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Ajahn Buddhadasa Bikkhu

Fri, 03 Sep 2010 16:37:32 +0000

Travelers making regular visits to wats, especially in Southern Thailand, will notice the numerous framed photographs of the round bespectacled face of Ajahn Buddhadasa Bikkhu, the founder of Wat Suan Mokkha Phalaram. A revered Buddhist monk, Buddhadasa was also well-known social activist.

After entering the monkhood in 1926, Buddhadasa went to Bangkok to study Buddhism, but was distracted by the corruption there. In 1932 Buddhadasa returned to his home province of Chaiya and founded Wat Suan Mok, an enormous forest wat with meditation spots at every corner.

His belief in one religion—that all religions are part of one dharma—garnered him many supporters. But his critiques on capitalism and materialism—and his association with such figures as Pridi Phanomyong, the left-leaning leader of the People’s Party made him more than just a reformer of Buddhism in the eyes of the government. In the 1970s, Buddhadasa was branded a communist, was nearly forced to leave the brotherhood.

Buddhadasa passed away in 1993,and his ashes were buried at Wat Suan Mok. To gain greater insight into his teachings, join a 10-day meditation retreat at Wat Suan Mok, north of Surat Thani in Chaiya Province.

How to Float Down a River - Naso Style

Fri, 03 Sep 2010 16:31:55 +0000

After a sweaty two-hour hike to the Naso community of Bunjik, the first thing I wanted to know was how can I get back without walking. The friendly community leader, Raul, laid down the options. If I didn't want to walk I would have to wait for a boat, though there is no telling when those come. Then, in a passing comment, he mentioned another option - rafting. Of course I was suddenly curious, so I asked a few questions, and sure enough rafting was an option. This is the poor-man's option, so naturally as a poor traveler, I took it. Here's how it works:

1. Find some Balsa trees. They are tall, and although they look mighty, are actually super light. Preferably the tree would already be a bit dead; all the lighter.

2. Cut down the tree. Personally, I wasn't so keen on cutting down trees in the jungle, but then again this wasn't really the jungle and Raul convinced me that Balsa wood grows fast, dies fast and has little to no use except as a raft.

3. Cut the huge log into segments until you've got about 8 segments around 10 feet long

4. Haul the wood to the riverÑthis is possibly the hardest step, especially if the tree was far away.

5. Using a bunch of nylon and two thin cross-planks, string the logs together, and you've got yourself a raft

6. Wear as few clothes as possible and put everything else in a plastic bag; then tie the bag to the raft

Rafting on balsa wood down a fast jungle river is insanely fun. You never sit down, and you don't really stay all that dry, but it is a hell of a lot faster than walking!

Oscar Arias and the Politics of Peace

Fri, 03 Sep 2010 16:26:12 +0000

Costa Rica’s political system has three claims to fame: its democracy, its military’s non-existence, and its president’s Nobel Prize. Not only is Costa Rica the Latin American country with the longest uninterrupted record of free elections and the first on the planet to voluntarily abolish its military, but its president, Óscar Arias Sánchez, is the first Nobel Laureate in history to be elected to such a post.

Born in Heredia in 1940 to coffee plantation owners, Arias received degrees in law and economics from the University of Costa Rica, and then earned his PhD in Political Science from the University of Essex in England. After teaching at the University of Costa Rica and serving as Minister of Planning and as Secretary General of the National Liberation Party (Partido Liberación Nacional, or PLN), Arias was elected President in 1986. He first took office at a time of great discord. Civil wars raged in Guatemala, El Salvador, and Nicaragua, and activity by the American-funded contras in southern Honduras and northern Costa Rica threatened to drag those countries into Nicaragua’s conflict.

Fighting financial and diplomatic pressure from the United States, Arias banished the CIA-funded contras from Costa Rican soil and pushed for regional negotiations that included Daniel Ortega, the Sandinista (socialist) president of Nicaragua. On August 7, 1987, after tireless prodding from President Arias, the five Central American presidents established procedures to bring peace to the area. Esquipulas II, as the accords were known, committed the nations to free elections, national reconciliation commissions, and rejection of foreign interference in Central American affairs. For his efforts to end conflicts, Oscar Arias was awarded the 1987 Nobel Prize for Peace.

Arias left office in 1990, barred from seeking a second term. Working with the Arias Foundation for Peace and Human Progress, which he founded with the monetary portion of the Nobel Prize, he traveled the world advocating for disarmament, debt relief, and equality. Then, in 2003, a controversial Supreme Court decision interpreted the constitution as allowing presidents to be reelected to non-consecutive terms. In the wake of scandals that had seen presidents jailed for corruption, Arias declared to run and restore credibility to the office.

The 2006 election was the closest in Costa Rica in 40 years and in Latin American history. Though polls predicted a large victory for Arias, the result, certified after a month-long hand recount, showed the former president winning by just 1.2%. His closest opponent was Ottón Solís, the candidate of the Citizen Action Party (Partido Acción Ciudadana, or PAC) and the Minister of Planning in Arias’s first term. Surveys revealed that voters turned to the third-party candidate at the last minute, as a protest against the two-party system, without thinking he had a chance.

Arias vowed to help those who helped elect him: the poor. One of his first acts was to give up to ¢80,000 per month to the poorest families as incentive to keep their children in school. He promised to repair the highways, boost education spending, and, controversially, approve the Dominican-Republic Central American Free Trade Agreement (DR-CAFTA).

The process of ratification of the agreement has led to a widespread graffiti campaign: one cannot walk far without seeing “NO TLC” (referring to Tratado de Libre Comercio, the Spanish translation of DR-CAFTA) painted on buildings and monuments.

But these demonstrations are extremely unlikely to lead to violence. From its president to its protesters, peace is one thing on which all Costa Ricans can agree.

Mérida and the Artists that Love Her

Fri, 03 Sep 2010 16:22:36 +0000

Mérida supports a flourishing art scene. Yucatán Living, an online magazine run by American ex-pats, produces a useful guide to galleries and artist studios. We’ve listed three of our favorites below:

Arte, Puros, y Cafe. A newly opened gallery with works by Cuban artists. After perusing the displays, backpackers can stock up on more portable mementos, like coffee and “puros” cigars straight from Havana. (C. 62 449 x 53 y 51. 999 923 2130. Open M-F 2-7pm, weekends by appointment.)

SoHo Galleries. SoHo showcases a mix of photographs and paintings, devoting two galleries to local artists. (Calle 60 400A x 43 y 41. 999 928 5710. Open T-F 11am-2pm and 5-7pm, Sa-Su 11am-3pm.)

Casa Frederick Catherwood. This small museum displays original lithographs of Maya ruins drawn by the artist-explorer Frederick Catherwood, who traveled the Yucatán in 1839. He accompanied American diplomat John Stephens, who later documented their adventures in his 1841 Incidents of Travel, a Yucatán classic, which was illustrated by Catherwood. (C. 59 572 x 72 y 74. Open M-Sa 9am-2pm and 5-7pm. 43 pesos.)

Sea Turtles

Fri, 03 Sep 2010 16:13:24 +0000

Only eight species of sea turtles exist in the world; four of them nest in the state of Quintana Roo. At Akumal, snorklers are likely to see two types of turtles. The loggerhead turtle or tortuga caguama has unique orange patterns on its shell. The green turtle, the tortuga verde, has a rounder and predictably greener shell.

Between April and September, female turtles may nest as many as 6 times, heading on shore and plopping out between 100 and 150 eggs a time. Fifty to sixty days later the eggs hatch. The baby turtles dig themselves out of the sand and scramble to the ocean.

One of the reasons turtles are so rare is that female turtles are picky about where they will lay their eggs. Scientists have observed that female turtles will give nest at the same spot their entire lives. Moreover, if they decide that the conditions aren’t right, they will sometimes stop partway through the process. Even if the turtles nest successfully, a turtle faces long odds when it comes to making it out of the egg and into adulthood.

The Centro Ecólogico Akumal was founded in 1993 to monitor the Akumal turtle population. During nesting season, staff and volunteers keep track of how many nests appear on the beach and how may successfully produce turtles. For more information visit, www.ceakumal.org.

Presenting Our New Maps!

Fri, 03 Sep 2010 14:36:35 +0000

We are thrilled to announce our new Maps section, with over 1000 maps from our books, now all online for you to peruse and use. Check out our global map coverage of Europe, North America, South America, Central America and Asia Pacific.

On every map page you'll find a detailed map taken directly from our guidebook, with a link to read our in-depth destination coverage. You'll also find links to other related destinations, so you can explore that part of the world both through maps and guidebook coverage.

Keep in mind that you can also stay connected to Let's Go on Facebook and Twitter with instant access to fresh stories, deals, photos and more!

Tuk Tuks

Fri, 27 Aug 2010 16:01:07 +0000

Bicycles rule the road in Cambridge, but they may soon have a new motorized competitor. It’s small, runs on three wheels, and is more a novelty than serious transportation.

No, it’s not a tricycle–it’s a tuk-tuk, a miniature cab popular in Southeast Asia. They can get up to about 30 mi. per hr. and they fit in narrow lanes that big-boy cars can’t reach. In Asia they are a serious mode of transportation, but in Europe they mostly serve as a joyride for tourists. Entrepreneur Malcolm Fulcher wants to expand the role of tuk-tuks by turning them into normal cabs.

Not everyone, however, is excited about sharing the road with these newcomers. The Cambridge Drivers Association, which represents taxi drivers, has challenged the project, citing safety concerns while avoiding mention of the competition regular cabs would face. Previous tourist tuk-tuk fleets have run into problems elsewhere in England. They were even kicked out of Bath after two riders were injured in an accident.

Proponents argue that accidents are relatively rare and that smaller vehicles are better for the environment. It’s unknown yet whether the tuk-tuks will be approved, but if you’re starving for slow and quirky transportation, there’s always punting.

Taking A Seat

Fri, 27 Aug 2010 15:58:46 +0000

Walking around Edinburgh is an easy way to get in shape. No matter where you go, your journey will probably involve climbing a hill. But the best natural exercise in the city comes from climbing Arthur’s Seat, a dormant volcano southeast of Old Town.

Determined to get some pretty pictures of the ocean and church spires, I decided to climb the rocky peak. There is a gradually sloping path that leads in a wide circle around the mountain, but I was stupid and tried to take an extremely steep shortcut. The path was well-trodden, and there were muddy steps the whole way up. It basically felt like using the Stairmaster on the hardest level possible. Every time I looked back I had a more spectacular view of the city, the Firth of Forth, and the injuries I would endure if I slipped.

It was so incredibly windy when I got to the top that I was afraid my jacket would act as a parachute and sweep me off the cliff. I lay down on some cushiony moss and soaked in the breathtaking scenery.

The only thing more difficult that climbing up the steep side of the mountain is getting back down. I decided that constantly looking down at the hundreds of feet below me would be too unnerving, so I instead took a leisurely stroll down the gentle incline on the other side of the mountain. If you decide you want to summit the Seat, save yourself some pain and take the easy path both ways.

Take Atole On You

Fri, 27 Aug 2010 15:53:07 +0000

When you think of traditional Mexican beverages, you probably have visions of downing tequila in crowded bars until the wee hours of the mañana. However, Mexican refreshments don’t have to include headaches, hangovers, and hazy memories of last night. Locals teetotal in style with atole, a hot, cornstarch-based drink served throughout Mexico and Central America as a street food. Atole is a combination of cooked cornmeal (masa), water, and cane sugar blocks (piloncillo), creating a drink with a consistency ranging from thin and watery to porridge-like. Traditional flavorings include cinnamon, vanilla, fruit, and that ubiquitous Mexican indulgence, chocolate. Other cereal grains may be substituted for cornmeal.

Atole is imbibed most frequently during the Mexican holiday season. Chocolate atole, called champurrado, is commonly enjoyed on Christmas and the Day of the Dead (November 2nd). Whatever the time of year, grab a cup of atole, unwrap a tamale, and enjoy a beautiful hangover-free day in the Yucatán.

Further South of the Border

Fri, 27 Aug 2010 15:50:18 +0000

Cuisine from “south of the border” (Mexico) has become popular not only with the country’s neighbor to the north, but around the world. From China to Finland, South Africa to New Zealand, words like “taco,” “enchilada,” and “tamale” evoke images of delectable, spicy Mexican fare. Try to order the same dishes in Guatemala and you’ll get a quick reminder that you’re south of a very different border.

Guatemalans and other Central Americans use many of the same culinary terms as Mexicans, but Guatemalans use different ingredients and methods of preparation. Guatemalan cooks typically cook with corn rather than flour tortillas and place less importance on “spicy;” they also favor rice, plantains, and potatoes more often than their Mexican counterparts.

Think you know what a taco is? Guess again; in Guatemala they are corn tortillas rolled with meat and vegetable filling, deep-fried, and served with steamed cabbage and Guatemalan cheese. Quesadillas are far from the Mexican variety; instead they’re spongy, cheesy cupcakes served as a treat to deserving children. Eating a Guatemalan enchilada, you might be surprised to stumble across ingredients like hard-boiled egg, tomato sauce, and even pickled beets!

Rock Steady

Fri, 27 Aug 2010 15:46:45 +0000

The 1970s were a guitar-riffing heyday for Rolling Stone magazine. From the breakup of The Beatles in 1970, to the Billboard domination of rock legends like Led Zeppelin and Aerosmith, there was no shortage of music news during this decade. While the rock revolution appeared to occur exclusively on either side of the Pond, Belizean musicians were having a notable jam session of their own along the sunny shores of the Caribbean.

The brainchild of Pen Cayetano and the Turtle Shell Band, punta rock started making waves in the late 1970s as a medium for social commentary. While the genre is built on the traditional punta rhythm of the Garifuna people, electric guitars, synthesizers, and catchy hooks contribute to the contemporary sound. Punta instrumentation—including bass and treble drums, maracas, and a set of turtle shells—is often accompanied by a performance of kuliao, a competitive fertility dance of West African origin. Punta rock has gained significant popularity throughout Latin America, but Belizean punta—often sung in the Kriol language—has established a unique following in its celebration of Belizean identity. Punta Rebels, Aziatic, and Super G are all great examples of modern punta.

The Heart of the City of Love

Fri, 27 Aug 2010 15:44:11 +0000

1. Jardin des Tuileries. Like the nearby sidewalks of the Champs-Élysées, this garden features broad pathways perfect for people-watching. Unlike the Champs, it has not been taken over by traffic, fast-food joints, and car dealerships.

2. Quai Voltaire. Head for the Seine and cross pont Royal, then turn left on quai Voltaire. Name an artist, any artist. That artist probably lived on this block. Baudelaire, Wagner, Delacroix, and Sibelius are a few examples. Check the plaques on the buildings for others.

3. Seine Booksellers. Working out of stands along the Seine, these vendors may be the best source in Paris for cheap used books, old magazines, and 19th-century comics.

4. Pont Neuf. Paris’s oldest bridge links Île de la Cité to the Right and Left Banks. If you’ve brought a significant other along, it’s the best place in the city to |make out.

5. Sainte-Chapelle. Walk down the island and turn inward at bd. du Palais. Built in the 13th century to house relics of Christ, the chapel now serves as the foremost example of Gothic architecture, with hundreds of magnificent panels of stained glass.

6. Berthillon and Amorino. Walk to the far end of the island on rue Lutèce. Cross the bridge onto Île St-Louis. Behold the great ice-cream rivalry—Berthillon is the heavyweight, but Amorino, which offers more generous helpings, makes for a scrappy challenger.

7. Shakespeare & Co. Cross pont de Tournelle and make a right on quai de la Tournelle. This English-language bookshop had the foresight to publish Ulysses in 1922; its role as a Parisian literary hub has not changed.

8. National Museum of the Middle Ages. One of Paris’s best museums is housed in a medieval mansion. With the famed Dame à la Licorne (Lady with the Unicorn) tapestries, it can be easy to miss the wood-carved Romanesque altarpieces or the dazzling manuscripts that fill out the collection.

A Revolution in Land Development

Fri, 27 Aug 2010 15:18:43 +0000

Around 50% of Mexican land is locked up in ejido ownership. The system, under which communities, rather than individuals, own plots of land, draws on the pre-conquest practice of tribal farming and dates back to the final days of the Mexican Revolution and the Law of Agrarian Reform. The goal of this reform was to enable the government to transfer land from wealthy families and businesses to the peasants that actually farmed it; critics say it impeded agricultural productivity.

In 1992, when then-president Carlos Salinas initiated economic liberalization, land politics again took center stage in the debate. Salinas developed a process by which ejido land could be converted into individual parcels—and, therefore, private property.

For the most part, this law has affected change slowly. Nationwide, by 2007, fewer than 10% of the ejidos had undergone the shift to private ownership. In tourist areas, on the other hand, the opportunity to sell land to foreigners—who can often afford to pay more than locals—provides an incentive for cooperatives to take advantage of the conversion.

Proponents of the reform point to Quintana Roo’s tourist boom as an example of spurred growth; its critics say that it has allowed foreigners to buy up the region’s most valuable land—just as they did before the revolution.

Top Ten Tasks for the Movie Buff in Berlin

Fri, 27 Aug 2010 15:15:29 +0000

Run across the Oberbaumbrücke, where Run Lola Run (1998) shot some of its most beautiful footage. Meander along the scenic routes Lola takes to collect the money that will save her boyfriend. (Or, if you're truly hardcore, take the Lola Rennt running tour.)

Come to the Cabaret (1972) and look for Sally Bowles at the KitKatClub. Although the present fetish incarnation is a far cry from the interwar nightclub of the film, your chances of seeing someone dressed as the Emcee are fairly good. Not for the faint of heart, though: patrons are allowed to have sex on the dance floor.

Take a bunch of pictures in the Alexanderplatz. When you get home, Photoshop out all the Westernized billboards in homage to Alex in Good-Bye, Lenin (2003) and his desperate attempt to protect his sickly mother from the reality of the fall of the Berlin Wall.

Since you're already in “der Alex,” arrange a meeting with someone mysterious at the World Clock. You probably know who you are, but why not take in the city à la Jason Bourne in The Bourne Supremacy (2004).

Have a drink at Cafe Adler and take a look at Checkpoint Charlie. Then imagine the diggers of Der Tunnel (2001) burrowing beneath you to save their families stranded in East Berlin or James Bond sneaking through in search of Octopussy (1983).

Boogie-woogie all night at the Rock'n'Roll Club Spreeathen and try to pick up one of the Swing Kids (1993).

Pop by the Gendarmen Market. Get a snack and have a flashback to the V for Vendetta (2005) Norsefire rally.

Stroll around the Charlottenburg Palace and pretend you're in Paris, like Jackie Chan in Around the World in 80 Days (2004). Marvel at the idea that someone who can't even tell Paris from Berlin would try to travel around the world via hot air balloon.

Walk through the Brandenburg Gate, like the actors in Billy Wilder's One, Two, Three (1961). Ponder the fact that the gate closed during the filming, and nobody made that trip again until the Wall fell. Ponder further whether the closing was due to the Communism=bad, Coca-Cola=awesome plot of the movie.

Find a smoky jazz club, order something made with blue gin, and dream of another Lola—Marlene Dietrich as the sexy cabaret singer who causes the downfall of a university professor in The Blue Angel (1930).

Football Fantasies

Fri, 27 Aug 2010 15:08:41 +0000

Germans are renowned for their football fanaticism. They love the game of soccer and sometimes that love drives them to do ridiculous things. During the 2008 Euro Cup, Germany announced a victory celebration before the Finals were played. Suffice it to say that a 1-0 loss to Spain rained on that parade.

In 2006, when Germany hosted the World Cup, Berlin was changed into something called Fan Fest Berlin, an all-out soccer bonanza. Huge screens were put up throughout the city, stages were brought in, and people gathered in astronomic numbers. At 16 locations throughout the city, near these Fan Fest areas, there were also soccer balls chained to poles, trees, and street lights, with signs above them reading “Can you kick it?”

However, these balls weren’t there just for a knock around. They were filled with concrete. Unfortunately, two people injured themselves when trying to give these balls a whack. When the men who had set up these 16 stations were found they protested that it was just art, that the cement-filled balls were "neither a source of danger nor a trap," and that the art meant "soccer is something for everyone.” And that’s true, soccer is something for everyone in Germany—well, except for the two casualties—they had to heal up before they got back out on the pitch.

PrideBarcelona

Fri, 27 Aug 2010 15:02:31 +0000

From June 20-28, 2009, Barcelona threw its first Gay Pride week. Spain is—politically, at least—a gay-friendly country (same-sex marriages have been legal nationwide since 2005), and Barcelona has been dubbed the San Francisco of Spain. In short, expectations were high.

A parade began at 5:30pm in the Plaça Universitat (on the edge of the so-called Gaixample) and ended in a float village and street party that included live music performances.

The party continued throughout the week as numerous bars and clubs threw Pride-specific free-entry nights, or two-for-one specials. (Check Barcelona Pride’s website for a listing of specific deals.)

The rest of the week saw live music, movie showings, family picnics, sporting events, and even church services specifically celebrating GLBT pride. Debates were held in Catalan on topics such as “GLBT Politics in European Cities” and “GLBT Spirituality.” Barcelona’s GLBT community and its supporters were out en masse, working to open lines of communication between gays and straights, raise awareness, and make the most of what was arguably the party of the year—and in Barcelona, that’s saying something.

Watch out, San Francisco: the gauntlet has been thrown.

Nerd-gasm in Orlando

Tue, 24 Aug 2010 05:09:05 +0000

I just had my first nerd-gasm, right here in Orlando, FL. I should be embarrassed to be this excited about The Wizarding World of Harry Potter, seeing as how I’m just about 20-years-old, but I’m not. I’m a Harry Potter nerd. I cried when Dumbledore died at the end of Book 6, and tears sprang to my eyes again as I entered Hogwarts for the first time.

What made the park so special? Universal just got everything to feel...right. Were there elements of cheesiness? Sure, the waitresses at the Three Broomsticks had ridiculous outfits, but they got the freakin’ pictures in Hogwarts to talk. Were the Chocolate Frogs overpriced? Of course, but who cares when you can buy wizards’ robes and wands!

As I stepped off the Dragon Challenge (which was as badass as it sounds), I realized why The Wizarding World of Harry Potter is the happiest place on earth (suck it Disney): It’s probably the one place in the world where knowing everything about Harry Potter is cool. Everybody's just getting their nerd on, and loving it.

I’ll thumbpick that for sure.

Presenting Travel Videos by Let's Go

Tue, 03 Aug 2010 16:36:23 +0000

Our roving network of globe-trotting researchers are now capturing video footage on the road! Stay plugged in to our Let's Go Travel Videos and get a peek into our researcher writers' travel discoveries, adventures, and mishaps!

Check out Let's Go Travel Videos:
Let's Go Video section
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Watch more Let's Go Travel Videos >

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Faking Your Way Through Wine-Tasting

Sat, 31 Jul 2010 21:31:18 +0000

If you're ever in St-Émilion, an idyllic village 35 km east of Bordeaux and one of the most famous wine producing regions on the planet, you'll think back to this blog and thank Dionysus for the following seven easy steps to faking dégustation (wine-tasting) like the best of them:

Step 1. A bottle is presented and a small amount of wine is poured into your glass. Make sure to look slightly disinterested just like every other French person you've met on your travels. You're too cool to smile.

Step 2. Hold your wine up to natural light, tilt it delicately and inspect the surface of the liquid for its color. Reds mean young wine whereas browns imply an older vintage. Reddish-brown? You're screwed.

Step 3. Raise the glass to your nose and, without swirling, take your first whiff. What you are smelling are the aromas of the barrel. Is it woody? Use terms like "vanilla" or "smoked" so as not to raise any eyebrows.

Step 4. Swirl the liquid before breathing in for the robust sniff test. These are the aromas of the wine itself and are usually as fruity as your gay cousin, Fabio.

Step 5. Whet your palette by taking a small amount of wine past your lips, move it around, then spit it out… sensually. Do not hork a loogie.

Step 6. Now comes the moment you’ve been waiting for: the actual tasting. In order to truly taste the wine, you'll need to mix it with air, so instead of sipping, suck in ever so sightly as you drink. Is it full-bodied? Robust? Pretend like you’re describing a pair of breasts.

Step 7. Finally, the age-old choice: spit or swallow. It’s really a personal preference…

The Hub Spoke

Fri, 30 Jul 2010 21:55:46 +0000

As you’ll notice immediately if you try to talk with a townie, we Bostonians have our own unique manner of speaking—complete with its own pronunciation, slang, and Brahmin accent. Many visitors try hard to talk the talk (out of admiration for it, no doubt), failing to realize that a Boston accent is more than just dropping final “r”s or adding “r”s where they don’t belong (yielding such classic phrases as “I pahked the cah in Hahvahd Yahd”). Herewith is a guide to Boston slang you’re likely to encounter.

bizzah: weird.
bubblah: water fountain.
cellah: basement.
Dunks: Dunkin’ Donuts.
frappes: what most people call milkshakes (blended milk and ice cream); “milkshakes” here have no ice cream.
Green Monstah: the left-field wall at Fenway Park.
jimmies: sprinkles.
khakis: those things you use to start your car.
packie: where you buy beer (derived from “package store”).
pissah: superb (see also “wicked pissah”).
pahty: a social gathering.
Southie: predominantly Irish South Boston; not to be confused with the trendy and gay-friendly South End.
spa: convenience store.
tonic: soda or pop.
wicked: extremely, really.
wicked pissah: really superb.

Rome's Top 10 Piazzas

Fri, 30 Jul 2010 21:46:09 +0000

Rome is known not only for pizzas, but also for its beautiful piazzas. We've compiled the top ten piazzas that can’t be missed.

1. Piazza del Campidoglio. Designed by Michelangelo, this stunning piazza inspired the plans for New York City’s Lincoln Center.

Piazza del Campidoglio
2. Piazza Navona. This former ancient Roman circus is now home to spectacular fountains and great for people-watching.
3. Piazza del Popolo. At the north end of the popular V. del Corso, this large piazza features an Egyptian obelisk, as well as twin churches that dramatically flank the entrance to V. del Corso.

Piazza del Popolo

4. Piazza Venezia. Walk down V. del Corso to the majestic P. Venezia, home to the Victor Emmanuel II Monument and Trajan’s column.

5. Piazza della Repubblica. A dramatic piazza featuring the beautiful Fountain of the Naiads.

Piazza della Repubblica
6. Piazza di Spagna. Home to the Spanish Steps (don’t trip), this piazza is touristy but undeniably picturesque.
7. Piazza di Santa Maria in Trastevere. Nestled in the windy streets of Trastevere, this piazza often features street performers.
8. Piazza di San Pietro in Montorio. Said to be the site of St. Peter’s crucifixion, and featuring a stunning temple by Bramante.
9. Piazza di Trevi. Yes, the Trevi Fountain is cliché, but it’s cliché for a reason. Toss one coin in to return to Rome, two for a new romance, and three for a marriage (another metaphorical coin toss).

Piazza di Trevi
10. Piazza San Pietro. By far the most breath-taking piazza, St. Peter’s Square is beautiful enough to make the staunchest atheist catch their breath.

King's College Sunset

Thu, 29 Jul 2010 16:45:16 +0000

I get at least one cheesy sunset shot, right?

It's a Masquerade Ball, Old Sport

Thu, 29 Jul 2010 16:41:01 +0000

It was after a leisurely dinner at Dojo's Noodle Bar that we heard the first explosion. I was with my friend who is studying at King's College for the summer, and she informed me that there were fireworks at King's College that evening.

Rushing through the dimming streets of Cambridge, we dodged sedentary Spaniards and Pimmsed-up Englishmen and rushed into the courtyard of King's College.

Though the fireworks had ended, the spectacle had yet to fade. A slow smoke had descended on the courtyard, and through the dim fields of light cast by the lamps, I saw a black-and-white crowd of people. Moving closer, I noticed that the crowd consisted of older men in tuxedos and women in evening gowns, smoking heavy cigars and drinking champagne from light flutes, respectively. They were all wearing masks.

I zipped up my rain coat, hoisted up my backpack, and took a step towards one of the caterers. She looked at me, vaguely repulsed. I decided against grabbing the champagne and asked instead "Why are these people wearing masks?"

"It's the Summer Fellows Masquerade Ball."

Obviously.

Infiltration

Thu, 29 Jul 2010 16:35:32 +0000

Last week, I began my time in Cambridge (Senior). Though I'm from Cambridge (Junior), things on this side of the pond are a bit different. Primarily, Pimm's abounds, the river is swimmable, and herds of slow-moving tourists create a legitimate pedestrian foot-traffic problem.

The tourists in Cambridge, Jr. are sort of like international spies. They walk on the paths and snap quick photos of residential areas and then fly home. Tourists in Cambridge, Sr. are a bit more ubiquitous, and the only real escape is to get into the colleges...after hours.

It is in this spirit that I dined in Trinity, slept in Pembroke and Emmanuel, and wrote a portion of Let's Go in the King's College library. How did I do it? Simply and legally, but we'll pretend it was a bit more complicated than that.

Letsgo.com Rated Among Best Online Travel Guides

Tue, 27 Jul 2010 20:58:09 +0000

Tech website Search Engine Land recently named Letsgo.com one of the 13 Best Online Travel Guides! Congrats to everyone who has worked so hard to make letsgo.com a leading voice in the online travel industry and the place to find budget travel deals, content, blogs, photos, videos, and more!

End of The Trip Musings

Sun, 25 Jul 2010 01:13:12 +0000

At the end of my second trip for the illustrious travel guide known as Let's Go, I've had a few realizations about what it takes to be out in the field for a travel guide company.

1. You are never really a tourist. You can't be. One eye is turned toward the critical, and your other constantly aware of the clock as you've got six restaurants, three museums, and four more hostels to check out before your day is up. You come barging in, through hell and high water, and demand (with the very nicest of reporter-like professionalism) to know the address, telephone number, website, credit card information, hours of operation, and a slew of other tidbits from some poor young person working the ticket booth, who probably just wants these questions to be over with so that they can deal with the family of eight behind you. You're never going to be relaxed as you do your work.

2. You are never really a local. This isn't your town, you're not from here. No matter how quickly you orient yourself and get a feel for the place, you're not going to look, talk, act, or seem like a local for the simple fact that you aren't. You're a stranger, visiting a new place. So, while you may say, "Oh, Hostel X, yeah, I checked that out, they take both Visa and Mastercard in addition to having 24hr. reception," you're not going to know what it was like last month, last year. You'll know nothing of it except the time that you spent in it.

3. You've got a job, and this means making some sacrifices. Telling your hostel friends you've got to leave the great pub they've found ("Dude, C'mon! The Grateful Dead and the Beatles are having a reunion concert, together, here in 5 minutes!"). But you reply with, "Sorry, gotta go. Have to see a few more places before the night is up. This is hard work, and nobody makes it look easy.*"

4. It's a great job, and I've been grateful to have it for these past two years. I write with pride, and do my damndest to make sure that the information and pictures I present of a place—whether it's a 5-star hotel in the heart of Dublin or a few ramshackle beach huts on the coast of Nicaragua's Corn Islands—is the most accurate, and the most true to the time and experience that I had there that I can possibly produce.

But that's just it. At the end of the day, a travel guide is written by people. We can't know everything (though I'm sure some guides will tell you otherwise), and what you're getting is somebody's opinion. We all have our own preferences and biases, and then influence the creation of a book. On a personal level, I might mention that it's only by working with an intense system of editors that I've managed to keep my intense love for cafés at a minimum and make sure that there are actual restaurants in the 2011 Great Britain guide.

So while I may make fun of other travel books (and, trust me, I do), it's never, "those guys produce awful, crappy travel books!" It's just me, with my own personal preference. It's been my luck that my preference for the last two years has been the company for which I've been privileged to work. So it's with these words that I end my trip, along with a heartfelt thanks to everyone at Let's Go.

Sincerely,

Asa Bush

*Note: The only person in recorded history to make compiling a travel guide look easy was Ford Perfect from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series. That, my friends, is style.

Dangers of Peeing in the Dark

Sun, 25 Jul 2010 00:43:14 +0000

I pee a lot. I keep hydrated during the day, what with all the walking I'm doing, and burn through two or three fill-ups of your average plastic water bottle, plus the glasses of water at cafes, plus coffees, plus the occasional soda, all within your typical 9am-5pm day.

Then at night, a few beers—they really shoot through your system.

What I'm trying to get at is this: I've seen a lot of bathrooms on this trip. And there's one thing in particular that has stood out to me. Several times when I go to use the restroom I'll walk in and find it dark. My normal move then is to feel around on the walls for the light switch. In the UK, this has proved to be a consistent problem. I'll scratch around in the dark like an idiot for a while, get frustrated, and open the door again to let in some light, thinking I'll see it in the one place I missed. That's when I see that the light switch is on the wall...outside the door.

This bothers me for two reasons: the first, obviously, is that I have to roam around like I'm looking for the Lost City of El Dorado for the light switch when it's sitting there hiding OUTSIDE the bathroom door; the second is far more frightening, however.

What if somebody comes and turns off the light while I'm in the bathroom?

I know it may not rank as high in terms of complete, abject terror as say, Jack Nicholson in The Shining, but peeing in the dark also isn't high on my list of pleasurable experiences. Who wants to use the restroom in the dark? Then question of what you should do arises. Do you keep going? And then feel around for the toilet handle when your done (if feeling around for the lightswitch was bad enough, I'm not sticking my hands anywhere near a barroom toilet if I can't see). Do you try and stop? Well, no, then I'd have to zip up my zipper, wash my hands, use that stupid dryer thing that never really gets your hands dry, finish drying my hands on my jeans, open the door, turn the light switch BACK ON and finally repeat the whole process.

People just shouldn't have to pee in the dark.

I mentioned this fear to a friend of mine who responded, "Oh yeah, I used to do that to my brother all the time. He hated it."

Ladies and Gentlemen, there are sick, twisted people in this world.

Imagine, playing a trick on someone, turning out the light, and when they're in the bathroom of all places. And it's those oddly placed UK "outdoor" light switches that are the cause of all of it.

I guess that's why the UK phrase for "joking with someone" is literally "taking the piss."

Public Transportation: Better than Television

Sat, 24 Jul 2010 20:29:19 +0000

I recently took the longest subway ride in the history of subway rides. Actually, it was only from Grand Central to Astor Place on the 6, but it felt ike an eternity. At the 28th street stop the doors opened and people began to funnel in and out of the train. The doors, however, did not close again after the typical 3.5 seconds. We were evidently delayed because of train traffic ahead. Gradually, a woman's voice became audible from the middle of the car. She was chastising the man accompanying her for making her feel unappreciated or something of that nature. Then she began to yell. And she continued to yell. People in the car started to fidget visibly, as one does when one is embarrassed to be listening to something personal but has no other choice. By some cruel coincidence, the doors stayed open for around 5 minutes, which felt like around 5 years. You could read in people's body language that they were considering getting out and walking the 20 blocks to their respective destinations...it had to be better than listening to this. Then the pressure started to get to these unfortunate passengers. The woman next to me began to chant "Jerry! Jerry!" under her breath while intermittently erupting into fits of laughter. I began to visualize the entire train joining in the chant, and I have to admit it, was pretty funny. But the humor faded as I continued to listen reluctantly to the meltdown in the center of the car. Finally, just when I had decided to abandon the train and hoof it, the doors closed. The woman did not let up, but miraculously got off at 14th street. There was a collective sigh of relief. Nobody actually cheered, but the jubilation was understood.

Since that day, I've been a bit apprehensive when boarding the subway. Does this woman look sane? Does that couple look like they have it in for one another? I realized that you really put your mental health at the mercy of other people when you decide to use mass transit.

On the other hand, everyone gets off eventually.

Weddings!

Sat, 24 Jul 2010 19:52:37 +0000

Today was Saturday, meaning that it was a day of weddings and Bachelor/Bachelorette Parties galore. Weddings were fairly obvious, and the latter are always recognizable by the ridiculous outfits. In Germany, the tradition is that groups of guys or gals will make up a fun T-shirt and walk around while performing strange tasks (e.g. shaving, singing) or selling little trinkets for money, which is then used for drinking. Hello world, I'm getting married, here are my friends, show me some mercy and let me have one last fun night.

All work and no play...

Sat, 24 Jul 2010 19:42:42 +0000

...makes this RW a very dull conversationalist, apparently.

I'd spent all of yesterday writing, holed up in the hostel breakfast room (where there are nice tables and free wireless), only emerging twice for meals (a croissant-and-milchkaffee breakfast and an enormous schnitzel for dinner), frantically writing up everything that all of you future gallivanters to Koln and Bonn would want to know. At about midnight I was approached by someone who asked to use my computer to transfer some files from his camera to his hard drive. I gladly agreed, and while the transfer was taking place we managed to carry on a conversation, or what should more properly be called an awkward and pathetic excuse for a conversation.

He was an architecture student from Toronto, wandering through Europe with a friend, while making pilgrimages to some works of his favorite modern architects. Now, I love modern architecture—when I went to Los Angeles for the first time in 9th grade, the only thing that I wanted to see was Gehry's new concert hall for the LA Philharmonic. I find the MIT campus much more beautiful than the Harvard campus, and I subscribe to a number of architecture blogs. And yet, somehow my mind couldn't really come up with anything interesting to say; he told me about Peter Zumthor, his favorite architect, whose chapel he would visit the next day, and I googled a few other buildings that he mentioned, but all that could really come out of my mouth was "Whoa, that's really cool" and "that's beautiful."

Ugh. Words had come out fine as I typed them on the screen just a few moments earlier, but my first endeavors to actually practice my vocal cords proved to be quite challenging indeed.

He moved on to talk about the Beethoven Haus in Bonn, which I had just visited the day before. He talked about how he had just taken a class on Beethoven the year before, and how inspiring an enlightening of an experience it had been to actually visit the composer's birthplace. I had a similar penchant for the composer, and I did feel the same spiritual awareness as I looked at all those manuscripts, but somehow I couldn't figure out how to convey a similar enthusiasm and really only managed to say something like "yeah, I really liked it too," and I couldn't really figure out how to convey my own musical experiences. Talk about a mind blank; I must have sounded like an uneducated idiot.

We danced around a few other topics as his transfer finished, and we said bye in the way that you always do with hostel-mates that you'll never see again. I'm sorry, Mr. Architect from Toronto; most of the time I have plenty of interesting things to say. You just caught me at a bad time.

I know German! (Not?)

Sat, 24 Jul 2010 19:38:55 +0000

It's my last day in Germany, and in the spirit of one of those my-what-a-long-way-I've-come posts, I am going to say that I am now certified to provide subway directions. In German. Well, sort of.

This morning as I was waiting for the subway, I was appoached by a German woman, perhaps only a few years older than I and dressed like someone on business (read: she didn't look at all like a tourist). "Entschuldigung," she said, German for excuse me.

She continued to speak, and I continued to look at her and nod, but that was pretty much where my comprehension ended.

"Blah blah blah Hauptbahnhof?"

Aha, another word I understood! I figured from her voice that she was asking for directions to the Hauptbahnhof (central train station), which, being the savvy travel writer that my job requires, I could actually do. Now, you must know that I came to Germany knowing absolutely no German except whatever was in The Sound of Music. Everything else I picked up here, and the most helpful tutor I have had has been the voice on the subway. Even though I know absolutely no grammar, I could piece together some directions from the few subway-related vocab words I did know.

A subway appoached. "Einsteigen hier," I said in the most confident voice I could conjure (which, for all intents and purposes, was really not that confident at all), "und umsteigen at Neumarkt für U16 oder U18." Thank you, Munich subway voice, for teaching me how to say get on (einsteigen), get off (aussteigen), and change trains (umsteigen).

All of you who know German are probably snickering at how terrible that sentence was, especially with the fact that I had no idea how to say "at" either. I have no idea what possessed her to ask me of all people for directions—maybe my Asian face made it obvious that I didn't belong, so of course this crazy tourist would know how to get to the Hauptbahnhof. At any rate, she repeated my crude directions with a few more grammatically correct prepositions, to which I smiled and responded with an enthusiactic "Ja," and she thanked me and einsteigen'ed the train.

America May Run on Dunkin, But Who Could Possibly Run on Duffin?

Sat, 24 Jul 2010 18:48:09 +0000

After studying in Boston for the last 4 years of my life, I've become well-acquainted with the heartburn-inducing coffee and latenight sugar rushes that are Dunkin Donuts. After all of these years, I still can't say I consider D&D to be my local joint, or even that I'm particularly fond of the franchise, but there's something that reminds me of home whenever I see their pastel-colored dough bits plastered over glass windows.

I still remember the first time I stumbled across the friendly orange and pink bubble letters abroad, in a metro station in Rome. And then, I actually read the sign—Dunkin Coffee, not Dunkin Donuts (talk about a necessary regional rebranding). However, the little squishy balls and rings of sugar and saturated fat with pink icing and sprinkles on top still filled the shelves (and some Boston Cremes, to my surprise). No matter the name, D&D was still D&D. I rested easy. That is, until I got to Sitges.

While walking along Carrer de las Parellades, those same glowing colors caught the corner of my eye. But when I looked, they belonged to no Dunkin Donuts, or even a Dunkin Coffee. Instead, what I found before me in a spectacle of self-parodying absurdity was Duffin Dagels, like a stateside-D&D doppleganger after being run through a Simpsons filter.

As if the hilariously alliterative yet nonsensical name wasn't amusing enough, the display window was shrouded in what can only be described either as a marketing joke gone too far or a post from This is Why You're Fat manifested in cheery colors and vinyl graphics.

Just in case the picture doesn't do it justice: Stuck to the frosted balls of dough were huge chunks of Snickers, candies, and, my own personal favorite, an entire oreo or chocolate cookie, centered perfectly over the cream-filled cavity inside.

It was absurd, it was beautiful, and I was both proud and incredibly saddened that the whole culinary idea had nothing to do with my hometown non-heroes.

I didn't eat one, and it's the only thing I regret so far on my trip, though my arteries are probably feeling the exact opposite. If I find myself in Sitges again, I know the first place I'm going to go.

Final Thoughts...

Sat, 24 Jul 2010 09:02:15 +0000

Well, my dear readers, it appears that my journey through Vienna and Austria has nearly come to a close, and I must think of some poignant final thoughts to leave you with.

The first thing that comes to mind is that in two days I will be jobless and homeless, but besides that minor inconvenience, I am trying to reflect a bit on what I will miss most about this city that I have come to know and love.

I realize now that Vienna is quite unique in how half of the city seems to be stuck in the 17th and 18th centuries while the other half of it is a modern 21st century. Remnants of an age with horse-drawn carriages and overcoats are still visible in the vibrant coffeehouse culture that survives to this day, where even today to-be-Freuds of our own millennium meet and discuss.

Yet, as a young person, Vienna also offers everything that has come to be expected from a 21st century world-class city—arts and culture, nightlife, shopping, dining, transportation, and nature. From the gorgeous renovated buildings throughout the old city now used for modern shops, to the numerous palaces and their gardens, the Viennese are spoiled with the abundance of architectural aesthetics and green spaces this city offers. To walk through Belvedere and see modern art sculptures or to drink wine overlooking vineyards and the Danube—the old and the new, the city and the country—all of it is within reach.

To live the past while also living the present—this is the ultimate experience Vienna has to offer.

Cruising the Wachau

Fri, 23 Jul 2010 12:15:58 +0000

I finally completed one of the most essential things of visit to Vienna: taking a cruise along the Danube through the Wachau region, the most gorgeous stretch of the entire river.

After a morning in Krems visiting the Abbey and exploring the cobbled pedestrian streets, I bought a ticket for a boat ride to Krems (ignoring the DDSG Danube's blonde mascot decked out in a sailor outfit, and just being thankful the tourist people had been smart enough to offer such a boatride).

From the water, you get the best views of all the castles, abbeys, and churches in the hillsides and towns along the river. From the yellow abbey of Melk, the boat passes Schonbuhel, Aggsbach-Dorf, Willendorf, Aggstein (where people threw themselves off the side of the cliffs, fun fact), Spitz, and of course the pale blue tower of Durnstein. The graceful bend of the Danube (this stretch is a UNESCO world heritage site) actually looks like it does in the pictures; the sunlight glints off the water and creates a yellow haze that shimmers and hangs low over the waterside towns.

The best way to enjoy the boat ride is to sit up on the top deck beneath the sunshine, hang your legs over the edge, and rest your arms on the railing. Riding by myself, I was so lost in my own world that I was rather abrupt with a man who tried to start a conversation, "You from where?" which at this moment was inordinately annoying. I'm all for making friends, but not when I am floating Titanic-style through one of the most beautiful places in all of Austria. I'm king of the world, so just leave me in peace, pretty please.

All the Comforts of Home

Thu, 22 Jul 2010 02:28:33 +0000

After a 5 hour train ride, I'm back in Barcelona.

Although there were many things I missed while I was on the road, I've learned that my Spanish dictionary is the one thing I just can't do without.

Yes, This is For Real

Wed, 21 Jul 2010 03:44:31 +0000

So I guess if you're in the market for Botox, you know where to go...

There is nothing quite like...

Tue, 20 Jul 2010 23:40:47 +0000

...sitting in the middle of one of the most fantastic cathedrals in all of Europe, listening to an organ concert as the sun sets behind the stained glass windows. As the natural light recedes, you're left with a few strategically placed spotlights illuminating the cathedral in a stunning manner, along with the sustained strains of the pipe organ hovering through the cavernous space.

It's even more fantastic when you're actually sitting with a few hundred other people, listening to a rendition of Holst's Planets arranged for pipe organ, and you suddenly get to that last part of the last movement when the unseen female chorus begin their chanting, and it will send goosebumps down your spine. I guarantee it.

My friend Hannah, a fellow Thompson Middle School mathlete from waaaayy back when that I hadn't seen in almost 10 years, somehow ended up in Bonn for the summer, and even though our houses are about 10 minutes away from each other back at home, we decided that a Germany reunion was in order. Though she's only a year older than myself, she's now married and thinking of how to balance future kids with her work life, things that I have never even began to fathom. All that aside, she and her husband had been attending these free organ concerts in the Koln Dom all summer, and she urged me to join.

If all your European cathedral-hopping has only sent you into the things for a few snapshots, you're missing out. One of the most beautiful things about Europe is church music: it's always of superb quality, concerts are often free, the acoustics are stellar (if not a bit echoy at times), and you'll almost always be with locals. Even going to a service, despite not knowing the language, is great for the music - many churches will often play an entire Bach cantata, a practice practically unheard of in the US (except for Emmanuel Church in Boston, one of my favorite places). Even if you're not religious (I'm pretty much a strict atheist), the services and the music are there for pure aesthetic enjoyment. So go to Europe, go to a cathedral, go to a concert, and we can exchange goosebump stories when you get back.

Spotted... Lets Go Europe

Tue, 20 Jul 2010 10:58:17 +0000

I love it when I see intrepid young travelers carrying a Let's Go guide (the most recent edition, as well) and dutifully reading it as they walk. I was about to go start a conversation when, suddenly, they walked into McDonalds...

I guess sometimes they don't always take our suggestions...

P.S. I also decided not to go talk to them because I would have just screamed at them or physically dragged them from McDonalds... and I really didn't want to make a scene.

An Ode to Let's Go

Mon, 19 Jul 2010 22:39:51 +0000

It's my last post for the summer and I'm sure you are all going to miss them (all meaning probably my mom and maybe, just maybe, one friend).

I had trouble thinking up what I should write for my final Let's Go blog ever. It's kind of a milestone for me because it's my third time research-writing and the process, the lifestyle, the loneliness it's all really grown on me. It will certainly be hard moving on to some 9-to-5 job where the geographic parameters of my day consist of the walk from my desk to the water cooler to the bathroom and, finally, back to my desk again. In thinking about what I would write for this blog I thought I'd try and pinpoint one thing that I love about my work for Let's Go. What I came up with was less a thing, and more a feeling, some kind of metaphysical reality that surfaces after the process of "r-dubbing," as we refer to it. Let me try and describe it for you.

I still remember my very first day as an RW. It was June of 2007 and I had just set foot in a tiny town called Eger in the northeastern corner of Hungary. It was my first time really traveling on my own with nothing but a few shirts in my backpack (yeah, I was inexperienced so I forgot to bring shorts, ok?) and looking back now I am completely floored. The reason I say I'm floored is that I really, truly cannot believe some of the things I've done with Let's Go. What I mean by this is not as dramatic as it sounds. I don't intend to say that I've sailed with pirates, found buried treasure, ridden giraffes, burned chameleons to get high off the smoke, or even worn the Emperor's new clothes in public. What I have done, though, is get to know cities, people and by extension, countries in a way that I never would have had I just traveled to them. Because being a Let's Go research-writer means that you aren't merely a traveler, and you most certainly aren't just traveling. That's a given. Imagine going to a city and literally walking down every single street in that city. I don't think I've done that in the city I spent sixteen years of my life in. That one thing that is truly fascinating about my work with Let's Go is that I know, really, truly know so many cities, towns, and villages in the world. I can remember the way they smell because I waited in front of a restaurant for two hours asking people what they thought of the cuisine there. I remember the way they taste because I sat in a pastry shop trying every single piece of cake (for free, mind you) to make sure I would suggest the best one. I remember the way they sound because I've sat at the only table in the corner of a nightclub until it closed at 5am, right by the speakers blasting jams that a live DJ was pumping out, so I could observe the way people dress, the way people interact and (most importantly, I suppose) the way people stumble around. I remember the way they feel because after an entire day of running from church to castle to cafe to club to hostel there is nothing, nothing, as refreshing as jumping into an ice-cold fountain filled with the locals in the middle of the town square. So I guess that's why I love Let's Go. Because I've gotten to know cities inside and out. I've been able to "feel at home" in the obscurest of villages and in the noisiest of metropolises. A Let's Go writer starts out the traveler, but becomes the informant.

Shoes

Mon, 19 Jul 2010 18:37:02 +0000

These, ladies and gentlemen, are the shoes that have kept me going as I walk miles and miles through German cities every day. I bought them at the beginning of my trip, when I realized that I had accidentally left my beloved Tevas at home, for about 20 euros at Roland's, the German equivalent of DSW. They're not terribly fancy but not terribly sporty either, and I figured they'd be pretty versatile for everything. And really, they have—not only have they withstood the weathered cobblestoned avenues, but they've also held their own up some pretty tame hikes.

I was mistaken, however, when I thought that they would be appropriate clubbing footwear. As I tried to wander into a fancy-schmancy place out in Frankfurt the other day, the bouncer suddenly got up from his sleepy post and barricaded the door. Kein eingang. No entry. A guy standing next to him translated: my shoes were too "sporty."

Sporty, schmorty. At least I didn't come in my foam-and-fabric Tevas.

I pulled out my press pass, explained what I was doing, and they pulled out the manager who then escorted me inside. I got all the information I needed, but lesson #1: when going to fancy clubs (the type, I was told, frequented by Rhianna whenever she was in town), have appropriate footwear.

Today, a hundred miles north, I was walking around looking for the subway station when I was approached by a tall, attractive, and smartly dressed woman. She was stylish for sure, wearing heels and sunglasses and the whole shebang. Compared to her, I was a total slob in the t-shirt and capris that I had been wearing for (shh) two days straight. Nonetheless, she stopped me and asked me something in German.

"Sorry? Do you speak English?"

"Yes, your shoes! Where did you get them?"

"Oh, these things? Roland."

"Oh, really? They look very nice!"

"Yes, they're very comfortable too! And I got them for only 20 euros!"

She looked at me in disbelief, and we exchanged a few more pleasantries before we parted ways.

Lesson #2: Bouncers don't always have the best of tastes. Or maybe it should be that people who look like they're dressed to the nines will still value comfort. Or that I actually do have taste in shoes, thank you very much. Whatever it is, bottom line: my shoes are awesome.

Naked People

Mon, 19 Jul 2010 18:17:01 +0000

Did you know that the banks of the Vltava river, that little body of water that runs through Prague, is actually considered a nude beach? In fact, not only is it a paradise for nudists, most of the time this nudist population is composed of men who are probably around sixty but look to be around eighty and, more often than not, tote giant bellies that look as though they've inadvertently swallowed three watermelons (or have discovered some crazy mutant way to get pregnant with elephant babies). Ok, I must confess something to you. I am not being entirely serious. In fact, the above sentences have been infused with gracious amounts of sarcasm, cynicism, and good-humoured fun. What I am talking about is this:

A little old man just strolling along in a tiny little piece of material he would probably refer to as a "bathing suit." Mind you, this picture was not taken somewhere on the outskirts of town, in some obscure location, on a river bank entirely enshrouded by trees and buildings--it's actually taken just in front of the National Theater. Now, by no means is this blog intended to make fun of the poor guy, I am merely here to report the attractive oddities that Prague holds.

The Few, The Proud, The Pastamakers

Mon, 19 Jul 2010 12:47:13 +0000

A forewarning: this is yet another blog about communal kitchens. I like food--a lot--but this blog isn't actually about me.

Though clean and offering the best nights' sleep I've had in awhile, my latest hostel isn't exactly luxurious, and until last night I wasn't even aware it had a kitchen. To be fair, this is partly because it doesn't actually have a kitchen. Insteady, there is a closet-sized room with some cabinets, a hot plate (if you know to ask the reception for it), no fridge, some cups, and exactly one pot. To complicate things even more, the door is always shut and marked with a foreboding "Privado."

Needless to say, there's a reason why I assumed I was going to be eating out during my stay, and an even better reason for my confusion when I smelled some incredible scents coming from behind the closed door.

As I poked my head in, I found three girls crammed into the pocket-sized space pouring pasta from an Ikea pot into a utensil holder. Since they couldn't find any sieves in the glorified pantry, they were forced to use the perforated metal cylinder to drain their meal. I knew then that despite how crafty and scrappy I thought I had gotten, I couldn't compare to their dedication.

"Making pasta? Want us to leave it out?"
"Nah, thanks—I'll stick with my veggie burger."

Travolta Territory

Mon, 19 Jul 2010 12:34:29 +0000

I'd been told that the famous opening sequence of Saturday Night Fever—where John Travolta runs work errands and buys pizza like no other mortal—took place on 86th Street in Bay Ridge. I'm all ready for the elevated train, the working-class vibe, the pizzerias, the inevitable statue of the guy in mid-strut on the sidewalk. Instead I get a boring—sorry, Bay Ridge—series of houses. I go inside a corner shop and was told, by someone who looked like he'd been asked before, that the scene was actually filmed closer to Bensonhurst or Bath Beach, outside the neighborhood limits.

What else could there possibly be here? The place is tarnished. It's my last destination ever as a Let's Go RW and all I want is an appropriately local and inconsequential bit of American pop culture—and they moved it over a few blocks. But Travolta's character does live in Bay Ridge, and his breakout role in the 70s TV series Welcome Back, Kotter also featured him as a cocky, somewhat dim-witted Italian-American with an attitude who lived in the Bay Ridge/Bensonhurst area. So I have to be contented with the mere presence of young JT as I watch the Narrows and the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge in the afternoon sunlight, bringing an anticlimactic curtain down on my researching days in New York. I have only been in Central Park once, and then only in the Harlem part; I've never been to Midtown; and I have only laid distant eyes on Queens. Still, I went to both Roosevelt and Staten Islands, so give me the keys to the city, already.

From Little Russia With Pilmeni

Mon, 19 Jul 2010 12:26:53 +0000

Or "Little Odessa," as they call it, because it's actually a mix of Russians, Ukrainians, and other former Soviet citizens who have come to call the beachside community of Brighton Beach home. This is the extreme south of Brooklyn; Greenpoint, where you can find Little Poland, is at its extreme northern point. Which, really, is probably for the best, if not a clever ploy to invade New York's most populous borough in a dreaded Slavic pincer movement.

A few summers ago, with a St. Petersburg apartment to myself (my host mother had abandoned me for her dacha without notice), I subsisted on pilmeni (aka pelmeni), delicious delicious Russian dumplings, for a good week and a half. I ate them with smetana, sour cream, for maximum goodness. So, as if in a dream, I walk into the Cafe Glechik on Coney Island Ave. and myself with a $5 plate of 25 of these things in front of me. All at once I become an orphan again, oblivious to the loud Ukrainian crew sitting behind me, dipping pilmeni into cream at an unheard of rate, in love with the bland Soviet interior decorating principles of white walls and oddly placed photos. The burly owner keeps giving me strange looks; there is no decorum in my eating, which is driven more by nostalgia than by appetite (I lost most of it looing at the torturous spinning devices in Coney Island's new Luna Park). Is this the fate of all researchers at the end of their route?

Shoot the Freak

Mon, 19 Jul 2010 12:16:14 +0000

The Coney Island Museum is a lovely little one-floor upstairs deal in an old building at Surf Ave. and W 12th St. Sideshows go on down below, in the same rooms where they began back in the early part of the twentieth centruy. Because the appeal of bearded ladies, mermaids, and sword eaters has been a constant since humans first learned to mock and subsequently admire. So this museum is full of old, sometimes very old, Coney Island memorabilia--like old rickshaws and bumper cars and plaintive, wholesome postcards. The best part is the docuentary on the island's history. Ric Burns made it; he's Ken's younger brother and he makes his docs in the exact same style, which is good for now.

Impressed with the grandeur of old Coney Island--when shameless impressarios were building mini-World Expos next to each other to house their bizarre attractions and rides, and Coney Island became a huge electric fantasy--into the beating sun, and almost straight into the vacant lot strewn with weeds and trash. It's not as bad as it once was, they say, but it sure isn't 1913 here either; a fact that truly hit home when I came across a "Shoot the Freak" contest off the Riegelmann Boardwalk. "He needs to be shot," announced the man in charge, a scrawny twenty-something gathering cash from potential assassins. They've clearly giving up on actually finding a freak, because it's just a regular dude who walks into this graffitied space, also strewn with trash, puts on a mask, holds up a shield, and lethargically blocks the paintballs that suddenly come his way. At the end he lifts up the mask and gives a little grin. At this point the decline of Coney Island becomes very endearing; and if I can't see enormous elephants being pushed down fin-de-siecle water slides anymore, so be it.

1 + 2 = ?

Sun, 18 Jul 2010 22:16:17 +0000

Number 1.

You know those security devices in clothing stores that dissuade would-be shoplifters from pinching panties? Well, I was recently waiting in line at a Montpellier supermarket when I noticed a man holding a funny-looking bottle of rum. My eyes widened when I realized that there was a security device on top of the bottle. What does it mean, I ask, when there are security devices to protect hard liquor in French grocery stores?

Number 2.

One evening in the middle of Montpellier’s old city, I was interrupted from my research by a hooting and hollering crowd of hundreds of geriatrics brandishing torches. Fearing a witch-hunt, I went up to inquire what in the name of Old Man Sam was going on. One passionate grandmother handed me a flyer and exclaimed: “We must protect our retraite!” I read the flyer: the protesters were fighting to safeguard their retirement at age 60 after President Sarkozy announced plans to raise the retirement age to 62.

Let's Go Rule #876: don’t look at grandma’s flyer for too long when confronted by a protesting mob, otherwise you’re likely to either unwittingly join in the protest bringing the average age down by 45 years or drown in a terrifying sea of old people and fire.

In sum, number 1 + number 2 =

Lazy alcoholics?

Disclaimer: I do not truly believe that the French are lazy alcoholics. Rather, I am using their political consciousness and dual loves of liquor and security devices for the selfish purpose of crafting a witty and irreverent blog. If I really thought the French were indolent drunkards, would I call them lazy lushes three different ways in one sentence while simultaneously abnegating responsibility for the accusations of sloth and alcoholism? Mais, non....

What this Blog Isn't About

Sun, 18 Jul 2010 21:21:57 +0000

This blog isn't about the truly lovely architecture of Toulouse, known as La Ville en Rose (the Pink City) for its distinctive red brick.

Indeed, the blog isn't concerned with the ornate Capitole building, home to the Hotel de Ville (city hall) in the heart of Toulouse.

Nor is it focused on Saint-Sernin Basilica, the longest Romanesque structure in the world, and an absolute beauty at nighttime.

No, sadly, this blog doesn't have time for the Dominican convent that houses the remains of St. Thomas Aquinas beneath its immense vaulted roof.

Rather, this blog is solely and entirely intended to honor the three men who used one banana and two tomatoes to play a prank on their sleeping friend by the side of the road, then giddily insisted that I take photos and put them on "ze internet."

ImpulsTanz

Sun, 18 Jul 2010 20:36:10 +0000

This weekend, Vienna's contemporary dance festival, ImpulsTanz, began with an outdoor performance in the courtyard of the Museumsquartier. In its 27th year, ImpulsTanz is an annual city-wide dance festival that runs for about a month with shows, lectures, and workshops. The shows (performed by local and international groups) run every day at about eight venues throughout the entire city. (For you theater folk—it's like the Edinburgh Fringe, but for dance.)

The best part about the opening night performance was that it was free! For me, this was just another shining example of how artistically alive this city is (Seriously, if you are interested in music, opera, dance, theatre, etc. etc. you need to visit Vienna... or maybe just move here permanently so you can fall in love with the next musical genius and make lots of Mozart-like artsy genuis babies).

Anyway, the opening night performance was held in the Museumsquartier courtyard, on a temporary built stage elevated above ground level. It was shaped like a runway, with a section in back for a band, but then a long portion that stretched out into the audience for the dancers to perform on. There was also a screen in back for projections. I would try to explain what the piece was about, but I really have absolutely no clue. It was partially video, partially music, and partially performance, and even though it was in English, I still couldn't quite understand what the performance was getting at. Is it possible for something to be too artsy?

One thing is for certain: when they say "contemporary," they mean "contemporary." This festival promises to be anything but traditional.

Hiking to a Heuriger

Sun, 18 Jul 2010 20:21:57 +0000

The 19th district of Vienna is known for vineyards, vineyards, more vineyards, oh yeah, and most importantly of course, the wine that comes from the vineyards.

So it was a sunny, beautiful afternoon in the city, and I decided to venture way up north to the 19th to experience some of this authentic wine culture and find the best heuriger (wine tavern). When I arrived there (by tram), I was disappointingly greeted by many a coach tour bus and tons of tourists snapping pictures and piling into heurigers with cheesy names and lots of kitschy decor. Grinzing (the 19th) is picturesque and there is alot of fine dining, but really, steer clear of any restaurant named "Beethoven's Gasthaus" or where it seems a band dressed in lederhosen is waiting in the wings to play some "authentic" dinner accompaniment.

Instead of dining in Grinzing, I continued via public bus up to Kahlenberg, which is even farther up in the hills and has the greatest panorama of the city. There is one cafe there that overlooks the city, but still, it seemed a bit too touristy for my taste.

In an effort to just get away from all the tourists, I took a dirt path from Kahlenberg and descended below into the landscape of vineyards. Finally, I was alone. I hiked through the hills—and was literally the only person on these dirt paths running directly through the vineyards. I could reach out and touch the grapes (but I didn't, don't worry). I kept wandering down the hill in the direction of the Danube and finally stumbled across the type of Heuriger I was looking for—small, authentic, and no tourists in sight. A few peeling picnic benches were placed under umbrellas and decorated with lanterns, but honestly the decor didn't matter because I was so distracted by the unbelievable view. Hills rising up on three sides, and in front, vineyards stretching below all the way down to the tiny town of Kahlenbergerdorf and the Danube. Simply unreal.

I drank spritzer, ate some knodel, and just took in that view. I have officially found my favorite restaurant in the whole city.

Jaded

Sun, 18 Jul 2010 19:40:35 +0000

Oh dear, it's happened: I've become jaded. I walked into Koln's famous Museum Ludwig today, a treasure trove of modern art, only to find myself thinking: another Warhol? How many of those tomato soup cans did he make anyway? And this Mondrian is pretty cool, but that other art museum in that other city had so many more. I used to feel so excited to be in the presence of such great pieces of art, but I no longer feel that magic; seeing all these famous things is just, well, another day at the office.

It's not just works of art. I've been so many history museums on this trip that I can't even keep track of how many 16th-century spears I've seen, or, for that matter, the number of 6th-century skeletons or mummies or bronze age toothpicks. And all those cathedrals! The first two were absolutely stunning, and every now and then another one strikes my fancy, but now they're all...well, they're mostly all the same—a dark stone interior with sunlight pouring in through the fancy and colorful stained glass, with relics strewn throughout.

I know what you're thinking: Geez, Cindy, you've become such a snob in these two months! Have some more reverence for these man-made creations, for all the time and toil and sweat and blood and tears and such that were put into making, unearthing, and preserving these things! So let me make a disclaimer: I do appreciate these things. Really! I do find them beautiful, but like all things in life, moderation is the key; even ice cream every day might get old after a while, right?

Technology.

Sun, 18 Jul 2010 19:19:10 +0000

As I sit and type up this blog on a functional and (what the hell, I'll say it) attractive little macbook, I'm reminded of just how lucky we Let's Go researches of the 21st century are. In fact, I was in the National Museum of Scotland the other day and ran across a machine that was obviously a Let's Go antique, used to transcribe past researchers' work from hastily scribbled (but informative!) notes to professional, squeaky clean, book-approved material (that's also informative!).

I mean, what else could it be?

Birds of a Feather: Should You Flock Together?

Sun, 18 Jul 2010 17:43:24 +0000

When explaining my job to people back home, I often get a "wow, that sounds incredible," followed by "so what do you actually do?" when I tell them it's more than just getting a full ride while traveling to the places of my dreams (though that's certainly part of it). After I finally get into the nitty gritty of hostel hopping and cruising 10 or more nightlife spots per night, the enchantment fades to dismay and out pops the inevitable, "geez, isn't that lonely?"

The idea of being lonely when you're sharing a room with 11 other people is kind of humorous to me, but I get the gist. Traveling "alone" isn't for everyone. Here are some types of roaming camaraderie I've stumbled across during hostel life:

1) The Couple: Chances are you won't meet anyone else in the hostel until you and your partner are housed in separate rooms, after which Spanish men will decide to serenade you about their love when they return for the night at 3am.

2) The "Just Friends" Couple: Try as you might to flaunt your platonic friendship, everyone will think you are "The Couple." Plan to spend a lot of time explaining this isn't the case but still get ostracized because of it.

3) The Siblings: Traveling in single-sex packs of two or three, you promise to be the life of the party if you don't kill each other first. Brother-sister duos are even more rare and precious and, like a leprechaun, don't let them get away if you are lucky enough to find yourself in their company.

4) The Buds: Out of all of the traveling types, this one is the most fun, due partly to the most deprecating jokes per capita and the high likelihood of someone utterly embarrassing themselves. If you're looking for a disgustingly memorable night, seek out these life long buddies—just make sure someone can find their way back when stumbling to the hostel.

5) The Mother-Son Duo: Wait, what? Unsure if it's really cool that you're staying with your 19 year old son in hostels as he travels, or really weird how you're telling me about how he had a crazy time in Barcelona and kept waking you up when he crawled into the bunk at 6am. To each their own, but Mom (if you're reading this), thank you for letting me go alone.

Being a Tourist

Sun, 18 Jul 2010 10:01:34 +0000

Since leaving Amsterdam two weeks ago, my lifestyle has changed appreciably - this is mostly owing to the fact that I am now living it up in hostels rather than coming home to an apartment every night. On the one hand, I'm dealing with the inconveniences that accompany sleeping in a room with 15 other people. (I've noticed that staying in women-only dorms is the worst, as girls - at least the ones who visit The Hague - have a tendency to wake up extremely early in the morning so that they can blow dry their hair as I am trying to get a last precious 1/2hr. of sleep.) But there's also the obvious benefit of getting to meet loads of other travelers. What's fascinated me is the difference between the travelers I met in Amsterdam and the ones I've met on the road elsewhere. Amsterdam is obviously a huge tourist destination: whether they're there for the weed or the Van Goghs, it's not unusual to find people who are visiting the city simply for a vacation. But especially in Rotterdam and Utrecht, I've been continually intrigued by what brought people to these cities. Almost no one I've met got here just because they particularly wanted to see the city (except, I suppose, for the people in Rotterdam who came to see the North Sea Jazz festival). There was the British guy who had come to Holland sensing that they would do well in the World Cup and was working his way across the country city by city to watch all of the games among locals. An Irish kid had some time to kill before meeting up with some friends in Amsterdam and decided that, since there was a direct train from Brussels to Rotterdam, he might as well hang out there for a few days as it would be cheaper that going straight to Amsterdam. In Utrecht, I met a Canadian couple biking from Amsterdam to Paris, and this was just a convenient stop along the way; a Scottish boy who is coming to university here in the fall and is looking or a flat; and a group of Italian guys who are staying as long as I am (five nights). I'm not really sure what they're doing here, but, having observed their habits, suspect it has something to do with the fact that drugs are a lot cheaper here than in Amsterdam.

When these people meet me, they all seem surprised that there are in fact a lot of touristy reasons to be in such Dutch cities: museums, churches, cultural events, etc. In Amsterdam, I felt much more like a local, going to so many establishments that few tourists would ever make it to. Here, on the other hand, I feel as though I need a fanny pack and a giant camera around my neck as I traipse out to see another cathedral while my hostel-mates go grocery shopping, run in the park, or work on their bicycles. Not that I'm complaining, of course: I've gotten to see tons of interesting things. And I do come in handy to my fellow hostelers when it's time to go out at night and they want advice on the club with the best dance music or the bar with the best beer. Seriously, I should start charging for the service. Or earn commission from the clubs.

The "Non-Existing Guy"

Sat, 17 Jul 2010 19:10:38 +0000

I met a guy in Prague today who does not actually exist. Well, I didn't actually meet him, but rather learned about him from a painter sitting on the steps of a theater named in the man's honor (the theatre does, in fact, exist). The painter called this man in endearing broken English, the "non-existing guy." The "person" I am talking about is a character named Jára Cimrman, and while he might not exist by the laws governed by the material universe, he does exist in the hearts, minds, and culture of the Czech people. This fictional man is the brainchild of Ladislav Smoljak and Zdenek Sverak, two Czech artists who on December 23, 1966 changed Czech pop culture forever with the debut of Cimrman on a radio program called "The Spider Non-Alcoholic Wine Bar." Cimrman is meant to personify all that is ironic, hilarious, and sad in Czech history and culture and has become a fabricated national hero. He was even awarded "The Greatest Czech in History" prize in 2005 by Czech Television, which was later revoked by said television company because they realized that the award should go to real people, pshh. The theater in his name resides in Prague's Zizkov district and is perhaps the single most frequented theatre in the country—in fact, tickets are not available online and people actually post ads to hire other people to stand in line for them at the ticket counter at 2am the morning before a show. Now that I've whet your appetite like a seductress tease, I must break the bad news—a foreigner could probably never understand the Cimrmanian humor, as it draws on deeply rooted cultural sensitivities. I can suggest, though, going to a show if you like sitting in a room where you feel like everyone is laughing at an inside joke and you're the only outsider. It can make you feel oddly special and only a tiny bit lame...

The Final Countdown

Sat, 17 Jul 2010 14:34:55 +0000

Well, this is it. My last weekend on the road. In 3 days time I'll be boarding a plane and waving goodbye to France and the continent to return home to England. And tomorrow I turn 19; what a way to spend it in the boiling hot south of France. As with any good blog post at the end of an era (cos that's what the past 2 months feels like), I'm going to do my 'highlights', like a clip show they throw into a television series every now and again.

My Top Food:

3. Rabbit in Tours - This was the first time I had ever tried rabbit and it was cooked so beautifully, I did feel a little sorry for Thumper, but it was worth the sacrifice.

2. Pork Chop with pepper sauce in Lyon - Lyon, the home of French cuisine, served me up a stunning pork chop that melted in my mouth and made me so very happy to have taste buds.

1. Steak with mushroom sauce in Tours - Tours just wins outright in the food departmenrt, but the steak I had in a very posh restaurant which had a special lunch menu was delicious. I'm salivating just thinking about it.,...

My Top Night Experiences:

3. Watching fireworks from the Hotel de Ville of Lyon on Bastille Day and then going to watch a jam session at an Irish pub - classic!

2. Meeting a guy named Maria and a girl called Valerie in Bruges who were running an absinthe bar in a house which was formally a Freemasons residence.

1. Watching the World Cup Quarter Final and Final in Maastricht - although the latter didn't go to weel for the Dutch, the atmosphere was still electric and the people very excited.

My Top 3 weirdest/most bizarre experiences

3. Stumbling across a woman (middle aged and rather crazy) peeing in an archway in Brussels connecting the exit of the pub I was in and the main street - I had to wait for her to finish her business before I could cross the pee-strewn threshold!

2. Getting into a conversation with a man in a bar in Brussels who turned out to be the owner, who then took me out the back for a glass of champagne to explain the fascinating history of what he called a café where people came to think and philosophize on life.

1. Sharing a room with an insane Polish man in Brussels who snored like a monster, took two showers in the morning and demanded to use my internet despite there not being wifi in the hostel.

All in all, the past 2 months have given me some crazy adventures, allwoed me to experience Europe and now I feel I will turn 19 tomorrow with a bit more worldly knowledge. I will miss life on the road, and miss the company of the many friends I have made along the way - but I look forward to catching up on 2 months worth of sleep!

Schorle

Fri, 16 Jul 2010 23:02:36 +0000

Back at school, the juice was always too sugary. We all had our various methods to curb this problem: several of my friends enjoyed doing a half-juice half-water mix, but that to me always tasted a little too watered-down and slightly unnatural. My personal favorite and drink of choice was half-juice half-soda, giving it a fruity soda taste, and my grapefruit soda concoction became my most common dining hall drink (and consequently became one of the first things I would miss every summer).

Here in Germany, though, I didn't have to miss it—they have this wonderful thing that they call a "schorle," which is a half-juice half-soda concoction, just like what I always used to make. Most popular is the apfel-schorle, a tingly apple sensation, but you can basically get them in anything. Germans have asked me what they call schorle in America, and I'm sad to say that the idea hasn't quite caught on. Then again, Germans would also rather drink carbonated water over still water, which is something that I still can't quite understand.

Another great beverage invention of the Germans: the Radler. Literally the "bicyclist," radlers are a half-Sprite half-beer concoction so that bikers don't get too tipsy on their way home. But Sprite isn't the only thing that they mix with beer—there's a Cola-Radler, Banana-Radler, a whole variety of other beer mixes. You'd think that a country so obsessed with the purity of beer would snobbishly only offer their beer straight, but that'd definitely not the case. It's like a halfway thing though...like, I don't usually like beer so I opt for radlers, but maybe one day I'll graduate from radlers to actual beer...

Lust for...Lyon

Fri, 16 Jul 2010 15:13:00 +0000

Bastille Day was a crazy one; The French know how to have a public holiday! Much like 4th July celebrations in the USA, July 14th sees the locals take to the streets and celebrate the great history of France and it's Revoultion. Even better, Iggy Pop was playing in Lyon's Roman Amphitheater ; the old dilapidated sight was very impressive, and the Amphitheater was pretty sweet!

But Iggy wasn't the only thing going on throughut Wednesyda; it seemed ahabbit that small children had managed to get ahold of fireworks, crackers and bangers and were recreating scenes which looked like a wizard duel out of a Harry Potter movie. The number of tmes I expected to be hit by a small child's misguided mini firework was numerous that I was quite cautious walking through Lyon come nightfall.

Luckily I survived the day and as I sat in front of the Hotel de Ville and watched the fireworks explode over the Basilica I couldn't help but be grateful that I had survived the day without gaining third degree burns.

On Swans

Fri, 16 Jul 2010 00:05:18 +0000

I visited the statue of Franz Kafka the other day. The man wrote 23 short stories, but only 3 novels. This got me thinking; "I wonder why he devoted such little time to writing." Then I started walking. And it came to me. This is why:

The moment you go one street over from the tourists or hold out just after the sun sets, it is in fact possible to see more than a sea of fanny packs. Especially of note are the swans. I've never seen so many swans before. They seem to have an affinity for the embankment after Jiráskov, and when I approached the walk's edge, they flocked to me, extending their necks as if I was obligated to treat them a tasty dinner. Not only are they pleasant little beggars, they make for breathtaking photographs, embellishing the already-gorgeous architecture on Rašínovo nábreží street that hugs the Vltava. There is something romantic and sentimental about swans. I'm not sure exactly how to describe it, and when I consulted Kafka for his brilliant thoughts on the swans, I found...nothing. Seems the old man was not only too busy wandering around the streets of Prague to write a decent number of novels, he also forgot to record his affairs with the city's most seductive characters. Thanks a bunch, Franz.

Barbie Invades Ellis Island

Thu, 15 Jul 2010 23:08:05 +0000

"Explore your heritage with Barbie." I literally did a double take when I saw this sign at the Ellis Island Museum today. It appeared that Barbie and Ellis Island had joined forces to celebrate 30 years of "Dolls of the World." You're right, Barbie. That's just what I want to do. Explore the Ellis Island National Monument, a tribute to the hopes and struggles of millions of marginalized ethnic and racial minorities, with a doll that once came in both "Plantation Belle (1959-1961)" and "Black Francie (1967-68)" form.

I was incredulous that Ellis Island would stoop to Barbie collaboration, but I swallowed my exasperation and went to take a look. The "Dolls of the World," as expected, could actually be termed "Dolls of Northwestern European Descent" with varied skintones and costumes. Though they theoretically hailed from around the globe, the dolls had overwhelmingly Caucasian features...alright, maybe Malaysia's face was on the broader side, but Ghana was a darker Paris Hilton and China just looked like she was wearing a ton of eyeliner.

Having worked myself into an indignant frenzy, I decided to look for the good in the exibit. On the positive side, the dolls, representing 40 different countries, could marginally improve viewers' cultural knowledge. Each doll was clad in traditional garb and accompanied by a country-specific "fashion fact" and a greeting in her native tongue. Insofar as learning about different cultures improves intercultural understanding, and insofar as learning how to say "hello" and being able to name the traditional shoes of a different culture qualifies as learning about it, perhaps in some abstract sense, Barbie is contributing to global tolerance.

Who knows. Maybe Barbie is bringing the world together, one pair of klomps at a time.

The End of the Road

Thu, 15 Jul 2010 19:26:51 +0000

I held off on my usual Sunday blog post in the hopes that Holland would win the World Cup and I'd have ludicrous tales of victory celebrations to impart to you dear readers. Unless you've been living under a rock, you know that after a painful game, Spain emerged victorious. So I took a couple of days to mourn and figured It'd still be worth it to relate my account of how I experienced the most patriotic day in the Netherlands since 1978.

5pm: Finish research for the day in the Hague. Run back to my hostel, try to type some notes, too giddy with excitement for the evening to come. Don my orange dress (thank heavens I brought it with me) and head to the station to catch the train to Amsterdam. The dearth of people walking around The Hague in orange tells me that I made the correct choice to skip town for the game.

7pm: Amsterdam! Centraal Station is full of people streaming into the city center, all in neon orange, many with vuvuzelas, crazy hats, and more.

7:10pm: board the tram to Museumplein (the field in front of the Rijksmuseum and Van Gogh museum, where they play the game on giant screens). A group of EXTREMELY loud fans gets on and sits behind me. They are singing, blowing vuvuzelas, playing noisemakers. Most of the other people on the tram look at them disapprovingly, but I think it's kind of fun to get into the spirit.

7:30pm: Get off the tram; apparently the whole area around Museumplein has been blocked off, but thanks to researching the area I know the way. Not like anyone couldn't have found it: just follow the orange. And the noise.

7:35pm: Reach Museumplein. GOOD HEAVENS it is an absolute mad house here. The street is totally packed, there are people climbing on top of buildings and lamp posts and mounted police with riot gear. And horrific pop music blaring over loudspeakers. I am reminded of the fact that I kind of hate crowds, especially when they come with bad music.

7:50-8:25pm: Increasing levels of panic as I realize that phones are running amok, meaning that I will never be able to connect with the friends I had planned to meet. I am a girl alone in a sea of thousands of drunk Dutch men.

8:30pm: I accept my fate, and look for a place to watch the game. This is a failure, as most people have shown up to claim the good spots hours ago. And Dutch people are really, really tall.

8:50pm: I discover that there is a surprisingly good vantage point at the front of the square, next to the bathrooms. This is, presumably, because it smells terrible. I decide to stick it out for at least the rest of the first half.

8:55pm: Man, this is a really terrible game.

9:15pm: First half ends. I am immediately surrounded by a surge of people going towards the bathrooms. Uh oh. Apparently no one here can walk straight.

9:22pm: After getting "inadvertently" groped a few too many times, I curse the fact that my only piece of orange clothing is a sundress and, in a fit of self-righteous anger, leave the square to watch the game in a quieter bar.

9:30pm: "Quiet bar" in Amsterdam on the night of the World Cup final is an oxymoron.

9:35pm: I am walking down the canal across from Leidseplein and hear a lot of noise. I go closer to the canal and try to peer into the TVs at the Hard Rock Cafe to see what is happening. Three Dutch kids sitting on a bench beckon me over and explain that it was close, but no cigar. They invite me to sit with them and watch the game.

9:45pm: Wow, we can see surprisingly well from here, even though the TV is across a body of water and inside the bar. Thank heavens for giant flatscreens. And miraculously, the only people nearby are a cluster of policemen watching on a tiny TV next to their van.

9:50pm: The Dutch kids offer me some of their beer. I could get used to this!

Moment of doom: Spain scores. We all know it's all over. The Dutch kids leave, citing early work and a desire to beat the bike traffic home. I hold on to the faintest glimmer of hope, praying that something magical will happen.

Nothing magical occurs, of course. The same mass of orange that had giddily headed to Museumplein a few hours earlier is now flowing dejectedly down Weteringschans to their bicycle racks. I'm almost as sad as they are: it had been really great to be in the country as the Cup was going on, and I had come to have a real fondness for the Dutch team. But such is life. I did eventually find my friends once phones started working again. They're Irish, so they weren't particularly fussed about the game. We ended up having a great night.

Have Spatula, Will Scrounge

Thu, 15 Jul 2010 11:32:53 +0000

Communal kitchens are the best.

I've been a firm believer in them since living in a 32-person cooperative this past year in college, during which many days were spend crowding around whoever was cooking for the evening, and many nights were spent with a crowd of hungry, sleepy friends eagerly awaiting one of six fresh crusty loafs to pop out of the oven. Also, making your own food is hella cheap, and sometimes all of those bocadillos just don't cut it, you know?

For these reasons, I made sure that my hostels came with a kitchen—a fully equipped kitchen—when booking my trip for Valencia. But I didn't expect the free piles. These shelves, like little offerings from heaven, house the remnants of whatever other hostel-goers have left behind, grown tired of, or have drunkenly left out overnight. Basically, they are the semi-adventurous, incredibly cheap cook's best friend. Luckily, I'm both semi-adventurous and incredibly, incredibly cheap.

Here are my two favorites that I've whipped up over the past week:

1) Lentils and rice
Free ingredients: White rice, curry powder, hot pepper, salt, garlic, onion, sunflower oil.
Bought ingredients: Lentils (€0.70), tomato paste? broth? soup? (€0.70), mushrooms (€1)
Total cost: €2.40
Happy hostelers fed: 5
Cost per meal: €0.48

2) Veggie sautee w/ bread & free booze
Free ingredients: Onion, questionable but delicious pre-buttered garlic bread, garlic, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, salt; bottle of wine, two beers
Bought ingredients: Asparagus (€1), mushrooms (€1.20)
Total cost: €2.20
Happy hostelers fed: 3
Cost per meal: €0.73

The best part? Being able to shout, "Hey, I've got leftover food—anyone want some?"
Instant friends.

Some of My Less Favorite Moments

Thu, 15 Jul 2010 07:28:50 +0000

First: Some days ago I was walking through the Yildiz Park. I took a shortcut through the grass, when this enormous stray dog approached and started barking its lungs out at me. I had a wall behind me, so I tried backing out to the side. That's when I noticed that there was another wolf-like specimen standing from the other side. Then I noticed another. And one more. There were five huge stray dogs holding me against the wall, and they barked at me as though I was to be their dinner. There were only two other people some distance away, utterly uninterested. I locked eyes with the biggest dog and slinked backwards, close to the wall. Because averting your eyes means weakness. Slowly, I got out. But was I complaining about stray cats? Well, scratch that.

Second: In search of the Mojo Club, I climbed a tall and decrepit residential building because many nightlife places are often on top of completely unremarkable buildings. As I reached the top floor, there was one open door, and inside it a pudgy balding man, wearing nothing but a very loose speedo, cutting tomatoes in his living room. I walked on minding my business, but the man noticed me, came out to the corridor and started yelling at me and motioning me out. I'm not quite sure what he was saying, but presumably something about me infringing on his privacy. Can't even keep your door open these days.

Third: A plane out of Istanbul took me to Izmir and I'll be going onward. My stay in Istanbul is over and it ended way too abruptly. Oh well.

Laundry Update

Thu, 15 Jul 2010 06:42:53 +0000

As for the laundry recent laundry debacle, a happy compromise was reached. I was not in my room when the woman who washed the clothing came by to negotiate her initial €25 charge, so she left me a note: "I wash the clothes, you pay what you want." With that pitiful message, I decided to pay €8. I still overpayed, but it's what I paid in Athens for my laundry so I felt it was a fair price based in some precedent. Fortunately the laundry saga has ended.

Beaches (or lack thereof)

Wed, 14 Jul 2010 21:09:49 +0000

I like sand. My favorite childhood playground item was none other than the beloved sand box, where I used to run a bakery (my favorite were the "donut holes," made of dark sand and then sprinkled in light sand, or "powdered sugar") and dig tunnels and just get right down messy. Once, when I got sick and was thus supremely bored in my quarantine, in a stroke of genius and committed parenting my mom cleared out a dresser drawer, took it down to the sand box, filled it with sand, and brought it inside.

It seems that Germany shares my obsession. Or, rather, Germany has an obsession with beaches, which by extension is an obsession with sand. But these aren't beaches in the regular sense - rather, they're beach bars: every single city I've gone to has their own version of any old bar (preferably riverfront), spruced up with a giant truck of sand, some lawn chairs and big umbrellas. Of course, the location itself is sometimes what makes it fun—in Stuttgart, their signature beach bar is located on the top floor of a parking garage. In Dresden, there's a bar that just decided to dump sand on its floor, thus putting the best of both worlds (warm sand and dimly lit bar?) into one.

The reason, I've been told, is that Germany actually doesn't have any real beaches. Not many, at least. Having grown up in Michigan (land of the great dunes and Great Lakes), Illinois (more Great Lakes), and Massachusetts (ocean), I've never really felt at a loss for beaches. But apparently, here they feel the loss to such a degree that bars are willing to drag in their own reserves of sand. And all I can think is, wow, my mother would be proud.

Pink Martini

Wed, 14 Jul 2010 00:03:10 +0000

For starters, I'm mostly a classical musician—I was one of those orch dorks back in middle and high school, and I basically took it as far as one could go. In other words, I never really listened to anything other than classical music in high school, and my knowledge of anything non-classical was embarrassingly abysmal. I hated school dances when everyone would sing along with the lyrics. On the other hand, I always did feel a little bit of pride when I could recognize classical pieces on the radio before the announcer revealed it at the end.

I've expanded some of my tastes since then. I'm now a little more familiar with the mainstream, but along the way I've picked up my own set of non-classical preferences. Enter Pink Martini, whom I first heard of in freshman (high school) year French class. The song that propelled them to fame 20 years ago, Sympathique, had French lyrics simple enough for the second-year student to understand, and I immediately got hooked onto their jazzy, international style.

Eight years later, I'm traipsing through Germany, and what do I see? Yes, Pink Martini is on tour in Deutschland! I saw posters for their concerts in almost every city that I went in, but I'd always miss them by a week or two.

Until now.

The concert itself was fantastic, though it was a little odd being an American watching an American band perform in Germany. It was also strange because somehow I hadn't really realized that most of Pink Martini's fan base (or at least its fan base out in Darmstadt) is about 15+ years older than I am, and let's just say it's quite, well, interesting seeing all of them dance. I also had a chance to really realize how freakishly tall Germans are—I know I'm a Small Asian Girl, but usually I can at least see something.

Also ingenious: the concert tickets had included public transportation, and we got the whole trip from Frankfurt to Darmstadt included in the price. Pretty amazing and such an environmentally friendly move. Go Germany.

Vive la Nudité

Tue, 13 Jul 2010 18:42:36 +0000

Dearest Loyal Fans,

After eight cities, five weeks, dozens of new friends and one or two, "No, please don't pull me down that scary alley", I've said salaam to memorable Morocco and jetted to southwestern France for the second half of my Let's Go route. From the former French protectorate and Arab nation, to the Catholic and classy mother country herself, the two hour flight from Marrakech to Marseilles bridges incredibly different worlds.

Here's one difference that's hard to miss. Whereas modest Moroccans keep their skin covered and their statues PG-rated, nudity in France is all the rage. It's not so much the blood-and-flesh people walking the streets in skimpy clothing, it's the state-sanctioned public nudity with a capital "P".

In short(s), whether France is ahead or behind the Maghreb, you just wouldn't see this in Morocco:

A Room with a View

Tue, 13 Jul 2010 18:40:41 +0000

Now I have left the Netherlands behind and returned to the country where my journey began what feels like an age ago - France! Pulling into the Train Station at Lyon, map in hand, I decided I would walk to my hostel as it didn't seem too far on the map. Mistake. At this point it is important to point out that Lyon should be renamed THE SUN since the European heatwave has caused high temperatures of around 98 degrees Fahrenheit.

Wading through the streets of Lyon with my backpack, now extra full with trinkets and extra things I'd picked up during 7 weeks of travelling, I had to take a pit stop at the river to re-energize with an ice cool cola. Then it dawned on me, my hostel should be straight in front of me. Straight in front of me was a massive hill. The hostel was on the top of this hill. Panting and sweating like a nun in a cucumber field, I arrived at the top of the hostel looking a little as if I'd decided to take a shower on my way up.

Tired from travelling on a train (On which, I was sat next to a rather angry German teenager who was doodling cartoons with police men shooting victims, men asking women for sex and a woman pointing a gun at a man walking a dog) I was quite annoyed to find my bedroom was on the top floor. The stairs were my Everest as my back felt like it was going to give way...7 weeks had taken it toll. I pushed open my door and everything changed all of a sudden. The open window revealed the sprawling city below, the 2 rivers, bridges, old buildings, new buildings and a city which suddenly shouted out to me "Come Explore". All of my annoyances lifted and I felt pleased to be in Lyon, arguably the most beautiful city I've visited on my route, and I felt excited to embark on my final Let's Go adventure. Even more exciting was the fact that I will turn 19 this weekend and I couldn't think of a more beautiful place to celebrate the occasion (except with my family and friends of course!) - let's just hope I don't melt in the heat before Sunday!

Here's my room with a view:

The Difference Between "Prague" and Prague

Tue, 13 Jul 2010 18:26:53 +0000

It's my second day in Prague and I've already made several acquaintances—most of whom I'll never again see in my life. There's something about the Czechs that gives them the nerve to stop you cold in the street for a quick little chat, be it about cigarettes, watermelon, or the ludicrously slow nature of pedestrian light signals in this city. I love it. Especially because I don't speak a word of Czech and most of the people with whom I've shared these momentary, yet intimate, conversations with have not spoken a word of English; you can imagine the sight of our conversations. I've traveled far and wide throughout Europe, but never have I encountered such overt thirst for human interaction. The key to the story, however, is the fact that I am living on the outskirts of what most tourists think of when they visit "Prague." These conversations of body language and gestures have not occurred on the steps leading up to Prague Castle nor in the winding throngs of Americans on Charles Bridge, nor even along the banks of the Vltava. Prague is a tiny place, but many tourists tend to minimize the poor city to an even smaller diameter, staying close to the castle and venturing away from the Old Town only as far as the adjacent Josefov Jewish neighborhood. If one pushes just a few blocks further, just a few bridges more, one becomes privy to a whole different side of this newly famous tourist trap that quickly begins to feel less like a trap and more like a treasure. Sure, the glorious medieval architecture of the more popular neighborhoods is unbeatable, but if you're looking to escape the inevitably stifling crowds and kitschy souvenir shops, venture past the National Theater toward the railway bridge. The architecture might pale in comparison, but the experience of interacting with real Czechs who actually live in the city will ensure that you get a glimpse of the real Prague, the land of the Bohemians, and not the land of a thousand vacationers.

Flashbacks

Tue, 13 Jul 2010 16:20:37 +0000

This travel-writing thing is a 24/7 gig. I haven't taken a full day off since week two, and even when I'm lying on a bunk-bed and staring numbly at the ceiling, some part of my brain is still trying to translate that moment into copy for the hostel review, or at least a blog post. But the sign that things are really dire came when I realized that I'm starting to have job flashbacks.

They're a bit like an acid flashback might be, I reckon. Probably nothing like an acid flashback, actually, but I have had a couple other similarly all-encompassing gigs in my life, mostly involving the management of student ensembles, that are clearly moving back into my subconscious as I take on another job that invades all aspects of my life.

Back in my days as an ensemble manager, in the weeks leading up to a performance, I would compulsively carry a stack of flyers and a pencil wrapped in masking tape everywhere I went, just in case I spotted approximately 11 by 17 in. of un-postered flat surface. Apparently, such things just sort of keep running as a background process long after their relevance wears off: when I began to type up my notes from a visit to the university district of Perugia, I discovered that I had made note not only of the locations of the bus stop, pharmacy, and ATM - but also of the poster kiosks.

I'm going to be subconsciously writing down the wheelchair accessibility and opening hours of museums for YEARS.

Cooking Trouble

Tue, 13 Jul 2010 15:31:12 +0000

I really have nothing to say except that I just realized I have been cooking with peanut oil, not olive oil.

It turns out that "Erdnuss" means peanut.

It's moments like these that I really wish I spoke German.

There's liking football...

Tue, 13 Jul 2010 09:26:42 +0000

And there's liking football entirely too much.

Observe the urinals at the hostel that currently holds my bones. Now, while these sportive contraptions did engage me in athletics for the first time in years, which is no small achievement, I still take issue with them.

First, there's the confusion they inspire. Do I cheer when I pee the ball into the goal? Should I be sad if I miss? Then there's the discrimination. Are there water polo goals floating in the women's toilets? Are there wheelchair basketball hoops in the handicapped stalls?

My main problem, however, is that these urinal mats don't go far enough. My vision? Two small nets flank each side of the wash closet, a miniature ball gets dropped at the center of a tiled floor, and a team of full-bladdered Olympians spray their hearts out for a win in The Bathroom World Cup.

The Doppler Effect

Mon, 12 Jul 2010 23:23:06 +0000

The Doppler Effect is when a moving object emitting a sound changes its pitch as it passes by. As it comes toward you, its pitch suddenly seems to get higher, and then as it leaves, the pitch suddenly drops. Germany is chock full of the Doppler Effect in action.

Take police sirens. Until I came to Germany, I had no idea that they could be so loud and piercing; however loud we have it in the US, the Germans have it 10 times louder. It makes the Doppler effect that much more apparent, and you can really hear all those pitches rising and dropping so that you're never really sure what the interval is between those two siren pitches.

The most popular manifestation of the effect, however, is in the car horns. This world cup frenzy has got people fixated like mad on making as much noise as possible on their cars as they move by, and their varying pitches has an unevenly undulating effect. Modern music at its finest, some might say.

Speaking of the World Cup, I'm glad Germany got third. It meant that they could win its last game and gave fans something to cheer about, while the poor Dutch last night looked like boys who had just been committed to detention for the next 10 years.

Velib!!

Mon, 12 Jul 2010 19:09:21 +0000

Are you tired of the pissy smell of the Metro? Paris has now provided a feasible alternative to sweaty crowds, pickpockets, and broken down trains. Tourist, meet Velib, your new best friend.

Velib is a bike rental service that anybody with a credit card (with a French/European pouce) can use. It only costs one euros a month to have access to the bikes. After you pay this entrance fee, every trip under 30 minutes is free. Anything above this time limit brings some sizeable credit card hits. But given that there are bike stations all over the city (literally, everywhere), splitting up your journey into 30 minute sections is an easily realized feat. The only tricky part for tourists can be finding a card with a pouce. You could try to work out some deal with a particularly friendly hotel owner/worker, or make some friends the old-fashioned way.

Either way, Velib is environmentally more friendly, and aesthetically more pleasing, than riding the Metro. On a bike, Paris really isn’t that big. You can touch a lot of its hot spots, see what’s in between, and burn off all that heavy traditional cuisine, courtesy of Velib.

Japanese Tourists: We Takin' Over

Mon, 12 Jul 2010 19:07:24 +0000

The prominence of Japanese tourists in Paris is unfathomable. They make up a sizeable portion of the crowd at any Museum or tourist sight. Whenever you pass a Louis Vuitton outlet, a line almost exclusively filled with Japanese folks will snake around the store. Eager to partake in the tradition of haute couture, these Louis patrons have been known to snap 25-30 photos of the each item on window display. Truly amazing.

The tourist market is certainly adapting to the needs of its new clientele; a Japanese reception desk has been installed at many of the Galeries Lafayette, and other big shopping destinations. Audioguides in Japanese are available at all the major museums.

But it isn’t necessarily just the tourism industry that’s accommodating the Japanese; it’s the Japanese who are creating a new approach to tourism. If a picture is really worth a thousand words, then they have undoubtedly arrived a new mode of visual tourist literature (which hopefully won’t put your favorite travel guide out of business!) Some in the tourism industry (including the somewhat outspoken Malcolm Miller, tour guide at the Chartres Cathedral), believe that the Japanese approach to seeing ALL of the well-known tourist sights overemphasizes quantity at the expense of quality. In some cases, there are no tours or tour materials in Japanese; in this case, mass amounts of somewhat meaningless pictures ensue.

Regardless of how you feel about the evolution of visual tourist literature (Let's Go prefers a mix of this avant-garde journalistic form and the old notepad and pen system), everybody agrees that the Japanese tourist experience is rapidly rising in terms of prevalence and importance. Hate it or love it, but you’ll have to embrace it to survive your visit to Paris.

Playing Your Cards Right: When to Stand Out, and When to Blend In

Mon, 12 Jul 2010 19:02:58 +0000

Most American tourists in Paris stick out like sore thumbs no matter where they find themselves. Open-toe sandals, fanny packs, and excessive wear of sports paraphanilia are among the which never fail to point out hapless American tourists.

Be not confused; standing out isn’t always bad. The art of being a truly savvy traveler is knowing when to stand out, and when to blend in with the crowd. In my experience, there are several situations that merit an effort at blending in. The foremost among these situations occurs during tourist activities. Tourist hotspots, like museum lines, the Eiffel tour, Metro rides, and cafes, are exactly where you don’t necessarily want to look like the typical American tourist. Pickpockets, as well as more subtle and dangerous criminals (extortionists, etc.), prey on those who seem the most clueless and vulnerable. Don’t let that be you.

However, there are some moments when a typically American outfit or exaggerated American mannerisms can win you a free drink at a bar or a lovely soiree with a new friend. Say, for example, that you're going to a Let's Go recommended bar in a far out Parisian neighborhood, where Americans and other foreigners are rare. Without a doubt, being the oddball turns people on. Let THAT be you!

Attention: Fashion Entrepreneurs

Mon, 12 Jul 2010 18:58:25 +0000

If you stay in France for as little as a day, the French craze for all things American should become painfully obvious; whether movies, clothing, music, or Starbucks, anything American is super cool. Some fashion entrepreneurs have benefited from being particularly aware of the French fixation on American stuff.

Take, for example, the prevalence of Franklin and Marshall logoed apparel in Paris. Everybody from the rich kids where I live in Neuilly (the ultraconservative neighborhood of which current French President Nicolas Sarkozy was mayor) to kids from the rougher banlieues (suburban ghettoes) proudly don Franklin and Marshall sweatshirts and t-shirts. To Americans, this seems rather bizarre. I certainly have nothing against Franklin and Marshall; it’s just that not even all Americans know that it's a university, never mind where it is. So why is the stuff so popular in France?

Apparently, an Italian fashion entrepreneur recognized the enormous potential value of the little known college’s unmistakably American name. He contracted with Franklin and Marshall for the use of the trademark in Europe, and is likely a rich man right now, if he wasn’t already. Fashionistas, this is your cue. Go find a little-known, shamelessly American-sounding trademark, pay a sum for its use, and enjoy the rest of life, poolside.

Nights by the Seine

Mon, 12 Jul 2010 18:55:28 +0000

The best spot to pass an authentic French soiree isn’t in one of Paris’ hundreds of overpriced bars or nightclubs. The most popping scene is, without a doubt, by the Seine. Sure, the few benches are disgustingly cruddy, and the ground is a bit funky to sit on. I advise you to embrace the grime. If you’re like me, having fun is unrelated to how many expensive bottles of liquor you buy or hitting sweaty clubs.

On weekend evenings, the area is taken over by students, young people, tourists, and, of course, rose petalers (ha!). Bottles, cigarettes, joints, and loud shouts are passed, and, later on, thrown, around more as the wee hours of the morning approach. So grab a bottle (it’ll smooth out the kinks in your French accent), and talk to non-sketchy looking Seine-side comrades. Ten to one it’ll be a memorable evening; safety isn't really an issue on the Seine since it's so inherently visible.

Drama on the Metro, Part 3: Drugs+Control=Night in Jail

Mon, 12 Jul 2010 18:53:16 +0000

The final episode in a series of incredibly entertaining Metro episodes involves Metro police, illegal drugs, and handcuffs. Luckily, I was involved with none of these activities .

The incident occurred on the night of the Fete de la Musique, when the city offers extended Metro service on some lines, including the 1 line. Trains on the 1 are unusual because they don’t have separated cars; the entire train is contained in one grand cabin. I sat down in the middle of the train, and instantly saw and smelled a group of kids smoking something that was not a cigarette (read: marijuana.) Marijuana is unconditionally illegal in France, especially if it’s being consumed on a train, during a train ride. I figured that this unusual episode could be attributed to the general merrymaking spirit that the Fete tends to bring.

The chance of officials checking tickets (in French, a "controle") at this time of night was, of course, extremely unlikely. However, after a few stops, I saw a group of navy-blue uniformed RATP officials on the horizon, rapidly approaching from a ways down the train. When the kids caught on to what was happening, they started running to the opposite end of the car, and so did the cops. I followed the parties once they had passed, eager to make it into the blog you're reading now; let’s just say that the cops won. If it had been cigarettes, maybe a different outcome. The bottom line; Metro police do not play around.

Drama on the Metro, Part 2

Mon, 12 Jul 2010 18:50:26 +0000

This is part two in a series of classic Metro episodes that I’ve been so lucky to witness and be part of during my time in Paris. One of my most memorable ones came on a ride home from work on the slow, hot, and very outdated Line #3.

It had been a long day, and I took the liberty of grabbing a beer (a tall Heineken, to be exact) on my way to the Metro. For the record, drinking in public in France is legal, but, as I learned from this episode, somewhat uncouth. I ran to catch the train, sitting next to an older lady with, surprise, surprise, a shopping sack on wheels. After running to catch the train, I waited few stops to avoid what surely would have been an unwelcome beer explosion, throwing in my iPod in the meantime.

Eventually, I cracked the beverage. A moment of Parisian bliss promptly occurred; there’s nothing like great music and a cold beer on the way home from a long day of pounding pavement. About halfway through my ride, I noticed that the lady was yelling at me. She obviously didn’t grasp that I couldn’t hear what she was saying; I was quite startled by her diatribe against my surprisingly uncouth behavior. Just trust me; it wasn’t fun to sit through; there were references to my acting like a “thug from the banlieue,” a “monster” for drinking next to a lady, etc. So if you’re not the rebellious type, keep your drinking covert. You could get quite an earful.

23 Skidoo, \ski-?dü\

Mon, 12 Jul 2010 16:42:07 +0000

You kids may not know this, but back in the day the Flatiron Building used to cause a tremendous wind tunnel right by the entrance. I'm not making this up! The wind had a habit of lifting those enormous dresses then in fashion, and inevitably a bunch of fin-de-siecle perverts took to lounging against the Flatiron Building for some look-sees.

The street was 23rd St., so the (soon regular) police action that would disperse these traffic-blocking onlookers soon became known as the "23 skidoo," "skidoo" being a word we used to mean "leave" or "get out." The phrase swept the nation; it was the "I can haz cheezburger?" of its day. Ask anyone over 110 what the number 23 indicates, and he's bound to tell you that it's some variant on "skidaddle" or "scoot." And it's all thanks to one of New York's most famous buildings.

Today the rise of other enormous towers around Madison Square Park have quelled those fierce urban hurricanes--and with it the crowds of gapers, who now prefer to wait 1.5 hours for a burger at the Shake Shack.

Too Much Meat

Mon, 12 Jul 2010 16:30:01 +0000

The Meatpacking District at night is an endless montage of pressed shirts, huge bouncers, tight dresses, heels, etc. You know the deal; I guess the outsized gentrification of this area is old news. I'm taking a breather, very aware that I won't be entering most rides in this carnival of sleekness, when a huge guy in a hardhat and a sign sits next to me. "Give me money so I can get drunk so two women can molest me," it reads. I'm really barely paraphrasing.

"Crazy night," he says. I agree, but he's not here to listen. "You know, most people, when they hear me, realize how cohesive I am, how put-together—they're surprised. And I put them at ease, you know." He's swinging his feet, banging his sneakers against the concrete embankment we're sitting on. "They see me and expect some lunatic, but then they realize who I really am." He falls silent and watches the glitz parade in front of him with sunglasses on. Three girls come up in a convertible, get out, walk to a club, turn around, walk back, get in the convertible, and drive off. "Yep," he says, looking after them. "I better be off, too. It was nice talking to you, man." When he leaves he hoists his sign up so people can read it and wanders back into the crowd.

Drag Queens and Finger Puppets

Mon, 12 Jul 2010 16:16:12 +0000

I was doing nightlife research in Cologne, Germany a few years ago when I turned into a sudden, intensely crowded little street somewhere in the city center. Being young and slow then, I waded through a mass of fabulous people for about three minutes before realizing that I had stumbled onto a gay pride celebration in one of Germany's gay-friendliest cities. It's best to realize this once you're in the middle of a crowd of thousands and absolutely unable to get out.

I was reminded of this last night while walking around Christopher St. in the West Village. This is one of the centers of GLBT culture in the city; the Stonewall Inn is here along with reams of other gay and lesbian bars (easily the liveliest things this side of 6th Ave., by the way). I walk out of the lovable Boots & Saddle and straight into an enormous assembly spilling from a bar to a sidewalk to the street. It's less an official celebration than a way to escape the stifling air of a claustrophobically small bar. The crowd is nearly 100% African American and 50% drag queens; the drag queens are almost all enormous, too. I see some thin ones off to the side and wonder why they weren't let in when my notebook-wielding self can waltz through. Turns out this club has been in trouble with the NYPD recently for various reasons—one of which may be repeated public disturbance.

The crowd disperses further down the block; in a few minutes I'm accosted by a young guy sitting on his stoop with a finger puppet. "Hey," he says. "Oh, hey. Francine wants you to say 'Hi' to her. Can you say 'Hi' to Francine?" I do. "Francine's glad you showed her lots of love, man."

Next up in this slapstick sitcom?

Village Nights

Mon, 12 Jul 2010 16:15:37 +0000

I was reminded of this last night while walking around Christopher Street in the West Village. This is one of the centers of GLBT culture in the city; the Stonewall Inn is here along with reams of other gay and lesbian bars (easily the liveliest things this side of 6th Ave., by the way). I walk out of the lovable Boots & Saddle and straight into an enormous assembly spilling from a bar to a sidewalk to the street. It's less an official celebration than a way to escape the stifling air of a claustrophobically small bar. The crowd is 100% African-American and 50% drag queens; the drag queens are almost all enormous, too. I see some thin ones out to the side and wonder why they weren't let in when my notebook-wielding self can waltz through. Turns out this club has been in trouble with the NYPD recently for various reasons, one of which may be repeated public disturbance.

The crowd disperses further down the block; in a few minutes I'm accosted by a young guy sitting on his stoop with a finger puppet. "Hey," he says. "Oh, hey. Francine wants you to say hi to her. Can you say hi to Francine?" I do. "Francine's glad you showed her lots of love, man."

Next up in this slapstick sitcom?

"Everywhere Else"

Mon, 12 Jul 2010 16:00:52 +0000

This was how my itinerary was described when I took the job of researching in Italy for Let's Go. Others had research routes that focused on a single city (Rome, Venice, or Florence) and its environs. I went to the "other" places, bouncing around the country's north before landing where I am now in very southern Naples.

What has become abundantly clear to me over the past eight weeks is that "everywhere else" is, in fact, somewhere after all.

City by city, here's what I learned in a nutshell:

Milan is more than a financial capital. It's a sprawling metropolis with hopping nightlife, gourmet restaurants (some at less than gourmet prices), and collections of exquisite art.

Turin, a city I knew nothing about, has a modern history to rival Rome's ancient one. It's home to opulent Savoy palaces and domed basilicas perched on verdant green hills. It seems that nothing more than a river separates this cosmopolitan city from the rugged beauty of the Alpine foothills.

Cinque Terre is touristed, but even its tiny, jewel-like towns that sit perched on rock contain more than turquoise water and beaches. Intimate restaurants set in the hills above town and rocky trails offering stunning vistas make these villages so much more than your average seaside resort.

Bologna is a student paradise—100,000 of them call the city home, eating high quality, cheap grub, then partying until 4am in medieval piazze and waking up in time for class the next day.

And Naples is not really full of trash. Much of it is beautiful and better explored over the course of a few days before you run off to the islands and coastline nearby.

Of course, I'll be spending some time in the "Big Three" Italian cities, taking the train up to Rome, Florence, and Venice. But that doesn't mean the best of Italy is yet to come. I'm pretty sure I've found that already.

Politics and Pelotas

Mon, 12 Jul 2010 07:58:56 +0000

Somehow this post isn't about Spain's historic World Cup win, and here's why:

Yesterday I arrived in Valencia by train halfway through the match due to long, long ticket queues and packed trains.

Once stepping off the train, I booked it to my hostel, fidgeted impatiently as the reception desk took my passport and explained exciting things about sheets and towels, ran upstairs upon receiving my keys and ditched my bag, and bolted out the door to our sister hostel where the game was being shown (and where I had a voucher for a free beer. Crucial.)

On my way I passed a few people enrobed in Spanish flags, some with painted faces, some in coordinating but classy red and yellow outfits, and some enthusiastic people sporting a mix of the three variations.

The streets were mostly empty, though—understandably, most people were busy crowding around the game. After the game, people flocked to the main plazas to honk, scream, and vuvuzela (can this now be a verb?) well into the night.

But, despite their continued revelry, I feel completely underwhelmed by the whole thing, and surprised about the fact that I feel underwhelmed.

