Let's Go

Let's Go Make Sense of the World Photo Contest Underway!

Fri, 27 Jan 2012 12:05:05 -0500

It's no secret: Let's Go loves its photos. But now it's your turn as a faithful LG fan to show us what you've got!

The theme: “Let’s Go Make Sense of the World.”

The challenge: to creatively show us that your images from all over the world can exude the exotic smells, tastes, sounds, and feels that they capture.

Be sure to take advantage of the remaining categories to win really cool prizes ($50 Amazon Giftcard and eternal fame):

See (January 16-January 22)
Touch (January 23-January 29)
Taste (January 30-February 3)
Smell (February 6-February 12)
Hear (February 13-February 19)

Interpret freely, because we know and appreciate the value of improvisation—especially when traveling.

HOW TO ENTER

To enter, go to http://letsgotravelguides.tumblr.com/photocontest or follow these easy steps:

Fill out this Submission Form.
Submit your photo via the “Submit your travel narrative/photo/link” button on the Tumblr page! Make sure that you include your name, your email address, what category you’re submitting it for, and a location and caption for your photo.

Though keep in mind the submission requirements, as follows:

Each individual may submit up to three photos for each week’s category.
Each photo must be 500 px wide and saved as a jpg file.

PRIZES

The Let’s Go Make Sense of the World’s Overall Photo Contest Winner will receive:

$50 Amazon Gift Card
Featured article on www.letsgo.com about you and your travel experience related to your photo
Your photo featured on Let’s Go and Triptrotting’s social media outlets
A Let’s Go travel guide of your choice
A Citizen of the World T-Shirt

The Runner-up, who we can anticipate will be a very close second, will receive:

$20 Amazon Gift Card
Your photo featured on Let’s Go and Triptrotting’s social media outlets
A Let’s Go travel guide of your choice
A Citizen of the World T-Shirt

So, snap—and submit—away!

That One Where—Oh No—I Rhapsodize

Sun, 22 Jan 2012 00:19:53 -0500

Once my family and I took a road trip from New Jersey to Boston for a few days. On that journey—suffused with late-summer sunlight and the incalculable promise of being 15—I stood in a square in what felt like the middle of everything and marveled at the city around me: its simple beauty, its mixture of friendliness and belligerence, its oldness and its newness, its speed.

I’ve lived in Boston for about five months now, but it took me until a couple weeks ago to realize that the square where I stood that summer was Copley. I realized it when I invited a friend, a Boston native familiar with the area I was researching, to come with me to Merengue, a superb Dominican restaurant in Roxbury. After eating (and, of course, taking scrupulous notes) we decided—in one of those absurdly impractical decisions you make when you’re 19 and excited about everything—to walk from Roxbury to Cambridge. Five miles at 9pm in the swirling late-January snow, the flakes like grains of sand hitting our faces, the air cold-scalding our hands and leadening our nipped feet.

Five miles through at least that many worlds. When you walk through a city—eschewing the temperature-controlled convenience of the car ride, the ease and fragmentation of the subway, or even the more organic, wandering route of the bus—you walk through stories, lifestyles, settings, and times. The fixtures of class and race, poverty and privilege—things we often don’t want to think about—jump out at you: the liminal spaces where Asian groceries mingle with yuppie wine bars, where Latin supermarkets exist next to Whole Foods, blur in and out of focus. Neighborhoods change quickly, yet almost imperceptibly; geographic and connoted social entities connect in ways you didn’t expect. History, in all its profundity, banality, and irony is a map overlaid on the grid around you—in the architecture and the modes of transportation, in the names of the streets.

We thought and talked of all this as, snow hissing on the ground around us, we stumbled out of the South End—my now-familiar stomping grounds—and into Copley. Thinking back to that family vacation, I recognized the familiar square. Yet it was different: before, I had been conscious only of the beauty of the place; now, after two and half weeks of living, writing, and—as my dwindling stipend constantly reminded me—eating Boston, I was conscious of its context.

As a traveler in Boston, you have the privilege of discovering all this, like I did, for the first time. And as this project ends (for me, at least), I’d like to tell you to be curious. Eat liberally. Smile at people on the T. Don’t be afraid to ask for directions. Be polite to bus drivers. Strike up conversations. Speak other languages. Flirt. You'll be surprised by how nice people are when you take the time to really listen to them (yes, even in the Northeast).

I hope that in every falafel you gobble, every coffee you guzzle, every tamale you linger over, and every bowl of pasta you savor, you truly taste where you are—because a city is a living entity. It tingles down to your fingertips. Hunger for it. Eat it up.

What's That I'm Eating?: North End and Pasta Names

Fri, 20 Jan 2012 18:45:58 -0500

When you think about it, pasta's a little weird.

Not the pasta itself—pasta names are a little weird. I've had a lot of time to think about this while exploring the food offerings of the North End, which, let's face it, tend to include a lot of pasta. It's no problem for me; since most of my father's side of the family came over to the United States from Naples, pasta has always been a go-to food for me. When I was little, I heard the Italian monikers tossed around like meatballs in a big bowl of spaghetti: fusilli, orecchiette, and vermicelli were household staples. It took me a while to realize that these words all mean something besides the type of pasta they denote.

And these other definitions usually aren't pretty.

Let's examine, shall we? We'll start innocently enough.

The Normal:

Gemelli: From the Italian for "twins." The pasta looks like two strands twisted around each other. This one is completely innocuous and might be my favorite pasta just for that reason.

Conchiglie: From the Italian for "shells." The name is very apt—they look like, well, shells. Just make sure you don't cook the pasta TOO al dente, or you might wonder whether you switched a box of pasta with your beach bag.

Penne: From the Italian for "quills" or "feathers." And INDEED, they do look like the nib of a quill! How very appropriate!

Fusilli: From the archaic Italian for "rifle." Um... this is where it starts to get a little weird.

The Weird:

Vermicelli: From the Italian for "little worms." Well, that's... appetizing.

Orecchiette: From the Italian for "little ears." Also known as—cannibalism?

Linguine: From the Italian for "little tongues." Eating a bowl of pasta just became a much more, er, intimate experience.

Capellini: From the Italian for "fine hair," and commonly known as "angel hair." It seems okay until you think about chewing on a mouthful of hair—and suddenly it's much less okay.

And the Award for the Weirdest Goes To:

Ziti: From the Italian for..."bridegrooms"?! If anybody can explain to me, the daughter of a Neapolitan immigrant, how medium-sized tubular pasta resembles a man on the brink of marriage, please let me know. Secretly, I fear it's because the pasta is empty on the inside. That would be the kind of thing Italians find funny. (Trust me, I've been to enough family reunions to know.)

Enjoy the North End and all the different types of pasta it offers—because there are certainly a lot, and the North End is the place to find them!—but think carefully before ordering... otherwise, you might find yourself facing a plate of ropes (spaghetti).

Cold City, Hot People

Wed, 18 Jan 2012 01:02:11 -0500

Sure, you're a cultured young individual; you appreciate good food, music, art. But let's face it—sometimes nothing hits the spot like blatant shallowness. In the interest of providing Let's Go readers with an aesthetically satisfying experience in all respects, I humbly submit a few suggestions.

1. The ICA

South Boston

Hipsters. Young hipsters. Old hipsters. Grungy hipsters. Well-dressed hipsters. European hipsters. Really, there is nothing not to love—or occasionally roll your eyes at—at The Institute of Contemporary Art, the perfect setting to check out some culture. And some docents.

2. Toro

South End

Yes, I have already written a blog about Toro. But such is the beguiling power of Spanish cuisine—and the chefs who make it—that it's the kind of place you just want to come to again and again. Maybe it's the tiny portions—you mean you're not supposed to eat just one of them?!

3. The Franklin Cafe

South End

The clientele, not to mention the waitstaff, in the Franklin Cafe is young and uniformly gorgeous. More importantly, the food is uniformly gorgeous as well. I'm not entirely sure what gives the place that extra aura of mystery—maybe it's the fact that the lights seem practically extinguished.

4. City Feed and Supply

Conceptually, this is about as close to the South End as it gets in Jamaica Plain—and that's eerily close. $3.55 12-ounce fair-trade mocha lattes are designed for those who favor quality over I-just-want-a-huge-cup-of-caffeine. The ear gauges and scruffy beards of the apparently uniformly male staff keep the vibe solidly JP.

5. The Blackthorn Bar

If young Irishmen sitting around a bar are your cup of tea—and if your cup of tea is probably spiked with whiskey—then you belong here. The demographic isn't extraordinarily high on the female folk, which can be either spectacular, spectacularly awful, or, frankly, spectacularly neutral. But it is high on the Irish. Do yourself a favor and at least pretend to like soccer.

6. Let's Go Travel Guides

Harvard Square

I don't know what it is about these people, but on top of their devastating wit, derring-do, and intimidating street smarts, all employees at this establishment happen to be devilishly attractive. The Square's okay too, I guess.

Picking Up Things from Dead People: Beacon Hill Antiques

Tue, 17 Jan 2012 21:43:41 -0500

It hasn't been a terribly exciting two days, because Beacon Hill shops are not particularly exciting. (You know, just in case you were dying to shop there. Have fun selling your firstborn in order to do so.)

But, like the dutiful journalist* I am, out I toddled into the cold, wearing the most insufficient of shoes—little red heels with no socks in freezing weather? Maybe not the best choice—and the puffiest of coats, and I went shopping. I know, I know—my life is so tough.

*frantic procrastinator

You meet some interesting characters on Charles Street, I'll give you that. Half the shopkeepers aren't entirely sure whether to take me seriously; although I am meticulously well-dressed, I also exhibit some of the most glaring warning signs of prospective shoplifting: nervous smile, noncommittal browsing, attempts to stay out of the line of sight, etc. Little do they know....

And Now For You, Dear Reader, Two Short Anecdotes:

Yesterday...

...I went to an antique shop that specializes in china and cups. The proprietor had a collie—a young, very affectionate, and alarmingly boisterous collie.

"How do you manage to keep her here?" another customer (the only other customer, in fact) asked as I cuddled the pup blissfully.

"You know, we had another collie just like this one for 16 years before she passed away a few months ago. She'd walk all around the shop and she'd never brush a single plate," the man replied. You have to understand that this particular shop looked like the Mad Hatter's tea party storeroom, or a little like the Harry Potter Room of Requirement, all precarious piles and delicate dishes stacked gingerly on all available surfaces.

...I went to a jewelry shop. It was a crazy explosion of rhinestones and it made the girly side of me giggle a little inside. There were just so many sparkles, but everything was mismatched, and I couldn't figure out the organization behind it.

"Where did all of this come from?" I asked the woman behind the counter.

"Estate sales," she answered. "He—" she indicated the man heading for a back room "—has been collecting for 50 years."

50 years, I couldn't help but think. 50 years of going to other people's houses after they have died and buying their belongings. Where do you pick up THAT hobby? How do you start? What do you feel—sad for the person's death? Happy at your own gain, but perhaps a little embarrassed?

But I couldn't ask this. After all, he was intent on shining a tiara.

Five Ways To Make Red Sox Fans Love You

Tue, 17 Jan 2012 00:25:10 -0500

5. Show them your Sox tattoo.

4. Tell them you have a poster of that passionate little Sox fan with the face paint flippin' the Yankees the bird. Doctored-shmoctored.

3. Randomly break out into song—"song" meaning "Dirty Water" by The Standells.

2. Tell them that those good-fuh-nuthin suckahs down thair in New Yawk got anothah thing comin' if they think they're headed fahr the Wohrld Sehries this yeeah.

1. Tell them you've written in your will that you want to be buried in your vintage Ted Williams jersey.

Five Ways To Make Red Sox Fans Hate You

Mon, 16 Jan 2012 23:39:16 -0500

5. Tell them their Sox tattoos are stupid.

4. Tell them that the fact that Fenway Park is historic doesn't mean that the seats need to be archaically uncomfortable.

3. Tell them Joe was the better of the DiMaggio brothers.

2. Tell them you're a Yankees fan.

1. Tell them the Curse of the Bambino wasn't real.

How to Feel Better About New England Winters

Sun, 15 Jan 2012 20:26:58 -0500

It's seven degrees Fahrenheit, and you've been waiting for the bus for 15 minutes. You're wearing two pairs of socks in your winter boots, Spanx under your jeans, a tank top under your undershirt under your flannel shirt under your fleece under your other fleece, a scarf wrapped around your neck twice, and a hat covered by the hood from that first fleece. But somehow, you're still cold. There's no Dunkin' Donuts nearby to get a hot chocolate, and the miniscule warmth of the sun is beginning to fade.

Here are a few mind over matter tips for keeping you sane, if not warm:

1. Think about napping on the beach (any beach) in your bathing suit with a hat over your face to shade out the sun. Ew, you're sweating so much that you might as well have just emerged from whatever polluted body of water you're near, even though you haven't gone swimming yet. There's a child throwing a temper tantrum about his recently destroyed sand castle, which is absurd because it's his own damn fault for building it so close to the waves. And I think a seagull just pooped on your Nicholas Sparks novel.

2. Think about being at a spa getting a relaxing massage. Your bearded masseuse's name is Lars and her muscular and overly hairy arms are about to crack your spine. You think about hitting the steam room afterwards to make sure you stay limber, but unfortunately, the spa is renovating its steam room and its sauna, which becomes even more clear when you hear the drilling through the not-so-soundproof walls.

3. Think about having a summer barbeque in your backyard on a mild late-August day. Your boyfriend got the beer but forgot the burgers, and you're expecting friends to show up any minute. The dog is drinking from the pitcher of lemonade that he knocked over, and you just spilled ketchup on your last clean dress.

Now do you feel better about the numbness that is creeping to your extremities when you think of how you could be in any of those warm but horribly unpleasant situations?

I didn't think so.

Oh, the Places You Will Go, the...Colors You'll See?: Beacon Hill's Palette

Sun, 15 Jan 2012 17:54:11 -0500

As I was dawdling at my computer screen, wondering, "What other sorts of fun, unique, and interesting things can I write about Beacon Hill, especially about its food and accommodations?" I realized something a little startling. I can't write much that's fun, unique, or interesting to most Beacon Hill establishments because—

—they all look the same.

In some sort of freaky Stepford Wives twist of fate, almost every single proprietor of almost every single establishment came to the exact same conclusions while tastefully instructing their interior designers. "No, no," one imagines them saying. "Color? Why would you put color in a hotel room? Make it beige. Yes, I think a good beige will do very well."

With this in mind, I decided to really try to get inside the minds of the designers (or their more wealthy instructors) and embark on a deeply profound psychological examination* of the preferred Beacon Hill color scheme.

*If wholly unsupported and unprofessional

BEIGE/CREAM/TAUPE: It's everywhere. The color theory? Nobody can really hate beige. The problem? Nobody can really like it, either.

BUTTERSCOTCH: A slightly more exciting cousin to beige, butterscotch and caramel always appear in couch form. The color theory? Well, who WOULDN'T want to sink down into a seat made of candy? The problem? It's not actually made of candy. It's still just a couch, Beacon Hill.

RED: At last, a color! But don't get too excited—red and orange are reserved only for lampshades. The color theory? The dim red glow casts the most flattering of lights onto people's faces and heightens latent sexual tension. The problem? Even at dinner, sometimes you can't see your meal partner. Plus, the red occasionally errs on the side of spooky.

BLACK (AND CREAM): When establishments try to edge away from Victorianism and go, "Look! Look! Modern minimalism! Check THAT out, huh?" The color theory? ...Pretty well explained. It's edgy, don'tcha know. The problem? It's boring.

BROWNSTONE: Less a color and more a material, but still ubiquitous across the Hill. The color theory? Ahh, brownstone, a historic sandstone herald of wealth, refinement, luxury, and very tasteful beauty. This has classic resonances, folks. The problem? You will never, ever understand just why it's so expensive.

Let's Go Make Sense of the World: A Photo Contest

Fri, 13 Jan 2012 16:23:09 -0500

THIS WEEK'S CATEGORY: "SMELL"

We know you’re out to experience the world in a variety of ways this winter, so we’ll make this easy for you: directly translate your sensory experiences into images according to the theme “Let’s Go Make Sense of the World.”

Who said photos can only satisfy “sight”? The challenge is to show us that those images exude the exotic smells, tastes, sounds, and feels that they capture. And, of course, satisfy “sight,” too—in whatever creative way works for you. Surprise us.

As the nifty little graphic above should tell you, the categories are:

See (January 16-January 22)
Touch (January 23-January 29)
Taste (January 30-February 3)
Smell (February 6-February 12) (This week!)
Hear (February 13-February 19)

Interpret freely, because we know and appreciate the value of improvisation—especially when traveling.

HOW TO ENTER

To enter, follow these two easy steps:

Fill out this Submission Form.
Submit your photo via the “Submit your travel narrative/photo/link” button on this very page to the right! Make sure that you include your name, your email address, what category you’re submitting it for, and a location and/or caption for your photo.

Though keep in mind the submission requirements as follows:

Each individual may submit up to three photos for each week’s category.
Each photo must be 500 px wide and saved as a jpg file.

PRIZES

But why would you enter? For the prizes, of course!

Each week, three category winners will be selected and featured on www.letsgo.com,Triptrotting.com, the Let’s Go and Triptrotting Facebook pages, and Let’s Go and Triptrotting’s Twitter pages.

But Let’s Go and Triptrotting have an even BIGGER prize in store for overall best photo and runner-up throughout the entire competition, which will be announced on the very last day of the contest.

The Let’s Go Make Sense of the World’s Overall Photo Contest Winner, deemed as such by impartial, adventure-loving students with an aesthetic eye at Let’s Go Headquarters, will receive:

$50 Amazon Gift Card
Featured article on www.letsgo.com about you and your travel experience related to your photo
Your photo featured on Let’s Go and Triptrotting’s social media outlets
A Let’s Go travel guide of your choice
A Citizen of the World T-Shirt

The Runner-up, who we can anticipate now will be a very close second, will receive:

$20 Amazon Gift Card
Your photo featured on Let’s Go and Triptrotting’s social media outlets
A Let’s Go travel guide of your choice
A Citizen of the World T-Shirt

So, snap—and submit—away!

*ELIGIBILITY

All adventure-savvy travelers 18 years or older who can satisfy the submission requirements and agree to the contest rules, terms, and conditions are encouraged to enter the contest!

The Girl Who Made Out with Bulls: On Why I Love Tongue (No, not that kind...)

Thu, 12 Jan 2012 21:36:15 -0500

The first time I ate tongue was in a taco from a street cart in Jackson Heights, Queens. If you haven’t been there, do yourself a favor, get to New York, and hop right on the seven train; it may just be one of the only places in the world you can go from (Little) India to (Little) Colombia in a block or two.

That taco con lengua was mesmerizing. I ate it fast and hot under the broiling July sun, crying a little bit from happiness. So when I got to Toro, a tapas bar in Boston’s South End, and saw una lenguacita on the menu (diminutive affectionately applied by yours truly), I was there. I mean, I was already there, but then I was more there—like a Buddhist awakening.

The tongue came to me as gorgeous, slivers of reddish meat lounging voluptuously on a bed of lentils. Now let’s be frank (or shall we say tongue?): yes, when eating tongue there is always that moment. If you’ve had it, you know what I’m talking about. It’s the moment when you realize you’re making out with a cow. A dead cow. For some reason, more squeamish diners find this image unappealing.

But then there’s the epiphany—as the steam from the soupy lentils swirls up to your nostrils, as the tender slices yield under your spoon edge—that you just don’t care. Because it’s delicious. Forget everything you’ve ever not really wanted to think about eating tongue. When made like that—succulent and lovely, wafer-thin, suffused with a practically celestial Spanishy broth—there is nothing weird about it.

It’s a great source of off-color innuendo. And it’s just really darn good.

Movies in Boston

Thu, 12 Jan 2012 00:53:01 -0500

On one of my adventures gallivanting about the diverse neighborhoods of Boston, I stopped at a CD/DVD/record buy/sell/trade store in Kenmore called Nuggets. Upon seeing so many cheap DVDs I suddenly felt guilty about my...ahem...friends' tendencies to pirate movies from the Internet, so I decided to repent for their sins by buying a few used DVDs. Being the great Boston-area college student that I am, I decided to go with one undoubted classic of my generation (Anchorman), one Boston classic (The Departed), and a random third just for giggles (The Men Who Stare at Goats).

When I went to check out, the guy at the counter commented on The Depahted. He had a buddy who was a driver, and when Scorsese was in town filming this movie (or was it Shutter Island?), his buddy was assigned to drive Scorsese's wife around town. It's no wonder that these movies have multi-million dollar budgets, he says, with extra expenses like these. Not only was his buddy driving around the missus, but also her daughter and her daughter's nanny, who very seriously needed to find the right beach on the North Shore for some East coast R and R.

According to Stewart, my new buddy at the counter, back in the day (you know, probably like the '80s or something), most films that were set in Boston were actually filmed in Toronto because filming was so much cheaper there. Eventually, Massachusetts got some sense and decided to give tax cut incentives to filmmakers to encourage film production in the state, bringing welcome publicity and mounds of pride to Beantown.

So it's true; some of our favorite movies with those loveable take-no-prisoners characters with the wicked Bahston accents really did take place in Boston. The Fighter, The Town, The Departed, Shutter Island, Good Will Hunting, Mystic River—all were set and filmed in Boston.

Hold your drinks high, lovers and dwellers of Boston, because we win again. Boston: one, Hollywood back lot: zip.

An Open Love Letter to Hank

Tue, 10 Jan 2012 10:37:54 -0500

I have been called “princess” by many a pleasantly officious Greco-Latin man in my day (absolutely confirming my Princess Diaries complex)—but never by anyone like Hank.

Admission: Travel writers lie a lot. We just do. It becomes second nature. Like I did, when I walked into No Name seafood restaurant. For that listing, I was just going to snoop around a little under the guise of “waiting for a friend,” as I had done so many times in the past. But before I knew it, Hank—a shortish, potbellied, insanely smiley Mediterranean waiter—had me sitting down, with free garlic bread, engaged in a conversation on the “ablution” of literary study—“like a baptism,” he said. “A never-ending journey of knowledge.”

A long-time teacher and literature aficionado who regaled me with life advice, thoughts on Homer, and the best clam chowder I have ever tasted in my entire life, Hank-the-Greek-waiter made my day, reignited my faith in Boston, and acknowledged that the best diners in the entire universe are indeed located in New Jersey. He talked to the women at the table next to me in Chinese; to other waiters in Greek; to me in Spanish. And yes, he called me princess. In Italian.

Dear Hank, if you are reading this, I want to offer a big thank you. You thought I got stood up that night. But the true friend was you.

Learning the Lingo: Beacon Hill Nightlife and the Rest of the World

Tue, 10 Jan 2012 00:46:00 -0500

Part of acclimating to any city is learning the neighborhoods, and from that, learning certain variations in definitions for each area. For example, in the North End, you will not only quickly cease to imitate the Sopranos, but you will also learn that the North End's definition of "crowded pastry shop" is not like the rest of the world's definition of "crowded pastry shop"—visit Mike's Pastries and you'll understand the difference.

Beacon Hill, one of the wealthiest areas of Boston, is no different from any other area, although it probably would like to think that it is. You will probably never feel cool enough even to tap its hallowed cobblestones with your unworthy feet, unless your shoes are Louboutins, in which case your heel will only get stuck in the cracks anyway. And as for nightlife? Well, let's just say you probably have a lot to learn.

When I Say "Pub"...

Beacon Hill Says: Dark wood paneling, a moderately-civilized crowd of fraternizing bros who are actually businessmen, a well-kept bar, a room so small that you keep accidentally touching people in places you absolutely did not intend to touch them.

Everywhere Else Says: Mostly beer and sticky spots.

When I Say "Bar"...

Beacon Hill Says: Immaculate cocktail menu, well-dressed clientele gently laughing at their own clever remarks or discussing modern affairs with extreme savoir faire, solicitous bartenders, nouveau decor.

Everywhere Else Says: Beer AND a couple cocktails.

When I Say "Swanky"...

Beacon Hill Says: Crystal chandeliers, leather couches, dim lighting, a wall of bottles with exotic and unpronounceable names.

Everywhere Else Says: Also dim lighting, mostly because a bulb is out—and don't forget about the cocktail menu! Five whole options!

When I Say "Dress Code"...

Beacon Hill Says: Business casual or dress to impress—men in suits and ties, women in sleek skinny pants or formfitting dresses.

Everywhere Else Says: A button-up shirt over a sport tee.

When I Say "Drink"...

Beacon Hill Says: A cocktail with at least three ingredients.

Everywhere Else Says: Rum and coke, if you're getting that fancy.

When I Say "Expensive"...

Beacon Hill Says: A cocktail that's more than 15 dollars—wow!

Everywhere Else Says: A beer that's more than five.

Tips for Braving Boston Winters

Mon, 09 Jan 2012 23:02:37 -0500

1. Don't.

2. No, really. Don't do it.

3. Layers.

4. Lots of layers.

5. You're still not wearing enough layers.

6. Hot chocolate. Hot coffee. Hot soup. Hot people.

7. First Night, when you're too drunk on culture to feel your fingers.

8. Valentine's Day, when you're too drunk on love to feel your fingers if they're not entwined with your date's.

9. St. Patrick's Day. When you're just drunk.

10. Florida.

Sublime Energy in Meteora

Mon, 09 Jan 2012 13:37:21 -0500

Stoic and jagged, this geological phenomenon has stood proudly for over 60 million years. They pop abruptly from the flat Thessaly plain, as surreal as if they were artificially inserted there in the soil.

Some see them as similar to the Grand Canyon, and others say they look like Mars, but they can only be known as Meteora: the monasteries that “float in the air.”

They're a holy site, an old battleground, a monk’s haven, and a geologist’s dream. Rock climbers, artists, and simply quiet hermits linger here for the benefit of its peace.

But for us, these rocks bring everything else to a halt. They are a sweet escape; the rat race can wait.

Kastraki village is unspoiled—time stopped here long ago. Kastraki’s air smells of a mixture of pine sap and smoked souvlaki. Pickup trucks cruise slowly through the town and kids throw dice on the Tavli board while old women carry baskets full of rosemary. Kastraki, a village untouched by mass tourism and commercialization, is the face of old-school Greece.

Sydney hotel is a cozy stay, is accommodated well, and is directly across from the bus station that heads for the monasteries or Kalabaka.

Once we arrive at our first monastery, we absorb the morning light and stillness of the scene. The structure looks something out of a J.R. R. Tolkien story. A fiery red shrub entangles the stairwell as we go up. We pay a 2 Euro fee, put on a provided skirt, and enter Saint Athanasius’s creation, the Grand Meteoro (standing since 1370). Taking a few steps up, I ponder the towering drop to the valley below. The tower, a feature since 1520, spews out a net once used to hoist up equipment and even monks.

We stumble inside a dark kitchen, where old remnants of copper spoons, bowls, and cups hang. The museum harbors a collection of old Byzantine manuscripts, golden iconography, and romanticized battle scenes of the Greek independence and World War Two.

I step outside to gaze over a balcony and gulp in the thin air. The light unsheathes semi-circular shapes and gnarly crevices on these sandstone giants. Though I am alone, the isolation fades as I soak in the energy around me.

Meteora fosters a subjective divine—religious, spiritual, or atheist, the sight and place will give you chills.

GO.

Crazy Canadian: Skiing in the Rockies

Sat, 07 Jan 2012 01:22:48 -0500

As a native Canadian, my annual visit to the Banff area (located in the heart of the Rocky Mountains of Alberta, Canada) is one of the highlights of winter vacation for three simple reasons:

1. The mountains are drop-dead gorgeous.

2. There are moose (Mooses? Meese?).

3. The skiing is out of this world.

Now, to ski in style in the Calgary/Banff area, there are three big resorts that I think are worth visiting, each with its own pros and cons. All of these are within driving distance of Banff (located inside the National Park), which itself is about 1.5 hours from Calgary.

(There’s a great airport shuttle that runs between the Calgary Airport and Banff, called the Banff Airporter. It costs about $50CDN per person, one-way.)

Now, about the snow. Here’s a breakdown of the slopes:

Sunshine Village:

It's high up in the mountains and usually has the best snow consistently, even when there isn’t any fresh powder. You need to take a gondola up to get to both the main lodge and the Goat’s Eye Mountain lodge. There are two mountains to ski, plenty of runs to enjoy, and even a ski-out option at the end of the day. It's best to get there early, around 8am when the gondola opens, to avoid the long lines, especially during the holidays. Plan for 30 to 45 minutes minimum travel time from Banff. Costs about $70CDN per adult for a full-day lift pass.

Lake Louise:

On a good snow day, this is hands down the best skiing in the Banff area. It has two lodges, one on the front side and one on the back side of the mountain. I would start the day on the back side, while the light is best, and move your way to the front side. There are plenty of long runs, but the popular blue and green runs can get quite icy if there is no fresh snow. Plan for minimum one hour of travel time from Banff. Costs about $70CDN per adult for a full-day lift pass.

Norquay:

This is the closest resort to Banff. It offers pay-by-the-hour rates, which can be nice if you’re looking to ski only for a morning or an afternoon. There are some great blue and black runs, but not a lot of green runs—beginners, don’t waste your money, and go somewhere else. Usually, the snow is pretty good, but like Lake Louise, it can be a bit icy at times.

Whichever mountain you choose, get ready for a great ski day, and don’t forget the sunscreen!

Buenos Aires: Finding Cheap (and Clean!) Accommodations

Thu, 05 Jan 2012 18:30:53 -0500

When starting to plan my adventures in South America, the first issue that came up (besides finding a decently priced plane ticket, but that's a whole different story...) was finding an affordable and safe place to stay. Having never stayed in a hostel, I was more than a little wary to try it out, but since my budget was tight, it was the only option.

When looking at hostels, reviews are absolutely crucial. I've heard more than enough horror stories of places that have everything from bug infestations to mold to robberies, and after a while, it just isn't worth it. Websites like Hostel World, Trip Advisor, and even search engines like Yahoo! Travel and Google reviews are great online resources for those looking to figure out which place to book. Additionally, there are guidebooks that you can buy that list recommended places; I chose Lonely Planet's South America on a Shoestring to get a good starting point on where to look.

After much review, my friend and I ended up choosing Milhouse Avenue, which is known for being a huge party hostel—not quite my scene, but tolerable—and clean. It's been absolutely great. Everyone is incredibly open and friendly, and it's a fantastic way to meet fellow young travelers from places all around the world. (Fun fact: just this morning I met someone from Israel on the elevator as I was going to breakfast, which I should also mention is free) The accommodations are great, and a private room with two twin beds, plus a private bathroom, only set us back about $35 each per night. You can't go wrong with that price.

