and we dined to melodic Dave Matthews Band floating from the speakers. I felt sad to leave my new friends. It had only been two days but it felt like it had been at least a week. I feel sad right now. I had my first train goodbye, last night as Ainara stood on the platform, and I, with my face pressed against the glass, tried to shoot some video of the farewell. As the train slowly creaked away, Ainara's waving figure disappeared from sight.
About ten years ago, I attended a summer camp in Maine. I became friends with a boy named Lorenzo from Madrid. As camp came to an end, he gave me his home address. Those were the days before email, so that was the only information I had about him. I never sent him a letter or stayed in touch. About two weeks before leaving for Europe, I wrote him a letter and included my email address. I never heard from him. I decided that since I'm here in Madrid, I had to go to the address I have and see if his family still lives there. I arrived there, fortunately they live on the main street in Madrid, and after speaking through the intercom for a couple minutes to a woman, who I presumed was his mother, I eventually was invited up. I was greeted by a tiny woman who offered me coffee. Now, in Granada, my host family there explained that to be polite you must refuse the first offer and then agree to subsequent offers. However, I did in fact want a coffee and didn't want to risk not getting another offer. So I agreed to the coffee, sort of reluctantly to maintain the idea of declining the first offer. Then she offered me bread or cake. I wanted this too, but the last thing I wanted was to be impolite. I explained what I had been told by my hosts in Granada. The lady told me to say what I wanted. And I said cake. We chatted for a bit... apparently my friend is working in Singapore at the moment and then will work in Hong Kong in January. A couple times, the woman referred to Lorenzo's mom, and I started to realize that this was not his mother. I left a note for Lorenzo. Then she provided me with a list of places I must visit when I return to Madrid in two weeks, refilled my water bottle and bid me farewell. I thanked her and left.
Now, I wanted it to be a surprise, but it's possible I might not have internet access, so I'm going to break the news now. Tomorrow morning, I will be taking a ferry across to Morocco where I will spend two weeks traveling, exploring, and documenting this uncharted region. I really have no idea of what to expect other than what a few travellers have told me about the incessant vendors. I am rather excited. It will be an another opportunity to practice restraint from buying lots of stuff. Unless I find a really cool scimitar.
I'm currently at an internet cafe in Madrid as it gently hails outside. I arrived this morning on a night train from Portugal. I leave in a few hours for Algeciras in the South of Spain. I have spent the past few days in Porto, Portugal. I spent the first two days there sleeping and planning the rest of my trip. My couchsurfing host let me just do my thing at her place. Then she left town Friday morning, so I moved on to another host. I spent the next two days with my second host's housemates, a sweet Spanish girl who frequently smoked and one night wore a green gem under each eye, named Ainara and a lovely and attractive Brazilian couple, Sophia and Gabriel. We had a great time and we really connected. The first night, we went to a bar where there were free moldy chestnuts and neverending boxed wine. People were singing kareoke to classic Portugese songs and a little boy sang a Spanish song entitled, "Tengo la camisa negra." The following night we wandered around from one bar to another and eventually returned to the first one we were at and proceeded to play pool for the next four hours, with the occasional dancing interlude. It was a lot of fun, and when we decided to leave at around 5 AM, I was somehow no longer sleepy. (It's strange to be in a foreign country and all of a sudden, Natalie Imbruglia's "Torn," starts up on the radio as it has just now, and I'm flooded with a faint sense of nostalgia and comfort.) Ainara and I sat in the kitchen after we returned from the bar. She sliced and ate an apple. A few times on this trip, that moment included, I thought about meeting that person again down the road, ten, twenty years from now and how awesome it will be to remember that time we, for example, sat in a kitchen in Porto at five in the morning while one of us ate an apple and we were young and full of dreams we had yet to accomplish. Yesterday I slept in. We strolled to a grocery store and after much belaboring about what Gabriel would and wouldn't eat, we bought a bunch of food (for less than 8 Euros) and continued on to their friend, Miraldo's house. On the way, we walked through the oldest public park in Porto, and quite possibly Portugal. There were about twenty old men huddled around a small card table with four guys shuffling and dealing cards. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to pull out my video camera and shoot some video, capturing the curious glances at first and then the irritated scowls as I continued to record them. I must declare that Portugal has some of the cutest old people I have ever seen. I just wanted to go on record saying that. And furthermore, I think the Tourist department of Portugal should focus more on this quality in their advertisements. I think it would have a big pull. So, Ainara and Sophia prepared a delicious meal last night and we dined to melodic Dave Matthews Band floating from the speakers. I felt sad to leave my new friends. It had only been two days but it felt like it had been at least a week. I feel sad right now. I had my first train goodbye, last night as Ainara stood on the platform, and I, with my face pressed against the glass, tried to shoot some video of the farewell. As the train slowly creaked away, Ainara's waving figure disappeared from sight.