The thing is, just yesterday I was engulfed in a sea of over one million people marching down Passeig de Gràcia, spilling onto other streets as necessary. Imagine: a million (million and a half, to some probably inflated estimates) carting a sea of Catalan flags, the slightly modified independence flags, signs with little hands saying "Adéu, Espanya!" (Goodbye, Spain!), and a collection of various banners made from sheets with various declarations of nationality scrawled with Sharpie.

This may just be my month in Barcelona speaking (and the weird sort of allegiance I've grown for Cataluña and against Castille in that time period), but the world cup doesn't have anything on this.

An der schönen, blauen Donau

Sun, 11 Jul 2010 16:00:24 +0000

For those of you from Massachusetts, the Danube River is nothing ike the Charles River (in Boston).

As the longest river in the European Union, the Danube begins in Germany and flows east through 10 countries (Austria included, of course) before ending in Romania and emptying into the Black Sea. But besides its impressive trail, the Danube is also surprisingly clean. Romania uses the Danube as a major water source, and Germany also uses purified water from the Danube to quench the thirst of millions of people.

In Vienna, the Danube River is unfortunately not part of the main city center. The Inner Stadt (1st district) is bounded on the east by the Danube Canal (which although Danube water, is only a small stream of the actual Danube), and not nearly as wide nor impressive nor "blauen."

Although the Danube is clean, I also discovered that compared to other countries with parts of the Danube, Austria uses relatively little of the water for drinking. (Don't be mistaken; the water in Austria is some of the best anywhere—drinking from the tap is never a problem). Instead, people go swimming in the Danube!! Off the U6 Neue Donau stop (which is part of Donauinsel, the island in the middle of the Danube), people sunbathe and splash around in the river water. Who'd have thought?

No wonder Johann Strauss wrote a waltz about the river as he traveled downstream...An der schönen, blauen Donau (On the beautiful, blue Danube)...

Roughing it

Sun, 11 Jul 2010 10:39:23 +0000

As I sat in my hostel in Brighton, trying to book my stay for the next three days in Canterbury, I berated myself for not realizing that everywhere under 60 pounds a night would be booked full.

When I called my fifth hostel, things began looking up.

"Yeah! We have a bed!" chirped a cheery receptionist.

Immediately I relaxed, having the knowledge that I'd have a place to sleep for one more night.

"...and the tent's just in the backyard." She finished.

"Oh, cool! Is that where dinner is or something?" I asked, enthralled by the idea of eating outside with a bunch of people my own age.

"No, sorry—the accomodation, your bed, is in the tent."

"Excuse me?"

And she slowly explained once again how there were no beds left, but that they had tents in the backyard, one of which would house me for the night.

I arrived the next day and proceeded to check in. This was difficult for a number of reasons, the first being that I had a computer and several valuable objects that I didn't want lying in the backyard all night. Grumpily, I signed the papers, trying to indicate with my eyebrows the extent of my frustration. She thanked me cheerfully once again.

I turned to go and she called me back, "Wait a minute!" There was a rustling under the counter and she slammed a lantern down on the desk. "You'll need this."

"Thanks," I muttered and began trekking out to the tent.

A few things about the tent: 1) Yesterday was, supposedly, the hottest day of the year in Canterbury. 2) The "gate" to the tent area did not close. 3) The blankets were, I think, mattress pads.

So it was that I passed a night clutching my backpack to my chest, sleeping fully clothed in someone's backyard. I woke up a bit after the sun rose, removed the four mattress pads I had piled on top of myself, and checked out of the hostel, a well-rested man.

Fashion Advice from the Statue

Sun, 11 Jul 2010 02:18:04 +0000

"Look, it goes great with your skin tone!"

Death, taxes, and this.

Sat, 10 Jul 2010 22:10:22 +0000

Hold me, I'm a fermata

Sat, 10 Jul 2010 20:47:28 +0000

Prior to this research trip, my Italian consisted solely of allegro vivace, subito piano, and other common music-y phrases. (After this research trip, my Italian will have expanded to include such useful sentences as "I write for a tourist guide" and "maybe one of the waiters speaks English?") So I get a real kick out of seeing familiar music-Italian in its original context.

It makes total sense! And yet it cracks me up every time.

The Most Curious Thing I Ever Saw (says the Cheshire Cat)

Sat, 10 Jul 2010 19:13:22 +0000

Today was Alice Day in Oxford.

That means little girls dressed up like Alice in Wonderland, a few not-so-little girls dressed up like the Queen of Hearts, and everyone enjoyed picnics, plays, and all the fanfare that comes with celebrating Louis Carroll's most famous heroine in her, and his, old stomping grounds of Oxford. The real Alice, Alice Liddell, was the daughter of a former dean of Christ Church College and Carroll (back then, Charles Dodgson) used to tell her stories about turtles and ducks and the Jabberwocky out on the Thames River while he was a Professor of Mathematics here at the college.

Unlike my grandfather, who can recite lines of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland from memory, I don't think I ever quite finished the book. (I hate that I'm one of those people who have seen the movie, but never read the book. Terrible.)

Still, I was curious to see what all the fuss was about. First, I tried to talk to the costumed characters standing outside of Blackwell's bookstore but they had run out of leaflets and weren't sure where the next event was taking place. Then, I followed a family of face-painted children and wound up at the National History Museum. Outside there was a man with a guitar singing Alice verses to mobs of clapping and giggling toddlers. (By the way, I never noticed before how little kids have absolutely no sense of rhythm...)

I was just about to head out and give up on Alice shenanigans completely when I saw a sign for the lecture hall. (You know you've been out of school for too long when you start gravitating towards the mention of lectures.) I followed the signs.

A ha! So this is where all the grown ups had gone.

The room was packed to the brim with Alice fans of all (well, 16+) ages, everyone here to listen to the president of the Lewis Carroll Society (yes, there is such a thing) give a free lecture on "Carroll and Surrealism." I plopped down in one of the few empty chairs and eagerly pulled out my notebook.

The lecturer read off his notes for about a half-hour, and the climax of the presentation (aka the final slides of the PowerPoint) was supposed to be Salvador Dali's famous surrealist paintings of Alice in Wonderland. Just as he's about to switch over to the slide, though, the projector freezes and then turns blue. The man fiddled for a few seconds with the computer, but with no luck, and became resigned to the fact that the lecture wasn't going to get the happy ending he'd planned. I felt bad for whomever the tech guys working in the museum were. If looks could kill, they'd be lying on the floor.

Or, more aptly, as the Queen would say, "Now, off with their heads."

Does this look like it's worth €25 to you?

Sat, 10 Jul 2010 16:04:08 +0000

Because it doesn't to me, and I'm about to barter to the best of my ability to get down the price of my already-cleaned clothes. The lesson from this experience: make sure you know the price of laundry before passing off a large-ish pile of dirty clothing to the woman who runs your dormatia.

It's a small world. Or a small country, at least.

Sat, 10 Jul 2010 14:48:10 +0000

After a long night of nightlife research yesterday (well, early today, really), I was about to call it a night and begin the long and tiring trek up to my hostel in Bairro Alto. A few Portuguese strolled by, speaking with a thick northern Portuguese accent about Braga, a city in the north. We quickly got into a conversation about how Braga is—with the exception of Lisboa, of course—my favorite city that I've been to so far in Portugal. It turned out they were from a suburb of Braga, and they asked what my favorite part of Braga had been. I responded that I really loved this one huge palace that looks abandoned, which has gray stone but is otherwise completely covered in blue tiles.

"Of course," one of them responded in Portuguese. "That's a hospital now—I was born there."

Round and Round the Kitty

Sat, 10 Jul 2010 12:53:47 +0000

Drinking blogs, there had to be a few.

I was out at a pub the other day and was talking to a few people I had met, well, at the pub (this is an incredibly common occurrence at pubs it seems—new friends come easy).

Anyway, one of my new friends asked me about the drinking culture in the United States, particularly, college drinking culture. After struggling through a few awkward sentences, trying to find the right combination of "vodka...too much...images too graphic to be put into words...sloppy" I finally just gave up, and said, "It's complicated." I then turned to enter the pub and get another beer.

It was only my second, don't judge.

However, I hadn't taken a step before my newfound friend stopped me and said, "Whoa there, you're not going to buy a drink by yourself are ye?"

"Um, well, did you guys want anything?" I said.

"Let me tell you about drinking in a pub," was his answer.

He then proceeded to tell me about the two modes of drinking which follow. I, being the LG messenger of all things good and (sometimes) alcoholic, pass them onto you.

The Round: How the round works is simple. In a somewhat random manner (roshambo is a popular choice), a starter is selected from the group. That person takes orders from the rest of the people in his or her group and buys all of the drinks from the bar. Then, after those drinks are finished (you will not be waited for if you find yourself behind the group) the next person in line goes up to the bar and does the same thing. IT IS FORBIDDEN FOR YOU TO LEAVE THE GROUP WITHOUT HAVING PAID FOR YOUR ROUND. Plus, it's just rude. Think about it, you're really only paying for as many drinks as you have, but if you cut out early before a complete buying circle has been made, you're losing money. The only way for you to break even is to stay and drink with the group. If the group is particularly large, you could be there for a while...Bear this in mind if you decide to head out with your entire hostel.

The Kitty: The Kitty works along essentially the same principles but with one major difference. Each person, instead of buying a round for the group, puts in a set amount (the "kitty") into an empty pint glass that sits in the middle of the table. It could be £5, £10 or (God forbid) £20. Drinks are then bought with money taken exclusively from the Kitty, and, while you can leave before the cash has been fully depleted, there's no way to get back what you've put in other than in drink. Again then, you're only getting your money's worth if you stay and sit through quite a few pints.

Then again, leaving early does have its health and sobriety benefits I suppose.

I'm on a Boat!

Sat, 10 Jul 2010 10:25:26 +0000

Saturday is my boat day - I've taken a ride along the river Maas in the boiling sunshine to visit the mountains and caves of St Pieter - exploring the caves was great; what was even better was that they were SO cool compared to the sweltering heat outside. Travelling by boat is fun, but how about STAYING on a boat? I've checked in this evening to the Botel - A Boat Hotel in Maastricht, which is moored just along the river Maas. I really hope I don't get seasick, or stagger back tonight after exploring the town center and fall overboard.

Things are hotting up in more ways than the weather as well - tomorrow is the world cup final, and there is a big buzz around the town. Finding an orange shirt is proving difficult though - clearly I'm jumping onto the Holland bandwagon too late. Though I really hope to find a snake mascot like the one I found in the Province House the other day:

Go for the Beach, Stay for the Boas

Sat, 10 Jul 2010 08:56:08 +0000

Yesterday was my lone day in Sitges, a beach town just 45 minutes by train from Barcelona that's basically the place to go when you're sick of fighting for a spot on Barcelona's sandy shores.

I came prepared, wearing my bathing suit under my clothes. I left burnt in an amazing display of near artistic sunwork, with a streak of bright red on just one side of my body.

Unbeknownst to me, the city is also an incredibly popular gay resort, and I happened to visit on the opening day of their first ever Gay Pride.

I watched the streets gradually fill with balloon banners as the day carried on, and I counted enough rainbow flags on a single street to outnumber the total number I had seen in the Eixample back in Barcelona.

As night fell, I was looking to bide time before I began my nightlife research. After snagging some cheap and uninteresting falafel, I followed the sound of techno and a syrupy woman's voice singing remixes of '80s pop, Lady Gaga, and club hits to the beach. Rainbow tents decked the esplanade along the water, and a small crowd began to assemble.

Curious as to what was about to go down, I nestled myself into the front of the crowd and whipped out my notepad, pen, and camera, and, like when I take notes at most events, got some confused looks from bystanders—some intrigued, some clearly not wanting to feel like they were being documented in the wild. Luckily, the beautiful burly men I ended up behind had no voyeur-induced reservations and continued their butt grabbing and kissing throughout the night, looking at me and my reporter-esque accoutrements from time to time for good measure.

And then, the music stopped and the shimmery woman drifted off of the stage. The host of the night stepped up, greeting the crowd in English, then in Spanish, and introduced the next act—ABBA.

Somehow I had walked into a free ABBA concert. Or, so I thought, until I realized the females of the group looked incredibly young and nubile for a band that peaked in the '70s.

Turns out it was ABBA The Show, a cover band that has been declared "the Best ABBA since ABBA," which comes complete with everything from a white suited guitarist with pink sequin lapels to an excited crowd that sings along to every song they never wrote.

And that is how I prepped for my night of work: feet in the Mediterranean, an antique church to my left, and a band playing "Ring Ring" to an adoring crowd to my right.

Crash Landing

Fri, 09 Jul 2010 19:26:33 +0000

Brighton used to be one of the more prominent fishing villages in England. The fishermen used to live in tiny cottages in an area now populated with boutiques, where the price of the average product is more than a fisherman would make in a lifetime. The area is called the Lanes and North Laines, and some of the streets are a mere 3-feet wide.

I was eating in a cafe in the Lanes, enjoying the feeling of claustrophobic isolation. An Australian man was explaining to his companion the history of the Lanes when suddenly a shadow grew over us.

There was a loud squawk and then a large seagull ran straight into the man's back, causing him to emit a loud "Crikey!" The seagull spun out, shook itself and, realizing there wasn't enough space to take off, began a mad dash towards the end of the lane. When it was just a few feet away, it spread it's wings and took off into an old woman. Recovering once again, it flew away, and everyone went back about their business, trying to avoid the absurdity of what had just happened.

Hostel Mates

Fri, 09 Jul 2010 19:20:41 +0000

A few days ago, I left the comfort of my Bakery/cave/flat and moved to the seaside for the start of my last two weeks on the road. I was excited to finally stay in a hostel and was very much looking forward to a chance at seeing people my own age. I didn't bargain for exactly how much I would see.

Today, half of my room left, and the two beds were immediately filled with new guests. As I left in the morning, the receptionist mentioned that I'd have new roommates, and I didn't bother asking who they were. Currently, I was satisfied with the core group: me and an Australian couple named Mel and Ben. Other than the fact that having two guys named Ben in the same room got confusing, they were really nice people and we all got along very well.

As I walked the stairs to my room, I decided I would go into the communal bathrooms and throw water on my face before getting to work writing. I pushed open the door, and there was an ear-splitting shriek. Standing before me was a naked girl groping madly for a towel. I stumbled backwards and threw my arm up in front of my eyes, muttering a stream of apologies as I tripped out the door. Shell-shocked, I ascended the stairs to my room, calculating the time it would take for me to start laughing about the experience.

I opened the door and entered. A tall French girl introduced herself to me and we began talking about what she was doing in Brighton. I was midway through explaining my job when there came a small knock at the door. I turned and opened it and there was the girl. This time, half-naked.

She gasped and blushed. I stepped forward to try and exit, stubbed my toe on the door, swore and hopped out, telling them I'd come back when they were done getting ready. I spent the next twelve minutes on the landing one floor up reading some cowboy fiction another backpacker had left behind. There were ponies somewhere, there was a corral, and there was loads of whiskey.

I came back to the room and got ready to knock. Then, seeing the door was open (whereas before it had been closed), I began walking in while knocking. The girl was sitting on the floor in her underwear.

"Jesus Christ!"

"Oh mon dieu."

I shielded my eyes and backed out of the room. As I slowly descended the stairs, they called me back. Thankful for the chance to get my computer, I walked back up and unpacked my stuff. As I did this, they talked about me and what I had seen in French which they assumed I didn't understand.

As I write this, they are debating which dresses to wear tonight and discussing my accent. I can't figure out how to tell them I speak French. More on that later, but for now I'm going to get to know the people with whom I'm sharing a bunk bed, and see if I can instill in them an appreciation for the science of dressing in shower stalls.

Parting Words of Wisdom in How2 Format (See, I Told You There Would Be a Second Part)

Fri, 09 Jul 2010 16:44:52 +0000

How2 Shop: Don't. Mall clothing is gross and other stores will just sell you the cheapest of goods for the same amount as elsewhere. If you really want to chuck some cash on material possessions, consider purchasing a bottle of Tokaj dessert wine.

How2 Avoid Losing $: Buy a ticket for every ride you take. Keep your bags close and your paranoia closer: you can never be too "safe" when riding the metro.

How2 Get Laid: There's little or no chance for this. Locals go to bars with friends and when I asked about meeting new people, they scoff, "why would I go to a bar to meet some sketchy Americans when I have my own friends?"

How2 Be Happy: Open your eyes and take in the view. The architecture is beautiful and the scenery is more so. A walk along the Danube is sure to take you breath away and there can't be anything more romantic than watching the sun set from atop Fisherman's Bastion on Castle Hill.

How2 Avoid Getting Peed On: Careful where you sit at the fountain on Margaret Island. Small children like to relieve themselves there. The giant shooting geyser must be a diuretic or something.

How2 Meet Hot Skater Boys: Lots of skaters use the sleek, flat surface of Heroes Square and the pipes at Elizabeth Square (by Gödör Klub) to show off their skills. Just sayin'....

How2 Be Amazed: If you go to one museum in the city, check out the Museum of Applied Arts. The floors of delicately crafted, gorgeous knick knacks will keep you awestruck for hours.

How2 Order at the Bar: Contrary to popular belief, most people in Budapest do not order wine when out on the town. Sure it may be a bit cheaper, but you're also getting about an eighth amount of alcohol as you would with a stein of beer. Keep it simple—whatever's on tap.

All right friends. That's all I've got from Budapest. Keep checking my blogs as I head to Prague early next week! SZIA (see-ya, in Hungarian. Nope, I'm not kidding.)

This is a title

Fri, 09 Jul 2010 16:26:58 +0000

When I popped from my mother, she said, "I can't love this, it needs hair." It's true, I did, and it's true, Mother lacked a basic understanding of human growth patterns, but her message about the importance of hair was not lost on me.

Nor was it lost on Berliners who regard locks and waves as something more than just a poof of hair follicles. The head is a temple, and the hair is that temple's grass, and wouldn't you want your temple's grass to be novel and well groomed?

In the States, hair is too often simply that substance we dangle in front of our cats in hopes they'll play with it, or the crud we pull from our shower drains as we convince ourselves it was worth it to let our girlfriend live with us.

But Berliners know better, and never live with their girlfriends.

They also know better on the hair front. It's not uncommon to see 70-year-old women waiting in line at the supermarket with pink blotches in their hair, or bizmen in suits with uneven segments shaved from their heads.

The head challenges the Berliner—what will you do with me? The answers can be pretty novel.

Below lie a scant few examples of this Berlin phenomenon.

Cinderella, I think Austria stole your castle

Fri, 09 Jul 2010 15:57:17 +0000

On my daytrip to Krems, I had the chance to stop off at Grafenegg, a gorgeous castle nestled in the Austrian countryside of the Wachau region.

Just to clarify—I am not exaggerating when I say that Grafenegg is a castle (besides the fact that is quite clearly named Grafenegg Castle). Crossing the grass landscape, Grafenegg emerges from between the trees, stunning in its quiet serenity, brilliant white and surrounded by a moat (although waterless, but that is beside the point). The square-shaped tower has four individual turrets on each corner, with clocks embedded between, and the inner courtyard has a grand sweeping staircase with hanging lanterns and mounted moose heads. The rooms have detailed ceiling panelings with masked faces, the fireplaces are colorful works of art, and even the "Knight's Hall" has leather tapestries made of Spanish goatskin. Questionable to some, but nonetheless ornate.

I felt like I was in a fairytale as I explored the grand rooms and the extensive ground with lakes and a 360 degree panaroma view of the castle. And better yet, there was no one else there. I half expected a knight in shining armor on a white horse to come sweep me away. A girl can dream, right?

More Fun with Statues

Fri, 09 Jul 2010 11:32:37 +0000

This muse finds her inspiration in Let's Go and shouts, "HOLLA!!!"

The following blog was found lying half-hidden in a sandtrap.

Fri, 09 Jul 2010 11:20:44 +0000

I spent the last week in St. Andrews, the birthplace of golf.

After arriving and settling in, I decided I would go and poke around. St. Andrews is a beautiful city, with several miles of cliffs and coasts and long strands of beaches on either end of town. The ruins of an ancient cathedral and Scotland's oldest university (as well as a castle, did I mention the castle?) round out this surprisingly small town.

But wait, what is that? There appears to be some native fauna about. Their strange nature and bizarre behavior compel me to a more complete examination. My records follow:

Subject PNP (Plaid n' Pruned): Subject appears not to have realized that he is wearing competing colors, patterns, and sizes of plaid clothing. Shirt is far too large and left open, revealing a white undershirt and far too much chest hair beneath. It's orange-and-red pattern contrasts sharply with the white-and-blue pattern of his much-too-small shorts. I silently thank heaven that I am wearing my sunglasses, as my corneas have obviously just been put into peril.

Subject MOM (Maternally Overbearing Mother-figure): A three seated child transportation device nearly runs me off the sidewalk and into an oncoming bus. This must be some territorial display. Additional evidence corroborates this supposition, as several victims of the motherbeast's ferocity lie, piles of wasted carcasses in the pouch beneath her—all bearing the same hideous but strange "Starbucks" brand upon their bodies. I again count myself lucky to have escaped unharmed. It is a well-known fact that areas with sites of the sport "golf" are enough to pull the MOM subject's mate away for long periods of time, leaving her alone in charge of their cubs and, thusly, irritable and territorial. This observer wonders, in a high-risk golf zone such as this, how many similar encounters he will have.

Subject UNKNOWN: URGENT. I have found myself pursued by an unknown creature. I leave these statements as my final will and testament, should I be caught. Subject is large, but has short, round, and black legs. It seems to gather its momentum not from walking but from rolling along the ground. Despite what would appear to be an evolutionary defect it is gaining on me quite rapidly. I increase my pace, and look desperately for a place in which I may find shelter or hide, but I'm in the middle of a golf-zone, and there is nothing but stunted grass everywhere. A small hole appears on the rise in front of me, but it is both too small to serve as a hiding place and marked by a strange flag, making it obvious to my pursuer. Running out of breath. If I am gone, and only this record remains, let them know I died for science. Dear God, the beast is shouting its war cry! Strangely, it sounds like the number "four." I can hear it making a strange whirring sound as it approaches. Its legs are almost wheel-like and I can see it has already claimed two unfortunate golf-animals, as it wears their equipment like trophies of war upon its back. This is it. Here it comes. Let them know I—ARRRGGH!

Why I Love Morocco

Fri, 09 Jul 2010 10:13:19 +0000

During a brief and satisfying lunch in Marrakech's medina, I realized that I don't need to speak Arabic to understand Moroccans.

As I was stuffing the last bite of a scrumptious egg and potato sandwich into my mouth, a middle-aged woman burst into the tiny grill joint where I was eating. She gave me a wide, toothless smile and bellowed a friendly "Bonjour." I liked her already.

Next, the bubbly lady and the young man behind the grill had a heated conversation in Arabic, which involved the usual amounts of wild gesticulation and apparent argument. Afterwards, she left in a hurry. One minute later though, madam dashed back inside with two goat livers in hand, tossing the meats over the counter at the young man who began to cut them. This is about the time when my brain successfully processed the conversation.

"Cut horizontal, not vertical!" I like to think she used the word "dumbass" somewhere in there.

The young man seemed to be enjoying his customer's critiques, so he acceded to her demands of cutting the "right" way. He then tossed the liver into the fry pan and turned around in search of a fork. Big mistake. Barriers meant nothing as the woman reached over the counter to grab his bottle of oil and a handful of his salt, pouring both liberally over her soon-to-be lunch. When the cook turned around, his eyes widened.

"Stop, you crazy lady! You're using all my oil!" She just kept going, yelling right back at him.

"I want my meat to be tasty!" (Ok, she probably didn't say "dumbass" this time.)

Things got even funnier since there's an even more precise technique for frying liver. When the inept cook wasn't getting it right, the pushy woman grabbed the fork right out of his hand.

"Let me do it."

He picked up a second fork and kept doing his job, so that both young and old were energetically moving the meat around the oily frying pan crossing their forks and alternately yelling in what quickly became a duel. I wish I had a video camera.

When the meat was cooked and the duel had ended with no fatal wounds, the woman darted out again. The cook looked over at me for sympathy and discreetly made the "she's crazy" sign with his hands. Amazing.

At this point, the food was ready, the hilarity had mostly subsided and I got up to leave. Except now it was my turn to receive an order. The lady gave me another huge grin, pointed to the chair and told me to sit my butt right back down with the command "mange!" (the imperative for "eat.") I tried to decline in French, but she insisted in Arabic. Somehow I understood. Plus, how could I refuse a second lunch?

She pulled up a chair next to mine, laid out the fries and meat, and graciously poured me 2/3 of her coke. I tried to take just a few bites, but every time I stopped scooping up handfuls of liver, she hollered "mange!" It seemed to make her happier seeing me enjoy the food than eating the lunch she'd worked so hard for herself.

To the cook, her antics might have been crazy, but it was all I could do to stop myself from giving her an enormous hug when we parted ways in the medina alley. Oh, did I mention that she ordered me a second sandwich to-go for my dinner?

Rotterdam

Fri, 09 Jul 2010 08:53:04 +0000

Having lived in Boston for three years, I'm pretty familiar with city rivalries fueled by sports teams but that come to encompass all aspects of urban life. The competitive relationship between Rotterdam and Amsterdam has a lot in common with the Boston-NYC bitterness; it's most evident when Feyenoord (Rotterdam's soccer team) and Ajax (Amsterdam's) play each other, but it goes way beyond that. When I was still in Amsterdam, whenever I told any local that I was headed to Rotterdam they instantly warned me about how terrible it was. According to them, if you like Amsterdam you'll hate Rotterdam, and I like Amsterdam a lot. So, I was fully prepared to spend a miserable five days here. Oh, how wrong they (and I) were. Yes, Rotterdam is shockingly modern compared to the picturesque canals and low houses of Amsterdam; sure, it seems a little poorer and the nightlife is frustratingly concentrated in disparate areas that are far away from each other. But there are things that are great the Netherlands' second-largest city: the architecture takes some getting used to (I had forgotten that skyscrapers exist), but some of it is really weird and awesome; the art scene is incredible; food here is even cheaper and better than what you find in Amsterdam; and even in the center of the city, you can't help but be struck by the fact that most of the crowds are made up of locals.

To be fair, I'm not fully on Rotterdam's side: all the Rotterdammers I've met hate on Amsterdam and say that it's just a gaudy wasteland packed with tourists, which I can definitively say is untrue. However, I think that the fierce pride Rotterdammers have in their city, undoubtedly stemming from a slight inferiority complex about their more-famous neighbor, is one of the best things about being here. People are so eager to tell you about all the great things to do and see that it's as though they feel that they have to convince you to like it here too. Well, I'm convinced, though I don't know if I love it here so much that I'd go as far to show my appreciation for the city as some locals do. Like the guy I met who had "ROTTERDAM" tattooed in giant, gothic script on his forearm and wore a Feyenoord pendant around his neck with the same reverence that some people have for their saints' medallions.

Rotterdam's local vibe was really at its best the night that Holland secured their place in the World Cup finals. But I'm going to refrain from telling that story in the hopes that I'll be able to relate an even better one about soccer celebration after Sunday night.

Escaping Naples

Thu, 08 Jul 2010 22:26:53 +0000

It's like a different world out here.

This time, I don't mean that Naples is a world apart from the northern cities that I explored for the first 6+ weeks of my trek around the Italian peninsula, though the statement would certainly be true. No, I'm talking about Naples being a world apart from itself.

To be fair, the city gets a pretty bad rap in general. Travelers who experience only the trash-filled market outside Stazione Centrale don't get a real feeling for the city. Most areas are perfectly safe and relatively clean. Keep your wits about you and your iPhone at home (guys hawk them curbside) and you'll be fine.

But one need not voyage to Capri or Ischia, local islands, to escape such grime and hubbub. Just around the corner—literally the corner that Naples' streets take along the coast—is a stretch that feels more like the Riveria than stereotypical "Napoli."The Chiaia neighborhood not only has seafront restaurants but also gleaming yachts anchored just offshore. Five-star hotels like the promenade, where traffic moves quickly but without the same crush it has in the centro.

Plus, the hilltop Vomero neighborhood is an oasis of clean shops and bars, with stunning vistas to wit. From its castle, I saw all of Naples: historic center, port, (other) castles, beach, and Vesuvius, without as much as a whiff of trash or a hint of a car horn. From one of its main streets, I enjoyed a pizza in the cool breeze, 150m above the radiating heat of the city streets.

I've been missing those beaches from Cinque Terre. Now, around the corner in Naples, I think I'm doing all right.

Drama on the Metro, Part 1

Thu, 08 Jul 2010 21:31:43 +0000

Drama on the Metro is something to which Parisians and expats become speedily accustomed. In essence, the Metro is the only thing that all Parisians (except the richest or the heartiest bikers/walkers) must share. It thus implies an unparalleled level of social mixing. The best stuff happens when one of the parties involved is belligerently drunk.

Take, for example, this incident.

Metro etiquette across the globe dictates that people boarding the train stand aside while people on the train exit. It is a widely known, appreciated, and violated rule. One time, a tiny old man standing next to me waiting to get on the #1 line at Chatelet stepped into the train when he thought that everybody had emptied out. As he walked in, an enormous drunk was tardily walking out. Think the Terminator, faced off Grey Goose; the man was a beast. The giant proceeded to shove the old man out of the train, screaming "Tu vas attendre!!" Given his smallness, me and a few other folks in the crowd were able to brace his fall. He was fine, but when he finally got on the train, pretty shaken up. I was patting him on the shoulder and laughing about how crazy the guy was, when I looked over my shoulder and saw Terminator vehemently voicing his protest against my sympathy, saying that he would break my face if I didn't stop caressing the expletive. Luckily, the door closed, but I think I could have easily taken out his legs.

More crazy vignettes to come, stay tuned.

Looking for the "real Paris?"

Thu, 08 Jul 2010 21:18:52 +0000

Although I already made a post pretty similar to this one, my experiences this past week merit a "part two." I've emphasized throughout my blogs that tourists need to get away from the central areas in Paris to experience the best cuisine, bar experiences, hotel prices, and authentic "Parisian moments." If you're looking to be introduced to an authentically heterogeneous Parisian neighborhood, try the 19th and the 20th arrondissements (specifically, the 20th). One of the less wealthy neighborhoods of Paris, it comes as close to the mythical melting pot as you can get. All different types of food are available (Algerian, various African cuisines, and, of course Italian). At many bars in the 20th, joints are liberally smoked by bartenders and patrons alike. It's a whole different world from the almost machine-like, uniform social mileu that you tend to find in the touristy regions of Paris (wealthier Parisians mixed with tourists). Bizarre vignettes and memories will abound. So check it out, if that's your scene. Just don't get caught alone after dark. Safety can get a teensy bit dubious around midnight.

Getting All Wet and Wild

Thu, 08 Jul 2010 21:00:16 +0000

I took a bath for the first time since I've been in Budapest today. Today marks my one-month-and-one-week in this city. Now before you start scrunching up your pretty little noses in your primly scrubbed apartments, fully equipped with hot showers and clean toilets, I'd like to clarify that this was a special type of bath—yes yes, I have showered and kept myself tidy since I've been here, tank you berry much. What I am talking about here are the magnificent, the magical, the surreal, the entrancing, the phenomenally orgasmic Turkish baths where you can float around for hours in warm mineral water and rub elbows with sexy septuagenarians. It is truly a unique experience. The bath I went to, Széchényi, is housed in a beautiful building in the center of the City Park and is the only bath where you can witness said seventy-year-old men playing chess on floating chess boards. I'm not sure if you've ever seen a cat play an accordion. It's kind of like that. That interesting of a sight, I mean. Anyway, I seriously recommend bathing when in Budapest. It will make you feel even more refreshed than a half hour of Bikram yoga in sweat pants and give you a tale you could never tell your grandchildren, it would just be that wild.

Hoi Hoi!

Thu, 08 Jul 2010 16:06:46 +0000

I thought I'd landed on the Jolly Roger - the Dutch greet each other like pirates, and say goodbye. At the train station as a woman shouted "Hoi Hoi" (Which DOES sound like Ahoy Hoy), I had to stifle a laughter. Now I stifle a laughter all the time - it's hard not to smile.

Holland is such a happy place - but it may have somehting to do with their sporting glory at the moment. On Tue night they booted their way into the World Cup final and as locals jumped on cars, mounted buses to dance and blew their vuvellas with great puffs, I realised for the first time in my life I would be IN a country which was playing in the final of the World Cup (Remember, I've lived in England for 18 years!) I intend to buy myself a load of orange clothes and even purchase some orange hair spray - expect pictures to follow!

Books are good for you.

Thu, 08 Jul 2010 11:25:30 +0000

I consider it one of the greatest tragedies of higher education that college makes a lot of people hate libraries.

Being the dorky kid I was, I LOVED libraries. There was nothing as exciting as a trip to the children’s section. I would leave the library with a huge stack of books and a cheesy smile on my face.

I wouldn’t say I hate libraries these days, but I’ve definitely started to lose that wide-eyed adulation. When you associate a library with stress, all-nighters, paper-writing, deadlines, all multiplied by 300 in a condensed atmosphere (because of all the people around you who are feeling the same way), it’s hard to remember why you liked books in the first place. By summertime, most of us are pretty fed up with libraries.

How could I go to Oxford, however, without seeing one of the oldest English-language libraries in the world (…and also the site of Hogwarts library)?

I couldn’t. And I’m glad I didn’t. Bodleian Library is, simply put, spectacular. Our adorable 80-something year-old tour guide (ironically, a Cambridge man) led us up three flights of steps to a reading room that dates from 1602. The idea that people have been reading books in here for 400 years is pretty amazing— not to mention that many of these books have survived the Reformation, the English Civil War, the Plague, and two world wars.

There’s an original copy of a Guttenberg Bible. There’s also the 14^th-century Red Book of Hergest, the great Welsh manuscript whose name J.R.R. Tolkien borrowed to create the Red Book of Westmarch in The Lord of the Rings, which was the imagined mystical source of the Oxford professor’s famous tales. Most of the books here are older than America.

Oxford has also figured out a great way to make sure that people spend time in libraries, regardless of their feelings towards doing work. In the Bodleian, there is a tradition that is still zealously enforced: no books are allowed to be lent out to readers. This applies even to royalty—King Charles I was famously refused permission to take out a book in 1645. Back in the day, many of the books were even chained to the walls.

And when the books can’t leave, the people can’t either.

Djema'a al Fna

Thu, 08 Jul 2010 11:07:09 +0000

Djema'a al Fna. A plaza in Marrakech's medina and the world's most amazing open-air spectacle.

8pm. I walk up to a man sitting cross-legged beneath a parasol. I'm not certain whether his oboe is meant to keep the surrounding cobras content or whether the music is for dramatic effect. Either way, I duck Mr. Snake Charmer's assistant trying to throw a slithery around me for a photo.

8:05 pm. Next, I do the orange juice cat walk, which involves strutting my stuff through an aisle of orange juice vendors whistling and hollering at me for business. I've never felt so popular. it makes the refreshing 35 cent glass taste even better.

8:10 pm. Moving with the flow, I find a circle of ecstatic musicians singing and dancing in a free concert. Everyone in the crowd knows the words and someone explains that we're jamming to Morocco's equivalent of "The Beatles."

8:20pm. After waltzing with a midget, I check out the neighboring circle of Moroccans watching a dude in drag belly-dance better than Shakira. Damn. There are henna ladies everywhere and fortune tellers dealing tarot cards. I won't tell PETA about the Barbary monkeys posing in fes hats.

8:30pm. All this entertainment is making me hungry so I sit down at one of the many stalls the food city. I order a tangia, lamb cooked in a clay vessel inside the 1000 degree furnace of the public hammam. It's fantastic, but I'm grateful that the sheep heads keeping me company can't see me eating their friends.

8:50pm. Happy and ready for more, I make my way through the smoke to a far corner of the plaza. Beside a Saharan medicine man selling herbal remedies, there's a public lecturer passionately declaiming his soliloquy. I wish I could understand Arabic, since the man is explaining the optimal mechanics of sexual intercourse.

9:00pm. From the terrace of Café Glacier, I take this photo. It captures only one-quarter of the spectacle. Djema'a al Fna, you are extraordinary.

C-Sickness (where C stands for Cliff)

Thu, 08 Jul 2010 09:56:10 +0000

    I've never been seasick before. I guess never having been on a small tug boat bobbing along some choppy coastline would explain that. Heading south to the Bay of Naples, I thought I might get my first taste of ocean-induced nausea, but after multiple ferries to Capri, the only headache I came away with was a result of the sun rather than the sea.
    It wasn't until I headed further south to the Amalfi Coast that my first bout of nausea hit. Surprisingly, it wasn't from the waves -- the swift hydrofoils I rode on while sailing the coast were smoother than the NYC subway. In fact, it was on a bus from Amalfi to Positano that the sickness first set in. It is no exaggeration when people speak of buses recklessly swerving around the coast's sharp cliffs. Every time a big turn comes up, the driver lets out a long honk just in case there's another vehicle zooming round the bend. For the most part though, it's just a nimble driving hand and good eyesight that keep the bus on the road. (And after quite a few rides, there's some good luck thrown in there.)
    Midway through the trip, I could tell that the uneasy feeling in my stomach wasn't from hunger and it wasn't from the sun. I was as close to seasick as I've ever been. I closed my eyes to keep from seeing the winding road ahead. Ironic, I thought -- my first time feeling seasick, and it's bus honks instead of fog horns keeping me awake.

Dog-spotting

Thu, 08 Jul 2010 09:09:55 +0000

I was already keeping a list of memorable puppy sightings in Tuscany. To wit, here are some entries from that list:
- a cocker spaniel riding the handlebars of a bicycle, balancing himself quite impressively.
- a bichon having a swell time in the front basket of one of those four-person bike surrey things.
- a little white poodle accompanying an old lady as she sat in a very romantic spot along the bank of the Arno, at sunset no less.
- not one, but two fluffy white things in a pair of baskets hanging over a bicycle's rear wheel.

And then I was walking past a restaurant with a long crowded table, and at the head of the table, two Papillons sat in a lady's lap. Aww! Then I saw another pointy ear sticking up over the edge of the table. And another. And I looked closer... EVERYONE had a Papillon. Some people had two, or even three. It was a Papillon convention.

Have bike, will get really, really lost.

Thu, 08 Jul 2010 08:39:31 +0000

This is the story of how I got lost on a bicycle in Tuscany for a day.

My hostel in Pisa had free bicycles. That's pretty much all it had going for it - it was one of these places where some dude had been like, "I'm gonna go to Ikea and get 10 bunk-beds and say my house is a hostel!" But I am a bike commuter at heart, and it was making me sad to see all these Italians whizzing by balancing cappuccinos and cocker spaniels. (Both! At once! I saw it! And that's a very talented cocker spaniel, let me tell you.)

Pisa, by the way, is a dump. It has exactly three things to offer to the world:
- One tower, leaning.
- One beach, 20min. away
- Cheap beer

So I was pleased to have at my disposal the means to leave Pisa. One afternoon, I hopped on the bike and rode out to a camping hostel I wanted to write up that's located in the outskirts of the centro. It was hot out, the campsite had a swimming pool, and I have no journalistic ethics. Sooo... I conned my way into the swimming pool: hurrah! Feeling refreshed and adventurous, I biked further down the road.

I had no map of the area, mind you. No idea where the road led, no food or water on my person. All I had was a bike and the great open road.

So this was pretty great for a while. I just biked straight, figuring I'd eventually turn around and head right back in to Pisa. But after an hour, I became very thirsty and discovered there were no shops to be found. Spotting a sign for a Coop, a local supermarket chain, I made my first turn off my original path to follow it.

The road stretched on and on. Finally I came to the Coop, a solid 1/2hr. of biking away from where I had left the main road. It was closed. Ahh, Sunday in Italy. At this point, I was viciously thirsty and overheated and knew for a fact that there was nowhere to buy water in the 1/2hr. of road behind me. And so I desperately blundered forward, hoping that maybe, maybe the next turn would reveal an open market or a roaring waterfall or a kindly farmer. Or, you know, a sign pointing me towards Pisa. Because I hadn't the slightest idea where I was.

Another 20min. of biking later, and I perceived the most miraculous sight - the church of Santa Maria, lackluster facade rising nobly over the fields and fronted by a water spigot. Ave maria gratia plena!

(Second-best thing about this church: they had a temporary stage set up which, posters informed me, would shortly host the world premiere of "Madre Teresa; Il Musicale." Oh yes.)

Things improved significantly from there. I was still hopelessly lost, but I was hydrated! And now I could actually look around. And Tuscany, I don't know if you've heard, is real pretty.

That's me in front of some sunflowers.

So I pedal on. At this point, I want nothing more than to pass a road sign pointing in the direction to Pisa. That's all, just one road sign. Instead, I pass yet more sunflowers. Some mountains. Some bales of hay. Some more sunflowers. Some Etruscan junk. Some - hey wait. Etruscan junk?

There was this Etruscan burial site just, you know, chilling there, looking like a really unimpressive Stonehenge. Recognizing that it takes a special kind of jadedness to offhandedly dismiss the ruins of an ancient civilization and that I do not wish to have that special kind of jadedness, I doubled back to check it out. However, the site was behind a fence.

I can fit through that, right?

Amazingly, I could. So I checked out some Etruscan junk. It wasn't very interesting, but giving it the time of day made me feel like a better human being. And as if to reward me for my attention to boring Etruscan junk, while wiggling back through the fence I spotted it in the distance: a tower with a certain 5.5 degree tilt.

I have never been so happy to return to a city I otherwise hated.

Flashmob for Fútbol

Thu, 08 Jul 2010 08:09:51 +0000

So, apparently Barcelona started caring about the World Cup.

Or, at least the tourists did.

In the words of a Catalan friend, "My favorite teams are still FCB and whoever is playing Spain."
Come Sunday, he'll be in a Dutch bar, still hating the fact that Spanish flags have overtaken the city.

Cool Off without Slowing Down

Thu, 08 Jul 2010 02:00:15 +0000

Summer in The City. Anyone who has been to NYC in July or August knows that means stifling heat, palpable humidity, and desperate trips to Mr. Softee (it tastes good even if it doesn't really make you feel any less like you are in a steam room).

According to The New York Times, Tuesday, July 6, 2010 (high 103) was New York's hottest day since August 9th of 2001. The last time it was almost this hot, blown feeder lines at a power utility in Long Island City left area residents pioneer-style for several days (I'm living in Long Island City, so we're crossing our fingers on that one).

Now I don't know how to prevent power outages. But I do know the best place to go to escape the infernal heat of a New York City summer. And it isn't the swimming pool. Or the library. Or an ice cream parlor. No, the answer to summer woes is right under the feet of millions of New Yorkers; that wonderful, amazing invention: the subway.

The air conditioning on subway cars is by far the most powerful I have encountered. Sometimes I leave the station feeling downright chilly. So when it gets too hot to set foot outside, why not just stay underground? Choose a line, ride to the end, and reverse. Or evem choose a new one. The options are endless.

The subway is a frosty escape conveniently located anywhere in the city you happen to be. And the best part is, it only costs $2.25. There is quite literally no faster way to beat the heat than on a train.

A Night Walk

Wed, 07 Jul 2010 16:54:41 +0000

Montemarte stands tall among crowds of tourists on night walks in Paris.

A Hair-Raising Tale! P.2

Wed, 07 Jul 2010 15:26:11 +0000

The other night I was at one of my favorite nighttime haunts, the fabulous ruin pub "Szimpla." I was showing a newfound friend around the place (because I have become such an expert on Budapest nightlife, obviously), leading her up and down the endless rooms and closets adorned with bathtubs for couches and graffiti for paintings. I enthusiastically skipped to the second floor to show her my favorite room with metal sculptures in the corner and 70s arm chairs where the DJ sitting on a high chair drills funky tunes just outside the door. I peaked in for a moment to savor the sight for myself and then stepped aside, feeling proud of the scene I was revealing to the curious young backpacker tagging along behind me. Just as I was about to say we should continue the tour, I observed a slight popping sound, followed by some crackling and suddenly noticed a faint smell of smoke. I glanced behind me only to be greeted by the sight of flames. A horrific thought coursed through my brain like an electric spider. How could I write up my favorite ruin pub if it spontaneously combusted?! Then I realized something. The flames seemed not to have been derived from a blazing establishment, but instead from the very fibers of my being--or, my HAIR to be exact! Yes, my hair caught on fire in Szimpla. While I was ooh-ing and ah-ing at the furniture, taking note of drink prices and writing down hours of operation, I had failed to notice the tiny candles delicately and mischievously placed into small holes in the wall. When I stood aside to allow my new friend to see the place, I had simultaneously encroached dangerously close to the wall, dangling my long orange hair near the deadly wick. So while you may be looking for the best hole-in-the-wall in Budapest, pay careful attention to what lies within them.

Who You Lookin' At?

Wed, 07 Jul 2010 13:37:09 +0000

It took me all of about 15min. in Naples to discover the city's signature. No, it's not (just) trash. If my experience is at all indicative, it's the dirty look the people of Naples so expertly deliver.

After exiting the train station onto mercilessly hectic P. Garibaldi, asking a police officer where to catch my bus, walking in the direction he pointed, and then wandering some more, I finally boarded the R2 on C. Umberto I. With a mammoth pack on my back. This was my first mistake.

By this time, of course, I had already received my first gaze of Neopolitan distain from a man zipping by on a scooter. He was, evidently, frustrated with my hesistancy to cross the street even though it was filled with a crush of rapidly moving cars. After zig-zagging in his lane to decide which way to pass me as I crossed, he honked and moved on with a glare.

On the bus, it got worse. My pack earned me skepticism from the moment I boarded. My second mistake, however, was not boarding the crowded vehicle quickly enough. It was moving once I got on. My second and third looks came from the same incident that resulted from my awkward placement on the bus. A woman in front of me wanted to get off. She glared. Trying to be gentlemanly nonetheless, I backed up. Bad idea. The woman behind me was less than pleased when she was knocked backwards. Her facial expression let me know it.

Since that first day, my experience has improved; the number of dirty looks has decreased. But then again, I haven't taken any buses, and that pack has sat very safely in my hostel. We'll see what happens when I get on the move again.

Getting out of the Big Bad City

Wed, 07 Jul 2010 12:01:15 +0000

Wien is not exactly a big bad city, but there is so much to do there that it is easy to forget that a whole countryside and non-Vienna part exists to Austria.

Luckily, these Austrians have their transporation skills together, so taking a train or bus to a nearby town or city is simple (and there's only a miniscule chance that you will get stuck anywhere, because plenty of trains run back to the city too).

The most common destination outside of Vienna is the Wachau region along the Danube, where the river bends and twists through idyllic green landscape. A number of the towns along this stretch—Krems, Melk, and Tulln are picturesque and even accessible by ferry. While I have been adventuring to these towns, yesterday I also took an excursion east, almost all the way to Bratislava (which is in the opposite direction from the above mentioned towns).

With no bike or car (I had used a handy train), I found myself in Carnuntum walking through the wheat fields to arbitrary Roman ruins. The ruins were a bit underwhelming—I'm not going to lie—and to be honest, I was more startled by some other unexpected sights I stumbled across on the way... a dead snake, a dead frog, a dead bird, oh yes, and a group of bikers relieving themselves in the wheat fields. Now, that was a bit awkward.

All in all though, I was definitely reminded that it's not difficult to lose yourself outside the city - wilderness is not that far away from Vienna. And for the most part, the Austrian countryside is spectacular... just maybe steer clear of Carnuntum.

Olive Oil

Tue, 06 Jul 2010 22:04:49 +0000

I was wandering around Frankfurt looking for some fun shops to write up yesterday when I happened upon a second-hand clothing store. I'm a sucker for second-hand shops, so naturally, I wandered inside. A few moments later the owner came out and we started chatting. He was a short little Italian man who paused every few words to think about his English phrasing, but he was quite friendly. Three questions beyond "Where you from" we got to the topic of my skin: "You have allergy?"

Finally, the first white person to ask about my skin! "Nope, it's a genetic disease," I explained. I went into a little bit more detail, but I'm not sure how much he actually got.

"You know, in Italy we use ohleeven uhl. Every night before sleep, take ohleeven uhl, put on skin." He made a rubbing motion. "It very good! Will make skin perfect."

"Oh, really?" It took me a few gestures of pits and martinis to figure out that he meant olive oil. That was new - I'd been suggested deer antlers, bee propolis, and a variety of other homeopathic odds and ends, but never olive oil.

"Yes, but it must be fresh. Very fresh. Not like what you buy in store. Must be pure ohleeven uhl!"

"Hrm, ok..."

"You wait here." He disappeared into the back room, and I was left quite baffled as I browsed some purses and blouses on display. He came back moments later with a small bottle of golden liquid and a piece of bread.

"Look here, this is real ohleeven uhl. You put on skin every day. And look, this is very delicious too!" He broke the piece of bread in half and dipped one half into the liquid. "See, I no trick you. Good enough to eat! From my friend in Italia. Not mixed. Real ohleeven uhl. You try, and if works, you get more. But you try first. With this."

You'd think that he was trying to get me to actually buy something in his shop, or to sell me real pure Italian olive oil or something, but (from the looks of it) he was just a kind-hearted old guy who really wanted to help me. And now I am sitting next to a jar of pure Italian olive oil, and I'm a little weirded out to put it on my skin, but I guess I might as well - who knows, maybe the Italians had it figure out a long time ago...

Curry Worst? Curry Best!

Tue, 06 Jul 2010 21:11:58 +0000

The car crash of cultures that is Berlin has produced the most original fast food since the fried onion blossom: Currywurst.

But what is this madly named snack, you ask, scratching your chin, not bemusedly but because a fly walked on it. Well, I'll tell you, once you close the windows so more flies don't get in. It's a sausage treat.

Also, so you know, THIS (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-FMf8ltkCgM) is actually Curry Worst. But the sausage I'm going to describe below is also rather noteworthy.

To prepare a dish of Currywurst, take an ordinary bratwurst, with or without skin--which is intestine, btw--and deep fry it in some kind of delicious oil or lard. Preferably lard, ladies.

Once it's slightly crispy outside (because of the lard, ladies) cut it into small pieces, cover it with enough ketchup to drown a small mouse, and sprinkle it with—depending on the institution—curry powder, paprika, "Secret Spice Combo," hot pepper powder, etc.

Finally, eat it all with a toothpick and a smile.

O Carteirista

Tue, 06 Jul 2010 19:24:31 +0000

The trams in Lisboa (tiny, rickety little yellow things) have signs posted that warn, "Beware of pickpockets," but most tourists seem to pay the admonitions no heed. However, some pickpockets just suck at what they do. On the tram to Graça, a young man got on and immediately pushed his way to the back, and about 20 red flags went up in my head; either he paid €1.45 to take the tram one stop, or he was up to something. I watched him as he moved to the rear of the car and stood next to a man who looked like your typical tourist: bucket hat, fanny pack, high socks, the whole shebang. Well, he picked the wrong local who happened to look like a tourist, because one subtle move toward his pocket and Fanny Pack punched him in the gut, got him in a headlock, and started screaming at him. Of course, the tram had to stop and nobody was allowed off until the police got there, at which point the two got off the tram and continued to fight without anyone holding them back, sort of like in hockey where the fight doesn't end until someone hits the ice. Once the refs decided to break it up, the would-be-pickpocket slipped the cop a 50 and they put Fanny Pack in the back of the compact squad car.

Neophyte by the Stove

Tue, 06 Jul 2010 13:00:59 +0000

I think it is important that the world know that two nights ago I did something momentous, something that is key to growing up and key to surviving in the wild: I cooked my own dinner. For many a night I have consumed Greek salads, or maybe grilled chicken, but that’s pretty much it --all else pushes the bounds of my stipend. So when I realized that my dormatia had a kitchen and a grocery store next door, I was all over.

Only problem: as embarrassing as it is, until this point in life I have relied entirely on those in my house and the staff of my school’s dining services and the career cooks at restaurants to handle the hot water and oil and raw meat. I’ve cooked a few pies, I know how to grill (that’s a three step process: meat/veggies on, wait, meat/veggies off), and I can handle salads and the like. But actually being alone in the kitchen is something I had never yet attempted.

When dinnertime approached, I confidently walked into the grocery store (Dios Discount is the name), and after a second in the store, I nearly spun around and left. I hadn’t made a list of what to buy, and now I realize why people need them. There are too many options. So I took a deep breath, thought about what I could actually prepare–-pasta and veggies, because even if something goes wrong I won’t get sick from eating it–-and took a basket.

An eggplant, an onion, a zuccini, a tomato, a box of pasta, some oil, and some sliced cheese found their way into a plastic bag that I subsequently put down on the counter beside my dormatia’s stove. I opened the kitchen window–-again, in case something went wrong–-boiled some water, cut the veggies, added the pasta to the water, put the cut veggies and some oil in a pan, set my iTunes to James Taylor, and stirred. A little bit later, the pasta was cooked, so I drained it; the veggies were cooked, so I turned off the burner. I put the pasta on the plate, I ripped some cheese and put the veggies on top, and amazingly, I had a meal in front of me! I don’t know that I have ever been so proud of myself. The chance of my becoming a stay-at-home-mom/chef are basically nil, but there was something incredibly satisfying about having cooked my own dinner. And it tasted good, too. Maybe next time I’ll try chicken.

"Maria, I just met a guy name Maria"

Tue, 06 Jul 2010 09:12:05 +0000

My Saturday night in Belgium was intended to be a quiet one; visit a couple of bars in the laid back center and then head back to the hostel for some sleep which I needed so badly. But with Let's Go, nothing is that simple, and as I wandered (wandered, not stumbled, I hasten to add) back to my hostel I reflected on what was likely my most random night in a long while.

Willy owns a bar. This bar is in a house. This house used to belong to the Freemasons. That's right, and the Mayor. Now Willy has a rum bar and a garden, while Maria - who is a hysterical guy who also looks a tad like Boy George - comes once a month to set up his absinthe bar in what feels like a small church room. After slowly sipping on my absinthe for a long while, feeling like Oscar Wilde (for he, the sophisticated fellow he was, enjoyed a good absinthe), I befriended some locals who were dressed all fancy. Soon I was wearing a top hat, in covnersation with a French man in a full tuxedo and then - once we had a chat about being that person who talks really loudly when everyone is silent - a rather drunk Russian man stumbled over to our table and was instantly identified as that person. Although we couldn't work out if his name was Eugene or Maxim (both were used, maybe he was called Euguen Maxim, or Maxim Eugene!), he was eventually taken away by his friends for fear of collapsing. And they say the Russians can hold their booze!

To make sure I remembered the event (I did then grab a very strong mojito from the Rum bar to compare and contrast the two offerings) I got behind the bar with Maria and Valerie (the girl asissting Maria who lent me her top hat), and got a friendly local to snap the happy threesome!

Now I can say I drink like Oscar Wilde. If only I could write like him as well...

Hup Holland Hup

Mon, 05 Jul 2010 12:48:42 +0000

I leave for Rotterdam in a few hours, and alas, I have yet to fulfill my goal of making it onto a boat in an Amsterdam canal. However, almost as good was getting to be here for the Netherlands' victory over Brazil in the World Cup quarterfinals. The game was on Friday afternoon, and I think that everyone in the city must have taken off work. I was out researching in the Centrum, and every single bar was full of people in fluorescent orange, even as early as 2pm for the 4pm start time. Occasionally (especially near Centraal Station), I would see some poor person wearing a Brazil jersey being glared at by everyone around them. I made it back to my apartment by the time the game actually started; I had a lot of writing to do, and quite honestly, I didn't think that Holland would win. I figured it would be too depressing to be around a lot of Oranje supporters if they lost. Sure enough, the first half of the game didn't bode well, and I was glad to be following the game safely at home as I typed away. But then I heard the telltale car horns, cheers, and other noise (I have no idea where people get vuvuzelas here, but somehow, they manage) that indicated a Holland goal. And not too much later, another explosion of sound! My goodness, I thought, maybe they'll actually win. And, of course, soon they did.

My neighborhood EXPLODED. I put on the one orange piece of clothing I brought with me (nowhere near as bright as the official jersey color, but it'll have to do) and ran outside. The two or three bars near my house were packed with people jumping and cheering, but the best part was the parade of cars and bicyclists streaming down the street, honking and ringing their bells and singing songs (which I really need to learn for the next game) all the more loudly when they saw a fellow comrade in orange. Including me! (Little did they know I'm an American impostor.) The flow of celebration continued for what seemed like hours, and even once the noise had quieted down in my neighborhood, in the city center proper the festivities continued.

So beating Brazil was clearly a big deal. And things look good for Holland beating Uruguay as well. I'm not holding my breath that they'll take it all the way - the Netherlands has a history of making it to the final and choking at the last minute. But if that's how the Dutch celebrate for a mere quarterfinal game, I can't even imagine what will happen if they actually win. Let's hope I get a chance to find out.

Huddled Masses Yearning to Breathe Free

Mon, 05 Jul 2010 11:35:29 +0000

Try this: imagine that magically every tourist attraction stayed open late so you could actually go after you were done nursing your hangover (or catching up on sleep from the night train, if you're the more diligent type). Imagine that each of these spaces is filled with live music. And now, imagine that everything is free, including buses to cart your exhausted self up and down the mountainside in air-conditioned comfort.

Sound like a pipe dream? Yeah, it is. But, somehow this is the exact situation in which I found myself on Saturday night: Montjuïc de Nit, a.k.a. the backpacker's paradise.

Twelve stages with live music dotted the slopes from the boulevard at the foot of the slope filled with the pulsing hoards of the Sonár electronic music booth to the castle's peak where Catalan flamenco and rumba caused a shimmying sensation, complete with an eight year old dancer that had moves that made me wonder why anyone else was even trying. From the Poble Espanyol to the Fundació Miró, the mountain was packed and partying.

But, all good things must come to an end, and if watching flamenco in the lofty heights of the castle's courtyard could be compared to heaven, the descent to the metro with thousands of other mountaineers was most certainly hell.

Prague Street Art 2

Mon, 05 Jul 2010 10:55:35 +0000

My time in Prague has come to a close, like a door, that has also come to a close. Rather than drabble on endlessly about how this changed my that or how perspective blahed my whatever, I've decided to leave you with a few of my favorite street images. Enjoy.

Coping mechanism of the Future!

Mon, 05 Jul 2010 10:04:25 +0000

My 21st-century coping mechanism is to mentally compose the blog post I will write after surviving a scary and stressful experience.

We were told in Let's Go training that no one wants to hear about your travel woes. OK. I shall restrain myself from telling you all about conning a ride to the train station with the lady from the tourist office, taking two trains, leaving my bags with some random girls while I marched off to find a taxi, having a taxi pull up alongside me containing the two girls and my bags, discovering upon being dropped at these girls' hostel that it was not a taxi at all but just some dude in his car, finding that this place at which I had now been dropped was even farther from where I needed to go in order to catch the ferry that was to take me where I really was supposed to go, and just giving up and going to bed.

Moral of the story: never look at a map and say "ooh, that looks like a nice place, and it's sorta between where I am now and where I need to be tomorrow. I shall go there today!" Especially when today is Sunday and you are in Italy.

Twenty-four hours later, I am still not back on my route. Sorry, editors! I may not get weekends off, but Italy does.

I iz in ur street, being a creep

Mon, 05 Jul 2010 09:05:08 +0000

Cats are in Istanbul what squirrels are in New England, or what pigeons are in Venice. And they aren't all cutesy and stuff, they're rough.

Dumpling: A Little Dump

Mon, 05 Jul 2010 01:03:52 +0000

The Czech eat dumplings with everything. Even other dumplings. There's one dish that's just dumplings nested in other dumplings ad infinitum until the last tiny dumpling isn't even a dumpling. It's just microfilm that says "dumplings are a primary source of carbohydrates in the Czech Republick."

But since the word "dumpling" get's tossed around more than a ball owned by a healthily-relating father and son (or so I've heard), it behooves us to spend some time defining.

Pictured above is the first of the two traditional Czech "dumplings". This primary dumplings is a large food coin that is pretty indistinguishable from a slice of crustless bread, which I invented 21 years ago, when i decided crust tasted icky with my soup.

The other, potatoe type of dumpling tastes like polenta mixed with pound cake. And it's as good as having a healthy relationship with your father.

1776

Sun, 04 Jul 2010 22:58:17 +0000

Sometimes, in England, it's easy to pretend you're in America.

I've been spending most of my time in medium-large sized cities, all of which have adapted American ways in some form of another. There are Starbucks, McDonalds, Burger King, KFC, and Ben and Jerry's everywhere. Everytime I go to a club, there is little to no reminder that I'm on another continent. It's the same old sounds of Jay Z, Beyonce, maybe some Jason DeRulo thrown in there... Not to mention the whole everyone speaking English thing. Kinda takes away from the foreign feeling.

Oxford has all of these things, plus add in the American tourists- Loud, wearing Old Navy, trekking around on walking tours and snapping photos. Sometimes, it's like, am I in England, or am I in a suburban shopping mall in New Jersey? Why is England looking like America?

Ironically, becuase of all this, I'm strangely really excited for tomorrow, July 4th.

Sure, there will be no fireworks here. But I'm actually happy about that. As the English were defeated in this war, I can feel with 100% confidence that they have absolutely nothing to celebrate about this holiday. Finally, something absolutely distinctly American that no one can copy and pretend is their own, all while denying they like American culture (although I'm looking at you, Canada Day...)

Plus I get to get some more use out of my I knew that my ridiculous rhinestone USA tanktop. I'm glad it's turned out to be an handy purchase, though I'd much rather be wearing it in honor of World Cup triumphs... oh well.

Statues with uncommon reactions to Let's Go

Sun, 04 Jul 2010 13:02:58 +0000

Well this is just awkward...

Mochilera Graduation

Sun, 04 Jul 2010 12:09:21 +0000

Everyone loves finales—whether it’s the last episode of the season (someone’s bound to either confess their love or ruin a relationship), the final act of the musical (they’ve gotta have a reprise of your favorite, catchy song), or that sparkling candle on your dessert cupcake (chocolate, obviously). But this finale feels a bit strange. I’ve been backpacking through Spain, living the mochilera (backpacker) lifestyle for almost 8 weeks now, and I'm about to pack my things to head back to the States. I’m returning to a comfy bed, home-cooked meals, and the English language.

The un-creative route is to make your last blog the “what I’ve learned” post. The slightly more interesting (and hopefully deep) is the “what I’m yet to learn.” And while I don’t want to seem pessimistic or negative, I think I’ll have a bit more fun writing about those things that I’ll just never understand about Spain.

1. How many kisses on the cheek are appropriate. I know people say that the Italians do 2, and that many Israelis do 3, but in Spain you’re always left with that, “shoot, now I look like an asshole” or that “oops, didn’t mean to attack you with more kisses” feeling.

2. What’s the point in differentiating between a bocadillo, a sandwich, a baguette, and the many other ways of simply describing meat on bread? The differing prices between each class shifts around from cafeteria to cafeteria. I just want a grilled cheese already!

3. When it’s cool to call someone hombe, amigo, or guapa. I feel like I wouldn’t call some random that I’ve never met, “man.” Greeting someone on the beach as “friend,” seems weird too. And, at least in my Los Angeles, public-school, Spanish education, guapa was always said to mean, “sexy,” yet old ladies working at the local bakery keep calling me guapa. What gives?

4. And, lastly, how even the busiest, most-productive of citizens can keep down their blood pressure with buses arriving up to an hour late. I’m not just talking long bus trips—I waited an additional 45 minutes to take a 10-minute, 5km bus from the national park to the nearby beach a few weeks ago. I don’t classify myself as uptight, but I just don’t understand how this works out with anybody’s daily routine. Are tardies more-easily excused? Are bosses more understanding? Do I just not know how to read a schedule?

There are probably many more things about Spain and the world that I do not and will never completely understand, but I don’t feel that’s a negative thing. It rather just leaves me with the ability to be constantly learning, constantly exploring, and constantly putting myself in situations where I totally mess up and have to figure out a way to fix things. So there—there’s your happy finale.

An Overture to Independence

Sun, 04 Jul 2010 11:53:47 +0000

Independence Day, 2010.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=azKqj5u-bYk

An Overture to Independence

Sun, 04 Jul 2010 11:53:12 +0000

Independence Day, 2010.

An Overture to Independence

Sun, 04 Jul 2010 11:50:08 +0000

Independence Day, 2010.

All the Colors of the Rainbow

Sun, 04 Jul 2010 11:15:02 +0000

The great thing about cities is that just when you think you have them figured out, something happens to surprise you.
Yesterday, half of the Ringstrasse (the large circular street surrounding the Inner Stadt) was closed off for Vienna’s annual Gay Pride parade and celebrations, beginning in the afternoon and lasting until the wee hours of the morning.
The parade started at Stadtpark and was everything a gay pride parade should be… well, in my mind… And for a relatively traditional city, Vienna still knows how to support all the colors of the rainbow. The best part by far was the crazy outfits— in most cases, outfits that consisted of more skin than actual clothing. Women in bras, men in briefs, and some birthday suits that just involved lots of skin paint. Two men were colored entirely from head to toe in rainbow colors, another painted like a sky with clouds, and lots and lots of body glitter… everywhere. There were devils and angels, drag queens, tuxedos (shirtless, of course) and even a surprising number of cows. (That may be a gay-pride symbol I don’t quite understand)…
After some hours of music-playing, float-driving, and flag-waving, the parade ended in Schwarzenbergerplatz, at a large outdoor concert (free!) with food and drink stands (not so free..). Dressed and wrapped in their rainbow flags, people chowed down large wursts and pretzels, washing it with beer, and then moving closer to the stage to dance as the sunset.
Oh, there were also plastic, rainbow blow-up balloons shaped like four-feet-tall male genitalia. Now that would have been an awesome souvenir.

Oranges to Apples: Naples to New York

Sun, 04 Jul 2010 07:56:36 +0000

I was sitting on a train from Naples to Sorrento this afternoon, hot, muggy, and without water. Speeding past small beach towns -- scenes of laundry hanging out windows and children parading around in bathing suits flashed before my eyes -- I couldn't help but think about the utter opposite of all this Italian "summerness:" autumn in New York. Urban as it is, the city still gets its golden leaves on the sidewalk, its cool winds, and even a farmers' market. Rarely do I anticipate summer's end, but sitting on that train, I couldn't shake the autumn bug from my mind. And perhaps after seven weeks away, I admittedly feel my Northeastern roots are stirring. I thought, "All I want is to go apple picking. And then I want to come home and make apple pie." How American, but oh well.

Arriving in Sorrento, I made my way to the hostel, which was curiously located on Via degli Aranci (street of the oranges). "How ironic," I thought. "Oranges aren't apples but they're better than nothing." But in all honesty, I didn't expect to actually reap the fruits of my words -- how many times do you see fruit-laden trees in an urban center, even if it is a beach town? Walking down the busy street that evening, I found that one side was in fact lined with orange trees, half of which had fallen to the ground, the rest of which were intact on their branches. Supermarket closed, hunger calling, and autumn apple-picking inclinations stronger than ever, I hopped over the fence and began picking away at the plump fruits. I came away with four, wrapped them in my towel, and retreated across the street to savor my spoils. It wasn't exactly apple pie, but I think, for Italy, I did pretty well.

Paris: a Tale of Two Cities

Sun, 04 Jul 2010 01:35:10 +0000

As my travel in Paris comes to a close, I've now experienced roughly half of Paris' arrondissements, up close and, luckily, personal. In my mind, you can macro-divide Paris into two types of neighborhoods: those heavily frequented by tourists (the 1eme, 2eme, 5eme, 6eme), and those which are mostly residential (parts of the 14eme, 15eme, and certainly the 19eme and 20eme). For those tourists who want to play by the book, there may well be more sights, museums, and general must-sees in the well-touristed parts of Paris than you could see in a life time. It's easy to stay in these areas, because there really is so much to do.

But while I don't mean to put down these arrondissements, visiting the exclusively touristed parts of Paris won't allow you to fully experience the city. What tourists often forget is the real Paris, where people live, eat, drink (both for cheaper), and have just as much fun as tourists and Parisians do in the slightly more chic parts of town. There are some fantastic parks in the 19eme and 20eme: the crags on the hill at Buttes Chaumont are quite a visual oasis, and provide quite a fantastic vista, in the midst of a buzzing city. A huge amusement park, La Villette, is home to the merriment of thousands of Parisians daily, boasting everything from merry-go-rounds to top-notch theatre and cinema, to a Quick Burger shack. So get out there; yes, I know, the Metro trek is a bit longer than normal. As the French say, "tant pis": too bad. Suck it up, take a break from the craziness, and blend in with the landscape.

Change of Address Notice

Sat, 03 Jul 2010 22:39:24 +0000

I've moved from Little Italy, New York's own Epcot, to a desolate area near the border of Bed-Stuy, Prospect Heights, and Crown Heights in Brooklyn. There's no doubt that the place is ugly--there are more vacant lots and auto-repair shops that need their own repair than apartment buildings. The building two doors down is an empty lot populated by squatter and frequented by shopping-cart collectors who chain their little vehicles to the dilapidated stoop. Our building doesn't get cable and so I'm in Internet limbo for the moment (thankfully, by the way--reminds me of my other LG gigs, where you'd go days without the net and sometimes find an oasis of wifi at the odd cafe).

But: I think I might like this place better. Key point: little kids playing outside my door. (Just so you know, they still play "Simon Says"?) Most of the neighbors on our block are families--many of them immigrants from South Asia or the Middle East or Latin America. They sit outside and watch their kids play, they keep their front doors open, and they mingle with each other. It's the opposite of the my old, brief non-neighborhood in Manhattan--and despite the sheer decrepitude of the place I think the place will grow on me. I'd feel guilty about being the agent of gentrification, but one look at the ridiculous condos being developed down the way absolves me: what harm can I do? Next issue: how I push the locals out and make way for a neighborhood of boutique-peddling college grads, all while rubbing my hands together and glowering.

The Museum of Bohemia

Sat, 03 Jul 2010 22:38:35 +0000

I have to admit: it's hard to imagine that Greenwich Village was once a bohemian center or anything like it. The blocks north of Washington Sq. Park to W 14th St. are basically cousins to Brooklyn Height—upscale and home to maybe 50 white-collar criminals, all told. Middle-aged ladies walk their dogs. Men in nice shirts and ties walk with meaning towards 6th Ave. or Broadway. And there's me, wearing a disgusting T-shirt that's getting dirtier by the minute in the heat and humidity—somehow there are pen marks all over the bottom of it, as if I'd gone crazy while writing down soup prices and attacked myself in a fit of graphomaniac rage—and stepping into a very nice hotel that was listed in our previous guide for some reason. The rates here start at $200; the people in the lobby stare at me, who looks like a wayward hobo writing down little nothings in my little notebook. I feel excluded, so I exclude the place from the next guide (I'll stop that now) and leave, red-faced and humiliated.

There are some weirdos in Washington Sq.Park, and the nightlife south of it still rages, and many of the old clubs remain...but somehow the place just seems too comfortable. I like it—I like how the West Village is a world unto itself—but it seems like the artistic legacy is quickly becoming a museum piece, something to put in movies (Across the Universe, looking at you) and write longingly about as a lost world (Bob Dylan's ex and companion on the cover of The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan, looking at you—and your book, now in every bookstore here).

The Jewel of the Island Staten

Sat, 03 Jul 2010 22:37:52 +0000

6/24

I already feel about 100 years old going to check out Historic Richmond Town on historic Staten Island. This is the kind of thing your great-aunt woul drag you to on her monthly visits, assuring you that it would be "interesting" and that "you'd get a lot out of it" and that if you stayed home you'd "get boring and worthless." That never happened to me, but I assumed it happened to you.

So I'm on the bus--no subways in Staten Island, which I assume was a decision made by the secession movement of the 1980s and early 1990s, during which hundreds of arrivals from other boroughs were summarily executed--when a couple from Connecticut join me. They look like your standard late 50s-early 60s husband-and-wife team, quiet but determined to exhaust every possible visiting opportunity in NYC. He's a contractor, he tells me in a staid, conservative voice. I'm not really listening, though; my attention is entirely focused on the enormous earring hanging from his left ear. Just his left ear. It's some kind of string of jewels that threatens to hit his shoulder. All chance of a normal conversation is ruined. I stare at it recklessly and impolitely, like a little kid at an old lady's mole.

Soon we disembark at Historic Richmond Town and find ourselves in a deserted fossil of the 1800s. It looks like there's no one here, the main street is in the ugly-concrete-and-weeds fashion, and the staff huddle inside and wish they were somewhere else. Later, stepping around what might once have been a reconstruction of an old farmhouse but now looks like a squatter's rural retreat, I avoid piles of dried shit--from what?--and curse the sun and the sun in Staten Island. I escaped just in time--a guided tour by a woman decked out in colonial wear might have sent me over the edge.

Attention! I have moved to Buenos Aires

Sat, 03 Jul 2010 17:54:14 +0000

My new address is: Naples, Italy.

This afternoon, it looked a little more like South America.

As the light blue stripes took to the field in South Africa, all of Naples was behind them. Since Italy's rather pitiful performance (can I say that?) in the group stage, the whole country has been looking for someone to root for. Here in the south (and elsewhere) they settled on Naples, for a couple of reasons:

1. 60% of Argentineans have some Italian ancestors. That's a lot.

2. Diego Maradona, Argentina's coach, was a brilliant star for the Napoli soccer team nearly a decade in the late 1980s and early 1990s, scoring 81 goals. So they like him a bit, even if he did score one of his most famous goals with... his hand.

To me, it's somewhat amusing that it has come to this in Naples. Napoli is a team with little international following, but a big deal in Italy. This is the third time in three cities it's come up to me.

In Milan, a hotel owner told me he didn't care about the Inter Milan championship because he was a Napoli fan.

In Bologna, the guy at the hostel front desk wore an Argentina jersey the night of the squad's last world cup game. I asked if he was from Argentina. "No, I'm from Napoli," came the reply.

Now, Naples itself is plastered in Argentine—Argentine—flags. Red, white, and green, meet baby blue. It was a sight.

And then... They lost, 4-0, to Germany. Who do we root for now?

In Which the Travel Writer Prepares to Travel

Sat, 03 Jul 2010 12:57:19 +0000

Just yesterday a startling and somewhat terrifying realization set in: this is my last week for in-depth research in Barcelona.

Besides the selfish desire to stay longer to indulge in all of its sights, smells, and nude guitarists wandering the plazas of Gràcia, the very real fear of change set in: am I ready to say goodbye to my modern apartment, complete with WiFi, air-conditioning, private bedroom, kitchen, and—here's the big thing—blankets I don't have to rent? Basically, am I ready to ditch these bourgeois comforts and actually hit the road? Uhhh...

And then, in Barceloneta, I found my wakeup call.

After a day of dodging tourist shops, fish markets, and endless croquette-laden tapas bars, I settled into the first of only two bars on my agenda for nightlife. Underneath the Christmas lights, I met a baker—a lover of French literature, punk, fantastic cuisine, and copious amounts of booze—that waxed poetic about his former homes across the European continent. I met a young couple, completely and beautifully in love, that started their journey from Paris on foot, giving up only after a straight week of rain during their crossing of the Pyrenees.

And later, I met a Canadian—a man from Toronto who told me he was touristed out. After traveling for months across the globe in an attempt to placate his desire for adventure before impending employment, he was finally over it. Or, at least the sight-seeing. What he didn't want to give up was the meeting people, the experiencing things rather than seeing them, the feeling of being out of your element and thus ready for and accepting of everything. And then I realized I want to be sick of it, too. I'm ready to move, to meet people, to be uncomfortable and tired and lost in cities that I'll never get to actually know.

In the days since, I've stopped looking for jobs and places to rent back home and started looking for bicycle panniers and Sitges secret hangouts. I've got down life abroad at this point (just please don't ask me for directions), and now I can honestly say that I'm ready for life on the road. But, maybe I should do my laundry first.

Sweet Like Chocolate

Sat, 03 Jul 2010 10:32:14 +0000

I've been in Belgium for amost a month and have yet to write a blog about chocolate. That will change now. Here are my all time favourite chocolate creations I have discovered in Brussels and Bruges:

5. Chocolate Dragon in Bruges. A cool Chinese Dragon in the window of a shop on the high st.

4. Alice in Wonderland... in chocolate! There was a Helena Bonham Carter Queen of Hearts made out of white and red chocolate, and two identical Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee chocolate statues. Brilliant!

3. Felic chocolate. 'Nuff said - they're in every window display in Bruges!

2. A Chocolate Baby. In Brussels, a chocolate master made this lifelike baby - lifelike except you could eat it!

1. This is the greatest creation I have seen in chocolate; Barack Obama. Eating the President is strictly forbidden, however.

Statues with uncommon reactions to Let's Go

Sat, 03 Jul 2010 08:04:53 +0000

Galileo examines the Let's Go guide that has fallen from the stars.

Statues with uncommon reactions to Let's Go

Sat, 03 Jul 2010 08:02:12 +0000

Let's Go has been known to heal sick statues in need.

Become an NYC Architectural Expert in 30 Seconds or Less

Sat, 03 Jul 2010 02:11:42 +0000

I have been researching historic buildings in New York City for over a month now, and I'm going to let you in on a little secret: when it comes to architecture in NYC, it is extremely easy to sound like you know what you are talking about. You don't even have to have seen the building. You just have to know these two easy terms: Gothic Revival and Art Deco, and follow these three basic guidelines:

1. If an NYC buiding is historic, assume it was built either in the second half of the 19th century or circa 1930.

2. If the building was constructed in the second half of the 19th century, then the style is probably Gothic Revival; if it was built circa 1930, it is probably Art Deco. Now you may be asking, "How do I know if a building was built in the 1800s or 1930s?" That brings me to the third guideline.

3. if a building is a church, it was built in the second half of the 19th century. If it is not a church, it was built circa 1930 (This is the key point, because it means that all three guidelines can be boiled down to one key point: If a historic New York City building is a church, then it is Gothic Revival. If a historic New York City building is not a church, then it is Art Deco).

For example: St. Patrick's Cathedral? Gothic Revival. The Waldorf-Astoria Hotel? Art Deco. Cathedral of St. John the Divine? Gothic Revival. The Empire State Building? Art Deco. You really cannot fail.

Voilà! You are now an expert on New York City architecture. Only thing left to do is impress the pants off your friends with your newfound connoisseurship.

A Hair-Raising Tale!

Fri, 02 Jul 2010 23:36:30 +0000

Women in Hungary begin dyeing their hair at about the age of 14. You can tell. The sea of purple-trying-to-be-red and orange-trying-to-be-blonde can't possibly be au naturale. Especially in da big citay. People here in general pay careful attention to their appearance and it seems to all begin at the top. My hostel owner (a sixty-year-old woman) for example wouldn't dare take the trash out in anything more casual than a pair of green pumps I've been envying from day one and a bee-hive. I've never dyed my hair before and when the young receptionist at my hostel inquired into the idea of painting my locks a different hue I, well, simply couldn't resist. I mean com'on guys, I'm just trying to fit in. I'm going to keep this post short and sweet because I must attend to a bit of damage control in the morning. Seems I too have become victim to the crime of a bottle that says "extra beach blonde" but really means "ultra orange-and-brownish-green"!

The How2 Chronicles: Part I of a Yet to be Determined Quantity of Parts

Fri, 02 Jul 2010 23:19:01 +0000

How2: Drink Coffee in Budapest

In Budapest there are many ways to indulge in your daily cup o' joe. Some more douchey than others. Here follows my rankings from douchiest to most bad ass.

5. The first and only Starbucks in Hungary opened June 18, 2010 in the West End shopping mall next to Nyugati Train Station. The db factor on this is higher than you could count on ten hands.

4. Costa Coffee is a UK-based chain similar to S'bucks; they've even near-copied the logo, changing the circular image from green to red. The biggest foe in this option: a medium cappuccino, equivalent to a size smaller than small in the States, is 650ft. Check ya laterrrr English jerks.

3. California Coffee Company. Believe it or not this place was founded in Hungary and, while a national chain, does not exist outside its borders! Just about the same quality of pigeon poop as the aforementioned establishments, but at least you're paying half the amount those other db's demand. Free Wi-Fi too (electro-gadget jerk).

2. The "kávézó" is the Hungarian style coffee shop where you'll get most any kind of coffee-inspired drink your heart desires. Most places these days (sigh) offer cups to go, but if you decide to stop and smell the roses you almost always literally can on an outdoor patio (unless it's snowing).

1. For some real wholesome java time, meander over to the local bar. Make sure it's one of those decrepit old places usually housed in a basement or some other grimy venue. Sure, you'll be joined by countless bums looking to get their early morning fill of martinis and cosmos, but that's just part of the "authentic experience" (nope sorry, no gypsy music or goulash included). Ask for a "kávé" (coffee). Because after all, there's really only one kind—nice, thick, heart-racing espresso served in a tiny plastic shot cup.

Cultured City, Cultured People

Fri, 02 Jul 2010 21:04:24 +0000

I went to Hungary's annual "Night of the Museum" a couple nights ago with some newfound hostel friends. This is an event that happens every year toward the end of June when museums across the nation open their doors until 4am and you can purchase a ticket valid between 6pm and 4am for pennies, including public transportation between sites. I was speaking with some Americans the night before, telling them about the event and inquiring if they'd like to go. We got into a discussion about what a magnificent project this is of Hungarian art committees. What was truly flooring, however, was not only the acknowledgment that this thing exists, but more importantly, the throngs of crowds, the seemingly impossible amount of bodies packed into museums throughout the city. People gazing at sculptures, people watching a light show impressively performed on the columns of the towering Hungarian National Gallery, people crowding around a temporary exhibit in the Ethnographic Museum on Finnish craftwork. People, people everywhere, ravenously gulping down culture left and right. Check this thing out online. And plan your trip to Budapest around when it occurs. No, seriously.

http://www.muzeumokejszakaja.hu/

Eis Eis Baby

Fri, 02 Jul 2010 19:02:03 +0000

Vienna is known as the home of the Sachertorte-- a chocolate cake with jam that has become so "quintessentially Viennese" that tourists line up to buy and ship full cakes home. While the Hotel Sacher makes one of the most distinguished versions of the cake, other the cafes/restaurants have claimed to own the better or more authentic recipes. These torte tiffs actually resulted in lawsuits and a final court decision that one type should be called the "original Sachertorte" and another called the "real Sachertorte." Ya, it got serious.

But, as I've discovered during my time in the city (especially during the summer), the Viennese prefer an entirely different sweet treat-- gelato. In the Inner Stadt alone, there are so many gelato shops, and they are filled to the brim with people from opening til midnight (seriously, sometimes the gelato places are busier than the bars). And people don't just order a simple cone with a flavor or two. At every table, the majority of customers are eating a full sundae. While I can't bring myself to eat this much "eis" in one sitting, I've certainly enjoyed trying a few around the city and comparing. (for the final results on my favorite, check out Let's Go Germany 2011, published in November!).

Actually, it's a warm night now. Maybe I will go get me some eis.

Visiting Burgazada Island

Fri, 02 Jul 2010 18:21:55 +0000

Let me just say that after a seagull shat on a guy who was sitting next to me on the ferry to Burgazada, my expectations of what this island had in store for me went through the roof.

Burgazada is one of the nine islands of the Princes' Islands archipelago, some 20km south of Istanbul. They are a popular escape for many locals and tourists--there are no cars and the only means of transport are bikes and faytons, i.e. horse-drawn carriages. First, I went to the two biggest islands that are kind of touristy and will be unbearably so in a year or two. Then I went to Burgazada, a smaller island that the charmingly snobbish Lonely Planet calls uninteresting and not worth the stopover.

I got off the ferry, still smiling in schadefreude at the seagull's prolific output. That's when I noticed that the sea around the dock was full of jellyfish. This was the first time in my life that I saw live jellyfish in the wild, so I stopped and observed them for a while. I thought that perhaps this was the surprise the island had in store for me. After two minutes it became clear that jellyfish are pretty boring in real life, so I mentally thanked the island for the attempt and continued on my way.

It was evening and I had a ferry to catch, so I rented a rickety old bike and started riding around like a lunatic. I rode by the shore to the opposite side of the island and found a great fish restaurant with a small adjacent beach. When I was done there, I had only half an hour left, but I still wanted to go see the Christ Monastery nearby. On the map it seemed doable, so I set out in high spirit, the way you set out to do the last task after a long day.

The map led me to a small road that must have been 45 degrees steep, so I started trecking up the hill, pushing the bike along. By the middle of the ascent I felt like a mountain donkey with a carrot hanging in front of its face. When I finally reached the top of the road, sweating like a showerhead, it looked like a dead end--the road ended in some house's backyard. Desperate, I yelled "Merhaba" into the house's windows, and a middle-aged man with twinkling eyes emerged. "Hristos Manastiri?" I expired. He smiled in understanding. He pointed to a rocky path that lead behind the house and upward. Why didn't anybody tell me this thing was on top of a hill?

I went on. After a few minutes of going through shrubbery I reached a high point, stopped, and looked around. The sun was setting and in front of me there lay the archipelago--the Spoon Island, the Saddlebag Island, the Henna Island--and the sea. It was the most beautiful view I had seen in a long time. I was standing there, thinking I was alone, when a shiny brown horse appeared out of nowhere. It had no saddle on, seemed to be completely free. Very calmly, the horse walked right by me, giving me a curious look with one moist eye. It seemed to be surprised to see me there. Then the horse disappeared behind a curve in the road and I was too struck to take my camera out in time.

Okay Burgazada, you got me.

How French revealed to me my own womanhood

Fri, 02 Jul 2010 15:34:30 +0000

I used to think that Britney Spears song was stupid: "I'm not a girl, not yet a woman. All I need is time, a moment that is mine, while I'm in between." It certainly sounds dumb. But this summer I realized that my certainty about Britney's idiocy was really a result of my own lack of critical self-awareness about gender development.

It all started on a simple day when I was eating lunch alone, as usual, and reading my kindle. The waiter came up and asked if "Madame" would like some more water. I briefly wondered who this "Madame" was that I had failed to notice sitting across from me but ignored him and continued reading. He insisted, "Madame, would you like some more water?" Then it hit me like a fat brick. He was talking to me! Since then, I've started taking notice of whether people choose to call me mademoiselle or madame and without fail, all test subjects have chosen the latter. And then the even fatter brick hit me. I've become a woman and didn't even know it AND would have never have known it if it weren't for the French language.

Boat Envy

Fri, 02 Jul 2010 10:56:45 +0000

Somehow in the past couple of weeks, summer happened. My first month in Amsterdam was marked by surprisingly cold and often rainy weather; I constantly cursed the fact that I hadn't brought a jacket with me but remained too stubborn to buy a new one for just a few weeks. And thank heavens I held out, because for the last week it has actually been HOT here. As in, I-can-walk-around-in-shorts-and-a-T-shirt hot (consider that I used to go out researching wearing two sweaters). I'm actually beginning to get a tan, which I never thought would require serious effort if it was to happen in Northern Europe.

Amsterdam has quite a few things in common with Boston, I've noticed, but one thing in particular is that the dwellers of each city are so used to bad weather that at the first sign of sunshine, they make as much out of being outside as possible. Every cafe with an outdoor terrace, park, or simple plot of grass is packed with people (when people actually get work done is beyond me). But the one thing that Amsterdammers have that Bostonians don't is a network of canals. And, oh man, do these people put those canals to good use. You can't sit by the water for more than a minute without a boat going by, from small motor boats to large party boats with bars and techno music blaring. Everyone is basking in the sun, having a beer, doing pretty much what everyone else is doing on land... except they're doing it ON A BOAT. I am infinitely jealous of these people. They look up at us poor landlubbers with a sad, knowing smile that says "we are definitely having more fun than you."

I have just a few days left in the city before going to Rotterdam, and I've done nearly everything I wanted to: saw the Van Gogh museum, drank beer by a windmill, danced in the largest club, ate great pancakes, etc. Except for being on one of those private boats (the canal cruises are a pale approximation). So as I finish up my research, I have one primary goal: I will get onto a boat. Even if I have to resort to piracy.

Elsa in Essaouira

Fri, 02 Jul 2010 03:14:02 +0000

I'm in Essaouira and I'm in heaven. This tranquil coastal town has sandy beaches that feel great on bare feet, a gorgeous blue-and-white medina with imposing ramparts overlooking the Atlantic and my new favorite restaurant: a vegan café that serves up an enormous lentil burger, progressively named "Burger Women." (Just a head's up: vegan anything in meat-loving Morocco is something of a baffling impossibility.)

This morning, I decided to start my day off in beautiful Essaouira with a swim. Since it can be a bit chilly before the midday heat, I was alone on a vast stretch of beach at 9am. The water was cold like the Canadian lakes where I'm from, and felt amazing.

On my way back to the hostel, I crossed paths with another early visitor to the beach - a small dog trotting on the sand. Her name was Elsa. At least, she looked like her name was Elsa. Elsa the yellow and black mut of Essaouira beach came right up to me and began licking the salt off my feet. I couldn't resist her advances and after a pat or two on the head, she wrapped her body around my legs and lay down. Before not too long, I was scratching Elsa's belly and her leg was moving like a metronome.

That was my fatal error. If you had some nice man scratching your tummy, would you want him to leave?

When I tried to walk away, Elsa trotted after me and lay down on my feet again. Persistent pooch. Next time I walked faster. Turns out walking faster means "let's play a game" in doggie language. Elsa started jumping and nipping playfully at my legs. Seeing those white canines and remembering my lack of a Rabies shot, I decided it was about time to skedaddle. Unfortunately, breaking into a power walk only inspired my eager follower to nip more playfully (read: harder.) I began to spring towards the five-foot stone wall at the edge of the beach with my lady friend hot in pursuit. I jumped over the stone wall and peered down at Elsa from the other side. She looked up with a pained expression, as if to say "what did you do that for?"

A little heart-broken myself, I apologized out loud and turned to leave. After half a second, I glanced back over the stone to see whether Elsa was moping. She wasn't there. Now I was hurt. That was a pretty quick rebound, even for a dog. Then I looked to my left and saw Elsa's paws galloping along the wall. Up ahead there was a set of stairs to the boardwalk. Persistent and smart pooch.

I turned and bolted in the other direction passing an American couple I had met in Marrakech last week. The guy tried to say hello but I just kept going. "Can't, dog!", I yelled pointing behind me. Last I saw, Elsa was running towards the couple. I guess it really was a quick rebound.

Sphenisciphobia

Thu, 01 Jul 2010 22:59:45 +0000

I understand now why people are afraid of nuns.

When the lady at the San Gimignano tourist office told me about the convent's dorms, I got my fingers ready to give this find a coveted Let's Go thumbs-up. It took me three visits to actually find a nun at the desk, and a little while longer for her to understand my rote-memorized Italian for "may I have a look around?" Eventually, she waved me upstairs, and I got to see a bit of convent life.

I found a long hallway of empty, sparse dorm rooms adorned with surprisingly tasteful Virgins. Not bad, not bad. I took a different staircase down and emerged in another hall of dorms - these clearly inhabited by persons of the cloth. Outside was a gorgeous stone courtyard with a huge old well, still in operation. I suspected that I had ventured out of bounds, but the place was empty. So I had a poke around.

Now, I am a big fan of trespassing. Sure, sometimes you get yelled at. But sometimes you make a great find. This time, I'd found a fully operational 12th-century Italian convent.

There was a chapel, of course. I bumped my head on the ceiling going in - 12th-century nuns were short - and discovered the entrance to the cloister. The convent is on the edge of San Gimignano, a mountaintop city, and to my amazement, the cloister had a postcard-perfect view of the city center's towers.

Just then the sky rumbled. And before you could say "one Mississippi" a lightning bolt had brightened the dark sky. And as every grade schooler knows, that means the storm is here. I ducked back into the convent by another door, just as a burst of sharp rain came tumbling out of the sky. At this point, I had no idea where in the apparently immense convent I was, but that wasn't going to stop me from continuing my exploration. Thunder shook the walls. A line of elderly nuns passed by in habits, probably to go sing "My Favorite Things" with the Reverend Mother, but that wasn't going to stop me either. Then one of them noticed me.

So, turns out trespassing is less fun when you can't speak the language. Normally, when an enormous old nun asks me what I'm doing, I smile and make up some convincing story, probably flashing one of my several persuasive ID cards for good measure. It worked on the monk at Westminster Abbey who put me on the list for Darwin's birthday party last year. But this nun? This nun questioned me in Italian. And I could respond with nothing better than, "Huh?"

And then I am being dragged - literally dragged, by the arm - through the convent by a very large, very angry nun shouting at me in rapid Italian. I catch words like "privato" and "vietato" but am at a loss to respond, and it doesn't seem like a great time to pull out the press pass. She yanks me all the way to the front gate. With a good shove, I am thrown out of the convent and into the rain.

I meant no offense. Nun: taken.

My Three Minutes in Bulgaristan

Thu, 01 Jul 2010 21:40:02 +0000

When I woke up on Wednesday, I had no idea I'd be going to a different country that day.

Okay, now that the intriguing title and the titillating first sentence got you to click "Continue", I will admit that the entire affair was boring and bureaucratic. After waking up I realized that my tourist visa was going to expire that day. Turkey is all muscular about people who overstay their visa, so I wanted to resolve the situation early to avoid having to pay hundreds of liras on the border later. I spent some two hours trying to find out if I can renew the visa in Istanbul, but for some reason the people who pick up phones these days tend to be useless. I guess they're still better than those who don't pick up at all.

so, I decided to go all the way to Emniyet, the bureaucratic headquarters of Istanbul, to try my luck there. After an hour of commuting, I entered their enormous building and found the Foreign Department. Guess what. Nobody speaks English in the Foreign Department. In retrospect, I shouldn't have been surprised. Finally one ordinary citizen volunteered to translate for us, and after he explained to me what were the bureaucratic requirements I had to fulfill for visa renewal, I left, went to the bus station, and bought a bus ticket for Bulgaria. To get a new visa the old-fashioned way.

Long story short, the roundtrip to the border and back took eight hours and included six different vehicles. The best part of it was the revelation that in Turkish, Bulgaria is Bulgaristan. Serbia is Sirbistan. Hungary is Macaristan. Slovakia is... Slovakya, but not deservedly so. Anyway, what I saw of Bulgaristan was nice. Mostly concrete and the customs office. Perhaps my three minutes in a different country will give me a fresh perspective on Istanbul.

Livin the Pub Life

Thu, 01 Jul 2010 20:44:45 +0000

I have to admit that one of my favorite things about the UK is the pub culture.

Cliché as it might be, I’ve rarely felt as distinctly British as when I sit down in a 16^th-century pub in the middle of the afternoon with a pint of cider. On cloudy days, I sit inside and admire the fine woodwork and the idiosyncratic wall decorations. On sunny days, I like sitting out in the beer garden and basking in the summer sunshine with whatever ale the bartender has recommended. This kind of relaxed, communal space is something that we Americans are seriously lacking (along with an appropriate legal drinking age).

Oxford has some of the best pubs I’ve seen so far. Not only are they old, and oozing with character, but they are quirky, too. They all have great stories behind them.

Last night a friend and I tried out the King’s Arms. Until 1973, this was the last male-only pub remaining in Oxford. The bartender was proud to tell me that Hugh Grant (Oxford alum) had stopped by just last week. Right nearby was the Turf Tavern, where former Australian Prime Minister Bob Hawke set a Guinness World Record for finishing off a yard glass of ale in just 11 seconds. As local legend has it, this was also the site where a young Bill Clinton, during his days as a Rhodes Scholar, purportedly “didn’t inhale.”

Today I stopped by The Eagle and the Child. Here, C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkein and other members of the “Inklings,” a little club of writers, used to meet weekly to drink, discuss and debate the issues of the day. They say that the Chronicles of Narnia and The Hobbit were first read aloud in the back "Rabbit Room."

I’ve come to the personal conclusion, therefore, that having a drink at a pub in England makes you smarter… though not necessarily immune to scandal.

Salamanca Frogs

Thu, 01 Jul 2010 17:54:25 +0000

Greetings from beautiful Salamanca, Epaña! I spent all of today exploring Salamanca, a small college town three hours away from Madrid. The crown jewel of the city is the university, the oldest in Spain, deemed by Pope Alexander IV as "one of the four torches of the world." In case you get bored, this place has a 40,000 book library at the top, supposedly symbolizing the university's immortality and dedication to literature and the arts. Legend has it that if you can find the frog carved into the front of the university you will have good luck and a great marriage. Haven't found it yet, but that does look like Mr. T's skull...

I Like to Ride my Bicycle

Thu, 01 Jul 2010 17:08:53 +0000

When I left Brussels I said a little prayer---"Please let Bruges have less cars"---the drivers in Brussels were a little bit insane. My prayers were answered...and then replaced with my worst nightmare. Crazy cyclists. There are mor bikes than cars in Bruges, for sure, and they don't care much for pedestrians. At every traffic light there are a line of bikes ready to take off, and as the light goes green it's like the start of the Tour de Bruges or something!

But, the best mode of transport I saw was half way there to being a bike - and it did make me laugh..

Off the Grid

Thu, 01 Jul 2010 16:31:54 +0000

I had thought Alfama might be a refreshing reprieve from the beautiful but monotonous grid of Baixa. It's not. It's just a pain. This part of town survived the 1755 earthquake that leveled Baixa, as did its infuriatingly unmarked and dead-end streets. Hopefully I'll find a neighborhood with some middle ground, even though it will most likely be on the side of a sheer cliff with the luck I've been having.

On the Grid

Thu, 01 Jul 2010 10:03:40 +0000

Just about every Iberian city has got a straight avenue or two, but the majority of each town is always a maze of narrow, winding streets and hilly stairways and alleys. Not true for Lisbon, where the centrally located Baixa neighborhood, rebuilt after an earthquake in the 18th century, is a perfect grid: the streets are all flat and straight and miraculously intersect at right angles. At last, I thought, my navigational skills could take a break and I could enjoy the easy, open street plan.

What I didn't realize was that without hills or quirks or odd routes, every block and every street look pretty much the same: if pedestrian, lined with sidewalk cafés with umbrella-shaded tables in the middle; if open to traffic, lined with clothing stores and banks. It is much, much easier to get lost here.I can't wait to get back to New York, where the streets are numbered, though the tourists still can't figure it out.

Calm Ladies Only

Thu, 01 Jul 2010 09:00:06 +0000

When I was first looking on Craigslist for apartments in Barcelona, one of the many awkwardly phrased English postings stated simply what it desired—"Calm ladies only, please." At the time, I dreamed of an apartment full of plush chez lounges filled with girls eating grapes and frankly not giving a damn about anything that wasn't worth giving a damn about (or a brothel, but I assumed the former). It was a world I wanted to be a part of, and I responded.

I've always considered myself to be a calm lady—I'm laid-back, rarely loud, and never what I would consider high strung—or, at least that's what I thought until I got here. Since arriving, my concerns expressed in embarrassingly poor Spanish have often been met with a simple command: "Tranquila, tranquila." From young and old, male and female, the binding desire seems to be for me to chill out, to know that "no pasa nada." You know, it's all okay.

At first I was slightly annoyed by the phrase—I'm calm, and not actually particularly worried about whether your hostel accepts American Express or not. Frankly, their statements made me wonder if I really did seem that neurotic, and a dangerous cycle was birthed.

Fast forward to now, a month into my trip (somewhat unbelievable, for me—where has the time gone?). I cherish the calming, good-natured tranquila, tranquila. It's not accusatory, (maybe I actually am a little high strung for ever thinking it might have been) but instead a handout, a reassurance that even if I'm visting their restaurant for ten minutes and trying to squeeze every bit of useful information out of them that I can (often times without buying even a cortado), it's all good. Even if only for a few minutes, it's an invitation to feel a little less like a stranger and a little closer to putting my metaphoric feet up to relax. And you know what? Being a calm lady feels pretty great.

Starbucks: A Matter of Human Necessity

Thu, 01 Jul 2010 04:13:32 +0000

"Starbucks is everywhere." "There's one on every corner." "I pass 7 of them on my way to work." It's definitely nothing new to remark on the ubiquity of Starbucks. But I guess I hadn't fully appreciated the degree to which Starbucks has permeated our lives until I went to the Herald Square Macy's the other day. It wasn't the fact that there was a Starbucks in Macy's that amazed me. It wasn't even that there were four of them. It was this sign:

"An additional Starbucks is located on the 3rd floor wich is accessible via elevators in Men's Dress Furnishings." Not "additional freshments" or even "an additional global-chain-of-expensive-coffee-drinks." "An additional Starbucks." It's like a bathroom. A sink or a bidet wouldn't do; everyone needs access to a functioning, full-service restroom. I can think of other chains that are big; McDonalds is huge. But I cannot see the "Starbucks" in this sign being replaced with Mickey D's. No, Starbucks is operating on a level that no eating or drinking establishment has reached before or, I think, will reach for a long time.

Igor-isms

Thu, 01 Jul 2010 00:01:56 +0000

A collection of my favorite quotes from Igor, a former hostel-mate with a thick Russian accent:

"Every day I go to garden, I try study English, I get tired, I go visit llama. I see llama, llama see me. We understand each other." (For the record, there is actually a zoo with llamas by the garden.)

"If I play oboe when I am on weed, I can think nothing but the universe and the moons and the stars. It is scary to me. I also play oboe when I am drunk, but play oboe is like exercise, and exercise is not fun when you are drunk."

"Amsterdam is my favorite place in the world. So much cheap weed! But I cannot live there, I would probably not live for very long."

"I take shower, and after shower there will be one more clean Russian in the world!" [pause] "No, after shower there will be one clean Russian in the world!"

The chain effect

Wed, 30 Jun 2010 23:51:00 +0000

The best part about hostel-hopping is the people you meet and the quirky things that you learn from them. The second best part about hostel-hopping is the people you meet and the people that they introduce you to, and so on and so forth.

Take Simon, who had been my roommate in Stuttgart. I told him I was heading to Heidelberg next, so he put me in touch with a friend who was living in Heidelberg. I met her for dinner last night and she basically told me about all the coolest places and even put me in touch with her other friends so that I wouldn't have to make it to sketchy clubs by myself, and since she's going out of town for the next few days she's letting me stay at her place and use her bike and all that jazz. She was also keen to figure out exactly where else I was going so that she could put me in touch with other people that could show me around and give me a place to stay.

The best meal yet.

Wed, 30 Jun 2010 23:33:53 +0000

I celebrated the one-month mark of my travels (sadly, that also means the halfway point of my route) yesterday with a feast. I'd just moved into my hostel in Heidelberg, which had an amazingly well-maintained kitchen. With a discount grocery store right downstairs, I quickly assembled everything I needed for a quick, simple, and delicious meal.

My pot of pasta with my sauteed yellow peppers and paprika sausage.

The whole shebang: pasta, fresh tomatoes, and deliciously juicy cherries!

Being the overzealous cook that I am, I ended up making wayyy too much for my own good and had an insane amount of pasta left over. Thankfully, two Korean girls walked into the kitchen, and I shared the rest of my pasta with them while they gave me a mini-pizza. Ahh, communal living at its finest.

Epidermal Enigmas

Wed, 30 Jun 2010 23:23:30 +0000

Those of you who know me probably already know about my skin issues, even if you've never actually asked me about them. In 10th grade, I was diagnosed with psoriasis, a non-infectious chronic skin disorder where my skin cells will just randomly multiply, leaving me with flaky lumps of dead skin cells all over my body. It gets better and worse, and for some reason it's just gotten a lot worse in the past year and a half. It's something that I've lived with for a while now, so I'm used to the fact that only Photoshop could render me a skin cream model, and unlike many other sufferers I refuse to let my prickly epidermis get in the way of my clothing choice. After all, it is hot these days, and I always return plastered in a layer of sweat.

What's interesting is the reactions I've gotten. None of the Germans I've met have ever asked me anything about it, which always perturbs me slightly because I never know what they're thinking (On the flipside, it keeps me in a sort of "if-a-tree-falls-in-the-forest-but-no-one's-there-to-hear-it-did-it-really-happen" bliss). The Chinese restauranteurs that I've chatted with, though, have all unabashedly asked about my skin, and we always end up having an interesting conversation that begins with the nature of my disease, the fact that Western medicine only has steroid- or UV-based treatments that always interfere with other bodily systems, and how Eastern medicine actually has cures. Psoriasis is actually quite common in China, and everyone I've met has had a brother/aunt/friend of a friend who has had (and has since overcome) the disease.

For those curious, I will be spending next year in China, and one of the top things on the list is trying to figure out how to conquer this disease once and for all. The bigger picture here, though, is the difference in the way that the two cultures approach the dilemma. Western cultures, I've observed, tend to observe a demure sense of privacy, like how it's impolite to ask one's age, or how only the naive little boy had the guts to tell the Emperor that he was naked. And while Eastern cultures (or, more specifically, Chinese culture) does not practice the opposite, there's something more direct and free-flowing about the style of everyday communication which, in my opinion, makes things much more comfortable and less veneered.

Whose side are you on?

Wed, 30 Jun 2010 19:41:33 +0000

Yesterday, walking down one of Bologna's main streets, I encountered two groups of thugs. One of the groups just happened to have badges.

I'll be honest, I have no idea what was going on and neither did any of the several other bystanders, but the sight was almost comical.

In an alley, a group of counterculture types in dark vests and black cargo pants with chains hanging off their big belts had assembled

Surrounding them was a group of policemen in dark (bulletproof) vests and black cargo pants with chains (and guns) hanging off their big belts.

A caricature: so different, yet so similiar.

The difference was in their hair and piercings (or lack thereof). The "subjects" of whatever investigation was ongoing stood out in this regard. Their ears, noses, and who knows what else were pierced; their hair orange or green and spiked.

Judging by this tableau, the police officer accessory of choice is a pair of aviator sunglasses. No nose spikes for them.

I don't know if any of the punk-rock types gathered there were Communists (or that all of the policemen weren't either), but this scene reminded me of Bologna's history as a hotbed of antiestablishment fervor. Bologna has historically been the Communist capital of Italy, no doubt a position cultivated by the denizens of the city's liberal university. Believe it or not, the national Communist party is still based here. And red is certainly a favorite color in the city's art museums and on billboards around town.

Red, however, was not a favorite color of those I saw, judging by their clothing. It was black, for the "good" guys and the "bad."

Accepted

Wed, 30 Jun 2010 18:45:35 +0000

It happens sometimes in my travels that I’m mistaken for a local undergrad. I was surprised at first, but I can understand it. Once I’ve severed ties with my backpack for the day, it’s not unreasonable that tourists would think I’m a university student.

Well, after all, I am one. I know their ways. I walk around town, too-cool-for-school in my sunglasses, with a simple tote bag, sometimes a computer, sometimes a notebook, on a mission, looking like I know where I’m going. Some days I’m a bit grungier than I should be, but I think that’s pretty normal too.

Yesterday afternoon was my first day in Oxford, and within three hours, I had already been asked four times for directions to various university buildings and sights.

Today, though, was the first time that I’ve been mistaken for a prospective student. I’m still debating whether I should consider it a compliment, or an insult, that I can still pass for 16.

Let me clarify. I’ve discovered that I’ve actually come to Oxford at the perfect time. The University is hosting a huge annual program for potential applicants, across all the colleges. There are mobs of teenagers wandering the city streets with their parents, clutching plastic bags filled to the brim with pamphlets, and some wearing small sticky nametags that say things like “Ruby, Physics.”

I mean, I'm not planning on applying to Oxford anytime soon. In fact, witnessing the whole scene made me realize how very glad I am to be past that stage of life. I thought it was only American parents that were ridiculously intense and overbearing about the college process. I thought wrong. These British parents were just as bad, if not worse, peppering every possible student they saw with a rapid stream of questions—“Which A-Levels did you take?” “What kind of school did you come from?” “How many other people do you think you were competing with for your engineering spot at Trinity in your year?” “Are any of these rooms en-suite?” (First-year rooms with private bathrooms? What? How posh is this place?)

But I digress. The reason this whole “Open Days” program is great for me is that I could breeze through the doors of any college I wanted, free of charge, free of hassle. Not only that, there were loads of student guides around in bright colored t-shirts, giving tours, offering to show us the bedrooms and the dining halls and libraries and all those other things that you normally need a swipe card to access. I went college-hopping and tour-hopping, switching between guides when I would spot something interesting and leaving when they would start talking too much about university support services blah blah blah. I amused myself with the various courses I was interested in studying when asked, starting off with closest-to-the-truth, P.P.E. (Politics, Philosophy and Economics) and then getting more adventurous with law, chemistry, and Russian.

I wound up with a free lunch at Somerville College via a voucher, a good pub recommendation, and my own collection of informational pamphlets. It had been a productive day.

Now, time to be 20 again.

When life gives you salt water...

Wed, 30 Jun 2010 18:19:44 +0000

... buy goggles! They've been my best purchase yet, though I've received no Greek comments on what they look like on me. Regardless, these goggles helped me find nemo.

Strange Fruit

Wed, 30 Jun 2010 17:59:20 +0000

Three Strange Happenings in Casablanca:

1.) 11 pm. Casablanca's Youth Hostel:

A guest emerged from her room waving her arms and screaming at imaginary voices. The hostel went on lockdown, which means I had to stop writing up copy in the central lounge and return to my dorm. The manager hoped that turning off the lights would also turn off the potential for further psychotic episodes. Needless to say, it worked. Poor lady.

2.) 2am. Blvd. de la Corniche in the wealthy suburb of Ain Diab, Club District:

While researching nightlife, I found a gay club. In Morocco. Are you shocked? I was.

3.) 230am. Blvd de la Corniche, Club District:

A woman stepping out of the taxi I was getting into asked me why I was leaving the Corniche. After a long few hours of researching nightlife (not always as fun as it sound, since it means getting past bouncers looking to charge $$ in cover), I replied that I was heading to bed. She asked if she could join. Blushing redder than Moroccan harira, I politely declined.

Here's to not looking at you anymore, Casablanca.

Exiled from Paradiso

Wed, 30 Jun 2010 15:54:10 +0000

Dante Alighieri spent the last seven centuries banished from his native Florence. Back when he still walked the fields of Tuscany, he was aligned with the pro-imperial party and even became city counselor in 1300. The timing could not have been worse. Pro-papal politics came back with a vengeance and Dante was put to trial, which he failed to attend, resulting in a fine, which he refused to pay. The city of Florence condemned him to banishment on pain of death by burning and Dante spent the rest of his life traveling from city to city with his sons. During those years in exile, he wrote The Divine Comedy (populating The Inferno with his old chums from Florentine politics) and tackled the minor task of becoming father of the modern Italian language.

It took Florence seven centuries to get over its old grudge. In 2008, the city council revoked Dante’s expulsion. The motion was opposed by the radical left, which was convinced that the pardon was unnecessary. Death sentence or no death sentence, his name is everywhere in Firenze. The council agreed to award Dante the city’s highest honor, the golden florin. Dante’s direct descendant, Count Pieralvise, however, added to the drama by boycotting the ceremony because Florentines were not nearly sorry enough. So much for good intentions paving anything.