Survival Strategies for the Ladies in Boston's West End: How to Deflect Attention

Thu, 05 Jan 2012 16:33:30 -0500

It can be tough to be a lady in the West End. There, I said it. Although the West End has plenty to offer,* it's a little rougher than most of downtown Boston or Boston's pretentious neighbor, Cambridge. You might get catcalled, whistled, or beeped at multiple times in only a couple of hours while you're strolling the rat warren of side streets, and forget it on game days—once fans come pouring out of the TD Garden from their Celtics or Bruins match and flood the pubs, the bachelor crowd only tears its attention away from post-game breakdowns to ogle women blearily (and, might I add, beerily). It's easy to feel that you're more subject to their hunger than the greasy burgers sitting on the counters.

*A lot of forgettable sports bars

This seems like a harsh view of the area, and perhaps it is. It's not strictly dangerous, just a little uncomfortable. However, if you do need ways to deflect attention on the streets and shake off would-be suitors at the bar, fear not: I've compiled some appropriate techniques to ensure happy solitude and often total enmity from the locals. A couple, admittedly, would work anywhere, but some are really special to the West End.

THE STRATEGIES:

5. Wear a fake beard. Are you surprised this isn't #1? Wait until you see the rest.

4. Alter your style. Try the business approach—sensible shoes, power suits, and a scowl directed at your Blackberry and all who dare interrupt your focus—or for even better results, don a scruffy sports t-shirt and throw your hair into a ponytail. Trust me, you'll blend right in.

3. Ask about the urban renewal project, started by the Boston Redevelopment Authority in the 1950s. The city razed the West End just before 1960 and left behind the perfect conversation stopper.

2. Loudly proclaim that you don't understand hockey or hate the Celtics. One or the other—both might get you kicked out of any establishment within a yard of the Garden on principle alone.

"What could be worse than that?" you might ask yourself. Here goes:

1. Ask the bartender if he'll make you a martini. It doesn't matter if there are cocktails on the menu—this is beer country.

Blog for Let’s Go!

Tue, 03 Jan 2012 00:04:52 -0500

Do you have a passion for adventure traveling? Do you want your stories published internationally? If so, read on!

Let’s Go, the travel agency with 52 years of accumulated student and budget travel knowledge, invites you to join our worldwide Let’s Go Blogger Army! That’s right- now you can share your story about the neat Chinese tea house you discovered in Moscow or that time you barely made it alive out of that rickshaw in Mumbai. Even better, if you have any local travel tips or tricks to share with us, we want to hear them and share them with the rest of our world travelers!

As a Let’s Go blogger, you will have the opportunity to:
-Get your work published fast. You might even be featured on Let’s Go’s homepage!
-Share your favorite experiences from your travels across the world or just across town
-Showcase and fine-tune your wit and writing skills to millions around the globe

-Compete for a select number of spots to be a Let’s Go Certified Blogger

Here are just some of the places where our Let’s Go alumni have gone on to work:

The Atlantic

Esquire

Disney

Facebook

Google

Harper’s Magazine

Lonely Planet

Microsoft

The New York Times

The New Yorker

Parade

Playboy

TIME Magazine

The White House

What qualifications are required?
All travelers, from first-timers to avid bloggers, are welcome to apply.

What am I responsible for as a Let’s Go Blogger?
As part of the Let’s Go Blogger Army, you can submit posts whenever, wherever, and as frequently as you wish! Keep in mind that our top bloggers from the spring and summer will have the chance to become Let’s Go Certified Bloggers in the fall.

How can I apply?
Applying is easy! Applications are considered on a rolling basis (although apply early to maximize your chances of becoming a Let's Go Certified Blogger this fall). All we ask you to do is:

1) Fill out this form

2) Create an account and submit a short 250-500 word sample blog post here

What if I want to do even more than just blog for Let’s Go?

You certainly can! Click here to find out more about how you can found your own Let’s Go Campus Team at your school/university.

Questions?

Email ali.slaight@letsgo.com.

Hiking to Papakolea Beach

Mon, 02 Jan 2012 22:32:56 -0500

There aren't a lot of good reasons to wake up at six while on a Hawaiian vacation, but one of the most spectacular sights on the Big Island, Papakolea Beach, is certainly one of them. The day began with a quick pastry and coffee—Kona, of course—before making the multi-hour drive down to Ka Lae, the southernmost point in the United States, where the trailhead to one of the most secluded beaches in Hawaii lies.

To describe the landscape around Ka Lae as barren is quite accurate; apart from the variety of grasses that grow, there are no trees or any sort of shelter for miles, and near-constant winds billow across the grass in visible waves. As we drove down South Point Road, we also passed two wind farms, one operational and one derelict and rusting in an unusual post-apocalyptic way.

The sun dazzled our eyes as we began the hike along the rocky shoreline. Every turn through the Jeep tracks seemed the same, with barren grassland on the left and black lava shores on the tumultuous ocean on the right. It was incredible to think that looking south, there was literally nothing but water between us and Antarctica.

Finally, after a little over an hour of hiking, there it was: a tiny secluded cove with a massive lava promontory jutting out into the ocean on one side, and more lava cliffs on the other. At the back, was a steep hillside beneath the cliffs that led down to a beach whose sand was a vivid, sparkling green.

The first sight of Papakolea Beach, also known as Green Sand Beach, is a memory that I know will stay with me. The sheer beauty of it is astounding, and its isolation often means that there are only a few locals and adventuresome tourists ever there.

I climbed down the cliffs with the assistance of a ladder and some carved footholds, and rubbed my feet into the sand, which true to the name of the beach is actually green. It is colored by small volcanic olivine crystals created back when the cove was actually a small cinder cone. Signs remind visitors, though, to not remove any sand out of respect for future visitors. The water was perfect for a little dip, which was made even more spectacular by the lava cliffs rising hundreds of feet on three sides.

Soon, though, the adventure had to come to a close, and we hiked back to the parking lot at Ka Lae as clouds began to ominously approach the island. It was time to get back home for some pupus and a mai tai.

The Lakes of Ketchikan, Alaska

Sun, 01 Jan 2012 16:24:40 -0500

True Ketchikan Spirit hides away around the lakes. Harriet Hunt has the remnants of a ski lift, while Swan Lake provides all the electricity the city will ever need. Connell Lake has a dam of unknown purpose, while the twin Ketchikan lakes gave the city its name. The smallest but most significant, Ward Lake is the only remaining semblance of a true town that the city retains.

The sun manages to find those at Ward Lake. As if by magic, all my memories of that small, circular body involve sunlight. Nary a single raindrop fell on me there. The summer brings flocks of friends to barbeque on the camp grills; little children fight over which area they want. I always liked the space in the middle. Then again, it might have been the one by the cars. Not a single tourist appears. All locals, all genuine.

The summer sun is often accompanied by the buzzing of motor scooters. Suddenly, a miniature flying boat flies overhead, followed by another miniature floatplane. An old man fly-fishes off of the old red and rusty iron bridge. Bright red salmon swim slowly upstream to spawn as the birds chirp. They say there are mosquitoes everywhere, but I have yet to see one. The trees are hundreds of feet tall; it’s a forest like no other on earth, and the lake is the oasis in the middle.

In the winter, the oasis turns into a white wonderland as the lake freezes over and the snow blankets the trees and grass. A picnic table sits in the middle of the lake with 20 or so green and silver flasks on it, all full of piping-hot hot cocoa, no doubt. Swiss Miss for the win. Little children flop their way around while the one person who actually skated at some point in her life gracefully carves circles and ellipses into the glassy surface. The crash of someone breaking through the ice brings reality back somewhat, but everyone knows to just stay put. Sip that cocoa; something’s going to freeze and I’d rather it not be you.

Coffee Hunting in Seattle

Sun, 01 Jan 2012 16:14:23 -0500

That title is probably a bit of a misnomer—Seattle is likely the easiest place in the world to find good coffee, apart from perhaps the farm country of Ethiopia. There is a Starbucks literally every five hundred feet, and within a block of each of those, there is a Tully's, Seattle's Best, or another independent coffee shop.

I've lost count of how much coffee I've had this trip, and of how many different coffee shops I've visited. These have ranged from my favorite drive-through espresso hut, Muddy Waters; to several hours parked at The Grateful Bread, munching on baked goods and sipping a mocha; to enjoying a decadent spiced hot chocolate at Zoka near the University of Washington.

Seattle's coffee consumers have fierce loyalties; when a Starbucks opened within a block of the Grateful Bread, the entire neighborhood instituted an unofficial boycott of the naked siren to protect the dreadlocked, multiply pierced baristas and Jerry Garcia cutout of the Grateful Bread.

Probably my favorite coffee memory from Seattle, though, was last Christmas, when only one downtown Starbucks was open. The company put sandwich boards all over the city with the logo and arrows, directing Seattleites towards their mother ship. Because sometimes, life just can't go on without a triple venti decaf extra-hot no-whip seven-pump skinny white mocha with extra caramel drizzle—at least when you're in Seattle.

Start a Let's Go Campus Team at Your School

Sat, 31 Dec 2011 02:41:39 -0500

DEADLINE EXTENDED TO 11:59 EST on February 7, 2012!

START A CAMPUS TEAM AND BE A LET'S GO CAMPUS DIRECTOR!

- Build, recruit, train, and manage a campus team of writers for the 52-year-old leading, internationally-renowned student budget travel guide
- Become an expert in select travel destinations
- Publicize Let’s Go at your campus

- Hone their writing skills with training from expert Let's Goers

- Get published on an international stage

Let's Go alumni have gone on to:

The Atlantic

Esquire

Disney

Facebook

Google

Harper’s Magazine

Lonely Planet

Microsoft

The New York Times

The New Yorker

Parade

Playboy

TIME Magazine

The White House

How can I apply?
You can apply either as an individual founder or with a partner on your campus.

To apply individually, please follow these steps:

- Part 1: Fill out this form here

- Part 2: E-mail the following to lauren.xie@letsgo.com:

- A resume

- A creative travel-related writing sample (no more than 500 words)

- A step-by-step plan for how you would encourage students on your campus to join your Campus Team (no more than 500 words)

- 2 ideas for how you would publicize Let’s Go Travel Guides on your campus (no more than 250 words each)

To apply with a partner, please follow these steps:

- Part 1: Each partner should fill out this form here

- Part 2: E-mail the following to lauren.xie@letsgo.com:

- A resume (1 for each partner)

- A creative travel-related writing sample (no more than 500 words, 1 for each partner)

- A joint step-by-step plan for how you and your partner would encourage students on your campus to join your Campus Team (no more than 500 words)

- 2 joint ideas for how you and your partner would publicize Let’s Go Travel Guides on your campus (no more than 250 words each)

Applications will be considered on a rolling basis. The final deadline to apply for Spring 2012 is February 7, 2012 at 11:59pm EST. All components of the application must be received at this time in order to be considered for Spring 2012.

Questions? Please e-mail lauren.xie@letsgo.com.

Train Hopping from Amsterdam to Hamburg

Sat, 31 Dec 2011 00:02:08 -0500

Payment: Though the seemingly high-tech ticket machines might make you think otherwise, Holland’s rail system only accepts cash if you pay for your ticket in person. If you plan in advance, though, you can buy online here.

Route: "The Netherlands NS Hispeed train" naturally sounds convenient, but don't take the name for granted. Never expect to get directly from point A to B, because the Hispeed travels to a few places in between. Note that the term “few” is extremely sarcastic here: my ticket required five switchover platforms, sometimes with only five spare minutes for the switch.

If you miss one platform or a stop, then prepare for a long way home. More than that, tell an official that you missed your stop, and prepare yourself for the consequent disapproving glance (yes, you are a tourist, and yes, the official thinks that you've proved it).

“Holland has not developed any direct routes. You have to be a pro at train hopping in order to escape this country,” says a 30-something Dutch passenger.

A wild grin stretches across his face; my helpless expression amuses him. Luckily, this fellow stays with me from Maarssen (where I was NOT supposed to be) to Utrecht, where he shows me a platform for Hengelo—where I foolishly lose the ticket.

Missing the Ticket: If you lose it, you'll pay the consequences. Sometimes even an usher can screw up. Having to pass Hengelo (where I was suppose to switch) I had no choice but to ride until the last stop in Enschede with an intimidating usher.

“Fee of a lost ticket will cost you 30 Euros,” she states while staring me down. “You’re coming with me to Enschede and getting another ticket.”

Organized and well kempt, this woman escorts me to the vacant Enschede station. No ticket booths were open, and the information centers stood closed and dark. It's 8:30pm and we stand in the middle of nowhere in Holland.

“My colleagues—such idiots!” she shakes her head, fumbling with her tracking device and beating the ticket machine.

I chuckle. “I guess this means the ticket’s free of charge?”

“Well, listen, I won’t charge you now. You’re going back to Hengelo on this train.” She points to Platform Two, completely vacant. “Then you’ll reach the border. You’re on your own. Good luck.”

Shocked, I say, “I thought you guys were on top of things!”

“Yeah, we have our issues too. I’m from the city, not from cow country like this,” she chuckles, and walks away.

Directions: A ticket bought from the machine will not state the platform switchovers OR train stops OR times to disembark. Such details only exist on the ticket machine screen, not the ticket—tough luck if you don't have a pen or a good memory for these tedious details.

Likewise, a train can have numerous destinations depending on the specific car. I approach a man waiting on the platform in Belfield, Germany.

“You going to Hamburg?” I ask.

“Hamburg? No, I am going to Moscow,” he replies. He cocks his head sideways in confusion. He grasps my ticket and squints while examining it. “Well, yes you are in the right place. But perhaps you need to be on a different car,” he says.

I stare blankly at him.

“I know it’s confusing, but I think you need to be on the car going to Copenhagen,” he says.

He points to a sign on the edge of the platform. He was right. I leave the station on the first car, which states Copenhagen as the destination with no mention of Hamburg. The usher on board, though, confirms Hamburg as a stop.

“Russia can wait,” I think, as I press my face against the cold window.

My trip from Amsterdam to Hamburg took 12 hours, though it was supposed to take six. When I arrived, I was incredibly glad to be done with the journey.

Introducing the Free Let's Go City Guide Apps!

Wed, 14 Dec 2011 09:38:15 -0500

They're here: the new Let's Go city guide mobile apps, absolutely FREE! Download the apps of your choice for your iPhone or iPod Touch, and enjoy mobile access to Let's Go content for Amsterdam, London, NYC, Paris and Rome.

Find the hottest restaurants, clubs, bars, hotels, sights, shopping and cultural attractions.

Browse know-before-you-go info, fun facts and insider tips.

Search for just what you need, when you need it.

Get unique pointers on free stuff, Let's Go Picks, and local favorites.

Map what you find, for easy access.

Share & check-in via email and Facebook.

The new free Let's Go mobile apps are an easy way to take our trusted guides with you as you explore and connect with other travelers and friends back home. Download them all for your iPhone or iPod Touch:

Student Travel Gift Guide (or: What Santa asks Let’s Go for Christmas)

Tue, 13 Dec 2011 16:24:04 -0500

Now that the holidays are here, what do you get that friend taking a semester abroad, an impromptu backpacking trip, or just a weekend stumbling through airports, train stations, and heavy rickshaw traffic? While they’re vagabonding around during those precious weeks of freedom, what will they want more than another ugly sweater from Aunt Mildred? We can’t cut down their travel time (see Let’s Go’s 2087 Gift Guide, which will surely include a teleportation device), but we can promise more enjoyable travel with these nifty conveniences.

NOOK Color (Barnes & Noble, $199). Every hostel usually has some sort of book exchange. However, it’s usually a collection of travel series from when Yugoslavia was a country and German dime novels. Why not carry infinite books (okay, maybe not infinite, but definitely more than you could read in ten years) on this virtual library?

V-Dimension Helius Solar Powered Backpack (Staples.com, $109). Finding an outlet? Impossible. Finding your adapter? Even harder. This solar powered backpack comes with iPod/Phone, mini-USB, and LG charging adapters, along with headphones to listen while charging. You’ll never be shackled next to the outlet in the airport again.

Pentax Optio WG-1 (Pentax, $299). Freeze it, sink it, throw it, crush it, shake it. Eat your heart out, Daft Punk. This camera can survive it all, and still deliver 14 megapixel photos and 720p HD video. Just like your childhood idea of Santa, this camera will never die.

Copag Playing Cards (Copag, $8.99). Let’s be real: cards are what you bring to teach the global community how to play King’s Cup. When you do inevitably spill (beer, wine, bodily fluid, or maybe it just started to rain?) these all-plastic cards will live to entertain again. Just be sure to hose them down before they get too sticky.

Mobal GSM World Phone (mobal.com, $29). You’ve just bought a phone with a SIM card. Whoops, you switched countries. Time to buy another. Crossed the border by accident. Another SIM card. What’s that? The feds want to know why you have 9 different disposable phones? Okay, Osama. Mobal GSM World Phone will give you one (British) number that will never expire, works in more countries than the UN recognizes, and is linked to your parents’ credit card so that they will be able to contact you (or you them) without fear of running out of credit. Think of it as the ultimate phone-a-friend.

Global Entry Pass (US Customs and Border Protection, $100). For US citizens who find themselves dealing with US Customs in person a little too often (and wish they didn’t, but unfortunately they are the gatekeepers to your travel freedom), this program offered for frequent, low-risk travelers will allow you to skip the lines at customs in most major US airports. It’s good for 5 years, subject to a background check and fingerprint submission. You’ll never feel more like a secret agent. Unless you become a secret agent. Don’t tell us—you’ll blow your cover.

MSR Ultralite Packtowel (Cascade Designs $13-16). Resist using your dirty t-shirt as a towel (yes, we’ve done that; no, it doesn’t count as “doing laundry”) and try this 3.1 oz. quick-dry chamois/poly-nylon combo that soaks up twice its weight in water and wrings instantly dry. And when you actually do laundry, you can toss it in with the rest of your clothes as well.

STA Round-the-World Ticket ($2199-4899). Most people don’t know how cheap these tickets are, especially for students or those under 26. Choose from a variety of trips: whether you want tropical hopscotching in the South Pacific and South America or a Siberian trek from Moscow to Beijng, there is certainly some destination that STA has kindly pre-packaged for you.

Grid-it! Organizer (Travel Smith, $20). We weren’t sure what this was until we looked closer, and then we decided it was awesome. This 8x12” square has layers of elastic woven grids that stretch out and can hold electronics, papers, pens, gum—anything that fits, really—on one side, and a zippered pouch on the other, enabling all those important and easily lost items to be quickly found when rummaging through your backpack.

Pic Translator (Fotozio, $4). Okay, we’re sorry. You need an iPhone or Droid for this one. We promise this is cool enough to encourage you to go and dump your flip phone. With this app, take a picture of any sign, menu, short written text and have the app instantly translate it for you, while it pronounces the words for you. The best part is that it works offline, and comes with 9 different languages loaded.

Capital Adventures: The National Christmas Tree

Sun, 11 Dec 2011 14:26:36 -0500

During this festive season, I always try to make it down to the White House front lawn to pay my annual visit to the National Christmas Tree.

The tree itself, I must admit, is a bit disappointing, especially if you’ve been to the one at Rockefeller Center. But for Washingtonians like myself, the tree is all we’ve got… and it's pretty darn good.

Here’s what the setup looks like almost every year: there is the large tree in the middle, the “national” tree (which is actually in place there all year long), and over 50 smaller trees, one for each of the states and territories. The cool thing is that each smaller tree is decorated with ornaments designed by school kids from its respective state or territory. Also, surrounding all this Christmas tree goodness is probably the coolest display of trains that you’ll ever see.

Every year, I always pay a visit to the Texas tree to represent my home state and snap a picture. This year, the ornaments were from The High School for the Visual and Performing Arts, which is in my hometown!

Sick nasty sweet!

If you’re visiting the District between now and the New Year, you should swing by the tree one evening when it's all lit up. Entrance is free, there is Christmas music, and everyone is generally in a good mood. It's located on the front lawn side of the White House, and generally closes around 11pm.

Nine Things to Take Advantage of in Helsinki

Tue, 06 Dec 2011 18:31:51 -0500

9. The Helsinki Card: It was not so much the cost-saving aspect that made this a big hit with me, but rather the convenience. For 55 euro (the three-day option), you get a detailed map of Helsinki, plus a guidebook that gives you all the information you need to make the most of your stay. The multilingual ticket agent will also ask you if you’d like to take advantage of a free bus tour of the city. Sign up for it—it’s a great way to get a sense of the place and visit more out-of-the-way destinations; for example, the Sibelius Monument and the Church in the Rock, both of which are stops. I took some time to research attractions in Helsinki before I arrived, but I think I would have fared just as well if I hadn’t and had bought this card upon arrival. It's available for purchase at the Helsinki train station and airport.

8. Free Museums (With the Helsinki Card): Museums in Helsinki, like most other things in the city, are quite expensive. Think six to eight euro for entrance to a place that you can easily stroll through in under an hour. The time-cost analysis wouldn’t have made sense to me if I hadn’t bought the Helsinki Card. With that said, there are some wonderful little museums here, and you will definitely want to take advantage of the fact that you’ll have free admission to just about all of them. The Sinebrychoff is the best museum for foreign art in the city. I counted two Tiepolos, two Cranachs, and one Rembrandt when I visited—maybe not a collection to rival the Louvre or Hermitage, but still not too shabby.

The Ateneum is without a doubt the city’s most famous art museum, however. Located right across from the train station in the heart of Helsinki, it always has some sort of uniquely Finnish exhibit. When I visited, there was an excellent exhibit on art from Lapland, the far northern region of Finland.

7. Proximity: It’s never good to write that the best thing about a place is how easy it to get to somewhere else—that’s why this item is only seventh on the list. The fact remains that Helsinki is alluringly close to two other places worth visiting. Tallinn, the capital of Estonia, lies just across the Baltic, and St. Petersburg, the heart of old imperial Russia, is just a short cruise away. For Petersburg, there’s even a non-visa option to visit for short period of time (48 hours max).

6. Proximity Within the City Itself: You can walk just about everywhere, and should. My half-hour stroll to the Museum of Photography nonironically made for some great photo opportunities, as I passed ultra-modern Finnish apartment buildings and bridges that looked like they had been assembled out of K'NEX.

5. Market Square (and Reindeer Meatballs!): Vegetarians and vegans, my apologies, but Rudolph makes for one tasty meal. Be sure to visit Market Square near the South Harbor to pick up souvenirs and to try some of Finland’s more traditional fare. There’s usually a market set up in the area that sells everything from coffee and doughnuts (it’s rumored you can even see Finnish diplomats and officials grabbing a quick breakfast on their way to the Presidential Palace across the street), to freshly picked currants and mushrooms, to touristy knickknacks and postcards. While the Market is a great place to sample cheaper variants of Lappish cuisine, Helsinki also has several well-established Lappish restaurants for epicureans.

4. Baked Goods: In terms of sugary, flaky edibles, Paris and Vienna might get all the press, but Helsinki stands its own ground when it comes to Scandinavian specialties. Cinnamon rolls are big here, both literally and figuratively. Head to Café Esplanad, one of the city’s best and most popular foodie spots, to grab one of their enormous cinnamon rolls and a cup of coffee. Next on the agenda? Café Ekberg, a place with a charming fin de siècle atmosphere and famous pastries. Their napoleon was recommended to me and faired admirably. Most definitely worth a visit if you’re visiting the Sinebrychoff Museum.

However, the unexpected winner in the Helsinki baked goods competition is the dallaspulla sold at the Kioski convenience store chain. In vain, I tried to get an English translation for the filling inside these delectable pastries. The best I got was custard, though a warm, creamy, eggy, caramelized sort of custard. The pastry around the custard is wet and gooey from the filling's moisture, while the outside is flaky and magnificent. This might make my list of the top ten best things I’ve ever eaten.

3. English Skills: Because this is Scandinavia, most people speak English fluently and flawlessly—or at least well enough to give you good directions to the nearest sauna. Furthermore, in the three days I spent in Helsinki, I found Finns to be very down-to-earth and friendly people.

2. The Sauna: After a long hard day of walking, gawking, and eating, there’s no greater treat than a Finnish sauna. You can find them in most hotels, sometimes even hostels (my hosts at Help Hostel were kind enough to open it especially for me—I can honestly say I recommend a stay!). Yrjönkatu, a swimming hall in the center of town, lets you follow your sauna with a naked swim in their indoor pool. If you’re planning to fit in a naked swim, be sure to check the swimming hall’s schedule—men and women have separate hours, and, fortunately or unfortunately, separate swims.

1. The Coffee: I’ve heard from numerous sources that the Finns are the biggest coffee drinkers per capita. Given the long days of darkness that start creeping in around October, I guess this isn’t surprising. I have to give credit where credit is due, however: the Finns know how to brew a good cup. As less of a coffee drinker myself, I was surprised to find that I had developed a caffeine addiction by the end of the three days I was here. You have been warned.

Egypt's Lunar Seascape

Tue, 15 Nov 2011 23:46:45 -0500

You’ve arrived in Cairo and you’re pumped to see the Pyramids and the Egyptian Museum. This is normal. Many people come here dreaming about a land filled with camels and turbans and Tutankhamen and find it they do, though this land is also filled with 20 million other people and their cars.

However, unless you’re a history freak or an archaeology nerd, you’re going to want something else to do in order to get your Egyptian adventure. If you like nature, my suggestion is this: do yourself a favor and freakin' leave Cairo. You need to breathe.

Get thyself to the White Desert, out in the West, about six or seven hours from Cairo by bus/minibus/service taxi. Allow yourself to be immersed during the day in a bath of blue, white, and gold, and showered at sunset with a magnificent spread that only gets more beautiful as the jeweled night begins. This desert is the closest most humans will come to walking both on the moon and at the bottom of the ocean, since it was at one time on the ocean floor and also has an uncannily moon-like appearance.

White sculptures of chalk, carved out by time and sand, sprout up from the ground, begging for identification as different animals and faces. You’ll see even cooler shapes after desert madness sets in and things start to get really weird with your other companions. The weirdness will totally be worth it when you laugh and reminisce about awkward moments later on.

If you go with a guide, be sure to bargain your heart out and remember that the economy is awful right now. Also, try to get them to take you off the beaten path so you’re not running into other people’s toilet paper all the time. On that note, be sure to burn your toilet paper. This is nature, people, not a gross public bathroom.

Get Your Fruit On in Cairo

Sat, 29 Oct 2011 15:51:32 -0400

You’re in Cairo. Whoa. It feels pretty post-revolutionary up in here. It’s so post-revolution, it almost feels pre-revolution. See what I’m saying?

You hop off the metro and wind your way through the underbelly of Tahrir square before finally resurfacing and breathing in the sweet post-revolutionary air, now only slightly sullied because of the Supreme Council of Armed Forces’ civilian killing antics.

Wandering down Mohammad Mahmoud street, past the high walls of the American University of Cairo and the accompanying fast food restaurants, past the street where Cilantro’s employees park their motor bikes, you turn left onto a street with fruit stands.

Depending on your travel experiences and culinary preferences you might find this fruit stand quaint. People selling food products without four walls and a ceiling surrounding them? What? Is this legal? This is what I would have thought a few years ago, but it turns out that four walls and a ceiling are the rarities the world over, and not the other way around.

While gazing at the fruit stand piled high with, among other things, huge mangos, psychedelically green oranges, dusty grapes, fragrant guava, and imported bananas, you notice something breathtakingly beautiful, something that has such a wholesome shape and captivating color, you wonder if you’ve ever seen anything so wonderful.

It is a pomegranate, and this is pomegranate season. The breathtakingly round shape interrupted only briefly by a stem belly button and the deep, dusty pink of the skin call to you, hinting at the treasure to be found within, the jewels of delight encased within chunks of pale flesh. Each seed is earned, and yet the burst of pure pleasure is worth the effort.

As you eat of this pomegranate, you know without a doubt that had you been in Persephone’s place, you too would have eaten of Hades’ forbidden fruit. You also know that you’ll be stopping by to get a pomegranate juice later on, and then tomorrow you’ll carefully considered a mango and pomegranate concoction at the corner juice stand.

Welcome, brother. Welcome, sister. This is our season to rejoice in the cooler weather and the bulbous bounty of the pomegranate.

Lost in New York: Manhattan Chinatown

Fri, 28 Oct 2011 14:15:53 -0400

We all know how expensive it can be to eat in New York. Especially in Manhattan. Going to an “inexpensive” restaurant or even a trip to the supermarket can still leave a backpacker feeling over budget. Its true – NYC can be a really pricey city – but for travelers that are willing to stray a little from the beaten path, it can also be an incredibly cheap place to eat, drink and explore. We've got lots of culinary gems here that are affordable, authentic, and well worth the trip.

Manhattan Chinatown is home to many of these places – here you can indulge in authentic Asian food for less than $5 a person. My favorites are the Hong Kong style noodle soup, Vietnamese sandwiches and pho, and the dollar dumplings.

Beef brisket noodle soup at Lam Zhou

Head to Lam Zhou Handmade Noodle, at 55 East Broadway*, for Hong Kong-style noodle soup. The noodles here are the most authentic I've had since leaving China: hand-made, hand-stretched, and then quickly thrown into broth for our enjoyment. For three to five dollars you can have noodle soup with a selection of spicy beef, roast pork, fish balls, bok choy and more.

Tasty Dumpling is one of Chinatown's worst-kept secrets. Famous for their pork and chive (or cabbage) dumplings at $1.25 for five, this place is one of NYC's least expensive meals, and it is a big hit with the lunch crowd during the week. Located on the east side of Columbus Park (55 Mulberry St.), Tasty Dumpling is right around the corner from Park Row, the Brooklyn Bridge, and City Hall. Be sure to try their sesame pancake sandwiches and the peanut noodles.

Around the corner from Tasty Dumpling, and also worth noting, is the Chinatown Ice Cream Factory (65 Bayard St). It isn't cheap, but it's the only place in town that boasts black sesame, ginger, lychee and taro root flavored ice cream.

Vietnamese sandwiches have gotten really hip here in the last few years. You'll see posh restaurants all over the city offering their own variation on this classic sandwich, with delicate sauces, exotic ingredients, and a price that is two or three times what you'll pay in Chinatown. These sandwiches are delicious – but not ideal for a backpacker on a budget.

