Schmidt World Tour 2006

suggestions for India?

2008-01-20T23:07:00.000-08:00

Does anyone have any tips on get non-metro, non-Taj, non-Himalaya destinations in India? Any Rajastan tips to offer?

Cool new photo site

2007-09-20T12:09:00.000-07:00

Cool new photo site called ZoomIn.com. I wish this site had been around when we were on our trip:
- Free unlimited storage
- Slideshow widgets that you can embed in a blog (see below)
- Professional quality prints (only $0.25 for a 5x7!)
- Earn free prints credits by referring friends

Worth checking out!

Queen Hatshepsut: Unbelievable, My Body Was Discovered in the Valley of the Kings

2007-09-13T22:29:00.001-07:00

A few months ago, I was inundated with emails (actually about 5, but Clint also got 5) directing me to news reports about the fact that my body had been discovered by Egyptologists/Archaeologists in the Valley of the Kings. I could not believe it for several reasons. First, I thought I had my body (how else could I move around, etc.). Second, one of my friends (Carol) told me I was a fat woman who may have diabetes. As far as I know, I do not have diabetes. Third, I thought I did a really good job of instructing my servants to hide me far within the crevices of the Valley of the Kings. Apparently, they did not exactly follow orders. Otherwise, my body would never have been discovered. But, on the bright side, I was buried in the Valley of the Kings and not in the Valley of the Queens. Last, I am the most important discovery since King Tut…sweet! Honestly, I was far more powerful than Cleopatra. As the saying goes, I was the Queen who ruled like a Pharaoh. Here’s a link to a news article in case you are interested about the discovery, which includes a picture of my body: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/earth/main.jhtml?xml=/earth/2007/06/27/sciegypt127.xml

The World Tour Book Report

2007-09-13T22:13:00.000-07:00

The book report is a bit tardy....it is being posted over one year after we returned from the trip. Oh well.

Below is an example of what I do when I have a lot of free time on my hands, lots of trains and planes to take and want to escape from my husband for a few hours….I read.

I think I dragged Clint into at least one bookstore per country and at times in just about every city we visited in certain countries. Depending upon our locale, the selections could be limited (e.g. reading Naomi Wolf in Essaouira, Morocco). But, because I was traveling I had the opportunity to read a variety of works by foreign authors that I likely would not have read if I was at home.

The books are in no particular order and the reviews may be repugnant to some:

1. The Moscow Club (Joseph Finder) - purchased in Sydney, Australia and read in Byron Bay, Australia. Decent mystery novel and had me transfixed while I coped with very sun burned legs and, as a result, was stuck indoors.

2. Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (John LeCarre) - purchased at the Salvation Army store outside Sydney, Australia and read in Byron Bay, Australia. You have to be a LeCarre fan to read this book. I am one.

3. The Shadow of the Wind (Carlos Ruiz Zafon) - purchased in Barcelona, Spain and read in Morocco. Great read and amazing story. I would definitely read this again and again.

4. Dangerous Summer (Hemingway) - purchased in Florence, Italy and read in Spain and Morocco. Perfect book when you are on your way to Pamplona for El Encierro and La Corrida (the running of the bulls and bullfighting, respectively).

5. The God of Small Things (Arundhati Roy) - purchased in Rome, Italy and read in Italy. Interesting.

6. The Unforgettable Lightness of Being (Milan Kundera) - purchased in Rome, Italy and read in Italy. Thought-provoking.

7. Dante's Inferno - purchased in Florence, Italy and read in Spain. I only read this book because Clint bought it and I had nothing else to read at the time.

8. DaVinci Code (Dan Brown) - purchased in Florence, Italy and read in Spain. Decent story but by far the worst book I have read in a long time. The writing is perfect for a second grader.

9. Catch 22 (Joseph Heller) - purchased in Byron Bay, Australia and read in Thailand. One of the best stories I have ever read in my life. I love crazy people, is that a reflection of me? I would read this book again and again.

10. No God, But God (Reza Azlan) - purchased in Cairo, Egypt and read in Egypt, Israel and Turkey. This book should be read by everyone in the world who does not have a clue about Islam. It might not bring world peace but it would be pretty close to those with an open mind.

11. Book of short stories by Egyptian woman author - purchased in Cairo, Egypt and read in Greece. Interesting stories because it revealed a side of Muslim women not typically seen. I wish I remembered the name of the book or author so I could find some more books by this particular author. Unfortunately, all I can remember is the shopping experience at the American University in Cairo bookstore.

12. Countless guidebooks - We did travel around the world so I suppose guidebooks are a necessity.

13. Countless language books especially Italian, French and Arabic. Again, we did travel around the world so being able to speak or try to speak a language is invaluable. I can’t stress this enough!

14. The Life of Pi (Yann Martel) - purchased in Sevilla, Spain and read in Spain. Awesome book, captivating story. Anyone who likes animals will like this book.

15. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (Jonathan Safran Foer) - purchased in Sevilla, Spain and read before making it to Poland. It’s about 9/11 and has some great phrases…the book is definitely “heavy boots,” not “shitake.”

16. The Ciderhouse Rules (John Irving) - purchased in Prague, Czech Republic and read in Hungary and on way to Austria. What can I say: I absolutely love John Irving’s writing and am currently trying to read everything he has written.

17. With No One As Witness (Elizabeth George) - purchased in Salzburg, Austria and read in Austria and on way to Pamplona. Fun read.

18. At First Light (Ernest Hemingway) - purchased in Pamplona, Spain. This is a fictional autobiography about Hemingway’s time at camp in Africa. I really enjoyed this book and firmly believe Hemingway led a privileged (not necessarily monetary but rather all of the adventures he found himself in) and interesting life.

19. Great Expectations (Charles Dickens) - purchased in Barcelona, Spain. Loved it.

20. Kafka on the Shore (Haruki Murakami) - purchased in Munich, Germany and read in Berlin. I really enjoyed this book. The story is peculiar and fascinating.

21. Samarkand (Amin Maalouf) - purchased and read in Essaoira, Morocco. Interesting read.

22. Misconceptions (Naomi Wolf) - purchased and read in Essaouria, Morocco. If you are pregnant, have been pregnant or contemplating pregnancy, then I strongly urge you to read this book.

23. Well Schooled in Murder (Elizabeth George) - purchased in Munich, Germany. George taught at my high school. She would have been my honors English teacher but for the fact she stopped teaching to pursue writing full-time. She’s a great story teller and writer. Dan Brown could learn a thing or two from George.

24. Ghostwritten (David Mitchell)- purchased in Paris, France. Interesting read.

25. The Tipping Point (Malcolm Gladwell) - purchased in London (England), Great Britain (U.K). Read in Ireland. This book is a must read for everyone, especially those in the business world.

26. Even Cowgirls Get the Blues (Tom Robbins) – purchased in Dublin, Ireland. Robbins’ writing is maniacal – still reading this book.

27. The Kite Runner (Khaled Hosseini) – purchased in Ireland and read in Seattle. I love, love, love this book. The book comes alive as you read it.

Venice Meat Wagon

2007-06-06T16:15:00.000-07:00

An ambulance working the canals of Venice. Not sure why I found this so amusing... something about the romantic ambiance of Venice being fractured by a loud and routine reminder of death and injury. I suppose the wake of the ambulance splashed some water (or even cap-sized) one of those emblematic gondola boats that you pay $100 dollars to ride for an hour of storybook dream fulfillment.

VIDEO: Enchanting prayer call in Essaouira, Morocco

2007-04-10T07:48:00.000-07:00

We had the luxury of spending time in a small, laid-back seaside town in Morocco called Essaouira. We made the trip on a bit of a whim, looking for surf (which we found) and unsure how long we'd stay. We had no accommodations secured at our destination before we departed, a sign of success in my mission to get my wife to relax, be spontaneous, and go with flow. As luck would have it, we really dug the place and stayed for a week.

After a peculiar and eventful 2-hour bus ride from the admittedly sketchy bus station in Marrakech, we meandered and negotiated Essaouira until we found a decent place to stay. Our pension was brightly decorated, affordable, comfortable, and only 2 blocks from the rocky Atlantic shore. Each night, we would go to the roof to soak in the sunset, watch the swallows streak through the corridors above the streets, and listen to the most magnificent prayer call.

I am humbly ignorant of what constitutes a "good" prayer call from the muezzin towers of Muslim mosques. Most of the prayer calls I heard while traveling were an odd cacophony of blaring chant and speaker fuzz, and it wasn't always the most pleasant sound to my ear. But this prayer call that we heard each night in Essaouira was extraordinary! It was beautiful, booming, heartfelt, and powerful. I'd get a soothing sensation in my chest when I heard it. With an audience of only me and sometimes my wife, I'd embarrass myself trying to imitate it as a chanted along with the parts that I knew. It was amazing, and I was glad to capture that rooftop bliss on video one night.

Now back in the US, nearly a year later, I wish I could hear it every night while I watch the sun slip into the sea...

Quickie on Tasmania

2007-04-09T11:37:00.000-07:00

Lots of people struggle on the decision to go to Tasmania: is it worth it? Once you get to Australia, there is SO MUCH to see and do, and the trip out to the island of Tasmania seems out of the way. The logic goes as follows: there is a lot to do on the mainland, why burn so much time getting to and fro to Tasmania?

Well, seeing the Tasmanian devils and hiking in Walls of Jerusalem (see short slideshow below) made it worth it to us. Here's a picture of our not-so-nice, growling little friend:

Drunken buffoonery in Keri, Greece

2007-03-02T14:45:00.000-08:00

Who let this guy out of his cage?

Homemade wine courtesy of Stavros Bratis, the proprietor of Pansion Limni in Keri, Greece (on Zakynthos Island)

Amazing Morocco

2007-03-02T06:20:00.000-08:00

As I mentioned before, Morocco is the next "IT" country. Muslim and Berber culture make it exotic and intriguing to a westerner, and the mountains, desert, and ocean offer a diverse natural buffet table from which to choose. The people are amiable and approachable, but definitely aware that you are a potential source of income. Here are a few slides from Morocco.

Photos: The Best of the Best

2007-01-23T12:32:00.000-08:00

After much gnashing over several thousand photos, we've finally narrowed down our picks as our best photos from 8 months of world travel. If you'd like to see The Best of Best photographs from Schmidt World Tour 2006, please follow this link to our shared album on ImageStation.

Also, thanks to all of the strong encouragement from many of friends, family, and colleagues, I'm now starting to pursue some writing opportunities. Not sure whether it will be a memoir about this trip, a new adventure, or perhaps some articles for a magazine, but I am at least looking into the possibilities. If any of you have specific ideas that might hold potential for me, please let me know. -CS

Movie: Running with the bulls in Pamplona

2006-11-27T18:09:00.000-08:00

I started tinkering around with some of many movies clips we captured during our trip, and I created this little thing from Pamplona:

I might upload a few more if I find myself (again) wishing I was not back in the US...

Schmidt World Tour

2006-10-29T08:48:00.003-08:00

Clint's posts:
NZ 1, 2
Aussie 1, 2, 3, 4
Thailand
East Africa: Kilimanjaro , Serengeti
Egypt 1, 2
Israel
Turkey
Greece
Italy 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8
Mid-Trip Awards
Barcelona, Spain
Morocco
Sevilla, Spain
Granada, Spain
Madrid, Spain
Switzerland 1
Eastern/Central Europe
Pamplona 1, 2, 3
northern Spain
Swiss Alps hiking
Munich and Bavaria, Germany
Berlin, Germany
Denmark
Amsterdam, The Netherlands
Paris and UK combined post
End of trip SHOUT OUTS

We’re back…..and it’s the end of the world as we know it

2006-10-17T17:06:00.000-07:00

The above picture taken at Lincoln Park is why I love West Seattle!!!!

While I enjoyed Ireland, (amazing views of the sea, sheep, cows, camping in the rain, drastic landscape and of course, Guinness), our drive around the country seemed to drag on forever. I think part of the problem was that the weather just did not cooperate. It rained most days and the few days it was sunny, we would drive all over in order to take in as much of the country as possible. As a result, we were not able to do much in the way of outdoor activities other than to walk from the car to the pub and back. I am not opposed to this but between my Guinness half-pints and cheap fried food, my girlish figure soon began to suffer.

I hate to say it but Ireland is a quaint country. There are castles, rolling hills, sea views, sheep, small pubs and tons of B&Bs. Unless you count me, (although I do not have red hair or pointy ears), we did not see any leprechauns while we were in Ireland. In addition, we did not spot pots of gold, rainbows or Keebler elves. All things promised by our tour company. Also, while I did kiss the Blarney stone, I do not believe it has made me eloquent but it has resulted in my mouth flapping a little bit more than usual.

The flight back to the States from Ireland felt like it would never end. It was a long flight…about 11 ½ hours. Unfortunately, Aer Lingus failed to provide me with the proper entertainment equipment. Basically, I did not have my own personal movie system. I was not pleased. I tried to read a bit on the flight as well as sleep but was basically pretty restless. Someone was kind enough to throw up in one of the bathroom sinks. I don’t quite understand the point of that…why not throw up in the toilet where it can be flushed down as opposed to clogging up the sink in effect letting everyone know on the plane, there’s a barfer. Whatever! Our arrival in L.A. was greeted with enough smog to blanket half the country. I am now convinced that the smog makes people in Los Angeles a little off; it is full of chemicals and the people there do enjoy plastic. Need I say more? Aside from the smog, we were greeted by my cheerful mom. As we exited the airport, Clint and I immediately recognized we were back in America. How could we not with the humungous trucks and SUVs that use up more gas in one day than some people use in a year. The excessive consumption and materialism of America really hit us hard that day. When you’ve been out of the country for eight months, it really hits you between the eyes.

My days in Southern California were spent going to a few Angels games, spending an afternoon with my friend Jenny, the future Parker James and her husband Ryan, painting my mom’s bathroom (because that’s what anyone wants to do when they come back from an eight month trip around the world), and convincing my cats and dog to forgive me for leaving them at Stonehenge and with Old Man River, respectively. Every time I go back to Orange County, it makes it that much easier for me to leave. I just can’t take it anymore…the pollution, traffic, materialism and unnecessary SUVs. Clint ditched me in Orange County 2 days after we arrived for greener pastures….finding the “Hottest Mom in America.” As a result, I got the privilege and honor to drive back to Seattle in my GTI with my mom, Sir Charles, Chloe and Dali. Yes, 2 people, 2 cats and a dog in the GTI (could make for a good Volkswagen commercial). The drive was effortless as my furry children were really quite well-behaved. Although, Sir Charles did make a point to remind me he gets car sick by barfing at least once each day he was in the car. We were all very happy to get home and my mom was quite a trooper for gutting out the car ride with me. Now I have the privilege to begin a Master’s program in law at the UW. While I am sure I could create a blog about my experience in the program (e.g., people freaking about where they sit in class during my second week of school), I shall refrain from doing so. I am sure many people will be disappointed by this fact.

Blogging continued

2006-10-02T12:48:00.000-07:00

There may be some additional savory blogging to be seen at Seattle Superfly.

Here's a blog from another US couple who are still in the midst a world trip that is very similar to ours in many ways, but longer... http://www.runonsentence.com/allysonandbryan.html

We're back...

2006-09-15T18:41:00.000-07:00

Maybe if you are lucky, The Missus will get buzzed after a few sips and you can have the rest.

Dork Patrol
-or-
The Two Coolest Cats You've Ever Seen?

You decide...

Finishing up the last 12 days in Ireland was rad, but now we're back. With a vengance! Whenever I feel like it, I'll post my not-yet-finished post about our Ireland travels. But right now, I ain't inclined to do so. Now it feels like I'd be reminiscing, therefore giving the trip all the more finality. And that makes me mildly despondent, and definitely irritable. See shout-outs below.

Clint's posts: NZ 1, 2, Aussie 1, 2, 3, 4, Thailand , Kilimanjaro , Serengeti , Egypt 1, 2, Israel, Turkey, Greece, Italy 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, Mid-Trip Awards, Barcelona, Morocco, Sevilla, Granada, Madrid, Swiss 1, East/Cent Europe, Pamplona 1, 2, 3, northern Spain, Swiss Alps hiking, Munich and Bavaria, Berlin, Denmark, Amsterdam, Paris and UK combined post, SHOUT OUTS

Clint Shout-outs

2006-09-08T16:27:00.000-07:00

We return home tomorrow (from Dublin), and I wanted to send my shout-outs...

To Travis, for holding it down for me back in the US

To the Denmark crew, for setting a new standard in hospitality

To John and Marcy, for the lovely rendevouz in Menaggio

To my sister April, for writing me entertaining emails while I was on the road

To Chris Finnin, who might be the only person besides my father-in-law who is interested in this blog

To my stepmom Cathy, for sending the lifesavers and the picture of my 2 nieces and nephew

To the porters on Kilimanjaro, who carried our gear all day at a jog then let me kick it with them in their tent for a chat

To my wife, for holding my hand on my slow, zombie-like shuffle at the top of Kilimanjaro

To Shannon Stubo, for the hug and for providing us with a Swiss base camp

To Bob Hebeler, a good man and former colleague at eBay whom I respected. Rest in peace.

To Felipe Carr, for the sweet tapas bar tips in Granada

To Samu and Ruth, for being so damn helpful to us in Barcelona

To Lior, for the hook-up

To Nurit and Avi, for your kindness, guidance in Israel, and tips on Cappadocia

To the Limni family in Keri, for making our stay unforgettable

To Jane, for providing us with a "real English experience" and a great meal

To the Irish couple we met in Budapest, for helping set our Ireland itinerary

To Clare MacMillan, for being our mom for a few days

To Egyptians, for being shockingly friendly to a couple Americans

To Danielo and Fabio, for a helluva fun night in Pamplona

To the huge Pamplona bulls that spared me a goring

To my mother-in-law, Rose, who got conned into taking Samantha's 2 cats. (but she did con me into taking her daughter, so, no guilt here)

To Erik, for meeting me in Amsterdam and for being a trustworthy friend

To my Grandma, for giving me a soul, which came in very handy on this trip

-Clint

Thoughts on Paris and the UK

2006-09-03T14:10:00.000-07:00

First, I want to thank my friend Erik and our friend Clare for allowing our smelly butts to stay in their homes in London and Edinburgh, respectively. It's really such a bonus to be able to relax in a comfortable home rather than whisking from hostel to campsite, not to mention the huge cost-saving considering the ridiculous USD-to-Pound exchange rate. So thank you both very much! It was really a pleasure.

Scottish Highlands

Samantha detailed our Paris itinerary already in her post, so I only have a few ramblings. I agree that Paris is the most beautiful city that we saw in Europe, hands down. But I can't use words like "stunning" or "unbelievable" because such superlatives are reserved for sights like Fjordland in New Zealand, the Swiss Alps, Banff National Park in the Canadian Rockies, and so on. But Paris was a pretty town, no doubt.

Tons of tourists, perhaps more tourists than Parisians since it was a French holiday weekend.
Paris competes with London and Switzerland for the most outrageous prices for food.
French baguettes ARE the culinary cat's pajamas, perhaps only matched by the occasional Italian baguette.
I did not drink more than a glass or two of French wine, which I deeply regret, because I carried some kind of lingering stomach ailment from Amsterdam.
The Musee D'Orsay ranks right up there as one of the best art museums in Europe.
As for nightlife, we really didn't attack Paris in this way; low energy levels and high costs proved to be effective barriers.
I did not have fondue, either, which I also deeply regret.

But we did walk all over the goddamn place because, well, walking is free and it's a eyeful of a city. Not much more to say on Paris... lots left to experience should I return, but I was glad to leave because Samantha was like a hungry dog in a butcher shop with all of those stupid fashion shops on every block.

Deb Siegel, thank you very much for the copius guidance you provided us about Paris. There is no substitute for a friend's advice, and I/we appreciate it.

London was a different experience for a few reasons. First, we'd both been there before. So hanging out with my friend Erik was more of a priority than seeing the sights a second time. Also, Erik's apartment was super-comfy, so we rested our feet from all of our Paris walking. The lack of a language barrier and an absurd exchange rate also made our London trip a different endeavor than other European cities. But we did manage to cover a lot of ground during our combined 5 days there.

Speaker's Corner is a corner of Hyde Park in London where people congregate to rant. Various opinionated ranters bring some kind of stepping stool or soapbox and carry on with the shouting. It got really noisy in amongst them, as one would guess, and you had to strain to hear some of them above the cacophony. Many of the ranters were spouting about some religious matter, be they Christian, Jewish, Muslim, or whatnot. Some were more philosophical in nature, preaching anarchy or nihlism or morality in general. One rather mean-looking guy in particular was shouting about how American and British governments are trying to "create their own reality in the Muslim world" and had commanded quite a crowd. But the best was a fellow who was mocking the whole scene by loudly begging anyone within earshot to please consider their options: "It's going to bloody pour [rain] any minute now, what are YOU going to do? Are you going to put on a rainjacket? Or carry an umbrella? Or just get bloody SOAKED? The Moment is coming!!" Satirically deadpan as can be, complete with red face and bulging veins. Hilarious.

My buddy Erik lives in Chelsea, which is a preposterously wealthy part of the London metro area. Insane. I have never seen so many Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Aston Martins, Bentleys, Maseratis, and Porsches creeping around a neighborhood, not to mention the lowly BMWs and Benzs. So this sets me off on another tangent... My man Erik is a trader and will soon be a high-roller like these guys, and he has worked hard to get there. But I couldn't help thinking about Africa; I wonder if all of these rich folks in Chelsea and the rest of the civilized world are as happy about life as many of the poor smiling Africans we encountered a few months ago. While driving a Porsche would be fantastic, I don't want to let myself be lured into thinking I'd be happier if I had one. I'd like to think I will be just as happy without it. I'm not going to be an apologist for being born a healthy white American with a functioning brain that I choose to use, but I don't have to let materialism define my happiness. But I digress...

The Tower of London was a rip-off at ~$30 USD per person. I implored Samantha that we should go there, because I remembered that as a 13-year old, I'd seen diamonds there as big as a human head. I swear, you wait and see! In reality, the diamonds were substantial but about the size of a kiwi fruit. That's a big gem, but when you're expecting a skull-sized chunk of diamond, anything less than a fist is, well, a letdown. I cursed my infuriating and exaggering memory, apologized to the missus, and went through the sight-seeing motions in the remainder of the Tower complex trying desperately (and unsuccessfully) to eek out $30 USD worth of enjoyment. Bummer.

From London, we went north to Edinburgh, Scotland. We stayed in the home of Clare and Clive MacMillan, a lovely Scottish couple who are currently living in our home in Seattle. They have a brillant and accomodating home in Edinburgh, and we were very happy to stay there. We were lucky that Clare was back in Scotland during our visit, and armed us with all of the info we needed to experience Scotland properly. Most importantly, we would see the Fringe Festival - before we left Seattle, Clive made me promise to see a day's worth of shows. If there was an place in town where 10 or more people can collect, there was a play, comedy act, singing group, or gallery there. Really a remarkable event, and I was glad we'd experienced it. Clare and Clive: thank you so much for the hospitality and guidance. You are both diamonds!

While in Edinburgh, I had haggis, neeps, and tatties for lunch. Actually not bad. Plus I get to say that I ate tatties. That just *sounds* cool. I shall henceforth now refer to any and all potato dish as "tatties". It's a way better word, and it makes me sound much cooler, having cooler "lingo". And the words "bollocks" and "rubbish", too. As in: "Those tatties were rubbish, really bollocks." I think that sounds cool.

The Scottish Highlands were really extraordinary to see. We took a day-trip north as we left Edinburgh. After some rocky farmland, we saw windblown mountains, geologically smoothed as if shaped by a potter, with very few trees and muted earth tones. Unimposing but weathered, in subtle light and shade, and carefully measured spaces between the rolling mounts, foothills, and lakes. It really captured my attention, and I was very glad to have seen the terrain in decent weather.

From Scotland we drove south to Leeds, where Queen Hatshepsut had purchased one-day tickets to the Leeds Festival. Pearl Jam would headline on the first day of a 3-day festival. The grounds of the festival were massive, with acres of farmland packed beyond reason with tents, with often less than a foot or two between tents. This created a maze effect for people trying to find their tent, at night, drunk, with all of the guylines acting as tripwires late at night. The common toilet area stank from 50 yards away (already on the first day of the event), and the insides of the "stalls" were predictably vile. $6 USD for a hotdog, $11 for a shoddy burger. We camped in there on Thursday night before our Friday shows, although our ticket specifically precluded us from camping. We'd spent 2+ hours in traffic trying to get into the event grounds, only to be told to come back tomorrow. If not for a very lenient and understanding security dude, we would have have a meltdown-type of situation - fortunately,I was not directly or indirectly responsible for this outcome because my head would roll otherwise. But after experiencing a night among the hordes of drunken and hilarious British kids, Samantha wanted out again. So Friday morning, before the shows, we left the grounds for a quieter nearby camping area, then went back to the festival. It turned out to be a much more civil and sedate set-up for us.

Dozens of bands played all day on 3 different stages. None of the other shows could even touch Pearl Jam, though, and it was one of the best concerts I have ever seen. I was drenched in sweat about 5 or 6 bodies back from the front. Since Samantha is too small to contend with the mob down in front, I tried to expend the energy of 2 people, and I was totally spent after the show. Energy, adrenalin, intensity - damn I love a rock show. The UK crowd had trouble sustaining their enthusiasm when PJ went off the hook and extended a song with a jam for more than 4 minutes... I suppose these crowds are built for the bite-sized pop-trash that I heard from the other bands on the radio in days before and on the stages throughout the day.

Samantha met a nice Aussie gal during the show (more international friends!). She and her husband own a place in British Columbia, Canada, where they like to snowboard. We hope to meet them there in the future. :)

Now in Ireland, return to US on Sept. 9th. Bummer.

LONDON -- WELL, IT'S NOT NEW YORK

2006-09-02T12:54:00.000-07:00

Both Clint and I have been to London before so in many ways this trip was a bit reserved for us. In other words, neither one of us were that keen to spend our time wandering from one tourist sight to another. I also think we may have been a bit burnt out from going to the sights and museums in Paris. Further, our friend Erik from college recently moved to London and so we wanted to spend some time hanging out with him as well. The flight from Paris to London was super quick and it was an easy tube ride from Heathrow to the South Kensington tube stop. Erik lives in Chelsea so we were meeting him at a restaurant so he could guide us back to his place on his way home from work. Erik's flat is sweet and the area (Chelsea) is one of my favorites in London. His place is right near King's Road which is a shopper's paradise and features lots of stores I like, including Molton Brown.

During our first weekend in London, we managed to take in all the touristy sights. There were a lot places I had not been to and so while Clint had been to most (if not all) of the places, he was gladly willing to act as my pseudo tour guide and map reader. From Erik's we walked down and past Buckingham Palace. There were throngs of tourists standing in front of it waiting for who knows what since the Queen was out of town at her country residence. I wanted to run for the hills but ended up walking into one of the many parks to escape the tourists. Next, we saw Big Ben and then went into Westminister Abbey after paying around $20 each (after the exchange rate) to go inside. I am really astonished that a church charges people but that is neither here nor there and, I refuse to debate or pontificate my beliefs about organized religion on this blog. Westminister Abbey is enormous and while it was interesting to see the graves of famous royalty (including Elizabeth I -- my favorite - another Queen who ruled like a King), I kept thinking to myself I paid money to look at people's graves - disgusting!! Also, it did not help that a ton of people are buried underneath the floor of the Abbey and I have a huge problem walking on top of people's graves. So every time we have visited a church during the trip, I am always careful to step around the floor graves. Sometimes this is not easy because it seems they are always clumped together and I am not the tallest person which means my legs tend not to be long enough to step over or around some graves. The one funny notable at the Abbey was they were selling a book attempting to dispell the rumors created by the Da Vinci Code. On a side note, I read the Da Vinci Code while we were on this trip. I have no idea what the fuss is all about. Interesting story? Yes. Well written book? No. The book is total rubbish and written for a nine-year-old. In fact, I think Dan Brown should be ashamed of himself.

After the Abbey, we headed to the Tower of London stopping along the way at the Court of Justice to check out the barristers (lawyers) and judges in their wigs. It was a pretty funny sight for me to see. I can't imagine going to court looking like that or having anyone take me seriously, including my client. Clint was not as amused as I was to see the wigs. We then walked by St. Paul's Cathedral, one of the largest churches in the world, to find out they too were charging admission. We chose not to go in because, quite frankly, we are both churched out. After St. Paul's Cathderal, we proceeded to make the biggest mistake of our London trip...shelling out about $30 each to go into the Tower of London. What a waste of money. The Tower of London was a total bore. The Crown Jewels were not that spectacular and I could not wait to get the hell out of there. Plus it was crowded with tourists and honestly, I hate being around a lot of people. They drive me nuts! What can I say, I am a crumudgeon (thanks Carol). After the Tower of Lameness, we headed back to Erik's to meet him for dinner and drinks. Clint's apertivo creation led to us to not being ready to go out until all the pubs had closed for the night. So, rather than partake in some after-hours club drinking, we ordered beer delivery. It is bloody brilliant. We called up a company, placed an order and within 20 minutes we had some Stella Artois and a 24 pack of Kronenburg without going anywhere. I love it. Of course I love it because then I do not have to be around other people at a smoky bar and pretend I am enjoying myself.

As a result of the beer delivery the night before, we did not get up until the rock hour of noonish. We had our morning coffee (thank you Starbucks) and then headed out in search of some breakfast. We found a great Brasserie (ironic to be eating at a French restaurant in London when we were just in France) and had a good meal. After breakfast, we went to Harrod's. Of course, Erik and Clint left me in Harrod's. I needed new sunglasses but ended up going elsewhere to buy them. That night, Clint and I went over to our friend Jane's house for dinner. Jane was one of our climbing buddies from Kili and so we were looking forward to seeing her. She also had told me that she wanted to take us to an "english" experience after dinner so we were looking forward to the surprise. It turned out to be greyhound racing. So after a delicious dinner, we headed to the tracks. Erik even came out to hit the tracks with us. We had a fun time betting on the dogs and yelling at them to win. Jane's luck was the best that night, closely followed by Erik. Let's just say, my days are better spent elsewhere since I am apparently no genius when it comes to placing bets on racing dogs. After the races, we finished the night with a pint at Jane's "local", the Nag's Head. I loved the name and Clint implied the name was perfect for me. So I fired him as my husband for the evening. The Nag's head's mascot was a black and white cat that had at least 10 pounds on Chloe (if you can believe it since Chloe weighs in at about 300 lbs) and was trying to take up an entire cushion on a couch but for the person also sitting on that same cushion (also sounds like Chloe who lies in the middle of Dali's dog bed forcing Dali to the edge).

On Sunday, we peetered around all day. We walked around Hyde Park, saw the Diana Memorial (designed by Catherine Gustafson from Shannon Nichol's firm) and listened to a lot of different people postulate on religion at Speakers Corner. In fact, Speakers Corner could be an example of why religion will always create animosity but it also exemplifies how that animosity can be quelled in a democratic society -- everyone is free to speak their opinion and openly practice their religion. After Speakers Corner, Erik left us for drycleaning and Clint insisted on going to Picadilly Circus. Apparently when he saw it the first time, interesting people, rather than tourists, hung out in the circle. It was not interesting and overrun with tourists. It also did not help that I had a coughing attack. Later that night, we went to see Nacho Libre. While, I thought it had potential because Jack Black is in the movie, it was not funny. But I did find out something very important while watching previews -- JackAss 2 is coming out. Sweet!! I loved the first movie (in fact I own it on DVD) and so I am definitely looking forward to seeing the second one. Hopefully I can drag my mom to it when I am back in California. Otherwise, I will make her watch it on DVD like I did with the first one. She did not think it was funny.

After our weekend in London, we picked up a rental car on Monday and headed to Edinburgh, Scotland for the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. We had no idea that not only was the Fringe festival taking place but also the International Film Festival, Book Festival and the Edinburgh International Festival -- 4 in 1, how lucky are we? We stayed at Clive and Clare's house in Edinburgh. They are the couple who rented our house in Seattle. Their house in Edinburgh is brilliant and very accommodating. Clint and I both felt very fortunate to have met Clive and Clare and for the hospitality they extended to us at their home. Thank you again Clare!!

We had the chance to take in some of the exhibitions and performances at the Festivals. So, after checking out the Edinburgh Castle and getting some good pictures of the town, we headed to a 1960's photo exhibit. Great pictures of the Stones, Beatles and other British icons of the 60's. Afterwards, we headed to the National Gallery to see a special exhibition of Van Gogh paintings. There were some great works featured in the exhibition. I was thrilled to be taking in more Van Gogh works. We also checked out a Harry Benson photo exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery. Clare even joined us for that exhibition. Benson was a photo-journalist and so his pictures spanned from the 50's through current times and featured some candid pictures of the Clintons, the Beatles, Reagans and also featured pictures depicting pivotal moments in American and World history. We also saw some live performances including "According to Jesus" (not funny), "Clean Living" (thought provoking because it was about the buying and selling of emissions) and "Jane Bussman's Holiday" (very funny and thought provoking - why is Africa ignored?).

After our time at the Edinburgh festival, we decided to drive around western Scotland around some Lochs to take in the scenery before heading down to Leeds for the Leeds festival. The drive was beautiful and the Scottish landscape was desolate but diverse. We arrived in Leeds to a 2 hour traffic crawl to the festival parking lot. While I thought we could camp on the grounds, I was wrong. My ticket did say "No Camping." But a security guard was kind enough to let us in for the night anyway. The campgrounds were a zoo. Everywhere you looked there were tents; it was nuts. We think there were at least 40,000 (probably more) tents set up in the various campgrounds. The attendance was estimated at over 100,000 people. We've never seen anything like it before -- maybe Burning Man or Coachella is that big but I am not sure. Because it was so packed in with people, I got very little sleep. It also did not help that some people got to the site really late and set their tents up by banging into our tent. Further, it did not help that some fellow campers were participating in extracurricular activities early in the morning for all to hear. I was glad to get the hell out of the campgrounds the next morning. We booked it for a nearby campground that we saw on our way in and it was quiet, grassy and clean....camping heaven. After showering, we headed back to the festival via the residence entrance -- no lines and very few people. I have always wanted to go to the Leeds and/or Reading Festival since I was in high school so I was pretty psyched to be there. But the main reason we went was to see Pearl Jam! Since Pearl Jam played last, that meant we sat through sets by My Chemical Romance (not good), Slayer (good but weird and hardcore) and Placebo (good, but what is up with the lead singer's eye make-up? It looked like he stole my NARS purple eyeshadow). We also checked out some Brit pop bands with some Brits we met at the Carling, warm beer for cold beer, beergarden. The Brit bands weren't bad but I was unenthusiastic because I was so excited about Pearl Jam. Clint and I split up for the Pearl Jam concert so he could be in the middle while I hung out on the side avoiding the crowd crush. I am only 5 feet 1 inch. I ended up meeting an Aussie named Leanne and so we hung out for the entire show. Hopefully we will meet up with her and her boyfriend in canada for some riding (snowboarding for those who do not know the lingo). Pearl Jam was amazing and I am not just saying that because I am a huge fan of the band. They put on an energetic show that was reminiscent of the days when Ten had just been released and Eddie Vedder use to climb the stage pylons and crowd surf. They rocked and it was worth all the trouble to see them. On a side note, in a past blog I said I thought I saw Eddie Vedder in a porsche, listening to cuts for their recently released album, on 45th near my house when I was walking Dali . After going to the concert, I have changed my mind. It was not Eddie but instead, I think it was Stone Gossard. Travis, you may snicker at me for this but I think I am right.