Mall of America

Wed, 30 Jun 2010 15:49:10 +0000

Of the millions of tourists who visit Washington, D.C., annually, the overwhelming majority come to the National Mall in the heart of downtown. After all, in addition to its grassy expanse, the Mall is home to Washington’s most famous historic monuments and civic institutions. But more often than they expect, visitors can find Honest Abe’s metallic gaze falling upon a forest of white tents, part of one of the many festivals that call the Mall home. Here are five events not to miss:

1. Fourth of July Fireworks
By pounds of explosives, the pyrotechnic display in D.C. may not be the nation’s biggest, but the city has no inferiority complex. For patriotic splendor, nothing beats seeing red, white, and blue (and other, less important colors) sparkling through the sky above the Washington Monument. Thousands of people watch from blankets on the Mall, meaning you won’t be the only ridiculously stars-and-stripes clad spectator to take in this essential American experience.

2. National Capital Barbecue Battle
Just off the Mall on Pennsylvania Avenue, this June spectacle arms teams of celebrity chefs and Average Joes with forks, knives, and basting brushes, pitting them against each other in the quest for southern-style glory. It’s two days of sizzling meat in the shadow of the Capitol Dome—naturally, pork is a favorite. Don’t forget the detergent wipes, ‘cause all that dribbling barbecue sauce has a veritable congressional mandate to end up anywhere but on your napkin.

3. Smithsonian Folklife Festival
The most popular of Washington’s public gatherings, the Folklife Festival spotlights areas as varied as they are unique. (2008 featured the unlikely combination of Texas and Bhutan.) Visit in the weeks around the Fourth of July Holiday to learn about the technological masterpieces and culinary traditions of society far from the Nation’s Capital.

4. National Cherry Blossom Festival
One of the most popular spectacles in Washington, the cherry blossoms are also one of the least predictable. No matter how hard they try, the weather forecasters—who scientifically set the date a year in advance—can never quite predict the changing seasons’ random timing. As a result, the festival sometimes takes place under bare branches or occurs when blossoms, a 1912 gift from the people of Japan, are past their peak. Come in late March or early April and, while there’s a chance you may miss the trees’ ring around the rosy Tidal Basin, there’s a consolation prize: Japanese performances and cultural activities that will suit any curious traveler’s fancy.

5. National Book Festival
Until 2009, one could count on seeing the first lady at this cerebral summertime celebration; as a former librarian, Laura Bush took the event to new prominence. Today, however, bookish types will relish the opportunity to meet with authors of genres from biography to mystery (but probably not teen romance novels). For youngsters, the young-at-heart, or the just plain childish, larger-than-life picture book characters also make regular appearances.

Let's Go's 50th in the Press

Wed, 30 Jun 2010 15:36:22 +0000

Articles on the New York Times Frugal Traveler blog and the Lost Girls World travel blog recently joined in the celebration of Let's Go's 50th Anniversary. The articles include interviews with current staffers on the Let's Go legacy, its present, and its future.

Grocery Geek

Wed, 30 Jun 2010 14:39:46 +0000

I guess I shouldn't be surprised. I did spend my preschool years practicing reading by rummaging through the kitchen pantry, and I was always cutting Saturday-morning cartoons to catch Supermarket Sweep. However, I never could have imagined the interest and intrigue I would have at the chance to explore Spanish grocery stores.

Over the course of this trip, I have found great comfort in just roaming the isles of the Mercadonas, El Corte Ingleses, and Super Sols, and browsing the products they put on the shelves. While we Americans pack our lunches with chocolate pudding, the Spanish have little flan cups. The only things we have in cartons are milk products and seasonal eggnog, but on the Iberian Peninsula they have those prismed containers filled with gazpacho. We have lunchmeats by the pound, and they have fresh chorizo. Don't even get me started on the pastry sections--why doesn't the local Costco have shelf upon shelf of freshly baked tarts, cakes, and cookies, glistening with sugar crystals and filling a 50m radius with delicious fragrances?

We all know that food is a big part of culture. There's a reason that tourist offices often have separate pamphlets emphasizing gastronomy. But don't think that this culture is expressed exclusively through pricey restaurants and set menus. You may be ordering up some chicken fingers at the prepared foods section in the States, but you can try some pretty scrumptious, piping-hot paella (for under €2!) at your local grocery store in Espana. Buen Provecho!

Just a little of the top (and bottom).

Wed, 30 Jun 2010 11:07:09 +0000

It's always fascinating to me the ways in which people feel differently about their bodies. In the Czech Republic, certain European-wide stereotypes find themselves at a hilarious crossroad. It's a long established tradition that says European men...well, you'll see below.

Death Metal: This post contains no jokes.

Wed, 30 Jun 2010 10:14:23 +0000

The Obscene Extreme 2010 music festival is coming up next month in Prague, and that means one thing: Praguers can indulge in the the beautiful wonderfulness of Death Metal. You should know, Praguers love Death Metal. Like love love. If Death Metal were a girl who Praguers weren't dating, they would have a hard time dating anyone else, at least meaningfully. They might date someone else for awhile, but then they'd see Death Metal in a restaurant and stare too long, and that other girl would just know. And she'd leave, but Praguers would go home and look in the mirror and say "Yes, this is a good thing. Now nothing stands between me and the Metal of Death."

As promised. There are no jokes. Just a random sampling of the actual names of the acts that will be performing in the festival. Enjoy

Misery Index

Cripple Bastards

Bloody Phoenix

Disfigured Corpse

Sinners

Looking for an Answer

Repulsed

Doom

Putrescence

Social Chaos

Whores Nation

Exhale

Beyond Terror Beyond Grace

World Downfall

Mucus

Black

MartyrGod

Hemorrhage

The Arson Project

Victims

Inevitable End

Noise Bazooka

Catheter

Attack of the Mad Axeman

Trauma

Malignant Tumour

Krush

[insert joke here]

Wed, 30 Jun 2010 08:50:22 +0000

Yet Another Taxi-related Incident

Wed, 30 Jun 2010 08:38:07 +0000

I seem to have a thing for blogs about taxis.

But is it my fault that everywhere I go there seems to be a taxi-related incident at hand?

Having just arrived in Glasgow, I was sitting outside trying to figure out what to do with myself. You know, get organized for the week ahead, plan how I was going to go out and get amazing Let's Go coverage...okay, maybe I was just sitting. But I hadn't been sitting for too long before a taxi pulled up and stopped in the street in front of me.

Now, we're not talking about the same streets that are to be found in the United States. Streets in Glasgow tend to be very narrow, and they tend to be made narrower by the cars parked on either side, so when I say that the taxi stopped in the street, he stopped in the street.

I'm fairly certain that what he was doing was waiting for a passenger to come out of the hotel behind me, but he hadn't stopped for more than five seconds before a black BMW with some "boss" rims and some "bumpin'" tunes pulled up behind it.

The guy didn't even bother honking.

Preferring instead to use his mouth-horn, he began to curse the taxi driver rather violently. Now, I'm still getting used to the Scottish accent, but there were some definite "Fook yews" thrown in there. From my observation post on the side walk I watched to see what would happen. I turned to see if the passenger was emerging from the hotel. Not yet. Now the taxi driver had gotten out of his vehicle.

This is where things went from mildly amusing to "Ohmigodpleaseladygetouthereandgetinthedamntaxi." The Scottish gangsta was really pissed, which I couldn't understand since he'd only been waiting in his car for the taxi for approximately a second and a half before deciding it was worth getting out of his car to scream at the driver. Now the driver was walking over to the infuriated owner of the luxury automobile and...

Oh.

No.

Yeahhhh, you pushed him.

The taxi driver was middle-aged, perhaps in his late forties or early early fifties, but he wasn't having any of that. Returning to his car, he pulled out a wrench, about three feet long and with a wicked looking socket on the end of it.

"Is this how we're gonna do it now?" he said.

The driver of the BMW actually seemed to smile, and then went over to open the trunk of his car.

Dear God people, it was a minor traffic regulation infraction!

I was still sitting on the sidewalk, watching, and a number of people passing on the street had joined me. I'm pretty sure the joint consensus was that they were going to beat the living crap out of each other, but just as things were about to get started a very scared looking concierge walked out of the hotel and announced to the two gentlemen that the police were on their way, and that they would be better served taking their dispute elsewhere.

Well, that did it. Both taxi driver and BMW guy jumped in their cars and made tracks. Something occured to me. The passenger the taxi had been waiting for hadn't ever come out of the hotel.

To be honest though, having seen that going on, I don't think I would have either.

Safe or silly?

Wed, 30 Jun 2010 08:25:19 +0000

    I am a paranoid traveler. In the past, I have slept with my computer in my pillow case, brought my purse into the shower stall, and locked my backpack to the bedpost with a bicycle chain. I still sleep with my keys latched to my bra.
    I thought it was impossible to up the ante from this absurd level of caution. (Most people roll their eyes when I tell them about my desperate safety measures.) Then I got to Naples. I settled in at my hostel, locked up my valuables (again, with a bicycle lock inside the locker), and headed out in the city with a day purse. By purse, I mean shoulder bag with a latch, outside zipper, inner zipper, and safety pin securing my wallet to the pockets. I was about to head down the stairs when the reception man stopped me and curtly said, "No money. No credit card. No passport." I looked at him, not fully understanding. He pointed to my bag and said, "Don't carry anything." I didn't quite believe him, but then I thought, "This is not coming from a worried mother or a cautious girlfriend. This is coming from a 50-something-year-old resident MAN from Naples. If even he is this paranoid, maybe there's something to what he's saying."
    Like an obedient child, I turned around and reconsidered my daypack. I put my credit cards in my passport and put the passport in a sock. I stuffed the sock, wrapped around a towel, in my traveler's backpack. I safety-pinned my money to my bra and took off all jewelry except for my rings. And then I transferred one of them to my ring finger, hoping to cultivate the impression that I have a burly fiancé waiting to clobber anyone who approaches me. The only object of value now in the "purse" was my camera. Walking out again, I must not have looked too different, for the man again looked at me skeptically.
    Now on my third day in Naples, I'm still trying to figure this thing out -- words from the "wise" make me feel as though even my level of caution is not enough. While I'm here the next few days, my goal is to walk the line between being paranoid and being a pansy.
    Or maybe I'll just become a paranoid pansy this week.

A Few Easy Ways to Save Money

Tue, 29 Jun 2010 18:58:26 +0000

After over a month and a half traveling in Paris almost every single day, I've decided to share a few easy ways to save money in Paris.

1. Spend time in one or two neighborhoods per day. This way, you don't waste money traveling all over the city. Metro rides get very expensive at 1.60 euros/ride, and with a small fare hike in the works, this is truer than ever. Locations that are two, three, or even four Metro stops away are easily navigable by foot. Plus, with all the delicious food you'll be eating, there's no better way to burn off those calories than by walking. Plus, the Metro stinks (quite literally: it smells bad. Always.). If you're really feeling rebellious and old-school, hop the turnstile. Everybody used to do it until a few years ago, when doors were erected on the other side of the turnstile. While they're still easy to jump, it's somewhat of a lost art. Let's Go does not reccommend bringing it back, but some travelers do like to live on the edge. Just be prepared for a possible stint in a Parisian jail cell.

2. Don't eat in cafes with lots of people in them. In touristy areas, these places are guaranteed to be overpriced, serve uninspiring food, and generally be a waste of your time. Yes, it's fun to watch throngs of people walk past on an early summer's eve. But it's not worth it. Plan to journey to a Let's Go reccommended restaurant in a less-frequented neighborhood at meal times.

3. Don't casually drink in cafes. Granted, there's nothing better than enjoying a cold one after a long day of schlepping about. But it should stay at ONE cold one. If you want to drink, go to a Franprix market and buy a six-pack. Drink in your hotel room. Better yet, drink by the Seine. The basic idea is, if you're one of those people who likes to get tipsy, you better economize.

4. Don't eat at McDo. You're right, this has nothing to do with saving money. Even though McDo is better for you than McDonald's (i.e. the French version is healthier than the American version), just don't do it. 'Nuff said.

Grease in Greece

Tue, 29 Jun 2010 18:42:29 +0000

Last night I found myself across a table from someone whose English was almost (but not quite) as bad as my Greek. The scene was comic. We would each start a sentence, realize the other had no idea what we were saying, and then burst into laughter. After about two sips of coffee, I noticed that songs from Grease the musical came onto the speakers, and I started laughing--this time not from the futility of communication but because of the hilarity of the fact that people played the soundtrack to Grease in Greece. When I tried to explain what was funny about the song, I was at a loss. Trying to explain the humor behind a homophone is not an easy task when the problem from the get-go is translation.

Customer Service?

Tue, 29 Jun 2010 18:15:39 +0000

Once you've spent a little time in France, or just about any European country, you'll quickly learn that the dearly held American cultural value of customer service, has no parallel in other cultures. Can you think of a translation for customer satisfaction survey? No? That's because there isn't one.

The difference between our two different conceptions of customer service (or rather, between our conception and France's lack of one) is best illustrated by a simple social custom as commonly practiced in France as adultery. This custom is that it is polite and essential to always say "bonjour" to whomever you are interacting with, whether the setting be in a restaurant, at a Metro information window, or at your local boulangerie.

In America, the customer is elevated above the worker. Think common sayings like, "the customer's always right," or listed hotline numbers you can call if you're not satisfied with your service. None of this exists in France, and while it has its downsides (waiting for two hours to buy a ticket for a 45-minute train ride), it adds a touch of humanity to commercial interactions. So if you come to France, notice what I'm talking about, and prefer the French way of doing things (as I do), bring it back home. Greet the McDonald's cashier with a warm smile and a hello. Shock and awe.

Bruges: The Happiest Place on Earth

Tue, 29 Jun 2010 15:01:15 +0000

I'm "in Bruges" (haha!). No, wait, I'm in Disneyworld. No, Bruges. AAAAH. They look so similar; full of tourists, pristinely preserved buildings that seem a little fake, and a large big cartoon mouse. Ok, so Bruges doesn't have Mickey running about, but it does feel (and smell) like Disneyworld---no joke. Tourists LOVE Bruges and they are everywhere, on every street corner, in every bar, in every restaurant, with their fannypacks and nikons round their shoulder.

But all jokes aside, Bruges is like stepping back a few hundreds years---there as many horse and carriages on the roads as there are cars, and some cafés and bars date back generations. Fortunately they still have Wifi access...and the beer isn't a few hundreds year old either.

Smarties

Tue, 29 Jun 2010 06:44:26 +0000

Why is it that the smart guy is always getting picked on (and this is no reference to the Disney sitcom featuring Tia, Tamara, and little brother Taj Mowry)? I know that I'm not going to be able to bring the world's end of bullying, bothering, or bugging, but it just always makes me wonder. As a self-proclaimed nerd (and proud of it), I luckily have avoided many elementary and high school moments of the dorky kid taking the heat. But yesterday, when visiting Mallorca's Castell de Bellver, learning about the history of the building really struck a chord.

Now, I know the title is in Catalan and not Spanish, but this sight is far from what I expected. I anticipated some royal castle, shining and glistening, up in the mountains. But the Castell de Bellver actually spent much of it's history serving as a high-security prison. And one unlucky guy who had to experience these non-palatial facilities was Gaspar Melchor Jovellanos, an Enlightenment thinker arrested for being simply "different." And oddly, I feel like Jovellanos would be a totally popular hot-shot today, possibly even running for office. His major initiatives included universal education, agrarian reform, extension of public works, a liberal economy, and an end to the violent Inquisition. That's a box that I'd check on a ballot. But Javellanos was sporting a navy suit and a red tie (or any other patriotic combination)--rather, he was trapped away, without any contact to the outside world, in a city far from home.

I'm not suggesting that this is the type of "bullying" that concerns me today, but it definitely makes me wonder. How many other geniuses got tricked into a "Castell" vacation and actually got stuck in silence? At least at this prison, he enjoyed some of the world's best views of all of Mallorca. That's some compensation, right?

Public Service Announcement: Navigation in Paris

Tue, 29 Jun 2010 00:46:17 +0000

There's nothing worse than being lost in Paris, feeling timid about asking for directions, and not being able to communicate. Well, actually there is; having to fold and unfold your arrondissement-by-arrondissement map of Paris everytime you want to get a move on. Not only is it inconvenient; the map will probably break if you don't have a background in origami, and the whole unfolding thing just makes you look like a vulnerable tourist. Little do you probably know that there's no good reason to do this.

The best resource for maps is each arrondissement's Mairie. The most efficient way to explore Paris, of course, is to take it neighborhood-by-neighborhood. With these two things in mind, make a stop at your arrondissement's Mairie (yes, there are Mairies in every arrondissement) and ask for a Map of the neighborhood. You'll probably get a Map, along with a whole bunch of restaurant ads and promotions worth taking advantage of as well.

Keep in mind, however, that the Mairie's, like everything government-related in France, are closed on weekends. In this desperate situation, there are two potential routes of action. Each Metro stop has a neighborhood Map on the way to each exit. Take a look at this, plot out your destinations, then jot them down (probably iPhones and blackberrys, right?). If you don't want to breathe the thick, faintly pissy Metro air, then research your itinerary on Google Maps beforehand. This is by far the less preferable option; Paris is best enjoyed spontaneously, but with a certain amount of planned destinations always in store. This has been a boring, but hopefully useful, PSA from your favorite Let's Go researcher.

An open letter to Tuscany regarding the matter of cosplay

Mon, 28 Jun 2010 22:58:25 +0000

Dear Tuscany,

You have a very proud culture. Your personal identity is closely tied to your regional loyalties. I get it. I mean, I basically grew up in a suburban strip mall, so I don't get it get it. I do empathize. But dear, dear Tuscany, you've taken it too far. It's time for us to have The Talk. The Talk about cosplay.

Now, now. Don't start sputtering about heritage this, tradition that. I have seen far too many grown men in moth-eaten Ren Faire cast-offs this month to buy that line. Clearly, you just do this because you like it. And that's great! More power to you.

But there is a time and a place for every time and place. So here, my Tuscan friends, are some basic rules for anachronistic dress-up time.

Rule #1: You may only dress anachronistically in routine life if the style is from a decade in which Hitchcock made films. Fedoras are hot. Top hats are not.

Exception to Rule #1: Ironic mid-'90s garb.

Rule #2: Attire from decades and centuries not covered by Rule #1 are acceptable on the following occasions:
- Halloween, Carnivale, Purim, etc.
- Theme parties
- Before your 12th birthday

Rule #3: Not all styles work for all people. Perhaps everyone in 1590 wore tights. Well, maybe you should pretend you're in 1570 instead. There's a century for every body type, my Raphaelite friends.

Rule #4: Comic book conventions and Ren Faires. And, specially for you Tuscany, major festivals. I said MAJOR. That means once annually. Comic Con is once a year. The NY Ren Faire is once a year. You can restrain yourselves from parading down the street in pantaloons at least as well as the convention cosplayers, can't you?

Exception to all rules: Waistcoats. Waistcoats are always OK.

Second exception to all rules: Hot chicks. Hot chicks are also always OK.

Gioco Del Ponte live-blog

Mon, 28 Jun 2010 22:44:56 +0000

[This is a time-delayed live blog. Meaning I wrote this directly into my notebook and am now just typing it up for your entertainment. The event being observed, I later learned, was called the Gioco Del Ponte, and it's an ancient annual tradition in which a bunch of Pisans try to push each other over a bridge.]

6/26 10pm PISA

I feel like a Muggle at the Quidditch World Cup. For 2 hr., Pisans in moth-eaten historical costume have been parading the banks of the Arno, some on horseback, some marching with spears, some banging colorful drums. Around one of the bridges - I don't know which yet (I've been in town for 3 hr.) - ordinary Pisans are leaning (ahem) against the river walls, waving standards and tooting anachronistic plastic battle horns. So far, I've gathered that the flags and color schemes correspond to neighborhoods, but that's all I've got.

Considering I've shown up a half hour before the main event, whatever that's going to be, I've got a pretty clutch spot on the wall. Might as well stick around. Also there are fireworks barges on the river, and I am a sucker and a half for fireworks.

A mysterious light source has washed the river in red light, and the barges have released a huge quantity of smoke which is now hovering along the Arno's banks and making it feel rather more like the Thames. And still nothing has happened. I have no patience for this sort of -- my God, it's Rover! A huge white ball is hovering ominously over the bridge. When did that get there?? Some guys just passed by in regalia, all dudes with slump-shouldered walks and long ponytails. Glad to know bandies look the same in every culture.

The fireworks barge - more of a raft, really - is distressingly small. But that family that does all the New York fireworks is Italian, I think. So that bodes well.

The people in orange are shouting. Did something happen? There was a sliding platform thing on the bridge before, and now it is on the other side of the bridge. Is the whole thing over? Was this tug o' war? (Tug-of-war? Is the o' thing only for Man O' War?)

Another ninja smoke bomb went off. Where do you GET those? How cool would it be to just have a few ninja smoke bombs always ready in your pocket. Great for a quick exit. Rover is still flying high. Maybe this is in heats? Why does one of the banners have Wonder Woman on it? How long until proper fireworks? God, this is boring. I wonder how much the giant lollipops are.

A shot went off. They must be starting again. I pay attention this time. There is a large block of people on the bridge doing nothing in particular, but folks are cheering. Oh! The mass just budged! In one direction! Must be tug-of-war after all! I wonder if we are rooting for them to come towards us or away.

The mass wobbles, slowly drifting this way. It isn't very thrilling to watch, really. They don't have tug-of-war in the Olympics, do they? This is duller than soccer. I actually think almost all sports are dull, but I felt like making a dig at soccer because there's this one episode of Sports Night where -- oh shit! They just changed directions! Oh shit oh shit ohhhh.... kay. Guess they passed the line. That was totally exciting for, like, 3 sec.

I should have brought a novel. I guess I can read the glossary of Let's Go Italy while I wait for stuff to happen again. Or I can go get gelato. Hm.

[Live blog ends here.]

A success story

Mon, 28 Jun 2010 22:11:13 +0000

Love-lorn travelers, fear not! Let's Go is here to help! Today I visited a small hotel in Lucca that was listed in the previous guide. When I identified myself, the owner grew excited and called his girlfriend over. She's from the states, and they have been together for about a year. They met when she was a guest at his hotel. How did she find out about the hotel, you ask? Why, through Let's Go of course!

In conclusion, don't hook up with the guy who runs the hostel, because that's sketch, but if it works out for you crazy kids, let us know!

More Festival Craziness... this time on the Danube Island

Mon, 28 Jun 2010 20:29:05 +0000

Just in case the Dresden BRN didn't get the festival craziness out of my system, this weekend Vienna's Donauinselfest was in full force on the Danube Island--- Friday, Saturday, and Sunday filled with free concerts, amusement park rides, and lots of drinking...Cola, that is.

On Sunday, a local friend of mine told me to come to the main stage for a Culcha Candela concert, so I agreed, thinking that chilling out to a band named Culcha Candela would definitely be a nice way to continue what had already been a relaxing and fairly uneventful Sunday.

I arrived at the outdoor stage to see hoards of people crowding as close as humanly possible-- both to the stage and to each other. I managed to slip through the majority of the people and ended up fairly close to the stage, just in time for the lights to go down and the smog to pour out over the stage in a play of special affects. Then the crowd screamed. As I went deaf, I realized that this wasn't going to be the chilled out concert I envisioned.

The best way I can describe it would be to imagine an NSync concert, with more reggae/rap tones amidst the pop... and in German. Similar size "boy band" and with equally... dare-I-say, bad, choreographed dance moves. (Along the lines of Bye, Bye, Bye.) But the crowd was insane, screaming all the words to every song, waving their hands in the air, snapping pictures, and even climbing on each others' shoulders to see better. And it wasn't just teenagers or tweens in love with the band (because, really, I think NSync was better looking), but rather every type of young, old, woman, man, etc imaginable... Totally totally crazy. I had a blast even though I couldn't sing along, but I could definitely join in the waving and jumping..

And I'm slowly getting over feeling stupid for not even knowing who Culcha Candela was... oops... (I guess they're like famous or something... )

Watch the music video for their hit song Monsta here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7JTA6RLvFgg

Sexist Alcoholics

Mon, 28 Jun 2010 20:27:37 +0000

In England, there's no such thing as a woman's drink. Or, even if there is, the boundaries are less clearly defined. There are two prime examples of this:

1) Cider. This is traditionally an Irish drink and it literally tastes like Sparkling apple cider. It comes in a shapely pint glass that's more goblet than it is glass, and it's just about the sweetest sparkling drink ever. It's like a white wine spritzer with sugar and apples. When I first got it, I ordered two pints—one for me, one for my friend. My friend was mortified when he tasted it, sure that we looked clueless. I asked the man at the pub next to us if it was a woman's drink. His response: "CIDER? FUCK no. 'Ahs a man's drink if e'er I saw one. Not lahk thaht PISS WA'ER ya call Beaur back in the states." For the rest of the night, he continued in a similarly violent vein, telling us several stories that ended with him telling another guy that he'd "Kick his face in."

2) Pimm's. This is a sweet red drink filled with fruit. The only redeeming quality is that it comes in a jug. That is all.

"No, Kaiser, this time we're ready"

Mon, 28 Jun 2010 20:16:50 +0000

Yesterday, I saw a grown man cry. I had just finished visiting the Kew Gardens in Kew (which, by London standards, might as well be in the middle of Alaska), and I raced to a pub to catch the England game. Spirits were high in the Queen's country yesterday, with one paper triumphantly declaring "No, kaiser, this time we're ready." As if there were any doubt that everyone here takes football too seriously.

Crowdedness at the bar fluctuated wildly. In the beginning of the game, it was packed with jeering British fans who felt they had the Germans beat for sure. By the middle of the game, most had taken their drinks outside to commiserate over how "crap" and "rubbish" the team was and how it was all such "bollocks." Eventually, ten minutes before the game was over (and long after it was finished), there was a massive influx of people who got stiffer drinks and grumblingly moved back outside. The Irish men behind me chuckled to themselves, and the British girls on the couch glared at them.

In the last three minutes of the game, I noticed the rather large 30-something man at the table ahead of me. He was a big guy with a short hair cut and a white t-shirt. On his face, he had two paintings of the English flag (which is not the union jack)—one on each cheek. Suddenly, he started to tremble and then shake. He put his head in his hands and slumped onto the table. His wife comforted him as a mother would a child, without even the tiniest smile—just complete understanding. Eventually, the tears ran into his face paint, which made him look a lot like the sad clown from those old paintings. The game ended and the old man at the bar turned to the man next to him and began a conversation with the immortal one-liner: "Well, the Nazis won it, didn't they?" And I left the pub.

Germany v. Ghana

Mon, 28 Jun 2010 18:40:30 +0000

Being in Europe during the World Cup is crazy. And being surrounded by Germans during the Germany v. Ghana game last night was even crazier.

I went to a public viewing at a large outdoor bar down on the edge of the Danube Canal, and the glorious weather had given many other people the same idea. Like, hundreds. Getting into the bar to begin with was a struggle. As the number of people waiting steadily increased, the guards eventually gave up and let the masses rush in.

I had no idea there were so many Germans in Austria.

During the game, I found myself standing amidst a particularly rowdy (ie. drunk) group of Germans with their face painted and with German flags and colors on every other part of their bodies as well. Throughout the match they chanted, screamed, drank, screamed some more, and then drank some more... Being surrounded by crazy fans was honestly more fun than watching the actual game. And the Super Deutschland song is now forever ingrained in my head.... "Super Deutschland, Super Deutschland, Super Deutschland, Ole ole"

On Sundays

Mon, 28 Jun 2010 18:37:24 +0000

Sundays in Vienna are confusing for me (and would be for anyone from a large American city like Los Angeles/Boston/New York). Here in Vienna, everything is closed on Sundays. And I mean everything--supermarkets, clothing stores, bakeries, restaurants, even pharmacies. There are a few cafes and fast food stands open, but that's about it.

How do people get anything done? I've discovered the answer to that is: they don't. Sunday is the "day of rest," and here in Vienna they take their day of rest seriously. If you don't do your errands or shopping on Saturday, you can absolutely forget about getting it done before Monday. (ahem, Let's hope you picked up the dry cleaning.)

It's strange to have relaxation forced upon me, becuase it seems so contrary to what I think of as an urban lifestyle. While at home I get errands done on Sundays, here in Vienna my Sundays have been much more enjoyable (if less productive). Yesterday, I took a book and sat in the sunshine in Stadtpark (my favorite green space in the city) and just read.... feeling very Viennese, of course.

Pasties for Your Butt: They Exist

Mon, 28 Jun 2010 15:16:49 +0000

Last night was Barcelona's Gay Pride Parade, the fitting end to my week of researching the expansive neighborhood of l'Eixample, affectionately known as Gaixample. With rainbow flags dotting the Carrer Consell de Cent; nearly half of my 24 nightlife destinations identifying themselves as gay, gay-friendly, or just hetero-friendly; and reading a flood of friends' and family's updates from pride parades in San Francisco, Columbus, and Boston, I was geared up to dive into a sea of rainbows.

Like any dutiful reporter, I snagged my spot on the side of the street, whipped out my camera, started scratching down notes, and, of course, danced whenever necessary. Here's what I have to show for it—

First, some standard pride highlights:
1) Rainbow packaged condoms raining from the heavens as guys open their bags to snag them, almost like gathering rain during a draught. And the message? "Pro life? Pro condom."
2) Number of times a Lady Gaga song was played by different floats: 2
3) Number of times "It's Raining Men" was played by different floats: 2
4) Number of times a non-Lady Gaga or "It's Raining Men" song was played by different floats: 2 (okay, maybe a little more, but not much)

And, some stuff specific to Barcelona:
5) A Dragon. Of course.
6) Blue devil drag queen. Of course.
7) BEARCELONA float. Easily the best pun on the city's name.
8) Pasties, but for your butt.

All pretty amazing, but there were a few stats that confounded me:
1) Time into the parade it took to see some full fledged nudity: 35 minutes
2) Time into the parade it took to see a boob: 37 minutes

Given that seeing old guys walking around naked in Barcelona isn't that weird to me anymore and being used to Pride being a top-free zone no matter your gender, I was shocked, somewhat appalled, and just really confused at the lack of skin in this Mediterranean wonderland.

Seeing as this is just Barcelona Pride's second year, the amount of people and party was really impressive. For now, I'll congratulate the city for a job well done and wait until it matures a bit before I start hassling it to get a little more (in)decent.

Happy Pride, world!

I can run, but how does the truck?

Mon, 28 Jun 2010 15:14:36 +0000

Today I went for a run. This sentence is a worthy lead because it has been about two weeks since I could honestly type this due to a fear of dirtying my limited supply of clothing. But after weeks of a sedentary existence, I gave up on smelling shower-fresh and put on my sneakers. I ran uphill for a little over twenty minutes and then turned around and ran downhill for a little under twenty minutes, all the while trying to look in three directions at once. I looked behind to make sure I didn’t get run over by an oil truck or an aggressive motorbike, ahead of me to see where I was stepping, and over my shoulder at the winding Batsi coastline around which I was, slowly, making my way. As I trucked my way up the hill (Batsi is set along the water at the base of mountainous terrain), hating my own caboose, I marveled at the trucks that zoomed by. And then I looked down at my iPod, somehow still working even though it was hot enough to make the rubber on my sneakers soft, and I realized that I had no idea how any of it worked--the car, the iPod, the ferry that got me to Batsi, the plane that had taken me to Athens, the fan that spins in my room, the light… and I was irked. It's an obvious observation but still was disconcerting. Thoughts of Marx’ premonition that alienation from labor would trigger the end of society as it was known ran through my mind. Here I was, alienated from the very machine that I held in my hand, from the very vessel that I trusted to move me across the ocean, from the carrier that to flew me through the sky! Granted, this concern seemed much more weighty when I was running up the road, dumb from dehydration, than it does now that I sit facing my computer (also a mystery to me), and maybe being in a foreign land gave me a new perspective that ultimately did nothing but confuse me. But still. There is something odd about using things and having no clue what makes them work other than on a very basic level (i.e. oil and electiricty). Time for some thorough Wikipedia-ing.

Red Hook, Hub of Communist Amputees

Mon, 28 Jun 2010 02:06:10 +0000

I was wondering what was different about Red Hook—besides the warehouses, docks, empty spaces, and general emptiness and sogginess. Finally I realized: it's the telephone poles. They're everywhere, mostly leaning and well on their way to total murderous collapse. But they make the place feel more like an actual neighborhood—as in, they haven't totally cleaned up for the inspectors. It's also a place where the locals squint at you and go, "You lost?" But I knew I was finally home when I walked into a bar to find a little kids' concert raging at full swing.

Done Understanding this Massive Beachside Overkill

Mon, 28 Jun 2010 02:01:17 +0000

Hello DUMBO, flying elephant one day and trendy post-industrial riverside neighborhood the next. If that's the right word: the place is basically a toy set, just a few blocks, most of them full of performance spaces that stage things like flying cabaret shows (elephant-free) and Dali-inspired puppet epics. There wasn't much to do except walk around and take some gratuitous under-the-bridge pictures.

With an understandable inferiority complex, DUMBO sweats to market itself. That's why you'll see DUMBO tote bags all over the city, while the neighborhood itself is coated with snazzy posters advertising upcoming events and guiding you to its many galleries. The most expensive apartment in Brooklyn is located here, in a watchtower framed by four giant see-through (and thankfully silent) clocks. I had heard about this and so was confused when I saw a huge building with "The Watchtower" painted on it in enormous letters, but no watchtower. Guess who uses this building and I will personally come to your door and show you some life-changing pamphlets.

The Nanny Fad

Mon, 28 Jun 2010 01:55:12 +0000

Park Slope's fame as a family-friendly haven has spawned a book (or five) about women juggling men and children while enjoying the young professional life. The book's at every bookstore here, probably for inspiration. Parents hustle their strollers through these brownstone-lined streets with a proud determination, as if they all got together and made a blood oath to enforce the neighborhood stereotype.

Luckily, they don't have to carry their burden themselves; the phenomena of the Park Slope nanny hit home when I was walking up Prospect Park West, passing bench by bench, each one claimed by the same group: one nanny, one young child, one baby. Repeat.

Street Cred

Sun, 27 Jun 2010 22:27:46 +0000

After a little more than four weeks, I've finally gotten a reputation on my street. I try to frequent the same places on my off-days so I'll know some people nearby, and I've met a few colorful characters in the process, including one of the nicest waiters ever, an Australian enabler (yet another perpetual traveller), and an over-eager bakery manager. This story concerns the latter.

I try to minimize breakfasts in my own bakery because they've already given me so much. I have begun eating some breakfasts at a bakery nearby, and they have always seemed very confused by my repeated patronage.

About a week ago, the manager finally asked me why I skipped school so frequently. Explaining that I was working in the area, I tried to return to my meal. He pushed me on the subject and I told him that I was a travel writer. He asked me what I wrote about and I told him: Bars, clubs, hotels, sights, etc. and restaurants. That was the end of my pleasant visits to the bakery.

First it was the free coffee I was given (I tried to decline, but it was impossible). Then it was the half-hour I spent pretending I knew what was happening in the World Cup. And so on.

Yesterday, I stopped in for breakfast. The waiter who doesn't like me very much was serving me and I was enjoying the chance to pay without fighting for the right to do so. Once I had paid for my meal, the manager appeared.

"Well! Your team won! You beat us."

"Haha, I guess so."

"Alright, as promised—anything you like, on the house."

"No that's ok, I've already paid and we didn't have a be—"

"Nonsense." He motioned to the waiter, "give him whatever he wants on the house!"

The waiter moved to the pastries, smirking as he picked up the tongs. "What would you like sir?"

I lowered my voice as the manager had moved to the back of the room. "It's fine, I have all I need. Thanks, though."

"How about the almond croissant?"

"No really, I'm fine."

"Ah, but the orange croissant!"

"No, thank you so much, but this is all I need." Now it was his turn. Lowering his voice and his spatula, he looked me dead in the eye.

"I need to give you something free. What's it going to be?"

Taken aback I gestured towards the pastries and mumbled.

"Ah! The muffin! An excellent choice, sir!" He said, raising his voice and sealing the bag. "Have a nice day!" As he shoved the bag into my hand, I dropped my napkin. Picking it up, he promptly threw it out and gave me five more. Time to find a new breakfast place.

Gay Pride (Parade) = Nudity

Sun, 27 Jun 2010 21:33:45 +0000

I had my first experience with the Gay Pride Parade this weekend. Let me tell you, it was one for the blogs. I think this picture sums it up pretty well: everything rainbow, non-stop dancing and lots of nakedness--some of which I wish I hadn't seen. Yes I'm talking to you hairy-butt, leather-covered crotch man.

Toledo & Torture (yay alliteration?)

Sun, 27 Jun 2010 21:02:52 +0000

It's my second day in beautiful Toledo, España. Yesterday, I checked out some ancient cathedrals, quaint outdoor cafes, and beautiful winding cobblestone streets (you know, pretty typical day, no big deal). Then, I went to Toledo's exhibition of ancient torture devices. Yeah. So, this place features a head crusher, thumbscrews, heretic's fork, scold's bridle, chastity belt, and dozens of other torture devices from the days of the Spanish inquisition.

One of the more creative displays included an interrogation chair--a seat made entirely of iron spikes that can also be warmed up via fire underneath if the accused fails to confess. Additionally, there were masks of shame in the shapes of farm animal heads that cause slow death via starvation and also cut the prisoner's mouth should he or she choose to speak. One of the most painful-looking devices was the human stretcher...which stretches. Obviously. But ouch!

Fun fact: modern neurology shows that after being cut off, a severed head realizes what has happened for several seconds afterward. Talk about a retrospective.

Prostitution Information Center

Sun, 27 Jun 2010 20:48:11 +0000

Clearly, I don't research Amsterdam's sex industry the same way I might research the city's accommodations, say, or museums. But prostitution is undeniably a part of the tourist experience here, whether you come specifically to legally engage with a commercial sex worker or just sneak a peek into the Red Light District as part of your trip. So in part because of work and in part because of natural curiosity, yesterday I headed to the Prostitution Information Center to find out how things go down (pun not intended) if you're looking to pay for sex.

The Center is run by a former prostitute and seeks to answer any and all questions you may have about the sex industry in Amsterdam. While I visited the Center myself, the only other people I saw were a few older women who wanted to buy tickets for a tour of the Red Light District and a couple of younger tourists who perused the selection of books for sale. I suspect that most of the Center's patrons are people like myself who aren't necessarily planning on visiting a prostitute themselves.

Even meandering through the place without any intention of visiting a prositute myself, I learned a lot about the business, both from the perspective of the clients and the workers, and I must say that it was eye-opening, particularly because the contrast between prostitution here and in Thailand (where I researched for Let's Go two years ago) is so stark. The amount of control that most prostitutes have over their business is incredible, especially those who are window prostitutes and, as such, are completely self-sufficient, renting their own spaces and accepting or refusing clients as they see fit. One thing that really surprised me, though, was that despite the general liberality here in terms of sexuality, prostitution remains predominantly heterosexual, and there are no male window prostitutes. There are gay male sex clubs, but to nowhere near the extent that there are heterosexual ones.

I talked to the Center founder for a while and bought a nice little brochure called the "Pleasure Guide to Amsterdam," which had answers to questions that hadn't even occurred to me. I was particularly amused by the section that discusses how (supposedly) common it is for boys to lose their virginity to a prostitute paid for by their fathers or uncles. This, to me, seems either quaintly old-fashioned or very European. Not for the first time, I wondered how different my experience would be as a researcher in Amsterdam if I were male. I can tell you one thing for sure - they would have actually let me into the gay clubs I tried to investigate where, despite flashing my press pass and explaining to them that no, I was not confused about where I was, I was resoundingly denied entry. Time to start dressing in drag in the name of research?

Really? You really sculpted this?

Sun, 27 Jun 2010 20:30:08 +0000

This is actually part of a fountain in Bologna's main square. Please note the streams of water.

And people say that our generation is hyper-sexualized.

That is all.

6 things to do when it's raining (based on first-hand experience)

Sun, 27 Jun 2010 19:27:33 +0000

It has rained essentially every single day i have been in this city. here are some suggestions if this happens to you, too.

1. Drink some foralt bor (boiled wine) in the city park. Don't ask questions.

2. Sans umbrella, hike up to the look-out on castle hill and marvel at pest cloaked in curtains of aqua.

3. Head to széchényi baths where the outdoor pools will respond to the battering downpour with heavy bouts of steam, making you feel like you're floating in a warm cloud.

4. Make the trip out to statue park. You'll be the only one there and i guarantee it's the only time you'll see those commie dignitaries crying their metal eyes out.

5. Eat on the terrace of one of the restaurants lining the banks of pest--you'll be shielded from the torrential flow by giant canopies while privy to the magical sight of Buda Castle glistening in the hazy sunlight.

6. Watch the Danube grow to frightening heights until you can dip your fingers in the chilly waters from the turbulent safety of the boardwalk.

Possible Explanations for Stonehenge

Sun, 27 Jun 2010 09:46:37 +0000

(Disclaimer: These are all real, serious theories)

1. An Ancient Astronomical Calender

2. The results of miraculous efforts by the wizard Merlin to move stones from Ireland to England to provide a memorial for King Arthur's war dead

3. A construction of aliens who invaded Earth

4. A landmark to help navigate an ancient, now-disappeared forest (à la Hansel and Gretel)

5. A representation of the vulva, meant as homage to a fertility god

6. An ancient surgery room of sorts, used as a place of healing

7. A mass burial ground

8. An armrest?

Basically, no one has any clue. My guess is as good as theirs.

Excursion to Italy

Sun, 27 Jun 2010 09:01:30 +0000

Well, I thought this moment would have come sooner, but my travel lust has spiked in coordination with a sudden lull in workload, so I took the opportunity to take a much needed break from the hectic pace and prices of Southern France for the shores of Cinque Terre, Italy. After some swimming, cliff jumping and hiking the 5 hrs between all of the 5 towns in the Italian coast, I must say that I am glad to be back in France.

It is shocking the clutural differences between two neighboring countries. The simple differences of personal space and respect are enough to distinguish Italy and France separate planets. Italians are like the American's of Europe: loud, disrespectful of shared space, speak only their native tongue, and when they do talk, it's with their entire bodies. No more than 5 min past Ventimiglia, on the French-Italian border, the volume on the train increased as if someone accidentally sat on the volume of the remote. Ear-splitting shouting and melodic conversations unexplicably tripled.

The French have a very precise way of doing things that is not focused on what you do, but rather when and how. For instance: taking out your breast on public transportation to nurse your child while continuing a telephone conversation and handing your ticket to the conductor would not be acceptable in France. Not the case in Italy. This idea of modesty failed to cross the border, and has resulted in the commonplace fashion accessory of the visable bra strap or the tattoo creeping out of the waistline onto the exposed midriff. The guys aren't much better with their cat calling etiquette, even if it is from the window of a couchette at the train station. From the experience of watching the exchange between a window full of Italian 20 somethings and two uncomforable girls, I can gather that the only foreign language skills posssesed by the average Italian male consists of various English and French phrases such as "come to my bed" and "What?

You might forget that you're not at the Jersey Shore while on Ligurian Coast. While I may have just confirmed the sterotypes perpetuated by the all too damaging MTV, it was without malice or prejudice of Italy. I have traveled Italy and like it a lot, its just after living in the uniquely proper (if you can call public urination in any circumstance proper) culture of the French that the differences are so stark. What was even stranger was the eerie quiet on the train as soon as it pulled into Menton, on the French border. Apparently I didn't notice the Italian noise anymore until it was gone, only after a trip of three days.

Produce and Books

Sun, 27 Jun 2010 08:46:32 +0000

Things I experienced yesterday that I wish were as widespread in the US as they are in Europe include, but are by no means limited to:

Large, daily markets where everything from the smallest strawberry to the biggest lamprey is fresh and delicious. (I can't speak for the lamprey's taste).

Flea markets in cities' main plazas that have stand after stand selling beautifully bound 19th century books for just a couple of euros.

Espresso machines in every establishment that serves food, and in some that don't. Also, hot milk with coffee.

Window-shaking concerts in tiny plazas accessible only by narrow stairways and narrower alleyways.

Bars that stay open later than 2am. I'm looking at you, Boston.

Drawing is a "Don't"

Sat, 26 Jun 2010 21:54:12 +0000

Museums and their rules. After six weeks in Rome, the words "non tocare" and "no foto" feel as familiar to me as they are to the guards who utter them. Admittedly, I've occasionally snuck in a camera and shot a flash-less photo of a no-foto sculpture. But during my recent visit to the Capitoline Museum, I honestly didn't think I was breaking any rules. Seeing no admonitory signs, I pulled out my camera, turned off the flash, and started shooting away at the busts before me. With the kind of reaction I would have expected if I was actually massacring the exhibit, the guard swiftly approached and tsk-tsk'd me for using my camera. He told me that during special exhibits photos were banned. Apparently this was a special exhibit.

So I pulled out my next weapon: the sketch book. It has never failed. Heading to the next room, I pulled out my black book and started drawing. Just as promptly, another guard approached me and asked if I had permission to draw. I looked at her dumbfoundedly. Never, in any city, in any museum, in any "special exhibition" (including an El Greco retrospective at the Met) have I found drawing to be prohibited.

What struck me most was the fact that museums -- what's more, sculpture museums -- are traditionally places where artists go to study from the masters. What better model than a completely motionless bust carved by Bernini?

I left the special exhibit and headed to the permanent collection, whose crowning star is the magnificent statue of Marcus Aurelius (pictured above). I was shocked by the magnitude of the statue... but also by the people before it, who were doing the prohibited: shooting photos. Walking over to the guard, I inquired one more time. For once and for all, here it is: "No photos in special exhibits. Photos in regular exhibits. No drawing. Ever."

Begrudgingly, I pulled out the camera once more and shot Marcus's foot. Ten times. If anyone could withstand my indignance, it would be him.

Student Discounts

Sat, 26 Jun 2010 21:33:32 +0000

I experienced three occasions this week where Hungarian ticket sellers' ideals diverged from ticket checkers' ones. The first occasion was on a Budapest tram. I had bought a student ticket for the ride, specifically inquiring at the cashier if my international student card was valid for this type of discount. Flashing my green ISIC card, the perfumed lady behind the window nodded approval and ushered me out of the way. I skipped with happiness over this magical 50% discount to the tram only to be bombarded by a 4-man posse after one stop demanding my Hungarian student card. After doling out a few clever remarks on the idiocy of a system that fails to regulate both ends of its rules I waited for the last possible second before the doors of the tram closed and slipped out, bolting towards a departing bus and escaping my avengers.

The second occurance was a dishevelled young Asian girl who I had befriended at my hostel. I was writing some copy in the kitchen one afternoon when all of a sudden I hear, "Hi Hi Hello Uhh, something very bad has happened to me." I curiously slink out to the reception area, wondering what all the commotion is and it turns out that the girl had also bought a ticket for the bus with an international student card. She, however, was not as ballsy (or perhaps stupid) as me and ended up paying a fine for an "improper ticket discount." 12,000 forint. 50 dollars! That's like....15 cups of Goulash!

The third occurance in the span of 5 days was on the train--a form of transportation I assumed was entirely separate from city transportation. Silly, logical me--why would an international transit system be set up to accommodate international student travelers? In any case, I was able to escape a fine yet again, this time through the extremely rare compassion of an old ticketing man. Despite my unearthly luck in these situations, I certainly learned my lesson--never tempt the Hungarian transportation devils; they don't mess around when it comes to $$.

Almost, But Not Quite.

Sat, 26 Jun 2010 19:53:08 +0000

I tried it. It really is Yawmy.

Happenings in Mykonos

Sat, 26 Jun 2010 19:52:20 +0000

- Rode an ATV this morning for the first time, but the engine was rigged to be weak because a few years ago there was an accident on the island and ever since ATVs have had significantly reduced horsepower. Fighting up the hills was exciting in itself.

- Gaped at the famous Mykonos pelican (given to the island in 1986 by Jackie Kennedy, to replace the original pelican who had died) when I passed it two days ago walking back to the internet café along the waterfront. It was like a jolly, revered old man who walked not pigeon-toed but clown-footed, with big flopping webbed feet. It was huge and bulbous and its beak was bigger than any cartoon has ever managed to convey. No joke this bird was the size of a medium sized dog, and it was just walking down the sidewalk along the water as if it just finished a cup of coffee and was off to buy the paper. In the same way that giant teddy bears, though still somewhat proportional in their large size, look silly, this bird just looked absurd. It was simply too big to believe. The weirdest thing is that the locals are so used to him that they don’t look twice.

- Killed approximately 19 mosquitoes last night and cursed at the remaining population. In other bug news, a ladybug landed on my arm today.

- Heard a rumor that the pink and white fireworks that went off last night were put on because a member of the Russian mafia is having a three-day wedding on the island that commenced with last night’s full moon. (The finale did include a giant heart, but I had just assumed that was standard fare for island firework displays.) According to this same rumor, the Black Eyed Peas were invited and might perform. I am dubious. When asked why the Russian mafia would come here to be married, the source of this beach wisdom--a hostel friend of mine--replied, “Because you can get away with anything in Mykonos.”

Awww

Sat, 26 Jun 2010 19:49:17 +0000

I have picked up a habit in my three-and-a-half weeks in Morocco. No, it’s not smoking. It’s not using squat toilets and my left hand. It’s not speaking the Moroccan dialect of Arabic – Darija – although I wish it were.

I have started touching my right hand to my heart.

This simple gesture is ubiquitous in the Maghrib and it’s quite wonderful. When you first meet a Moroccan, shake hands and become even the most cursory of friends, they will invariably touch their right hand to their heart. Roughly speaking, it means: “you are in my heart, now.” The same body language is used to say you’re welcome, thank you, and other appropriately heart-warming words. At least that’s how I’ve taken to using it. It has even shamed hustlers into submission.

Apparently heart-touching is also contagious. I met an American who’s volunteering at an NGO in Rabat for the summer. After hitting it off, we shook hands and both touched our hearts.

Kids say (and do) the darndest things

Sat, 26 Jun 2010 17:29:32 +0000

The children of Belgium are cray-cray and I love it. Over the past few weeks, I've seen some hilarious (and heart-warming) exploits here.

My number one favorite was the little boy, about three years old or so, who ran around the metro station, tried running up the down escalator, then latched onto the moving handlebar until it brought him to the top of the stairs. He promptly stood up and jumped off, then continued running some more. Brilliant!

Then there was the small child today that had its face against the glass making faces at me, the brother and sister pair last week that ran around the café I was in and kept falling over - bringing things down with them (the owners didn't seem to mind).

By far the cutest child was the little boy living above the BnB I first stayed in, who always sang the alphabet as he climbed the stairs in the afternoon - the French alphabet always sounds better than the English version.

If only I was a small child again, running round the streets of Brussels. But no, I'm (somewhat) grown up and have to do real things - like work. But first I think I'll go run and around and make faces at strangers, just to make me feel like a kid again.

This blog will bore you, but that's the point

Sat, 26 Jun 2010 11:51:40 +0000

"Tourism, human circulation considered as consumption, is fundamentally nothing more than the leisure of going to see what has become banal." —Guy Debord

Out of all places to stumble across this quote, I didn't expect it to be a hostel, a place that solely exists because of this same thing that it kind of critiques. But sitting in one of the Hostels Sant Jordi in Barcelona, chatting with Pablo, the incredibly laidback and easy-to-talk-to employee that invited me out to a cigarette (and answered "depends on what" after I commented that I was probably the only person in the city that didn't smoke), listening to him talk about their communal guitar and the Bob Dylan songs that still graced its strings, it didn't seem that surprising.

He told me of his fight to keep up the quote on the community board, along with others from Wittgenstein, Nietzsche, and a mix of persons about travel, life, and love. Nearly weekly, he said, the sheet got taken down. It's unclear who's taking it, and why—do they want the sheet of quotes for the next hostel so they can drop an intellectual bomb on their bunkmate? Do they just really hate that seemingly condescending tone of that vague little tidbit? Whatever the cause, he simply prints out another copy and tacks it back up with a sort of ritualistic feel without the pomp.

It got me thinking, though—the taking and replacing—what's really so offensive about this quote? Debord is clearly an offensive and provocative dude in a lot of ways, but this little extraction, removed from its surely more antagonizing context, seems completely inoffensive, and perhaps even celebratory. Life shouldn't become banal and repetitive, so what's the harm in finding delight in something that is commonplace?

Looking around and seeing the mix of eager international faces in the hostel and knowing my own experiences with becoming geekishly delighted upon stumbling across the perfect bocadillo, viewing the empty shells of firecrackers from Sant Joan along the beach, seeing some pile of rocks that was once a giant wall, and many other things that locals would find immensely boring (hell, I would back in the states, too), it made me feel a little better about the social implications of the travel and tourism industry.

And with that, he showed me around their bathrooms and I "oohed" and "ahhed" and then I went on to look at the next five hostels and ten restaurants of the day, enjoying every incredibly banal and entirely unremarkable thing along the way.

Birthdays Abroad

Sat, 26 Jun 2010 10:26:22 +0000

Guess what, cyberspace. My birthday was three days ago! I know you’re just as excited about that as I am, and I’m expecting presents to flood into my hostel mailbox from around the world, posthaste. If you pre-pay your return envelope, I’ll even send a thank you note.

So how do you celebrate the most important day in the year, when you’re alone and everyone around you seems disinclined to believe that your birthday should be a German national holiday, no matter how many times you make your case?

My celebration was modest, but included a couple incredible highlights. I was in Düsseldorf for the blessed occasion, perhaps not the most exceptional city on my route, except for in one, important regard: art. The city hosts an incredible number of rotating experimental and contemporary exhibitions from around the world, and, for my birthday, of course, they were considerate enough to have some of my favorites on display. The Kunst Palast, for example, is right now displaying an incredible collection of abstract expressionist art, and the NRW Forum has an exhaustive Robert Mappelthorpe exhibit. So yes, I went wild on my birthday.

That evening, I went back to my hostel and made of my fellow travelers a single demand, enforceable by my bad humor and cold glares: I wanted a birthday cake. With such a threat hanging over their head, the whole hostel jumped-to, and manned the whisks, knives, pans and oven in a display of masterful chaos. For the record, too many cooks in the kitchen is a wonderful thing.

Together, we watched a football game, ate cake, and washed it down with some cold not-cake. Altogether a glorious evening.

Mind's Eye?

Sat, 26 Jun 2010 09:09:41 +0000

A close friend and past LG researcher warned me before the trip that there was no point in bringing along my running shoes (at least for the purpose of running). She told me I would be too tired and worn out to devote any of my extra energy to a sweaty morning jog, and that they extra weight in my already-massive pack couldn't be good for my long-term goal of avoiding Scoliosis. And while she provided a slew of other helpful suggestions (yes--you should book hostels before you get there, and yes, siestas do exist), I couldn't have been happier that I ignored this piece of information.

There's just something about the nature of running (or maybe just the way I am when I run) that actually is the perfect supplement to any day's research. I typically pick a jogging route that follows much of what I had researched the day before (considering I can't bring my map along) to explore those same trails that I passed through at a slower pace. But for some reason, while I run, I am able to enjoy the total disconnect between what runs through my mind and what runs through to my retina.

For example, while I'm looking at blue waters bashing down on "w" and "w" of sandy beach coves, massive ocean liners pulling into the harbor, and other exercising Spaniards that, for some reason, sweat far less than I do, I am at the same time wondering what type of burritos they're making at the hostel for dinner, breaking down the probability that Briitsh Airways serves dessert on international flights, and working to remember whether Ross and Rachel end up together in the end (don't fret--they do). And such a brain-to-eye disconnect is actually one of the best ways to research. I can cover a lot more terrain in a shorter time (probably could cover even more if I was still in high school track-and-field shape), and find myself stumbling across things like yesterday's much needed tourist information kiosk (which, luckily, was able to direct me back toward my hostel).

So while my friend was right that I lose the chance to sleep in a little longer by choosing to run, and I do probably lose a few more quarters having to wash my sweaty t-shirt and shorts, running has been one of the key's to my research. And plus, I can also just be that dorky tourist, sporting my running shoes and packing away my essentially weightless sandals in my oversized backpack.

Fly Solo Once in a While

Sat, 26 Jun 2010 01:13:52 +0000

Most tourists come to Paris with a loved one, or some kind of companion. For couples, Paris is supposed to be the city of love, and even for those who aren't with their significant other, Paris holds a certain charm that's best enjoyed with your (favorite) family or friends.

My summer job as a museum, restaurant, and hotel critic has required me to be alone most of the time that I'm here; while French friends might occasionally tag along, it's more or less a solo job. When you're alone, of course, you notice other people who are alone. While it's weird to butt in on a group's or a couple's conversation, starting conversations with other loners is actually considered polite in France.

The key to operation in Paris is the smile; Parisians themselves smile so seldom that a warm expression exposes the quality that Parisians love most in some foreigners, especially Americans: their openness. The conversations I've had that started with a simple smile or a "Bonjour!" have ranged from a 30-minute discussion of American politics with a homeless guy next to the Seine, to a thankfully pleasant and friendly chat with a police officer about what it was like to be a native of Antilles, to an hour-long lecture from a chatty lady who claimed to be an expert on Paris' regional dining scene.

Unfortunately, it can be difficult to hold a conversation if you can't speak French. However, a fair number of Parisians do speak decent English, given that it's mandatory in school. If you can communicate, take advantage! And if you're unsure, try speaking in even the most rudimentary French; it flatters Parisians and while they might scoff, they appreciate it deep down. You might waste a little time in hilariously purposeless conversations that you could've spent with your friends or family, but it's worth it. Who knows, you might even catch a few new Facebook friends.

Why rose sellers are the assholes and no, he doesn't love me.

Fri, 25 Jun 2010 23:20:27 +0000

Whenever you're stationed at a bar or a cafe, some man is sure to come up to you with a bouquet of flowers.

No, not prince charming. I'm talking about a wrinkled, poor bugger who sells roses for a living. These rose sellers take advantage of your illusions about falling in love in the most romantic city in the world. Mostly though, they profit from everyone's desire to avoid the potentially awkward situation that may or may not arise when the guy you're sitting with may or may not decide to buy you a flower. Sorry for being heteronormative (and sorry for using the term heteronormative in a blog, but these rose sellers are amorous profilers who target heterosexual couples).

Now I go out alone with my friend Alex a lot. Usually we enjoy each other's company which means we're usually both smiling or laughing. This, unfortunately, makes us prime targets. The rose seller looks at us - young boy, young girl, big smile here, big smile there - and sees an opportunity for success. He approaches with a simple, "Flower for the lady?" While Alex is awkwardly trying to figure out how to not buy me a flower without seeming like an asshole, I cut straight to the chase--"I'm sorry sir. He doesn't love me."

Because let's be real here. When someone comes up to a man and a woman and asks if the gentleman would like to buy a rose for his darling sweetheart, what he's really asking is (and the answer is usually no) "Do you love her a euro's worth?" And only assholes would go around shattering dreams like that.

On the bright side

Fri, 25 Jun 2010 22:50:03 +0000

I was having a terrible day. My copybatch was horrendously overdue (like, weeks instead of days). My computer was refusing to allow me to save my last 15hr. of work. And my hostel didn't have wireless.

So after an hour of panning for unprotected Wi-Fi, I found myself sitting in front of a barbershop, mooching a connection so I could frantically Gchat with Let's Go headquarters to troubleshoot my tech problems, typing away miserably in the middle of an otherwise beautiful Tuscan afternoon.

After a while, the sun began to shift. Soon my perch in front of the barbershop became a seat in direct sunlight while my laptop screen became almost entirely unreadable. I leaned in, reading Gchat replies with my nose nearly pressed to the screen. I was feeling awfully sorry for myself and the miserable state I was now in, when the sunlight was suddenly blocked.

I looked up. A barber was standing in front of me. Holding out a bottle of sunblock.

It didn't fix my tech problems, and it didn't finish my copybatch, and it didn't make the Wi-Fi any stronger. But it made me remember that Italy is pretty darn OK.

Being Pretty

Fri, 25 Jun 2010 22:43:45 +0000

This is one of those delicate topics where I’ll have to tread the line between vanity and annoyingly overcompensating humility. But in Italy, I am really pretty.

Save your protestations, loyal friends who will insist that I am pretty at home too. Reserve your judgment, skeptical strangers eyeballing my mugshot. I know what league I’m in at home. And I’ve just been bumped up a notch.

It’s not simply run-of-the-mill flirting I’m talking about. That I could chalk up to Italian men being infinitely more forward than Harvard men. Hell, glaciers are more forward than Harvard men.

No, it’s the freebies that show I’m really punching above my weight. The old men at Trattoria Mario who flagged the waitress to have me seated at their table and were disappointed when I returned with my prettier-by-American-standards girlfriends. My inability to do efficient nightlife research because the free drinks offered at each establishment leave me stumbling door to door like the Prophet Elijah. The museum guard who asked me out minutes after the other guard in the gallery did likewise, sparking a minor controversy regarding docent decency.

I guess it comes from looking sorta Italian, but not quite. My European friends tell me that Jewish looks are “exotic” overseas. This girl from NY never counted her hook nose as an asset before and certainly wouldn’t have expected it to go over any different in a former Axis power, but shows what she knows. Get it, nose/knows? Okay, they still don’t love my Jewish father sense of humor, but I’m working on it.

Last week, I latched on to a couple American guys whose companionship I had to earn the old-fashioned way – jeez, peanut gallery, I mean through mutual interests and bad jokes – and their presence dried up the attention. Honestly, it was a relief to go back to being conspicuous only for the normal reason: talking too loudly.

So it was a shock all over again today when the attention resumed. I stepped under the awning of a restaurant to avoid a sudden downpour, and a man came out of the restaurant to hail a taxi.

“Come with me,” he said. We had not yet exchanged a word.

“What?”

“I am going to my other restaurant by the Duomo. I own this one, and a couple others.”

“Um.”

“Come, we will have cappuccino at the other place, and then we’ll come back here and have lunch.”

See? This does not happen to me at home. And at home I don’t even consider getting in taxis with complete strangers. But I was hungry. And, well, it was raining.

So what the hell. Might as well enjoy it while it lasts. I got in the cab.

A Sohovian Conversation

Fri, 25 Jun 2010 21:36:14 +0000

I was in Soho (yes, there is a Soho in London, too) the other day when I noticed a high number of rickshaws circling the area. Thinking it would make good fodder for a book tip, I approached one of the drivers. The following conversation ensued:

Me: Excuse me, I was wondering what your rates are.

Rick: Get in.

Me: No, that's alright, I just wanted to know how much you charge per block or so.

Rick: You want to go where?

Me: I don't want to go anywhere, but if I were to take your rickshaw, how much would it cost me to get to the other side of Soho Square?

Rick: I'll give you a ride, sure.

Me: How much?

Rick: Alright, let's go.

Me: No thanks, I'll just walk.

Rick: So you want go to a strip club then?

Ah, Soho.

Who Needs Travel Guides?

Fri, 25 Jun 2010 21:04:33 +0000

Today, on a bus to Edirnekapi, two young men sat in front of me. Not too macho, not too intellectual, just average black-haired guys speaking Arabic between themselves. It was an unpleasant, drizzly day, but they seemed quite upbeat. They cracked open a map of Istanbul, spread it all over the place and tried to figure things out. They were obviously having trouble, and after a while they asked a guy sitting nearby for help.

"How do we get to Fatih?" they asked. That sounded strange to me, nobody with a brand-new map asks how to go to Fatih, a boring conservative district. The man said that the bus would take them there soon, and in turn he asked if they were tourists. They said yes, from Syria. The man asked if they had been to Sultanahmet already. "No. What is Sultanahmet?" one of the boys asked. "There's a lot of historical places there. Tourist sights. Hagia Sophia," the man said. The boys looked at each other, pleasantly surprised.

Meanwhile, I almost got a heart attack--how can somebody come to Istanbul and not know Sultanahmet? It's the Mecca of all sightseeing, the Holy Grail of foreign tourists. That's where Hagia Sophia is--did they really not know about Hagia Sophia? I just spent one month of my life trying to prepare an at least marginally useful guide to this confusing city, and there still are people who don't read anything before they come here? That was a hard blow.

I listened on. The man explained to them that they needed to get off the bus at the next stop, right after the bridge, and then follow the shore and walk and walk and they'd finally get there. We crossed the bridge, and the man pointed Istanbul's skyline out to them--it was studded with minarets and mosques under overcast sky. "That's where you need to go," he said. I was still absorbing the view when the bus suddenly came to a stop. "Go! Go!" the man shouted. They thanked him hurriedly and rushed out of the bus. There they were, two young men with nothing else to carry than a map fluttering in that shitty weather, looking into the distance, then at each other, and then setting out on foot to see the magnificent Hagia Sophia for the first time. I felt nothing but envy.

Botin

Fri, 25 Jun 2010 17:36:12 +0000

This week I went to the beautiful restaurant Botin with three friends from school. Founded in 1725, Botin is, at least according to the Guinness Book of World Records, the oldest restaurant in the world. Started back in the day by husband-wife team Emilio González and Amparo Martín, it is still family owned and operated today. The restaurant's specialties are roast baby lamb and roast suckling pig (which were delicious, but I'm fairly certain my arteries will be forever clogged). One of the coolest parts of this traditional Spanish restaurant is the dusty old wine cellar which has kept the same format throughout the years: you have to duck and follow steep stairs until you end up in a tiny damp cellar with dozens of bottles of untouched wine. Bottoms up!

Oh, to be a Dog in Chelsea

Fri, 25 Jun 2010 17:01:17 +0000

Evidence that, in Chelsea, they take better care of their canines than most people do their children or elderly relatives.

The Midnight Bakers

Fri, 25 Jun 2010 10:41:46 +0000

I recently discovered that I was not alone in my apartment building. Then I discovered that everyone in my apartment building keeps different schedules. There's Jacques, my next-door neighbor (a man who makes the best smelling microwaved meals ever) who wakes up at 4am everyday to go bake downstairs for four hours. Then there's Jean-Luc who is generally smoking outside or frantically making bread at around 12-2am, his hair prematurely white with flower.

I have also discovered that the side door to the bakery is always open, that the bakers only speak French, and that there are leftover croissants on a table in the bakery. On nights when I have deadlines, I'm generally up until 5:00am or so, and I make sure to make a few trips downstairs to try out my bakery-vocabulary.

Unfortunately, I have yet to effectively communicate to anyone why I'm in the apartment building. I don't know the word for "travel writer" (though my French-speaking friend helpfully provided the word for womanizer), and they can tell I'm not a baker. It creates an interesting dynamic when I try to convey to them that I'm not a thief, and they try to figure out why the hell there's an American hanging out in their bakery at 3:00am.

When I take a break at 1:00am, there are bags of croissants left and I go and have a proficient conversation in French over a pain au chocolat before coming back up to write more. At around 2:30am, there are only plain croissants left, but we talk some more. I wind up thinking I'm getting tired because my French is fading. At 3:30am, everyone's all smiles. Partially because no one understands what I'm saying (I don't know what I'm trying to say) and they don't want me to feel bad. Though the stairway and the bakery smell of delicious freshly made bread, there is nothing to eat. All the stores are closed, and the croissants are gone. When it hits 5:00am, I begin testing the chewability of my sponges.

In Which the Narrator Is Bopped on the Head with a Leek

Fri, 25 Jun 2010 08:17:40 +0000

Porto's Noite de São João is possibly the silliest and most awesome festival conceivable. On the evening of June 23, the citizens of Porto run through the streets hitting complete strangers on the head with leeks (not what they look like when you eat them—these are long stalks with round purple flowers at the end) and toy mallets (leek substitutes, it would seem), while stopping at bars and restaurants to eat whole schools of grilled sardines and herds of baby goats. At midnight, the town goes down to the riverside to watch the fireworks, and the under-25 population walks the 8 miles from the town's center to the beach. Along the walk are temporary carnivals—they turn the rides up to a speed far faster than would be allowed in the US, which makes the next mile of walk to the beach quite queasy—and concerts, and all the while everybody keeps hitting each other on the head with the mallets. At the end of the procession that reaches the beach at almost 3am, there is a massive techno concert on the beach, which goes until dawn, and is nothing short of awesome. June 24 is predictably quieter. With less mallets.

Slovakia v. Italy

Fri, 25 Jun 2010 03:00:11 +0000

Eighty-four minutes into the most important match the Italian National Football team has played since the World Cup final in 2006, a Slovak defender attempts to send the ball clear of the Italians who are attacking desperately and have five players in the penalty box. An Italian player comes up with the ball and passes it to Fabio Quagliarella, who proceeds to hammer the ball into the back of the net.

The bar I am in explodes into riotous celebration; the dozens of Italians around me begin to scream, cheer, and embrace each other. I'm the only person in the bar not on my feet. Quickly, joy turns to dismay with the realization that Quagliarella was offside. The guy sitting next to me, a jovial northern Italian with a Brad Pitt-esque goatee, notes that I was the only one in the bar who didn't celebrate and tells me I have quite an eye for the game – especially for an American. I get a lot of respectful glances from his compatriots at the adjacent table, who nod in agreement with his praise.

Well, this is a bit awkward.

Actually, I also thought that Quagliarella had scored. The thing is that I actually wanted Slovakia to win. My family is originally from the country, and most of the time that doesn't cause any problems. When I tell people that Tomko is a Slovak last name, they just think I am from Czechoslovakia, or Yugoslavia, or one of those other Eastern European countries that are always splitting up and fighting civil wars and whatnot. Not the case in Italy. Things here had reached the breaking point by Italy's final match of the group stage, as people began to realize that the aging squad they had hoped would defend their title might not even advance to the second stage of the tournament.

Slovakia versus Italy was to be the deciding match, and in a lot of ways, it couldn't have been more of a mismatch. By my count, Venice has eight shops dedicated exclusively to soccer merchandise that have been selling exclusively World Cup gear for the past month and a half. As a point of comparison, the city has one full-time operational cinema. By contrast, when I went to buy a Slovak national team jersey online before I left school, I was redirected to a Slovenian jersey. I'm willing to bet a lot of Italians couldn't have identified Slovakia on a map before this week, but talking to people around town during the time leading up to the match revealed some pretty strong opinions about this eastern menace. Most I chatted with were convinced that the lowly Slovaks were sure to be outclassed by the bold Azzuri. After all, the Italians have more World Cup championships to their name than the Slovak team can claim World Cup matches played. (This is their first year in the tournament.)

I've been watching as many of Italy's World Cup matches at local bars as I can and have usually cheered for them to do well. Italy's a lovely country, the people here are exceptionally friendly, and the revelry if Italy advanced well into the tournament would have been a blast. Still, when pressed for answers as to why I would side with Slovakia over Italy, I had to admit that the Slovak side needed the win more. Soccer has done pretty much all it can for Italy, while a miraculous trip by Slovakia to the quarterfinals might cause many to realize that Czechoslovakia isn't a country any more. Talk about putting yourself on the map. Anyways, after suffering much heckling and mocking while trying to find a Slovak-friendly bar in which to watch the game, I resigned myself to enjoying quietly it with the locals, figuring it wouldn't be much of a match anyways. Everyone expected Italy to shake the rust off and win handily – if Paraguay can beat the Slovaks 2-0, why shouldn't Italy win 5-0?

As the match went on, though, and Slovakia managed to establish a one, then two goal lead, complacency gave way to anxiety, then panic, sudden hope, then brief elation, confusion, then general wailing and despair. I'm an Ohio State football fan, but the last 15min. of the match were about as intense as any sporting event I've ever experienced. When it was all said and done, Italy had lost 3-2, and Slovakia had advanced.

I felt bad for a moment, seeing the bar clear out in minutes as hundreds of people shuffled back home, confused and dejected. This was by far the most important sporting event in Italy, and it had ended prematurely. The country will have to wait four years for a shot at redemption. National pride was at stake here, and the team had come up woefully short. I thought about the stakes of the World Cup in Europe, profoundly different from those in the US, and considered what this loss meant to Italy.

Then I realized I probably shouldn't feel too bad – Italy is a great country, but the Azzurri are just a bunch of hacks and divers. Go USA! Go Slovakia!

Wonders of Wales

Fri, 25 Jun 2010 00:51:00 +0000

After weeks and weeks of clouds, I had finally come to the concrete conclusion that anyone who has even the slightest hint of color in their skin in the UK must definitely frequent a tanning bed. And then, Wales decided to shock (and delight) me with not two, not three, but FIVE bright sunny days in a row. It has to be some kind of miracle.

So this has probably played a leading role in my obsessive love for Wales. I’m seriously considering learning Cymraeg (Welsh) to express my gratitude to Llyr, the Welsh god of weather

Other factors that have helped, however, include the charming sing-songy accent, the delicious cheeses, the castle, and the clubs.

The major plus for Wales, though, is that I’ve been able to smugly bask in pride over USA soccer’s glorious victory and first-place finish in Group C, away from the masses of the red-shirted rabid England fans. Even the bitter and blasphemous British press (writes The Guardian: “Bill Clinton was at this game, probably reflecting for 92 minutes that he scored more often than this lot”) can’t irk me here.

This lucky strike can't last forever though. And so I'm off to Bath to see if its Roman gods will treat me as nicely as the Welsh deities did. I do love me some bubbles, so I'm feeling optimistic.

It's Pride Week in Chelsea

Thu, 24 Jun 2010 23:11:23 +0000

This is International Gay Pride Week. For most US cities, that means a few flags, maybe a solitary "Pride Fest" or parade; that's definitely what it meant in my hometown of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. But I am not currently in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. No, this year I have the good fortune to be researching the Manhattan neighborhood of Chelsea, the gay capitol of New York City, and some would even say, the East Coast.

Pride Week in Chelsea is an entirely different animal, my friends. There is hardly a restaurant or shop in Chelsea that is not displaying an enormous, rainbow flag, the hotels have been booked for months, and every day is a march, festival, or "Pride Ride." But I think the part of Chelsea Pride Week that most distinguishes it from rival Pride Weeks is the storefront windows. From W. 14th St. to W. 30th St, stores are engaged in an informal competition for gayest window display. I have seen it all: rainbow shirts, rainbow leis, and my favorite so far, rainbow assortments of underwear. The point of this blog entry is to present the award for best gay window display to the Chelsea American Apparel. Other Chelsea retail establishments: better luck next year!

Football Fight: England vs. Italy

Thu, 24 Jun 2010 20:53:36 +0000

First of all, apologies for another soccer post. It's just kind of a big deal here at the moment, ya know?

Sadly, it may not be a big deal much longer, for Italy lost today, finished at the bottom of their group, and is done with the World Cup. For the defending champions (who are no longer defending, I suppose...) this will undoubtedly mean a whole lot of bickering for a while to come. As they sometimes say in sports, it's gonna be a long summer. Or in this case, four summers.

But without getting into that, I want to make a brief aside about... the English.

Yes, the English. They visit the Cinque Terre in rather large numbers, which, given the large group of American tourists who also vacation here, resulted in a bit of controversy over which match to watch while the two countries' teams played simultaneously Wednesday afternoon. In the bar where I was, the Englishmen had apparently won this duel before I arrived.

My reaction to watching the game with them: this whole nation should go pro in soccer fandom. Seriously.

Take, for example, the moment when England star Wayne Rooney hit the post with a wide open net in front of him. Exasperated, the guy sitting next to me yells out,

"And he's hit the post, the idiot! This is just first-rate football today, isn't it?"

All this in the time it takes an American (umm, me) to say "Come on!" Excuse me, sir. Is your day job as a radio commentator?

I have to say it, the showing from the rowdy but ever-focused England fans seemed to put even the Italians to shame. It was a great moment when the Carabinieri (federal police) stopped their car to peer out at the TV during Thursday's Italy game—and blocked traffic to do it. But the holstered guns didn't replace the sort of engaged and emotional analysis the Brits gave. How they do it, I don't know.

The thing is, England's team is moving on; Italy's is not (and neither is the team of that other dysfunctional soccer superpower, France). I'll try to stick with the Brits as the World Cup continues, for Italians aren't likely to care about this championship quite so much anymore.

Wants and Knees

Thu, 24 Jun 2010 18:27:57 +0000

This is a want:

Mustard, everywhere.

This is a knee:

In the Czech Republic, wants and knees, pork knees, coincide in high frequencies. In other words--they eat dem knees the way we eat buckets of fried chicken (and no, I don't mean trapped in their rooms while listening to Freddie Mercury, Dad).

But maybe you don't get all the issues of eating a knee. See--knees arrive for eating in their natural knee state: covered in pork rind (yes--porks, like watermelons, have rinds) and filled with pork joint.

Now pork rinds, on a scale of fattiness, receive a score of clear--because the paper the score was printed on turned clear in the presence of too much fat. And pork fat, on a scale of fat, is fat fat fat fat fat.

It's a lot of fat, people, in the most delicious way. Plus, it's the healthy kind of fat, so don't worry...

To back up that fact, here's another picture of fat:

Hospitality, indeed.

Thu, 24 Jun 2010 16:33:32 +0000

Last night, as I started my nightlife research, I was not in the greatest of moods. I was tired, didn't really like the neighborhood I was in (the Nieuwe Zijd), and wasn't looking forward to having to talk my way into a swanky club wearing jeans and sneakers. (I refuse to dress up for hours of research just because I have to go to one fancy place.) So I traipsed from bar to bar, with no real highlights other than finding a watering hole near Spui that actually sold my favorite kind of bourbon. Finally, I grit my teeth and prepared to do battle with the door police at the dress-up club. On the way there, though, I saw two kids about my age sitting behind a table on the sidewalk next to a nondescript door.

I was intrigued. I asked them what they were doing, if this was some squat-turned-club (there are quite a few of those in Amsterdam) or something. They replied that it was actually a private party for their student association at a local hospitality and hotel management university. Clearly not something for the guide. But they asked me what I was up to, and I told them about Let's Go. We started talking about Amsterdam and so on. Then three very drunk German guys came down the street, also thinking this might be a club, and tried to get in. My new friends successfully deterred them, but not before getting caught up in a conversation that introduced me to the wide world of Dutch stereotypes and jokes about Germany. Somehow, having these new outsiders arrive conferred insider status on me, and I got my very own folding chair behind the table with the two Dutch students. Eventually the Germans stumbled on, aided by my directions, only to be replaced by two equally drunk Irish men. They were even more adamant about trying to get into the party, in part because one of them was so drunk that he forgot everything we told him 5min. after we said it. (He asked me my name four times, but when he left, he told me that I am "fantastic." So I'm not too offended.) The other insisted that if we wouldn't let him in the door, he would "ninja" his way up the building. Uh huh. After more arguing, a lot of laughing, and some falling over, the Irish decided that they would give up and head home. By this point, some of the Dutch students from the party had joined us downstairs and let the kids on door duty know the shindig inside was winding down. The bouncers could now pack up and head inside for a drink. And then they invited me to come in as well. Having watched how vehemently they defended the sanctity of this event against intruders, I felt as though I had been conferred super-VIP status by being allowed in. The party was pretty good, too. And conveniently, it ended just early enough that I could still make it to the club next door to complete my research.

Children are the Devil

Thu, 24 Jun 2010 12:58:43 +0000

Question: What do you do in Barcelona when you're presented with the shortest night of the entire year?

Answer: You party straight through it. Why? Because you can.

Last night the little pops and fizzles of wayward firecrackers of the last few weeks finally culminated in the Sant Joan festival, Barcelona's biggest party of the entire year marking Midsummer Night's Eve. Spanish festivities really set in around sunset, but everyone preps long beforehand with fire, fire, and more fire.

Each community hosts their own bonfire, fireworks vendors dot the streets, and devils dancing with—you've got it—fire draw crowds of young and old. After the bonfires die down and people have stuffed themselves full of coca, the traditional cake-like dessert, people migrate to the beaches--that become a literal minefiled of things exploding and bursting briefly into flame--to spend the night.

A haze of smoke settles over the city, even on the beach where the winds from the sea should, in theory, blow it all away. Makeshift clubs playing throbbing techno and Michael Jackson tunes line the sand, with people dancing, drinking, chatting, and even sleeping on the ground until the much needed sand sweepers come to clean the beach promptly at 6am. I only lasted until 4am, after which I had to face ridicule and make my way through the strewn firecracker wrappers and burnt fuses to make the walk of shame home.

With the whole day being a pyromaniac's dream, I expected there to be a lot more danger, or at least unwarranted fear struck into my heart. And then, biking from Barceloneta to Mar Bella, I discovered terror incarnate: it is children, armed with fireworks. They are armed, they are dangerous, and they love to see you squirm.

In short, on the 23rd of June beware not the devils but the babies wielding cherrybombs.

"I Got Love for you, if you were born in the 80s"

Thu, 24 Jun 2010 11:52:16 +0000

I feel like I go back in time every time I step into the Brussels Metro system--- this city is apparently trapped in a disco throwback, because the music is almost always from the 1980s. The MJ classics are brilliant, but it scares me a little when Aha come on with a rendition of "Take on Me"--- I've heard this twice in two weeks, and I haven't been to a single 80s bar. This deeply concerns me.

It gets even weirder when they play these random songs that never really made it in the first place. Remember Daniel Powter? Or the really rubbish Robbie Williams album? It's kind of embarrassing, but I find myself singing along sometimes. I'm holding out for some Human League and then I'm set!

World Cup Fever

Thu, 24 Jun 2010 09:01:51 +0000

I arrived in Stuttgart yesterday by train, checked into my hostel, and prepared to find something to eat.

One problem: Germany was playing Ghana in the World Cup. The weather was beautiful. And all of Stuttgart had decided to take their red, yellow, and black-painted faces to all of the restaurants in town. Everywhere was packed, and I wanted to join in on the fun, but I couldn't find a single place where I could both eat and watch the game.

If you know me, you know that I really don't have much patience for watching sports games. I'd rather hear the final score than actually glue myself to a screen for the entire ordeal, though the crazy world cup fervor that everyone has here made me curious as to what the big deal was all about. Everyone was so excited, and I wanted to know why.

The way this blog post would seemingly end is about how I wandered into a bar and got some food while watching the game, and made some new German friends along the way, and how we all paraded out after the German victory, blowing into our obnoxious vuvuzelas and rambling about town. Alas, fatigue and the backslog of writing I had to do got the better of me, and I got myself some food in the supermarket before retreating back to my room to write. My hostel-mates, both here for work, shared my apathy towards sports, and we merely chuckled at the honking and cheering that went on in the streets.

But now that Germany's advancing, it gives me another opportunity to fulfill my mission: next game, I'm going to go all out, watch the game, revel in the glory, and figure out this whole spirit thing. I'll keep y'all posted.

The Neuro Connection

Thu, 24 Jun 2010 08:47:01 +0000

After that Franz episode (see blog post "For all intents and purposes..."), I was a little nervous about getting on long-distance trains, even if I knew I was armed with the great stories of Winston. I took a little side trip out to Vienna last weekend to meet up with a few friends who were also going to be there - 5 hours on the train. Oy.

My first clue was the paper that the woman sitting next to me was reading. No, not a newspaper - a science paper. About neurons in flies. Interesting - I'd spent a lot of my undergrad years studying neurobio, and was even planning on going to grad school on the subject. Clue number two: the guy sitting across from her was talking to her about schools. They were conversing in a rapid staccato German, but I understood a word every 5 sentences or so: Caltech. MIT. Berkeley. Harvard. At one point, he started explaining to her the geography of Los Angeles, and how Caltech was in Pasadena far away from Hollywood.

This is where I decided to chime in. "Oh, Los Angeles!" I said. "I've been there several times. Are you headed to Caltech?"

"Oh, no, a friend of mine is going to become an assistant professor there, and he wants me to come with."

"That's interesting! What do you study?"

"Neurobiology."

Funny. "Oh, I worked in a neurobiology lab all through college, and one of my labmates just became an assistant professor in neurobiology at Caltech last year!"

We started talking about the small neuro world, about what we each worked on, the potential of combining optogenetics with Brainbow (sorry, nerdspeak), and started gossiping about our favorite and most notorious neuro professors. Then I suddenly remembered that the one person I knew from Munich was a TF that I had had for a neuro class that I had taken.

"Say, do you know E--- N-----?"

"Oh, yes! We were labmates for several years before she went off to America!"

Well there you have it. Even on a train a bajillion miles away from home, you're bound to find people within one degree of separation.

Intoxivacation

Wed, 23 Jun 2010 23:47:03 +0000

If there is anything that the youth of Budapest does well, it's drinking and partying. Especially in the summertime when loads of old and new open-air clubs surge onto the nightclub scene. Last night I went to a few places with this Irish chap and an American chain smoker. We began the night at the giant grassy square in front of the American embassy called Szabadság tér, where beer is cheaper than water and comes in double-the-size cups, for some Germany-Ghana action. The truth of the matter is, we could barely pay attention to the match as Hungarian young revelers, excited by the prospects of cheap drink, screamed and cheered at impromptu intervals throughout. While in times past I have reviled those obnoxious traveling stag parties and booze-hound summer "backpackers," unforgivingly wondering why anyone would travel the globe just to get hammered and black out, I realized the unifying powers that a plastic cup of cheap beer has in this city. As I went to refresh our loot at the counter I began chatting with one of the guys from said Hungarian in-crowd and after a few laughs he wrote a number on the side of my cup. As I returned to my posse I thought, "vhas ze hell" and told them we'd ring it in a few hours. After some time had elapsed and we were several vats deep I dialed the number and the fellow picked up, directing us to a certain address where allegedly a house party was underway. As we approached the location, an eerie silence cut the air and I felt a flood of suspicion overcome me. We rang the apartment number and almost immediately, without inquiry, the building door buzzed open and we ascended the five floors to our final destination. As soon as we mounted the top of the stairs the door seemed to magically open and a dreamy cloud of smoke streamed out from it, tugging us inside with a sensual force. I looked around the room and suddenly the mystique of a Budapest "house party" disintegrated before my very eyes. Colorful plastic cups scattered on every available resting place, steamy action in the corner, puddles of draft spewed on the rugs and the likes of Ja-Rule blazing from the stereo welcomed us to just another American college party. What was unique about the experience was the extreme generosity and inclusion emitted by the populace--we were not necessarily gawking tourists at a museum for raunchy affairs, but actually a part of a seemingly intimate group of friends letting loose when the parents were away. To top off the evening our American returned the favor by producing a make-shift keg stand, laughing as he lifted our new friends' legs onto his shoulders over a roaring chanting of "USA! USA! USA!" What an awful night.

Celebrating unwisely.

Wed, 23 Jun 2010 23:24:03 +0000

Time for World Cup news.

Yesterday the USA defeated Algeria in a 1-0 victory, propelling them to the top of their group and advancing them into the final 16 teams.

WOOOOO!

I watched the game from inside a Belfast sports bar, which was also simultaneously broadcasting the England/Slovenia match.

When Landon Donovan (bless his soul) scored one minute into extra time after 90 straight minutes of scoreless play, I jumped off my stool with unabashed excitement and shouted, "YAHHHHH!"

Unfortunately, I forgot that I was no longer in Dublin, but Belfast, where a large majority of the people watching the game were England supporters. I looked around. Old men sitting at the bar had turned away from the England game (bad sign) and were looking at me (very bad sign).

WOOoooooo....yeah okay, time to stop.

England won their game too, but guess what? USA: #1 in their bracket. England: #2.

(woooooo)

Watch Out for The Waiters

Wed, 23 Jun 2010 22:53:55 +0000

This past Saturday, at a restaurant that will not be named, I experienced first-hand a remarkably shameless display of predatory restaurant service. The restaurant in question advertised a reasonably priced cheeseburger and fry plate, undoubtedly intended to reel in the tourists.

Upon entrance into this establishment, the customer receives a not-so-warm welcome from the brasserie/bar's perpetually perturbed owner and waiter. He sits you down, and immediately tries to sell you on the menu's more expensive options. I had to ask three times for the cheeseburger before he accepted that I wasn't going to waste my money on this joke of a restaurant's 19 euro lunch plates! He told me that I could have it despite the fact that it was what "we feed the children here." He barely made eye contact with me for the rest of my lunch, but I hadn't seen the least of it. A group of Cambodians came in and sat down at a table near me. They only wanted coffee; their negotiation with the owner lasted about three minutes, until they were asked to leave the empty main dining room and take a seat at the bar, where customers who come to have a coffee have to sit. Throughout these encounters, the owner is constantly jestering at his chalkboard menu, insisting that somebody order one of the plates so that everybody can have a little bit.

Unrelated to the predatory nature of the waitstaff of one was its tremendous practical incapacity; once he ordered the chef to cook up a cheeseburger when a party had actually ordered two chicken plates. He then proceeded to tell the next customer who walked in the door, an American tourist, that he had a cheeseburger waiting for him in the kitchen, ready to go. After the man asked to see the rest of the menu three times, the owner exclaimed, "But you're American. You HAVE to want the cheeseburger!" After trying to keep it together for the past 20 minutes, I had to excuse myself and burst out laughing. So as the french would say, mistrust the waiters (mefiez-vous des garcons)!

Bottles and Bear Hugs

Wed, 23 Jun 2010 21:03:37 +0000

So here's a bit of history for you readers: In the 1982 World Cup, West Germany and Austria were facing off in the final game of pool play and entered the game with the knowledge that both teams would move on to the round of 16 (and knock out the anxious Algerian squad) only if Germany won by a 1 or 2 goal margin. So what did these conniving Eastern Europeans do? They threw the game. Germany scored an early first goal, and then the teams worked together to run down the clock. While this wasn't technically "cheating," the situation was definitely unfair and frowned upon, so FIFA made some alterations. Now, the final games of pool play for any one group are played concurrently. The upside: you don't have sneaky soccer conspiracies that lead to (no joke) protests, fans waving bank slips at players, and flag burning. The downside: if you're an American visiting a European country, in a town overflowing with English tourists and immigrated residents, it's going to be near-impossible to find anywhere broadcasting the US-Algeria game while England's busy playing Slovenia at the exact same time.

Today in Nerja, I found myself and an American friend nervously checking the US-Algeria score via the internet while sitting in a beachside bar packed with face-painted British fans screaming at BBC. It was quite the stressful affair, and the kind owner of the bar repeatedly came over to apologize that he couldn't get ESPN or any American channel and have both games running (there were 4 TVs at the bar). Luckily, by the end of 90 minutes (or, I guess, 91 due to stoppage time), the US and a heroic Landon Donovan came out on top, even without my viewing support. The bar owner was so overjoyed (and slightly drunk from post-game celebrations) by his own team's victory that he gave me a strong bear hug, emphatically shook my friend's hand, and gave us a bottle of champagne to take for the road.

The 1982 German-Austrian plot is looked back on as one of the most shameful acts of soccer history. And I'll admit that, even 28 years later, it found a way to provide my afternoon with a good 90 minutes of fan stress. But at the end of the day, I left that British bar with many high fives, a nice collection of new football chants, "We Are the Champions" stuck echoing in my head, and a room-temperature bottle of cheap champagne--I was almost as victorious as the US National Team!

Not Your Mom's Hamam

Wed, 23 Jun 2010 20:57:00 +0000

Hamam, the traditional Turkish bath, works like this: you go inside a sauna-like dome wearing just a towel, lie down on a heated slab of stone, then you get a massage and a soap-sud bath from a masseur. For me, there are so many things wrong with that concept (partial public nudity, physical contact with strangers, cold water), but I still had to review a couple of these places. The big ones are attended by tourists, but some of the smaller ones function as undeclared meeting places for the local gay community. Being the dutiful research writer that I am, I decided to include at least one gay-friendly establishment. Since Let's Go policy requires it, I had to find one where they'd be able to sign a piece of paper saying they actually are gay-friendly. In a country as conservative as Turkey, that's quite a goal to set for yourself.

At first I went to a dark and dingy local all-male sauna. When I showed them my press card, all I got from the staff was silence and knitted brows. Obviously, a don't ask don't tell policy was in place. I knew I needed to find something better, flashier. That's when I came across a place that Lonely Planet calls "the only unabashedly gay sauna in Istanbul". I went to their website, and it was full of photos of muscular, half-naked men clearly enjoying each other's company. I knew that if this place wouldn't work out, then none could.

The first time I went there, I saw it from afar: there was some colorful lighting and so many potted plants that it looked like a little jungle. A sign above the door said it was open 24 hours. Through the glass walls I saw men with bare chests standing and talking, and two men were sitting on the outside patio, playing backgammon. I walked right past it.

The second time I went there was ten minutes later. I entered and tried talking to the receptionist, but he didn't speak English. He called out loud, and from the sauna emerged a muscular young man with a big tattoo on his right arm, holding a towel around his waist. He said he spoke some English. I didn't quite know how to broach the subject as about five men looked on amiably. "Is this a gay-friendly establishment?" I asked. "Gay? Yes." he said. I said that I am writing a review and that I need somebody sign it on paper for me. "Massage?" he asked. I said that I didn't come here for a massage and that I needed a signature. He adjusted his towel and motioned toward the sauna, offering to show me around. I tried to explain my case in sign language. "You want boys?" He motioned around. I must have looked quite unhappy because he apologized for not understanding me and told me to come back in two hours. That's when the big boss would come. "Very nice English," the boss was supposed to have.

The third time I went there, the boss was present. He had a soft handshake and spoke no English. After some futile sign language I took over his computer, found Google Translator online, and typed in a sentence about what I needed of him. He read it, said something in Turkish, and at that moment all the men seemed to become really angry. The boss left to play backgammon and didn't talk to me for the rest of the day. The others talked in loud voices. Turns out that a room full of angry Turkish gay men can be pretty intimidating.

That's when Mustafa showed up and saved me. He looked like a young Sylvester Stallone with a scar on his face and he spoke passable English. He explained that it's a Muslim country and that the boss won't sign anything, even if it's for a travel guide because they'd be in trouble if they said anything about being officially gay-friendly. He also said it was impressive that I was writing for a travel guide. He was quite nice, this Mustafa. We chatted for a while, and I came to terms with the fact that I won't get a gay-friendly hamam for our book.

Then he suggested that I have a drink with him, and I knew it was time for me to go.

All's Fair in...

Wed, 23 Jun 2010 18:13:48 +0000

Like people, Moroccan taxis come in different shapes and sizes

The first major division is between grand taxis and petit taxis. Morocco must have made a deal with Germany, since every grand taxi in the country is a twenty-year old Mercedes. These German imports serve as commuter sedans between cities, suburbs and the countryside, while their petit counterparts are colorful hatchbacks that speed passengers anywhere within the city limits. Riding in a petit taxi is like being in a bumper car, and they come in a variety of fun colors: robins'-egg blue, bright red, navy, yellow and green, depending on the city.

But even more entertaining than Moroccan taxi diversity is Moroccan taxi adversity. Take grand taxis, for example.

Mercedes have four passenger seats, right? Nope. Taxi drivers fit six passengers at a time, which means that your daily commute is actually a daily cuddle with the grown man on top of you. I spent the hour-long drive from Ifrane to Meknes squished up against Ali from Moulay Idriss.

When it comes to grand taxis, not only is safety not a priority, but the concept of a line is tenuous, at best.

Walking to my hostel in Rabat yesterday, I watched five Moroccan teens hurtling after a grand taxi. At their heels was a mother racing with an infant on her back, while two old men hobbled after her. Everyone was screaming. The mother frantically pointed at her child and one old man gestured angrily with his cane. Apparently, infants and geriatrics are supposed to get priority. Not surprisingly, the teens won the race. All’s fair in love, war and your daily commute.

The Lovers' Lane of Rome

Wed, 23 Jun 2010 14:05:56 +0000

    I'll make this short and sweet because, frankly, that's probably what it was. A few days ago, I headed to Ostia Antica, the ruins of a seventh-century city....in other words, a dirt labyrinth of crumbling walls and old dwellings. Unlike the Roman Forum, which is hardly a "ghost city," (what with crowds trampling its paths all day), Ostia Antica could actually still have spirits living in it. Not only is it fairly forgotten by tourists, it also has so many crevices and detours that most of its grounds have probably never seen a Nike shoe.
    No doubt walking along the deserted paths was a welcome break from Rome's busy streets: for one thing, I saw a lizard and a snake, whereas the best "wildlife" in Rome is a stray cat. As I was making my way through the maze, peeking into old dwellings, I heard an...ahem...interesting groan. A spirit, perhaps? Or maybe some other beast?
    Nope, neither. There, in the corner, a couple going at it. Seeing me, the dude winked, the girl carried on, and I scurried back into the sun. At least it wasn't some religious terrain, I thought as I laughed to myself. In fact, if the Roman gods' spirits were still floating around this place, they would probably be smiling too....well, at least Venus and Cupid would be.

The Hangover - Brussels style

Wed, 23 Jun 2010 13:18:23 +0000

Drinking in Brussels can be fun. It can also be dangerous if you don't know what the friendly waitress is serving you when you ask for her recommendation. Luckily I've found my favorite (and slightly weaker) drink and stick to that, but I will not forget the morning after drinking a very strong 10% beer at Brussels' infamous Delirium bar - which offers over 2000 beers.

Last night was my night off, though, and I wanted to avoid the tourist trap that was Delirium and head to some more local and chilled bars where I won't meet a litany of Texans and Bostonians (nothing personal; you're just not Belgian). Bonnefooi bar is open every night until 8am--- quite a feat, though I will never make it up that late. Last night was a particular treat: their weekly Monday night concert featured a jazz singer who did renditions on the piano of songs such as Radiohead's Creep and I will Survive. Even more amazing was the fact that he looked JUST like Alan from the Hangover...picture time was in order!

It's Gettin Hot in Herrrre

Wed, 23 Jun 2010 10:32:55 +0000

While recently researching the Imperial city of Meknes, Fez’s neglected younger brother, I went on a stroll through the streets of the medina. Meknes’ medieval Arab quarter isn’t as hot a tourist destination as Fez’s, but it’s an equally awesome place to experience Moroccan living. In fact, for me, things got a lot hotter in Meknes than they ever did in Fez.

The first time I showed up in the medina was a Friday, the Muslim day of prayer. Oops. Instead of crowded bazaars with multi-colored babouches or men dicing fish guts (what I enjoyed the following day), I wandered through creepily empty alleys with shuttered shops. But just because commerce grinds to a halt on Fridays doesn't mean that people stop showering.

Passing more closed shops, I did a double-take in front what looked like a cave right in the middle of the medina. Through the dark, I could make out the faint outline of a man tending a fire. He saw me peeping and welomed me inside. It's tough to say no to Moroccan hospitality, even in sketchy medina caves (Sorry, mom.)

I climbed downhill on treacherously uneven rock and met my new friend Abdallah, who was sitting up to his chest in a pile of wood chips. As we talked, he threw handfuls of shavings into an immense furnace, one hand grabbing wood while the other rhythmically stirred the flames with a pole.

Ducking sparks and sweating buckets, I learned that it's Abdallah's job to heat the adjacent hammam, a public bathhouse with scalding water and aggressive scrub-downs. Hammams are the traditional path to squeaky clean freshness in Morroco, not to mention the place for neighborhood gossip.

My new friend graciously invited me to visit his hammam, but then paused. I would have to wait. The women were using the room. As if I wouldn’t understand, he carefully explained that men and women exfoliated separately. Duh… in Morocco, there’s no such thing as a hammam with a happy ending.

It's not everyday I mix drinks for NHL players at Viennese cocktail bars..

Wed, 23 Jun 2010 10:08:30 +0000

Two friends of mine from the States happen to be passing through Vienna this week, and we decided to try a famous Inner Stadt cocktail bar on a not-so-bustling Monday night. (The bar shall remain nameless for the sake of this blog.) After a delicious mojito and an hour of conversation in the smoky jazzy darkness, the three of us had become the focal point of the bar. It was not a very big place, and we were the only women there.

My friend - let's call her Sophia-- gives the waiter her credit card to pay for the bill and a few minutes later the waiter returns with a serious look on his face. Now, Sophia has a last name that can easily be mistaken for Italian mafia (which also shall go unnamed for the sake of this blog). When the waiter commented on it, we all burst into laughter, but instead of joining in, he replied, "No this is serious." Then he walks away.

He returns a minute later with three glasses, a bottle of Averna, which is a liquor supposedly "good for the stomach," and starts to pour us shots. I'm sure the quantity we drank would immediately countereffect any digestive powers it had, as the waiter continued to pour us drinks and then invited us, one by one, behind the bar to make our own drinks -- martinis (extra dirt) and pisco sours (extra cinnamon). I even mixed a Cuba Libre for a German NHL player-- apparently he's famous or something. BTW, we didn't pay for any of this, and while the waiters were very kind the whole night, they were also very sensitive to us "wanting to get rid of" any superfluous ingredients. A reference to our hit-men, no doubt.

The moral of the night: When bartenders think you are Italian mafia-- don't laugh. Go with it.

Fete de la Musique

Tue, 22 Jun 2010 22:48:16 +0000

One of the many cool things about France (wine is cheaper than water!) is Fete de la Musique. It all started with a memo (probably a yellow post-it) the Director of Music at the Ministry of Culture sent to Christian Dupavillion in 1982, that noted that the French owned more than four million musical instruments, three quarters of which were gathering dust in assorted corners. Later that year a festival was born! (Probably the only good thing to come out of French bureaucracy). Fete de la Musique (World Music Day) is a national French affair that promotes music, showcasing young artists in a variety of free concerts and fostering public appreciation for the art form.

In Paris, people took the streets en masse avec bouteilles, listened to music, danced and were generally merry. My highlights: the rock band made up entirely of 12 year old boys and the 10 year old girls fawning over them. The gay and incredibly well built men gyrating to a beat that went vaguely like this--uhn-tiss uhn-tiss uhn-tiss—on top of a truck with a smoke machine and strobe light attached. My, this was entertaining, but it would be wrong to consider a highlight: the fight that started another fight that started another fight that started a stampede right next to me. My highlight turned to lowlight: the sidewalk techno rave that singlehandedly got broken up by the flatulence of some unlucky (and smelly) fellow. All in all, a sweet night.

Parli spagnolo? (Part Two)

Tue, 22 Jun 2010 22:13:09 +0000

Perhaps the biggest perk to being a Spanish-speaker in Italy is that you understand a lot. I've been able to pick up the gist of a couple lectures and tours conducted in Italian even though I don't really speak a word of the language. My Spanish skills have also led to more than a couple ridiculous moments. Here are my top three favorites:

3) To get access to a museum, I had to fill out a form that was available only in Italian. I asked for some help, and while one person behind the counter helped, the other remarked with derision, "Ignorante americano, è ovvio!" Still, not quite as obvious as what "ovvio" means, even to an English-speaker.

2) When I went to McDonald's (I know, I know...but it's been five weeks and a man can only live on pizza and pasta for so long), I ordered in Spanish, and while I was waiting for my food, the two guys working at the counter proceeded to talk about me in the following (roughly translated) conversation.

Employee One: Why were you speaking Spanish to that guy?

Employee Two: Dude, he's Spanish. Look at his beard.

Employee One: Dude, you have to be kidding. Look at his clothes; he's definitely English.

Employee Two: You don't know anything; if he were English, he'd speak English, not Spanish. Dumbass.

Employee One: Well, you don't know anything if you think that the guy standing right there is Spanish, I –

Employee Two: Dude, play it cool. I think he understands us. He's looking at us.

Employee One: Oh, so now he's a Spanish guy who speaks Italian? You can be so STUPID sometimes...

1) I was trying to get some information from another museum director who went on a 2min. spiel to his associate (right in front of me) about how he was annoyed with these damn jouralists wasting his time and how he just wanted to skip our scheduled meeting to watch a World Cup match. I guess he noted my bemusement towards the end of his diatribe because he turned to his associate and asked, "Non parla italiano?" I answered for him, "No...pero comprendo bastante bien."

Parli spagnolo? (Part One)

Tue, 22 Jun 2010 22:10:40 +0000

After more than five weeks in Venice shaking down locals to find out the best hidden restaurants, searching for hilarious stories about historic Venetian sights, and chatting up local restaurateurs, I've come to a conclusion.

Italian and Spanish are basically the same language. Well, not quite. Nevertheless, they're not mutually intelligible: if you know a bit of Spanish here, it can go a long way. After a few days of difficult dealings with locals, some of whom obviously (and reasonably) resent the presumption that everyone speaks English, I started speaking Spanish and was surprised to find out that pretty much everyone understood me. I don't mean word for word, and I've certainly had those moments when I've had to try saying the same thing about 40 different ways, but half the fun of traveling is taking yourself out of your element and trying something new – like having a conversation in a language you don't understand.

I'm Sailing Away

Tue, 22 Jun 2010 20:00:30 +0000

Taking this photo made my day.

Yep, the clouds are cool, but that's not what I'm looking at. Let's zoom in a bit.

Ah, okay, now you see. Call me a nerd. A boat nerd.

That would probably be a fair assessment of me, from my sailing team membership to my rabid picture-taking of yachts. So it's been nice for me to finally be somewhere on the water (not including floodwaters, that is).

Boats are a big part of the culture here in the Cinque Terre, that much is quite clear. Fishing boats that are especially little and very colorful come in paints from navy and red to orange and white (though blue seems to be the most popular choice, as I'm sure you can guess why). With today's sunshine, those boats were back out in Vernazza harbor, making this port the picture perfect anchorage guidebooks envision it to be. (And I suppose that, in my current position, I'm partially to blame for this idealized image.)

Sadly, megayachts are not these boats. ("Sadly?!?!," the locals might protest. "We have enough tourists; the last thing we need are pretentious tycoons on their yachts—and that's yahhhcht with a fru-fru British accent, don't forget.") More realistically though, try to fit a 150-foot long boat into the tiny harbor at Vernazza, and you're going to have a big, oily mess run aground in that beautiful piazza.

And so, I guess my nerdiness will have to keep directing itself offshore. At least that lets me keep focusing on the job at hand. Beach reviews, here we come.

Peoplewatching on Istiklal Avenue

Tue, 22 Jun 2010 18:31:37 +0000

Istiklal Avenue, the social heart of the Beyoglu district and hence of Istanbul, is quite something. On a good day, 2 million people walk down this street. That's almost one half of the population of the country where I'm from. There are so many people that in whichever direction you walk, it always feels like you're walking against the current. These are the kinds of people you'll see: Girls with sunglasses on their eyes. Girls with sunglasses, but not on their eyes. Pairs of macho boys walking with locked elbows. Middle-aged people who came to look at the young people. Tourists walking with one finger inside their Lonely Planets, marking the page. Sweaty tourists with giant backpacks, thrilled by the authenticity of it all. Groups of schoolgirls who came for an ice cream date. Muscular men with fake Dolce&Gabana belts and tacky T-shirts. Solitary creatures who look too old for their age. Pairs holding hands: the girl's bra straps are showing, while the guy is looking around victoriously. His eyes are saying "I know what you're thinking, and that's not happening, because she's with me". And another kind of pair: a girl hidden inside black robes, up to her eyes. The guy's eyes... I can't figure out what they want to say.

Peace, Love and Music

Tue, 22 Jun 2010 17:33:32 +0000

Yesterday night marked the summer solstice and per tradition since the 80's, Nice exploded with free music concerts in every bar, restaurant and public square. John Lennon may have been a dirty hippie, but he was spot on when it came to his musings on freedom and music. Those two mix well together, especially on a city wide scale. They also go exceptionally well with lots and lots of booze. I vaguely remember making a video blog that will most certainly have to be heavily edited. My apologies.

From Blink 182 rip offs to the homeless guy and his tamborine, everyone in Nice was enjoying the extremely unofficial festivities. Even in the quiet part of town where I live, the pizza place was filled to the brim with customers who had the urge to take their drunken sing along to the streets. They made sure to offer every passing car a sip of beer or shot of local fire water. It worked well until they offered some to the local police.

It was a strange and refreshing scene after suffering through the stuffy Monegasque bars or pulling all-nighters in the clubs in St. Tropez. The bands played local and international favorites for the crowd to sing and jump around to, and did not take the opportunity to promote their set list. Everyone was drunk, wandering everywhere, and welcome everywhere, and the music spooled from every corner and alley of the old city. This must be what it's like to go to a state school.

Taxi what?

Tue, 22 Jun 2010 17:33:07 +0000

I hopped off the train from Dublin into Belfast yesterday afternoon and jumped into a taxi.

Taxi Driver: "How long you in Belfast?"

Me: "Well, I'm not sure yet, but at least a week."

Taxi Driver: "Too long."

Me: "What?"

Taxi Driver: "Too long."

At this point, I was, as you can imagine, a little bit thrown by this man's immediate dismissal of his home town.

Me: "Why's that?"

Taxi Driver: "You can do alla Belfast in two, three days tops."

However, before everyone goes up to Belfast with the hope of seeing the entire city in a day, the taxi driver pointed out at least a dozen pubs on the way to my destination. All of them, he said, "I had to go to."

I think I'll take my time.

The Beautiful People....

Tue, 22 Jun 2010 09:05:58 +0000

Ok, I admit this is just a hideous picture of me instead of one of "beautiful people," but the camera adds 20 pounds and like 300 ugly points. This picture's the best I could do. Apparently Czech women don't look kindly on strange men walking up behind them and madly snapping photos. Whatever--my blog can't suffer because of their insecurities.

But understand--we're talking about Czech women here. In general, my comment is hey, God? Or--metaphysical construct? Hell--I'm talking to you, meaningless nothingness--why did you have to take so much beauty and squeeze it into such a small country with relatively few media outlets?

In other words, why are Czech. Women. So. Disgustingly. Beautiful.

Even the ugly ones. It's a hard task to find the Czech woman under 30 who isn't just stunningly and intimidatingly gorgeous. I'm not the only person who's noticed. The porn industry realized a long time ago, and the Czech Republic became the largest representative player in the porn game for the last 10 years running. Some combination of high cheekbones and hearty construction. Or as one drunk pub owner described it to me, "a lot of here," touching chest, "and a lot of there," pointing to ass.

Absolutly Bond

Mon, 21 Jun 2010 23:32:17 +0000

Today was about as close as I'll get to being in a James Bond movie. Unfortunately the experience was most similar to the worst James Bond movie (the one with Halle Berry and the sun-weapon), but I can't really complain.

When I arrived at the Absolut Icebar, I was bar-weary and didn't think about what "Icebar" entailed. Unsurprisingly and quite fantastically, it literally means that the bar is made of ice. Yes, the bar, the walls, the glasses and, one could argue, some of the stares you get upon entering the bar at 3pm, are made of ice. Before entering, visitors are given designer thermal wear to withstand the negative temperatures inside the bar. Now seems like a good time to remind less Bond-savvy readers that the film with Halle Berry was (I think) the one with the ice hotel. It should also be noted that chipping pieces of the wall into your drink is frowned upon. Highly.