Making bánh mì at Sau Voi Corp

For an authentic and backpacker-budget-friendly meal, head to Sau Voi Corp on the southeast corner of Lafayette and White (Canal St off the 4,5,6, N, Q, R, J, and Z). With all the appearances of a standard New York bodega, this place doubles (triples) as a video rental store and purveyor of Vietnamese sandwiches. They've got a great selection of movies and tapes dating back to early 80's, and for three to five dollars, the best VN sandwiches I've ever had. I'll usually stick with the classic bánh mì– a big baguette, toasted and stuffed with daikon, carrots, cucumber, cilantro, pâté, two or three other types of pork and a healthy dose of hot sauce. They've also got some variations: meatball, chicken, sardine and ground pork and fish sauce.

Last, and most definitely not least is pho: Vietnamese noodle soup, traditionally served with two or three different cuts of beef, bean sprouts, fresh basil. The best I've found is at Nha Trang Centre. For four to six dollars, you get a BIG bowl of noodle soup, stocked with meat and veggies. This dish is delicious, filling, and full of variations. They've got all sorts of combinations of meats and veggies, and even a vegetarian option! I can't speak for the rest of the menu, though; general entrées here are a bit pricier.

Part of the fun of exploring Chinatown is the food you encounter. Walks through unfamiliar streets can often lead you to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant with delicious food for very little money. Happy eating – let me know if you find anything great!

* A note for people new to New York – East Broadway is different from Broadway or West Broadway – it is between Chinatown and the Lower East Side. Its a quick walk from either neighborhood, or one block from the East Broadway stop on the F train.

Cultural Schizophrenia: A Chinese Tea House in Moscow

Wed, 19 Oct 2011 16:20:52 -0400

Around a wooden table embossed with an unfamiliar script, we drank oolong tea far into the night to the sounds of a gently strung sitar. By the midnight mark, our tea cups were emptied, our souls stirred, and our hearts filled.

I hadn't expected to sit through my first Chinese tea ceremony in the heart of Moscow, Russia any more than I had expected to find a painstakingly replicated tea house in the very plain looking Soviet-era building we entered.

Moscow constantly surprises me in that respect. The external appearance of the city is generally unimpressive. Think lots of grey buildings and kitschy Soviet architecture. Inside the most ordinary of buildings, however, I've found interiors with all the whimsy of Paris cafes, the modernism of Soho lofts, and the laid-back quality of Munich biergartens. The city seems to have been built with a Kinder Surprise sort of mentality. You never know what you're going to find inside.

The place I went to is called Cafe Inbi and it's located in a building called the House of the White Crane near the Dostoevski Metro. Of all the experiences I've had in the past two months I've lived in Moscow, it's been one of the most unique and unforgettable.

The interior is an ambitious attempt to combine designs from different Asian cultures. I went exploring with the ten year-old daughter from my host family and we managed to uncover several rooms designed for Japanese tea ceremonies along with lots of cozy nooks for more generic tea drinking and lounging.

The actual tea ceremony is conducted by specially trained "tea experts" who are widely traveled and quite knowledgable. The place takes great care with authenticity and ambiance. I would recommend going during one of the numerous live music concerts to get the full experience. The ceremony lasted about an hour but we stayed far longer, talking, unwinding, and taking it all in.

Four hours later, I was utterly relaxed and strangely intoxicated. Even in the cold Moscow night, there was a warmth that seemed to seep down into my bones.

You can visit the website at: www.teaway.ru. Use Google translate unless you're up on Russian.

Capital Adventures: Arlington Cemetery

Fri, 14 Oct 2011 00:34:55 -0400

As the leaves begin to change color and sweaters replace sunglasses, Washington, D.C. transforms into a city full of fall-friendly activities for tourists and locals alike to enjoy.

One of my favorite fall D.C. destinations is Arlington Cemetery, just a hop, a skip, and a metro ride away from downtown D.C. The easiest way to get to the cemetery is to take the blue metro line to the Arlington Cemetery stop. I don't think it would be physically possible for public transportation to take you closer than the blue line does—it leaves you exactly where you need to go. Entrance to the cemetery is free.

Once you're there, you have a few options for how to see the cemetery:

For those who can't spend a lot of time on their feet, I suggest taking the Tourmobile to see the cemetery. Prices vary depending on age, but run between US$7-10.
Walk. It really is the best way to explore the cemetery. There are benches dispersed throughout the cemetery, so if you get tired you can rest. Be sure to bring your own water!

It should be noted that the general mood of the cemetery isn't somber, but respectful and reverent. People abstain from shouting about the latest episodes of reality television and speaking in loud voices, and carry themselves with an air of respect. There are often funerals taking place, which reminds visitors that the cemetery is, in fact, more than just a historical site to check off the to-visit list.

Although I highly recommend wandering aimlessly around the cemetery for a while, there are a few famous gravesites you should definitely see before calling it a day.

Tomb of the Unknowns: A soldier patrols this site all day long, as it is a memorial to the unnamed fallen soldier. Get there on the hour to see the changing of the guard.
Robert F. Kennedy Gravesite
Space Shuttle Challenger Memorial
President John F. Kennedy Gravesite

In the fall, the vivid yellow, red, and orange leaves on the rolling hills make Arlington Cemetery especially worth the visit.

Philly Tradition: Midnight Pretzel Rides

Fri, 07 Oct 2011 16:14:31 -0400

It's 11:30 on a Tuesday night. The weather is less than ideal: frigid, with winds blowing gloomily between the buildings. All the same, a group of people starts to congregate at the foot of the iconic steps of the Art Museum. A little weather won't stop them from completing their mission.

They're all young, many of them students from schools like Drexel or UPenn. Most of them know each other well, calling out to each other in greeting and comparing bikes. They're waiting for anyone else who might join them in their epic quest for a delicious treat: hot, fresh pretzels.

Every Tuesday it's the same: meet at the museum, leave at midnight, and ride at breakneck speed down to Center City Prezel Co., located around 9th and Washington. Any and all are welcome.

If you're looking to ride with the group, be sure you have a road bike and some serious experience; these guys ride fast. They want to get to the pretzel factory right as the doughy globs of goodness finish baking. Some buy boxes of the pretzels, while some just buy a couple. Either way, they're delicious—especially dipped in caramel or mustard. At only $1 for three pretzels, you really can't go wrong.

Sheep on Stilts: Waiheke Island

Thu, 06 Oct 2011 17:04:41 -0400

Last weekend we went to a magical place of hope and wonder called Waiheke Island. It's a 45min. ferry ride from Auckland, and is filled with beaches, art galleries, wineries, and alpacas. With highlights like that, and with its relaxed island feel, you instantly want to lie on the grass and start singing.

The best part of the day was getting to see skipping alpacas. Cue Azzuro Groves. It is a boutique farm where you can taste olive oils. My group, however, had bigger aspirations.

“We would like to pet your alpacas, please.”

A nice lady handed us some alpaca food, and the alpacas came awkwardly skip-running towards us. If you have never seen an alpaca in real life, it looks remarkably like a sheep on stilts. Those sheep are pretty talented, too, because not one of them lost its balance while we were there. If I were a sheep on stilts, I would fall down. Actually, if I were a person on stilts, I would still fall down.

After playing with the alpacas, we visited Onetangi Beach and Palm Beach. Onetangi has a great shell collection, and Palm Beach has impressive rock formations. At Palm Beach, my friend and I started taking lots of pictures: pictures of rocks, pictures of us on rocks, pictures of rocks with boats in the distance, etc. We had traveled a little ways down the beach and just rounded a corner when a voice urgently whispered behind us.

“Um, guys?”

We whipped around, cameras poised to snap even more pictures, only to discover that we were on a nudist beach. Needless to say, I wasn't expecting that one. I’m not quite sure who looked more shocked, us or the naked old people who we unintentionally had pointed our cameras at. I feel like they really need a sign: “WARNING. There are naked people around the corner. Proceed at your own risk.”

Don’t worry; we also visited some of the 38 wineries located on the island. Aside from some decent wine, Stonyridge has a pretty vineyard, Wild on Waiheke has a good brewery, and Te Whau and Mudbrick both have fantastic views.

You may be asking, “Does this island you speak of really exist?” Absolutely it does, people. Come visit, drink a glass of wine, and avoid the nudist beach.

Underfoot in Paris

Sun, 02 Oct 2011 17:20:04 -0400

While wandering the streets of Paris, keeping an eye on what's underfoot is crucial to avoid the presents left by the impressive canine population—which, incidentally, is oftentimes dressed more fashionably than I during chillier weather. Watching where you step in Paris serves more purpose than simply avoiding these delightful gifts, though—across Paris, scattered medallions pepper the city sidewalks. My favorites are the Arago series, a set of around 130 medallions placed along the Paris Meridian. The set is named for François Arago, the astronomer who accurately calculated the line, which for many years rivaled the Greenwich Meridian for internationally-recognized status as the prime meridian. My first year in Paris, I was quite excited to discover not just one, but two Arago medallions right by my house in the Cité U! That meant I lived alongside a historically-important meridian, which I thought was pretty cool.

Lately, I’ve discovered another set of medallions with an interesting story behind them. Everyone who knows Paris knows about the Seine—but have you ever heard of la Bièvre? This was a second river, one that used to run through the 13th and fifth arrondissements and ultimately fed into the Seine. However, since 1912, the river has been covered up within the city, as it became horribly polluted and unsanitary as the city industrialized during the 1800s.
In 2001, a project was proposed to uncover and restore the river in a few sites in Paris. However, when the project outline was presented with its budget, which was estimated at over 100 million euro, the French population reconsidered the plan. The architect Benoît Jullien proposed another idea, and in 2008 a set of medallions and markers were placed around Paris to mark the path of la Bièvre. So far, I’ve spotted markers both along the path of the river as it stands today, and also along paths where it used to lead, including to a chic neighborhood called Le Marais and along the bras unique. Paris is not only rich in history readily apparent on the streets, but also in stories hidden below your feet.

Yanki in Buenos Aires: The Art of Café

Fri, 09 Sep 2011 17:18:09 -0400

The café culture in Buenos Aires, although not nearly as prevalent as it is in Paris, is an essential part of the daily routine of porteños of all ages.

From early in the morning until late at night, roadside cafeterías are crammed with old ladies gossiping, businessmen reading the newspaper, and students, like myself, chipping away at their latest assignments.

If you go to Buenos Aires, go to the nearest street corner, find any café, and just sit. My idea of a perfect afternoon is a book, a café con leche, and three medialunas (sweet croissants).

Most cafés open early and stay open late—some are even 24hr. cafés.

If you want to get the traditional café experience, I recommend having tea or coffee at Las Violetas, a famous confitería located in the Almagro barrio. You can get to Las Violetas right off of the Castro Barros subte stop on the A línea.

A couple of my girlfriends and I went to tea and shared the María Cala plate, which managed to fill the stomachs of three ravenous girls and then some. Plus, divided among three people, the excellent treat cost only about AR$15 a person.

Crazy good price and crazy delicious—just the way I like it.

Escape Athens!

Wed, 07 Sep 2011 13:03:24 -0400

Nobody can outdo a Greek when it comes to summer. Regardless of class, work, or status, every Greek is guaranteed a vacation. Nevertheless, even with the financial crisis, it’s still fair to say that most Greeks get at least one week off. But there are exceptions, of course. The upper middle class Athenians have the advantage of a summer home on an island or beach waterfront. Jealous? Well, I am. But let’s not get carried away. After a long year of battling traffic, air pollution, and the daily frustrations of the city life, the escape begins…

August 26, 2011

From Athens we headed south down Syngrou road and then took a left onto Poseidonos road. Hence, Poseidonos (Poseidon) “God of the sea” road hugs the coast line. It’s no surprise that he rules the road. His waters have been attracting people for centuries to build communities. A community called, Glyfada, comes first and it stands tall with a bit of pretentiousness. Its affluent reputation inhabits some of the wealthiest Greeks. Expect to see high rise apartments overlooking this leafy green neighborhood and also the Glyfada Marina port where only the elite park their Yachts. Many refer to it as the “Greek Rivera” or the “Greek Beverly Hills.” However, Glyfada’s high culture scene wasn’t our plan that day. Plus, our wallets would definitely agree. But if I meet a rich Greek shipping merchant, then I’ll hold that thought.

Go to Vouliagmeni! Instead of bankrupting ourselves in some dim-light restaurant in Glyfada, we had a midnight snack at the “Waffle house” where homemade ice cream and waffles = blissful overdose (17 Poseidonos Ave. # 210 89 61 227). Candy land colors, poppy trance music, and a sugar high staff surrounded by good company means playtime! It’s a place where I felt like a kid again. Waffle house carries unusual flavors like Tsoureki (sweet bread), Mosaic (chocolate loaf), Ferrero Rocher (that darn good truffle), Mastic cinnamon, and of course the quintessential Greek cream “Kaimaki.” Dress code: bathing suit… you’re by the sea, remember?

Prior to our midnight waffle experience, we swam at Varkiza. The altitude changes from the outskirts of Vougliameni around the small bend to Varkiza. Our car twists and turns facing dramatic drops to the sea. It’s a great panoramic experience. Once we arrive at Varkiza, we plop our mats down and notice that the beach is sparsely populated. It’s a place for low-key sports like wake boarding and racket ball. Unlike the ritzy Glyfada, where I’d totally be snapping away at those Greek celebrities, I have a chance to sit, take in the sea, and write. The general rate, (7 Euros) grants access to an umbrella and lounge chair for the day

Well, this concludes summer escape #1. Next escape plan: Evia Island summer home. Thanks for reading!

Yanki in Buenos Aires: Getting Around

Wed, 07 Sep 2011 01:27:01 -0400

Like any large city, Buenos Aires can at times be a bit difficult to navigate, especially if you don't speak the language.

It's true that the colectivo (bus) system is confusing, and the subte (subway) is less than well designed, but the public transit system isn't impossible to navigate with a bit of practice. Plus, public transit is a lot cheaper than taking a cab everywhere, although the occasional cab ride won't break the bank.

Here's a breakdown of different options for navigating Buenos Aires.

Subte: Buenos Aires's version of a subway. There are four different parallel lines, and one vertical perpendicular line connecting the parallel horizontal four. The parallel lines branch out and away somewhat from the center. Each line corresponds to a color and letter, and stations are clearly marked with the line letter and color. Subte maps are easy to understand, no Spanish necessary.

A one-way ticket costs AR$1, making it a a relatively cheap way to get around.

The only problem with the subte is that it doesn't always go exactly where you need to be. Sometimes, I've found myself going all the way into the Microcentro where the lines meet, switching lines, and then heading back out away from Microcentro in a different direction. This can be a bit annoying, but for only AR$1, I recommend doing it if you have more travel time.

Colectivos: Unless you are going to spend more than a week in Argentina, I wouldn't recommend trying to tackle the bus system. It is not worth the effort by far.

If you are a brave soul, go buy a Guía T (bus guide) and get down to studying it. Argentina has literally hundreds of bus lines going to every nook and cranny of the city. The routes are not in a circle, though, and bus stops are not marked in the Guía T, which can be a bit frustrating if you are not used to navigating a public bus system.

The bus costs between AR$1.20 and AR$1.25, depending on where you are going. Just hop on the bus, say "uno y veinte," put your coins in (the bus takes only monedas), and off you go.

If you are trying to find a stop for a certain línea (line), you can always ask a kiosco (worker in one of the many kiosks around the city) where the nearest stop is in the direction you wish to go. Generally, people are pretty accommodating in helping extranjeros (foreigners) navigate the crazy bus system. I haven't had many problems asking for help during my time in the city.

Taxi: Generally speaking, taxis aren't too pricey. Be careful not to get ripped off and charged the wrong price or handed a fake AR$100 bill, especially if you are coming from the airport.

As a general rule, don't hail a taxi from the street if you don't know the company well. I always call a radio taxi company, just to be safe. Premium Radio Taxi is a great company, always safe and reliable.

Best of luck navigating Buenos Aires, and happy travels!

Yanki in Buenos Aires: La Boca

Fri, 02 Sep 2011 13:26:34 -0400

If there's one place that tourists flock to more than any other place in Buenos Aires, its La Boca. And for a good reason. The colorful buildings, riverside location and countless souviener shops make for a lovely afternoon or weekend outing.

Now, as much as I love to trek off the beaten path and stray away from touristy things, I love La Boca. There's something about the colors, the crowds of people and the echo of tango music in the air that makes it quite... magical.

La Boca is located near the River del Plata, sort of near the port area. Originally, it was the neighborhood where fishermen lived, and (according to my tour guide) the fishermen painted thier houses to distinquish whose house was whose, much like they do with thier fishing boats.

Today La Boca is still a blue-collar neighborhood, and can be a bit rough, especially at night. Women, its just not a good idea for you to wander from the touristy street (called el caminito) alone. During the day, the neighborhood is fine, just keep your wits about you. At night, find another place to be. All the shops and restaurants close by 5pm anyway.

Artists, artisians and street performers are here daily, but more so on the weekends. There's a little market with handicrafts and souveniers during the weekends, but there's always shops open and ready for tourists from 10am-5pm during the week.

Tips for La Boca:

- Don't forget your camera, or you will be sorry!

- Try some of the food-- I had the best pizza of my life here.

- Plan 1-2 hours to bum around and enjoy. Don't rush. Enjoy the colors.

The easiest way to get there is either by bus or cab. You can take colectivo #152 all the way to La Boca.

A Spanish Drink with Pomp and Circumstance

Thu, 01 Sep 2011 10:17:44 -0400

Consuming alcohol in Spain is practically a requirement. What with the two-hour break for lunch that most Spaniards enjoy daily, who wouldn’t be tempted to have a glass of wine along with the midday meal? Dinner is sometimes considered incomplete without the requisite glass of Rioja or Cava wine. I, for one, drank my fair share of sangria and jerez (Spanish sherry) during a recent visit to Madrid.

But here’s a Spanish drink you may not have heard of: queimada. The über-strong concoction comes from Galicia, a region in Spain’s northwest corner. Unlike other Spanish beverages, queimada has its own special ceremony that accompanies the creation of each batch.

To start, the ingredients are assembled in a clay pot. Traditional additions include orujo (a Galician liqueur), sugar, coffee beans, and bits of lemon peel. The medley is then set on fire and allowed to burn until the flames turn blue. While the intoxicating brew simmers, a conjuro (spell) is typically recited. The speech addresses the four elements (earth, wind, fire, and water) and requests that special powers infuse the drink—or so I’m told, at least, as the spell is recited in Spanish. Alas, I frivolously chose to study a language other than Spanish in school.

I was fortunate enough to partake in a queimada ceremony while volunteering at a language immersion camp in Spain’s Andalusia region. Queimada is not very common in Andalusia, however, so your best bet is to visit Galicia for a taste of this ancient, supposedly magical potion.

Yanki in Buenos Aires: Piropos

Wed, 31 Aug 2011 23:50:19 -0400

¡Bonita! ¡Hermosa! ¡Chica, venid acá!

If there's one thing Argentinian men know how to do, it's tell a woman that she's a bombshell. Ladies, don't be frightened by these seemingly random and unearned compliments.

If an Argentinian man says bonita, hermosa, or mirá vos when you walk by wearing sweatpants, just accept it. Embrace it. Revel in the fact that someone thinks that you are pretty, even when you are wearing gym clothes and reek slightly of wet dog.

These lovely little side comments are called piropos, and are a part of not only Argentinian culture, but South American and Latin culture in general. Honestly, I kind of like them.

In Argentina, people say I'm pretty basically because I have two X chromosomes. In the States, boys don't even tell me I look pretty when I'm dolled up and doing my best Kim Kardashian impression.

Obviously, the solution here is to move to South America, find an Argentinian husband, and never come back. Obviously.

Upside Down In The Land Down Under

Wed, 31 Aug 2011 09:17:13 -0400

Today the guy at the student information desk told me "You're down under now, mate". No matter that he, along with everyone else I've met here, thought I was from Canada, he is right. This marks the second time in the last year that I have crossed the equator into the southern hemisphere, this time to New Zealand, known to the Maori as Aotearoa, "land of the long white cloud", or, as I call it, land of the flightless birds.

New Zealand evolved with no large mammals - they call their rugby team the All Blacks for lack of a scarier mascot - and the fauna and flora have developed accordingly. The kiwi, New Zealand's national icon, is nocturnal and flightless, as is the kakapo and several other birds. The introduced opossum is one of the greatest threats to native plants, so much so that there is an entire clothing industry based on opossum fur. It is actually quite warm and fuzzy - I may bring home a sweater or two. However, the best part of New Zealand's evolutionary isolation is the absence of snakes. I can explore the wilderness without the fear of something long and slithery biting me at the ankles or crawling into my bed in the middle of the night.

I knew the kiwis (referring to the people now, not the bird) and I were off to a great start when I saw Air New Zealand's safety video with Richard Simmons. I don't know if it prepared me for an emergency landing, but it definitely entertained me. They have also filmed one with the All Blacks. Once again, I doubt if any women knew where to find their life vests after watching it, but it definitely turned me into an avid fan of New Zealand Rugby. Fortunately, my stay overlaps with the Rugby World Cup. I will be attending.

At first I had doubts about flying to Auckland on a one-way ticket, aside from the fact that it was illegal and I had to buy a temporary ticket to Australia to prove I was not staying here forever... not that I was planning on it or anything. I left my family, friends, and warm summer weather for a rainy city on the other side of the world. However, in only four days I have peered over the edge of a (dormant) volcano, hiked among giant kauri trees in the Waitakere Ranges, visited the windblown and wild west coast, and shared some fun memories with new friends. Not to mention I get to use great phrases like "go bush!" (translation: go wild, adventure!), "put it in the rubbish" (trash), and my favorite, "I'm mad keen about tramping" (I like hiking).

While I have been exploring my new home, I have of course never lost sight of my real purpose: designing a 6-week research project through the University of Auckland. My advisor sent me home with a large stack of scientific articles today - my task for the week is to narrow down my project to something feasible in a short amount of time. It feels good to be in school again.

One thing perplexes me - if I am standing upside down in the southern hemisphere, do I see the moon upside down?

Cheers!

A Candlelit Evening on Castle Grounds

Tue, 30 Aug 2011 16:38:30 -0400

Vaux-le-Vicomte was once the site of a spectacular party, the story of which has lived on over the centuries not so much for the great wine or rocking string quartets, but rather for the fate the host suffered shortly after the party at the hands of one distinguished guest. The host was Nicolas Fouquet and this guest none other than Louis XIV. The party was held 350 years ago in 1661, on an August night probably very much like the one when I visited.

Backtrack a few years: the year was 1648 and, not terribly unlike today, the state treasury of France had collapsed. A few years later, in 1653, Cardinal Mazarin appointed Nicolas Fouquet financial secretary in response. The position suited Fouquet, who came from a wealthy family of political advisors and who was both ambitious and intelligent, very well. Unfortunately, Cardinal Mazarin, who was both First Minister and godfather of the king, was a greedy man in a powerful position, and made Fouquet's work difficult.

Upon Cardinal Mazarin's death in 1661, the year of the aforementioned party, the crown still laid in financial disarray. Mazarin's private secretary, Colbert, began planting seeds of suspicion about Fouquet with the king after being threatened by the financial secretary. By May, the king was determined to be rid of Fouquet. Slyly, the king masked his intentions and threw Fouquet off by announcing he would visit Fouquet's château, Vaux-le-Vicomte.

Here's where the party comes in. Of it, Voltaire wrote, "On August 17 at 6 in the evening, Fouquet was king of France; at 2 in the morning, he was nobody." In fact, Fouquet's arrest came three weeks later as the buzz about his party was likely just dulling down. His trial for embezzlement lasted three years; however, despite Colbert's scheming, he could not be proven guilty. The judges ruled for Fouquet to be banished, a ruling that effectively functioned as an acquittal.

In the only instance of interference of this kind in French history, the king stepped in to harshen his sentence—having urged the judges to give the death penalty—and ordered Fouquet jailed for life. Prison for the rich at the time operated differently than it does today, with each wealthy prisoner getting his own manservant. As Fouquet's manservant often fell ill (if life for the servants in the old days wasn't a tough deal already, imagine having to be a servant in jail), he received special permission to have an additional prisoner serve him: the legendary Man in the Iron Mask, who was housed in the same prison at the time. The identity of the Man in the Iron Mask is still unknown, although many intriguing theories abound, including the idea that he was the true father of Louis XIV. Fouquet remained in prison until his death in 1680.

Fouquet's castle, an inspiration for Versailles, stands to this day as a monument to his short-lived glory. These days, Vaux-le-Vicomte is open to the public, accessible by RER or train (RER D, station: Melun) followed by a bus to the château. On the first and third Saturdays of the month, the castle reopens at 8pm, lit by thousands of candles for an evening visit that concludes in a fireworks show at 11pm. One word: enchanting.

Yanki in Buenos Aires: On Mate

Mon, 29 Aug 2011 12:29:46 -0400

I have discovered why Argentines can stay up so late and wake up so early: the secret, my friends, is mate. A rival of dulce de leche as the national obsession, mate is a tea-like beverage that one can drink cold or hot, although drinking it hot is more common.

The thing about mate is that you cannot go to a restaurant and ask for it; if you do, you won't get the real mate, but instead mate cocido, which just isn't the same. The only way to really taste mate is to make friends with an Argentine and let them show you the ropes. And trust me, you want to try it. It is delicious. I am obsessed.

The basic idea of mate is this: first, you put hot water into a cup already filled with tea leaves. Then, you drink the mixture through a metal filter straw called a bombilla. After you drink all the water that is poured in the cup, you reach for your thermo and pour more water in. Eventually, you will need to change out the leaves, but usually you can drink a thermo full of water before you need to make a switcheroo.

Now, there is a bit of mate etiquette that you should keep in mind. Usually, if you are with a group of people and you are all drinking mate together, everyone drinks from the same cup. One person, el hacedor, prepares the cup for the everyone else. Each person drinks from the filled cup until the water runs out and then passes it back to the hacedor, who adds more water and passes it the next person. And yes, everyone uses the same metal straw.

Everyone has his or her own mate preferences, whether that means adding sugar, using cold water instead of hot water, or even using juice instead of water. There are a million different brands and types of yerba, the tea-like herb that is used in the drink, and everyone has his or her own favorite. My favorite mate? No sugar, super hot water, and plain old Nobleza Gaucha (it comes in a blue bag with a red label).

To get the full experience, you should also check out the mate museum in Tigre, a town about 1.5 hr. outside of Buenos Aires. They have anything and everything you could ever want to know about mate, yerba and this wonderful Argentine tradition. Just hop on the colectivo 60 (AR$2, all in monedas!), but expect to be traveling for a while. It's a pretty drive, though!

So, if you're feeling adventurous, buy yourself mate, some yerba, a bombilla and a thermo—they're not expensive at all, about AR$50 for everything. Experiment. Experience. Just don't burn yourself by spilling. Been there. It hurts.

Yanki in Buenos Aires: Eat your way through Argentina

Sun, 28 Aug 2011 15:24:37 -0400

To be completely honest, this is a bit of a revision of a blog I wrote this summer while studying abroad in Argentina. Its about everything from food to understanding the crazy things that argentines do. Needless to say, I felt like putting my words of wisdom up here for you all to enjoy. So enjoy. Or, as the argentines say, "distfruta."

...

This summer, I decided to go to Buenos Aires, Argentina to study, to speak... and to eat! Food is definitely the easiest way to experience a culture and bond with fellow travelers as well as the locals, and in Argentina, they KNOW how to EAT. After spending only two weeks in Argentina, I can already say, I'm going to gain a lot of weight here... the food is just so... good!

Here's a basic food "guide" to items that tend to pop up on menus around Buenos Aires and, actually, throughout the whole country.

Empanadas- Meat, cheese or vegetable filled pockets. They can be baked, or fried. My favorite is carne picante!

Locro- An amazing traditional stew of beef, corn and other vegetables, served with bread.

Choripan- Sausage on a bun… but better. Try it with choripan sauce.

Asado- Argentina’s version of BBQ. Watch out for cuts of meat that you’ve never tried before.

Dulce de Leche- Argentina’s obsession. They eat it with breakfast, ice cream or all by itself. Magically delicious.

Alfajores- A shortbread cookie sandwich, filled with dulce de leche. There’s a whole variety of options and brands, although I think the best brands are Cachafaz and Havana (Argentina’s version of Starbucks).

Tostadas- It’s just a ham and cheese sandwich, but trust me, in Argentina, they just taste better.

I could go on talking about food all day long, but I’d rather be out tasting it than writing about it!

And with that, me voy!

Buen provecho!

Isola d'Elba

Sun, 28 Aug 2011 12:58:34 -0400

Napoleon must have had it made when living in exile here: cool, crystal-clear waters, a lush, mountainous terrain, and a certain intangible Italian charm set this island apart from its tourist-ridden counterpart, the Cinque Terre. I found this island to be a relief from the usual annoyances of the summer tourist season; although swarms of tourists still crowded the pebbly beach, the rest of the island remained mostly untouched. Just minutes after stepping off the hour-long ferry ride to the island, I found myself transported, immersed in narrow, winding streets hemmed with lines of laundry hanging out to dry and topless middle-aged men confidently displaying rather impressive beer bellies. The humble abode of not-so-humble Napoleon is only a short hike away. The architecture of the house blends in so well with its surroundings that my friend and I passed by it on the first go. Looking at the view off the cliff on which Napoleon’s house sits is extremely gratifying, and makes the long journey to the island and up the hill to his house worth the effort.

After the breathtaking views, there is no better reward for the journey to the top of the island than to relax at the beach. I'd encourage staking out your spot early on, because the beach does get rather crowded in the afternoon and evening. Don't be afraid to get territorial. Lay atop the smooth white pebbles, and then take a dip in the clear waters. You'll be able to see not only your own feet, but also the schools of fish that swim close to shore. Most beach-goers find watching the fish reason enough to get their feet wet.

Not far from the beach, one can easily experience the local Italian cuisine; the delicious pizza pies and pasta dishes usually incorporate fresh local seafood. I stumbled upon a local park that offered family-style dining and picnic tables, along with a menu that included everything from plenty of penne pasta dishes to American-style hamburgers and fries. After a long day of exploration, a filling dinner and a cruise ride home on the local ferry hit the spot.

Roadtripping to the Niagara Falls

Tue, 23 Aug 2011 21:21:40 -0400

After arriving home from my summer job three nights ago, my sister and I decided to embark, almost immediately, on a four day adventure to the Niagara Falls and then to Muskoka, a wonderful system of islands an hour or so north of Toronto. We left Wednesday night from our home in Chicago and drove two hours to Kalamazoo, MI, and stayed in a convenient Best Western hotel right off the highway. In the morning, we drove from Kalamazoo to Detroit. I’ve never been.