Clint and I had to get up early Saturday morning after our day at the festival to drive back to London to drop off our rental car. By the time we arrived in London, we were both exhausted and had a terrible time finding our way back to the rental car drop-off location. So we ended up doing a whole lot of nothing that night but I did discover the "Family Guy" thanks to Erik's DVD collection. It is hilarious, particularly Stuey. I wish I had his balls when I was his age (around 1), I would have loved to call my mom an "incorrugible shrew". Brilliant! The next day was spent hitting London's musuems. Specifically, the National Gallery with Clint and the Tate Modern by myself (clint had to participate in a fantasy football draft). It was a low-key day.

DENNIS MILLER RANT ABOUT LONDON

While I think London is a great city, it is no New York. In New York, you can get pretty much whatever you want at any hour of the day, something you take for granted until you travel through Europe and need something on a Sunday. Also, while New York certainly has a concentration of wealth, London's seems exaggerated and stodgy. The English are just a little too proper and stiff for me. Also, there seems to be this over consumption of materialism and status in London. Londoners are very concerned with showing off their wealth and status in society -- it reminds me a little of San Francisco or even L.A. New York has this a bit too but it's different -- there are no cars involved. But it could also be that we spent a lot of our time in the Chelsea and Kensington neighborhoods, two areas with a very high concentration of wealth and luxury vehicles. Basically, if I had a choice between visiting London or Edinburgh, I would take Edinburgh.

WHAT? THE TRIP IS ALMOST OVER?

After our low-key weekend in London, we caught a flight Monday morning from Heathrow to Dublin. Ireland is the last leg of the trip before we headed home and complete our circumnavigation around the globe. Clint is pretty depressed about the prospect of returning home while I am looking forward to seeing my "kids", my family, friends, sleeping in my own bed, using my own bathroom, having a washer and dryer at my disposal and having a clothes and shoes choice.

I LOVE PARIS ALL THE TIME

2006-09-02T12:51:00.000-07:00

During the course of the trip, I decided to hate the French. Did I have a reason for this? No, not really. I simply choose to hate them because I could. However, I also heard during the course of our trip, from other Americans, about how rude the French were to them. So, now, I am ashamed to admit I really do love Paris and I am indifferent to the French people. I do not hate them but I do not love them and I am still ecstatic that Italy beat them in the World Cup finals. Viva Italia!! Besides, after spending several days in Paris, the Italians were doing enough on their own to poke fun at the French and rub in their World Cup victory. Last, Clint and I did not have one bad experience with any French person. While one woman at a store was not overly friendly, the native San Franciscan woman also working at the store, countered any coldness I felt from the Frenchwoman. But the lack of rudeness towards us could also be because we opened every conversation with French and not English. A major tip from our world travels. If you are going to travel to a non-English speaking country, do not expect or automatically assume they speak English. Further, be considerate and learn some words in the native language; it goes a long way. Otherwise, do not complain when they are rude to you because you have been disrespectful by expecting them to speak English.

For me, Paris is by far my favorite city in Europe. I never thought I would say that, but now I have. Paris offers everything -- stunning architecture, delicious food, amazing art and of course, fabulous shopping! Everyday my eyes were riveted by the stores we passed on the streets, the gardens, the bridges we crossed over the Seine and the neighborhoods we encountered. I would move to Paris in a heartbeat, but Clint does not want to live in a big city.

I arrived in Paris to some dreary, rainy weather. Clint and I decided to have some "alone time" which meant he stayed in Amsterdam with a friend enjoying the herbal delights and sexual fantasies of that city, while I attempted to do some shopping in Paris before he arrived Sunday night. I only had one shopping mission in Paris -- to go to the Herve Chapelier store. I love their bags and they are waterproof (a major bonus for Seattle weather). My mission was accomplished very quickly and I was able to take in the Champs D'Elysee at the same time. I also got a glimpse of the Louis Vuitton flagship store. Of course, it was the first thing I saw as I exited the metro. After making my purchase, I headed to the Modern Art Museum at the Pompidou Center. The museum was interesting in that it forced you to walk through a bunch of exhibits of varying degrees of artistic talent in order to see such classics as Warhol, Pollock and Kadinsky. Needless to say, I was not pleased by the shit I was seeing on my way to these artists' work. After the museum, I retired to the hotel early and was asleep by 8:00 p.m., since I had not had much sleep before I arrived in Paris. A sad life I lead on the world tour.

I spent my first full day in Paris touring more art museums (I can never get enough) because the shops were closed. Actually, that's not true. I really do love art and it is hard for me not to visit major cities without going to at least one museum. My first museum of the day was the Musee D'Orsay. All I can say is the permanent collection is amazing. They have all the big name pre-impressionist, impressionist and post-impressionist artists. The museum itself is located in an old railroad station which provides an unique backdrop for displaying the work. The building strikes a fair balance between making you feel like you are not clustered together with the rest of the patrons, while at the same time providing an intimate environment in which to display the works. I was thrilled with the amount of Rodin sculptures in the museum's permanent collection as well as an entire room dedicated to Van Gogh. The museum also had one Klimt painting and alot of works by Monet, Manet, Sisley, Pisarro and Renoir. After the Musee D'Orsay I headed to the L'Orangerie. Unfortunately, the line to get in was very long and I also remembered Clint expressing an interest in going to that museum so I took off for the Fashion museum. It was closed. But I was blown away by the walk to the Fashion Museum. I walked along the left bank of the Seine and saw the magnificent Pont Alexandre III bridge, the Obelisk as well as the grand and petite palaces. Everywhere I looked, I was amazed by the architecture of the buildings, the manicured gardens, the flow of people and the Seine. Paris took my breath away with each step as I moved forward along the Quay. After my walk, I went back to the Jardin Tuilleries and into the Jeu de Paumes museum to see a special exhibition of Cindy Sherman's work. The exhibition featured several different series of photographs featuring Cindy Sherman in various costumes, make-up, prosthesis and poses. It was thought-provoking and even a bit perverse at times. Having still not seen quite enough artwork for the day, I headed to the Picasso Museum in the Marais neighborhood of Paris. Picasso's family donated the collection to France in lieu of paying Picasso's back taxes. After a short visit to the museum, I wandered the streets nearby looking for the subway in vain and discovered some delights. First, there were quite a few boutiques in the area with some great stuff and they were open (even on a Sunday, quite good fortune). Second, I ended up in a garden/courtyward of sorts that was interesting and provided some good rain cover. I eventually headed to the metro and went back to the hotel. For dinner (Clint's train did not arrive until late), I ended up going to an Cameroon restaurant near the hotel. The food was delicious and I downed a half-bottle of Bordeaux (so tasty) by myself. Let's just say when Clint arrived at the hotel, I was in a very jolly mood.

CLINT IN PARIS = NO MORE SHOPPING, BUT I CAN STILL TRY.....

Once Clint arrived in Paris, my shopping days were over. So we headed to the infamous Louvre to see the Mona Lisa. [Travel tip for anyone traveling to Paris and planning to go to the Louvre. Buy your tickets for it at the Virgin Megastore in the Carousel. You pay 1 euro extra for each ticket but it is worth it because you avoid some major lines.] The Mona Lisa is a beautiful painting but there are serveral other DaVinci's at the museum which, in my mind, surpass the beauty of the Mona Lisa. The Louvre is enormous and houses tons of artwork extending over several different periods. As a result, it can be very overwhelming. We did not see everything in the Louvre. But rather, picked a few areas of interest and went there. Clint is interested in sculptures and Spanish paintings, so we spent quite some time checking out the French and Italian sculptures as well as perusing the Spainish galleries. We were both disappointed to see there were no Goyas. We also perused the Egyptian Antiquities collection as it is suppose to be the second best in the world after the Egyptian Antiquities museum in Cairo. The pieces in that collection were varied and impressive but I did not see any Queen Hatshepsut relics. But Clint was pleased to see plenty of Horus and Ramses II statues. Whatever. When will these people learn Queen Hatshepsut was the best ruler ever! After the Louvre, we walked around the Jardin Tuilleries and ate some baguettes not too far from the U.S. embassy. Our embassy in Paris (like many around the world right now) was a fortified fortress. It gave me goosebumps to see the amount of security surrounding our embassy. After baguette eating (which is a must for the French), we headed to the Eiffel Tower. On our way to the Tower, I took Clint on a tour along the left bank of the Seine that I had undertaken the day before. He was impressed with the beauty of the bridges, river and architecture but not quite blown away. The Tower is impressive but the lines to go to the top of the Tower were massive. I thought for a second I was in line for Space Mountain at Disneyland in the middle of July. We decided to skip a trip to the top because of the long lines and instead continued our walk to a viewing point across the way from the Tower. The views were excellent and Clint got some great pictures. After the Tower we headed to the Arc d'Triumph. The Champs D'Elysse runs off the Arc and Clint wanted to walk down the Champs to see it first hand. The wide boulevards in Paris (such as the Champs D'Elysee) are alluring. After our romantic (not really since I was pumped up on espresso) stroll down the champs D'Elysee we headed to the L'Orangerie. It is a small museum located in the Jardin Tuilleries. It has recently reopended after some renovations in order to allow more natural light to capture Monet's "Water lilies". This particular museum was created around 8 of his "water lily" canvases that are enormous. The paintings were impressive but, as Clint pointed out, it was easy to be distracted by the seams in the canvases. The museum also had a decent collection of other impressionist painters including several Renoirs that I fell in love with -- his paintings of flowers are magical.

Our next day in Paris was again spent mostly at museums. First up was the Rodin museum which I had read about in a travel magazine. Since Clint had expressed his interest in sculpture work, I thought he might enjoy the museum and he did. I was delightfully surprised to find out that the museum also exhibited some of Rodin's own personal art collection, including several Van Goghs. As it is my goal to see every single Van Gogh painting in the world, this was perfect. Rodin's sculptures are impressive and his Gates of Hell sculpture (which I first saw the cast at the Musee D'Orsay), blew me away. The detail of the sculpture along with the symbolism is brilliant. There is no other way to describe it. Rodin's work in general is very expressive -- the sculptures come alive. The museum is located in Rodin's old home and gardens and, as a result, it is an intimate experience and a quiet place to whittle away a few hours from the bustle of the rest of the Paris. After the Rodin Museum, I dropped Clint off at the Musee D'Orsay and I headed for Paris' biggest department store, Gallerie Lafayette. Unfortunately, it was closed because of a National Holiday. How unfortunate. A few hours alone in what was to be shopper's paradise was ended just like that. But along the way, I saw the Opera House which is an ornate, gold-guilded, large building. I was impressed enough with it to drag Clint to it the next day and also drag him into Gallerie Lafayette. He was actually pretty cool about letting me walk around the store. I didn't take long and he was able to find himself an ice-cream so we were all happy. After meeting Clint at the Musee D'Orsay and finding him something to eat, we headed to the St. Germaine neighborhood, Latin Quarter and finally to Notre Dame. We were sightseeing tourists in full force. While the Notre Dame is large, I was really disappointed when I saw it. For some reason I thought the architecture would be even more gothic in nature and the gargoyles would be larger and more menacing. Also, where the hell was the hunchback?

Our last day in Paris was spent wandering around the city with no purpose. We walked around and around and around. I managed to Jedi mind-trick Clint into walking down the Rue St. Faubourg Honore several times --- great shopping street which made me very happy. Hey, at least I could window shop even if I could not actually go inside the store. While we were in Paris is when the British police thwarted the airplane bombing attacks which meant we could not buy any French wine. :(

I am looking forward to my next trip to Paris. But as I told my friend Brandy, I think (even though everyone says Paris is a romantic city) that Paris is the perfect place to go with girlfriends so you can shop, drink wine and eat the delicious cheese and other Parisian food. Now, I am off to learn some French.

Amsterdam and Southern Holland

2006-08-14T12:36:00.000-07:00

Samantha and I met a Dutchman and a Greek one night when we were in Athens, both young guys, and we had a fun night out drinking with them. I have kept in touch occasionally with the Dutchman, Rolph, and he offered to host us when we visited Amsterdam. So after arriving in Amsterdam's main train station on Thursday night (Aug 10th), we took another local train to the Amsterdam airport where Rolph would meet us. We had only met him once but he seemed like a good guy and so we weren't sure what to expect.

After we met him and his charming girlfriend Judit at the airport, we all jumped into the car for a 3-hour drive down to southern Holland. Rolph was a very eager tour guide and had lots of information to share about Holland. That night, we stayed at Judit's very nice apartment and had pizza and beer - who knew pizza with sharwarma topping was so tasty? The next day, after a good homemade eggs-n-bacon breakfast, Rolph drove us around southern Holland for some sight-seeing. We saw the impressive water control systems used by The Netherlands to protect their below sea-level land from surging sea storms, and we also spent a few hours strolling around the old Dutch town of Middleberg. We ended the day with a long, traffic-ridden drive back to Amsterdam, where we managed to squeeze in a trip to the Van Gogh Museum before the 10pm closing time. Although I am at times unsure of Van Gogh's artistic genius, I really dug a few of the paintings and it was worth the visit. Then we checked into our budget hotel, where my old buddy Lou, who lives in London, would meet us a short time later. Although we only had 3 single beds in the hotel room, we invited Rolph to join us for a night on the town in Amsterdam (I slept on the floor). Samantha had visited Amsterdam before, and she knows A) what that scene is all about, and B) what kind of damage Lou and I can do together... so she made it an early night. So Rolph, Lou and I prowled around Amsterdam on Friday night looking for a good time.

After much more walking than was necessary, we rolled into one of Amsterdam's numerous and infamous "coffee shops". The marijuana was sold over the counter by the joint or by the bag, and I opted to start with a pre-rolled joint. It was low-quality bud and I can't say I really enjoyed it too much, but it was fun to smoke up legally and I enjoyed the novelty. We hit a few other spots, but the rest of the night was a bit of a snooze, and after a late kebab dinner, we were back in bed at the hotel by about 2am.

The next morning, Samantha left very early for Paris, and Rolph took off as well (thx again for the photo book!). So that left Lou and I to our own devices, and those devices are usually not decent or safe ones. We started with a few beers and billiards and then progressed to a bag of weed. The day started to shred into progressively smaller pieces and fleeting flickers of memory. I remember lots of smoking and drinking, and a cheesy sex show involving a banana. I remember thinking how stupid and fun it was to be so torn up in the red-light district in Amsterdam, but with an old trusted compadre alongside, well, I had no fear. I recall that the sex show had a pricing scheme in place that encouraged us to drink as many drinks as possible during our alloted time in the show, so we attacked the bottom-shelf gin and tonics like it was The Last Supper and I don't remember a damn thing thereafter. Suffice it to say that we made it back to the hotel somehow and I had a massive fucking hangover the next day (well deserved).

On Sunday, Lou and I didn't do a damn thing since I was hurting from the hangover and he was dragging a bit as well. We both left later Sunday afternoon (train to Paris to rendezvous with the missus). I swear I will come back to Amsterdam sometime and do justice to the vices that the city has to offer. Two days was not enough, and I had the unbelievably bad luck to smoke fairly crappy grass while I was there. I didn't think such an outcome was possible. (see all Hooland photos)

Maybe I will move to Denmark...

2006-08-11T12:12:00.000-07:00

When we left Berlin for Denmark (photos), we were really winging it. We were going for 2 reasons: 1) I am half-Danish, so visiting a land from which I descend was mildly intriguing, and; 2) we wanted to visit our 3 Danish friends from our Mt. Kilimanjaro climbing group (Sine, Peter, and Frants). Via email, I had corresponded with our friends and had a somewhat unclear idea of what our 3 days there would be like. The day before we left, I received an email from Peter telling us to get off our train at the Ringsted stop, about 40 minutes before it would reach Copenhagen. Peter and Frants would meet us there, take us to Frants's house nearby, treat us to dinner, and invite us to stay with them. Map checking revealed that Ringsted was, well, rather small and amidst rural-ness. And beyond the first evening, I had no detailed plan for Denmark. We would just wing it.

I was really overwhelmed by the hospitality we enjoyed in Demark. It was tremendous.

No gameplan was needed, because EVERYTHING was taken care of. Everything! Frants and Peter live in the same town of Glumso, within walking distance of each other, and they tag-teamed, along with their wives (Lisbeth and Marianne, respectively) to treat us to perhaps the most relaxing and enjoyable 3 days of our trip. We received a grand reception at the train station with Peter and Frants sporting little US flags to show their enthusiasm for their dignitaries (and that IS how we were treated). Dinner our first night was a feast from Frants's backyard grill and fantastic in everyway. Our Danish friends know how to cook, and we reaped the rewards as many of our meals were home-cooked.

We spent our first fun evening eating, chatting, and getting better acquainted with Peter's wife Marianne, Frants's wife Lisbeth, and their 3 kids Sofus, Holger, and Albur. Great people, which of course makes everything better. Marianne is very pregnant and a very cool customer. Lisbeth is a super-mom and a first rate hostess. The kids were also a blast. Sofus is the oldest and a very warm-hearted kid, Holger was to become my new appendage and Viking warrior comrade, and little Albur was adorable and a respectable power-eater. I often found myself drawn to the backyard to play with the two older boys, which was fine with me. They liked to play like fighting Vikings and well, so do I. We chopped on apples and whacked each other with swords and had many fine Viking victories in the back yard. Good fun, and I did grow attached to those boys in my short time there. I hope to see them again someday.

The next day, Frants and Peter loaded 4 bikes into a trailer and hauled them into Copenhagen so the four of us could go on a bike tour of Copenhagen. Such a great way to enjoy this lovely city, and we kept moving all day and covered a lot of ground. Frants was a solid tour guide and he added some relevant knowledge as we saw the sites around town. Copenhagen ranks right up there on my list of Europe's beautiful cities with Venice, Prague, Barcelona, and Munich - especially when the weather is as perfect as it was that day. At midday we parked the bikes and grabbed take-out sandwiches and beer and plopped down in the new harbor for a casual lunch and some good people-watching. Then we took a short boat tour of the city, prowling around the various canals and harbors of Copenhagen and catching an eyeful of the city. From the boat, we saw the Little Mermaid statue - very underwhelming and I'm not sure why it's such a friggin' tourist attraction. Then we climbed a tall church tower for an awesome bird's eye view of town. Then we took a quick walk into Christiana, a neighborhood full of pot smokers and post-hippies disillusioned with modern society who have claimed a narrow strip of land as some kind of sovereign country, which they claim is independent in some way from the rest of Denmark. Super liberal, and a bit odd - but interesting.

That night, we met up with Sine, our third Danish climbing comrade, at her sweet apartment in Copenhagen. Frants headed back to Glumso and Peter, Sine, Samantha and I went out to eat some real Danish cuisine. Peter and I had some super-thick fried bacon strip meal that you dip into gravy. I forget the name of the dish, but it was delicious even if it did take 2 years off of my life with artery clogagge. After an after-dinner coffee at Sine's place, we headed back to Glumso. Lucky for Samantha and I, Frants and Lisbeth were anxious to have us and we ended up staying at their house for all 4 nights that we were in Denmark.

Day 2 in Denmark was also a blast. The whole gang (except Sine and Marianne) went for a day trip to Moon Klint, or translated as the cliffs on the isle of Moon (i think). We swam in the ocean (not that cold once you're in) at the base of some very steep and tall white chalk cliffs. Really cool beach, and we had a good time frolicking in the water for a while. The boys were in the water too and having fun - it was really a pleasure to be surrounded by 7 smiling faces all afternoon. Afterwards we stopped at a fresh food takeout and ate in the adjoining picnic area. Smoked salmon, sole, shrimp salad, herring in curry sauce, and lutefisk, with brown bread and beer. Having good company and a relaxing swim, topped off by delicious fresh fish - ah, it was bliss. That night, another fantastic meal at Frants and Lisbeth's house. A great day.

Day 3 was very chilled out and relaxing. A 5-person crew of Frants, Peter, Marianne, Samantha and me visited a very old but thriving village town of Naevstead. Buildings that were hundreds of years old, an open-air market, perfect weather and a quiet pace made it an enjoyable visit. Next we headed to a nearby beach where Frants, Peter and I dove in for an afternoon swim while Samantha and Marianne chatted on shore. Then we stopped at the harbor for another relaxed outdoor lunch of delicious fresh salmon, brown bread and beers. At this point I was having too much fun and I was concocting plans of how I could remain in Denmark to hang out with our friends. Frants reminded me that although I was welcome, I should remember that my opinion might be different if the weather was cold and dreary, but I schemed nonetheless. Later that afternoon, Frants, Peter, the boys and I ducked out to Peter's father's big country house for a ride on Peter's quad, a beer, and a chat. [Frants, I will remember our short chat very fondly, and I hope we get to spend some time together in the future. Peter, as for you, well, get your ass out to Seattle and we'll find some good terrain for the quads and get into the mountains for some peaks that you can summit.]

That last night at Frants and Lisbeth's house, we feasted on a massive multi-course meal with bottle after bottle of excellent wine to conclude our "tour de luxury" in Denmark. We were lucky that Sine was able to come down from Copenhagen to join us, and we had a great night. At this point, I *really* did not want to leave. In addition to the great hospitality and great weather, we'd had the fortune to visit while everyone was on summer holiday, so everyone was able to free up time to dote on us, play tour guide for us, feed us, and generally lavish us with TLC. I'd befriended the boys and they were just as upset as I was that we had to leave. But the World Tour could not grind to a halt in Denmark, and our gracious hosts had to return to their jobs.

Just when we thought we had been pampered enough, Marianne sent us off with a huge bag full of enough delicious food to feed 5 men, and Lisbeth drove us to the train station and personally delivered us to our platform. I mean, really, does it get any better than this? I think not. To Lisbeth, Frants, Marianne, Peter, Sofus, Holger, Albur, and Sine: we thank you whole-heartedly for everything you did for us. We are very eager to try to match your amazing hospitality so please come to Seattle.

Next up: Amsterdam.

Berlin

2006-08-10T11:17:00.000-07:00

Berlin is a lovely and international city, and I found it to be unmistakably more urban than Munich. Obviously it's a historically pivotal city as well, but I did not find Berlin to be as culturally emblematic as Munich is to Bavaria. The makeup of the city is an attractive but sometimes odd mix of 21st century progress and the classic styles of centuries past. (Photo: Sammy inspecting shrapnel and bullet marks in an old pillar. See other Munich and Berlin photos)

The Wall was a big focus for us. Samantha and I are both low-caliber history buffs, of a sort, and in our heads we brought to Germany just enough of our European history from high school. We knew just enough to have a curious interest to learn more, but not enough to have an in-depth appreciation for the history that oozes from every corner of the city. We both remembered, in different ways, the excitement surrounding the fall of The Wall and beginning of the end of Communism in Eastern Europe.

We arrived by train in the whiz-bang high-tech Zoo Station in Berlin, and took a city tram to our very centrally located hostel (City Stay) in the Mitte neighborhood near Hackescher Garden. Usually, after a train ride of any length, we bust out and want to do some walking. But it was late in the day and there was plenty of perusing to do near our hostel. Our first evening, still in "B`avaria mode", we went to a beer pub only two blocks away for an "apertivo" drink (thank you, Firenze). While there, we discovered a chess board and Samantha played me to a stalemate. Considering my long list of consecutive victories in both chess (which isn't fair to gloat about as she is just learning the game) and Travel Scrabble (she has no excuse for these thrashings), this was worth celebrating. We headed out to another, more traditional and Bavarian-looking bierhaus for wiessbeer and wursts - we were still thinking of Munich. Samantha after 2 respectably-sized German beers is a hoot. I've never seen anyone faster to smile, laugh, or cuss someone than Queen Hatshepsut with a buzz.

The next day we set out for some informational tourism. We walked through the heart of central Berlin, to the extent that such a thing exists. Berlin has a very large footprint and required a mix of walking and subways and trams to cover a substantial portion of the city, but there is a central core of sorts and we trod it well. We crossed the River Spree and hit the infamous Checkpoint Charlie and the Topography of Terror museum, both of which provided dozens of posted info boards to read about the history of the Berlin Wall and the Nazi regime, respectively. More creeping feelings in my guts about the utter evil of the Nazis and the oppressiveness of the Communists. Samantha seemed very keen to absorb the intrigue of the Cold War spying that took place in Berlin, but she can discuss that in more detail if she chooses.

We also climbed a commemorative landmark tower for a great view of Berlin. Lots of crains scattered on the horizon testify to the amount of building going on here. We also visited the Brandeberg Tor and the infamous Book-Burning Square. The Holocaust Memorial and the corresponding museum beneath it (fittingly grim, but why did they put it UNDERGROUND? Think!) gave me heavy boots about the 6 million people that were clinically eradicated. [And why do we keep reading about these anti-Semites and various Muslim leaders who claim that the Holocaust was a myth?! Come see the film footage of the corpses being plowed with a bulldozer and it becomes very real, very fast. Sheesh the world is chock full of idiots.] At any rate, you can open any guide book on Berlin that includes the most popular tourist traps, and we likely saw them. Including of course, The Wall.

We split our time in Berlin between 2 different hostels in different parts of town. Both were in the old "East German" side, but the second (Lettem Sleep) was in an older neighborhood that seemed trapped, blissfully, in a time warp with Hausmann-style buildings and small but well-visited urban parks. Dotted with some decrepit old poured concrete buildings, too - the modernization of Berlin hasn't reached the entire city yet.

But Berlin had a very international flavor, literally. We ate at a beer hall, a pizza joint run by Italians, a Mexican breakfast, drank tea at an Arab cafe, had Thai food, and of course, one of my favs, Turkish Doner. A far cry from Bavaria, indeed.

The US Embassy in Berlin is fortified like the White House.

On our last day in Berlin, Samantha and I split up for the afternoon. I took a long walk through the neighborhood and then caught a few subways to the German-Russian museum. Most of the museum commemorated the Soviets for their extraordinary perseverance and sacrifice during WWII, and some of the old black and white film footage of the Siege of St. Petersburg was really remarkable. Being an infantryman doing battle in the middle of a waist-deep Soviet winter at 20 degrees F below zero looks like hell. The hot slop they were served for meals looked like sewage and their faces lit up with joy upon getting it. Man, if I ever have to fight in a war, it had better be for a DAMN good reason.

Anyhow, the afternoon in Berlin sans wife gave me lots of time to think. I thought about how much this trip has changed my opinion of government. For millenia, governments, while often providing better living standards, have also often been guilty of fleecing their citizens for various reasons, most frequently greed and power. Is our own US Government, the richest and most powerful in the world, impervious to those temptations? The US Department of Defense admitted that a recent audit showed that $1 trillion of taxpayer funds cannot be accounted for - they don't know what happened to it. The US defense budget is now 40% higher than it was in 2001. Before September 11th, there was pervasive public enthusiasm for cutting defense spending in a post-Soviet world that did not pose an imminent military threat. When they collapsed, the World Trade Towers appeared to show signs of expert demolition. These facts imply a sick and infuriating possibility - but is it unpatriotic to mistrust your government? If every red-blooded American ruled out government manipulation as "impossible", doesn't that make it all the more possible?

That said, if there is one lesson I have learned on this trip, it's that this is a dog-eat-dog world, through and through. I think Darwinism is perhaps the most powerful dynamic on the planet - definitely stronger than religion. If America is guilty of manipulating it's own people in order to maintain the most advanced killing capability money can buy, is that wrong? Because if it was another country in the Dominant position, would they do any different? To preserve their own preeminence? I think it unlikely. Sometimes you are born a lion, and sometimes you're born a lamb. That's just the way it is.

I voted for George Bush twice. Feels like a decade ago when he stomped Kerry. When I get home, I am switching my voter reg to Independent. If there was a party called Elect Us But Don't Trust Us, I'd join them.

Over the course of this trip, I have had so much time to think of stuff like this. I'd like to write it all down, but it's not really interesting to anyone but me. Sometimes I want to rant and rave about what I've learned and what I've encountered in the world, sometimes I think it's pointless. I suppose it's just a maturation process that, without a blog, would be private but just as pointless.

But I disgress. I wouldn't characterize our time in Berlin as special in any way. In 3 days and 4 nights, we simply went about visiting the various tourist sites and blah blah blah. I am convinced that I would be MUCH more enthusiastic about Berlin if we had not just seen umpteen other European cities before it. Berlin wasn't boring, but it just wasn't steak... it was one of the other dishes on the buffet table that didn't make me ask for the recipe.

Berlin -- No, not the band

2006-08-09T14:18:00.000-07:00

I had a real hesistation to travel to Germany because of its horrific history. I had especially heavy boots after visiting Auschwitz (Germany's biggest concentration camp) in Poland. But I realized, I could not let one lunatic leader's (and his followers) insane, archaic and grotesque ideas overshadow an entire nation. Nevertheless, it is still difficult for me to shake the image of the Nazis, Hitler and the Holocaust while traveling through Germany and not blame the German people for allowing the Nazi ideas to take over the entire country. I just do not understand how an entire nation could allow Hitler to accumulate so much power or agree with his propaganda to expel and murder Jews, Gypsies, Russians, Polish and many other nationalities. I just do not get it.

Berlin pushes the issues of the Holocaust, WWII and the Cold War to the forefront of one's mind when you are exploring the city. You cannot escape seeing bulletholes in older buildings or sections of the Berlin Wall. There are many beautiful parks, museums, historic squares and buildings in Berlin; but WWII and the Cold War seem to overshadow this beauty. Most, if not all, of our experiences in Berlin revolved around seeing sites or visiting museums related to WWII and the Cold War.

We visited Checkpoint charlie, a tourist trap. Once at the checkpoint, we crossed over from East Berlin to West Berlin. We read about the escapes east Berliners orchestrated in order to get over to the west side, along with the GDR's (East Germany's government) "shoot to kill" policy in the event someone attempted to escape.

Near Checkpoint Charlie, there is the incomplete Topography of Terror museum. It is currently an outdoor exhibit and begs the question why a permanent building has not been built to detail the crimes committed by the Nazis. The museum exhibits describe the Nazis rise to power, how the Nazis started WWII (by destroying a radio/t.v. tower in Germany on the German/Poland border and, then, blaiming it on the Polish), and finally their campaign of terror against the Jews, Gypsies, Polish, Russians and whoever else they decided to hate. The museum also had an exhibit about the Nuremberg trials after the war, which resulted in the conviction and execution of some top Nazi officials. The actual site of the museum is located on the ruins of the former Nazi headquaters which were bombed to shreds during WWII by the Allies. It is strange to be walking on top or around former Nazi headquarters while at the same time reading about the destruction and murder caused by them.

After sampling some organic currywurst (I love my organic food), we walked past the Reichstag (which Hitler allegedly burned down), Germany's Parliament building, on our way to the Holocaust memorial. The memorial is comprised of grey cement blocks in varying size on a sloped site. It is a somber memorial, but with the setting sunlight hitting the blocks, it is also a very beautiful. We went into the information center where I learned that the Nazis had set up a concentration camp in the town of Minsk (it is located in Belarus), where my grandmother was born. Aside from the concentration camp, the Nazis also massacred 5,000 - 6,000 Jews there. It was heart wrenching to read family stories and postcards sent by Holocaust victims. Clint and I had heavy boots leaving the Holocaust memorial.

After taking a circuitous route to reach it, Clint and I also visited the impressive Soviet War Memorial. It is located in the middle of a park in East Berlin. On top of a mound (where 5,000 Soviet soldiers are buried) there is a statue of a soldier cradling a child. While I do not agree with the Soviet's policies after the war ended, including building the Berlin Wall, stoking up the fires of the Cold War and cracking down on religious minorities, the fact they sacrificed a lot of lives to defeat the Germans in WWII should not go unnoticed. On our way to the Soviet War Memorial, we walked up into a guard tower that once housed GDR soldiers guarding the wall. It was eery to be inside the tower and think about how the soldiers reacted when they saw someone attempting to escape over the wall.

I found the Cold War leftovers to be the most fascinating part of Berlin. In particular, we went to the East Side Gallery which is a section of the wall that has been preserved displaying artwork created before the fall of the wall in November, 1989. The art is thought provoking and at times disturbing. But most disturbing is the fact people have begun to graffiti the wall. We saw several Basque nationalist slogans written over some of the paintings. I also poked my head into Cafe Adler which is located near Checkpoint Charlie. Apparently, John Le Carre (one of my favorite writers) hung out there when he worked for the British spy agency and the CIA had offices above the cafe.

East Berlin is still very much up and coming. Construction cranes fill its sky line and new shops and restaurants line its streets. The neighborhoods in East Berlin are eclectic and remind me of Nolita (Mulberry and Elizabeth streets for those current and former New Yorkers) or the Lower Eastside of Manhattan.

I will never travel to Germany again. There is nothing redeeming to me about Germany. The beer is potent but I am not a fan of German beer. The food is comprised of sausage or other forms of meat, potatoes and sauerkraut, none of which I particularly fancy. The German people are arrogant, rude and obnoxious. In fact, I would rather return to arrogant, flamboyant Italy than go back to Germany.

Zeb needs to move to Munich

2006-08-09T14:10:00.000-07:00

Clint has done a fine job of describing our trials and tribulations (we actually had neither but I just finished a book by Charles Dickens and so it seemed appropriate to use "trials and tribulations" in the opening sentence of my blog post) in Munich so I will not bore myself with further details. But, instead, I will provide my opinion (I do love to pontificate) about the city and Bavaria in general.

My brother needs to move to Bavaria. If he cannot afford to live in Munich (because what exactly do you do with a Sociology degree?), no problem. He can live somewhere else that is cheaper. In fact, I saw lots of farmland on our way to Lake Chiemsee and quite frankly, my brother is built to be a farmer. He can definitely take down two cows and a bull with one hand. More importantly, the food and beer portions here are enormous; perfect for Zeb. A large Stein of beer here may look like a mini-swimming pool to the rest of us, but for my brother, it is merely a thimble. The Germans love their meat, potatoes and bread. My brother's food staples are meat, potatoes and bread. A lot of the men and women here are large, not necessarily large in the sense of fat (but there are lots of those types too), but rather just big-boned. My brother would no longer be the "big man on campus" in Bavaria. As for lederhosen, well Zeb, whatever you do please do not wear any. The lederhosen outfit consists of shorts made out of what looks to be a suede material, suspenders, a button-down shirt, socks pulled up to the knees, and a hat fit for a man yodeling on top of the Bavarian Alps. This would not look very becoming on my brother but it could make a good Halloween costume for him this October. It would definitely get some chuckles. So Zeb, when you finish college in the Spring, buy yourself (or ask mom or dad to buy one for you) a one-way ticket to Munich, Germany. You will not be disappointed.

Muslims in Munich

I was surprised by the number of Muslim families we saw walking around Munich. Clint and I had read somewhere that either Munich or Berlin had the largest Turkish population outside of Turkey. But most of the men and women we saw in Munich, were not all Turkish Muslims. In fact, the McDonald's had Arabic writing underneath one of its signs while the rest of the signs were in German. Just so we are all clear, Arabic is not the dominant spoken language in Turkey. At times, I thought I was back in Cairo because there were so many women in black hijabs at cafes and walking around the streets. It was interesting because it was more than just seeing the families walking together in the late afternoon/evening which is very traditional. We saw this in Egypt and Morocco. But rather, seeing the women peruse the most expensive stores in Munich. For instance, you would see Muslim women in all black head scarfs and dresses going into Chanel, Gucci, Dior, and Louis Vuitton to purchase what appeared to be only handbags. You would also see them walking around the streets of Munich (always together) with their Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Gucci or Dior handbag prominently displayed on their arm. I also saw several Muslim women piling into and out of chauffered Mercedes. I found the whole scene a bit odd. On Friday, we saw people protesting the events in Lebanon near a main square. Given Germany's history, it is ironic to me to see so many Muslims living in the country.