The Loudspeakers

Mon, 21 Jun 2010 21:39:31 +0000

In my last blog, I mentioned Braga's loudspeaker system: they have a speaker about every thirty yards along all the major streets of the old town. At first it was annoying, then it was sort of nice to have music and incomprehensible babble following you throughout town, and then I realized the actual creepiness of the situation. Ubiquitous speakers broadcasting whatever the city wants you to hear at any time? Combine that with the fact that Portuguese really sounds more like Russian than Spanish, and you've got the potential for one seriously eerie town. Though I suppose it's kind of comforting to know that Big Brother can communicate a message to his people if need be--in Portuguese at that!

Sounds of Braga

Mon, 21 Jun 2010 21:37:32 +0000

I've finally made it all the way across Spain and into Portugal! The buildings are more tiled, the food saltier, and the time earlier--and the Sunday nights much, much louder. These are a few of the things that kept me up:

1. The giant TV screen in the center of town broadcasting Brazil's World Cup game with the accompanying throngs of fans that felt no need for those buzzing trumpets to stay in South Africa. I thought the madness would end shortly after the game. However, for the three hours of highlights and postgame interviews that followed, everyone enjoyed the aftermath with as much fervor as the actual game.
2. A Peruvian flute band. Right below my window. They are inescapable. And when I say "Peruvian flute band," what I mean is "three guys with ponytails playing a Celine Dion recording over a very loud speaker system while one of them plays a recorder and another shakes a rainstick."
3. Braga's impressive network of loudspeakers located throughout the old city that plays a never-ending loop of fado and other mournfully loud music.

If this is a Sunday, what is a Saturday like?

The Most Delicious Food in Italy

Mon, 21 Jun 2010 20:40:20 +0000

I love Tuscan bread. Like, a lot.

I may in fact be developing an addiction.

Salt is actually considered one of the four essential ingredients in bread (flour, water, salt, yeast), but the Tuscans somehow manage to produce a scrumptious, chewy-crunchy loaf without it. Conventional wisdom attributes this to flavorful yeast, or to the baking method, but judging by my reaction to the final product, it is entirely possible that they’ve substituted crack for salt. This stuff is absolutely delicious. I can finish an entire basket in under three minutes.

Yes, most people prefer their saltless bread as part of some sort of meal – in ribollita, a soup made from veggies and stale saltless bread, or in its incarnation as crostoni, when it’s topped with cheese and meat – but hit me up with a plain loaf and a glass of tap water, and I’ll be just fine. If you’re looking for a cheap meal, instead of paying €2 coperto for three slices and a tablecloth, just go to the local supermarket or bread shop and buy yourself a cheap loaf. I never thought that I’d be recommending untoasted, unsalted, and unbuttered bread to anyone, but really. I love this bread.

Britney Spears Goes to Church

Mon, 21 Jun 2010 20:29:03 +0000

I was so prepared for this church visit. You don't even understand.

I'd bought this €2 euro half-length sweater-thing that was essentially a light-brown version of that shirt that Britney Spears tied under her chest in Hit Me Baby One More Time. You’d think that this classy little piece would transform any outfit into an unacceptably alluring ensemble, but no. Instead, it had swept me into every church in Tuscany with the sort of ease and courtesy that usually accompanies a pontiff. No more kimonos of shame for this gal. I could wear my tank top and bare my shoulders all I wanted outdoors, but when it was church time, I just shrugged this bad boy over my shoulders and used the power of ‘90s pop-princess fashion to morph into Mother Mary.

That is, until San Gimignano. See, there’s another angle to this covering-up business. Shoulders are certainly one of God’s mistakes – I mean, look at the ugly little knobs – and obviously they should be covered up so as to avoid reminding Him of that oopsie, but the Almighty apparently made another mess-up: the female knee.

Shorts reveal the knees. They are therefore unacceptable for a church. And so when I showed up with my shorts and covered shoulders, San Gimignano made its own personal contribution to my ever-expanding collection of body-length veils. This one was made of the same almost-paper fabric as my kimono from Santa Maria Novella, but instead of going for the full-out kimono, San Gimignano economized and simply handed me an ankle-length skirt.

I can't win.

Let's Go Staffers Featured on Lost Girls Travel Blog

Mon, 21 Jun 2010 18:56:23 +0000

Four female Let's Go staffers were recently featured in an article celebrating Let's Go's 50th anniversary on The Lost Girls World travel blog. The Lost Girls World is a travel and lifestyle website for young women that began when three friends decided to leave their lives in New York City behind to embark on a year long trip around the world.In the article, Let's Go Researcher Writers and Editors Ansley Rubinstein, Beatrice Franklin, Iya Megre, and Marykate Jasper talk about solo female travelers, study abroad, and working for Let's Go. Check it out on the Lost Girls World blog: http://bit.ly/LGLostGirls

Out of Character

Mon, 21 Jun 2010 16:13:47 +0000

I was born and raised in Southern California (I know I’ve mentioned this before), and I generally feel like I’ve picked up all the stereotypical opinions—I hate the Boston Celtics, I’ve come to terms with the concept of traffic, I recognize that my governor was staring in films about robot wars and Christmas failures over the course of my childhood, and I love the beach. Yet, for some reason, I’ve now been in Nerja (the tourist capital of the Costa del Sol) for two days and am yet to stick even a toe in the ocean.

At first I thought that I was just too busy to be checking out the beach. But let's be real—I'm not napping during any siesta hours and people don't have dinner in this country until long after the sun goes down. I've had time.

Then I considered that the beach just isn't as fun when traveling alone. Also totally false. I love sunshine and everyone loves relaxation (and I have no fear of red tides, giant squid, or snippy sand crabs).

I have finally come to the conclusion that the reason is much more basic: distraction. There's one major distraction that caught my eye upon visiting Nerja. The Cueva de Nerja (Cave of Nerja) is one of the oldest natural structures on the Iberian Peninsula and is of Guinness-World-Record-holding status. During those sunny siesta hours when I could have been at the beach, I was instead repetitively fixing my ponytail to attempting to maintain my somewhat frizzy hair as I wandered the paths of the dark, moist cave I was so lucky to be able to visit.

And even after departing the cave yesterday evening with every pamphlet in hand, it by no means left my focus. This morning, when I walked the boardwalk (yes, just steps from the ocean) looking for somewhere to grab lunch, I started up a conversation with an older English woman who had been living in Nerja for the past 10 years and was recommending restaurants to me. She ran down quite the laundry list before reaching "Ayo," the local favorite paella spot, whose owner was one of the first founders of the Cueva de Nerja. The Brit was even nice enough to introduce me to Ayo himself, who sat across from me at the checkered tablecloth on the sand and told me all about his adventures and encounters with the cave art and skeletons that I had read so much about (today, all the cave paintings and human remains are in the 2 cave galleries not available to the public).

Maybe I'll finally try to even out my sandal and watch tans tomorrow afternoon; or, maybe I'll make the 3km. walk toward the cave-side city and trot around for a bit longer. I don't think I can go wrong.

Drinking, Dancing, and Dark Clothing

Mon, 21 Jun 2010 08:56:32 +0000

This weekend I was convinced to return to Dresden for the ultimate, alternative festival-- the BRN.

The BRN, which stands for Bunte Republik Neustadt is a three-day festival in June that takes over the streets of Dresden's Neustadt (New City). The streets are blocked off, and anyone who lives or owns a storefront in the area can set up a stand selling food and drink.

The festival lasts all weekend, from the afternoon to the early hours of each morning. During the day, the festival feels like a normal street fair-- shops with racks of clothing, food stands with pizza slicecs the size of my head, and music everywhere. Walk down one street and you will encounter 5 or 6 areas of music, from 3 or 4 guys jamming on guitars to DJs mixing beats. I even spend a while watching a street performer pretend to consume "fire" while in fact just eating a chili pepper (in German, which made it even more ridiculous). The BRN during the day is for everyone, and there is even an entire street dedicated to children's stands with homemade baked goods and balloons.

Then at night, the real BRN begins. People (I have no idea where they all come from) pour into the streets for the massive parties. All the areas with music become outdoor dance floors in the middle of the street, and all the shop stands turn into drink stands. This means two euro beers and 3 euro mojitos, and crowds so thick that sometimes you can't do anything but stand and wait for the throes of the crowd to propel you along. There's drinking and lots of drunk people, but the real spectacle is rather the unique alternative character of the party itself.

The majority of music is drum&base, techno/synthesized, and rock - so the dance floors seem to vary between rock concerts and raves. You can walk from one end to the other of a single street and choose where the music and dancing suits your fancy. Body piercings, multi-colored hair, and dark clothing are the norm (I only succeeded in the latter), which fit right in with the graffiti-style murals along the Neustadt building walls. Some stands had mysterious, colorful punches in huge glass bowls, while others had traditional taps and liquors. There was even a cart with ten different types of whisky. Other "bars" are just locals mixing drinks or selling beer from a keg, so that no one has to wait in line for a drink and no hand goes away empty. The drinks keep coming, and the people keep dancing, and I was surprised at how friendly the party was, especially having heard about some rioting in the past. Yet this year, it seemed that people just wanted to have fun. I even saw the police men on the sidelines tapping their feet to the beat.

Avant-garde & Kitsch

Mon, 21 Jun 2010 08:49:41 +0000

Somehow I don't think this is what Clement Greenberg had in mind.

Then again, it's not that far from it.

In the theme of art, art criticism, and at times needlessly stuffy treatises (I can't help it, I'm missing college already), let's talk about the Anarchist Book Fair I came across yesterday.

White tents and bikes lined the Rambla de Raval as people from across the globe peddled everything from The Rag (feminist zine out of Dublin) to handmade dresses, bootleg copies of Situationist letters to D.I.Y. vegan cookbooks, and the latest copies of Maximum Rock and Roll (I'm now caught up for June and July) to free copies of Italian activism posters, all while trying to keep a hand on everything in hopes of keeping it from flying away in the wind.

The thing I love about this sort of thing is the huge range of ages that show up and also staff the booths—advocating change (whether social, political, or if you're just looking to make some noise) isn't just something that's left to naive, idealistic youth.

The event attracts enthusiasts and vendors (if you can even call them that) from all over the globe, so for a few short minutes I could pocket my embarrassingly bad Spanish away and just simply ask, "How much for this?" Success.

Jumping ship

Sun, 20 Jun 2010 23:39:09 +0000

One of my favorite ways of getting to know a city is drunk people-watching. It's an art. Sure, the daylight and tourist attractions are great and all that, but the best dirt is dug up post 9pm. You can really learn a lot about a place by how its citizens act when the sun goes down and the beer bottles crack open.

It was great, then, that I had the luck to arrive in Cardiff, Wales, (also known as one of the nightlife capitals of the UK) on a Saturday night. Even better, my hostel is conveniently located next to a beautiful park, which of course, is a favorite haunt for drunkfolk.

There was quite a commotion outside when I ventured down the street towards the crowds by the river at about 8pm (Since it doesn't get dark til about 10pm here in the summer, there was still plenty to see). At least 6 emergency vehicles had pulled up around the area of the river, and people stood standing, leaning over the railing to figure out what was going on. "Has someone jumped in?" They murmured to each other. "Do you see anyone?"

I, as the first-rate investigative reporter that I am, didn't wait for someone to tell me any answers: I took action on my own. I spotted some men in bright orange vests and sneakily followed them around the curve of the river, where a bridge linked the park to the other side of the city center. And while they went back inside a truck, they led me to this:

(Do I have a future as a paparazzi photographer? I think yes).

Yeah, the guy sitting on the curb: in his inebriated state, he'd somehow thought it was a good idea to jump into the river.

I followed them at a safe distance, and listened in on the conversation that was evolving:

Drunk, naked, sopping wet guy with bright red skin: "Aw shucks, do I really have to get arrested? I wasn't hurting anyone."

Police Officer: "Do you see how many trucks we had to bring out here?"

DNSWGWBRS: "Don't you have anything better to do?"

P.O.: "Then make sure that piss drunk people don't accidentally kill themselves?... No, not really."

Welcome to Cardiff.

Becoming a Local...ish.

Sun, 20 Jun 2010 22:20:07 +0000

Tomorrow I'll turn in the copybatch that marks both the midpoint of my Let's Go itinerary and the end of the full month I've been in Amsterdam. This week I really began to realize how familiar the city has become over the course of the 28 days I've spent wandering its streets. This new consciousness of my semi-local status started creeping up on me when I noticed how many people have been asking me for directions. Maybe I've started looking more confident as I walk around? Even better, I actually know what to tell them. In the past two days alone, I've helped:

1. An adorable old French couple in the Jordaan, who, despite having a map in front of them, couldn't figure out that they were just one street behind where they wanted to go.

2. A very drunk group of large Australian men who were totally lost in the Red Light District and asked if I could walk them to Rembrandtplein. They were convinced that they had just bought some ecstasy off of a guy who approached them on Oudezijds Achterburgwal and were scared that they would get robbed once the drugs started to kick in. Turns out, they had bought a bunch of breath mints.

3. Three Japanese tourists who wanted to know how to get to the Red Light District. We were in the Red Light District. I walked them to a window with a hooker in it, and they got the idea.

Of course, I still don't have a bicycle, so I can't call myself an Amsterdammer quite yet.

Down South With the Hasidim

Sun, 20 Jun 2010 16:59:01 +0000

I knew that South Williamsburg was a primarily Hasidic community. I’m very skeptical of ever finding an entrenched, inclusive community in New York anymore; it seems like there’ll always either be gentrifying agents or tourists or other outsiders who can’t help but trespass on ethnically hallowed territory. Then came the buses with Hebrew lettering; then a gaggle of toddlers; then streets full of, yes, people dressed in Orthodox wear, no doubt baking under the brutal summer sun. This is the real thing, so much so that I instantly felt out-of-place and a little embarrassed to be wearing shorts.

Also, very unproductive. According to the Wiki, the community celebrates 16 to 20 births a week and 300 to 400 weddings a year. And here I am just scribbling shit down in a notebook (while the locals give me sidelong glances and I sweat some more and feel like such a tourist). While doing so I ran into—or rather, was quickly approached by—a very blond French guy looking for the synagogue. I told him maybe I wasn’t the right person to ask.

North by Northwestchester

Sun, 20 Jun 2010 16:56:22 +0000

...Beautiful, and confusing. Van Cortlandt Park (I will never spell that name right on the first try) reaches all the way up to Westchester Country, as I found out when, after a good hour’s worth of wandering around lost in the woods, I found a sign reading “Now Leaving New York! Welcome to Westchester County! You’re Very Lost and Your Tendency Towards Disorientation Will One Day Ruin You!” This thing happened all the time back home; I never thought it could happen in NYC, but it just goes to show you how enormous some of these parks are.

I hate the park now, but not for any justified reason. Just because I had to walk miles back south (to the northernmost subway station) beside a huge and neverending golf course. In related news, I hate golf now too. Golf in Van Cortlandt Park? Sigh.

So Zoo Me

Sun, 20 Jun 2010 16:54:28 +0000

I swear to God I’ve never seen an elephant before. Today, on some Willy Wonka-style monorail in the Bronx Zoo, I passed a bunch of them calmly swaying their trunks at us as we calmly streamed on by. What must it be like to have a train passing by you every ten minutes?

I don’t know how to feel about zoos; or, I should say, I didn’t know how to feel about zoos until I came to the Bronx Zoo, when I realized that I love them and that all animals in zoos are treated fine and that there are no ethical problems with zoos. The place is enormous if you want to stay and look at everything. Which you do, because even the lame-sounding Mouse House is full of enormous things that could probably eat your baby.

North of the zoo is the similarly enormous New York Botanical Garden, a horticultural paradise that includes 50 acres of preserved, pre-urban, forested Bronx. It attracts old people where the zoo attracts young, young children (I resisted the temptation to make a kids-behave-like-animals comment).

No Wine-ing About This

Sun, 20 Jun 2010 16:41:42 +0000

When I enter a shop whose owner has printed 500,000 fliers advertising his business (he claims), I don't really expect to be treated specially. But when I walked into one wine shop here in Cinque Terre, my expectations were happily disappointed.

As I walked into the store, I made a quick comment about the Let's Go stickers in the shop window and said I was a reader. (Close enough.) I could see the eyes of the fellow behind the counter light up.

"Ah, Let's Go!" he exclaimed. Apparently we'd driven a lot of buyers to his shop in the past, and I was the latest. Being a wine shop owner, his joy at my patronage was expressed in an instinctual urge to start pouring.

First, a small glass of one of the best known vintages of Cinque Terre bianco, not too fruity, not too dry. "Made with all grapes from the region," he says as a point of pride. Many inferior bottles are mixed with grapes from big farms, not the terraced vineyards that make this region of Italy so picturesque and unique. "For comparisons sake, here's a medicine cup-sized sample of a wine from impure grapes," he says.

This is all very enjoyable, I'm thinking. Why do I like you already?

Next, one of the best wines of all: Sciacchetrà, a deliciously sweet wine that is, other than sunburned tourists and postcards of tiny, pastel villages, this area's best known export.

Everything was finished off with a sampling of antipasti, spreads on crackers that the shop also sells and of which it offers free samples. What a treat for just walking into one store.

I left without buying, for I had more walking and researching to do. This little shop made a big impression, however; now I'm half-convinced I'll go back and send home a whole case.

Picketing in Absentia

Sun, 20 Jun 2010 14:29:24 +0000

Looks like one Greek is disillusioned... Odd that the sign is in English, and not quite clear what he means by the "OK" at the end. The teal box below the sign is labeled "Tom's Donation Box."

Pants

Sun, 20 Jun 2010 12:12:43 +0000

A few days ago I had my first "get me out of here" experience. I had traveled from Athens to the Sounion Peninsula to check out the beaches there on a day trip, and on the way back to Athens I got off the bus to check out a campground. After some time at the camp ground where someone had glued a giant Hot Wheels emblem onto a very stationary trailer, I walked to the side of the road to wait for the next bus. I folded my towel on a slim slab of concrete, decided not to lean back on the rusty fence behind me, swatted away the flies that I had disturbed in sitting down, and pulled out a book. Around 10 minutes later, a white volvo-ish car stopped across the one-lane road. It seemed like a smooth parking job--no spitting engine, no creaks, no flat tire. But the car continued to sit across the road from me for around five minutes. (I had checked my watch because while sitting alone beside a road outside a campground in Greece nightmare occurrences seemed somewhat plausible, and I thought the time might be useful in a potential police report.) The driver, an old man, got out of the car to check something in his trunk. My mechanical skills are very limited, but I didn't think any engine parts were in the car's trunk.

Anyway, he stepped out in quite the get-up: white tennis sneakers with ankle socks, a blue polo, a denim bucket hat, and--to my discomfort--a bright blue Speedo. I believe his legs had been shaved, but I'm not certain. I tried not to stare at the unconventional fashion choice parading about 20 feet in front of me, and I turned back to my book. After some rummaging through his car trunk, he turned to walk back to the car and--here is where I actually squirmed--revealed an erection that formed a man-made tent withinhis blue polo shirt. Maybe he had been looking for his pants in the trunk? Squirming across the one-lane road, I not only shielded my eyes but attempted to text my sister in horror. Fortunately, when he got back in the car, rolled down his window, and started to say something to me in Greek (I speak absolutely no Greek), the bus--in its white and orange glory--appeared. Saved by the bus. Best of luck finding your pants, sir.

Map-less

Sat, 19 Jun 2010 17:55:20 +0000

Aside from 4th grade geography tests, graduating from the "gum-shoe" level in "Where in the World is Carmen San Diego," or even knocking out a good 8 syllables in a Yeah Yeah Yeahs song, I must say that maps can be overrated. I've come to realize that although I'm completely reliant on a map my first day or so in a city, there's no better feeling than being able to get around without having to unfold some unwieldy piece of cardstock in the middle of a main avenue. There's a sense of pride and excitement in getting from point A to point B without having to tilt your head to the side, spin around 2 to 3 times, and performing other questionably cult-like behaviors.

As of today, I've been in Granada for 9 days. I've explored pretty much every inch of the main city from the Alhambra aqueducts to the southern corner Science Park (not museum, but park. It's intense.), to all the university hot spots, and think I finally have my sense of direction down. Generally, I'm pretty directionally inept--it takes me until about week 2 of any semester to figure out how to get from class to class without having to return to "home base," (aka the dining hall).

But I must say, for all you travelers out there, there's a special feeling you get upon leaving a city and feeling as though you have conquered it. And oftentimes, conquering involves being able to get dinner, catch a bus, and find your bed without rummaging through your daypack. Going map-less, as I've un-creatively called it, may be one of the world's easiest means of finding gratification (significantly easier than getting past "gum-shoe" level. That Carmen is one sneaky lady).

Please sir, can I have some more?

Sat, 19 Jun 2010 14:06:44 +0000

In Brussels, the French speak English, but don't speak Flemish, whereas the Flemish might speak a bit of French but their English is much better. In general, someone somewhere in the centre of Brussels will talk to you in English. If a French person were to land in the middle of Boston, or London, the likelihood that a mass of people would (or could) speak to them in French is pretty remote; the Belgian grasp of English is impressive, and you can see their mastery of the language in all walks of life.

Brussels has a large beggar problem, with thousands of homeless and poor demanding money on the streets, many with children in arm. When approached by those asking for money, in order to avoid an awkward or potentially dangerous situation I normally respond--- in broken French--- "Desole, je suis anglais", to which I often get the reply "Oh, please can I have some money, I am homeless and need food" Or, "Please buy this cinema ticket from me", and other well formed English sentences. Is it a reflection on English-speaking societies that the homeless of Brussels know more English than many well educated Americans and British know French?

A new take on begging can be seen below; this dog performed tricks and wore sunglasses to raise money for his owner. It was somewhat cute, but most likely stretching the boundaries of animal rights...

Lost in Translation

Sat, 19 Jun 2010 13:24:37 +0000

Yesterday I finally got the chance to visit Daily Records here in Barcelona, a really awesome record store that specializes in punk, garage, psychobilly, sixties, soul, ska, and more. The estatal, or Spanish section, had some real gems and, against the will of my wallet, I ended up picking some really great stuff.

Being surrounded by so much fantastic music got me thinking just how insane this city is music-wise. Sonar, a huge, huge electronic music festival, is happening this weekend, and the Grec Festival bringing a mix of dance, theater, music, and more to Montjuïc is going on until the end of August. Local shows are everywhere, a lot of times free (beach tonight, in the Parc de la Ciutdadella tomorrow), and I even got a chance to see my favorite band from high school (Murder by Death) on tour from the states.

With all this being said, Spain has also introduced me to some of the most hilariously horrible band names I've ever seen. Kentucky Fried Sheriff? Massmierda? Love of Lesbian? Do they have a pact for this sort of thing?

A Whole (and Holy) Meal

Sat, 19 Jun 2010 08:47:28 +0000

     Vatican City breaks all kinds of records -- biggest dome in the world, most touristed sight, perhaps? This week, it certainly entered my personal Guinness Book: most free food of any neighborhood I've visited. (The neighborhood of Ostiense, where, last week, I received a free gelato, slice of pizza, and cappucino, is definitely a runner-up.) Given this recent entourage of complimentary meals, I've concluded that proximity to the Pope and his digs truly does make people more giving. The record-breaking litany of cost-free goodies goes as follows:

1) Organic carrot smoothie -- not only did I find one of the few organic cafes in the neighborhood, but the smoothie they made me came close to being as good as gelato...and that's saying a lot.
   2) Cherry tart -- I was at a seafood restaurant, perusing the menu, and was presented with a plate of cookies. I guess thoughts of fish are best complemented by something sweet.
   3) A fried potato -- Sometimes I play dumb about culinary specialties so that the chef can describe the food in his own words. But walking into a Sicilian shop, I was truly ignorant of the word "crocchette." Upon asking about this mysterious food item, I was handed a small yellow disk (dripping in oil). Fried potato, I surmised.
    4) CACIO E PEPE -- (!!!) Never, never, never have I been honored with a free plate of pasta. (The best I've gotten was an uncooked bag of whole wheat noodles, which somehow I was supposed to cook in my kitchen-less hostel dorm.) Upon arriving at this restaurant and asking about their name, I was plopped down at a table by the establishment's eager owner. In no less than 10min., he had presented me with a plate of hot egg spaghetti, topped with olive oil, parmesan, and black pepper. Then came a bottle of acqua frizzante. Then came the eggplant parmesan. Then came the fresh fruit salad.

    To say the least, this week has left me full -- not only of food, but also of gratitude.

How to tell a Mexico Victory

Sat, 19 Jun 2010 01:22:31 +0000

Normally when a team is winning in a world cup match, a pub patron can see a few groups of natives from the country in question proudly nodding or cheering when a goal is scored. When Mexico is winning, however, it seems the reactions are slightly different.

I walked into my fifth pub of the night, noticing a throbbing club upstairs and wondering where the entrance to the party was. When I talked to the bartender and asked if they were showing the match, she grinned and pointed at some stairs in the corner. I thanked her and began my ascent.

At some point on those stairs, I think I left the pub. At the top, all was green and red. Ten shirtless Mexico fans were standing on the tables singing "Ole ole ole ole!" over and over again while a green and red faced girl eyed my notebook suspiciously. I pushed through the crowd which easily topped 50 (in a small room) and tried to get a better view. Suddenly, a man thrust a tambourine filled with change towards me. Confused, I declined to donate to whatever he was representing. I pushed a bit further, and saw a five piece mariachi band playing with reckless abandon over the noise of the chanting. The man put down the tambourine and picked up his accordion. Suddenly, the whole room began singing. A man who had figured out that I was a travel writer came up and told me "This used to be a gay pub, but now it's mostly Mexicans," and then disappeared. That's how you tell a Mexico victory.

(Intentionally) Missed Connections

Fri, 18 Jun 2010 22:46:11 +0000

To the man who first spewed racial comments and then left me his number:

Thank you for placing your dirty note directly on my salad; I hadn't finished it. And thank you ever so much for leaning ever so slightly over me so that your spittle landed like little raindrops on my forehead. It was a refreshing drizzle. But really, I owe you most thanks for dropping your cigarette in my drink. Wine's always better with a little butt. On my way home I lost your number. Or else, of course, I would call. If you're reading this, please, please let me know.

Words to live by

Fri, 18 Jun 2010 19:19:00 +0000

"Every time I come to a new city, I look at what the homeless people are drinking. That`s gonna be the cheapest and the highest alcohol content."

- dude in my hostel

Hate It Or Love It? French and American Culture

Fri, 18 Jun 2010 17:19:33 +0000

A familiar, yet fascinating, episode occurred on the Metro the other night; a family of Americans boarded a crowded Metro train. In a southern (North Floridian, I believe) accent, he declared to another American family that boarding the Metro, "is like Sardines, nobody wants to get out of the way." Quite the modern Shakespeare, isn't he? What this all-to-typical and confident tourist didn't understand is that a lot of French people actually understand English, and know what Sardines is. Needless to say, he received quite a few nasty glares during his ride.

However, in some weird way, the bold and obnoxious nature of this man's declaration epitomizes of the permutation of American culture the French are infatuated with. You see more John Wayne cowboy movies on French cable than you do on American cable. French kids idolize American singers, actors, and rappers, dropping a hundred euros on a pair of Levi's to try to live the dream. It seems that what they love in abstract they hate in reality. Ah, the grass is always greener on the other side.

Chop suey parmigiana

Fri, 18 Jun 2010 17:07:22 +0000

Italian food is great. Italian food in Italy is even better. Really, nothing beats Italian food in Italy. Except Chinese food. In Italy.

So okay, yes, the food here is a big deal, I get it. But seriously, I have been eating Italian food my entire life, and all pasta is good pasta. The pasta here is even better than good; nevertheless, it is still pasta, and I can`t really afford anything more exciting than that. So when one of my hostel friends mentioned a hankering for chop suey, I jumped on board faster than you can say "lo mein alfredo."

We were a little nervous about what we would get. American-style Chinese food was the hope. Chinese-style Chinese food would be swell too. Italian-style Chinese food?‎ God knows what that would be. Mozzarella in the crab rangoon, no doubt.

Turns out we need not have worried. Our spread of spring rolls, lo mein, lemon chicken, and sweet and sour chicken turned out to be American-style Chinese food of the first order. Om nom nom like whoa, and nothing Italian in sight.

At the end of the delicious meal, we reached for our fortune cookies and readied ourselves for a fun round of the "...in BED!" game. But alas! The fortunes were in Italian.

The Creep Look

Fri, 18 Jun 2010 16:56:03 +0000

During the past two weeks, I've learned that being creepy isn't just about what you say or how you act. After several research visits to Paris' Red Light District, I've concluded that there are several ways to look creepy without actually doing anything. If you acknowledge privately that you fit in to any of these categories, please shut down your computer and solve your problems. (Disclaimer: Creeps can be cool people. Some of my friends are creeps, so this is nothing personal.)

1. Terribly mismatched clothing items, e.g. a really baggy leather jacket mixed with really tight pants.

2. Pants that are too short, or shorts if you're a guy. No excuse. There's nothing terribly wrong with going too big, but they have to cover a requisite surface area. Impolitely ripped pants could fit into this category as well. Rips should exist nowhere near the crotch.

3. Extremely greasy hair. Some of us are more prone to suffer from this affliction than others, but there are ways to solve it. France has some of the best shampoos in the world, right?

4. Sunglasses at night, especially combined with any of the above. This fashion choice takes whatever problems you had and makes them much worse. Conversely, if your style is otherwise on point, the sunglasses can make the look even better. Sunglasses, therefore, are a fashion privilege. Don't wear them if you don't otherwise deserve to.

This is a short list. Please leave comments with additional elements of the "creep look."

What's Your Sign?

Fri, 18 Jun 2010 14:59:01 +0000

Tonight I shared a meal with the succinctly christened Al. Al is from Chicago, and is the most loquacious and rambling hostel companion I’ve met so far. Hamburg was the practice arena for the Beatles some 50 years ago, where they wore out guitar strings and microphones with the endless sets they performed and prepared them to take the musical world by storm. And Al’s hoping to follow in their footsteps.

We hit it off right away. I thought it had something to do with the fact that he loved Motown music, and I lived near Detroit for ten years. The half-hour long (unsolicited) performance he startled the hostel common room with my first night there was a mix of Diana Ross and Marvin Gaye. I told him that I’d grown up with that. He responded, “What’s your sun sign?” I processed the question for a few moments. I wasn’t entirely sure what that was.

I guessed: “Cancer?” Score. I couldn’t have answered any better.

“But that’s perfect,” Al cried. “I’m a Pisces!” A wide smile broke out on his wrinked face. Perfect indeed, though I had no idea why. I didn’t want to embarrass myself by exposing my ignorance in the field of astrology, so I raised my arms in celebration, and exclaimed, “What are the chances?!” Al quickly became serious.

“Chance,” he told me, “has nothing to do with it. Wha’ever we think is chance, is ac’lly cosmic forces. Look at me. You un’erstand? Cosmic forces.” I nodded, subdued and chastised.

“Any chance you could play a little more, Al? I feel like the…. Vibes…. are right for another performance.” He smiled again.

“Well, hell yes I’ll play some more. I knew there was some of the Great Spirit in you! I told you, I knew it as soon as you walked in the room!” That goes down in the scrapbook as one of the best compliments I’ve ever received.

Around the World in 9 Months.

Fri, 18 Jun 2010 14:29:16 +0000

Traveling solo puts you in interesting company. You meet people that make you laugh, that make you wonder, that make you itch to pick up the phone and call the local psychiatric ward.
And you meet people that make you, even five weeks into traveling, like me, feel like total amateurs.

At my hostel in Hamburg, I met that person. Violet, from Melbourne, Australia, is five months into a nine month (yes, that’s right—nine month) trip around the world. By herself. Through South America, the US, and Europe. So what’s it like, you have to ask. You’ve been living out of a backpack for 20 weeks, probably rotating the same four t-shirts and two pairs of pants for as long as you can remember. For the vast majority of the time you’ve been in the company of people who don’t speak the same language as you, where the money looks like it’s from a Monopoly boardgame set, and where you wake up in a different bunk in a different hostel in a different city every morning. What’s it like?

Her answer was interesting. When you travel so long, she said, everything that’s new becomes normal, and everything that stays the same is a novelty. The Eiffel Tower didn’t turn my stomach, the little things that remind me of home, like Vegemite in the random corner store, are what make me look twice. She said that days off were the most important things she did, because she needed to be refreshed to appreciate the wonderful things she saw. She left this morning after we had breakfast together. Suddenly, my trip seems a lot shorter, and my schedule a lot less hectic. Onward, traveling soul.

World War II and the Wall

Fri, 18 Jun 2010 14:20:01 +0000

You can’t go to Berlin without thinking about the Wall. Remnants of the Soviet era are everywhere. Actually, you couldn’t even call the oppressive pre-fab apartment buildings and shocking differences in wealth between former East and West Berlin. No, the Soviet presence doesn’t just linger—in many places, it still dominates.

So it’s extremely easy to experience Berlin as it is, drenched in Cold War history, and not think about that other 20th century Big Deal: World War II.

Germany’s participation in World War II is all but invisible to the traveler, who is overwhelmed by the busts of Stalin and a preponderance of Karl-Marx-Straßes and the subtle but ever present memorial to the wall, a thread of bricks that winds through the city, tracing the path of the old wall. There are no monuments to Hitler; much of the Third Reich buildings were destroyed in the war, and there are few surviving Germans who can still talk about what it meant to be under the Nazi regime.

To find yourself in the middle of that kind of history, you have to try a little harder. Yesterday, I went to the Jewish Museum. The building itself if a memorial to the suffering of the Jewish people under Hitler, and its innovative architecture succeeds profoundly in disorienting the visitor, in the same way that exile and concentration camps uprooted the German Jew, drowning them in their uncertainty and instability.

The museum is in a basement, lit with only natural light. Three different zigzagging axes intersect at irregular angles; one traces the history of the Holocaust, another of Jews in exile, and the last cuts through both of these—the Axis of Continuity leads upstairs to the standing exhibit of Jewish history, starting with Abraham.

The black stone floor is tilted, and white walls form a maze of jagged lines. Scattered throughout the museum are “voids,” spaces of vertical emptiness that symbolize the absence of the Jewish people in Germany during World War II. One void memorializes the Holocaust; the black concrete walls slant inward from the ground to the ceiling, and a single small skylight lights the room from above. The silence is cold and isolating. That one space, without photographs, without artifacts, without film footage or newspaper stories, captures a small part of what it meant to be locked inside the gates of a camp. It was terrifying.

Kajaks and Canals

Fri, 18 Jun 2010 14:18:04 +0000

I was born in Berkeley.

My parents went to Cal. In the 70s.

When my parents took me to Washington D.C., we shouted to George W. Bush, "SAVE THE TREES" through the gaps in the iron fence out front (he wasn't listening, apparently).

For ten years, I lived on a nature reserve in the midwest, and then I moved to a mountain in southern California, where people at work would swap stories about night-time bear encounters.

So yes, I love my nature. Which is one of the reasons I was so excited to visit Spreewald, about two hours south of Berlin, for a day-trip yesterday. Spreewald is a national forest, a UNESCO recognized biosphere, and the former settlement area of the Sorbs, Germany's native Serb minority. Luckily, my trip was a lot more interesting than that summary.

Spreewald is webbed by canals and streams that branch off of the Spree River, running through birch forests and pine groves and fields of reeds. The best way to experience the intense beauty of the area, as I found out, is by boat. For two hours, I drifted down the river, paddle in hand, 60-year-old rowers racing by, and a contended smile on my face, blissfully unaware of the impending sunburn and late-night aloe escapades to come.

The Man Who Watches Over The Beds At Night: Part 2

Fri, 18 Jun 2010 14:16:53 +0000

“HEY! HEY YOU! Yeah, I mean YOU! You took this lady’s bed! You know that? Now she has nowhere to sleep! Yeah, wake up! Look at me, no don’t roll over, look at me, right in the eye. Okay, good. Now you see this lady standing over there?” I waved, grinning painfully. “Yeah, you see her? Good. Now tell me, WHY ARE YOU IN HER BED?”

The man in my bunk sat up, rubbing his eyes and looking confused.

“Wait a second, hold on. This isn’t fair, why are you waking me up?” He began to get angry. “You have no right to come in here, turning on lights and yelling at me like this!” He threw off his blankets, and stood up in the middle of the room. He was very large, rather hairy, and only wearing a pair of rather small underwear. By this time, everyone else was awake, rubbing their eyes and rolling over in their beds. I was crawling under the rug.

"Now look here," the man in my bed said. "I paid for a night. They put me in this room. And I didn't see any goddamned sheets on this bed!"

I saw them; I'd slept on them of course, and this large man was sleeping on them now, but I wasn't about to say that. Unfortunately, at that moment, I saw something else, too. An unoccupied bunk. F---, I thought. Eloquent, but fitting. How did I miss that?

"Umm, hello? Yes, sorry to interrupt, but it seems that there is, in fact, a bed here to sleep in. Easy mistake to make, I'm sure, but what say you we turn off the lights, forget this whole thing, and let everyone go back to bed?" And, I wanted to add, perhaps you, sir, could get back under that blanket, so I don't have to keep shifting my eyes from the ceiling to the floor to avoid looking at you? Yes? Lovely. But my plea for peace fell on deaf ears.

"Now wait here," said the man in my bed, "you can't just come in here, turning on lights and yelling at me and all that! Who do you think you are? Tell me that, just who do you think you are?"

The hostel worked straightened up, pulled back his shoulders, and (I swear to God, I couldn't have scripted this any better), replied, "I am The Man Who Watches Over The Beds at Night! THAT'S WHO I AM!"

He snapped shut his binder, hiked up his spandex, and strutted out of the room, slamming the door behind him. And with that, an eventful evening came to a triumphant close.

"G'night, everyone!" I smiled hopefully. The man in my bed stared at me blankly. The other guys glared at me, and rolled over, their pillows over their faces. I love making hostel friends.

The Man Who Watches Over The Beds At Night: Part 1

Fri, 18 Jun 2010 14:14:43 +0000

At about 3am Saturday, I returned to my hostel after a night of researching bars and clubs in the Berlin neighborhood of Prenzlauer Berg. I’d had a wonderful evening, staying at the last bar on my list for over an hour as the owner, the happiest Italian man I’d ever met, repeatedly refilled my glass with his favorite white wine, entertaining me with stories told half in English, and half in a kind of universal sign language. I left the bar feeling content and relaxed, walked back to my hostel, and opened the door to my room.

As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I realized: there was someone already there. Still feeling generally benevolent, and on good terms with the world, I smiled to myself, shaking my head gently. Oh, life, I thought. How unpredictable! How endearingly funny! I reshouldered my backpack, and looked for a different bed to crash on for the night. I began to realize this situation was more complicated that I’d thought. There were eight bunks, every one of them full.

I tip-toed back out of the room, and walked over to the reception desk and pushed the bell. “Hello, hi, yes, excuse me!” A large balding man in spandex shorts answered my ring. “Right, so I seem to not have a bed tonight. That is, someone else has my bed, and I’m afraid I currently have either the floor or that couch over there.”

The hostel worker tugged at his spandex. “Hmmm. Someone’s in your bed, eh? And you’ve got nowhere to sleep…” I watched his forehead furrow, as he worked out my problem. “Ahhhh… you know what?” His eyes brightened, and he began to smile. “We’ve got a SNEAKER in your room! Yeah, that must be it! A SNEAKER! Wait, I’ve got to grab my binder, you’re coming with me! We’re gonna get this ass out of your bed!”

This was slightly more than I’d bargained for. “Oh, you know, I could just sleep in a different room tonight, if you have space. There are a bunch of other guys sleeping there, could we just work this out in the morning?” But the hostel worker was already halfway down the hallway, opening my bedroom door and turning on the lights. “Get over here!” He yelled to me. “We’re gonna bust his ass!” I followed helplessly.

Researcher Stumbles Upon Most Beautiful City in the World. Writes Blog Post.

Fri, 18 Jun 2010 14:11:21 +0000

Come for the beer. Come for the bratwurst. Come for the museums. Come for the music. There are (at last count) a million reasons to come to Berlin. But palaces just aren't one of them. Berlin has about as many royal castles in its city limits as, say, Philedelphia.

And what is perhaps slightly odd by American standards is absolutely shocking by castle-crowded, palace-packed European city ones. Don't get me wrong--Berlin is full of Baroque, Romantic, and otherwise intricately detailed, elaborated stone-worked, beautiful buildings of the first class. It's just that almost none of them were built by or lived in by kings.

I (and, by extension, the rest of the world) had no idea where all the palaces went. Until today. When I found them. All of them. In a single 600-acre space. I'm telling you, Indiana Jones has nothing on me.

Potsdam. There, I've said it--now you know. The castles are in Potsdam. It was here, about a half hour from the city center, that Friedrich II built himself a gilded playground of incredible schloßes, Chinese teahouses, windmills, and whatever the heck else he wanted (being king, you see, he didn't have to worry about permits and such). And all these stunning buildings are in a single royal park: the Sanssouci. Bike paths and walking trails weave through the beautifully planned park, filled with meadows of tall grasses, jasmine bushes, and towering chestnut trees, and then wham! All of a sudden you're standing at the front door of a palace. It's unbelievable. It's breaktaking. It's the most wonderful feeling of discovery and awe and reverence for what are, I can guarantee you, some of the most beautiful buildings you'll ever see. It's Disneyland with palaces instead of rides, bike paths instead of lines, and (it is Germany, after all), overpriced beer instead of overpriced ice cream.

Where am I again?

Fri, 18 Jun 2010 07:19:20 +0000

The streets in Belgium are a tad confusing at times, thanks to the dual-language of the city. Although French is more prominently spoken, Flemish is also an official language, and so street names, signs, metro stops etc all have 2 different names. One moment I'm on rue du Prince Royale, next second I am apparently on Koninkljke Prinsstraat - my Flemish really isn't that great, so I spend a lot of time trying to decipher these cryptic road signs. Also, for the somewhat immature traveler, the word for 'arts' in Flemish is kunst...on the Arts-Loi stop at the metro (Kunst-wet), you always see the American tourists have a little snicker. Oh languages!

Bloomin'

Fri, 18 Jun 2010 00:04:35 +0000

The other day was June 16th, 2010.

This is significant in Ireland and Dublin as it marks the 106th anniversary of "Bloomsday," a celebration of James Joyce's epic Modernist novel, which takes place over an 18 hour span on this day in Dublin.

Needless to say, the literary geeks were out in full force (myself included).

People get into it here, I'm not joking. I saw so many people dressed up in early 20th century garb that I felt like I was walking through a Charles Dickens novel (Ooh, a book joke in a blog about books. Please, forgive me). There are public readings and memorized recitations done in the streets and some of the pubs sell at 1904 prices (this last bit was a highlight).

On this day, I went out to the Martello Tower in Sandycove, leaving on the DART train at 7:23am. The gunrest of the tower, overlooking the ocean and Dublin Bay, is where the novel begins at 8am sharp, and I didn't want to miss it. Unfortunately, my timing was just slightly off, and I got off the train at around 7:50 in the morning. I had ten minutes to get from the station to the tower. I found my way down to the beach. I could just see the tower on the edge of town. Ah crap, that's way farther away than the guy I asked for directions said! I started jogging. I started jogging towards the tower in hiking boots and jeans with a backpack. I had one moment, as I was beginning to sweat, where I thought about just how silly all of this was, how I was running myself out of breath because I wanted to be somewhere where something had happened (fictionally happened!) over 100 years ago.

I made it, wheezing, to the tower, paid my entry (it's now a Joyce museum), and climbed the winding staircase to the open air at the top and...

It was great.

I made it at 8:02 (knew I should have sprung for those track shoes), and missed only the first few sentences. There were only a few people there, around 8 or 10, and the reading of the first chapter was shared. There were those who read as if they were acting, full of inflections and dialects, and others who slowly meandered over each word and phrase. But people would look up every now and again, and look out at the ocean, and then back down at the book in their hands.

I'll say it again, it was great.

All the World's a Stage...

Thu, 17 Jun 2010 22:54:44 +0000

My dad called me up today and asked, "Where are you?"

"Don't you mean, where art thou?" I quipped. Witty, I know.

I was actually pretty proud of myself. Shakespeare references come a lot less naturally to me than Beatles lyrics.

In all honesty, I'm probably not the ideal person to send to Stratford-upon-Avon. I think the only Shakespeare plays I've truly read in full were Romeo and Juliet (8th grade), Julius Caesar (9th grade), Macbeth (10th grade), and Hamlet (senior year). Yeah, practically all in high school English class.

Since arriving, though, I've been trying really hard to energize my inner theater buff. I immediately grabbed a beer at Othello's Bar. I checked out the house of the husband of Shakespeare's last living descendent. I even peeked into one of the super-touristy gift shops.

As I stood at the desk of the Royal Shakespeare Company Box Office, getting information about ticket prices for the book, though, I had a sudden realization: How could I possibly visit the birthplace of Shakespeare without seeing a play? Especially when students could get stand-by tickets for only £5! That'd be either tragic, comic, or some combination of both.

So I took out my wallet and bought myself a stall-level (first floor!), 7th row seat for tonight's showing of Morte D'Arthur (no, not written by Shakespeare. But it was written by Sir Thomas Malory in the 1400's so I still consider it a legitimate English theater experience).

What no one had told me though, was that the show would last not one, not two, not three, but 3 hours and 45 minutes. The tales of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table were certainly scandalous and scintillating in their own right, but after an 8am wakeup, research, train ride, more research, writing, and a good deal of sunshine, I was exhausted. I couldn't help but keep yawning, even after I splashed water on my face at intermission. I worried a little that my seatmates were secretly judging me as a coarse American, but I mean really, Europeans complain that baseball games are too long and too slow? Theater is a marathon!

After Sir Lancelot finally died and went to heaven and the final curtain came down, I staggered out of the theater. As I shivered in my sundress (I hadn't had time to go back to the room since dropping my stuff off in the afternoon), I somehow managed to find my way back to my B&B in the moonlight. I was a little delirious—I kept thinking I was seeing the holy grail when car lights flashed in my face.

To sleep, perchance to dream? Ay, I think so.

France has effectively been eliminated from the World Cup...

Thu, 17 Jun 2010 22:40:30 +0000

And every Irish person, in unison, yells, "Nyeah-nyeah!" in their general direction.

Desolée, je ne comprends pas

Thu, 17 Jun 2010 22:35:27 +0000

There are a lot of things I just don't get here. The way people don't shower for days at a time. 50 year old couples making out on the street. The utter disdain for tea drinkers. But yesterday I came across a real stumper. Across a store window pane, painted in white, was the following: "Human Need Robot... Baby Smell." Say it again; there's a ring to it. "Human Need Robot...Baby Smell." But seriously, what does it mean? What could an anthropomorphic robot possibly need that you'd want to spend money on? And maybe my uterus is underdeveloped, but why would anyone want to buy something that smelled like baby?

Timing is Everything

Thu, 17 Jun 2010 22:28:07 +0000

Spain's first match of the World Cup was Wednesday, and I was pumped. I'd already picked out the bar I was going to watch it in (I'd done some scouting beforehand to find the place with the most soccer teams' banners hanging from the ceiling) and even gone so far as to learn most of the Spanish players' names. I'd planned to do a daytrip to Fisterra earlier in the day, but I figured I'd be back just a few minutes into the first half.

Fisterra, or Cape Finisterre, literally means the end of the earth, as it was thought to be for centuries: you keep going west along the Camino past Santiago as far as your feet will take you, and Fisterra is where you end up. A beautiful spot dotted with crumbling churches and castles, Fisterra is a small fishing town on a cove with a cape at the end of the world just a 45min. walk away. Fortunately, I managed to catch my bus back, and I was ready to hurry over to see la roja, favored to win the World Cup, take on puny Switzerland.

But the bus, which had blazed along the dizzyingly windy seaside road on the way out, stopped and waited for minutes--that ticked away like hours--at every podunk town along the route. By the time the bus pulled into Santiago, the game had been over for half an hour.

And Spain had lost--to Switzerland. The 3½hr. bus, though nauseating and frustrating, saved me from having to take part in the abject misery of dozens of heart-broken Spanish die-hards, keeping me from once more experiencing the pain that I, a Knicks fan, know so well (even though it's been a while since the Knicks have been favored in any kind of match-up).

For me, I hope I have better luck next week in Portugal. For the Spanish national team, I hope they have better luck next week against Honduras.

The Perils of Jogging in Venice

Thu, 17 Jun 2010 22:19:40 +0000

The World Cup is upon us, and Italy (the defending champions, as Italians are quick to remind any and all foreigners) got off to a bit of a rough start with a 1-1 draw against Paraguay. The Venetians are ardent supporters of the Azzurri, so it might come as a surprise that more players on the national team hail from Argentina than Venice. As a matter of fact, there are no players at all from Venice. You might wonder why that is, but try to go for a run anywhere in Venice and you'll see why the city has produced more notable poets, scholars, and diplomats than athletes.

As previously mentioned, I'm trying to get in shape for a triathlon this summer. Unfortunately for me, my training entails a lot of running. Nevertheless, jogging provides a great way to explore the city, provided that you're willing to get up by 7am, before the streets are packed. Still, aimless tourists gawking at Venetian masks (spoiler alert: they're pretty much the same in every shop; you don't need to stop every 5 ft. to stare into a new window) aren't the only obstacle to runners in the city.

The first thing you should know if you plan to run in Venice is that everyone is going to think you're a mugger. Since no one runs in this city, no matter how wide a berth you give the people you're passing, they're going to think you are attempting to rob them. Tourists may be slow to pick up on most local customs, but they too are hearty to embrace the proud Venetian tradition of scorning joggers. If you try to give people space, you're going to end up running on the edge of the road. Most places, this would be a minor inconvenience. In Venice, it means you're walking a thin line between brick and seaweed. One of the few times I've seen other joggers out, I, ahem, ran into a guy who was completely drenched, head to toe. Figuring he must have been out for quite a while since it wasn't that hot out and he wasn't particularly obese, I asked him how many kilometers he had run. He said he'd run three and swam another thanks to the overeager gesticulations of a tourist who had pushed him when he was already walking the fine line between street and canal. I might actually have a leg up preparing for the triathlon here—swimming can be unexpectedly incorporated into my running training at any time.

And of course, there are a few other standard things to look out for. There is a surprising number of dogs here, no large parks, and a general apathy about cleaning up after one's canine companions – but an impromptu swim in the lagoon will always take care of cleaning off the unexpected presents of Venice's four-legged population. Streets get so narrow at times that you literally have to turn sideways to traverse them, which throws you off pace a bit, and you cannot go more than 2min. without running into a bridge with stairs. For someone like me who already hates running, stairs just add insult to injury. So, all told, my average morning run lasts about three to four miles on a good day but feels like 10.

One thing that I am already looking forward to, though, is seeing how Venice's 2020 Olympic bid goes, if only to witness a marathon run here. With a course set-up that would inevitably be more like Legends of the Hidden Temple than your typical Boston or London Marathon course, the winner might not finish in less than 3hr., but the event would certainly make for great entertainment.

Let's Go Executive Editor Interviewed by New York Times Frugal Traveler

Thu, 17 Jun 2010 20:31:18 +0000

Let's Go Executive Editor Nathanial Rakich was recently interviewed by the New York Times Frugal Traveler Blog. Rakich discusses budget travel, study abroad, and this summer's hottest travel destinations. To read the interview: http://nyti.ms/LGNYTInterview

Piknic Électronik

Thu, 17 Jun 2010 20:29:22 +0000

Each Sunday afternoon Montrealers and visitors gather to enjoy fresh air and cutting edge DJs. Piknic Électronik is a weekly outdoor celebration of electronic music. Some of the famous names to spin in the past two years include MSTRKRFT, Amon Tobin, Benga, Mistress Barbara and Hercules & Love Affair. The featured artists are framed by the skyline of the city and a stunning, slow-sinking orange sun.

“The site itself is inviting and comfortable: patio furniture, patches of turf both real and artificial, trees for shade, and winding paths. All of which is crowned by a monumental metal sculpture from Expo 67. A peaceful retreat only five minutes from downtown, the site offers a welcome alternative to the concrete jungle of the city—without really leaving Montreal.”

After almost a decade of luscious beats, Piknic Électronik has branded itself as the Sunday afternoon event in Montréal. The formula of sunshine and sweet rhythms is a clear hit, but the weekly festival is also exploring some new initiatives. To begin with, Piknic is partnering with local festivals Oshega and Pop Montréal to provide some new and exciting electronic options. So if you’re in town for either of these festivals, keep your ears peeled for Piknic-related happenings.

And with a new bilingual website freshly launched, the folks at Piknic Électronik want you, the traveler, to know that your presence is an important part of the diversity of the weekly party. As a foreigner, you are tempting and exotic to the locals. Take advantage of this!

And here’s a great clip that will give you a sense of the party…

For more information on Piknic Électronik in Montréal, visit
http://www.tourisme-montreal.org/blog

The Liquor at the Last Supper

Thu, 17 Jun 2010 20:10:42 +0000

...might have tasted something like Becherovka, the Czech liquor pictured above.

Flavored with anise seed, cinnamon, and 32 other herbs, Becherovka is probably the most secretive alcohol recipe in the world. OK--I can't back that up--but it's secret. Only two living men know the exact recipe and they alone prepare it.

But unlike other alcohols, which are designed to make you feel good but essentially lead to your death, Becherovka is thought to have curative properties. Perhaps because it tastes like an all star team of comforting foods: eggnog, cider, pumpkin pie, etc, the Czechs have cultivated a tradition of using Becherovka for everything from warding off a cold to curing a sore throat.

To make the elixir, simply mix a shot (or more) of Becherovka into warm water or red wine, and enjoy. With any luck, you will magically get better.

Electric Ladyland

Thu, 17 Jun 2010 20:07:58 +0000

In my last blog story, my American citizenship was a liability. Yesterday, though, I had a great opportunity to flash my American passport—at Electric Ladyland, the first (and presumably only?) museum of fluorescent and phosphorescent art. Turns out that if you put an American passport under short and long wave UV lights, you can see some pretty cool designs that are hidden in special ink. The museum itself is pretty incredible; part is a cave/sculpture-type thing, all covered in fluorescent paint, in which you can climb around while looking at the various crystals and minerals embedded in it. The rest has other art pieces and an amazing collection of minerals that look like ordinary rocks in normal light, but turn all kinds of crazy colors under blacklights (another moment when I felt pleased to be American: it turns out that Franklin, NJ has the largest deposit of fluorescent rocks in the world. When the museum owner quipped that these are the first and last psychedelic things to come out of Jersey, I got the joke and the Belgian boys on the tour with me didn't. Ha). To be honest, I have no deep passion for fluorescence, and after the first "ooh!" moment when you see the rocks change as the light does, my interest wanes. But the museum is still an absolute must-see, because it is exactly what you would expect from a museum of fluorescent art in Amsterdam, complete with a crazily knowledgeable aging hippie owner and faint soundtrack of Hendrix and the Beatles. Pretty sweet that you can enjoy the psychedelic 1960s for just €5 and a stop at 2e Leliedwarsstraat #5.

Travel-Writer turned...Grave-Digger

Thu, 17 Jun 2010 19:53:36 +0000

It was a sunny, beautiful day in Vienna. And so I thought I would spend some time checking out two of Vienna's lesser visited sights-- the cemeteries. Sounds stupid in retrospect, I know.

I had first heard about St. Marxer Friedhof because it is the final resting place of the one and only Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. And in the brief time I have lived in Vienna thus far, I have come to think of Mozart and myself as kindred spirits-- buddies, if you will. We are both crazy artists (him, a musician; me a dancer). We both love Vienna (well, so far). And finally, I am living down the street from his last standing apartment, where he lived for 2 1/2 years and wrote the Marriage of Figaro. I have come to think this is a sign that I, too, will produce a piece of musical genius while I live here. Or something close....

So, I wanted to go see where my dear neighbor was buried, figuring it would help me take the first steps to unlocking the mental block that has come between me and my own Marriage of Figaro.

Firstly, let me tell you-- it is not quite as straightforward to get to St. Marxer Friedhof as it sounds. Sure, the tram 71 stop is named St. Marx, but then you have to walk down some large, ugly highway-like streets and through industrial wastelands to actually reach the thing. When I finally arrived, the cemetery's beautiful brick entranceway urged me to come inside. The aisle before me lined with benches stretched to infinity- the gray path and green trees merging into a tiny pinprick in the distance.

Then, I looked around and realized I was the only person there. And actually the cemetery wasn't quite as manicured as the outside had made it appear. Ravenous vines and knee-high grass wrapped their tenticles around crackled headstones and crooked slabs.

Mozart was no where in sight. And I wasn't sure I wanted to go find him after all.

I made my way through the still and silent graveyard, the only audible noise being my shoes on the pebbled path. Even the sun had disappeared. I was sure I was in a horror film. Yes, I was sure. When I finally made it to dear Mozart, I took a picture, then ran. Fast.

I didn't even have the chance to discuss Figaro.

Rain, rain go away. Pretty please?

Thu, 17 Jun 2010 16:16:57 +0000

When it rains, it pours. And apparently in Turin, when it pours, it pours for days.

I just left the city this morning after five days, of which I did not see the sun for the last thre and a half. Sure, to be fair to Poseidon or whoever controls these things, it did not literally rain for 84 hours. But it alternately deluged, drizzled, and misted enough to make for miserable walks across the bridge back to my hostel.

On Monday, the rain dampened—but certainly did not elimiante—enthusiasm for Italy's opening World Cop match against Paraguay. A few hundred poor souls stood out in the rain, with their Italy umbrellas (very good buy from the street vendors) and flags (not such a good buy), to watch in a large piazza. A few hundred more intelligent souls watched from the dry galleria on the edge of the square.

On Tuesday, the rain did dampen the nightlife on Turin's I Murazzi del Po boardwalk. Midnight came and went in a downpour, and the only people there besides the bar owners were the policemen coming to check the water level. It was six inches from ground level.

On Wednesday—whoa.

(Those boats are supposed to be at docks. Those railings that can barely be seen? They're supposed to be at the water's edge.)

The Murazzi was now a sandy bottom for the Po's newfound rapids. Not good. Very, very not good. What will happen to all my nightlife destinations I so throughly researched? Is Mother Nature working for Lonely Planet, trying to sabotage my hard-won research? (Researching clubs is tough, damn it.) How much did they pay her?!

Most importantly how much can I pay her to stop?!

I'm at the beaches of Cinque Terre now, and some sun would be nice. It's starting to peek through the clouds. My fingers are crossed. I don't want any more of this trip washed out.

Gay Life À La Montréal

Thu, 17 Jun 2010 15:57:01 +0000

La vie à Montréal est gaie! Life in Montréal is gay!
There is a double entendre happening in the above statement… by ‘gay’ we mean both ‘happy’ AND ‘homolicious.’ Montréal has a long history of pride that ranges from our very own Stonewall in 1977 to being the first provincial jurisdiction in the world to recognize same-sex civil unions to a contemporary attitude that welcomes diverse peoples from all walks of life. Montréal is the crossroads of Europe and North America, and the many dimensions of language, culture, art, politics and sexuality fuel a passion and sophistication that is unparalleled anywhere on the continent.

THE GAY VILLAGE
In Montréal, gay life is certainly not confined to geographic boundaries, but travelers and locals alike are fortunate to have a whole neighborhood that is devoted to sexual and gender diversity. The Montréal Gay Village is “the largest in North America, as stated by Wikipedia. With over 100+ street-level merchants ranging from funky restaurants to cozy Bed & Breakfasts, charming antique shops to steamy saunas, the adventure-seeking visitor can easily spend a weekend without leaving the Gayborhood.

And one of the best aspects of the Village is absolutely free! Aires Libres, which roughly translates to ‘Open Air,’ is a unique eco-artistic Montréal initiative. From May to September the main street of the Gay Village becomes a pedestrian mall (closed to motorized vehicles), where out-of-towners mix with locals to shop, dine al fresco or just relax on a bench in the sunshine to watch the world go by.

FESTIVALS
Montréal, among many things, is a city of festivals. Several of the parties hosted are world renown, such as the Montréal Jazz Fest (featuring Cyndi Lauper in 2010) or the Just for Laughs Comedy Festival (a must-see for any homo with a sense of humor). There are, however, four major festivals that specifically cater to LGBT peoples:

Divers/Cité
An internationally recognized event with a very loyal following, the festival celebrates diversity with music, art and dance. (July 26 – August 1)

Célébrations
Classic Pride festivities complete with an energetic parade, a community day and always some hot surprises! (August 10 – 15)

Black & Blue
Started in 1991, a massive circuit party featuring international stars, which also doubles as a fundraiser for HIV/AIDS related organizations.
(October 6 – 12)

Image&Nation
The official LGBT film festival of Montréal, highlighting the best of local and global queer film. (Late October)

NIGHTLIFE
Montréal was recently named one of the Top 10 hedonistic cities to visit because of its amazing party culture. This becomes evident in the Gay village where clubs such as Parking, Unity and Sky Pub, for the guys, and Le Drugstore, for the women, offer multiple dance floors, and roof top patios for unique perspectives on the city. The party keeps going until the sun comes up at afterhours clubs such as Stereo and Circus.

Also, there is an interesting shift occurring in the local queer nightlife scene, with many gay parties blossoming outside of the Gay Village. Women will find the Meow Mix is the perfect way to see seductive local burlesque, cutting-edge performance art and cocky drag kings. Guys should check out Mec Plus Ultra held at the Belmont bar on historic ‘Main Street’ (Boulevard Saint Laurent) where the music is electropop, and the boys are BUTT Magazine-esque. For a mixed, college-aged crowd, Faggity Ass Fridays is the monthly party with fun themes and cheap drinks.

For more information on Gay Life in Montréal, visit
http://www.tourisme-montreal.org/blog
or contact Montréal Insider Daniel Baylis at
http://www.facebook.com/danielbaylis.

Fütball Faithful

Thu, 17 Jun 2010 13:46:19 +0000

I am An American Who Doesn’t Watch Soccer. Yes, one of those. Back home, there are millions of us people who don’t much care for eleven sweaty men kicking a ball around to each other, with the ninety minute drone of sporting monotony punctuated (if you’re lucky!) once or twice by the excitement of a goal. My brother and I watched the past two world cup tournaments periodically; we considered a game a success if we managed to pay attention long enough to see a goal scored.

But on Sunday night, I decided to go undercover as A German Who Would Follow Their Team to the Edge of the Earth. The city of Berlin was broadcasting the first game (against Australia) live outside Olympic Stadium, to a crowd of 200,000 bloodthirsty (and just plain thirsty) Deutschelanders.

Blending in is surprisingly easy. Even if I sometimes feared that the 199,999 people standing around me would suddenly collectively figure me out, I managed to conceal my nationality for those three crazy hours. I sang along to cheers whose words I didn’t understand, I jumped up and down with people I’d never met, and I drank good beer in the spirit of international cooperation.

The night couldn’t have gone better. Four times Germany scored on Australia, and every time the crowd went absolutely wild. I’d actually never seen anything like it. And that was all it took. I’m hooked. I love soccer. Actually, no—I love fütball. I’m swapping in my Birkenstocks for cleats, and I’m never leaving my hostel without my shin guards. And I’m carrying around a red card for the next German that says Americans don’t care about soccer.

On How I Forgot About the World Cup

Thu, 17 Jun 2010 08:33:11 +0000

On Tuesday I watched my first ever professional soccer game: Brazil's first match this year in the World Cup. On Tuesday I also continually got harassed for still calling the game "soccer"—I just can't bring myself to call anything but American football "football"--I think it's a Midwestern thing. It'd be like betraying my Ohio roots.

Anyway, whereas the WC passes more or less without much noise in the United States, in Europe this is kind of a big deal—or so I was lead to believe. Crammed into a tiny bar in El Raval in which every person was wearing some assortment of yellow and green, and after seeing Brazil shirts scattered around Ribera where I was researching for the entire day, I was completely engulfed, almost drowning, in a sea of national spirit by way of some people watching some guys on a field playing on a screen.

Needless to say, if these Brazilian ex-pats could make a significant showing in the streets of the Ciutat Vella, I expected great things from Barcelona's residents during Spain's first match of the Cup one day later, especially after researching this past week on the fantastic organization that is the FCB.

And yet, somehow I forgot the game was even on—how could Spainiards let me forget? No SPAIN shirts lined the streets, no screams floated from bars upon their loss, and not even many boards were in the streets letting visitors know the game was playing. The only sign of any WC presence was the endless drone of the Vuvuzuela spilling out the door from a few dedicated, mostly empty shops. It's then that I found out that Barcelonan's don't care so much about the World Cup—like the RCD, it's a Madrid thing. When Catalunya can compete as Catalunya, like Wales or England or Ireland within the United Kingdom, then we'll talk.

Until then, whenever there's a soccer (cough, football) game, I'll be seeking out the tourists.

In Praise of/In Awe of/In Fear of Queens

Thu, 17 Jun 2010 00:58:51 +0000

When I first realized that I would be researching Queens I thought that my apartment's location there would make the job easy—at least easier than researching Upper Manhattan had been. "This is great!" I thought. "I'll save so much travel time!" It wasn't until I was riding the 13 Subway stops from my apartment to my first research destination that I realized how woefully wrong I had been.

Queens is the size of a small country. There are literally 8 countries in the world smaller than Queens. You haven't heard of them (because they are small), but still, they are COUNTRIES and Queens is a BOROUGH within a CITY.

Needless to say, I have saved no travel time. In fact, I have spent an average of 4 hours per day on public transportation. I have also felt like I was in about 10 different countries. For a first-time explorer of Queens, riding the Subway to a new neighborhood is like Trick-or-Treating. Will it be the Pan-Asian Metropolis of Flushing? The sleepy beaches of the Rockaways? The edgy art-land of Long Island City? You never know what you're going to get.

And that's the best part.

Cross-Dress for Success

Wed, 16 Jun 2010 23:23:27 +0000

In the red-light district, I was able to bear witness, for a too short a time, to one of the finest street performers Paris has to offer.

An ordinary summer evening at an outdoors cafe quickly turned interesting for its patrons when a cross-dressing guitarist/singer showed up to serenade us. The guy's dress was pretty short, but other than that he presented as one of the classier broads I saw working here. Something about the refreshing lack of fishnets. A crowd began to gather when the music swelled, as customers and passers-by postponed their unprintable activities to catch some of it. They listened for a long time.

It seems unsurprising that this happened in the Red Light District, where people expect to see something truly unexpected. Lucky that this time it turned out to unexpected in a non-sketchy way. Stay tuned for a breakdown of the French redlight "creep" look, which is another story...

The Killer Wasps

Wed, 16 Jun 2010 23:20:42 +0000

Over the last few days, a flock of killer wasps has descended upon London. Every time the World Cup is showing in a pub, there's a dull buzz behind every slurred conversation, and at least one guy who tries to figure out what's wrong with the TV. He doesn't realize that the "deadly" noise is actually produced from the vuvuzelas (which, contrary to popular belief, are not animals living in the South African bush, nor is it a dirty word). They're stadium horns, incessantly blaring during each and every match of the World Cup.

They showed the first game of the World Cup in Trafalgar Square, and the noise coming out of those oddly shaped devices was so ugly that the five Mexican fans in the square who stood for their national anthem were impossible to hear. Yes, these devices are obnoxious. Even worse, I still haven't found anyone who'll sell me one.

Pencil That In

Wed, 16 Jun 2010 23:06:17 +0000

Researching while traveling can often be frustrating. I learn about all these great things from a city--all the festivals, the parties, the traditions--and I always feel like I'm visiting at just the wrong time. I see the "low seasons" for hostel prices slipping away days before my arrival. I see the biggest fairs just months in the distance. But, then there are those times when you stumble into a city, and come across something that didn't even catch the scope of your googling, library accessing, or guide book reading.

Walking around Granada these past few days, I kept noticing colorful posters around all the main streets, yet I didn't really take a second to read them (there's only so much time to dilly dally while traveling between sights and/or tapas bars). Finally, I recently took that moment to investigate, and noticed that there was an international film festival being held around Granada from June 12-18. Well just look at that: I happen to be in Granada from the 10th to the 20th--and that was all I needed for a selling point on my trip.

It's now 1am and I just got back from taking advantage of my poster-reading. I ended up getting the chance to see an outdoor screening of an Israeli documentary for only 3 euro up in the hills of Sacramonte (which, if you read my last post, happen to be a part of this city with which I'm absolutely obsessed). While a blanket (and maybe some popcorn and raisenettes) would have been much appreciated, the experience was still one that I couldn't have been happier to get my hands on. I guess my only complaint would be the distraction of the picturesque, glowing Alhambra in the distance, the star-filled sky above, and the occasional fighting, stray cats that didn't seem to understand proper movie-going etiquette.

Now, I'm not saying you need to travel the streets with a magnifying glass, but it's always good to check out the posters, fliers, and signs around a city. You may get lucky enough to stumble across something pretty darn special.

Cultured

Wed, 16 Jun 2010 22:35:33 +0000

Birmingham is the UK's second largest city (population just shy of 1 million), but the way people react when I mention I'm going there, you'd think it was some small little village in Scotland or something. "Huh? Birmingham?" It doesn't really register on the average traveler's map.

Honestly, I feel a little bad for Birmingham. When London is your peer and main point of comparison, it's pretty much a Lose-Lose situation for you.

Plus, Birmingham has had to deal with some pretty nasty stereotypes. For example, a study recently revealed the Brummie (Birmingham) accent to be perceived as the least intelligent accent in all of the UK. It even scored worse than silence. Ouch. Apparently, the Brits associate Birmingham with criminal activity, and therefore low levels of intelligence. Says the researcher, "The Birmingham accent is clearly taking longer than others to evolve culturally." Another study, done by the vacation company sunshine.co.uk, found that 76% of airline passengers said they'd feel ill at ease if the pilot spoke with a Brummie drawl.

To its credit, though, the city and its government have been working aggressively to embrace its heritage and simultaneously carve out a niche for itself. They've invested substantially in their museums, theaters, and music, and right now, Birmingham is in the midst of a fierce competition to be crowned the "UK City of Culture 2013." After a tough initial field of candidates, including contenders like "The Countryside" and the entire county of Cornwall, Birmingham has survived to become one of four finalists. There are stickers posted on storefronts claiming "We Support the Bid!" and signs posted around the downtown shouting "We can win! UK City of Culture." It would be inspiring, a scrappy Little-Engine-That-Could or Rocky underdog story.

Except instead of flashing their muscle against cities like London or even Liverpool and Manchester, Birmingham's competitors are Sheffield, Derry, and Norwich. I mean, come on now, really?

Never fear, though, Birmingham. It's not time to throw a paddy (have a tantrum) yet. There's still hope for you. I mean, look at Ozzy Osbourne. He's a Birmingham native, with a strong Brummie twang, and he epitomizes culture at its finest.

Grocery Shopping (Temple of Doom Edition)

Wed, 16 Jun 2010 19:55:16 +0000

For the average American, grocery shopping in Europe might as well be an adventure worthy of Indiana Jones. Once you get your mind around the basics--- where that dairy section is, finding cereal, figuring out where the shopping carts are (hint: there aren't any)--- the trip becomes a system of trial and error to find out what items are worth buying. Be warned: if you shop like an American in Europe, the prices skyrocket and you'll be less then pleased with the lackluster quality of microwave meals. My best advice is to shop like you are a snooty upper middleclass housewife who only eats the best French cheese, wine and meats. Those items are the cheapest.

For some reason, we've had the wool pulled over our eyes. Be prepared to take Plato by the hand and step out of the cave, because most of the items we've been told need to be refrigerated actually don't. Like cheese and milk, for instance. They last longer when kept cold, but when you go to the store every couple days because milk only comes in quart size containers, you can afford to buy things in smaller quantities and let them sit out. After all, that "cheese" is just milk that sat out for nearly 45 days before being squeezing into that convenient circular shape. As the great Homer Simpson says, "Cheese: milk that you chew."

The processed foods that feed the American obesity rate are terribly disappointing in France. Chocolate is top notch, but if you want Fruit Loops or a Snickers bar they'll be stale, substandard, and cost you twice as much as at home. The candy isle in the US is a Willy Wonka row of neon colors and cartoon characters; the highlight of the candy isle in France is a chocolate schoolboy on a cookie. After so many Petit Ecoliers, you're going to crave something processed. Just have some respect and never stoop low enough to buy those disgusting looking Haribo candies.

If the message wasn't clear enough: shopping fresh and healthy is actually the cheaper option in France. Talk about a refreshing 180 from the the Land of the Big Mac and microwave pizzas.

Beauty, Up Close and Personal

Wed, 16 Jun 2010 17:43:34 +0000

From the Borj Nord, a fortress above Fez erected in 1582, the medina’s maze of buildings looks orderly and distinctly beautiful. But climb down into the medina itself and that quiet, panoramic beauty gives way to the din of the crowds and the colors of every imaginable good from camel heads (see my last post) to babouches (Isn't that a fun word? Babouche, babouche, babouche.... it means slipper.)

Up close, the medina isn’t all beauty. Sure, the intricately carved bronze plates that my new friend Omar hammers by hand are absolutely breathtaking, but the garbage and donkey droppings are pretty much everywhere.

In fact, this seems to be par for the course. Take, for example, the Chouara Tanneries. Visitors to the medina seek out these famous Tanneries where you can buy a fine leather jacket straight out of Grease. But can you guess how the leather gets so fine? So beautiful? So babouchi-licious?

Pigeon poop.

That's right. On its way to becoming John Travolta's jacket, the animal hide sits in a vat of pigeon excrement, or “natural ammonia,” for twenty-five soupy days.

Am I trying to say that, in Fez, when you scrutinize beauty too closely, it turns out to be feces?

Maybe. Or maybe you just gotta take the poop with the panorama.

Longing for Eurobeat

Wed, 16 Jun 2010 17:39:37 +0000

Miley Cyrus is American; Party in the USA leaves no doubt of that. Rihanna is for the red, white, and blue, too--as is Jay-Z. Lady Gaga and Beyonce sing the Star Spangled Banner as well, and the songs produced by all of these artists, I had assumed before coming to Greece, were uniquely American phenomena. I unabashedly played these songs on my iPod on runs, enjoyed them at parties, even did a subtle bounce/stationary dance thing when they came on in stores before I came to Greece because I assumed that I would soon be leaving them behind for the sounds of Eurobeat, which I am told are terrible --or maybe enjoyable because they are so terrible, a la Susan Sontag, and thus I did not need to worry about overplaying them.

Amazingly, however, these artists seem to have international appeal. Rude Boy and Baby, Break Your Heart and Empire State of Mind, and a whole host of others are the soundtrack of choice in every shop, nearly every restaurant, every cell phone with a personalized ring, and even my hostel bar's speakers. For some reason, Party in the USA hasn't gained such traction in Greece, though Miley's newest, Can't Be Tamed, has.

Every time a song comes on to which I know all the words, I feel a surge of comfort, some sort of cultural familiarity. I bask in the cliche: everyone's toes tap to the same tunes around the world. But I also don't know that I can bear feeling that upsurge of excitement that Party in the USA inspired back in October only so many more times. If I hear Empire State of Mind again, my longing for that city might just evaporate.

And in almost cue-like fashion, Forever just came on the speakers. Oy.

The Pleasures of Not Wearing Sunglasses

Wed, 16 Jun 2010 16:35:58 +0000

Today I wound around the streets of the Canal St.Martin, which was wonderful. There's something about water and the feeling you get when you're walking alongside it, even when the sunlight skating on its surface makes the polluted parts sparkle neon green. In any case, I was enjoying my stroll when the wind picked up. "Oh how lovely!" I thought as leaves began to rustle. Right. Next minute I was frantically rubbing specks of dust and dirt out of my watering eyes. The minute after that, I was stumbling into an old man (quite pleased at his good fortune) . Then a second later, as I was disentangling myself from the only slightly sketchy stranger, my skirt flew up. And scene.

Now I realized that all this could have been avoided if I had simply worn sunglasses. Despite the fact that I think they make me look incredibly toolish, if I had pulled my aviators out of the depths of my knapsack and stuck them on my face, I 1) Would not have been temporarily blinded. 2) Therefore would not have been caught in the arms of a opportunistic geriatric. And 3) Could have kept my undies out of sight. The sacrifices we make for fashion...

Where I'm from

Wed, 16 Jun 2010 12:48:22 +0000

I get that question a lot. We all do, as travelers; it's usually the first thing out of my mouth when I hear fellow English-speakers anywhere I go: "where are you from?" I get asked that question by random people in the train station, where my enormous backpack makes it pretty obvious that I'm another one of those itinerant wanderers making her way through Munich.

But it's an excellent question, mostly because I have so many options to choose from. I usually wait for the other person to answer so that I can tailor my answer to theirs. If they say someplace in the Midwest, I'm from Chicago, where I went to high school and where my parents live now. If they say someplace on the East Coast, then I'm from Boston, where I went to college for the past 4 years. And if they say someplace in China, then I suddenly break out into Chinese and I'm from Beijing, the city where I was born, by way of the USA.

Whenever I go anywhere with my parents, the first thing we do is find the Chinatown and get ourselves some Chinese food. I never really thought I'd find myself in the same position: even though so many people here speak English and I find myself perfectly comfortable in random German eateries, there's something comforting about running into a Chinese grocery store and chatting for a few minutes with the owner in a tongue much more familiar to me than the German that I hear everywhere. Yes, I'm turning into my parents. Who woulda thunk?

C is for...Club?

Wed, 16 Jun 2010 08:58:42 +0000

    Last Saturday, after a night out, I can proudly say I walked home to the rising sun. For the first time, I've called a friend at home just as his night was getting started (5am my time, 11pm his):
    "Well, we got there around 1am, and waited on line until 3:20. We were finally in at 3:30am," I told him.
    He couldn't believe we had waited for 2+ hours to get into this place. "It must have been amazing," he said in disbelief.
    I told him yes—it was pretty high security and super crowded, but the time just flew by. Totally worth the meager €6 entrance fee.
    "What type of music did they play?"
    Now it was my turn to be shocked. "Music?," I answered. "What kind of place do you think this was?"
    And then I realized my mistake. Around 10pm, I had indeed been on my way to Testaccio to hit some of Rome's best nightclubs. By 12:30am, my friend and I had had enough and headed to the Ancient City for the real show. When we got there, the line was wrapped around the street, a mix between people smoking, standing in heels, sitting on the pavement and even wheeling a bike.
    We were at the Caravaggio exhibition—a retrospective show of the Italian artist's career, in its last 24 hours of opening. We had made the late night trek, thinking it would be empty at 2am....but I guess the rest of Rome had the same idea. After all, who wouldn't want to watch Judith behead Holofernes in the eerie early hours of the morning?
    Shocked that this was the oh-so-famous show I had seen, my friend proceeded to tell me about his Saturday night of bars and clubs (which was just starting now). But whatever he said all blew over me—I knew I had just been to Rome's best show of the summer.

Don't Try to Tell Me Those are Not Conchas

Wed, 16 Jun 2010 02:23:48 +0000

I grew up going to a Mexican bakery near my house in Milwaukee. I've eaten my fair share of pan dulce, and I can definitely recognize it when I see it.

Or so I thought. Until this morning when I went to an Asian bakery in Flushing and I saw rows and rows of what I immediately recognized as caracoles, empanadas, and conchas. Except according to the labels, they were pineapple buns, red bean buns, and curry beef pies.

I was incredulous. I almost laughed. "There is no way," I thought, "that those are not pieces of pan dulce." So I tried one of the alleged "pineapple buns." And... it was definitely not a concha. The only way I can describe this pastry is that it tasted Asian, not Mexican.

Although I now believe the bakery labels, I am more confused than ever. Why the disguise? What could a pineapple bun possibly hope to gain by masquerading as a concha? I may never know the answers to these questions. For now, I suppose I will have to be content with enjoying both pan dulce and those pastries that like to dress up as such.

France... Where Ducks Go to Die

Tue, 15 Jun 2010 23:58:03 +0000

You may have heard that Paris is the city of luck: the place where every bloke, no matter how ugly, goes to fall in love, where the lights are always twinkling, and where nobody ever has an Ugly Betty day. The jury's out on whether or not this is true for people, but Parisian ducks certainly have a different story to tell--- France is where ducks go to die. On every French menu I've skimmed through, some poor duck has been dead and present. Confit de canard. Magret de canard. Foie gras de canard. Duck à l'orange. You name it, a duck can be eaten with it. Doesn't matter that they say the more elegant "Coin-coin!" instead of "Quack, quack!" here. They still live to die. Also, according to some sources (this is a test of whether you've been paying attention) the "duck" actually sucks. Might as well be a proverb: good on plate, bad in...

On Turkey and Man's Refuge

Tue, 15 Jun 2010 23:40:19 +0000

In my capacity as a research writer, I went to Sali Pazari today, a giant flea market that takes place every Tuesday on the Asian side of Istanbul. After some complications I finally found the shuttlebus that was supposed to go there, so I sat down inside and waited. I knew there was something strange about the bus, but it was only midway that I realized what it was--everyone else on it was female.

As soon as we got there, I understood this wasn't an accident--the gender ratio was ten to one. The marketplace was enormous and filled with clothes stalls, front to back. Rows upon rows of stalls were selling shirts, T-shirts, fabrics, bras, dresses, shoes, scarves, jeans, make-up, gowns, underwear, and all kinds of things for which I don't even know their names, and amidst that, hordes of women looking, touching, evaluating, chattering, bargaining, and doing myriads of little comparisons inside their heads, something I'd never be able to do. Shopping gives me headaches. Really, it does. I had to write an entry about the market, so I walked around, feeling more and more out of place.

I soon gave it up and went to get the hard data--a phone number, an address, hours of operation. A plump guard led me inside the bazaar's office and to a bespectacled clerk who knew what I needed to know. They asked me where I'm from, and when I said Slovakia, the guard's face lit up. "Slovakia, a great country!" I didn't think much of it, people say that even when they think Slovakia is somewhere near Papua New Guinea. "No really, you are playing against New Zealand right now!" I was really taken aback. I had completely forgotten about that match. Now both of them beamed. "It's zero-zero!" the guard said, making zeros out of his fingers. They took me by the elbow into a tiny, bare room somewhere behind the main office--there was a small TV transmitting the World Cup match and there they were, tiny Slovak players running around the field, trying to score against the kiwis. "Can I stay for a while?" I asked. Looking at the screen, the clerk nodded.

There were no chairs, so the three of us just stood there and watched the match.

I Am Your Father (Noooooo)

Tue, 15 Jun 2010 23:06:03 +0000

"You're going to turn into a pizza." This is one of my dad's all time favorite lines, coined in response to my brother's and my picky eating habits as children. Pizza was (and still is) one of our favorite foods. The scary part is, now that I think about it, I'm afraid my Dad might have been right.

That's not because I'm gaining weight or turning the color of pepperoni (fortunately). Instead, it's because I've eaten just about every kind of pizza imaginable on this trip—except Neopolitan, but don't worry, that's coming. Pizza with a slice of prosciutto completely covering the top, pizza with spicy sausage for here, four cheese pizza to go, and a pizza twice the size of the plate on which it was served.

Pizza, you may be extraordinarily surprised to learn, is a big deal in Italy. It's hard to find somewhere that doesn't serve them. But I try. And so, dad's words of wisdom keep me branching out, for pasta and paninis, cappucinos and crepes.

Perhaps ironically, it was another dad's words that reminded me of my own father, and the joys of parents. After leaving dinner tonight, which I ate with the family of my waiter (long story), the dad—who spoke no English—of one of the girls approached me and began to speak. "Facebook?" he inquired in one word. His daughter, embarassed, hurried up behind him. She seemed to realize it wasn't necessary to be my Facebook friend, regardless of her dad's belief that this would be totally appropriate. "I will speak for him," she said, rolling her eyes. I knew the feeling. Embarrassed by dad? He even has his own Facebook, so you can probably imagine.

Father's day is this weekend. What have you gotten your dad?

Only in Italy...

Tue, 15 Jun 2010 22:08:57 +0000

...or at least never in America. Here's a list of the top 5 things I've seen in Venice that I would never, ever, see back home in Columbus, Ohio.

5) Old people go fishing for sport all over the world, but only in Italy would you see a seasoned septuagenarian fisherman in austere canvas overalls pull a lure out of a gaudy Gucchi bag that apparently now serves as a tackle box.

4) A guy parallel double-parking a gondola sideways. Just using the oar, nothing else, and he managed not to hit the two boats next to him, or the dock. 95%+ of the people I know can't park a car that well, let alone contend with the wake of dozens of barges and speedboats making their way down the Grand Canal.

3) Two Australian Terriers dressed in matching gondolier outfits—apparently they make them not just for tourists, but also for their dogs—that even included hats, which hadn't fallen off by some miracle of nature or engineering. Of course, their owners weren't from Venice, as indicated by their clothing: logo wear from Ohio State University, which is about five minutes down the street from my house in Columbus.

2) Diplomas—not cheap certificates, but framed diplomas, with gothic lettering and the works—in every pizzeria and gelateria boasting of the credentials of the kitchen.

1) Franklin & Marshall College apparel—everywhere. Back in Ohio, Pennsylvania is just a state away, but I'd bet a week's stipend I wouldn't see this much there, or even on Franklin & Marshall's campus. Apparently, a pair of brilliant young haberdashers from Verona recognized the popularity of branded American clothing among Italians, and started a now infamous line featuring the college's name, enabling Italians to proudly rock this small university's logo. It sounds too bizarre to be true, but the t-shirts are everywhere, and the brand is significant enough that it merits a section on the college's Wikipedia page. If you still don't believe me, try going to franklinandmarshall.com.

Shopping, Vienna Style (Part I)

Tue, 15 Jun 2010 20:04:24 +0000

Like many cosmopolitan cities, Vienna is a shopper's paradise. From glittery boutiques to caves of antique treasures (or junk, depending on how you look at it), there is something for everyone. You just need to know where to look. During my first week exploring the city, I have managed to peruse a few of the shopping hotspots, and here's what I've found:

MARIAHILFER STRASSE: In Vienna, this street is considered synonymous with shopping. The hostels nearby market it as the "longest shopping street in the whole city," although they don't mention that it is pretty much the same four stores repeated the entire way. It stretches from Museumsquartier (on the edge of the Inner Stadt) all the way to the Westbahnhof (on the edge of the 15th district), and there must be at least 20 different branches of H&M scattered along it. You may be thinking-- well, if they are out of my size at one, I can just head to the next... Well, be forewarned, they are all equally bustling with Vienna's teen fashionistas, so don't count on it.

GRABEN: Stretching out from the renowned Stephansdom, Graben's historic architecture and building facades are truly magnificent. Unfortunately, a number of chain stores have claimed space here- McDonalds, and yes, you guessed it- H&M. So, the shopping is really nothing new. But, if you buy yourself an overpriced melange at one of the street cafes here, you can claim a seat with some of the best people-watching vantage points in the whole city. Watch tourists run into each other while holding maps or video cameras, or getting into full-blown arguments about what sight to see next. Graben is also home to the Pestaule monument (tall, golden, cherub-adorned) and the underground public toilet complex designed by the ironically-named Adolf Loos.

KOHLMARKT: This pedestrian thoroughfare was once Vienna's charcoal and coal market, leading directly to the Hofburg Imperial Palace, Today, it is the city's Rodeo Drive-- Prada, D&G, and Bulgari all have stores here, and the real estate (ie, personal apartments) above ground level goes for multimillions (of euros, that is). After some exhausting window shopping, I recommend stopping for a coffee and dessert at Demel, one of the city's most elegant coffeehouses.

Still to come... the famous (or infamous?) flea market, Naschmarkt!

The Moments When I Love My Job

Tue, 15 Jun 2010 16:16:46 +0000

Brussels is a cool little place--- their Botanical Gardens also serves as a concert venue. I checked it out today for the guide book, and saw that the amazing Marina and the Diamonds were playing a sold out gig there tonight. When I cheekily asked (with no hope whatsoever) whether there were any press tickets available, the people at the front desk told me that there weren't, but that I could always try chatting up the manager. A few phone calls and credential emailing later, I was put on the guest list for tonight's performance. This was all in the spirit of thorough research, of course.

Other discoveries I made today:

1) The Polish snore VERY loudly

2) My hostel is definitely 24/7, something I discovered when someone arrived in our room at 1am

3) In French/Brusselian culture, rare meat actually means uncooked meat. That was an exciting lunch...

Let's Go's Top Ten Summer Destinations

Tue, 15 Jun 2010 15:15:07 +0000

It's official. After several years of penny-pinching, stay-cations, and a weak dollar, travelers have become restless. They're ready to grab their favorite travel companion, hop on a plane or jump in their car, and start exploring the world again. Let's Go has compiled a list of its Top Travel Destinations this summer. Whether you're on a tight budget, looking to splurge after a winter of Scrooge-like miserliness, or simply studying abroad for the summer, our top ten have got you covered.

1. Morocco

Morocco, the hazy spit of land across the Strait of Gibraltar, is 13km and worlds away from Europe. The nation contains unparalleled raw beauty, with lush valleys, enormous desert dunes, ancient imperial cities, and North Africa’s highest mountains. While you may reach Morocco today by high-speed ferry rather than brigantine ship, your path has been well worn by years of cultural exchange. Arab, African, and European influences come together gracefully in modern Morocco. Locals hawk thuya wood from the beaches of Essaouira next to Fez’s famed blue pottery, along with movies from America and sandals from China. Donkeys hurtle down alleys past women who accessorize headscarves with Gucci shades. Relatively inexpensive, easily accessible from Europe, and with a healthy blend of established traveling community and off-the-beaten-path opportunities, Morocco is Let’s Go’s number-one travel destination this summer.

2. Budapest

Budapest is one of Europe’s new capitals of cool. It’s a city in flux, so whether you’re here for a week or a semester, prepare for a brush with the edge of art, film, music, and student life. Luckily, there are still comfortable, affordable accommodations—in districts that many tourists haven’t even heard of yet—and undiscovered hole-in-the-wall spots to feed your craving for goulash. What’s more, this city on the Danube offers a perfect cosmopolitan launching pad into the untapped country of Central and Eastern Europe.

3. Istanbul

How could we not include a city as famous for its baths as it is for its religious buildings? Whether it’s going by Byzantium, Constantinople, or Istanbul, this bi-continental city has enough personalities to keep your therapist busy for years. Layered with history, teeming with diverse cultural attractions, and unabashedly forward-thinking, Turkey’s largest city is one of the most dynamic cities in Europe—and Asia.

4. Barcelona and Madrid

Barcelona and Madrid have a longstanding rivalry. Whether it’s a question of Castilian vs. Catalan, Villanueva vs. Gaudí, or Real Madrid vs. FC Barcelona, we just couldn’t choose between Spain’s two largest cities. Luckily, we don’t have to, and neither do travelers. Though decidedly different, both cities have their fair share of clubs open until 6am, scrumptious tapas, and the best student discounts—in fact, the only thing you won’t find is a clear winner in this Iberian in-fight.

5. Costa Rica and Nicaragua

From middle-aged cannabis enthusiasts to spring-breaking co-eds, budget travelers of every age seem to appreciate the wonders of Costa Rica. Stable politics and a top-notch tourist infrastructure have made it Central America’s tourist hotspot since the 1970s. Cheaper, less touristed, and with its political troubles behind it, Nicaragua is poised to give its neighbor to the south a run for its colones—or córdobas, depending on which side of the Rio San Juan you stay.

6. Thailand

Whether you’re on a tiny southern island, in a remote northern village, or hanging out in the bustling metropolis of Bangkok, you can’t go wrong on a trip to the “Land of Smiles.” With a little guidance, it’s easy to find the safest, cheapest, and comfiest beds after a long day of riding elephantback or bowing before glittering golden Buddha statues. The flight may be expensive, but once there, a thriving backpacking scene and inexpensive food and lodging make Thailand a budget-travel paradise.

7. Paris

Intemperance? Gluttony? Sex addiction? Ballet? Whatever your vice, generations of the similarly inclined have indulged it in Paris before you. Paris is a shrine, an advertising slogan, or a vague longing for (sexual, political, artistic) liberation before it is anything so mundane as the hometown of millions of people. Steeped in history and allusions right down to its sewers, Paris weaves a spell in stone and sunlight. With the euro weaker than it’s been in years, travel in the City of Light, though still expensive, is cheaper than it was a year ago. We guess it’s true what they say: “One man’s debt crisis is another man’s favorable exchange rate.”

8. Buenos Aires

If you’re looking for a place to travel this year, just sit right there—I’m going to tell you a little story about a city called “fresh air”: Buenos Aires. You might not meet Will Smith, but with Buenos Aires becoming one of the most popular cities for study abroad in Latin America, you’re bound to meet young people from every corner of the world, not to mention locals who grill until midnight and regard a night out that ends at 4am as a weak attempt. From the Recoleta (think the Upper East Side with a pinch of Paris) to Boca (canary-yellow townhouses that empty out for rowdy soccer matches every night), Buenos Aires isn’t just a city of tango and opera anymore. Argentina’s capital is like a European city at Latin American prices, with easy access to world-class skiing, wine, and beaches—and, yes, you can drink the water!

9. Dublin

The capital and epicenter of the so-called “Celtic Tiger” has seen its fair share of growth in the past decade. With a recent slowdown in economic growth and the weakening of the euro, Dublin is an increasingly budget-friendly travel hotspot. Despite its increasingly cosmopolitan reputation, modern Dublin still has the quirky flavor of a large town busily engaged in neighborhood pursuits. The city’s distinctive neighborhoods, a significant student population, blossoming art and theater scenes, and an ever-thriving pub culture help Dublin retain its youthful Guinness-fueled jaunt.

10. National Parks

Sick of hearing the term “stay-cation”? So are we. Just because you’re not crossing an ocean does not mean you have to stay at home this summer. National parks, in the US and abroad, get a big Let’s Go thumbs up as a stay-cation alternative. Cheap, often relatively close, and undeniably beautiful, national parks around the country—and the world, for that matter—offer unique opportunities for the budget traveler. Campsites run for less per night than hotel rooms, s’mores cost a fraction of restaurant fare, and, after modest park entry fees, mountains and trees, in our experience, tend to be pretty easy on the wallet.

Every 1 minute and 40 seconds...

Tue, 15 Jun 2010 08:42:00 +0000

Working for Let's Go, you find yourself sitting in odd places quite often. Usually you just need a place to sit down quickly while you jot down your thoughts about the last thing you just saw, and sometimes you just see a good chair that nobody's using and figure you'll rest your legs for a minute (this last one can unfold badly if it turns out your chair is for paying customers only).

Yesterday I was using such a chair, a fine wooden specimen, painted quite nicely, that was sitting outside of the back door of a pub in a little alleyway in Dublin. So I sat in it. I hadn't been sitting long when a few guys came outside and sat down at the table next to me. It didn't take long for me to realize that they must be the bartenders on duty, and I began to nervously try and make myself as inconspicuous as possible. This was a good chair, and I wasn't done using it yet. They seemed to be leaving me alone. Good. Just avoid all eye contact. Don't say anything...

"We're a bit slow this week," one of the bartenders said.

"Oh yeah? How much?"

"Seventy-five kegs."

"Oh yeah. Man, that is slow."

I couldn't help myself. I looked over at them. "Seventy-five kegs a month is slow?"

"No, seventy-five kegs a week, mate. If we were only sellin' seventy-five a month we'd be goin' outta business."

I stared at him like an idiot.

"Well, how many pints to a keg?"

"Eighty-eight."

I tried to do the math in my head (and failed). Now, with the help of computer technologies, I've realized that:

88 x 75 = 6,600/pints a week

6,600 x 4 = 26,400/pints a month

26,400 x 12 = 316,800/pints a year.

(For comparison, there are 525,600 minutes in a year. That means that the pub, if it were open 24hrs. a day, would serve a pint roughly every 1 minute and 40 seconds. And that's slow business.)

"Dear God." I said.

"D'you want something, by the way?" said the bartender.

"Nope, I'm great. Gotta run actually. Bye!"

Damn, another "pay-to-sit" establishment.

The Stationary Australian

Mon, 14 Jun 2010 23:38:44 +0000

When the waitress brought me my bill after a late meal, I told her I was a travel writer and unleashed the standard torrent of questions. She was unphased, and, after calmly answering my questions, she very eagerly told me she was a traveler as well.

"Oh, really?" I asked, "Where are you from?"

"Australia!"

Accent. Right.

"Where are you traveling to?"

"London."

"How long have you been here?"

"Seven months."

Something was awry.

"Do you travel from London to other places?"

"No, I just live here with my boyfriend."

"With your boyfriend..." I repeated, trying to figure out how we had such radically different definitions of the word “traveler.”

"He's English," she offered, helpfully.

I decided to try a new angle.

"When are you going home?"

"I'll go home at Christmas and then come back to traveling."

"Traveling to where?"

"London."

I looked at her carefully to make sure she wasn't making fun of me.

"For how long?"

"I dunno, could be a few years."

"But you're traveling even though you're staying in the same place?"

"Australia will always be home!" she said, and then she served me with a mammoth bill and sent me on my way.

Monaco: Inbreeding since 1300

Mon, 14 Jun 2010 19:35:55 +0000

I expected Monaco to have the flair and flashy appeal of St. Tropez. Both locales have ridiculous amounts of money, and occupy opulent strips of the Mediterranean. The beaches in Monaco are clogged by a flotilla of yachts, but people habitually use the yachts' decks for sunbathing instead, so I think of the area as having as many beach front clubs as a certain debaucherous city I scootered through several weeks ago.

I was sadly disappointed. To put it delicately, the Monegasque people look like an inbred blend of Cyrano de Bergerac and an Italian version of Ugly Betty. Not even the pricey jewelry or flash cars make them more attractive. I always wondered why the Monaco people adored actress-turned-royalty Grace Kelly. Its because she was gorgeous and infused some fresh chromosomes into the stale gene pool of the Grimaldi family. It was Princess Diana syndrome times 10, only Ranier III was smart enough not to go dumpster diving for mistresses. Good call.

Oh well, you try maintaining the royalty of one family for 700 years and not accidentally marrying your third cousin. I guess money might make a few lucky people more attractive, but the rest of us have to rely on a game of flip cup for that.

Land of the Free?

Mon, 14 Jun 2010 19:20:15 +0000

Whether it's that chalupa at the Laker game, the buy-one-get-one at the supermarket, or the "unlimited" samples at your local Costco, everybody loves free stuff. Fortunately for me, Granada is the perfect place to get that free fix. The city's notorious for its buy-a-drink-and-get-a-tapa attitude. Any bar you walk into, just order up that cool glass of sangria and they'll bring it out with a nice, small plate of paella or that scrumptious montadito.

However, I already knew that before coming here. What I didn't know is that the free stuff doesn't stop there. You can live for free too! Now, I'm pretty pleased with my 16 euro per night hostel stay, but when I heard that there was a housing giveaway I had overlooked, I felt like I'd been totally duped. But there's always a catch--you only get the chalupa if you buy a t-shirt and Kobe makes 45 3-pointers in the 3rd quarter; your second yogurt's free but they just doubled their prices; and the manager comes running if you take one too many chicken fingers. So in Granada, there's definitely free housing, but it's up in the caves of Sacramonte.

Since the 15th century people have lived in these man-dug caves in the hills across from the Alhambra, but until recently these humble abodes were solely occupied by gypsies and sorceresses (no joke. I read that at a museum). Yet in recent years, the cool thing to do is to find an old cave, get a Wi-Fi hook up, steal a water supply from the city aqueduct, and move right in. These spots are far from savage. They're actually pretty snazzy.

Don't worry too much mom and dad. I'm not going to go meet some hippie local and crash in his or her cave for the night. But I have made more than one browsing hike up this "holy mountain." I've done my research and supposedly things clear up by the winter. Maybe I should purchase a heating unit and move into one of these cavernous cabanas.

On Turkey and Visiting Troy

Mon, 14 Jun 2010 16:56:41 +0000

A few days ago I set out to visit Troy, the mythical city of Homer's verse, the city of heroes and of gods. This is how it went: I hopped on a dolmus (shared minibus) that was supposed to go from Canakkale to Troy. It turned out that the other passengers were nine shriveled old women wearing headscarves, and one Japanese tourist who looked a bit out of place. "Is this going to Troy?" he asked. I nodded. He didn't look very reassured.

After dropping off all the octogenarians at their houses in Tevfikye, a village right next to Troy's ruins, the minibus took us to the ticket booth. I got in and discovered one thing: Troy is just a heap of stones amidst grass. You walk down the marked path and all you see is a stone here, a stone there, and at best a few Roman columns lying about the land. There were explanatory signs telling me what it was that I was seeing--this stone used to be a temple, and that stone used to be a ramp. Interesting. Then I noticed an arrow sign saying "cave," with a bat drawn right next to it. I became excited and set out to find it. I did, and it turned out to be a small hole in the stone covered with bars. Not a single bat around. I hung around for a while anyway as it was the most exciting place from the lot.

And then I started thinking about Troy as such. It's not one town, it's nine different settlements built one on top of another over a period of 3000 years. When a house got destroyed or when there was too much trash in the streets, they'd just pave them over. Over the years the city foundations rose by 15 meters, burying the old cities underneath. I was sure that there must have been a young man living in Troy II or Troy IV who played the sitar or something and who was troubled by doubts about whether he had what it takes to become an artist. Then they built six more cities on top of his town.

It turned out to be a very interesting trip. It seems like the important thing when visiting Troy isn't what you're seeing. It's what you're thinking.

Czech walkways: Part 1 of a 1 part series.

Mon, 14 Jun 2010 10:35:19 +0000

Like many European cities, Prague chooses to construct its walkways, not from simply set cement, but from carefully laid cobblestones.

While walking along these paths, it's easy to take them for granted and never realize that each stone had to be positioned by hand, a task that requires hours of work for even a modest sized portion of sidewalk.

But cobblestones do carry an advantage. When you need to get beneath them, for electrical or plumbing purposes, you simply displace them for awhile. And no harm done.

And now you know.

Running out of "-east" rhymes, from the east

1-1 Victory!

Mon, 14 Jun 2010 01:01:12 +0000

...in the snarky words of London's Sunday Times, Green's missed save was:

"One disastrous spill the Yanks won't complain about."

Damn right.

Now if only BP had someone as scary as Fabio Capello to get on them after their mistake...

Ahoy, Mate

Mon, 14 Jun 2010 00:49:47 +0000

After an extended stay in Liverpool, I'm packing up and on the road again—off to Birmingham. Since I spent over a week here, I allowed myself to let go a bit (i.e. my stuff is all over the place) and I'm stuck struggling with my least-favorite part of the traveling experience: packing. I have some new treats I must fit in my backpack this time around: a mini Liverpool FC jersey gifted from my hostel staff, a £3 rhinestone USA tank top from the game (the only piece of USA gear I could find after searching in 8 shops), bright green sunglasses, a few postcards.

Somehow, though, all this feels natural in Liverpool. At its heart, this is still very much a port city, constantly filled with people coming and going, and products that are in a non-stop state of transit. Liverpool was the home of millions of Irish immigrants, thousands of shipmen: navy fighters in WWI and WWII, merchant marines, slave traders, even the seamen who brought over imported records of Elvis for teenagers like McCartney and Harrison. This is a city that's on the move, for better or for worse.

Some of the Scousers come back. Some of them, like the Orchestra on the Titanic, the crew of the Lusitania, or John Lennon, weren't so lucky.

Will I see Liverpool again? Only time will tell.

The World Cup Is a Serious Endeavor

Mon, 14 Jun 2010 00:22:17 +0000

There's an ad running right now in France (I believe it's for Nike, or maybe for the World Cup itself) which shows clips of people engaged in different intense and unintelligible arguments. Finally, the ad reveals that all disputes were, in fact, about the World Cup. The intensity the ad portrays is not that far off, but it doesn't even begin to explain the priceless "World Cup moments" for a soccer outsider.

After an unsatisfying tie with Uruguay, France's outlook is not, and was never, looking that great. The crappiness of the team seems to be one of the only things that French people can agree on. But what makes the cup interesting is how it stirs up of the melting pot of nationalities present in the country. Today, during a journey to an Algerian restaurant in the Goutte d'Or neighborhood (heavy Algerian and African populations), I learned that Algeria was playing against Slovenia. After having to wait 10 minutes for service during a particularly entertaining stretch of the match (I mean it's Sunday, they're supposed to be closed anyways, right?), I sat down and watched part of the game, leaving about 70 minutes in when it was tied at 0.

After wandering around the neighborhood, I returned to the main thoroughfare to find Algerian soccer fans (mostly young) burning fireworks and singing songs in the street. Naturally, I assumed that Algeria had won. When I congratulated a man wearing an Algerian soccer jersey, he told me scowlingly that Algeria had lost. I apologized for touching on a fresh wound, and moved on. What a weird way to celebrate a loss!

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose

Sun, 13 Jun 2010 23:36:29 +0000

The World Cup—that glorious month once every four years when Americans pretend they're soccer fans—has begun. Since I'm currently in a country where people treat soccer like a religion (and after having seen a Corpus Christi procession, I fully understand the weight of that phrase), I figured I'd find a bar to watch the US side face off against England.

England scored right away, and nobody was surprised. There were a couple of others rooting for the Americans, but I think more because they had money on them rather than out of any love for the nation. And then, in the 40th minute, the US scored on what can really only be described as a fluke goal, a low, rolling shot that bounced off the English goalie's waiting hands and into the net.

Before this moment, I had believed the often facetious revoking of certain privileges to be a phenomenon limited to my group of friends at home, or at least to our geographic or age demographic. For example, if somebody is laughing at just about everything, his laughing privileges may be temporarily revoked. In extreme cases, breathing privileges can be taken away (always jokingly, of course). Anyway, I had believed this to be a fairly contained phenomenon. Not so.

The fluke goal went in, and the few supporters of the American side, myself included, erupted more in surprise than joy. There was certainly a sense of self-deprecating superiority: on the one hand, the only way the US could score against England was if England screwed up, and yet on the other, the US had managed to score against England. As we were celebrating, we were told to leave for 5 minutes. Our viewing privileges had been revoked for the rest of the half.

We walked out without putting up a fight, confused by what had just happened on the screen and at the bar, but nothing happened in the last 5 minutes of the half and we uneventfully returned. And I don't blame them; I probably would have asked us to leave, too. What I'm really looking forward to is Spain's first game on Wednesday night. I'll be supporting the Spanish side, since I'd like to make it out of Santiago alive.

Barça alone... uh?

Sun, 13 Jun 2010 22:52:24 +0000

A primer on Barcelona's football clubs, as compiled from my conversations with various residents of Catalunya:

1. Futból Club Barcelona: The best team in the history of the sport and winner of every title that matters. The club's crest is the pride of every Barcelonan and club presidential elections rival the Cataluñan presidential elections in importance and pomp. The team stands for freedom, passion, virtue, UNICEF, and all that is just, and stands against tyranny, fascism, AIDs, war, and harming children. Their stadium, Nou Camp, is a palace and sacred grounds for worship; however, there is no abode too humble, no balcony too small, and no bar too crowded in which to display your devotion.

2. Reial Club Deportiu Espanyol de Barcelona: Wait, there's another Barcelona team? Oh, you mean that Spanish one. Didn't you hear that they don't even play in Barcelona anymore?

Catholic Guilt in Vence

Sun, 13 Jun 2010 21:07:38 +0000

A couple days ago, my research brought me to a small town in the hills above Cannes called Vence. Adorable little town. Honestly. Its where I want to be brought when I become an ailing octogenarian so that I can live my last days in the peace and quiet of a picturesque medieval village. Open air markets and tiny archways and alleyways add to the charm. Its also where Henri Matisse settled down and decided to live out his golden years.

I regret never taking an art history class. I know the name Matisse, know he was a painter/artist, but I couldn't tell you what he painted, or what style he painted in. However, when I learned that he had designed and painted the interior of a chapel up the road from Vence, I naturally had to check it out. As a rule of thumb the kind of art that makes it into popular churches is pretty spectacular; anyone who's gone the the Vatican Museum can attest to the fact that even the most die hard atheists are impressed by a certain chapel ceiling. So I was actually looking forward to seeing some artist-that-I-wasn't-familiar-with's interpratation of the Stations of the Cross. I wasn't expecting Rennaissance grandeur, but neither was I expecting the disappointing fingerpainting that I paid 3.20 euro to see.

The chapel is run by Dominican nuns. The kind of hard core nuns who believe that prayer only really starts to count after the 153rd Hail Mary. Needless to say these broads can out shame and out-charity the best Catholics in the world, and are certainly not above guilting a humble journalist like myself pay to see Matisse's chapel.

It seem's like Matisse's interpratation never graduated from kindergarten. What i saw was a wall of white tile with randomly placed black stick figures somewhat resembling people and events that I recongnize in the stations of the cross. I'd take a picture for you, but the nuns would have come down on me hard like the hammer of God if I even reached for my camera. While I looked in confusion, wondering if Ashton Kutcher was punking me, masses of people passed through with tears in their eyes as this 146 year old nun explained what each of the figures corresponded to. You could have made a drinking game out of the number of times the phrase "light of God" was said during each explanation. Maybe Matisse was slightly blinded by the light of God; it would certainly explain why each one of his figures gradually got more and more "expressive" and less recognizable.

I left in utter disappointment. "God bless," the nuns told me as I left. Never have I ever been so swindled by old ladies.

The British Are Coming

Sun, 13 Jun 2010 20:50:59 +0000

I am sure that this won't be my last World Cup-related post. The World Cup is huge here, and with good reason—some are saying (perhaps a bit too optimistically, but whatever) that the Dutch have a good shot at going all the way this year. I bleed Italian azzurro, but I'm rooting for the Netherlands second...entirely selfishly, of course, both because it would be incredible to be in the winning country for the aftermath, and because I really don't want to get hassled by rabid Dutch fans.

Unfortunately, my accent marks me squarely as an American, a fact of which I was all too aware yesterday during the England-USA game. There are a LOT of English people in Amsterdam. Especially in the Oude Zijd, where I was researching yesterday; it's right next to the Red Light District, so hordes of English men took a break from the salacious displays and packed themselves into every pub on Zeedijk. All I wanted to find was a quiet bar where I could have a beer and watch the game, but every door I peeked into was blocked by a Wayne Rooney jersey and an English accent. Sigh. I finally found a bar that had Dutch pop music blaring, which had turned away everyone except for a few older locals. Fortunately, the game was playing there too, so I ignored the music and caught most of the first half...including USA's goal. Roars of despair echoed around the block (seriously, did they import half of Liverpool here or something?). "This can't be good," I thought. Sure enough, at half time, I heard a group of English guys go by loudly promising pain to any American men they ran into. Now, I wasn't looking particularly American (no Stars and Stripes around my neck or anything equivalent to what the English had on), nor particularly male. But I also didn't really feel like sticking around to see if they found a target to make good their threats. I doubted I would find a bar with a strong American presence, so I settled for the next best thing—a bar that wasn't playing the game (because they too didn't want to have to deal with the same tempers I was trying to avoid).