The drive through the city was—to put it simply—uninspiring. We saw many run down buildings, some charred by house fires, other riddled with broken windows and peeling plaster. The metropolitan area consisted of a few tall buildings, and is evidently a relatively small city.

After the brief site seeing we took the Detroit Windsor Tunnel under the river, answered an interrogating blonde, unenthused border patrolwoman, and continued our journey down through Windsor, Canada. We then shot down highway 401 for another few hours, watching the miles click down on our RAV4’s GPS system. The drive through this mostly rural region is nice to watch on a long car ride. We drove straight through Ontario, pulling into our destination around 4:30.

We checked into our reservation at the ACBB Hostel Niagara on McGrail Ave, got a tour of the building from the manager, Patrick, and are currently sharing a room with a British backpacking couple who have been traveling the United States for the past month. Patrick tells us that only 10% of the residents are American. His staff consists of a German man named Wolfgang, and Irish man named Robert, and a Canadian woman named Amy. The bathrooms are clean, the beds are comfortable, and it’s only $30 a night. For two people in their early twenties, that deal’s hard to beat, especially when the competition includes the $200/night Sheraton Hotel down the street.

Anyway, the Falls are an absolutely incredible sight, and well worth the ten-hour road trip. If you go, you must take a Maid of the Mist boat tour. Though slightly pricey ($16.50 on the Canadian side) it’s the closest you can experience the Falls without pulling an old Bobby Leach. A few extra tips: When you first get to the Falls, don’t make the mistake of walking to the natural wonder by passing through Centre St, a major tourist trap, unless you have children and some extra pocket change to cash in. Rather, drive down Niagara Parkway for a beautiful introduction to what you came to see. Also, the Canadian side is much more scenic, but it is worth walking over to the American side (a very minimal fee with passport in hand) for an additional perspective. Safe travels!

Embracing Cairo: Love the One You're With

Mon, 22 Aug 2011 08:58:27 -0400

Cairo is a city that does not love you back. It returns your warm embrace with arms of steel wool and then bonks you over the head with a frying pan before robbing you, pushing you on the ground, kicking you in the stomach and then saying it hates your blog.

Puppies, rainbows, and butterflies do not exist here because Cairo has already sucked the cuteness and warmth from them and churned them out into adorable puffs of pollution that greet you upon reentering the smog bubble when arriving via airplane.

Okay, perhaps I’m exaggerating a smidgen; Cairo isn’t this malicious. And even Oklahoma City would look harsh in comparison to the Italian countryside I just returned from. Still, there is a wide consensus amongst the 20 million residents of Cairo that it is not easy to live here (and yes I have talked to all of them; it was an assignment for class). Simply say zahma, or crowdedness, and you will gain the instant commiseration of any Cairene.

There is honking at all hours of the night, humans in every street walking, and barely room to breathe on the metro. I have never felt so insignificant as when I picture an aerial view of Cairo and imagine myself: one white girl in the midst of 20 million other souls.

So, how can I love Cairo? When we were boarding the minibus that ferries people from the plane to the airport, I saw two airport workers greeting some friends/relatives of theirs that had just gotten off my flight from Italy. Against all odds they had found each other in this swell of mortal flesh and I realized that the relationships make living in Cairo bearable. And Egyptians are nice people. So that’s enough waxing romantic about the Cairo condition. Bring on the traffic.

24 Hours In San Francisco

Wed, 17 Aug 2011 13:02:29 -0400

There are many ways to spend a day in San Francisco. You could recreate The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test and ride around in the back of a pickup, swimming through the many colors of your hallucinogenic fog. You could also get lost in the grandeur of Golden Gate Park, ask hobos for directions out when night begins to fall, and, when all else fails, shelter under their lean-tos and share a portion of baked beans. Or, if you time your trip right, you could have the best party of your life during Pride Weekend.

Whatever you do, your time in San Francisco will probably end with you canceling your other travel plans, calling home to say you won't be back for a while, moving into a commune-type apartment with a bunch of young horticulturalists, and starting your new life as a San Franciscan. Since, as a new resident—which, as you can see, I've now assumed you'll definitely become—you'll never again stray outside of the comfy hipster environs of Haight St. and/or the Mission, I've planned a first day where you can see as much as possible, as cheaply as possible. 'Cause those tight pants and horn-rims that you'll be buying soon cost a handsome nickel.

10:00am: I like sleeping in. Most SF hostels have all-you-can-make pancake breakfasts, but there are lines. Trick of the traveler trade: fill up a bowl with some dry oatmeal and maybe some of the PB & J that's lying around, and pour in some of the hot water people are using to make tea. Instant breakfast!

10:45am: Your hostel is probably in the environs of Union Square. Traipse through the Union Sq. Park a bit—if you're lucky, there will be some morning yoga to watch (you perv). Then head over to Grant Ave. and the Chinatown Gate.

11:30am-12:30pm: Walk Chinatown. It's an exotic-window shopper's dream.

12:30pm: Near the end of Grant Ave., contemplate the metaphysical consequences of turning right on Jack Kerouac Ln. I guess now you won't do it, since I—The Man—told you to. Just know that at the end of the lane is the best beatnik bookstore in the world: City Lights Bookstore. It's one of the places where Ginsberg first read Howl, and where you'll probably read it for the first time, too (don't pretend you didn't just read the Wikipedia page to try to pass as literate). The store's motto is "Sit down and read a book," as their signs say. You don't even need to buy the book to read it, since currency is just another form of oppression, after all.

1:45pm: You've become too hungry to read (always a nice excuse for your ADHD). Head up Columbus Ave. through Little Italy, Chinatown's unloved but almost-equally-as-fun cousin. Observe all the nice people sitting in the cafés—if you happen to be carrying a bundle of roses, this would be a good place to try to sell them. Keep walking past Washington Sq. Park (and maybe throw a frisbee to a dog along the way), and eventually you'll get to XOX Truffles (voted amongst the seven greatest chocolates in the US of A.) Gorge yourself on Honey Vodka and Earl Grey truffles—hey, I never said I'd make you eat your vegetables. Cost: $13.

2:30pm: Head up to Lombard St. and hang a left. After a couple blocks of uphill walking—you and your glutes will thank me later—you'll reach the famously curvy Lombard St. Jostle with international tourists for a picture of the street, then head to the top for a fantastic view of the city stretched below your hey-we're-getting-a-little-tired-over-here feet.

3:30pm: From the top of Lombard, head right on Hyde St. and walk to the sea. After the requisite 15 minutes of standing awestruck on the shore, look back and to the left. You will see Ghirardelli Square. That's right, more chocolate. I would say "Go there now," but I can see you've already started off at a running pace.

4:00pm: From Ghirardelli Square, head back to the shore and stroll through Fisherman's Wharf for endless entertainment and tourists to chuckle at (and avoid associating with). Highlights include Pier 45 with its crab stands—grab a fresh crab sandwich if the chocolates from earlier weren't enough—and the Musée Mécanique, an interactive museum full of arcade games from throughout history. And, of course, stop by Pier 39, which has a carnival, nice views, and sea lions! Cost: Let's say $10 ($7 for crab sandwich, $3 for museum games.)

6:30pm: At this point, you can either cab it home from Pier 39, or walk back from whence you came to the start of Hyde St. and take a historic cable car back towards your hostel. Be patient; there'll be a bit of a line, but it's worth it to hang from the side of a moving vehicle as you careen over steep hills. Cost: $5 for cable car, $15 for cab, free to walk (about 30-40 minutes).

7:00-8:00pm: Change clothes. You stink.

8:00pm: Head to the Powell St. BART station and ride to 16th St. and Mission. Walk south on Mission a few blocks to Taqueria Cancún for dinner. I know, you've had so many cow-tongue burritos before, but trust me—this one is worth it. Cost: $8.

9:00 pm until whenever: It's a quick walk along 16th St. from Mission to the Castro and its technicolor nightlife. You might even be able to catch the end of a happy hour or other drink deal to help you improve that B.A.C. This is some of the best gay nightlife in the world, but there are all kinds of people there. When you're rummaging in your suitcase and trying to decide between a t-shirt and your feathered headdress, just be aware of the crowd you will attract. Cost: About $15, depending on how fast you can start to get people to pay for your drinks.

Well, travelers, that's all I've got. Thanks for following me through beautiful California. And, just so you know: this is the last thing I'll be writing with this computer. I'm selling it to a scrap metal collector now to cover my down payment for my new Volkswagen bus with a built-in hookah. See you in San Francisco! I'll be the guy begging you for money. Well, one of them.

Please Send 300 Swamp Monsters Doing the Cha-Cha...

Thu, 11 Aug 2011 06:52:12 -0400

After sending hundreds of documents to the New Zealand immigration office, our visas have finally arrived—we’re not getting deported after all! It’s like little elves showed up and brought Christmas early.

The visa process went something like this:

Immigration: Please send an original copy of your marriage license signed in blood, embossed in gold leaf, and hand-delivered by a fairy riding a flying white pony.
Us: Um. Okay....

Immigration: That is the wrong kind of flying white pony.
Us: You didn’t specify.
Immigration: It was implied. Please start over.

Immigration: Please send your firstborn child dressed as a kangaroo, riding a llama, and holding the original Declaration of Independence.
Us: We don’t have a firstborn child.
Immigration: Please try harder.

Immigration: Please send three pictures of you holding Oompa-Loompas while riding a Ferris wheel with Bigfoot in Antarctica.
Us: Um. What?
Immigration: Please send them by tomorrow in the early A.M.
Us: We don’t know any Oompa-Loompas.
Immigration: You know Oompa-Loompas.
Us: Um... we're pretty sure we don’t.
Immigration: You don’t understand how this works, do you?

Immigration: Please send...
Us: *BANG HEADS AGAINST WALL*

Needless to say, we are excited that the process is over, and that we're officially considered real people! Now we can, you know, work and get paid and get health insurance—the little things in life.

Rio From Up High

Wed, 10 Aug 2011 16:33:53 -0400

An atypical mix of subtropical climate and a bustling metropolis of over four million people, Rio has something to keep everyone entertained for their stay in the city. If you are like me, strolling the wealthy white beaches in Copacobana, dodging the traffic in the hectic hustle in the central or treading lightly through the sad slums of the favelas will only feed your curiosity on how they city is put together from a bird’s eye view. Luckily for people like us, the city offers two great summits to inspect the sprawl from up high while the wind whips and swirls around you; Pão de Açúcar (Sugar Loaf) and Cristo Redentor (Christ the Redeemer.)

Pão de Açúcar (Sugar Loaf)

The lesser known of these two look outs, Sugar Loaf Mountain, gives great views of the city from the shore inward. The peak, which is made of granite and quartz, earned the name Sugar Loaf from its shape that resembles how sugar was packaged tightly together from South American sugar producing countries until the 19^th Century.

The summit of the steep jutting rock is reached by utilizing two cable cars. The first takes three minutes and travels approximately 500 meters into the air to the mountain Morro da Urca. There people disembark and can wander the peak of the lesser mountain, survey the city at lookout points, grab some food or stop in at the information center before boarding the next cable car.

The second cable car takes you to the peak of Sugar Loaf, 735 meters above the sea. The ride takes about another three minutes in the cable car which departs every 20 minutes. Here viewers can see far and wide across the city that weaves around other protruding land masses and check out some great views of Copacobana beach. Depending on your camera’s zoom, pictures of Cristo Redentor in the distance are viable on a clear day. The harbor beneath your feet presents views of sail ships raising and lowering their sails as they cycle in and out from the docks whilst the breeze brings the salts of the sea to your lips.

The Cable Cars Operate between 8 AM and 8 PM, ticket prices are a bit steep for some backpackers’ budgets at R$53 for adults. http://www.bondinho.com.br/

Copacobana in the distance where the city does not stray away from the sand.

Cristo Redentor (Christ the Redeemer)

The ever so popular Christ the Redeemer has been shown in movies worldwide as the symbol for Rio de Janeiro since its completion in 1931. Standing on top of the Corcovado mountain and facing towards the Atlantic coast, the statue was voted in as one of the new Seven Wonders of the World in 2007 by a global vote of over 100 million people. The list excludes other great structures like the Eiffel Tower in Paris, the Acropolis of Athens in Greece and Ankor in Cambodia.

Christ the Redeemer can be reached one of two ways. One way is to take a taxi to a train that steadily plods up the mountain every half hour. The ride itself takes a little over 20 minutes and allows for views of the city below looking out to the sea. The other way is to ask a taxi driver to take you to the base of the Corcovado mountain where shuttle busses take people up and down.

Which ever way you take, once you reach the big guy his views are spectacular. The multi teared platforms gives outlooks in all the directions of the city towards the sea in a wide arcing panorama. Screeching cars and busses spewing smog in the distance are inaudible from on the tiers, giving the impression that the city is truly far off and away from the isolated peak. Also viewable is Rio’s large centralized lake, Lagoa Rodrigo de Freitas, with looming highrises casting the edges of the pool in long shadows. Not to mention the nearly 40 meter tall, 700 ton big guy towering over you himself, as you huddle among other guests in the crisp mountain atmosphere.

The train operates between 8:30 AM and 7 PM Mon-Sun and costs R$36, park is entrance included http://www.corcovado.com.br/index.html

The busses are not as predictable. You will need to get a taxi to the base and the bus drivers may charge differently depending on the day and time. Also, entrance to the park is R$18 which they will not include in their transport fees.

Lagoa de Rodrigo de Freitas at night.

Which is Better?

The decision between seeing either is up to you. Sugar Loaf offers views of the beaches and the city clashing together which are not as viewable from Christ the Redeemer but, it is a bit more expensive and large viewpoints of the city are marred by the natural landmasses. Christ the Redeemer on the other hand gives you outlooks of the grand centralized Lagoa de Rodrigo de Freitas and a thoroughly unobstructed panorama of the entire city. However, some city details like the beach and harbor are far away and underwhelming.

If you are on a timely visit (which is sad to do to yourself in Rio) hostels and hotels can book you a city tour. One part walking and another part riding a bus, these tours can take anywhere from 3-5 hours of the day and often visit both of these sites where the entrance fee is either waived or discounted. If you do not mind being shuffled around for an afternoon with a group of other travelers check these out. I have heard good things from other travelers who opted to take the risk and join a group.

If you are like me and too proud to be led around in a pack or just need to lose yourself in the city for either the good or the bad of it, throw budget to the wind and check out both on your own. Find some people to go with and split cab fares to lessen the budget burden. Enjoy the views whichever you choose!

Rolling With Rickshaws in Mumbai

Wed, 03 Aug 2011 01:02:06 -0400

If you're going around Mumbai's suburbs without your own car, you have a few options. You could take the buses, but the Hindi numerals and criss-crossing lines are a mess to the untrained eye. Trains are cheap but run north to south, leaving the sides untouched. And when monsoon season hits, walking may as well be swimming. What's left? Rickshaws.

Three-wheelers with no doors that look like the love-child of a tricycle and a space helmet, Mumbai's "ricks" (aka auto, autorick, baby taxi and—my favorite—tuk tuk) swarm the suburbs. The experience beats air-conditioned taxis any day. Some things to keep in mind for your first ride:

Ditch the address. Ask if the driver knows the place before you get in, and give him the nearest landmark instead—a park, a train station, or a temple, for example.
Skip the shifts. Drivers change shifts around 7pm, and many will refuse to take you anywhere that's not convenient for them. Avoid this time, or settle for a trip to the driver's house.

"Don't touch me," says the meter, so don't mess with it. Rickshaws go by distance and official fares, sometimes posted on a chart inside. Riding from midnight to 5am means a jump of 25%. Want to practice mental math? It's roughly thirteen rupees times the meter distance, minus two. Don't ask why.

Watch the flaps. Since rickshaws have no doors, things can get messy. Hold on to your stuff to avoid drive-by thieves and accidental drops. When it rains, look for a rick with its side flaps down. The seat will be drier, and your bum will thank you.
Don't trust the bumper stickers. It's amazing how many nooks and crannies a rickshaw can squeeze into. "Safety First" and "Keep Distance"? Nah. Settle in for a fun ride.

Doha: More Than A Layover

Tue, 02 Aug 2011 03:24:17 -0400

What do you with a 22hr. layover? Get the hell out of the airport, of course. Unless you're in the Premium Terminal, gorging yourself on massages and mimosas, you'll have a better time getting out and getting to know Qatar's capital city. So here's a short guide to making a fun connection through Doha, for anyone with a few (we suggest 6 or more) hours to spare.

First, check what kind of visa you need—Americans and many Europeans can get one on arrival for 100 riyals (around US$28, credit cards only). Once you're past immigration, take your last whiff of air-conditioning from the arrivals hall before leaving the building. Doha is walkable in the winter but deadly in the summer; you'll hike yourself to death and dehydration in the hot months. If you can stand the heat for a few minutes, however, skip the airport taxis at the door (the fares start at 25 riyals) and catch the much cheaper ones outside the parking lot or across the road.

First stop: the Museum of Islamic Art (974 4422 4444; www.mia.org.qa). Designed by I.M. Pei, the master behind the Louvre's pyramids, this gorgeous building of creamy stone blocks seems to float above the Doha harbor. The breathtaking collections span centuries of religious and non-religious art, and the stories in the audio tour can easily make this a half-day visit. Look out for the jeweled falcon on the top floor—the 1.5kg bird of solid gold sports rubies, diamonds, sapphires, and emeralds. Best of all, the whole visit (including the audio guide) is free.

Around the museum, admire the waterfront view from the Corniche, the road that runs along the harbor. Like the prices of oil and natural gas (Qatar's main exports), Doha's new skyscrapers keep going up, up, and up. But even with these modern, shiny towers, the city still has its share of the old Arabian Gulf.

It's a 5min. walk (or a really quick taxi ride) down the Corniche to the Souq Waqif. A traditional market walled with stucco and wooden beams, its covered (but not air-conditioned) streets host hundreds of shops, from pastries to abayas to massive metal pots—perfect for cooking that huge camel hump. Speciality stores cluster around their own alleys—perfumes, jewelry, and caged birds are just a few—and souvenirs and antiques range from hand-carved models to life-sized boats (try fitting that in the overhead compartment). Weary window-shoppers can also rest at one of the few restaurants or shisha places.

Across the street from the Souq, the Islamic Cultural Center (974 4425 0250; www.fanar.gov.qa) can help you stock up on all the religious literature you need, for free. It also hosts Arabic classes and exhibitions under its spiraling roof. Those who want the whole historical experience can take a cab along the Corniche to the Doha Heritage Village, next to Al Rumeilah Park. It's full of costumes and traditional architecture, but since real Qataris don't live this anymore, the village is more of a touristy throwback than an authentic, real-life perspective.

Ironically, you'll get the truly Doha experience in Venice—sorry, we mean Villaggio, the Italian-styled mall right next to Aspire Zone (site of the 2006 Asian Games). With its sky-like ceilings, canals, and gondolas, as well as an ice skating rink and an amusement park, Villaggio (974 4413 5222, www.villaggioqatar.com) represents everything that's modern Doha: wealth, extravagant luxury, and a raging consumer culture. Restaurants from fast food to sit down Iranian cuisine surround the rink, and you can get cheap food at the Carrefour supermarket on the other end of the mall. If you missed the signs for Gucci, Louis Vuitton, Prada, Dior, Dolce & Gabbana, Bottega Veneta, and Burberry (do we need to go on?), you'll still get the hint with the gold-speckled mosaics at the mall's high-end wing, Via Domo. And if you're an Arabian prince planning to take your new multi-million dollar horse for a ride, try Saddles and Spurs for everything you need to train that new steed.

Time's up! Race back on your horse (or catch a taxi) to make your connecting flight. Doha's not exactly a budget destination, but it throws you into tradition then hits you with everything western like a nonstop cultural rollercoaster ride. Wish you had a longer connection? So did I.

Plane Travel the Healthy Way from Greatist.com!

Mon, 01 Aug 2011 11:13:41 -0400

Our friends over at Greatist, a health and fitness blog, shared this great infographic on how to travel by plane - the healthy way!

More Health and Fitness News & Tips at Greatist.

Enter the Let's Go - Pause the Moment Giveaway!

Mon, 01 Aug 2011 09:01:16 -0400

Hey Let's Go fans! We're in the business of connecting travelers to all the information they could possibly need to enjoy themselves while abroad. To that end, we've partnered with with our fellow travel bloggers at Pause the Moment.

For the next five days, from August 1st to August 5th, enter at the Pause the Moment website for a chance to win prizes in the form of Let's Go swag. 1st Prize wins any 5 Let's Go guides, 2nd Prize wins a copyof Let's Go Europe 2011, and 3rd Prize will receive a Let's Go poster! Enter today for your chance to win!

"Not So Different From Me After All," in Jerusalem

Thu, 28 Jul 2011 12:06:49 -0400

"Well, if you hadn't decided to go blonde, we wouldn't be so noticeable," my husband, Andrew, said.

"Oh really, well maybe if you speak up with that Prince Charles accent of yours, the Arab gang waiting in the next alley will give us a warm welcome."

The joking stopped as we walked further away from the traditional Palestinian restaurant in East Jerusalem, called Philadelphia. All the guidebooks had recommended it. Even President Jimmy Carter called it his personal favorite. Yet there was something downright creepy about the entire experience. Philadelphia was certainly an odd name for a traditionally minded Middle Eastern restaurant, and Jerusalem isn't exactly the city of brotherly love. Still, always seeking out something unique and authentic, we decided to leave the cosmopolitan, very Jewish West Jerusalem for the riskier, heavily Arab-populated area known as East Jerusalem.

For starters, we were the only people in the restaurant for dinner that night. It was a very large restaurant, with photos of famous faces and of heads of state adorning the walls. Curious, it was then, that we, a British/American couple, were the only patrons there. The food was excellent, but we felt awkward and self-conscious throughout the meal, as the male-only staff in the very dimly lit restaurant stood back, unabashedly observing us as we ate. It was after 10pm when we finished our meal and proceeded to leave for West Jerusalem. Naturally, we assumed that in such a large city we would simply hail a taxi and be safely on our way.

When our feet hit the sidewalk of Azzahra Street in this very Palestinian neighborhood, it was apparent that we would have either a long walk or a long wait for a taxi—or both. There were very few people or cars around. The street lighting could be generously described as sparse. As we walked, hoping for a taxi, fear started to take hold. It did not take long before I decided it would be wise to cover my head with the hajab I had brought with me. The joking ceased as we hastily walked along the dark street in search of a taxi. My husband kept his very British accent down to a barely audible whisper and I was too nervous to speak at all.

As our nerves were just about frazzled, along came a vacant taxi. What a relief! The driver was an Arab man of about seventy. He introduced himself as Rahid. He spoke perfect English and was warm and engaging. During the ride to our hotel, we became quite charmed by him. We asked him to be our driver and tour guide for the next few days while we were visiting. He informed us that he shared the driving duties with his son, Bahir, who would be on duty the following day. He agreed to have his son pick us up at our hotel the next morning.

The following day, we went to the Dead Sea, about an hour from Jerusalem. We enjoyed a nice chat with Bahir and found him as pleasant and gregarious as his father. The day after, Rahid picked us up at our hotel and drove us to Bethlehem. He shared many wonderful stories with us about his life there. En route back to our hotel, late that afternoon, Rahid said he wanted to take us somewhere special if we had time.

We began to fidget in our seats as it became clear we were headed into a Palestinian neighborhood, well off the main road. I could feel my heart pounding. Andrew grabbed my hand and gave me a look that I knew meant he was worried too. Where was this man taking us? We continued to make small talk and tried to behave casually, while visions of Danny Pearl’s fate were swirling in our minds. The car continued to wind through residential streets, getting further from any main thoroughfare. Were we being paranoid? Had we watched too much television? Too much westernized press, suggesting that Arabs were ruthless killers that would like nothing better than to slaughter Blondie and her very proper British husband? I began plotting escape tactics in my mind. What would we do if there was a gang of "them" awaiting us at our destination? We had a two-year-old to raise! I imagined all the people back in the US attending my funeral, shaking their heads and telling my parents how foolish I was to venture to the Middle East to mingle with those savage beasts. I was near tears. My husband didn't look much happier.

The car pulled into a driveway that was framed by a very large stucco fence and a gate that closed behind us. "This is it," I thought. "It's over. Our pictures will be in the newspapers as yet another shining example of Christians annihilated in the Middle East." Andrew and I squeezed hands as if to say goodbye. Rahid said that we had "arrived," and to get out of the car.

We got out of the car and saw a familiar face. Standing on the step leading up to the house was Bahir, surrounded by his hajab-ed wife and four young children. They wanted to surprise us by having us over for dinner. I am not sure whether relief or shame overwhelmed us more at that moment. Here was this lovely family who wanted us to see their home, meet their children, and share a meal with them, and we thought we were being led to our execution!

What followed that evening was not so dissimilar from any social experience I have ever had. Really, what could be simpler than a group of people coming together to eat, talk, laugh, and share? This family was interested in learning about us—what our lives were like, what it is like to live in England and the United States, our politics, our ambitions—and they most especially loved hearing about our two-year-old daughter since they had small children as well.

We in turn had the unique and special opportunity to learn about their lives, to see how a "real" family lives in East Jerusalem. What we found was that they lived in a very nice modern house, with the same stainless steel kitchen appliances that Americans love. Their furnishings were comfortable and tasteful and no different from what we might find in the homes of our own friends in America. Their three-year-old daughter, Safaa, took us both by the hand to proudly show us her bedroom, which was decorated floor-to-ceiling in Hello Kitty, one of my own daughter's favorites. This child was not unlike my own daughter. Her skin was darker and she lived in another part of the world, but they could be friends, comrades. These people were not the monsters our media made them out to be. This family had Jewish neighbors on their street with whom they were close friends. They spoke Hebrew, Arabic and English. As both my husband and I are unilingual, we were astounded by their language fluency. No one in this family had any formal higher education, yet they were open, inquisitive and intelligent. Clearly their values were not so unlike ours.

In many ways, the simple event of a meal in this family's home changed me forever. I am now more skeptical of the presentation of particular groups of people in the media. Certainly there are despicable zealots of every type, but our media has presented these zealots to the public in such abundance that the average citizen has come to believe that this is the rule rather than the exception. I do not believe this is the case. Evidently, I once bought into it all, hook, line, and sinker. The interesting thing is that I never gave it much thought. It was only when I was in an unusual situation where an Arab was involved that I immediately concluded that he must have the worst of intentions. Furthermore, I was so sure while walking away from that restaurant, on a dark street in a Palestinian neighborhood, that we might be the next statistics. Reflecting back to our dinner experience at Philadelphia, it wasn't that it was an unnerving experience at all. Rather, I now believe that I was so rooted in a particular perception of that ethnic population and geography that my experience there was compromised by my own mindset. Surely, had we been in a near empty restaurant in Paris, our discomfort level would have been vastly different.

Could it be that I, an educated well-traveled person, was poisoned by media like everyone else? Maybe God, luck, or fate intervened on my behalf. I was blessed with the unique and delightful opportunity to see first-hand that the human spirit doesn’t change based on our location, color, or upbringing. Most people value the same things from wherever they may hail. The basics: love, respect, dignity, and kindness. Those are simply the fundamental ingredients of humanity. I am grateful for the life lesson.

I think I needed it.

More "Slaps" than a Three Stooges Marathon: Plitvice Lakes National Park in Croatia

Tue, 26 Jul 2011 19:46:17 -0400

A slap is the Croatian word for a waterfall, and in the Plitvice Lakes National Park, visitors are warned to prepare themselves for a serious slap-attack.

The trip to northern Croatia was more involved than I had originally anticipated. It was cold and rainy in the middle of July—a stark contrast to the seemingly endless sunny days I had just spent on the southern Dalmatian Islands. The amount of bus time, although inexpensive ($15 for a three-hour bus ride), was starting to cramp my travel style—and I mean literally, as I had no choice but to stand in the aisle of the over-booked bus. However, when I had asked people if visiting Plitvice Lakes National Park, (a UNESCO World Heritage site) was really worth the trip, my query was answered by all with an enthusiastic “YES!” So, after a catching the 9am bus from Zadar, I arrived at the gates, congratulating myself at being one of 100,000 annual visitors about to be privileged with witnessing the beauty of Croatia's largest national park. Judging from the stats, I was not surprised to find the park quite crowded for a Thursday. I felt a bit of pressure in choosing one of the several different routes—their estimated hiking times ranged from the minimum of 2-3 hours, to the maximum of 6-8 hours. I settled for a 4-6 hour path, figuring I could walk fast and make it back in time for the 5pm bus to Zadar.

Lots of wooden signs remind you of what you can’t do, which is pretty much anything other than walking on the planked pathways and taking photos. Stepping in the water upsets the delicate balance of minerals and organisms that make this water so blue and beautiful. And besides, who would want to contribute to the downfall of something so ancient? Not I. It was obvious that someone had broken the rules, however, as the waters' many trout were expecting tourists—you could observe schools of them next to the wooden pathways, eagerly waiting for a snack.

Electric boats, cutely named after the park's main waterfalls, silently transported hikers from the upper to lower lakes. The pathway around the lower lakes was the main Plitvice sightseeing trail. Celebrity slaps, such as the aptly-named "Big Waterfall," could be found on this route and were definitely worth a visit...if you could manage to navigate your way based on the occasionally convoluted signs. ("Was that straight line supposed to be an arrow?")

So, if you find yourself debating a visit to Plitvice—do yourself a favor and slap some sense into yourself. You won't regret it.

Now What?

Sat, 23 Jul 2011 17:15:17 -0400

To all who have been following me this summer (this blog really took off after it was featured on Gawker, eh?), many thanks for your support. It is with a triumphant heart that I announce that my route for Let's Go has come to a glorious end, after a very memorable (though still fairly hazy) week in Ibiza. I'd share stories of the Isla Blanca (called the "White Isle" for reasons other than the color of the houses, as far as I could tell) but I want to leave my readers' sensibilities unoffended.

I am now back in Barcelona, where I have no idea what to do with myself. And then I remembered: I still haven't seen castellers. 12pm, Mataró. I know what I'm doing with my Sunday. Leaving Barcelona in style.

Keep an eye out for the Let's Go Barcelona city pocket guide, coming soon (5 months?) to a bookstore (if there still are any) near you. Gràcies, amics, i adéu.