About ten years ago, I attended a summer camp in Maine. I became friends with a boy named Lorenzo from Madrid. As camp came to an end, he gave me his home address. Those were the days before email, so that was the only information I had about him. I never sent him a letter or stayed in touch. About two weeks before leaving for Europe, I wrote him a letter and included my email address. I never heard from him. I decided that since I'm here in Madrid, I had to go to the address I have and see if his family still lives there. I arrived there, fortunately they live on the main street in Madrid, and after speaking through the intercom for a couple minutes to a woman, who I presumed was his mother, I eventually was invited up. I was greeted by a tiny woman who offered me coffee. Now, in Granada, my host family there explained that to be polite you must refuse the first offer and then agree to subsequent offers. However, I did in fact want a coffee and didn't want to risk not getting another offer. So I agreed to the coffee, sort of reluctantly to maintain the idea of declining the first offer. Then she offered me bread or cake. I wanted this too, but the last thing I wanted was to be impolite. I explained what I had been told by my hosts in Granada. The lady told me to say what I wanted. And I said cake. We chatted for a bit... apparently my friend is working in Singapore at the moment and then will work in Hong Kong in January. A couple times, the woman referred to Lorenzo's mom, and I started to realize that this was not his mother. I left a note for Lorenzo. Then she provided me with a list of places I must visit when I return to Madrid in two weeks, refilled my water bottle and bid me farewell. I thanked her and left.
Now, I wanted it to be a surprise, but it's possible I might not have internet access, so I'm going to break the news now. Tomorrow morning, I will be taking a ferry across to Morocco where I will spend two weeks traveling, exploring, and documenting this uncharted region. I really have no idea of what to expect other than what a few travellers have told me about the incessant vendors. I am rather excited. It will be an another opportunity to practice restraint from buying lots of stuff. Unless I find a really cool scimitar.
Monday, November 12, 2007
International Dinner
Lisbon, Portugal,
My stomach is still full after a feast prepared by a guy that works here at the hostel. It started with Portugese Gazpacho, followed by four or five different pastas. At the table there were the Portugese guys who work here, a German guy, a Swiss guy, a girl from Singapore, two guys from Malyasia, a Japanese guy, a Venezuelan guy, an Australian guy, and myself, the American. It was pretty cool to be eating dinner with such an international group of people. Lisbon seems like a cool city. Today I went to the Aquarium. I Loved it. I had a conversation with the adorable sea otters and I stared for minutes into the eyes of a monstrous Grouper fish, only separated by inches of glass. I truly Love observing animals. I also happened to shoot almost an hour of video... wanting to share the experience with my family when I return home. I also realized how important it is to take measures to protect the environment. Practically every informational sign in the place mentioned how the animal was negatively affected by humans. It's very unfortunate. Yesterday I arrived here at eight in the morning on a night train. After exiting the station and thawing out from the frozen tundra of a train cabin, I made my way to a square to await the opening of the tourist office. Along the way, I was guided by a friendly, English-speaking policeman. What a refreshing experience to meet a friendly policeman. I sat in the square where people were setting up for a celebration of St. Martin, I believe, the Patron Saint of Chestnuts... or at least chestnuts are a big part of the celebration. While I sat and journalled and read, I was approached by a scruffy, toothless, old man wearing a dishevelled brown suit trying to sell me hash or pot. I declined to which he said he'd give me a good price. I declined again. Eventually, I found the hostel that had been recommended to me by the Australians I met in Seville. I dropped off my bag and headed out to a nearby town, Belem, where the museums and national sites were free until 2 PM. I visited the 500 year old Monastery and a little tower right on the water. Nice buildings, but only buildings. Again I realized that I really don't care for things, as much as life. That's why the Aquarium was so great today. I have gone a couple days now without my digital camera and I feel pretty good about it. I had decided that I'm not going to replace it. I was compulsively taking pictures and missing out on the moments. Now, I'm not taking pictures and I think I'm able to appreciate more whatever I'm looking at. Plus I notice the pictures that other people take, and I know that I'd be taking a picture too of the same meaningless old building. I've thought about the moments before my camera stopped working. I was at the Alhambra, in Granada, taking pictures of the old, intricate designs on the walls. A woman walked up and I stepped aside to allow her to take pictures. In her broken English, she suggested that many people just take pictures and don't actually appreciate whatever they're seeing. I agreed but continued to take meaningless pictures. Not fifteen minutes later, my camera broke, my last pictures of a few goldfish swimming in the pool. Goldfish swimming in a pool? Give me a break! There I was in Granada, Spain and I was taking fricking pictures of goldfish. I deserved to have my camera broken. Anyway, I'm at peace with the whole thing. That's not to say I'm not shooting tons of video....