Being naked in public is not okay

Shannon (Clint's friend living in Zurich, Switzerland) told us that Englisher Garten had an area where people laid out naked. When she told us this, I thought to myself, "how weird" but really did not think much of it until we walked through the naked people. Surprise, surprise not many naked women but rather lots of naked men letting their dongs hang out. When will men realize, the dong is not meant to be on display? I wanted to shout out at the top of my lungs to these men, "NO ONE WANTS TO SEE YOUR DONG!" But instead, I walked with my head down and tried not to glance at the dongs. At one point, we saw a man (naked) on top of a women (naked) rubbing her back. Even Clint said that was a little much. I mean honestly with some small movements they could have been engaging in "whoopee" (Newlywed game?) in the open. It was disgusting. I still cannot believe no one is arrested for this indecent exposure and/or the city is not in an uproar over the people being naked in the park. Although it would have been funny to see the naked men eating a wurst. I understand the body is natural and we should celebrate it, but why can't it be celebrated in your own home? Why must people celebrate it in public?

Munich: mmmm, beer...

2006-08-03T13:08:00.000-07:00

All this time, I thought I knew good beer. How wrong I was.

The beer here in Munich (Germany photos) is simply the best in the world. I love Guinness. I am an unabashed fan of Red Hook, a Seattle-based brewing company. We had some exceptional Czech pilsner in Prague. Monteith's (only from the Greymouth brewery) and Speight's (The Pride of the South!) in New Zealand were also fantastic. But the beer in Munich tops them all easily. By law, German brewers are only allowed to use 4 ingredients: hops, yeast, malt and water. The result is strong and flavorful; I like Augustiner brand the best. Their Dunkel (dark), Wiessbier, Wiessbier Dunkel were an absolute pleasure to guzzle. But they are super-potent and I have not yet been able to surpass 3 liters in one night.

I am loving it in Munich, although beyond a single art museum there have not been any tourist sights that we have deemed to be worth entering. The town is visually "historic", well-preserved, and clean, and we did quite a bit of exploring on foot. In fact, because we weren't trapped indoors in any tourist traps, we spent almost all of our 3-4 days doing two things: eating and drinking in bier halls and gardens, and racking up mileage perusing the town on foot. Bavarian culture is really interesting... lederhosen, huge steins of potent beer, bratwursts with sauerkraut, pretzels, oompah bands, and some large people. The acclaimed Hofbrauhaus brings them all to bear under one roof. Lots of tourists in the joint, but also many bona fide Bavarian beer drinkers there as well. Based on what we can discern, there is quite a bit of Nazi lineage in Munich as well, since this was kind of the homeland for the nationalist movement of the 1920's and 1930's. Our guide book said pre-power Nazi party members used to meet upstairs in the Hofbrauhaus, and supposedly Hitler made a famous speech to townsfolk here as well (I admit I didn't know of this speech).

Partly because of Sam's limited drinking stamina and partly because of budget, we have sort of evolved into more mellow drinkers on this trip. Sam goes from buzzed-to-bombed-to-sleepy in about 3 drinks (or one big Bavarian Wiessbeer), and I require more time and liquid to get a buzz (or one Bavarian Wiessbeer). Spain was great because we'd take it slow and eat and drink our way through the evening. Italy was great because we'd drink store-bought wine and I'd drink most of it. Munchen has proven more difficult in terms of buzz-management, however, because Sam wants to take a nap after a half-liter of this delicious German beer. That said, we have had some fun in the biergartens of Munich. Thanks to my man Craig Cummings for the strong encouragement to come here - I love it. I got rocked the first night on 1.5 liters of Augustineer Wiessbier. Strong stuff!

Not sure which other European cities he has been to, but I respectfully disagree with Craig's assessment that Munich is the most beautiful city in the world. Prague was more visually arresting, in my book, as was Barcelona. Along with Madrid and Venice, I would put Munich in the top 10 of what I've seen, for sure, but nowhere near #1. Once again, you on the wrong muthafuckin page, Craig. (Sorry Grandma!) (For the record, I would like to kick my friend Craig, who is a fan of the French(!) soccer team, directly square in the balls. He stood us up in Thailand and his advice on Germany would have helped to heal that emotional wound except that he countered it by rooting for the French. So I took great pleasure in capturing and now displaying this photo of a chalk drawing we saw in Munchen. It's an eerily Craig-resembling androgenous figure - perfect because it looks exactly like him AND he likes the French.)

All that bollocks notwithstanding, we also followed his instructions and spent a couple days in Chiemsee, a big lake area between Munchen and Salzburg. 2 nights of camping in Prien, one crowded and rocky campsite right on the lakshore, another grassier, quieter site about 10 min walking from the lake. Rented a bike one day and cruised the area, including the town of Bernau. No doubt that this area still adheres strongly to the old school Bavarian traditions. Even though it's essentially a holiday area, I would not have been surprised to see a lederhosen clad yodelling from a hillside. Something about the area and the people just oozes Bavaria-ness. It's really too bad that the legacy of Nazism taints the heritage here. Although that vile piece of German history is entirely taboo now and not visually present, I can imagine in the 1800's or so that Bavaria could have been an idyllic place. Beer, sausages, bread, mustard, sauerkraut, cheese, men that sweat and work, and so on.

Germans love to camp, almost always in their RV rigs, and we have seen them all over Europe. They very often seem extremely content and almost smug about the mobile comforts they can provide themselves while in a campsite. All sorts of sweet set-ups, including a few that appeared to have totally replicated their home at the campsite, with a full kitchen, grill, and satellite TV. "Why not just stay at home?" is the question that keeps coming to mind, because the bigger the set-up the more often you'll see them sitting there in the campsite to savor it. But you can't dispute the fact that they are enjoying themselves. That smug look is unmistakeable.

A few other things:

Many more Middle-Easterners living in Bavaria than I expected. Samantha will surely take the podium on this topic. We had awesome Dururm Doner in Prien. Fancy that.
They really love dated American pop music hear. It was like audibly re-visiting my youth.
No sign of any David Hasselhof affinity, sorry to spoil this often-snickered at image of Germans.
English Garden, the Munich equivalent of Central Park in NYC, has a not-so-discreet area where people sun-bathe nude. This breached and assaulted every fiber of my wife's sense of propriety; I was perturbed only by 40+ year old dudes who were striking provacative poses and seemed to be begging others to gawk at their junk. Not cool.
Kind of bummed I did not actually see anyone yodel. Drat.
I think everyone in Germany has a BMW or Benz. It's worse than the eBay employee parking lot.
Sadly there were not that many hot chicks in Bavaria. I expected at least a couple of blond, fair-skinned Bavaria babes but they never materialized. Even the backpacking foreigner chicks were a bit trollish. I must be spoiled by the Prague and Budapest showcases.
These older guys are not embarassed at all about donning their lederhosen. It's not for the benefit of tourists, either. It's legit, and they like it. I love this ambivalence about what other people think, especially because I think it looks effing hilarious. I saw one guy wearing what looked like an upside-down feather-duster on the crest of his hat. Awesome.

After lots of prosting (one hand only; i've been instructed by Craig that prosting the massive steins full of bier with two hands is strictly for girly-men -- bad) and some occasional crappy summer rain to dampen our days, we leave Munchen and Bavaria for Berlin. My sources Travis and Craig each tell me separately that I should expect a more urban experience with colder, less hospitable people. I shall see for myself, but I will likely be okay as long as I can get my hands on some Augustineer and a wurst or 3.

Swiss Alps hiking

2006-07-29T12:59:00.000-07:00

Our time in the Alps was postponed after our first foray in late June was rendered impassable by unmelted snow. This time, with an agenda that had been abbreviated by several days, we set out to bag the best of Switzerland's Alpine Route in 5-7 days.

The Alpine Route is a series of trails that connect together to form a continuous east-to-west path through the entire Swiss Alps. We had originally planned to hike 8 or 9 segments of the route over 9-10 days, but now our ambitiousness was catching up with us a bit and time constraints dictated a shorter itinerary.

Man, thank the stars for those circumstances. One step more and Samantha might have collapsed.

To be fair, the hiking was very tough. Well, let's clarify that: it was often steep, which makes it strenuous to ascend and a damn beating to descend (especially with packs). When the sun shone clear, it got hot and one day we were sweating like a beer just out of the fridge. When it rained, it really dumped. We had the gear to make the journey but it was a challenge compared to the relatively tame day-hiking we'd done so far.

That said, almost every hike (except one, which requires some description) ended in a town or a hut. If we had chosen to do so, we could have had a restaraunt meal every night, coffee and a danish at a cafe every morning, and lunch at a trailside hut of cafe. That is so far from what I am used to that I struggle to call it hiking. I guess I need to alter my designations a bit: what I do back in North America is "wilderness backpacking"; what we did in the Swiss Alps is "recreational hiking". (see our online photo album)

I want to document this part of The World Tour very well - mostly because I don't want to forget the unique experience, but partly because I have a few buddies at home with whom I've hiked that might get a kick out of the details.

We started the journey in Zurich. Sort of. My former colleague and good friend Shannon Stubo works for eBay from her home-office in Zurich. She's a superstar in almost every sense of the word, and a great person. She invited us to use her apartment however we liked. When we arrived in Zurich, she was waiting for us at the train station with a much appreciated hug and a smile. She took us to her apartment so we could leave some non-hiking items there, take a shower, etc if we needed to do so. Then she gave us a key to her place so we could reclaim our stuff if she was not there when we returned, and escorted us to a fantastic (and cheap) bratwurst joint so we could fill our gullets before we left town for the trailhead.

After a street-tram, a train, 2 buses and a cable-car, we were at the Surenenpass trailhead around 3:00pm. Better weather than last time, and we made great time cruising through the first 2-3 hours of terrain, which we'd seen before. We got to the cirque which included the final pass by about 6pm, and were delighted to find the trail passable through the remaining snow. But as soon as we we descended into the cirque, omnious clouds that we couldn't see coming on the further horizon beyond the pass started appearing over our heads. About 45 minutes from the pass, we got hit with sprinkles, then rain, then thunder and very close lightning and hail in the span of 5 minutes. Although I have spent quite a bit of time in the mountains, I was surprised at the speed with which we found ourselves immersed in the shittiest weather ever. We had walked to a steep little stream near the pass that, because of some snow and steep and rocky conditions, would have been a bit tricky to cross even in perfect weather. But now the rain and hail was pounding, and the stream was picking up some disturbing increases in water flow. No thanks - not to mention the risk of climbing higher on to the ridgeline in the lightning. Stopping there for 15 minutes or so was a no-brainer. We'd wait a bit and see if it would just roll over us like many summer thunderstorms in the mountains do.

Not this one. In fact, as we stood beside this craggy little waterfall that emptied itself under the remaining snowfield, the wind picked up as well and the lightning seemed to be exploding right above our heads. I was getting a bit chilly, and I started to consider our options. Keep going, keep waiting, tent up at the closest possible flat spot, or descend 2 hours to the nearest shelter. Keep going was out - I am not going up any higher in that lightning. Keep waiting was out - Samantha was pretty skittish about the booming thunderclaps all around us, and getting colder by the minute. The other two options both meant backtracking a bit, so I calmly told the missus that we should go back a bit to avoid the stream water. We'd keep the legs moving while I decided how much farther back we should go. Samantha's nerve was still intact.

After 5 minutes of back-tracking, I caught a glimpse of lighter-shade gray in the clouds - a sign they might be breaking up and rising a bit. So we paused again on the trail to see if the worst of it was past us. We weren't standing still for even 30 seconds before the loudest bloody thunderclap ever nearly blew my effing eardrums. Then a big gust of wind lashed us with rain even harder, and Samantha declared "I want to go back down". Hmmm. This would mean a full descent of 2 hours or so, maybe more since muddy trail and wet rocks require more care to manuever. I was not in agreement. If she needed to get out of the rain to get warm and dry right away, then I wanted us to tent up right there. My wisdom did not prevail, and it was clear that she was going to lose her cool if we did not descend. So we started back. I took a slightly lower path out of the cirque to avoid sliding rocks, but new water channels forced us to sort of scramble around in the hail and rain to find a passable route back to a the more stable part of the trail. When Samantha started back-seat driving about how "this is NOT the way we came", I stopped doing the smart thing and indulged her anxiety and started to retreat the way we'd come. Bad idea. We got up to the scree and found a rolling, gushing, mud and rock slide churning down a self-made channel, entirely blocking the trail we'd taken into the cirque. That left us no sure way for us to descend, and my original instinct had become the only option by process of elimination. I was peeved that we had scurried around looking for a retreat path for 20 minutes; we'd have been dry at that moment if we'd tented up where and when I had first suggested it. But sorting this out with Samantha was not a good idea given the circumstances. She was shivering and had lost her nerve. The thunder and the rock slide had rattled her. And she was only in this little mess because I wanted to hike here. So we slogged in sopping shoes and driving rain back towards the pass a bit to what seemed to be the only flat spot in the whole cirque. Through luck and coincidence, I'd found a spot that was not at much risk (based on my assessment of the terrain) of flash flood water or rock-slide. We erected the tent in whipping wind in a short time but much stress. Queen Hatshepsut was damn cold, I could tell. Not so cold that she was hypothermically shutting down, but the kind of cold where you really don't want to unshrug your neck or pry your arms away from your torso because doing so makes you feel colder. I gave her crisp instruction on what to do to help me and what to do within the tent to get herself warm and dry while I attended to the rain cover. Had to have that bad boy on there tight with this wind. Avoiding sloppy implementation was made difficult by my numb fingers and the damn wind. Plus I took a piece of hail right on the end of my cold nose and it made my eyes tear up. My cold little nose is sensitive!

Long story short, after 30 minutes, we were warmer and dryer inside the tent. Campstove was working in the vestibule, and I was able to tease Sam about her dramatics during the uncertain moments. Of course, as I could have guessed, no sooner were we nestled up and half-dry in the tent than the storm cleared off. 90 minutes later, the rocks outside our tent were beginning to dry, and I knew we'd have a quiet stress-free night. And we did.

After waking the next morning to a pink and lavender sunrise, the bright sunshine gave us a chance to dry out our clothes and soak up some warmth as we had our morning coffee. Given the crappy situation we'd found ourselves in the night before, dawdling around our campsite in warm sun with a hot cup of stirred-in Viennese flavor Nescafe was downright blissful. The mountain above our camp was just shouting in our faces, every crag and crease and undulation was exposed by the bright horizontal early morning sun beams. I had a conversation with this imposing face of the mountain. Like an adorable child who misbehaved, he was asking cutely why I was looking at him so tersely, what had he done? Well, he'd born witness to the lashing we'd taken, and somehow seemed a party to the whole ordeal. He was partly accountable. But looking so distinguished and proud in the morning sun, the confident and impressive and enduring mountain replied, in his most innocent tone, "who, me?" and grinned.

Gaining Surenenpass later that morning was really satisfying. The views in both directions were glorious in the morning sun, and we felt a sense of accomplishment for having finally cleared it after having been thwarted twice before. Samantha seemed almost giddy, and I was really happy to see the enjoyment tank on Full (as opposed to being on "E" the night before). Like most things, you seem to relish the good moments more if you've had to struggle to get to them.

Lunch was really a treat that day. We stopped at a mountain hut that was right next to the trail. It was the first of dozens of huts or inns that we'd see during our Alps hiking stint. This one was pretty rough, though. Very country. It looked more like a barn/tool shed than a place to serve guests. But we asked for a bowl of soup (with bread) and some cheese (with bread) and hoped for the best. What a meal. The cheese, which had been made right there in the hut, was creamy and delicious. The soup was a chicken-broth and vegetable daydream; yummy and savory and capable of making a wife who should be sharing horde the bowl. Bright midday sun, blue skies, light breeze, homemade cheese, yummy soup... it was one of those "ahhh, life is good" type of moments.

From there on, the remainder of the hike was a gradual and incremental descent toward lesser superlatives. Superb scenery became great and then just nice; the quiet was broken by more day-hikers as the afternoon progressed. As we wound down to the last hour of walking, we trudged along a farm-equipment gravel road and crept past picturesque homes with steadily-increasing frequency, approaching the town of Engelberg.

We lucked into a camping spot. I'd expected to employ some resourcefulness in securing some kind of accomodation - a hut, inn, lodge, campsite, hostel, pension, or at worst, a hotel. As we rolled into town, we saw signs for a campsite (Camping Einwaldi) and walked there directly, only a 10-minute walk to town. We had a flat grassy spot (a luxury!), and although the site was large and full, we had enough "elbow-room" on our plot that we didn't feel crowded. That evening, we walked into town to acclimate ourselves, and decided there that we'd opt for a day off and stay for an extra night in Engelberg. I didn't want Queen Hatshepsut burn out too early, and I'd allocated 2 days for random R&R. Plus, Engelberg seemed like an accomodating little recreation area, with lots of activities to keep us occupied. We stopped for an early dinner at a monastery that makes cheese. The little cheese filled wurst sausages were a scrumptious treat. I tossed and turned all night, however, because I'd been exhausted when I crawled into my sleeping bag and neglected to invest sufficient time to create a pillow with my clothing. Every 45 minutes, like clockwork, by arm would fall asleep, pinched somewhat by my head cocked down like a kickstand next to my shoulder, and the rest of me would wake up.

The next day we took a cable car up Brunnlistock, a ridge shelf overlooking town, with rented Via Ferrata equipment in tow. We took on a small ascent course above the cable car, and it was kind of a non-event. I found the route to be a fun introduction to the sport, but not really challenging and I finished it in under a half-hour. Samantha went above 10 feet up the course and decided to opt out of it. I guess the prospect was not of interest to her, so she waited below. All told, the Via Ferrata experience left me interested and unsatisfied, so I need to find a much longer and more challenging route to tackle.

Later that afternoon, we found a place to play tennis. I have never even attempted the sport, but Samantha knew the basic rules and had played with her mom when she was younger, and we wanted something to do. We rented an hour of court time, rackets and balls, and went at it. Lots of "unforced errors" but it was fun to try it. Samantha shot off her smart mouth about how much better she would be than me, but I won. The last 10 minutes played in increasingly heavy rain were the most fun. But what turned into a huge downpour kept us waiting for an hour before we could leave the rec center without getting really drenched. When it slowed for a second, we hustled into town for a hot chocolate pit stop before the rain re-intensified. We really must learn to take our rain jackets everywhere we go. Being from Seattle, you think we'd know better.

For the record, tent camping really stinks in the rain. Being stuck in the tent gets old. You can only play so many games of chess and travel Scrabble, only contort your body into so many positions to be comfortable on the ground. I admit to daydreaming of a big easy chair more than once.

The next day we took a gondola up the first half of the acsent of Jochpass. I opted to walk the second part (from Trubsee to the pass), and I wish I hadn't. It was steep and followed directly beneath the chairlift. Samantha was really sour because I had inaccurately described the strenuousness of this stretch of the hike. It was more of a grind than either of us expected, and although only an hour, it was a strain and she was irritated with me.

Low clouds obscured some of the view from the pass, but during the descent, we happened upon a fantastic surprise: Schwingfest. Schwing! It was an annual community festival held at an alpine hut and a collection of barns about an hour's walk down from Jochpass. There were probably about 400 people there, all Swiss folk as far as I could tell. If there were other tourists there, there weren't many. The event was an obviously very traditional affair, based on what we could see. There were two big circles of sawdust on the ground where big young men would wrestle each other in a brutish but very sportsmanlike version of Greco-Roman wrestling. Bricks of barn-made cheese were heated slowly so the surface would get toasty and then scraped off onto a piece of bread for a snack. Beer everywhere of course. Ladies in the Swiss Miss style outfits, with frilly poofy shoulders. Burly men in those green overall shorts and the funny alpine hats. Milk cows were paraded through the area, adorned with sunflowers and bells and ribbons, like a cross between a 4-H contest and a beauty paegant. It was like stumbling into the 19th century for an hour. We hadn't planned to stop but this was a no-brainer. It was all so unique, unlikely anything I'd seen before, so I wanted to scrutinize all the little details and file it away in my brain in places and ways that it wouldn't be easily forgotten. We perched ourselves up on a little slope overlooking the sawdust wrestling areas, cheesy breads in hand, and I watched the event like curious crow from afar. My written description won't do this affair any justice; to be sufficiently descriptive I would have to write 10 pages about it. But I took lots of mental snapshots so as to remember these hardy Swiss folk very well.

We continued down from Schwingfest, and after a navigational diversion of 45 minutes thanks to my wandering mind, we followed the trail through scattered trees and shrinking pastures along a ridge that provided great perspective for impressive Titlis masstif on the other side of the valley. We had a few hilarious encounters with milk cows along the descent. Samantha even made a friend! After a pleasant, gradual drop for most of the afternoon, we got to the town of Reutli, tucked up on the shelf of a hanging valley, and the descent from there to our final stop in Meiringen was really steep and rough on the knees. Samantha was giving me thatlook.

I was very fortunate that our preferred prospect for accomodations was 1) very close to the trailhead, and 2) included a bed! Simon's Herberge in Meiringen would provide our first bed in 10 days. Samantha was exhausted from the hiking, and I really hoped that a decent meal and decent mattress would provide her with some comfort. To enjoy hiking this kind of terrain and this kind of mileage, I think you need to relish the physical duress that is required to reach the top (and then the bottom). If one doesn't enjoy this kind of challenge for the mind and body, then perhaps day-hikes or flatter forest trails are better options. Keeping this in mind, I thought the hostel would be a big help.

We waited for 45 minutes for the innkeeper to return to check us in, then we went for outrageously overpriced pizza. It tasted good for hungry hikers, but geez, I just can't get over these Swiss prices. Yikes. What a beating for the budget.

As it turned out, Samantha found that she sleeps better in the tent than in a dorm room containing other guests. So the bed was not really the tremendous help I had hoped it would be. After a pretty good breakfast at the hostel, we shoved off. A short cog train ride to the top of Reichenbach Falls saved us an hour or two of ascent, which was helpful given the long day ahead. We followed an often shady trail near a rushing river and a narrow winding road to the top of Gross Scheindegg (or Big Watershed). The path took us immediately beneath the massive and magnificent Wetterhorn Peak, giving me yet another good dose of feeling very small and temporary.

Compared to other passes we undertook, the trail from Meiringen to Gross Scheindegg pass was more gradual but longer. We ate just an hour below the pass near a trickling brook, where we had butterflies land on our fingers to welcome us to the area. Once we got to the pass, we stopped at the inn there for another break and an ice cream bar. The buses between Meiringen and Grindewald stop there and it's a popular place for tourists to disembark for a few hours to marvel at the scenery. The cows from nearby farms get curious about all that activity and take a break from grazing to stand in the road in front of the bus and investigate what the tourists are eating at their tables. We saw one wily cow get right up to the table and start poking around before he was shooed away by a guy with a stick. It was a good for a chuckle.

The Gross Scheindegg descent was a scenic one, but also very steep for the last 2 hours as we closed in on the town of Grindewald. Sam was really weary and I had to be careful about what I said. Anything beyond "you okay?" was liable to earn me an earful, so I just kept walking. In Grindewald, we stopped at American Bar, a bar which was decorated with US license plates and brash English-language bumper stickers. Just like home! I asked for a milkshake - request denied. I considered drinking a bottle of Bud but that would be cheating, especially when it costs $6 USD. So we had a Sprite and an iced tea and continued a bit futher to the campsite. It was packed full but sufficiently accomodating. It was also close to town, so we returned to the American Bar for a killer dinner deal of the year: a burger and a beer for 6 Swiss francs (about $5 USD, if I remember correctly). We got there only to learn that, like America, the bait-and-switch is in effect and the offer was only valid on Wednesdays. So we paid full Swiss price for mediocre cheeseburgers and very good chicken fingers.

The next morning we hit the grocery store for breakfast. We bought a haul of fruit and made a big fruit salad, as well as yogurt with granola. It was a filling breakfast, and as a consequence we got a late start. The sun was shining, so our tent and clothes got nice and dry, but it also meant hiking in midday heat. It had been alright the day before because we had some shade (and a bit earlier start), but the ascent up Kleine Scheindegg (Small Watershed) was in full sun. It was a hot day and we sweated like hell. The trail ran parallel and near the train track that would carry you to the pass for an extortion of a price, which, once again, I considered cheating. Samantha was, ahem, not happy about the fact we'd started late and subjected outselves to the hottest part of the day.

Finally, after a long 4-5 hour climb, we gained the pass and discovered the ruckus that resided there. The pass is a stop on the extemely popular train to the glacier atop Jungfraujoch, some 3000 meters high. Tourists flock to this train ride for superlative views of the Alps glaciers, weather permitting, so this popular stop on that route had several places to eat and drink right there in the pass. A beer garden, ice cream stand, a couple restaurants, souvenir stands, and so on. Goats with little collars mingle with the tourists and get their picture taken 300 times a day and eat about 300 pounds of popcorn or candy or whatever other crap the tourists decide to bestow upon them. We couldn't get them to leave us alone while we ate our granola and peanuts and dried fruit, so I had to resort to flicking them in the nose to shoo them off. Got a few crumby looks from photo-snapping tourists for that bit of "cruelty". Ah hell with it.

After we waited out some rain over a cup of "milch caffee", we began the best descent yet. The glaciers of Eiger and Joch were hanging above the valley. The chunky clefts of ice perched above scree a thousand feet below really got my attention. I wanted to see a big hunk crumble off and fall down to the scree below but it didn't happen under my observation. But we also got to oogle the dozen of so towering glacier-melt waterfalls coming off the precipe, turning to mist as they fell hundreds or thousands of feet. Amazing! The clouds cleared just enough to get a good look at the glaciers, so we really got an eyeful of fine Alps scenery.

Again, the descent got steep at the end, and with all that mileage acculumated over the last 2 days, we allowed Queen Hatshepsut some relief on her aching knees and took the train down to Lauterbrunnen from Wengen, sparing ourselves an hour's worth of painful downhill. We scooted into one of the Lauterbrunnen's campsite just before that closed, with only 30 minutes of daylight left. Samantha was really beat. I told her we were finished hiking. I just could not ask her to gut it out for another long day like these 4 had been. Our camp spot was pretty nice, looking directly south, down the valley toward the Alps, and I took a long last look to reflect on the previous 4 days.

I admit, first of all, that I had put this hike on a bit of a pedestal in my mind. Hiking the Swiss Alps was my number 1 draft pick was we ranked our top destinations for the trip. Of course I wanted to hike every mountain, find the most far-flung high alpine meadows to camp in, and so on. But a number of circumstances made that idyllic adventure-style Alps hiking trip nearly impossible:

1) Samantha had only done one previous hike more than 2 days. That was Kilimanjaro where we went very slow, the terrain was not steep, the porters carried our packs, and she took altitude medication. I figure out after the first day on the trail that more than 4-5 would have been an extreme physical challenge for her.

2) The Alps trails are like mountain theme-parks. Each leg of the Alpine Trail that we undertook offerred at least some assistance via cable car, train, or bus. 2 of the legs would not have required any walking at all, had we preferred not to hoof it. Even if you do walk it, you can stop and eat at various huts and inns and do so rather luxuriously. Right on the trail! Amidst the finest scenery! So try guiding YOUR wife through 4 long days of steep hiking and convince her that such delicious stops entail "cheating". Good luck.

3) Grazing fields cover the Alps. If you can walk there, you'll most certainly find cattle there. Thus, the opportunity to scramble for that elusive isolated campsite from my daydreams would likely have ended in dodging cowpies in thigh-high grass for a slightly sloped spot on which you would not be able to set up the tent until after dark to avoid detection. It wasn't worth the trouble, and that is very hard for me to say. On my favorite hikes in the US, it's ALWAYS worth it to work a little harder, and search a little longer until you find that sweet camp spot. But this is the Alps.

So, all told, it was fun, and I am glad we did it, but I long to find more isolated and wild crannies in the Alps to explore. Perhaps I need to take up climbing so that I can find a sense of accomplishment when I take to the Alps in the future.

To close out our Swiss trip, we headed back to Zurich via Interlaken (wildly overpriced and mega-touristy town - AVOID) to rendezvous with my friend Shannon. She was kind enough to let us crash on her couch and she fed us a delicious bottle of red wine (thanks again, Shannon!). The next morning, after breakfast with Shannon, we had some laundromat fun then boarded a train for Munich.

THE ALPS KICKED ME IN THE BUTT....

2006-07-29T10:31:00.000-07:00

I recently added a picture to my Pamplona blog that did not upload when I posted to the blog the first time. It pretty much sums up my experience in Pamplona and was, by far, the funniest thing I saw in Pamplona. The best part is that he primped for the picture.

Clint wanted to hike part of the Alpine route in Switzerland. While I am not an avid hiker like Clint, I actually do enjoy the beauty of the mountains and the isolation from the rest of the world when you are out on a hiking trail. But I had no idea that 5 days of hiking over 40+ miles with lots of elevation climbs, along with some bad weather, would give me a blister along with some serious knee pain. Again, I think this is all part of Clint's plan to "off" me on this trip.

We got a late start our first day of hiking. Under normal circumstances, given the fact it does not get dark until around 10:00 p.m., this would not have been a problem. But the first leg of our hike was not normal. This same leg prevented us from hiking a month ago because of inclement weather and snow fields. So, once again the weather threatended to deter us. Personally, I think Mother Nature is just trying to show us who is boss. We started hiking and everything seemed great. The skies were fairly clear and it was warm. But as we approached the mountain pass, which was now clear of snow, the sky began to darken with heavy rain clouds. The next thing we knew, it was hailing, raining, lightening was all around us and there were ear-splitting thunder blasts. I was not a happy hiker. We could not continue up over the pass because the lightening was right on top of us. Also, because it was raining so hard, it made it impossible for us to get over a waterfall, an obstacle to the pass. I told Clint we should hike down and as we started to descend, a rock slide began and so we were stuck setting up our tent in the middle of the rain. We were both cold and Clint decided the best thing for us was to get into some shelter and get warm. Again, I was not a happy hiker. Of course, a few hours later, the storm passed and it was clear outside. But, rather than pack up the tent and our stuff, we decided to sleep over-night in our wet tent and start the hike again in the morning.

We woke up to clear skies and an easy hike over the pass. Once we got over the pass, it was an even easier hike into the town of Engleberg. Along the way, we stopped off at an Alpine hut for some fresh cheese, soup and bread. It was delicious. We soon realized that if we continued to partake in the Alpine cheese, no amount of hiking was going to help us get rid of some of our excess Spain/Italy drinking and eating weight. Engleberg is a lot like Tahoe in the sense that it gets a lot of tourists both during the winter and summer months. Our original plan was to be in Engleberg for only a night before continuing on to the next phase of our hike. But we decided to stay an extra night because there were a lot of ifferent outdoor activities including via ferrata, hiking, paragliding, and checking out the glacier on Mt. Titlis. Clint really wanted to try via ferrata and so we rented the gear: a helmet, clips and harness. There were several via ferrata courses in the area and so we found an easy one for the both of us. I started up the course and decided not to go any further because I was scared out of my mind. Apparently, rock climbing and heights are not my thing. Clint completed the course and enjoyed it. Afterwards, we went to the sports complex and played some tennis for an hour. I think we were the worst tennis players in the world. Of course during the game, we were caught in a downpour and ended up being stuck at the sports complex for almost an hour waiting for the bus or the rain to subside. What is up with us and the rain?

The next day we completed the second leg of our hike -- Engleberg to Meirigen. For me it was a long and hot trek and it did not help that Clint took us the wrong way for about 40 minutes. By the time we reached Meirigen, I was tired. The highlight of the hike was stumbling across Schwengfest...no sightings of Wayne or Garth. But we did see some huge Swiss men wrestling with burlap sacks on them in sawdust, people indulging in sausage, beer and cheesebread and a family dressed in traditional Swiss attire with their cows festooned in enormous bells and sunflower sashes. It was nuts! Also, the cows were all over the hike, including one sitting on our hiking trail eating and sleeping at the same time.

The next 2 legs of the hike were more beautiful than the first two because of the dramatic landscape. We saw huge glaciers and steep craggly mountains. It was mind blowing. The further we got into the hike, the more my knees began to kill me during our descents. By the last day of hiking, I could barely walk down hill and it was time to call it quits. We ran into the most tourists during our last hike. Apparently, the tourists took the train up the hill (which we of course hiked up in 90+ degree weather) and then hiked down. The highlight for tourists was taking an overly priced train to the top of the Jungfrau (approx. 12,000+ ft) which is called the Top of Europe. The Jungfrau is a dramatic mountain and the glaciers on and surrounding it our magnificent. Again we got caught in a rainstorm at the pass and so waited it out by having a cup of coffee to energize me for our descent into Wegen.

At the end of our hike we headed to Interlaken. Our original plan was to spend the night there and possibly day hike the following day. But the weather was not cooperating (shocking) and we decided to head to Zurich. I do not think I would have been able to day hike anyway, my legs were killing me. Clint has a friend, Shannon, who lives in Zurich and she was nice enough to let us store some stuff at her place before we started the hike and also let us spend our last night in Switzerland at her place. It was great to talk to a fellow American, whom we know, and more importantly, Shannon is a lot of fun to be around. So thank you Shannon for your hospitality, wit, magazines for the train and for reading the blog.

After Zurich, we punched it to Munchen, Germany; home of beer gardens, liederhosen, and BMW.

Hang on Slupi, Slupi hang on....yeah yeah

2006-07-29T10:29:00.000-07:00

It has been awhile since I have dissed my brother on the blog. Now is the perfect time as he is down and out with back surgery. I really like to get him when he is at his weakest moment.

My brother's name is Zebediah. Growing up we called him Zebby; rarely Zeb. But more affectionately, he was known as Poopadiah. Clint has nicknamed him Slupadiah and so it was too perfect that the second place we stayed at in Prague was located on Na Slupi. After Prague, we took a train to Krakow, Poland. On the way we passed a border station in a town called Zebraydowice and the code name for the train station is Zeb. Awesome!!

Camping in Northern Spain and Basque Country

2006-07-21T00:23:00.000-07:00

We rented a cheap rental car from Europcar and left Pamplona for 5 days of car camping and exploring Northern Spain. My research had told me that it was beautiful, under-appreciated, and quiet - all of which sounded great after the San Fermin festival madness in Pamplona.

The trip to the rental car location in Pamplona was a doozy, as I mentioned in my Pamplona post, but the drive out of town and towards the north/northwestern coast was really rough, too. I was badly hungover and it was all I could do to keep from barfing. Of all the indignities, Samantha had to drive - which is a sure sign that I must have been wretchedly ill. But the route was straight-forward, and by late afternoon I was sitting upright again. We cruised through Basque country, driving west along the northern coast. Really nice scenery, not spectacular, and the weather was not really cooperating with spitting and misty conditions that limited the horizon. Late in the day we reasoned that we had driven enough and sought out a campsite near Cudillero (sp?). We had seen plenty of signs for camping areas and we did not have to drive far to find a spot. Nice place, full of campers who were a bit sedated but the weather, I think. Just gloomy and cool, kind of like a April day in Seattle.