Just 'Subte' Your Way through Buenos Aires

Fri, 22 Jul 2011 15:10:01 -0400

For reasonable travel around and across the city of Buenos Aires, your average traveler has three options: taxi, bus, and el Subte (the subway). Taxis tend to get pricey after a while, even with the favorable exchange rate and compared with the astronomical taxi prices I was used to seeing at home. The bus, in my humble opinion, is absolutely horrifying. According to locals, the bus drivers in the city tend to do “what they please," which to me appears to mean they don’t stop when you hail them, they don’t obey traffic lights, and they blatantly ignore pedestrians and other vehicles in their way. Needless to say, I was slightly wary of the buses, not to mention the whole system of numbers and the absence of definable bus stops. This left one option: el Subte; cheap, easy to navigate, and convenient, it made travel across the city flawless.

One trip on the subway is $1.10 (in Argentinian pesos), which boils down to a little less then 30 cents in US currency. You can purchase single tickets or a ten-ticket pass; I found the latter to be the best idea, since some trips will involve using multiple tickets and a ten-ticket pass will save you time in the boleteria line. There are six lines that interconnect throughout the city: A, B, C, D, E, and H, each with its own color-coded signs and stations. A combination of any of the lines can get you to any main thoroughfare in the city and has stops next to most tourist destinations, including the Casa Rosado, Florida Avenue, and all parts of Palermo.

As a fair warning, there is no air conditioning on the trains, and although this wasn’t a major problem for me in Argentine winter, I can imagine it being a bit stuffy in the summer. Also, avoid 6PM Subte rides at ALL COSTS. Go at 5:30, go at 6:30, but at 6 you either won’t be able to get on the trains due to the masses of people traveling home from work, or if you do manage to get stuffed in there, you will deeply regret it... unless being pushed against strangers and jolted to and fro with nothing to hold onto is your sort of thing.

All in all, find an available seat (or corner to stand in), hold onto your belongings, and enjoy the ride. Maybe you’ll be in one of the original wooden trains (don’t worry, they’ve been reinforced with more stable material) or you’ll see the amazing violin player at the Plaza de Mayo station. Anything is possible on el Subte!... Or it's just an inexpensive, convenient ride around a huge city, which isn’t too shabby either.

Eating in Brazil on a Backpacker's Budget

Wed, 20 Jul 2011 17:35:53 -0400

So you are on your way to Brazil and are wondering what you will be wining and dining on during your stay. Well, naturally a lot of rice and beans will be filling your belly, but that is not all this multicultural country has to offer in ways of good eats. Brazil is host to a diverse population of indigenous people and immigrants from all over Western Europe and across the Pacific Ocean to Asia. Utilizing Brazil’s arid deserts, muggy jungles, cool mountains and 4,578 miles of coastline, these nationalities have developed some tasty treats that not only fuel you up, but go easy on your wallet. Here is a rundown of some low-priced life savers for a resourceful, conscious traveler:

1. Pasteles. Brazil is home to the fried heartstoppers called pasteles, brought over from the Asian countries. These fast food pastry dishes are stuffed with an assortment of meats, cheeses, and vegetables and then deep-fried in a vat of hot oil. You can find pasteles being sold at little carts on the side of the street or you can lose yourself in the extensive menus at hole-in-the-wall restaurants—most often Asian ones. These pasteles can come in an assortment of sizes—some as big as your head while other restaurants encourage you to order a few small ones to sample different fillings. Some condiments that usually go with the fried fare are ketchup, mustard, and hot sauce to jazz them up a little bit. If you are with a group, I recommend ordering two or three large ones and sharing them in order to experiment with all the different fillings.

This dish is often served with Garapa, a juice made from grinding up sugar cane stalks. Do not skimp on this traditional sweet drink while indulging in your pastel.

2. Pão de Queijo. Many varieties of this dish can be found all over the South American continent but the pão de queijo, or cheese bread, of Brazil really nailed the recipe successfully. Traditionally made using flour from a yucca plant and the soft cheese from the Brazilian state of Minas Gerais, these small snacks are baked in an oven for about fifteen to twenty minutes until they puff up into little balls. You know when you are approaching a batch that is freshly made by the aroma of newly baked bread intermingling with melted cheese, which will overpower all the other fragrances in the immediate vicinity. Soft to the touch and moist in your mouth, pão de queijo balls are cheap and compliment a strong coffee in the morning.

3. Coxinha. Another stuffed and fried delight is a coxinha (pronounced co-shee-nya). Shaped like a drumstick and often stuffed with chicken, these fist-sized meals are affordable and very filling. The outer layer has a soft crunch but the inside is traditionally made with wheat flour, though other fillings are common. Silky mashed potato wrapped around spicy shredded chicken is a popular stuffing, and the occasional corn with seasonings goes together pretty well too. Same as our last two budget meals, coxinhas can be found at street-side stands and hole-in-the-wall restaurants on display. If your Portuguese is pretty good, go ahead and chat it up with the vendor to figure out which bun has which flavors. Otherwise, grab a tall beer, some hot sauce, and enjoy your savory surprise as life moves on by around you.

4. Cachaça. Although not a food, I feel that as a budget traveler myself I am obliged to discuss Brazil’s national liquor. Cachaça is primarily used to make the popular Brazilian drink, the caipirinha. This liquor, also known as pinga, is very sweet and, depending on the distiller, can be very strong. Brazil is the largest producer of the liquor in the world due to the abundant amount of sugarcane it possesses. Often compared with rum, cachaça is produced much differently than Blackbeard’s beverage. Whereas rum is made from molasses, the byproduct of boiling sugarcane and extracting the byproduct, cachaça is made from fermenting the juices of the sugarcane itself. You can spend a fortune at a bar downing caipirinhas, but the drink is much more satisfying when you make it yourself. All the ingredients the drink contains are cachaça, sugar, and limes muddled together. Add some ice and enjoy. A liter of cheap cachaça goes for about R$6-8. Comparatively, one caiparinha at a tourist trap can put a hole in your wallet and charge you up to R$18.

Happy eating.

It Happens: Naked People on Beaches

Wed, 20 Jul 2011 10:14:41 -0400

Brace yourselves, it's going to happen. You will visit a Spanish beach somewhere, maybe Barcelona, maybe San Sebastián, and it will happen. You'll most likely meander up and down the beach for a little while, trying to find the perfect tanning spot. You'll spread out your towel, recline, breathe the salty fresh air, and glance over to see who your neighbors are, and BOOM, there's a naked person.

Something that this little traveling American student had to learn the hard way was that there aren't designated nude beaches in Europe. Nope. Whether for women (yes boys, rejoice, but not too much—grandmothers practice nudity as well) or for men (yes girls, scream and cover your eyes), it is a common Spanish practice to go buck, or at least partially, on the beach. But it happens. And you move on. Just avert your nosy eyes and enjoy the sun and water as you were. Maybe you'll be able to sneak a peak every once in a while if you want to.

All things considered, it's a more mature and body-accepting attitude in comparison to the American "COVER EVERYTHING" culture. Allowing certain things to be free in the wind is probably a very enjoyable and liberating experience. So let's all relax a little bit and let it all hang out, shall we? Yes, that was a dare.

Let's play a game: How many naked people can you find on this beach?

Spanish Wine Tasting: My First Steps to Becoming a Wine Connoisseur (read: Snob)

Wed, 20 Jul 2011 09:54:35 -0400

In order to ensure that my summer in Spain was not completely devoid of some cultural experiences, my folks signed me up for a two-day excursion to Spanish wine country last weekend—more specifically, to the small town of Logroño in the La Rioja region. I must say it was the classiest I've felt in Spain yet and recommend the experience to anyone looking for a weekend trip from Madrid.

Now the bus ride ain't bad (four hours long) and you're seeing gorgeous Spanish countryside the entire trip there. A roundtrip ticket goes for about 16 euros with the PLM bus system. The city has a quieter feel to it than the hustle and bustle of Madrid, allowing travelers to focus on the Western-tinted beauty of Logroño; apartments feature Islamic-inspired architecture while several older gentlemen walk around the plaza wearing traditional Moroccan kaftans.

Our first vineyard was the Bodegas Rioja Marques de Arviza, the second oldest vineyard in the La Rioja region. A producer of only three varieties of wine (Crianza, Reserva, and "Tractor"), Marques de Arviza is a small, family-owned vineyard that prizes itself on its carefully hand-crafted wine, created with strict adherence to detail and the tradition of the Logroño region.

While the vineyard does use modern technology, what sets Marques de Arviza apart are the stone-built tunnels that span for considerable distances underneath the tasting rooms.

Imagine getting lost in tunnels like these. You'd be able to survive on wine for at least of couple of days... not the worst of fates.

Instead of storing their wines in digitally temperature-controlled rooms like many modern vineyards, the Marques de Arviza family allows their wine to mature in their underground cellars as their ancestors did years before them. The vineyard even utilizes an old "elevator," comprised of a metal cage, pulleys, and chains.

Keeping it old school.

After touring the lowly-lit, romantic caves beneath the vineyard, we were led to the wine tasting—what we'd all been itching for. However, before we could attempt to pry open the nearest case of red, we received a lesson in wines and wine tasting. Here's the condensed version:

1. Sight: Hold your glass up to light or a clean, white surface to inspect the color and consistency of the wine. If you look closely, you will see that your "red" wine, in fact, has some undertones. If the base color to your wine is orangey, it is likely to be a young wine, no older than a year or two. However, if the color has more brown hues, the wine you're drinking is at least three years old.

2. Smell: Swirl the wine around your glass (yes, like those pretentious hoity-toity wine connoisseurs) to "open up" the wine and allow it to breathe. When you smell the "bouquet" of the wine (the top notes you get when pushing your nose into your wine glass), deeper flavors like coffee, spice, or licorice are the result of storing the wine in American oak barrels to mature, while floral and sweet scents are due to French oak barrels.

Barrels made of French and American oak.

3. Taste: My favorite step. Keep the wine on your palette for a while to get the "body" of the wine. That bitter-sour flavor that's making you pucker? It's called "tannin," and it comes from the skins of grapes. The older the wine, the longer it has been steeped in grape skins and the more tannin the wine has. Wine snobs love the stuff. I do not, but everyone has their own preferences.

Whether you're a die-hard wine fanatic or only starting out in your wine-tasting career, Logroño is a weekend trip to take from Madrid for the sake of the town, the wine country, and the change of pace from the busy city life.

Quiz Time

Wed, 20 Jul 2011 09:23:55 -0400

Ibiza nightclub or Pink Floyd song? Answers below.

1. Eclipse

2. Privilege

3. Money

4. Brain Damage

5. Amnesia

6. Space

7. Time

8. Eden

9. Ibiza Bar

10. Breathe

Answers: Clubs (2, 5, 6, 8), Songs (1, 3, 4, 7, 9, 10).

O Capri My Capri

Tue, 19 Jul 2011 11:31:31 -0400

When this greets you daily in Naples:

This is a more-than-welcome change:

Not to say Naples is without its charms—but Capri's charms are in-your-face and totally undeniable. WATER AS BLUE AS A CHLORINATED POOL! NATURAL GROTTOES! SHEER CLIFFS! SUPER RICH PEOPLE'S HOUSES! Well, that last part is less beautiful.

Some things never change, however. There's still plenty of "hurrying up to wait" in Capri, especially for the gorgeous (and famous) Grotta Azzurra—you make the trek, you wait in line, you peek in, but sadly, you can't swim. Still, it's worth the hurrying and waiting, as is all of Capri. You might have to hurry to catch your ferry, and hurry to beat the crowds onto the funicular from the port to Capri proper or to Anacapri by bus, but once there you will have all the time you want to wait—to wait for total, utter, blissful relaxation to ooze its way into your very pores as everywhere you look is beauty, beauty, and more beauty.

Then, of course, it's back to Naples and its trash-filled streets and homemade altars—and frankly, it's this contradiction that lends each it's unique character. So while Capri might be better received in post-voyage slideshows, don't expect Naples to give up its hard-earned place in your heart.

Well, now I'm getting sentimental, because my job is officially done, but it's true—there's something about Italy that worms it's way into you, and I'm perfectly content to let it stay there.

Happy travels, compatriots-in-adventure.

Liverpool: the Most Famous Club in the World

Mon, 18 Jul 2011 18:20:41 -0400

I've always thought of myself as a reasonably big Beatles fan. When I was growing up, they were the only pop music my mother would agree to listen to, so we wore their greatest hits albums pretty thin through many evenings cooking dinner together. I was always on their side in the inevitable Stones vs. Beatles debates (though I do admit that the intro to Gimme Shelter is one of my favorite musical moments). I knew the rudiments of their history, at least that Ringo wasn't the original drummer.

And yet upon my arrival in The NORTH (as it's written on all British road signs, which is just all kinds of awesome and says something about what Northern England is like), I realized just how incredibly minimal my Beatles knowledge actually was. For one thing, I had never heard of the Cavern Club, where The Beatles played nearly 300 times in the 1960s. Ask me what "the most famous club in the world" is, and I probably would have said Studio 54. Apparently, as every third poster in Liverpool says, I'd be wrong.

I set out to see this oh-so-famous venue—well, actually, at the recommendation of the staff at my hostel I was really going to see the attached pub because the band there was better. As I walked through downtown, I was overwhelmed by the number of nostalgia-drenched clubs: ’70s bars, ’80s dance nights, ’90s clubs (who on earth wants that, I have no idea). Isn't the point of nightlife to celebrate the fresh, the hip, the so-new-that-no-one's-ever-heard-of-it?

Well, the Cavern Pub begs to differ. The band that night was a regular one, called Xander and the Peace Pirates (I couldn't make that up if I tried). With headbanging hair that would have made Axl jealous, they worked their way through the classics: Pink Floyd, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Prince, even Sweet Home Alabama—I sang along extra loudly to that one, fairly sure that I was the only person in the bar who'd ever actually been to Alabama. And I remembered the cardinal rule of good nightlife: if people are having fun, it doesn't matter what the theme is. The band was so hilarious and good-natured, the songs were all familiar and well-loved, and the drinks were under £3. It was one of the best clubs I've been to all summer, though I had to work hard to keep dancing along with the 60-something regulars. I came to Liverpool expecting to find something unique from anything I'd experienced before in Britain. I guess what I've found so far is that many places here revel unabashedly in the old and the familiar, which is weirdly novel in its own way—and tremendously fun.

Veliko Tarnovo: Your Bulgarian Relaxation Destination

Mon, 18 Jul 2011 13:49:27 -0400

I arrived in Bulgaria's former medieval stronghold, Veliko Tarnovo (pop. 68,000) on a cold and cloudy early evening. After being very uncomfortably cramped on a mini-bus next to a few-too-many locals, I was happy to be let out in town—even if I had no idea where I was. I called my hostel, Hostel Mostel, to request their free pick-up service.

"Just get a taxi to the hostel and we will pay for it. Don’t worry yourself!” a friendly male voice instructed me over the phone.

"Chello, English...haha!” greeted the high-spirited cab driver as Balkan pop oozed out of the sound system. The seven-minute ride to the hostel couldn't have cost more than one euro—a typical Balkan taxi experience.

My travel literature had described Veliko Tarnovo as a picturesque village with traditional Bulgarian homes hanging over the hillsides. I guess I was thinking something along the lines of Positano or maybe Sorrento on the Amalfi Coast, but it was not quite so. While it was still a nice town, Veliko Tarnovo seemed more like the Eastern Europe that I had imagined. Things were in a more extreme state of disarray than in the center of Bucharest or Brasov; fading signs hung haphazardly from paint-chipped brown and white houses. Although Veliko Tarnovo is mentioned briefly in guidebooks, it's still pretty far off the tourism radar, giving it a very authentic Bulgarian ambiance.

I think the fact that everything was written in Cyrillic helped add to the foreign vibe of it all. Boy, was I glad I'd made those Cyrillic flashcards!

One of the highlights of my experience was my stay at Hostel Mostel.

The hostel was a beautiful traditional Bulgarian home which had been completely renovated two years ago. I would venture to say it had a zen-like vibe. Guests could split their leisure time basking in the sun on one of the two flowered terraces, or lounging on an abundance of comfortable Bulgarian cushions in the common area. I shared a very spacious ten-bedroom dorm for only seven euros a night—an additional euro gets you dinner and breakfast. Now that's a deal! The hostel also provided affordable, guided daytrips, and although I didn't have enough time to join, traveler friends gave them rave reviews. A favorite stop was to check out an abandoned communist structure referred to as the UFO (and for good reason).

Sight-seeing is very managable in this small town, which makes it ideal for a familiarizing yourself with Bulgaria. Head over to the artisan street, which forks off of the main road. At the start of this cobblestone path, take note of The Monkey House, a locally famous building designed by Veliko Tarnovo's famous architect, Koljo Fichev. Check out the stone monkey perched ominiously above the door.

Although this street is geared towards tourists, the artisans working away in their shops are genuine. Everyone was there, from the knife-maker to an herb-preparer. I fell in love with the traditional Bulgarian textiles and ceramics, and I even watched an elderly woman put her loom to use in front of my very eyes!

After buying more than you have initially planned (like I did), take a coffee break at The Rooster, which you will find on your right. They serve traditional Bulgarian coffee, which is similar to Turkish coffee but heated over sand, as the sign "Coffee on Sand" indicates. Be sure to sit at the traditional low-to-the-ground Bulgarian tables outside—you might feel a bit like Alice in Wonderland, but trust me, you'll like it.

Make sure you allow at least an hour to visit Veliko Tarnovo's pride and joy, the Tsavarets Fortress. This massive medieval complex was the Bulgarian stronghold from the 12th century until the late 14th century. In 1393, it was besieged and destroyed by Ottoman forces. Fortunately, some buildings were partially rebuilt during the communist years. Entrance is just 3 lev (~$2) for students. Watch your step when taking pictures on Execution Rock!

On some evenings, when the sun goes down (there doesn't seem to be a set schedule), a complex light show illuminates the fortress in a whirl of green lasers and colored hues—not what you'd expect for a Bulgarian village, right?

At the end of the night, grab a Bulgarian beer at Malkia Inter. Street signs basically don't exist in Veliko Tarnovo, but you'll find this quirky bar, with its musical instrument-covered walls, at a fork in the road on your right when you're walking from the town center to the fortress.

So, next time you're looking for somewhere to relax in Bulgaria, skip big dirty Sofia and tacky Varna, and just head on over to Veliko Tarnovo!

Visiting Berkeley: Trust Not Your Google Search

Fri, 15 Jul 2011 14:58:25 -0400

I've deduced—following once again my patented scientific method of wandering around and eating ice cream—that people have settled in Berkeley, California for two reasons: football games and music. I heard rumors of a university nearby too, but these were unconfirmed.

Future-megalord-of-the-earth Google, however, would tell you differently. I can see it now: you're a young, scared, budget traveler, unsure of what you'll do in your daytrip to Berkley. From what you've gathered, the main pastime of the Berkelites is lying in front of tanks to protest unfair hippie-marriage laws. So you type "things to do in Berkeley" into your Google search bar, hoping that the tanks are at least hybrids these days. And, oh look at that. The first link that pops up is "Things to Do in Berkeley."

RESIST RESIST RESIST.

This link will tell you the #1 attraction in Berkeley is... the UC Berkeley Botanical Gardens. Rue the day I clicked on that link! Yes, docile traveler, I was once naive like you. I needed direction, and the directions I found from my Google search had me walking along the edge of a small thoroughfare, in the muggy wilderness of summer, to find said diabolical gardens.

Don't get me wrong. The gardens are great. There are cactuses, flowers, way more leaves than I could count during those ten minutes when I couldn't think of anything else to do. Just great, like the botanical gardens in your home town, or any other city you've ever been to in the world. And everyone there is old, so it's just like when Grandma took you to the botanical gardens when you were younger. Remember how much fun you had then?

Point being: walk around the campus for a while, maybe go up and see the stadium, then go to Telegraph Avenue. I'll repeat, in case you aren't actually reading this blog post and only pay attention to the capital letters, GO TO TELEGRAPH AVE. That's where it's happening. Check out the Rasputin and Amoeba music stores, discount music warehouses where you can learn about Berkeley's role in the birth of 80s punk. They have free concerts all the time. I even saw a video of one that turned into a mosh; the audience members and the crowd-surfing lead singer totally disregarded the poor security guard floundering in the middle of their roiling, tumbling mass of bodies. He kept losing his hat.

So there, you've been educated. And if you get hungry for a gourmet ice-cream sandwich, go to C.R.E.A.M. Oops, I meant GO TO C.R.E.A.M.

Hurrying Up to Wait in Naples

Fri, 15 Jul 2011 12:58:44 -0400

Naples is a crazy place. And I mean that in the sense of "insane; without sense." Things really tend not to make sense.

For example: the streets are, indeed, often filled with trash, and yet the people who live here seem to love their city immeasurably. In Rome, it was assumed that you would enjoy the beauties of the city, in spite of the fact that it could be grimy at times. Here, they realllllllly want you to know it's a great place in spite of what your eyes (and nose) might be telling you.

This living contradiction is further embodied by the way of life. When I went to the Museo Archeologico di Napoli, which houses just about everything of interest from Pompeii and Herculaneum (including sexy pics and wind-chime phalluses [phalli?]), I first encountered this unique way of being. First of all, the place isn't climate controlled, and as a former museum-employee, it took all of my will power not to storm over to the director's office to demand an explanation for this egregious mistreatment of cultural heritage. I swallowed my American uptight-ness, however, and tried to forget it. So, on I went. But the museum employee in me couldn't help but notice there were no guards....hmmm. Then, entering a room full of Herculaneum's mosaics, I found them: seven or eight of them sitting on the porch, smoking cigarettes, chatting, and texting. Oh, Napoli. Here they were, hurrying up to work to wait for a perfect opportunity for a smoke break.

Moto drivers are the same—they take the narrow alleys of Naples at breakneck speed only to STOP SUDDENLY to say hi to their aunt or whoever is hanging laundry nearby. Famous pizza places like the Antica Trattoria da Michele (highly recommended) will make you wait for an hour or more, rush you to your table, take your order right away, and then let you sit while the pizza takes its sweet time. (The wait is worth it, however).

Everyone here seems to be in a hurry to do, well, nothing. And, really, this is an improvement to my erstwhile life in Boston, where hurrying meant arriving sooner to hurry more and then hurry again. I much prefer hurrying up to wait, because sometimes waiting is a luxury - a way of saying, "I have this time, this time is mine, and goshdarnit I'm going to have this giant Peroni at 2pm, thankyouverymuch (graziemille)."

On the Road Again

Fri, 15 Jul 2011 09:57:21 -0400

After calling Barcelona home for six weeks, I'm back on the road, island-hopping in the Mediterranean and currently in Mallorca. Palma, the island's biggest city, isn't exactly what I'd expected, though.

My mental image of Palma before arriving was a collection of low, medieval, Mediterranean buildings along the shore, maybe with a church steeple rising over the town. The only forms of transportation are mules and gas-guzzling cars from the '60s. (I think I was conflating Palma with Havana.) The beach comes right up to the doorsteps of the houses at the shore, and the town moves at the pace of the swaying palm fronds.

Turns out, Palma has 400,000 inhabitants and is something like the tenth largest city in Spain. The old city is indeed medieval, but the cathedral is absolutely massive, as are most of the buildings in the old town. Modern avenues with new cars and a modern bus system (the only horses are used by tourists) cut through the otherwise cobblestoned center, and the city teems with activity at all hours. Most surprising of all is that the beaches are actually a fair walk or a bus ride from the center of town.

We'll have to see if my next destination, Ibiza, also turns out to be different from my expectations. I basically imagine the main town of Ibiza as one massive club, with a €200 cover but an open bar. I'll report back soon.

Cook Like a Spaniard: The Tortilla Española

Thu, 14 Jul 2011 06:13:45 -0400

When the desire to truly be a Spaniard hits me, or when the funds happen to be running low, I turn to la tortilla española, the customary Spanish egg casserole. Whether bought in a café or made at home, this authentic dish is both a filler of stomachs and of wallets. I've tried my luck with la tortilla a couple of times and have had relative success. A little burnt the first time, but who doesn't love the taste of blackened charcoal?

Here's the breakdown, college-student-with-minimal-culinary-background-style. All you will need for this dish is:

- Medium to large frying pan
- Bowl
- Dinner plate

- 5-6 medium-sized potatoes
- 1 medium-sized white onion
- 4-5 eggs
- 2 cups olive oil
- Salt to taste

Nice thing about this recipe? You DO NOT HAVE TO BOIL THE POTATOES FIRST. So don't. (I did. Mush madness.)

So, to begin, cut the potatoes lengthwise so you have 2 longish halves, and then into 1/8 in. slices. (I again misread the recipe and went freelance my first time and made them into 1/8 in. cubes. This doesn't make much of a difference, thank God.)

Chop the onion into 1/4 in. pieces, or whatever size you'd really like. You will be pan-frying these ingredients, so their size will shrink.

Mix together the potatoes and onion in a bowl and add salt to taste.

Heat your pan to medium-high heat and pour in enough olive oil to healthily coat the bottom of the pan. Put the potatoes and onion in the pan and mix around until the oil coats most of your mixture. If there isn't enough oil in the pan already, add more oil.

Let the potatoes and onion cook (mixing occasionally—don't want no burnt onions, as good as they smell) until you can break a potato slice easily with a fork or spatula. Take off the heat and drain oil if there's a lot of excess.

Crack the eggs into the same bowl you used before and whisk them together. Add the cooked potatoes and onion to the bowl and mix.

Now reheat the pan you used and add a little more oil, just enough to coat the bottom. Add the potato/onion/egg mixture and let the sucker cook on medium heat. You shouldn't have to cook the tortilla for much longer than 8 minutes, but wait until the bottom is lightly browned and the top is still runny.

Move to the sink. Take the dinner plate and place it over the frying pan, which should be over the sink. Use your cat-like reflexes to quickly flip the pan over the plate, allowing the tortilla to fall onto the plate.

Then, reheat the pan again, add a tiny bit more olive oil, and slide the tortilla back into the pan, uncooked-side-down. Shape the tortilla while cooking it the second time, again for not longer than 7-8 minutes.

YOU DONE. Let the boy cool off and serve on that same dinner plate. Easy as pie. Delicious, Spanish egg-pie. It should look something like the following:

Ain't she a beauty?

There you have it, you're officially a Spanish-mother-status, certified chef. You can make the dish of a country. I'm proud of you.

And if your tortilla is burnt, so was mine my first time. That's fine. You can still make your friends eat it and tell you how delicious it is. That's what I did. Enjoy!

4 Cheap Things to Do in Downtown São Paulo

Tue, 12 Jul 2011 22:37:07 -0400

There is no denying it; São Paulo, Brazil is a colossal city. Ranking in as the seventh largest city in the world by population, with just under 19 million residents, the city offers an assortment of diverse sights and things to see and do. Travelers beware; it is not hard to lose yourself in this immense metropolis of high-rise buildings and bustling streets. For those of us who are on a budget and cannot sit still for more than a few days before the travel itch begins to creep up our spines, here are four cheap and fun things to do in downtown São Paulo:

1. Barrio Liberdade. Start by jumping on and off São Paulo’s super extensive metro at Liberdade. This bustling neighborhood is home to the Nikkei, the descendents of the Japanese immigrants who flocked to Brazil in the early 1900s to work on the coffee plantations. São Paulo has approximately 623,000 people of Japanese ancestry living in it, according to the Association of Nikkei and Japanese Abroad. This high number of Nikkei has made the city the densest formation of Japanese people outside mainland Japan in the world. And it shows.

Bamboo wind chimes hollowly clunk together in the breeze, calligraphy painters smear black ink on wooden planks in the artisan market, as fast-speaking vendors tally food orders at the roadside food stands. Asian architecture and influence is injected into the entire neighborhood, mixing laidback Latino attitude with traditional oriental construction styles. Red oriental lamps hang low over narrow streets and the neighborhood’s elongated market bridge is marked by a Torri—the traditional wooden structure marking Shinto Temples all over Japan.

2. Catedral da Sé. Whether you are religious or not, São Paulo’s Cathedral is simply made to be gawked at. Conveniently located a few blocks from our first stop and sitting atop another metro stop, this neo-Gothic church is magnificent to just sit back and admire from afar. After four decades of construction, this epic structure was finished in 1954, and it boasts room enough for 8,000 worshippers as well as a 12,000 pipe organ. According to www.skyscraperpage.com, the building was made from 800 tons of marble and the magistral dome is 30 meters high.

The church is often crowded, but for a quick reprieve from the other gawkers you can head down into the crypts. The crypts are well-lit yet eerily silent, with the exception of your own echoing footsteps on the tiled floors—a stark contrast to the noisy main entry or the often crowded plaza outside.

3. Edifício Altino Arantes. For a bird’s-eye view of the city, head over to this towering high-rise building close to the cathedral. Reaching for the clouds, 161 meters tall with 32 floors, the Altino Arantes Building was the city’s tallest building in the mid-20th century, until it was surpassed by the Edifício Itália in 1965. If you are not afraid of tight spaces in high-up places, make a trip to the observation deck (open M-F,10am-3pm). It is free of charge, but make sure you bring a photo ID and a bit of patience with you.

After two lines, two crowded elevator rides, five flights of narrow stairs, a waiting room, and another spiral staircase, visitors reach the observation deck above the 32nd floor. The view of the city’s endless sea of skyscrapers and immense buildings arises before you. Wind whips in your face and the sun beats on your skin as your eyes feast on the never-ending sprawl that stretches out to the horizon. The small, round platform offers miniature sights of the bustling streets below; the people are now ant-sized and the grand cathedral is no more than a speck among the towering structures around it.

4. Mercado Municipal (open M-Sa 6am-6pm, Su 6am-4pm). Depending on the person, this place can be considered a cheap stop or a pricey one. Closest to the São Bento metro stop and a fifteen-minute walk from the Altino Arantes Building, this market is jam-packed with great food. Fresh, colorful produce line the stands, assorted cheeses are piled up high down aisleways, salami links hang from hooks, and wine from around the world is displayed on shelves. According to the market’s webpage, the market handles approximately 450 tons of food a day in its massive 12,600 square meter area.

Do a thorough loop of the entire market, whilst making sure to mark down all the food stands with products that interest you. Then, go back to the ones that stand out most to you to sample and, maybe, buy some products to chow down on. One can easily spend an entire afternoon in this place. In addition to heaps of food to purchase for your own kitchen adventures, restaurants and bars line the outer walls and main intersecting aisles.