My stomach is still full after a feast prepared by a guy that works here at the hostel. It started with Portugese Gazpacho, followed by four or five different pastas. At the table there were the Portugese guys who work here, a German guy, a Swiss guy, a girl from Singapore, two guys from Malyasia, a Japanese guy, a Venezuelan guy, an Australian guy, and myself, the American. It was pretty cool to be eating dinner with such an international group of people. Lisbon seems like a cool city. Today I went to the Aquarium. I Loved it. I had a conversation with the adorable sea otters and I stared for minutes into the eyes of a monstrous Grouper fish, only separated by inches of glass. I truly Love observing animals. I also happened to shoot almost an hour of video... wanting to share the experience with my family when I return home. I also realized how important it is to take measures to protect the environment. Practically every informational sign in the place mentioned how the animal was negatively affected by humans. It's very unfortunate. Yesterday I arrived here at eight in the morning on a night train. After exiting the station and thawing out from the frozen tundra of a train cabin, I made my way to a square to await the opening of the tourist office. Along the way, I was guided by a friendly, English-speaking policeman. What a refreshing experience to meet a friendly policeman. I sat in the square where people were setting up for a celebration of St. Martin, I believe, the Patron Saint of Chestnuts... or at least chestnuts are a big part of the celebration. While I sat and journalled and read, I was approached by a scruffy, toothless, old man wearing a dishevelled brown suit trying to sell me hash or pot. I declined to which he said he'd give me a good price. I declined again. Eventually, I found the hostel that had been recommended to me by the Australians I met in Seville. I dropped off my bag and headed out to a nearby town, Belem, where the museums and national sites were free until 2 PM. I visited the 500 year old Monastery and a little tower right on the water. Nice buildings, but only buildings. Again I realized that I really don't care for things, as much as life. That's why the Aquarium was so great today. I have gone a couple days now without my digital camera and I feel pretty good about it. I had decided that I'm not going to replace it. I was compulsively taking pictures and missing out on the moments. Now, I'm not taking pictures and I think I'm able to appreciate more whatever I'm looking at. Plus I notice the pictures that other people take, and I know that I'd be taking a picture too of the same meaningless old building. I've thought about the moments before my camera stopped working. I was at the Alhambra, in Granada, taking pictures of the old, intricate designs on the walls. A woman walked up and I stepped aside to allow her to take pictures. In her broken English, she suggested that many people just take pictures and don't actually appreciate whatever they're seeing. I agreed but continued to take meaningless pictures. Not fifteen minutes later, my camera broke, my last pictures of a few goldfish swimming in the pool. Goldfish swimming in a pool? Give me a break! There I was in Granada, Spain and I was taking fricking pictures of goldfish. I deserved to have my camera broken. Anyway, I'm at peace with the whole thing. That's not to say I'm not shooting tons of video....