We have had the chance to witness lots of families during our travels: in restaraunts, trains stations, museums, etc. But the best is seeing them at a campsite. The roles emerge clearly, as mama tends to the cooking (if grilling is involved, papa may be in command) and the dishes and the hanging of wet towels on some kind of impromptu clothesline. Papa does the gear, making busy with tents and campers and turning various cranks and spiking poles and hanging tarps. In a more restive moment, I see mamas lounging in a lawn chair or monitoring the youngest babies, while Dad is either napping in his chair, reading the paper, or doing something active with the kids. The kids are always amok. Not sure why camping has this rambunctious effect on kids, but it's a pleasant potion and I know it well. My dad used to take my 3 brothers and I camping during the summers, and they were always good times and we were always amok. Fishing or fighting or football or fireworks and what have you. All kids should get some sort of universal entitlement to camping time in their lives. Playing naked in knee-high lake water or screaming your head off as you hit scary maximum speed your bike or playing catch with the nearest launchable item is a delightful right of passage which every kid should enjoy. My kids will camp one day. So let it be written, so let it be done.

I did see a hard-guy at this campsite who was motorcycling through this region. Nothing but him, his Harley, a small tent with a few clothes that he stuffed in saddlebags. He was definitely walking with an unnatural swagger as if he felt like a bad-ass in doing what he was doing, but nonetheless I did envy his freedom as my wife nudged me with her elbow late that night to get me to stop snoring in the tent.

We had arrived too late in the day at our campsite to undertake some activity other than erecting the tent and feeding ourselves. Between the late night-before and the drive, we were tuckered out. Not that the weather was cooperating anyway.

The next day, we fired out and headed for the town of Ribadeo for breakfast and a short stroll of the town. It's a small but seemingly well-known coastal enclave in northern Spain, with the main draw being a series of nearby beaches with rocky cliffs that loom above them. The rocky features included some interesting sea-caves and natural arches and pillars that were accessible to explore when the tide was low enough to allow people to walk a stretch of sand that would otherwise be covered in thumping waves and prevent access to even the hardiest swimmer. Unfortunately, we had seen very similar but much more impressive such features in other parts of the world (Australia and New Zealand), so we found the stroll to be a pleasant diversion and nothing more. Soon we were back in the car and headed for Lugo, in the province of Galicia.

I had read about Lugo and Galicia in National Geographic Traveler Magazine before we left Seattle, and my own visit to these parts serves to cement my growing sentiment about these travel magazines: they are horseshit. They serve 2 purposes: 1) to lure and inspire would-be travelers to get out and see the places that they glorify (sometime falsely) in their pages, and 2) sell ad space to various airlines and hotels. Galicia was a very green and pristine region, and very foggy, that does not hold much allure for a traveler unless you are seeking deep solititude or have a fetish for really ancient Christian churches or monasteries (of which they have a few). Otherwise, yawn. This magazine really set high expectations of Lugo, but I found the place to be a bit of a dump. We did walk along the ramparts of 1000+ year old wall that encircled the town, which seemed shockingly "well-maintained" for being so darn old. Otherwise, Lugo was a dumpy snooze and I was dismayed that I had allowed the magazine to inflate my interest in the joint. We had allocated too much time to reach this outpost of no real repute. So after taking the opportunity to hit the train station (more on that in a bit), we left Lugo swiftly, or at least as swiftly as the labrynth of winding streets would permit. Back to Ribadeo we went, ending our day with a quiet oceanside walk together near our less crowded campsite outside of town (Playa de Rigatone). Thanks to the fantastic Spanish department store "El Cortes Ingles", we dined on a campstove-prepared pasta-meal thingy for a very affordable supper.

Day 3 of post-Pamplona meant more driving. I knew that there was surfing to be done along this stretch of coast, and although I'd been intending to seek it out, the drive to Lugo and the gloomy weather had postponed my interest a bit. Today was nicer weather as we began driving back to the east, with a bona fide sunshine lighting the sky, and our moods, and my interest in surfing. I was working off of a few memorized locations that I had found on an international surfing website, and Samantha was content to allow us to meander around the area a bit in search of something surfable. First we found Llanes, a small town with a very cool beach. Lots of craggy pumice-type lava rock formed a small cove with a fine sand beach, and adjacent to the cove was a cliff-edge that delivered the sweet effect of sending the splash and foam of the crashing mega-sized waves high into the air and spritzing the gawkers on top. After some wave-gawking we moved on to find a more suitable site - I'd have drowned in less than a minute in this wash.

On to the town of Noja, where we found a huge and packed beach, with several hundred of even thousands of people. The weather was now certifiably hot, and the idea of water promised to be refreshing. I watched the waves for a bit to assess the surf potential. The waves were pounding but I struggled to find a reliable break. There was a bigger break that showed in sets, but getting to it meant manuevering through mostly unsurfable waves that were beach-breaking powerfully and continually in the shallower water. After too much deliberation and a brief commiseration with the 10-year old kid who was manning the surfboard rental shack, I decided to go for it, renting the shortest board I had ridden yet (6'8"). Bum deal. I could not get out to the big boy break because the powerful beachbreakers were working me over. There was no safe channel to get out to deeper water, and even if I had gotten to it I think I would have been out of my league. I saw some guys later doing what I had attempted to do, and they were taking a beating to get out to the big break and the break was really kicking their asses. So after a 45-minute pummelling and one decent ride, I called it a day and we got back in the car and moved on. As we looked for campsites in some town which I now forget the name, we got discouraged. All 3 campsites in town were packed, and I mean PACKED, with people. Only one even had space remaining for us. As we pulled into it, I felt like the last guy arriving at the county fairgrounds. Kids and bikes and bearded ladies and old men in speedos with their toiletries and grills and RVs crammed next to each other and more kids on bikes and hordes of people everywhere. It looked more like a mobile city than a campsite, and I could not subject Queen Hatshepsut to it given the look on her face and circus transpiring outside the rental car all around us. We moved on, hoping to get lucky with a campsite in another town as it got later on a mid-summer Friday night.

We got to the town of Laredo in time to nail down a campsite in a leafy but again crowded campsite near a natural reserve on the fringe of town. Great luck for us as we were seeing a lot of tourist traffic pulling into town. The presence of eye-sore beach condo high-rises had suggested that camping, if we could find it, would not be as restive or quiet as it had been the 2 previous nights. It was summertime beach resort area, and we were in the thick of it. No complaints about our site though, because as we had seen, it could have been downright miserable.

The next morning we investigated the mysteriously non-existent surf break at the Laredo beach. Seeing nothing, we drove out of town and headed to Bilbao to spend the day and see the Guggenheim Museum of Modern Art there. The building was the only attraction, for me. It's an amazing building, covered in flowing meticallic titanium, filled with huge windows - it's an incredible fluid shape. The art was kind of a yawner for me, except for a few works.

After a quick bite and a completely senseless argument, we spontaneously added a stop to the Belle Artes museum to our day in Bilbao. I found it to be a superior museum in terms of quality of work, notwithstanding the remarkably grandiose appearnace of the Guggenheim building versus the entirely dowdy and yeoman appearance of the Belle Artes museum. But it was small, and soon we were back in the car headed for San Sebastian. Our limited collateral indicated the existence of a campsite near town and beaches with actual surfing, yet away from the bustle and noise of the downtown area.

But we were shut-out. When we arrived on Saturday early evening, the place was booked. And downtown San Sebastian was an uncaged zoo with people pouring all over the streets. We took a tip from the campsite attendant to drive 10km further to another campsite. We found it also full. So happened upon another campsite nearby, as indicated on one of our maps, that was about 12km from San Sebastian and in the middle of countryside. Space available at Camping Orio! We set up the tent and cooked in the dark, but the site was quiet and we were glad to have it.

Side note: this Basque separatist stuff is serious business. We saw it in Pamplona, and it's very intense in Bilbao and San Sebastian, the cradle of Basque country. There is ETA graffiti everywhere, and many people are quick to point out that they are not Spanish, but rather Basque. Not sure how this one will turn out, since these folks are so committed to separation/autonomy from Spain.

The next morning we headed back to San Sebastian for the beach. There was well-documented surfing in San Sebastian, after chomping on our umpteenth bocadillo of lomo and queso and pimientos in Espana at La Vaca, we found it easy enough. But the surf was kind of weak and shallow, so I asked for permission to sit in the shade on the sidewalk bench overlooking the beach to observe the surf and see if the crowds diminished a bit and if the surf would pick up a bit as the tide came up. She agreed, and after about an hour and a half, I deemed it ready for my presence. Board rental and into the warm water. The crowd had dissipated somewhat as Sunday afternoon progressed but there was still a good number of people in the water. The surf was easy and I rode many many waves easily with a 7'6" round nose, right there along with lots of novice surfers. It was relaxing and not too much work. I got 2 hours of easy waves and then we bailed out. Rather than stay in San Sebastian, we decided to head back towards a campground (Camping Ezcaba) near Pamplona, where we would be catching a train at midday on Monday.

So about the train. Because I kind of flim-flammed about how long we should stay in northern Spain, we waited too long to reserve seats on trains from Pamplona to Barcelona then to Zurich. When we (okay, I) finally decided on a departure date, we hit the train station in Lugo to make the reservation - only to find the overnighter from Barcelona to Zurich on Monday night was sold out. So we booked the next available train, on Wednesday. That meant an unexpected additional 2 days in Spain, and we had pretty much nailed everything we wanted to see. So we trained from Pamplona to Barcelona to whittle our time there.

This led to a dispute. We took a 30 min regional train to Sitges, a popular beach town just south of Barcelona. We found the town quite gay, very hot, and the campsite was a 30-min unshaded walk from the train stop. We got to choose between two dusty, rocky camping plots in a very crowded, very large camping area, surrounded by wimpy, not so leafy trees that offerred little shade. Queen Hatshepsut was not happy with me since my indecisiveness led to our delayed departure and we had ended up here. So world travel on a budget is not always glamorous. Sometimes you get stuck on a 2nd class train car all night with no seat and no food. Sometimes you have a girl's turtle for a roommate and no AC for $125 bucks a night. Sometimes you get no-shade rocky crowded spot like Camping Sitges. I think it's all worth it, but try telling that to a sweaty and pissed off Queen Hatshepsut, particularly when it's your decisions that landed you there. No fun, let me tell you.

So I pandered. The next day, we headed into Barcelona for the afternoon and evening for one last fling with tapas and sangria. Throw some decent food and booze her direction, and Queen Hatshepsut will turn that frown upside down. We spent way too much money that night, but it WAS fun and at least we can say we left our favorite European city with a bang. Contending with a heavily-buzzed wife on the late-night train back to Sitges was a hoot. She's a total lout when she's drunk. She'll say anything.

After a full afternoon of planning time online in an Internet cafe in Sitges the next day, we caught the night-train to Zurich. For an over-night train in first class seats (no sleeping car), it was our most uneventful and accomodating night train yet. The Alps were my #1 draft pick for the World Tour, so I had dreams of soaring scenery as I slept on the train. I was very psyched to start hiking.

Provinces we hit: Cantabrica, Asturias, Galicia, Basque Country, Navarra

VIVA ITALIA: WORLD CUP CHAMPIONS

2006-07-19T07:28:00.000-07:00

Italy Rocks

I am so psyched Italy won the world cup and beat the French pansies!!

Pamplona: Will I ever be the same?

Pamplona is pure madness. There are swarms of people all over the streets dressed in all white with red sashes and handkerchiefs. Some make political statements by wearing blue or green sashes and handkerchiefs. Everyone is guzzling liquor like it is the last drink of their life. Empty wine bottles, beer cans, glasses, cups, food, trash, pee, and barf litter the streets of Pamplona. The city does a fairly good job of keeping up with the trash everyday and hosing the streets down. But there are some streets where you fear to walk down it too far because the stench is so bad. People are either passed out or sleeping all over the city parks and streets. All day and all night bands are marching through the city with people following them and dancing. Not even Mardi Gras is this insane. Sleeping in Pamplona seems impossible. No matter what time of the day it is, there is some noise somewhere to keep you awake. As a result, I am not sure if I am ever going to recover from spending 5 nights here. Every morning of the San Fermin fiesta, the bulls run through the streets from the corral to the plaza del toros and the crazy people follow them. The running of the bulls (which I saw up close by sitting on a wooden fence for 1 1/2 hours) looks easy but is so dangerous. If any one of the fighting bulls gets separated from the pack or is distracted, it means someone is going to get gored (a bull horn stuck in them). The morning we watched the enciero, we saw one boy bleeding profusely from his chin and another person being carried off in a stretcher. I do not believe either were injured by the bulls but rather the other fools running. That is the problem with running with the bulls -- there are a ton of morons who are also running and you are more likely to be injured by a fellow runner who is drunk and stupid than by a bull horn. Thankfully Clint's running with the bulls was quick and painless. Although the bulls were close to Clint and the expression on his face (his mouth agape with astonishment and maybe fear) was classic, it was over before it began. I staked out a spot on the fence and filmed with the run with the camera. Clint celebrated his success right after the run while I waited until the afternoon to celebrate it. It was our last night in Pamplona and of course, we went out with a bang. We spent the afternoon drinking some wine in a plaza and then spent the night touring Basque bars with the Italians who were also staying at the apartment with us. It was a lot of fun -- too much fun in fact. The only downside to the night was that someone attempted to seal my wallet out of my purse but I caught them in the act. Thankfully they never found my wallet but I found their hand and started yelling at them. The other downside was the fact we got mixed up in some Basque separatist movement parade of sorts. People were coming up to Clint and trying to get him to chant ETA (the Basque terrorist organization). They thought it was really funny to get the drunk American to say ETA. I was pissed and told them to stop it. Having an American chant ETA, is not going to push forward the Basque's independence movement at all. It does nothing for their cause.

We went to a corrida (bullfight) on Sunday. I swore them off but then ended up at one again. The matadors were not very good but the crowd made the corrida far more entertaining than the one we saw in Granada. The people in the stands were nuts. There were several bands in the crowd playing music, tons of people were dancing, chanting and singing songs in the stands. There was a camel race through the upper stands and people were throwing booze all over each other. And, there were quite a few women in the bathrooms getting sick. It made for a very entertaining evening. I just do not know how the town recovers from a week of this festival.

After Pamplona, we rented a car for five days and headed to Galicia, Cantabria and the rest of the Basque country. While we enjoyed seeing other parts of Spain and touring the Guggenheim museum in Bilbao as well as the Belle Arts museum, we felt like we could have spent out time better elsewhere. The fact we have only 6 weeks left of our trip is really starting to sink in and we are now having to tighten down our itinerary. We no longer have the flexibility and freedom we had when we first arrived in Europe.

Tonight, we are off to Switzerland for some hiking. After that it's Munich, Berlin, Copenhagen, Amsterdam, Paris, London, rest of UK, and then Ireland. September 9 is fast approaching and that's when we return to the States.

more on Pamplona...

2006-07-19T05:10:00.000-07:00

When we arrived in Pamplona (our photos), the fiesta of San Fermin had already begun. We arrived on the night of the 7th of July, and they kickoff the festivities on the 6th. We had missed the first encierro, or running of the bulls, earlier that morning, which was okay with me. My limited online research told me the first one is usually packed full. Okay will me - I didn't want to run with a mob, I wanted to run with the toros.

The first thing I noticed upon arrival was the uniform of the San Fermin festival. EVERYONE is wearing red and white exclusively, usually white pants and shirt with red belt/sash and the omnipresent red handkerchief around the neck. If you do not have these colors on, you definitely stand out. Not that anyone cares, but it seems to be a key part of the experience, so we sought to outfit ourselves appropriately. No white pants, though.

The second thing I noticed is the number of people drinking. I mentioned this in my first Pamplona post, but I noticed something kind of odd after a few more days there. The mothers with strollers. They have no problem wheeling their baby-in-stroller right through a mob of drunken animals. I couldn't really believe how prevalent it was. I actually witnessed one scene where a mama was busy securing a swig of wine near her stroller while 3 drunk guys pushed their drunk friend into the stroller - and when the guy bumped the stroller he sloshed a bunch of his drink into the stroller. From my vantage point, I couldn't see anything but the kids feet, but the guy gave a useless apologetic wave of the hand behind him as he staggered away, and the mama, after feeling the bump into the stroller, looked down and just gave a swipe into the stroller to remove a handful of liquid and continued her quest for the aforementioned wine. What the hell a kid in a stroller is doing in the middle of a drunkfest like this I couldn't understand, but I saw it several dozen times, at all hours of the night and day. Okay... different.

I'm not kidding about the 24hours of singing, dancing, and drinking here. It's non-stop, and it includes people of all ages 13-70 (often younger and older, too). The whole town smells like Mardi Gras, or maybe the DKE basement.

There is a strong Basque influence in Pamplona, and seemingly wide appreciation here for the work of the ETA (which has claimed responsibility for dozens of violent and deadly acts over the years, including the train bombing in Madrid that killed 190). Any Basque supporter in jail for any reason is a hero around there. Violence is rarely acceptable in my opinion, but it did start me thinking about what a united group must do to achieve independence from a nation to which they had succumbed through violence. The recent success of peaceful efforts for autonomy in Cataluña has dented the Basque support for violence, and recently the ETA renounce violence and claimed they'd stop with the attacks. But this has made our experience in Spain an interesting one, to experience these kinds of dynamics on location.

Perhaps I should mention that we stayed in a little girl's room. Eight year old girl art work on the walls, and a little pet turtle in a big bowl of water. Cute turtle. He was the only one who can appreciate the amount of noise coming through our window each night. All night partying is loud when it includes bands with horns and singing and shouting. These people aren't exactly slumped over bar stools.

While in Pamplona, I saw my 3rd bullfight (Samantha's second one). It was a bad, bloody affair. Not at all graceful or elegant like the others I had seen. The matadors were hacks. Butchers. Seemingly unskilled. The bulls caught them a few times and pushed them around and into the air a bit, but no goring. But these hacks deserved some horn in the gut. The thing that ruined it was the sword kill at the end. After unimpressive work with the cape, the matadors further humiliated themselves by requiring several attempts to finish off the bull and making a bloody mess in the process. One matador required 7 or 8 different sword thrust attempts to end the misery of the bull. This bull was a proud and beautiful beast and he deserved a swift and noble end. This hack... it was brutal. I really wanted to punch him in the face. It was almost enough to spoil my interest in bullfights altogether.

We did join the fiesta our fair share. We spent parts of each day drinking Rioja wine and canas de cerveza, and eating bocadillos de lomo and queso y pimientos. We canvassed the town on foot, like many of the other tourists, which included lots of american college kids. During one nice afternoon wine buzz, we watched a mediocre Beatles cover band, which allowed me to join the fray by singing loudly and dancing poorly on the sidewalk. Mild hooligan behavior, but in the English language and I did not spill wine on myself or others.

Enough about that - I ran with the bulls. After carefully watching an encierro pass by my preferred running spot the morning before, I was ready. I think the mob of runners was small on the day I ran, as compared to other encierros. Plus, I noticed an interesting behavior when we watched the encierros: 75% of the runners, upon seeing the bulls approach 50 yards away, will either run immediately to the nearest wall to get out of the way entirely or even climb through/under the safety fence. Before the bulls even get close to them! I guess that qualifies as "running with the bulls" for those folks, but not me. I was glad to see that so many people got out of the way to allow running space for the bulls and the handful of people that actually wanted to get closer to them.

Samantha was dutifully waiting with the digital camera, prepared with careful instructions on how to operate the device and where I'd be running. She was perched in the same spot we'd watched from the day before, so she was acclimated and somewhat comfortable. And she did great. Got almost every step of my run on film. Unfortunately, the film does not do the adrenalin rush much justice.

It's thrilling. The bulls came charging up the street on a slight incline, and I started jogging. As I had planned, I tried to hit full speed sprint just as the bulls got 10 yards or so from my tail, staying a bit in front of them and a bit to their side. Then as they ran alongside and past me, we'd pass by Samantha, with me alongside and close to the bulls, and as I left Samantha's vantage point the bulls would be passing me by. Two things I did not account for:

1) The pansies in front of me who squealed with fear. They either blocked me as they crossed my path when they headed for the wall or when they plain stopped in front of me when the bulls got close. I used my wide receiver "swim" technique to clear by them, but the encounters with the pansies slowed my pace and allowed a couple bulls to pass me by while I plowed through people.

2) The speed of the bulls. I expected, without interference, to be able to run alongside them for a bit longer. I only lasted alongside them for about 40-50 yards. Even without the aforementioned interference, I would not have been able to go more than 60-70 yards with them... partly because I slowed down to wide-eye the bulls when they passed closest to me.

I got about a long arm's length reach away from them. I was never close enough to a horn to get gored. The bulls, thanks to the handful of older "tame" bulls that serve guide the whole pack through the route, are pretty focused on running straight ahead unless you give them reason to do otherwise. I would have had to lunge a few feet to my right to put myself in harms way. Of course, having done it once, I feel like maybe I could have gotten a bit closer to them, but I'm quite pleased with what my balls allowed me to accomplish on my first run. What a rush.

To celebrate my good fortune and good health, we hit the fiesta hard that day and night. Again the whole city was packed with fiesta. We finished one bottle of Rioja wine by 1pm, the rest of the day gets blurrier thereafter. Coincidentally, we bumped into the 2 Italian guys (Danielo and Fabio - great dudes) who were staying in the other room of the apartment we were in. They were aggressive drinking and loved to sing and make merriment; I was glad to join forces with them, because after many months of drinking with my wife alongside, I have a tendency to follow her yawning and fade early. Not her fault, but obviously partying with two booze loving Italians in your crew is going to boost the energy level. Wow, a helluva night. These guys drank it all: wine, beer, jagermeister and red bull, shots, brandy with coffee, you name it. Queen Hatshepsut got smart as the night wound on, and started passing off her drinks to me or usually the Italians. I was not so smart. But I did sing louder and make more merriment. Two unfortunate notes: some young ETA jedi mind-tricked me, kind of, into chanted some ETA thing which is NOT cool (Queen Hatshepsut astutely put a stop to it); she also caught a guy trying to sticky-finger some valuables out of her purse while we weaved through the late-night crowd. 3 cheers for Hatshepsut.

The next day was bad. I was wretchedly hungover, Samantha much less so, and we had to go. Pack our stuff up (which was strewn all over the room), walk with our full packs 1.5 miles to the rental car place is very hot and bright sun. I was hurting, fighting the urge to hurl every second. Queen Hatshepsut was on maximum irritation alert and merciless about my suffering; my only saving grace was the fact that she was also mildly hungover. We left to tour northern Spain in a cheap rental car, staying in campsites along the way. Rather unremarkable 5-day excursion, but I will post about it later.

In terms of information, I was ill-prepared for Pamplona. In our precious sparse online time, I tried to work the San Fermin festival message board to secure accommodation. Hotels were fully booked and campsites were far out of town and did not seem to be a great option if you really wanted to experience the festival to the fullest. So I sought a private room to sublet for 3 days. No luck. I tried over a dozen emails to available room-holders, and all of them wanted over 150 euros per night and a full one-week commitment. Finally, when I found a place that would accept a 5-day rental for 100 euro per night, I jumped on it and felt really lucky, considering the alternatives. Now that we're done I realize how we could have done it differently to save a lot of money. Even after all the fun and fiesta, it's very hard to say it was worth the cash we burned while we were there. You'd ready have to put a lot of value in the bragging rights that you take home with you to make it worth it.

Other note: I am reading a Nietsche book, which is tough sledding if your head is cloudy in any way. Very thought-provoking, and not something I can read whilst listening to the MP3 player on the train. One or the other.

Clint's posts: NZ 1, 2, Aussie 1, 2, 3, 4, Thailand , Kilimanjaro , Serengeti , Egypt 1, 2, Israel, Turkey, Greece, Italy 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, Mid-Trip Awards, Barcelona, Morocco, Sevilla

Toros!

2006-07-10T23:51:00.000-07:00

Whew. I did it. And Sam got it all on film. Details to follow. (photos)

first 2 days in Pamplona

2006-07-09T03:16:00.000-07:00

Pamplona is a madhouse. Similar to Mardi Gras with thousands of people, young and old, binge drinking for days at a time, people pissing on buildings, barfing in the street, stinking, hollering, and so. I think it's great, and predictably, Queen Hatshepsut is not impressed. One difference is that in Pamplona, most of the people are wearing a uniform of white shirt and white pants and a red hankerchief. Also they enjoy singing various Spanish folk songs, loudly and in unison, at all hours, usually accompanied by one of the dozens of omnipresent marching bands that appear throughout the town. At Mardi Gras, the only thing people shout together is "show your tits". I don't like that indicting comparison, but it's true.

The bull run through town happens so fast. I have not run yet as I wanted to watch one or two before jumping in. Our first attempt to witness had us 3-deep behind a barrier with no hope for a sightline, despite the fact we got there an hour early. I heard the rumble and saw a sliver of a glimpse of a bull. The next day, we chose to sleep through the run because it was Sunday and we expected a capacity crowd to cram the streets. We're hoping the crowd will thin a bit for Monday and Tuesday runs.

The prices for anything here are ridiculous. We are staying in a little girl's very small bedroom on the 5th floor of an elevator-less building with shared bathroom and kitchen for 100 euros per night. A sandwich is 5 or 6 euros. Thankfully we found the El Cortes Ingles department store and stocked up on some humble provisions, as well as 3 cheap bottles of wine.

I believe that it's a sign of maximum enjoyment if you spill wine on yourself. Everyone seems to do this almost willingly. I think I will try but haven't been wildly drunk enough, yet, to do it.

Budapest, Prague, Krakow, Vienna, Salzburg

2006-07-09T03:08:00.000-07:00

(Photos) Trip to Budapest on 2nd class seats, only mildly uncomfortable. 3 dozen drunk Austria kids making a ruckus for 3 hours upon boarding.

Just a quick whip-through my thoughts, because I really don't have many.

Budapest: Emanates a "classic" old city kind of vibe. Buda is leafier and quieter than Pest - a bit more suburban. Grand Hostel was a nice place near a busy road in Buda, which required a long walk, a bike, or use of the tram to get downtown and to the tourist trap areas. We did not drink much or experience much nightlife. Food was unspectacular although the platter of various grilled meat at Castro was a tasty gut bomb. Although we lucked into an art/craft/dance fair on the Chain bridge, I was not left with much of an indelible or noteworthy impression of Hungarian culture, unfortunately. I liked Argassy street, the leafy thoroughfare running through Pest - very stately and inviting. Museum of Terror recounting the Nazi then Soviet control over Hungary (both brutal and oppressive) was somewhat interesting and informative. All said, cool town, glad to have seen it, wouldn't go back.

Prague: Lovely city. Truly trapped in a time warp, architecturally speaking. But it's pretty obvious that it's a carefully contrived aesthetic that they strive to maintain here - the cheap beer and smoking hot women aren't enough to draw the big-spending upper-class tourists that we saw trampling throughout the city. That said, the town is beautiful and it was fun to wander around. I took too many pictures of the striking 18th/19th century buildings like every other joker tourist. The sight of the Charles Bridge with the big royal castle in the background is a classic. We did all the top tourist stuff and it was mildly interesting. The Trade Fair Palace gets a solid B grade from me for the variety and quantity of work we found there. I do love Czech beer. It's rich and foamy and good guzzling beer because it leaves you wanting more, even after a unsavory guttural belch. The ladies here are lovely and exotic and unabashed about prancing around town in skimpy skirt and booby-hugging tank tops. It was an eye-candy treat for a married guy. Saw a old white guy ("Stan the Man") sing some blues at a local bar - that was cool even though his talent was questionable. We caught a sweet profile shot of a late afternoon squall rolling into town while we were on the Charles Bridge. Otherwise, cool town, glad to have seen it, would only go back if it was convenient (preferably off-season).

Krakow: Where's the sausages? I looked all over town for someplace to grub on authentic Polish sausage and found more pizza and kebabs then you can shake a stick at. Gloomy weather we got might have added to the vibe here; it's smaller, quieter, humbler and thus less popular with tourists. Nice green park with dense trees ring the downtown quarter - I liked this very much. Very big town square with a very tall tower looming over it, which gives it a very antiquated look. Plus the gloomy weather. We only spent 2 half-days wandering around town, because we really came to see...

Auschwitz. Heavy, man. Very heavy. Not really comfortable talking much about it, except to say that I couldn't help but get very cynical thinking about the excuses I see/have seen in the press about why the Darfur massacres can't/couldn't be stopped by countries with the power to do so.

Vienna: Much more modern than the previous cities (thank you capitalism?) but they have a bewildering fixation with all things Mozart. Lovely compositions, no doubt, but good golly I couldn't give a crap about his life. Feels like Germany... wurst, schnitzel, language, etc. - but the beer is mostly Czech. The Hapsburg palaces and royal building and garden have been nicely preserved for tourists who give a crap. I am not one of them - the monuments that Ramses II erected in honor of himself all over Egypt kick the crap out of the flowery frilly symbols of 18th century aristocracy in Austria. The Musuem of Fine Arts here gets a B grade but if I had to choose, I'd visit the Prado or Thyssen in Madrid 35 times before I'd go to their collection even once. Sunday night, I struck out alone to find a reggae show that Hatshepsut was not interested in, and after an hour of walking and searching for the venue I stumbled upon a dude shooting around on an outdoor basketball court at 12:30am. I laced 'em up and got humbled in some one-on-one (my jumpshot has had too much sangria, I'm afraid). This was regrettably the highlight of my time in Vienna. Had some pretty good wurst, though, to go with the Czech beer.

Salzburg: we camped out here instead of paying for an overpriced hostel. Smaller version of Vienna in many ways, except that the town is situated between beautiful countryside and the beginning of the Alps, which provides some great scenery for this town. Cool hillside castle overlooking town but I was not really interested. So Sammy and I split up on our second day in town; I took a vigorous day-hike on the massif looming over Salzburg while she hit the tourist traps. My hike was awesome and I really enjoyed the alone time. Saw some guys para-sailing from the top and now I want to try this badly. We met in the early evening and ate and drank at the Augustineer beer garden. Great call. You fetch food from one of a dozen vendors outside the garden, and then pick up your monster-sized stein of beer brewed in the monastery next door and head outside to a table to feast. Prost, Craig! Prost Prost Prost! (with only one hand, mind you.) Besides the Alps and the cool beer hall, I was over Salzburg in a matter of hours.

After spending so much time in Mediterranean countries, the calmer, sedative, almost suppressed demeanor in Budapest, Prague, Krakow, Vienna, and Salzburg was quite noticeable. It's a big culture shift. Spaniards and Italians possess an obvious zest for living. It's not a cliché. Expressiveness. Animation. Emotion. In these eastern/central European cities, although we only spent a few days in each, I just did not see the same enthusiasm for life. Not that people seemed glum or depressed or negative, just not as emotive. Maybe not inspired. Maybe not optimistic? Maybe just "resigned" to life? Would the general feel of life be more emotive if they had been under Communist rule for so long? If they had wealth (though many Mediterraneans aren't exactly rich)? Land? Hope? That's what it *seems* like, I guess... like a sense of resignation or hopelessness. It's almost as if there is an underlying appreciation for coldness - in some way akin to the counter-productive way that blue-collar Philadelphians seem to laud brutishness and admire those who show the least amount of respect for others. I'm not sure of the cause, but the effect is unmistakable. I hesitate to categorically deem these cities as sullen downers, because we encountered some nice folks, but just dispassionate in comparison to their Mediterranean brethren.

All told, the 13-day storm tour of eastern/central European cities was a mild let-down for me. But I admit that 5 weeks in Italy, 10 days in Barcelona, 10 days in Morocco, and 2.5 weeks in Andalucia & Madrid is a very tough act to follow, as that span probably constitutes my favorite stretch of the trip so far. Plus, we didn't get very deep into eastern Europe and we didn't get into the countryside or experience the charm that I'm convinced resides in most cultures even if one must hang in there and dig for it. But I couldn't help looking forward just a little for our return to Spain and the running of the bulls in Pamplona. Having that dangling in front of me probably prevented me from giving the 13-day impromptu storm tour the mental investment it deserves.
After burning a day in Geneva and sitting on 15 hours of trains (continuously save for swell nice 3-hour station switch/breakfast break in Barcelona), we are now less than an hour from Pamplona as I type this. I am really amped. We've eaten snails and bugs, hugged wombats, and swam with sharks... now I am going to run with bulls and drink my face off for 5 days at the annual San Fermin festival. I'm gonna tangle with some toros. Ole!

Switzerland aborted

2006-07-09T02:44:00.000-07:00

(Photos) All night train from Madrid via Barcelona to Geneva in private car. Splurged a bit on the private sleeping car. Questionable value but good sleep on trains is really a rarity, and good sleep before the hike would be nice. After dropping off some stuff in the Geneva train station (to be reclaimed after several days of hiking), we took another 2 trains and a bus to Altdorf, Switzerland to start the hike.

It started off poorly, and the omen signs were there. Literally, within 30 seconds after stepping out of the cable car (allowing us to skip a brutally steep and unremarkable part of the trail), it began to drip, then drizzle, then full-on rain on us. I don't mind hiking in the rain as long as I have a rain jacket and dry clothes in the backpack. But when the lightning got disturbing frequent and uncomfortably closer to us, we ducked under a barn along the trail for a bit of shelter. Yes, a barn. Switzerland trails pass through lots of high alpine meadows used for grazing by Swiss cattle farmers. Lots of barns and small summer huts visible from and sometime close to the trail, at least until you get up into the rocky terrain where they have no reason to go. The rain relented a bit, and we continued on. After about 2.5 total hours of actual walking, we reached a cirque almost totally still filled with snow. Dense, foreboding clouds passing over and around us kept the sky darker than late afternoon in late June should be. It didn't take much mulling to decide to descend a bit to a flat spot and camp for the night. No fun getting caught in the dark or in heavy rain or lightning exposed on the snow in the middle of this large high-walled cirque. So we did.

Good thing we did. Just as we were picking our flat spot for the tent (you can see the tent in the lower right side of the photo), the rain returned and clouds thicker than pea-soup enveloped us for minutes at a time. As we pitched the tent, the wind kicked up and I was quite glad we'd stopped hiking. Then it got really gusty as Queen Hatshepsut sulked over our situation, warming herself in the tent, while I darted in and out of the tent to cook some noodles for supper. The winds was whipping pretty stiff, and I was glad I spent the extra time to set the guylines nice and taut on the rain cover. We were asleep before the sky had gotten totally dark, but the worst of the storm had passed by nightfall.

Quite a reward followed. I awoke in the middle of the night to whiz, and marveled at the completely clear night sky above the Alps. Wow. The Milky Way was glowing, and a sliver of moon has risen and was beaming orange low in the sky. Satellites galore. 3 shooting stars in the 10 minutes that I stood gawking before the cold air chased me back into the tent. What a moment. Only the night sky in Banff (Canadian Rockies) can match it. (Although I wonder if we'd gotten a really clear night in New Zealand or Kilimanjaro perhaps they could compare...)

The next morning - booyah! Brilliant blue sky all around, and snow packed mountains right in our face. There is absolutely no better way to wake up in the morning! Hopefully the photos do some justice. We continued back to the pass and started across the cirque. We did not get far when I realized that, without cramp-ons or ice axes, we'd be slipping around on a soft, mushy snow surface until we got over the pass, then maybe we'd see more snow there as well. It would require a slow, persistent, patient, and most of all, fully committed effort to clear the pass given our lack of equipment. I was not confident that we possessed the necessary mental constitution for the attempt - this is not what Queen Hatshepsut had signed up for. I made the call: we'd descend and get back to Zurich, and postpone our Alps hiking adventures until July when perhaps we will encounter less snow. So we marched down the trail, got our butts to Zurich, and lingered around town (we were asked to leave a city park at sunset by a goofy park attendant on a scooter) until we could catch a night train to Budapest. The tour of eastern and central Europe would begin a bit earlier than expected.