And there you have it: four cheap things to do in downtown São Paulo for the outgoing type of traveler that you are. Granted, all of these things can be done in a single day, or if you are on the fast track, an afternoon. Getting lost by the food stands of Liberdade or gaping wide-jawed for hours while exploring the ins and outs of the cathedral are not totally uncommon either. Enjoy and do not be afraid to lose yourselves in this tiny part of the vast city.

5 Things You Should Know About Naples

Tue, 12 Jul 2011 07:11:45 -0400

1. When you arrive, get away from the train station as fast as you can. Not because it's the world's most dangerous place, or anything (or the safest), but just because it's really not pretty there.

2. Neapolitan people are really very nice, especially if you tell them you like their city. Then they will tell you all about the sorry state of the local government and how it’s screwing up the tourist industry, and how glad they are you're here and have an open mind.

3. EAT PIZZA ALL THE TIME. It's so good. Believe the hype.

4. If you're trying to cross the street, just do it. No, seriously. Don’t get killed, but also don't wait for someone to let you across.

5. Go to the beach. This applies to most cities with beaches, but if it’s a sunny day (which it probably is, since you're in Southern Italy), do it.

Budget Tips and Tricks for the Shameless Traveler

Mon, 11 Jul 2011 13:08:06 -0400

Two months on a budget does things to the brain. My boss already says I "do things for Wi-Fi," so I guess there's really no sense trying to hide the evolution of my shady penny-pinching ways from the world. For your entertainment or actual use, here's how I survived to write you this blog, and how you can save cash at the expense of your health and/or dignity:

FOOD

Sleep or work through breakfast unless it's included in your accomodation price, in which case it doesn't matter how few hours of sleep you've had, GET DOWN THERE. As for lunch: Standard lunch= approx 220 calories, price: 7-10 euros. .A gelato = approx 250 calories, price 1-2 euros. Pleasure value = infinitely higher. Case Closed. When you're really running low on money, use the couple euro to buy whatever you can find in the supermarket that comes in the most pieces, like a box of crackers. Whenever your stomach pipes up, throw it a cracker.

When a buffet is available to you, approach calmly. Serve yourself a generous but socially acceptable portion. Repeat until buffet runs out or closes, changing location and ditching evidence as you go. Take any stashable items with you to recreate a meal out of them: for example, if you scavenge a nutella packet, crackers in plastic, and a mini pack of cashews, spread nutella on crackers and sprinkle the cashews over top for a free snack! For dinner, you can't beat Italian aperitivo buffets, at which the elegant ladies munching two cocktail sausages and a sprig of mint are essentially paying for your multi-course pasta meal.

Of course, in restaurants, ask for tap water. When they refuse, the jig is not up. If you don't carry a water bottle that you can refill in their bathroom and surruptitiously pour into a glass when no one is looking, ask for a cup of ice, especially if you have a friend with a drink who might "share some with you". Place ice near a candle or between your hands and wait for it to melt.

DRINK MONEY

You don't need any. Guys may think this doesn't apply to them, but clearly they just don't know how to chat up the right strangers.

HOSTEL FRIENDS

These people are your budget goldmine. Exchange riches with them like bugspray, nail clippers, or sunscreen. Split meals, alcohol, or even future accommodations! Sometimes they don't even finish their dinner and this is your time to shine.

SLEEPING

How is the security in this hostel? Are there lots of empty beds in your friends' rooms? Would anyone notice if you slept in said beds?

LAUNDRY

It's totally clean. Just turn it inside out! No one ever sees you for longer than 3 days, so they'll never know how many times you've worn that shirt unless you smell awful or have chocolate gelato stains all down the front. Wash things in the sink whenever your roommates are out. Also, bathing suits totally count as a pair of underwear.

GETTING AROUND

Always prioritize your wallet over your time, energy, and aching feet. It helps to find friendly local folk with motorcycles, motorboats, and cars.

BARGAINING

Use your visible brokeness to your advantage as a bargaining technique. "I only have €20, and I need 10 of them for lunch and dinner" is a great lie, because they will never suspect that you only intend to use €4 for lunch and dinner. Always compare prices before purchase. Know when to get angry at shop people for trying to rip you off, and they will respect you.

WI-FI

Never surrender any money in a Wi-Fi cafe until you've tested your access, at which point you may need to buy a coffee or something. If you don't want to lug your computer around, but also don't want to pay hostel prices for sending messages or submitting blogs, upload them as a contact name on your smartphone so you can copy/paste when you reach a Wi-Fi hotspot. Save every Wi-Fi code for cafes you visit on your computer, so that after paying for that initial coffee, you can casually hang out outside and access their internet without them even knowing. Another option is to check the area you're staying in for any unlocked networks, then move around until you have solid access, like I'm doing right now.

I'm Free!

Mon, 11 Jul 2011 09:42:12 -0400

Free at last, free at last, merci Dieu j'ai liberté! And just in time for the 14th of July, France's Bastille Day. Celebrating liberty wil be so much sweeter knowing that I actually have it. 4th of July here was a slight let down... it's only a matter of time before you can't carry the weight of US any longer—we are a pretty overweight country. I was told by elderly friends (ok, the retired expats that I drink with during happy hour) that before 9/11 the American Embassy would open up and everyone with a blue passport (or English/South African anglophones) would crowd on the roofs, shoot off fireworks, and generally enjoy beverages. Those were the days. Now I'm pretty sure you would be shot on the spot for approaching the embassy with fireworks. At least in France the government still humbles itself to the level of disgruntled revolutionaries in the spirit of communal celebration.

In fire stations around the city, firemen will open their doors to host huge parties called "Bals des Pompiers." It's free, involves lots of liqueur, and most likely will have swooning women (whom, in the presence of firemen, can't help but swoon). Now, many of you will point out that the 14th of July is France's Independence Day, a day on which they celebrate with frieworks. What is to happen if fireworks set something ablaze, and the firemen are drunk? Well, I won't ask such questions, as the future is entirely unpredicatble and I will be safe inside a firehouse if anything goes awry. Celebration doesn't require planning, just like revolutions. And we all know nothing bad ever came out of a revolution, right?

Road Trip!

Mon, 11 Jul 2011 09:20:51 -0400

This past week family members started to pour into CDG to start their vacations (which I'm just about to join after finishing these blogs) and Sunday marked my grandparents departure from Paris in a rental car. One small issue. Or maybe a lot of them. Driving in Paris is hard, and my grandparents can't speak French. Finding traffic lights alone has been a struggle for me, but with persistance and many, many horns honked at me on my scooter, I mastered their locations as I have every late night bar and police checkpoint (those may or may not be mutually exclusive). In anyway, I was hired as the cheuffeur out to Tours (a city that I had previously been to earlier this week). Apart from waking up at the ungodly hour of 9am after a Saturday night and mini-celebration of completion of work, the drive wasn't too bad. I also had to make a couple stops at some slightly out-of-reach châteaux, which provided some break time and the slight urge to want to hurl myself off of the towers as to never see any more châteaux ever again (that is, unless I'm living in one because my extremely wealthy fiancée happened to aquire it after her father, the distant relative of the former Duke of Orléans passed away).

Things were going quite swimmingly, until a checkpoint at the toll booth waved me over. Firstly, the gendarme was standing in the middle of the road. I had either the option to out maneuver him or run him over. I quickly ruled out those options. My panic was rooted in my and my grandfather's unwillingness to pay the extra €35 a day for insurance so I could drive the car. I figured I could always use the "he's old and doesn't know French excuse" but to convey that with justification would have broken the cardinal rule of getting pulled over in France: "pretend to not speak French." Quite the conundrum. Luckily enough it was a random survey on sleep habits (well I guess not so lucky since I had to answer sleep and drinking pattern questions in front of my grandparents—in English nonetheless because I tried to worm my way out of it by claiming that I didn't speak French). I guess there is some lesson on honestly in there somewhere, but I was too drunk/tired to figure it out.

Modernisme in my Barcelona Barri: Part Three in a Series

Mon, 11 Jul 2011 05:43:14 -0400

For the third and final installment of my smash hit series on moderniste architecture in my neighborhood (thanks for the great write-up, New Yorker!), I've decided to skip over the rest of the small potatoes apartment buildings on my street and go straight for what is known in Catalan as "the big kahuna": Park Güell.

The park—designed by the one, the only, Antoni Gaudí—isn't so much an integral part of my neighborhood as it is a giant tourist magnet that draws crowds of foreigners through the neighborhood's streets and up the partially escalatored Baixada de la Glòria, the less popular but no less spectacular back entrance to the park. Nevertheless, the park looms over the neighborhood like a brutal mass of tourist madness and tourists' euros which get happily dispersed between the park and the metro stop. The only part of the park itself visible from my street is the Turó de les Tres Creus, an outcropping at the park's highest point which Gaudí topped with three stone crosses.

Due to the unceasing masses of photo-minded visitors, it's a pretty awful park in the sense that it is hardly a sanctuary from the surrounding city—if anything, it's more crowded and hectic. To be fair, when it was built at the beginning of the 20th century, it was intended to be not a park but a ritzy suburban neighborhood; its creator (the eponymous Sr. Güell) would shudder at the rabble now thronging his once-peaceful walks.

Love it or hate it, it's one of the defining locales of my Barcelona barri, and one that has helped to define our conception of Gaudí and his modernisme.

(See part 1 here and part 2 here.)

Cambridge Shock

Sun, 10 Jul 2011 19:22:58 -0400

I've recently left London to research Cambridge for a few days. My time here, though extremely pleasant, has been a little disconcerting for a number of reasons, including, but not limited to, the following:

1. 20 minutes outside of London, the train passed the first field of sheep. I wasn't prepared to see livestock that close to a city (keep in mind I'm from New York, where 20 minutes on the train puts you only in industrial wasteland, also known as New Jersey).

2. Instead of residing in an ex-council estate that, while perfectly functional, was a little grim-looking, I'm now living in a 15th-century college. Every morning I pass through a perfectly-manicured medieval courtyard on my way to do research.

3. In London, it would take me an hour to get between any two points. It wouldn't even take me an hour to walk all the way around Cambridge.

4. The city is ridiculously pretty. From the spires of King's Chapel to the rolling willow-lined banks of the Cam, the whole town is one big postcard.

5. Having studied in "the other Cambridge," I thought I had become anesthetized to being star struck at lists of famous college alumni. Nope. Everytime I look up a Wikipedia article to learn about one of the colleges I'm visiting, it's one more long list of famous writers and scientists and names I recognize from watching The Tudors. I guess in 800 years, you can rack up quite the alumni database.

So... I guess my visit has been disconcerting because it's been extremely pleasant. Hunh. Somehow I don't think I'll say the same about Liverpool (up next week), but we'll see!

Au Revoir, Let's Go (For Now)

Sun, 10 Jul 2011 19:19:33 -0400

C'est fini! My research stint is over. No more cooking fast food, eating brainy desserts, attending circumcision parties, or clubbing back-to-back nights (it was strictly business, I swear). From tiled mosques to pink-bricked monasteries, from cabernet vintages to vintage stores, it's been an unbelievable ride. Though I know now is not the time for regrets, here's what I would do differently if I could do it all again:

Book trains far far in advance. Why shell out 50 euro more when I could have been spending that on pastries, non-supermarket meals, and glasses of wine with dinner?
Wear V-neck/sleeveless/hell even transparent shirts. Walking around outside for the whole day means I get a great tan from my elbows down and the neck up. Everything else—let's not go there.
Bring a bigger backpack. Stuffing my bag with too many toothbrushes and types of shampoo means that I'll never be able to bring gifts back home. That bottle of Turkish raki? Had to chug it back in Istanbul. And speaking ofhugging liquor...
Build up my alcohol tolerance. What a shame, having to spit out the best of French wines while hiking around the vineyards of Bordeaux and St. Emilion. But if I gulped it all down, they'd have arrested me for public drunkenness in no time.

In fact, all of these are small, tiny things that really don't matter at all. And I still have a lot ahead—my work is done, but my time in France isn't over yet. Next up: Nice. Gotta hit the beaches and work on that tan.

Bruxelles Les Bains

Sun, 10 Jul 2011 15:54:18 -0400

I stumbled upon the annual Bruxelles Les Bains festival today completely by accident. Wanting to procrastinate on writing my copy for as long as humanly possible, I took a walk down the street from the hostel and found Brussel's main canal (which is also pretty much its only canal... Amsterdam puts you to shame here, Belgium). Each summer, the canal-front gets gets turned into a mini-beach resort, complete with fine sand, volleyball, music, and tons of mojito stands. Best of all: it's free!

I wasn't too impressed with the goings-on at first, but after hanging around for a while (and consuming a dinner of churros to complement my lunch of frites and my waffle breakfast) I was treated to a bizzare free concert: a reggae/hip-hop show (reggae in French?) with Senegalese performers (half wearing New York Yankees caps; the other half dressed in green army jackets with Dutch flags sewn onto them. The crowd was made up of some adorable little kids, angry looking teenage bros, cool rasta chicks with green dreadlocks, and middle-aged white ladies in big jewelry and Hammer pants. After the show, a parade of nice-looking young Belgian fellows danced around in Royal Guard costumes and practiced some baton twirling. The crowd loved the whole show.

Conclusion: Brussels is an insanely absurd place, and I mean that in the most complimentary way possible. The nice woman at the tourist office gave me some advice my first day here, "You just have to overcome that initial fear of everyone and everything is so weird here and just love it." While I remain utterly confused by the crazy mix of cultures and languages, I'm doing my best to follow her advice. You are très bizarre, Brussels, and I suspect you like it that way. Luckily, I, along with the rest of the tourist hordes, don't seem to mind at all.

The Bucharest Bike Gang

Sun, 10 Jul 2011 06:00:26 -0400

I awoke to the sound of bass booming from the bar directly below our apartment on Smardan Street. It was 9am on a Saturday morning. Seriously, who on earth listens to music like that at this hour?

“Welcome to the Balkans,” my Romanian host Madalina said, as she awoke groggy-eyed.

The night before had been a whopper—we sampled beverages at a variety of bars in the ever-happening Civic Center, the historic center of Bucharest. Like some electric mixture between Istiklal in Istanbul and Oranienstrasse in Berlin, this was the place to be. Madalina explained to me that this area had exploded in popularity in an incredibly short period of time. When she had moved to the apartment two years ago, there were only a couple of bars and a bike shop scattered around in what was now the busiest part of the city for nightlife. It also seemed like plans for street construction hadn't anticipated said touristic boom—entire strips of road were completely torn out, leaving a seemingly permanent under-construction gorge where bars set up outdoor seating. It was funny to see everyone dressed in their weekend best while lounging in the rubble.

My excellent host had the brilliant idea of riding bikes in order to make the most of my only day in Romania's capital. We first rode past the National Museum of Contemporary Art, located in Bucharest's most famous communist building, the House of People (formerly the House of Parliament). At the request of the former Romanian dictator, Ceau?escu, an entire neighborhood and the hill it sat upon was bulldozed to make way for this building. In terms of surface area, it's the second largest building in the world—only Washington's Pentagon is larger. It's an embarrassment to most Romanians, said Madalina, since it's a gaudy and unpleasant reminder of the impoverished years under communist rule.

The National Museum of Contemporary Art was excellent. We met the visual artist-in-residence, Marilena Preda Sânc! She is considered to be the first Romanian artist to focus on feminist and women's rights topics in Romania, and I got to interview her.

After all that excitement, we met up with some of Madalina's friends and embarked on THE BUCHAREST BIKE TOUR! This was an improvised tour that kept getting more and more epic; friends of Luciano and Madalina continued to join until we rode seven strong. Bike riding is definitely not a very popular mode of transportation in Bucharest, but I was happy to have a break from the systematic German way of cycling, as we just tore our way through crowded streets and parks. The police were NOT about to give us a ticket for riding on the sidewalk.

We saw some amazing architecture in ritzy neighborhoods—the best of the few buildings that happened to be spared from the communist revamping, most of which now housed various embassies. Many of these edifices had seemingly Ottoman influences (Romania was under Turkish rule for 400 years after all), but Madalina explained that what I had seen was also typical of the Neo-Romanian style. Whatever it was, I liked it. We ended our grand tour with a loop around the Her?str?u Lake, and then chanced upon a public performance of the Romanian National Ballet near the National Museum of Art.

Bucharest gets a bad rap, but there are some extremely beautiful Parisian-style buildings in the center, and loads of charming cafes and restaurants. Even some of communism's architectural by-products have their charm. Things are quite spread out and it can take quite a while to get from one place to another on foot—if you're thinking about visiting, I would definitely recommend forming your own Bucharest bike gang!

Ugali: The Beginner's Guide

Sat, 09 Jul 2011 13:55:44 -0400

Ugali (noun): a traditional Tanzanian dish of thick cornmeal porridge; eaten by rolling the porridge into a ball with your right hand, making a little indentation in the ball with your thumb, and then using it to scoop up accompanying foods and sauces.

I first encountered the ubiquitous ugali while staying at my friend Said's house in Karatu. As someone both half Armenian and well trained in the art of eating finger food, I figured eating ugali would be a cinch. So, grabbing the stuff with both hands, I began to dig in. Before I had taken the first bite, Said's little brother Ishmael, age seven, broke down laughing. I looked up and everyone around the table was giggling.

Taboo alert! In Tanzania, the right hand is used for eating, and the left is used for... wiping (though holding utensils or glasses with both hands is okay).

When I asked my Tanzanian friends how to make ugali, I was met with blank stares and a sheepish "My English isn't good enough for that!" While translating recipes can be difficult for all parties involved, I was fortunate enough to observe my good friend Ruth cooking ugali over an open flame in her backyard. Here's a guide to making the treat:

What you'll need:

-A pot (the size you should use depends on how many hungry rafiki* you're cooking for)
-White corn flour, finely ground

-Water

-Some means of heating the pot. If you're back home, this probably means a stovetop. In Tanzania, you might be cooking over a gas stove, open flame, or some hybrid of the two.

Directions:

Put the desired amount of water in the pot and add about a third of that amount of corn flour to it. Bring the mixture to a boil. Once it is boiling contentedly, add more flour than you think is necessary, until the entire pot becomes a thick, gooey paste. Continue to stir and cook this concoction until the ugali starts to pop like an angry swamp monster.

Then you know it's done.

Let the ugali cool and, if you're feeling creative, put it into a large, interestingly-shaped bowl. When you serve it, plop the mixture upside down onto a plate surrounded by small bowls of other Tanzanian delicacies.

I apologize in advance for not being a skilled enough cook to give a how-to guide for more tasty Tanzanian dishes—you're talking to a woman who burnt pasta in her past life as a middle school chef. With that said, this website might help you out. Nothing says "I'm independent and actually learned something in East Africa (and therefore you should approve of potential further travels to obscure corners of the planet)" quite like wowing your family with a home-cooked meal from Tanzania.

*Yes, rafiki is Swahili for friend. Thanks, Disney! On the topic of The Lion King, people here actually use the phrase hakuna matata. And simba means lion, in case you were wondering.

Haiku for Travel in Tanzania and Kenya

Sat, 09 Jul 2011 13:00:09 -0400

I love writing poetry. It's a daily communion of sorts, something that keeps me sane both on and off the road. Hopefully these haiku will give you a small taste of East Africa.

a haiku for the swahili tongue

the new language slides
like an egg yolk down my throat;
whiteness I forget.

at the national museum in nairobi

all the upside-down
catfish swim in their tank, but
this one swims upright.

spontaneous downpour haiku

rain rum-a-tum-drums
five thousand fingers on tin.
the snakes seek shelter.

the two-month-long haiku

the days are flying
safari animals, a
a child's crib mobile.

(Note: The upside-down catfish and snakes were spotted at the National Museum and Snake Park in Nairobi.)

A Night Out in Nairobi: What NOT To Do

Sat, 09 Jul 2011 12:50:30 -0400

The first piece of advice I was given by my Kenyan hostesses: don't make out with someone in the back of a car. It's illegal, and the police here have no qualms about fining you heavily for it.

Here are some other things to keep in mind:

Don't congregate on street corners or in parking lots, especially if it's obvious that no one in your party can walk in a straight line. You'll be fined—and chances are that no one will be sober enough to argue your case coherently.

Avoid urinating publicly. This advice follows common courtesy more than anything else. No one loves the smell of urine-splattered concrete baking in the morning sun.

On the topic of bodily fluids, don't drink until you puke. It isn't sophisticated, folks, especially when drinking so much means that you have to make a taxicab full of friends pull over to the side of the road and hold your hair back while you empty the contents of your stomach. Gross.

Don't be deceived by the sweet taste of popular drinks like Black Ice. If you drink too many too fast, you risk falling prey to the bodily fluid trap mentioned above.

One last word of caution: beware of obes!

(Obe: an individual on the dance floor who comes uncomfortably close to you and dances awkwardly, attracting unwanted attention. The best way to get rid of an obe is to have a group of friends dance toward you and encircle you completely, cutting you off from any potentially uncomfortable interaction with said obe.)

What should you do on a night out in Nairobi?

Grab a friend (or four) and rock out to jams that you haven't heard since middle school. The drinking age is 18, and Kenyans like to party until sunrise—most clubs stay open until 6am.

Coping with the Worst

Sat, 09 Jul 2011 12:35:54 -0400

Bowel movements are probably the last thing on your mind when you think about Tanzanian travel, and justifiably so. What with breathtaking wildebeest migrations, fantastic beach weather, and the highest peaks in Africa, it's hard to think about your tummy as anything more than a grumbling afterthought.

But let me be clear about this: traveler's diarrhea is not something to be messed with. I had to learn this the hard way, so learn from my mistakes:

1. Don't drink water from a tap or, worse, brush your teeth with it. Nasty bugs can enter your body, so just buy bottled water!

2. Avoid salads, fruits and veggies that don't have peels, and anything that could have been washed in tap water before going into your mouth. After your first few weeks in the country, you can get a bit more adventurous with raw vegetables, but only at places that look trustworthy. Fruit juice is fine, so long as it's made with boiled water.

Hopefully following these guidelines will keep you out of trouble. However, if you're hit with the runs, be sure to:

1. Hydrate. Bottled water is cheap and easy find; every time you step onto a sidewalk you'll have a street vendor making squeaky kissing noises to catch your attention (maji is the Swahili word for water). Even better than drinking plain-Jane water, bring along electrolyte tablets. Not only do your intestines get a break, but there's added fruity flavor to your drink! #biwinning

2. Take the day off. And if you're taking a trip to the john more than three times an hour, consider using medication.

3. Eat bananas. Simple, low-fiber foods like white bread are your friend. These are two of the cheapest and easiest things to purchase in Tanzania. I don't care how delicious that plate of Indian curry and cooked spinach looks. Trust me, your tummy needs a rest.

4. Avoid going on 11-hour bus rides (as I did, from Arusha to Dar es Salaam). If you're forced to do some serious traveling, remember to pack antidiarrheals in the bag you'll be carrying with you on the bus, not the one stored in its underbelly (again, rookie mistake). Also look up how to politely ask "Where's the next bathroom?" in Swahili. Somehow I found myself on an all-day ride through breathtaking mountains and grasslands, desperately wandering through aisles and aisles of Tanzanians until I found someone who knew enough English to ask the driver to find a bathroom—fast. At least that story had a happy ending.

P.S. If you need to pass time on any long, sedentary adventure, consider bringing some pre-cut squares of colorful paper to fold origami creatures (here's an instructional video on how to make origami cranes). Folding cranes is a tradition my mom and I started years ago on a backpacking trip in Peru. It's a great gift to give to any child. Pass on the multicolored love!

Gypsies of Gerais

Fri, 08 Jul 2011 15:00:07 -0400

I have heard it said that wealth is the supreme source of all happiness. That one cannot be pleased with their life if they do not possess money in their bank account and cash in their wallet. As Rodrigo and I carefully walked towards the shoddy tents and the laughing children, playing with their torn kites in the afternoon breeze, I could not disagree more with that statement. These people we were approaching clearly had nothing yet the sound of thoughtless laughter filled the air. When we began to skirt the parameters of the camp, a few people, their hair in tangled messes with dirt smearing their faces, began to poke their heads out from under their tent’s frayed flaps to eye my translator and me. The children moved a little closer to us, revealing tattooed hands and wary expressions. I felt bad for Rodrigo; he had listened to all the horror stories of the gypsies as I had the days before and must have been as apprehensive as I was approaching these peculiar people. “Don’t have anything in your pockets.” “You have to be cleverer than them.” “Are you really taking your camera?” Bet your ass I was taking my camera.

The gypsy band first caught my eye when I was receiving a tour of Pouso Alegre, Minas Gerias, Brazil, although it was not the people who initially grabbed my attention. It was their clothes hanging dispassionately on a thin rope underneath a beaten up billboard right beside the road; an old woman tending to a pair of socks as speeding cars kicked up dirt and gravel only feet away from her. I inquired to who they were and was greeted by laughs. “Those are the gypsies,” my guides informed me. Immediately intrigued, I wanted to know more about them and made it my business to go down to their field and speak with them. I fell asleep that night wondering, “What makes someone want to live in tattered tents with no running water or electricity?” A few days later I found myself frantically thinking of ways to explain my inquisitiveness whilst stepping closer and closer to their encampment; hoping that they would be receptive to me.

As Rodrigo and I tiptoed around half-eaten fruit and discarded clothing, we asked one adolescent girl where we could find the leader, or someone to speak with about what they were doing there. She led us into the encampment and searched around for the chief, a woman named Maria. The encampment was not very large and we shortly arrived at a dirt stained yellow tent, the muddy floor carpeted by two sheet less mattresses with their stuffing coming out. Maria was there with another woman who was holding a tiny child no more than two years old. They must not get many visitors for they were as hesitant to speak with us as we were with them. We explained we were just curious people who wanted to know more about what they were doing in a field away from the rest of the city and people. I played the “I am an American” card and their wariness took a backseat to curiosity. It is good to know that one still works once in a while for the better.

Maria, the chief by age, told us how she had been a gypsy for all of her 59 years; nomadically moving via buses and cars from one encampment to another for as long as she could remember. At the time, she had been staying at that encampment for three months. The time a gypsy of this tribe stays in one location varies greatly, we were told. It could be a week or months, trading amongst themselves or with businesses in the area to obtain food and clothing, before moving to another encampment. The woman with the child, Elaina, claimed that she most often only stayed in a place for 10 to 30 days. Another gypsy I spoke with, a man with piercings in his ears, bright rubies on his fingers and a toothless grin, told us that sometimes he moves every 24 hours. Occasionally his travels take him as far as to Paraguay or Bolivia, other times only 40km to another town in the Brazilian state of Minas Gerias. “We are like birds. We take pleasure in traveling to new places,” he said, showing his few blackened teeth.

Not all bands and people though are of the same tribe. Maria, with clear contempt in her voice, told us of another tribe of wealthier gypsies on the other side of the town. The group that we talked to is forbidden from visiting or associating with this richer tribe. The other tribe’s tents are larger; they have refrigerators and electricity, according to the gypsies we talked with. Maria wanted to know if we had gypsies in the United States, I attempted to explain to her what a trailer park is. Surely the beggars in front of the local 7-11 cannot be considered gypsies.

We talked for a few more moments and I asked them if they wanted to know anything about me or my culture. They did not seem all that interested and I was okay with that. We exchanged some more friendly words and asked them if we could come back later in the evening to speak with them some more and take pictures. (I had embarrassingly and irritably left my memory card in my backpack back in the house.)

Rodrigo and I returned later in the evening, this time bringing along our friend Ive, who had grown curious as Rodrigo and I related what we had learned over lunch. The women took kindly to Ive and after they got over the initial nervousness that strangers carry with them, Ive was being ushered into tents to view traditional dresses. Flowing dresses of sky blues and deep purples were held up for her to touch and examine as little girls with colorful makeup and glittering nose rings danced circles around our growing group of bystanders. The adolescent boys listened to our conversation and chewed on long strands of straw, occasionally making a joke amongst themselves and laughing wholeheartedly. We continued our interview from earlier, asking similar questions to new members of the band while attempting to delve a little deeper into their culture.

The gypsies were vague on what and how they teach their young; very few of the people at the camp could read, certainly they could not write. An older man who travels from location to location and teaches the children about the culture through reading palms and reciting stories was not present at the time, we were told. One of the adolescent boys that had joined our growing group of admirers wore a cross around his neck. I asked him why he wore it, was he a Christian, where did he learn about the religion? He simply shrugged and told us it was what his grandfather had taught him.

Their gypsy culture is preserved through arranged marriages as well; the members never marrying outside of the tribe. Parents speak with other parents and arrange the fates of their children’s love life when they are as young as eight years old. By the time the children are 12 to 13 they are married. An unsettling fact we learned was that if a wife is unfaithful to her husband, gypsy law gives him permission to punish her by death.

One thing most of the gypsies had in common was a tattooed small ring of dots on their hand between the index finger and thumb. These are added to tribe members when they are five or six years old by other family members that know the practice. Tattoos in general were popular among everyone in the tribe. Some people sport tattoos that covered their entire arms, some have tattoos on their necks and one young boy of 12 even showed me his bicep with the word “Liberdade” (Liberty) inked onto it.

Are the gypsies happy though, is this all they wish for in their lives? I think so. As they started their campfires to cook their dinner, adult men and adolescents smiled and worked together, and women folded clothes and tended to the babies as children chased each other through the field, laughing and shouting. They seemed to be content with their lot in life, despite living in obvious poverty. Not to say that they are a group of people without hardships but, how much do theirs differ from ours? What makes the gypsies happy is not how much money they have in their bank account. I doubt they even have bank accounts. What matters most to them is that they have their freedom and culture; that is their source of happiness.

24 Hours of Eating in Rome

Fri, 08 Jul 2011 14:13:21 -0400

Now that I have left the (usually) wide boulevards of Rome for the (often) narrow alleys of Naples, I feel somewhat better qualified to give a list of places you MUST eat at in Rome. If you're anything like me, after all, you plan your trips around food—i.e., "Well, if we go to THIS museum, we're near THAT amazing gelateria, soooo..."

So here goes! I'm providing the food stops, you can fill in your own, less important "sights" itinerary.

Breakfast: any bar, really, will give you an awesome cappuccino (before 12! see my last post!). You can also fit in with everyone else and get a cornetto, an Italian version of a croissant, filled with anything from chocolate to honey to Nutella (I'd thumbpick that last one if this blog allowed me to).

Morning snack: Gelato from Gelateria del Teatro in the Centro Storico. I HIGHLY recommend the chocolate and orange peel for something both rich and refreshing.

Lunch: Cacio e Pepe near the Vatican—THE BEST PASTA I HAVE EVER EATEN IN MY LIFE.