Friday, November 9, 2007
Ole'
Seville, Spain
Wow. I just had such a wonderful laugh at the comment that Ally made about my previous blog entry. If you haven't yet read it, I suggest you do so now. So Spain, here I am. It's definitely different from Italy. It seems a lot more modern and cosmopolitan. I'm almost completely transitioned from thinking in the few Italian phrases that I knew, to thinking in Spanish. Although I'm still getting accustomed to saying my "c's" and "z's" as "th." I arrived today from Granada. I was there for a couple days. It was a quiet little city. Nothing special for me. I spent a whole day at the Alhambra, a large, ancient Arabic palace/fortress that is a huge tourist attraction. The designs were incredibly intricate. The gardens were well-groomed. However, I discovered that I prefer to watch living things, such as animals, bees, people, and even flowers and trees, versus old, lifeless buildings. Even buildings that required amazing skill or countless years of effort, I still just don't feel very connected. At least that's how I felt about the Alhambra. I was tired so I took a nap at the top of the highest tower. I was awakened after awhile by a noisy Japanese tour group. Also, interesting fact about Granada, apparently it is extremely common to smoke hash/pot. According to my couchsurfing host Pablo, it's more common and acceptable than in Amsterdam. Just thought I'd throw out that delightful little tidbit. Walking around the city, Pablo and I were propositioned by a normal-looking middle-aged woman to sell us pot. Later, in broad daylight people were smoking joints in the plaza, several plazas actually. My camera completely broke yesterday... I can not even take blurry, abstract pictures. I turn it on and it just beeps angrily at me and then flashes E18 at the lower corner of the LCD screen. I was desperate so I unscrewed the case and took it off, it's two pieces actually. Interestingly enough, my CANON camera is composed of several parts, including the LCD screen, manufactured by SONY. Odd, huh? I thought so.
Well, there's more to write, but for now, I'm off to a bar with some fellow travellers staying in the hostel here. Hasta luego.
Wow. I just had such a wonderful laugh at the comment that Ally made about my previous blog entry. If you haven't yet read it, I suggest you do so now. So Spain, here I am. It's definitely different from Italy. It seems a lot more modern and cosmopolitan. I'm almost completely transitioned from thinking in the few Italian phrases that I knew, to thinking in Spanish. Although I'm still getting accustomed to saying my "c's" and "z's" as "th." I arrived today from Granada. I was there for a couple days. It was a quiet little city. Nothing special for me. I spent a whole day at the Alhambra, a large, ancient Arabic palace/fortress that is a huge tourist attraction. The designs were incredibly intricate. The gardens were well-groomed. However, I discovered that I prefer to watch living things, such as animals, bees, people, and even flowers and trees, versus old, lifeless buildings. Even buildings that required amazing skill or countless years of effort, I still just don't feel very connected. At least that's how I felt about the Alhambra. I was tired so I took a nap at the top of the highest tower. I was awakened after awhile by a noisy Japanese tour group. Also, interesting fact about Granada, apparently it is extremely common to smoke hash/pot. According to my couchsurfing host Pablo, it's more common and acceptable than in Amsterdam. Just thought I'd throw out that delightful little tidbit. Walking around the city, Pablo and I were propositioned by a normal-looking middle-aged woman to sell us pot. Later, in broad daylight people were smoking joints in the plaza, several plazas actually. My camera completely broke yesterday... I can not even take blurry, abstract pictures. I turn it on and it just beeps angrily at me and then flashes E18 at the lower corner of the LCD screen. I was desperate so I unscrewed the case and took it off, it's two pieces actually. Interestingly enough, my CANON camera is composed of several parts, including the LCD screen, manufactured by SONY. Odd, huh? I thought so.
Well, there's more to write, but for now, I'm off to a bar with some fellow travellers staying in the hostel here. Hasta luego.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Last Day in Italy
Palermo, Sicily, Italy
(Note: I wrote this last night, so "today" actually refers to yesterday.)