Switzerland - No; Eastern Europe -Yes

2006-07-08T03:17:00.000-07:00

After Madrid, Clint and I headed to Switzerland for some hiking in the Alps. Clint had picked out a couple of hikes for us and we planned to be on the trail for about 10 days or so. So we hopped on a train from Madrid to Barcelona and then took an overnight train from Barcelona to Geneva. We dropped some stuff off in Geneva and got on yet another train to a small town located in the eastern half of Switzerland. From the town, we took two buses to two cable cars, which took us to the trail. The day was beautiful as we traveled to the trail head -- warm, sunny and fairly clear skies. But once we reached the trail head, rain clouds were above our heads. As a result, we started the hike off in the rain. Then it began to downpour. After it started to downpour, there was thunder and lightening not too far from us. So we decided to wait out the storm near an abandoned barn. The barn was boarded up and it looked like someone had dumped tons of human waste next to the barn. It was nasty!! The rain finally subsided and so we started to hike again. Along the trail we saw tons of black salamanders. Two were wrestling each other and another was eating a worm. They covered the trail and we had to carefully watch every step for fear of squishing one under our hiking boots. We hit a snow field about two hours into the hike. The rain started again, along with the lightening, and so we headed back down to find a camping spot. Clint found us a great spot but the ground was really soggy from all the rain and we were sequestered in the tent for awhile as the rain poured down on us and the wind roared outside the tent. I was huddled on top of my sleeping pad and not a very happy camper. However, we woke up to clear skies and the most beautiful mountain scenary since New Zealand. The Alps are breathtaking. Between the jagged snow-covered peaks and the clanging of cow bells feasting on the luscious grass, it is hard not to think you have awoken inside a story book. We started the hike again and decided, when we reached the snowfield, to head for eastern Europe. Given the steep pitch of the mountain and the fact the trail was covered in snow, I was petrified that I would slide down and over a waterfall. I did not have the confidence to attempt to hike up to a ridge via a steeped sloped path covered in snow and falling rock. Clint realized he had encountered a losing situation with me and so told me that we needed cramp ons or an ice axe and suggested we head down and come back in a few weeks when the snow melt is greater. So, we hiked down and headed for Budapest.
SWITZERLAND UNVEILED: INEFFICIENT, DIRTY, CRAZY PEOPLE AND NOT NEUTRAL
Our first stop in Switzerland was the Geneva train station. I always had this impression that Switzerland was a pristine country with sleek state of the art technology and transportation infrastructure. Okay so my imagination runs wild and I was wrong. Switzerland is not an efficient country. Why? First, we needed to store some stuff for an extended period of time. I am sure we are not the only travelers who need to do this. In Switzerland you can only use a locker for three days. After that, your stuff is removed and put into luggage storage. Sounds reasonable, right? So if you know in advance that you need to store your stuff for more than three days, then the logical solution would be to give your bags to the baggage storage people straight way. Oh no, this is not the system. Instead they would rather have you put your stuff in the locker for the three days, allow them to remove it and put it into luggage storage, and then you get to pick it up from luggage storage only between the hours of 8 a.m. - 7 p.m. Second, I saw more crazy people in Switzerland than any other country we have visited in Europe so far. Apparently, they all like to hang out at the train station and talk to themselves loud enough for the rest of us to enjoy their conversation. Third, Switzerland is not clean. The Geneva train station is dirty and grimey. The Zurich train station too. The only part of the country that is pristine are the mountains and hiking trails. Last, Switzerland is not a neutral country as they like to claim. Clint and I read that during WWII, Switzerland rode the fence assisting both the Nazis and the Allies. In particular, the Swiss banks held the loot the Nazis stole during the war.
BUDA + PEST = BUDAPEST
I always thought Budapest would be a chaotic city lacking modernity or sophistication. But I was wrong. Budapest is like any other European city and has stunning architecture. Although, the city definitely has an unemployment and alcoholism problem. We saw tons of vagrants wandering the streets and lots of people boozing up at all hours of the day. This is not surprising as many of the eastern block countries have a high alcoholism rate as a result of communist rule. Apparently, most people drank away their sorrows and numbed the pain of being ruled by Stalinist Russia. After seeing the effects and destruction at the hands of the Nazis and Soviets in Hungary (the Terror museum), it is hard to blame the people for seeking comfort in booze.
PRAGUE: SO MANY TOURISTS, SO LITTLE TIME
Prague is one of the most beautiful cities we have seen during this trip. But, quite frankly, the Old Town Square reminds me a lot of Main Street at Disneyland. There just seems to be a bit of artificiality to it. The old Jewish ghetto was interesting and I went into the Old-New Syngagogue which is the oldest Synagogue in Prague. It was intriguing because there were so many people praying and chanting in the temple. Prague has definitely been westernized both in terms of the availability and quantity of American based restaurants and brands as well as western European goods. The only downside to visiting Prague were the amount of tourists flooding its streets. Tons of Americans and Brits everywhere. The highlight of Prague for me was visiting the Fair Trade Palace. I was particularly excited to see some sculptures by Rodin and paintings by Van Gogh and Klimt.
KRAKOW - NUMBING
Our only reason for going to Krakow was to visit Auschwitz, the Nazi concentration camp. I also wanted to see Poland to get a feel for another eastern bloc country. While Auschwitz was a difficult visit for me, I do not regret having had the experience of walking around the concentration camp. Several years ago, I read "Treblinka", which is a book about an uprising that took place at a concentration camp during WWII. As a result, some of the images described in the book about the forest surrounding the concentration camp were in my mind as we took the train into Poland. After being at Auschwitz and seeing several of the exhibits, I cannot believe there are people in this world who have the gall to say that the Holocaust never took place. Also, I still cannot come to grips with the fact that people could be that cruel and heartless to another group of people for no reason at all. It just sickens me to think of all the lost lives and cruelty that took place at Auschwitz. It also makes me wonder why the world is sitting on its heels watching the events in Darfur, Sudan take place. Haven't we learned our lessons yet from history?
AUSTRIA: VIENNA & SALZBURG - NOT A FAN
For me, Austria is a bore. The Austrian highlights for me included seeing some Klimt paintings, including his infamous "The Kiss" at Belvedere Palace and staying at the wombat hostel in Vienna. I probably could have stayed in Vienna a few days longer trudging along to some of the other art museums we did not have time to visit. The countryside in Austria is beautiful and Salzburg is a picturesque city. But there are lots of other countries in Europe with beautiful scenary that are far more exciting than Mozart loving Austria. Also, I get this impression that because there were so many classical musicians whom were either born in Austria or spent some considerable time in the country, the Austrians somehow think they are sophisticated. Last, I did not appreciate the drunken Austrian youths on our train between Zurich and Budapest. In fact, I thought they were all riff-raff heathens that should have been locked up in the clink. Basically, while I was in Austria, I was counting down the days until I returned to Spain.

Viva la Espana!!

Queen Hatshepsut

MADRID: Spain's Capital

2006-07-02T10:10:00.000-07:00

Our original plan was to storm tour Madrid like we stormed toured Rome. But since we were unable to take the train we wanted to Switzerland, our storm tour became a lazy tour. We spent our days in Madrid getting up at the rock and roll hour of noon and spending our nights drinking canas and eating tapas. It was awesome! Of course we also fit it all the touristy things and hit four art museums while we were there. The art museums were fantastic and the Thysseun was by far my favorite because of the diversity of the artwork on display. There are some architectural gems in Madrid but it is nothing like Barcelona. Barcelona takes the cake with all of the Gaudi buildings. During our scavenger hunt (thank you Marcy and John for the idea), I was able to spend some quality time in the El Retiro park which is a city park with some amazing gardens. It even has a moat. Both Clint and I ran one afternoon in the park. While I enjoyed Madrid, if push came to shove, I would not move there.

Madrid

2006-07-01T02:39:00.000-07:00

We arrived in Madrid (photos) on a hot day and wandered more than necessary, with our packs on, because of incomplete/non-descriptive directions provided by the hostel. We came to find that it was not a hostel, but a small pension with a few private rooms for rent. Very nice room and bathroom considering some of the places we've ended up. Our pension in Granada was also very nice, but our hostel in Sevilla left us fuming because of the damn water. One plus is that all 3 had TVs in the rooms, and usually showing the cheesy free porn that is broadcast on several channels in Spain. Adult action. Sweet.

Anyhow... what to say about Madrid? This city has 3 or 4 great art museums (Prado, Thyssen, and Belle Arts). I am a tough crowd when it comes to art and I could have spent 4+ hours in Prado or Thyssen. Definitely a fan of Goya now, and his varied work is usually captivating to me. Saw a few works by some non-superstar (non-namedroppers) artists that really lit up for me. And I can also say somewhat conclusively that I'm not a fan of Picasso. Shoot me now.

Other than art, the story of our time in Madrid was (surprise!) - more tapas and beer than I want to recount in much detail. Who am I kidding? My head is so cloudy I barely remember the details. I will try. We found a few cheap, scrumptious, too-greasy bars to frequent, and with a steady stream of World Cup soccer games in which we have some interest, we spent a lot of time in bars. My liver hates me; my gullet screams for more. What is a man to do? My brain keeps rationalizing that the grubbing and guzzling were 90% of the reason I wanted to come to Spain (this is true), but since I don't often drink myself into a stupor that would leave me painfully hungover, my poor body is taking the bulk of the damage! Where's the justice in that? The body occasionally revolts and I rouse for what resembles a run. I jogged for an hour around the park (amazing city park in Madrid, and the citizenry are happy to fill it) and it felt like I'd run 2 marathons during which I'd bathed in beer paste. Why must my body be so disdainful of my mind's indulgence? But the brain wins, the soul is satisfied, and I drink beer and vino tinto and rioja and eat blood sausage and cheap bocadillos de lomo y queso and platos of chorizo and torilla espanola for hours until Sam runs out of gas.

After our 3 days in Madrid, we went to the train station to book our train to Geneva (the body gets revenge - hiking in the Alps! no booze! food rationing!!). Inconveniently, the train we wanted was all sold out and we would be able to catch another for 2 days. So our time in Madrid was extended, and we filled it nicely. We did a scavenger hunt for each other, and then spent the 2nd half of the day executing it. And we did some more touring of the city on foot - this is definitely our most popular pastime on the trip. And of course, more great Spanish food and drink. This habit has a nice side effect, as we found ourselves staying out late, and sleeping in until 11 or noon everyday (despite construction noise) or squeezing in the occasional siesta. As I have said many times to Samantha on the trip: life is very, very good on the World Tour. So it is. Especially in Spain.

Bullfights in Granada

2006-06-19T15:50:00.000-07:00

We left Sevilla via train to Granada (photos), switching over to the eastern side of Andalucia. I was excited to get there, as we received some enthusiastic recommendations about the town, and I had specifically managed our itinerary so that our visit would coincide with their big annual fair that accompanies the religious celebration of Corpus Christi. I'd read that the weeklong feria was a big event for locals, akin to a longer version of our county fairs, but with more energy and community involvement. Most importantly, the feria means 7 straight days of bullfights, and I was psyched to catch one.

The feria was big. Amusement park rides, a circus, dozens of mobile food trucks, dozens of massive tented restaurants and bars, religious processions around town, lots of ladies decked out in lovely flamenco dresses, marching bands meandering around town, lights and garland adorning streets, and so on. But the best part, for me, was the bullfights. I've read The Sun Also Rises, Hemingway's glorification of the bullfight, and then in the last few weeks we each read his follow-on book about bullfighting, A Dangerous Summer. So we knew some basic lingo and the basic nature of the event. But seeing it firsthand is really an eye-opener. It's gruesome and bloody and highly revered and every one of my nerves was lit up. Queen Hatshepsut was predictably disgusted; I was AMPED. There's no doubt that the bullfight is torture for the bull, for the sole benefit of the shouting crowd. It's not a humane way to kill an animal, but it's damn exciting to watch a good matador whip the mob into a frenzy with a skillful, graceful, confident performance. Quick attempt to rationalize: the bull is bred entirely for this purpose, he's cheered by the crowd for the effort he puts forth in his death, and he's eaten afterwards. But to be honest I'm okay with it mostly because I was entertained. In saying so, I've probably lost about 30 friends who are reading this and now believe me to be a callous, blood-thirsty, shameless barbarian. What can I say? I must have spent too much time around those knuckle-draggers in Philly.

Anyhow, my brief and extremely dumbed-down synopsis of the bullfight goes like this: they turn the bull loose in the ring, the matador and his team checks him out with a few cape passes, then a helper on horse sticks the bull with a short-bladed spear between his shoulder blades. Then they pierce the bull in the same place with 6 barbed spears (banderillos) that stay attached to the bull for the remainder. The matador then uses a smaller red cape to tame the injured bull and coerce him into charging the cape very close to his own body, the closer and more graceful the passes, the better. Then when the bull has lost his gusto, the matador coaxes the bull to charge one last time while he tries, sometimes unsuccessfully, to shove a long sword into his spinal column and turn the lights out. If any of the aforementioned puncturing is performed too enthusiastically or too sloppily, the crowd boos mercilessly, decries the hackjob, and the bull begins to bleed gratuitously. Quite a spectacle, but I found it truly brilliant when done skillfully and with panache.

Matadors are recognized for their performance in an interesting manner. If he's done graceful and brave work with his bull, the crowd cheers loudly and waves hankies until "El Presidente", seated in the upper deck, displays his own white handkerchiefs over the railing. One hankie means that one ear is cut off the dead bull before he's dragged from the ring, and the ear is given to the matador. Two hankies means both ears. If he's given the performance of his career, the crowd will persist with the cheering until the matador is also awarded with the tail of the dead bull (i did not see this happen). If he's done poorly, the matador gestures humbly and quicklyto the upper deck and the crowd does no cheering and even whistles at him to deride his butcher job. Lots of drinking in the stands, as you can bring in ANYTHING YOU WANT, AS MUCH AS YOU WANT. Food, beer, booze, whatever. Half of all NFL fans would be in prison for drunken transgressions if this were allowed in the US.

I went back for another fight without Samantha, and it was just a thrilling a second time. Toros were big, again with powerful rippling muscles, long sharp horns and fury (i.e. super pissed off monsters). Los Matadors seemed better: more knowledge, grace, and bravado (i.e. huger balls). This time I was prepared and had a full compliment of booze with me. I got sauced alongside 2 60+ year old men and enjoyed their company. I learned better when to boo and the appropriate volume for your ole cheer. All good.

Another thing about southern Spain: the Arab influence in Andalucia is very prevalent. The Moors ruled Andalucia for over 600 years, and it showed. Architecturally it often seems more Arabic than any other European styles we've seen. The Alhambra in Granada and the Alcazar in Sevilla are both vestiges of Muslim rule. It's diluted compared to actually visiting a predominantly Muslim country, but it's interesting how the evidence is still visible.

I am now officially in a haze. We've eaten at sooooooo many tapas bars and had a ridiculous amount of sangria, vino tinto, beer, and chorizo, lomo (pork), olives and other tapas. The various bars, cafes, cervecerias, and similar such establishments have begun to blur together. I cannot distinguish them any longer. Two recommendations we received were very good ones: Chopp and Poe, both tapas bars in Granada. But I only remember them because we sought them out by name. Other joints we just wander in to, 2-4 per day, and I'd only recollect their names if someone prompted me. My brain is turning to mush... but my vest for living has rarely been more alive!! Long live the escalating wine buzz! Long live the sedative bliss of a full gut of greasy salty tasty food. Throw in some bullfights and it could be heaven.

Next is a storm tour of Madrid, only for a few days. Then on to Switzerland.

Clint's posts: NZ 1, 2, Aussie 1, 2, 3, 4, Thailand , Kilimanjaro , Serengeti , Egypt 1, 2, Israel, Turkey, Greece, Italy 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, Mid-Trip Awards, Barcelona, Morocco, Sevilla

Sammy's posts: NZ 1, Aussie 1, 2, 3, Thailand, Kilimanjaro, Serengeti, Egypt 1, 2, Israel, Zeb shout-out, Turkey, Greece, Italy 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 (Zeb), 6, Barcelona, Morocco, Andalucia

We're Back.....in Spain

2006-06-17T15:02:00.000-07:00

After our week in Essaouira was up, we took a bus from Essaouira to Marrakesh. Then from Marrakesh we took an overnight train to Tangier and from Tangier we took a ferry to the Spanish port town of Algeciras. Finally, from Algeciras we took yet another bus to Tarifa, a coastal town on the Atlantic Ocean. Let's just say we needed a siesta when we reached Tarifa. No matter how hard you try, it is difficult to get restful sleep on an overnight train, especially when you are dreaming about scorpions (which is all I dreamt about when I was in Morocco).

I SLEPT WITH TWO STRANGE MEN

The overnight train ride from Marrakesh to Tangier was not too bad. I slept pretty soundly for about 5 hours and then abruptly woke up because I thought we missed our stop (which meant I never could really fall back asleep). Clint apparently did not sleep much at all because he decided to spend the night with his backpack. We spent a few dollars extra for a four bed couchette; our cheap hotel for the night. We shared the couchette with 2 Moroccan men, which quite frankly was better than sharing it with fellow tourists. However, given our language barrier, they did not talk to us and we did not talk to them.

DOES THE WIND EVER STOP?

Tarifa beats Chicago for the windiest city title. You can barely walk down a street in Tarifa without being almost knocked over by the wind. I thought I was going to fly away several times, but then realized how much I have eaten in Italy and Spain, and so knew I would remain grounded. People come to Tarifa not to lay out on the beach (how can you with sand blowing around) but rather to kitesurf or windsurf. Clint wanted to learn how to kitesurf and so that's why we ended up in Tarifa. But, while there, he changed his mind and so, we caught up on some laundry. After Tarifa, we spent a day and a night in Cadiz, another beach town. Cadiz seems like the Florida of Spain. Great weather, great beaches and tons of fat old people wearing speedos. Clint surfed and I layed out on the beach. We stayed at a hostel in the center of town that, while cheap, was not the best place to get a good night's rest. Between the people laughing, drinking and screaming in the square near the hostel, along with the couple above us getting it on, I probably got about 4 hours of sleep. I was not happy!

From Cadiz, we took a train to Sevilla. I booked our hostel on hostelworld.com and while it sounded promising on hostel world (free WIFI, free breakfast and coffee, a/c, t.v.), it sucked. The hostel was clean but it took us 2 days to finally get the WIFI security code, no one at the reception desk even knew they had WIFI, even though the wireless modem was less than 3 feet away from them. There was no hot water to speak of and at times no water pressure either. The funny part about the hot water is they had a sign hanging in the bathroom which said "please do not waste the hot water." I honestly think they only hung it up as a psychological trick. Basically, they wanted each of the guests to blame the others for the lack of hot water, when in reality the trick was on all of us. There was no hot water!! While Sevilla is not as architecturally alluring as Barcelona, it still has some gems. The cathedral is the 3rd largest in the world and is stunning. We also went to the Alcazar, a palace built by the Moors. We were also fortunate to arrive during a week of festivities and so saw two parades. Both of which were religious. One was related to a patron saint while the other involved taking the virgin mary from the cathedral and walking her all over town. I honestly have no idea what the purpose was for the parade or where they were taking her. She was beautifully decorated in gold and jewels. Men carried the cart the virgin was on and a band followed the cart too. We had no idea what exactly was going on but tons of people were following the virgin mary and incense was being blown into the air. The best parade was the one we witnessed the first night we arrived. It was fantastic because the cart carrying the symbol for the patron saint was being pulled by two enormous bulls. In fact, there were several bulls in the parade. I have never seen animals (other than maybe the hippo in Tanzania) as big and strong as these bulls. The bulls seemed fairly docile but I can't even fathom what it would have been like if they were not (i.e., when we run with the bulls in Pamplona). They would have taken out everyone in the crowd. Also, there were men wearing hats and riding horses along with women dressed in flamenco dresses. After watching the parade, we stayed out until 4:30 a.m. with a crazy Irishman and a Bostonian. It is good to know I can still party like a rockstar! Apparently, unbeknownest to me, the Irish have conquered the world and we can thank them for everything we have because without the Irish we all would be in dire straits. The next two nights were a bit tamer as Ramses is convinced Queen Hatshepsut still cannot handle her liquor. So we settled for some delicious tapas and good conversation rather than staying up until the wee hours of the early morning.

GRANADA: CAVES, THE ALHAMBRA, TAPAS, VINO TINTO CON LIMON, MOORS, FIREWORKS AND BULLFIGHTS

Granada is a city nestled in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountain range in Andalusia. The train ride from Sevilla to Granada was 3 hours but we traveled through some beautiful country along the way. There were fields of sunflowers, lots of horses and open space. The idea of buying some property along the train route was very tempting. We arrived in Granada to a vacant town. This is the problem of traveling in Spain on Sundays; not a lot is open. After having some directional issues (I am considering firing the navigator), we finally found our hostel. We dropped our stuff off and then headed out to feed our gullets. We ended up at an outdoor cafe where we watched the French Open finals. Nadal, a Spaniard was playing and the Spaniards are very gregarious about cheering for the home country. In fact, after Spain won their world cup game people were shouting from their balconies in Granada and driving all around town waving the Spanish flag. Clint decided to time our visit to Granada to coincide with one of the town's fiestas related to the corpus christi. As a result of the fiesta, there were bullfights every night in Granada. So we bought some tickets and attended our first fight on Monday night. We both read Hemingway's "Dangerous Summer" which is about bullfighting. Basically the matadors torture each bull until its death and unfortunately, the bulls have no idea what is going to happen to them. I thought I was going to start crying during the first fight because the bull's tongue was sticking out and I could hear it moaning. It also was incontinent. When the matador finally killed it, the sight was disgusting. Blood poured out of the bull's mouth. I did not think I was going to last through five more bulls. Let's just say it was my first and last bullfight ever.

While in Granada, we visited the Alhambra which was built by the Moors. The Alhambra complex is enormous covering an entire hill overlooking the city of Granada. The inside of the palace was phenomenal because of the intricate carvings in the walls, ceilings and doors along with the colorful mosaic tiles. I was blown away by the level of detail of the carvings. The gardens in the palace and around the complex are beautiful and peaceful. Every so often, it is nice to not hear a car horn, see exhaust or smell cigarette smoke. After the Alhambra we took a bus to the Sacramonte neighborhood to try and catch some flamenco dancing in a cave. Yes, I said cave. There are tons of cave dwellings still alive and well in Granada. Some of them are being used as homes while others are being used as bars and restaurants. Unfortunately, several tour buses of elderly people were dumped off in the area and so we decided to skip the flamenco dancing. No offense to elderly people but we are just not that keen on hanging out with tour groups. We ended up stumbling upon a Moroccan restaurant. The food was delicious and I was able to drink tea with mint while Clint had a sheesha. Unfortunately, they charged absurd prices for everything, including the sheesha and so Clint was not pleased when we left the restaurant. I was still feeling no pain at this point of the evening and so, was just happy not to be eating Spanish food (there is only so much fried food, ham, chorizo and cheese I can take).

3 MONTHS TO GO, NO WAY!!

We recently hit another travel anniversary -- we have now been on the road for 5 months. It is incredible how fast time is flying by us; it's crazy. Sometimes it feels like we just started the trip yesterday, and other times it feels like we have been on the road for centuries. The same goes for our marriage. While each country we have explored has been for the most part very different, all the countries have several similarities. First, I have seen sheep in every country, except Thailand. So apparently sheep, not money, make the world go round. Second, most people are generally friendly, even to Americans. Third, people want a comfortable life -- this does not mean a $1 million dollar house with a BMW in the driveway and couture hanging in the closet. Rather, it means having food on the table, basic infrastructure (such as drinkable water,
decent roads, electricity), shelter, and good health. For example, in Tanzania people have to bike a few miles in order to get drinkable water because they lack the basic infrastructure for running water. They fill up the jugs/barrels, then attach them to their bikes (and they are very heavy) and head back to their homes. We even saw some kids doing this. Last, everyone recognizes and has an opinion about the United States. Some voice that opinion, such as the guy in Bergamo who told Clint he could no longer speak to him because Clint said he was a Republican. While others show it by the clothes they wear (Kobe Bryant jerseys, Shaq jerseys, Iverson jerseys, New York baseball hats -- seen in Egypt, Morocco, Italy, Spain, Thailand, and Tanzania) or paint it on storefronts (paintings of 50 Cent and Shaq on the sides of shack style stores in Tanzania).

YES I WAS ONCE A COLLEGE STUDENT BUT THAT DOES NOT MEAN I HAVE TO LIKE BEING AROUND THEM NOW

Backpacking in Europe with American college students = not fun!! It strikes me as ironic when Americans act shocked or indignant about the reputation we have overseas. The bottom line is Americans are obnoxious in foreign countries. We have seen this time and time again. From the fat American in Italy asking why there were no cannolis at a bar in Florence. To an American college woman shrieking at the receptionist at one of our hostels about the fact there was no water pressure in her room. No matter that she bounded down the stairs almost taking me out without saying excuse me. To the idiot American guys on a train from Sevilla to Granada saying very loudly for all to hear, "How do you say bathroom in Spanish?" It seems most Americans (and Germans and French too) make no effort whatsoever to learn some words in a foreign language or embrace the culture of the country they are visiting. It is pathetic. Yet, we expect everyone in America to speak English when they visit or live in America. Interesting....

HITTING THE BOOKS AGAIN

On a side note, I am headed back to school this fall. I was accepted into UW's LLM program in Intellectual Property law (copyrights, trademarks, and patents). I have been interested in pursuing this degree for quite some time now and, as a result, I am very excited about starting the program this fall.

Andalucia, part one

2006-06-17T07:41:00.000-07:00

After the long travel from Morocco, when we arrived in Tarifa and secured an affordable hostel, we needed a nap. So we did. Siestas are so sweet. We woke, showered, and headed out for tapas y sangria. We've learned to heavily discount dining guidance from guidebooks, so we follow our noses now. We landed at El Montaito, a tiny wine bar serving bocadillos, or mini sandwiches. The barkeep didn't do sangria, so we fired up the vino tinto con limon, which is red table wine mixed with fizzy lemonade and sliced lemon. Wine buzzes fuel the appetite, and we knocked down 3 or 4 bocadillos between us. Bacon, jalapeno and cheese! Grilled chicken with creamy cheese sauce! More vino tinto! Pork with herb sauce! I wanted to eat ten of these badboys but my expanding figure now demands prudence. I try to stop when I get full, rather then when I cannot fit another morsel in my gullet. Somewhat disappointing, but I really do not want to be obese.

Tarifa made our list originally because it's heaven for kite-surfers. I now know why. The wind in this town seems to defy reality. It is so persistently gusty that you can't hear clearly outdoors. I would hang myself if I had to live here. The wind is so oppressive and continuous, it's tough to imagine the psychological impact this could have over years. I felt like there was some kind of twilight-zone/bad aura hanging over the town. Not sure why. Just seemed like everyone was despondent and sort of sleep-walking about town. No energy. No vibe. Just existence, which I could understand given the oppressive wind. I won't be back here.

Anyhow, I decided during the trip back to Spain to suspend indefinitely all kitesurfing. I did not progress as fast as I had expected in Morocco because I had unrealistic expectations. You really have to master the kite entirely before you can get up on the board and start cruising. And the gear rental and lessons are not cheap. Then I also reasoned that, given the rare opportunity in the future, would I take it? Probably not, as I am quite enthusiastic in my passions for snowboarding, hiking, etc. So even though I'd led us to the Center of the Kitesurfing Universe in Tarifa, I would not kitesurf. We only stayed in Tarifa for 2 days because we needed a laundry day and a day of preparation for the coming weeks.

During our second and final night in town, we really did it right. We started with tapas, sangria, and vino tinto at Cafe Vesuvius, run by an Italian guy (surprise!). Good stuff. Then we advanced to a local joint called Cafe France, oddly named because there was absolutely nothing French about the joint. It was filled with locals and we ate and drank well. Perhaps too well. I was cloudy-headed the next day until we boarded our bus to Cadiz at midday.

Cadiz is a mid-sized coastal city on the Atlantic side, the Costa del Luz, with a gigantic beach. Seems to be a popular tourist destination for Europeans, but we were still a bit early in the season for hordes. Not too crowded. Starting to see more backpackers from UK and US. I bungled the first few hours of our time in Cadiz. I had a map to a campsite near the middle of town, and I tried to navigate us there as we walked from the bus station. After sweating heavily for 2 hours and getting turned around more than I care to admit, we walked back to the train station where I realized the campsite was in another part of town entirely, accessible only by an additional city bus ride. Screw it, we started looking for a nearby hostel to drop our packs. We went with the Hostal Marquez because the price (30 euro for a double room) was tough to beat. But the room got hot in the morning when we were trying to sleep off the sangria, there was clearly audible clatter thoroughout the night, and the keeper was a rude ass. Eh, what the heck, it was cheap.

That night in Cadiz, we spent 3+ hours eating and drinking in a very charming and fun little tapas cafe called Los Platillos Volantes. Husband was the bartender, and he made the best sangria I've ever had. Wife was in the kitchen, and I started calling her La Maestra because she was orchestrating some exceptional tapas. Tuna chunks in savory tomato and oil sauce. Andalucian beef stew. More tuna chunks, this time prepared with brandy. If any other Spanish travellers stumble across this blog, take note: dining at the Cadiz restaurant "Los Platillos Volantes" is an absolute treat, and affordable, too.

The next day, we stashed our packs in the train station and went to the beach. Samantha got sand blown on her for a few hours while I surfed. I decided to try the shortest board I had riden yet, even though the waves were questionably sized. I rode a 6'6" round nose, and after 30 minutes of thrashing, I finally figured it out and caught some short rides. I have a long way to go before I am a decent surfer but it wasn't so bad for a first time on a short board. Good fun, but more tiring because I had to paddle persistently to stay in one place as the rip current would pull me down the beach if I went idle for even a minute. Afterwards, we ate late lunch at a deplorably bland tex-mex place across the street from the beach (tex-mex? in Spain? what were we thinking?!) and got on a train to Sevilla.

The terrain and scenery of the Andalucia countryside is really worth gushing about. The terrain is sprawling and mildly varied, and mostly dry. Majestic solitary oak trees surrounded by miles of golden rolling hills, interspersed with expansive geometric orchards, like combed bushy dotted lines on an underside of reddish-brown earth. Rough granite ridges rise occasionally from beneath, suggesting age and perseverance and character. Layers of dust dull the bright whiteness of the old and often dilapidated farmhouses. Shallow canyons bank gently through the rocky ridges, providing inaccessability that shelters bits and swaths of uncultivated shrubery and weeds. No tall trees; instead enough open space, clear sightlines, smoothed contours, and basic earth tones that begged my eyes to wander. If I'd been walking about, I suspect I'd have been bored by such subtle scenery. I'd likely have been hot and dry-mouthed as well. Instead, we saw most of the countryside from trains and buses, and we were carried through the area at the pace that seemed to match my attention span and ability to absorb it. Perhaps I sold the region short by failing to explore it on foot. I don't like to feel as though I rushed through hastily, yet I feel confident that we're maximizing the use of our collective time by gawking out the window with glazed-over eyes instead.

Once in Sevilla, we met another American on the Sevilla city bus to our hostel. This gentleman, Sean McGrail, has done some extensive traveling himself. We hit it off well, sharing stories and lessons. He's our age and has been to more countries than we have, by far. The day went on and our first night in Sevilla, I got really wasted. We went out drinking with Sean until almost sunrise. Combined with some surfing-induced and stupidity-induced dehydration, I had a hellacious hangover the next day. Not of epic proportions, but I had to nurse myself with water and napping until late the next afternoon. Ugh. Hatshepsut patiently left me to my sleep, then escorted me to a salad bar joint for a very late comfort food lunch. A few hours later, I was recovered, and we were back at it with shrimps in olive oil with capers, broad beans in ham and olive oil, more vino tinto con limon, and so on. An earlier night to be sure, but I was pleased to bounce back with a respectable showing.

The following day, Sammy and I hit the Torre de Oro (snooze) the massive Cathedral, and the old and impressive Alcazar palace built by the Moors. Then we went for a run, which entitled us to gorge again on deplorably unhealthy but delicious food, more sangria and such later in the evening. Claro que si!

There were lots of Catholic religious events around town as part of a weeklong celebration of a religious holiday or saint's day. One ordeal included an opulently adorned, life-like figure of the Virgin Mary mounted on a huge float being carried around town by solemn men and accompanied by various candle-holding parshioners, flagbearers, and a small marching band. We were a bit bewildered and we observered the whole works from arm's length like dumb mules.

And that pretty much sums up our time in Sevilla.

Queen Hatshepsut and I seem to be squabbling less, thus making the trip even more enjoyable. Shout-out to my brother Christian, who got a new gig in KC. Sic 'em.

A week in Morocco

2006-06-06T04:11:00.000-07:00

[Morocco photos] After we landed in Marrakech, the tale of two perceptions began. As we walked around looking for our hotel, I was captivated by everything we were seeing, hearing, and smelling. Colorful clothes, characters both wretched and joyful, dirt, clatter, bongo drums, roasting chicken, ripe melon, bicycles, narrow alleys, centuries-old commerce, people density, shouting. Arriving in Marrakech to an overwhemling assault on the senses is unlike anything else, and I was really loving it. However, Queen Hatshepsut got rattled. The reappearance of touts, staring men, and dilapidated buildings got her radar working overtime, and she got edgy and slightly paranoid. Needless to say, after we finally located our hotel, you would have needed chains to keep me from going back out to soak in the town, while Samantha did not want to be around me, Marrakech, or the whole country of Morocco for that matter. So I explored alone for the night.

The night market of Marrakech is madness. Smoke. Movement. Music. Colors. Everything vying for your attention. People singing, playing drums, doing backflips, and stoking up angry serpents...all for what amounts to spare change. Whole chickens and rams heads on the grill. Fresh squeezed orange juice for $0.30 USD a glass. A horde of beggars scattered around the periphery. White people in shorts mean money. Any Moroccan not sweating you for money is a freerider, there to enjoy the crazy scene at no cost. You get the feeling that these sorcerers and cloaked street people might enjoy creating this show even if no tourists were there, as they might have been for centuries. But now they make money at it if they work the tourists the right way. Their scams play on your curiousity and/or politeness. A shout of "hey buddy, how are you?" (in perfect english if he's pegged you correctly) turns into a 15-minute fiasco with your new friend acting deeply insulted that you've left his little shop without buying any of the crap he enticed you to gawk at, stuff which you lingered over just to be complimentary. You learn to plainly ignore every vocal volley lobbed your way as you walk around. But the night market in Marrakech had a better scam: guilt. These bongo drum players and noisemaker musicians will carry on for 10-20 minutes with tribal inspiration, making some rhythmic vibes that you're drawn to hear. They might even ask you to take their hand for a jig in their midst as they play. Then just as you're digging the music some guy comes and shakes a cymbal into your chest asking for money for the show. They lure you in then guilt you into paying for your enjoyment. What are you gonna do, be ingrateful and rude and walk away? Not instinctively. But should you decide to be Mr. Mean and stiff them, they will follow you and hound you and then shout at you as you flee the area. I just payed a few dirham (each dirham is like a dime) when prompted, no big deal - they are happy, I'm happy. But some of these flustered tourists will feel miserly unless they have given something more substantial. So I figure that the bongo drum guys eat pretty well and have sweet pads based on the success of their scheme. Anyhow, the smells, sights, sounds... it's a strange brew that I think one would have to see firsthand to fully comprehend. But I imagine it's somehow tamer and less exotic now that the market is not the pure tradition that it once was, stained in some way by tourist money.

