The Distant Adventure

Preface

2009-10-30T16:57:00.000-07:00

When we moved from the kitchen to the adjoining room the conversation changed entirely. We walked on white carpet past the Waterford crystal vase, the marble-tiled mantle, my grandmother’s china cabinet, the family portrait hanging on the wall, and assumed our seats on stiff and unfamiliar couches. This was the room we never entered. This was the room that symbolized my father’s career success, the room visitors would compliment from the top step, the room only the occasional housekeeper would venture into with a feather duster. My sister and I were forbidden from horseplay in this room as kids—it housed far too many ornaments and family treasures. We referred to it as the living room. Rather ironically, no part of my existence had been spent living inside its walls. And yet, here I was, a happy-go-lucky college senior, face to face with my dad, about to engage in a conversation that would change the entire course of my life.

Of the countless lessons I learned from him, one of the most poignant is the practice of letting your opponent speak first. I sat back on the couch, allowing him to offer the first words, and studied his face. It was a face I admired intensely. It showed his intelligence, his tenacity, his grace. It reflected merciful patience and intimidating power all at once. From my earliest memories it had been covered in a thick beard, a beard that recently had become tinged with gray around his mouth and chin. I realized then for the first time how much it showed his wisdom. His big forehead was marked with the wrinkles of his notorious scowl, the furrowed brow that could send even the most steadfast adversary into submission. But two inches higher, just beyond his curly hairline, hid the scar that reminded me of his vulnerability. I noticed it, and thought of the day years ago when I painfully realized he wasn’t invincible.

He was all things to me. He wouldn’t know it then, in the obstinate attitude he was about to encounter, but I had always wanted to emulate his life.

My dad must have realized I was applying his own lesson to this tense moment. He looked directly into my eyes, and as only he could, uttered four words that brilliantly put the onus back on my shoulders.

“What is your plan?”

I wasn’t ready for the question. I fidgeted with my pant leg. I rubbed the back of my head. I scratched my ear where there was no itch. I filled the air with incoherent sounds, searching for the words I could not articulate. He watched me squirm with a hidden smile. He was in the power position. He could have ended the conversation right there by expressing his desire, but instead he left the question open, and forced me to put into words what had been bouncing around my insides for the last year.

“I want to go on a trip,” I stammered.

“A trip.” He did not form the words as a question, but rather returned them in the same tone I had used. Hearing the words repeated revealed how outlandish my statement had been.

I was five months away from completing my undergraduate degree at a small private university in San Diego—an undertaking that had depleted a small fortune. My dad subsidized my education and sponsored the college experience that was to ready me for the real world. He provided me the tools to start a career and build an independent life. He had given me an oyster, and within it were all the opportunities a young man could ever need. And what did I intend to do with it? Go on a trip.

The wrinkles on his forehead contracted to their infamous pose.

Confronted with the question, I spoke out about the truest feeling in my heart. I wasn’t ready for a career, probably because I didn’t know what it really meant to have one. What I did know was that I had within me a burgeoning desire to explore the unknown. When I allowed myself to daydream, my thoughts were always filled with images of distant places. I had an ache in my soul to cast off the ropes of my everyday surroundings and take to the road. Nothing excited me more than the thought of walking the streets of a city I had only read about in books. The sound of a language I had never heard, the smell of food I had never tasted, the sun setting over an ocean I had never seen—I would fantasize about these things and wake up to find the hair on my arm standing on end. Travel and passion became the same thing in my being. It was there in the living room my passion came violently crashing against my reality.

My father’s genius was manifested in his ability to let me speak in circles until I uttered the seemingly unprompted words he wanted to hear. He sat back, offering a gentle nod here and a reassuring gesture there, as I exorcised the fantasies from my mind and replaced them with the pragmatic statements of a promising college graduate. By the time we got up from the couch I had resolved to initiate an aggressive job hunt, and had established a thirty day plan for reporting results back to my benefactor.

I had seen the light of logic. It became clear how crucial it was to prove to my dad that his investment had been worthwhile. I was a walking dividend. I was determined to begin the next stage of my life with purpose. Graduating from college was an accomplishment, but the full reward of the achievement would not be realized until I was gainfully employed. I converted my passion into a quest to become self-sustained.

This new passion made me happy, and ultimately the possessor of a respectable W2, but it never made my hair stand up. What I didn’t understand was that in all of my effort to bury my need to explore and embrace the practical goals of adulthood, I had actually been loading a small fire with piece after piece of parched kindling. It would only be a matter of time before that small fire exploded into a wild inferno.