Afternoon boost: Feet dragging? Eyes hurting? Your hostel bed calling? Fight them all off with a granita con panna from Sant'Eustachio Il Caffe (but, as I said in my last post, be prepared for a MAJOR sugar/caffeine crash).

Sweet, sweet regret....

Aperitivo: If you are in need of food before 9pm dinner, Freni e Frezioni in Trastevere has an awesome aperitivo bar, which basically means if you buy a drink you get free rein over an epic spread of finger foods and dips.

Dinner: Il Novecento in Testaccio. Do you like mozzarella sticks? Yes? Good! Now try fiori di zucca (zucchini flowers) stuffed with mozzarella and an anchovy and then deep, deep fried. Move on to amazing, homemade ravioli or some lovely veal scallopini. And then tiramisu!!

Drunktown hunger: It's probably like 1am now so you're probably hungry again (well, I am, anyway). Head to La Renella in Trastevere for a big fat piece of pizza with tons of fresh cheese and vegetables to help soak up those mojitos.

Oh, and also prosciutto. There's always prosciutto.

Well, I guess it's bedtime? Sleep well so you can digest properly and do it all again tomorrow...or, you know, swear to never eat again.

(N.B. Let's Go does not recommend that you actually do this all in one day because you will probably explode and while your death will be a blissful one, we will regret it immensely.)

Accidental Venetian Sex Slaves?

Fri, 08 Jul 2011 14:02:32 -0400

Thanks to at least 22 pizza guys and a small miracle, I finally made it to my first hostel in Venice, ravenous at around 11pm. My plans consisted of food, laundry and sleep. Unfortunately these plans did not coincide with the hostel's plans for me.

The hostel's plans:

"Hmm... turns out, we overbooked tonight. But don't worry—we're sending you next door to our other property full of singles. Free upgrade! There's even a pool."

Wahey! Sign me up for this nearby paradise. Thus the EIGHT of us they managed to overbook let ourselves be ushered into the street by four non-communicative Italian guys with little resistance.

next door:

The relentless march wore on, over bridge and around bend, feeling increasingly like the Trail of Tears. At this point the other girls and I are speculating that we have probably gotten ourselves sold into sex slavery.

Then we ducked down a tiny alley into an unlocked property, its doors hanging ajar. "Here we are!"

"Excuse me, would you mind marking where we are now on this map?" one of the girls asked. The escort blinked at us.

"Uhh, I don't know." Wonderful. "Somewhere around here?" He pointed to the southernmost edge of the entire map. My sprained ankle almost grew a voice box just to scream in protest.

single:

My "single room" just happened to be the very same single room as 3 other girls, our beds all pressed up against each other like we were sharing one giant mattress. We examined the line up of beds and shady basement area, and decide that our sex-slave hypothesis is looking increasingly likely. It's really only a matter of time before the first round of customers arrive. All that's left to do is hope that we'll be the kind of sex slaves that they coke up beyond lucidity, or that one of the girls has a supercop dad like in that movie Taken.

the pool:

The highlight of the place was definitely the "pool". You know those plastic kiddie pools you inflate for your 5 year old in the backyard? Well that's what the deflated thing on the ground might someday hope to look like, provided it ever gets cleaned or set up. Needless to say, it was a bikini party all night long.

Then the four guys announced that they were taking us out. Rather than stay in the unlocked house (and desperate for anything digestible to put in my mouth) I joined the pack. Our slave-owners took us to a dock-side bar for a super happening "dock party" of a whole 10 people.

Here we were, having just narrowly avoided an imagined future of coke and being forced to fulfill strange sexual fantasies. We were not just going to sit around at an uneventful dock party, waiting for the fun to come to us! So when an Italian guy drove past in his boat, we flagged him down and asked him to take us with him. Next thing anyone knew, we were speeding down Venice canals with our new friend and tour guide, exploring Venice by night. And he didn't even ask us for any shady favors in return.

Topics of Conversation to Avoid with East African Taxi Drivers

Fri, 08 Jul 2011 05:51:19 -0400

1. Religion. Unless you're the type that can quote religious texts offhand, steer clear of commenting on the religious paraphernalia you see on the dashboard. Yes, you may see "This car *is* protected by the blood of Jesus," statuettes of many-handed elephants, or verses of the Qur'an in gold lettering on the windshield. Unless you're in for a heated lecture on the importance of attending religious services, keep your mouth shut about it.

2. Traffic. The fact that you're sitting in parking-lot-style traffic in the middle of the afternoon, while frustrating, shouldn't be discussed at length.

3. Homosexuality is a super-taboo topic among East Africans, and should be brought up only among close friends (and even then, only if you're feeling especially ballsy). If you're in situation #2 and haven't been moving for a solid 10 min., chances are your driver will turn on East Africa Radio. You might get a homey feeling for a moment as the radio blasts Rihanna, but then the DJ's commentary will place you firmly back in your surroundings. Commentators like to air text-message services like the following: "This woman dresses like a man and says she cannot help her attraction to women. To help cure her, SMS _______." Maybe a wife, married for seven years and with a child, will call in to angrily tell listeners that she suspects her husband is having an affair with another man. Next up, "What is your opinion of the fact that Footballer-X was outed on this celebrity watch blog?"

Moral of the story: take a dalla-dalla as often as you can. Not only is it more environmentally friendly to be packed like sardines in a standing-room-only bus that looks like it's about to fall apart (they never do), but you'll pay less than 5% of the cost of the cab. Awkward conversations not included.

3 Best Places to Feel Like a Hipster in San Francisco

Thu, 07 Jul 2011 18:01:53 -0400

Of course, if you're presently wearing jeans intended for the opposite gender, and don't believe in the concept of "gender," this blog probably won't apply to you. You've got the hipster business figured out. Hell, you're probably in San Francisco right now, wandering Golden Gate Park with some cilantro-lime naan you bought at a food cart.

But for those of us wishing our fathers had bought at least one T-shirt at an old Hootie and the Blowfish concert for us to steal—i.e. us wannabe hipsters—SF's got an answer, too. It won't shun you because you don't know how to roll your own cigarette. It'll ease you in, teach you the ropes, if you will (mind, they're made of hemp). Below are some shops and venues that are basically hipster kindergartens for SF newbies.

1. Amoeba Music. Located where Haight Street—or, as it's known in the local tongue, hipsterville—runs into the Golden Gate Park, Amoeba is unabashedly a warehouse filled with boulevard-like rows of all the music that you could imagine and just as much that you couldn't. Electronic Christian reggae, anyone? But have no fear, ye who still jams to Matchbox 20. Amoeba caters to the musically uneducated with large pamphlets of staff recommendations, which you can pick up just before you enter the maze. It might as well say, "Buy These CDs for Instant Coolness." And, yes, you'll be buying CDs. In the world of musical purism, it's like preferring the feel of a book to a Kindle. Well, if you really wanted pure, you'd buy from Amoeba's long rows of vinyl. But for now, it's fun enough to just peruse those from a safe distance, like a museum display.

2. Red Vic Movie House. Also on Haight Street, just a couple blocks from Amoeba, Red Vic is a true art movie house without any of the pretension. Watch a film you've probably never heard about—but isn't its abstractionist color composition just divine?—while sitting on couches and munching on organic snacks. It's been "worker owned and operated" since the beginning, which means that some friends and colleagues who love movies got together and opened it, and now run it with volunteers from the community. And they gladly open their doors to people of all levels of film snobbery. How else could they screen Vertigo and Rango in the same week?

3. City Lights Booksellers and Publishers. This is the independent bookstore/publishing house that published Allen Ginsberg's Howl. It was a center for the Beats then, and is keeping the movement alive now. They have an upstairs dedicated to poetry, black-and-white pictures of Neal Cassady and Bob Dylan lining the walls, whole shelves of international literature, and are still printing new editions of their Pocket Poetry series. The side street next to the store is even named after Jack Kerouac. Don't worry about getting overwhelmed or lost, if you're not of the literati. There's an entire, unmissable shelf full of Howl upstairs. It's a souvenir, fun little read, and symbol that you have some literary knowledge (or are at least smart enough to follow the crowd)—all-in-one for $8! Or you can just "Sit Down and Read a Book" at one of their many tables, as signs throughout the store instruct. The store is located at the intersection of Columbus and Broadway, at one end of Chinatown.

So, grab a book in the morning, a CD in the afternoon, hit a café in between, and get to Red Vic in time for either the 7pm or 9pm feature. You'll be strung out underneath the Golden Gate Bridge with a banjo, a trusty dog, and a meditating yogi in no time.

Spit or Swallow? Wine Tasting in Bordeaux

Thu, 07 Jul 2011 15:07:51 -0400

Red or white? Spit or swallow? So many dilemmas!

As a Let's Go traveler, it's my job to take these challenges head-on, so I signed myself up for a course at Bordeaux's Maison du Vin—the headquarters of the region's winemakers, and the world capital for all things wine.

They call this part of the building l'Ecole du Vin, or the School of Wine, and it really did feel like September again (the rainy weather didn't help). Sitting on raised tables with our own sinks and exam lights, all that was missing was a surly lab instructor in the back to tell me to sit up straight. After a long lecture on soils, techniques, and history (Frenchmen will blush to know that the English kick-started Bordeaux's wine industry), it was down to the thing we all came for—tasting the wine.

Woah, slow down there. Don't even think of taking a sip. No, not even a sniff. First, hold the glass right: by the stem, not the body, or that cologne you sprayed on your wrist will make any merlot smell like Axe. Ok, now you're ready. Start with the color: tilt the glass and look at the shade of red or yellow. Usually, the older the wine, the darker it is. I saw no difference in the two reds (2009 and 2010; what's a year gonna do?), but the couple next to me was ahem-ing and uh-huh-ing to the instructor's subtle descriptions. Posers.

Next, use your nose. Without jiggling the glass (the time will come), take a whiff. Nothing much yet? Now start swirling, to aerate the wine. Only do this for young wines; it'll kill the vintage vintages. Once you're done, pick your favorite abstract words or fruity adjectives to describe the aroma (citrusy, vivacious, freshly mowed lawn?). Only now can you take a sip. Feel the initial "attack," and start sucking in air over the wine like a congested vacuum cleaner. This isn't a five-star restaurant—slurping sounds are OK. Spit it out or gulp it down, we won't judge. Look intelligent, pick a few more choice words (astringent, earthy, balmy, supple and round with an elegant finish—all of this in French, by the way), and repeat.

And that's how I spent two hours of my afternoon. No, I barely got tipsy, and my nose still can't tell between cabernet sauvignon and cabernet franc. But damn did I look cultured.

Sex in the City: Bordeaux. Or, French Words and Call Girls

Thu, 07 Jul 2011 14:56:22 -0400

Next time you're in Bordeaux, try these tips to keep your French words straight.

Bordeaux is the wine capital of the world, the hub of southwest France, and a city teeming with beautiful people, wide boulevards, and several UNESCO-grade monuments.

Bordelais is someone who's lucky enough to call this place home.

Bordelais do not come from some place named Bordel. Right now, clever French students are thinking "France and français, New York and New Yorkais..." Wrong! A bordel is a brothel, or a word for any chaotic situation. Example: "Ooh-la-la, did you hear about the senator who got caught with the call girl? Quel bordel!"

Must Eat Here: Denver's Local Restaurants on the Rise

Thu, 07 Jul 2011 13:21:23 -0400

Before the first 24 hours of vacationing in Denver came to a full circle, my godsister proclaimed her love for Denver. That got me thinking: I've met multiple travelers and visitors throughout the years I've lived in Denver and each has expressed the same kind of love. I decided to find out why.

As I trace back the places we visited in her weekend vacation, I discover food to be one of the reasons that has convinced her to fall in love with Denver. But of course! Food, an art that unfolds stories and life of a culture. Denver’s prominent food scene tells the tale of an eclectic and active culture this city so proudly hosts. Hence, I am here to share an introduction to some highly recommended local restaurants we visited over the course of three days.

1. Crêpes 'n Crêpes. ($6-15. Cherry Creek, 2816 E 3rd Ave., Denver, CO; Downtown Denver, 1512 Larimer St. #6R, Denver, CO.)

First stop: Crêpes 'n Crêpes. Two hours after my godsister’s plane landed, we found ourselves tucked in the casual, but one-of-a-kind, French eatery in downtown Denver's Writer Square. The menu is separated by sweet or savory crêpes, with a section for soups, salads, and delectable libations. Crêpes 'n Crêpes is especially perfect for the indecisive, who can choose to eat sweet and savory at the same time. It is also perfect for foodies who have a small or large appetite, or those who like to customize their entrée with an array of veggies, meat, sauces, and cheese—options are clearly endless. Speaking of options, French food always calls for wine, and with Crêpes 'n Crêpes' vast selection of wine you’ll have plenty of choices to fall in love with.

2. Snooze. ($9-20. 2262 Larimer St., Denver, CO 80205; 700 N Colorado Blvd., Suite A, Denver, CO 80206; 6781 S York St., Suite 515, Centennial, CO 80122.)

Snooze is an A.M. eatery. Unlike many breakfast places, their creative and innovative menu is anything but a snooze. Headquartered in Denver, Snooze’s popularity thrives so much that it has spread its wings to other Denver neighborhoods such as Cherry Creek and South Glenn. Their eggs are cooked to perfection with a hint of buttery goodness, and their pancakes are perfectly moist and fluffy. Made from scratch, Snooze’s pancakes include pineapple upside-down pancakes, blueberry lemon bar pancakes, red velvet pancakes and more. For the savory lovers, you have a choice of Eggs Benedict, breakfast tacos, breakfast pot pies, three eggs in any style, and many more. Any Denverite will tell you Snooze is a restaurant not to be missed, even if it means waiting an hour for a table.

3. Steuben’s. ($10-25. 523 E 17th Ave., Denver, CO 80203.)

After making an appearance on the Food Network, Steuben’s took the Denver food scene by storm. With unique sides—such as fried corn, hushpuppies, crispy brussels sprouts, Mexican fruit salad, and so on—this hip restaurant is proud to serve unique and original entrées such as the Maine lobster roll. And yes, it is made from real, fresh Maine lobsters. As a seafood fan, my mouth waters even at the sound of the name, but if you’re not a seafood fan, try their Cubano sandwich, green chili soup, chicken pot pie, or spicy linguini. Get there as early as you can for dinner since the wait can be up to an hour for a table. But then again, it is absolutely worth it.

4. Fresh Craft. ($10-30. 1530 Blake St. #A, Denver, CO 80202.)

New to the Denver food scene, Fresh Craft established its grounds in Denver's downtown ("LoDo") over the last year. Small in size but fearless at heart, this new-in-town restaurant has pleased many in the acrimonious downtown scene, with its unconventional menu, beer options, and a surprisingly comfortable environment. Beside the numerous choices of entrée, you have the option of picking the size of your entrée—ranging from appetizer, small, medium, to large. Now that’s what I call truly catering to the individual. But wait, don’t forget to order a beer. With over a hundred beers to pick from—IPAs, stouts, sours, lagers, etc.—you’ll never get tired of this freshly crafted restaurant.

5. Atomic Cowboy and The Biscuit Bus. ($3-15. 3237 E Colfax Ave.)

The distinguishing characteristic of the restaurant is not just their name, Atomic Cowboy, but the kitchens built inside the restaurant: the Denver Biscuit Company and Fat Sully’s. Located next to The Bluebird (a cozy music venue), this happy and hip restaurant serves up handcrafted pizzas by slice or whole from Fat Sully’s, and homemade biscuit sandwiches with undeniably delicious sauces and jams (made from scratch!) from the Denver Biscuit Company. As a fellow Texan and know-all in biscuits, my godsister took a bite of Atomic Cowboy’s high-altitude biscuit and her tongue swelled with all the joy in the world. Might I add that this first bite was executed at The Biscuit Bus, a food truck run by Atomic Cowboy and one of the many, many food trucks loved by Denver.

El Escorial: The Perfect Sunday (Hangover Cure) Daytrip

Thu, 07 Jul 2011 05:05:43 -0400

While staying in Madrid, leaving the city for another destination for a weekend seems like the last thing that would cross your mind. However, after spending a night out until the wee hours of the morning, you may find yourself needing some R&R. The Sunday after, make a daytrip to El Escorial, the former monastery and residence of the Spanish king.

An hour-long bus ride (3.50€) separates Madrid from San Lorenzo de El Escorial, a World Heritage Site. World Heritage Sites are typically influential over a country's culture and history, so you can rest assured knowing El Escorial is something worth seeing. The burial ground of Spanish kings for the last five centuries, El Escorial was originally commissioned by King Philip II and has some of the most beautiful gardens in the region.

The entrance fee is 10€, but 5€ for students, so bring that student ID with you. Even if you can't get the discount (my student ID happens to be safely stowed away at home), the site is well worth the 10€.

No, those aren't ants; they're people. The place is big.

The walking tour of the site begins with an architectural exhibit of blueprints, models, and building artifacts (which look suspiciously like torture devices), all noting the interesting design of the palace, whose floor plans were based off of Solomon's Temple (the first temple built in Jerusalem). Next, visitors pass through a thorough collection of 15th- through 17th-century religious art and the room where King Philip II died.

However, if you're not a culture junkie, not to worry. The interior of the palace is beautiful in and of itself, featuring inlaid floors, intricately carved doorways, and iron-wrought windows that look out over the extensive gardens. If you're running short on time (or running short on patience), just be sure to see the following sites:

1. Hall of Battles. This corridor features a floor-to-ceiling mural that spans the length of a football field and depicts some of Spain's most important victories.

2. Pantheon of Kings. Walk down flights of stairs to stand in the middle of this black crypt of royalty encrusted with marble and gold. There are still three or four tombs available, if you want to make reservations. Never hurts to be prepared.

3. Ceiling Fresco. After visiting the pantheon, walk up a set of marble stairs and lie back on the plateau to be overwhelmed by the ceiling fresco depicting heaven.

I can just feel the heavenliness.

4. Library. King Philip II donated his personal collection of literature to the palace's school—his books are housed in an impressive wood-paneled room, complete with world globes and horse portraits.

5. Basilica. The last stop on your tour, the basilica was inspired by the architect's experience working on St. Peter's Basilica in Rome and is laid out in the shape of a Latin cross. A must-see.

Entrance to the basilica. The interior is even more impressive, I promise.

Tourist? Resident? Identity crisis in Barcelona

Thu, 07 Jul 2011 03:59:33 -0400

The other day on the internets I came across this gem of a cartoon (source):

Which got me wondering: do I live in Barcelona? Or do I "live" in Barcelona? What are the criteria that define living somewhere? As a New Yorker studying in Boston but currently in Barcelona, where do I live and where do I just "live"?

Here are some potential deciding factors that will hopefully help me figure out whether or not I live in Barcelona:

Rent. The first of the month, every month (i.e., twice now) I pay the ingrès. Live: 1; "Live": 0.

Bills. Yup. Those too. Live: 2; "Live": 0.

Taxes. I don't pay taxes in Spain. However, it seems like a very large portion of the resident population here doesn't either. Live: 2; "Live": 1.

Tourist attractions. I have to go to these for my job. But I would anyway. Live: 2; "Live": 2.

Job. My work is in Barcelona, but I get paid in dollars and taxed by the American federales. That one's a wash.

Home. I call my apartment "home," out of actual sentiment rather than in the interest of brevity or convenience. As for the difference between home and "home," that's one for another blog. Live: 3; "Live": 2.

To recap: I'm really straddling the line here between being a true resident and just passing through. When all is said and done, I do know the exact date I'll be leaving my Barcelona home/"home" for good. But I think the fact that this thought makes me a tiny bit misty-eyed means that, for now, I do live in Barcelona.

Space-Planning in the Redwoods

Wed, 06 Jul 2011 19:25:30 -0400

We could put the kitchen table here—next to the fireplace! And there’s a room for my granddaughter behind those ferns!” Her blue eyes wide with excitement, she pointed and paced.

All weekend, she’d chatted about her current favorite TV shows on the home and garden channel, and the grand Coastal Redwoods leapt forward as another fantasy real estate venture.

Besides creative space-planning opportunities, a walk on the short, paved loop at Muir Woods just outside of San Francisco was truly a multi-purpose excursion:

“It’s good to spend time in nature,” my father-in-law matter-of-factly stated.

“Hmmph, no cell phone reception,” said my husband, poking at his phone, then dejectedly slipping it back into his pocket.

And me, “One more loop around and we’ll earn our scoop of ice cream!”

DIY-television references aside, it is good to spend time in nature. I’d play along. We ventured further into the park, the mythical trees shading the ground almost entirely. Clover was the groundcover—I couldn’t help searching for a four-leaf sprig. Then straightening my neck, my eyes wandered up a massive redwood trunk to see an oak hugging its side, wrapping itself around the beast to soak up a bit of sunlight. I followed the ray back toward the ground to a green shoot that produced a bright orange bud, right in the spotlight.

We stood up tall, posing for photos in front of fallen branches, rings, and loops showing hundreds of years of growth, of history. We leaned over bubbling streams searching for schools of wild salmon among the mossy rocks. In a particularly dense area of growth, we noticed a circle of trees—five younger with a wide, decrepit tree in the center, a family. I’d read about this. When a tree is under distress, its roots grow deep and strong to produce new shoots at its base. Eventually, the older tree is surrounded by small, supple growth, protecting it, forming a family of support—a neighborhood.

“What was your favorite tree today?” I asked my mother-in-law later over ice cream.

“Oh…” She licked her cone. “There were so many nice places…”

Overheard in Haifa

Wed, 06 Jul 2011 17:40:55 -0400

Heading down a street through the Arab quarter in Haifa this morning, I'm nearly knocked off my feet by a man sprinting through the cloistered alleys. He's well over six foot, in a soldier's uniform, and so insanely lanky that he almost disappears altogether every time he runs behind a lamppost. I hardly regain my balance before a squat man in a soiled apron appears, waddling as quickly as his doddling gait will take him. He stops and wipes his sweat-drenched brow with a grease-stained sleeve. The soldier halts too, hardly phased by this high speed chase, a manic grin pulled across his face. They stand off, barely twenty meters apart...

Soldier: Falafel? (he guffaws)

The short clammy man mutters something between his labored wheezes, his vexed eyes transfixed on the soldier. Stamping the ground, he's a bull ready to charge.

Soldier: Go s*** the Pope's d***! (kindly translated courtesy of a bystander after the encounter)

Our squat protagonist can barely contain his anger, shrieking some unintelligble obscenity before lunging forward once more. The soldier cackles in delight before disappearing behind the corner, his assailant distantly, but earnestly in toddling tow.

Seriously. I have no clue.

10 Ways to Survive Art Museums

Wed, 06 Jul 2011 16:46:53 -0400

Woe is you—you've accidentally befriended (or worse, started dating) an artsy type. Now not only are they making you question what you always considered your impeccable style of dress, but they want you to come to all these museums with them. As they gush and stare riveted at the walls, you're checking your watch for the 56th time. It's been about 20min. since you came in, and you're already reaching your threshold for pretending-to-look-smart-and-interested.

Never fear! Just for you, I've compiled this versatile list so that you don't get crushed by the incredible weight of your own boredom. You can take on anywhere from Florence's Accademia to Venice's Ca' Pesaro! (Sadly, there's nothing I can do for you when it comes to the life-sucking beige still life vases of Bologna's Museo Morandi).

How to Enjoy an Art Museum (for the utterly bored):

1. In a museum with a lot of boring, similar frescoes, remember that frescoes are a race against time to paint everything before the plaster dries. Try and guess which area the painter was on when he started running out of time.

2. Ask the museum proctor what their middle name is. If they answer, nod knowingly and walk away. Repeat as necessary.

3. Bring a pad of paper and plonk yourself down in front of the least dull painting you see. Make a very serious face, like you are an art student. Then create your own edited reproduction (stick figures work great), but change the background so that all the royalty are standing outside 7/11, or sketch a (holy) hand grenade into a saint's hand.

4. Rate the attractiveness of the painted figures on a 1-10 scale. Write an award for the hottest one along the lines of "This award certifies that you are the finest specimen in this room (provided no live hotties have entered since the bestowal of this award.)" Tell the guard you are a legitimate authority seeking to bestow a prestigious award on said painting and would like it displayed alongside, then hand him your paper (extra credit if it's wrinkled and/or misspelled).

5. Pretend to be a statue. Stare uncomfortably intensely at everyone that enters. If reproached, claim you are just trying to relate to the artwork.

6. Try to guess which people from his life the painter used for which figure (i.e., the devil's face is the same as his ex-girlfriend.)

7. Lay down across the whole span of possible seating and close your eyes. When the museum proctor asks you to stop, open your eyes widely and tell them you just had an art-coma epiphany, and have now attained nirvana. Extra credit if you seamlessly segue into singing Smells Like Teen Spirit.

8. In an especially quiet museum where the proctors are trying to discreetly follow you from room to room, walk in rapid circles through them. This is called the Museum Proctor Exercise Program.

9. In museums that allow cameras, take pictures of only one specifilc thing, like noses.

10. Walk over to whatever painting your friends are looking at and pretend to be their tour guide. See how many other visitors you can get to eavesdrop on your extensive, totally legitimate knowledge of how Leonardo, Raphael, Donatello, and Michelangelo had a secret society with a fighting turtle as its symbol, or that Michelangelo's David is actually a self-portrait from the waist down.

The Best of Venice

Wed, 06 Jul 2011 09:30:30 -0400

I know, I've only been in Venice just over a week, but this Let's Go job is enough to make an instant city-expert out of anyone. Drawing upon this expertise, here are my picks for the best of Venice in the five most important categories for experiencing this city:

Best Pasta: Taverna San Lio (Castello, Salizada San Lio 5547). The food in Venice, in my opinion—bolstered by feedback from others, including fellow researcher-writer and longtime Tuscan traveler Sofia—is, in general, shockingly subpar for an Italian city. Countless plates of runt-like gnocchi, out-of-the-box spaghetti, and tortellini with mysterious vomit-green filling have left me craving the perfect platters of Pasta Fresca that I found on Mykonos (which was so good that I have now mentioned it in at least five blog posts). But Taverna San Lio is a rare exception to the rule. Dishes here like sea bass cannelloni in lobster sauce, black tagliatelle with scampi and prawns, and buffalo ricotta ravioli pomodoro are melt-in-your-mouth fresh and to-die-for delicious.
Best Gelato: La Mela Verde (Castello, Fondamenta de l'Osmarin 4977). As is the case with this city's ristorantes, most of Venice's gelaterias suck. Sick of so many substandard scoops, I stumbled across an enticing canal-side sweetshop yesterday that turned out to be a gelato gem. At this "gelateria artigianale," the friendly, owner handmakes gelato on-site every morning. The cioccolato fondente is the darkest, most decadent death by chocolate that you will ever experience. The pistachio tastes like a nut fresh out of the shell (well, plus lots of premium cream and sugar). The giotto is an incredible concoction of white chocolate, almonds, and coconut. The list goes on and on, but perhaps best of all is the eponymous mela verde (green apple), the most refreshing thing you can get on a hot Italian summer day.
Best Hostel: Ostello di Venezia (Giudecca, Fondamenta Zitelle 86). Sofia and I swapped researcher-writer horror stories over dinner last night, and I learned that many of Venice's hostels have promising, palatial-sounding names—but fail to live up to them. "A Venice Museum," for example, gives overbooked travelers a "free upgrade," shipping them off to an unlocked house on the southernmost, sketchiest fringes of the city. But Ostello di Venezia charges several euro less for much better accommodations. The hostel is on the island of Giudecca, but you won't even notice that you're detached from the city center, as San Marco is only a five-minute vaporetto ride away. Free buffet breakfast, a pasta restaurant in the common area, and spacious showers with steamy water make Ostello Venice's best low-budget lodging by far.
Best Island: Torcello, in the northern lagoon. Murano makes some gorgeous glass, and Burano boasts beautiful brightly-colored houses and artisan lace, but tiny Torcello is the true treasure. It's only a 10min. walk from one end of the island to the other, but this stroll down a quiet central canal crossed with charming brick footbridges and lined with burgeoning blossoms may be 10 of the loveliest minutes that you spend in Venice. Come to Torcello for a little piece of the Tuscan countryside in the middle of the Venetian lagoon. Just three minutes away from Burano by boat, there's no excuse to skip Venice's finest island.
Best Piazza: Piazza San Marco. Well, duh. This goes without saying, as this large, bustling square boasts one of the most densely concentrated collections of worthwhile sights in all of Europe. Wander through the sumptuous Palazzo Ducale, gape at the beautiful Basilica di San Marco, and take the elevator to the top of the towering Campanile. Sure, the lines may be horrifically long, but look at it is an opportunity for some very amusing people-watching and to work on your T-shirt tan. Then take a walk around the piazza, and remember to skip that €12 cappuccino (with a surprise €6 surcharge for the musical accompaniment of the cafe's string quartet).

Last, but not least: let's be honest—gondola rides are overrated. Unless you're an old couple on a post-retirement romantic getaway, wave off the boatmen in striped shirts and put these five things at the top of your priorities instead.

Fegel-pas at Elijah's Cave, Israel

Tue, 05 Jul 2011 00:25:29 -0400

For a land so deeply steeped in religious lore and history, Israel's been a bit of a fizzle for me in the theological department so far. Sure, while traipsing from Tel Aviv to Haifa over the past six weeks, I'm not exactly getting my fair share of temples, yarmulkes, and insane facial hair. The only mosques I've seen so far have been converted into nightclubs.

Imagine my relief, then, to reach Elijah's Cave a few days ago. Home to the prophet Elijah--yeah, well done there, brain surgeon--the site is pretty much a holy go-to for every cat and dog who's praising Allah, Yahweh, or assorted other gods nowadays.

So yes, of course, I'm going to make a faux pas. Two? Sure. Why not?

Naturally, I'm barely 5m into the cave when I see a guy beckoning me over, looking nervously at the cluster of Orthodox Jews in the corner who are now glaring at me. This young guy slips me a yarmulke, and I quickly realize I'm the only guy in this holiest of holies with out a covered head. Right, moving on, Fegelklutz.

And then it's only a record-breaking five minutes before everyone's staring at me again. I've been lost in the illuminated manuscripts and beautiful Torah typefaces adorning the walls. A sharp poke in the ribcage alerts me to the fact that I've blundered again. Looking down, a Jewish mama's giving me the death stare. I look up and see about 10 more such mamas, all with the same stinkeye trained on yours truly. Yup, it seems i've managed to transgress thousands of years of religious tradition and wander into the women's area of the cave. Shite. I make a dash for the nearest yarmulke I can see.