In Marrakech, we also walked through the Souks (narrow alleys densely packed with craft shops) and the rest of the medina (no cars allowed in many parts of the medina - lots of donkeys, scooters, and pull carts). Then we toured the "villa noveau" or newer part of Marrakech. Yawn. Interesting compared to the US, but a snooze compared to vibrancy of the night market. Next song.

That second night in Marrakech, I returned to the hammam. In Turkey, my hammam was a well-established destination and the path to it was well-trod. In Marrakech, I had to walk through a dark and somewhat edgy part of town to get to the hammam. Once inside, it became apparent just how touristy my hammam in Istanbul had been. This hammam had two working light bulbs within it, and no multi-lingual attendants. I entered to a group of them drinking mint tea (this is a national habit in Morocco) huddled in a corner near the entrance. I stood there stupidly, gawking in all directions until one of them rose and somehow indicated that he worked there. He asked "hammam"? I said yes. He gestured to the locker room area, which I would not have noticed without him. I stripped down to my boxers, donned the rubber slippers he had provided, and stood waiting for a few moments for him to return from his tea. 3 minutes later he came to lead me to into the chamber. He explained in Arabic language, English numbers, and hand gestures that I could have the full massage and washing for 7 bucks USD. Sold. He took me into the way back into a big high-ceiling room with marble floors and swelteringly hot. He gestured and told me in Arabic to lay down, then said in crude English "5 hot minutes". This I understood. I lay prone on the hot marble, in my boxers, already sweating profusely, and I fully grapsed the beauty of the hammam. It's hot, and relaxing, and like a refuge. Just you and the heat and the stress and anxiety slowing easing out of you. Admittedly I had little to stress about except perhaps a grumpy travel partner now and then, but it still felt great. Solitude. Heat. You and your own breath and your own sweat, in a darkened and seemingly safe place. 5 minutes became 20 or more. Finally he returns. Again using hand gestures he directed me to lie or sit in various positions, often just grabbing my limbs himself and adjusting them as he liked. Using tactics far less brutal or painful than my Turkish hammam partner, he stretched me and massaged me and then scrubbed me hard with a brillow glove and some soap. Never knew I was carrying around so much dead skin. Holy moses he was picking it off me in handfuls. He finished by dumping several buckets of hot then one bucket of cool water on me. What a joy. I coulda just seeped right down the drain with the water, I was so relaxed. He scooped me out of there and back to the locker area. As I dressed slowly, another green gringo rolled in. Obviously clueless, he had no idea what a hammam entailed but wanted to try it. He was led to the locker area, and I ignored him. I liked the solitude and figured he'd appreciate the same. But he asked me if I knew what to do, and this was his first hammam, and so on. I told him not to worry, the guy will direct you what to do, relax and enjoy. He started to ask if they washed, uh, ya know... I said no, they will not wash your nether regions but everything else will get a thorough scrubbing and if he was bashful then this is not his gig. He was game so I left him alone again, dressed, and left. I now love the hammam even more, and I am convinced that man-scrubbing-man is not weird and in fact preferred to woman-scrubbing-man situations that could cause marital strife.

Afterwards, Samantha and I had a meal at one of the food vendors in the night market. Sheep and chicken skewers, olives, tomato salad, stewed green peppers, and some other veggie thing. Delicious and so cheap. Then 3 glasses of fresh OJ for under a buck. Then a quick tour of the market madness (Sam is not very comfortable amidst all this rabble-rousing) before we hit the sack in preparation for a bus trip out of town the next morning.

So after a hot bus ride from Marrakech, we arrived in Essaouira. I was drawn to this place by the prospect of kitesurfing. My friend Dan Burkhart is a surfer and a kitesurfer, and he has told me many times how fun it is. Essaouira is known for broad beaches and steady winds needed for the kitesurfing and windsurfing. We were not sure how long we would stay. If the cost and conditions permitted, we would hunker down for a few days while I received instruction. If not, we'd move on after a day or two.

We ended up staying for a week. Our days in Essaouira have been my favorite on the trip. For many reasons.

Surf. Even when the wind was not strong enough to allow me to take lessons, the longboard surfing here was pretty good. The swell wasn't great, and an expert surfer might have been disppointed. But I am a novice/intermediate longboarder, and the conditions were perfect for me. Head-high waves (with a beach break both ways) that were persistent all day. Warm water, so a wetsuit was not absolutely necessary but I used a light one anyhow for sun protection. The water was not deep either, so if my wimpy paddle muscles got tired I would just walk my board back out to the break in chest-high water. The best part: there was nobody there. I got to catch wave after perfect wave all day, by myself, with no concern for line-ups, etiquette, etc. I just caught any wave I thought I could catch. It was a great set of circumstances in which to learn; my skill level improved and I definitely enjoyed the repetitions (i know surfing without much paddling is akin to cheating, but damn it was easy).

Surfing with the missus. The conditions were so good that I hounded Queen Hatshepsut to try to join me. Finally she relented and we surfed together for parts of 3 days while in Essaouira. Maybe she'd had enough of the euro vibe at the beachside Club Mistral, or maybe my persistence paid off. But she went surfing! I chuckled at her facial expressions as she paddled out and got her face wet for the first time (she does not like this), and cheered when she stood up and rode a few of her waves all the way to the shore!! Plus, a wife in a wetsuit is hot. It all combined to make it so much fun for me. Only snowboarding with her in good conditions is better. :)

Food. We had fresh seafood off the grill on 3 nights in Essaouira. The process is simple and fun. Various seafood tents with grilling/dining areas are set up near the boats and the jetty. They spread their catch out for display over ice, and beckon you to come see it with catchphrases like "special price" and "very fresh". You approach and inspect. You choose what you want, and they weigh it. Based on weight, they give you a price. You haggle. You threaten then begin to walk to the next stall tent. They drop to a price that keeps you from walking any further, and you return to have a seat. They throw your selections on the grill. 15 minutes later, you feast. Each night we had a lobster, shrimps, and usually a snapper, with salad and drink, all for under $35 USD. Incredible. And delicious. After a day of surfing with your wife, this is the perfect meal. There is also something amusing about watching your wife oogle a lobster carefully as it crawls around on the ice pack, waiting to meet it's demise, then attack it after it's off the grill. Another of those moments.

Weather. Lovely. Bright sun burns off some sea haze in the morning, and as the day grows either a slight breeze (surf!) or a steady light wind (kite-surf!) accompanies. Brisk breezes off the water at dusk cool everything down to a comfortable temperature.

Ambiance. Tough to beat Essaouira on this factor. The town exists within and around the ancient walled medina, and the buildings are white-washed and clean with sizzling sea-blue trim. There are no cars allowed in the medina, and scooters are rare within the walls. Being right on the Atlantic, the sunsets are predictably fascinating. Jimi Hendrix's "Castle Made of Sand" slips into the sea, eventually, at the far end of the beach, just as he told us. It's an old castle that the waves and erosion have overtaken, and it's literally crumbling into the sea, creating a very striking image. We walked out very close to the dying castle for sunset one evening for some exceptional photo-shooting. Also adding to the ambiance in Essaouira is the friendly nature of the local people. Tourism is what butters the bread around here but these folks are really proud of their town and they don't seem to be faking their hospitality.

The ambiance was really great for me at dusk. I'd hang out with Herbert, watch the sun set from the rooftop terrace, then linger a few minutes longer to hear the evening prayer calls from the minarets around town. In a town of this size, they are many mosques and many different prayer calls that sound off together. But they are not synchronized, so they often overlap each other in a cacophony of loudspeaker blaring. Except one. The call heard closest to our rooftop terrace would start just a moment after the others finished, and it was my favorite version. It was recorded by a man who sounds older than the voices of other calls, and he's much more heartfelt. His bellowing, in my opinion, was guttural and chest-expanding and heartfelt and beautiful. I was excited to hear it each night. I recorded it on my digital camera so that I can listen it at home. Cheesy perhaps but this guy can really belt it out, and I appreciate good talent when I hear it.

The only black marks this town receives for ambiance is the presence of a substantive number of French tourists. Morocco is a former colony of France. In our travels, I have come to dislike the French (although not as intensely as Queen Hatshepsut), and there are so many of them that visit Essaouira that all locals speak French and it's often the Arabic language alternative used around town. Queen Hatshepsut's nascent French-speaking skills, some old Arabic we brought from Egypt, and the prevalence of basic understanding of English made our communication work, but that doesn't mean I have to like the French.

Accomodation. Very colorful, comfortable, and affordable. Bright colors everywhere is an understatement at the Hotel de Couloures. It wasn't a hotel in the American sense; it's more like an inn or pensione. Shared bathroom is no big deal. Rooftop terrace perfect for sunset. Acoustical sensibility of the place was terrible, and conversations in other parts of the building could be heard clearly enough to wake you. But it was clean and cute and comfortable, and oh yeah less than $25 USD per night. Sweet.

Americans really do act retarded when overseas. Often a really condescending manner about the rest of the world. Different foods are "exotic", as if the food that hundreds of billions of people have been eating for millenia is somehow less normal than chili-cheese fries. If a place is not well-lit, or well-painted, or the windows not clean, or fixtures showing rust, it's described as "rustic" or "quaint". These are code words for "not as clean or purdy as we do it back home". Nevermind that it works, or that these people of limited means would rather spend their time and money on/with their family. Okay the rant is over.

One night I headed out by myself to hear some live music at a local bar/restaraunt called Il Mare, which was right around the corner from our hotel. Sammy has had occasional stomach trouble and preferred to hang out in our room with a bottle of water and near a private toilet. So I went. The chalkboard sandwich board out front shouted the act: Ganga Fusion. Not sure what that meant, but I went anyhow. The band was playing in a lounge setting on the third floor, and it was hot inside. Dimly lit. 5 guys in the band, one on guitar and the others playing various handheld percussion and noise-making instruments. Only the guitarist had a mike, but the place was small enough that when any of them sang, it was easily heard. The guitarist led the way with a persistent, funky, tribal beat, and the rest of the crew would add and mix different rhythms. The sound would flow between different patterns and the then the kicker: the Morroccan in attendance got into it and started to join in with clapping patterns that first complimented then led the band. After a few minutes, various attendees were clapping loudly in evolving rhythms and dictating the flow of the sound. The band followed, although the lead guy with the guitar seemed mildly perturbed that his fusion experiment had been commandeered by an enthusiastic crowd. This was a slightly upscale place with no obvious tourists, mostly Moroccans with enough money to afford a decent cocktail. And it had become their show. I was enjoying it because the sound improved under the guidance of the attendees. When the locals doing the clapping noticed me digging the vibe (the place was quite small), it seemed to encourage them and they were kind of showing off but the sound was great. Despite the attempts of the lead guy, the clappers held sway over the sound. When the band tried to reclaim control, the guys would just synchronize their clapping to make it louder and hold the rhythm. This continued until a group of young hip-hop dressed guys who seemed way out of place walked in and stood right in the middle of the show looking to find a seat. This distrubed the flow and the vibe enough for the lead guy to take over and then I wanted to leave. I had finished nursing my drink and I was hot anyhow, and I thought they would not rediscover that sound. I was audi 5000.

The food in Morocco is largely based on two main dishes: couscous and tajines. Couscous is well-known and they will mix darn near anything with it to make a meal. Tajine is a style of preparing meat and vegetables under a cone-shaped crockery pot that they bake with the meat, veggies and spices underneath. Add skewers and grilled seafood and you have cpatured the entire Morocco menu. It's tasty, but can be beaten by the cuisine of other countries we've visited. It's hard to beat amlou, the Moroccan specialty made of argan oil and almond paste for dipping bread at breakfast, mint tea for under $.30 USD and ice cream scoops for $.50 USD.

Morocco is more western and liberal than Egypt. Many women without headscarves, particularly younger women. A very different experience than ultra-muslim Egypt. Cairo is not as conservative as, say, Saudi Arabi, I'd guess, but compared to Morocco and Turkey, it's very conservative. It's much easier for a westerner to get acclimated here than in Egypt.

I get the sense that Essaouira is about to be discovered and it's about to take off. The real estate is still somewhat cheap for beachfront property, and the infrastructure seems capable of supporting more people. Right now, the only way to get here is to drive or take a bus from Marrakech. No direct train or flight. If/when this happens, the place will explode. The only thing holding it back seems to be accessibility. I'd love to speculate here with a real estate purchase and watch it grow in value over the years. It's certain to, and I'd love to return to tend to such matters. :)

After a bus to Marrakech, an all-night train to Tangier, a ferry to Algeciras, Spain, and another bus to Tarifa, we are resettled for a day or two. We'll spend the next week exploring Andalucian before we head to Granada next week. We hope to catch some bullfights.

Shout out to Mike Schwankl, Gordon Austin, Jose Vidal, Erik Visokey, and Craig Allen. If you are reading, gentleman, suck it up and join me over here. The missus wants to spend more time in Paris, and I want to spend extra time in Amsterdam. Join me on the Dark Side...

Clint's posts: NZ 1, 2, Aussie 1, 2, 3, 4, Thailand , Kilimanjaro , Serengeti , Egypt 1, 2, Israel, Turkey, Greece, Italy 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, Mid-Trip Awards, Barcelona, Morocco

Sammy's posts: NZ 1, Aussie 1, 2, 3, Thailand, Kilimanjaro, Serengeti, Egypt 1, 2, Israel, Zeb shout-out, Turkey, Greece, Italy 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 (Zeb), 6, Barcelona, Morocco

I AM WHERE?????????

2006-06-03T08:56:00.000-07:00

Before we arrived in Spain, we talked about also going to Morocco because it is so close to Spain. One of Clint's friend, Craig, had raved about it to Clint, and so Clint was keen on checking it out. When we arrived in Barcelona at our pensione, we told Ruth, the woman who runs the pensione, that we wanted to go to Morocco. She suggested we go after our time was up in Barcelona because Morocco was only going to get hotter as we headed into summer. So Clint, acting on her suggestion, booked us on a flight to Marrakesh. While I was a little bit interested in going to Morocco, the thought of returning to a Muslim country did not exactly thrill me. It seems Morocco is a bit more traveled by European tourists than Cairo, Egypt, but that does not change the fact women are still treated and looked at very differently here.

As we landed at the airport in Marrakesh, I had no idea what to expect. I was still dwelling on the fact that I had stupidly lost my sunglasses at the airport -- likely left them on a seat. Passport control was slow as molasses but I did notice a fellow Penn grad and current clothing designer, Tory Burch, in front of us in line. When I told Clint who she was, he gave me the "I am so uninterested in this topic of conversation" look. Apparently, he does not read the Vogue and W magazines delivered to our house.

Clint found us a place to stay on-line and so we hopped in a taxi and headed for our hotel. Instead of taking us all the way to the hotel, our taxi driver dropped us off at the edge of the Medina (a walled in fortress) and told us to walk straight along the street and ask someone else for directions. How helpful. So we wandered around and around for 1 1/2 hours, unable to find the hotel. Some French (yes, French) women were kind enough to help us out a little. After ducking into a telephone calling area so Clint could crack open the laptop to read the directions to the hotel, we were checking in 10 minutes later. Our room was cramped and stuffy. Since we did not exactly enjoy each other's company on the way to the hotel, Clint decided to head out and I decided to stay in. Welcome to Marrakesh.

Our first full day in Marrakesh was far more pleasant than our first night. First, we changed rooms so we could have a window facing the courtyard of the hotel to allow in some cool air. As in Egypt, tea with mint leaves is offered everywhere here so I am loving it -- it is by far my favorite drink -- more so than coffee and I had three different servings of it during our first day. We spent a lot of time walking around the Medina -- including the main square and the souks (markets). The souks are filled to the brim with spices, shoes (in particular, the Moroccan slippers), leather goods, lizards, turtles, food, drinks, woodwork and metalwork. The souks are overwhelming and crawling with people -- both locals and tourists alike. We tried to find the leather tanneries but got lost along the way inside the labyrinth and decided to head back to the main square.

In the main square, there are henna tatoo artists, snake charmers (real live snakes including cobras but according to our guide book their mouths are sewn shut), monkeys (with chains around their necks -- not a great sight for me), medicine men, story tellers, juice stalls and food stalls. A plethora of sights, sounds and smells. It is both an exhilarating sight as well as a sad sight -- especially to see how the snakes and monkeys are treated. We decided to eat dinner at one of the outdoor food stalls. The food was pretty good but the people watching was by far the best. Between our cook who yelled at everyone walking by, the sight of a military officer being given money and free food by the cook at our stall and the scavengers (poor people) who would walk by the tables after people got up and take their food; the whole scene was madness.

The next day after breakfast we decided to head out of Marrakesh. We had seen all that we wanted to see and there was really no point in hanging around another day. Since being in both Turkey and Egypt, we are way over the souks (outdoor markets). They are tourists traps and a pain to walk through. So we headed for the bus station. The bus station in Marrakesh is unlike anything else we have seen so far on this trip. As we walked past all the buses, people shouted at us in French to try and convince us to get on their bus. The bus terminal is also unlike anything we have seen -- cats running around the terminal, giant sized cockroaches, flies, dogs, people, cafes and bathrooms that well I suppose could have been worse. Clint wanted to head out to the coast to Essaouira and so we found a bus heading in that direction. We got on the overcrowded bus and sat in the very back. It was hot as balls on the bus since there was no air conditioning. There were very few tourists on the bus and so I sat next to some Moroccan women and Clint sat in the corner. Even though I told them I knew very little Arabic, that did not stop them from talking to me in Arabic during the bus ride (even when I had my headphones in my ears). The bus ride wasn't too long (about 3 hours) and while we melted in the bus for those three hours it was actually a fun ride. I shared a few laughs and exchanged a lot of smiles with the women next to me because a Moroccan man sitting in the back corner of our row kept falling asleep with his head down and drooling. At one point we stopped in a town for snacks and a bathroom break. It was a very different stop from the ones we had in Turkey which were at organized road stops like in the states or other Western countries. Not here. Instead we just pulled over in the middle of a dusty street where there were rows of shops that had been turned into make shift cafes and eateries. About an hour after our stop we arrived at the bus station in Essaouira.

We found a petit taxi and headed towards the Medina (the old city). We had not made a hotel reservations so we were just going to wing it and hope we found something (with or without the help of our Lonely Planet guidebook). The first place we tried was booked and so we headed towards our second choice. On the way, we were accosted by a tout. I decided to check out
the place he offered while Clint attempted to see if our second choice had any availability. We ended up staying at the non-descript hotel which is a house that has been converted into a hotel. Basically there is a central courtyard that rises up to the ceiling. All rooms on all floors surround the courtyard. It is actually a pretty cool set-up. After settling into our hotel we set out to walk around the Medina and familiarize ourselves with the town. We were both starving having
only eaten breakfast and so tried to find a place to eat. Since it was late in the day (around 4 p.m.), some of the restaurants were no longer serving lunch. So we ended up eating at a local make-shift cafe of sorts. I was the only woman at the place. We ate a lunch of legumes and (we think) chicken in a green curry sauce with bread using our hands. The food was very tasty. We also had some Morocaine salad which consists of cucumbers, onions and tomatoes. A man and his son who were also eating at the cafe had not only helped us get our food but then cut up some melon and shared it with us and everyone else at the cafe. Satisfied with our late (and very cheap) lunch, we headed to the beach. Essaouira's beach is long and wide and the Atlantic ocean crashes on its shores. We ended up not walking all the way down to the beach and instead walked around the port watching the fishermen bring in that day's catch. We later enjoyed some fresh grilled lobster, red snapper and baby shrimp at one of the food stalls near the port. The fish was delicious (the lobster was still moving before he was grilled) and super cheap (about $30 for the fish, drinks, salad and bread). Clint was in heaven. In fact, we loved the meal so much we ended up eating at the same place the next night again.

We hit the beach during our first full day in Essaouira. After walking along it, including walking past the horses and camels sitting on the beach waiting for tourists to pay for rides, we found Clint a wetsuit and surfboard. The waves in Essaouira are not very challenging, the water is not too deep and so it is the perfect beginner's surfing spot. In fact, I ended up renting a board and wetsuit and taking my chances in the water (thankfully there were no sharks) and on the waves. Essaouira is a known spot for kite-surfing and wind-surfing and so, now, Clint is anxiously awaiting his chance to learn how to kite surf.

We ended up spending a week in Essaouira. Clint was able to start his kite surfing lessons on Tuesday but then on Wednesday and Thursday there was not much wind. The instructors told Clint the wind forecast for Friday and Saturday was good. So we decided to stay at our hotel until Sunday so Clint could spend some time with the kite and hopefully in the water on a board.
I surfed with Clint again on Wednesday and Saturday. I was able to catch a few waves and even had a few long rides. Essaouira has been relaxing, I have been able to read a few books, but I am ready to move on. What can I say, I still do not know how to relax. So on Sunday we are taking a bus, train and ferry to the south of Spain. I am looking forward to being back in Spain because I enjoyed Barcelona so much. I cannot wait to explore some other Spanish towns.

9 sweet days in Barcelona

2006-06-02T03:28:00.000-07:00

I'm writing while on a plane from Barcelona to Morocco. We have just spent 9 days in Barcelona (photos), and it was fantastic. It's a very laid back and welcoming city, and I had a great time there. It's respectably clean, cool Gothic/Moorish/Gaudi architecture, bright colors, food and wine worth gorging on, etc. The best part is that the city disseminates loads of tourists very well throughout it's streets and neighborhoods, so aside from the most obvious tourist traps, we could cruise around the city and feel like part of it.

How do I love Barcelona.... The springtime weather was super. 70-80 degrees every day, with light breezes, warm sun, and only a rare sprinkle. The legendary culture of siestas is intact, but the tapas and sangria habit, we learned, is more prevalent in the south of Spain. Instead, Barcelona prides itself on it's seafood and a fizzy white wine called cava. I still can't do white wines, but thankfully the demand for sangria sufficiently exists to get it most menus, which allowed for some generous sampling. The food was pretty dang good, but you have to work to find the out-of-the-way gems that will provide an authentic meal at a manageable price. In this regard, we did strike out a few times and settled for some overpriced rubbish, but we also had several very good meals too (the fish at El Fortuny! the grilled chorizos!).

We found a comfortable and affordable place to stay on Craigslist; an apartment located in a central area of Barcelona. It was a small room with enough space for a double bed and 2 pequeno tables, with a mini private bathroom attached. There are 2 other rooms for rent in the flat, and all guests share the kitchen with the owners. We could self-cater if we wanted, but the mission in Barcelona was foremost to eat and drink the fruits of Spain, and maybe squeeze in some sight-seeing along the way. The owners of our room were very friendly and hospitable, a feat which I'm not sure I could duplicate if I always had people co-existing in my home. But they were cool, and offered us city tips and language coaching at any opportunity. Que suerte! (what luck!)

A major event happened while we were in Barcelona: the local football/soccer team won the European Championship. FC Barcelona, led by the world's best player in Ronaldinho, beat Arsenal in the final match at a neutral site in Paris on our 3rd night in Barcelona. I've been following the team over the last few months, watching them when I can during the Euro Cup playoffs. I have become a big Ronaldinho fan (because he's incredible) and I want to wear his jersey and worship him like every other male in Spain. So after the TV game-watching party at the house (thanks to our friendly hosts), I went into the streets to witness the celebration and do some beer-induced hollering myself. It was madness! Within 30 minutes, the streets in every direction from circular Placa de Catalunya were crammed with people, as far as my eyes could see. Everyone was shouting the team's chants and using various noise-making devices. Beers in-hand everywhere. Flares everywhere. Waving those wussy soccer towel/scarf things everywhere. Old women and young boys hugging and screaming. Mamas hoisting their wide-eyed infants on their shoulders... all in the midst of fireworks occasionally booming around your ankles and bottle rockets whizzing past your head. This one dude had skin-shimmied up a tall light pole and he was leading a piece of the crowd below him in various spontaneous chants - while he dangled for like 30 minutes with only one hand. Beer muscles to the extreme! At one point I got doused with beer, which I did not like at first. But then I realized that A) my wife hadn't been doused because she wasn't with me, B) I've been harmlessly doused with beer hundreds of times in the past, and C) every other lout in the crowd was getting doused too. So I just packed in there with the hordes and endured more dousing and songs I didn't understand until my buzz began to fade. I was the dumb clown in the crowd who left his cans of beer at home. The night was just beginning for the revelers armed with BYOB, so I climbed up a dumpster to watch the chaos. Eventually the crowd thickened even more and within 20 minutes on my outpost there were bodies squeezed in around the dumpster too. These chaps saw me and thought it would be a good idea to climb up to my spot as a jumping off pad for crowd-surfing. I saw them sizing up this ordeal and I was sure it would not work. Man, was I wrong. The first two dudes surfed about 100 yards away before they dismounted. I've never seen any crowd-surfing like it. People were crushing in just to help support the guy. That shit only lasts for a few seconds in the US, then "hey buddy I'm dropping yer ass and it’s my turn". So as the only remaining dude on top of the dumpster, I decided to surf as well. Super fun, even when sober, but I got a shorter ride than the first 2 guys. I think it's because I was not singing the team songs. Anyhow, the dumpster thus was converted to a jumping spot, and heaps of blokes starting clamoring to partake. So after supporting a few other surfers from below (good karma, there are enough waves here for everyone), I was done. 2 hours of cheering for a recently adopted team is a lot less fun when you are sober and wet from beer dousing. Nonetheless, it was a wild and unforgettable scene. I'm still too cheap to buy a Ronaldinho jersey, though.

Our apartment/room was in El Born, an old downtown neighborhood in Barcelona between Arc di Triomf and Via Laietana with very narrow, maze-like streets and, using the pungent smell as a indicator, a sewer system from ancient times. This is part of *old* Barcelona and it shows, as the rest of the city has been obviously very carefully planned in perfect grids and diagonals and buildings of mostly uniform height and size. El Born is definitely up-and-coming, with enclaves of cool bars and restaurants, but there are still pockets of shitty old buildings, and the frequent sewer smell has surely kept some would-be residents out of there. But I really enjoyed exploring the area during the day and night, navigating the streets and getting into the vibe of the area. I could handle living in El Born if I could get a rooftop pad (so I could see above the labyrinth) and avoid streets with that damn sewer smell. But it was a sweet location for a visitor, near transport and close-enough but far-enough from tourist destinations. We stayed busy hitting all the sights: Parc Guell, Gaudi houses, Sagrada Familia, Barceloneta, Mont Juic, Montserrat, El Born, Barri Gotic, Gracia, Las Ramblas, El Raval, Contemporary Art Museum, Dali art museum in Figueres, Picassso museum, and many placas, narrow streets and local markets.

We had some unexpected language difficulty. Queen Hatshepsut and I both speak Spanish, but in Barcelona, most people prefer to not use their Spanish in favor of Catalan. Catalan is a very proudly used mix of Spanish and French spoken in the still-autonomous Catalunya area of Spain. It's similar to the distinct dialects of "spanglish" or "redneck" in American English, by comparison. Actually, it's even more distinctive than these examples, and my withered Spanish skills only allowed me to understand very fifth word. So I had to get people to use Spanish if I had any hope of communicating. Even then, the Castillian accent used by Spanish speakers in Espana can be very strong, at times modifying the spoken word so much that it sounds very little like the Spanish spoken in Central and South American (which is what I learned). Ay caramba! I felt like I had never taken a lick of Spanish most of the time. But if we could get people to speak slowly, between Sammy and me, we could usually figure it out. Samantha was also hampered by the new Italian she'd been working on for the previous 5 weeks, so hers is more like "Spaitalian" dialect.

We had a chance to stretch out a bit and get comfortable with our own space for 9 continuous days, which meant ample opportunity for exercise. I ran around downtown once alone (and got lost), then we ran together we hadn't gotten far when we came across an outdoor basketball court. I'd been pining to play a game of pickup in all of the countries we'd visited, to no avail. Until now. I jumped and when back later twice more to play. Felt great, although my handles are slippin' and my gas was on empty. Too many crema croissants. Anyhow, it was pretty sweet to hear them talk trash, US playground style, in Spanish. Hilarious in fact. And I learned very quickly how to say "Faulta!" when I was fouled. Apparently, when you get beat off the dribble, you are obligated to hack your opponent as he cruises by you.

I also got an afternoon to myself once, and I spent part of it taking pictures in the park (Parc Ciudad Vella). On this trip, I have been doing tons of messing around with my camera, playing with the light exposure, different speeds and such, and so it was more of the same in the park. It was really cool to see SO MANY people in the park after work. It felt like thousand of people tucked into every available grass spot. Some had just taken off their tie to stretch out for a nap, some were lounging in the grass with a book or a friend or a child, and one group was chilling out together, telling stories and playing soft acoustic guitar songs. I had to be mildly aware of the people in the park, lest I be misconstrued as some kind of pervert or stalker or spy. Sadly, I only got a few keeper photos, but the time spent there, people-watching, napping, taking photos, etc was very pleasant. One of those blissful quiet moments I will remember for years, I hope.

Samantha tried to swear off any alcohol in-take while we were in Barcelona, without much luck. Seems like every time we turned around, there was an adult beverage with our name on it. The native cava, red/tinto wine, negro wine (black/dark red), sangria, beer, etc. Eventually, she gave up this self-proclaimed ban, just as she has also done with candy on this trip. To be fair, I tried to quit my gelato habit while in Italy (ha! as if!) but only managed to dramatically reduce the quantity consumed rather than eliminate it entirely.

Many times along the way on this trip, I have remarked to Queen Hatshepsut, "Life is good on The World Tour". As luck would have it, Samu, one of the owners of the flat, is a professional dessert chef. He has a habit of bringing home his goodies for anyone in the house. And so it was after a few hours of sangria and tapas, we walked back to our apartment for some fresh chocolate mango layer cake. Note to self: life is good on The World Tour. Go back for more. I hit the bed like a felled redwood that night, and if it’s possible to smile while you sleep, I was.

I am sending a shout-out to John Smithson, my father-in-law. John, you see, has the distinction of being the person who writes to us the most while we are on the road. John, it's very nice to see messages from you when we have the chance to log-on, and I appreciate the time you take to write. Good on ya, mate! And "shukran gazeelan", meaning “thank you very much”, in Arabic.

I found the vibe in Barcelona is very urban and lively, steeped in tradition, but also very worldly feeling. The people were mostly laid-back and unpretentious, and happy to help if needed. Big difference from Italy, where the flair for the dramatic, penchant for high-volume shout-talking, and gruff ambivalence towards an obvious tourist were sometimes a challenge to manage. I think Barcelona would make a fun city to live in, but I'd have to check the snow in the Pyrenees to make any decisive power moves.

We visited the home of Salvador Dali, which now acts as a museum of his work. His house is in Figueres, which is a 2-hour train ride from downtown Barcelona. It was worth it, despite the uninterested mob of teenage kids playing field trip grab-ass throughout the building, and the rude and unmistakably French people who have no qualms about standing directly between you and the piece you are looking at, stinking like bad body odor in the process. Anyhow, Dali's work is really varied is style and form, and much of his work is really out there. Way out there. Often, when I'm in a museum (particularly modern art), I've thought to myself, "that's not art, that's trash. i could do that." But not with Dali. Instead, I'm saying to myself, "this dude is really talented, but what the fuck was he thinking? How does he think of this stuff?" Explanations of his work would be ludicrous, and I won't try. But I'd encourage any adult to see his work.

One day, we had the naughtiest breakfast ever: cafe con leche (coffee with milk, which we had nearly everyday), deep-fried churros, and a cup of hot, smooth, creamy chocolate drink. It was like drinkable pudding, but hot and liquidier. We dipped our churros in it, spooned it into our gullets, and slurped it directly out of the mug. I would have preferred to slather myself in the stuff and roll around on the ground in my rapturous state of sweet-tooth nirvana, but I digress. This breakfast followed a coincidental introduction to the aforementioned drinkable chocolate a few days earlier at the Museo de Chocolate, where we saw various impressive sculptures of chocolate. The tiny museum ends with a small all-things-chocolate cafe, where we sampled our sinful new drinkable friend. Let's just say that this chocolicious drink, along with sangria and most beer, is proof that A) there is an omnipotent supernatural being, and B) it wants us to be happy. I must learn how to replicate this taste sensation when I get home.

Quick dining recap: grilled fish at El Fortuny, tapas and sangria at Sagradva and Eukshuthal (both in El Born), great lunch at the cafe at El Jardin De Fleming. Bad news: the overpriced shit food and shittier service at the Bar Absynthe in Barceloneta.We bailed out a day early (thanks Ruth) to catch this cheap flight to Morocco before it gets too hot down there. Not sure how long we'll stay but I am psyched about it.

Barcelona Rocks

2006-06-01T07:10:00.000-07:00

Spain was one of Clint's top choices along with Switzerland. So he found us an apartment on Craigslist in Barcelona for 10 days and off we went from Italy to Spain. Barcelona is a fantastic city -- it has character, diversity, the ocean, great neighborhoods, bars, restaurants, museums, architecture, food, and people. We spent 9 days in Barcelona and I could easily have spent a month or more. While I don't think I would leave Seattle for Barcelona, I could easily live in Barcelona. Our timing could not have been more perfect because FC Barcelona the futbol (soccer) team was playing against Arsenal for the European Cup in Paris the day after we arrived. So we watched the game at the apartment with Ruth and Samu (the apartment owners), their friends and another couple who were also staying at the apartment. It was a good game and FC Barcelona pulled it out in the end. Of course Barca has Ronaldino (the world's greatest soccer player right now) and so, I think, they were expected to win. After the game, Clint tore out of the apartment and headed for Placa Catalunya a main square where everyone else in the city was headed to celebrate the victory. He said it was madness and I believed him. Given my height restrictions, I decided to avoid that night's crowds and instead wait for the parade. The parade was held the following day and instead of checking it out we went to the stadium after the parade. It was filled with people and the players were holding center court on the field. They had fireworks (which we saw) and some live bands (which we missed). It was a very cool experience.

Our time in Barcelona was filled with checking out the various architectural creations by Antoni Gaudi including houses, a church and a park. Gaudi's creations are just mind boggling because of his use of colors, patterns, materials, angles and shapes. His designs are sheer architectural genius. I really love his work -- it is unlike anything we had seen before arriving in Spain and it was a refreshing change from some of the baroque and renaissance architecture we saw in Italy. One of the things that is so interesting about Barcelona is the creative forces that were once in that city and in some respects still are today. For instance, we visited the Pablo Picasso museum which had some impressive works by the artist I had not seen before, including his manipulation of another artist's (I think Velasquez) painting of a family. We also visited the Salvador Dali museum which was just floor to ceiling madness. I had always known Dali to be a bit nuts but seeing the museum he created in his own home -- words cannot describe both the genius and ridiculous nature of his work. The collection of his work was vast and I think we could have spent an entire day instead of a few hours walking around the museum. They also had on display jewels created by Dali -- those too were crazy. Although I think the jewlery exhibit was by far my favorite, not because I was looking at jewlery, but rather because what he created was absolutely amazing. For example, a gold and ruby heart with a motorized mechanism in it that made it beat. I could not take my eyes off the beating heart -- pure genius. We also ventured to the Miro museum but I decided not to go in after cheating and looking at the paintings in the museum guidebook. Mostly I did not want to deal with the throngs of tourists that were at the museum -- for me, it takes away from the experience. We also spent some time at the Contemporary Art museum which I felt like was filled with contemporary art junk. I am not sure who decides what is museum worthy contemporary art but sometimes I think that person should have their head medically examined. Some of the stuff is interesting but really it's mostly just crap and a waste of time and energy walking from gallery to gallery. I don't know why I allow myself to get sucked into contemporary art museums. The MOMA in NYC and LACMA in LA are exceptions; I think both museums have decent collections.