Of course, nothing violent ended up breaking out in the Oude Zijd, as far as I could tell. The upside of being right next to the Red Light District is that the strong police presence in that area spilled over to where I was. Just to be safe, though, while the Cup is going on, I think I'm going to tell people I'm Canadian.

Strange Allies

Sun, 13 Jun 2010 17:04:09 +0000

Saturday was unlike most days. It began in the morning with Queen Elizabeth's (“Lizzy's”) birthday, and ended with an epic soccer match between America and England. I was in Chelsea, eating with a couple of friends at a restaurant whose menu contained in small print the phrase "please note that game dishes may contain [a] shot," and whose walls were decked out with horns. Assuming we wouldn't miss anything if we didn't catch the first ten minutes of the match, we lingered, until a huge cheer erupted from the pub section of the restaurant. We paid our bill and went over to discover that America was already trailing by a goal. The Brits at the pub were ordering drinks and making toasts while the Americans quietly hid their accents. We stayed in the pub until half-time and celebrated the American goal (if you can call it that) before wandering into the street to look for a different pub—preferably with seats—where we could watch the second half.

By some strange turn of events that's still not entirely clear to any of us, we wound up in a room called "Apt. 195" that holds private parties, and, apparently, this was a private party. In the room, they had a full-service bar, comfortable chairs, a big screen on which the game was projected, and over 60 people. We stood quietly near the bar and watched. Two minutes later, a man behind us began bellowing, "U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!" and we turned to introduce ourselves to our fellow outcast. "We're supporting America, too. Where are you from?" "Ah'm noot frum ahMerika, Ah'm frum Scutlund!" (this is the last attempt at phonetically spelling his speech that I will make). "Oh..." "I just don't want the damn Brits to win, excuse me. U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!" He then gave us each a fist-bump and proceeded to stand nearby and chant some more. Then a man walked up to the bar next to us and ordered a drink in a Boston accent. "Are you from Boston?" "I am, are you?" "I am!" And before the conversation could continue, a group of three 20-somethings near us said "we're American too," and then went back to watching the game.

With an enclave of American support formed, we started cheering a bit more loudly. An attempt was made at "Yankee Doodle," The National Anthem and, finally, a chant of "No taxation without representation," but nothing really worked like "U-S-A," so we gave up. When the game ended, the Americans celebrated tying with the Brits while the British bemoaned tying with the Americans. All in all, it was a wonderful night.

Off the Beaten Track...

Sun, 13 Jun 2010 14:26:25 +0000

Getting lost is a pain, but sometimes it's good to be reminded that there's another reality out there.

A completely different world from all the sparkly places where we tourists generally hang out.

This was about 2 miles outside of the Liverpool city center. It went on like this for maybe 10 blocks; not a single house was inhabited.

All the lonely people, where do they all come from?

Camel, Yummmmm

Sun, 13 Jun 2010 12:25:40 +0000

Earlier this year, I wrote a feature for Let's Go on camels in Morocco. I called them "man's best friend in the sand," since camels have been used as desert transport in Morocco for centuries. Now that I'm actually in Morocco, I've discovered another reason to love camels. Not that I can stomach it yet.

Looking for a cheap dinner, I stopped a couple of Spanish tourists munching on what looked like kebab in a bread-pocket. They gestured to a nearby stall and uttered a word in Spanish that I didn't quite catch. I looked closer and there it was: a decapitated camel's head hanging on a hook. The stall was frying up camel's meat and onions in a bun like it was your run-of-the-mill hot dog.

The flies and the Spanish tourists seemed to be loving it. For my part, I motioned to order a bun, contemplated my digestive tract, and went elsewhere for a more conservative tajine. Does this mean I'm a chicken shit? Maybe. But I'm not yet a camel-eater.

The Berber Carpet Mafia

Sun, 13 Jun 2010 12:14:40 +0000

Yesterday, I made a deal with the Berber mafia. At least, that's what it felt like.

As I was walking through the narrow streets of Fez's medina - a UNESCO world heritage site since 1981 - a boy of no more than sixteen approached me with an alligator grin. "Would you like to see handmade Berber carpets? Just to look, just to look." Even though I know not to talk to strangers, especially sketchy strangers who are asking me "just to look," I was feeling curious and bored and decided to let myself be taken for a ride.

The boy led me twenty-feet off the medina's main drag, Tala'a Kebira, and into what appeared to be a private home. I climbed up the staircase and emerged into a dim and smoky room filled from floor to ceiling with Berber weaving. An old man lay resting beside a loom at the room's center. He saw me arrive, picked himself and his cigarette up, and began working the loom again. Six more men were sitting on cushions around a table, all smoking.

The Whitey Bulger of the operation, a heavy-set, bearded Berber with a bone-crushing handshake, insisted on showing me his carpets and blankets, until I quickly explained that I couldn't afford to buy any of them since I was only a student visiting the medina as a research-writer for a travel guide. "What guide?" he asked. Let's Go. "Let's Go to Europe?" I guess so...

Hearing the words "Let's Go" and "guide," the boss invited me to sit down. Before I could say "getting sketchy," I was sandwiched between four Berbers, while the carpet kingpin proceeded to lecture me on Berber weaving. He spoke very slowly pausing every few words to fix my gaze.

Despite my anxiety, the lecture turned out to be pretty interesting. The boss ordered four distinct carpets, taught me the difference between wool-on-cotton and wool-on-wool weaves by using a lighter to burn the threads and observing the difference in flammibility and smell, detailed the gendered division of labor for weaving -- men make blankets, women make carpets -- and explained how the carpets are a physical expression of an otherwsie oral tradition.

The student in me got into the whole thing. But, when I became too inquisitive, the kingpin cut me off. It was time to for the deal.

"I shared all this with you. You will include us in the guide." It didn't sound like a request. All six men leaned in. I eyed the door at the far corner. What else could I do? My palms were sweating, and they were kind of blocking the door. "Of course, I will. This establishment? These fine carpets and blanket?"

The head honcho approved: "Very good, very good." The room seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, we shook hands, and I fled. The sixteen year old boy followed me outside and tried to take me to his uncle's pharmacy.

No thank you -- thirty minutes with the Berber Carpet Mafia was enough for one day.

Metro Etiquette

Sun, 13 Jun 2010 10:27:13 +0000

During your stay in Paris, the Metro will become an absolutely necessary element of each day. And like all things Parisian, it's not instantly accessible to outsiders. Unsuspecting Americans should beware of some tricky unspoken rules of Parisian Metro etiquette:

1. Never make eye contact with a stranger on the Metro. It will garner scowls.

2. Don't talk on your cellphone, or speak obnoxiously loud to friends.

3. Every Metro car has several seats that can be used as seats or folded up and stood against. In cases of crowding, it is not polite to sit in one of these seats. Stand up and tough it out with the rest of Paris.

4. Don't rock out on your iPod. From personal experience, people look at you as if you're from Mars.

Heeding these tips should make you a little less conspicuous during your time in Paris. Happy blending in.

In Praise of Tomatoes

Sun, 13 Jun 2010 09:31:21 +0000

When I was maybe five, my great-grandfather "Pop Pop" made me tomato sandwiches. The sandwiches were a study in simplicity: sliced tomatoes and mayo on white bread, sprinkled with salt and pepper and a touch of sugar. Pop Pop grew the tomatoes in his backyard, or maybe he bought them at the local farmers' market. Whatever the case, according to my potentially enhanced memories, the tomato vines rose on stakes above his many dandelions. The sandwiches that resulted--origins of the tomatoes aside--were the most delicious food I had ever tasted.

Ever since, I have sought tomatoes of such quality--where the flavor was powerful and partly sweet and the texture was anything but mealy. Unfortunately, I have met disappointment in my quest. Now twenty, I add tomatoes to my salads at home in part because I always hope that the seeds of Pop Pop's tomatoes had spread beyond his garden in North Carolina but mainly because tomatoes add color to my usual salad's mix of greens and beiges of lettuce, chicken, and chic-peas. In so many words, I eat tomatoes at home because they are red, not because they taste good. Rarely is the latter the case.

But in Greece, my latent hope that tomatoes would one day be again what they once were in Pop Pop's sandwiches has been realized. I taste the tomatoes in my Greek salads, which in their country of origin are made with cucumbers, feta cheese, tomatoes, onions, and occasionally some green peppers--but never with lettuce. Tomatoes here add flavor to slouvaki, the local dish of a kebab and tomatoes wrapped in a pita. I could eat the tomatoes like the fruit that they are because they are so delicious. So Greece, ABBA thanks you for the music; I thank you for the tomatoes.

Patriotism on Pause

Sun, 13 Jun 2010 06:40:41 +0000

I'm not going to lie, I intentionally went to an English pub to watch the soccer game between England and the U.S. this weekend. I figured there would be a lot of people there and the atmosphere would be lively, for sure. (If there were any American bars, the atmosphere would not have been the same.)

Boy was I right. The place was full of English expats, red and white flags wrapped around their backs. And a bunch of Italians, few of whom were on my side, to say the least.

And so I assumed my spot in front of the TV, gazing steeply upwards—a function of my rather late arrival, a sin no true soccer fan would have committed. England had already scored, and the mood was jovial inside the pub.

Then the US got off a strong shot. I felt my arm begin to go into the air, but I restrained myself, Dr. Strangelove style. You're in an English pub, I told myself.

A few minutes later, as the Americans took a shot straight at the opposing goaltender, he fumbled the ball, and it's a goal! Not cheers but groans around. "Green," the goalkeeper's name, was uttered like a curse word.

At halftime, a couple Italians I talked to repeated what I'd already thought. Keep your mouth shut. I'd figured that one out, especially given the circumstances of the first half's score.

The second half flew by with the help of a good pint, the action was frenzied and crisp. Then the end came. It was... a tie. The bar cleared out rather quickly, dejectedly. And from the end of bar, another American revealed herself.

Together in silence, perhaps you could argue we prevailed.

Murakami World

Sun, 13 Jun 2010 00:43:46 +0000

This week on Friday I was researching sights in San Marco. It was a pretty normal day, I saw some really cool stuff, and was thinking about turning it for the day when I realized I wasn't too far from Palazzo Grassi, the François Pinault museum in San Marco. I'd been to his museum in Dorsoduro, and was planning to go to Palazzo Grassi on Saturday, but decided I'd just go right then—the museum in Dorsoduro was awesome, maybe my favorite sight in all of Venice, so I thought Palazzo Grassi would be a good way to end the day.

I got there and, as usual, showed them the press pass Let's Go issues its writers. This magical press pass typically gets researchers out of paying entrance fees to museums and the like, which is usually a great deal for the sights because it gets them a lot of free press when they're written up in our books. Unexpectedly, the woman at the ticket counter got excited and said "You're here for Murakami?"

I remembered vaguely the advertisements that had littered the city for the past few weeks touting "Murakami World" at Palazzo Grassi, which I assumed was some kind of exhibit featuring Takashi Murakami's works. If you're not familiar with Murakami check out this New York Times article or this awesome Kanye West music video. Naturally, I was pretty excited to see some more of his work and responded "Yeah!"

She said "Great! He'll be here shortly, let me show you to your seat."

Huh?

As it turns out, Takashi Murakami was actually at the museum to give a talk on his work that was to be attended by a few hundred people. I had no clue what I was doing but I wasn't about to say anything that was going to mess this up. How often to you get press credentials to meet with one of the world's greatest living artists? I was directed to the third row of seating by a museum attendant, and found myself about 10 feet away from Murakami.

I looked up. He looked at me. I looked around—every other person near me was a serious art buff or reporter, bedecked in hipster glasses and skinny ties with legal pads and voice recorders. Murakami, noting my t-shirt and jeans, gave me a look that clearly said, "You're not supposed to be here, are you?" I shrugged and smiled, and after a split second of hestiation, he beamed back.

The event itself was awesome, and with my press clearance I got to hang back and congratulate Murakami after the speech. He doesn't understand English or Italian well, apparently, so no one really knew what to say, but the guy was still ridiculously charming and charismatic. And really, it was a uniquely Venetian experience—only in a city with no cars can such major events, hyped up for weeks in print and television advertising be somehow so inconspicuous that you could be a block away while they're happening and have no idea what's going on.

The French Definition of Cool

Sun, 13 Jun 2010 00:07:05 +0000

After living here for a month, I’ve encountered numerous examples of liberal attitudes towards consciousness-altering substances. I’m not talking about Drugs with a capital D. Well, except for that guy I just ran into on the subway who was sniffing something out of a vial with a large red X on it. I’m talking about alcohol, tobacco, sex toys (yes, they count as conscious-altering items).

Like last week, when I was waiting at the bus stop. An old man pulled a Marlboro out of his pocket with a shaky hand. This girl who looked maybe barely 13 was sitting next to him, and looked over longingly. She was hesitant, but she wanted it. “Excusez-moi monsieur, avez-vous une autre cigarette?” He nodded and passed her one. She looked sheepishly over, “Et du feu?” I was waiting for him to launch into some monologue about the perils of smoking, how he had been trying for 100 years to quit, but all he did was pass her a lighter, and say, “I hate this kind of weather. This is why I never leave my house.”

Here, if you want to screw up your lungs, chances are you’ll find a sympathetic geriatric who will help you with your cause. And that’s not it. If you want beer, you can find it at McDonald’s. If you want a “massager,” an obliging lady at the counter will tell you the duck is much, much better than the worm. Or so I’m told.

Copa Mundial

Sat, 12 Jun 2010 22:45:10 +0000

So the World Cup is off and running, and there probably aren't many places in the world (aside from Cape Town, Posh Spice's living room, and those many college dorm rooms obsessing over their favorite "players" in FIFA 2010) that are more enthused about the world of soccer than the south of Spain. Even when I was just exploring the streets of Granada today, I couldn't go far without finding a TV broadcasting a game. People are definitely yet to rush the streets, as Spain hasn't kicked off, but they're in tune with the happenings of the event.

One of the best parts is that I'm really getting the "world" feeling of the cup. I watched part of a match this afternoon on an Arabic TV network from a small Moroccan restaurant. I enjoyed the US-Britain game (which we luckily came out of with a 1-1 tie after a pretty unimpressive goal) in a small bar, accompanied by an older couple from Manchester. Later, I received roars of laughter from the locals working at my hostel when I hadn't heard of one of the top Spanish forwards.

I'll admit that I miss waking up at 3am with my brother to scream at the TV screen from the living room couch (well, he'd scream, and I'd wake up from my mid-game nap). I do feel a little left out from lacing up my cleats (which, since the age of 12, have always been the very appropriate Adidas Copa Mundial line) for a game of pick up. But, on the flip side, I'm ready for some World Cup excitement--non-riot, safe, contained excitement.

On Turkey and Visiting Gallipoli

Sat, 12 Jun 2010 21:35:32 +0000

After visiting the Gallipoli battlefields yesterday I learned one thing--out of all founders of modern nations, Atatürk was the most badass. Gandhi just sat on the ground and chillaxed, and Washington at his manliest chopped down a cherry tree. But Atatürk, it seems, was a superhero.

During the Gallipoli campaign in 1915, he faced the British, Australians, New Zealanders, French, and a handful of Newfoundlanders, all of whom thought they could easily capture Constantinople (Istanbul) and knock the Ottoman Empire out of WW I. They needed to capture the Dardanelles first, but due to Atatürk, a then unknown military officer, they had to give up and leave after 8.5 months of futile warmaking. Most famously, Atatürk correctly guessed the place where the ANZAC forces would disembark, even if his superiors told him otherwise. As a result, ANZAC never got on top of the hill that they hoped to capture on the first day.

But there's more. Once Atatürk spent four days awake giving orders to his troops, despite suffering from malaria or some disease like that. Once he was shot in the chest by the enemy, but he survived because the bullet was stopped by a pocketwatch. Once he told the 57th infantry regiment: "I'm not ordering you to attack. I'm ordering you to die. In the time it takes us to die, a new regiment will come to take our place." The entire regiment was wiped out, and in their honor, there's never been a 57th regiment in the Turkish army again. Things like these made Atatürk a folk hero and paved the way to his promotion to general.

I have no jokes about that. They'd be in bad taste, and making fun of Atatürk might be against the law (it's illegal to defame him, and I don't know how far that extends. Better stay on the safer side).

I hate backpackers

Sat, 12 Jun 2010 15:58:08 +0000

The title of this blog might come as a surprise to readers, since I research specifically for backpackers. I guess I should specify...

I left St. Tropez as soon as a sobered up, before that dreaded hangover set in, and got back to Cannes this morning around 6:30am. I slept a bit and got up to pack my things to get to Nice. Everything was going just fine until I stepped onto the train and heard the obnoxious chatter of what could only be a group of US Eurotrippers; in my humble opinion, they should all have their passports revoked. I don`t care how much better the microwave Stouffers lasagna is compared to what you had in Italy, and I don`t want to be able to hear about it from a whole train car away. And please, turn down your headphones, ¨dude,¨ since I don`t want to have Stanky Leg stuck in my head all day either. Scamper off and make someone else`s hangover more miserable.

These are the same kind of people who complain about the lack of pasteurized cheese in the markets, or that the beer on the train snack car isn`t cold enough. For God's sake, there`s beer on trains. How can you complain about anything? They are the same kind of people who refuse to learn some basic language skills (please, thank you... anyone?), visit only anglophone bars, and loudly argue about the quality of various 3 minute microwave meals when people are simply trying to quietly get from A to B. Newflash: People speak English. Everyone knows what annoying idiots you are. While it is extremely elitist to suggest something like a simple geography quiz at the passport office, or at minimum make everyone watch Midnight Express to remind them how drug offenses are treated in denied EU countries (cough, Turkey, cough), I would argue that everyone should at least go into Europe with a basic understanding of the countries they're visiting and a minimal willingness to occasionally just shut up and adhere to local culture.

To paraphrase Abe Lincoln, it's better to remain silent and look like a fool than to open your mouth and confirm you're a fool.

They think it's all over...

Sat, 12 Jun 2010 15:17:30 +0000

World Cup fever is sweeping Belgium, and they aren't even in the competition this year! Every pub and bar (and even my hostel) is showing all the games on massive screens to keep the locals (and the tourists) happy. Tonight, though, is USA vs England...the Belgians don't realise how vital this game is, for me that is.

Being born in England but having lived the last year in the States, I could support either side. But tonight, as I head out with a friend I made from California, I will be supporting England all the way. It'll be interesting to see who the local Belgians cheers for...

San Lorenzo De El Escorial

Sat, 12 Jun 2010 14:50:50 +0000

Tuesday I went on a daytrip to San Lorenzo De El Escorial. The draw of this tiny town is the Monasterio--half monastery, half mausoleum to the kings. Felipe II built the Monasterio de San Lorenzo as a gift to God and his people, and as a final resting place for the royal family. He also sacked a French church at the battle of San Quintin in 1557 and wanted to make up for that little oopsie. The most impressive/creepiest room was the Panteon Real where the remains of the Spanish kings are stacked in various marble tombs along a massive circular wall--tantos espiritus!

Madrid, City of Love

Sat, 12 Jun 2010 14:30:28 +0000

Forget Paris--Madrid is the city of love…or PDA central at least. At first, I thought it was just me. For some reason I had the unfortunate habit of being on the metro…at the park…on the street…at a restaurant…with all of the PDA-happy couples in Madrid. However, once I uncomfortably ended up beside a couple making out near the play-pen of a McDonald’s, I decided it definitely wasn’t just me. According to my sassy straight flat mate, it’s because most people here live with their parents until they’re around 30, so they do affectionate things in public. Below, I've attached a case in point. Here are a few couples at the very romantic Retiro park playing the international game of tonsil hockey.

The iAlarm

Sat, 12 Jun 2010 13:21:35 +0000

    The invaluable cell-phone alarm clock which I have relied on for the past three years to rouse me out of bed has finally been trumped. No, the "iAlarm" doesn't stand for something more technologically savvy...it's actually just the "Italy-Alarm," a cultural way here which makes it nearly impossible to sleep past 8:30am. The top culprits:
    1) Cleaning ladies—whether in a convent or a proper hotel, sweepers and bed-makers can't seem to fathom why someone should still be under the covers at 9am. After the third day in a place, I thought they'd catch on to my habits, but I guess I'm expected to catch on to theirs.
    2) Italian sunshine—I swear, it's brighter over here. There's a reason why Italians have wooden shutters, blinds, AND curtains to block out the light. Until I figured out how to actually close them, I was up at 7am with the birds.
    3) Speaking of birds...BIRDS. The only water around is the Tiber River, yet somehow I hear squawking seagulls at 4pm, 4am, 8am and most hours in between. They're louder than you think.
    4) God and his bells—I've become accustomed to the infamous Lowell Bell Tower back in Cambridge, but compared to the Catholic bells here, Lowell's sounds more like a doorbell than a gong.
    5) The "Parent Party"—this one really tops everything. Each morning, I've been awakened by what sounds like a cocktail party outside my window; numerous times, I've sworn it must be 7:30 in the PM not AM. In fact, when I look outside it is quite literally an army of mothers who have just dropped their children off at school. Whoever said children cause the din, was wrong—I tell you, it's all on their mothers and whatever gossip they're sharing.

Obamarama

Sat, 12 Jun 2010 12:30:49 +0000

OBAMA, the restaurant, where British Africa describes not the theme, but instead the celebration of colonialization—khaki pants, safari hats, and all. Uh, oops?

Hilariously, the restaurant's website seems to have been hacked either by a 5th grader or a timetraveler from 1995, when Angelfire and flame GIFs ruled the interweb:

The Secrets of the Universe

Sat, 12 Jun 2010 09:53:19 +0000

After a five hour train ride along the Moroccan coast and into the mainland north of the Middle Atlas, I have arrived in Fez. Although I have yet to explore its famed medina (that’s on tomorrow’s itinerary), I am lucky enough to be here during the annual World Sacred Music Festival. For one week each year in early June, musicians as varied as American gospel choirs and Indian sitarists gather in Fez to swap notes.

This evening, I sat beneath the ramparts of a thirteenth century sultan’s palace and listened to the coiling melodies of a Sufi musicians from Aleppo, Syria. A big band of violins, guitars, lutes, and other instruments that my unschooled eye didn't recognize, these men sang both cheerful and haunting spiritual melodies. As I learned from my program guide, a Sufi singer is supposed to transmit mystical ecstasy, or wajd, to his audience through his masterful improvisation. I didn't discover the secrets of the universe tonight, but I did have a wonderful time. I especially enjoyed catching the grandmotherly woman next to me, wrapped in full niqab, playing an imaginary keyboard with her fingers in perfect time to the music.

The Good Parts

Sat, 12 Jun 2010 09:45:10 +0000

You really can't complain about this job. I don't mean that there's nothing to complain about. I'm working 14 hour days, my knees, hips, and back scream in protest every time I force them to walk up and down the city in search of yet another poorly-signposted hotel, and the Renaissance is getting really, really old. I got my complaints.

I mean I literally cannot complain about my job. Because I will get punched in the face.

Metaphorically, that is. No one has yet punched me. But mentioning any of the negatives—the hours, the stress, the loneliness, the physical test—generally results in the reaction you are probably having right now: "Oh, you poooor baby. Are they making you eat too many cannolis? Wah wah, your life is soooo hard."

And they have a point. Because the crappy parts are not nearly so crappy as the awesome parts are awesome. And when you're belting
"O Mio Bambino Caro" in unison in the basement of a tiny Florentine trattoria with a dozen opera students and a half dozen old Italian men, or standing on the balcony of a 12th century hilltop monastery at dawn to watch the sun rise on the city below, this job ain't half bad.

Gypsy Gal

Sat, 12 Jun 2010 06:20:45 +0000

Spanish Harlem! There was no significant "Spanish Harlem Incident" to speak of. Just an unseemly amount of delicious Mexican food—lines and lines of restaurant clones down Lexington and 3rd Avenues. Oh, and a mosque somewhere in the middle of them. Once again my flaming feet burned up the street during a merciless day whose temperature was raised 20 degrees simply by virtue of being in a city.

Somewhere by 110th St., after an unsuccessful attempt to find the Graffiti Wall of Fame at Park and 106th—what has happened to this? anyone? am I blind? I'm probably blind—I was entangled by a group of middle schoolers having an angry, extended, profanity-laden argument about how many blocks away one of the kids lived. Come on, guys, it's math.

RW and MJ

Sat, 12 Jun 2010 06:19:45 +0000

The Michael Jackson Tribute Wall next to the Apollo is empty. It's a covered chainlink fence guarding the vacant lot—by the way, why is there a vacant lot next to the Apollo?—that, until recently, was full of handmade tributes to the King of Pop, who performed at the ultra-famous and ultra-rigorous theater as a lonely, lonely child. Now there's just a single white sheet announcing its absence, which makes me feel a lot better about the whole situation.

Idea for a B-Movie Title: Righteous Patriot Invading Drag Queens of Fire Island!

Sat, 12 Jun 2010 06:18:16 +0000

No, I ddin't see any. The place basically just looked like your normal beach—wholesome volleyball games and pretty young things soaking up skin cancer. The looong beach along the island's southern coast is great for enormous leg-busting walks, but the "hamlets" where action actually happens—Fire Island Pines and Cherry Grove, you know, the "Meat Rack" and the "Dick Dock," where condoms grow on trees—are isolated and only for the dedicated.

Anyway, I was there on the wrong date. June 4th is Fire Island's own Independence Day. To commemorate the banning of a man in drag from a restaurant in 1976, hordes of drag queens take a chartered ferry to Fire Island Pines, upon which the Pines are duly "invaded," each queen announced as if in a beauty pageant. Better than fireworks!

Metro Musicians

Sat, 12 Jun 2010 01:58:57 +0000

Anybody who's stayed in Paris for any significant length of time can appreciate how irritating the Metro performers can be. Whether you're trying to read, vibe out on your iPod, or just zone out, another musician playing an uninspired accordion piece doesn't exactly make for a relaxing train ride.

Granted, music on the Metro has its great moments; there's a great clarinet player who frequents the 6 line. But most of the performers aren't that inspiring. It's worth keeping in mind that most of them work for gang leaders (well, not that type of gang) that send out these players and collect a hefty portion of the money they win. So when you see the guys playing accordion and sending their kids and wife around to collect money, may the sympathy in your heart convince you to throw a few coins their way. Sure 40% of those euros are going to the Sharks and the Jets, but these musicians are just trying to get by.

Supermarkets v. Local Grocery Stores (Part Two)

Fri, 11 Jun 2010 23:22:54 +0000

Previously, on Supermarkets v. Local Grocery Stores: Pros, cons, and cheap jokes at the expense of supermarkets. Today, exactly the same for local grocery stores:

Local Grocery Stores

These are everywhere, and range from small convenience stories to bakeries and gelaterias that also feature some basic grocery items.

Pros

1) Whereas chain stores tend to have set selections to keep up with their competitors, local stores are able to feature more variety in accordance with their owners' tastes. In most cases, this means more absinthe—a lot more.

2) A surprisingly good place to watch midday World Cup matches. Sure, it might take 45+ minutes to find someone willing to ring up your bottle of water and croissant depending on penalty time, but if you're here you're probably on vacation anyways so just enjoy it.

3) The owners tend to be really friendly, and if you're willing to chat you're sure to get tips on some great hidden Venetian gems, such as restaurants and cafés you would otherwise never visit. This can be problematic if one of these "hidden gems" happens to be a grandniece who just so happens to be your age ("You are about 30 years?"), speaks English "very good," and the owner would just love to introduce her to you...

Cons

1) They're never open. You thought supermarkets had limited hours? Getting an audience with your local grocer is about on par with getting an audience with the Pope in terms of difficulty.

2) Check expiration dates—and in Europe, it's Day/Month/Year, not Month/Day/Year. That's a mistake you don't want to make with dairy, as some of us have found out the hard way.

3) These stores are small. Italy has a different, much more observation-based ideal of customer service. Expect more uncomfortable moments than in a Lloyd Bentsen-Dan Quayle debate.

Tourism + Guinness

Fri, 11 Jun 2010 22:37:24 +0000

Today, I went to the Guinness storehouse, a much anticipated segment of my trip. While it's no longer the factory they use to malt and brew the beer, it's now been completely renovated to be one of the most kickass tourist stops in Europe.

The Chicago school factory architecture has been maintained (read: Guinness steampunk), but the multiple floors of the building now show exhibits ranging from the process of fermentation and production to a history of the development of the label.

Up and up you climb, ascending each floor in a huge cylindrical glass tower that is constructed to be, quite literally, the world's largest pint. At each floor you get off and peruse at your leisure before climbing still further to the summit, where you receive an award for all of the hard work you've put in...

A complimentary pint of Guinness. Cheers.

Its time to leave Cannes

Fri, 11 Jun 2010 18:35:16 +0000

This will be my last night in Cannes, the ritzy city I've called home for the past three weeks while venturing off during the day to produce the hard hitting research that you demand. I'll miss it, but there are some telltale signs that I should be moving on. A short list:

1) People call my land line. Not that they are people that I know, but at least I now know how to say "Wrong number, sorry" or just pretend to not speak French (not that hard for me) if its a telemarketer. Still wondering how to check my credit score or refinance my mortgage in France though...

2) I get annoyed when people take pictures of the very buildings and views that I was taking pictures of only weeks ago.

3) The barman at local pub knows me by name, and tells other patrons that I live here. Doesn't help either that I won a karaoke contest with the best rendition of Elton John's "Your Song" I've ever sung. It probably was cheating to sing it to the owner's wife. The prize: a t-shirt that says, "A quoi bon se coucher puisque de toute facon il faut se lever" (Why go to sleep when you are just going to wake up again).

4) I live above a cute little street packed with small but expensive restaurants, and can now play "la vie en rose" by ear. Someone just hand me an accordion. Go to bed every night with that song in your head and Edith Piaf will haunt your dreams like your first year French teacher does.

Sad to say I didn't see any celebrities while I was here; I'll be sure to come back when my days of travel writing have landed me millions of dollars. Until then, au revoir Cannes.

Autonomy

Fri, 11 Jun 2010 18:34:36 +0000

Spain is divided into 17 autonomous communities (and two autonomous cities) which are sort of like states in the US, only with much, much more power. These autonomous communities account for more than twice as much public spending as the central government and have a tremendous amount of political pull.

However, when they cut up the country into these divisions, Castilla and León got lumped together as one autonomous community, and some Leonese are still a touch miffed that they haven't got their own:

And Zeus said, "Let there be rain!"

Fri, 11 Jun 2010 14:42:25 +0000

When packing for this trip, I texted a friend who spent last summer in Greece: "Will I need a raincoat?" "No," she wrote back. "It never rains in Greece." If that wasn't the exact phrasing, it was something very similar. Wow—was she wrong.

Today, the heavens let loose. Mt. Olympus' resident meteorologists decided to change it up. Maybe Hera realized her husband's infidelity, but I would rather think about it as Aphrodite's usual ebullience rolling into liquid form. Maybe Zeus was laughing hard at one of Athena’s particularly clever quips. Regardless, in the middle of lunch today, it started to drizzle, and then it started to pour. The waitress manning the eight tables ran up and down the restaurant’s stone staircase, frantically opening umbrellas that are usually there to guard customers from the sun as the kitten that had been playing with a feather on the steps ran under a surprised man's chair. Then, in a moment that marked the sudden formation of a transient community, I looked up and down the staircase at the people sitting at tables above and below mine. We exchanged looks with each other, our eyebrows half raised and our mouths in half smiles of shock, and started laughing. Who would have guessed. Rain in Greece.

Exposed on the Subway

Fri, 11 Jun 2010 04:46:31 +0000

Sometimes I wonder whether people in New York know I don't belong. I like to think I blend in with the Natives. Being asked for directions brings me a deep sense of satisfaction. Lately, I've started to believe that on the street I am indistinguishable from a born and bred New Yorker. But, as they say, pride comes before a fall. Or in this case, just a sort of slip.

I was on my way home from an evening at the fine drinking establishments of the Upper West Side. Someone who had just exited the subway car I was about to board had obviously been at similar establishments, because they had lost their, er, bar food on the subway floor. And I stepped in it.

The other passengers let out an audible groan as they heard the squish, then tried not to make eye contact with me as I searched for an open seat. Over the next four stops, 12 people boarded the car. Teenage girls, a middle aged couple, a little old man... And they all stepped over the offending patch.

I realized that I still have a lot to learn. To live in New York, you have to look before making a move. You have to expect that the subway car you are about to board has something gross on it. And you have to step over it.

D-Day Reenactment Struggles

Fri, 11 Jun 2010 01:20:32 +0000

This past weekend marked the 66th anniversary of D-Day, and I was lucky enough to be in Normandy to witness some of the festivities. On Sunday, the day itself, I visited Juno Beach, the primary site of Canadian invasion and liberation. The beautiful beaches and their accompanying memorials were ideal for a poignant reflection.

That is, until, I saw what present-day or wannabe soldiers have done to commemorate the invasion. One particularly tragic display involved an amphibious vehicle driving forwards and backwards to a whooping crowd about 25 times. Uninspiring. The folks driving period motorcycles along the coast of Normandy were worse; they lost half their crew somewhere earlier on the rout when half of the motorcycles malfunctioned. I guess those models were ditched in the Post-War period for a reason. The table was finally set for the sixty-sixth anniversary on 6/6, but the meal that the period actors served up was a just little too reminiscent of authentic1944 army rations. Better luck next year gents.

Meating

Thu, 10 Jun 2010 23:45:35 +0000

I met with a nightclub owner yesterday over lunch. We sat down at a traditional Hungarian restaurant to talk some business. The night before I had meticulously prepared questions, carefully considered topics of discussion and sneakily picked out a classy, but perhaps somewhat "low-cut," outfit. What I had not prepared for, however, was the entire cow I would be forced to ingest that breezy 1000 degree summer day. Hungarian's are giant meat-eaters. I went through a vegetarian phase in high school and when I told my Hungarian grandmother she simply didn't understand, excitedly awaiting my summer visit with a sizzling tray of breaded pork cutlets and goulash crepes. While I've broadened my palette since, the level of meat consumption of some Hungarians is still beyond me. We enjoyed a five-course meal over a discussion of live music and club atmosphere that day, and every plate, with the exception of dessert, highlighted an animal. I left the meeting a bit disgruntled, thinking, "are people still this traditionalist and carnivorous here?" What was I going to write in the guide for all those poor orgo vegans looking for a good meal? Does Hungarian cuisine exist without meat? Just as I was on the verge of defeat, I walked up the stairs to my hostel and was greeted by a peculiar aroma--the ever-wonderful smell of the very Hungarian dish "lecsó" (a tomato and pepper sauté) cooking on the stove. My delightful hostel owner greeted me with a smile as she added in a little rice and sprinkled on the paprika. I let out a sigh. Perhaps there is hope after all for those meat-obsessed Magyars in expanding their appetites.

Things I've Learned

Thu, 10 Jun 2010 20:59:47 +0000

You learn a lot about yourself when you travel alone to a foreign country. For instance, here is a sampling of a few things that I have learned:

I love hammocks. They're amazingly comfortable and perfect for naps. One of the hostels that I had stayed at earlier had a lounge with two hammocks, and even though I'm no longer staying at that hostel I still head back there every now and then to nap on the hammock (in the air conditioning...which has been key these past few days).
I cannot live without conditioner. I figured that I would "rough it out" for a bit and pack light by bringing some all-purpose soap. After two washes with it, though, my hair felt like sandpaper and every time I ran my fingers through, I would pull out an entire clump (sorry for the details), so two days ago I ran myself to a pharmacy and got myself a small bottle of conditioner. Needless to say, I used about half of the bottle that day, and my hair's on its road to recovery.
Water. I really don't understand why water is so darn expensive here in Europe, and I see even less so why beer is cheaper than water. I would much rather drink my tap water, thank you very much, and my bottle has now seen the tap of many restroom sinks throughout Munich.
I am incapable of walking in a straight line. Actually, my friend Claire noticed this back in the fifth grade and would always call me out on it, but it's so much more apparent here where the sidewalk is split half and half for pedestrians and bicyclists, and I always seem to end up getting nearly run over by four-year-olds on fluorescently-colored bicycles with training wheels...

Goodbye, Milano

Thu, 10 Jun 2010 20:29:07 +0000

There's an English-language tourist publication here called Hello Milano which, ironically, I didn't pick up until two days ago. Now I'm on the eve of departing for my next destination, Turin, and I finally have a listing of all the events and shows I could have seen while in Milan

This realization that soon I will be leaving Italy's "moral capital" got me thinking about everything I have done here over the past three-plus weeks. For your reading pleasure, I've compiled a list of the best and worst moments.

The Good:

-The fashion students I met who took me under their wing, showed me the city, fed me (extra credit for that!), and played a big part in my discovery of some forgotten areas of the city. Alas, they couldn't improve my style, but admittedly, I gave them very little to work with.
-The crosswalk light that turns green precisely 10sec. after you hit the button. (The second time, I checked my watch.)
-The American exchange students whom I approached on a sidewalk in the Navigli whose first reaction to me was, "Damn, we're that obvious?" Sorry, but yes, you were.
-The owners of the hotel in which I'm currently staying, who've put up with me leaving three times to go to dumpier hostels, only to return, again, a few days later. They're awesome.

The Bad:

Feeling underdressed everyday. Especially because of my shoes. Milan's residents love their shoes.
-The policewoman who almost pulled out her whistle at the man frantically honking and screaming at other cars in P. Cavour. Too bad she didn't, because he really deserved a ticket.
-All the times I've almost been run over, gotten myself lost, etc. But you've already heard about most of those.

Fortunately, I had a lot of trouble thinking up the bad. I've spent three weeks in a beautiful city, and it's very hard to complain.

Really?

Thu, 10 Jun 2010 19:04:18 +0000

Either somebody really wants to comply with accessibility laws but keep wheelchairs out of his store, or Astorga is already preparing to host the 2018 Winter Games downhill Super G. And no, this is not an optical trick caused by the camera angle. It's just bad.

World Cup Survival Guide

Thu, 10 Jun 2010 18:55:08 +0000

Confession: I've been dying to post a blog like this one for over 3 weeks now.

However, for fear of being...

a) overeager (There will be more to talk about once the games start, no?)

b) way too cliche (I'm sure many LG Europe researchers have witnessed a similar barrage of World Cup fever.)

c) called out for my embarassing fairweather fan tendencies when it comes to soccer

....And so, I have (figuratively) bit my tongue, clenched my fists, and held off.

But basically. ever since I walked off the plane and noticed that every single pub on the street was adorned in British flags and offering reservations for tables for the game, I have been counting down the days until June 12th. The Mecca, the GrandDaddy of Sporting Events, Lexington and Concord/Battle of York/Shot Heard Round the World Part II: England v. USA. I've finally justified in my mind that since I am writing in enemy territory—ENGLAND—I have unique legitimacy to let out some of my sports-crazy thoughts and impart some valuable knowledge. So here are the lessons that I have garnered from over 3 weeks of pub-crawling, sports banter, and strategy-studying in this football-obsessed nation. A survival guide for any American fan stranded on this island nation for the epic game on Saturday night.

Tip One: Don't worry About finding a place to watch. It will be on everywhere. Literally everywhere. Tesco (the supermarket), Boots (the pharmacy), and just about any bar or pub that you can find.

Tip Two: Don't embarrass us. Come informed. Some simple facts to absorb before you start chugging pints, getting pissed, and/or getting your ass kicked. "Pitch" means field. "Sent off" means ejected. "Boots" are cleats. Scotland, Ireland, and Wales have their own separate teams, and therefore that nice Scottish guy you meet in the bar very well might be rooting for America. Soccer is played in halves, not quarters. And no, the word "field" doesn't have to come before GOAL.

Tip Three: ...But Don't be Ashamed Either. I mean, it'll be just fine to wear red, white, and blue. Show your pride. Also, it's perfectly legitimate to refer to the game as soccer, rather than football, or to label the guy in the goal as the goalie, rather than the goaltender. There's nothing wrong with it. Be proud. Heckle Wayne Rooney as much as you please. And it's definitely not unpatriotic to adapt to the preferred English condition for football-watching: proudly and publicly intoxicated.

We may be underdogs, but I'm smelling an upset in the air... 1776 anyone?

Just Try Me...

Thu, 10 Jun 2010 16:20:05 +0000

My first few days in Belgium have been... entertaining.

Citizens of Brussels are a funny bunch. Some people are very welcoming and will talk to you for hours on end in English, while others will only talk to you in Flemish - which is a very short conversation for me (and heaven help you if you attempt to talk to a Flemish speaker in French!)

But one of the funniest things is the odd and random shops and bars I've found along the streets here. The best one really sums up the Brussels' attitude...

On Turkey and Interchangeable I's

Thu, 10 Jun 2010 16:10:46 +0000

When I started reading up on Istanbul, I was charmed by how they'd always put a little dot over the first letter. Like this. What a quaint little way to show that they care about the city. Nope, that wasn't it. The dot is there to distinguish the letter "i" from its evil twin, the dotless “I”.

(Since this website doesn’t allow me to use foreign symbols (West-centrism!), here’s a link where you can see the difference. For the purposes of this blog, the dotted one will be marked as “i”, while the dotless one I’ll write as “I”.)

"i" you pronounce normally, as in "dillydally". "I", on the other hand, doesn't have a written equivalent in English. I call it the orgasm sound, because that's what it is - an indistinct vowel for which you open your mouth and press the air out, without shaping your lips or placing your tongue in any specific way. (As a side note, Turkish porn must be spectacular, or at least the audio part--the language is full of ü's and ö's. I'll be investigating.)

Now, on Turkish keyboards, "I" is located where "i" usually is, while "i" is tucked away somewhere in a corner. The result? I went to an internet cafe today to do something with my flash drive, and the port wasn't working. I came up to a lanky, bearded employee, but before I was able to open my mouth he took out a keyboard and pointed to the two letters. He explained in broken English that "i" isn't where it's usually found, which is why my password wouldn’t be working. I said that I'm cool with that and that the real problem is the USB port. He looked at me for a while, and then went over to my computer and showed me where the "i" was located again, more slowly. I realized that this was the only kind of troubleshooting he has ever had to do with foreigners, so I gave up. As I was sitting down to figure things out on my own, I saw a middle-aged woman wearing an Argentina T-shirt rise from her computer and come up to the employee. She said that her password wasn't working.

Well, I'm not a big fan of the orgasm letter. But at least my problems with it are nothing close to this.

From Dresden to Wien

Thu, 10 Jun 2010 14:06:47 +0000

My short stay in Dresden just goes to show that you don't always have to travel to the most well-known cities to get a feel for a country and its people-- In fact, my view of Germany is wholly unique for the very reason that I started in the less-travelled place first... A place that some travelers question why even bother to stop there. Dresden actually has a fascinating history, designer skyline, and distinctive character (well, ok, there is one Starbucks, but only one)...

In Dresden, I got to drive on the autobahn at 200km/hr (sorry, mum!), explore a castle in the countryside of Saxony Switzerland, and dance til dawn at the cellar club beneath Dresden's Neustadt train station. I drank beer along the Elbe, learned some useful German phrases, and most importantly, met a group of locals who were willing to share their city with me.

Now, having just arrived in Vienna, I can already sense a different air about this city-- I hear English as often as German, and every other person is holding a video camera as they walk. Granted, Vienna's world class museums, sweeping palaces, and extravagant churches understandably draw people from around the world. I mean, there is a reason some cities are more touristy than others. My challenge will be to find the Vienna beneath the surface of packaged sachertorte and Mozart memorabilia, and hopefully experience the city as a traveler rather than a tourist. Oh, and don't think I've forgotten my quest for the best coffee--- just you wait.

When Pomp and Circumstance Goes Wrong

Thu, 10 Jun 2010 01:55:17 +0000

I was feeling overwhelmed as I left Buckingham Palace. The guards outside the palace moved like robots (really angry, violent robots with shockingly bad fashion), and everything felt like it had an air of esoteric tradition.

As I walked towards the Churchill Museum, the next in a never-ending series of sites for the day, I noticed three men in full uniform come marching out of the guard's museum. Intrigued, I came closer to the gate where a small crowd gathered. We breathed in collectively as the middle guard raised a glinting trumpet to his lips and...

Proceeded to unleash the most unholy rendition of the British taps equivalent I think I will ever hear. His two guard buddies were forced to stand stoically next to him as he shrieked, quavered and neighed his way through what is probably a pretty meaningful song. When he finished, they executed a vigorous salute and marched back the way they'd come.

The crowd stood quietly. Then, one man turned and said, "that was truly awful" and everyone burst out laughing. I walked on feeling relieved.

Just another lost angel....

Wed, 09 Jun 2010 21:58:57 +0000

Prague keeps secrets until the sun goes down. Secrets of space and light she hordes like a Czech does revelry.

While serenity survives in Prague's younger--but due to obsessive "maintenance" of the city---paradoxically older neighborhoods, it, like a stalwart Protestant, has been executed in the city's center.

But when the sun retires in Prague, so too does the tourist; he puts his photo-snapping finger on ice, stows his fanny pack safely in its fanny pack pack, and sleep becomes him. And suddenly the city is quiet and you and she are alone together. But the joy of solitude is just one of Prague's secrets.

In the summer months, when the tourists march on Prague, the sun doesn't set until 10pm, and night doesn't hit until 11 or later. As a result, the elegantly-designed lighting effects that gild Prague's structures of consequence remain hidden to the sleep-seeking traveler. And it is the night that he misses out on.

He'll never know that when you stand alone on Charles Bridge and St. Vitus Cathedral, crystally ablaze, Prague gets inside of you.

And that's the real secret she keeps.

City of night....

The Rain in Spain

Wed, 09 Jun 2010 21:12:32 +0000

While looking out upon cloudy skies over Barcelona from the top of Tibidabo (the highest point in the city) last night, my roommate simply remarked on the fact that in the 30 years he's lived here, he's rarely seen it rain for an entire day, and the clouds would certainly be gone by morning.

Fast forward to this morning when I'm prepping to do my research on (what else?) the beaches and parks of Barcelona. You know, things outside--that involve walking outside--that are vastly improved by good weather. Of course, it's pouring.

Thinking I could reschedule my beach experience to a day when it would make a difference if you were on the land or in the water, I checked the weather to see what was in store.

And, here's what I found:

Thurs: Showers
Fri: Showers
Sat: Partly cloudy
Sun: Showers
Mon: Showers
Tues: Showers
Weds: Scattered showers

So, with a ridiculously wet week on the horizon, I decided to forge ahead anyway and see a Barcelona that few travelers get to encouter. What I didn't expect is that it's a Barcelona that almost no one sees because Barcelonans seem to disappear at the sight of a raindrop.

In short: if you ever want an entire beach to yourself (or in my case, an entire nude beach with just one uninhibited older man), just make it rain.

Ireland's World Cup Woes

Wed, 09 Jun 2010 20:48:28 +0000

Like the World Cup itself, a much talked about incident involving Irish soccer has gone largely unnoticed in the United States. In their last game of the "qualifying rounds"—those games played for admission into the Cup—Ireland played France. The game remained tied until the 103rd minute, when French captian Tierry Henry received a passed and poked in over to William Gallas to "score" a goal.

But here's the thing, Henry touched the ball with his hand. Twice.

Yeah that's the biggie—no touching with the hands. It's kind of soccer's thing. So, no big deal right? The ref will call it a handball and we'll keep playing right?

Wrong.

The ref didn't see it, and called if a fair goal, dashing Ireland's hope for a World Cup spot. There are several different angles from which the goal can be seen (check Youtube) and all of them clearly show Henry, quite literally, manhandling the ball. However, I'm an optimist (at least today), and I like to think that the ref really didn't see it. Of course there could have been video replay and review of the call, but if that had happened then it would have to happen in every future soccer game on the planet. And the last thing that soccer needs is something to stop the flow of play and make it one of those awful, boring sports like football.

Funnily enough, ask an Irishman what they think of the game, and they'll tell you they're disappointed, but they'll also agree that video mediation has no place in the World Cup.

On hearing Irish for the first time...

Wed, 09 Jun 2010 20:30:58 +0000

For those that don't know, Ireland's official language is English, but equal status is given to Gaelic, or Irish. All signs appear in both languages, the Irish appearing first, and then English underneath it. Taking this into account, I was surprised to find that, after I'd been in Ireland a few days, I still hadn't heard any Gaelic being spoken.

I was sitting down in a pub (I have a feeling I'm going to be writing that a lot) and just sort of gazing off into space at a table on the terrace, when I heard two middle-aged guys come out and sit down at the table next to me. They were deep in conversation, and gesticulating wildly. One would reach over the table to push the other on the shoulder, as if to admonish him for some unknown offense. The other would respond in kind by speaking even louder, and continuing on long after I would have assumed a normal human breath could be sustained.

At last! I was hearing Gaelic. It had to be. I'd been sitting there doing nothing but trying to pick up a few words of what was being said (yes, I know, I was eavesdropping, but it's not like I had anybody to talk to) and I hadn't gotten a thing. I leaned in a little closer, just to be sure. The guy sitting closest to me turned and said something to me, and pointed at my notebook on the table.

"What?" I said.

He followed with another completely unintelligible phrase.

"I'm sorry I don't understand." I told him.

He rolled his eyes, and, as if he were talking to a 3-year-old having the "no hitting" rule explained to him for the first time, said (and I'm approximating), "Whazschatyerrdoiinderr?"

Oh. They're speaking...English. Maybe those Irish accents are a little thicker than I thought...

The No-name Blog

Wed, 09 Jun 2010 19:58:52 +0000

Part of researching for Let's Go entails being on the up-and-up, in the know for what's new and fresh in any given part of the world. And, a major part of my research in Dublin has been (you guessed it) finding the perfect pub. Now, ask anyone in Dublin where the best place to get a pint is and you'll get a million different answers. Everybody seems to have their own place, and they'll adamantly swear that theirs is "the best."

By now I've asked a few different people and have gotten some names of places to check out. A long list, in fact. And some of the names of the places were, well, a bit weird, to be honest. I'm all for creative names, especially ones that will stick in your mind, but some of these just seem to defy reason. However, they do make for a good laugh, so I'll list some of my favorites below.

1. Shebeen Bar. All I can think when I hear this name is "She-been, She-been, Oh baby when she moves, she moves!"

2. The No-name Bar. It took me a while to realize the guy who told me about this one was serious.

3. Tripod. Wait...what?

Brains Anyone?

Wed, 09 Jun 2010 19:11:36 +0000

Above is a spread that any Czech would sell his mother to the secret police to get.

Was that joke insensitive? Too soon? Too late?

Too hard to find funny cause you don't know any Czechs personally, so you can't be like "ooooo, Czech person, he GOT you!"

Let's just stick with the cold creations above then. These are beer foods, that is, food designed to be liquidized then mouth-drunk in combination with Czech's national water, beer.

We'll begin with the cheeses. Hermelin cheese (the white stuff in pie slices) is a soft cheese with a bold flavor. A good comparison is Camembert (which, at lesser Czech stops, is what you'll be getting anyway.)

The other cheese is Edam. Best when it's battered and deep-fried in 300g portions--think a Mozerrella Cheese Steak--this mild mannered milk rot almost melts in your mouth when it's sliced thinly at room temperature.

The red sausage is a spicy treat called Kolbasy. Keep in mind, when I say spicy, I mean what the Czechs call spicy. In my experience the Czech population really only understands the radish type of spice--when it comes to peppery products, they've got room to improve. But here's the thing about cold sausage--it suffers from cold lard syndrome. If you've ever fried bacon and let the pan sit, the snowy, waxy layer of love stuck on the pan is cold lard. Now take a look at the picture--see those white beauty spots in the sausage--yep! That's lard. Not gonna lie Czechs, I don't find it ideal. But lets move on to the hams (that was plural).

Toward the bottom of the frame is a sweet cured ham from the leg of the pig. The leg is the part of the pig that is usually used by a pig to walk, but for today's purposes will be used by me to chomp.

Above that is a Czech specialty--cured pork neck meat. A more tender, fattier version of ham, this ham tastes like raw bacon--in the best way.

Which brings us to those grayish-multicolored meat chunks covered by the lemon slices. Well...that's brains, or "head cheese" as it's called in these parts. It's kind of rubbery, kind of fatty, kind of salty, and extremely delicious.

Hungry yet? Well I am, so you'll have to excuse me. I have some Pig's IQ's in need of ingesting.

East but not least,

Nelson

Under Ground Treasures

Wed, 09 Jun 2010 18:31:38 +0000

Budapest is a beautiful city, no doubt. The castle, the river, the Baroque architecture. But while the average tourist has his head in the clouds, staring dreamily at these most significant phenomena, the average Budapestian is chillin, partyin, chattin, and eatin down below. First off, there are the metro stations: a continuous party where the aroma of fresh baked goodies mixes with slim, classy Pall Malls primly placed between the fingers of hip Hungarian youngsters--the perfect place to initiate your olfactory system into Hungarian health-consciousness. Some of the larger stops even have giant supermarkets or clothing shops. The metro is also where one might find the tastiest lángos (fried dough)--top it with some cheese and sour cream--you won't be disappointed. Almost always (oftentimes even at 4:30am) there is some kind of live music--a tiny old man with an accordion, some backpackers strumming guitars, a tongue-clacking and hand-clapping gypsy woman. Many bars and nightclubs also gravitate towards the Earth's core rather than the heaven's above (perhaps emulating the activity that partakes within). Sometimes this landscape is accidental (like the infamous dig that became the Gödör Klub) or extremely deliberate (Vittula, 'nough said), but this is for sure: don't leave town without getting to know its intimate depths.

Curse you, Mother Nature

Wed, 09 Jun 2010 15:48:42 +0000

I hate rain. I guess that's part of the reason I love Los Angeles, a city that keeps my disposition as sunny as its forecast (that, and its basketball team that's two wins away from yet another world championship. Sorry Boston!). And that's also why I decided that I wanted to head to Andalucía for my researching this summer. It's the hottest, driest, clearest summer destination around. Right?

Well, today I was clearly proven wrong. It's been storming and down-pouring all afternoon. While I walk the streets holding a bleeding, drenched map with curly hair frizzing in every direction, these Andalucians know how to deal with the weather like total experts. It’s almost just like old hat for them—they look absolutely put together under their sturdy umbrellas.

I obviously stand out. I walked in squeaking sneakers to my cafe table at lunch today, as the waitress handed me some extra napkins to dry off. At each stoplight I approached on my walk to the bus station, I received a sad stare as a friendly Cordoban took a few steps closer to share their umbrella-protected real-estate (I thought this would just happen once when an adorable old lady adorning a head scarf and fairly obvious dentures helped me out. Then it just kept happening!). When I finally boarded the bus, I got out-loud, deep chuckles from the bus driver and the older man behind be, as I looked like a soggy puppy paying my fair.

I've been so happy with my ability to totally blend in over the course of this trip. I never thought that my touristic give-away would be raindrops falling from my nose. On the bright side (no pun intended), Granada looks like it will be at least a touch friendlier when I arrive tomorrow morning. La Alhambra will look far more impressive under a clear sky, and maybe I’ll be able to blend in more with good weather.

Not everyone loves a travel writer

Wed, 09 Jun 2010 12:22:16 +0000

I've had some interesting responses to people finding out that I was a researcher for Let's Go. Most reactions have been pretty positive, ranging from mild amusement to party-like-it's-1944-liberation-level happiness at the sight of an American. I've gotten all the perks of a celeb: no lines, free drinks (mostly at the gay bars though... and I'm not sure its only because I'm a critic), and hugs and kisses from middle aged tourist office women who are thrilled that I've visited their tiny town.

However, I've also been met with a surprising amount of skepticism and anger, and have even been asked to leave establishments. Whether they think I'm trying to collect money or publicity rights or whatnot, I've been treated as an unwelcomed outsider. In the smaller towns, I half expect the mayor and prominent citizens to band together, put me on trial, and stone me for asking for a business card or taking pictures. Heaven forbid I write down notes in a notebook.

It starts small, with curious glances. Who can blame them though? It does look shifty that I'm sitting in a small corner of their restaurant or hotel and jotting down notes while looking around. And yes, I do ask for a business card afterwords. But still, I'm not asking for the fair market value of the restaurant or whether or not their daughter is of courting age. The response is always the same. "Pour quoi, monseiur?" Why? Why are you refusing? Don't you make those for the purpose of handing them out? Seriously. If you want your establishment to remain secret, please treat me with suspicion, since I can only assume that you would treat other travellers with the same suspicion.

The worst response I ever got was from an elderly women who ran a B&B. She refused to tell me how much rent was for the week, and refused to let me enter the B&B. When I pressed her for a card, she said that she already was in the town map, and to call for details. When I finally blew my cover, she became enraged, as though I tried to trick her. Can't blame her though. At her age, the last time she collaborated with foreigners was probably sometime around 1941, and we all know that didn't end well. I was pleading with her to let me see the place, because it had an awesome view. "No, sir. I've told you all I wanted, and now I'm done with you. Please leave."

Ok. I would have told her to look Let's Go up on the internet, but I'm not sure she knows what that is.

D-Squared: Drinks and Dining

Wed, 09 Jun 2010 12:02:49 +0000

    As turned-off as I am by sit-down meals in Italy (they equal time, money and awkwardness to me), the Italians are doing something right: the aperitive happy hour. Last night, I surrendered my regular on-the-go pizza meal for an experience that afforded a little bit of money, a large chunk of time, a good amount of company and a decidedly non-sit-down experience. Essentially, you pay for a drink (which is already discounted as a happy hour deal), and then indulge in an endless buffet of food—pasta dishes, bread, dips, and salads. The only thing to prevent you from loading up your plate with refill after refill is pride. After my fifth trip back to the food table in the course of two hours, I realized that clearly I don't have too much of that.
    I ate some of the best food I've had in Italy—healthy bulgar salads with tzasiki sauce, sauteed vegetables, and fresh bread—enjoyed an Italian cocktail—the bright orange wine spritz—and lounged on a piazza with a group of friends until midnight. It was a night out that cost me €7, fed me well, got me the perfect degree of "buzzed," and made me see why drinking is not such a big deal here.
    If I could make a plea to the USA, it would be to adopt the aperitive hour. Not only is it an affordable way to eat out and still be social (this whole Starbucks, computer/book/newspaper trend is a bit unfortunate), but it makes drinking a normal and controlled thing, especially for young people. With a banquet of free food laid out, who wouldn't take a plate as they sip their martini?
    Maybe it's asking a bit much for college dining halls to start serving wine, and even more of a stretch to think that the food will ever compare in quality. But I maintain that it would do wonders for the broke college student's wallet and liver. It's dining hall-style eating, with a whole lot more style.

Here Comes the Sun

Wed, 09 Jun 2010 11:22:27 +0000

I've always said the best thing about this job is that everyday is different and it's impossible to know what is going to happen next. The sun can finally come out (as it did today, 2010) or the rain can cause a flash flood and immerse the city entirely under water (as it did in 2002).

The first thing that I always want to do to mark the arrival of sunshine is go to the beach. Maybe that is just my inner Californian coming out, but there I have an automatic association with the summer and the beach. Unfortunately, in case you haven't looked at a map recently, Dresden is not exactly located on the coast. Rather, it's completely landlocked with the exception of the Elbe River-- but trust me, it doesn't look overly clean. Not swimming material.

However, to my surprise, the land-locked locale of Dresden has certainly not prevented the city from establishing their own little island-like havens (called PuroBeach and City Beach), complete with sand, beach chairs, a tiny pool, and even rows of volleyball nets. It's definitely a bit strange to imagine plots of sand in the middle of the city, but I figured I'd go with it. I spent two hours playing volleyball with some newfound friends, and it almost felt like I was back in Cali.

For now, I am ok with just imagining the sound of the waves.

A Tree Grows in Florence

Wed, 09 Jun 2010 07:49:30 +0000

It wasn't until the sixth day that I realized what was missing. I entered my nine zillionth church, walked into my four squillionth cloister, and stopped in my tracks. There was a tree.

An honest-to-goodness, leafy, tall, several-decades-old tree. It was this, my first arboreal encounter in what seemed like ages, that made me realize the sad truth - there are no trees in Florence.

Sure, there are frescoes of trees, mosaics of trees, terracotta miniatures of trees. But in the historic center, the real deal is nowhere to be found. In a city where no one bats an eye at churches built in years with three digits, the only green things postdate Mussolini. That whole City Beautiful movement just never quite took hold in a town that already considered itself the most beautiful thing since sliced panini.

But hiding in the basilica cloister, there was my tree. I gave it a hug.

We Want Our Liquor!

Wed, 09 Jun 2010 01:09:20 +0000

New York City. Modern. Progressive. Without the slightest vestige of prudery or stuffiness—or so the man sitting across the restaurant from me last weekend during Sunday brunch thought. I was quietly enjoying my French vanilla brioche toast when I heard a voice incredulously ask, "I can't order a mimosa?"

The source of this man's frustration was the New York state law prohibiting the sale of alcohol before noon on Sundays. Sundays mornings are are for church, you alcoholic.

The man was sitting with his friend and both of their wives. He began to playfully argue with the waitress. Or rather, he sounded playful, but he definitely wanted that mimosa. The manager, taking pity on the unfortunate waitress eventually walked over to appease the man:

"It's 11:45. You only have 15 minutes to go!"

"Yes, but I've wanted 3 by now."

Next, the manager had an idea:

"I agree. It's a ridiculous law. I mean, I would understand liquor stores not being able to sell alcohol, but it seems alright for people to enjoy a drink with their meal."

"Exactly. Well, as long as you bring it at 12, and not at 12:03 or 12:05."

"Sir, I will bring it at 11:59." And away he walked.

Only later did I realize the manager's brilliance. The belligerent man wanted him to break his rule, but he realized that he could make the man feel a sense of victory simply by concedinng that the rule was obnoxious. I took a lesson from this restaurant manager: when faced with an unreasonable person, you can sometimes make them think that they are getting what they want, without actually giving up what you want.

Supermarkets v. Local Grocery Stores (Part One)

Tue, 08 Jun 2010 23:09:00 +0000

If you're staying in a place for a few days while on the road, doing some grocery shopping is a great way to save money.

Since pretty much every hotel in Venice is "breakfast included," but most are about as liberal with croissants and cereal as they are with Wi-Fi, expect your morning repast to consist of nothing more than a roll with Nutella (maybe some orange juice if the management is feeling magnanimous). Grocery stores are great places to get some fresh fruit and bread, which are both more substantial than what most hotels offer for breakfast. Plus, purchasing them at the grocery store means you don't have to get up at 8:30am.

When grocery shopping in Venice, you basically have two options: supermarkets or smaller local stores.

Supermarkets

In Venice, the local supermarket is probably a Billa or another large national chain.

Pros

1) Supermarkets tend to have a greater selection. Back home, this probably means more choice and better values. In Venice, this means getting to laugh at absurd products like Durex Jeans, a brand of condom whose marketers apparently failed to consider the uncomfortable implications of comparing their particular product to another with the texture of denim.

2) The music. America brought the world Isis, MC Hammer, and Michael Jackson, but you have to travel halfway around the world to hear music of that quality blasting in a supermarket.

3) Many supermarkets have incredible, fresh baked goods, Italian cheeses, and more kinds of sliced deli meat than I even knew existed. This can quickly become a "Con" if going home looking like Marlon Brando in the mid-'90s isn't part of your travel plans.

Cons

1) Really really long checkout lines. If you're buying a six-pack of Birra Moretti, expect it to be a three-pack, at best, by the time you get out.

2) You shouldn't even try to speak English with the checkout-counter employees, who don't appreciate delays while trying to keep lines manageable. If you do make the attempt, they will probably look at you with about as much contempt as they would if you had just propositioned them with a box of Durex Jeans.

3) Familiar brands aren't always what they seem. You might think you can guess what the Italian on your box of soap means, but you'll be playing with fire. This is how I ended up, for the past two weeks, washing my hair with what I just found out (with some help from Google Translate) was actually women's body wash. But, on the bright side, my hair has never had more volume, so sometimes these things have a way of working themselves out.

Lost.

Tue, 08 Jun 2010 22:51:11 +0000

And no, not on a picturesque tropical island like in that silly TV show that only The Chosen Few can understand, with beautiful women who suddenly have nothing to wear but rags .

(In fact, if I'd been on The Island, I probably would have been about where I wanted to be. More on that in a minute.)

No, I was lost in a vast complex of apartments of all different shapes and sizes. Streets crisscrossed right and left, and they all had one thing in common. Each address was on the same street: V. Ugo Betti. (Hey! Isn't that a TV show!?) Really, all the streets shared the same name. Brilliant.

It was dark. I didn't know this neighborhood—I barely knew any in Milan. Was it safe here? Did anyone speak English? I was utterly lost—in a sense. I knew how to get back but not how to get where I was going. Moreover, I was afraid I'd quickly lose track of where I'd come from.

What exactly was I looking for? From the sign in the hostel, it was supposed to be an amazing oasis of palms and sand—a beach-themed nightclub with stiff drinks and no cover. If I made it there, that mojito would probably be great. But for now, it was like the buried treasure marked by an X on the map, mysterious and hidden (and, in this case, not actually on the map).

Walk one way, circle back. Walk there again, turn around inquisitively again. That was my strategy, and it was not very productive.

Zoom! If that man feels comfortable driving his Mercedes Coupe with the top down, I should be safe.

Woof! If that family seems fine out walking their dog together, I should be safe.

I am safe, but I don't know where I'm going. And I'm not going to, I conclude. Deciding to make a final U-turn, I trudge back to the Metro station, missing the cool sand between my toes and the curly straw between my lips. But I am ready to return to my online maps, plot my course, and seek the oasis another day.

It's my bride in a box

Tue, 08 Jun 2010 22:33:30 +0000

I have been in Tangier for two days now. From the aggressive hustlers, to the chaos of the medina's narrow streets and markets, to the raised eyebrows toward a single white male, this city is a lot to handle. Despite the moments of exaltation - stunning Islamic art in the Kasbah (Arab fortress) and a full rainbow above the ocean during an afternoon drizzle - this RW admits to some culture shock.

But, just when I thought, "Toto, we ain't in Cambridge anymore," I saw something that reminded me of home: things that come in boxes. As an old man explained to me, in a traditional marriage procession, a Moroccan woman rides on camelback in a 6 by 6 green and red box with a rectangular opening so that she can see the adoring crowds. Many wonderful things come in boxes: birthday gifts, cake, fancy clothing, Justin Timberlake. In Morocco, add brides to the list. Things in boxes - a cultural universal.

Morocco, bring it on.

Potpourri

Tue, 08 Jun 2010 14:20:37 +0000

A couple of amusing things that I have seen while wandering around Munich these past few days:

1) Everything is in scaffolding. This in itself is not actually amusing (it's actually rather annoying), but the Germans sure have a sense of humor with their scaffolding. Take this example of the Residenz, the royal residence:

That, my friends, would be the royalty staring at you through the scaffolding. Along the same lines...

2) Germans have a fun sense of artistic illusory humor. Take this ceiling in one of the rooms in the Residenzmuseum:

Meat me Halfway

Tue, 08 Jun 2010 12:04:12 +0000

So now it begins - Belgium! As I sit here, eating at McDonalds for the first time in what seems like years (The place has free wifi, and it's cheap: don't judge) and waiting for my train to Brussels, I wonder what will be different during my next 4 weeks out of France.

The food, for starters. Now, French cuisine is great, but here in Alsace I've eaten so much meat that I feel there is a small farmyard growing in my stomach. Perhaps smaller helpings will be on offer in Brussels, though fries, waffles and chocolate aren't exactly known for being light foods.

The language. Although Brussels is mainly French speaking there is a very stubborn Flemish influence, and those who refuse to speak French. I can just about get by speaking French, but a little bit of Flemish scares the hell out of me. Let's hope speaking slow English will be just as successful.

Now with a 5 hour train journey ahead I can contemplate my transferal to my 4th country in just 4 weeks (USA-England-France-Belgium)... Hopefully Belgium will be full of outgoing and exciting people who will be willing to meet me halfway!

English Nude Beach?

Tue, 08 Jun 2010 11:33:25 +0000

...Well, not in the traditional sense.

I visited Crosby Beach in Liverpool yesterday, which has over 100 of these cast iron sculptures (made as replicas in the exact image/proportions of the artist, apparently) propped up in the sand. At high tide, the water comes in and covers the statues up to their thighs. It's quite a sight: a whole army of naked statues (from afar they look kinda like creepy mummies) getting overrun by the waves.

They were recently approved by the Town Council for permanent display (they bring a lot of tourist traffic to thw town, I guess), but not without controversy. There's no front view in this photo, but let's just say that the sculptor didn't edit anything out in his re-creation (although who knows if he stayed...eh hem...true to scale). Parents in the local community complained of indecent exposure for children (some even called it offensive pornography) and environmental activists worried about the effects on bird-feeding. But, at the end of the day, art won out.

I Was Raised By the Street

Tue, 08 Jun 2010 11:06:21 +0000

Or rather, on a street. Well, near one, in a house. You had to take a sidewalk to get there. But the sidewalk was connected to the road—I mean street—thug canal.

The take away here is streets.

I been out thuggin' on the mean streets of Prague for over a week now (thuggin thuggin thuggin till the day I die) and the words of Snoop keep mumbling through my head: "Prague differs noticeably from US cities in its appreciation for and ubiquitous display of street art."

Maybe the reason I can't stop humming this fly rhyme-spit is because it's so true. Prague just cares a lot more about getting art out on the streets: what must be dozens of artists work continually, decorating their home town in hundreds of original and impressive works.

While not each of their efforts is Banksy, some of these displays are clearly the work of trained masters exercising their craft at a very high level.

Now, admittedly, the creation of street art isn't an entirely laudable work. At some level, the tagging of buildings is vandalism and whoever has his or her property destroyed will have to pay for someone else’s fun. But many of Prague's street artists actually take pains to avoid vandalism--at least, when that vandalism has a victim.

When possible, most artists choose to decorate telephone poles, blank slabs of freeway concrete and the plywood walls of temporary bridges and construction projects. In most cases, the pieces of these artists exhibit a genuine effort to improve their "canvas;” they don't just selfishly and shallowly telegraph some political message or obscenity.

Though, those can be fun as well.

"Yawning in the Rain"

Mon, 07 Jun 2010 23:48:15 +0000

It started raining today. I'm not normally one to complain about the weather (where I'm from the common saying is, "You don't like the weather, wait 15 minutes"), but rain in Ireland is just sort of silly. It kind of half-rains all day long. It's a drizzle that you don't really feel, but you also can't afford to take off your hood or not use an umbrella. It's the rain equivalent of seeing somebody else yawning—you just see it, you're in no way involved with it, and then suddenly it hits you.

Apparently we're supposed to have about a week of days like this. Yawwwnnnn.

Bippity-Boppity-Bandits

Mon, 07 Jun 2010 23:24:41 +0000

For as long as I can remember, my parents have referred to me as "princess." It never really fit--I've been a tomboy all my life (in varying gradients, of course. I promise I've grown out of my exclusive basketball shorts and Fubu t-shirt phase) and have had little interest in unicorns, castles, ball gowns, or toads. But I must admit, after spending three days in the cliff-side city of Ronda, I really felt that I had entered a fairy tale. The views of the Andalucian countryside were spectacular. The three bridges that are the city's token landmarks, all from different periods (Arab, Roman, and modern), cut right over a deep gorge, barreling down a good 100 feet. I didn't encounter any fire-breathing dragons or trolls, but then again, it was a pretty brief stay.

After a bit of time taking in the princess vibe, I realized that it just wasn't me. I belong in a different kind of story book. So where do I find myself? Spain's only museum devoted to pillage, plunder, and banditry: Ronda's Museo de Bandelero. I realized that I'm far more interested in hot-shots like El Tempranillo who was so renowned that he was able to abandon the whole kidnapping and ransom deal and just start writing polite letters telling some loaded land owner to hand over a sack of gold, than I ever would be in any tea party--even if a Mad Hatter, three witches, or even 7 dwarfs were there to accompany me.

So here's that token mom and dad shout out that's been coming up in almost every other blog--guys, I think it's time that we dumped the "princess" deal. I'll pick up a bandana and low-brimmed hat at my next stop, and I'll make sure to "find" some great presents from rich landowners before my way home.

On Turkey and Unscrupulous Capitalism

Mon, 07 Jun 2010 23:19:09 +0000

Not to sound dramatic or anything, but writing for a travel guide in Sultanahmet, Istanbul's tourist district, is a job one notch below that of Sisyphos. Why? Because you're supposed to roll a boulder up a hill, knowing the whole time that it must roll down before you're done.

OK, not really. But all travel guides work with recommendations, something that's essential in such an enormous, confusing city. No tourist comes without a guide--the other day I talked to a woman from the Netherlands who was carrying three different ones. The problem is that the local capitalists already figured that out--they read through all the guides, and if their hostel or restaurant happens to be recommended, they'll raise their prices, lower their quality, and put up a big honking sign announcing their greatness. The sad thing is, that's when they actually start earning money on all the elderly German tourists who start streaming into the place.

Why do I mind? Not originally from here, I also need to rely on recommendations. Having lost trust in other travelers (all they know is what the guidebooks say), the locals (they'll direct you to their cousin's restaurant), and the guidebooks, I thought that perhaps my last resort could be the good old masses of the interwebz. That's when I discovered a new disquieting fact--the local capitalists know how to use the internet too! Tripadvisor and Hostelbookers and Google Maps are full of copypasted recommendations, especially from a certain Trudy in Kansas who went to this one restaurant and absolutely loved it! Have the fish, they're always fresh! Or George from England, who stayed at this nice little hostel, and it made his stay in Istanbul! And here's a link to the website of that little hostel in case you're interested! Reviews like these drown everything else out. Apart from the occasional, touchingly naive review: "I don't understand why everyone here is so excited about this place."

But what bothers me isn't that most of what I find are tourist traps. It is the knowledge that when I do find something good and honest, I'm also responsible for ruining it. When the book comes out, I'm afraid they'll double their prices, decrease the quality, and put up a big honking sign saying that Let's Go thinks they are wonderful.

Sometimes I think that the best guide to Sultanahmet would have only one recommended listing. It would say "never trust recommendations."

Overheard in the Crypt

Mon, 07 Jun 2010 19:48:59 +0000

Recently, conversations I've had and overheard have gotten pretty twisted and bizarre. I think this is because I'm spending so much time in churches, cathedrals, and abbeys where famous people are buried. Tourists come to see their favorite dead kings, authors, and musicians, and these quests lead to several unique conversations in the dark, gothically-arched depths of London churches. Here are some of the best examples:

Me: "Excuse me, miss, do you know where Charles Darwin is?"

Woman with Southern Accent: "You're standing on him."

Fanny-packed wife to Husband: "Have you found Sir Isaac Newton yet?"

Bored Husband: "Yeah, he's over in the wall."

Exasperated tourist: "Where the hell is Chaucer? I've been looking for him for ages!"

And finally:

"Have you found Jesus?" (funny in its own right)

"Yeah, he's over there"

"Where?"

"On the cross..."

Bollywood and Bullfights

Mon, 07 Jun 2010 16:25:48 +0000

So, on a scale from 1 to the-best-thing-ever, the BollyMadrid festival in the Lavapies district of Madrid is pretty much the-best-thing-ever. Think chicken tikki masala, samosas, and cerveza galore all for one euro--plus, Bollywood movies and Indian dancing in the streets.

Yesterday, after a delicious bollywood lunch, I headed to Plaza de las Ventas to watch my first bullfight. Having grown up with the Houston Rodeo, I figured a Madrid bullfight would be anticlimactic…not so! First, assistants take out pink capes and tire the bull, making it run from one side of the arena to the other. Then, the matador comes out (on Sundays, they fight on horseback) and weakens the bull by sticking it with short barbed staffs called banderillas. Finally, the matador swiftly kills the bull by taking out his killing sword and severing the bull’s aorta. If the matador did a good job, the packed stadium goes nuts and busts out their white handkerchiefs, yelling olé!

Although some consider it to be cruel animal torture, those who come to fight after fight consider it to be a cherished tradition and sport. As one local explained to me, they have put in precautions to make it so that the bull does not suffer as much as it would in a slaughterhouse. Rather, it is killed as swiftly as possible, and the meat is all used and sent to various high-class restaurants. While I probably wouldn’t go to see another fight, it was definitely a must-see Spanish experience.

The Tapas Line

Mon, 07 Jun 2010 11:33:20 +0000

In San Sebastián, average price for pintxos (tapas with a toothpick) is about €2.50 a pop. In Bilbao, €1.50-2. In Burgos, €1-1.50. As I headed farther west, the price of tapas continued to fall faster than the euro. (Ba-zing!). And then, somewhere between Burgos and León, something magical happened. The tapas became free.

My first night in León I went into a bar, starving, and ordered a beer and a ración of jamón asado. The bartender served me my beer and then started putting a salad on a small plate. Thinking she'd misheard me, I interjected in Spanish, "Not ensalada—jamón asado." "You're not from here, are you?" she responded, and explained that in León, you generally get tapas free with your drink. Many locals don't even get meals, they just go from bar to bar: three or four drinks will get you the equivalent of a full lunch. The same applies for breakfast: free, delicious, oily churros with your café con leche or orange juice.

At this rate, by the time I get to Santiago de Compostela, they'll be paying me to eat their tapas. Fingers crossed.

Dutch Politics

Sun, 06 Jun 2010 23:14:52 +0000

The New York Times has been running a surprising number of in-depth articles on Dutch-related subjects recently, which is super convenient for me as they provide great fodder for small talk with the people I meet around Amsterdam. Recently, The Times ran one long piece about the youth soccer training school run by Ajax and another about the former mayor of Amsterdam, Job Cohen, who is now leading one of the country's major political parties.

It was the latter article that became useful to me in an unexpected place the other night. After doing a lot of nightlife research in Rembrandtplein, I squeezed out of a crowded club to write down some notes in a comparatively peaceful grassy square at about 3am. I was scribbling away when a young guy approached me and asked what I was doing. "Writing a diary?" he asked. (Note: I get this question ALL THE TIME, and it is beginning to really irk me - I don't look like a 12-year-old girl or a tortured poet.) I explained that no, I am writing a travel guide, which prompted another common question - what do I think of the city? I gave my usual answer about how I love the diversity, the people, the prettiness, the culture, etc. Then the man started talking about how he has loved Amsterdam as well, ever since he immigrated from Senegal a decade ago, but has been worried by how it's changing over the years - especially by the struggle over how far to take Amsterdam's famous tolerance. It was here that he brought up some controversial measures taken by Cohen during the time he was mayor of the city, such as closing down or regulating many coffeeshops and areas of the Red Light District. Most of this had been glossed over by the NYT article, which painted Cohen as a champion of multiculturalism and the future of a new Europe. I won't get into the political discussion that ensued, but suffice it to say that the the highlight of my night was not going to Amsterdam's biggest club or campiest drag queen bar (though those were pretty great as well), but rather my impromptu chat at three in the morning with a total stranger. Amsterdam never fails to produce interesting things when you least expect them, whether it's a pretty church in the middle of a street full of brothels or some political debate outside of a crowded club.

Lions and Dragons and Giants, oh my!

Sun, 06 Jun 2010 21:12:56 +0000

Politics aside, I want to objectively discuss why the Barcelona's City Council is much cooler than any city government in the United States (and, almost certainly, the world).

My evidence? The council's building itself. Here's what I found inside (for free, might I add):

1. Lions. Well, singular. But they do have a big cat at the top of their main stairway.

2. Hordes of little horses; I'm talking enough to supply an entire puppet army.

3. A Tarasca. What is it? They don't even know for sure, but it's supposedly some sort of dragon or wild beast that was the original form of a carriage drawn by young maidens. Pretty baller.

4. An actually recognizable dragon.

5. A dragon with boobs. Yes, boobs. La Víbria (literally, "the viper").

And, lastly,

6. GIANTS! Huge, 15-foot renditions of Kings and Queens that just chill along the corridors like it ain't no thang.

If somehow you still need convincing (or even if you don't), check this out: for special occasions, the beasts and their giants come to life and lead a merry procession through the old streets of the Ciutat Vella, complete with dancing children, dancing creatures, water squirting, music, and what resembled life-size bobble heads. And, of course, the parade is ended with a moving tower of uniformed kids.

Barcelona, you win.

Sandbagging

Sun, 06 Jun 2010 15:05:50 +0000

I was walking along the banks of the Danube today, gazing up at the castle and majestic Buda hills when all of a sudden I nearly drowned. Due to months of non-stop rain and a harsh winter that's left melting snow cascading down from the mountains, rivers throughout Hungary have reached epic proportions and people are scrambling to save their beautiful cities. I quickly ran up behind the flood gates away from the encroaching water and continued along the embankment to witness young and old, police and civilians packing sand into bags and stacking them up along the shore. While the water level was a scary sight, the level of collective human will and energy astounded me. I, too, joined the force and packed a few bags before continuing on my way. I chatted with a couple of boisterous kids who told me they were a crew team and instead of practice that day their coach had them engage in the sandbagging efforts. Too bad that too often it takes the greatest of woes to bring strangers together in harmony.

Caffeine onflicts

Sun, 06 Jun 2010 14:45:59 +0000

    It's happily the Italian way to enjoy a drink with most things -- wine with dinner, coffee with conversation. But it took me a few times to figure out that there's a time for each beverage, and 4pm, apparently, is not the time for a cappuccino.
    And yet, I don't think I'll ever find "the time" for an espresso in my diet, though I've been told that's the more appropriate midday drink. (A shot of bitter coffee will simply never compare to frothy milk, sugar, and a splash of caffeine.) Early this trip, I accustomed myself to the fact that if I wanted a cappuccino, I'd have to get it in before 11am, or else tolerate the surly looks of disapproving waiters.
    This morning that all changed. I'll start by saying that for the past week, I've been committing a coffee crime even more ludicrous than having cappuccino in the afternoon. There are two Italian coffee makers in my kitchen, -- really heavy duty things -- but I can't figure out for the life of me how they work. So I've been heating milk with water and simply mixing in the coffee grounds. Needless to say, with coffee grounds floating in the cup, my drink has had a bit more texture and a lot more caffeine.
    It was not until my friend and former barista came over this morning that I was embarrassingly forced to admit my unorthodox method. Looking at me aghast, she fiddled a bit with the machine and in the course of 5min. had given me an entire tutorial not only on making coffee but on frothing milk as well.
    With no one to judge anymore, I happily downed two cappuccinos with breakfast, another midday, and just finished off a cup of frothed milk as an early evening snack. Not only do I no longer have some strange coffee ground concoction, but I can have my cappuccinos anytime I like them. Take that Italia.

Rufus in Athens

Sun, 06 Jun 2010 14:14:27 +0000

Every summer, Athens hosts a festival in which different kinds of artistic performances are put on by musicians, dancers, and theater companies. Last night I traveled to the top of Lycabettus Hill for the second time this week to hear a concert by Rufus Wainwright (the singer of Hallelujah in the original Shrek). The first half of the show was dark and bizarre. Wainwright had requested that the audience not applaud, and when he stepped on stage--met by his requested silence--he was followed by a long black cape. The songs of the first half were lousy, repetitive, and jammed with unpleasant chords, and an eyeball winked from a projector screen behind the piano throughout the set. If applause had been allowed, I'm not sure how much he would have received.

The second half picked up considerably. Though he sang only a few songs I had heard before, the feel was much peppier as he actually acknowledged the audience. To add to this newfound warmth in the concert, I bought some tea for the second half that made the somewhat chilly night more comfortable. All in all it was a lovely night... peak-end bias at its finest.

The Snooty Stereotype

Sun, 06 Jun 2010 07:28:13 +0000

Is it true that French people are snobs, specifically when dealing with Americans? I would say this is partially true. Any foreigner who visits the tourist hotspots in Paris will find themselves met a certain coldness from a few waiters, and, if dressed as a typical tourist (wearing a fanny pack is a dead giveaway!) can expect to field scowls from uppity cigarette-dragging passers-by in the street.

But hop on a train and journey a bit from the metropolis, and you'll find that French people are among the nicest in the world. Rouen and Caen have both been filled with people offering unsolicited help. Looking just a little confused or pulling out a map can beckon a good Samaritan to your aid instantly. If you're in Paris for a vacation, and a warm welcome is important to you, think about taking a few daytrips/weekends to cities an hour or two away outside Paris. You're sure to be greeted with a smile, and you'll probably leave with one too.

Lunch date

Sun, 06 Jun 2010 00:30:52 +0000

When you travel alone, you're always on the lookout for a meal buddy. If you're on a budget, if that meal buddy will treat you, even better.

As a girl, though, this requires a certain amount of discretion. I mean, as much as I love a free lunch, I probably shouldn't be letting just any rando on the street show me to their favorite pub, no matter how good it is.

Having company is great, but there's got to be some judgment of character thrown into the equation too. Today, though, my mental math [(value of meal+value of company)-potential sketchiness] was probably one of the easiest calculations ever.

I was checking out Liverpool Cathedral, this huge and beautiful Anglican church that looks like it dates to medieval times, but was actually completed in 1978. As I read the free informational pamphlet, and tried to figure out which fixture was the Nave (I probably should be better at this by now considering how many churches I've seen in the past few weeks), I guess I was wearing my standard traveling expression: lost. A nice old man came up to me and asked me if I need help, if I was visiting, where I was from, etc.

Before I knew it, we'd been chatting for about 15 minutes about Liverpool, and when I asked him about good cheap places to eat, he invited me to have lunch with him in the cathedral cafe. I paused for a minute, then agreed. Why the hell not?

It was definitely one of the oddest, and also best lunch dates I'd ever been on. Turns out this nice Liverpuddlian senior citizen was also a retired chaplain in that very cathedral. A priest! This was a first for me, a Jewish kid from New York.

We had a wonderful conversation about university systems (he studied languages at Oxford back in the day), about politics (he's a liberal Dem who very much admires Obama), about America (he did an exchange with a priest in Baltimore about twenty years back), even about inter-faith work (he was really excited to tell me about the work that the churches in Liverpool did with their Jewish and Hindu counterparts).

Despite my protests, he insisted on treating me to my soup and sandwich, and at the end of our lunch, he introduced himself as Michael, shook my hand, looked me in the eye, and told me "God bless you," three times.

Had it been another day, I might have looked the other way, sings McCartney in "I've Just Seen a Face." True that, Paul, true that.

For all intents and purposes...

Sun, 06 Jun 2010 00:27:11 +0000

...I have a boyfriend. In Boston. And he is a "very lucky man."

His name, my roommates decided halfway through junior year, is Winston Moy. He studied human and evolutionary biology, played varsity soccer, and spent his summers working for an NGO in Tanzania (or was it Uganda?). He lived in a faraway dorm, which explained why I never spent much time in my own dorm.

We successfully pranked a few of our friends into actually believing this, and it had been a running joke ever since. This overblown fantasy, though, came in handy yesterday as I was on the train, settling myself in with a book for the 50-minute journey back to Munich. I found myself surrounded by a group of rowdy and slightly smelly 40-something German cyclists who boasted that they had just made a 140-km. pilgrimage to Andechs, a monastery known for its incredibly alcoholic (18%!) beers. The one English-speaking cyclist gestured to the guy sitting next to me, to the rousing chorus of laughter from their fellow cyclists. "That is Franz. Look at him. He is strong." He patted Franz's calves. "Look, you can feel, strong."

I smiled, raised my eyebrows, and respectfully declined.

"Vhat your name?"

"Cindy"

"Vhere you from?"

"America"

"Ahh, Seen-dee from Amerrrrika!" There had been plenty of German babbling in between, none of which I understood, but now everyone - cyclist or not - in the train car had joined in the laughter.

"Franz feel very very lucky to sit next to you."

"Oh really?"

"Yes. Franz..." [German muttering] ["Flirt!" a random guy sitting across the way yells] "Franz is flirt with you!"

Again, I raised my eyebrows. The one day I left my fake wedding ring in the hostel, this happens.

"You stay in Munich? In hostel?"

"Yes"

"Where?"

"I don't remember."

"How you not remember?"

"I know how to get there, but not where it is."

[Gestures to my hand, on which I had written some notes] "Here, you write phone number on Franz's hand."

"I don't have a phone number."

I think they started to get the gist of it. "Ah, you have boyfriend?"

This was when it suddenly became easy. "Yes. He is in Boston." Details flew out of my mouth like second nature; lying is always so much easier the second (or, in this case, umpteenth?) time around.

"Seen-dee's boyfriend in Boston. Seen-dee's boyfriend in Boston is a very lucky man!"

He is indeed.

Kebab

Sun, 06 Jun 2010 00:25:48 +0000

I promised not to do this to myself again after last summer, but three weeks into my research in Italy the backsliding has started in earnest. I can't help it – I just love kebab that much.

Kebab, which, as far as I can tell, is a cornerstone of the European food pyramid from Madrid to Edinburgh to Moscow, is an incomparable delight and, as it just so happens, is all over Venice. I swore off the stuff last summer in St. Petersburg after repeated food poisoning incidents and the publication of a newspaper article listing several street vendors who were fined for using dog meat rather than the more conventional lamb or beef in their kebab without mentioning it to their customers, but Venice is changing my mind.

After 10 months clean, I'm back to enjoying kebab on a daily basis because the kebab shops here, though looking pretty clean and claiming to be 100% halal, don't sacrifice the gloriously gratuitous, heart attack-inducing composition that puts McDonald's to shame. Onions, chili sauce, dressing, and preposterous quantities of meat, all combined in an incredible pita. The Italian interpretations of kebab are particularly awe-inspiring – this past week, I've enjoyed both kebab pizza and a kebab calzone.

Kebab shops are especially tempting to a budget traveler due to their value and convenience. If you spend €5 well, you're getting a full day's worth of calories for next to nothing. In addition to being the cornerstone of any nutritious breakfast, in a city that closes shop at about 10pm most nights, kebabs are always being made fresh somewhere in Venice, usually in a tiny restaurant packed with other budget travelers. Granted, unless you're Takeru Kobayashi, you probably don't have the stomach to handle a mega-kebab more than once or twice a week, but for those times when you're tired of dainty pasta dishes and petit croissants, kebab is the ultimate way to gorge yourself while on a budget.

Unintentional Hiking

Sat, 05 Jun 2010 22:32:36 +0000

If you've been reading this blog, you've probably noticed that I often complain about the inability to find adequate workouts while in Spain. After these past three days of travel to Gibraltar and Ronda, I take that back.

Upon arriving in Gibraltar, I witnessed its entire main street reeking of deep fryers cooking batch after batch of fish and chips. This British territory milks every stereotype you've ever imagined, so, mildly grossed out, I wasn't expecting much of a refreshing day in "the Gib" (I swear that's what they call it).

...I was way off. My visit to the Rock of Gibraltar ended up taking about 3.5 hours as I trekked up and down the most stunning landmass I had ever seen. (Please keep in mind that my sense of direction is probably worse than the average infant). All I wanted was for one of those cute Barbary apes to sling me on its back and carry me to the nearest pub.

Still recovering from my day in Gibraltar, I bused my way to the stunning, cliffside city of Ronda. As the city itself is smaller than some state university campuses, I wasn't expecting much of a walk. And yet again, I was fooled! I visited the home of the former Moorish king of the city and got the chance to navigate through the hidden chambers of his castle. I was thoroughly enjoying the chilly, stone rooms as I descended to the base of the Ronda cliffs. It wasn't until I snapped a few damn good photos (if I do say so myself) that I realized that the simple stroll down was to be followed up by a poorly-lit, step-upon-step, vertical climb back to the top.

Essentially, I now haven't "worked out" since my last run in Seville, and my hip flexers are throbbing with soreness. The one piece of advice from this post: you never want to miss a sight because it involves a walk or a climb. Cities are way more fun to experience on foot than any cheesy tour bus. So, pack some sneakers and eat a banana--the potassium is supposed to help with the post-workout lactic acid.

Small Town News

Sat, 05 Jun 2010 22:25:39 +0000

I thought I'd been to small towns before, but nothing prepared me for Carrión de los Condes, population 2,328. The following things happened during my brief stay. (My apologies to anyone from a small town for whom these are not abnormal occurrences. Coming from New York, I was a little struck by these.)

My bus into town got caught behind a tractor for the last 3km.

I saw someone ride into the Plaza Mayor (still known to many as the Plaza del Generalísimo) on horseback and tether his horse to a post before walking into the bar.

A rooster woke me at dawn. They say ki-kiri-ki here, instead of cock-a-doodle-doo.

However, despite being a small town, the bars in Carrión still stay open significantly later than those in Boston.

My "Breakout" Moment

Sat, 05 Jun 2010 22:03:29 +0000

If I'd taken Latin in high school, I probably wouldn't have the following story to tell. But hell, it's a dead language, so I took the ever-useful . . . French. And so here I am, looking for sights and discovering one I never expected.

Finding monuments and museums for the guide can be easy. There are some that simply have to be included in every city. In Milan, the Duomo, Castello Sforzesco, and Pinoateca di Brera come to mind. But filling out the list can be tough. To get ideas, I've turned to word of mouth, some free local travel publications, and have also simply wandered the streets.

The last strategy was the one I was pursuing just after visiting the Museo Nazionale della Scienza e della Technologia Da Vinci. I checked my map to see what was nearby. A beige shape, the same color that represents churches and other places of interest, caught my eye. It had vaguely the shape of the Starship Enterprise, with a large main hall and a circular wheel at the top, from the center of which several spokes radiated, intersecting an outer ring. Grass, the color code indicated, filled in the empty spaces.

So I set off in search of this uniquely designed cathedral. San Vittore, the map called it. After some minutes of turning corners, backtracking, and finding my bearings again, I realized I had already reached my desitination.

"Boy, it has a high wall," I thought, wondering where the entrance was.

After wandering around for a moment, I was taken aback with the following observation:

Ohmygodthere'samanwithagunontopofthatwall!

And then, I was hit with the realization of my idiocy.

The high wall. The hub-and-spoke design. The name. Oh right, the name.

Carcere San Vittore. Carcere as in: in-CAR-CER-a-tion. My really cool cathedral was a prison.

Needless to say, I turned around quickly. I didn't want that burly gun-toting man as my tour guide. Plus, I said to myself, tickets for that tour come at a little too high a price.

Moo-Moo-Moving and a Shakin'

Sat, 05 Jun 2010 21:53:31 +0000

Although the Alsace region is pretty rural, Strasbourg is not: the only green here is generally from the man made parks. So I was very surprised to find a farmyard in pl. Kébar, one of the busiest shopping squares in city. It turns out a local festival was "bringing the farm back into the city" with a massive inflatable-cow-shaped bouncy castle and the biggest cockerel known to man. What classically pastoral fare...the cockerel was HUGE. This thing looked more like a small sheep or something.

My farming exploits were short-lived--- I only have one weekend in Strasbourg, after all--- and I quickly ditched for Strasbourg's more lively bars and clubs. Strasbourg prides itself on a casual bar scene (no club stumbling here), and most clubs I turned up to were closed or not opening for another hour or two. Perhaps I should have stayed in the underground cave of a sorcerer themed bar I found, where I had the most interesting conversation with a group of French students; apparently I reminded them of this character in a Welsh film who used the fake credentials to impersonate a reporter to gain free access into clubs. Fortunately, my press pass isn't fake... even more fortunately, I'm not Welsh.

Bananenweizen-Flammenkuchen Snob

Sat, 05 Jun 2010 20:17:06 +0000

Imagine a perfect pizza and beer.

Now, once you have all that savory deliciousness in your mind, imagine it a million times better.

This is the best I can do to describe my first experience with Bananenweizen and Flammenkuchen.... Bananenweizen is banana juice mixed with wheat beer, served chilled in a tall .3L or .5L glass... My first thought was: Yum. My second thought: Actually, I didnt have any other thoughts-- I was drowning in glorious Bananenweizen.

Why have we not discovered this in the States? Or if we have, why have I never discovered it?? It's probably a good thing though-- My love for this drink might just overtake my fear of a beer belly... and that is a dangerous possibility. While drinking my Bananenweizen, I was appropriately seated at a biergarten along the Elbe river and in the shadow of the Blue Wonder, Dresden's steel blue bridge, watching the sunset. But more importantly, I was also eating Flammenkuchen. Roughly translated, this means "flamed cake," which unfortunately conjures more an image of a Harry Potter dessert than an accurate illustration of its deliciousness. Essentially, it's a really thin pizza with cheese and toppings but no sauce-- slowly cooked in a large oven until the dough becomes cracker-thin and melts in your mouth. I will never be able to settle for Domino's and Corona again. I don't even care if it's thin crust. I am officially a Bananenweizen-Flammenkuchen snob.

Morocco...Almost

Sat, 05 Jun 2010 16:49:06 +0000

Dear loyal fans,

I set off on my journey - an intrepid traveler clad in my favorite outdoor performance gear - at 5 PM on Friday, June 4th. Leaving from Trudeau Airport in Montreal, I expected to arrive in Tangiers a full 23 hours later, with connections in Paris and Madrid. And, I almost made it. Almost. I'll give you a hint: I'm spending one night in a city where people lisp when they say thank you... Si, tiene raTHon, bienvenidos a Madrid.

According to one incredibly angry British traveler standing in front of me at airport information: "Madrid is the shittiest airport in the world." She got a lot angrier when they called security on her. I thought the airport was very pleasant.

Next stop: Morocco.

Abrazos.

White-Sacked Santas in the Streets of Athens

Sat, 05 Jun 2010 14:23:59 +0000

All around the streets of Athens (particularly in the areas heavily trafficked by tourists but also on streets that aren't on the main tourist thoroughfare) are men who are clearly ethnically different from the rest of the Greek population selling knock off Louis Vuitton and Fendi bags off of white sheets. These sheets are the ever-present picnic blanket for the contraband goods as it doubles as an impromptu sack if the police try to interfere with their transactions. In such a situation, each vender gathers up his or her sheet and storms through the streets like a flock of Santas, sacks thrown over their shoulders.

From what I can tell, Athens has three distinct groups within its limits: locals, tourists, and these out-of-town vendors. In a week here, I have not yet seen a person of this last group working in a store, wearing a suit, or walking with a family. It is clearly a class that subsists on the side streets that doesn't have a place recognized by Greece's authorities. As was evidenced last night when a whole horde of white-sacked Santas ran past my dinner table, two police officers trailing less than 100m behind, there is something socially problematic going on throughout the streets of Athens.

You Got a Problem With That?

Fri, 04 Jun 2010 22:27:14 +0000

Since arriving Tuesday morning, I've somehow already stumbled across two demonstrations in the Plaça de Sant Jaume outside of the Ajuntament de Barcelona, the region's administrative body. (Semi-related question(s): Do you have to book the square? Will protests collide, if not? Cue humorous musing over possible protest group conflicts.)

The first that I experienced was a labor protest in which workers were rallying support for their strike, complete with what looked like a miniature hot air balloon in colors that matched the protestors' uniforms. Talk about effective marketing.

Today, a small group gathered to collect signatures to express support of Cataluña stopping the incredibly violent practice of bull fighting. Apparently, even Conan O'Brien has taken up this cause (see tweet here, complete with a link to sign the petition—you should! http://twitter.com/ConanOBrien/status/15440771891). Predictably, I'm really happy this movement is even on the table.

The fighting spirit pervasive in the city doesn't just disappear with the fleeting demonstrations, though. Signs of political strife, allegiances, and—mind you, I'm American—a weird and impressive lack of apathy about what is happening in their home, have left (and are constantly leaving) their marks throughout the city. Graffiti is everywhere—some political, some downright pretty, some incredibly bizarre—and frankly, I love it.

Though I can't list all of my favorites so far, here are some of the more poignant statements I've found:

A squat visible from the entrance of Parc Güell has covered an entire side and roof of the house with messages such as, "OKUPA Y RESISTE" and "WE KNOW YOUR CAPITALIST PARADISE," complete with a rendition of—out of all things—Tarzan.

In Plaça da la Villa de Madrid, banners with "Gespa Protegida / Plaça Protegida" and "Regidora Ara, Compromís!" are draped from windows and balconies on each side of the square. And to what does this community effort translate? "Protected Lawn / Protected Plaza", and an appeal to the town council regarding the protected grass in the center of said plaza.

You've gotta fight, for your right...

Hungarian Dogs

Fri, 04 Jun 2010 18:34:09 +0000

Drills hum day and night. I'm on the outskirts of the city and even there the drills and whir of machinery can be heard at 2am. Budapest is a city in a perpetual state of renovation and beautification. It is worth noting, too, that a certain breed of Hungarian man comes along with this renovation. This man has a bit of chub around the middle and may be missing a front tooth or two. He wears a cap with white plaster dribbled along the edges. His hands are dusty and calloused. Delicately formed lines spring out from the corners of his eyes as a result of his unrelenting smirk. This is a man who never gives up. Each time a woman crosses his path, he finds it necessary to holler some remark ranging from obscene to rated NC-17. While you may scoff and scorn him as you hurry past, heels haphazardly catching in the cobblestone riffs of Budapest's streets, you have to give the guy credit. It takes a certain strength of will to keep the spirits up enough to keep making those unrequited passes. While these men may appear intimidating, however, most of the time they've got a bark that surpasses any nibble. Just try to play along one day, give him a taste of his own medicine--you might be surprised at how quickly the dog turns back into a puppy and scampers away with tail between his legs.

Carrie On

Fri, 04 Jun 2010 17:33:18 +0000

The best part of being in one city for a long amount of time (6 weeks in Madrid in my case) is the chance to make new friends and see them more than once. Yesterday I had girl's night out: drinks and "Sexo en Nueva York 2" with two girls from Germany, a girl from France, and one from America. We started the night at Midnight Rose, a swanky rooftop terrance bar that overlooks the city. After mojitos and gossip, we headed to the packed movie theater and watched Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, and Miranda get themselves into all sorts of shenanigans. It's funny how cosmos and couture can bring together girls from all over the world.

My New Haircut

Fri, 04 Jun 2010 16:24:49 +0000

I had planned to get a haircut right before I left school for Venice but never got around to it.

After three weeks here, I slowly slipped from a practiced look of sprezzatura (artful dishevelment) to something that can only be described as more or less catastrophic. My friend who visited me last weekend tried to peer pressure me into not cutting my hair or shaving for six more weeks to see if I could pull off the Anderson Varejao/Phil Spector look, but it had gotten to the point where I couldn't walk down the street without attracting many bemused stares. I figured I should try to look presentable for the nightlife research I have to do this weekend, so I decided it was time for a new haircut.

Maybe it is a coincidence, but over the course of my lifetime in America, I've had three regular barbers - all Italian. So I figured I knew what to expect. When I sat down in the chair to get my hair cut, however, I found myself suddenly and forcefully grabbed by the back of the neck before my head was unceremoniously shoved under a sink. Now, I'm not an expert, but it seems to make more sense to let customers lean back to have their hair shampooed than to push them under the faucet because (a) people generally don't like to feel as if they're being waterboarded and (b) the customers' clothes won't be completely soaked when they're released from their barber's death grip. But when in Rome, I guess . . .

Anyways, after the near-drowning experience, I was surprised to find that my haircut wasn't so bad. Given that the barber was about 70 and wicked fast with his scissors, I worried about losing an ear, but he was pretty proficient. An added perk was that I got to practice my Italian comprehension skills (limited, but I speak Spanish, so I can understand a decent bit of Italian) as the other two barbers laughed from the peanut gallery at the americano who, depending whose side you took, looked either like a bear or a vagabond.

I was happy with the haircut, but when I got up to pay the barber (who I think might secretly harbor ambitions of joining a senior citizens' Mixed Martial Arts League), slammed me back into the seat and menaced me (specifically my beard) with a razor. I declined but left with my wallet €10 lighter and a much greater appreciation for my barber back home.

East Side, West Side

Fri, 04 Jun 2010 16:12:57 +0000

My research in Berlin took me first from the very West side of the city, and then to the very East. My first hostel in Charlottenburg was surrounded by wide streets with German businessmen industriously marching along and storefronts decorated with intricate stonework. My nights spent there were defined by upscale jazz clubs and laid-back gay bars.

I then took a short 15 minute ride on the U-Bahn to where I’m now staying in Friedrichstein on the East side, but I felt like I’m in a different city. Imposing cement and aluminum windows, charmingly decorated with graffiti, surround me and the plethora of students walking the streets. I realized I should have shed the suit and dreaded my hair in between Tiergarten and Ostbahnhof. Then I could feel right at home at night too, with East Berlin’s never-ending industrial-buildings-turned-nightlife-mayhem scene. Tonight I’m responsible for finding 13 places to blow your eardrums in Friedrichshain alone. I have one hostel-comrade who has sworn to assist me in my valiant quest for Europe’s best bass and wildest strobe lights. Wish us luck.

Walled Off

Fri, 04 Jun 2010 16:12:05 +0000

Berlin is an incredibly powerful place to be when you have friends and family on your mind.

Yesterday, I went to the East Side Gallery, the longest remaining portion of the Berlin Wall. It doesn’t look so impressive now—it’s only about eleven feet tall and maybe a foot thick. Without the guards, barbed wire,second wall and watchtowers, it’s like the wall’s been declawed. While strolling the length of the wall, I happened upon a tour group, and eavesdropped on the tour guide's lecture.

You may or may not already know this, but the Berlin Wall went up in a single night. 30,000 troops formed a ring around East Berlin, and then began unrolling a spool of barbed wire—the first generation of the Wall. Whatever side of the Wall people were on that night, in almost every case, that’s where they were for the next thirty years. Can you imagine? Perhaps your sister, living in East Berlin, asked you to come over that night to watch her kids while she and her husband went out to dinner. You say a quick goodbye to your own children, hop in your car, and the next morning, when you try to drive back, you’re told you can’t.

I have to ask again: Can you even imagine? I’d heard that the Berlin Wall had torn families apart, and I’d seen pictures of Checkpoint Charlie and No Man’s Land in textbooks, but I’d never even begun to conceive of what that wall really meant.

According to the tour guide (and I’m still digesting this), in that single night, 13,000 marriages were broken. 13,000 husbands and 13,000 wives woke up on different sides of the city, and until the wall was torn down thirty years later, that was where they stayed.

Wallet Woes

Fri, 04 Jun 2010 16:10:52 +0000

For three weeks, I’ve diligently protected all of the most valuable possessions I took with me on this trip. Every night I slept with my passport and 50 euros in cash. I packed my laptop in my bag every morning before I went out, lugging it around with me for miles so that I could always have it on me. I hid extra money in two places in my pack, my wallet, and then on my person.

I was my own over-protective mother.

Of all the cities on my itinerary, Berlin scared me the most. I pictured poured concrete buildings, towering industrial sky-scrapers, no trees and lots of car manufacturers. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Berlin is a beautiful city, full of parks and townhouses on narrow, winding, stone streets. Over three million people live here, but everyone’s so spread out over the six main neighborhoods that you feel like you always have plenty of space and room to breathe. And it was since getting here that I started to break a lot of my own rules.

Why refill at the ATM if I’ve still got some cash back at the hostel? Oops! I forgot to wear a money belt today—guess that means the debit card’s going in the wallet! No worries, right?

Ironically, when I finally found myself without a wallet (as in, no money or form of identification) on me near some U-Bahn station whose name I’ve never heard of (and certainly couldn’t pronounce) it wasn’t because I was robbed, mugged, or threatened. It was because I left my wallet on the bus seat next to me, having hurried off the bus after realizing I was about to miss my stop. Once my biggest ally, I was now my own worst enemy. What a plot twist! Don’t even pretend you saw that one coming.

Lest we forget to find a moral in this story, I’ll recap with some hard-learned lessons:

1. Always, always, always have money on you in multiple places.

2. Ditto for IDs (and copies of IDs).

3. Keep your most valuable things (bank cards and passport) on your person. Not close by, not at hand, not in your pack: on you.

OMG I'm So Confused

Fri, 04 Jun 2010 12:59:59 +0000

Ah, Chinatown. The place is chaotic to begin with (probably what Little Italy and Nolita looked like back in the day). Then you have the same decor—spare, a few traditional paintings on the walls, maybe some bamboo decorations if we're feeling extra frisky; the same menu items; the same Time Out capsule recommendations blown up and pasted to the window. Meanwhile, all the street vendors seem to have the same terrifying little-blonde-girl doll singing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" while she gazes out at the fish carcasses across the street with perpetually appalled eyes.

The food is actually different; you just have to learn between Cantonese, Shanghai, and Szechuan styles. Not to mention all the Malaysian, Thai, and Vietnamese stuff. In fifty years will Chinatown be reduced to a single street and look like Little Italy? Dread.

Epcot on Mulberry St.

Fri, 04 Jun 2010 12:56:58 +0000

Living downtown is my heaven-sent gift. Many of the neighborhoods I'm covering in my research are within walking distance, and it's reassuring to know that I'll be able to regularly go back to these places, rather than just ditching them.

First up is Little Italy, which, we all know, isn't a real neighborhood anymore, etc., etc. Which is true—though I definitely saw some hefty Italian guys lounging on the benches outside Lombardi's and two old Italian women guarding their stoop and giving me proud, wary looks. So that's like 6 people. Not bad. Otherwise it's like Epcot in Disney, with people clad in the standard white tourist uniform (polo shirt, khaki shorts, camera). On weekends they even close Mulberry St. down and turn it into the "Mulberry Mall," with carnivalesque food stands and arcade games. They milk it.

I'm just waiting for Chinatown to close in on this street. They can take Nolita while they're at it, a nice, pleasant neighborhood that probably used to be more exciting back when Little Italy stretched from Houston to the Federal Plaza, from Broadway to the Bowery. Now it's just, you know, nice.

In Shambles

Fri, 04 Jun 2010 12:54:22 +0000

In a frenetic burst of final packing I threw all my remaining miscellaneous items in a weak trash bag and tried with varying success to latch this to an already obese suitcase—basically violating all of Let's Go's recommendations on packing. (I thought the fact of a stable apartment rather than a succession of hostels would vindicate me.) Combine this with the potentially poor decision to go with a Fung Wah bus—whose ceiling miraculously did not collapse somewhere between Hartford and New Haven—and you have me half-lifting, half-dragging a torn white thing through Chinatown on the way to my new place (within walking distance of the FW "station"). And I dropped a wine bottle on the ground and it shattered. It's okay; I knew I'd feel ridiculous somewhere along the way, so it's best to feel it early, I suppose.

Peer Pressure

Fri, 04 Jun 2010 10:34:48 +0000

I never thought I'd be that person.

My impression of American tourists in Europe mostly fell under two categories: retirees in big tour groups herded around from attraction to attraction like lost sheep, and bright-eyed teenagers eager to support the European alcohol industry. I would, of course, be sharing my dormitory-style hostel rooms with those in the latter category, which made me slightly nervous. Being an only child and a recently graduated college senior, I've been spoiled most of my life with the privacy and comfort of having a room all to myself, and I wasn't particularly fond of the idea of crazy roommates drunkenly stumbling in at 2am.

Again, I never thought I would be that person.