At this point, you'd think I'd call it quits, but the intrepid reporter in me--or perhaps the distinct lack of shame that comes with perennial embarrassment--wants to watch the service that's now starting. I retire to the back of the cave where I can't find any trouble.

But it'd be too much to ask trouble not to find me. It comes in the form of a boy no more than 5 or 6. Feeling a tug at my sleeve, I look down to see what seems like the paradigm of innocence, a young Sephardic kid with an overbite who's looking at me inquisitively. He's just staring, smiling. I think nothing of it.

The prayers are now well on their way, the god-fearing group determinedly nodding their heads in penitence. I look down. The kid is still there.

"Inngglisshh?" he nigh-on shouts out of nowhere. A few worshippers look back. I offer him a curt nod to get him away and ward off my detractors.

"Amairrrikahh?" even louder now. Bollocks. This guy's not stopping. An Orthodox man hurries up to him, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and putting him in the rows of the praying. It's too late. This kid seems to be part of a school, and no less than 10 of his friends have suddenly descended on me from the wing

"Nuuu Yakkh?" "Bahhstoonn!" "Cahhliihfawniah!" They're putting on mock slack-jawed drawls and going positively crazy. There are too many to stop. I've clearly begun to ruin the service as more heads are turning round.

So I'm starting to feel pretty penitent myself by this point. The kids are going wild with their faux American accents, the idea of a dumbfounded Yankee college student clearly being too much a novelty to pass up. With a particularly angry-looking Orthodox man approaching, clearly deadset on breaking up the ruckus, I decide to make a run for it, tearing off my yarmulke with a sigh of relief.

I get the feeling Elijah's cave won't be converted into an upscale underground electro bar anytime soon, so I'll probably be staying away for good.

Heckle-for-Shekel Cosmetics in Small Town America

Mon, 04 Jul 2011 17:36:01 -0400

Israeli students are also Israeli army vets, which makes for kind of a strange attitude: kids that were simultaneously given their independence and exposed to brutality view their 20s with wry adventurism, establishing a necessary connection between shrewd calculation and fun.

After all, there are a number of ways to go once the required military service is over. Arohat hinan, meaning "free meal" in Hebrew slang, refers to those who get a free ride to university from the army in exchange for five to seven years of cushy office work afterwards. Taglit-Birthright trips--opportunities to visit the Holy homeland for international Jews--mean, for Israeli guys, the chance to get with star-struck Jewesses who want to tell their friends at home about hooking up with a real-live soldier. Best of all in the IDF lore is clearly the stereotype of bro vets who shirk school in favor of selling "high quality Dead Sea cosmetic products" (read: nicely packaged water) at malls across small-town America for big money and love of quest.

This seemed like a myth until yesterday. I was talking with a 20-something falafel shop heir, one of the many kids who speaks better English than their shop-owning parents and becomes head of operations upon maturity. In between questions about store hours and shawarma prices, we got to talking about the perfume hustle.

"Listen, most the kids over there are illegal," said Teom (Tommy is his English/street name) winkingly.

"So, was it scary? Did you ever have to run from the cops?" I sensed I could be forward.

"Nah man, some guys, they make friends with Americans, smoke weed all day, get in trouble for drugs, and immigration police finds them. But I was working 12-hour days, getting screamed at by the guys supplying my product, making over 20 grand in five months."

So I was talking to a virtuouso. What was his technique?

"Israelis, man, they can sell anything. In the army, we grow up fast. So look, I just get in people's face, scream at the ones I don't like, just persistent. Sold one guy $700 of product one day, then you get confidence, keep making sales, or one day you go the morning without a single sale and then you go cold. It's all in your head. You just say, 'excuse me ma'am, may I ask what nail polish you use?' Then you get them hooked, and check them out--do they have blackheads? Chipped nail polish? Move from there."

Were we talking about the stock market, kilos of cocaine, or specialty shampoos? This heckle-for-shekel game wasn't just a summer off, it was a philosophy about self-worth, individualism, and the value of a little risk. I was talking to a mall parking lot poet.

Romanian Vampires: Not Your Average Blood-Suckers

Mon, 04 Jul 2011 15:48:15 -0400

After my trip the other day to Bran Castle, which may have inspired Bram Stoker's novel, Dracula, I was inspired to learn a bit more about ol' Dracula's family tree.

The vampire myth is actually based off of the Romanian folkloric Strigoi characters, which are the reincarnated evil souls of dead people. Although no one has reported any cases of Strigoi blood-sucking, there are other noteworthy similarities between the Count and this devilish creature. Here are some Strigoi FAQ:

Q: How do I successfully identify a Strigoi?

A: He will be bald. He will avoid both onions and garlic. He also has a hairy tail, although he will probably be trying to hide that.

Q: Who can become a Strigoi?

A: Well, there are several possibilities:

- A child who died before being baptized.

- Someone who performed only dastardly deeds in his/her lifetime.

- A sick person who walked over a cat and died shortly after.

- Someone whose grave was walked over by a cat, dog, chicken, or any other bird.

Or it can be the mother's fault:
- She could have drank so-called “accursed water” (I don't want to imagine where that comes from) while she was pregnant.
- OR she WENT OUTSIDE IN THE COLD WITHOUT COVERING HER HEAD! The horror.

Q: How do I know if there is a Strigoi in my village?
A: Check for the following tell-tale signs:
- There has been a drought in your village.
- Your strength, corn, or cow's milk is mysteriously dissapearing.
- It is a full moon and "nasty things" are happening.
- It is hailing. Hard.

Q: What does it mean if it rains while the sun is out? Should I blame the Strigoi?

A: Certainly. This has occurred because the Strigoi is getting married.

Q: What's the deal with St. Andrew's night? How can I protect myself against the Strigoi?

A: All precautions must be taken on St. Andrew's night since this evening belongs to the Strigoi. They are apt to dance wildly while wreaking terror throughout your village. Men should sprinkle water on young women to prevent them from being harmed by the Strigoi.

Q: How do I get rid of the Strigoi?

A: I'm afraid it's not simple. The first step is to invite priests to perform a ceremony around the Strigoi's grave. Please note that that this rarely works, although it certainly won't hurt your cause. If this is unsuccessful, you must drive a stake through the heart of the corpse and then nail the corpse to the coffin in order to prevent it from escaping.

Good luck!

The Venetian Lagoon: Another Kind of Island Hop

Sun, 03 Jul 2011 18:16:54 -0400

Still basking in the afterglow of my Greek island-hopping adventures, I've found that Venice offers an island experience all its own. I only recently learned that Venice actually comprises 117 islands in total, and during my time here, I've visited five of the most famous islands that dot this city's vast jade-green lagoon.

So how do the Venetian islands compare to their Aegean counterparts? For one thing, it's much more efficient. Venice's comprehensive vaporetti (a network of little boats, sometimes called waterbuses) affords the opportunity to see as many as five or six islands in one day. Of course, this means that you can only stay a couple hours tops at each stop—but that's really all you need on the Venetian islands. On Murano, once you've swung by the Glass Museum and a few of the artisan glassmakers' studios, you've seen all you need to see. Similarly, tiny Burano boasts a trademark Lace Museum amid rows of Polly-Pocket-esque houses painted in whimsically bright colors—a lovely sight, but one that's easy to digest in half an hour. Even Torcello, as beautiful as it is with its tranquil central canal and Tuscan countryside charm, takes only ten minutes to traverse from one side to the other. Lido and Giudecca are somewhat larger and thus have more to offer, but even these islands aren't nearly as magnetic as the city center itself, which will pull you back like gravity before sundown (unless you're staying at Ostello de Venezia—Giudecca's great low-budget hostel).

By comparison, there's no way that an hour or two would be enough to take in everything that islands like Naxos and Santorini have to offer—but then again, those Greek gems have a lot more surface area and are spread out across a much wider stretch of sea. As much as I adored my journey through the Greek islands, I must say that the bite-sized islets of the Venetian lagoon are pretty special in their own way. It's refreshing to look back on your day and say to yourself, "I just covered five islands in just over five hours. I'm kind of baller." You could never do that in the Aegean.

In other news, as an update from my last blog, Greece is still beating Italy in the pasta division. I only have four more days in Venice, so this city had really better step it up—or else I may abandon this sad excuse for an island hop and head back to Greece for a plate of some real Pasta Fresca.

On Language (in Barcelona)

Sun, 03 Jul 2011 16:48:14 -0400

My editors and hordes of raving fans must be shocked that I've made it through a month's worth of blogs without bringing the Catalan language into the discussion. Well, I'm proud to announce that the long wait is over, and my thoughts on the role of Barcelona's local language are about to become ready fodder for your mind-cannons' intellectual fusillades.

The saga of my personal experience with Catalan begins some ten months ago, when I enrolled in an introductory Catalan course on a whim, with vague aspirations of studying the moderniste architects in depth at some point (or of going to Barcelona for Let's Go, an evidently successful endeavor) but with a relative certainty that I would some day make it to Catalonia. By the time I left for Barcelona, I could in theory speak and understand the language reasonably well, though I had nothing to base this on but my teacher's word. My only conversation in Catalan with someone other than my teacher before arriving was an attempt to rent a flat via phone, which ended in shame and a dial tone. Over the month I've been living here, of course, my Catalan's improved significantly; sharing an aparment (not the failure mentioned above) with Catalan-speakers who switch over to Spanish only rarely and quite grudgingly has hardly hurt.

La llengua catalana plays a fascinating role in the life of the city. Everybody speaks Spanish, but Catalan always gets priority. Schoolchildren are taught in Catalan, menus are written in Catalan, metro announcements are made in Catalan, parliamentary debates are held in Catalan, ordinary conversations among teenagers and among geriatrics alike take place in Catalan.

This surprised me upon my arrival. I'd expected the situation to be more like in Galicia, where Galego (closer to Portuguese than Spanish) is frequently spoken at home, among the elderly, and in rural areas, but I don't think I heard it spoken on more than a half-dozen occasions in my week in Galicia last summer. Or perhaps, I thought, it would be like Basque, currently undergoing a revival of sorts and taught in some schools, but completely alien (seriously, it looks like Martian) to most—a common complaint is that the Basque spoken by older native speakers and the Basque learned by younger generations are not mutually intelligible. But quite to the contrary, Catalan is the primary language in Barcelona; Spanish is merely a fall-back option in case one party doesn't speak the former.

Certainly it is not out of convenience that the Catalan language is thriving at its current level. Practically speaking, it is linguistically obsolete; communication would not at all be hindered by its disappearance. Yet it continues to be the language of choice among locals in nearly every aspect of daily life. There is an undeniable sense of community and of inclusion among those who speak the language—and on the other side of the coin, a sense of exclusion of the foreigners and (possibly worse) non-Catalan Spaniards who can only speak castellà. It's complicated—it's not a deliberate act of exclusion, but the Catalan language is a shibboleth of sorts that instantly and inevitably implies shared culture, shared concerns, and shared hatred for Real Madrid.

Paris Au Revoir

Sun, 03 Jul 2011 15:07:47 -0400

After over 7 weeks living here and touring bars, hotels, sights, and bars (wait, I said that already, didn't I?), Paris has really grown on me. Or more accurately, I've grown on Paris. People come here and expect romance, architecture, and baguettes, and leave with a better understanding of Indian food, how to say "piss off" in Romanian, and maybe some minor salsa dacing skills. Being a fast paced, often cold city, Paris causes you to throw up your guard upon arrival, but it's not until you finally let that down that you learn a few things. Whether it's a healthy sense of skepticism, a better enjoyment of living life from one cup of espresso to the next, or blowing off that museum because it's sunny out, Paris forces you to change some behaviors. Like most changes, you'll try and fight it (and fail) but it's not until you give up and just go with it that you learn the place from the inside out and not the other way around.

Unfortunately some of the best stories were those that can't be published, as my grandparents (and most likely some authorites) read this blog. Some highlights that I can divulge include having your "bonsoir" corrected to "bonjour" when you leave a bar at closing to get pains au chocolat, having French tourists ask YOU for directions and being able to answer in accented French leaving them terribly embarassed and confused, being able to spot Americans from the volume of their voices alone, and (most of all) being annoyed at the Eiffel Tower. I'd imagine it works like that wherever you live (adjusted for certain cultural differences of course). Especially with travel, having the balls to step out of your comfort zone is the most rewarding risk you'll ever take. France just has some strict guidelines of social behavior that you have to follow, but once you learn them, you're all set.

While I'm not leaving Paris yet, the coverage for Paris is done and I will finally have the chance to be a normal human being (as normal as I can be). No sense of urgency to knock out the rest of the museums in the Marais, not begrudgingly bar hopping until 3am, and most of all not having to climb church towers. I've seen it and done it all, and now I have the chance to research the slower parts of the country: Tours, Orléans, and Blois. If anyone needs me, I'll be having milk maids hand serve me fromage blanc while lying on a stack of hay under some old château (that is, after I climb to the top of it).

On Coffee In Rome

Sun, 03 Jul 2011 14:18:58 -0400

With considerable pride I can say that I made it through college, college theater, studying abroad in Paris, moving to New York, my first job in New York, and grad school without developing a coffee addiction. Now, of course, I’m in Italy, where coffee is a national pasttime, but I still think that I’ll be able to get away with it and have no withdrawal back in the States.

Here’s why: the coffee is too darn delicious here. “But Michelle,” I hear you say to the screen, “if it’s so delicious, how will you be able to help but get addicted?” It’s TOO delicious—back in the States there will be no equivalent, so technically hooked or not, I’m going to have to go cold turkey.

Still, I've always been appreciative of food-related things with a ton of rules. Like, for example, how really snooty wine drinkers will raise one eyebrow at you if you state that “white wines go with fish, red with red meat” and say something like, “well, there are light reds, and heavy whites, so...” Well. Obviously how I’ve just described it is annoying and condescending, but I like this idea that certain things we put in our bodies have secret rules that you have to learn in order to properly enjoy them. It’s like food speakeasies!

This is how coffee is in Rome: it’s not just about getting some caffeine or having something sweet in the afternoon. Oh no, the rules are in force. A caffe is an espresso (and an espresso is an American word). No cappuccinos after noon (which is annoying when it’s all you want at 1pm after you’ve rolled out of bed post-intense nightlife researching). You can get a caffe freddo, but the freddo is really just slightly cooler than room temperature. Some places serve coffee pre-sweetened. I still don’t really know what a macchiato is here, but I will investigate tomorrow morning.

There is also the granita, which is coffee-infused ice shavings, usually with (un)healthy amounts of whipped cream (the best one I’ve had was an Sant’Eustachio Il Caffè near the Pantheon). Man, that thing will tweak you out. Coffee + sugar + whipped cream = accomplishing way more writing than should be humanly possible in one hour. It also = major sugar/caffeine crash, so don’t say I didn’t warn you. And that kind of crash I will definitely NOT miss when I return to my humble, tea-drinking ways.

Handy Handles: door-knockers in Toulouse

Sun, 03 Jul 2011 07:21:00 -0400

-- Knock knock
-- Who's there?
-- A hand.
-- A hand who?
-- Gimme a hand! I think I lost mine...

This seems to be the running joke (albeit a very bad one) in the streets around Toulouse's Basilique de St-Sernin. There, door knockers take the shape of slightly disturbing, disembodied hanging hands. Possible scenario: you blindly reach for one in the middle of the night, and it suddenly grabs you and won't let go, as a mob of headless monks (Toulouse is full of old monasteries) rushes over to attack you. Shudder.

So what are the alternatives? A straight up bell would be nice, but now, even lions sound tame in comparison. Then again, they could bite your hand off.

Letter to a Thief, from a Lyon Hostel

Sun, 03 Jul 2011 07:12:58 -0400

Dear former dorm-mate,

I know it's you. Yes, you with the filthy hair and the smelly feet, who slept in the bed across from mine. Congratulations on taking off with my money. I'll admit it, it was stupid to leave anything in my backpack, but who knew that you'd be so interested in obscure foreign currencies. Do you collect them? Or are you trying to make your life difficult? You took bills that even the banks downtown won't change. Let's run down the list:

-- Kuwaiti dinars. Ok, I'll give you this one. It is the most expensive currency in the world (1 dinar = 3.6 US dollars). But where are you going to change it in Lyon? The airport? Going there and back will cost you half of what you stole. Oops.
-- Indian rupees. Wow, thousands of rupees! Actually, a thousand rupees is worth about 20 U.S. dollars. So there goes my rickshaw ride into Mumbai.
-- American dollars. Another win for you, sort of. That was enough for my welcome-back-to-America breakfast, when I land in Washington Dulles and can't find a decent airport eatery.
-- Qatari riyals. Another meal, I guess. I was saving those up for a lunch in Doha. Are you thinking of going there, too? Maybe we should meet up and exchange some notes. Banknotes, that is.

Also, thanks for leaving behind my driver's license. Was my picture with the awful bed-hair too ugly for you?

Broke, Bitter, and Still Blogging,
Roland

London's Westminster Abbey

Sun, 03 Jul 2011 07:06:16 -0400

Through some incredibly handy family connections (probably the first time I've ever been able to say that), I manage to score myself a private tour of Westminster Abbey. I arranged to attend Evensong and then meet my contact, a sacrist at the Abbey, after the service. Things got off to a slightly rocky start when I turned up for church. Knowing that many travelers (cough *and Let's Go researchers* cough) like to check out famous churches during service times to avoid paying admission fees, the Abbey posts staff members to make sure that anyone who comes in for Evensong stays for Evensong. I run up, a little late, in my usual work outfit of flip flops and backpack (though I did at least put on a dress that day). The marshall at the entrance gives me a slightly skeptical look. "Are you here for evensong, young lady?" I explained I was, that I was a guest of one of the priests, and that there was supposed to be a seat reserved for me "in Quire." The skeptical look deepened, "Alright, go in and tell that to one of my colleagues down the way." This interaction was repeated three or four times, until finally I was told to stand aside from the trickle of visitors coming in for the service. I loitered, feeling super awkward while all the tourists thought "clearly she's one of us, come on, she has a BACKPACK." Finally, just when I had been handed off to yet another staff member who seemed about to banish me to the plastic chairs of the tourist quarter, my sacrist appeared. He greeted me enthusiastically, told my current handler to deposit me in one of the fancy pews of the choir, and scurried off to vestry. I confess I looked a little bit smug when my legitimacy was at last confirmed.

Evensong was lovely; if you're ever in London, you should absolutely attend—if only to hear the choir. After the service, everyone else filed out and I got to spend two hours poking around Westminster Abbey with a guide who knew every sculpture, tomb, and humorous historical anecdote. Here are a few highlights from my many pages of hastily scribbled notes:

- the incredibly grumpy face on William Wilberforce's statue was carved from life. How anyone can look that sour for hours is beyond me; maybe our mothers were right when they said our faces would get stuck that way.

- Geoffrey Chaucer is buried in the Abbey not because of his writing, but because he happened to be a clerk/handyman there. His burial spot is surrounded by other authors, who wanted to be interred near him.

- Elizabeth I and Mary I are actually buried together, under one tomb, in a spirit of ecumenical reconciliation.

- Charles Darwin's coffin had to be buried in the dead of night, because of the controversy surrounding his inclusion in the Abbey.

- Laurence Olivier is one of the most recent people to be buried in the Abbey. He's there because he wanted to be buried near Henry V, whom he played in what he considered to be his greatest role.

Obviously, there's a lot more to the Abbey than its dead people. It's one of the most stunning buildings I've ever seen. But since photography isn't allowed inside, you're just going to have to take my word for it—or better yet, go see it for yourself.

A Fake Student and a Real(ly Drunk) Graduate in Verona

Sun, 03 Jul 2011 05:21:40 -0400

Some people adopt children. Many adopt pets. Most adopt a positive attitude, at least once in a while. But it takes a special kind of person to adopt a researcher-writer.

Taking in a researcher-writer is kind of like getting a cat. It's off all day doing God-knows-what, then turns up at random for you to feed it. It's awake at odd hours, and divulges every cool place you tell it about to an eager flock of future tourists. Actually, that last one might not be so common among cats.

Despite my undesirable status on the adoption list, a university student called Agné took me in. We'd never met, but told her roommate we were friends from an Italian course in Florence a few years ago (if you're reading this roommate, sorry.) Thus began my life as a fake student at Verona University, the details of which might cause me legal trouble to mention here. Pretty soon, though, even I practically believed that I go here. It helps that Agné's friends treated me like a natural part of campus life rather than a random squatter in their friend's home.

It would also be thanks to Agné that I would discover the... very unique graduation ritual that has been part of Northern Italian tradition for a long time. Her friend had just received his bachelor's in medicine and invited everyone to a hilltop forest overlooking the city to celebrate. Considering the inevitable elements of noisiness and public shame involved in the graduation ritual, the secluded forest area was probably a wise choice.

Here's how it happens. The recent graduate is forcibly inebriated beyond all possible coherence, drenched in egg, and doused in flour. In between his drippy outbursts of unchecked energy, during which everyone tries to escape being splashed with alcohol or smothered in an eggy embrace, his supportive (and relatively sober) friends sing a song about how he is a doctor of [excremental orifice] and should [censored]. Then amid candles, by which this guy accidentally lit himself on fire at one point, the graduate must read out a list of all the stupid things he has done, compiled by his loving friends. If, in his drunken state, he should happen to make any mistakes while reading, he is punished with generous doses of—you guessed it! More alcohol.

As you might imagine, there is no way to survive the graduation ritual without painting a variety of surfaces with the contents of your stomach, a shiny new that-time-you-whipped-it-out-in-a-forest related nickname, and at least 50 career-compromising photos surfacing on Facebook. But hey, what can you do? It's tradition.

Overheard in Italy: Kids and Famous Monuments

Sun, 03 Jul 2011 05:13:20 -0400

As you may have seen on that old show Kids Say the Darndest Things (is that an embarrassing reference?), kids really do come out with some lines that I might qualify as darndest if I knew what darndest actually means. Here are some of Italy's most famous sights from the perspective of kids who haven't been conditioned to ooh and ahh just because some famous dead people pushed some stones around:

One little French girl outside the Siena Baptistery impressed me with her pragmatic approach. "C'est tout marbre?" [Is that all marble?] she asked her mother. "Oui oui" her mother replied, awaiting a coo of approval. Instead what she got was "Ah la la, ça a du couter cher!" [ah la la, that must have been expensive!]

Outside Siena's Duomo, I heard a tiny Italian girl behind me say with wonder: "è beliiiiiiissimo!" [it's beauuuutiful!!] When I turned around to see her little marveling face, I realized she couldn't care less about the architectural wonder—she was staring at a soap bubble.

Atop Florence's grand Duomo, a little boy turned sternly to his father and said "Why on earth would someone ever build something like this?"

But perhaps my favorite moment happened in front of me in the ticket line to climb the Campanile.

American kid's mom: *glancing at ticket price list* the kids are 7 aaand... 11.
American kid: MOOOM, I'm 12!!

Pharmacie de Garde

Sat, 02 Jul 2011 13:09:45 -0400

Working for Let's Go (especially the nightlife) has taken quite the toll on my body and health. Thankfully the medical care in France is ridiculously cheap (if you don't go to the American Hospital for an X-ray and consultation). You should know what you're up against. The phrase "pharmacie de garde" refers to the series of rotating 24hr. pharmacies open in the city. What they should be called is "pharmacie en garde." You know, like fencing, because it's more like battle than Benadryl.

For whatever reason (I can't think of one) antibiotics are only available in France with a prescription, which can't be issued unless you are dying of the plague (from my experience). They used to hand them out like candy, but have since changed their minds, presumably to make any foreigner with an unshakable sinus/chest infection suffer without the saving grace of a doctor's pen. I tell the parmacist that I've had a fever. I get Tylenol. I tell her that my throat hurts. I get some spray that makes my face go numb. I demonstrate to the lady that I am, indeed, coughing up what looks like Chernobyl remnants and I get nothing more than a judging, you-must-be-faking-it look. I propose that maybe, just maybe, if you put all of these together it might add up to what may be an acceptable excuse to get prescribed antibiotics. "No," she tells me, "You will fight it off in a couple of days—les antibiotiques ne sont pas automatiques (antibiotics are not automatic)." This is of course the phrase that has propogated the media to equate taking antibiotics to making a deal with the devil. Making the argument that I'm a weak American who has to stay on a schedule or else I get docked pay doesn't exactly fly. Someone ship me some Nantucket Nectars so I can get my medicine smuggled over and some Vitamin C while I'm at it.

Tot Ziens, Amsterdam!

Fri, 01 Jul 2011 19:51:33 -0400

I have a confession to make: I didn’t love Amsterdam right away. But I’ve actually never really loved something I didn’t hate first. After escaping the crowds of old British men who only come here to smoke stinky weed and hit up pubs, I fell completely in love with this city. I've met some kindred spirits (I see you, hipster chick in De Pijp shamelessly rocking out to her iPod while dance-biking down the street; keep the dream alive). I've even gotten used to—and loved—the techno parties ("Bla.Bla" at Studio 80 is especially endearing). It has been an especially beautiful week here in Amsterdam. For the first time since I arrived over a month ago, it actually climbed over 65 degrees—all the way to 80! This is a rare occurrence, and people take advantage of it. Every street, outdoor cafe, bike path, and park was buzzing.

This week more than ever, I’ve become completely enamored with the Dutch way of life. In fact, I now actually whole-heartedly endorse FEBO. That’s right, I said it—I love FEBO. While trying to get rid of a semi-creepy dude on a semi-date, I suggested the least romantic place I could think of, and some old Dutch guys convinced me to join them and try one of the mystery krokets. “It is Dutch; it is good for you.” Convinced by this flawless line of reasoning, I bit into one of the light-colored oblong fried things (I think it’s the Rundvleeskroket that you want, you have to be careful about this), which turned out to be little more than delicious thick gravy… deep fried. Is that genius? Maybe. As the Dutch say: “dat is lekker!”

I’m even sad to bid farewell to the tourists. After awhile I started feeling like it was my duty to protect them, and the stats I’ve accumulated are pretty impressive:

Number of water bottles given away to passed out/vomiting tourists in Leidseplein: 2
Number of maps given away to very old and very lost French tourists: 3
…very old and very lost Spanish tourists: 1
Number of directions given: 324 (estimate)
Number of Dutch street names mispronounced: all of them (estimate)
Number of party and sights suggestions given to American tourists: 5
…without being asked for them: 2

Because everything beautiful has to end in heartbreak, I had to leave my new home. My neighbors were probably indifferent, except for those pubescent boys who habitually crowd around and knock on my bedroom window because I always forget to close the blinds. The bike paths got a little bit safer. Albert Heijn lost his most devoted groupie. My new Dutch boyfriend (now ex-new-Dutch-boyfriend… the turnaround rate for these things is accelerating depressingly fast) was teary-eyed. Just kidding—men don’t cry; he was stoic. My housemates were thrilled and probably made a facebook event called “Annoying American Girl Who Comes Home At 3 AM (hey, it’s research…) Is No More”! As for me, I was devastated: I had to give back mijn fiets. How I’m going to survive without biking is unclear, I’ve gotten so used to the pampered, perfect lifestyle-pairing of fietsen & feesten (cycling and partying). Sound like the 20-something dream? It is. Sound like a hipster-student paradise with just the right amount of indie bands, bad haircuts, social theory discussed at cafes named after social theorists, modern art, history, high-quality drugs, and dirty dubstep? It is. Sound like way, way more than that? Of course it’s that too.

Ah, Amsterdam, I know you’ll find new ridiculous American girls to delight with your harbor sunsets and your adorable Dutchisms. And maybe I’ll find new friends in new countries with even sillier accents (I wish!) or new culinary delights to obsess over (but stroopwafel ice-cream, you'll always have a piece of my heart).

It’s not goodbye, Amsterdam, it’s tot-ziens-ya-later… maybe I’ll be back again one day. Until then, thanks for everything. Ik hou van je, always.

Mokum: Amsterdam's Way of Saying "Free to Be You and Me"

Fri, 01 Jul 2011 19:21:49 -0400

This week’s research brought me to Museumplein. Along with the fantastic Van Gogh Museum, This neighborhood attracts the most diverse cross-section of tourists in Amsterdam. There are kids in strollers and teens in Bob Marley hoodies, and just as many rich old people as scruffy college students, all sharing the same green expanse in front of the Rijksmuseum. It was here (enjoying a chocolate muffin from Albert Heijn’s, of course) that I had an opportunity to reflect on what is perhaps the best thing about Amsterdam.

A family was eating lunch on the bench in front of me, and this guy—one of those scruffy, lone-traveler types—sitting one bench down started to light up some grass. Of course, students smoke weed in parks all around the world, but not next to an adult with kids, and not without being sneaky about it. My instincts made me worry for him. But he smoked his joint, and blew the smoke politely in the other direction, while the mom waited for her kid to finish his sandwich, then packed up and casually strolled off. No confrontation needed: everybody just doing what they do. This reminded me of a scene with a few Dutch kids I met. After dropping me off at my home late one night, they were horsing around outside my door, being loud, and I was being a Negative Nancy. “Stop!” I was laughing, “Someone is going to call the police!” My friend turned to me, somewhat bored by my naivete, “Kat, for the last time. Nobody is calling the police.”

It took me a long time to learn that about the Dutch. I’m used to a typical college environment, in which bunches of young people are crammed into small spaces under high pressure, and everybody knows exactly who did what and with whom at all times. I’m used to drug culture based almost entirely on paranoia, and have always seen figures of authority of any kind as terrifying monsters. It’s been a nice break to come here. It’s not about the difference in drug laws; It’s more about a totally different attitude in dealing with other people.

I thought it was cheesy when Amsterdam was first described to me by its nickname “Mokum,” which in Yiddish means "safe haven." But slowly I’ve come to believe in this part of the city's mystique. I really do feel like (especially in some of the less central neighborhoods, in De Pijp, Amsterdam East, and Oud-West) I can just be myself. Of course young people want to go out and party, but sex and drugs and all the rest of it don’t have to be shameful, seedy things. As long as you don’t hurt anybody, I’ve found most Amsterdammers are respectful of everybody’s right to have a good time and act however they please.

Obviously, there are still problems in Amstedam. The city is trying to figure out where to draw the lines with its policy of tolerance, as debates over immigration and drug and prostitution laws keep resurfacing. But one thing I hope always stays true in Amsterdam is that innate sense of freedom you find here. I don’t have to feel like a suspect if I just want to sit on the grass and watch the people and the clouds go by. I’ve seen the police help more people than I’ve seen them molest. It's so nice to be able to stop worrying about who’s seeing me do what. Nobody cares in the slightest. What joy!