It’s late and I’m ready for bed. I arrived in Palermo this morning on a night train from Napoli. I managed to get a little sleep and not have anything stolen. Upon arrival I took care of some business, including shipping my large piece of driftwood to the U.S. When I walked away from the Mail Boxes Etc., I felt so much lighter. As much as I enjoyed seeing the look on people’s faces as they stared at my driftwood, I don’t think I could carry it around anymore. Eventually I arrived at my host’s apartment. I showered and then headed out to explore the city. Palermo is an amazing place. It is so old. It is so dirty and downtrodden. However, there is also a sort of majestic quality to it. It is very rich with life. I wandered around for awhile occasionally taking a picture with my semi-functioning camera. I wanted to eat something traditional, and eventually I found it. As I walked down the main street, Via Roma, massive amounts of smoke wafted up some stairs from a side street. I went down them and was lead to a man grilling meats and several Italian men standing and eating. I knew this was my lunch. I ordered two and waited as they were thrown on the grill. I sprinkled some salt and squeezed a lime onto the meat, as the Italian men had done. Then I proceeded to enjoy my lunch, which was grilled animal intestines of some sort. The texture was strange, but it was a fun experience. I wandered around for awhile more, taking more pictures and shooting some video. At some point, I stopped and sat down to write some postcards. I was sitting near an open-air market that smelled of fish. There were a bunch of men nearby yelling and talking rather loudly and enthusiastically. Being in Palermo, I felt very much as if I’m in an Italian movie. Everything is so classic… the buildings, the sounds, the people, the food. It’s magnificent. I will definitely return to Sicily. I had a Sicilian swordfish spaghetti for dinner with my host. A fire-twirling dancer performed for a few minutes. After dinner, we walked down the street and I ate a true cannolo – the Sicilian pasty filled with a sweet ricotta filling. I have had a wonderful last day in Italy. As much as I Love Italy, I know it is really just the beginning of my Italian adventures.
And now I will list all the things I will miss and the things I will not miss in Italy, and the Central/Eastern European excursion.
The things I will miss in Italy (and Central/Eastern European Excursion):
- Chasing pigeons
- The Macro world of insects
- Inside jokes with Josh
- Beef goulash with sauerkraut… Mmmm.
- Palermo
- Eleonora’s home-cooked meals
- Cannoli
- Speaking Italian
- Gesturing in Italian
- Photoshoots in Cinque Terre
- Como
- The “David”
- Classically Italian-looking old men
- The colors of the ocean water in Cinque Terre
- Collecting obscure souvenirs, i.e. large, heavy piece of driftwood
- The strange looks that I got from people checking out my obscure souvenirs, i.e. large, heavy piece of driftwood
- The leaves on the trees in Budapest
- Budapest in general
- Pizzas, especially the one in Napoli
- The words, “Franco Bolli,” which mean stamps
The things I will NOT miss in Italy (and Central/Eastern European Excursion):
- dirty trains
- Venetian toilets without seats
- Milano
- Creepy, gay men in the Turkish Bath
- Dealing with exchange rates to Crowns and Forints
- The crazy drivers in Napoli
- The Hungarian gypsies that stole Josh’s camera
- Gypsies in general, even the ones I never came in contact with
- Milano
- Grumpy train ticket salesmen
- Poorly designed graffiti
- Bland dinner from the food court in Budapest
- The hostel in Venice
- Lack of sleep
- The hostel in Prague
- The Brazilian guy who woke me up at 1:30 in the morning to tell me that I was in his bed
- The crazy Turkish guy that was angry at me for dancing with his friend
- Milano
- Dog poo smeared on the sidewalk
- Carrying around a large, heavy piece of driftwood
- The intense rush of adrenaline after taking prohibited photos and video of the “David”
- Not having enough water to drink on the 16 hour train rides to Prague, and then trying to avoid that experience by purchasing several large bottles of water only to carry them around and suffer the weight without ever drinking all the water
- Oh, and… uhm… Milano
(Note: I wrote this last night, so "today" actually refers to yesterday.)