Having just landed in Munich the day before, I decided to take a free English walking tour of the city to orient myself. The tour also turned out to be a great way to meet some fellow travelers, and after we wandered around the city together, we made further plans to take the "Beer Challenge" tour later that night, a glorified beer-hall-crawl. Now, I'm not really a drinker, but I figured it would be a nice way to visit a bunch of beer halls, sample some beers, and break the monotony of traveling alone.

Now don't let your imaginations get carried away - I did not, mind you, drunkenly stumble back into my room at 2 in the morning. I probably had a total of less than one drink (I donated most of my leftover beer to some younger, more eager stomachs) and I even tried to quit the tour early since I was ridiculously jet lagged. Peer pressure prevailed, though, and my new friends convinced me to join them for the whole tour. At the last stop, I ran into a few girls also staying at my hostel that I had met the night before, and from them I met even more people that they had met on their journeys. The night ended on a big facebook-friending note. By the time we made it back to the hostel, it was 1am, and I went back to find three new roommates already asleep.

Oops.

I spent the next half hour or so rambling about and trying to make as little noise as possible (though the broken doorknob that fell to the floor with a loud clang didn't help) before climbing up into my bunk. It was an exhilarating day, but I was exhausted and had a backlog of work to do the next day. But it all goes to show that you should never travel with expectations - new friends and new experiences might destroy them all.

A Day in the Life

Fri, 04 Jun 2010 10:19:31 +0000

I had enjoyed my time in Manchester, but it had been a hard day's night and I was pretty excited about my ticket to ride... off to Liverpool. The trip is about an hour, and like most English train rides, it was quiet and scenic, but it was once we passed John Lennon Airport that I started to get really excited. Hello (Beatles), Goodbye (Oasis?).

The hostel that I'm staying at in Liverpool is this beautiful old Georgian house at the edge of town, owned by a native Liverpuddlian in his 60s. Within an hour of arriving, I had already heard about six different stories about his growing up in Liverpool in the days when the Beatles were getting big and the different places around town he used to go see them play; there was even one story about how he and his friends (he sings) once placed ahead of John Lennon's group (not the Beatles) in an amateur talent contest.

Thursday nights here at the hostel mean 9pm free Beatles tour—so two Belgian brothers, a Spanish girl, an Australia, a Canadian, and another American and I headed out on the town with our host, who took us around to the spots where the Beatles had played or drank coffee or listened to records. We stopped for a beer in the Philharmonic, or "The Phil" (where John Lennon famously complained that the price of fame meant "not being able to go to the Phil for a drink"), and we finished up at the Cavern Club, the place where Brian Epstein first saw the Beatles play. Every Thursday night for Beatles Tribute night, a great Beatles cover band from Liverpool rocks out for the tourists and the Scousers alike.

The crowd was of all ages and from all over the world. What's awesome about the Beatles is that they're basically a universal tongue. It was 110 degrees down in the basement; everyone was sweating like dogs and it smelled terrible. No matter though. We all jumped up and down and around with each other like it was 1962.

Come together, yeah.

Top Dog in Central Park

Fri, 04 Jun 2010 05:02:54 +0000

Just after entering Central Park at 5th Ave. and 65th St, visitors are faced with a printed sign with a plea for donations from the Central Park Conservancy Foundation. The sign features some cheesy pun about statue upkeep costing "an arm and a leg." Whatever the cost of upkeep for the over 50 statues in Central Park, this, from my perspective, is extreme over-spending. Visitors to Central Park only care about one statue: Balto.

I first felt childish when I immediately (and loudly) exclaimed "Balto!" upon encountering the statue of that famous sled dog memorialized by Disney. Balto, who bravely led his team of sled dogs to Nome, transporting diptheria antitoxins to the afflicted. My embarrassment turned to fascination when I noticed that tourist after tourist was climbing to the top of Balto's little pedestal to take a picture with the courageous canine.

Like I said, there are over 50 statues in Central Park. I saw many of them today over the course of the several hours I spent there. I saw no tourists excitedly taking pictures with any of the other statues. No other statue I encountered elicited the same delight, devotion, and blatant star-struckedness as Balto.

Central Park Conservancy: This is the only statue you need.

Nuns on parade!

Thu, 03 Jun 2010 22:25:50 +0000

It is 11pm, and I am walking down a skinny little stone street in Florence, when I turn a corner and run smack into a nun. And 500 of her friends. Nuns in habits and rosaries everywhere, as far as the eye can see. More nuns than you can shake a ruler at, carrying candles, and marching slowly, and... singing. Something very familiar.

But there's no time to think because the nuns are coming. Five hundred nuns flanked by priests, and some monks, and possibly a rabbi, and a dude dressed like Napoleon, and two altar boys running up and down the line with lighters and fire extinguishers, and probably the pope for all I know, so I dodge out of the way of the oncoming clergy and hop up onto a safe ledge. I'm feeling rather like Simba escaping the wildebeest stampede, but with more incense, and cursing my camera for being locked safely in the hostel, and then I place it. They are singing, in Italian, "All people that on Earth do dwell" - the hymn my choir sang every Sunday this last year. The only hymn that I, in all my Jewness, know by heart.

So what the hell? I joined the parallel march of plainclothes laypeople and sang along.

A Bilingual Feast

Thu, 03 Jun 2010 22:17:20 +0000

As I turned the key to my front door, I noticed two figures in the darkened bakery. Fully realizing that whoever it was wouldn't know why an American was living in the apartment building, I opened the door and quickened my step...kicking the doorstop and raising a terrific racket. I held my breath, and the door to the bakery opened.

"Bonjour," I said.

"Bonjour...," replied the first patisserie.

"I live here. I'm the American," I replied hopefully. Nothing could have prepared me for the explosive reaction the baker had. Within seconds, my new friend, one of the patisserie at the bakery, had invited me out to a drink at the bar next door to the bakery.

What ensued was an hour and a half long, several-drink, multilingual conversation (most of which was spent with his phrasing a question in English, my trying to help him out by responding in French, and then a non-verbal agreement on both of our behalves to speak equal parts both languages for the next few sentences until a consensus was reached). A few of his friends stopped by, another patisserie dropped in, and we played musical chairs in the cool London night at one of the outdoor tables.

But the evening's intrigue didn't end there. Midway through a conversation where I was trying to explain my love for the band Phoenix (from Versailles), despite his insistence that Phoenix was in a Western state and that it didn't make music, a well-dressed man emerged from the bar holding a glass of red wine.

"Got a light?" he asked

"Non, I'm sorry," I replied in a British-American-French accent. He looked pointedly in front of me and I noticed that someone had left a BIC lighter. After several failed attempts with the lighter, he lit his cigarette off of the patisserie's and thanked us. I told him it was no problem and he exclaimed "Oh, you're American!" It turned out he was British, and, with a hearty exclamation from each of us, we agreed that having three different accents was a minimum for any respectable conversation.

He had just returned from America where he'd been working for Sony. We discussed video games, PS3, Blu-Ray, 3D and I systematically disregarded Sony technology, especially 3D televisions.

As he stood up to leave, just out of curiosity, I asked him what his position was at Sony.

"I'm the CEO of the European video games department."

He went to leave, and I turned to the patisserie with my jaw agape. He shrugged it off.

As he departed, the Sony bigwig left us with one final gem: "I used to drink with Lily Allen here."

Parking... Structured?

Thu, 03 Jun 2010 21:37:54 +0000

Living in Boston has taught me quite a few things about how to live in Milan. Crossing the street, for one: meander out between two cars, look, and then cross, whether they're coming or not—the cars have to stop for you, you know. What living in Beantown hasn't taught me, however, is how to park.

Admittedly, I haven't driven any motorized vehicle here in Milan, and that's probably a good thing, considering my apparent disregard for the rules of the road. What I have done is walked around cars parked on the sidewalk and on the grass and right over cars parked in the crosswalk. (Shh, don't tell.)

Oh, and I've also thought, "Can't you just find a real spot??"

But apparently that's not the way in Italy, where the sidewalks pockmarked by moped kickstands would put a New York City pothole to shame. Milan's government seems not to have helped matters much when, in 2008, they implemented a London-like congestion charging system for cars in the city center. Nice neighborhoods—names have been withheld to protect the innocent—near the border of the toll zone have become virtual used-car lots during the work day. All that beautiful green space in the middle of the city's boulevards? No more. Asphalt.

Ironic, isn't it? Seems counterproductive too. Maybe the consolation is that the cars the Milanese drive are fuel-efficient: tiny Smart Cars, zippy Fiats, and, well, mini Mini Coopers. But that only means that it's easier to squeeze onto the sidewalk, easier to park on corners, and easier to drive pedestrians nuts.

On Turkey and Being Surprised

Thu, 03 Jun 2010 20:43:40 +0000

When people ask me what's the essence of traveling, I say, um...well okay, I don't say anything because nobody cares much about asking me about my views on pretty much anything these days. But if they did ask me, I'd say something like this--traveling is about little surprises.

Istanbul just reminded me of that. The city keeps presenting me with small, banal, insignificant events that form the mosaic of my days. For example: I was standing at a crosswalk, waiting for the walk sign to turn on. It did, and when I looked up, the tiny man on the walk sign was moving his legs! The movement had only two phases, like a cheap neon sign, but the little man looked like he was walking. What a revealing moment that was--the tiny man tells us that it's very easy for people to think that they are going somewhere, while standing still the same place the entire time. In fact, he asks, "are you really going somewhere?"

Another example: my new flatmate showed me how to take a hot shower in the apartment in Cihangir where I'm staying. First step--open a valve on the gas canister below the sink. Second step--move the lever on the heater to the right. Third step--take a lighter, stick it into a hole in the heater and set the escaping gas on fire. Wait for five minutes and take a shower. That's a surprise I haven't gotten over yet--out of fear that I'll make the building explode I've been only taking cold showers since I came here.

Final example: I was sitting at the Hippodrome square, peoplewatching and eating my pide (Turkish pizza), when I noticed a young woman wearing a conservative muslim dress--all black, only the eyes were visible. She was carrying a semi-eaten corn cob, which presented a daunting problem for me - how was she to eat it with most of her face covered? That's when she swiftly lifted her veil, bit into the corn cob, and immediately lowered the veil again. I was stunned not only by the fact that it was possible to do that, but also by her face, which was beautiful.

It's moments like these that help you separate the necessary from the unnecessary. If you don't find yourself surprised every now and then, you're not traveling.

(French) Myth Busters

Thu, 03 Jun 2010 20:06:34 +0000

Now that I've been in France for 10 days, I've put many of the French stereotypes to the test with surprising results:

1. The typical Frenchman riding his bike doesn't seem to frequent the Loire; in fact, he's more likely an Ozzy doing a self discovery trip than a French dude on his way to buy bread. In my short time here I have seen some bizarre things; grown men travelling by scooter - as in the type I had when I was 10. Roller skates are also popular, but people seem unable to control them. For me, though, the best mode of transport I saw was...unicycle. I kid you not! Only in France...

2. The French refuse to speak anything but French. WRONG! Kids in school learning French right now will arrive here and wonder why they bothered. Even after 7 years of studying French, conversations go like this: Me: "Bonjour, Madame". Woman in shop: "Hello there young man, what would you like?" Every time! I will persevere, however, and only respond in French - I'm going to make those 7 years worth it.

3. Next, The French all smell...well I think that's enough myth busting for one day; with a load of French people in this cyber cafe, the less said about the smell the less likely I am to offend the rather big man next to me. Rule No1 in France: Don't anger big Frenchmen.

The Paseos

Thu, 03 Jun 2010 19:10:46 +0000

Madrid’s paseos are a great starting point for walking tours, since most major sights are located on these main avenues. Trees in the the grassy medians offer shade and provide a nice buffer from the zooming traffic. You may be tempted to head to El Retiro after the Museo del Prado, or venture to Puerta del Sol once you have reached Pl. de Cibeles. Regardless of the path chosen, the paseos are a simple way to acquaint yourself with the city and organize a daily itinerary.

1. REINA SOFÍA. Directly across from Estación Atocha, the Museo Nacional Centro de Arte Reina Sofía, home to Picasso’s Guernica, presides over Pl. del Emperador Carlos V. Its glass elevators hint at the impressive collection of modern art within.

2. MUSEO DEL PRADO. Walking up Po. del Prado, you’ll pass the Real Jardín Botánico on the right. Next to the garden is the world-renowned Museo del Prado; behind it, on C. Ruíz de Alarcón, stands the Iglesia de San Jerónimo, Madrid’s royal church. Built by Hieronymite monks, the church has witnessed the coronation of Fernando and Isabel and the marriage of King Alfonso XIII. These days, the church hosts the weddings of Madrid’s modern-day elites. (Open daily 10am-1pm and 5-8:30pm.).

3. PLAZA DE LA LEALTAD. Back on Po. del Prado, to the north in Pl. de la Lealtad, stands the Obelisco a los Mártires del 2 de Mayo, filled with the ashes of those who died in the 1808 uprising against Napoleon. Its four statues represent constancy, virtue, valor, and patriotism. Behind the memorial sits the colonnaded classical Bolsa de Comerico (Madrid’s Stock Exchange). Ventura Rodríguez’s Fuente de Neptuno, in Pl. Cánovas de Castillo, is one of three aquatic masterpieces along the avenue, famous enough to have earned him a Metro stop. Crossing the plaza brings you to another great museum, the Museo Thyssen-Bornemisza. One block up San Jerónimo on the right towards Sol is El Congreso de los Diputados, which houses the chambers of the Spanish Parliament.

4. PLAZA DE CIBELES. The arts of the Po. del Prado transition into the Po. de Recoletos at the overwhelming Plaza de Cibeles. From the plaza, the small Museo Naval is to the right. (Entrance on C. Juan de Mena, 1. }913 79 52 99; www.museonavalmadrid.com. Open Tu-Su 10am-2pm. Closed Aug. Free.) In the southeast corner of the plaza sits the spectacular Palacio de Comunicaciones, designed by Antonio Palacios and Julián Otamendi of Otto Wagner’s Vienna School in 1920, which functions as Madrid’s central post office. On the corner opposite the Palacio lies the equally impressive Banco de España.

5. PALACIO DE BUENAVISTA. Across C. Alcalá from Banco de España is the Palacio de Buenavista, occupying the heart of an entire city block. The stately palace was built in 1777 by Juan Arnal and passed through succeeding generations of noble families. The entrance that faces Cibeles is fronted by a gorgeous rose garden. Sadly, both the palace and its fine garden have to be observed from behind the gate, as it is now home to Cuartel General de Ejército (Army Headquarters).

6. BARRIO DE SALAMANCA. Continuing north toward the brown Torres de Colón (Towers of Columbus), you’ll pass the Biblioteca Nacional (National Library), which often hosts temporary exhibitions and celebrations in the summer. (Entrance at P. de Recoletos, 20-22. }915 80 78 23; www.bne.es. Open Tu-Sa, 10am-9pm, Su 10am-2pm. Free.) Behind the library is the massive Museo Arqueológico Nacional. Madrid’s display of the history of the Western world, including a 4th-century urn, Felipe II’s astrolabe, and a 16th-century porcelain clock, settled in this huge museum in 1895 after countless moves. (C. Serrano, 13. M: Serrano. }915 77 79 12; www.man.mcu.es. Open in summer Tu-Sa 9:30am-8:00pm, Su 9:30am-3pm. ^3.01, Sa after 2:30pm and Su free.) The museum entrance is on C. Serrano, an avenue lined with pricey boutiques in the posh Barrio de Salamanca. Across Recoletos from the museums, down C. Braganza, is Iglesia de las Salesas Reales, whose gorgeous neoclassical façade complements the ornate interior, which houses the tomb of Rey Fernando VI, who commissioned the church.

7. PLAZA DE COLÓN. The museum and library huddle just before the modern Plaza de Colón (M: Colón) and the Jardines del Descubrimiento (Gardens of Discovery). On one side loom huge clay boulders, inscribed with trivia about the New World, including Seneca’s prediction of its discovery, the names of the mariners onboard the caravels, and passages from Columbus’s diary. A neo-Gothic spire honoring Columbus rises opposite a thundering fountain in the center of the plaza. An inlaid map detailing Columbus’s journey covers the wall behind the waterfall. Concerts, lectures, ballets, and plays are held in the Teatro Fernán Gómez Centro de Arte (914 80 03 00; www.esmadrid.com/ccvilla/jsp/index.jsp. Box office open Tu-Su 11am-1:30pm and 5-7pm or check on www.telentrada.com), the municipal art center beneath the statue.

8. MUSEOS. The next stretch takes you past’s Madrid’s financial district and embassies and to a few good smaller museums. Just south of the American Embassy, between Pl. de Colón and Glorieta de Emilio Castelar, is a very small open-air sculpture garden with works by Joan Miró and Eduardo Chillida. Smaller museums, including the Museo Sorolla, are just off the Paseo. Further up on the right is the Museo de Ciencias Naturales, which houses an impressive collection of displays on geology and paleontology, including the full skeleton of a Diplodocus. (Open Tu-Sa 10am-6pm, Su 10am-2:30pm. 914 11 13 28.)

9. PLAZA DE LIMA. At Plaza de Lima is the 110,000-seat Estadio Santiago Bernabéu (M: Lima), home to the beloved Real Madrid soccer club, which won its 9th European Championship in 2002 and its 31st Spanish La Liga Championship in 2008. Diametrically opposed to it are the Torre de Europa and the impassive but impressive Torre de Picasso.

Hot, Spicy, and Sharp

Thu, 03 Jun 2010 19:04:45 +0000

Walk into your local Walmart superstore and you might just find a spicy taste of Belize. Marie Sharp’s habanero pepper sauce, named after the company’s founder, has become an irreplaceable staple of Belizean cuisine.

Sixty-nine year old Marie Sharp’s all-natural and locally produced sauces and jellies may be sold worldwide, but their owner’s roots are as humble as they come. While working as a secretary, Marie began growing her own peppers, combining them with other local produce, and creating her flavorful sauces as a hobby. When friends suggested that she sell them, Marie got to work in her own kitchen and Marie Sharp’s hot sauce was born—sort of. Originally naming her product Melinda, after her family’s farm, the name was trademarked by an American company after Marie signed a distribution deal with them. She lost the rights to the name when she ended her relationship with the company. Undaunted, Marie renamed her company, focused on the Belizean market, and the rest is history.

Today, Marie spends most of her day in the company plant or traveling to food shows around the world. Despite her success, Marie still enjoys many traditional Belizean activities. The avid fisherwoman casts a line as often as she can. Marie’s favorite fishing spot? The small private island that she and her family own off of the coast.

Higher Education in Another Nation

Thu, 03 Jun 2010 19:03:34 +0000

Have you ever dreamed of mastering your French kissing by practicing with locals? Have you considered taking classes in Paris, Lyon, or Lille as an excuse? Living the student life can be even better abroad, and enrolling in a French university is an excellent alternative for those who want the French academic experience and the opportunity to explore other aspects of local culture. Everyone has heard of the Sorbonne—the elite school in the heart of Paris’s Latin Quarter—but France is home to more than 50 universities throughout its diverse regions. Just picture yourself pondering the nuances of Sartre’s philosophy while sipping wine in Bordeaux or considering Napoleon’s military stratagems on a white sand beach in his Corsican hometown.

While there are some small-scale college workshops, the majority of French students head to university after lycée (high school), and classes can get pretty large—you may have up to 200 classmates. Forget about your teacher knowing your name; consider yourself lucky if he or she ever responds to your emails. Academics aside, you’ll have plenty of classmates to charm, and—since the social scene happens primarily outside of the university, especially in big cities like Paris—you can look forward to having the whole city as your playground.

But university is not the only option; the country in which the essay was invented naturally has its share of challenging academic alternatives. Whereas most French universities are required to accept anyone with a baccalauréat (French high school graduation certificate) or recognized equivalent (British A-levels or two years of US college), the specialized Grandes Écoles are notoriously selective. In fact, Grandes Écoles hopefuls must endure two years of classes preparatoires (often called prepas) before earning consideration from admissions boards; even then, only 5-10% of students are accepted. Though there are foreign students in the prepas, they are typically bilingual. If a Grande École is your ultimate goal, consider taking a vow of French.

Graduate school is yet another option for those craving a study-abroad experience. Among the most prestigious graduate schools are the École Normale Supérieure (ENS; www.ens.fr) for humanities, the Institut d’Études Politiques (www.sciences-po.fr) for government studies, the Hautes Études Commerciales (HEC; www.hec.fr) for business, and the École Polytechnique (www.polytechnique.fr) for engineering and math. You can enroll after passing an admission exam or through an exchange with your own university—check the websites for more info.

Be aware that studying abroad in France entails more than enrollment in Cafes and Croissants 101. In addition to a diligent work ethic, the experience requires a lot of pre-departure preparation. Furthermore, try to remain level-headed in dealings with the difficult academic administration; after all, the French did invent the guillotine.

All’s Fair in Love and Fur

Thu, 03 Jun 2010 18:59:06 +0000

Soon after his December 2006 birth, Knut the polar bear cub, was abandoned by his mother, and the German people adopted him as a national pet. Finding instant celebrity at the Berlin Zoo, Knut (Kah-noot) the superstar brought in millions of visitors, who waited hours just to get a glimpse of him. The zoo’s attendance doubled and raising yearly revenues by a reported $8 million. “Cute Knut” drew raves, inspiring a line of stuffed teddy bears and countless magazine covers. The German media’s intense Knut coverage yielded articles on everything from documentation of Knut’s diet to speculations on his sexual orientation.

But Knut’s awkward adolescent and long limbs, that grew too powerful to allow him to play with his former companion, handler Thomas Dörflein, has now left Knut a secondary attraction. Overshadowed by the younger, cuter Flocke (Snowflake) in Nuremberg, Knut’s few loyal fans are left wondering whether Knut’s days as a star are really over. Of course, Let’s Go is well-known to be a baby-polar bear supporter and would not wish the standard fate of former child stars on any cub. Let’s not go give up on Knut, Germany’s orginal baby polar bear phenomenon.

Bicycles at dawn

Thu, 03 Jun 2010 15:56:07 +0000

Everyone knows that the Dutch have a thing for bicycles. I have seen people do everything while riding their bikes around town -- they eat, talk on cell phones, smoke cigarettes, apply makeup. Bikes really are an excellent way to get around the city, but because Amsterdam is also so easily walkable, I haven't gotten around to renting one yet. Part of me felt, though, that in not pedaling around the city, I was missing out on an important aspect of local culture.

That is, until last Friday night (Saturday morning?) when I was out researching in the Leidseplein. The Leidseplein is renowned for its nightlife, so to make the best use of my time and the biggest dent in my list of establishments, I decided to try and research as many bars and clubs as possible in one night. My last stop was the Sugar Factory; I didn't get there until after 1am, and the music was so good and the people so friendly that I ended up staying until closing. Exiting to the disconcertingly bright morning (it seems that this time of year it's only really dark from 11pm-3am!), my newfound Dutch pals asked me how I planned on getting home. "The tram," I replied -- and they all looked at me in astonishment. "You don't have a bike?" they asked. Somehow, in my foreign naivete, I had assumed that surely people didn't bring their bicycles when they went out for a night on the town. What if you get drunk? Or are wearing high heels? Or are just tired from dancing all night? Such things, while obstacles to an ungainly and inexperienced cyclist like myself, are barely even considerations for a native Amsterdammer. Sure enough, the phalanx of people pouring out from the clubs on the Leidsplein were all headed toward the bicycle racks outside. I think that my new friends must have seen a certain wistfulness in my eyes, and they kindly offered to give me a ride home. So I perched on the back of a bike, and we zipped off along the canals in the 5am sunshine. Only if I had been eating some Gouda at the same time could I have felt more Dutch.

Wilkommen to Dresden

Thu, 03 Jun 2010 15:02:40 +0000

A few things I've noticed since arriving in Dresden yesterday:

1. It's raining. A lot. I thought that it was hot in Europe during the summer, so I packed flip-flops and t-shirts and even a jean skirt. But as I've learned, Germany is an exception to this rule (Apparently this wasn't news to anybody but me). The clouds have been pouring down consistent buckets of rain, which has left the city a depressing gray and left me very wet. I've found solace in my water-proof mascara and a new coat that I bought at a store with a winter gear clearance sale. The coat has a green-tipped hood that makes me look like an elf but I can always pretend that its my blue eyes that make people stare.

2. Germans bring their dogs everywhere. While happily devouring my omelette this morning, I was met by a parade of pooches - yes, inside the cafe. I said hello to the golden retriever and the chocolate lab, but the waterlogged poodle looked like a drowned rat and really should have not been allowed outside with that hairdo. Sorry, poodle-lovers.

3. Names can be deceiving. In Dresden, the city's new town is called Neustadt and the old town is called Altstadt -- the latter is the part of the city that was destroyed during war bombings, but has since been heavily restored. Thus, the buildings in Neustadt are actually older than those in Altstadt, and the Altstadt buildings are newer but made to look older. I'm not going to fall for that, suckers! I have also learned that many German words have English cognates like kaffee instead of coffee and haus in place of house. However, a Kaffee Mexicanisch tastes nothing like a Mexican coffee.

Why el paseo will never catch on in the States

Thu, 03 Jun 2010 13:42:46 +0000

In my high-school Spanish textbooks, there always used to be a section about dando un paseo, the Spanish evening ritual of going out for a walk. It seemed silly to me: I couldn't really understand the concept of just going out for a walk, with no particular purpose, and having it ingrained in the daily schedule along with the siesta and the 9-10pm dinner. However, after spending a couple of weeks here, I think I understand it, and I have some insights as to why el paseo could never become a part of American culture like it has for the Spanish.

1. With the exception of inhabitants of cities in the northeast, Chicago, San Francisco, and maybe a couple of others I'm unfortunately failing to include (New Orleans maybe?), Americans drive just about everywhere. Not that walking is an alien concept, but if you're going out, the default option is to drive. In Spain, walking is the norm.

2. Weather. In the northeast, except for the weeks between winter and summer and vice versa, it's generally too hot or too cold to be nice weather for a paseo. You'd just rather be inside. And the other cities mentioned above aren't exactly famous for their climates. While Spain certainly gets hot, the narrow, shady streets and the fact that it's nice for most of the year are very conducive to the paseo. Moreover, it stays sunny later in Spain: it doesn't get dark until around 10pm or later in the summer.

3. In many cities in Spain, the old parts of town—which are much more pleasing to look at than most American cities—are completely pedestrian zones. You'd take a paseo every evening, too, if you could walk down the center of a cobblestone street.

Of Age and Crisps

Wed, 02 Jun 2010 23:41:17 +0000

I never thought I’d be saying that one of the things I appreciated most about Spain these past few days was its lower drinking age. I’m not a drinker. I don’t crave a beer on a hot day, and wine’s only enjoyable if I'm surrounded by the right company. However, I will say that the mere ability to visit the wineries of Jerez yesterday was an opportunity I would have been sad to miss because I was a few months short of an arbitrary age limit.

Jerez is the wine capital of Spain, and I got to visit the top dog of wine production in that national capital—Tio Pepe. After a two hour tour and wine tasting, I’ve discovered a few things: first, that there’s no better smell than barrel upon barrel of aging sherry, and second, that chilled Fino cures the pain of the heat better than any Gatorade (even Gatorade Ice!).

And as I said before, wine’s to be enjoyed in good company. Luckily, I came across quite the company. While waiting for the ticket office to open, an older couple from Britain showed up and started chatting me up—asking why I was in Spain, why I was alone, and why I wasn’t sitting with my “comrades” (another group of clearly stupid Americans) over at the wrong, obviously shut-down ticket booth. They ended up taking me out for a soda (it may not seem like much, but a cold soda means a lot when it’s 43 degrees Celsius) and telling me about their own travels. They had a son my age who was currently traveling through Greece. Since he was off and about the world, they decided to take their old van, turn the back rows into a supposedly extremely comfortable bed, and just road trip throughout Europe, staying at campsites all across the map. They were so cool! They told me how they extended their stay in the surf town of Tarifa so they could wind surf for a few days. I felt like I was hanging out with a couple of friends (close enough friends that felt totally comfortable making fun of me calling the Lays on our table “chips” rather than “crisps”), experiencing the classy afternoon of vineyards and wine tasting.

I wouldn’t say this job is lonely. You’re constantly interacting with people, and even the time alone I find very fulfilling. But that being said, meeting a couple of Brits who are willing to take me in—even when I look disheveled and sweaty—and share some stories, really shows you that there are tons of cool people out there, just waiting for you to meet them.

...And that's when I found a gun

Wed, 02 Jun 2010 22:26:18 +0000

There's really not much to say. I moved into my apartment in the 10th yesterday, was looking around, getting the lay of the land, when I noticed a rusty latch sticking out of the crumbling wall. (My apartment is in a general state of disrepair. I slept in a raincoat last night because there were no sheets). I looked more closely and realized it was a tiny built in cupboard, along the lines of a secret door. Cool right? That's what I thought. Not stopping to consider the multitude of things that could jump out at me--cockroaches, who fly by the way, mice, bats, a starving child--and instead imagining all the wonderful things that could be hidden inside--a treasure chest, long-lost love letters, a backup liquor supply--I immediately pulled it open. And that's when I found a gun. YEP. There was a gun in my wall...

...

YAH.

Cataluña, sin carne

Wed, 02 Jun 2010 22:23:01 +0000

Despite everything seeming to conspire against me—some unpronounceable Icelandic volcano emitting smoke towards Europe, smoke from a fire in Quebec enshrouding Boston the day I left Logan, British Airways (i.e. the airline on which I was flying) going on strike a week before my flight, and, yes, actually forgetting my passport in the Staples copier four hours before my flight—I somehow made it successfully to Barcelona, and it seems the trip wasn't doomed after all.

In fact, I'm surprised at how easy it has been to acclimate. A lot of this is thanks to the incredible housing situation I somehow found on Craigslist. My roommates are all fervent Cataluñians and they've been teaching me the Catalan ways, including (probably most importantly) making fun of the vegetarian whenever the chance presents itself.

For many Spaniards, vegetarianism seems to be a nebulous, if not incomprehensible, concept, as is displayed by our conversation at the tapas bar, one where the waiter was simultaenously amused and seemingly disgusted by my order:

"Okay, so if you don't eat meat then what do you eat? Chicken?"

"No."

"Fish"

"No."

"Then you'll be having the pork."

"Nope, not that either."

And then a brilliant idea was conceived in my skull—lay down the Face Rule, the most laughable yet clear tactic a vegetarian can employ in another language to explain their seemingly peculiar and sometimes arbitrary eating habits. For those not familiar, the rule simply goes, "I won't eat anything that has a face."

Finally having made myself what I thought was crystal clear, I began munching on the delicious cheese (read: without prosciutto) that had been placed on the bar.

And his response?

"So, what about shrimp?"

I Guess Prague Didn't Get the Memo

Wed, 02 Jun 2010 21:11:40 +0000

You know, the one for buildings that goes something like "brown, black, white or tan, please!" All over this cramped and faded city, the story, the more colorful story, is the same.

Prague just didn't feel the need to bow to the social norms that dictate which colors a legitimate office building can be painted. Maybe it was a reaction to the communist-era repression of expression or maybe it's just the Czech effort to offset the Slavic gloom. But whatever the reason, a randomly chosen Prague street wears mostly pinks, yellows, greens and purples, leaving earth tones to its less-daring metropolitan colleagues.

The real shame is that the city hasn't had a decent paint job since the 1960s, and back then, photographs were taken in black and white.

However, the future may be bright! Tourist boom profits have already done wonders for Prague's impeccably refurbished cobble stone streets, and if tourist swarms continue to descend, we might soon see Prague returned to its former Easter Egg-ed glory.

-a beast in the very near east

When In Rome..Err..Budapest

Wed, 02 Jun 2010 20:55:17 +0000

After a non-stop day of trekking through most of Budapest to get my preliminary groundings, I arrived late evening at my hostel to discover, thanks to my growling stomach, that I had forgotten to nourish myself that day. Having been too enamored with Baroque buildings, cobblestone sidestreets, and the majestic Danube River bordered by dreamy walkways and traversed by profound bridges, it had slipped my mind that those flowery chocolate cakes and plump rolls are not only for show.

However, by that time it was 10:30pm and I was on the outskirts of town. I wandered down the street from my hostel to the only open establishment in the neighborhood--a pizza joint. I looked attentively at the menu and thought, "hmm, this won't be so bad, I love pizza!" As I meandered to a table, lamenting the fresh breads and sizzling street food I had inadvertently bypassed during the day, a waiter with a faux-guido style and wannabe Italian-Hungarian accent approached me. Turns out, he was my "Italian" waiter for the evening and would "fulfill all my wildest dreams." The man in reality was a Hungarian young gent with a handlebar mustache, wearing an Italian flag as a type of skirt. His attitude derived from every Italian sterotype--he grabbed my hand, gazed longingly into my face while noting the beauty of my eyes, and kissed my wrist as he led me towards a table. At the end of the meal he embraced me in a hug and topped off the evening with a kiss to each cheek as he bid me farewell. I learned an important lesson today. When in Budapest, eat as the Hungarians do, and leave the Italian hospitality to those Southern neighbors.

Kiernan, God of the Internet

Wed, 02 Jun 2010 19:54:58 +0000

I had just been turned down from my fourth cafe when it happened.

I needed internet to turn in my work on time, and I was becoming increasingly desperate as I made my way down Eccleston St., hopefully running through synonyms for internet with each stubborn cafe owner until they turned me away.

Finally, I came to the Traveler's Pub. Inside, people moved from dinner drinks into evening drinks and swayed to the music as the bartender sang along to "American Woman" under his breath. No one was using a computer, but I decided to give it a try.

I approached the bar and asked, "I realize this is a shot in the dark, but you don't have internet, do you?"

Immediately, his eyes lit up and he exclaimed "We do! We just got it today, we're on the cloud now!" I didn't know what that meant, but I knew it was good.

"So...wifi?"

"Yes! You go to the drop down list of networks, you know where that is, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Alright, you go to the networks, click the cloud and give it a username and password which of course you'll remember and then you're on and it's free!"

I realized then that I'd never leave, so I introduced myself. "I'm Ben,"

"I'm Kiernan [God of the Internet]," he responded.

Within minutes, I was online and browsing, drinking the still water I bought as a measure of my thanks.

One might think this isn't a good environment in which to work, but nothing could be further from the truth. Since I arrived, they've played "Oxford Comma," "Love Child," "Who Knows Who Cares" and "Touch My Body," all songs I play nightly. Occasionally, the slot machine next to me lets out a burst of ominous orchestral music, but other than that it's just drunken muttering, gentle typing, and great music. I will be writing from here and here alone from now on.

Fútbol Fantástico

Wed, 02 Jun 2010 18:12:50 +0000

I went to a fútbol game Sunday and it was friggin’ awesome...So, it was technically the veterans game (former players on the Madrid/Milan teams), but the stadium was still packed. With a seating capacity of 80,354, the Santiago Bernaéu is enormous and awesome for the always popular wave.

One of the highlights of the game was when Zinedine Zidane (yes, of head-butting fame: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qFXjS7V5eko) ran onto the field. Everyone went nuts. Before Zidane played for France, he became the most expensive player in football history when Real Madrid acquired him for 46 million pounds (roughly $66 million US Dollars).

Best Cures for the “I Lost All My Money in a Foreign Country” Blues

Wed, 02 Jun 2010 15:06:36 +0000

1. Skype home. Everyone has stories to tell about things they lost, and parents have useful advice. My dad, for example, told me to “make a sign on a paper bag that says ‘Übrige Änderung?’ and hold it on a sidewalk near a train station or university.”

2. Go to the Opera. An editor of an Australian literary magazine that I’d met in Leipzig treated me to “Tosca” at the Deutsche Oper. Beautiful music pulls you in and helps you forget that you can’t pay for a bed the next night. Or sets good background music as you wail your woes away.

3. Find your wallet. And really, this is the topic of this post. At the moment, I’m thoroughly convinced that Germans are the most wonderful people in the world. I went to go claim the wallet I’d left on a bus the afternoon before at the Berlin transit system's “Lost and Found” office. Hundreds of umbrellas hung on the walls, thousands of keys dangled on rings, and the assistant, looking for my lost article, opened a drawer filled with hundreds of wallets, all waiting to be claimed by their owners. When I think about the number of people that had a chance to keep my wallet in the past 24 hours, I’m stunned at how lucky I am. And when I think about the thousands of valuable things in that dingy little lost and found office, I’m happy knowing that a lot of people in Berlin are that lucky too.

Can I have that medium rare, please?

Wed, 02 Jun 2010 14:20:10 +0000

Prego.

The word is like pizza here: Italians have somehow found a way to top or "dress it" with anything; to have it in any context, at any time of day; and to make it hot, cold, or even lukewarm to match the occasion. Whatever the situation, it all flies:

"Prego?" -- As you walk into a pasticceria (in my case, usually just to gaze at the heaps of cookies, rather than buy any of them), it's the first thing you'll hear. Translation: "How can I help you?" or "What do you want?" And they expect you to know . . . immediately. (Standing around and asking prices, as I often do, doesn't fly too well.)

"Prego!" -- I was in the Sistine Chapel today, which, despite being beautiful, feels a bit like a vortex that has sucked all of Rome's tourist population into a single room. Amid the sound of guards shushing people and telling them not to take pictures, you hear the word muttered sternly, more like a reprimand than anything else. Translation: "Geez . . . thanks for being quiet after the 15th time I've told you to turn off your camera and shut your trap!"

"Prego" -- The sweetest version of them all, when it's just a simple statement, often following "grazie." After buying a gelato or complimenting someone, the recipient of your cash or flattery will often acknowledge his or her thanks by calmly uttering the word. Translation: "You're welcome" or "I'm honored."

"Prego" (optional "!") -- Actually used as the verb it is, this prego can mean "I pray." Now, Italians pray for all kinds of things: in religious contexts, in which case the exclamation mark probably isn't necessary, but also in more mundane or demanding contexts. I've found cleaning ladies are particularly keen on the word. When coming to clean my room, they can't seem to fathom why I perpetually have a mound of business cards, receipts, brochures, and maps sprawled around me on the bed. "Pre-e-g-o-ooooo," they exclaim despairingly, in a kind of slow and beseeching whine. Translation: a plea or request of any sort.

The Crazy Train to Rouen

Wed, 02 Jun 2010 10:29:24 +0000

This Monday, I set off early in the morning for a daytrip to Rouen, a small city a little over 100km northwest of Paris. The day was eventful from start to finish, but the best part was the train ride.

My car seemed relatively tranquil until two boys (about 17 or 18 years old) started fighting. And when I say fighting, I mean going at it as hard as possible while still seated. Their seats rocked violently as jabs were thrown, and occasionally, a kick was leveled. Every person sitting in their vicinity happened to be over 60, and were thoroughly dismayed. When somebody called a conductor, and complained about the boldness of the youth these days, the boys denied any fight, the conductor left, and they promptly started fighting again.

Somewhere about 20 minutes away from Rouen, the train came to an abrupt stop. The boys, of course, were still fighting. After squirming in our seats for 20 minutes, passengers were informed that there was an abandoned bag on the train and that we had to evacuate, given the possibility of a terrorist threat. Curses and broad statements about the absurdity of the government quickly started flying. While businessmen whipped out their iPhones to call cabs, while a few idiots proudly declared their desire to open the bag themselves. After 40 minutes of waiting for the bomb squad in this random town to show up, they opened the harmless bag and we continued on our way. Everybody arrived an hour late, but I arrived with a train ride I'll never forget.

New Yorkers are Not Mean

Wed, 02 Jun 2010 04:55:53 +0000

New Yorkers get a bad rap. It's weird. Whenever they come up in conversation, someone has to comment on how "unfriendly" they are. There are lots of jokes about this infamous trait. Take a look at some of the "Top Signs You are a New Yorker" from the highly-regarded source jokes2go.com:

4. You believe that being able to swear at people in their own language makes you multilingual.

6. You've considered stabbing someone just for saying "The Big Apple."

or even

27. You're suspicious of strangers who are actually nice to you.

You get the picture. Well, I've only been in New York for 24 hours, but I don't buy it. New Yorkers, as far as I can tell, are focused. They have places to be. Things to do. But this does not make them mean or unfriendly; it just makes them intense. Today, for instance, I got a little lost on my way back to my apartment in Queens. OK, I got a lot lost. This guy (donning highwater pants, a fedora, and a tattoo on his neck that said "sweet") noticed my panicked glances at the signs and maps in the subway station and asked if I needed help. He asked it quickly and while walking in the other direction, but he was concerned. I assured him I was fine and set out to climb to the top of the stairs. Homeboy was half a block away, and looked back to see that I was still visibly confused. He quickly walked back and said "You look mad lost." I confessed that I was, so he pointed me in the right direction. He promptly left before I could even thank him. This guy, like all New Yorkers, had places to be. He was focused on what he had to do, and was not warm and fuzzy. Still, he was ready to help a fellow human find her way home, and I think that's really what matters.

"Super-destructor-bringer-of-doom 1,000,000"

Tue, 01 Jun 2010 22:52:41 +0000

Earlier tonight, I was sitting in a pub watching cricket (I've always wanted to say that). Let me tell you everything I know about cricket.

You see that blank space, those unfilled lines? That's because I understand nothing about the game of cricket. To me it looks like baseball and freeze-tag had a strange, socially awkward baby with braces who's now being made fun of in middle school. However, the interesting thing about it are the players' bios, those little blurbs that pop up on the screen when someone comes up to bat.

They beguiled you innocently enough at first by providing the name of the bat the player was using. Normal enough, right? Wrong. The first bat to come up had a name something like the "Kookaburra 5250." What? What? As long as we're obviously making up bat names here, I'd like my Cricket bat model to be called the "Super-destructor-bringer-of-doom 1,000,000." That'll show 'em.

The really interesting part (as if that wasn't enough) was what came next. The next piece of "info" to show up with the player profile was "favorite singer" followed by "favorite film" or "lookalike." Call me crazy, but these aren't exactly concerns I'd have when bringing a player onto my team. I had one crazy moment where I imagined the manager and owner of some multimillion-euro cricket team deep in discussion over whether or not a new player should be brought on:

"Sir, he's brilliant. He's batting 10 overs a second and hasn't had a wicket in years!"

"Dammit! I know Johnson, but the question we have to ask is, does he look like Hugh Jackman?"

Funnily enough, the cricket players seemed to be having fun with these statistics as well. The first player I saw up listed his favorite singer as "Beyoncé" and his favorite movie as "300." Oh wait, maybe he was serious...

La Palestra

Tue, 01 Jun 2010 22:06:03 +0000

About a week and a half ago, I joined a local palestra – a gym.

More precisely, the gym, as it took me 3hr. to find what seems to be the only gym in Venice that:

1) Has weights, stationary bikes, and treadmills.

2) Would let me sign up for two months.

I'm trying to run/bike/swim a triathlon at the end of August with a couple of my friends, and, to avoid being embarrassed, I figured it'd be a good idea to work out some while I'm here.

Some might say that you miss out on cultural experiences doing things that you could do in America while you're in Venice, but as Vince Vega says of Europe in Pulp Fiction, "it's the little differences" that really stick with you. And there's no better way to see those differences than in everyday life.

First of all, in a city as big as Venice, there is one gym? And you can't walk 2min. in any direction without finding gelato? And somehow, despite these facts, every time I see obese people in Venice, they're speaking English? Sometimes life just isn't fair...

Anyway, the gym I joined here has a lot of the same equipment as my gym back home in Ohio – even made by the same company. Nonetheless, there are subtle differences. I've never seen so many guys wearing capris anywhere in my life. I don't know if they're Nadal fans or are simply indecisive, but it seems like none of them can commit to either sweatpants or shorts.

All the water in the vending machines is knockoff Perrier, which came as a really unpleasant surprise after I stepped off the treadmill for the first time.

The workout music is mostly obnoxious Euro-Trance, but after two weeks of more or less constant exposure to this music (it's all over Venice), I am more or less immune to it.

The patrons of the gym also tend to take a different attitude to their workouts as well. Maybe it's because the gym walls are adorned with a tasteful assortment of smiling cartoon dolphins, inspirational slogans, and images of Christ on the cross, but I've never been in a gym with so many friendly people – everyone socializes, hangs out, reads novels, sips on sparkling water, and does pretty much anything except work out. I've actually had some of my best conversations in Venice at the gym.

As I start to get past the superficial distinctions, it's easy to see that a lot of everyday things here aren't better or worse than what I'm used to, just different. Except the capri workout pants. They're definitely worse.

On Turkey and Language Trouble

Tue, 01 Jun 2010 21:53:49 +0000

When I arrived in Istanbul, I realized that the language barrier might be more of a problem than I had originally thought. Already at the airport, I was at a loss as to how to obtain tokens for the metro--the token machine displays were all in Turkish! Even the numbers seemed a bit more Turkish than usual. I had to stand there and observe the locals get their tokens for five minutes before I was able to repeat the complex set of motions necessary for obtaining a token (it turned out not to be too difficult - you throw in money and press a button).

On the same day, when I tried paying for my hostel, the pleasant, mustachioed man in charge seemed to have no idea what I was talking about and instead smiled at me understandingly. After some more of my nagging, he was forced to go wake up what I assume was his son, who, with one eye still closed, assured me that I could indeed pay at that time. Yet on the same day I was in the streets, searching for a public phone to call home. I entered a cellphone shop, and I tried speaking English at one of the employees. He spoke Turkish back at me. I spoke some more English at him. He spoke some more Turkish at me. Neither of us would budge. Since the shop was his territory, I gave him a meaningful look, turned around, and left.

But that was yesterday. Today, something happened that made me more optimistic about my future research. Two new friends and I were taking a yellow cab up to Besiktas where I'd be spending the night, and a strange traffic situation arose--the road was partly blocked and cars in both directions had to pass through a narrow space. A gigantic truck was coming towards us, and from our side there was another cab in front of us. The truck stopped face to face with the other cab and neither could move forward. The truck waited. The cab waited. The truck waited some more. Neither of them would budge. Then, reluctantly, the cab started making way for the truck to pass and eventually let it go. But just before it started backing out, our driver, a wiry guy with a graying mustache who had been impatiently watching the entire situation, made an aggressive gesture with his arm and spat out something in rapid Turkish. And I know exactly what he said.

Dinner at the Highest Point in Athens

Tue, 01 Jun 2010 18:43:08 +0000

Throughout my first few days in Athens I have discovered, among the rubble and gyro stands, a new breed of people: hostel friends. Last night, I went on an excursion with two of these such friends for dinner. We had heard that there was a tremendous view of Athens and the Acropolis from the top of a giant slope called Lycabettus Hill, so we put some olives, bread, pre-sliced pepperoni, and a giant hunk of some sort of unidentifiable cheese into two plastic bags and trekked through Syntagma Square and up the path. Roughly 30 minutes later, we had made it to the top of many, many steps. Sweating and starving, we looked out at the view - it was breathtaking. We made it just as the sun was setting, and the Athenian skyline--not notable for its skyscrapers but instead for the regularity of lofty buildings and the occasional tall ancient ruin--was beautiful. Sitting on a stone ledge, one of my new "friends" sliced the cheese with his Leatherman, and we ate in peace, looking down on the Acropolis.

The English Breakfast

Tue, 01 Jun 2010 17:51:11 +0000

As a budget traveler, I am embarassed to say this, but I was incredibly relieved when I arrived at my next hostel to discover that breakfast wasn't included.

The past few cities I have visited suffered from a shortage of hostels, which meant I found myself in small guesthouses with a private room (yay)...and also, breakfast (yuck).The "Full English Breakfast" is a staple of the English B&B experience,

The full English breakfast: eggs, sausage, bacon, and beans.

I don't like any of these things, plus I am kosher. I came up with the genius idea of claiming to be a vegetarian, but when I tried that, they just came out with a plate full of vegetarian sausage and bacon, which, if possible, is even grosser than the real stuff.

Hence, I was thrilled when my hostel in Manchester informed me that they only offered "Lite breakfast"- i.e. toast, jam, and coffee. Now that's good eating.

Tourist Baiting in Tours

Tue, 01 Jun 2010 16:57:38 +0000

Tours is located near so many medieval and Renaissance castles that it is very difficult to choose just two to visit in a morning – locals say there are enough to visit one every day of the year. With a little help from some very pretty leaflets, I settled on a visit to Villandry and Azay le Rideau, apparently two of the Loire’s most beautiful chateaus (it wasn’t helpful that every chateau claimed to be the prettiest or grandest or most beautiful sight of the Loire).

After rocking up bright and early to begin my medieval adventure, I discovered that I would be sharing the journey with a couple of Russians and a Japanese tourist. Our driver looked like he had been plucked directly from a 1960s French cartoon, and apparently felt that speed limits were an obstacle to overcome rather than actual limitations. Though Villandry's 16th century gardens were stunning, the most enlightening cultural experience of the day came in the form of two sniggering French kids, who stationed themselves at opposite ends of an exit to a bridge at Azay-le-Rideau.They farted simultaneously in my direction as I walked by. I'd give them a 6 for creativity, but a 9 for execution.

Maximian Luxury

Tue, 01 Jun 2010 16:21:38 +0000

Hmm . . . so this city has a history, after all.

Milan is famous for many things: its fashionable denizens, who walk the sidewalk as they would a runway; its financial dealings, which make it the hub of Italy's economy; even its champion soccer teams. Unlike many places in Italy, however, it's not known for being to home to the legacy of the Roman Empire.

So imagine my surprise this afternoon when, while wandering the streets of the Magenta area, head in my notebook, mind on my own business, not only did I stumble upon Roman ruins, but I learned that Milan was once the capital (yes, C-A-P-I-T-A (not O)-L) of the entire empire.

Hold on a sec. Wasn't Rome the capital, you ask? Well, no, not under Emperor Maximian, who, in 286 CE, decided that Milan, with its perfect climate and beautiful pastoral setting, would be the perfect place to reside. And where the emperor goes, of course, the administration follows, resulting in a sprawling (for the time—today it streches over several city blocks) imperial district within the city.

And where the emperor lives, too, no expense is spared. The ruins I found on V. Brisa, about 1km from Castello Sforzesco, once held the emperor's stately residence. The floorplan that the remaining bricks reveal provides the evidence of a circular main room, from which a dome probably arose, giving Maximian lots of natural light as he lounged, chewing on grapes while being fanned by his servants. He also had the most high-tech architectural accessory of the day: central heating. This luxury fit for an emperor was created by the circulation of warm air in a space beneath the floors, remnants of which remain today.

Although the Roman court eventually moved on, this building continued to be used by genteel Milanese citizens through the 400s CE. Evidently, however, Attila the Hun—who conquered Milan in 452—had little use for such refinement. Sometime over the next few centuries, the building was destroyed, not to be seen again until nearly 1000 years after the Huns' wrath.

In many ways, this archeological discovery of Milan's ancient past is like the modern-day tourist's sighting of the city's pre-modern ruins. It might take awhile, but turn those corners, wander down those streets, and eventually you can't miss the remnants of Milan's Roman history.

Scootering Through Sodom and Gomorrah (Or, How I Broke Most of Let's Go's Safety Regulations): Part II

Tue, 01 Jun 2010 08:12:19 +0000

I left off thinking that a half-assed plan to get some nightlife research done and go to the beach the next day was a good idea. Due to strict Lets Go rules, writers are not allowed to travel at night. I'll have my editors know that due to a belated Christmas miracle, the sun did not set that night and it was light out the entire way there. To let you know how small a 50cc engine is, I was at full throttle on this scooter the entire time, and couldn't top 40 miles a hour (37 to be precise). For an hour and a half. I naturally named my rental bike Lance, because nothing has kicked more ass on French soil than Lance Armstrong. Aside from the Germans. Since I didn't have my license, I couldn't get the (superior) (German) BMW motorcycle anyway.

I ran out of gas as I pulled into my parking spot in Saint Tropez, and was instantly exhilarated. There were party yacht and people strutting up and down the port like Yves Saint-Laurent decided to push up its fall line to late May. Contrary to appearances, though, nothing really crazy was going on; I guess a Monday night in Sodom and Gomorrah is still just a Monday night. At my last bar of the night, I ran into an 24 year old American from Key West who spoke no French and was completely unaware that he had wandered into a gay bar. It turns out that he and his brother had chartered their own boat from Croatia to St. Tropez and were captaining it themselves. When I told him that I had nowhere to crash, he offered to take the party to "his." Hell yes.

I'd like to say that there were models and Kanye showed up later, but it wasn't anything more than a couple of dudes drinking on the back of a boat until 4am. Still, i got invited onto a yacht, and even though we were the party, it was still a party. I'd like to hear the other Let's Go writers top that. I headed back to Cannes at 6:15 that morning. The Key West Guy was cool enough to give me a liter of 98 octane to get me going, since "we moved the Ducati off the boat last week, so we don't need this anymore." As if I wasn't jealous enough.

I'm going back to Saint Tropez on Friday, when (I was told) the party really gets going. You know, for the improved coverage that our readers demand. I'm just doing my job.

Scootering Through Sodom and Gomorrah (Or, How I Broke Most of Let's Go's Safety Regulations): Part I

Tue, 01 Jun 2010 07:42:14 +0000

Sorry for the lack of blogging on Cannes beyond the breakfast bitching, but the entire town has been on a Hollywood hangover for a good week now. Most of the clubs I reviewed were empty, and I ended up settling for the local karaoke bar (at which I am now known by name... soon to be legend, thank you very much).

As for a blog worthy adventure, I have a tale that any motorcyclist, high-life dreamers, or my mother would love. Let's Go assigned me Saint Tropez, a delightfully debaucherous town know for literally popping champagnes bottles (think rap music videos) and where it costs 5000 euro just to find out what the fee is to dock your yacht on the quai. No really: it takes a 1000-5000 euro tip just to find out what the fee is to dock your yacht on the quai, and they can ask you to leave at any time if someone is willing to pay them more. I would kill to be the dock manager in Saint Tropez. That man's job is easier than i-banking, involves a comparatively minimal level of crime, and comes with more opportunities to enact wet dreams of material excess than your average Akon music video.

Anyway, due to severe lack of public transportation between the real world and this Sodom and Gomorrah, there weren't many opportunities for me to actually leave St. Tropez beyond its fairly limited ferry schedule. I'd planned to catch the ferry back, but in my experience the hypnotic pull of St. Tropez's beach makes the power of gravity look like a fridge magnet [Editor's note: see Taylor's analysis of France's topless beach policy in his soulful entry "Things I've Learned..." for further explanation], and I missed the last ferry back to where I could catch a train to Cannes.

In a fit of resourceful insanity, I decided that I would rent a scooter to drive myself back to my rented hovel Cannes (78km trip), then return to St. Tropez the next day to finish up, return said scooter, and take the second half of the ferry trip that I'd already paid for. Without any license (left my wallet in Cannes) beyond an expired, international driving permit, the guys at the rental place gave me a 50cc scooter, so long as "I wasn't going too far."

"Just to the beach," I replied. Not a total lie, since I probably passed 30 or so beaches on my way back to Cannes. I made it home safely and without harm. However, something didn't feel right. My first night in Europe's richest party city and nothing cool happened. I was sullen, distraught and more than anything just tired of routine. One small caveat: I needed to be back in Cannes the following morning to meet with my landlord to fix the internet and cable. Hmm... I thought, "If I went back to S.T, then I could do some nightlife, get ahead with work, and make it back before morning to meet the cable guy. After that I could return to S.T, go to the beach, return scooter and take ferry home. A brilliant, overly complicated plan that involved not knowing where I was going to sleep, not knowing how much gas I had left, and about 350km of windy, ocean cliff road. Time at point of revelation: 10:04pm.

...to be continued...

Spread 'Em

Mon, 31 May 2010 22:50:18 +0000

Spread your cheeses.

After all, you're no longer stuck in that hole of hardened cow curds called The States, where the only cheese that runs rhymes with macho and generally is made from 1 part milk 3 parts industrial plastic.

Prague-side the story is oh so much sweeter and oh so much softer. For starts, Praguers spread soft cheese on rolls or toasted bread and not just corn tortilla chips; what’s more, soft cheese can comprise a meal in its own right or be a featured component of a successful larger meal.

Soft, spreadable cheese usually comes as a wheel or as individually-wrapped wedges of a wheel. If your memory alarm is buzzing, saying, "Nelson, I’ve SEEN cheese like this," it’s because fortunately, ONE brand of spreadable cheese has found its way to the colonies. Copyright disputes prevent me from naming the brand, but the image of a “chuckling bovine” may come to mind.

But any Praguer would laugh *achem achem* at the idea that this brand could cover the spectrum of soft cheese as a solo act. Praguers spread the love (pun intendspread) by adding flavors to the basic creamy base. Se žampiony adds mushrooms to the mix, se šunko ups the stakes with ham, and other styles add herbs, spices and just about anything your heart can dream up.

So go on, get dreaming. And while you’re at it, here’s a roll you can spread it on.

Fancy a Spin, Guvnuh?

Mon, 31 May 2010 20:25:04 +0000

For anyone who's still unsure, the roads in England do work differently than in most other places. This has been confirmed for me several times:

1) The street keeps reminding me.

2) I almost got run down by a taxi cab masquerading as a bottle of Jack Daniel's (which is REALLY expensive in British pubs, apparently). I knew alcohol was a killer, but I didn't realize it was so proactive.

3) I had a minor freak-out on the bus ride to my apartment because the bus driver turned into what would have been on-coming traffic back in America. Luckily enough, I'm in London (a fact I'm slowly realizing with each cornish pasty I eat).

Siesta time!

Mon, 31 May 2010 19:49:27 +0000

Someone forgot to tell my circadian rhythm that Florence is not a siesta town.

Yesterday I had a fine excuse. I was jet lagged from my transatlantic plane flight, I was sleep deprived from commencement week, and the grass in the hostel courtyard looked so darn comfy. Instant unconsciousness.

Today, however, I simply had no shame.

I met up with a college friend for a typical Italian lunch - a big, full meal and a big, full bottle of red wine. I tried so hard to rock it like a local: I carefully paced the wine with food, constantly wiped my lips to avoid dreaded red-wine stain, and, as I stood up at the end of our meal, stealthily held tight to the table to avoid any unseemly stumbling.

But, alas! I was walking along the Arno River in Firenze, Toscana, Italia, and all I could think about was how much I'd like to have a bit of a lie-down.

We passed a pair of park benches - so peaceful, so unoccupied, so . . . horizontal. I played it smooth.
"Florence doesn't really do siesta, does it?" I said carefully.
"Not really," said my friend, who is living in Sardinia.
"Pity. It's a fine institution."
"Yep. Feeling the wine too?"
"OMG, yes."
He looked around. "Bench?"
"Bench."

Stand aside, vagrants of Italia! I am having a snooze on your park bench, and no force of caffeine, wine-intake moderation, or loitering laws can stop me!

The All-Gelato Diet

Mon, 31 May 2010 19:36:04 +0000

I landed in Florence today, and already, I have sampled more flavors of gelato than I've had hours in the country. This? It's what's known as la dolce vita.

The last time I was in Italy was during one of those occasional European heat waves that kill off French pensioners by the dozen and turn the Germans into siesta experts. It was so hot that I found the prospect of solid food completely horrifying. For a week, I lived on nothing but water, gelato, and the occasional tomato. It was delicious, it was cheap, and it did wonders for my figure. I must have sweated off 10 lb. while on this heat-spell dietary program.

So I've been telling people, only partly in jest, that my Let's Go research trip would mean a return to the All-Gelato Diet (patent pending). Imagine my joy, then, when I stumbled out of the stazione, lugging a 30 lb. pack and feeling like it was 4am EST, to find myself in the midst of the Firenze Gelato Festival.

Somebody up there loves me.

Take Me Out to the Bullring

Mon, 31 May 2010 15:08:13 +0000

As I know many of you may be trying to make the decision as to whether or not to see bullfighting while traveling through Spain, I'm going to share some reflections from my first time viewing experience last night.

1. It was only 12 euro for a seat in what was supposed to be the "nose bleed" section. I was sitting closer than I ever have at any Laker game.

2. There are a lot of qualities that will make you feel like you are right at home watching the American pastime. You will sit in uncomfortable seats, wave to your season-ticket-holder friends, and snack on peanuts and sunflower seeds--all while watching some guy in tight pants and high socks make a mess of perfectly groomed dirt. Sound familiar? But that's not to say bullfighting is just like baseball--it's WAY bloodier (and I don't want to hear any Curt Schilling bloody sock references in response to that one). You'll see blood-drenched sand shoveled off, and more stabbing than any installment of the Scream trilogy.

There are also some things that really shocked me about bullfighting.

1. The bulls aren't the only animals to pity. There are these want-to-be matadors who prep the bull by spearing it from horseback. But they lead these blindfolded, slightly protected horses right into the line of fire to get in attack range. Talk about the worst surprise ever when you're just trotting along and a 500kg beast (with massive horns!) nails you in the side.

2. Girls do it too! One of the matadors in last night's fight was a 19-year-old female, and definitely proud of her gender. At one point, while putting on a bit of a show to mock the bull, she grabbed her chest while swinging her hips around.

3. You get music. There are two bands positioned around the bullring (one which was right in my ear) that play pretty up-beat music every time someone enters. Beats any 7th inning stretch.

Overall, it was a worthwhile and memorable experience. But I don't think I'll ever be ready to become a regular.

Eurovision in Berlin's Gay District

Mon, 31 May 2010 14:15:50 +0000

Last night, at about 8pm, I was getting ready to go do my nightlife research.

First, let’s take a moment to appreciate that this is part of my job.

Now back to the story:

Last night, at about 8pm, I was getting ready to go do my nightlife research. I spread a map of the city across the table, and began marking all the places I would have to hit. It would be a long night, I could tell. I exhaled, pulled on my Birkenstocks (yes, they go everywhere with me. Even clubbing), put my map into my coat pocket and opened my guide to read about the neighborhood I was about to research.

‘Schöneberg,’ I read, ‘is Berlin’s unofficial gay district.’

Ahh, lucky catch, I thought to myself, and threw some body glitter into my backpack on my way out the door.

But in reality last night was just slightly too surreal to satirize. So I’ll spare the humor and fill you in on one of the strangest nights of my life.

European countries annually participate in a vocal competition called “Euro-Vision,” in which each country sends one singer to perform in front of millions of spectators on a program broadcast from Albania to Ireland. Anyone with a phone can vote for a country by calling in—just not his or her own. The competition is cut-throat. The crowd wants to see blood. The German singer’s heels are to die for. This is American Idol meets the Olympics meets the World Cup.

And I was watching all of this in a gay bar.

Nine gay bars to be exact. My night flew by in a haze of cheering men and dancing bartenders and big screen televisions showing first the singers' performances and then the voting results. As each country awarded points to one singer or the other, crowds of boisterous men booed or applauded and threw handfuls of confetti and glitter in the air.

At 1:30am Germany won. The bars went crazy. I put my arm around the shoulder of the large leather-clad man standing next to me, and we jumped up and down together and celebrated a Deutschland victory.

The Headhunter of Bilbao

Mon, 31 May 2010 05:53:36 +0000

After waiting in line behind an apparently hispanophobic museum-goer at a bodega a block from the Guggenheim Bilbao for over ten minutes, I stepped in and decided to act as translator in what could have been, with a little revision and without my intervention, a decent Abbott and Costello routine. I got everything figured out for the tourist and bodega clerk, explained to the art-lover that "combien queso" was going to get him nowhere in Spain, and bought my bottle of water. And then, miraculously, I got offered a job. The store's owner said she'd pay me a decent wage to just stand next to the register and translate for the hordes of tourists from the Guggenheim who don't speak a word of Spanish. And I probably would have taken it, too, but she said I was only allowed to strike two weeks a year, and I didn't want to get lowballed like that in Europe (where striking is a beloved institution). Besides, I'd have had to deal with tourists who don't speak a word of Spanish all day, which wouldn't have ended well for them or for me.

H2 Oh No!

Sun, 30 May 2010 17:00:17 +0000

Today, I learned that, in Milan, it's perfectly acceptable for a grown man to drink water as if he were a dog.

There aren't too many places in this city where water is free. Restaurants will charge you for a sip of their acqua minerale, and while at supermarkets bottled water is cheap (€0.50 a liter vs. €1 for 500ml of soda), buying it will still lighten your pocket of those shiny euro coins. The one place where it won't cost you a thing? Right on the street.

Milan has many green-painted public water fountains on sidewalk corners and in public parks. The water flows constantly from a roughly waist-high spigot to a bowl below that actually is for dogs, cats, and the occasional pet iguana. Sound wasteful? Sure, but you're in the country's richest city, with a booming (OK, maybe not so booming) finance sector and gilded theaters. Live a little!

All right, now that I've totally disturbed the environmentally-conscious among you, want to have a drink? In fact, if you're not a dog or a small child (which, if you're able to read this, would make you a prime subject for Ripley's Believe it or Not), there may still be a small price to pay - the sacrifice of your pride to a bit of public embarrassment. That's because, to drink from one of Milan's myriad public fountains, you'll have to lean down, bend over, or otherwise contort yourself in a three-dimensional game of Twister to reach the cool, flowing stream. Attempting to drink from Milan's fountains, I can almost hear them yelling, "just try to figure out how to drink from me, you dope!"

Milan's residents, I suppose, have gotten over it, though I still can hardly contain a chuckle when I see one of them take a drink. For at least I few weeks, I guess, they'll have a chance to laugh at me doing the same as well.

The Phantom Urinal

Sun, 30 May 2010 16:25:50 +0000

This past weekend, I've been researching the Leidseplein neighborhood, which is infamous for its nightlife. Friday night, I headed out from my apartment just in time to catch one of the last trams, and by the time I got to the Leidseplein, the party atmosphere was in full swing. Stopping for a minute to catch my bearings and check which bars I needed to go to first, I looked up from my notebook for a minute and then did a double-take. I was standing a few feet away from a man urinating! Awkward. But then I realized that he wasn't alone. And that this wasn't some incontinent drunkard who mistakenly thought public urination was acceptable -- there was actually a little round cluster of public urinals in one corner of the square. The Dutch are a famously tolerant people, and I guess that the city decided it would be easier to acquiesce to the tendencies of drunken revelers than fight them.

The next day, however, when I was back doing some afternoon researching, the urinal cluster had disappeared!! I am now consumed with questions about this perplexing phantom plumbing. Does it only appear at night? On weekends? From when until when? Where does it come from?? The closest clue I have gotten is a Time Out blurb about a public restroom in the Rembrantplein that actually emerges from the ground in the evening and then disappears at dawn. I inspected the ground in the corner of the square where I had seen the cluster of urinals but could find no sign that they lurk below ground, vampire-style, during the day. I haven't given up trying to solve the mystery, though -- this is exactly what tourist offices are for.

Gentlemen of Madrid

Sun, 30 May 2010 14:15:57 +0000

This weekend I went to Kapital, one of the biggest discotecas in Madrid. A converted theater, this sprawling club has enough floors and themed rooms to impress even the Paris-Hilton-P-Diddys of the world. Wednesday night they were hosting the "Gentlemen of Espagne" pageant (think Jersey Shore paired with Miss America...oh yeah). There were three parts of the competition: regular style, underwear (the obvious crowd favorite), and formal wear. Enjoy the photo journalism expose below!:

Peeing with the French

Sun, 30 May 2010 10:25:04 +0000

Dear reader,
I apologize in advance for the number of times I’ve mentioned urination. But there’s something weird about how the French pee. Take for example the following bathroom model: there’s one main door—no stick figures pasted on—that opens up into a room with a sink and a urinal. On the back wall of that small space, right next to the urinal, is another door that leads to a stall. When I first stumbled upon this toilet configuration, I was lucky enough that no particular man in the restaurant felt the urgent need to piss at the moment. But at dinner that night, at yet another establishment, I encountered the same urinal-stall situation. This time I had less luck. Being from a country where all toilets are not created equal, it didn’t occur to me that I should listen for a telling tinkle before I left the stall. So I marched straight out and there he was, back turned, fly down, hands occupied. The man looked over his shoulder, nodded nonchalantly to me and continued doing his thing. I figured I’d take courage, and proceeded to wash my hands anyway while he stood approximately a half-foot away from me. Peeing. Listen, I’m all for gender equality. But I think I’d like to pee in peace.

"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself. And spiders."

Sun, 30 May 2010 08:52:44 +0000

BILBAO, Spain — Louise Bourgeois' 30-foot bronze spider, Maman, has escaped and is now terrorizing the riverfront near the Guggenheim Museum.

Pictured: Maman attempts to eat the author.

In memoriam: Louise Bourgeois (1911-2010).

Four Weddings and a Condom

Sat, 29 May 2010 20:17:12 +0000

As the rain pours outside in Tours and I take shelter in this internet cafe (the internet in the hostel is broken...), it strikes me how many weddings I saw today.

The Hotel de Ville (Like a town hall) hosts most weddings in French towns, so at 10am I wasn't surprised to see a line of Mercs outside with flower arrangements on the doors. I saw one bride leave as another entered - they go through them quick in France.

But later on, as I headed down the main shopping street 'Rue Nationale' I could hear drumming and loud music in the distance; I thought I was about to encounter my second protest of the week. In fact, it was a wedding for an Indian couple whose friends and family flocked to the hotel de ville with traditional instruments and dress. As they entered, I walked round the front to see another bride just leaving - they really do churn them out in Tours!

As the afternoon drew to a close and I returned back to my digs, I was approached by some very excited French women who, after some poor attempts at English, managed to explain they were on a Hen Night/Bachelorette Party and wanted me to buy a condom as part of their game. For 50c I couldn't complain, though I felt like I had played a particularly bizarre part their 'last night of freedom.'

So You're an American, eh?

Sat, 29 May 2010 20:17:02 +0000

The English pretend to be posh (just like our imagined stereotype of them), but really, they're just as bad as the rest of us.

English stereotypes of Americans.

1. The New Yorker (presented by: girls I met in a bar)

"Oh, so you're from New York. Your life must be like Sarah Jessica Parker and Sex and the City."

2. The Fat Person (presented by: Waiter at a restaurant).

I order a burger, with a side of chips, but he comes out with this massive plate with a burger, salad, pickles, fries.....and then a huge bowl of nachos that probably could've served four. I was like, "You think I can really eat all this myself?" He explains, "We pride ourselves on our American-style portions," then winks.

3. The Slut (no words needed)

"Camping"

Sat, 29 May 2010 13:27:52 +0000

Camping is apparently a subjective term. I have always thought of camping as pitching a tent under the stars, cooking over an open fire, and communing with nature. As it turns out, camping in Italy involves much more Campari, strobe lighting, and Euro-Trance music.

This weekend, one of my friends from Ohio came to Venice to hang out for a few days. His flight arrived in VCE a bit late, so we decided to stay on the mainland rather than head back into Venice's historic center. I knew there were many campgrounds that rented out tents and mobile homes for travelers around the city, so after a brief search, I identified one particular camp – "Camping Jolly" – that seemed particularly delightful.

Getting there turned out to be a bit more of an adventure than we had anticipated, as it involved a dead-of-night sprint through a roundabout with an 80km/hr speed limit, but once we arrived, we were greeted by spacious accommodations, air conditioning, and hot water (all of which are hard enough to find in a Venetian hotel at times). Add to these amenities an excellent bar, many enthusiastic backpackers, and a DJ who shared my passion for Kanye West, and Camping Jolly more than lived up to its name.

For any budget travelers hoping to save some money and hang out with backpackers from all over the world, camping is definitely worth a look-see. Lots of people think that traveling is a lost art in the age of the internet, but dancing Thriller with backpackers from Japan, some hair-metal fans from Germany, and a pair of Italian bartenders is a great reminder of what travel can be when done right.

I See London, I See France

Sat, 29 May 2010 12:15:24 +0000

Sometimes I worry I got off the plane at the wrong stop. This summer, I'm living in a flat above a French bakery. Every morning, I find myself pulled out of bed not just by my alarm, but by the scent of rising bread. In fact, if I were never to leave my apartment, my stay in London would be a full-fledged French experience (sort of). My mattress is so obstinately firm that I feel like I'm living in a 17th century French farm house. Also, the curtains seem to have been mauled by a moth the size of a Buick (to paraphrase Woody Allen).

Now, my job involves a lot of walking, so I'm limiting myself to five chocolate croissants...per meal.

Au cheers?

BUSTED: Or, the Story of an Irish Woman, a Researcher's Peculiar "Curiosity," and a Picolo Mondo

Sat, 29 May 2010 10:11:37 +0000

Whatever the job description says, working as a Researcher-Writer is really a test of one's acting abilities - how well you can make up ridiculous stories about wheelchair-ridden family members who need you to find them a hotel, or extremely picky friends who've asked you to ensure that their dorm comes with lockers, linens, and free breakfast (from 7-9am, not 8-10am). While I've done my best to remain incognito, sometimes the slew of questions and researcher "garb" still manage to blow my cover. Two years ago, I was parked on a tiny Venetian street, pen and highlighted papers in hand, when a young man came up to me and asked if I was a researcher for the guide. Surprised, I asked how he knew. He chuckled and told me, "I recognized the awkward person standing outside a bar writing down telephone numbers instead of buying a drink." Apparently, he had researched Southeast Asia 10 years ago and knew the Let's Go lingo well. Appropriately, the bar was called "Un Picolo Mondo" (a small world).

The other night, though, my "curiosity" led to the strangest coincidence yet, one which had me doubting whether Rome is actually as populated as it claims to be. I was at a bar - don't worry, this time holding a beer instead of a pen. It wasn't long before I started talking to the bartender, asking him about the place's history and hours; he hollers at a woman across the table who, apparently, is "the source." Loud, cheerful, and speaking with a thick Irish accent, she tells me everything I could want to know, summing up by saying the bar is the result of two Italian men, one Irish guy, an English dude, and an Irish lady, all with a vision.

I go on a bit, diluting my "question bank" with unrelated snippets of conversation. Ten minutes in, she stops and asks, "do you know Barbara?" I look at her dumbfounded, knowing that somehow she has figured out who or what I am. It turns out that this lady is best friends with my one permanent contact in Rome, Barbara, who had recently been helping me in my desperate apartment hunt. Barbara had told this lady who I was and what I was doing in Rome and had asked if I could sublet her flat.

Either she's extremely perceptive or I'm a worse actor than I thought: somehow she had put two and two together and realized that I, the desperate researcher looking for a place to rent, was now on an undercover nightlife-research mission. While tonight I was paying homage to her pub, I had very nearly become her tenant. Unlike the 2min. conversation with the ex-researcher I had had two years earlier, this unveiling of my identity led to an encounter that had me smiling the rest of the night. Of all the bars, of all the nights, in all of Rome, somehow my "curiosity" had led me to a chance meeting with a woman I actually knew (albeit remotely). It really is a picolo mondo after all.

I'm in Ruins!

Fri, 28 May 2010 12:55:07 +0000

Don't worry mom and dad, that title is just a terrible pun. I actually am doing wonderfully here during my last few days in Seville, and took the most awesome trip to Italica yesterday morning. Italica happens to be the ancient Roman city from 236 BC that was the birthplace of the first Roman Emperor to settle the Iberian Peninsula. Yup, now you get the pun.

Italica was one of the greatest day trips I could have stumbled across. My hostel was offering a guided bike trip to the site for just six euro, which included the bike, helmet, and guide. The hour-long bike ride through the Sevillian countryside was stunning, and the site itself, awe-inspiring. The visit ended up just consisting of me, the guide, and this older Korean girl who designs baby clothes for a living and was doing her best to practice her very limited knowledge of English and Spanish. Our 45-minute exploration of the site was thus understandably comical.

I think the part of the trip that I found particularly interesting, and entirely unrelated to archaeology, biking, or lame puns, was my conversation with the guide, who has been running trips through backpacker's hostels for a few years now. We discussed the changing "backpacker culture," and his concerns that true backpackers are a dying breed. I must say I agree--I have watched slews of tourists rush in and out of my hostels over the past weeks with rolling suitcases, snazzy clothes, and what the guide described (with quite a scoff) as the "hotel" attitude. While I can't necessarily answer why this change is occurring, I do have one thing to say: Don't give up on backpacking! It may not be glamorous. It may not be luxurious. But there's no better way to truly get to know a city than by exploring the local hotspots, meeting fellow travelers, and worrying less about style and hygiene (need to be honest) and more about exploration and adventure. Muster up the courage and go for it!

Also--quick disclaimer--I know it probably seems like I have an obsession with bicycling between the spinning post and this Italica post. Totally untrue. Actually, at the moment, I must say that I spite the activity and the horrible pain those evil little bike seats have given me.

Out there, Somewhere

Fri, 28 May 2010 09:58:53 +0000

Yesterday on a tapas tour I met two awesome travelers, Laura and Chris, from Calgary, Canada. One of their stops before Madrid was the Sahara. Yeah, like the desert.

After Laura was laid off (and received a handsome severance and bonus package) and Chris paid off his student debts in the same week, the pieces feel together for them to travel the world like they had always dreamed. They booked one-way tickets from Vancouver to London to Istanbul and took off in December 2009. The plan was to originally travel southeast into Iran, then travel to Nepal, and eventually land in Southeast Asia where they would teach English in Thailand.

Since I met them in Madrid, the plan has obviously been altered, but these two travelers continue to take life as it comes at them, traveling with one-way tickets and just a small bag each, sleeping in airports, eating local fare, and taking only good stories and amazing photos back with them.

Check out their blog at http://www.outtheresomewhere.ca

You Can Set Your Clocks to It

Fri, 28 May 2010 00:41:59 +0000

Since my hospedaje's been empty all week, and because the elderly owners aren't so clued in to the neighborhood club scene, I've been relying on the folks—guests and owners—at the hostel two doors down the street for nightlife advice. Most helpful has been Pablo, who just moved back to San Sebastián after two years in Ibiza and Barcelona. He's been here now almost a week and is due to start working at said hostel next door in a few days. We hit up a club on the east end of the parte vieja, and the club was completely empty save two old men at the bar. I turned to leave.

"Wait," he said. "What time is it?"

"2:05."

"Set an alarm for 12 minutes."

"What?"

"Just do it."

I did. And twelve minutes and 16 seconds later (my alarm had beeped 32 times), dozens and dozens of people flooded in, and suddenly the place was the hottest bar in town. Bravo, Pablo. Bravo.

Culinary Vocab 101

Thu, 27 May 2010 22:20:53 +0000

So, naturally, travel brings with it the high probability of cultural mishaps. Some of my gaffes so far have included plugs I can't work, cell phones I can't figure out how to charge, and confusing 2 pence and 2 pounds. Perhaps my most entertaining misunderstandings have involved food.

It took me a full week to figure out that a "jacket potato" was really just a baked potato. Jacket sounds much more exciting, though, don’t you think? If you want some decked out spuds, come to Britain.

Take a Number . . . or Die

Thu, 27 May 2010 20:20:11 +0000

Maybe it's just something with me and maps.

Looking for a plan of Milan's tram system, which is extensive and connects many points not covered by the underground network, I stopped in the ATM Point (that's Azienda Trasporti Milanesi—Milan's transit authority—and has nothing to do with a cash machine) in the Duomo station. There were probably five people working at the counter and no one in line, so I walked straight towards the nearest desk.

Almost immediately, the employees behind the counter began to shout at me. "Numero!" called one. "Un numero" repeated another. Needless to say, at this point I'm clueless. I understand the words literally, but I have no idea what they mean.

"Do you speak English?" I meekly ask one blue-shirted worker, receiving a noncommital hand gesture in reply. "Do you have a map?" I persist.

With a stern and thouroughly displeased look, he throws one down through the slot beneath the protective glass. "Grazie," I say.

Then, turning to leave, it finally hits me. I see the machine that prints numbers. I see the light-up numbers above the employees' desks. I realize that when I pick a number, it will randomly determine which employee is to service me. So that's why the person I naively approached as I entered the office yelled the loudest!—he just didn't want to go back to work. Why was I picking whom to talk to when the number was supposed to do it for me?

I suppose bureaucratic rulemaking is a fact of life, no matter what country you're in. But when you don't speak the country's language, well, all that bureaucracy gets a whole lot trickier.

Things Ive learned...

Thu, 27 May 2010 19:55:38 +0000

Ive been in France a while now, or at least it feels like it. There are some things that I have gotten used to, and some things that will never click. A short list:

1) Typing on a French keyboard. As of now, Im without WiFi, so I am resorting to using internet cafes instead of my trusty laptop. French keyboards are... special. The thing is thqt they qre i,possible to use becquse the keys thqt correspond to zhqt I zqnt to type do not shoz up. W,Q, and A are all switched, and you have to press SHIFT to get to a period.

2) Privatized beaches. In Cannes, I was told to include directions on how to find the beaches. Being from Southern California, I was very confused, since the only directions to get to the beach back home are, uh... head towards the ocean. Here, beaches are taken up by private cafes and lounge chairs that one must rent for the day to go to the beach. This should qualify as a human rights violation. A beach where you have to pay is like a paying to breathe air. I consider myself pretty libertarian in the sense that competition brings out the best quality at the lowest prices (God knows Europe could use some of that with its Telecom industry) but paying for the beach prevents drunken bonfires and pot smoking, which I believe is the sole reason for young people to go to beaches. Without those two things, its like the 4th of July (or 14th in France) without fireworks.

3) I already told you about the chintzy breakfasts, so Ill leave it at that.

Everything else is actually pretty awesome. Apart from no Hulu or livestream to watch Lost on abc.com, the two hour lunch breaks are something to marvel at, if not something that I can enjoy personally. Topless beaches are a true public service. Wont get any arguments from me. Also use of commas instead of periods when using numbers makes jotting down prices a whole lot easier.

On the Bench

Thu, 27 May 2010 19:17:10 +0000

Amsterdam is short on two things: space and sunshine. Local architecture has long reflected the lack of the former; one of the first things you'll notice along any canal is the fact that the tall, narrow houses have big hooks just under the eaves so that things can be raised to the building's upper floors from the outside. But Amsterdammers' resourcefulness doesn't stop there.

My first day in town was remarkably warm, and as I wandered along the Egelantiersgracht (in the Jordaan neighborhood), I decided to sit for a bit and enjoy the sun on one of the many wooden benches lining the sidewalk. Soon, though, I realized that I was getting the evil eye from an old woman a few benches over who was peeling some potatoes. (I kid you not; it was the most bucolic scene imaginable . . . minus her angry glare.) "Fair enough," I thought, "she probably thinks I'm just another American student vacationing in Amsterdam and looking to cause a ruckus. At least I'm not wearing one of those Rastafarian hats with the fake dreads!" Then I looked around a bit more carefully and realized that my fellow bench-dwellers along the canal were engaged in similarly domestic activities . . . and that all the benches were in front of private houses. Finally, I put two and two together, and it occurred to me that these benches were probably the only private space in which locals lacking room for a garden or patio could still enjoy snatches of nice weather. Me sitting down at one was probably akin to entering someone's living room and lounging on the sofa. So I hastily got up and sheepishly strolled away . . . to find a much more socially acceptable sunbathing spot in Westerpark.

Fight the Power

Thu, 27 May 2010 16:11:05 +0000

French people, and especially Parisians, do not hesitate to fight the power. Patriotism is seldom invoked as a reason to obey the law. Strikes and riots are commonplace here (though the former is more common than the latter). The French people seem to judge and legislate their own revisions of government policy autonomously and collectively, without hesitation.

Take, for example, the strike over Sarkozy`s proposed retirement benefit scaledown that postponed a couple museum visits I was planning to make today. Or the extremely violent and costly riots in the underclass banlieues that have occurred throughout the past two decades, most recently in 2005. Sure, this quality has its drawbacks (inefficiency, property damage, etc.), but doesn't that make French democracy all the more entertaining? You decide.

Approximations

Thu, 27 May 2010 13:53:31 +0000

Enrico Fermi – physicist, quantum theorist, statistician. Italian.

Fermi had one of the greatest scientific minds of the 20th century, but since I've gotten here, Italy has made me question his method of informal approximation. For more information on the method, you can check out its Wikipedia entry, here, but basically, Fermi argued that accurate estimations could be made of the answers to complex problems through appropriate analysis of the problem's necessary factors and assumptions.

Fermi's theory has clearly been taken to heart by the people of Italy, because everyone here approximates. Everything. All the time. And, sadly, not always as well as Fermi did.

Directions tend to be kind of dicey approximations. I'm pretty sure that over 75% of hotels in Venice claim to be within 5min. walking distance of the Rialto bridge. Wi-Fi access is a source of wild speculation. If a hotel advertises wireless internet access, what they really mean is that they have some approximation of Wi-Fi – even if it's only in the lobby and working roughly 3hr. a day. Most restaurants and hotels boast of their air conditioning systems, which they definitely have . . . at least in one room. But it might not be working this week.

There are perks to this system of guesstimation as well. In the states, we tend to think of prices as set in stone, but here, they are simply estimates – estimates that can be recalculated based on how charming a shop owner finds you. The approximation of opening and closing times also tends to work out well; in Venice, you'll never have a restaurant door closed on you because you arrived 5min. after business was supposed to end. Also, if you sleep in past check-in, you're golden – as long as you exit your room approximately on time.

To strung-out, type-A Americans, the blurry lines of Venetian approximation can be frustrating to no end. I've already seen plenty of arguments between hotel managers and customers over technicalities. Venice is a wonderful city with a lot to appreciate, but one of the lessons that must be learned quickly is how to chill out and take things as they come. And trust that they will turn out right . . . more or less.

Missverständnis oder Wahrheit?

Thu, 27 May 2010 12:40:41 +0000

Before traveling to Germany, I’d heard, read, and thought about the country in a certain way. Two weeks in, here’s a quick look at a few German stereotypes, and what I’ve found. Think of this as a littleexposé, A Behind the Lederhosen documentary in 6 short points.

1. Meat and Potatoes. Absolutely, yes. And bread. The German diet as I’ve seen it is ridiculously low on vegetables, and even lower on fruit. To compensate, I usually have a fruit-and-yogurt breakfast and lunch, and then, failing a good Turkish alternative, I’ll resign myself to a classically deutsche dinner.

2. Lederhosen. Not a pair in sight.

3. Good beer. So true, but I’m proud to say that I’ve never doubted.

4. Unbelieveably huge quantities of good beer. Even truer. By American standards, I’m a light drinker, and by German ones, there’s something clinically wrong with my alcohol tolerance. I drink about as much as a nine-year-old diabetic, as one Bavarian friend was kind enough to point out.

5. Fast cars. So true, and they don’t stop for pedestrians. I’m putting myself through an intense retraining process to quit the jaywalking habits I acquired after a year in Boston, because I’ve found that I rather like life, and it would be a shame for it to end under the front bumper of a Mercedes Benz.

6. Ethnically homogeneous. So far, yes. East Germany, where I’ve been researching, was cut off from the rest of the world for 40 years, while all around them people were immigrating and cultures were diversifying. So far, the places I’ve been to have all been predominantly (sometimes almost exclusively) white, and even predominantly full-blooded German. There is a strong Turkish presence, but I’m looking forward to getting to Berlin, where I hear things are a little more diverse.

Actually, I Have Heard of the Berlin Wall

Thu, 27 May 2010 12:38:58 +0000

When it comes to Americans and education, Germans can often assume the worst. I present as evidence this interaction with a (not so) helpful tourist office employee.

“Excuse me, how do I get to the Contemporary History Museum?”

“What was that? You want to go to the Contemporary History Museum? Aren’t you American?”

“Yes I am, thanks for noticing, but I’d actually really like to check out the exhibits, so if you don’t mind, I turn down this street and then—“

“Oh, I’m happy to see an American with an interest in European history! Are you looking forward to seeing the Cold War exhibit? You know, the Cold War was a period of time—“

“Sorry to stop you, but I’ve actually heard of it. So right, where’s the museum?”

“And make sure you see the fragments of the Berlin Wall! You know, Germany used to be split in two, and through the middle of our capital city (which is Berlin by the way, I don’t know if you’ve heard of it. You know how Americans are with geography!), they built a really big wall. We called it the Berlin Wall, and for years—“

“Yes, yes, I know, you couldn’t cross it, and this is all very interesting, which, you understand, is why I’m trying to go to this exhibit in the first place, but you see, the museum’s closing in an hour and I’m not sure what street I should turn on to.”

“Oh of course! I feel like it would be a disservice to the world to not take a chance to teach an American something about the rest of the world, but let’s see, yes turn down the second straße on your left, and go past the McDonalds (you’ll want to stop there for a rest and a quick lunch, I’m sure! We know how much you Americans hate exercise and love your French fries). Then you’ll walk thirty meters and—I say! You probably don’t even know what a meter is, what?”

Spanish quirks/traditions

Thu, 27 May 2010 12:36:49 +0000

Interesting Spanish superstitions/cultural quirks I've discovered while here:

1. It is actually ruder to throw used napkins/garbage on the bar or table than on the floor. You can tell that a place is really good/popular if the floor is covered in trash by the end of the night.

2. Look everyone in the eye when offering a toast, and never toast with water (or risk seven years of bad sex). Yikes.

3. Don't board a plane/bus/train on Tuesday the 13th as it is unlucky. Ruh-Roh! Might need to talk with my researcher-manager (see boss) about adjusting my travel plans...

4. If a broom hits your feet when someone is sweeping you will never marry. Watch 'em toes!

5. Don't pass a salt shaker from one hand to another, and never share a lighter among more than three people. I'm unclear what will happen if you do, but I'd assume its something like bad sex with no toes for seven years.

Traveling Alone

Thu, 27 May 2010 12:36:38 +0000

My friends, my parents, my cousins, the waitress at the café, and the person I happen to talk to on the train all ask me, What’s it like, this Traveling Alone?

Traveling Alone, I tell them, is strange. I’m still figuring out Traveling Alone, but it’s hard to do because it keeps changing. Traveling Alone is liberating and exhilarating, like when I sing out loud in the street, or wear the same thing three days in a row, or confide in someone because after this one coffee we’ll never see each other again, and I want to talk and they want to listen.

Traveling Alone is a moment of complete peace at the top of a church tower, or at a café table in the middle of a busy market, or staring out the train window as German fields turn to German neighborhoods turn into fields again. Traveling Alone is stopping in front of a beautiful building tonight, sitting down on the sidewalk, and staring up at it, all lit up from below. Traveling Alone is talking to people you don’t know and will only see once all day, sharing a dinner or a drink or a wild experience that brings you together for two hours before you both pay the bill and leave.

And then Traveling Alone is coming home to your hostel and talking to the friends and the family that want to know how you’re doing, what you’re seeing, where you are and where you’re going, what you need and what they can do to help. It’s having a bad day where it rained and you were wearing sandals, you got lost in a new city at night and ended up on the hostel common room couch, sleeping under your raincoat holding on to your laptop and your wallet and then having an email conversation with dads who tell you stories about nights they spent in train stations sleeping under newspapers on cold hard ground.

And (sorry to be dramatic), Traveling Alone isn’t really traveling alone: it’s just moving from one place to another by yourself, but always from people and to people, remembering the people thousands of miles away in a country that think dinner isn’t just large servings of potatoes and meat (but who also think that Budweiser is a good beer), all caring about you and looking out for you.

Pigeons Here Don't Know Their Place!

Wed, 26 May 2010 17:53:06 +0000

Today, I was flown into by a pigeon while walking down a boulevard in Paris' 18th arrondissement. Granted, the pigeon only brushed my head for a milli-second. But I was raised to believe that pigeons are the dirtiest of all dirty animals! I naturally had a freakout, ran into a cheap tourist storefront, and without asking if it was ok to use the bathroom, doused my head in water and extinguished the soap supply in their tiny dingy WC. I have feared what happened today for years, but especially since I've been in Paris.

Pigeons here are, how do I put this....close flyers? They are unphased to fly within six inches of, and even make contact with, pigeons. So beware travelers. It could happen to you.

Spandex and Sweat

Wed, 26 May 2010 11:25:37 +0000

Being a bit of a work-out-aholic myself, I had been getting kind of antsy not being able to go for a run due to the Sevillian heat. But the other day, while exploring El Centro, I came across a small gym hidden on a side street, and decided to sign up for an indoor cycling class.

I'd gone spinning in LA, so I've seen the stereotypes in action. Interestingly enough, the funniest thing about taking a spinning class thousands of miles from Los Angeles was that those stereotypes still held strong.

The class had all the essentials:

1. A totally fit instructor, decked out in spandex bike shorts and a tank top who sweats profusely while at the same time makes the class look like a breeze.

2. Middle-aged, female regulars, gossiping about their families and most recent diet plans. (One suggested that replacing meals with two tablespoons of garbanzo beans was the best way to lose weight...and finally meet those anorexic goals).

3. Booming, American pop and hip-hop. While I don't think I've ever heard so much Black Eyed Peas on one playlist, they definitely had the gist of it. The woman next to me at one point asked if I could explain the lyrics of Lil Jon's "Get Low"--I told her it wasn't worth it.

4. A terribly sore butt and set of legs (but maybe that's just an essential for me).

One of the great things about traveling is finding the things that are absolutely unique to a country; however, it can be equally interesting to come across those things that just never change. And I guess the kooky, obsessive, high-energy culture behind indoor cycling is gettin' global.

To Pee or Not to Pee: That is the Problem

Wed, 26 May 2010 10:14:18 +0000

One of the best things about Rome is the water – that is, the potable water spewing in plentitude from its free drinking fountains (that, by the way, might easily be mistaken for monuments, they’re so beautiful). Filling up your water bottle every few hours definitely saves at least a couple of euro that would have gone to some overpriced vendor. But while I’m saving money on the consumption side of things, I find it uncanny that on the other side – ahem, the peeing one – I’m not. “WC”s, as they’re called here, usually cost at least one euro, and while that’s not going to break my wallet, I think it’s a bit ridiculous. Could the ancient Romans who built these fountains have known that by encouraging generous hydration among residents of The Eternal City, they'd be establishing a constant revenue stream (pun intended) for the city centuries later?

So stickler that I am, I’ve been compiling a list of spots where I can pee without a fee. Some of the recent encounters I've had:

-- Walking through Trastevere, I followed a nun into what I assumed was her convent. Indeed, I was right. After I asked politely at the front desk, the folks at the abbey were happy to let me use the bathroom. Convents to the rescue again.

-- On Via XX Settembre, I walked into a tiny pasticceria (which, I strategically noted, was over 100 years old), intending to ask the owner a bit about the place. After an expectedly long spiel (and a complimentary cappucino, I might add), the man took pity on me when I asked to use the bathroom. Get an Italian talking about his family, and he'll forget you're asking him a favor.

-- After finishing off a particularly messy pizza, I walked into a boutique with my hands noticeably red from the way I had massacred my pie. Knowing the storekeepers would not want me touching any of their fine clothes with my greasy hands, I intended to ask for a sink. But before I even opened my mouth, the lady who seemed in charge of the shop had read my mind....or at least, I thought so. Leading me to the back of the boutique, she walked me into the bathroom, where I saw that the mess on my hands was nothing compared to the saucy carnage all over my mouth. Moral of the story: be messy, and you won't even have to ask to use a toilet. PS: This technique also works especially well with gelato...see above!

Au revoir Britain, Bonjour Orleans!

Tue, 25 May 2010 21:25:00 +0000

Although my plane journey into Paris felt more like a ride on Space Mountain this afternoon, my first ever voyage into the French capital ran as smoothly as anything. Though I do hope the extra turbulence was not due to the fact that I forgot to turn my cell phone off before we left the UK. (Clearly the worries of cellular equipment in the skies are obsolete, since my plane didn’t come crashing down. But I did have rubbish signal above the clouds – AT&T should do something about that!) My fleeting pass through Paris was pleasant as I encountered an entourage of SNCF guards who were dressed to impress in their Purple and Grey uniforms, putting most American and British train staff to shame.

Travelling by train from Paris to Orleans offered a great chance to watch the people of France in their natural habitat, since I have only ever experienced Parisians vicariously through those awful French education programmes they made us watch in school. Unfortunately, the majority of passengers were, to say the least, dull. Dull, that was, until a man and woman got on the train deep in conversation which – leaving the details out – left nothing to the imagination. They say l’amour thrives in Paris. It continues onto the trains as well, apparently!

Despite the aesthetic pleasure of the SNCF staff they seemed to lack enforcement of their ticketing service as I was not even charged for a ticket at all and managed to score a free train ride from Paris to Orleans. Josh: 1, Trains of Europe: 0 (Travellers beware: I may have just been lucky!)

In order to really pull myself into the French spirit before arriving at my first destination of the trip, Orleans, I tuned into a bit of Les Mis to get my revolutionary juices flaring. Perhaps they accepted me as one of their own, or maybe they just thought I was barking mad, but either way I got a couple of head nods from some locals as I departed the train humming “Do you hear the people sing?” Let’s hope my desire for a travel revolution isn’t dampened by the storms forecast for Orleans over the next few days!

Soundtrack to Venice

Tue, 25 May 2010 19:51:27 +0000

When you watch anything about Italy on TV – travel shows, movies, Food Network programming, etc. – the soundtrack inevitably includes some stereotypical, excessively theatrical accordion music with matching histrionic vocals. It seems stupid even to ask whether that's what Italy's really like – obviously every guy you pass on the street isn't some wannabe Caruso waiting to burst out into impassioned opera, right?

Actually, I gotta say, Venice has surprised me: I've never been in a more musical city. Every day, I wake up at 8am to a quartet of guys singing just outside the window to my hotel. At 8:30, I'm up again, as the musical stylings of a local violinist drift into my room. Finally, it's 9:00, and I've awoken to the lively sound of an excellent accordion player who always manages to get a chorus of people to echo him. (How he does this? I have no clue.) Granted, at 9am, I wish his lilting refrains came with a snooze button, but it's tough not to be impressed by a city that appreciates music so much. In a lot of neighborhoods, you can't walk for more than about two blocks without running into another street musician. And these aren't the guys you find on your typical American subway, the ones that garner reactions ranging from mild irritation to sympathy from the commuters who must listen to their music, whether it's applause- or tomato-worthy. Street musicians here attract discerning crowds, and their performances rarely disappoint. They take their craft pretty seriously too; some go so far as to don suit and tie for their performances, even in the summertime heat. All of this informal music contributes to a much calmer, more amiable street culture. Rather than rushing from point A to point B, people are more likely to stroll down the streets, gelato in hand, as they take in Venice's eclectic soundtrack.

Viking Invasion

Tue, 25 May 2010 15:40:56 +0000

Today I met some Vikings.

No, not my high school mascot, and not the football players from Minnesota.

Real, live, Norse-speaking ones with grey hair and yellow teeth. Well, almost live ones.

The Vikings invaded (what is now) York in 866, led by Ivar the Boneless. They captured the whole city and made it the capital of their brand new territory in the north of England. The city used to be called Eoforwic (Saxon), but the Vikings changed it to "Jorvik" (Danish) and that's where the name York comes from. I learned today that many of the street names in York actually date from this time. Many of them end in the suffix "gate"—Swinegate, Micklegate, Nessgate, Castlegate, Stonegate (but no Watergate). These names are all derived from the the Viking word "gata," which means street.

York has a quirky museum in town dedicated to these Viking ancestors. They use it to fund the noble effort of archaeological digs to excavate the old Viking Town. While it's quite touristy and a bit gimmicky, I really enjoyed my visit. You circle around on these swingy ride cars (kind of like a Disney World ride) through a recreation town, and these life-size Viking dolls make hand motions and speak to you in Norse while an audio commentator translates in the background. As we pass the backyard area of the house-shacks, he explains, "The water isn't very clean in Jorvik. That is because both the toilets and the wells are located next to each other in the backyard. This is why everyone drinks beer in Jorvik—even the children."

The ride is even complete with scent effects: when you pass the part with the market, the slightly rotten smell of fish fills the air. There's a particularly distinct smell at the end of the ride, when you see an old man Viking squatting and looking constipated. He yells at you in Norse. The narrator tells us, "He says 'Go away.' Well then...moving on."

I kid you not.

A Trip to the "Coiffeur"

Tue, 25 May 2010 15:06:30 +0000

Getting your hair cut in France is a luxurious experience. After answering a series of detailed questions about how you want your hair cut (this can be a bit tricky for foreigners), you get an extended shampooing session. Your coiffeur not only washes your hair, but massages your head, for like five minutes after the shampoo is gone! This is supposed to make the cut itself go smoother. For somebody who doesn`t get that many head massages, this was a thrill.

Rest assured that your coiffeur is an expert. Coiffeurs in France have to pass at least three years of schooling, and at higher end shops, five years. They know what they`re doing, so you`ll be out of there quickly and looking like a million bucks. Add a personalized assessment of which gel would be best for your hair, and this has got to be the ultimate hair cut.

Road Rage

Tue, 25 May 2010 14:18:02 +0000

A few days ago, I had my first near-death experience of this trip.

(I suppose I'm implying there will be more, but we'll check back on that in a little while. For now, WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?)

Well, there I was blissfully strolling up Via Meda, generally minding my own business when WHAM, this motorcycle comes around the bend and nearly squishes my midsection flat to the pavement, comic book-style rubber skid mark across my chest and all.

Oh, right, and it probably would've been my fault.

I was crossing Via Tibaldi, which is split into three sections: both directions of automobile lanes on the outside and a two-lane strip for certain vehicles down the middle, separated from traffic by a leafy median. I assumed the center lanes were for buses, and indeed, they are. What I didn't know—nearly the cause of a tragically early death for yours truly—was that they are also for motorcycles.

The background to this story is that the Milanese love their motorbikes. These speedy little vehicles are everywhere—and not just parked on the sidewalk. Beautiful women drive by on their Vespas, hair flowing from under a helmet; polizia in their white belts and crisp blue jackets that somehow never get ruffled speed off on the seats of their motorcycles; and dark-suited businessmen shoot down the roads on bikes resembling enclosed bubbles of plexiglass. Whenever a traffic light turns green, an armada of bikes zooms through the intersection first, as they've all used their uncanny ability to sneak between lines of cars during their impatient wait to feed an inherent need for speed.

It was just such an armada that took me by surprise as I crossed Via Tibaldi against the light, seeing nothing coming around the bend. Seconds later, there they were—dozens of motorcyclists just itching to run me over, it seemed. Fortunately, only one was headed straight at me, and very fortunately, it had brakes. Long story short, they worked.

And so I jogged to the sidewalk, brushed myself off with a sigh, and lived to cross another road.

Hashbrowns. Scattered, smotherd and covered, pas ici.

Tue, 25 May 2010 09:03:31 +0000

If you're used to the typical, 1,000 calorie American breafast with eggs, hashbrowns, pancakes and miscilaneous pig parts, then prepare to starve until noon in France. There is a reason its called "petit dejeuner." "Petit" is the key word, and its not just a linguistc anolmaly that it means "small." If you're lucky, like I was in Cannes, you will be able to find a cafe with a breakfast special. "Finally," I thought, "a place that recognized the needs of humans to eat when they wake up."

I strolled inside to sit down at one of the tables, mouth watering at the expectation of a large spread of fruit, yogurt, coffee and pastries piled higher than my eye level. However, my French envisionment of their own version of a rutti tutti fresh and fruity was somewhat of a letdown. For no more than 3.10 Euros, I got.... a tiny cup of espresso and a plain croissant. All told for the price and the amount of food, it was about 20 calories per Euro (a number you can significantly augment by adding an extra packet of sugar). Don't make me translate that figure into calories per dollar because it will only make me sadder. Do cigarettes have calories? Because the French have those for breakfast too. Maybe the niccotine substitutes for the servere lack of glucose.

I've also seen cafe-goers just start drinking in the morning, probably because beer has more sustainance than the pathetic excuse that they call breakfast. Or it could be that the old lady I saw downing a glass of Pastis at 10am was an alcoholic. The jury's still out on that one. I can understand her frustration though, assuming that it was over the lack of breakfast options, considering most places that serve nutella paninis and crepes don't even open until noon. Or more frustratingly, they are open but only serve coffee until noon.

By the time lunch rolls around, you jump for joy (on the inside, since you don't have the energy to actually jump) because of the 3-4 course meals for under 15 Euro. Get ready though, since despite all bodily urges to stuff yourself, you will have to wait at least an hour and a half for the whole ordeal, with that waitress teasing you from entree to main course to dessert, feeding you only enough to get to the next plate. I thought I'd never say this: "I wish there was an all-you-can eat buffet."

Metro Metonymy

Mon, 24 May 2010 23:56:56 +0000

I’ve been spending a lot of time on subways. A LOT. Enough that I’ve managed to go in the wrong direction 3 times, headed to a station that was closed twice and missed my stop once. Embarrassing, I know. But the upside of all my metro mishaps is that I’ve been able to observe many a commuter and I’ve noticed that they all fall in to certain types.

Disclaimer: This list is by no means exhaustive.

Still, let’s take a look at specimen A. We’ll call him Pierre. Pierre is in a hurry to get to nowhere in particular and insists on pressing the “open” button for a full minute before the train comes to a stop. He doesn’t realize he’s being neurotic. He also doesn’t realize that the door will open when we actually get to the station. Pierre is, however, a cut above specimen B and C. Let’s call them Marie et Jacques. Marie et Jacques (always said together in a singsong voice) are madly in love. They’ve found themselves pressed together on the crowded subway and so figure they might as well make out. Tongue and all. Neither Marie nor Jacques notices specimen D in the corner. Sketchy metro guy. We all know him. He sort of slouches in his seat. Wears oversized coats. Gives young girls the up and down as they walk by. Presently, he’s staring hard at Marie et Jacques. Oh he’s gotten off. And in comes specimen E. The bumbling, fumbling traveler. Map in hand, backpack strapped, look of utter confusion. He starts asking everyone and anyone around him how to get to the Seine. What part? The whole thing.

At this point I get off the subway, careful to keep my hands clear of the closing doors, even though the sign that warned me to do that showed a picture of a bunny with his fingers caught. I’m pretty sure it would hurt a human too.

Hostel Living

Mon, 24 May 2010 17:32:07 +0000

You may have heard the whines and complaints that staying in hostels means bunk beds, loud kids, and communal bathrooms. I couldn't disagree more (you're probably just talking to an anti-social bunch). As the New Zealander in the lobby just said to me, "Backpacking through hostels means you're never traveling alone" (please add your own Kiwi accent). And there's such a truth to that. Many of the hostels in Seville serve up breakfast in the dining room or BBQ on the terrace day in and day out, and each meal gives you the perfect opportunity to meet all the people passing through that same destination. Think about it--you're young, you're adventurous, and you're on the move. You already have something to talk about.

And to be honest, some of the people who I've gotten closest with through my travels aren't even other travelers. The young, laid back locals who work the desks at many of these hostels get hired because they're so friendly and helpful. I think one of the best things I've learned about backpacking is the comfort of being a "regular" at a hostel. Rather than bouncing around, try staying for a few days. You'll feel far less foreign and alone when you can be greeted by name and have conversations beyond, "Where ya from," "California," "Oh cool." (At least give them the chance to ask what city in California. And if Los Angeles, whether you're a Crip or a Blood.)

Also, on a totally unrelated note, I spent my day in the city of La Macarena. I found out that

1. La Macarena is the Virgin of Hope,

2. The 90s hit song has nothing to do with the Virgin of Hope, but rather is simply about a girl named Macarena (I can't do any interpretation of the significance of the dance moves, though).

Cafe Saturation

Mon, 24 May 2010 17:26:11 +0000

When people think of Paris, they often envision cafes packed with carefully dressed characters with berets on their heads and cigarettes perpetually "en bouche." This stereotype, excepting the beret bit, isn't so far off. The number of cafes in Paris is nothusly noting short of shocking. They can be found just as easily in touristy areas as in residential neighborhoods. Americans should both take note and beware of the cafe. On the one hand, we should appreciate this inherently appealing restaurant format; Americans have quite obvio caught on to this attractive business model. Given how many succeed In Paris, I'm sure that every American town or city could stand to benefit from having a few more than it already does.

On the other hand, tourists, do yourselves a favor and stay away from the cafe for meals. There's a reason you rarely see locals eating at cafes. The cuisine is generally formulaic and overpriced. So for your aperitifs, definitely stick to the cafe. But consult Let's Go for your food choices.

Going Goth

Mon, 24 May 2010 07:56:16 +0000

I knew I should have packed my black leather body suit.

The afternoon before I left for Dresden, I met with my research manager Colleen in our dining hall to talk travel basics.

“Remember,” she told me, “only take what you absolutely need. The bare essentials, not one pair of socks more.”

“Got it,” I replied.

Sophie, I don’t think you do. I need to you pack only necessities. Leave everything else—are you listening to me—everything else, behind.”

Slowly, I began to realize what she meant.

“You’re… you’re… telling me to leave the dog collars, aren’t you?” I asked, instinctively reaching for the buckle around my neck. “No. No way. You can’t seriously think I’m going to leave them in the States! And what about my combat boots? My lace stockings? My weekly supply of black hair dye and liquid eye liner? You can’t expect me to leave behind my corsets and my belt chains and my collection of spider web rub-on tattoos!”

“Sophie, they’re just not practical,” Colleen smiled soothingly, reaching across the table.

I recoiled, pushing back in my chair. “And the jumpsuit,” I demanded in a whisper, my eyes narrowed. “The black leather jumpsuit. Don’t tell me. I have to… leave that too?”

I began to convulse. Colleen rushed to my side, and unbuckled the dog collar. Giving me her arm to lean on, I tottered out of the dining hall on five inch tall army boots, my black trench coat trailing on the ground behind us. That night, I lovingly unpacked everything, down to the last studded belt and black cut out gloves, and left it all in a storage box in Boston. “I’ll see you soon,” I whispered, my hand on the cardboard. I wiped away a tear, and slowly backed away from the bin.

And now here I am, one week later, in Leipzig, Germany, pulling in on a Saturday morning to see the beginnings of the largest Goth festival in the world. Over 20,000 Goths are swarming the cobblestone streets, packing the bistros and the art museums and the historic churches. My hostel is a maze of spiked belts and spilled hair gel. The garden in front of Mehndelsson’s house is a sea of black leather. I couldn’t see the Monet this afternoon over the head of a fantastically-mohawked young man dressed entirely in fish-net.

And I swear to God, I just saw a woman walking down the street, leading her husband by a leash, and wearing my black leather body suit.

It’s all too much.

I think that if I start coloring myself with a black Sharpie now, I should blend in by morning.

Chronicles of a Night Out in Madrid

Sun, 23 May 2010 21:16:04 +0000

12am – Sitting in my hostel, I'm writing some reviews of restaurants and sketchily eavesdrop on fellow hostelers talking about going pub crawling in the near future.

12:05am – As I gauge the creepiness level of inviting myself, I come to the conclusion that I have nothing to lose. It’s go time, soldier. My fellow hostelers end up being a group of guys from Brazil who are in Madrid to watch the UEFA Champions League final and a 20-something-year-old Portuguese woman on vacation.

12:10am - As we walk around the Plaza Santa Ana, we buy some one euro beers from one of the many street vendors prowling the square. Oh hello, 16 year old drinking age!

1:00am – We meet a group of ecclectic but stylish French girls celebrating their last night studying abroad at Madrid University.