Apparently, Spain & chocolate are like one. Since we happened to be walking past the chocolate museum, we decided to check it out. We cruised through the exhibits -- but they do have some impressive chocolate creations including Gaudi's La Segrada -- and headed for the cafe. There we experienced the sinful taste of Spanish hot chocolate or chocolate (with an accent). I ordered the petit cup while Clint went for the grande size (he wants to make sure he is as fat as possible before he heads back to the states). It was some good stuff!

The tapas scene in Barcelona is just that -- a scene. Everyone crowds around a bar, fairly late at night, grabbing at food and drinking wine, beer or if you are a tourist, sangria. But it is a fun time and we spent several nights out enjoying tapas and drinks. During the day, eating is a much more calm experience. We found several great cafes where we enjoyed a three course lunch, including drinks for around $10 - $11. We usually ate lunch around 2 - 3 p.m. which is pretty typical and fit in perfectly with us getting up around 10:30 a.m.

Barcelona is a shopper's paradise, much to Clint's dismay. Since we are on the world tour, I don't really shop for several reasons. First, Clint won't allow it. Second, I'd rather spend the money on traveling. Last, I have no room in my backpack to carry stuff around. So the type of shopping I do is window shopping and there is plenty of it in Barcelona. Everywhere you walk there are stores. After awhile, it starts to get a bit annoying and overwhelming because there is so much stuff to look at. Barcelona has all of the name brand shops found in any major city plus tons of smaller shops with locally produced goods.

Time Alone

During our last full day in Barcelona, we finally went our separate ways -- well sort of. I told Clint I wanted to walk around the city by myself because I wanted to check out some stuff instead of just cruising by. He thought it was a great idea and so we set off -- me to walk around Barcelona and Clint to stay in our apartment and blog. I felt a great sense of freedom when I left the apartment. It is difficult for me to always be around someone else. At home in Seattle, I am always running errands, taking the dog for a walk, going downtown, etc. without Clint. So being on this trip has been a major adjustment for me to be around him all the time or even part of the time. For even at home during the week, we just don't really hang out that much together other than eating dinner. After dinner, he typically goes back downstairs to his office and surfs the internet all night while I either do the same in my office upstairs, watch t.v. or read a book. It may sound weird but that's our normal routine. Then, on the weekends we usually spend more time together. This works for me and also for Clint. That's why spending this much together is definitely a test of our patience for each other. And, while there have been times where we each have had our moments, it has not been that bad. Needless to say, I enjoyed my few hours of independent self-indulgence.

OUR MONTH IN ITALY IS OVER

2006-06-01T06:41:00.000-07:00

After Cinque Terre, we headed to Bologna. Bologna was a last minute entry to our Italy itinerary. While we were staying at a hostel in Taorminia, Sicily we were told by some women there that Bologna was a great city and a must see. I had not yet been to Bologna and so I thought it was worth checking out. Also, Bologna is home to some of Italy's best food...spaghetti ragu (Spaghetti with bolognese sauce), lasagna, gelato, etc. Apparently, the people of Bologna take their food seriously. Also, Bologna has the world's 5th largest church. It was built to be bigger than St. Peter's Basilica but the Vatican put a stop to that. The same church also contains a fresco of Mohammad being tortured by a demon which apparently resulted in a potential bomb target. According to Italian news, the Italian police thwarted a bombing at the church. As a result, when you enter the church they search your bags and basically racial profile the people they allow into the building. We did not see such a fresco although it was quite difficult to see anything in the church because it was so dark. Our time in Bologna was too short to get a real appreciation for the city and it also did not help that the weather was awful. We had several down pours while we were cruising around town. We did see a Nutelleria, an entire cafe dedicated to the art of Nutella but declined to get anything (apparently I was sick that day).

Venice

The last time I went to Venice, I hated it because it seemed over-hyped and swamped with tourists. This time I did not hate it as much (although it was swamped with tourists). The architecture in Venice is stunning and the canals only add to the lure of the city. But there's also a seedy angle to Venice -- tons of pigeons, cheesy souvenir shops and smelly canals. The weather in Venice was perfect and we were able to enjoy some amazing views from the top of the Tower in Piazza del San Marcos. We did all the usual touristy things in Venice -- walked around Piazza del San Marcos, went into the Church, walked over the Rialto bridge and took a vaporetto around the canals. I also visited the Peggy Guggenheim museum which has an impressive collection of modern art -- Picasso, Miro, Dali, Pollock, Botero and more -- which was the highlight of the trip for me. We stayed at a hotel near the thick of things but not so close that hordes of tourists were always around. I had a lot of fun in Venice but I honestly think it was mostly because I spent some time drinking wine. We went to Cantina Do Mori for lunch one day. Aside from wine, they serve finger foods. The wine was delicious and after two glasses and a few finger foods (not quite enough to fill me up), I felt no pain walking around Venice. It made for an entertaining afternoon for Clint as he had to redirect me away from the Furla store. I insisted on going there to check out the leather goods but unfortunately never made it...so unfair!

Lake Como

One word describes Lake Como: amazing!! I had heard so many good things about Como, including George Clooney owns a house there, and so decided to put it on our Italy itinerary. It is a must see for anyone. We stayed at a hostel in Menaggio that was really good. While I don't like the fact you are locked out for the day, the hostel was in a sweet location and every night you could eat a decent three course meal including wine and bread for pretty cheap. Of course before we headed downstairs for dinner, Clint and I had our pre-game wine so it is a miracle I was even able to taste my food. I am a lightweight and pretty much feel the effects of one glass of wine so you can imagine what it's like when I have more than one glass -- not good! The view from our room was incredible -- the lake, the snow-capped mountains, villas and the village of Varenna. Our first full day in Como was spent hiking the mountains behind Menaggio. The sky was a bit cloudy but we were still able to take in some breathtaking views from the top of the mountain. We saw a Swiss lake in the distance. That night we were pleasantly surprised with a knock on our room door -- our Kili friends, John & Marcy, made it to Menaggio to meet up with us. We were staying in a 6 bed dormroom so after they arrived it was just the four of us in the room. We had a great time hanging out with them and likely between Clint and I talked their ears off. The next day we all went to Bellagio (same name as the Hotel in Vegas) to check out the town. It is a beautiful town that sits on Como's edge but it is also pretty touristy. We walked along the streets, had a leisurely lunch, and hung out by the dock for awhile. It was a very relaxing day and the weather was perfect...not a cloud in the sky. I was very sad to leave Lake Como as quite honestly I probably could have stayed there all summer. I would live in the Como area in a heartbeat -- now I just need to figure out if they need any more lawyers.

From Como we caught a train to Bergamo, which is near Milan. Bergamo is a fairly large city and we did not do anything while we were there except spend the night before catching our flight to Barcelona, Spain.

My Rant About Italians

During our month in Italy, I learned a lot about the country, the food, and the language. But most importantly, I learned a lot about the people and the unfortunate Italian characteristics and qualities that have been passed down in my family. For example, I talk with my hands, I have volume control issues, I can over dramatize and exaggerate just about every situation, I love to shop and buy expensive things, coffee is my lifeline, I love good food and I am an abhorrent tailgater just to name a few. Italians are wonderful people but sometimes I am embarrassed to be part Italian. Some Italians are extremely arrogant, rude, pushy, impatient, judgmental and look at you strangely if you are not wearing Italian couture or happen to be carrying a backpack. Some are louder than loud and make decisions for you regardless of your thoughts or feelings (for example, what they will put on your pizza). So, unfortunately, this is a part of who I am and I just have to accept it. Once again, I have been screwed by my parents.

Mid-Trip Awards

2006-05-24T07:28:00.000-07:00

We decided to commemorate the mid-point of our trip by compiling our respective Mid-Trip Awards. We did this, because, well, we want to. So we did.

Most Exciting moment

Clint's pick: watching 2 cheetahs kill a baby wildebeest, then defend their meal from a marauding hyena
honorable mention: Uhuru Peak at 19,000+ feet; seeing the volcano on Stroboli burst out lava into the air

Samantha's pick: Molten magma spewing out of Stromboli's crater
honorable mention: diving with sharks at Oceanworld Aquarium in Australia; peering into Mt. Etna's crater

Most Disturbing moment

Clint's pick: passing the scene of a suicide bomber being apprehended on the highway between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem
honorable mention: waking up in the Serengeti to a wild Genet walking on me; the dose of fear as a screaming man came running toward us at the El Muski bazaar in Cairo

Samantha's pick: passing the scene of a suicide bomber on the highway and finding out later he had a 5 kilo bomb
honorable mention: a scorpion in our tent in Levanto, Italy; the screaming man running towards us at the El Muski bazaar in Cairo

Most Surprising thing

Clint's pick: the absence of anti-American sentiment from very friendly Egyptians
honorable mention: the luxury of some of the lodges in Tanzania; the generous hospitality of the keepers of Pansion Limni in Keri, Greece

Samantha's pick: The beauty and magic of the solar eclipse in Cappadocia, Turkey
honorable mention: the experience of walking around Islamic Cairo wearing a headscarf

Most Impressive

Clint's pick: the potentcy of the air in Bangkok
honorable mention: the speed of the cheetah; the amount of amazing art in one town (Florence)

Samantha's pick: reaching Uhuru Peak on Mt. Kilimanjaro in Tanzania
honorable mention: seeing Old City Jerusalem, specifically, the Dome of the Rock, the Western Wall and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre

Audio award

Clint's pick: "You! I take you to MBK!" as said by our escort for the day in Bangkok
honorable mention: snarl of the male lions while mating; the Aussie phrase "good on ya, mate"

Samantha's pick: scream of the Tazzie Devil (awesome and I wish I could have one as a pet)
honorable mention: the rumbling and burping of Stromboli; lion's snarling; "Blep, Blep, Blep" in Cairo

Idiot award

Clint's pick: me, for losing my beloved Patagonia soft-shell only 3 weeks into the trip
honorable mention: Me for not drinking enough water on Kilimanjaro; Samantha, for depriving us of pre-trip preparation time by deciding to remodel our 2nd bathroom before we left Seattle

Samantha's pick: me for thinking our van driver in Sydney, Australia was a tout
honorable mention: me for trying to remodel a bathroom before traveling around the world for 8 months; stupid fights with Clint

Culinary Delights award for Best Food

Clint's pick: Steamed fish at Horizons restaraunt in Koh Samet, Thailand
honorable mention: gelato in Florence; creme croissant in Cantania, Sicily

Samantha's pick: spicy shrimp salad at Horizons restaurant in Koh Samet, Thailand
honorable mention: mangoes and sticky rice at the Siam Center food court in Bangkok, Thailand; Om Ali in Luxor, Egypt

Accomodation award

Clint's pick: Pansion Limni on Zakynthos island in Keri, Greece. Super hospitable, on the beach, and very affordable.
honorable mention: Baia Unci hostel on Lipari island in Canneto, Italy; Little Garden Hotel in Luxor, Egypt

Samantha's pick: Plantation Lodge in Tanzania, great room, great food, decent shower
honorable mention: Pansion Limni, Baia Unci, Little Garden Hotel, & Hotel Greci in Catania, Italy

"I'll take another glass" award for Best Drink

Clint's pick: Dozens of delicious cappuccinos in Italy
honorable mention: most of the Monteith's beer brews in Greymouth, NZ; cheap and plentiful Singha beer anywhere in Thailand

Samantha's pick: Cabernet at Cantina Do Moro in Venice, Italy
honorable mention: Monteith's Black; caffes in Italy

"Why me?" award for Most Pathetic moment

Clint's pick: walking around Catania at 5:30am with a VERY grouchy wife, looking for a place to stay after a sleepless all-night train ride from Rome
honorable mention: going rubber-legged and mostly brain-dead while descending from Uhuru Peak on Kilimanjaro; the sight of my sadly-clothed ass at a super snobby Roberto Cavalli party

Samantha's pick: Getting caught in a hailstorm on an otherwise perfectly sunny day on the Otago Peninsula, New Zealand
honorable mention: having Montezuma's revenge in Africa; getting sick in Florence; summiting Kili in a snowstorm

"Let's hear that again" award for Most Memorable Quote

Clint's pick: Samantha - "The story of Adam and Eve is totally unbelievable."
honorable mention: Samantha at a reggae show in Byron Bay, Australia - "There are CIA operatives all around us, with guns in their jackets, waiting to bust this place any second..."; Scott, a member of our Kili climbing team, at the prospect of being eaten - "I prefer to be fricaseed."

Samantha's pick: "What do you do? Oh, so you will be swimming with your kind." Our diver guide before we swam with the sharks at Oceanworld Aquarium in Manly Beach, Australia.
honorable mention: "Meme nyanni tunacola dece" (Me and the monkeys like bananas); Everyday our Kili guide Paison would say to our group the night before our hike, "Do not forget your suncreams and rain gears." After breakfast, our Kili guides would tell us the itinerary for the day including, "You will be provided water for washing."

Clint's posts: NZ 1, 2, Aussie 1, 2, 3, 4, Thailand , Kilimanjaro , Serengeti , Egypt 1, 2, Israel, Turkey, Greece, Italy 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8

Sammy's posts: NZ 1, Aussie 1, 2, 3, Thailand, Kilimanjaro, Serengeti, Egypt 1, 2, Israel, Zeb shout-out, Turkey, Greece, Italy 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 (Zeb)

Menaggio and Lake Como

2006-05-24T07:19:00.000-07:00

From Venice we boarded a train for a long ride to Lake Como (photos). It's in the mountainous area in the north of Italy, on the border with Switzerland. After much gnashing over where to stay and what to do there, we settled on the town of Menaggio, on the west side of the lake. The bus ride from the town of Como to Menaggio is an hour or so, and fortunately the hostel in Menaggio that we'd intended to investigate was less than 200 metres from where we hopped off the bus. Holy smokes, this place might be the best hostel yet. Rooms at 20 euro/person, with a sweet view over the lake, and breakfast included. Further, for another 12 euro, you can opt to eat a 3-course supper there as well, which we found to be well worth the money. I highly recommend this place to anyone who wants to see Lake Como on a budget.

We came to find that Menaggio was ideally situated on the lake. From the dock in town, we could take a short ferry to the towns of Varenna or Bellagio in less than a half hour. Kayak on the lake, bike rental, hiking, sailing, etc is al available in town. A really great spot, and because it's a bit removed from the town of Como, it was relatively unspoilt by hordes of other tourists. I think I could live in this place, with the proximity to the mountains and the beautiful lake below, and I think that Samantha could be convinced... hmmmm...

We were in for even more good luck. Our new friends from our Kilimanjaro hike, John and Marcy, met us in Menaggio. They are enjoying a trip remarkably similar to our trip, just bouncing around Europe with backpacks as they please for several months or maybe more. They are super laid-back and fun, and we were psyched to have them join us at the lake. So after some missed opportunities to meet them elsewhere in Italy, Sammy and Marcy finally synched up via email to make it happen. Lots of exciting chatter! We got to swap some travel stories and get better acquainted with them. We spent 3 nights in Menaggio, and John and Marcy arrived late on the second night to share our dorm room with us for our last 2 nights in town. Such a good time to hang out with these guys. Chatting together over a long lunch outdoors in Bellagio was a delight!

The day before John and Marcy arrived, Queen Hatshepsut and I went for a long day hike in the mountains above Bellagio that form part of the stunning ring of steepness that entirely surrounds Lake Como. We had reasonably good weather and the views were exceptional. We could have spent even more time hiking up there, but I am trying to be practical about it. Samantha likes to hike but not quite as much as I do, and our cost/benefit analyses are just not the same. I'd pay to sleep outside versus a free bed in a hostel (if such a free bed were to exist), while she'd rather pay a little coin to sleep in a room than sleep outdoors in the tent. For her, camping is an occasionally necessary inconvenience that we should avoid if we can do so at reasonable cost. For me, camping is a means to spend more time in the outdoors and away from tourist traps. It has become clear to me that if Hatshepsut is camping when she does not feel that she must, or eating less exciting self-prepared meals when she does not feel that she must, there will be a disturbance in The Force that is felt by all Jedi in the universe. So to avoid these disturbances, this Jedi is willing to skip camping every now and then in favor of a decent hostel. Plus, as far as hostels go, this one was pretty sweet.

After day-hiking on Day 1 in Lake Como, and ferrying around with John and Marcy on Day 2, we boarded a train on Day 3 to vacate the area and head toward Bergamo. We had originally planned to spend a quick day in Milan, but we opted to skip it because we hadn't gotten much intel that told us it was a worthy destination. Unless you want to shop for glitzy designer clothes (she's forbidden) or see the DaVinci's Last Supper painting (i'm somewhat art-exhausted), it didn't seem to be worth it. So we headed to Bergamo, which shares an airport with Milan from which we would fly to Barcelona the following day. Our stay in Bergamo consisted of a very tiring walk from the train station to our hostel, showers, dinner near at a cheap Italian/Japanese restaurant (surprisingly decent) near the hostel, and an early bedtime for our flight. Italy is done. I am pumped to get to Spain, where the mission is to eat lots of Spanish food (tapas!) and drink a lot of booze (sangria!).

Bologna and Venice

2006-05-24T06:07:00.000-07:00

Bologna

Queen Hatshepsut secured a decent deal on a guest room for one night in Bologna. It came recommended as a great food town, but not a tremendous amount of tourists or tourist trap sites. Bologna does feature a big piazza (town square), surrounded by some very old and scenic brick palazzos (short but long buildings) and a huge duomo (domed church). There was a steady rain during our only day in town, but we slogged through it long enough to cover most of the central area on foot.
We had a few highlights along the way. First was lunch at the Cafe Rosa Rosa, where Samantha had a big chicken salad and I had the house lasagna, which was terrific. Afterwards, we came across a Gnutelleria, a cafe with a menu consisting of nothing but Gnutella items. Crepes with Gnutella, Gnutella chocolate drink, pastries with Gnutella and so on - all Gnutella stuff. Still not sure why Queen Hatshepsut passed on this opportunity. We had hoped to climb a prominent medieval tower for views of the city, but it was closed due to sporadic lightning. Bummer.

That night, after an early evening bottle of wine and some apertivo from the local grocery store, we went for a proper dinner at a bona fide trattoria. Our disregard for our travel budget was rewarded with a taste sensation. We each had a pasta dish for the first course, both scrumptious, and then I throttled a savory dish of roasted wild boar and polenta, while Sammy had a rather disappointing artichoke salad for the second course. Overall, this meal was a memorable treat. The next morning, despite the warm sunshine, we had a quick cappuccino at a busy little cafe and left for Venice.

Venice (photos)

I am not sure anything could have prepared me for Venice. Of course I knew that the city had streets of water, and that gondolas propelled by men with striped shirts and long paddles delivered people to their destinations. But when we arrived, I was nonetheless surprised and somewhat awed by the sight. It's just wild! There are truly no true streets in Venice, just a tangled web of narrow alleyways, connected to a series of canals of various widths. There are no vehicles in the town whatsoever. I did see an occasional scooter, but it was very rare. With the exception of some churches, none of buildings are taller than 4 or 5 stories, and none are shorter than 3 stories and with the twisting, winding streets, I felt like I was in a maze a few times. To get where you need to go in Venice, you have only a few options: 1) scurry like a rat through the maze of alleyways, sometimes resulting in a very indirect route just to find a passable route; 2) take one of the various breeds of boat along one of the canals to the nearest alleyway (this would typically be the fastest way); 3) flap your arms and fly like a bird. During our time in Venice, we typically chose options 1 or 2.

We did not take a ride on one of the legendary gondola. The romance of these famous boats is dead. The cost is outrageous at over $80 USD for less than an hour in the boat. I saw the gondola operators absolutely killing whatever mood the yuppie and senior citizens passengers might have hoped for by smoking cigarette, text-messaging or talking on their cell phone while they paddled, or matching pace with an adjacent gondola so that could chit-chat along the way with the other gondola driver. Such a racquet, but lots of tourist (mostly American, as best I could tell) still ponied up the money and looked like easy marks while perched in the boat. We did take a vaporetto, a mid-sized motor boat that made regular stops along the Grand Canal as a bus would do; it was a cheap way to see the town from the water, and plus we covered a lots more mileage that way.

We had decent accommodations in Venice, given the tourist inflation in this town and the location of our hotel. We would have paid a considerable amount for many other hotels in town, and the cheapest option was an insanely high-priced camp site outside of town. It's a testament to Queen Hatshepsut's shrewd bargain-hunting skills.

We ate pizza at Da Sandro pizzeria, and it was delicious. Hard to avoid tourist trap dining in this town, and this was a decent option for those of us on a budget.

We also spent an hour or so in a centuries-old wine bar on a very narrow backstreet in Venice. The place is called Cantina do Mori, and it was oozing authenticity. The food and drinks they served, they manner in which the options were presented and served, and the ambiance of the place was all very unique. Kinda felt like we'd stepped back in time by 200 years. So much so that Sam wanted to preserve the sanctity of the place and asked me not to take a picture. She said, and I agreed, that perhaps this place would be best preserved in our minds. We had finger-food snacks of the sort that have been enjoyed by Venetians for eons, and drank the red wine that had been recommended by the bar keep. I was curious to try whatever was being poured from the large wooden barrels that had been tapped behind the bar, but the wine we had instead was an order of magnitude better than the cheap bottles we'd been snagging at the grocery stores. This place was really an off-the-beaten path discover that will stick in my head for many moons to come.

Otherwise, in Venice, we simply walked. We walked all over town, and soaked it all in. It's such a stimulating city, visually, that we'd have done ourselves a disservice if we'd done otherwise, I think. We did spring for admission to the top of a cool tower overlooking the city and Piazza di San Marcos, which great us some superlative views (photos). We saw the infamous Jewish ghetto in the heart of town, and Samantha also spent a bit of time in the Guggenheim Museum in Venice. Otherwise, we just walked. And it was good. My advice to any Venice visitors would be this: avoid the well-marked "tourist paths" in the city, and don't spend more than 3 days in Venice. It's a truly unique town and a must-see, but anything more than 3 days would be overkill given all that Italy has to offer.

Clint's posts: NZ 1, 2, Aussie 1, 2, 3, 4, Thailand , Kilimanjaro , Serengeti , Egypt 1, 2, Israel, Turkey, Greece, Italy 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Sammy's posts: NZ 1, Aussie 1, 2, 3, Thailand, Kilimanjaro, Serengeti, Egypt 1, 2, Israel, Zeb shout-out, Turkey, Greece, Italy 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 (Zeb)

Cinque Terre

2006-05-16T08:13:00.000-07:00

The pre-game bottle of wine has become a firmly established part of our travel in Italy. The habit began with an occasional cheap bottle picked up at the grocery store to accompany some of our self-catered meals in Sicily. Then, when we cooked most of our own meals in Canneto (on the Aeolian island of Lipari), the pre-game bottle emerged as a serious player and joined us for each meal. He retreated at times during our time in Rome and Positano, but in Florence, well, the pre-game bottle of cheap supermarket wine kicked the door down and announced he was here to stay. I was happy to surrender.

The ritual is now having a hell of a run. I'd venture a guess that we've nailed a bottle either with or before each dinner for all but a handful of our days in Italy. And I use "we" very loosely. Queen Hatshepsut, if she is really ready to drink, will handle 1/4 of a bottle. If she's ill or not in the mood, I tangle with Mr. Pre-Game all by myself. Queen Hatshepsut has taken to calling me "such a wino"; I don't mind it so much.

A few years ago, my buddy Milan in the bay area told me he was going through a phase of drinking too much cheap boxed wine. I chided him repeatedly for 1) foregoing a more manly beer, and 2) drinking crap out of a box like some effeminate cheap skate. Well, Miles, I apologize. I am now enjoying my own rule as King of the Cheapo Wine, and indulgently enjoying every buzz.

I can't really explain the wines I've had in Italy; doing so would reveal my lack of sophistication and crude wine palate. I can only say this: I only drink red wine because white wine reminds me too much of the 2 bottles of cheap champagne I commandeered on Millenium New Years Eve ("like it's Nineteen Ninety Nine!"). I still shiver just thinking of it. But I guzzle all breeds of red wine, with a affinity for Pinot Noir, Sangiovese, and...aw hell whatever is cheapest on the shelf in an Italian grocery store. I drink it all, leaving nary a drop unscathed.

Anyhow, enough jabber about the hangovers I've incurred. Onto the travel goings-on. We left Florence for 2 full days and 2 nights in Cinque Terre, the broad name for a string of 5 scenic seaside towns strung together by a trail. Good call by Samantha, who had been here before. we stayed in the coastal town of Levanto, just north of the string of 5. Another good call made by Sam, with an assist to our Kilimanjaro climbing friends Marcy and Jon, who recommended the town and the campsite we stayed in, the Acqua Dolce.

The towns are super-scenic, and the coastline connecting them is really beautiful and seems unspoilt (link to a small sample of photos from Perugia, Florence, and Cinque Terre). The day hike to get from the first to the fifth was long but not challenging, and in a few isolated parts, crammed with ill-equipped tourists who huffed like they were sprinting up Everest. Our campsite, however, is worthy of extensive commentary. The joint was pretty big, and most of the campers had a vehicle that you could sleep in or with which you could tow a camper. Lordy some of the rigs these folks had! Many of them were German guys, and their camper set-ups were something to behold and praise. I fully expected one of them to open a new wing on his edifice and transform it into a travelling disco. These folks liked to camp in style, leaving no luxury at home. Samantha and I, with our backpacks and 2-man tent, sitting on the ground with a warm bottle of wine and a hiker's stove, well, we looked like the neighborhood welfare recipient. Crazy.

Our second day was supossed to include a long day hike on the ridge up above the 5 towns, but Samantha was still feeling the effects of a nasal/throat/chest bug, so we just laid low. But the rocky ground under our tent, combined with her affliction, left her sleep-deprived and grumpy as hell. Thankfully I had a book to keep me occupied when I wanted to duck for cover. I also manged to locate a screaming deal on a foam camping mat that we could cut in two and split between us. I use these mats religiously on every backpacking trip in the US, but because I was uncertain whether we'd camp enough to warrant dragging it along, we left home without them. Mistake. Many bumpy campsites have caused some tossing and turning for both of us along the way. But this was the worst and so we broke down. Probably the best 5 euros we'll spend.

On the last night in Levanto, I discovered a little black scorpion hiding under my bare calf while I prepped for bed in the tent. I was spooked, unhurt, and adrenalin-rushed, so I woke Sam to show her. Man, you would have thought this scorpion had brought WMD with him or perhaps a baggie of anthrax. Sam flipped out! It was hilarious! Even after the bug was safely removed from the tent, she loudly insisted on removing and/or overturning everything in the tent, and got more flustered the more she dwelt on it. What a hoot. I don't want to get bit, sure, but I was unsure how hysteria was going to help. Finally I had to put the clamp on her mouth - after 15 minutes of "ohmigod" and "there's probably more in here!", I was ready to sleep.

Anyhow, the wine I'd drank made it easier to forget the critter. Nuf said.

Clint's posts: NZ 1, 2, Aussie 1, 2, 3, 4, Thailand , Kilimanjaro , Serengeti , Egypt 1, 2, Israel, Turkey, Greece, Italy 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
Sammy's posts: NZ 1, Aussie 1, 2, 3, Thailand ,Kilimanjaro ,Serengeti , Egypt 1, 2, Israel, Zeb shout-out, Turkey, Greece, Italy 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 (Zeb)

A day in Perugia and a week in Florence

2006-05-16T07:50:00.000-07:00

(link to a small sample of our photos from Perugia, Florence, and Cinque Terre)

We did not experience Umbria and Tuscany except through the main cities in each province. We spent one night in Perugia, Umbria, which is a cool, laid-back little city, with all of the trappings of a medieval town. Stone streets, narrow passages between towering stone buildings, and many streets on which motor vehicle traffic is forbidden, giving the place a very old-school vibe. We lucked into some kind of minor festival while we were in town, with a troop of college kids doing synchronized flag-waving and flag-tossing, and a cute little mostly-seniors polka club that paraded through town playing some really comical instruments. It was really a very charming experience and it made Perugia memorable. Our hotel, Albergo Morlacchi (or Hotel Morlacchi), was a nice quiet place and a good hostel-type value considering the location near the center of town. Also had some darn tasty pizza in Perugia, too.

Florence was a unique part of our Italy gameplan. Samantha arranged to take a novice/intermediate Italian language course while we were there, and we used Craigslist to rent a room in an apartment for a week. It would be our longest time spent in one place on the trip thus far, beating both Byron Bay (5 days) and Keri (5 days). So what to say about Florence? First, the art collections in this town simply defy logic. They are incredible works by the most historically acclaimed artists, and there are literally thousands of pieces. Second, the architechure is very distinctive. The churches with huge domes, ornate facades and colossal columns, and the numerous piazzas and plazazzos that adorn the city are really magnificent to wander through, and are often decorated with exceptional sculptures as well.

Time to discuss the phenomenon of the apertivo in Florence. Ah, the apertivo! What a delight to the budget traveller. Literally, it translates as "appetizer", and when shown on a menu, that's exactly what it means. However, this word is also used to describe the buffet of finger food on display for patrons during happy hour at a local bar. Here's how it works: you look for a sign in front of bar that says "apertivo" or "apertivo buffet", you enter, buy a drink, and partake of the food as you please. And when the food is gone, they bring more. Seriously! Free food while you drink. And the food is good, too. Huge bowls of pasta, tuna and rice salads, small bread slices with meat/chesse/mushroom/olive oil toppings, various hot tomato-based bread dips, olives, fried rice balls, finger sandwiches, peanuts, and so on. Armed with only a small plate, I managed to make a meal of the apertivo at two different bars in Florence. As I tried to be somewhat conspicuous about my frequent returns to the buffet and the size of my portions, the native Italian dudes had no such concern or discrimination. They would swarm like vultures around an abandoned carcass when a new bowl or dish was delivered to the buffet table, wielding elbows and shoulders on their way to the trough, where they would heap as much apertivo onto their plates as they could muster. Then they would shovel it into their gullets with a voraciousness that had compelled women to steer their children away from the scene; such tooth-gnashing savagery could only mean danger for a defenseless bambino. Noodles that these hungry Lotharios had chased off the edge of their plate were dismissed as collateral damage. Crumbs sprinkling their feet were ignored. If someone had walked off with one of the buffet bowls still containing food, I would not be surprised. It was a feeding frenzy, suppressed only by the number of people in attendance. Had more male patrons been present, I would have feared for my fingers. Nonetheless, I exploited this deal of the century just like the rest of them, and was delighted with the value.

Women in Florence. Well, let's just say they are beautiful. And shameless about directly their attention at you or drawing attention to themselves. Especially the cougars, of which there seem to be hundreds. In fact, I suspect that Florence is a native habitat for cougars, as their thriving numbers and emboldened behavior would indicate. One scantily-clad specimen openly oogled me, smiled, flipped her hair, and adjusted her cleavage all in a single instinctive movement of smooth fluidity, despite the fact that I was sweaty, stinky, unshaven, and dressed like a tourist. Such is the natural response for a cougar - they just can't turn it off. I was not amused - she was, like, 50 years old. Eeew.

While Queen Hatshepsut was studying Italian during the course of the week, I filled my time with a few activities: visiting art museums that Sam had already seen, sleeping in, perusing the selection at a nearby used bookstore, and doing yoga. Yep, yoga. I had only done it once before in a studio, accompanying Sam to one of her regular classes when we lived in San Jose. Once in a while, she would challenge me to try a pose that she had learned at home. But for the most part, I am a total yoga rookie. So I schelpped my gelato-eating fat ass to a midday yoga class. 10 euro for an hour and a half of sweating and straining in utter inferiority as the taut older gals in the class made me feel like exactly what I am: a 31 year old out-of-shape flabby gelato addict, who had guzzled too much wine the night before. My sweat felt like paste, and I think the unconventional poses (you want me to do WHAT?) released toxics in my body that emmanated through my pores as a powerful scent of funk with which I was unfamiliar. Yet, I enjoyed the exertion and the satisfaction that followed my first session, and really enojyed the soreness the next day. The first step to recovery! I went again two days later, again with the same wino hangover, but fared marginally better than before. And I felt great doing it. Since I went to 2 yoga sessions, I've only had 3 gelatos. We'll see how long it lasts, but I'm not sure it matters when I'm still averaging 0.75 bottles of delicious cheap Italian wine per night.

On one of our last nights in town, I smoked hash in a water pipe with the owner of the apartment where we stayed (he shall remain anonymous). He was roughly our age, and an accomodating host despite the fact his place was quite small. I had never smoked hash before and it was a different experience. After the fact, I was told that the hash that we had smoked was not too good, and that there was definitely much better to be had. I was in no position to judge, and I kinda liked the feeling: super chilled out, a little loose-limbed and limp-necked, and relieved of all stress. Kinda got a queasy stomach for the first 10 minutes or so, but it passed quickly with no bad results. Then something unexpected happened. Our host answers his cell phone, and after a quick conversation in Italian, he reports that his friend is two blocks from his apartment at a ill-defined party that had spilled into the street. I accepted his invitation to join him in checking it out, and the shindig turned out to be happening at the Roberto Cavalli cafe, hosted by none other than Mr. Roberto Cavalli Jr. Roberto Cavalli the dad is, according to Samantha, a very innovative and well-renowned Italian fashion designer, and his namesake cafe is simply an extension of his brand. As I learned at the scene, Junior had just been given the reins to run the cafe, and the party served to commemorate the transition from calm swanky daytime cafe to flamboyant, swanky nighttime club. Such a decadent soiree I've never had the pleasure to witness. Eye-popping beauties decked out in some questionable fashion-foward attire, all casing their female competition with a eagle-eye and lingering in the best locations to maximize their chances for a triple-cheek-kiss with the wealthiest men in the room. The men were sorted into two bunches. Half of them were oblivious to the primping because they knew the host well and had no reason to prove their status among the crowd, the other half of the dudes were preening with appropriately moussed hair, striking intriguing poses around the bar, cool-guy dancing for 15 seconds at a time, enjoying their own appearance, and being careful to never be caught standing alone. This latter breed made for almost hysterically comical people-watching. I wish Sam had been with me for two reasons: first because I think she'd also find this behavior hilarious, and second because I wanted her to see that *this* is how the people act who wear the expensive clothes/handbags/shoes that she covets. Alas, she had retired to bed very early in the evening with some kind of nasal/chest issue, and missed the whole show. About 2am, the whole party screeched to a halt when Roberto Jr. decided that his crew needed to head to the local discoteque for some dancing, and when the host/DJ left, everyone bailed out. My host and I were tired and headed home. Although I was curious to see what a night in the discoteque would be like with this battalion of the rich and ridiculous, I had seen enough shenanigans and I was beat.

Samantha's Italian language improved considerably over the course of the week, and by the time we left Florence, she could comprehend and speak enough to make it without hand gestures or relying on some English skills from an Italian. Vocabulary, which takes years to build, seems to be her only challenge. Kudos to you, Queen Hatshepsut.

In Florence, we did not exploit the local cuisine or infamous Tuscan countryside as we should have. Between Sam's language class and our room rental, we were somewhat constrained for budget, so we ate simple panino (sandwiches) and pizza, as well as a few apertivos and cooking for ourselves in the apartment we rented. I have no excuse for failing to day-trip to Siena or Fiesole or Chianti or other such alluring areas, and I already regret it. But sleeping in after mucho wine each night before is such a pleasure, and my other meandering time in Florence did not feel wasted. But it was certainly under-utilized and I won't make this mistake again if we linger in another city.