It’s late and I’m ready for bed. I arrived in Palermo this morning on a night train from Napoli. I managed to get a little sleep and not have anything stolen. Upon arrival I took care of some business, including shipping my large piece of driftwood to the U.S. When I walked away from the Mail Boxes Etc., I felt so much lighter. As much as I enjoyed seeing the look on people’s faces as they stared at my driftwood, I don’t think I could carry it around anymore. Eventually I arrived at my host’s apartment. I showered and then headed out to explore the city. Palermo is an amazing place. It is so old. It is so dirty and downtrodden. However, there is also a sort of majestic quality to it. It is very rich with life. I wandered around for awhile occasionally taking a picture with my semi-functioning camera. I wanted to eat something traditional, and eventually I found it. As I walked down the main street, Via Roma, massive amounts of smoke wafted up some stairs from a side street. I went down them and was lead to a man grilling meats and several Italian men standing and eating. I knew this was my lunch. I ordered two and waited as they were thrown on the grill. I sprinkled some salt and squeezed a lime onto the meat, as the Italian men had done. Then I proceeded to enjoy my lunch, which was grilled animal intestines of some sort. The texture was strange, but it was a fun experience. I wandered around for awhile more, taking more pictures and shooting some video. At some point, I stopped and sat down to write some postcards. I was sitting near an open-air market that smelled of fish. There were a bunch of men nearby yelling and talking rather loudly and enthusiastically. Being in Palermo, I felt very much as if I’m in an Italian movie. Everything is so classic… the buildings, the sounds, the people, the food. It’s magnificent. I will definitely return to Sicily. I had a Sicilian swordfish spaghetti for dinner with my host. A fire-twirling dancer performed for a few minutes. After dinner, we walked down the street and I ate a true cannolo – the Sicilian pasty filled with a sweet ricotta filling. I have had a wonderful last day in Italy. As much as I Love Italy, I know it is really just the beginning of my Italian adventures.
And now I will list all the things I will miss and the things I will not miss in Italy, and the Central/Eastern European excursion.
The things I will miss in Italy (and Central/Eastern European Excursion):
- Chasing pigeons
- The Macro world of insects
- Inside jokes with Josh
- Beef goulash with sauerkraut… Mmmm.
- Palermo
- Eleonora’s home-cooked meals
- Cannoli
- Speaking Italian
- Gesturing in Italian
- Photoshoots in Cinque Terre
- Como
- The “David”
- Classically Italian-looking old men
- The colors of the ocean water in Cinque Terre
- Collecting obscure souvenirs, i.e. large, heavy piece of driftwood
- The strange looks that I got from people checking out my obscure souvenirs, i.e. large, heavy piece of driftwood
- The leaves on the trees in Budapest
- Budapest in general
- Pizzas, especially the one in Napoli
- The words, “Franco Bolli,” which mean stamps
The things I will NOT miss in Italy (and Central/Eastern European Excursion):
- dirty trains
- Venetian toilets without seats
- Milano
- Creepy, gay men in the Turkish Bath
- Dealing with exchange rates to Crowns and Forints
- The crazy drivers in Napoli
- The Hungarian gypsies that stole Josh’s camera
- Gypsies in general, even the ones I never came in contact with
- Milano
- Grumpy train ticket salesmen
- Poorly designed graffiti
- Bland dinner from the food court in Budapest
- The hostel in Venice
- Lack of sleep
- The hostel in Prague
- The Brazilian guy who woke me up at 1:30 in the morning to tell me that I was in his bed
- The crazy Turkish guy that was angry at me for dancing with his friend
- Milano
- Dog poo smeared on the sidewalk
- Carrying around a large, heavy piece of driftwood
- The intense rush of adrenaline after taking prohibited photos and video of the “David”
- Not having enough water to drink on the 16 hour train rides to Prague, and then trying to avoid that experience by purchasing several large bottles of water only to carry them around and suffer the weight without ever drinking all the water
- Oh, and… uhm… Milano
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Real Italian Life
Terzigno, Italy
I am in a small town near Pompei and Napoli. I have been here for several days, staying with Giovanna, her two brothers Francesco and Michele, and her mother Eleonora. I found her through Couchsurfing. This has been one of the best experiences in my travels. Everyday, the mother has prepared a huge meal, most of the ingredients coming from the large, beautiful garden at the back of the house. I am still in a food coma from the meal a couple of hours ago which consisted of a delicious lasagna bolognese to start. Then we had Tuscan beef, meatballs, peas, mushrooms, and bread. Everyone drank home-made wine. After the second course, we enjoyed fresh chestnuts from the garden, followed by three different types of cakes, all home-made, and one of which was made from the same chestnuts. This was followed by home-made lemoncello for everyone else. And finally coffee, which is actually