2:00am – The French girls invite me to go clubbing with them…Oui! Let’s Go!

2:30am – We get to a club named Shoko where Empire State of Mind is playing full blast, and we dance the night away in a hot, Spanish discoteca.

4:30am – I'm back at the hostel with new memories, new friends, and some ridiculous new dance moves. However, I'm still getting used to the Madrid state of mind. Locals rage until 6am or later, ending the night/morning with churros dipped in thick, hot chocolate.

Cures for Homesickness Abroad

Sun, 23 May 2010 21:04:15 +0000

Justin Bieber. Almost everyone has an opinion (good or bad) so he’s a great conversation starter. Is he the best thing since Miley or a creepo twelve year old with Zac Efron-like hair? Baby Baby Baby ooohhhwoooahh.

2. Remember to look up. During my first few days abroad I was so freaked out by maps, getting lost, and being away from everyone at home that I completely forgot to peel my eyes away from street signs and take in the amazing architecture, cobblestone streets, and park space that pervades Madrid. In the words of my good friend Ferris, “Life moves pretty fast, if you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

3. Grande Caramel Frappacino. Forgive yourself in advance for being thattourist…the one who goes to Starbucks when surrounded by incredible local cafes. Whatever. It’ll feel comforting and just like home. Yay globalization!

4. Don’t Stop Believin’. I suggest playing the Glee version on high volume. Fail-proof insta-happiness.

5. New Friends! Make them! Put yourself out there. The worst case is five minutes of awkward elevator conversation, and the best case is meeting awesome people to enjoy your travels with from all over the world.

We Are The Champions...

Sun, 23 May 2010 16:00:29 +0000

When in Italy, plan on visiting a city whose soccer (ahem, football) team has a chance to win the Champions League. I don't remember what happened the evening of May 22nd, but I'm pretty sure I had fun.

Let's start from the beginning: there was a soccer game. A big one. Munich vs. Inter Milan, fighting for the European crown. Bars screening the match could barely be seen behind the crowds that packed the streets to watch the game. TV-less watering holes were left deserted, and even the waiters of these empty establishments walked next door to join the mobs of soccer-crazed onlookers and keep an eye on the match.

Then came the first goal, in the first half. After 35 minutes of Keep Away (sadly, this is what an American eye sees in a soccer game), it took one good pass end-to-end to put the game out of reach. The score? 1-0 Inter. Another one in the second half basically ended it, although they played another 25 minutes.

The final whistle blew, the viewers clapped, and nothing happened. Minutes passed. A quarter of an hour. Then slowly came the cheers. The car horns. The waving flags. Celebratory blue smoke tinged the nostrils. It was a sensory bonanza.

And as the blue and black took to the streets, the party began. Everywhere. Who knows when it stopped.

In the end, aren't photos for remembering anyhow?

Serenades and such

Sun, 23 May 2010 00:00:21 +0000

When I think of Paris, I imagine lovers along the Seine, fresh baguettes, bottles of wine and loosely wrapped scarves. If I'm feeling particularly dreamy, I picture Frenchmen who serenade. Today a market vendor provided the quintessential Parisian experience, satisfying my romantic expectations of the city. Chasing after me in the Marché Batignolles, shouting "Mademoiselle! Mademoisselle!" he held out a glass of homemade apple juice I just had to try. I took a sip and then he started singing. About Normandy. And the land. And some other things that I didn't quite catch. Five minutes later he was showing me the album he had made in an effort to promote conservation. He spoke only in rhyming couplets. I'm glad all my my imaginings weren't entirely unfounded.

Euro "Trashion?"

Sat, 22 May 2010 21:29:19 +0000

Only a week into my stay in Paris, I am already starting to get angry at the absurdity of euro trash fashion (why not just call it euro trashion?). The "mens'" styles really get me going. Haircuts are downright absurd. I saw a 13-year-old on the train yesterday with quite possibly the ugliest and most poorly done fauxhawk of all time; the huge fake designer shades perched on top of this 'do topped off an already tragic situation. I mean it looked like he hadn't washed or looked at his hair in three weeks. What on earth is he, or his so-called friends, thinking?

Then there's the hair matted down in the front, but poofed (extremely so) around the crown of the head? What's that about? And the jeans, the jeans....where to start? As internet personality Ed Lover would say, C'mon son!!! Throw all these regrettable elements together and it starts to make me not want to eat as much food as I've been eating.

Venetian Graffiti

Sat, 22 May 2010 21:05:19 +0000

When walking around Venice, you might notice graffiti that, at first glance, seems to depict some sort of tropical bird.

If you're an optimist like me, you might be inclined to assume that these graffiti are just the artistic expression of a kinder, gentler hooligan culture that would rather create pleasant avian artwork than spray paint the curses and gang signs typical of American graffiti.

In reality, as was explained to me by an ancient, Mr. Miyagi-esque sage of a shopkeeper, the graffiti are meant to portray pigeons sporting the iconic masks worn by plague doctors in the 14th century. During the Black Death, these masks' distinctively prominent noses held vinegar or other noxious-smelling substances (as if the streets of Venice at the height of the bubonic plague weren't already malodorous enough) used to ward off miasma.

These masks are one of the many legacies of the plague in Venice and are featured prominently during the annual Carnival festivities. They should also be familiar to anyone who has seen Eyes Wide Shut and who, like me, will thus be doubly terrified when a display like the one pictured above suddenly emerges from a hidden corner of Venice's narrow, winding streets.

Marseille Wins Soccer Game: Town Burns Down

Sat, 22 May 2010 20:44:08 +0000

This is an addendum to my video blog about how I survived a soccer celebratory parade. If you think that some city organized party couldn't possibly have the kind of turn out that would require me to claim "survival," you clearly haven't been to Europe. The amount of dammage caused coupled with the presence of police SWAT teams made it easy enough to confuse victory with a terrorist attack.

Anyway, Marseille played Grenoble for the French Championships last weekend. Marseille won. I might have had a clue that something was up when every single hotel/hostel/campsite was booked (causing me to make friends and sleep on the floor of a hostel room) or perhaps when I saw that the local grocery store's beer aisle had been ravaged and left bare. All signs pointed to some big city-wide party, but I was too cracked out from travel and writing to really take notice.

The next day, things started early. I don't mean around 10 or 9am, but 7am. People were lining the path of the parade (a parade planned to start at 3pm) at 7am, with bottles of Pastis already mixed -- and well on their way to being emptied. Pastis, if you do not know, is the Southern French equivalent to Margaritas in Mexico or Cuba Libres in, well, Cuba. Its a strong ainse flavored (black licorice) drink thats mixed with water and very similar to Absinthe. Only this stuff doesn't make you see pretty colors, it just gets you drunker than a schoolgirl on prom night. By 10am the flags with the Olympique Marseille logo and colors were flying proudly and the chants had already began. "Nous sommes les Marseillais, et nous avons gagné!" (We are Marseille-ians and we won!). Its a good things that Marseille ryhmes with the French word for win, and "hey hey hey." I just hate to think what Paris chants... "oui oui oui?." Strikes fear into their enemies I'm sure.

By 3pm, I had infiltrated the crowd, and found myself trying to climb up on something to get a better glimpse. Unfortunately, every male under the age of 25 had this idea as well, resulting in covered patios becoming grandstands. Flares were lit, dropped into the crowd by some drunken accident, causing the masses to scatter. Another large cause for scatter was the canisters of tear gas that the police fired into the crowd to push it back. Never been tear gassed? Its like when you eat really spicy mustard, only take that mouth burn and put it on your eyes. The police had blocked off most of the exits, so no one could get out without having to go back through the crowd. I was starting to regret my decision to not listen to training and instead join large, drunk, chanting crowds. After the bus with the soccer team passed, it was time for me to get out of there before police started using sheiids to get people in line. I didn't want to be accidentally pushed into the butt of a rifle. That would look bad for Lets Go, and also leave a gaping hole in Marseille coverage for the 2011 edition.

It's All About Fitting In

Sat, 22 May 2010 17:19:38 +0000

Before I set off on this trip, I spent quite a few hours stressing about the safety of traveling alone (especially as a 20-year-old girl), but I've come to one great realization since I've arrived in Spain--traveling alone keeps you totally under the radar. No one will hear me chatting it up with a friend in English, I'm not following some guide holding up an umbrella so I won't lose the group, and I don't sit around debating whether I want to eat at Tapas Bar Deliciosa or Tapas Bar Maravillosa for hours in the middle of the street. I actually think I feel safer as I'm totally able to blend in.

That's not to say you should feel unsafe if you're traveling with a group or with a friend. But do keep in mind those behaviors that scream "steal my wallet" or "rip me off, please." I saw a group today walking the Calle de la Constitucion, all adorning matching fanny-packs, khaki sun hats, and Tivas, with their maps totally open so that they couldn't even see their own toes. Come on--you look like you can't find Space Mountain at Disneyland. Just keep your wits about you.

It's also worth pointing out that Seville is one of the safest cities I've ever visited. Follow the normal travel precautions (make copies of your passport and look for a day bag that goes across your body), but no need to stress. Just come visit!

Don't You Remember Me?

Sat, 22 May 2010 11:40:52 +0000

You know how sometimes you'll come across someone who looks just like someone else whom you haven't seen in a few years? Then you look again, and you realize it's not the same person. Or maybe you even yell their name and see if they look, and when they don't, you figure it must be someone else. Well, my "friend" Miguel is much more tenacious than that.

Miguel is atwenty-something from a rural Navarrese village who got onto the bus to Pamplona at Estella, sat down next to me, and asked if I was his friend Jorge, whom he hadn't seen in 3 years. I told him I wasn't. He disagreed, ignoring my clearly non-native Spanish, and proceded to spend the rest of the bus ride reminiscing about old times. After about an hour of this, I gave up and finally told him how much I'd missed him, and asked what he was up to now. This kept him going until Pamplona.

I've been trying to look and act like a local, but I had no idea I was doing such a good job.

Well-Connected: "X" has sent you a friend request

Sat, 22 May 2010 10:53:01 +0000

Rome’s population may approach three million, but somehow, everyone seems to know each other – or at least wishes they did. My bag is now stuffed with at least 10 phone numbers given me by complete strangers, and I’ve only been here about five days. Give it to the end of the summer, and I might just have myself a little phonebook. In Rome, it seems possible to accumulate phone numbers like you accumulate Facebook "friends" back home.

It started with the tattooed Canadian I met on the plane – a guy whose skin was half-covered in designs “commemorating” his past travels. The next day, I picked up three more numbers, including that of the older man who directed me to the convent down the street. (Yes, I’m still here.) Then there was the Columbian teacher, the Sicilian lawyer, and the two ladies I met for less than 2hr. each. “Who knows?” one of them declared. “If you’re ever in Buenos Aires, it’d be nice to know someone.” True, although I'm not sure if that 15min. conversation we had really means that I now "know someone."

But the record so far is the day I picked up five numbers in the course of 1hr. I was at an early-evening happy hour and struck up a conversation with a young girl, born in NY, raised in Italy. I asked her about Trastevere – good places to eat, to go out, to shop. Essentially a walking phonebook, she gave me the personal number of a woman running a macrobiotic restaurant (which as a vegetarian, I might just try); the owner of one of the biggest clubs in Rome (who apparently can hook me up with some good deals); and of course, her own. When I asked her about apartments, she rattled off yet another guy's set of digits and told me to tell him that I knew her.

Thirty minutes later, as I sat in a pizzeria looking at my map, a middle-aged Italian man approached me asking if I needed to find something. In a mix of broken English and Italian, we spoke of NY, of Italy – and of course, of my apartment search. By the end of the conversation, he had directed me to yet another convent. (What is it with Italian men and convents?) As a backup plan, he offered a second “soluzione:” a place to stay in his apartment. Now, I don’t want to be paranoid, but I also don’t want to be naïve; I took his three business cards (yes, THREE) and gave him my number out of kindness, not expecting anything to come of it.

It wasn’t until yesterday, while I was walking around the Colosseum, that my phone started to ring. I expected it to be my mother, my boyfriend, perhaps my one actual friend in Rome, but when I saw the ridiculously long number beginning with a “+39” Italian area code, I knew it was none of them. Inquiring to make sure I was okay, it was convent man number two – the man of three business cards, shall we say. When I told him I had found a place to stay, he asked if I wanted to grab a meal and possibly a drink. Well, let’s just say I ended it there.

By the end of the summer, I might have a phonebook to rival my American one. I thought I’d be saving tons of money on phone calls this summer, but I should have known better. Italians are more talkative than Americans – even when they’re not exactly your friends. But if anything, I’ll wait for people to call me. I’ve happily discovered that, in Italy, incoming calls are free.

The Art of Multitasking

Sat, 22 May 2010 08:42:35 +0000

I have never been a good multi-tasker. I'm the kind of person who pretends to be doing two things at once, but I'm really only focused on one of them. Just ask my parents—in high school, I would sit on my bed doing math homework with Dawson's Creek running on my TV in the background.

"Rach, turn off the TV."

"But I'm multi-tasking!"

Traveling, however, is making me a little bit better at this important life skill. At least I'm getting some more practice.

Sometimes I'm in a bar, carrying a drink in one hand, my notebook in the other, talking to the bartender, thinking about where my passport is, and at the same time deciding if the next bar I have to hit up will still be too quiet at 10pm.

Other times, I'm out on the street, map in hand, trying to plot out the route to my next stop, checking the time, mentally converting to the 12-hour clock, trying not to get hit by cars, searching for my camera to take a shot of the awesome-looking building I'm passing, all while eating some delicious gelato.

I think the toughest kind of multi-tasking on the road, though, is the crazy role-balancing we do as both writers and real people, trying to multi-task between our real lives and sometimes-made-up lives.

Picture this: I'm in a hostel to check out the rooms, under the cover story that I'm studying abroad here in Newcastle and my ten friends are coming to visit. I'm chatting with the hostel owners about New York, comparing it to my upcoming visit to York, and joking about the ash cloud. Then, I slip up a bit when one of the owners asks me about exams and I say that I finished them all up in the States. He shoots me a confused look. "You thought I was studying abroad? Oh right, right!" I stumble to fix it. "I..uh...actually don't have any exams here, only in the States. My course here at the Uni is...well..perfectly exam-free!"

He pauses, shrugs it off, and we continue chatting as normal. I figure it probably happens all the time. As a hostel owner, he probably meets a bunch of people who are a lot stranger than I am.

Freunde

Fri, 21 May 2010 09:27:08 +0000

At the end of a long, lonely day in university town Jena, I pack up my computer and trudged home, Birkenstocks dragging along cobblestone streets. Squinting from under my raincoat hood, I navigate my way through an impossible labyrinth of tiny streets to my hostel in a miserable light drizzle. As I walk down the hallway to my room, I reach for my key...and then realize my door is open, and a thin stream of light is escaping from inside! I throw my backpack aside, kick off my sandals, and sprint to the door. Throwing it open, I see Steffan sitting on his bed and arranging a suit.

"Steffan!" I cry, leaping to his side and grasping his hand.

"Hello", he replies, pleasantly mystified at my eager advances of friendship. "Have we met?"

"Only in my dreams, Steffan, only in my dreams." For here, I know, is the friend I'd been hoping to find. I pat his hand reassuringly, and smile benignly.

Then I plop down my bunk, writing about pharmacies, restaurants, museums, and post offices, while Steffan sits opposite me at the food of my bed, reading the Let's Go guidebook for Germany.

"Did you know," asks Steffan, "that Jena's third train station is called 'Jena Paradise'? Funny name. In English, it sounds more like a ..."

"Stripper bar!", we finished in unison. I smiled blissfully. Yes, I thought. This was exactly what a needed. Finally, a friend!

He then flips through the guide to the section on Röstock, his northern German hometown. My typing is punctuated by Steffan's enthusiastic exclaimations: "What insightful commentary on my little city! The prose is so witty, the information so accurate! The quality of your research and your opinionated, concise prose makes this guide a must-buy for anyone visiting Röstock! Or anywhere else, for that matter! How sharp! How cutting! How vastly superior to the dull, prosaic content of the Lonely Planet!"

Indeed. I smile indulgently.

"If only my English were better, I would dream of writing for a guide of such caliber!"

"Why Steffan, your English is excellent."

"You're a f---ing liar," he responded.

"There now, see? That was masterfully constructed English."

Island Hopping, Venetian-Style

Fri, 21 May 2010 02:00:08 +0000

Last summer, I was in St. Petersburg, Russia, another canal city, so when I came to Venice, I thought I basically knew the drill – there’d be some water, it might be inconvenient to get around sometimes, there would be some boats, but really, it wouldn’t be such a big deal. I could not have been more wrong.

I’m planning to write a longer post some time in the next week comparing St. Petersburg and Venice, but for now, it suffices to say that getting around Venice is different from traveling in any other city I’ve ever seen. When someone tells you about the canals, it is easy to assume that these watery channels cut through the city or that they’re kind of just a novelty (like you might find at the Venetian in Las Vegas), but once you spend a few days here, you really start to realize that Venice isn't so much a city with water running through it as it is a city built on the water. Venice is comprised of 118 islands, – some of them pretty decent-sized, some smaller than an average city block – and there is no way to get around except by boat or over bridges. I think I have been averaging about 30 flights of stairs a day from walking up and down bridges alone this week.

Another strange consequence of Venice's archipelagic geography is that there aren’t cars anywhere in the historic city center where I am researching. Ambulances, UPS trucks, everything I take for granted back home is done here by boat. It’s kind of a nice change of pace, but as a result, you can wave goodbye to any car-friendly (or tourist-friendly, for that matter) grid pattern organizing the city. Just look at a map to see how circuitous everything is; there aren’t even really street numbers, as building numbering is generally done by neighborhood. Overall, it takes a while to get used to the idiosyncrasies of this waterlogged city, but these local oddities are exactly the things that give Venice its unique character and help to preserve its antiquated charm.

¡Bienvenido!

Fri, 21 May 2010 00:18:51 +0000

After traveling for 27 consecutive hours (including four inside the Madrid train station watching riled-up Atlético soccer fans heading to the Copa del Rey), I decided to start seeing what I came here for: cathedrals. According to my map, Logroño's cathedral is on the Plaza del Mercado, so I was expecting there to be some sort of open-air market. Instead I found in front of the cathedral a gaudily colored roller-coaster-merry-go-round contraption, a sort of neon death-trap that one presumably puts children on, with the words "World Disney" emblazoned on its side. Sometimes there are instances where ancient-meets-modern has a certain charm. This is not one of those cases.

Disney 1; Cathedrals 0.

MythBusters: The English Version

Thu, 20 May 2010 17:29:34 +0000

So a few things that have defied expectations so far here in Newcastle....

Myth #1. It's always raining in England.

Yesterday I was in the phone store and there was a nice middle-aged women helping me who commented, "Lovely out, isn't it!?" It was cloudy and maybe 55 degrees. I emphatically nodded in agreement, because she confirmed that I was right to keep my expectations for English weather remarkably low. It's crazy though—I have been in the UK for 3 full days now, and I have yet to witness one drop of precipitation (knock on wood)! My raincoat has stayed safely hidden away inside my pack. Today it's beautiful out. High 60's, blue skies. Here comes the sun, say the Beatles.

Still, I remain skeptical.

Myth #2. People in England Speak English.

I realize now that this was a silly expectation on my part. I had thought that, in England, naturally everyone would be speaking English all the time. This is far from the case. The very first person who spoke to me in the UK was an elderly woman from Germany who stuck a pay phone out at me frantically in the airport—"English? No speak. Help?"—and promptly put me on the phone with the operator to read her credit card number for a collect call. I went out to a wonderful Italian restaurant for dinner last night and the waiters wooed me with scrumptious pasta and "Ciao Bella." Plus, I think I hear more foreign tongues in my hostel than English. There are a bunch of rowdy children from Spain staying there on some kind of school trip, who run around yelling and making chistes that I struggle to understand in their rapid Castillian Spanish. I sleepily stumbled into the kitchen to make myself toast on my first morning only to discover a French couple who smiled and said "Hello," then continued on with what sounded like French flirting. Meanwhile, I've had to remember that UK English and American English have their differences. Takeaway=takeout, porridge=oatmeal. I'm learning.

Myth #3. Benches are useful.

Schlepping around my computer, the endless brochures from the tourist office, my old copy ofLet's Go, and pounds of other stuff has given me newfound appreciation for city benches. Newcastle, I must say, does a very nice job with its public works projects in general, and their benches are particularly lovely and well-situated. Aside from giving my back a break, they're also really helpful when I have to stop to avoid getting lost, when I have to sift through my huge stack of maps and try to put my navigational expertise to practice.

Rioting, Sevillian Style

Thu, 20 May 2010 07:46:40 +0000

Little did I know, but last night the Sevillian soccer team faced off against Barcelona. As far as Spanish soccer etiquette goes, in such a monumental match, all pride and current joy is on the line. So while I was making my way home last night and that final whistle blew from far off Barca, the streets immediately erupted with the excitement of a 2-0 Sevillian victory.

We've all heard the stories of soccer riots and general hooligan violence. My social psychology class this past semester drilled me for multiple lectures about how group dynamics bring out mankind's savage and base desires, leaving us without any sense of responsibility. But how could the Sevillian people, the ones who battle to be the most helpful when I can't read my map, or who change their dog walking route to escort me to a local site, get this violent? Well, the answer is that they didn't let me down.

Although the streets were booming with car horns and Sevilla flags were adorning every set of shoulders in sight, I came across an endless array of hugs and piggy back rides without a single punch. I guess every self-respecting Barca fan probably locked themselves in a bedroom to cry and wasn't starting any commotion. Nonetheless, I experienced a general feelings of fun and excitement from my Spanish neighbors.

For you travelers, know that Seville is safe, even when the world stops to celebrate a big win. The front page headline this morning read "Glorioso," with a picture of the captain holding up his winning trophy. With his mouth wide-open, he was shouting with pride just as his cohorts had the night before.

Delayed Entrance

Wed, 19 May 2010 16:25:12 +0000

What`s up with semi-impossible doors and locks in France? Up until yesterday, my interactions with the three doors (and their combined five locks) to my apartment buildling were leaving me pretty frustrated. As I desperately tried to jimmy my keys around in the stiff set of locks on my apartment door, my neighbor gladly came out and solved the problem (it took him five minutes too!!). This happened again later that night with the entrance to my building; this time, a first-floor resident helped me out.

Now armed with separate complex methods of pulling then pushing on the door and turning the key just so, I think my access issues are over. But beware, tourists; this might happen to you. If it does, don`t hesitate to keep trying until a kind French Samaritan comes to help you out; maybe it`s just their way of making new friends!

Welcome to the summer!

Wed, 19 May 2010 14:48:12 +0000

Full-time work is upon us! As LG's Researcher-Writers take to the road and our team back in Cambridge starts our traditional summer fun (read: editing bonanza), letsgo.com is going to start exploding with cool new blogs, videos, photos, and more. To join in the fun, be sure to create an account or sign up for our monthly newslette r, which comes with travel deals and highlights a different Researcher-Writer/travel hero every issue. While you're on the website, be sure that you check out our full book content, available online for free by clicking through the "Destinations" tab. You can also click through to buy one of our 55 travel guides, which we've been publishing specifically for students for over 50 years now. Enjoy!

Saved by God

Wed, 19 May 2010 10:18:10 +0000

My first day in Rome was a search – and while what I found may not be exactly what I had in mind, it will certainly add a unique element to my stay here. I’ve been on the hunt for an apartment – una stanza singola -- because as much as I love sleeping in a bunk beside a young Canadian girl, a middle-aged Australian guy, and an elderly British woman, at the end of the day I’d sort of like my own room.

My search started with Porta Portese, a local newspaper full of job and apartment listings. Given that the thing is nearly two inches thick and covered page-to-page with 8-point typeface listings, I think it would have taken me until August to get through it all, much less to distinguish one place from another. No thank you.

Walking down the busy Via Cavour, I asked in every hostel, B&B, and hotel I found whether they rented rooms for the month. While of course they did, 80 euros a night wasn’t exactly my idea of economical.

So I hit an unlikely place – a tiny panificio run by an elderly woman just down the block. (At this point, I figured she’d at least have a recommendation...or maybe I could do her laundry for a month and live with her?) Mid-conversation, an older man came in, overheard our conversation, and proceeded to lead me down the street where he said he took all the ragazze who needed a place to stay. "Oh God," I thought.

Yes, I was skeptical, but I was also desperate. In five minutes, we had arrived at an old wooden door with a cross on top. I’m not religious, but for once, I was grateful to see this religious iconography. My trusty guide led me through the door, and I was pleasantly surprised to find myself in a convent, a home to young girls in need of affordable housing.

The rules? Curfew at 10:30, no men allowed, breakfast at 7am. There’s a chapel upstairs, a cross over my bed, and a central garden for meditation. Again, I’ve never been to church nor do I exactly believe in a higher being, but this time, at least, I was able to bring myself to say, “Thank God” and really mean it. I’ll settle in for the next ten days here, grateful for a space of my own….and who knows, maybe I’ll even make it to church this evening.

Hopped off the plane at MAD (Madrid Barajas Airport)

Wed, 19 May 2010 09:24:38 +0000

Having just arrived here in beautiful Madrid, I am feeling somewhat lost–like I’m on a different continent or something. Oh wait.

Waiting for my luggage, I am currently thinking about the various bits of traveling advice I had received from family and friends before my departure:

1. Be open to new experiences; try everything…just not drugs.

2. Don’t do anything extraordinarily stupid...or moderately stupid.

3. No matter what, you’re going to be in a country. With like, people.

In other news, things to do during a three hour layover at Heathrow airport:

1. Read Hello! magazine and catch up on the “Kate Middleton– princess material or not” debate

2. Buy chocolates (yes, plural) from a Cadbury vending machine

3. Eloquently exclaim “Top of the morning to ya chap!” to a British Airways attendant…only to get a dirty look and aisle seat in response

4. Have a spot of tea…with crumpets

5. Pretend you’re a muggle

The Evolution of the Sleep-Away

Wed, 19 May 2010 08:52:23 +0000

Night 1: Arrive in Dresden appr. 11:00. Stumble around streets jet-lagged and disoriented for about a half-hour until arriving at hostel. Check in, collapse on the bed. Mildly comatose. Wake up at 5am, wonder what the hell I'm doing halfway around the world all by myself. Stare at the ceiling for two hours with a pit in my stomach, fall back asleep, wake up to one of the coolest days ever.

Night 2: Go to bed at 2am after researching nightlife. Share a laugh and a beer with four other guys in the room. Stay awake for another hour with not-so-funny snoring from one guest, approx. age 53. Swear I will find a new room the next night.

Night 3: 53-year-old is too loud for me to fall asleep. Up for two more hours. Promise myself that I will never share a room with loud guests again.

Night 4: Arrive at Weimar hostel 9am. Told only rooms left are 20 euro single, or 10 euro dorm with 9 Polish girls who gave the owner noise problems the night before. Sign up for cheaper option. Woken up that night by yelling and screaming when girls get back. Turn around to find someone's boyfriend pointing at me, about five inches from my head, presumably yelling, "Is this the bitch that be keeping us from partyin' it up in here?" Pray that, just once I have a room to myself.

Night 5: 10 bed dorm to myself. Suddenly very lonely.

Welcome to Venezia

Tue, 18 May 2010 20:26:49 +0000

The city of Venice is comprised of 117 islands, so depending on where you are coming from, there are quite a few ways to get there: boat, car, bus, plane, train, water taxi, vaporetto, etc. Navigating any of these modes of transportation in a wheelchair, however, is a complication I never imagined I'd be encountering.

I left for Venice about thirty hours after finishing up classes for the semester. Of course, that left me with only enough time to do two of the following three things: pack and store everything in my room; say goodbye to my friends for the summer; and sleep. Of course, since I am a 20-year-old college student with no sense of my limitations, I decided that sleep didn’t need to be a priority.

Long story short, after about 40 hours without lying down and three hours standing in lines, I had a case of edema so bad my ankles had tripled in size and turned a brilliant shade of fuchsia. I was planning to meet a friend from Ohio who had a layover at the same time and in the same place as me, but after getting up from my transatlantic flight, I looked like I was auditioning to be an extra in MJ’s “Thriller” music video. It was slow going, but I figured I could just make it through until I got to Venice. As I was waiting in front of a skinhead couple who were, surprisingly enough, unsympathetic to my plight and experienced extreme anxiety every time the line moved three inches forward while I remained seated on my suitcase,[1] an airport employee noticed I was having trouble and called a wheelchair for me.

The wheelchair was a far preferable arrangement for the second leg of my trip, but when I left the Venice airport, I was back on foot, saddled with about 60 pounds of luggage (I know, my fault) and with no easy way to get to my hotel. I could have used half of my planned travel budget to take a water taxi right up to my hotel (€100), but instead, I opted for an 11-stop, 3-hour travel fiasco on the vaporetto, during which time I and my obnoxiously large bags received many salty looks from briny locals and seasoned travelers. Once I made it to my hostel, I had to put my feet up and drink a lot of water, but my formerly grapefruit-sized ankles are now merely cankles and have acquired a sensible autumnal tinge.

That’s all for now; I’m sure I’ll be back on my feet soon and have much more to say about a city that appears at first glance to be a great delight.

It’s the 21st century, we’ve put a man on the moon, we’ve eradicated smallpox, etc., yet we still can’t come to terms with the fact that a line will remain a line regardless of whether we scurry ahead, in step with the person in front of us, or just chill out for a while?

Paris: Global City

Tue, 18 May 2010 15:46:02 +0000

A few days into my trip I`ve been increasingly struck by how diverse this city is. From my perch in an internet/international phone café in the 14th arrondissement, I`ve heard at least four different languages, spoken on the phone or amongst customers, in the past fifteen minutes. And the 14th is supposed to be one of the less diverse arrondissements! It`s funny that we brag about the melting pot that is the U.S., when a place like Paris might very well have surpassed us.

So in the next few days it`s going to be my mission to find some good foreign restaurants beyond the hundreds of foreign take-out spots everywhere. Stay tuned.

Double Trouble

Mon, 17 May 2010 18:12:04 +0000

A quick tip to the enthused traveler and quick warning to the spacey traveler (and I can only hope that this doesn't come off as totally insensitive): Hispanic culture tends to honor a specific, discrete set of famous historic figures, and likes to do so on multiple occasions in multiple locations. Due to such reuse, there happens to exist a region of Sevilla in the south of Spain with a major street called "Avenida Menendez Palayo," as well as a "Sevilla" stop on the Madrid subway system, located nearby the major Madrid Street, "Avenida Menendez Palayo." So when I thought I had found the best deal this side of the Atlantic, getting a trip to Sevilla for just 1 euro on the metro line, I really was traveling just a few blocks to a region of Madrid a couple miles from the airport.

On the plus side, it didn't take long to realize my mistake, and I got to do some exploration of Madrid, despite its absence in my itinerary. And in my brief exploration, I came across the annual Medieval Festival held in the main center of Madrid--corsets, coats of arms, music, and all. After browsing and basking in the smell of freshly baking bread, I caught a cab to the train station and bought my 81 euro ticket to the "real" Sevilla.

Now settled in Sevilla, I'm so glad to have found it. Here, I don't necessarily need to worry about reused street names, but just a jumbled map with streets barely exceeding the width of my body.

Moral of the story: common sense isn't necessarily common, and even the silliest of travel mistakes can lead you to come across unbelievable events and sights, so keep your chin up!

Law & Order, Paris

Mon, 17 May 2010 18:06:29 +0000

During my flight over to Paris, an older, slightly oversized Frenchman in the seat next to me got yelled at for talking during the safety announcement. Glancing at the largely empty bottle of wine on his tray table (which should have been up for take-off), the flight attendant reminded him, “Here, we follow the rules.” Maybe the “here” up in the sky is different from the “here” on the ground, but already in my two short days in Paris, I’ve witnessed a lot of unruly behavior. Case #1: This morning I was walking through the 17th to Rome, the metro stop, when I saw a lady stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. As I got closer I realized she was looking down at some object at her feet. I followed her gaze and there it was—a little girl in squat position, peeing. In the middle of the sidewalk! Still a little shocked, I managed to step right into her puddle. I guess you could say I’m still getting my feet wet.

Moving on from the “inappropriate children” theme, Case #2: I was standing at the Miromesnil platform, with about 200 other people, attempting to take the subway during rush hour. Having arrived a few seconds after the departure of the last train, I was at the front of the pack. When another train came barreling through the station some minutes later, the pushing commenced. By the end of the whole shoving session, I was left on the platform, but many of my fellow commuters had managed to sort of make it on. One man, the very one who had pulled me back by the knapsack to gain forward momentum, was hanging out of the open door in front of me. When it closed, his remaining body parts were squeezed into the train. He looked at me, cheeks squished against the dirty glass, triumphant. One wet sneaker and one hundred shoves later, I’m still hopeful that all the rule breaking bends in my favor, soon.

Hostile Hosteling

Mon, 17 May 2010 00:13:50 +0000

I’ll be honest. Since I’ve arrived in Dresden, I’ve put up with a lot. Throngs of adoring fans, masses of paparazzi, extravagant fireworks displays in my honor, trumpeters announcing my arrival at every restaurant and bar in town. Already, I have more keys to the city than I can fit in my pack. The red carpets and rose petals are at least a nice aesthetic touch (if not particularly helpful in warding off blisters), and I really don’t even mind that German mothers keep thrusting their children in my direction, hoping they brush against my clothes and thus ensure their good health and longevity. All this I endure with the dignity and graciousness of a martyr.

Where my patience ends is with our good Mr. Philadelphia. Over the past two hours, this young gentleman has enlightened the hostel owner (and the rest of us guests) on topics including (but most certainly not limited to) his family genealogy, the entirety of the American political situation, and his exalted opinion on the relative merits of a variety of German peanuts. I’ve only been out of the country for three days, but I must have missed a lot. I wasn’t aware, for example, that Sarah Palin wrote a book entitled, I’m Running for President in 2012. Or that the English language has deteriorated because it has too many words. Or that Democrats aren’t allowed to campaign in Arizona. My ignorance extends still futher. Until just over an hour ago, can you believe it, I had no idea that Mr. Philadelphia, despite his striking Native American and Spanish heritage, still can’t make any progress with his acting career! It’s because of discrimination, of course. The travesty. I considered offering him one of my extra keys to the city as a gesture of my sympathy, from one martyr to another.

From Morocco to Paris

Sat, 15 May 2010 21:55:19 +0000

I’ve arrived! After living in Morocco for three and a half months—showering infrequently, dressing modestly, surviving on mint tea—Paris comes as a bit of a shock. Children do things like this: a little boy in the Charles de Gaulle terminal greeted me by getting up on his tippy toes, thrusting his hips forward and grabbing his crotch. Welcome to France! Of course, he was wearing a leather jacket and high tops. Gotta be stylish.

Apparently, you also gotta be well read (France has a literacy rate of 99%). I mentioned to a lady I met that I was starting my first day of Let’s Go research tomorrow. She quoted the 20th century writer Colette: “Faites les bêtises mais faites-les avec enthousiasme.” Duly noted. I do plan on doing a fair share of straight-up, Paree inspired monkeying around. But all in the name of good travel.

Marseille

Sat, 15 May 2010 21:06:40 +0000

The Calanques of Marseille are as dangerous as they are breathtaking. I was nearly blown over/ could lean into the wind at an awesome 60 degree angle on the edge of the drop. The wind was blowing around 50 knots, which would have made small craft sailing a death wish. All of the Calanques are similar fjords, but the landscape feels more like Sicily than Oslo (I have been to neither but, from magazines, I suppose) with the water that unmistakable Medeterranean blue and white, rocky, 1000ft drop cliffs.

European College Towns... My head hurts

Sat, 15 May 2010 18:00:06 +0000

Until Let's Go told me I was going there, I didn't know much about Grenoble. Or even where it was. I like to think that I'm pretty good with geography, and I can point out most of France's major towns on a map. Grenoble was not one of them.

Several days of consecutive hangovers later, I've discovered that Grenoble is one of France's most saturated college towns, with an apparent bar-student ratio of 2.5 to 1. Throw a rock off of the Bastille here, and it will bounce (lets assume rocks bounce) off 12 bars before settling in the centre-ville. As if the sheer number of watering holes doesn't encourage beer pong and blackouts enough, the social drinker can lower costs by as much as 70% by buying shots in groups. Gather 20 of your closest friends and think Costco: it pays to buy in bulk here. Shots are generally followed by meter-tall cylinders of beer called "giraffes.'"

Needless to say, researching some 5-6 bars a night for three nights in a row might sound awesome, but beware. Massive group discounts, clubs without covers, and happy hours that run until 1am can only be properly appreciated by trained professionals: students who've studied abroad in Ireland, or are blessed with the BMI of a linebacker.

How about researching Germany?

Mon, 10 May 2010 21:00:14 +0000

Due to continued volcanic eruption, the Gods decided that I was going to start my journey in Munich, Germany. A closed airport here, horrendous train lines there, and bataboom batabing, I was marooned light years away from the nearest baguette in the homeland of Nietzsche and bratwurst.

After taking a beating from a tectonic bitch fit 3000 miles away, camping out in the the beer garden just outside the airport was the only logical thing to do. Not knowing any German (I was assigned to France, after all), I closed my eyes and pointed at the menu. Unfortunately, I missed the beer section entirely, so I went with what I could manageably pronounce. "Radler," I said when the bar man yelled what I assumed to be, "How may I help you, sir?" It came off as more of a yodel with some "machts" and "freis" thrown in for good measure. Kidding. German is a beautiful language, with the finesse and soothing tones of a 1930's propaganda video. Having no idea what a "Radler" was (I went with simple assumption of "beer") I touched the glass to my lips with the confidence of Neville Chamberlain, wary about delving in to unknown German territory. To my surprise, it was a lemonade/beer mix so sweet that it should be, if it wasn't already, marketed to underage high school kids. I looked around to see if anyone had seen me order such a weak drink. One did. He also winked at me. So it turned out that while I expected to indulge in some masculine beer chugging, shouting "prost" and singing football chants, I ordered the equivalent of a Schmirnoff Ice, leveling my masculinity to just above that of a SMU sorority girl.

Still Life: Or, How to Be a Let's Go RW and Barely Travel

Thu, 29 Apr 2010 22:15:35 +0000

    "Planning for the summer" has so far been an enormous and prolonged guilt trip in that I've done nothing. No frantic searches for the cheapest flights, no cross-cutting between Kayak, STA, and Student Universe memorizing and forgetting and...memorizing figures. No need to check and re-check my passport to see if it's still valid...maybe...could the date be printed wrong? (Passports—neatly packaged bundles of anxiety and embarrassing photos.)

    This is all because I'll be staying in the US this year, traveling just a little down the line (most likely on the—eh hem—storied Fung Wah Bus) to land in New York City. Which is basically a foreign country, or so everyone keeps telling me. I'll be staying in an apartment, which means I'll return to the same place every night. For me, a self-confessed RW addict, this is difficult to understand. Summer...and the same bed? Last summer I slept in 45 different beds. I'm already going through withdrawal as the coming absence of hostels and buses and trains and lethally heavy backpacks begins to dawn on me.

    More news when the search hits its stride and I find an apartment. (I'm taking the dartboard approach, with most of Manhattan carefully covered in oh-no-you-can't tape.) Visions of me on an air mattress in an unfurnished room, a tiny fan at my side, sweltering heat everywhere, tragic string music playing. Come visit!

Watching the Financial Fiasco from Afar

Wed, 28 Apr 2010 02:39:30 +0000

Greece's finances are currently in shambles. The EU has basically pledged to bail out the nation with up to $40.4 billion, all on the premise that Athens' whopping 13 percent deficit from last year will be reduced to only 3 percent of its GDP. So as I sit in Cambridge and await the results of the discussion about Greek aid, I twiddle my thumbs nervously. Massive inflation isn't a good option (see Germany's Weimar Republic); neither is the possibility that the restaurants and hostels that I hope to frequent this summer are closed. So here's to hoping things turn around before I board my plane...Otherwise, the currency isn't the only thing going to be inflated in Greece this summer.

LOST in Translation

Tue, 27 Apr 2010 00:32:03 +0000

I had a brief moment of panic yesterday. Harvard is forcing me to graduate, again, and I haven't the foggiest idea what I'm doing with my life after Let's Go. But this is not why I panicked.

I panicked because I realized I would be in Italy for the finale of LOST.

This is actually a big deal. What would I do? Where would I watch? With whom would I cheer the improbable success or inevitable disappointment of the finale? I'm not even that big of a LOSTie - I just caught up this fall, marathoning the first five seasons so I could watch the last season with the rest of the world. It’s, like, a cultural moment and stuff, right?

That marathon would be all for naught if I missed the finale, so I began to brainstorm. Maybe there's a LOST fan club in Florence! Maybe I could advertise on Craigslist to find somewhere to watch! Maybe I could hang signs in every hostel to rally the other misplaced LOSTies to storm an internet café!

And then I actually got a little excited. What better excuse to round up random strangers and make them hang out with me? Adventure! I began to tell my housemate – a far more serious LOSTie than myself – about my plan to mobilize the lost LOSTies of Florence via social media and Dharma Initiative graffiti. I was just getting to the part where I would unearth secret fans with each handshake by writing NOT PENNY’S BOAT on my palm, when he stopped me.

“You’re leaving May 29, right?”
“Yeah.”
“The finale is on the 25th.”
“…Oh.”

Bummer. It’s okay though. The Doctor Who finale isn’t until mid-June.

Channeling Paris

Mon, 26 Apr 2010 03:52:28 +0000

I woke up this morning and realized that I’m about twenty days away from arriving in Paris. So that I can hit the ground running once I get there, I’ve been searching for and testing out activities to get myself in the Parisian state of mind: watching French film classic “La Haine,” reading French newspaper “Le Monde,” actually paying attention in my French class, and even begging my parents to take me out to dinner at Chez Henri on Mass. Ave. But I’ve found that holing up in my dorm room, watching French movies, reading French news, paying attention in class, and finding a new way to bum off my parents don’t quite do the trick (although paying attention in class was a good decision), so I had a revelation: how about a café experience? Nothing can get you in the Parisian state of mind quite like sitting at a café on a Saturday morning, clutching a coffee, thumbing through (not so much reading) the paper, and watching the world go by. So I set out in Cambridge to do just that.

First try was Au Bon Pain: with a French name and prime real estate on Mass. Ave., it seems like it would be the right spot. Unfortunately, there couldn’t be anything less French about it. Witness the various ways Americans have butchered French culture with this establishment. The pronunciation is really horrible (Oh Bahn Pan), the pastries are far from fresh, and the outdoors café, albeit with a nice people-watching vantage point, doesn’t boast much in terms of aesthetics. I couldn’t relax on the dirty metal chairs, awkwardly making sure that my food didn’t touch the filthy table. If Au Bon Pain doesn’t work, keep walking down Mass Ave. towards Central Square, and turn off at Bow Street. Café Pamplona is on the corner of Bow and Arrow Streets. It boasts a waitress with an attitude and a dainty, quiet vista on the corner of Bow and Arrow Streets. The sandwiches and finger foods are tasty, the coffee strong, and the location pleasant, so long as you don’t sit in the dungeon-like indoors room. But I can’t get over the fact that it’s called Café Pamplona; Pamplona’s definitely not in France. But as usual, the students’ studying and tapping away at their laptops made me nervous; didn’t they know I was trying to escape the high-octane school environment? It looks like I’ll just have to wait until France to get the authentic café experience.

Apparel Bonds

Sun, 25 Apr 2010 18:36:57 +0000

Who says I can’t cry over a little ripped shirt?

It’s a month away now, my four-week stay in Prague, and I’ve begun to elect the few noble garments up to the task of hiding my flesh from the Czech populace. As I scanned my drawer (my floor) for my favorite torso lids, I was bummed to find that all the bests—the comfortable favorites, the smooth-worn, chest-molded regulars—were ripped or full of love-wrought holes.

At first I was depressed (cue John Mayer soundtrack) to be straying so far from home with a new set of unremarkable, unfamiliar shirts who wouldn’t know my third nipple from my second. When uncertainty abounds, it’s nice to have bounded certainties—and what’s more certain than your favorite clothing?

But I’ve come to see it fitting (the situation—not the new shirts) that I should set off with a revamped wardrobe. Traveling is about leaving the old behind, about exiting your skin, sometimes literally. And that is exactly the experience I intend to have.

Comforts, aside! Fell beasts awake! Prague! I see your ripped shirt, and raise you a….well…you'll have to stay tuned...

von Amerika auf Deutschland

Sun, 25 Apr 2010 17:50:28 +0000

Let's get a few things straight: I don't speak a word of German except for whatever was in "Sound of Music" and some Mahler/Bruckner tempo markings. I don't know anything about beer - the first time I had it, I thought it tasted like carbonated barley tea (seriously! ???, anyone?) I nearly cried when my parents decided to buy a German luxury SUV. I was rooting for the Prius.

On that note, I'll be spending this summer traipsing through Southern and Western Germany, hitting up Munich, Stuttgart, Heidelberg, Frankfurt, and Köln. I've daydreamed about working for Let's Go since forever, but the science concentrator in me has been stuck right here at Harvard for two summers staring at zebrafish under microscopes instead of going on grand overseas adventures. That said, I've never traveled alone to a place where I didn't speak the language (though I guess most Germans also speak English), especially not for seven-and-a-half weeks (!!), at a place where alcohol is cheaper than water (contrary to the stereotypical college student, I'm actually not a huge fan of alchohol...though I did have some terrific German Rieslings at a wine seminar recently). So will I come back a German-spewing beer-chugging machine, with a few new split personalities to keep me company through my lonesome travels?

I guess there's only one way to find out!

Goin' on a trip...

Sun, 25 Apr 2010 17:20:02 +0000

Did you ever play that game "Going on a Picnic" when you were a kid?

There was one friend who would be the leader, and he got to make up an unspoken rule about what you were allowed to bring and what you couldn't. Everyone else would then try to guess what the rule was by throwing out suggestions: "Can I bring a blanket? A water bottle?" and your items would get approved or rejected according to this mysterious rule.

I think there was even an accompanying Raffi (Raffi = that children's singer with the beard and guitar who sang "Baby Beluga" and who everyone's mom played on tape in the preeschool carpool) song that went with the game: "Going on a picnic, leaving right away. If it doesn't rain, we'll stay all day. Did you bring the sandwiches? Yes I've brought the sandwiches."

Anyway, I was always terrible at this game. I could never figure out why it was okay to bring apples, bananas, and cherries, but not carrots. I hated playing it because I never won.

This basically describes how I feel about packing for England.

It's probably alright to bring my Yankees t-shirt because no one will give a sh** what baseball team I root for, but does that mean I can pack my tacky American flag shirt for the 4th of July and the 12th of June (a.k.a. the day of the England/US World Cup match)? Which of my towels are lightest? How will my hair react if I don't bring my normal brand of shampoo?

These decisions become uber-magnified in importance when I think about the fact that I'll probably be rotating the same approximately four shirts for a full 8 weeks. Which will dry quickest (from hand-washing or from summer rainstorms)? Which will stand out less? Which will I care less about if it gets lost? Which will look most striking on me in photographs in front of old castles?

Good times have never seemed so good, but minor decisions have never seemed so tough.

Map Mayhem

Sat, 24 Apr 2010 22:10:28 +0000

I recently learned that I'll be heading to Italy for the summer, so last week, I wandered into a travel bookstore to pick up a map of my impending destination. I quickly realized, however, that since I don't know where I'm going in Italy, searching for a map of my destination would prove difficult. Amidst the wooden shelves that loomed over me, I was lost for sure. There wasn't a map to be found—at least, not of what I wanted: the entire country. Sure, I found Rome, Milan, and Venice; Sicily, Tuscany, and Turin; Italy by bus, Italy by train, Italy by jetpack. But no plain Italy. Or so I thought, until I remembered that advice Mom always gave: "Just ask." And, indeed, in response to my question the salesman reached between two guidebooks to retrieve a bright, crisp map of Italy. Just like that, I was ready to check out, task number one of my journey completed. Next step: figure out where on this map I'm supposed to be going.

808s and SummerBreak

Sat, 24 Apr 2010 20:39:20 +0000

Packing List: I tend to procrastinate when it comes to packing, but with my Venice trip fast approaching, I thought it might be a good idea to make a list of the things I simply can't do without:

1. Well-fitting blazer – Casino Royale (with some help from Tom Ford) taught me that this is an absolute essential for Venice.

2. Shutter Shades – they don’t call them “Venetian Blinders” for nothing.

3. iPad – I have way too much to read this summer to bring it all, and let’s be honest: I don’t want to be caught with a Kindle in one of the most fashion conscious cities in the world.

4. The Essential Michael Jackson – why, why? Tell them that it’s human nature.

5. Rosetta Stone Italian – so I can impress Alessandra Mussolini with my discourse on Italian politics.

6. Mescaline – just kidding. It’s 2010, not 1974, and Let’s Go no longer encourages its readers to delight in such irresponsible ways. Alternatively, see the Amsterdam guide circa 1969.

7. A copy of Don Quixote – because “great and most extraordinary are experiences of those who profess the order of knight errantry.”

8. Lonely Planet's Venice Travel Guide – who doesn’t love threadbare prose and unremarkable listings?

Studying at the River Zoo

Sat, 24 Apr 2010 20:25:00 +0000

For six months of the school year, the Charles River is a wintry wasteland. Granted Harvard’s snow-covered brick and cupolas are pretty, but grey skies and bone-chilling cold are just not that fun.

Unless I’m willing to break out my black spandex uni-suit for a winter jog (don't deny it, everyone has a black or pink spandex uni-suit hidden in the back of their top drawer), the River is pretty much off-limits for the winter season. That means I’m stuck doing my reading in a dim dorm room with Ke$ha and my bottle of Jack.

But in April, something miraculous happens. The sun shines, the grass turns green, and every tree around grows a pink or purple flower that are so $!@#ing beautiful I just want to use a string of expletives. Bye Ke$ha – it’s time for me to hit the books outside.

But, when it comes to being productive, going to the River isn’t the greatest idea. It’s not the ecstasy of good weather or the picturesque view that make focusing tough, it’s the crowd.

On a sunny Sunday by the Charles River bank, every species of Cambridge-animal is on display. I’ve stared at the pasty white sophomores pouring over reading, admired elderly hippies in flowing moo-moos singing folk songs, chuckled at hipsters with rolled cigarettes and multi-colored hookahs, watched runners racing rowers, and seen a whole menagerie of others.

On the luckiest Sundays, I’ve witnessed rare breeds like the Christian missionary, the topless acrobat or the leather-clad punk.

The People’s of Republic of Cambridge is definitely a colorful place. There is just about every kind of person here and you’ll see them all on the river in the spring time. I like to imagine that everyone – stressed-out students and old hippies alike – come to celebrate the fact that we can finally go outside without our spandex.

How to Keep it Cool

Sat, 24 Apr 2010 17:39:10 +0000

Saturday afternoon I got back from my soccer game absolutely exhausted. I take one look in the mirror to find salt dried to my face from playing and sweating in what I thought was extreme heat. So, I opened up weather.com, only to find that it’s only 59 degrees. I thought to myself, “Wow, it’s going to be about 30 degrees warmer for my entire summer in Southern Spain.” Motivated by my crusty hair and freckling face, I took straight to Google to find some good “self-cooling” tips. Let me tell you, the internet provides slews of worthless information (aside from this high-value blog, of course). This is what I’ve come up with so far:

1. Soak my shirt in water before going out for the day. That way, maybe the proprietors of my restaurants will pity the girl with the horrendous perspiration problem and give some great deals.

2. Cut all my jeans into shorts and remove all my sleeves. I just hope I look better than this guy.

3. Constantly suck on ice cubes. I’m traveling solo anyway, so talking shouldn’t be a huge problem. The next step is just figuring out how to keep a stash of ice cubes on hand at all times.

In all seriousness, I think my biggest worry shouldn’t be the heat, but probably finding the best way to avoid turning lobster red on those Mediterranean beaches. Burns turn into tans, right?

On Turkey and Childhood Traumas

Sat, 24 Apr 2010 17:25:57 +0000

During one of the Google prowls I sometimes do in preparation for Istanbul, I came across a post by a woman complaining that her Turkish mother-in-law touches her children in inappropriate places and finds it funny. According to one of the replies, in Turkey it is not uncommon to tease young boys about their penises, or even to make them parade them to the guests. "Amcanlara pipini goster oglum" is supposed to be a widely-known phrase, meaning "Show your pipi to the guests my son." In light of this, my parents wanting me to play guitar for our visitors wasn't half as bad as I had thought at that time...

American Boy Seeks “Estelle” for May-July Fling

Sat, 24 Apr 2010 17:10:42 +0000

Preparation for a trip requires a lot of attention. The average trip overseas necessitates packing, the purchase of everyone’s favorite guide book—Let’s Go (shameless plug)—and a mental focus that can only be likened to that of a neurosurgeon mid-surgery. It is in this spirit that I have undertaken a harsh course of mental conditioning to prepare for my sojourn in London.

As part of my regimen, I have a) begun meditating for fifteen hours (no more, no less) every day and b) obsessively organized every British band in my iTunes into one gigantic playlist entitled “London Calling.”

Strange you say? Yes. Obsessive-compulsive? Diagnosably so. Unnecessary? Most likely. All-encompassing and awesome? Most definitely. I mean, I'm getting psyched up alongside Radiohead, Bloc Party, Blur, The Clash, Arctic Monkeys, The Sex Pistols, Coldplay, Muse, Bowie, The Darkness, and, of course, the Beatles. I have also been religiously reciting Kanye’s verse from “American Boy” before I go to sleep every night, and every morning I wake up and roll out of bed to the sound of the alarm clock from “A Day in the Life.” It's going to be a good trip.

Ready, Set, Starve!

Sat, 24 Apr 2010 16:52:08 +0000

Welcome Blog readers. I hope all of you have full bellies and warm places to sleep, as I do here in Cambridge, MA, because come May 8, I will be at the mercy of a brutal exchange rate in the most expensive place on earth. No, not Disney World where a churro costs $12, but Southern France and Monaco. I'm not asking for pity points, but some bread would be nice.

It probably wouldn't be that bad if everyone around me wasn't a sovereign prince or third world dictator hiding their money on their yacht. Or if everyone wasn't sipping on champagne and eating caviar. Well, I don't really know how to correctly eat caviar, so I should be thankful that the opportunity won't present itself. I can just see Prince Albert II rolling his eyes as he calls me a rube and laughs among his fellow rich while I'm quietly escorted out of the Monte Carlo. I can't even fall back on the EU's generous socialized safety net. I guess I'll just shlep from bar to hostel in the hopes that the money wiring, my paycheck, goes through. My one goal for the summer is to get a secret bank account. Not that I have any money to put in it, its so I can refer to it at dinner parties as I whimsically revel in the memories of my "sabbatical" in the summer of 2010. I'll keep that in mind when I'm huddled on the beach with Algerian refugees begging for a sniff of a champagne cork.

Amsterdam Craigslist

Sat, 24 Apr 2010 16:47:59 +0000

With the prospect of spending six consecutive weeks in Amsterdam this summer, I decided to rent an apartment in the city, thinking that it would be a cost-effective and cozy living option. Of course, the city is rife with apartments that cost as much as five-star hotels, so I downgraded my expectations a bit and started looking for a room in a shared apartment. This led me to Amsterdam Craigslist.

Now, as a rule, I don’t have much experience with Craigslist, but I’ve obviously heard all the jokes about the "shady stuff" that makes its way onto this online hub. Scouring the listings, I guess I shouldn't have been too surprised to find some of the at once hilarious and terrifying postings I discovered. Are there really that many people in the world willing to trade sex for a sofabed? Or that many businessmen looking for a personal assistant with benefits? I became so paranoid that, soon, every listing that simply read “nice and friendly couple looking to rent room for summer” immediately screamed “threesome!” Never fear, dear readers, I did eventually alight upon a nice, little apartment in the seemingly sketch-free western part of the city. The final verdict, of course, will come when I actually arrive and begin my route (in exactly one month!).

Some Sappy Thoughts on Packing from a Sentimental Senior

Sat, 24 Apr 2010 16:47:07 +0000

Today is the day that I finally stopped frantically searching (unsuccessfully) for travel tips on the internet and actually began the surprisingly harrowing packing process.

On top of preparing for the trip, which is confusing in and of itself (Do I only bring a backpack’s worth of stuff? Will I really need more than one pair of pants? etc.), I also have to deal with the added frustration (liberation?) of packing away my entire life to move out of my college bubble. That’s right—after four long, fantastic years, I’m graduating and being ousted into the real world. Luckily, for me that means a three month trip to someplace I’ve fantasized about since high school. Unfortunately, it also involves me sorting through four years’ accumulation of stuff in order to determine what will make the cut for life, for my trip, for the sell pile, and for the trash.

So, what’s in the “keep” pile so far? Contrary to what I thought Sophomore year, I won’t be saving the readers on Soviet history that I never took the time to properly read at the time. Likewise, I’m choosing to sell the cheap Ikea furniture that I’ve lovingly covered with maps and Modge Podge (if anyone will take them). Instead, I’m keeping the pictures, the postcards, the records, and the golden wax thumb that I was gifted from the Dalí museum by a friend a few years ago—my first actual contact with Barcelona, despite the distance. Effectively, nothing practical, except for maybe a French press, which I can’t do without.

And, finally, what goes into my bag for Barcelona? While my possibly delusional dream for the trip—living solely off of what’s in my backpack—still exists, the pile is accordingly teeny and idealistic. So far, all that I’ve amassed is small set of tools and a tire patch kit in case my cross-country bike ride from Barcelona to Amsterdam post-work pans out, despite time constraints and questionable insurance coverage. A pair of jeans, a thrifted skirt specifically bought for “going out” on the trip since as of now my wardrobe mainly consists of ratty t-shirts and cutoffs, a few shirts, a few books that I would love to read again but also wouldn’t mind selling when I got sick of carting them around.

Mostly, though, the small huddle of objects tossed haphazardly in the corner represents what the trip means to me—a way of leaving behind the little amount that I’ve amassed, a time to read and explore while being unhindered by all that I love. Needless to say, I’m sure my pile will change a lot before I leave.

Lost in Translation

Sat, 24 Apr 2010 15:43:36 +0000

“Josh, we’re sending you to Maastricht” Yer, I had the same response as you. “Where?” It turns out that my life is going to have a little Dutch flavour added to it this summer, for not only will I be travelling to France and Belgium, but I am stopping off in the Netherlands as well. This does mean I will have to brush up on my Dutch, for as it stands I can say absolutely nothing in the local lingo. Give me French and it’s no problem; “Un bière s’il vous plait”, and a nice cool Stella will be put in front of my eager British eyes. I’m also set if I happen to encounter a German whilst experiencing bladder issues; “wo die Toiletten sind?” and my friendly European companion will direct me to the nearest restroom. Now, just in case, I have to commit this to memory: “Waar ben ik? Ik word verloren. Vreesde alstublieft mij ik word gegeten door een beer?” For those of you who are not so hot on your Dutch, this loosely translates as “Where am I? I am lost. Please help me before I get eaten by a bear” Seriously, I think this might come in handy!

Worse comes to worst, I could just do that British tourist thing where I speak slowly, loudly and gesticulate as much as possible. This, I believe, is how I will survive in the Netherlands. For those unsure of what I mean, here are some easy peasy ways to be understood without speaking the language:

· Draw a picture on the back of your map. Then point at it furiously

· Mime out what you are looking for. Extra points for involving locals in your routine.

· Attempt to string words together you find in a phrase book. Be warned, this can have hilarious consequences. Or you might get a smack in the face.

· Scream at someone until you find what you are looking for.

I don’t really want to resort to shouting, so I’m going to go pick up a “Dutch for Idiots” from my local bookshop tomorrow – this should be fun! Tot de volgende keer! (That means ‘Until next time’ in Dutch…)

The Top 3 Things I've Been Doing to Get Psyched for Spain and Portugal

Sat, 24 Apr 2010 15:33:24 +0000

1. Brush up on my español—and pick up a little português. It's incredible how quickly ten years' worth of Spanish can deteriorate with just one year of Italian. At some point this semester día became giorno, ir turned into andare, and mal was replaced by cattivo—it's time to revive the Spanish part of my brain, inactive for too long. I've started reading Márquez again and listening to the Spanish radio broadcasts of the Yankees in my spare time; hopefully I'll be back to día, ir, and mal by the end of the month. And as for Portuguese, I'm letting Amalia Rodrigues teach me.

2. Learn something about soccer.

I've played my fair share of FIFA video games, but I (being the American that I am) don't know nearly enough about the world's most popular sport to be conversant at the level of European fans. And with the World Cup coming up this summer, knowledge of fútbol will be crucial. I'll need to pick a side, too; I'll be in Spain for the tournament's start, but in Portugal for the finish. For my own safety, I'll probably support the side of each nation when I am there.

3. Map my route.

I'm going to be researching a lot of smaller Iberian towns and cities, a couple of which I've never heard of and several of which I know only by name. So, I've printed out a map of the peninsula with the cities marked and my route from city to city drawn out: red for trips by bus, blue for trips by train, and green for trips by plane. Being able to see everything planned out makes 13 cities in 8 weeks seem that much more manageable. Also, the route totally looks like the maps of medieval pilgrimages to Santiago in my high-school history textbook—maybe I can save a few Euros by going on foot.

Coffee Doesn't Come From Vienna

Sat, 24 Apr 2010 03:34:42 +0000

Having recently heard Vienna labeled as “the most livable city,” I have quite high expectations for this destination – one of which is finding good coffee. Actually not good coffee… great coffee.

For those who don’t know me – I am a coffee addict. Understandably, finding coffee is a priority when traveling anywhere, and it’s fair to say that I may do extremely thorough research on cafes when I am travel-writing this summer.

At the Garage Starbucks in Harvard Square, there is a nifty map on the wall showing where the best coffee beans in the world are grown... Vienna is not one of them. Actually, Austria does not produce any sort of coffee beans. However, I have also heard that Vienna is known for its vibrant café culture, which gives me hope that the coffee will live up to expectations. Either that, or everyone sits around all day drinking really bad coffee... Let's hope not.

This summer I am going to be on the search for the perfect cup of coffee.

First stop off the plane - a Viennese kaffehaus.

Totally RAD!

Sat, 24 Apr 2010 00:21:34 +0000

As a female Researcher-Writer, one of my pre-departure requirements is taking RAD: a Rape Aggression Program taught by Harvard University Police Department officers. Snoozefest right? WRONG! Top 5 things I learned from RAD:

1. If someone is harassing you or you feel threatened in any way, yell “NO!” forcefully and loudly. It alerts other people around you, it sends the message, and it translates in almost any language.

1. 2. If you need to throw a punch, make it a memorable one. Use the power from your lower body to back it up. Remember to tuck in your thumb.

3. 3. The shin has hella nerve endings, so if you’re being attacked, try to scrape the bottom of your shoe (or even better, stiletto) across your attacker’s shin and finish it off with a nice foot crunch Miss Congeniality-style. Ouch.

4. 4. Something with more nerve endings than the shin? The groin. Obviduh. In the words of one female instructor, “Kick it, punch it, twist it…” It’s like a Bop-it, only better.

5. 5. HUPD officers are a girl’s best friend:

Fight Club: It's Not Just for Men

Sat, 24 Apr 2010 00:07:53 +0000

There's a part in the movie Fight Club where Edward Norton is walking around his city and he starts to see all of these guys from the "fight clubs" he's been attending. For those of you who have not seen the movie, a fight club is a weekly gathering of men who get together to basically kick the crap out of one another. The exercise is some weird version of male bonding mixed with a vague notion of liberation from the superficiality of yuppy mass culture...or, er, something like that. Anyway. Edward Norton sees these guys on the street and at their jobs with their broken noses and fat lips, and when their eyes meet, there is a moment of recognition; they share a bond. This week, I felt a little like Edward Norton.

OK, so the Rape Aggression Defense class I was required to take as a female Let's Go research writer can't exactly be compared to a mass of disenchanted, middle-aged men pummeling each other. But during the last RAD class, when one by one, we had to fight off HUPD officers dressed as Michelin Men, the whole Fight Club bonding thing made sense. If you have never had a similar revelation, just trust me: the connections you make with people while you watch each other fight are unlike any others. There is something about collectively discovering the power housed in our bodies that makes us feel like we are sharing a really cool secret. I remembered this later in the week when I saw girls from my RAD class in the Yard, at the gym, or at social events. We didn't have long conversations; sometimes we didn't say anything. But we definitely took the time to acknowledge each other and share a Fight Club moment.

Human Bonding

Fri, 23 Apr 2010 23:56:25 +0000

I went to Bank of America the other day to get my account cleared for traveling this summer. I headed to the counter where a young fellow accosted me with a tray of cookies and brochures for the bank's new deals with Merrill Lynch, luring me to the plush leather couches where I would wait for the next available agent. Just as I began paging through my Let's Go Europe guide from last year I heard a subtly-accented voice call my name. A good-looking chap with intelligent glasses and a sharp nose extended his hand to greet me. We settled into Adar's cubicle and began discussing my most cost-effective ATM options abroad. One thing led to another and suddenly we were laughing about an anecdote he shared from his own travels that involved bull testicles and too much sangria. The story got me excited and I began gushing about my much anticipated summer to come. We got into exchanging life stories and he explained that he had moved to the US seven years ago from Tel Aviv and that he planned to return home for the first time this August. Was he excited about the pilgrimage? No. In fact, he expressed his fears that his family would shun him if he returned home without at least an American girlfriend. Given that he has been freely enjoying a four-year relationship with his Californian boyfriend in Watertown (a concept he says his parents couldn't even fathom) and hasn't gone further than first base on a girl, he dreaded the idea of going home emtpy-handed. After a little impromptu proposal I accepted his invitation to play the role of his significant other post my Let's Go travels in August. This is precisely why I can't wait to be on the road. You never know what crazy encounter and wildly candid human lurks just around the corner.

Will He Eat Pudding for Breakfast and Beer for Lunch?

Fri, 23 Apr 2010 18:48:21 +0000

Hooray! I'm off to Ireland, for more exciting Let's Go adventures. Imagine my joy—dark blue seas, endless rolling green hills and the charming Celtic culture. Nothing but a time of pure, blissful travel (all in the name of dedicated Let's Go research, of course).
Although, from what I'm hearing, I might need to stock up on groceries, or blubber, before I leave. I was speaking to my friend Susan the other day, telling her my exciting news.

Me: "I'm going to Ireland with Let's Go!"

Susan: "Oh that's wonderful! You'll have such a good time."

Me: "Yeah, I'm really excited."

Susan: "I just hope you don't starve while you're there."

Me: “......what?”

Susan: "It's just, everything about an Irish breakfast is so heavy. Everything is boiled or baked. It's going to take a while to get used to it. You’ll be so full after breakfast you’ll barely be able to move."

Me: “Oh....I hadn't thought about that.”

Susan: “Yeah, they even serve this blood-filled meat sausage. It's called Black Pudding.”

Me: “But there's not even any pudding in it…That’s not Pudding! (At this point I was flustered by the idea of this gory, bloody ‘pudding.’)

Susan: “Don't worry, you can always eat heavy in the mornings and then drink beer for lunch. The Guinness is delicious.”

Hm, Pudding for breakfast, beer for lunch? Ireland, here I come.

How I’m Learning to Sprechen

Thu, 22 Apr 2010 00:11:30 +0000

Invariably, when my friends find out that I’ll be researching this summer in Germany, they respond, “Cool! But… you don’t speak German, do you?” “Nein”, I answer, shoulders slumped, “but I am taking French!” I add hopefully. My friends answer my silent plea for reassurance, “Well then, you’ll be fine! I mean, it’s all in Europe, right?”

Not quite. And after the fourth time I had to listen to my mom ask me how I plan on following directions given in German in a city halfway across the world, when I get lost walking from my front door to the mailbox, I decided to call in help. Enter Alex, a good friend, and an Australian of the “g’day mate” variety.

“What if”, I asked Alex, one day at brunch, “what if you could teach me German?”.

“Rahght, so, you’d need, like, some basic Gehman, ya know, the ‘help-me’ and ‘get-the-police’ and ‘where’s-the-bathroom’ shit.”

“Yes. Yes, that sounds like exactly what I need!” I looked at him attentively, nodding emphatically to show that I had good comprehension skills. It was important that he think of me as a good pupil.

“Well then… yeah, yeah I think so. Your American accent’ll make shit more complicated, but yeah. I think we could do it.”

Thus the deal was made. I would teach Alex guitar, and, in exchange, he would teach me German. It was an ambitious plan; I’d never tackled another Germanic language before, and Alex had never played an instrument (other than the “drum kit”, as he called it). What a great opportunity for a little self-improvement, we both thought contentedly.

The truly incredible thing about this partnership is that it has actually worked. Alex is a quick learner on guitar and can now, three weeks since his first lesson, happily strum most tabs, albeit slowly and with some occasional pauses (which he claims are artistically inspired) as he changes his fingers to play a new chord. By his third lesson, Alex was learning picking patterns and bar chords, having graduated from more basic stuff. His progress is actually wonderfully gratifying to watch.

My goals in learning German were less extensive. Essentially, I wanted to be able to read my phrasebook without sounding like an ass. Alex would start our lesson by writing down some sentences, and I would try to pronounce them, speaking slowly and, and mixing up my “ei”s and “ie”s (occasioning Alex to shout “You whore, I taught you better!”, always in the most loving way). But it’s getting better.

Our last lesson ended with an incredible display of our efforts, in the tradition of the adult-education night-school talent show: A duet performed in German, with Alex doing the instrumentals, to the Lion King soundtrack. It sounded horrendous. We were beaming.

"B" is the New "T" -- Boston on Bike

Wed, 21 Apr 2010 04:54:15 +0000

Having grown up in New York City, I'm used to a subway system that takes me everywhere -- there are literally four different train lines that can bring me to within three blocks of my apartment, and I don't even live in central Manhattan. However, though the Boston T has a few things on NYC's famous MTA (it's nearly a dollar cheaper, and the colors of the lines actually mean something), it certainly will not take you to the more obscure corners of a neighborhood. For that, I've discovered that walking and biking are the best way to go. Although it can be tricky navigating the one-way streets and supposed cow-paths that Boston was built on, if you stick to the bike lanes, wear a helmet, and watch out for pot holes, you should emerge from your escapades unscathed. Here are some convenient rides I've tested this past semester. They'll probably take half the time that the circuitous T would have taken and hopefully will give you a sense of how easy it is to get outside Harvard the bubble, at least for an afternoon.

1) Gallery-hopping in the South End: from Harvard, follow Mass Ave. toward MIT (7min.), cross the bridge, and continue on until you reach Harrison St. (7min.). Turn left on Harrison, and you'll be in the heart of SOWA, a collective of artist's studios and galleries. For a slightly busier scene, make an earlier left turn onto Newbury St. and go gaga for galleries to your heart's content.

2) The College Crawl: from Harvard, take Memorial Drive (closed to cars on Sundays, late April-mid-November) toward Boston. Cross the Boston University bridge to get to -- you got it -- BU, a mere 10min. bike ride (the green line takes about 40min.) Proceed up Commonwealth Ave. toward Mass Ave. until you hit Berklee College of Music (10min.). A right on Mass Ave. and a right on Huntington Ave. will lead you to Northeastern (10min.) Taking Mass Ave. back towards Cambridge, you'll find yourself right at the heart of MIT. (Total time: 40min.)

3) The Squares Beyond the Square: Yes, life exists beyond Harvard Square, so prove it to yourself on a trip through the sister Squares surrounding campus, an easy one-hour loop. From Harvard, follow Mass Ave. away from Boston (street numbers go up) past the quad until you get to Porter Square (10min.), an ideal destination for cheap shopping and eating. From Porter, take a right onto White St. and a left onto Elm St.; proceed 7min. until you get to artsy Davis Square, where cafes, good bars, and quiet streets abound. Moving on, head back down Elm St. until it merges into Somerville Ave. After 15min., make a sharp right onto Washington St. and a left onto Beacon; you'll be in Inman Square in 10min. Follow Prospect St. for 5min. to get to Central Square, a haven for Harvard students seeking a better bar scene, some (real) fast food, and housing outside the dorms.

How Do You Doo It?

Sun, 18 Apr 2010 02:56:39 +0000

If you're visiting Australia, you likely won't make it "under down under" to the island of Tasmania, Oz's natural state (named that for good reason). And, if you make it to Tasmania, you probably won't make it far from Hobart, its capital, unless you devote more than a few days (which you certainly should).

As we drove down to the old penal colony of Port Arthur, we came across a little town called Doo Town. We have no idea why it was named that, but the local residents went all out with their hometown pride and because giving their houses pun names with "Doo" in the title. Apparently, the first of the bunch was Doo Little, but since then some fun ones have come about (Love Me Doo is a favorite).

And, if you're in for a good snack, head to the nearby blowhole (there are signs around town). While the sight itself is remarkably dull, there's a roadside stand that serves fish n' chips and ice cream. Try the English Toffee flavor (of ice cream, not fish) and you won't regret it.

Let's Go GREEN!

Thu, 15 Apr 2010 14:00:25 +0000

Let's Go GREEN
Eco-Friendly Travel Tips for Earth Day and Every Day

CAMBRIDGE, Mass. (April 8, 2010) - It's Earth Day's 40th birthday and Let's Go Travel Guides wants to help blow out the reusable candles on its vegan birthday cake! Our intrepid student travel writers have compiled some of their favorite opportunities for travelers to reduce their environmental impacts. From sleeping in dormant volcano craters to choosing a laundry detergent, these green ideas can help readers travel more sustainably and make a difference in the places they visit.

Let's Go has long been dedicated to socially and environmentally responsible travel. In fact, no Let's Go book would be complete without our well-known Beyond Tourism chapters, highlighting local volunteer and educational opportunities. As a company run entirely by students, Let's Go strives to be at the forefront of providing young people with the information they need to explore and help save the planet. As Let's Go celebrates our own 50th anniversary, we couldn't think of a better way to celebrate Earth Day's 40th than by highlighting ecotourism and eco-friendly travel.

Let's Go is doing its part to spread the word far and wide, to the young and to the young at heart, to veteran travelers and first-time backpackers. Dust off those hemp hiking boots, hop on your bicycle, and Let's Go green for Earth Day and every day.

Fishing in Pedasi

Wed, 14 Apr 2010 15:21:43 +0000

Pedasí is a small town in Panama with some serious fish around it. I have never been fishing before, but I came in to this town with a friend who told me I absolutely had to try fishing with her. Up for a new experience, I agreed and at 5am the next morning I was in her jeep heading for the dock. There we met our fisherman Avidel who was not looking all that great from a late night of drinking. It took him a while to get his little boat ready, as the tides had moved it on the concrete.

After a half hour of getting eaten alive in the mangroves, we were off for the open seas. Gunning our 40 horsepower engine, within an hour and a half we could no longer see land. It’s right about then that I realized that we didn’t have life jackets…or a radio. Putting all the bad scenarios to the back of my head, we started fishing. For those of you who have, as I did, an image of fishing as a leisurely activity, think again. This tiny boat get taken for a serious ride in the open seas. Its at the mercy of huge ocean swells, and for even those who don’t normally get seasick, 6 hours can take its toll.

After an hour of restless waiting, we got our first bite. A total amateur, I picked up the rod as I was told and started to reel in, but as I soon came to realize this is a lot harder than I expected. These fish are big and strong, and before you can pull them in, they pull the line WAY out. The rods are designed to dump the stress of the fish’s pull by letting out line, so no matter how hard I crank, it can swim far away. Eventually the fish gets tired though, so minute by minute, with all my arm strength I start crankin’ it in. 15min later, I got my first fish, a Dorado, as it is called here, better known as a Mahi Mahi. The thing was half my size, weighing a whopping 50lbs. The rest of the day brought a lot more excitement. At 2pm I got back, burnt to a crisp with five dorado and two tuna. That night we ate well—pounds of raw tuna.

Top Ten Ways To Get Your Art Fix For Free

Wed, 14 Apr 2010 15:08:00 +0000

There might not be such a thing as a free lunch in New York, but free art galleries, movie screenings, book readings and music concerts abound. Whichever of the Muses happens to be your favorite, you’ll find her disciples offering their wares for free somewhere in the Big Apple.

1. Most major museums in the city such as the Museum of Modern Art, the Guggenheim Museum, the Whitney Museum of American Art and the Brooklyn Museum of Art stay open late one Friday a week or offer a free or “pay what you wish” night.

2. A New York tradition, the Public Theater stages two free productions at the Delacorte amphiteater in Central Park as part of its annual Shakespeare in the Park summer series. Past performers have included Patrick Stewart, Denzel Washington, Meryl Streep and Natalie Portman.

3. During the summer, the Bryant Park Film Festival screens classic movies Mondays at dusk. Take your cue from the throngs of hip movie-goers who attend: bring a blanket, a picnic basket and a good bottle of wine.

4. Rumsey Playfield plays host to Central Park SummerStage a series of music concerts, dance performances, film screenings and spoken word events. Recent performers include Joss Stone, Wyclef Jean, Café Tacuba, Amiri Baraka and Rufus Wainwright.

5. Bookstores throughout the city, from chains like Barnes & Nobles to beloved independents, sponsor free author events and readings throughout the year. Three that particularly stand out are the Strand Bookstore, St. Mark’s Bookshop and the Union Square Barnes & Nobles.

6. Performing art schools like Julliard School of Music and Mannes College of Music offer free student recitals throughout the school year. Hear these upcoming stars years before you have to shell out top dollars for them at Lincoln Center or Carnegie Hall.

7. Chelsea art galleries present an incomparable opportunity to see what is happening on the art scene. Try to go during the week if you can, as Saturday gallery-hopping can be an overwhelming scene for the uninitiated.

8. In August, Damrosch Park becomes the site for Lincoln Center Out-of-Doors, a family-friendly performance arts festival. The music and dance featured runs the gamut from the traditional to the avant-garde.

9. Bars, lounges and clubs that hold open mic nights or fiction and poetry readings are a major venue for hearing both established and up-and-coming literary talent.

10. For over 40 years, the New York Philharmonic has been playing outdoor concerts at parks in all five boroughs as part of its summer Concerts in the Park series. These evening concerts are usually followed by a spectacular fireworks display.

Pairing Food With Beer, A Czech Tradition

Wed, 14 Apr 2010 15:02:55 +0000

As the French have a plethora of cheeses to complement their wines, the Czechs have developed dishes to accent their excellent beer. Billed Proti velké Žízeni, meaning “against great thirst and hunger,” these dishes are a match made in Heaven to the adventurous beer lover. Try the naakladanee hermeleen, a pickled cheese, soft on the inside and covered with a thin white film. In the mood for meatier fair? The Utopenci, a sausage pickled in vinegar, oil, onion, red pepper, and spices are consistently delicious. For a different take on the sausage milieu, check out the region’s massive selections of Klobásy, grilled sausages with horseradish and mustard, served on chleb, a hearty brown bread. Feeling homesick? Try the párek v rohliku, a mustard-topped twist on the classic American hot dog. These meaty morsels are sure to satiate even the most voracious of hunger twinges before, during, or after an evening of prodigious consumption. The morning after, take solace in the fact that Czech beer is often rich in B vitamins! For a true treat, cultivate your cravings at one of Prague’s many beer gardens. Most offer only a single brand of beer, but the full array of aforementioned munchies is usually on the menu.

Battle of the Bats

Wed, 07 Apr 2010 05:48:36 +0000

When you take a lunchtime stroll in Sydney's Royal Botanic Gardens (which you absolutely should do), you will find yourself surrounded by many things: the beautiful Sydney Harbour and all of its accoutrements (including a certain overpriced opera house), packs of health nuts jogging in endless loops and doing push-up/jumping-jack combos, and the shocking horde of chittering fruit bats that dangle from the Gardens' many trees.

Now, you can find beautiful scenery and exercise fanatics in many parks around the world, but chances are, you won't find the bats. And here, you won't miss them -- the noise of their quarrels carries far and wide.

(Never fear -- the bats are vegetarian!)

Roseanne the Campervan

Fri, 02 Apr 2010 00:39:43 +0000

In order to fully experience the nature of the South Island of New Zealand, public transportation won't cut it. You either have to join a guided tour or rent your own transport. Though getting a car and staying in New Zealand's overpriced hostels is totally fine, for the ultimate amount of freedom you can rent a campervan, which serves as your transport AND housing. And, if you choose to pay a bit more, you can get your own kitchen and even a toilet and shower.

The purportedly cheapest camper rental in NZ is Wicked Campers, but we chose to spend a little extra for a roomier and more well-equipped Britz van, which we lovingly named Roseanne (Rosie for short). With plenty of free or super-cheap places to camp around the island, we and Rosie had an awesome two weeks together.

Meet Me At Stinky Creek

Fri, 02 Apr 2010 00:27:32 +0000

Whoever named things in New Zealand either had a morose temperament or a curious sense of humor. As we drove around the South Island, we were constantly caught off guard by the oddly pessimistic names for the natural phenomena. There is, of course, the well-known Doubtful Sound, but it doesn't end there: Dismal Creek, Poverty Bay, Mount Misery, and our favorite, Mount Awful.

Though the names amused us, they also deterred us from their bearers. But who knows, perhaps Mount Awful isn't so awful after all...

Happy Earth Day: A Guide to Eco-Friendly Travel

Fri, 26 Mar 2010 13:59:46 +0000

This year marks the 40th anniversary of Earth Day! We wanted to join in the fun, so we compiled some of our favorite eco-friendly travel experiences. Whether you’re looking to save the world or avoid just being another camera flash at the Louvre, these eco-friendly trip ideas will help you make an impact without draining your time or money.

Go Green: Even if you don’t have a car, you can still take advantage of Soft Mobility, locally known as Werfenwang, Austria’s Car Free program, where for €5 you will receive a prepaid phone and access to a free, solar powered taxi service for one week, day or night. All this for just abstaining from using your “car.”

Sleep Green: The Hedonisia Hostel in Hawaii (13-657 Hinalo St., Pahoa; 808-430-2545) offers accommodations so green even Al Gore is blushing. Located in the crater of a jungle volcano, this hostel offers rooms made from old sewn tents, a modified school bus (romantically called the “Love Bus”), and even its famed “toilet with a garden.” It’s kind of like living in a commune, but without the cult-ish commitment.

Grow Green: If you’re really looking to get dirty, volunteer at one of the many World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms (WWOOF) sites. Whether you like grape-picking in French wine country or apple picking in American, um, apple country, there is guaranteed to be a fruit of your liking to be picked wherever on earth you go. Visit www.wwoof.org for details and locations.

Teach Green: Volunteer to help with dolphin research in Kenya with Global Vision International (www.gviusa.com). For two weeks, you’ll scuba-dive off of the coast of the Shimoni peninsula and help with identification, tagging, and raising awareness for dolphins. Pick this if your wallet is also as big as your heart, however, since the program costs $1,395.

Ski Green: To ski without nagging eco-guilt, stay at Norway’s Mjølfjell Youth Hostel (5700 Voss, Mjølfjell; 0047 56 52 31 50; muhas@online.no). The lodge and ski lifts are fueled by an on-site power generator, which gets electricity from the nearby Raundal River. Beds go for around $50 per night, making the views and rustic setting well worth the price.

Pack Green: Heavy bags weigh down airplanes and waste fuel, so pack a single backpack with a few items of clothing and a small bottle of eco-friendly laundry detergent (like Planet Ultra Liquid Laundry Detergent; $6.49 at drugstores) so you can wash your clothes in a sink instead of a washing machine. This saves hefty checked-baggage fees and laundry bills. Pack green and save some green at the same time.

Eat Green: One way to offset travel carbon emissions is to change your diet while you travel. Even if you normally eat meat, try going vegetarian for the duration of your trip to reduce consumption of unsustainable meat products. This is especially easy in countries like India, where much of the population is vegetarian. Temporary vegetarianism not only helps reduce the carbon footprint of your trip, but it also makes you less likely to get food poisoning from undercooked souvlaki…

Bike Green: When visiting Amsterdam, the best (and most eco-friendly) way to get around the city is to bike like a local. This saves fuel and gives you a workout while allowing you to make the most of this beautiful city. The best place to rent a bike is Damstraat Rent-a-Bike in the Jordaan neighborhood (Damstraat 20-22; 31 020 625 50 29), where you can find inexpensive bikes that don’t scream “tourist.” Bikes go for around €10 per day.

Still looking to make a difference? Check out the conservation and ecotourism opportunities in these incredible destinations:

Going Green in Ecuador
Going Green in Chile
Going Green in Brazil
Going Green in Indonesia

Two-Faced

Fri, 19 Mar 2010 04:29:56 +0000

Something very odd about New Zealand coins is the disparity between their heads and their tails. The front of every coin bears a traditional profile portrait of Queen Elizabeth (in an odd throwback to British colonialism), and the back of each coin bears an (equally traditional) image of the Maori, New Zealand's native people.

In our time in New Zealand, we noticed several shout-outs to Maori culture. Museums had Maori art exhibits, souvenir shops sold traditional jade Maori carvings, and the Auckland airport even welcomed us to New Zealand in the Maori tongue. And yet, Maori culture doesn't actually seem to have affected the lifestyle of an average New Zealander. We wonder if these nods to the Maori are true signs of cultural sensitivity, or just something to excite tourists...

The New Guides Are Here!

Thu, 11 Mar 2010 14:34:46 +0000

Our new 2010 guidebooks are on the shelves and ready for purchase! Check out our brand new guides to Costa Rica, Nicaragua & Panama, Guatemala & Belize, London, Oxford, Cambridge & Edinburgh, and Berlin Prague & Budapest. And catch up with new editions of old favorites, including Florence, Israel, Greece, Thailand, and many more.

Peruse all the guides in our Books section, then click on any title to buy it today.

Taxicab Adventures

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 23:32:52 +0000

I met a really nice Finnish couple in Estelí, and after talking with them at a café for a while, they suggested we go get check out a cool bar in town later that night. I said sure, that that sounded fine, and that I would meet them at the café at eight, and we would leave from there. Eight o’clock rolled around, and we met up. They had met another, French, couple at their hotel and they had come along to see the place as well. We went over to the Parque Central, where taxis were most likely to come passing by. We spotted one, and it stopped in the middle of the intersection to wait for us. This is an important fact.

We ran over to the taxi, and began to climb in. The car behind us started honking. Even though the taxi was over on the side of the road, that particular intersection was full of dips and potholes, and the car behind us was a “lowrider” (it was actually just a souped-up P.O.S., but there you are) and it didn’t want to cross anywhere but where the taxi was stopped. Now, I know that five people can’t get into a taxi super quickly, but it didn’t take that long, maybe 20-30 seconds tops. The guys in the car behind us seemed to think it was an eternity, though, from the sound of their shouting. We scrambled in, and the taxi started to pull forward. The car behind followed through, but instead of speeding ahead of the taxi, in order to continue the massive hurry he was in, the car pulled up alongside the taxi, and I watched from the backseat as the guys in the car started to insult and harass the taxi driver. Uh-oh. This isn’t good. Insults started flying, and there was much shouting of things like “Suck this!” or “Your sister…” (all in Spanish of course), and both parties started to get pretty pissed off.

Ah c’mon! All I wanted to do was go out, see this supposedly cool place, and then come back and do work in my hotel room. I didn’t ask for a streetfight! The guys in the other car stopped yelling for a second, which was good, but then they swung their car to the right, nearly ramming it into the taxi’s front end. Whoa! Hey! I’m riding here! If you guys are going to get into a demolition derby, at least let the poor tourists out! Then, the next thing I know, our taxi driver has whipped out a machete (where he got it from, I’ll never know) and is waving it out the window, swinging it at the other car as both vehicles inch forward, neither one in a hurry to get anywhere now. Wow, okay. At this point everyone in the taxi has gone silent (except the driver, who was still spewing expletives) and are looking at each other, as if to say, “If I die, you can have my stereo.” Things were getting pretty heated, and I was worried we were going to have to open the door and run, but suddenly the taxi driver seemed to realize that he had a fare, and that instead of waving his machete around, he could be making money. So with one last shot of spit towards the other car, he sped away, and looked in his rearview mirror all the way to our destination.

I Guess We'll Never Know...

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 23:31:31 +0000

Questions I have about Nicaragua that will never be answered:

1. How far is “just over there?” A block? A mile? Halfway across the country?

2. How can this many volcanoes fit in a country no bigger than the state of New York?

3. Who really invented Gallo Pinto? And since when has friend beans and rice been considered a culinary masterpiece?

4. Why is it that I’m allowed to pay for my hotel at the end of my stay, but when I want to rent a towel it has to be paid for up front, and in cash?

5. Why am I the only one who looks worried about “snorkeling with sharks” off the coast of Little Corn Island?

6. Why do taxi drivers honk at me to let me know that they’re there? If I really wanted a taxi, shouldn’t I be the one looking for them?

7. What keeps everyone here from sweating like I am? I look like I fell in the pool and they’re all fresh as a day in spring…

8. How do bus drivers manage to get a 30 ft. long, 2 ton hunk of metal to squeak through cars spaced not more than 10 ft. apart? And where can I learn to do the same?

9. Why does Coca-cola from a glass bottle always taste better than the stuff from a plastic bottle or a can?

10. Why on earth would you want to go to Costa Rica with Nicaragua right next door?

To Market!

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 23:30:15 +0000

Want to know one of my favorite things about Latin America? I’ll give you a hint. It’s dirty, colorful, noisy, and moves at about a thousand miles an hour all the time.

For those of you who guessed a taxi, half-credit; taxis here do fit that description perfectly. However, the other whirling ball of sight and sound that I’m talking about is the Latin American market.

I love the markets here. They’re full of tiny tables, presided over by old ladies, full of fruit, vegetables, meat (both cooked and raw), seafood…in short, anything you could ever imagine eating. If it’s edible, chances are it’s somewhere in this ever changing maze of stalls. But it’s not just food, either. For many people, the markets are the Mall as well, and they get their clothing (yes, underwear too), toiletries and even entertainment from their local market. All those other “all-in-one” stores, Wal-Mart, Costco? They got nothing on this.

Aside from being able to pick up an amazingly juicy watermelon for 75 cents, I go to the market in almost every city I visit, because, for me at least, it’s a way to really get a sense of what the city itself is going to be like. For example, in San Carlos, located at the bottom of the Lago de Nicaragua (Nicaragua’s enormous, freshwater lake) and the mouth of the Río San Juan, the market is a smelly fish bonanza. I liked it anyway, which is saying something, because San Carlos wasn’t exactly my favorite stop on the trip.

I like markets because I like the idea of a market. It’s a place where people can bring their own, personally produced or acquired goods to a place where customers can buy local, yet still get everything they need. It’s not like a farmer’s market in the U.S. where you go to the farmer’s market to get fresh veggies, but to the store to get shampoo. In a market, all those things are right there. Plus, at the market, your little shopping excursion just turned into an adventure.

The Number Game, Continued

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 23:29:28 +0000

You think this is a Mastercard commercial? Think again...

2: the number of times I’ve cut my fingernails.

15: The number of hours since I last took a shower.

14: The number of hours since I decided I could use another shower.

1,000: The average temperature in Nicaragua.

30: The SPF of my sunscreen.

1 ½: The number of times I’ve “washed” my clothing.

4: The added sum of all of my articles of clothing.

3: volcanoes climbed.

1: volcano sandboarded.

Countless: miles logged walking.

The Number Game

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 23:28:31 +0000

I’ve been in Nicaragua for about a month and a week now, which means I’ve officially crossed over into the second half of my trip. It’s sort of strange. Before, when people told me that they had been traveling for over a month, I found it hard to believe that could ever be me. It seemed so far away. Now, when I tell people that I’ve been moving, by myself, for as long as I have, they say, “Wow, that’s a while.”

Yeah, I guess it is. But it’s not over yet. However, in celebration of the completion of the first half of my trip, I’d thought I’d compile a little numbers list, a collection of the hard facts (okay, so I may have stretched the truth on some of these, but not as many as you might think) that have made this trip what it is.

6: The number of once-a-week anti-malarial tablets I’ve taken. From one week before I left to this morning.

0: The number of hotels or hostels I’ve been at where the internet hasn’t crashed or cut out once.

8: The highest number of different people I’ve had to ask to find just one building.

68: The number of geckos watched crawling along hostel walls like moths to a light.

Father's Day in Nicaragua (Part II)

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 23:27:58 +0000

They stretched, and one did a few pushups in the sand to show off.

Then, with the crowd screaming and egging them on, and heavily armed policemen standing by in case things got out of hand, someone smacked a pan with a spoon and it was underway. The self-appointed referee bobbed in and out of the way of the gloves, which had gone from being sort of heavy looking, burdensome things, to an extra weight on the hand to be thrown at the opposite guy’s face. They went at it like there was no tomorrow, aided by the frenzy on yelling that was coming from around the ring. Suddenly, the guy from the corner closest to where I was standing threw out a quick left jab, catching his opponent in a brief moment of weakness. The sweaty, dirt-covered glove connected with a solid “thwack!” on his left eye, and he went down…hard.

The crowd went nuts. A knockout, that’s what they had wanted to see. They screamed and threw their arms up into the air, whistling and chanting the winner’s name all the while. Someone in the audience handed the winner a bottle of Plata white rum, Nicaragua’s cheapest, and he proudly took a huge swig and flexed for the ladies, demonstrating his obvious superiority in the testosterone department.

It was one of the most bizarre things I’ve ever seen in my life.

Father's Day in Nicaragua (Part I)

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 23:25:02 +0000

A few days ago they celebrated Father's Day - “El día del Padre” - in Nicaragua. Witnessing the celebration here, however, was just a little bit different than our standard US Father's Day.

I don’t know about you, but I think last Father’s Day I spent the day with my Dad, got him a small gift, and the family ate a nice meal together. Want to know how they celebrate on Little Corn Island, Nicaragua?

They box.

Yep, Boxing. I kid you not. Apparently, every Father’s Day at the tiny island's only bar, “Las Aguilas,” a makeshift ring is set up and a party is thrown in which anyone who feels man (or Dad) enough, can step into the ring, throw on some gloves, and pretend to be Rocky.

I walked into the tiny bar at around nine and it was already packed. Everybody on the island seemed to be there. (Okay, so it’s not the biggest island in the world, but there were still a lot of people.) The ring was really handmade. Red and Blue ropes were tied on one side to the cement framework of the bar, and around a couple, seemingly perfectly placed palm trees on the other. The sand on the ground looked to provide little cushion in the case of a fall.

I think I'll settle for spectator thank you.

To be continued…

Welcome to Nicaragua!

Wed, 10 Mar 2010 23:20:53 +0000

Let’s see here, I’ve been on the road in Nicaragua for around three weeks. I finally feel like I’m start to get the hang of traveling every day. Some of the things I’ve learned…

1. Pour out the complimentary shampoo packets into a mini shampoo bottle. That way, the next time you’re at a hostel that doesn’t have shampoo you can use your “secret store.”

2. Always ask the cab driver how much your ride is going to cost in advance. Some of these cabbies aren’t the most honest of guys, and backpackers are prime targets.

3. Always, always, always wear sunscreen. Yeah, it’s a bit awkward asking a stranger to put some on your back, but it’s better than skin cancer in 30 years.

4. Don’t listen to anyone you’ve never met before who starts a conversation with, “Hello my friend, let me show you around…”

5. When you’re tired, after a long day’s travel, there is nothing more comforting than finding out that there’s actually a TV in your hotel. And what’s more, they have crappy, but subtitled sitcoms you can zone out to.

Join us on Facebook and Twitter

Wed, 03 Mar 2010 18:46:48 +0000

Let's Go is now on Facebook! Become a fan by clicking here to join us, and stay plugged into our roving network of globe-trotting writers.

You can also follow us on Twitter! You'll have instant access to fresh stories, deals, special events and more.

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Local Legend: I'm A Jelly Donut

Wed, 03 Mar 2010 15:28:31 +0000

On June 26, 1963, President John F. Kennedy ended his speech to the citizens of Berlin with the words “Ich bin ein Berliner” in a declaration of international solidarity against the encroachments of the Soviet Union. After he spoke these words, the American media claimed that he should have said “Ich bin Berliner,” and that by adding the indefinite article ein, he actually spoke the words “I am a jelly donut.” On June 27, 1963, newspapers from Tulsa to Tokyo were plastered with caricatures of talking pastries.

But the notion that Kennedy committed a major faux pas is more myth than reality. A “Berliner” is indeed a common name for a type of donut that originated in Berlin. And indeed, by adding ein to his statement, Kennedy’s words could have been interpreted as a declaration of solidarity with fried dough. Nevertheless, nobody in Berlin would have misunderstood his words. For, though “Berliner” is a common term in the rest of Germany, Berliners themselves refer to the donut as a Krapfen. And though ein is often omitted when speaking of a particular individual, it is grammatically necessary when speaking figuratively, as Kennedy was doing.

Whatever the grammar police say, it’s also possible that Kennedy was just taking the saying “You are what you eat” a little bit too literally.

Let's Go Fly A Dove

Wed, 03 Mar 2010 15:26:41 +0000

The festival goes back to the First Crusade, in 1099. A vigorous young warrior with an appropriately peppy name, Pazzino de’ Pazzi, led the Florentine conquest of Jerusalem. Ruthlessly, he scaled the walls of the holy city. His reward was a handful of rocks—sacred flint from the Holy Sepulchre. It became tradition to strike the flint into holy fire each year during holy week and to carry the flame throughout the city, first on torches, then by means of an enormous candle, and today with pyrotechnics.

Starting in the early morning, the rocket cart, called the Brindellone, travels through the city, pulled by a pair of gleaming oxen. Costumed revelers follow dancing with medieval enthusiasm. When the cart reaches the P. del Duomo, the rocket is attached to a wire and up goes the dove, setting off fireworks in its flight. If the operation goes smoothly, Florence is blessed. If it doesn’t—well, it’s quite a spectacle.

Magical (Sur)realism

Wed, 03 Mar 2010 14:48:16 +0000

Santa Elena is a village of about 3000 people, largely indigenous, about 2½hr. south of Mérida. If it weren’t on the heavily-trafficked road from Mérida to the ruins on the Ruta Puuc, there’s pretty much no chance it would make it into even the most comprehensive guidebook. But it is on that road, so on an early Saturday evening, I stepped off a bus from the ruins in Santa Elena and started to look around for a ride home. Usually that ride would come in the form of a combi, or any one of dozens of vans that shuttle about a dozen people at a time between the small towns in the area. But there were none waiting in the usual place, so I asked a man sitting in a nearby park where I might find one. He said they would probably be at the town fair a few blocks away.

The town fair, which I found after winding my way through a few blocks of huts with roofs made of dried leaves was one of the more surreal scenes of my trip so far. Across the street from the huts, the people of Santa Elena had built a stadium of what appeared to be large sticks and rope. When I arrived, the stadium was packed with people watching what turned out—upon closer inspection—to be bullfighting. Around the stadium were dozens of vendors selling hot dogs, Cokes, and various other snacks. One husband and wife teamhad pieces of fresh meat hanging from hooks and split vending duties: the woman would take the slabs down and grill them, while the man spent most of his time on the ground, cutting the copious intestines of whatever animal he had just killed. No more than 15 ft. from the intestines, was a stage covered in advertisements for Sol, the Mexican beer company. On the stage there was a live band and two women in bikinis.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the band’s leader called out. “Let’s hear it for these two lovely ladies, straight from the capital, the White City, Mérida, Yucatán!” The women began to dance, turning to shake their tushes at the audience. The man with the intestines stopped cutting for a moment, looked up, and smiled.

Just Back From Italy - What An Adventure!

Tue, 02 Mar 2010 23:19:14 +0000

What an incredible trip! I just got back from an unbelievable 3 months in Italy. My trip started in the north, working my way from Venice to Verona, then down to Florence. I spent 2 weeks in Tuscany and Umbria, ending up in Rome. I then took the train down to Sicily where I spent the final 3 weeks of my adventure. I can't wait to post all my photos and share all my amazing adventures... stay tuned!

Our Golden Anniversary

Sat, 20 Feb 2010 21:44:23 +0000

Happy 50th anniversary, Let's Go! Here's the team at our birthday bash, complete with open bar, mini-paninis, and some special guest appearances by Let's Go excecs from back in the day. Let's Go founder (and office celebrity) Oliver Koppell told us some illuminating stories about the company's infancy, and current VPDP Vanessa Dube gave us a glimpse of the company's future. What's coming next? We could tell you. But we'd have to kill you.

From the Road to the Radio

Sat, 20 Feb 2010 20:51:44 +0000

A few weeks ago, I was lucky enough to get to speak on NPR with Let’s Go Founding Father Oliver Koppell (pictured above at our 50th Anniversary Celebration.) The experience itself was fantastic, but also a little nerve wracking.

Because I had no clue how else to prepare for a radio interview, I did what many girls do: stress primp. As I emerged from my room with what I assumed was a professional, highly articulate look, my dad eyed my outfit and said, “You know NPR is the radio, right? Not TV?.”

Oops.

So I showed up overdressed, obsessively early, and with sweaty palms. One thing they never tell you about radio stations is how silent they are. You’d think people would be talking all the time, right, because it’s their job? Wrong.

When Oliver Koppell arrived, I was a little star-struck. I don’t know what I had expected from the Founding Father of Let’s Go (An Indiana Jones hat? An “It’s Better in Botswana” tee-shirt?), but Mr. Koppell was just a nice, dignified grandfatherly-type man. He was friendly and extremely personable, which helped calm my nerves as they directed me to put on the massive headphones and position the microphone to start the interview.

I don’t really remember much about what happened during the interview itself, only that I was preoccupied with not letting my voice get too high and shrill. Hear for yourself at:

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=122169234

I might have gone a little overboard while trying to sound mature: afterwards, my sister told me I did the worst “Anchorman” impression ever.

My Fiery Valentine

Sat, 20 Feb 2010 18:11:31 +0000

For Valentine's Day, we were in Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon), Vietnam's modern urban explosion -- a bustling hotbed of sparkly lights, motorbikes, and trendy bars owned by disillusioned expatriates. As things are, people seem to be much too busy or much too drunk to care about St. Valentine. However, at Nam Giao, a small, excellent restaurant where the Vietnamese middle class come to lunch, and where sweet lotus teas are only 2000 dong a pop (the food isn't too expensive either), a few burning hearts appeared with the (delicious) mustard leaf-wrapped spring rolls we ordered. We're not sure whether the chefs were making a Valentine nod, or if they were just trying to make the fiery chilis seem more enticing. Either way, we'd finally found a little taste of love.

Nam Giao (open daily 7:45am-9pm) is located at 136/15 Le Thanh Ton, down an alley just northeast of Ben Thanh Market.

Parisian Hipsters Need a Home

Mon, 15 Feb 2010 19:19:40 +0000

Paris has played host to youth subcultures for decades. After WWII, garishly dressed Zazous frequented the burgeoning nightclub scene, swinging to jazz, bebop, and ragtime music. But big bands and jukeboxes eventually gave way to turntables in 1953 when Régine Zylberberg—the owner of Le Whisky à Gogo—established the modern-day standard for nightclubs and discothèques with loud, seamless music. Rock soon replaced jazz as the anthem of youth, and Zazous yielded to the latest trends. Branchés—a subculture marked by fashionable attire and a similar disregard of the petit bourgeois values of hard work and financial advancement—filled the void.

    Youth culture made waves in Paris in May of 1968 when a series of student strikes swept the nation in a challenge to conservative morality. The themes of sexual liberation and youth empowerment emphasized by these riots translated to the club scene. Clubbing culture blossomed at the onset of the 70s as crazy parties mixed unconventional aspects of music; eclectic pop icons Mick Jagger, Santana, Kraftwerk, and the New York Dolls provided the soundtracks and inspired fashions of such affairs.

    The 80s ushered in the mythic era of Le Palace—a theater turned nightclub that became a haunt of the branché scene. Les Bains Douches—yet another club that catered to the subculture—opened just a few months later. Paris had become a hipster playground. Meanwhile, Jean Paul Gautier indulged Parisian youth with clothing collections inspired by pop culture and street fashion; the branché lifestyle became more commercialized as businesses realized the potential of the young market.

    The following decade saw the hipster crowd transform from disdainful nihilists to ambitious imitators. Branché trends flooded popular culture, and the message of the lifestyle gave way to its fashions. Daft Punk, Cassius, and Bob Sinclar comprised the playlist at highly cultivated hipster parties and simultaneously saturated the airwaves of mainstream radio. Branché was no longer a respected youth crowd—in fact, the term soon came to denote a mocking, pejorative attitude about the fads associated with hipsters. With the dissolution of such an established, fashion-forward subculture that thrived on underground music, the avant-garde slowly ceased to be the driving force behind Parisian culture.

    The new millennium has witnessed Paris’s failure to absorb minimal techno and therefore a breakdown of Paris’s ability to foster youth culture. Few musical artists have emerged from the city of late, and clubs that dare play innovative dance music struggle financially. In fact, on June 14, 2007, Le Pulp—a lesbian club and staple hipster hangout—closed permanently. A year later, Le ParisParis—another nightlife pillar that had welcomed hipsters from all horizons—closed as well. As budget airlines and high-speed trains make London and Berlin increasingly accessible, the fate of Parisian nightlife is depressingly unsure.

    An underground dance music genre that mixes disco, techno, punk rock, and glitch music is a brief ray of hope for a hipster presence in Paris. But as representative artists like Justice gain a larger following in the UK rather than in their mother country, the neo-dandy, avant-garde youth presence for which Paris is known seems to be waning.

Boston Marathon

Mon, 15 Feb 2010 19:17:08 +0000

A city on a hill isn’t quite so nice when you’re in a marathon. On Patriots’ Day, the third Monday of every April, Boston shuts down as the 26.2 mi. Boston Marathon takes over the city. One of the world’s most famous road races and its oldest marathon, it’s also a hell of a lot of fun to watch. The race starts at noon in Hopkinton before winding its way into the center of Boston, where it ends in Copley Sq. next to the Hancock Tower and the Boston Public Library.

The Boston Marathon is widely considered one of the toughest around, mostly because of the Newton Hills. After 20 mi. of pavement-pounding, contestants—who, unlike most other marathons, have to qualify in order to be a full participant (and get a bib)—hit four long hills. At this point, their bodies are just about tapped out, but right around Boston College they must trek up “Heartbreak Hill,” the longest and steepest of the four.

Generally, about 20,000 people end up running the race, with only about half of them officially registered. Qualifying time is generally around 3hr. 10min., but the winners tend to run the marathon in about an hour less. Many runners write their names down their arms or legs so that strangers can personally cheer them on. While in a few cases this results in funny sunburns and head colds caught from high-fiving too many children, hearing your name shouted for hours straight provides justthe kind of ego boost that endorphins can’t. Plus, the half-million spectators—30,000 of whom leave Fenway after the traditional 11am Red Sox game and swarm Kenmore Sq.—cheer extra loud for first-time runners.

It isn’t difficult to guess why so many non-natives participate in the Boston Marathon. It’s a tangible accomplishment. You get a medal. You get attention. Even if you’re not a runner, you’ve heard that it’s “all mental” and you figure that you’re really good at mental activities. However, marathon runners aren’t just selfish fools—they often raise money for charities. In many cases, runners are not previously involved in these causes, but they fundraise for them so that they can run with an official number and a bib. Moreover, the marathon forces outsiders into something they too rarely do: interact with the greater Boston population.

For those not crazy enough to run the equivalent of over a hundred laps on a track—whose surface is made of concrete and which zigzags over hills you need hiking poles and crampons to climb—you should at the very least come out to scream for the runners. As Boston tunes into its biggest sporting event, barbecues, tailgates, and parties take place all over the city. Just make sure you don’t pass that Solo cup you’re drinking from to one of the runners.

Explosion of the Cart

Mon, 15 Feb 2010 19:15:18 +0000

Florentines celebrate Christ’s resurrection on Easter Sunday with a much louder type of ascension. At the festival of the Scoppio del Carro (literally “the explosion of the cart”), the archbishop lights a large dove-shaped rocket whose blast is said to bring luck and prosperity to the city in the upcoming year.

The festival goes back to the First Crusade, in 1099. A vigorous young warrior with an appropriately peppy name, Pazzino de’ Pazzi, led the Florentine conquest of Jerusalem. Ruthlessly, he scaled the walls of the holy city. His reward was a handful of rocks—sacred flint from the Holy Sepulchre. It became tradition to strike the flint into holy fire each year during holy week and to carry the flame throughout the city, first on torches, then by means of an enormous candle, and today with pyrotechnics.

Starting in the early morning, the rocket cart, called the Brindellone, travels through the city, pulled by a pair of gleaming oxen. Costumed revelers follow dancing with medieval enthusiasm. When the cart reaches the P. del Duomo, the rocket is attached to a wire and up goes the dove, setting off fireworks in its flight. If the operation goes smoothly, Florence is blessed. If it doesn’t—well, it’s quite a spectacle.

I'm Outta Gas

Fri, 12 Feb 2010 13:54:12 +0000

We rented a motorbike in the tiny seaside town of Kep, Cambodia, to get a chance to explore the farms and countryside. After we got it (and frantically learned how to drive manual), we started looking for a place to fill up the gas tank. We asked around, and finally discovered that the little roadside stands with liter-sized Coca Cola bottles weren't selling ripoff soft drinks, but actually gasoline!

Let's Go on NPR

Fri, 05 Feb 2010 16:02:40 +0000

As you NPR listeners and early weekend risers may already know, NPR Weekend Edition recently ran an interview with Oliver Koppell, the founder of Let's Go, and Charlotte Alter, a 2010 researcher and 2011 Managing Editor, in honor of our 50th anniversary. Click here to listen to the full interview on NPR.com!

Tips For First-Time Cruising: Know Before You Go

Mon, 01 Feb 2010 15:21:58 +0000

You’ve booked your first cruise and the excitement is setting in. What now? First, make sure you have a recent passport. If you don’t have one, now is the time to do it. Don’t wait until the last minute.

Book your shore excursions as soon as you receive your cruise documents. Not only will this secure the activities you really want to experience, it will also mean your shore tickets will be waiting for you on arrival and you can skip standing in a long line at the shore excursion desk when you board.

Packing
Remember when packing that cruise cabins are usually small, so don’t overpack. Sort by color groups and pack clothes that you can mix and match. Be sure to read the cruise line dress policy regarding formal nights. If you prefer not to dress up, then head for the buffet or order in on that night. But if you love to shine, a cruise is a great place to glam it up.

Be sure to pack a carry-on bag that includes airline tickets and cruise documents, cameras, prescriptions, swim suits, medications, sandals, sunscreen, a change of clothes and toiletries – everything that you’ll need for the first 8-9 hours.