I have been reflecting a lot on the marital dynamics of this trip. It's just not natural to spend this much time glued to someone else... even the most disgustingly affectionate newlyweds would start to chafe after 4 months of spending every waking moment, literally, with their beloved. I started a company with some friends in 1999, and we were living and working in the same house together for several months. That's a challenge for any friendship, but business is different. You can classify most of the workday as business, and bring a different demeanor to it. This trip is different. It presents uncertainty, lots of subjective decisions, stress-induced and exhaustion-induced crankiness, and a constant companion to take it out on. You have got someone attached to you whom you can blame for outcomes that displease, gripe to about things that irritate you, and so on. The upside is that you have someone to share every experience with you, and a companion to chat with along the way. All told, the good things definitely outweigh the drawbacks, and I'm glad I did not undertake this kind of trip alone, as I originally conceived back in 2000, when the possibility of such a trip became real. Now if she could just take a bit more than her standard 10% of each bottle of wine we open...

THE WORLD'S SMALLEST CAR FOR MY BROTHER (NOT THE WORLD'S SMALLEST MAN)

2006-05-11T12:23:00.000-07:00

Apparently the theme of the World Tour has turned into "What thing have I seen in each country that I can use to disparage my brother, Zeb." I have not been able to find something for him in every country but I have found some pretty decent stuff. Let's recap again: a restaurant in Melbourne, Australia (Mamma's Boy), a girlfriend in Tasmania, Australia (wombat), and a clothing store in Tel Aviv, Israel (XXXXXL). In New Zealand, there of course are the mountains where Lord of the Rings was filmed and, quite frankly, my brother could have been featured in the film with his beard and long hair. Thailand, well not much there for Zeb, except for the fact he would have literally towered over everyone. Tanzania, well Zeb could have competed with the male simba (lion) for hairiest beast. There is not much that I can use from either Egypt, Turkey or Greece. Although in Turkey there is no way he could fit into any of the cave dwellings. In fact, while everyone else lived in the cave cities, he would have had to live outside. Don't feel bad for Zeb, he's bigger and smarter than me which explains my Napoleon complex.

IN CINQUE TERRE AND STILL SICK

2006-05-11T12:09:00.000-07:00

So after leaving Florence for Cinque Terre, I thought if my allergies were wreaking havoc on me in Florence then by the time we get to Cinque Terre, I should be fine. Wrong. I did not necessarily get sicker per se, I just did not feel much better and what was a head cold moved into my lungs. Which meant, I spent three nights at a campground either (a) snoring; (b) hacking all night long with a raspy cough or (c) both a & b. I felt bad for Clint because he had to sleep next to me in the tent and endure my coughing, sneezing, snoring and blowing of the nose each of the three nights. What I really needed to do was go to a pharmacy and get some drugs but out of principle, I refused. Partly because I did not believe I was as sick as I was. Principle never seems to get me anywhere sometimes.

Setting that aside, Cinque Terre was still breathtaking, albeit crowded with tourists. I visited Cinque Terre twice when I was in Italy 6 years ago because I enjoyed the towns, the people and the scenary so much. The scenary is still beautiful but the towns and the pathways around the towns have changed dramatically. This is because the Italian government reorganized the Cinque Terre trail system into a National Park and reconstructed some of the pathways to make them more tourist friendly. Unfortunately this has resulted in hordes of tourists now visiting the once quaint, picturesque area. The trails linking the towns is no longer free of people but rather crowded. Instead of feeling like you are walking along a trail, you feel more like you are walking down the Corso in Rome. It really is that crowded at times, especially between Riomaggiore and Manarola which is known as Via del'Amore (Path of Love). Clint and I walked the entire trail between all five towns. We were lucky enough to enjoy some clear skies and sunny and warm weather which made for a great hiking day. Our next day in Cinque Terre was far less eventful for two reasons. First, I had not slept much the night before and was hacking pretty bad. Second, some rain clouds hovered over us and it eventually rained. So our second day was spent hanging around the tent at the campground. I am disappointed that we were not able to hike on our second day because we had a trail picked out that would have taken us high above the towns. But, what can you do?

UNGE IN THE TENT

Our last night in Cinque Terre was a bit nerve-racking. As I was falling asleep and Clint was typing on the laptop, he noticed something by his calf. He put his headlamp on and shined it on the thing. The thing quickly crawled to the side of the tent. Then, Clint woke me up and said to put my headlamp on...guess what I saw? Oh yes, a freaking black scorpion in our tent. I almost wet my pants. I was freaking out. I gave Clint a book and he carefully removed the scorpion from our tent. Of course that did not stop me from thinking there was another scorpion in our tent. So I turned over everything in our tent checking for scorpion no. 2. Of course there was not, as scorpions tend to travel alone. But, I still could not believe there was a scorpion in our tent. I had no idea Italy had scorpions. The last time I saw a scorpion was when I was a kid in Texas and we had the summer of the scorpions. They were everywhere...under the water pitcher at the ranch house, crawling across the bedroom floor of the ranch house, under a rock at the ranch. Of course, Clint commented that because I ate a scorpion in Thailand, the scorpions were now after me. I sorta believed him. Hopefully that will be the last live scorpion we see. Similarly I had a snake cross my path on our hike down from Stromboli. I knew it was only a matter of time before I saw a snake (nyoka), but having it slither in front of me on a trail is not cool!!

SICK IN FLORENCE

2006-05-11T08:26:00.000-07:00

Florence is an elegant city: a river runs through the city, it is set amongst the hills of Tuscany and it has big city charm without the pollution, congestion and grit of Rome. But Florence also has 7,000 American college students, tour groups around every corner along with sellers of cheap leather and other touristy junk. Unfortunately, my expectations (I wish I did not have them) were not met, but I think it has less to do with the city and more to do with the fact that I either got sick while in Florence or my allergies were at their all time worse levels. Let's just say I spent my week in Florence, blowing my nose every five minutes, sneezing all the time, coughing a lot and trying to keep a fever at bay. Good times, especially when you are no where near your own house, bed, bathroom, couch, kitchen and "Sex and the City" dvds.

But I was still able to see some amazing sights in Florence including the Uffizi gallery which has an incredible collection of Renaissance artwork. The Uffizi has pieces by Da Vinci who I think was brilliant both in terms of his artwork and inventions. He is just an incredible man. We also went to the Museo dell'Opera del Duomo and saw some sculpture pieces by Donatello and Michaelangelo. In particular, Donatello's sculpture of Mary Magdalene is breathtaking. The sculpture is so raw and Clint and I could not take our eyes off of it (see above). The Duomo museum was fairly small and the price of admission steep. But after seeing Michaelangelo's Pieta and Donatello's sculpture of Mary Magdalene along with some of the other works, it was worth it.

IF YOU RUN OVER AN AVVOCATO IN ITALY YOU GET GUACAMOLE

I was looking forward to spending some extended time in Florence (we were here for almost one week) for several reasons. First, I just wanted to plant myself in the same place for longer than two days and second, the last time I was in Florence was for less than two days and I felt robbed. So, I signed myself up for a four day Italian language course in Florence. Clint was going to take a cooking class but decided against it and instead lounged around Florence while I attended class. I was jealous of his routine considering he got to sleep in, go to yoga classes and take his time touring the museums. I was subjected to information overload. While I am happy I took the language class, I am not sure why I thought I would be able to retain and memorize all the information I was given on a daily basis. Apparently, I forgot my brain is full of legal jargon and so my brain is unable to process anything that is not related to case law. For example, I call "statues", "statutes." I guess you can take the lawyer out of the law office but you cannot take the law out of the lawyer. How sad. In fact, that brings me to another point. During the first day of my Italian language class, I was required to introduce myself, say where I was from and then what I did for a living. I was also required to recount a typical day in my life before I left on the trip. First, my teacher asked how many hours a day I worked at the office. I thought that was pretty funny. I told my teacher and classmates around 11 hours a day, they were surprised. Then, when I recounted my typical day, let's just say, it wasn't very exciting and quite frankly, pretty pathetic. When I return to the states, I am definitely going to revamp my daily schedule. For instance, I am going to add 10 rock squats to my daily routine (Tenacious D). In Italian, a lawyer is called an avvocato. So because I think avvocato sounds like avocado, I told Clint that if you run over an avvocato in Italy you get guacamole. Completely lame joke, but I think it is funny.

PEARL JAM + AVOCADOS = CRAZY DELICIOUS!!

Speaking of avocados, if anyone has seen the new Pearl Jam album cover then they should be just as shocked as I was when I first saw it. Apparently, Pearl Jam decided to put a picture of an avocado on the front and back of their album. Ironic really, since avocados are my favorite food. On a side note, after listening to the album I definitely think that I walked past (with Dali), Eddie Vedder sitting in his porsche on a street near my house listening to cuts from the album. Oh yes, I had my own sneak preview of the Pearl Jam album. Probably not, but it does make for a good story, at least for me.

Roman Storm Tour

2006-05-05T04:16:00.000-07:00

Left Positano for Rome on Wednesday April 26th. Went from bus to train to another train to Termini Station in central Rome. After checking into our room (which was a sweet deal for 60 euro per night considering our alternatives), we went to work. Thus began an aggressive, tiring, and satisfying storm tour of Rome (photos). We nailed an extensive punch list of the best of the city's tourist sites: Colusseum, Palatine Hill, Roman Forum, a dozen piazzas, Church of Saint Mary Magdelene, Parthenon, Vatican Museum, Sistine Chapel, St. Peter's Basilica, the building Sam lived in six years ago, Capitoline Museums, and Church of Saint Mary of Poppolo. All in three days, most of it following Queen Hatshepsut's lead, charging through the crowds on foot. Damn my feet hurt. However, it might have been a blessing, all this pounding the pavement, as my gelato fixation has shown no sign of waning anytime soon.

Lots of gawking tourists mulling about the various tourist destinations in Rome, although it's only April. I shudder to imagine how packed it will be in midsummer. I hesitate to chide tourist behavior, because in many ways, Sam and I are just like the rest of 'em. But we are rather conscientous about avoiding stereotypical tourist behavior if we can. We honestly want to experience the countries that we visit in the most authentic manner that one can realistically expect. We wince at every McDonald's, and avoid establishments that say "we speak inglish" or offer tourist menus. We will walk an extra half-mile to eat away from the main tourist thorughfares. We don't stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk to gawk or consult a map, and usually do not gripe about the peculiar situations that result from unavoidable language barriers. Yet, there I am, asking in butchered Italian where I can find the "too-a-letta" and snapping photos inside the Colusseum just like every other Joe Sixpack from Bumpkinville USA or Mr. Wang from China who does not like to break in the bill of his Roma hat. But in general, we are trying to make like travellers, and we find ourselves getting just as perturbed as the locals at the ridiculous and/or disdainful tourist bumbling. Today I had to take extreme evasive manuevers to avoid, in rapid succession, a lady wielding an umbrella recklessly near my forehead, an old man walking with his face buried in his guidebook, and helpless looking mom with a gelato in one hand (god bless her) and pushing a monstrous stroller with the other, poking meekly about the dense foot traffic for a stroller gap that will never appear.

We hit a bar called Sloppy Sam's in the Campo D'Acorsi - not a bad place to take a load off. Met an Amercian guy who worked there who is easing his way into an acting career, and ate some disappointing hot wings with our Italian beers. He has worked with Pauli from Rocky, so I consider the guy a celebrity.

The pizza in Italy is everything I bargained for. The tomato sauce is fresh and not pasty at all like in the US. The cheese is real cheese, not a pre-shredded bagged cheese-like product like we put on our pizzas in the US. It's fairly affordable, as we can get a pizza that is roughly the same-size as a US medium-sized thin crust pizza for $6-8 euro. The best is how they serve it - they bring you an over-sized plate with the whole uncut pizza on it. You use your table knife and fork to hack it up as you wish. Perfect for an invading barbarian like me.

Samantha has educated me well about the seating customs in the eateries of Italy. If we go to a bar or cafe or pizza joint, we want to eat standing up even if there is an available table. Because if you choose to sit down, you must pay for the privilege in the form of a servicio fee of $0.50-2.00 euro per person. So we stand, like most Italians, or better, take our food out to a nearby piazza to eat on a bench or at the foot of a statue. Plus, we are very discerning about what we eat, always looking to extract maximum value, in terms of both portion size and flavor explosion, for our buck, and avoid tourist traps. So we instinctively do a quick assessment of a prospective eatery in an odd way. First we walk slowly past and case the place: filled with tourists? Stand-up joint or sit-down trattoria? Food on display? Does it look good? Menu posted? Is it affordable? And so on, with all available info captured in a span of a few seconds. As we walk the next few steps past the place, we are using these precious few seconds to synthesize what we saw or allow a moment for the other to speak up and declare their interest, if any. If it appears to meet some of our requirements, one of us will finally say to the other, after we have walked 5 or 10 yards past the facade, "what do you think about that place"? This indicates that the speaker is interested is what they saw. The listener will turn around for a closer look only if it seemed to rate favorably to them during the drive-by. The ideal selection process is one with no verbal communication: we both assess the place favorably and either stop to openly oogle the place or, even better, simply walk in together without speaking. Unanimous! This whole ordeal gets very complicated, however, if one of us is much hungier than the other, or we have differing opinions on what we saw, or one of us has seen a superior alternative in the neighborhood that the other had not seen. Crossed wires and broken protocol in the selection process leads to occasional quibbling right there in front of the waiting server, who may be rewarded for their patience with a cold, unexplained walkout. Such is the harsh reality of trying to please the Schmidts.

All I have had for breakfast in Italy, everyday, is croissants (also called "crostinis" in Sicily and "cornettos" in Rome) and cappuccinos. They are dadgum delicious, but not too filling. I found myself today really hankering for one of my Grandma's big ol' egg, bacon, tomato, and butter on toast sandwiches, or even more alluring, one of my wifes massive 3-egg, bell pepper, tomato, jalapeno, and spicy monterrey jack cheese scrambles, topped with a healthy dose of Tapatio hot sauce. Ah, to achieve full-belly bliss at 10am! What a delight. Knowing that such a large amount of food first thing in the morning is more than many Tanzanians have in a day is a bit disturbing, but it does not diminish the intensity of my longing. Travis, please gobble a heaping plate of egg-induced paradise for me. Thanks.

Italians are mad about soccer, even more crazy about it than the Greeks. I have set about to immerse myself in this soccer culture while I am here by watching games on TV, learning about the clubs and players and playoff system, and watching the soccer talk-shows as they scrutinize the soccer goings-on of that day. I try to chat about soccer with locals when the opportunity presents itself, and I think I can say that it's more intense than most football fanaticism in the US. Maybe the Eagles fans are more nutso about their team or perhaps the Browns fans, but for the most part, Americans to not reach this deep level of addiction. Soccer isn't totally foreign to me, as I played for many years as a kid, and so I can recognize exceptional play and shoddy play. But I cannot ever really get into soccer like these people do for one big reason: the flopping. These trained professional players will squeal in pain and throw themselves on the ground, writhing in agony everytime they are bumped slightly by an opposing player - all in a dramatic attempt to induce the ref to call a penalty on the opposing player doing the bumping. To be fair, this happens in american football, too, when a kicker or punter is bumped when following through on a kick of any kind, they are trained to flop on the ground and flail and yelp like a spanked child, all for the same purpose. But in European soccer, these players do it all the time! They are constantly picking themselves up off the ground, gesturing wildly to the referee about their leg or arm or whatever, and giving these facial expression of indignation and shock when the referee ignores them. It's such a distraction to the game and an embarassment to athletics that I can barely watch. It is a big contrast to American football, when after a guy gets totally obliterated by a big tackle, he tries like hell to hop right up and act like he enjoyed getting smashed and like he's not bothered at all by getting his bell rung. THAT'S how I'd like these wimpy soccer dudes to handle it, just once.

Anyhow, we're a bit weary after sacking Rome, and we're headed off to Perugia for a slower pace. Ciao.

ALL ROADS LEAD TO ROME AND THANKFULLY OUT OF ROME TOO

2006-05-04T11:35:00.000-07:00

LACK OF VOLUME CONTROL IS HEREDITARY

Italians do not talk, they shout. They shout on the phone, at each other on the street, in conversations at restaurants and just about every time they open their mouths. As a result, it should come as no surprise (particularly to Clint) that I shout when I talk. Lack of volume control is hereditary. My mom shouts when she talks, my great aunt shouts when she talks, my uncle shouts when he talks, everyone in our family who has a bit of Italian in them shouts when they talk.

HEMINGWAY AND THE ALMAFI COAST

Clint wrote about Positano and so I will refrain from writing some more about it. I will say though that I really do love Positano and recommend it to anyone visiting Italy. Also, I am psyched Clint enjoyed his time there because I was uncertain whether he too would like Positano.

TOM CRUISE IN ROME? NATALIE MERCHANT IN ROME?

So the day before we got to Rome, Tom Cruise was in town promoting MI3. What is it with celebrities following me around all the time. I just do not get it. Football teams, soccer players, musicians, actors, always around me. I wish they would stop. The last time I was in Rome, I was enthralled by the city. I think this mostly stemmed from the fact that it was the first time I lived outside the U.S. I really was looking forward to returning to Rome, mostly because while I lived there I tried to get Clint to come visit me but to no avail. So I was psyched to finally explore Rome with him. I enjoyed the three days we spent in Rome touring the city like madmen but I have to be honest. I am way over Rome -- the traffic, the pollution, the congestion of people (particularly tourists), the neverending sound of ambulance sirens and the constant bombardment of materialism. Rome is a beautiful city but I am not sure the beauty outweighs the traffic, pollution, congestion and materialism. Let's just say I was happy to leave Rome. On a side note, I swear that I walked passed Natalie Merchant near the Pantheon. It looked just like her but I was too chicken and also too polite to ask her. Oh well.

CRAZY CAPE WEARERS AND FLAG THROWERS IN PERUGIA, UMBRIA

I decided to take Clint to Perugia in Umbria on a lark. I wanted to go somewhere in Italy I had not yet visited and that simultaneously sounded cool. So I read about Perugia in the guidebook -- medieval city on a hill with a pretty decent live music scene and its the home of the Perugina chocolate factory (need I say more?). Perugia is also an university town which means lots of students, cheap eats, internet cafes and low key. It sounded fascinating and so after booking the hotel and train, we were off. Unfortunately the weather was not too cooperative while we were in Perugia. In fact, we got rained on our second day in Perugia. Nevertheless, we still had a great time and not only were able to take in the sights of the city (fascinating medieval architecture) but were also treated to some performances. First, we caught some people wearing silly red and white costumes throwing flags into the air. On top of that, there was a crowd of drunk (what looked to be) university students involved in tomfoolery and chicanery. They were also wearing capes and Robin Hood hats. For the life of us, we had no idea why they were dressed like weirdos but we were curious, just not curious enough to ask them. After the tights wearing flag throwers, we were treated to an old-fashioned band parading down the main street. There was a group of older women dancing while a group of older men played "instruments" -- toilets, giant sized salad tongs and other crazy things. We could not believe our good fortune to be in Perugia during this ruckus. We never made it to the chocolate factory (bummer) but did manage to spend some time walking around the town center and beyond. I really enjoyed Perugia and would have liked to spend some more time there but alas we had to head to Florence and so we boarded yet another train and headed north.

Positano and the Amalfi Coast

2006-05-02T08:37:00.000-07:00

We took a ferry, bus, train, train, ferry over the course of 7 or 8 hours to get from Lipari to Positano, a picturesque, popular and somewhat trendy beach town situated on the Amalfi Coast. It's typically a vacation destination for wealthy Italians, Western Europeans, and some Americans, so we had to be on our game to enjoy the area without killing our budget. Sam secured rooms for us in the only hostel in town, which she had stayed in before. What a great set-up! The Hostel Brikette was super clean, with sweet sea views, very friendly staff, free Internet access, and complimentary well-made espresso drinks and croissants for breakfast. We only stayed here two nights because we have so much to see in Italy, but it was a place worth staying for up to a week.

Positano is just as scenic and distinctive as Queen Hatshepsut had advertised, and I am really glad we hit it up. The town is tucked into a small ravine about 1km wide below a steep rocky ridge, which we climbed. I hope the photos we got serve to remind us how cool the setting is. We were a bit surprised to see so many people there, though, in mid/late April. In fact, Queen Hatshepsut was downright surly about the crowds, and made no secret of her disdain. Even when we were laid back up in the shack, chilling in our room after a long day of travel, she was lettin' me know that she was bummed about the masses. And it's kinda tough to avoid the horde because going to the beach is about the only thing to do there, and I guess the little patch of beach they've got gets pretty packed. But we never really dealt with that scene, because our only full day in town was spent hiking the ridges above town, which very few luxury travellers apparently want to undertake. It was a great day-hike, with satisfying views at the top and along the way; only Sam's balky knee could detract from an otherwise magnificent day. It was a dang steep hike, and the rocky trail made for a rough descent as well. We never returned down into the main part of town or ventured to the main beach late in the afternoon as planned because the weather was not very cooperative - gloomy, cool, and a bit breezy. Instead, we grabbed a snack and grabbed a $4 euro carafe of decent wine at our hostel happy hour, met a few other travellers, then led the crew to supper at a nearby restaraunt with stellar pizza, fresh mussells, and great fresh fish. The next day, we grabbed a bus to Sorrento, a train to Naples, and another train to Rome. All roads lead there, of course.

Clint's posts:
NZ 1, 2, Aussie 1, 2, 3, 4, Thailand , Kilimanjaro , Serengeti , Egypt 1, 2, Israel, Turkey, Greece, Italy 1, 2

Sammy's posts:
NZ 1, Aussie 1, 2, 3, Thailand ,Kilimanjaro ,Serengeti , Egypt 1, 2, Israel, Zeb shout-out, Turkey, Greece, Italy 1

La Dolce Vita in Sicily

2006-05-01T09:32:00.000-07:00

With a week under my belt now (literally) in Sicily, I have an entirely new and somewhat concerning mindset on life. I can honestly say I've had a very disturbing revelation about my personality that I must carefully monitor for the rest of my life: deep inside, I am a 300-pound fat man waiting to come out. The delicious and unabashedly fatty food in Sicily has an addictive quality that has compelled me to consume calories at an accelerated pace which, along with a drastic reduction in strenous cardiovascular activity, will not allow me to sustain my current body weight. I can count the number of instances in the last month that I have had really physically taxing exercise on one hand. Meanwhile, in Sicily alone I have had enough gelato and olive oil and fried scrump-dilly-iciousness to feed 3 fully grown men. I am in the worse shape of my career, and my waist line shows it. I yearn to go for a run, but the otherworldly creme croissants and delightful Italian cappuccinos beckon more loudly in the morning; wine and various fried/cheesy/meaty sensations call me away from a jog in the evening unlesss we're going to supper. I look down, and my washboard stomach is gone, replaced recently with a disturbing softness that prevents me from from seeing my own junk without leaning forward a bit. It's all gone so wrong, but when I'm slobbering on my 3rd gelato of the day, damn, it feels so right.

I think to myself: "ah shit I'm on vacation so to hell with it if I add a few pounds... I can always take 'em off when I get back to regular exercise when I get home." But this kind of self-soothing is certainly the same slippery slope that every fat man feeds himself when he starts to balloon, and this kind of rationalization does not reflect the kind of self-discipline I'd like to think I have had historically.

Here's the kicker: when Samantha was in Italy for 2 months for a law school study-abroad program back in 2000, she came back with 10 extra pounds and I pummelled her about it. Not at first, of course, as I was happy to see her and that's not exactly the way to greet your girlfriend when you haven't seen her all summer. But eventually, I let it come out that she'd brought a little more of her to love, and eventually, I ended up teasing her about it unrepentantly. NOW look at me... shamefully following suit and plumping up more than she EVER did. AND I'VE ONLY BEEN HERE A WEEK.

Seriously, the food here is seductive and sooooo bad for you. I can't believe that every Sicilian is not obese. Every self-respecting man has had a juicy steak that was a bit bigger than their stomach capacity, but devoured it anyway because it tasted so good. I have done this at least once a day here, and then shoveled a gelato into my gullet on top of it just for good measure. It's tastebud heaven and waistline hell. Oprah would be proud.

But I digress. It was a bit of whirlwind when we first got to Italy. We arrived in the airport in Rome, took the metro to the central train station, then boarded an all-night train to take us south to the town of Catania in Sicily (this is the island at the end of the boot-shape of Italy). I am always telling Sam to gut it out and stop complaining when our transport is less than luxurious, but this train ride really sucked. We bought 2nd class train tickets on a train leaving immediately in a snap decision because our desired train, which was leaving Rome later in the evening and arriving around 8am in Catania, was sold out. Unbeknownst to us, our 2nd class tickets meant we did not have a reserved seat on the train. If all the reserved seats are sold (and they had been), you are forced to either stand in the aisle or perch on one of these mini-benches that folds out from the wall of the traincar aisle. At first, it was all cool. We found seats in a couchette car (a tight little compartment of 6 seats together) and shared the initial two hours of the ride with a nice mother and her active but well-behaved daughter and son. But when the train picked up more passengers at another stop around 10pm, we were ousted from our traincar and the reality of our situation set in. We were stuck in the aisle with our backpacks, dodging aisle-walking bathroom goers for the remaining 5 hours. We managed to stay postive throughout, and got lucky to sneak back into vacated seats for the last hour of our ride. But suffice it to say that we were dog-tired when we disembarked around 4:30am. It gets better. We had not secured a place to stay in Catania, so we cinched up the straps and trod from the train station to the center square area of town to find a room. After walking about a mile under skies just beginning to brighten from daylight, we hit the main plaza square and the landmark church, and like an oasis in the desert, found a cafe open to serve us hot creme and chocolate filled croissants. Bonanza! This good fortune only forestalled our shitty situation momentarily, however, as more walking led us to hostel after hostel after hotel that had no availability. It was a Wednesday, for gosh sakes, but it so happened that there had been a major town carnival-type, end of Lent, mini-Mardi Gras type of festival earlier that night, and every room in town was booked. Queen Hatshepsut was tired and seething and giving me the angry grizzly bear routine (there is no pleasing an angry grizzly, you're just screwed). And my think-positive gas tank was running on fumes. After walking around downtown Catania for 2 hours, we found a hotel (the Gresi Hotel) that was open and had vacancy. It was 75 euros (roughly $95 USD) but we had few options. On my own, I would have probably tried to sneak under a park bench after about an hour of fruitless searching, but Samantha is not keen to partake in such illegal squatting manuevers and I was certainly not inclined to debate it with her given the circumstances. So we started our sojourn in Italy with a triple-shot of cold piss: a sleepless and uncomfortable night on a packed train, a frustrating 2-hour walkabout before sunrise, and a budget-busting hotel expense.

But ever since, well, it's been swell. Sweet nectar eases the pain. Cappuccino! Gelato! Creme-filled croissant! More gelato! Yummy fried rice balls filled with cheese, sauce, and meat! Wine! Pasta and sumptuous sauces! More gelato! I am a gluttonous pig.

We yawned through a day-and-a-half in Catania, then rented a car and drove to a campsite located close to the trail we'd follow to tackle Mt. Etna. What a strong move by Sam, who has been mutually appointed as the Exceutive in Charge of Everything in Italy. She speaks a bit of Italian (self-taught!), has been here before, and Italy (Sicily specifically) was #1 on her World Tour Destination Wish-List. So Mt. Etna was her call, and it was really very gnarly and rad, and I'm so spsyched we did it. We started our march to the summit around 9am, and eschewed the gondola lift and jeep ride that would have left us with only an hour or two to walk to the top. What's the fun in that? After a 45min stop for a leisurely mid-mountain lunch, we got to the summit around 2:30pm. Let's just say that there is no effing way you would want to go into that crater at the top. Mt. Etna is still a very active volcano that could pop or ooze at any time, and the billowing stinky sulphur steam smoldering from the seams and crevasses at the summit indicate that this beast is no joke (photos). You can't actually see any spurting magma or flowing lava, but it was still really intense and surreal to see inside a powerful geothermal megaforce like this one. I could not stop saying "holy shit!" at the rim of the crater and Sam, the volcano queen, could not wipe the grin from her face. Her profundity: it's probably gonna blow again very soon. Put that in yer pipe, Nostradamus.

After descending from the summit of Etna, we jumped into the car and headed to the western part of the Sicilian island. Again, we had not secured a place to stay but figured on camping at the stop along the way. Just after dark, we arrived in Pergusa to find our expected campsite to be closed, unfindable, or nonexistent. Time for Plan B, which we had none. So we kept driving. After 6 hours of driving, I was thinking we'd end up "guerilla" camping or just stretching out in our luxurious Fiat super-compact rental ride. But Sam pressed and we overpaid for a hotel in Cefalu that only became worth it when we slammed their complimentary breakfast the next morning for a combined 5 espresso drinks, 4 croissants and a variety of ham, cheese, gnutella, cereal samplings (i'll admit to doing most of the damage here).

Trembling with over-caffeinated joy, we navigated via slow hair-pin turns deep into Madonie National Park, a very bucolic and rocky park with dramatic and picturesque peaks over 6000 ft. tall and quaint time-warp small towns nestled between them. We set off on a hike that seemed ambitious on the map (free to us from the friendly chap at the rifugio at Piano Zucchi - good on ya, mate) but turned out to be a day-hike endeavor. We found the best view the hike could offer after only 1.5 hours of steep walking, and after lunch and lingering there for an hour or so, I made the call to descend and re-saddle the Fiat for new horizons. Questionable clouds brewing overhead and a growing to-do list of trip-planning details made me pull the plug. I couldn't believe I was ducking out of what would have been a survivable and undisturbed night in the wilderness. And it back-fired on me! The clouds cleared as we were returning to the car, the weedy campsite we ended up at instead gave Sam a helluva a battle with allergies, and we did not find an Internet cafe for to assist with trip-planning. Rat farts.

I need to take a time-out to give a few new daddies/daddies-to-be a big time shout-out. First, my old school homeboy Kennabis Hans is a new dad, and although I haven't talked with him much since their new arrival nor met the new cherub yet, I am pumped for him and I send him a hot wild shout-out. Also, late breaking news, my man Steve Terrell in Seattle just had a spankin' new baby boy, Ellis. Hella cool, Steve, I shall pound a beer tonight in honor of your young lad. Three other first-time daddies-to-be deserve some airtime as well: Ryan Irwin, Phil Hardin, and Peter Bjerre. Men, I wish you well! Plus, my man Fernie Font's wife Denise is due with number 2. Good on ya, mate. I have seen, as an observer, how transformational daddyhood can be for a guy, as my younger brother Cory and wily old friend Slick Haney, both with young daughters, are very different people now. Anywho, best wishes, new dads, with your exciting new additions. Not quite ready to join you yet, but gettin' there.

After cruising through some underwhelming ruins in the towns of Segesta and Agrigento (i feel bad about saying it but I am SO over the ancient roons), we camped out in Marina di Ragusa. The next morning, I went for a run on the beach. Holy smokes, I've never run slower, and I think I was sweating gelato. After my scorching 15-minute mile, we headed back to Catania to dismount and return the old Fiat rental car. From there, we took a train to Taormina to spend two days. Very scenic town tucked into a steep hill/cliff immediately above the beach, but it was fairly laden with big-bellied yuppie tourists. Wait a second, that's me! Damn. But we needed a chill-out day, and we found hostel with cheap dorms, and wanting to avoid another roomless night, we went with 2 cheap dorm beds at 18 euro per person. This was a learning experience. 10 people packed into a room with their stuff and bunk beds and hot damp thrice-breathed air while you're trying to get comfy on their flimsy matresses. This is why I like to camp. In most other towns we've visited, this would be a shabby hostel of last resort, but as the only budget accomodation we found in somewhat ritzy Taormina, they can get away petty crimes like no hot water and charging 80 euro for a private room with double bed. Yikes.

In Taormina, we splurged on a traditional multi-course Italian meal in a nicer trattoria. We were swayed by the dim light, white tablecloths, fresh seafood on ice in a glass case outside the front door, and a too-good-to-be-true name, "Mama Rossa's" (my mother-in-law, Rose, is a fabulous italian cook). Old bread, unimpressive caprese salad, undercooked ziti in otherwise delicious pistachio pesto sauce, above-average grilled fish and veal wrapped in bacon and drowned in bland olive oil left us disappointed. Not the caliber of meal worth busting the budget over. The real Mama Rosa in Orange County would have been much better and she wouldn't have charged us anything more than a kiss. Not all the food in Italy is better than home (but Dad you would gorge yourself on this gelato!).

From Taormina, we took 2 trains and a ferry to the Aeolian island of Lipari. The Aeolian islands were formed by volcanos from the floor of the sea, and they are still very active. One in particular, the island of Stromboli, still ejects molten magma continuously. So that's where we were headed. We stayed in the most accessible island first, one which offered camping. After spending a night on a campsite consisting entirely of fine and clingy volcanic dust in the cool little town of Canneto, we pulled up stakes and walked 15 metres down the street to a hostel which, amazingly, only cost 26 euros per night (~$32 USD) and was not mentioned in any guide books or web sites we'd seen. Better yet, it was sweet, with a en-suite mini-kitchen and a hotel-like bathroom. Booyah. For every crumby night wandering around a town looking for a room, we've found 2 or 3 hidden gems like this one. I attribute credit for this fortuitous dynamic to good karma. Our 4 days in this town were super relaxing and chilled out, with very little to say for our accomplishments except our day trip to Stromboli and the fleeting appearance of a drum and horn marching band that rolled through town randomly on Sunday afternoon.

Magma! At the end of the trail halfway up the volcano that is the island of Stromboli, we saw the lava spurting up into the air. It was totally fucking cool! First we'd see the steam, then it would come shooting out high into the air kind of like a magma version of a geyser. Then we'd hear the audible effect a second later, and it sounded like a pallette of cinder blocks being dropped into the bed of a pickup from the 3rd floor of a building. BANG! Then the lava would fall down around the rim and create a ruckus among the loose rock accumulated there, and little rocks would start to roll down from the rim, then bigger rocks, and soon enough there'd be a few or even a dozen big-ass black lava clods tearing down the hill and splashing dramatically in the very blue ocean about 3100 feet below. Awesome!

Queen Hatshepsut has covered lots of other details in her post, so I shall bypass further historical recounting in favor of another interesting topic regarding the trip: marital decision-making dynamics. We have plumbed deeply into the depths of this topic on this trip, with so many decisions to be made each day, each involving 2 very assertive stakeholders. The disparity in our decision-making methods has naturally created some turbulence. Queen Hatshepsut prefers collaborative decision-making on nearly all matters, big or small. I prefer to achieve consensus on a high-level game-plan, with the decisions regarding matters of tactical execution left to individual and autonomous contributors, each armed with the high-level plan and entrusted to act on behalf of the common good at all times. As a result, Queen Hatshepsut expects to be consulted on even the most trivial decisions; while I get annoyed when I am consulted on matters I believe to be trivial and could easily be handled autonomously and without discussion. To further complicate matters, our information gathering tactics could not be more different. I tend to ask fewer questions and like to mull things over to draw conclusions, admittedly sometimes to my detriment. Queen Hatshepsut often requires much more information before making a decision, and will ask perhaps 10 times as many questions, but she'll inevitably fail to ask the one question that I thought to be critical. Suffice it to say these differences have led to outbursts or meltdowns when we encounter uncertain situations or circumstances where quick decision-making is called for. Post-mortem analysis of these flare-ups offers little help to avoid them in the future, as our interpretations of what happened or what was said are invariably different, and we get defensive about what we did or did not do. So, like most things, compromise has proven to be the best solution, and the adjustments in my approach have led to less turbulence (although there is still much more compromising for me to do, and much more turbulence to be avoided). Random musings on some good times.