about a tablespoon of very potent, bitter espresso, which tastes and feels like a drug. I have eaten SO much the past three days. It has been incredible. The mother keeps offering me food, and I don't want to be rude, so I agree to more. I really have been experiencing real Italian life. The family has been so hospitable and generous, providing me all this food and everything out of the kindness of their hearts. Yesterday, Giovanna, my host, accompanied me to the Pompei ruins. It was interesting... this whole city that is over two thousand years old, still intact. However, maybe I had expectations because I wasn't blown away. Last night I went out with Giovanna, her brother Francesco, and two of his friends. We drove around and walked around and then ate some pizza at a little restaurant in Pompei. It was fun to be with those guys having conversations in broken English and broken Italian. Tonight I will go to Napoli for a real Napoleatano pizza, before catching the night train to Palermo, Sicily. Yesterday, my camera began malfunctioning. I am very upset about it. I can still take pictures, but the zoom doesn't work, and when turning it off, I must guide the lense back into the camera body. Also, as I may or may not have mentioned, I've been carrying around a large piece of driftwood that I found in Cinque Terre. I've had it for over two weeks now, garnering lots of strange looks from everyone I pass, as I lug it around on travel days. I have intended to ship it back to the U.S., but it seems that it will cost a lot. But I don't want to carry it around for another month and a half only to get to the airport and have customs tell me I can't take it. So hopefully tomorrow, I can find a FedEx or something that won't charge and arm and a leg, like UPS. I wish I had more time to spend in Italy... I feel like I am rushing off, missing out on lots of things. But I know that I will return, if not move here, and so I will be able to see and experience all that I haven't this time around.
I am in a small town near Pompei and Napoli. I have been here for several days, staying with Giovanna, her two brothers Francesco and Michele, and her mother Eleonora. I found her through Couchsurfing. This has been one of the best experiences in my travels. Everyday, the mother has prepared a huge meal, most of the ingredients coming from the large, beautiful garden at the back of the house. I am still in a food coma from the meal a couple of hours ago which consisted of a delicious lasagna bolognese to start. Then we had Tuscan beef, meatballs, peas, mushrooms, and bread. Everyone drank home-made wine. After the second course, we enjoyed fresh chestnuts from the garden, followed by three different types of cakes, all home-made, and one of which was made from the same chestnuts. This was followed by home-made lemoncello for everyone else. And finally coffee, which is actually about a tablespoon of very potent, bitter espresso, which tastes and feels like a drug. I have eaten SO much the past three days. It has been incredible. The mother keeps offering me food, and I don't want to be rude, so I agree to more. I really have been experiencing real Italian life. The family has been so hospitable and generous, providing me all this food and everything out of the kindness of their hearts. Yesterday, Giovanna, my host, accompanied me to the Pompei ruins. It was interesting... this whole city that is over two thousand years old, still intact. However, maybe I had expectations because I wasn't blown away. Last night I went out with Giovanna, her brother Francesco, and two of his friends. We drove around and walked around and then ate some pizza at a little restaurant in Pompei. It was fun to be with those guys having conversations in broken English and broken Italian. Tonight I will go to Napoli for a real Napoleatano pizza, before catching the night train to Palermo, Sicily. Yesterday, my camera began malfunctioning. I am very upset about it. I can still take pictures, but the zoom doesn't work, and when turning it off, I must guide the lense back into the camera body. Also, as I may or may not have mentioned, I've been carrying around a large piece of driftwood that I found in Cinque Terre. I've had it for over two weeks now, garnering lots of strange looks from everyone I pass, as I lug it around on travel days. I have intended to ship it back to the U.S., but it seems that it will cost a lot. But I don't want to carry it around for another month and a half only to get to the airport and have customs tell me I can't take it. So hopefully tomorrow, I can find a FedEx or something that won't charge and arm and a leg, like UPS. I wish I had more time to spend in Italy... I feel like I am rushing off, missing out on lots of things. But I know that I will return, if not move here, and so I will be able to see and experience all that I haven't this time around.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Halloween in Vienna
Vienna, Austria