Medicines
Refill prescriptions at least two weeks before departure and take along an extra supply in case of any delays that may occur in your return. Ask your doctor about “the patch” to prevent seasickness. This patch is like a small band-aid that is placed behind one ear and slowly dispenses medicine over the entire cruise so you don’t have take daily doses of pills.

Pack your prescriptions in carry-on bags and over-the-counter medicines in checked luggage. Use a quart-size zip bag (fold-over tops are not allowed) to pack all containers (containers must be 3 ounces or less) in case of breakage. Remember that purchasing incidentals onboard can be expensive and plan accordingly.

Contact Info
Leave your contact information with a person on shore. But be sure they understand that phone charges can run up to $12 per minute for both parties; the caller and you onboard. Emergency contact information should include the name of your ship, room number and ship phone number. Email is the simplest and cheapest form of contact. There will be internet cafes on board and although you still pay for the service, it’s much cheaper than the telephone. Check with your travel agent regarding cell phone service. This is another alternative, but roaming charges can also quickly add up.

Buy at home
Purchase photo equipment and supplies before you cruise. These items can cost many times the purchase price when bought onboard or in a port. Pack film, batteries and digital cards in plastic bags in carry-on because the security and x-ray machinery for checked baggage can damage them.

Checking In
The big day has finally arrived and you’re ready to sail. The first thing you’ll see at your cruise terminal is a group of porters. The porters will check your larger bags for you and then deliver them to your cabin. It is customary to tip the porters about $2 per bag.

Have your paperwork prepared in advance and be prepared to present your cruise registration, passport and the credit card you wish to use for onboard expenses to the check-in agent. If you want to use cash, a minimum of $250 is required for onboard expenses.

On Board Expenses
At check-in, the cruise line will do a credit card authorization for a predetermined amount of money. Most cruises authorize $50 to $200 in daily charges. Remember that the cost of alcoholic beverages, special onboard programs, casino action, spa treatments and onboard shopping can quickly add up. Although you will only be billed for what you actually spend, the amount of credit authorized will be “held” as a security deposit. So be sure you have plenty of extra money on the credit card you use so you aren’t caught short of funds.

Carry Cash
This is the one time you want to be sure you have plenty of cash on hand. Be sure you have some small bills for tips. Don’t count on travelers' checks or credit cards since some places will not accept travelers’ checks and you may have a hard time getting access to an ATM at port. Be prepared.

Alcohol
A good tip for first-timers is that all cruise lines forbid guests from bringing their own liquor onboard, except for wine. You may be allowed to bring a couple of bottles of wine, but read your cruise info ahead of time. And remember, if you want your wine served to you in one of the dining rooms, you’ll be charged a corkage fee from $12-$25.

Newsletters
This is one of the best tips around. Waiting in your cabin should be a ship's daily newsletter, which lists the dining and entertainment options available. Use your newsletter wisely. This is valuable information and can be easily carried with you so you don’t miss anything. Bring a highlighter and mark the activities you don’t want to miss each day.

With these basics covered, you’re ready to let your hair down, relax and just have fun. This may be your first cruise, but if you prepare in advance, you’ll soon be planning many more cruises to come. Bon Voyage!

From Head to Toe

Sun, 31 Jan 2010 17:07:37 +0000

For some inexplicable reason, Thailand produces some of the best fried chicken in the world. Go to any Thai night market, and you're bound to find some stalls with trays of the stuff. You pick out the pieces you want, and they'll toss them back into the fryer to make them hot and extra juicy for you.

Thus far, we've been sticking to wings and drumsticks, but we've (almost) been tempted by the mounds of fried chicken feet we've seen -- photo above. If you find yourself in a daytime produce market, you'll see where the night vendors pick up their goods -- photo below.

Around the World with Mickey D's

Sun, 31 Jan 2010 16:51:28 +0000

For all 5 months and 12 countries of our trip thus far, we have been followed by a man with pearly white skin and fiery red hair, a man who eternally wears a yellow jumpsuit and an enormous blood-red grin. That man is Ronald McDonald.

Now, everyone knows McDonald's are everywhere now, but we've been surprised by how proud places are of their Big Mac-bearing establishments. The photo below shows a proud sign declaring to all of Berlin the number of McDonald's in the city. Perhaps even more interesting was when we arrived in Varanasi, India, and our rickshaw driver proudly pointed out the first McD's to arrive there. He was shocked when we admitted that we don't actually like McDonald's. Perhaps he thought all Americans eat there, or perhaps he just figured that if it was popular enough to make its way to Varanasi then it has to be good...

We were also amused when we arrived in Thailand and discovered Ronald sawatdee-ing (the Thai greeting) to all of the passersby -- photo above. Who knew he had a culturally sensitive side?

P.S. Though McDonald's is the most prevalent American fast food chain, we did take note that KFC is actually the first (and, thus far, only) fast food restaurant to weasel its way into the old city of Marrakech. Though why anybody would pay Western prices for fried chicken when you can get much cheaper, more delicious Moroccan fare at the night market across the street, we couldn't tell you...

Getting Cheesy

Thu, 28 Jan 2010 08:44:50 +0000

Tuesday's Wine and Cheese Travel Workshop was a huge success! Seeing all the eager young would-be travellers learning some tips from the eager young seasoned travellers reminded all of us at Let's Go what we're really here for...

Learning. Sharing. Expanding our horizons. And cheese.

Happy almost-50th-birthday, LG!

Happy 50th From the Road!

Wed, 27 Jan 2010 10:21:36 +0000

For the past 5 months, we’ve traveled with our sturdy Let’s Go Waldo tags on all of our bags. Any time we looked at them, however, we were a little sad that only fake stamps graced their surfaces; airlines, of course, no longer stamp passengers’ bags.

But in India, where security at airports is particularly tight, we received the gem that we’ve been waiting for. In the photo, you can hopefully see the purple outline of the stamp that security puts on every carry-on bag once it is X-rayed. Not that exciting, we admit, but even the small things help when you are sitting in the New Delhi airport at 3:30 am waiting for a flight…

Most importantly, happy 50th anniversary Let’s Go! We hope our bag tags last that long, as well.

Get Rich Quick!

Fri, 22 Jan 2010 02:12:14 +0000

There are many options in Dubai for the budget traveler, but you have to keep your eyes peeled and your ears pricked.

1) One easy way to save money is by taking the metro instead of cabs. In order to take the metro, take a cab to the metro station, then ride it one stop to the Mall of the Emirates. This is the only stop on the metro, at present, except for the terminus on Sheikh Zayed Road. Get out of the metro and get a cab from the cab stand outside the mall.

2) Stay at a hostel. In order to stay at a hostel, book a hostel room somewhere in North Africa, or in a suburb of Baghdad. Then, fly Jazeera Air to Dubai for 99 Euros in the morning, spend the day, and fly back. If you prefer to stay in the old city, you can rent a room for 160 dirham (50 US). This room will have some kind of charming deficiency that will be totally unexpected, such as a shower with no cold water.

3) Buy food from grocery stores. Cashews and Coke, anyone?

4) Get drunk before you go out to the bar. In order to get drunk before going to the bar, buy a bottle of whisky from the Duty Free and finish it in your hotel room in Tangiers, then run to the airport and get a flight, quick, before the buzz wears off.

5) Drive up to the illegal liquor store in Sharjah, around nine or ten PM. Then cut your headlights and wait for some Americans to come and buy alcohol. Tail them back through the desert towards Dubai. When there are no other cars around, get into a minor car accident. Nothing dangerous, just a little smack on the ass to wake them up. When you get out to exchange insurance information, “notice” that they have liquor in the back seat – possible death-penalty offence in Sharjah – and offer to just “forget the whole thing” for a cash payment of 5000US. Take all their money back to Dubai, and don’t forget to take their alcohol, too!

Can't Buy Me Lux

Fri, 22 Jan 2010 00:36:54 +0000

Everyone knows that money tends to stay in Dubai. But what does it do there? Surely it’s not just sipping tea in some two-star hotel near the airport and then going to a business meeting.

In Dubai, money buys luxury. I don’t think that luxury is the thing that brings people to Dubai in the first place (as I say, I think it’s about moving money), but luxury is the thing that keeps those people’s money within the emirate’s borders. If you own a Let’s Go guide, then you are the type of person who, for lack of desire or funds, will never enjoy any of the following:

1. A villa on one of the fronds of the Palm Jumeirah, the world’s largestartificial island.

2. An afternoon at Aquaventure, the waterpark at the Atlantis Hotel. At Aquaventure, you can sit in an inflatable tube while conveyor belts take you to rides that are, in my opinion, absolutely great. My favorite was a series of totally dark tunnels that turn you upside-down at ridiculous speeds. The staff is shirtless men who are stronger than you are, and look better in their bathing suits than you do.

3. Freezing a section of your baby’s umbilical cord with Cryo-Freeze Arabia, a Dubai-based company that preserves infant cells so that sci-fi medical treatments will be possible when your child comes down with something worse than the flu. When the young man turns twenty, he can decide whether he wants to keep going with the Cryo-Freezing. This sounds like a joke. Not at all.

Pseudo-Swiss, Faux-French

Fri, 22 Jan 2010 00:29:48 +0000

At the Mall of the Emirates, you can ski indoors. Emiratis who have never lived outside of a desert climate send their children for skiing lessons once a week. Don’t believe it? You can see them slalom while enjoying a cup of hot chocolate at an imitation Swiss chalet at the base of the “mountain.”

Many things in Dubai are imitations of other things. The Swiss chalet, of course, but also the planned “Lyon” development, a full-scale replica of the city of Lyon, in the middle of the desert. It won’t happen now that Nakheel – the government-owned construction conglomerate – has gone belly-up somewhere in the middle of its third artificial island – but don’t let that distract us from the main point. In a city that was, until 1960, just an oil-less little brother to Riyadh and Abu Dhabi, the rapid-fire growth of the 1990s and 2000s has left some residents longing for something “real.” Like, oh, a fake Lyon.

Expats who’ve lived here more than a year will tell you that they can’t stay in Dubai for more than six months at a stretch. Biannual trips to Europe are a fact of life, like unmarked police cars or a censored press. After a while, you want something with history. But wait – doesn’t Dubai have a history?

Yes and no. A British “trucial state” from 1750 to the early 20th century, Dubai got its start as the refueling point for flights and voyages from London to Mumbai, back when India was British. It’s always been a gateway, from the west to Asia and the Middle East, for people and money. That’s why, even though the recent crash will spoil some of the particularly outrageous corners of the property market, the real business – moving abstractions like equity and PR services – will remain intact.

Where "Old" Is a Relative Term

Fri, 22 Jan 2010 00:24:20 +0000

People tell me to go to the “old city,” so I do, and find buildings older than five years.

In fact, the old city is not a city at all but two neighborhoods, Bur Dubai and Deira, divided by a creek that is one of the few non-man-made things in Dubai. It is a thrill for European tourists to ride the long wooden boats (“abras”) from one side to the other – you can hear them squeal with glee as they’re ferried across.

Deira, the larger of the two, is a Pakistani and Indian neighborhood. I came there on my second day, in search of so-called “Pakistani pants,” which are billowing cotton pajama bottoms perfectly suited to the 80-degree winter heat. For only ten dirham (three dollars), you can have a pair custom made for you by one of the many tailors who work near Sabkha Road (I recommend Khair Mohammad A.K. Tailors, in the Fundari Bazar). Anyone who wants to can also buy a matching shirtdress, but it will set you back another 20 dirham.

Until recently, the old city was a non-Western neighborhood: there was just no reason to go there unless you were after cheap jewelry at the Gold Souq (“Bling Market” in Arabic). Now, the Dubai Marina is out and Bur Dubai is in, with listings for apartments appearing in the pages of Freehold Monthly and The Gulf News. There are still plenty of bars with made-up sounding names (“The Lahore Club”) that cater to discerning gentlemen, of course – and what would the old city be without them?

Absolut Prohibition

Fri, 22 Jan 2010 00:19:24 +0000

Dubai seems relatively civilized, until I realize that I’m drinking mineral water with my steak. Then I realize I haven’t even seen a drink in six days. That’s unusual!

We all know that the UAE is an Islamic autocracy with a legal system based on Shari’a – but we may not realize what this means in plain English. It means: it’s really hard to get alcohol.

To drink in Dubai you need a license, which you get by proving to the government that you’re a non-Muslim with nothing weird on your record. With a license you can go to liquor stores, which are scarce, and neighborhood bars, which don’t exist. Some expats drive liquor down through Sharjah, a neighborhood emirate rumored to execute drunk drivers, some find one of the few Dubai liquor store, but most people drink in hotel lobbies or malls.

I am asking an Irish expatriate whether she misses wine with meals, and she tells me “not really,” and that’s when I see that most westerners here are okay not drinking. In fact, most westerners do not seem to mind the restrictions that comes with the law in Dubai (no kissing on the street, for instance).

I bide my time, then hit the Duty Free with a vengeance on the way home.

The Seventh Star

Fri, 22 Jan 2010 00:13:15 +0000

A stay at the Burj Al Arab begins in one of two ways. Either they drive you from the airport in a Rolls Royce or they fly you in a helicopter. I arrive in a Hyundai taxi, rolling a suitcase as though I’m coming to stay, when really I have no idea where I’m going to sleep that night. Coolly, I ask a bellhop to keep an eye on my luggage. Half an hour ago I was adjusting my tie in the bathroom mirror at a mall.

The “Burj” was planned as a mainland beach hotel, but somewhere along the line the architect had a flash of inspiration and a man-made island was constructed in the Arabian Gulf. (I should note that this is not an uncommon flash of inspiration in Dubai.) It’s ten years old, which, converted to Dubai years, makes it roughly the same age as the Pyramids at Giza. You’ve seen pictures of it: white, sail-shaped, with an elegant structure composed of three lines and a stripe of canvas down the middle.
I’m early, so I wait in the lobby eating dates. I want to cross my legs, but my “fancy shoes,” which I bought in Istanbul for ten Turkish lira, have no soles, only heels.

One hour later, I leave feeling fantastic.

What’s amazing about this hotel is not so much the architecture or the food or the fountains or the rotating beds. Of course you’ve never seen a single stream of water form a perfect continuous arc, but is that really what you paid for when you booked the Royal Suite? What you bought is something called “luxury,” which I think can be defined as “the satisfaction of needs you didn’t know you had in ways you didn’t anticipate.” A guest here once proposed to his girlfriend by sending a scuba diver into the tank at the seafood restaurant, then having him press a sign to the glass above their table: “will you?” (One assumes she said yes). In the real world, this would be outrageous. In Burj world, it’s business as usual.

One problem with hotels is that they get boring after the second stay. I crashed in a cheap hotel in Dubai that had no cold water, which is unusual the first time, and therefore interesting, but would I really go back for seconds? The Burj, by contrast, actually gets better on repeat visits, because it remembers what you like and shapes your experience according to your preferences. Do you like to have sunset drinks at the suspended 25th-floor restaurant? Your table is reserved. Do you prefer Evian to San Pellegrino? You will not even see a San Pellegrino bottle on your second visit. By your third, management will have driven them out of business.

There is more gold plating here than in the Federal Reserve. When you look straight up from the lobby, the sweep of the canvas really does look like a ship at full sail. I am on the verge of booking a room when my visit ends, and I ask for a cab. A white Lexus pulls up: the Burj has its own fleet of luxury cabs. (In Burj Al Arab language, “Rolls Royce” means “car” and “Lexus” means “taxi.”)

“None of that,” I say. “Get me one of those Hyundai.”

When Yes Really Means No

Mon, 11 Jan 2010 16:27:28 +0000

Indonesians spend a lot of time trying to avoid causing malu (shame), so if you don’t want to be that embarrassed foreigner, you need to be mindful of this social norm. People here are exceptionally careful of how they communicate, which often leads to a unique (albeit very confusing) verbal dance. Indonesians will try to steer clear of causing anyone discomfort by speaking indirectly in conversation. Basically, people beat around the bush here. A lot.

Indonesians never want to give someone a negative response, so instead they phrase it in such a way where they expect you to realize what they actually want to say. In fact, the native language Bahasa has 12 ways of saying “Yes, but I really mean no,” in order to avoid awkward exchanges. For example, belum means ‘not yet,’ but is often used to indicate a softer, less final ‘no’. If you (like most college students) are particularly fond of procrastination, you may want to say mungkin nanti, which translates as “maybe later,” in lieu of an immediate unfavorable response. So, while you may think that you’ve become especially suave and persuasive on your travels, be warned: all those affirmative nods you’ve been getting could just be a polite way of saying, “Are you kidding me?”

The Glacier's So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades

Mon, 11 Jan 2010 16:26:35 +0000

You won’t soon forget Chile's spectacular glaciers—provided, of course, that you can actually see them! On a glacier sightseeing trip, sunglasses (or their brawnier cousins, glacier glasses) are an absolute must. Even on cloudy days, up to 90% of UVB rays can be reflected off the ice and straight into your eyes. If you would prefer to avoid days of pain, redness, swelling, and endless pirate jokes about your taped-shut eyelids, remember to bring a decent pair of sunglasses. The best pairs have dark lenses, prove 100% UVB protection, and cover your eyes completely.

Goodbye, Columbus?

Mon, 11 Jan 2010 16:25:21 +0000

The next time you pass by a Dominican flag waving proudly in the wind, take a closer peek at its design—you’re lookin' at one of a kind. The Dominican Republic’s flag is the only flag in the world that displays an image of the Bible. In the center of the large white cross is a coat of arms, which depicts a gold cross, an open Bible, and the motto Dios, Patria, Libertad (God, Country, Freedom). The flag was officially adopted after the Dominican Republic gained independence from Haiti in 1844, but its religious roots trace back to the Christian influence brought over from Spain by Christopher Columbus and his gang of disease-carrying, God-fearing men.

The Dance Recital

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 04:25:47 +0000

In the evenings, the main plateia in Karystos is filled to the brim with people lounging at coffee shops, children riding bikes and squealing, and couples cuddled on benches beneath the trees. Once a summer on a Saturday night, the local dance studio puts on a street-fair style recital in the plateia. They set up a stage and colorful painted backdrop, lights, and a sound system that reaches all the way to the waterfront.

At 9:30pm when the show began, the chairs were full, and more crowds stood behind and on the sides. There must have been hundreds of people packed into the plateia to see this local dance recital.

My initial thought was- wow, I wish dance had this type of support everywhere!

My next series of thoughts were more confused. I hadn’t really had any expectations (all I have are memories of my own dance recitals), but I was really surprised when every single dance was done to an American song. If you compiled the list, it would have been the top 20 pop and R&B hits from the last few years – Britney Spears, Justin Timberlake, Ne-Yo, Beyonce, to name a few – as well as some rather loud, angry rap-songs (yes, still in English) with lots of foul language… definitely the unedited versions.

To top it off, all the dance movements (done by ages 5-15, I would guess) looked like something out of 50 Cent’s Candy Shop video.

Of all the great dance styles in the States, it seemed a shame that the one we would export to the rest of the world would be music video dance. Was I the only one slightly uncomfortable watching young kids sing dirty words, while wearing skimpy clothing and doing sexual movements? I can’t quite explain it, but as an American, I felt somewhat responsible. Is this the only impression of American culture we have given the world?

Schinousa: On The Grid, Yet Off The Beaten Path

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 04:24:37 +0000

I am currently on the island of Schinousa in the Little Cyclades. It is only 9.5 square kilometers, and the main town holds no more than 220 residents. It, like the other Little Cyclades, is still very much the middle of nowhere, ‘the boonies,’ – a very small place with a very slow pace of life.

When doing research at one of the ferry ticket offices, I happened to ask whether there was public internet access any where on the island. Ironically, while there are no internet cafes, there is a public wi-fi network that had been paid for by the island to help “put it (the island) on the map.”

However, this public network only works within about a 20 foot radius of the antennae next to the medical office, so I had to huddle on the side of the road with my laptop to get a signal, even then only a partial one. I was able to access skype and make a call to people in the States – while sitting on the side of the road in Schinousa next to the farmland. I wasn’t even on the main road, which only has a few tavernas and mini markets anyway.

While I was talking to my computer (on Skype), an elderly Greek man passed me leading his donkey and singing softly to himself. I tried to imagine him on Skype, and had to smile to myself.

I couldn’t have asked for a better moment to sum up life on the Greek isles. Only here do the old and new sit side-by-side, starring each other in the face, and not really knowing what to think – internet and donkeys. Modern cities and ancient civilizations rub shoulders; buses squeeze through on streets only meant for pedestrians.

Domatia: Skyros's Best Kept Secret

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 04:17:35 +0000

After months of planning, booking hostels, and arranging transportation, I decided to risk finding accommodation the day I arrived in Skyros, and let the domatia owners pounce on me with their pictures and prices.

I arrived in Skyros port just as the sun was setting, and had to take a bus to the town, which is a few kilometers inland from the port. The bus driver did not announce stops, but rather plummeted through, just barely letting passengers off at each location.

By the time we reached the last stop, I was sure I had missed the town. And there weren’t any domatia owners with pictures as far as I could see. I had a brief moment of panic.

When I gathered my luggage, an elderly Skyrian lady said to me “Room?” Without any other option, I followed her, hoping for the best. She slowly led the way through the twisted narrow streets of the town, as I desperately tried to memorize, right, left, left, straight, right. But it was hopeless. All I could do was follow.

She led me down a residential street, up a narrow set of stairs on the side of a building, and up two spiral staircases (also on the side of the building) to the roof. There she showed me my room – a small little addendum to the building accessible only by the roof patio, but beautifully decorated like a miniature Skyrian home – ceramics on the wooden walls, embroidered drapery, a large collection of painted dishes and silverware in the kitchenette, and a tiny little WC.

After bartering a price (also in traditional domatia fashion), I had found my Skyrian home- cheaper and definitely more unique than any hotel room. And as I found out soon, just around the corner from the main street- a location that should cost a fortune, especially considering I had my own private roof patio with a view of the stars.

The Skopelos Soundtrack: Mama Mia, Here We Go Again...

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 04:15:53 +0000

As I near the end of my route, I have flown to a northern set of islands – The Sporades – generally not frequented by the crowds of tourists that flock to the Cyclades or other more famous (or infamous) Greek isles.

The Sporades lie just off the coast of Evia; Skiathos, Skopelos, and Alonissos cluster together in a row, while Skyros lies south and farther east. One thing that makes these islands unique is that they are green, not brown. Instead of being covered by dry, arid desert, they are overflowing with trees and lush natural environments that give them almost a tropical flavor…except for the beaches tend to be more pebbles than sand.

My favorite so far has been Skopelos, which lies in the middle of Skiathos and Alonnisos, and combines the best of each. From Skiathos it takes the touristy elements – the chic waterfront bars, the nightlife, and the incredible (if expensive) jewelry and clothing shops. From Alonnisos it takes the natural beauty and the peacefulness: stretches of green hills and trees leading to the cerulean-colored sea.

Recently, the name Skopelos might have become familiar to a larger crowd, because it was the shooting location of the feature film Mamma Mia, which starred some of the most well-known actors in the world, such as Meryl Streep and Pierce Brosnan. Although the filming took place in 2007, the movie was only released last summer in 2008, so the island is still a bit starstruck. The island has named itself “Mamma Mia’s island” and there are the “Mamma Mia beaches” and “Mamma Mia tours” to show you the “Mamma Mia beaches.”

While the island has undoubtedly used the press to boost tourism, hopefully increasing influxes of people won’t cause the island to loose its cobblestone charm and local flavor.

Just don’t be surprised if you walk into a café or restaurant and hear ABBA on repeat.

It's A Small World After All

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 04:14:56 +0000

On my second night in Santorini, a bunch of people at my hostel in Oia were hanging out in the courtyard just talking, relaxing, and sharing travel stories. A group of four American guys walked up and sat down, and immediately one of them seemed very familiar to me. I did not know how or why I recognized him, but I could swear I had seen his face before.

Maybe I should have said first that I have an odd knack for remembering faces. There was the one time in Boston that I recognized a girl that I had seen five years earlier in a play in Edinburgh, Scotland. And there was another time that I recognized a receptionist from a hostel in Sydney, Australia, when I was exploring the Great Barrier Reef two months later.

So, I was fairly certain that I had seen this guy before. I didn’t want to target him in the large group of people, but it soon came out in the conversation that they were from Michigan. No connection there; I have never been to Michigan. I eventually discovered that he had graduated from Harvard last year, although I had never actually spoken or been introduced to him before. Later that evening, I was talking to another American who grew up in the same small town where I had gone to boarding school – a town with cows, farms, and not much else. But for all we knew, we probably passed each other on the street at some point during my four years there.

Santorini is a small island, but sometimes it seems like the world is smaller. You may just run into someone you know from half-way around the world.

Escaping the Masses

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 04:14:16 +0000

Arriving at the port in Fira was almost enough to make me turn around, get back on the ferry, and and leave Santorini. Under the steaming hot sun, I wove through hoards of tourists with luggage and backpacks, domatia owners shoving pictures of accommodation rooms in my face, lines of coach buses and rent-a-cars, and finally found my own pension owner with a sign and minivan to take me to my room.

Fira itself is equally hectic – whizzing modpeds and ATVs, honking horns urging pedestrians to get out of the streets, the smell of souvlaki and gyro joints, and the bright displays of postcards, cheap souvenirs, and glittering jewelry shops. Exploring the town that day, I saw more foreigners than locals, heard more English than Greek, and even encountered foreigners working in the stores from all over the world except Greece.

Unfortunately, Santorini has become an island that seems to exist solely for tourists, so I had to accept that it would be more difficult to have a local experience here than any place I had visited in Crete.

For two out of my four and half days on the island, I rented an ATV, and escaped the city centers of Fira and Oia. Instead, I drove to the less frequented beaches like Vlihada and Mesa Pigadia and viewed the caldera from small cliffside roads not the alleys in Fira or an expensive touristy cruise. I drove all the way past Akrotiri to the lighthouse and later explored the countryside on the northeastern edges of the island. Oftentimes I would be the only one on roads through the countryside with the mountains to my left and the ocean to my right. And although I didn’t necessarily meet locals, I still saw parts of the island that few people make it to, and I had found a way to make the island unique for me.

Quiet Lives

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 04:12:35 +0000

After the tourist meccas of Santorini and Ios, I have now been venturing through the Little Cyclades, which are exactly the opposite of the typical tourist hotspots. These pindrop islands are so small that they are not even labeled on many maps of the Cyclades; they just look like extraneous pieces of land lying off the coast of Naxos.

Iraklia, the first of the Little Cyclades I visited, has only one main street, the length of which can be walked in five minutes or so. There is one grocery store, one mini market that is also the post office, ferry ticket agency, and a domatia, and a smattering of family- run tavernas. Everyone knows everyone, and if one domatia owner has no rooms, they will send you across the road to their friend’s place.

There are no buses, no taxis, and the ferry schedule is unpredictable. The beach and the tavernas are the most frequented destinations, and the two most common activities are reading on the patio (or beach) or walking along the coastline. The day of the week and the time of day seem to dissolve. This is the place to escape and disconnect from the world.

Let’s just say I was not the typical Iraklia visitor either. I was only there for a day, I had a laptop, and I was inquiring about exact ferry times and schedules – details, details, details. Definitely crazy. Most people come for months and only bring a bathing suit and book.

Ultimately, one day is hardly enough to embrace the mentality of the Little Cyclades. In fact, for anyone coming from a high-pressure job or strict schedule, the absence of structure can be extremely disorienting. But that is definitely what the Little Cyclades are about – leave the computer at home and forget about facebook.

Forbidden Fruit

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 04:12:15 +0000

I was headed to Zakros Gorge, a 7km hike through a stunning, rocky chasm in a less-traveled eastern part of Crete, also known as Dead’s Gorge.

The journey began in the tiny town of Zakros, and the only bus going there that would give me the time needed to walk the Gorge had left at 6:30am, so I arrived in Zakros just as the sun was rising.

There were a few men at the kafaneio sipping frappes, and a few women lugging grocery bags along the roadside. I followed the signs past the church and down a road on the edge of town that would lead to the trailhead.

The road was lined with trees- mostly olive – but every once in a while there would be an apricot tree bursting with fruit. I came across one with scattered fruit blanketing the ground beneath it, and started searching for some apricots that hadn’t been completely ruined by the fall. I really wanted to just pick some off the tree, but I would never just walk onto someone’s land and take their fruit.

As I was searching, an elderly man walked by, and started talking to me in Greek. I shrugged my shoulders, and so he started gesticulating. Nope, I shrugged again. He then gently pulled me to the tree, picked an apricot, and handed it to me. He mimed continuing to pick the fruit and said, “For later… Long walk.”

He wouldn’t let me leave until my bag was full of apricots, probably 30-40 in all, freshly picked from someone else’s tree (a fact which surprisingly didn’t seem to matter). They were definitely the best apricots I have ever eaten.

"Yamas!"

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 04:10:58 +0000

As a lone traveler, I have undoubtedly mastered the art of solitary eating.
Sometimes I people-watch, sometimes I read and plan out the next day of work, and sometimes I write. However, thus far in Crete, the well-rehearsed act of a meal alone has been disrupted by some extremely friendly waiters.

No matter which city on the island I venture to, I have continually been surprised by the waiters and hosts who seem to genuinely enjoy the people – even foreigners – that come to the table. On only my second night in Crete, I met Yiannis and Ari, who drank shots of raki (a popular Cretan alcohol) with us patrons every time they walked by the table. In fact, they both carried shot glasses in their shirt pockets for just this ritual. And since then, I have had waiters share their life stories, teach me the finer points of making a perfect frappe, and question me in severe detail about Arnold Schwarzenegger after learning that I am from California.

While I do understand that some of this hospitality could be from a desire to promote tourism, I guess is not unusual for a waiter to drink with his patrons, and in many cases, I have left the restaurant feeling like a friend rather than tourist. As the many echoes of “yamas” (“cheers”) fade from around my tables, I find that I actually look forward to eating alone… although that may just be the raki speaking.

A Second Chance

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 04:07:19 +0000

Sometimes I have to keep telling myself not to judge a city on the first street I see or the first people I meet. But this can be especially challenging when I am constantly on the move. So far during my time in Crete, I have spent about an average of two nights in most major cities, the longest being four in the city of Sitia.

My most recent two-night stay was in Ierapetra, to which I arrived on a Sunday afternoon. And here in Ierapetra, they take their day of rest seriously. No shops were open, no people were out, and even the pebbly beach was fairly empty. I'm not going to lie -- it was a bummer.

Fortunately, in the course of my research that Sunday, I encountered the elderly owner of a car-rental shop that invited me for coffee. He said, just wait, tomorrow would be a different day.

On Monday, I had a slow meal by the waterfront, and as the sun set, I watched the city finally come alive as Stavris said it would. In this case, I had been leaning towards disliking Ierapetra, but the truth was I just hadn’t seen the city at its best. Perhaps all it does take is the words of one local.

Unexpected Exposure

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 04:05:48 +0000

Matala is a small beach town on the southern coast of Crete, most well-known for the beautiful main beach adjacent to two tiers of caves. According to its history, these caves were frequented by tripped-out hippies back in the day. Evidence of this hippy past is evident in the peace signs in the caves and on one graffiti phrase on a wall by the beach that reads, “Today is life. Tomorrow never comes.” Interpret that life-motto as you will.

While most tourists come for Matala’s main beach and caves, there is another beach beyond the rock walls called Red Beach. Getting there is not for the weary - it’s actually a strenuous hike that takes up to a half hour. You have to climb the mountainside and then descend the other side through rocks and weeds, along a dirt trail (if you can even call it that) marked by red dots spray painted on scattered rocks. Wearing flipflops is not a good idea (as I see now).

Once I reached the top, the climb was definitely worth it. Behind me I could see the Matala caves and below me, the yellow sands and aquamarine water of Red Beach. I hiked down, set up my towel on a beach chair, and jumped in the water. When I got back, I laid down on the beach chair and had just closed my eyes when I felt a shadow over me. “Four euro please.” I had to pay for the beach chair and umbrella, okay. I opened my eyes and looked up, surprised to see a bit more than I bargained for.

Did I forget to mention it is a nude beach?

Monk vs. Monk: Comic Relief in the Holy City

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:58:55 +0000

For nearly 2,000 years, the Christian faithful have examined the scriptures and diligently prayed, asking themselves again and again the same enigmatic question: what would Jesus do? If the behavior of the monks who control the Church of the Holy Sepulchre— the site of crucifixion— is any indication, let it be known that Jesus would beat his rivals with a handy broom when they forgot to shut a nearby door. Six distinct Christian sects control different portions of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and have been locked in a power struggle over who controls which portion of it for hundreds of years. Israeli riot police have repeatedly had to break up violent brawls in the cathedral. A few gems from recent or particularly classic fights:

The Ladder Fight
When entering the plaza in front of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, look for the small wooden ladder that leads to a ledge over the entrance from a tall second story window on the right hand side. This ladder has been on the roof of the Church since the 19th century; the different sects still cannot decide who has the authority to move it.

The Door Fight
In September, 2004, representatives of all six sects were celebrating the anniversary of Queen Helena’s discover of the True Cross in 327 when a Franciscan monk absentmindedly left the door to the Franciscan chapel open. Because the door is the point of separation between Franciscan and Greek Orthodox territory within the Church, the Greek Orthodox monks thought that open door was a sign of disrespect, and said so. The brawl that ensued was diffused by the Israeli police, who arrested several monks in the process.

The Stairs Fight
This story is told by local tour guides and has yet to be verified by a prominent news source, but is too funny not to include. The plaza in front of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre is under the control of the Greek Orthodox monks, which means that they also have the rights to cleaning it. The Armenian Orthodox Church controls the Ethiopian Monastery’s staircase, a steep flight of steps that goes up from the plaza to the right of the Church’s entrance. If you look closely, there is a small area at the bottom of the staircase that is about 1’ wide and 2-3’ long, that rises 1” higher than the plaza. The Greek Orthodox and the Armenian Orthodox monks can not decide whether or not this tiny space is part of the plaza or a tiny step in the staircase, and therefore cannot decide whose job it is to clean it. Every day, as they clean their respective areas, they meet at this designated area. And fight over it.

As ridiculous and heated as these exchanges are, the fights in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre have actually improved over time. Tired of diffusing the periodic and violent spats over who controlled the ancient Church, the Ottomans instated the “Status Quo,” a series of regulations for the Church of the Holy Sepulchre which are still in place today, and which officially divided the Church between the six sects so that they theoretically couldn’t fight about it anymore. To keep the fighting to a minimum, the keys to the church were given to a local Muslim family. Representatives of the family still come to the Church twice a day to lock and unlock the doors.

Tel Aviv Snapshots V

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:55:59 +0000

Spotted at Tayelet: Tipsy middle-aged man at the crosswalk with a bouquet of red roses. First he lets them hang in his hand by his side. Then he rolls back his shoulders and holds them with two fists against the center of his chest, like he’s praying at a vigil. Then he cradles them like a baby to one side. My taxi driver and I watch him rehearsing how he’ll hand them to her until the light turns green.

Tel Aviv Snapshots IV

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:55:17 +0000

Spotted in Carmel Market: Identical twin, six-year-old girls in matching lavender Hello Kitty nightgowns, cradling a red plastic bucket with two sleeping ducklings inside.

Tel Aviv Snapshots III

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:54:49 +0000

Spotted at Neve Tzedek: A horse drawn cart of coat racks and old wire baskets. Followed by two chic and beautiful people on a puttering green moped. Followed by a paunchy, sweating man pushing a shopping cart with an ornate bathtub in it.

Tel Aviv Snapshots II

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:53:18 +0000

Spotted at Dizengoff Center: Orthodox, gaunt beanpole of a man rollerblading down the street and flipping casually though a book at the same time. Even the local Tel Avivians are looking twice at this one.

Tel Aviv Snapshots I

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:52:37 +0000

Sheinkin St. Spotted: Two men carefully placing a mannequin wrapped in tinfoil, which is missing a leg, an arm, and its head, into the trunk of their car. Behind them, a cheerful Orthodox couple strolls by with yoga mats and two massive medicine balls. The young woman is heavily pregnant.

Overheard in Tel Aviv (Drunken Special)

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:49:57 +0000

"Come on out with us. It’ll start in Old Jaffa and end with a dead penguin and two arrests."
    -Tréa

"That sounds like a Chinese child with laryngitis trying to sing the Beatles, would you just shut up??"
    -Moshe, to two strangers drunkenly singing in the street

"You know I had a friend who wanted to see if he could keep from being sober without becoming ill for 365 days in a row. And he succeeded, and he’s fine! What? No of course not, he didn’t end up having a medical problem, didn’t have any problems at all actually. Well alright, he lost one job and one marriage, but that could’ve happened to him sober so we don’t count that."

    -Never actually found out this guy’s name…

The Israeli-Palestinian Conflict, Irish Edition (Part II)

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:48:11 +0000

"I’ve told a few of my Israeli friends about this, because it’s important, it’s a warning. When you’re fighting for your own country, and you’re right to, you deserve it, and it’s the most important thing, there comes a point where you cross a line. There just comes a point where you have to sit back and say: right. I have this country, and we gunned down a 14-year-old Protestant girl walking to school just because she was Protestant, just because the other side did the same thing. That is how I got my country. And the thing is that when you cross that line, you don’t deserve your country anymore. The things you’ve done for your country take away any right that you have to your country. And the big problem is, you can never know that you’ve crossed that line until you already have. That’s what I tell my Israeli friends."

-Tréa talking politics a few nights ago.

The Israeli-Palestinian Conflict, Irish Edition (Part I)

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:46:57 +0000

"The corruption is absolutely everywhere in the West Bank, in every NGO, every part of the PA; I had to deal with their books and they’re ridiculous, a little here and a little there, all the aid money is constantly disappearing. I started out Pro-Palestinian, but now I don’t know, I just don’t know. My Palestinian friends are smart and they’ve got fresh and progressive ideas, and the culture in the West Bank right now is so toxic to that progress— and you know what, I’ll say it, the culture is also so lazy— that all of them are going abroad…

It’s a culture of victimhood; they say oh, insha’allah*, insha’allah, it’s like this because we’re occupied. You think I don’t know what that’s like? You want to know what it was like for my family? My country’s pulled it together; they say it’s one of the strongest economies and best places to live in the world now, and twenty years ago they all called us “the Blacks of Europe,” which is wrong on so many levels. And you know how we did it? We decided we hated being that way. And that we weren’t going to let the situation someone else had put us in make us like that. We’d had enough and we did it together. That’s what it took."

- Irish Human rights worker who worked for three months with a Palestinian NGO in Ramallah.

Solicitation: A Play In One Act

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:37:39 +0000

The Scene: Cab ride from Caesarea to Netanya along Israel’s blue Mediterranean coast. After about 5 weeks in Israel I, the HAPLESS RESEARCHER, am exhausted and somewhat crabby about living out of a clutch purse for three days, and having to splurge on a taxi after missing my bus. My TAXI DRIVER, whose meter is happily running, is much happier about the arrangement. After five weeks, I only speak a scant five words of Hebrew; the TAXI DRIVER does not speak much more English, and he needs to ask me something very important. Naturally, he calls FRIEND OF TAXI DRIVER on his cell phone, to ask me this pressing question for him.

FRIEND OF TAXI DRIVER: Hallo?
ME: Um… hi? Sorry, who is this?
FRIEND OF TAXI DRIVER: I am friend.
ME: Do I know you? Oh wait, you’re his friend— (to TAXI DRIVER) Why am I talking to your friend, do you want the phone back?
TAXI DRIVER: Talk! Talk!
FRIEND OF TAXI DRIVER: Are you the lady in taxi?
ME: Um, yeah. Wait, hello? Sorry, who are you?
FRIEND OF TAXI DRIVER: My friend has question for you.
ME: Yes?
FRIEND OF TAXI DRIVER: He ask me, do you want him to beck you?
ME: Do I want him to what me?
FRIEND OF TAXI DRIVER: Beck you! You want him to beck you!
ME: Do I want him to bed me?
FRIEND OF TAXI DRIVER: Yes, beck you.
ME: (to TAXI DRIVER) Are you serious?
TAXI DRIVER: (nods eagerly) Agree price or keep meter running?
ME: I beg your pardon?
TAXI DRIVER: S'leexa?*
ME: You know why don’t you let me out here.
TAXI DRIVER: S'leexa?
ME: Here. Right here, I’m getting out of the car.
FRIEND OF TAXI DRIVER: Beck you!
ME: Yeah you tell your friend I am not interested.
FRIEND OF TAXI DRIVER: Beck you! Beck you Netanya!
ME: Beck me Netanya? Wait, do you mean take me back to Netanya, like as in drive me round trip?
FRIEND OF TAXI DRIVER: Yes! Caesarea to Netanya, then he beck you Netanya?
ME: Oh. In that case no, no thank you sir. Good talking to you; sorry for raising my voice. I’m kind of tired. And just a strange person. Have a good day.

*This means “excuse me” in Hebrew

Boozing, Backpacking, Being Danish

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:34:12 +0000

Tel Aviv: Home of the Highest Concentration of Insomniac Danes Who Claim That They Are Only Drinking Their Respective Vodka Bottles In An Effort To Be "Eco-Friendly."

Something tells me that's not going to make it onto a postcard.

Most travelers are too busy immersing themselves in Tel Aviv's kleidoscopic club and bar scene to formulate more creative excuses for the drinking habits they adopt here. (this just happened to me three minutes ago. They want me to join them... but it's kind of, you know, monday...)

At The Damascus Gate...

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:29:31 +0000

Many of the Old City's cheaper hostels are in the vicinity. If you book a hostel here, your sherut driver from the airport will probably stop in front of the gate, throw your backpack out after you onto the side of the road, and drive away without giving you directions. The backpack will land somewhere between the woman selling parsley out of a burlap sack and the guy selling live baby chicks out of big metal cages. Just try to blend in.

Dear Sirs...

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:28:20 +0000

To Whom This May Concern:

Out of concern for your well being, I have produced the following checklist of do’s and don’t’s for polite interaction with women. Women will consider it a turn on if you refer to it throughout the afternoon and evening, to make sure that you do not make the following egregious errors:

1) Do not hassle a woman for her phone number until you have known her for at least 90 seconds. It is also beneficial to pretend that you are interested in who she is by asking for her name.

2) If you are the manager of a bar, make sure that the woman is not reviewing your establishment before mimicking her figure with creative hand motions.

3) Appear to have standards. You may think a woman finds it flattering when you make a pass at her. But if that woman is a backpacker who hasn’t slept, has visibly been wearing the same clothes for a week, hasn’t washed her hair in much longer than she’d care to admit, and has obviously spent more of her life recreationally looking up words in encyclopedias than going to bars, she will (correctly) suspect that you must be pretty desperate.

4) If you are a manager, do not offer to take the woman who is reviewing your bar to a strip club, even if “all the students who read the guide will enjoy it”; this is especially true if you have only known her for five minutes. Seriously guys? This happened to me at two different bars, with two different managers who do not know each other, in the same night. Is this evidence of an Israeli sense of humor that I have yet to adapt to, and I’m just a chump? Or was my shirt honestly that low cut?

5) I don’t want a ride on your moped. Especially if I don’t know you. And you are over 60 years old. There are no exceptions to this rule. Raising your voice, or insisting that you are not a moped but a taxi, will not change the situation, though it will make more comical.

I sincerely hope that these brief words of advice will help you in all future endeavors. For those of you who were nevertheless adorable, feel free to call me if you have any questions, or would appreciate more extensive information on this subject.

The Jerusalem Detox

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:24:33 +0000

Right before I left Jerusalem, I had dinner with Jen and Jen, two absolutely amazing expats who befriended me and helped me invaluably on my trip. Both of them have lived in Jerusalem for 2 years now, one of the Jen’s right in the thick of it in the Old City. After all three of us went on for some time about how there is something indefinably special about this place, that this is a city whose effect on people is mysteriously greater than the sum of its parts, I asked them how they liked living there.
“It’s amazing,” said the first Jen, who has traveled the world a few times over, “if I have to settle anywhere, it’s going to be here.” And the second Jen agreed.

“The trick,” said the second Jen, “is to remember to leave sometimes.” And the first Jen agreed.

Within 24 hours I knew what they were talking about. The day I left Jerusalem, I had to make an active effort not to physically attack two different cab drivers who gave me an unsolicited tutorial in the Palestinian-Israeli conflict. According to my Palestinian cab driver, Jewish people are actually not from Israel and lied about their heritage to excuse stealing Arab land, even going so far as to secretly build the Kotel against the Dome of the Rock in 1967. Not to be out done, my Jewish Israeli cab driver would not get out of the taxi at Damascus Gate (in the Muslim Quarter) to help me with my bags, because he said the Arab people who lived there smelled too terribly. Jesus people, enough already. When I arrived in Tel Aviv, I could see a thick strip of white beach and blue, blue water from the roof of my hostel. It was like escaping to paradise. Or exhaling for the first time in maybe a month.

Of course, now that I’ve been here almost a week, a (naïve and vaguely masochistic) part of me wants to go back. Last night I went walking with a group of kids from my hostel past a bakery in Jaffa, which was founded in 1879. “That bakery’s older than Israel,” I said. The girl next to me was kind enough to correct me: “older than modern Israel” she said. What she said really bothered me, even beyond its religious and political subtext; there was something that suddenly didn’t feel right about this group of kids that I was walking with, though I couldn’t put my finger on it. As we lounged on the beach and watched the ocean, I realized what was missing: we weren’t fighting. No debates over what the girl had said, no inept attempts at existential conversation about the morality of Israel’s existence. Just beer and the beach.

How lovely. But I think I might be culture shocking…

Like Spandex on a Yenta

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:23:18 +0000

While leafing through the 2003 edition of Let’s Go Israel, I stumbled upon one of those humorous, perhaps mildly obnoxious gems that Let’s Go takes pride in. Jerusalem is a “city of neighborhoods,” and my predecessor compares the discomfort generated by West Jerusalem’s Mea She’arim and Zion Square neighborhoods’ close proximity to each other to “Spandex on a yenta.” Kind of gross? Yes. Kind of irrelevant? Yes. Funny and also true? Definitely. If one thing has impressed me about Jerusalem so far, it’s the diversity between the different neighborhoods, and the lengths to which many of these neighborhoods go in order to pretend that they are part of a homogenous environment. I’m thinking of the old woman who covered her ears, again (see previous blog post); West Jerusalem has shown me, however, that this mentality extends beyond the Old City. Mea She’arim is a neighborhood solely comprised of religious Hasidic Jews; signs posted throughout the neighborhood state the community dress code, and locals have been known to throw stones at people who visit their neighborhood and do not comply. Zion Square is the city’s center, and is pulsing with life at all hours. There are hip cafes, and college students hitting bars, and restaurants open at 4 am on Shabbat.

These two communities are neighbors, and there is no love lost between them. People from Zion Square that I have talked about the people in Mea She’arim have ranted loudly in unprintable language. The neighborhood next door to Mea She’arim on its other side, of course, is the beginning of East Jerusalem, the part of the city that was formerly controlled by the Jordanians and still remains the Arab part of town. Perhaps the one thing that Mea She’arim people and Zion Square people have in common is that they are highly reluctant to go there... Talk about Spandex on a yenta…

Overheard in Jerusalem (One-Liners)

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:22:28 +0000

"I love it here. It’s so dirty! Whenever I travel, I go into shock because everything’s so clean."
- Armenian girl my age after giving me directions

“Arabs, lesbians, left-wingers and lunatics”
- manager of the café T’mol describing clientele of local bar Sira

“Smell. Arabs. Smell.”
- Jewish taxi cab driver, after dropping me off at Damascus Gate in the Muslim Quarter

"“Three blocks to the left. But they will probably kill you.”
-local policeman giving me directions to the Tombs of Sanhedrin; I was unwittingly walking into an Orthodox neighborhood, and was wearing a tank top

Overheard in Jerusalem (III)

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:14:47 +0000

"Better in my hands than the Arabs. I bought it from one of them in ‘67 for 350. They’d sell their own grandmothers."

-Elderly Jewish Israeli woman, explaining why she had the ancient remains of a Roman pillar in her home

Overheard in Jerusalem (II)

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:13:54 +0000

"In this town there used to be lepers, and now there are schleppers. The venders on David St. sell crap, don’t buy it."

-Elderly American tourist in Moses Lebanese Art Cafe

Overheard in Jerusalem (I)

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:12:58 +0000

"What I keep trying to tell the Israeli Defense Department is that the Uhmram clearly predicts that in 2017, the End of Days will arrive in Israel in the form of a nuclear holocaust that will ultimately kill 33% of the world population before Jesus returns, culminating in the invasion of the country by a coalition of different militaries which the Book of Revelations clearly states will be led by the Syrians and the EU. I kept calling them and no one will listen to me!"

-Friendly American telemarketer and self-described receiver of divine visions; my roommate for my first few nights.

Hemingway: Puto Or Papa?

Thu, 07 Jan 2010 22:25:45 +0000

Ernest Hemingway first came to Pamplona in the early 1920s. His 1926 novel, The Sun Also Rises gave this city and its fanatical fiesta the international fame that it now enjoys. However, for many of Pamplona’s residents, this international fame was not so welcome—hundreds, even thousands, of drunk and wild tourists began to descend upon their city year after year. For those who remembered the old days of San Fermín, that “ puto Hemingway” brought the ruin of their fiesta. Still, some appreciated the notoriety that “Papa,” as he is known on both sides of the Atlantic, brought to their little city—suddenly cast into the limelight.

Today, the city openly expresses its appreciation for Ernest Hemingway. The waiters at the Café-Bar Iruña on the Pl. del Castillo will quickly tell you that this was, in fact, Hemingway’s favorite restaurant in Pamplona, as a bust of the man leans casually against the bar. Bars throughout the casco antiguo bear his name, and street signs for the walkway around the Plaza de Toros proudly read Av. de Hemingway. As you approach the Plaza de Toros, a large stone structure rises up, a bust of Hemingway at its top. It reads, “Ernest Hemingway, Nobel Laureate for Literature, friend of this town, admirer of its fiestas, who knew best how to describe and promote the city of Pamplona. San Fermín, 1968.”

Let Them Steal Furniture

Thu, 07 Jan 2010 22:22:35 +0000

October 5, 1789 was a good day for the French Revolution and a very bad one for the Chàteau de Versailles. Taking a cue from the crowd that stormed the Bastille prison, another, even larger group made their way to Versailles, hijacked the king and queen, and brought them back to Paris.

After those shenanigans, the revolutionaries auctioned off several of the chests, chairs, and tables that filled the Versailles palace. All of the artwork was transported to the Louvre for safe-keeping. Many of the rooms and buildings at Versailles were later restored to their pre-Revolutionary glory, with reproductions put in place of the original furnishings; however, of the roughly 17,000 items sold off at public auction, a majority have been lost forever.

Gerald van Kemp, a French curator who died in January 2002, made it his life’s work to track down missing pieces and return them to their rightful place. Nicknamed “The Man Who Gave Us Back Versailles,” he retrieved some Riesener commodes made for Marie Antoinette and a Savonnerie carpet, for which the Versailles estate paid millions of dollars. Versailles’s most prized former possession is Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, but let’s hope she doesn’t leave the Louvre anytime soon—the lines at Versailles are long enough already.

New York’s Sweet Tooth

Thu, 07 Jan 2010 22:17:48 +0000

Though you might not realize it if you don’t live in the city, nothing says New York like its classic desserts: black-and-white cookies, Brooklyn egg creams, and New York-style cheesecake. These three sweet treats—all developed, incidentally, in Jewish immigrant communities around the turn of the last century—can be ordered over the Internet today and delivered anywhere in the country, but it’s a lot more fun to save yourself the shipping and sample them while you’re here.

Black-and-white cookies are more like a chewy, flat cake than what you usually think of as a cookie. An indelible childhood memory in the minds of countless New Yorkers, the circular treats are dipped in vanilla frosting on one side and chocolate frosting on the other; according to Jerry Seinfeld, a proper bite must include a taste of each. William Greenberg Jr. Desserts, 1100 Madison Ave., between 82nd and 83rd St., has been making these cookies by hand since 1946. (212-873-7100; www.wmgreenbergdesserts.com. Open M-F 8am-6:30pm, Sa 8:30am-6pm, Su 10am-4pm.)

The Brooklyn egg cream is a soda-fountain concoction credited to Louis Auster, an enterprising Brooklyn candy-shop owner who took his original recipe for the drink to his grave. Only one surviving relative knows the exact ingredients Auster used; he claims the authentic mix contains neither eggs nor cream. Most restaurants today make Brooklyn egg creams with seltzer, chocolate syrup, and whole milk. Success in preparation depends as much on proper mixing technique as it does on the right ingredients. An authentic egg cream should taste like an ice-cream soda and have a foamy, egg-white-like head. To sample a great one, head to Gem Spa, 131 2nd Ave., at St. Mark’s Pl. in the East Village. (212-995-1866. Open 24hr.)

Cheesecake has been around since Roman Times, but the New York-style version we know today (likely the most nationally popular of the three desserts discussed here) was developed around the beginning of the 20th century. The characteristic graham-cracker crust is a New York innovation. The authentic filling has no fancy ingredients inside or on top—it’s just pure cream cheese, eggs, cream, and sugar. The cake should be moist and have a uniform texture, free of cracks or crevices. Junior’s Cheesecake, 386 Flatbush Ave. Extension, at DeKalb Ave. in Brooklyn has been a beloved cheesecake institution since 1950. Until recently, Junior’s recipe was known to only three people on earth. (718-852-5257; www.juniorscheesecake.com. Open daily 8am-7pm.)

Espresso Way

Thu, 07 Jan 2010 22:12:42 +0000

South Kona is the Napa Valley of coffee; its perfect climate, rich volcanic soil, and plentiful sunshine grow the finest coffee in the world. What’s better, most of its 40+ farms offer free tasting sessions and tours. We found these to be the best of the bunch:

1. Rancho Aloha Coffee (808-322-1740). Certified organic (no pesticides, herbicides, or harmful fertilizers). One fantastic, clean cup of coffee.

2. Greenwell Coffee, 81-6581 Rte. 11 (808-323-2275). Free tours and tastings. Known especially for its plantation reserve coffee (made from the cherries of their 100 year old trees). Open M-F 8am-5pm, Sa 8am-4pm.

3. Kona Joe Coffee, on Rte. 11 between mi. marker 113 and 114. Home of the award winning “Trellis Grown” Coffee. Try it for yourself on their tour. Open M-F 7am-5pm and Sa-Su 9am-5pm.

4. Bay View Farms , 83-5249 Painted Church Rd. Known for their macadamia nut creme coffee. Open 9am-5pm daily for tours.

The Single Girl's Guide to Staying Single and Sane in El Salvador (Part II)

Thu, 31 Dec 2009 04:59:01 +0000

In Turkey, I had an English banker husband who just loved golfing so much that I sent him to Scotland with his business partner while his wife and I sailed the Nile. I've explained away a lack of wedding ring with absurd stories about rock climbing accidents and chopped off fingers. In El Salvador, I have a college boyfriend who is studying abroad for the summer, but we're meeting in the Bahamas for a romantic getaway when I'm done with work.

I used to feel guilty about essentially lying about myself. After all, if I wanted people to have a more realistic sense of the US, then concocting stories about my love-life to fit their culture is hardly the place to start. But, I've also realized something else. Just as most Salvadorans can't grasp my lack of desire for a husband and kids at age 22, I can't understand their need to have both of these things.

As much traveling as I do, there is only so far I can step into someone else's shoes. I may experience other cultures, try their food, go to their weddings, and dance to their music, but I can never really step outside of my own perspective. And, as much as I feel forced to change my life story to fit their expectations, I wonder if perhaps my own prejudices force them to do the same?

I can't image what being a Salvadoran woman is like. It's hard for me to accept the validity of a cultural need to be married and have kids by 22. I'm not sure if I'll ever understand that. But while I may never be able to put myself into another cultural mindset, I can still try to know the individuals. For every person here that just wants to know my marital status, there are others that see beyond that-and I owe it to them, and to my idealism, to do the same. I can't change how people here see me, but I can change how I choose to see them. Instead of jumping to the same conclusions that frustrate me so much, I can try listening, and asking, and listening, instead. Even if they are 22 and married with kids.

The Single Girl's Guide to Staying Single and Sane in El Salvador (Part I)

Thu, 31 Dec 2009 04:57:53 +0000

There are three questions that pop up in every conversation I have with Salvadorans. Are you married? Do you have kids? And, my personal least favorite, why not?

I am 22 years old. Marriage is barely registering on the radar, mainly thanks to the slowly growing number of wedding invitations from high-school friends and end of college engagement announcements. Kids? I can barely take care of myself without going crazy. The last thing I could handle is the full-time responsibilty of something else-especially not on a travel-writer's salary.

Yet, while I am perfectly content to indulge in my single free-ness and travel around the world, spend weeks camping and climbing, or just relax in the quiet of my otherwise empty home (wherever that may be), Salvadorans don't seem to agree.

The first thing I learned here is that single really is not an option. Not being married, not having kids, is a little odd. However, I can explain that away with my extreme dedication to university studies; my alter-ego is more studious than I myself could ever hope to be. But being truly single-well, that just doesn't exist.

During the last few years of travel interrupted by stints at school, I've realized that there are some things easier left unexplained. Creativity, in these cases, works much better. I can dance around the "Are you Christian" and "Do you believe in God" questions more masterfully than a Russian ballerina, and single-ness requires equal finesse. However, without the ethical issues on this one, I've taken some extra liberties in my responses....

Haunted by History

Thu, 31 Dec 2009 04:56:01 +0000

It's easy to forget, when walking down streets covered in bright murals, looking at peaceful mountain scenery, drinking as much pineapple licuado as possible, that the same streets I travel today are part of a larger, very recent history. And, in some sense, it's constantly humbling. In some places I've traveled, I've gone to the historical sights, compartmentalized them, and then gone on to the fun stuff. But El Salvador is tiny and its history is recent, and everywhere I turn seems to be another reminder that under the surface, things haven't really been the way they seem.

Doing My Homework

Thu, 31 Dec 2009 04:54:58 +0000

I'm no expert on the El Salvadoran civil war, or US involvement in it, or Central American politics at all. But travelling here is forcing me to learn more; with a people so open to discussion, and so curious about my knowledge, there is no excuse for ignorance. I can only listen so much before I'm expected to contribute-and in El Salvador, contribution to the community is everything. So, when I get another surprising fact about the history, I listen. And then I Google. And hopefully, next time, when I'm in a town and asked what its significance is-I won't have to stare blankly and wait for an explanation. I'll be ready for the discussion, instead.

The Invisible Coup

Thu, 31 Dec 2009 04:30:03 +0000

Tonight is almost like any other night. I'm sitting in my hotel room, watching TV, eating dinner, and writing copy for Let's Go.

But, tonight is also very different. My hotel room is in Choluteca, Honduras, and this morning, before I woke up, the Honduran military ousted President Manuel Zelaya, shipping him on a military jet to Costa Rica. By the time I headed out on my bus to El Tigre, the Honduran congress was on its way to choosing a new president-and I had no clue.

I noticed the machine guns on soldiers' backs as my bus passed the Choluteca bridge on its way to the port of San Lorenzo. I handed my passport over to the soldiers who boarded the bus, checking the IDs of its inhabitants. And I greeted the soldiers at the lancha dock in Coyolito as I got off the boat from El Tigre.

But this is Central America, and guns are nothing new. If anything, being here has desensitized me to a constant military, police, and mainly weapon presence. In countries with persistent problems with corruption, gangs, and drug trade, guns are the norm, not the exception.

So I went about my day, and nothing seemed odd. For a Sunday in Central America, the buses were pretty full, the persistent mango and papaya vendors were in full force at every stop, and no one seemed perturbed. I finished my work, stopped at the grocery store, and came home to relax before dinner.

When I turned on CNN, I could only start laughing. Mixed in with the Iranian protests and Michael Jackson remembrances was another story, one about a military coup in Honduras and an indefinite curfew in the country.

No, Not Blood Alcohol Content

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 18:41:47 +0000

To be a visitor to London's West End, all you need is a Tube pass and the patience to wait in line for a ticket. Through the classes offered at the Battersea Arts Centre (BAC), however, you just may become a West End star.

Offered over the course of a single weekend and open to aspiring thespians of all ages and abilities, the BAC’s acting and directing classes are a wonderful way to experience the theatricality of London in a hands-on environment. Classes are taught by professional actors and directors, and give beginners insight into the inner-workings of theatre. Single classes on everything from costumes to song-writing are also offered on Tuesday nights.

For those ready for the spotlight, the BAC offers the unique experience, “Make a Show,” in which students collaborate for three days and then present their piece at the BAC in front of a live audience. (Lessons on abating stage fright not included.) No previous experience is necessary. Now there’s no reason to let the professionals have all of the fun and take all the credit.

7223 6557; www.bac.org.uk. “Make A Show” £45, concessions £30. Usually runs all day M and Sa-Su, with performances Tu-W.

Not So Original

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 18:37:41 +0000

Starting a restaurant in Ho Chí Minh City’s backpacker zone can be a tricky business. Restaurateurs have to manage the daily grind of cooking, serving, and soliciting customers—and in HCMC, there’s the added threat of a copyright lawsuit.

The owners of “The Original Bodhi Tree” restaurant and “The Original Buddha” have been locked in a feud for years over the claim to the “Original Bodhi” name. Current “Buddha” owner, Hýu Thß, claims that his restaurant was set up in 1995 at the current “Bodhi” address. He says that after he moved addresses, the new owner of his old plot took the name of his restaurant, bought the rights, and delivered a nasty letter to Hýu demanding that he change name.

But Phåm Thanh Há, current “Bodhi” owner, says that “Buddha” was never at the Bodhi address. Instead, she says, the current “Buddha” was set up in 2000, seven years after her “Bodhi” was allegedly in business. And Phåm says she has been the victim of a vicious publicity campaign by the duplicitous “Buddha” owner.

In an area changing as rapidly as Phåm Ng´ Lão, history can be hard to maintain. Some locals do seem to recall that the original “Bodhi” has moved, perhaps corroborating Hýu’s side of the story. But whichever side is true, one thing is certain: the publicity has not been bad for business.

Magic Medicine

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 18:33:34 +0000

Faith in Catemaco’s brujería (witchcraft) varies from complete devotion to total skepticism. The practice can be traced to deep within the surrounding jungle, where hundreds of species of medicinal plants have been used by indígenas for centuries. Catemaco’s natural mineral springs are touted as healing water—and bottled as Cayame brand sodas, on sale throughout the area.

Traditionally, the gathering and application of medicinal plants and minerals was performed by curanderos (shamans). These healers performed limpias (cleansings involving herbs and amulets) to rid the body of illness and bad spirits, while culebreros specialized in snake bites and hueseros tended to broken bones and joint problems. Under Spanish rule, the practice blended with Catholic tradition, incorporating rosaries and saints into the brujería.

Curanderos summon “white magic,” used purely for healing. Brujos, however, claim to practice “black magic” (the devil’s work) which can cause misfortune. In the 1950s, Gonzalo Aguirre Bech, the Brujo Mayor, set up shop in Catemaco, organizing annual witchcraft festivals. Bech’s fame—and that of Catemaco—spread worldwide, and today brujos rule the market in Catemaco, performing limpias for about 100 pesos, while complicated “operations” can cost upwards of 2000 pesos.

Go Bananas

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 18:31:53 +0000

On every menu in every street corner cafetería in Puerto Rico, you will almost certainly find mofongo, one of the island’s food staples. This hearty starch is made by crushing tostones (friend plantains), garlic, olive oil, and chicarrones (pork rind) or bacon into a thick, mashed-potato consistency.

To craft the dish yourself, you will need:

3 green plantains

1 tbsp. crushed garlic

1 tbsp. olive oil

0.5 lb. chicarrón or crumbled, cooked bacon

Vegetable oil for frying.

Peel the plantains and cut them into one-inch slices. Fry the slices in hot vegetable oil for 15min., then allow to cool slightly. Now comes the fun part: combine the garlic, olive oil, some of the pork, and some of the plantain slices, and mash away! You can use a mortar and pestle, or, if you’re in a pinch, a spoon and bowl. Work in small portions.

Once the mixture is pureed, mold the batter-like substance into three large balls and serve with fried pork and onions, or beef tips, or chicken or shrimp; as a side dish or as a main course—with anything, really. The mofongo will acquire the flavor of its partner sauces, and nothing is more traditionally Puerto Rican than a melange of mofongo stuffings.

Flicks For Free

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 18:30:14 +0000

While Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings put New Zealand on the international film map, the country already had a significant film tradition before the hobbits journeyed to Tongariro National Park. Anyone interested in the moving image, social history, or who simply wants to view a free feature film, should head to the New Zealand Film Archive, one of the country’s hidden cultural treasures.

Built in 1994, the archive is housed in three floors of a converted commercial building. Downstairs, the film library provides free viewings of over 20,000 videos and DVDs. The collection ranges from mainstream New Zealand features like Jane Campion’s The Piano (1994), to rare treasures like the video art of Philip Dadson and film art of Len Lye, to newsreels, documentaries, and historic personal home movies. Upstairs, the media gallery displays contemporary art using video and computer technology.

The 120-seat media theater has screenings Wednesday through Saturday nights, ranging from international documentaries and rarely seen Kiwi feature films to experimental videos.

The Film Archive, 84 Taranaki St., Wellington (www.filmarchive.org.nz). Open daily noon-6pm. W screenings by donation; other nights $8. Library and gallery free.

A Drink To Remember

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 18:28:21 +0000

The island of Naxos is one of only three places in the world where fragrant citron trees grow. Two families in Halki, making maybe the best possible use of the rare plant, have been using its juices for over 100 years to produce a unique alcohol called “Citron.” Today, 5th-generation members of the Vallindras family use the same recipe their relatives developed in 1896. Workers collect the thick leaves from October through February, when they have the best aroma. The plants are then put into the original family press, which, within hours, extracts a clear liquid. Manufacturers then mix in natural coloring to distinguish flavors and strength: the green is sweetest, the yellow is strongest, and the clear is in between.

The after-dinner drink is widely available throughout Naxos, but impossible to find anywhere else. The Vallindras distillery used to export all over the world, but a shortage of trees has forced the distilleries to limit production until replacement trees have grown to maturity. Until then, Citron is available only in Naxos.

The Vallindras distillery in Halki offers free tours, brochures, and samples. 22850 31 220. Open daily. Representatives of the Promponas distillery also provide info and samples at their store in NaxosTown, across from Myroditssa. 22850 22 258.

Lynch Mob

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 18:25:21 +0000

Head behind St. Nicholas’s Church on Market St. to the Lynch Memorial Window, the locus of one of Galway’s favorite tall tales.

The Lynch family was once one of Galway’s 14 ruling families and arguably the most dedicated to the city. According to legend, in the 15th century, Mayor Lynch had a rambunctious son named Walter. When a hot-blooded Spaniard made a pass on Walt’s girl, he murdered him in a lover’s rage. Daddy Lynch was horrified: what would this mean for Galway’s international reputation? Could he let his son go unpunished, or would we have to bring his son to justice?

Mayor Lynch ensured that his son was tried and sentenced to death. On the appointed day, however, the hangman refused to carry out the punishment. Walter’s father was so keen to preserve Galway’s reputation for law and order that he decided to take matters into his own hands. When no one else would do the deed, he hanged his son from a window. A stone skull-and-crossbones marks the spot where Galway’s mayor put city before son. And you thought your relationship with your father was strained?! Incidentally, the event led to the coining of the terms “lynching” and “lynch mob.”

Church of St. Nicholas located on Market St., behind the castle. Wheelchair-accessible. Open May-Sept. 9am-5:45pm; suggested donation.

Know The Law?

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 18:22:26 +0000

Amsterdam has a well-earned reputation for being an easy-going city, but there are still limits to its liberality. The Dutch carefully regulate cannabis consumption, although deciphering the policy—a combination of prohibition and toleration—perplexes even some experts. Yet, even if the specifics may be confusing, it’s important to know some of the basics to avoid being caught in an undesirable position.

Coffee shops must follow these regulations: no advertising that a shop sells marijuana; no one under age 18 permitted; no hard drugs; no alcohol; and no aggression or disruptive behavior. Shops cannot store more than 500g of cannabis and cannot sell more than 5g to a person per day. Tokers should also know that they are personally allowed to possess up to 30g.

Laws and statutes regarding consumption of cannabis may differ among various municipalities and are constantly altered by local and national officials. Many Dutch cities regulate the proximity of coffee shops to schools, as well as their opening and closing times. Whether you’re allowed to light up in specific places, such as in- and out-of-doors, is usually a matter of etiquette or an establishment’s specific rules. As such, it is important to ask reputable sources if you’re unsure whether what you want to do is tolerated or legal.

Gang Flava

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 18:19:18 +0000

Farang often have difficulty distinguishing between curries ( gang ) thanks to their often-similar ingredients, explosive spiciness, and common coconut base. This list is meant to help you navigate the basics of this Thai favorite:

Red Curry ( gang pet ). Literally, “spicy curry,” this delicious dish includes coconut milk, red curry paste, and fish sauce.

Green curry ( gang kee-o wahn ): Similar to red curry but a little sweeter; includes green curry paste.

Yellow curry ( gang ga-ree ): Includes coconut cream, tumeric, and pineapple. Potatoes are a common ingredient in its southern incarnation.

Massaman curry ( gang massaman ): A Thai-Muslim specialty. Cumin, cinnamon, and cardamom make it similar to Indian curry. Potatoes and beef are the usual ingredients, though other meats can be substituted.

Panang curry ( gang panang ): The Thai rendition of the Malaysian favorite is often made with less coconut milk, beef and is drier and spicier than other Thai curries.

Gang is generally accompanied by rice or khanom jeen (rice noodles), but often you have to order—and pay for—these separately. Many curries are served with or already include kaffir lime. Gang is eaten with a spoon and fork rather than chopsticks.

“El Club De Poetas” Of Hotel Formentor

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 18:17:03 +0000

One auspicious day in 1929, the Hotel Formentor opened its elegant doors on the northern shores of Mallorca. By the 1950s, the hotel’s guest list included the who’s who of Western Europe: everyone from Churchill to the royalty of Monaco paid a visit.

Soon enough, the Formentor also attracted a young group of intellectuals who were seeking cultural freedom during a period of oppression. Fifty years ago, in 1959, writer Camilo José Cela, together with editor Carlos Barral, hosted a revolutionary meeting of international poets. Participants gathered together in a tiny room of the Hotel Formentor now known as the “Club de Poetas.” It was an immediate success.

The next year’s meeting drew such literary moguls as Octavio Paz, Henry Miller, and Italo Calvino. With support from his colleagues, Barral established two literary prizes of $10,000: the Prix International des Editeurs, for the most innovative work of literature, and the Premio Formentor, awarded for the best work by an up-and-coming, unpublished author. These prizes have since led to the publication of works that may never have seen the light of day, due to their controversial subject matter and their “subversive” ideologies.

Hotel Formentor—the haunt of these groundbreaking writers—is close to Port d’Alcudia and accessible by bus from Palma.

Gay Old Time

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 18:14:51 +0000

Boasting a substantial GLBT population, Paris is a queer-friendly city bursting at the seams with entertainment and resources. Most notably, the City of Light participates in a campaign of marches across France to celebrate and raise awareness for queer communities. The highlight is the annual Gay Pride Festival, held on the last Saturday of June.

Nearly all of Paris’s vibrant queer communities turn out for this infectiously exuberant parade. The festive din can be heard from several metro stops away; attendance is only partially optional if you’re within the city limits, but that’s for the best. A fabulous Carnaval scene greets visitors as they reach the festival. Drag queens in feathered costumes pose daintily next to scantily clad dancers shimmying, bumping, and grinding on floats.

This might be the only time the Communist Party, the Socialist Party, and the UMP root for the same cause. A sense of organized chaos ensues as the crowds and floats wiggle and bob from Montparnasse to the Bastille, dancing, chanting, and waving banners. While there is a hint of political consciousness, it hardly distracts from the parade’s glittery, muscled, and celebratory mood.

Gay Pride Paris, occurs every year the last weekend in June (www.gaypride.fr).

Head In The Clouds

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 18:11:14 +0000

You’ve dined atop a downtown skyscraper and visited underground jazz clubs uptown; taken the A train and ridden the Staten Island ferry. So what’s left to see in the Big Apple? How about an aerial view straight out of a Hollywood movie? While hardly the cheapest way to see New York, a helicopter tour of the city is possibly the most dramatic, providing a vantage point that even the tallest buildings can’t provide.

Liberty Helicopters currently runs the only authorized helicopter tour service in the city, with flights leaving from two different heliports in Manhattan. Their tours run between 6 to 20 minutes. The shortest includes the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island and the Financial District. If you really want to pull out all the stops on a date, grab a bottle of champagne and have the helicopter all to yourself for just $849. Nothing says romance like a view of the sunset cradled by the top of Gotham skyscrapers.

Liberty Helicopter. VIP heliport, 12th Ave at 30th St, daily 9am-9pm; Downtown heliport, Pier 6 and the East River, M-Sa 9am-6:30pm. 212-967-6464; www.libertyhelicopters.com. Reservations required, call or book online. Tours range from $110-204 per person with additional $25-40 heliport fee. Lady Liberty and Private Helicopter tours only available at the midtown VIP heliport.

Chinatown Galleries

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 18:07:27 +0000

On the first Friday evening of every month Honolulu's Chinatown transforms itself in the evening hours as local businesses, galleries, and restaurants open their doors for the First Fridays celebration. Many galleries offer wine and refreshments while local vendors and artisans open up street stalls to display their wares. This short walking tour takes you through a few of the Chinatown’s best galleries, although there are many others scattered throughout the route. First Fridays run from 5-9pm, but this walking tour is also a great way to spend any afternoon.

1. Louis Pohl Gallery, 1111 Nuuanu Ave. (808-521-1812, www.louispohlgallery.com). This space displays original artwork by a wide variety of Hawaiian artists. Open Tu-Sa 11am-6pm.

2. thiryninehotel, 39 N. Hotel St. (808-599-5009, www.thirtyninehotel.com.) This all-white lounge and bar offers modern and alternative exhibit space to local artists. Open Tu-Sa noon-6pm.

3. Ramsay Museum, 1128 Smith St. (808-537-2782). A long-time resident of Hawaii, Ramsay displays her truer-than-life pen-and-ink drawing in the upstairs museum and features local artists’ work on the 1st-fl. gallery. Open M-F 10am-5pm, Sa 10am-4pm.

4. The ARTS at Mark’s Garage, 1159 Nuuanu Ave. (808-521-2903, www.artsatmarks.com). The unofficial epicenter of First Fridays, the ARTS at Mark’s Garage is a gallery and performance space that hosts workshops in theater, dance, sculpture, and painting. Open Tu-Sa 11am-6pm.

5. Studio of Roy Venters, 1160 Nuuanu Ave. (808-381-3445). This vanity gallery displays mixed media works by artist Roy Venters and others. On First Fridays, vendors of vintage jewelry and accessories take over the space. Open First Fridays and by appointment.

6. rRed Elephant, 1144 Bethel St. (808-545-2468, www.rredelephant.com). More a cafe than gallery, rRed Elephant serves delicious espresso to energize the rest of your afternoon or evening while doubling as an exhibit space and live music venue. Open M-Sa 7am-9pm, Su 9am-9pm.

7. Bethel St. Gallery, 1140 Bethel St. (808-546-8000, www.bethelstreetgallery.com). Hawaii’s largest artist-owned and -operated gallery, Bethel St. Gallery features rotating art by local artists in a variety of media.

Wimbledon Without The Wait

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 18:01:34 +0000

Londoners don’t seem to care much about tennis until two weeks in early summer when the whole city turns up to watch Wimbledon. Getting in on the fair-weather-fan frenzy may be tougher than you think. While there are ways to skirt the system, finding tickets for high-profile matches generally requires planning (advance tickets sell out in December), a good-sized bank roll, or waiting in an overnight queue.

For the broke or impatient, the Stella Artois Championships offers an excellent alternative to the mayhem. A men’s warm-up competition in the weeks leading up to Wimbledon, Stella Artois features many of the same players as its more famous counterpart, but without the long lines and sometimes exorbitant prices. Early in the tournament, high-level players duke it out on lower courts accessible to the masses.

Queen’s Club, Palliser Rd., Baron’s Court. 7385 3421; www.queensclub.co.uk, for tickets to the tournament www.stellartoistennis.com. While tickets are best booked in advance, a limited number of same-day tickets for unreserved seats on the lower courts are released each morning. Arriving a bit before the ticket office opens generally ensures admission.

Phú QuC Guidelines

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 17:55:01 +0000

So you’ve got your motorbike, and you’re ready to explore Phú QuC. While few travelers to Vietnam run into any problems on the island, keep in mind that much of the land is still undeveloped. Here are a few tips:

1. Bring at least 2 liters of water. It gets quite hot during the day, and snack stands are sometimes hard to find. Dehydration can be a serious issue, so come prepared.

2. Keep off military property. The Vietnamese government is very protective of Phú QuC, and there are military bases (marked by signs) around the island. Although some travelers to Vietnam claim they’ve slipped through unnoticed, it is unwise to intrude upon military property. Irate officers can make your life unpleasant.

3. Take a map. Although Phú QuC seems relatively small, its many winding paths aren’talways easy to find. Bring a map with the major roads and landmarks.

4. Give yourself enough time. Poor (or practically non-existent) roads take time to navigate; it can take a whole day to explore half the island.

5. Be prepared for dust. Sunglasses are good protection, unless you’re already wearing a helmet with a faceshield. Wear dark clothing.

6. Bring raingear. It can turn from pretty paradise into monster monsoon in minutes. Be ready.

Go Nuts!

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 17:43:57 +0000

Have you ever spied “Rocky Mountain oysters” on your menu? Hopefully, your waiter explained that the tender morsels you were about to order were not the mollusks you may have expected.

“Rocky Mountain oysters,” “prairie oysters,” “Montana tendergroin,” and “cowboy caviar” are all names given to testicles, usually from a bull, but sometimes harvested from buffalo, boar, sheep, or calves. These western delicacies are most often served sliced and deep fried and are sometimes eaten dipped in hot sauce. Truly an acquired taste, trying some Montana tendergroin makes for a memorable Wild West experience.

Some go much further than trying once. Clinton, MT, has hosted the famous “Testicle Festival” for 25 years running. Each year, the festival draws more than 15,000 enthusiasts, who eat over 2.5 tons of the special oysters.

Fancy a taste, but prefer your genitals home-cooked? Visit www.funlinked.com/testicle, a comprehensive edible testicle website that offers over 100 recipes to help the adventurous chef serve Rocky Mountain oysters at home. Your next dinner party could give a whole new meaning to the phrase “have a ball.”

Clinton, MT, is located 22 miles east of Missoula, and the Testicle Festival takes place in early August. Mosey on over to www.testyfesty.com for more information.

Para Bailar La Bamba

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 17:39:38 +0000

The iconic Mexican song “La Bamba” is perhaps Veracruz’s most famous export. The rhythms of veracruzano musical tradition are a fusion of Afro-Caribbean and Latin beats. After the conquest of Mexico, the Spaniards brought slaves from West Africa to the Mexican coast. Over time the blend of indigenous, Spanish, and African cultures created Veracruz’s unique jarocho music—airy, danceable string and percussion rhythms embodying the relaxed veracruzano lifestyle.

Many musicologists believe that “La Bamba” gets its name from Mbamba, the ancestral home of many African slaves who settled in Veracruz. Versions of “La Bamba” existed as early as the late 1600s, and it has evolved ever since. Since the song’s first recording in 1908, the tune has spread to dance halls across the country and is often featured in Mexican films.

The song’s popularity peaked in 1946, when conservative Miguel Aleman (a Veracruz native) used it as his campaign song in his successful run for presidency. “La Bamba” became an international sensation after it was covered by Richie Valens, an American rock-and-roll artist, and in the 1970s, even the US Chicano movement tweaked the original lyrics to reflect their cause. Today, you cannot pass an evening in Veracruz’s zócalo without hearing a few catchy bars.

Kioskos?

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 17:33:43 +0000

Open-air restaurants and snack shacks called kioskos sustain beachgoers across Puerto Rico. Here is a guide to the fried flavors of comida criolla:

Alcapurrias: Mashed banana and yautia (taro root) dough, filled with meat and fried.

Amarillos: Ripe yellow plantains sliced lengthwise and fried.

Asopao: Hearty gumbo made with chicken and fish.

Bacalao: Salty, dried whole codfish.

Bacalaito: Deep-fried codfish fritter.

Chicarrones: Crispy, dark, fried pork rinds.

Chuletas: Large, juicy, grilled or fried pork chops.

Empanadillas: Baked turnovers filled with seafood, beef, or cheese; also known as empanadas.

Jueyes: Battered and fried land crab.

Lechón asado: Roasted or barbecued pig eaten with aji-li-mojili sauce, which combines garlic with sweet seeded chili peppers.

Mofongo: Fried green plantains, mashed with garlic and topped with chicken, beef, or seafood.

Pastelillos: Deep-fried meat and cheese turnover.

Pinchos: Barbecued shish kabobs made from chicken, pork, and fresh fish.

Tostones: Flattened, fried plantains that are yellow and crispy, and slightly more dense than french fries.

The Other 2005 Election

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 17:16:43 +0000

Politicians may be like pigs, but rarely are they actual pigs. This is a real possibility, however, in the New Zealand village of Whangamomona, where past presidents have included a poodle and a goat, the latter of whom tragically died in active service while eating weeds. Whangamomona is one of the world’s smallest countries. As you approach the “republic,” signs beg you to stay and increase the population.

Whangamomona residents celebrate Republic Day, held biennially in January. Its beginnings go back to 1988, when the government partitioned half of Whangamomona from Taranaki into the Wanganui/Manawatu district. Outraged, three citizens declared the village’s independence. While you don’t have to be a citizen to participate in the festivities, border patrols are set up and a $3 passport is issued to visitors to New Zealand.

The day’s festivities include sheep races, opossum-skinning, and gumboot-throwing competitions. Fun and games aside, however, the main purpose of the day is to elect the next president.

The 2005 ballot was unusual in that all of the candidates were human. Murt, the local fix-it man, was hoisted onto the highest seat of the land: a toilet bowl.

For more info, visit www.stratfordnz.info.

Petros: Pelican Of Mystery

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 17:13:18 +0000

Every summer, tourist-paparazzi swarm Mykonos Town, attempting to get a photo of the area’s biggest celebrity in action—taking a stroll by the windmills, perhaps, or enjoying a seafood dinner in Little Venice.

The superstar of Mykonos is a pelican named “Petros.” In his standard pose, the white-and-pink bird can be hard to pick out against the town’s white buildings—at least until he blinks his beady black eyes and extends his heavy wings and long, slender neck. Though he is constantly surrounded by his admirers, Petros’s main concern is scoring free fish; if you feed him, be prepared to be followed and “asked” for more.

But Petros’s obsessive fish habit, typical of most pelicans, may be hiding the fact that he’s not really Petros after all. The first pelican known as “Petros” lived here for over 30 years after being stranded by a storm in the 1950s and adopted by locals. Since his death, any pelican in Mykonos gets the royal treatment; there are currently two to three regulars.

Petros (or possibly the Petroses) has been sighted all over the northwestern city. To catch a glimpse, wander around the whitewashed churches of the Paraportiani and the surrounding tavernas. Just look for a crowd of tourists wielding cameras.

The Bogside Murals?

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 17:09:48 +0000

The Bogside Artists of Derry have created a series of murals, known as the “People’s Gallery,” that provide a narrative of the Troubles on the way north from the Bogside Artists studio toward William St.

1 Painted in 1997 to commemorate the 25th anniversary of Bloody Sunday, this mural depicts all 14 victims against the background of a red circle.

2 Portrait of 14-year-old Annette McGavigan, 100th victim of the Troubles and the first child casualty in Derry.

3 A boy carrying a petrol bomb wears a mask to protect against gas used by the Royal Ulster Constabulary during the 1969 Republican riots.

4 A mural of Bernadette Devlin pays homage to the women of the Republican movement. Devlin played a leading role in the Battle of the Bogside and recovered from seven gunshot wounds after she and her husband were gunned down outside their home.

5 Edward Daly, a priest, helps rush gunshot wound victim Jackie Duddy from the Bloody Sunday crossfire.

6 The soldier beating down a door recalls the invasion of the Bogside no-go area by British troops on July 31, 1972. They knocked down barricades and doors with bulldozers, bringing an end to Free Derry.

7 Although this mural depicts a peaceful march in the 1960s, the subsequent clash between protesters and the RUC on March 5, 1968 precipitated the Troubles.

8 A rioter holds a coil mesh window guard up against a British tank during the 1969 Battle of the Bogside.

9 This mural depicts Raymond McCartney during the hunger strike in the Maze Prison. The female figure represents the women who joined the strike.

10 Unveiled by the mayor in 2004, this peace mural includes a dove and an oak leaf, both symbols of Derry.

Top 10 Ways To Save In Amsterdam

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 17:05:45 +0000

Glimpsing Van Goghs and carousing in coffee shops can certainly be expensive, but fear not: Let’s Go has culled some saving strategies to keep you on budget when you're traveling in Amsterdam.

1. Buy food at open-air markets in Amsterdam, but keep in mind they’re more expensive on the weekends. Albert Heijn is the not the cheapest supermarket, but its branches are easy to find; Euro Shopper is a consistently cheap food brand.

2. Patronize coffee shops farther outside the city center for cheaper prices; you can always bring your skunk back to a shop closer to the center to smoke.

3. Hang out outside in one of Amsterdam’s 28 parks.

4. Find free Internet access in libraries or at cafes and coffee shops around the city.

5. Make your base outside of the Centrum in an area where restaurants and accommodations tend to be cheaper and less touristed.

6. At bars, order draft beers (Heineken, Dommelsch, etc.) or stock up on ^3 wine at the supermarket.

7. Don’t even think about taking a cab in this compact city.

8. Take advantage of flyers and coupons (in weekly papers, from promoters, or in some hip shops) that will allow you to bypass cover charges at clubs.

9. Ask hotels in Amsterdam for last-minute specials. Say please.

10. Rent a bike to see the canals instead of overpaying for a boat cruise. After all, it’s Amsterdam.

Worlds Collide

Tue, 22 Dec 2009 18:57:41 +0000

We're confident this picture is one of a kind: our little Swedish dalahäst in front of the Taj Mahal.

Holy Cow

Fri, 18 Dec 2009 04:09:47 +0000

Palolem Beach in Goa, India, is as close to paradise as we have experienced -- the temperature of the Arabian Sea never dips below 85 degrees; the clouds seem fearful of covering up the sun; the beach stretches for 2 kilometers in a perfect crescent. One of the only problems is cow poop. Huge circles of it are scattered on the beach, dropped by the handful of cows that roam there each day. Cows are sacred animals for Hindus, so they are almost never killed in India and are usually treated with the utmost respect. They are allowed to wander wherever they please, including the middle of the road. Thankfully, we haven’t been in any car accidents because of cows yet (though we’ve had some near misses), and high tide washes away the poop each evening, so there is never too much on the beach.

The cows even followed us to the hectic streets of Mumbai, where people have to be much more careful than animals about getting run over. The cows in Photo 2 hung outside our favorite lunch spot, Britannia’s.

The Old-Fashioned Way

Fri, 18 Dec 2009 04:07:26 +0000

Our trusty worldwide cell phones are egregiously expensive in India ($4.00 per minute!), so we’ve resorted to the local alternative: using the very inexpensive pay phones that line the streets of Mumbai ($.02 per minute in India, $.20 per minute to call the U.S.). The small shacks that provide these phones look like they should sell fast food, but instead they are covered in cords that lead to a few simple house phones. Easy and cheap -- as travel should be.

You Slay Me, Herc

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 16:37:42 +0000

Once upon a time, Klagenfurt, a town southwest of Graz, was harassed by a winged, virgin-consuming lizard, the Lindwurm (dragon). This awful monster terrorized the area, preventing settlers from draining the marshes. Even worse, the beast had a taste for beautiful Austrian women, effectively decimating the eligible young maiden population.

Enter the legendary Hercules, traveling all the way from Greece to dispatch the beast and save the village. Centuries later, the skull of the slain beast was found, proving many an old wives’ tale about the heroic defeat of the town’s scaly scourge. The townspeople commissioned sculptor Ulrich Vogelsang to recreate the monster using the skull as his model. The bronze fountain-statue of the Lindwurm on Neuer Platz instantly became the town’s symbol, despite an 1840 discovery that proved the skull belonged to a prehistoric rhino, not a lizard-like beast.

Lindwurm or not, the skull now rests proudly in the Landesmuseum. Klagenfurt’s collective heart broke in 1945 when an Allied soldier climbed onto the Lindwurm’ s delicate tail, snapping it in two. However, in time the damage was completely repaired, and a fully formed Lindwurm once again drools spitefully in Hercules’s direction.

Club 808

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 16:18:42 +0000

Though Thailand is in many ways a budget traveler’s dream, when it comes to nightlife, Thai prices are comparable to those in the West. A fun night out, especially for travelers in Bangkok, can come with a price tag of astronomical proportions; even if you’re not splurging on the fanciest bars and clubs, the covers (usually 200-400?) and drinks (120+ for beer, 180+ for mixed drinks) will add up. But nightlife in Bangkokis a sight unto itself and one that can’t be missed. You’ll rarely see a meeting of East and West as palpable as dancing to the latest American hip hop hits with hundreds of young Thais. So, if you’re looking for a way to party as if the exchange rate was a lot more favorable, make your way to Bangkok's Club 808 on a Friday night, when you can’t spend more than 500?—the price of the cover to Open Bar Night. The club will be understandably packed, but the bartenders work quickly and the resident DJ spins great music to keep the crowd moving. Your liver might not thank you, but your bank account certainly will.

(808, Block C, RCA. www.808bangkok.com. Open 9pm-2am.)

Celtic Spirits

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 16:15:57 +0000

Every year, thousands of free spirits with nothing but a tent, a love for music, and rugged determination pack up their sleeping bags and their kegs of Estrella de Galicia, and head out to the sands of Ortigueira. Beginning in 1978, this beach town on Galicia’s northern coast has hosted the renowned international Celtic Music Festival on a stretch of land between Morouzos Beach, where the lively spirits camp out, and the city center of Ortigueira. While many tend to associate Spanish music with flamenco, the strong tradition of Galician folk music shares more cultural similarities with the Celtic music of Scotland and Ireland than anything you might find in Andalucía or Madrid.

Today, the festival features stellar performances by world-renowned Celtic music artists, as well as theatre shows, street performances, puppet shows, and exhibitions. But it is not just the incredible performances by talented Galician, Irish, and other international artists that give it such life: with beautiful beaches and enthusiastic crowds, this festival is a way of life. Ortigueira evokes the magic of Galicia, with people sitting around a bonfire, laughing to the rise and fall of the music as they toast with a heart-warming gulp of queimada.

For more information, visit www.festivaldeortigueira.com.

Flying What?

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 16:11:02 +0000

“Those,” he crooned, “are the flying buttresses.” As Malcolm Miller gazed lovingly up at Chartres Cathedral, I envied the tenderness in his voice as he spoke to the tour group.

Call me ignorant, but up until this fateful tour of Chartres I could not have named even one architectural property belonging to a cathedral. And call me juvenile, but the term “buttress” is funny. No matter what it is referencing. Further investigation revealed that a flying buttress is actually not something to be taken lightly—figurative or literally.

Used since the Romans, a flying buttress is an arc connecting a load-bearing wall with a wall outside the building, removing stress from the building. Before the heyday of flying buttresses, the heavy stone that made up church walls required a great deal of support, and it was difficult to create windows. Churchgoers were therefore left in the dark. In the 12th century, architects began to realize the decorative appeal of the flying buttress and incorporated it into churches across Europe. We therefore have the buttresses to thank for the beautiful stained glass we can still in Chartres today.

I still laugh when I hear the term buttress. Buttress. I can’t help it. But also have a newfound respect, and I feel grateful to Mr. Miller—and the you-know-whats—for shedding some light.

—Sara Ashburn

Gator Hater

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 16:07:14 +0000

One of New York’s most famous urban legends involves alligators in the city’s sewer system. There are many variations on the tale, but the most common version involves a fad among Gothamites bringing back baby alligators from their Florida vacations. As the pets grew up and lost their cuteness, pet owners hurriedly flushed them down the toilet thinking they’d seen the last of them.

There, in the damp and the dark, the reptiles began to reproduce and thrive on the city’s waste, or so the story goes.

Surely there’s not a speck of truth to the legend, right? Well, not quite. On February 10, 1923 a headline in the New York Times read “Alligator Found in Uptown Sewer.” A group of East Harlem teenagers came upon the eight foot beast while shoveling snow into an open manhole on East 123rd. Since then, the legend has continued to appear in print, television and film, with the occasional reptile sighting to bolster its claims: in 1997, an escaped grown alligator was found in a Bensonhurst backyard; in 2006, a two-foot caiman snapped at police outside a Brooklyn apartment building.

Demonstrating its good humor, the city’s Department of Environmental Protection, which fields about 10 inquiries a year about the pesky gators, sells shirts with one of the big-toothed reptiles pushing out from under a manhole cover. The caption reads, “The legend lives.”

Celebrate The Rainbow

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 16:02:46 +0000

The First Annual Hawaii Island Pride Gay Pride Festival took place in June 2008, and it was an event long overdue. The Hawaii Island Pride Group, a local organization focused on organizing and promoting lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender pride events on the Big Island, kicked off the third weekend of June with the Miss HawaiiIsland Pride Pageant at the local My Bar. This lively Friday night drag show was the opener for the weekend festival in Kailua-Kona, which included an array of bands, special guests, craft and activity booths, as well as a fashion show and luau.

Promoted as a drug-, alcohol-, and hate- free event, over a thousand locals and visitors from all sexual orientations came together to celebrate diversity. While Honolulu has had an annual gay and lesbian pride parade and festival for 18 years, this was the first year the Big Island had such an event. Plans are in the making for another festival next year, in hopes of starting a new tradition.

For more information on upcoming events and opportunities to volunteer, check out their website, www.hawaiiislandpride.com, or email the Hawaiian Island Pride Group at volunteer@hawaiiislandpride.com.

Light ’Em Up

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 15:58:10 +0000

Britain’s famous Bonfire Night may seem like an uncharacteristic homage to the hippie movement, but its roots run historically deeper. At the turn of the 17th century, Guy Fawkes and 12 companions were angered by James I’s religious intolerance and fostered a plan to assassinate him and his Parliamentary allies. Unfortunately for them, their plan was not of the professional, precise variety, but involved 36 barrels of gunpowder and some big explosions-to-be. Some of the plotters realized many innocents would be harmed due to their plan and exposed it to the authorities. Fawkes was caught with 36 barrels of gunpowder in the basement of the House of Lords early on November 5th, 1605. That night, aware of the assassination attempt on their rulers, Brits lit bonfires all over England in support of their king and government.

The night’s events started an annual tradition, and Bonfire Night is now an anticipated festive celebration. Fireworks and bonfires, often elaborately assembled, are lit every November 5 throughout the UK. Many times, the bonfires include straw effigies of Guy Fawkes. While celebrations are widespread, even in former territories such as Canada and New Zealand, London boasts the best vantage point along the banks of the Thames between Waterloo and Blackfriars, where many pubs offer drink specials to mark the occasion.

When It Pours, It Really Pours

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 15:31:11 +0000

For many, the summer months bring the only opportunity to travel away from home. For Vietnam, they bring monsoon season. The optimistic, though, will find these tropical storms to be magnificent displays of nature’s power and welcome breaks from the heat.

In the Mekong, almost every day of the summer sees torrential rain. The pattern begins with an intensifying, oppressive heat, after which the sky clouds over and a warm wind sweeps in. Then, with startling suddenness, the skies collapse in an awe-inspiring downpour. Systematically, motorbike traffic disappears and locals rush out of the rain to wait stoically under tents, ponchos, umbrellas, or doorways.

After about half an hour, the rain stops almost as quickly as it began. The roaring slackens to a static fuzz and the air feels miraculously cooler. Motorbikes reappear, and within minutes life picks up as if there had been no interruption at all. For the Vietnamese, it is all very routine.

Foreign travelers to Vietnam, however, must take a few extra steps to survive the wet season. Bring an extra pair of shoes, carry your poncho everywhere, and budget extra time to wait out the rain. Most importantly, check the dates of the rainy season, as they differ between regions. In the meantime, don’t forget to sit back and enjoy the waterworks.

Saddle Up!

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 15:29:09 +0000

Some brave few find their calling in hanging on for dear life to frantic animals—and plenty of people love to watch them try.

Gasp over thrown riders and cheer those who manage to stay on at the biggest rodeo in the world, Cheyenne Frontier Days, the “Daddy of ‘em All.” Born in 1897 as a single day festival, Cheyenne’s Frontier Days has exploded into a 10-day celebration of the American West in all of its glory. Daily rodeos feature nine different events, from the ever-popular bull riding to the insane wild horse race, where teams of three attempt to catch, saddle, and ride horses fresh from the range. The steer wrestlers grab life by the horns; after racing on horseback after a steer, the cowboy leaps from his saddle onto the smaller animal, catching the steer by the horns, and tries to flip it.

Besides the roping, wrangling, and riding, Frontier Days has a good deal of singing. Country and rock legends such as Reba McEntire, Big & Rich, and Bon Jovi have graced the stage in years past. Together, the cowboys and singers make for a spectacular way to revel in the traditions of the Old West.

Frontier Days occurs during the last full week of July, in Cheyenne, WY. Info 800-227-6336; www.cfdrodeo.com. Rodeo tickets $11-23. Concert tickets $18-67.

Teach To Tots

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 15:27:21 +0000

The sound of happy chatter greets visitors to La Gloria English School on Isla Mujeres. Kids of all ages flock to the American-run school for daily English lessons emphasizing oral communication. The school addresses a pressing need in the island’s changing social climate: as tourism increases, the ability to speak passable English is not just a convenience for the predominantly Mayan population, but a matter of economic survival.

Built and managed by the Washa family of Middleton, WI, La Gloria opened its doors in 2004 and has put down roots on the island, serving as an impromptu library and offering classes to all. Today, La Gloria also serves the community through clothing sales and an active volunteer program. Visitors to Isla Mujeres are welcomed to assist in classes (1 week min. commitment), where they will act as secondary teachers, lending an extra ear, correcting mistakes, and interacting with the students in English. You can also help out by donating school supplies, as La Gloria gets much of its supplies through the kindness of tourists.

For information on volunteering, visit www.folges.org. La Gloria English School is at the top of the hill in Colonia La Gloria, about 3.5km south of town. Buses and taxis service the area. 888 0666. Mza. 156 Lote 20 Mujeres, Quintana Roo, Mexico, 77400.

Fruits Of Paradise

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 15:25:21 +0000

Puerto Rico is full of batida (smoothie) and piragua (shaved ice) stands that offer fruity refreshment to thirsty passersby. However, some popular Puerto Rican fruits may be unfamiliar to visitors from outside the Caribbean:

Acerola: Known to some in English as the West Indian cherry or haw fruit, the acerola is a soft, bright red fruit that tastes like a cross between an apple and a cherry. It is one of the more common fruit juices on the island.

Parcha: The parcha, or passion fruit, has a tart taste that mixes well with the sweeter elements of batidas. The fruit has a hard purple or yellow rind, with many black seeds inside.

Guanábana: In English, soursop. The Puerto Rican variety is the largest type. The fruit has a white, pulpy interior; the shape of a pear; and the skin of a lime. It can be identified by its acidic, fruity flavor with hints of nuts.

Guayaba: Guava, round with yellow skin and pink flesh, offers a sweet and slightly acidic kick when its juice is added to drinks. The many hard seeds make it difficult to eat the fruit itself.

Plátanos: Plantains look like large, rough bananas, but the similarities end there. Raw, green plantains, known as verdes, have a slightly bitter, crunchy taste. Deep-fried and mashed plantains, which can appear as amarillos (sweet variety) or tostones (dry variety) taste like a hearty bread.

It’s Raining Milford

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 15:23:37 +0000

In the MacKinnon Pass shelter on a very rainy day, the women next to me were bemoaning the wet state of their feet and gesturing to the rest of our rain-stung lot. Proud of my full-body Gore-Tex lining, I declared, “well, my feet are dry!”

Oh, if I only knew what was to come. When it rains in Fiordland, the water doesn’t have anywhere to go but down. Glacially carved peaks are not rich in topsoil, and waterfalls spring out of nowhere in order to funnel all the extra moisture into tributary streams and roaring rivers.

The next day, I found a friendly DOC orange triangle directing me into a river. From then on, I was carrying enough water around in my boots to bring rainforests to Tunisia. I’d pass cliff ledges dumping their loads onto the track and trudge dilligently through.

The track was under thigh-deep waters, and all the trampers started feeling giddy, helping each other through puddles the size of lakes, and snapping embarrassing photos. And hallelujah, I actually started to enjoy myself. I was in the water, of the water, living and breathing the water.

—Richard Lonsdorf

A Puzzling Demise

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 15:21:35 +0000

The biggest mystery for most of the Ios’s drunken revelers is probably what exactly happened the night before. However, the island’s locals and dedicated classicists pride themselves on the island’s long tradition of mythic lore.

The course of Homer’s life is shrouded in mystery; however, it is undisputed that Plakotos, Ios is the blind poet’s burial place. Not knowing his birthplace, Homer approached the oracle at Delphi to gain insight. The oracle ominously answered, “The isle of Ios is your mother’s country, and it shall receive you dead; but beware of the riddles of young children.”

Weakened by old age, Homer returned to his mother’s birthplace, Ios. There he was approached by a group of boys returning from fishing. In accordance with the oracle’s prediction, the mischievous children presented him with the following riddle: “What we have caught we leave behind us. What we have not caught we carry with us.”

Mystified that the prophecy had been realized and overwhelmed with despondent passion, Homer threw himself off the cliffs. Although epic acolytes may never know the cause of Homer’s death, they will never have to suffer the same fate because of the children’s riddle. The lousy answer that brought low the most celebrated storyteller of all time: lice.

Pay It Forward?

Wed, 16 Dec 2009 15:17:08 +0000

Once your international ramblings are over, your clothes finally washed, and your backpack stowed away, you may start to feel grateful to all the kind people who aided you on your journeys. The old man who bought you a pint when you were drenched by an Irish rainstorm. The little freckled kid who waved at you as the bus you were meant to catch pulled away. Everyone who ever smilingly said “no bother” when you apologized for yet another cultural gaffe.

Servas is an organization that allows travelers to fulfill their traveling karma once they’ve returned home. It was founded in 1948 by a group of pacifists who wanted to encourage international peace, love, and understanding (Servas means “you serve” in Esperanto). Individuals sign up to host travelers for two nights, taking them into their homes without pay.

The idea is that it’s a cultural exchange: travelers benefit from free lodging and a real look at life in an average family, while hosts broaden their horizons by striking up friendships with foreigners. The organization screens both hosts and travelers to protect the safety of everyone involved. So once you’re back home, think about pulling out the futon for a couple of fellow travelers. If nothing else, they’ll be a good audience for your 500-picture slideshow.

For more info, visit www.servas.org; or write to helpdesk@servas.org.

More Museums For Less

Tue, 15 Dec 2009 19:57:17 +0000

Amsterdam, though often caricatured as a city of pot pilgrims, has more museums per square kilometer than any other city in the world. Visitors planning to hit up even just a handful of these Amsterdam museums may want to invest in a Museumjaarkaart (MJK). An especially good deal for younger travelers, the pass (^35, under 25 ^20, including the one-time “handling fee”) entitles the holder to admission at most of the major museums in Amsterdam, including the Van Gogh Museum, Rijksmuseum, and the Museum Van Loon.

The pass is also valid at many first-rate museums all over the Netherlands—over 400 in total—like the Mauritshuis in The Hague, the Nederlands Architectuurinstituut in Rotterdam, the Frans Hals Museum in Haarlem, and the Bonnefanten Museum in Maastricht. The card is good for one year but can be worthwhile even for those staying one week (combined admission to just the Van Gogh Museum and Rijksmuseum is about the price of an under-25 card). To buy the MJK, bring a passport photo to most of the participating museums.

Realize, however, that although the MJK will save you money, it may not save you any time; card-holders still have to wait in line. For more information, check the Dutch-only www.museumjaarkaart.nl.

Me and Let's Go

Tue, 15 Dec 2009 17:14:27 +0000

As I look back over 50 years of Let’s Go history, my eyes start to mist and everything goes sepia. Ahh, institutional memories. So many roads, so many adventures, so many starry-eyed youngsters … Oh, hi mom.

It turns out my mother was a Let’s Go researcher in the American South about 30 years ago. She scourged the Tennessee River Valley for the best flapjacks, mailed tattered tearsheets back to LGHQ, and listened to Jimmy Carter speak on the radio of her 1978 Toyota. She had a perm and carried Joan Baez tapes in her fanny pack. Her shoulder pads were not worn ironically.

When I began researching in Greece last year, my mother’s experience seemed totally abstract. But as I reviewed hostels and restaurants and endured seemingly endless bus rides, I began to wonder if our trips were really so different. Sure, Let’s Go has lots of digital amenities today that would have seemed completely foreign to my mother at the time, but at the end of the day I was doing pretty much the same thing she did 30 years ago.

For a company that writes about forging into the Great Unknown Adventure, there seems to be a whole lot of déjà vu. It’s okay, we like it that way. Happy Birthday, Let’s Go!

-Charlotte Alter

We've come a long way...

Tue, 15 Dec 2009 17:12:01 +0000

Let’s Go is so old, we remember the Czech Republic back when it was just a tiny member of the Soviet Bloc. We can’t believe how big and strong East Berlin has gotten! And so handsome! We’re having our 50th Anniversary bash at the downtown Harvard Club, and we’re all so excited to hear from Oliver Koppel, who created the first Let’s Go guide on his dorm room floor all those years ago. Back in those days, he didn’t have any of the digital mumbo-jumbo that helps our 21st century Researchers write from the road. No, siree—they had old-fashioned tear sheets, which they sent back to the office using postal mail. They also didn’t have cell phones or Purell or any way to book train tickets online. Some researchers even their routes across Europe. Uphill. Both ways.

Wine and Cheese at the Harvard Book Store

Tue, 15 Dec 2009 17:11:15 +0000

The only thing Let’s Go Researchers love as much as free travel is free wine. And free cheese. And talking about their free travel over free wine and free cheese. That’s why wild horses couldn’t keep us away from the January 26th travel workshop at the Harvard Book Store (at 1256 Massachusetts Ave in Cambridge, MA), a comfy independent establishment famous for supporting local business endeavors. We’ll be there with our Researcher-Writers and Research Managers at 7pm, to swap stories, share adventure bloopers, and talk about some travel tips with anyone who wants to drop by! Don’t let us drink all the wine by ourselves… we might drunk-dial American Airlines and then who knows where we’d end up?

Give Me Some Sun

Sun, 13 Dec 2009 17:11:44 +0000

Solar panels are still uncommon on rooftops in America, but in countries such as Turkey, Jordan, and Israel, where water (and money) are much scarcer, solar panels are ubiquitous. When we first saw them on shack-like houses in rural Turkey, we thought that the panels might be a small government or NGO-funded project. But as we traveled more in the region -- particularly in Israel, where the law mandates the use of solar power to heat the water in any newly constructed home -- we realized that solar energy is simply a part of most people’s lives in these countries. Maybe someday in the U.S…

Do You Want Fries With That?

Sun, 13 Dec 2009 17:08:11 +0000

We were informed by Let’s Go: Israel 2010 researcher Teresa Cotsirilos that when choosing falafel sandwiches in the Old City of Jerusalem, the ones by Damascus Gate are typically better than the ones by Jaffa Gate. We didn’t know why until we went to the two stalls just south of Damascus Gate and found that our sandwiches came not only with fresh, crunchy falafel balls, but also with pickles and French fries stuffed right in. Heaven in a pita.

Ramallah-madingdong

Sun, 13 Dec 2009 16:43:49 +0000

Overlooking the main traffic circle in Ramallah lies Stars & Bucks Cafe, which has enterprised on its name being almost identical to the corporate behemoth we all know so well. The cafe has come as close as it can to imitating Starbucks without committing copyright infringement, even going so far as to inflate the prices of its drinks beyond all of its neighbors. Nevertheless, people in Ramallah still flock to its comfy chairs and prime location. (And no, Starbucks has not reached the West Bank yet).

Eternal Glory

Fri, 11 Dec 2009 16:52:41 +0000

If competitions such as Oulu’s Air Guitar tournament (www.airguitarworldchampionships.com) or the Ant Hill event (who can sit naked on an ant hill the longest) don’t sate your competitive appetite, fear not, Finland also features world championships in:

Wife Carrying: Inspired by the 19th century practice of stealing wives from neighboring villages. Brave the 253.5m obstacle course, but be careful: a wife dropping infraction leads to a 15sec. penalty (and likely a night on the couch). Prize: Wife’s weight in beer. (www.sonkajarvi.fi.)

Sauna Endurance: Compete on the cusp of death or injury. The temperature starts at a mild 110°C (230°F) and rises every 30 seconds. The winner is the last person sitting upright who can walk out unassisted. Prize: A one week vacation to a different type of sauna: Morocco. (www.saunaheinola.com.)

Mobile Phone Throwing: Finland has the most cell phones per capita in the world. Might as well throw some. Prize: A new phone. (www.savonlinnafestivals.com.)

Mosquito-Killing: Henri Pellonpää is the world record holder, with 21 kills in 5min. in 1995. The government worries that the event will disrupt the balance of nature, but it doesn’t seem like a scarcity of mosquitos will ever be possible in Finland. Squash away. Prize: Mosquitoes will fear you.

A Peace Postponed

Fri, 11 Dec 2009 16:27:14 +0000

After nearly 40 years of violence and 8000 deaths, the Basque separatist movement, ETA (“Basque Homeland and Freedom” in euskara ), announced a permanent ceasefire in early 2006 and began negotiations with the Spanish government. As discussions progressed, there was hope that the organization’s bloody campaign for an independent Basque state was nearing an end.

That optimism vanished in December 2006, when ETA claimed responsibility for a bombing in Madrid’s Barajas Airport. Though the organization announced that it was still committed to the ceasefire, the Spanish government announced that ETA had clearly violated the terms of the truce, and declared the peace process as unquestionably over. In June 2007, the ceasefire officially came to an end. In an interview with El País in June of 2008, Prime Minister Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero stated that he was no longer willing to negotiate with ETA, noting that dialogue had thus far proven useless.

Meanwhile, in the Plaza de España in Vitoria-Gasteiz, a banner bears the message “No to ETA,” while the Ayuntamiento in San Sebastian proclaims: “No to ETA; Human Rights and Co-Existence in Peace.” The sight of such slogans is a powerful sign that political dialogue has its place. Though ETA continues to be a significant force, not all advocates of Basque liberation are with them.