Happy Halloween to everyone. Today in Vienna, Josh and I wandered around as we often do. Everywhere was quiet and empty, except for the shopping areas. It was very, very cold so I became sleepy and lethargic, despite being bundled in all my warmest clothes, minus my windbreaker. It didn't help that I was carrying around the large piece of driftwood that I found in Cinque Terre that I've been meaning to ship and hadn't yet had the opportunity. So I thought I could ship it today from here. Unfortunately, it is too large to ship from the Post Office, so I will have to use a shipping service like FedEx or UPS. Our Couchsurfing host Stephanie met up with us in the middle of the day to show us a couple sights. Later, we ate sausages for lunch from a little stand. We bought postcards and sat for awhile in the only large, near-free and most importantly warm place we could find, Starbucks. I however, held strong to my integrity and did not purchase anything. Before coming to Europe, I decided I would not buy anything from McDonald's or Starbucks and so far I have kept my word. For dinner, our host prepared a pumpkin risotto and pumpkin salad. They were delicious and festive. Awhile later, for my costume, I applied some red eyeliner that belonged to the roommate of our host, and we were ready to head out to a Halloween party. We arrived at a place that Stephanie decided within minutes was not working for her. So we left and walked for a bit to the metro. We had just missed the last train of the evening so we walked all the way back to the first party. I was a little disappointed at first because I had wanted to leave earlier in the evening, thus not having that problem. However, I just accepted that I was where I was meant to be. On the way back to the party, we stopped at a grocery store. Josh bought a beer and I bought a raspberry-flavored chocolate bar. I mean, it isn't Halloween without candy. Back at the party, we slowly worked our way into dancing to the classic American songs that apparently play all over the world. I shot a little video to document an Austrian Halloween. We continued dancing for awhile as Josh continued to buy beers. I had a good time. In two hours, our train leaves for our return to Italy. Josh is off to Rome and I to Naples. Our little travel adventure has come to an end. It has been really fun travelling with Josh and getting to know him. We have so many great inside jokes. And we've had so many deep, meaningful conversations. It's really amazing to have met someone that I have so much in common with and with whom I could spend over two weeks straight, with only the very infrequent little argument that ended in laughing and joking. And now the solo adventure continues.
Happy Halloween to everyone. Today in Vienna, Josh and I wandered around as we often do. Everywhere was quiet and empty, except for the shopping areas. It was very, very cold so I became sleepy and lethargic, despite being bundled in all my warmest clothes, minus my windbreaker. It didn't help that I was carrying around the large piece of driftwood that I found in Cinque Terre that I've been meaning to ship and hadn't yet had the opportunity. So I thought I could ship it today from here. Unfortunately, it is too large to ship from the Post Office, so I will have to use a shipping service like FedEx or UPS. Our Couchsurfing host Stephanie met up with us in the middle of the day to show us a couple sights. Later, we ate sausages for lunch from a little stand. We bought postcards and sat for awhile in the only large, near-free and most importantly warm place we could find, Starbucks. I however, held strong to my integrity and did not purchase anything. Before coming to Europe, I decided I would not buy anything from McDonald's or Starbucks and so far I have kept my word. For dinner, our host prepared a pumpkin risotto and pumpkin salad. They were delicious and festive. Awhile later, for my costume, I applied some red eyeliner that belonged to the roommate of our host, and we were ready to head out to a Halloween party. We arrived at a place that Stephanie decided within minutes was not working for her. So we left and walked for a bit to the metro. We had just missed the last train of the evening so we walked all the way back to the first party. I was a little disappointed at first because I had wanted to leave earlier in the evening, thus not having that problem. However, I just accepted that I was where I was meant to be. On the way back to the party, we stopped at a grocery store. Josh bought a beer and I bought a raspberry-flavored chocolate bar. I mean, it isn't Halloween without candy. Back at the party, we slowly worked our way into dancing to the classic American songs that apparently play all over the world. I shot a little video to document an Austrian Halloween. We continued dancing for awhile as Josh continued to buy beers. I had a good time. In two hours, our train leaves for our return to Italy. Josh is off to Rome and I to Naples. Our little travel adventure has come to an end. It has been really fun travelling with Josh and getting to know him. We have so many great inside jokes. And we've had so many deep, meaningful conversations. It's really amazing to have met someone that I have so much in common with and with whom I could spend over two weeks straight, with only the very infrequent little argument that ended in laughing and joking. And now the solo adventure continues.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)