*A note to the followers of The Distant Adventure:

A respected friend, aware of my return to the United States, recently asked me to bring closure to the blog, to post a final word about the adventure, or at a minimum, assure those who care that I did not tumble over one of those perilous cliffs on the Tizi-n-Tichka Pass. Well, to the vast relief of two doting mothers, Jeannie and I did survive the trip and have returned to a somewhat familiar life at home. While cleaning out my pack, laundering my five t-shirt wardrobe, and sleeping in one bed have been natural aspects of my homeland transition, the emotional adjustments have taken more time. In fact, I am still, one month after my final passport stamp, still constantly reflecting on the adventure and how it has changed my life. I have come to accept that the answers to the mysteries I sought before the trip still elude me in many ways. The optimist in me yearns to be believe that this can only mean one thing: the quest must continue! I will write and publish posts as inspiration strikes. In the meantime, please know that if you are reading this, you have brightened my world. Thank you for sharing in our dream.

Mountain Chameleons

2009-10-01T08:19:00.000-07:00

I couldn’t seem to shake them from my mind. Not the ear-piercing flute of the snake charmer, hypnotizing cobras and onlookers alike; not the spice vendor slanging kaleidoscopes of powder, stacked and packed in meter-high pyramids and coded with signs like Camel Dust and Moroccan Viagra; not the twisted alleyways, no wider than a donkey’s back, inspired by the design of a spider’s web, and packed with someone selling something for everyone—none of these things could distract me from the call of the mountains. Beyond every corner, behind every minaret, beside every smoking food stall, there they were, beckoning with their heaven-high peaks, luring me with their purple glint. I had no choice but to answer their call.

This summons led me to a man named Mustapha, a company called Rabib Cars, and a five-speed Peugeot 206. With a bag for the night, a be-safe kiss from Jeannie (who felt equally compelled to stay and explore the world class market of Marrakech), and a tattered road map of Northern Africa, I set off on the only road out of town—a sand-blown, cactus-lined strip of cracked pavement buried under the mirage of sweltering dust.

There are no foothills to the Atlas Mountains. The tallest range in the northern half of the continent interrupts the terrain like a wall. It tells the ancient story of an epic battle between two formidable pieces of the Earth’s crust. It is unclear who won, but the scars of the fight are haunting. Sheer cliffs, sharp and serrated, look like they’ve been carved with razors. Massive gorges sink so deep it is impossible to see the snowmelt carving tracks in their basins. Depending on the position of the sun, and the ever-changing flow of clouds in the sky, the mountains are red in one glance and black in the next.

The road that cuts over the top of the range, called the Tizi-n-Tichka Pass, is as goofy as its name, so composed of switchbacks and hairpins it seems to spiral in circles. From the hawk’s view it must look like a Dr. Seuss illustration. Climbing over the top (wearing out the sole of my shoe on the clutch) was as dizzying as it was harrowing. Hugging the two inches of road between the oncoming six-wheeler carrying goat cargo and the cliff that plunges back to Egypt, I was moved to curse the infrastructure of the Moroccan interior—a simple guard rail would have brought some color back to my knuckles.

Boggled that sheep can exist in such a place (flocks dot nearly all of the open pastures across the range) you can imagine my amazement at the discovery of human beings. I had been climbing the mountain for nearly two hours. I had traversed well over a mile into the sky, having long ago left behind the settlements of accessible life. In and out of clouds, I continued to putter up the hill, stealing glances at the summit around the bend and the free range stock on the mountainside, when suddenly a two-legged animal leapt into the road. Big eyes stared at me through the windshield. Bow-legged and crouched at the knees he looked ready to pounce on the hood of the Peugeot. His hands were gripped to the sides of a rock the size of a softball. I was so startled I nearly spun the steering wheel right into the gorge. When I steadied the tires my options flashed across my mind like a movie reel. I wasn’t leaving the road, I knew that much. This man had deliberately jumped in front of the car. Above all this, he was armed and appeared rather dangerous, wielding a stone of just the right dimension to eternally deter a visitor from crossing his pass. I followed my mortal reflex and continued steaming up the lane, directly at the man in the road.

His eyes got bigger as the engine revved. I took one hand off the wheel and laid it forcefully on the horn. I jammed the accelerator and the rear wheels kicked gravel like bullets. At the last second, the very last second, he skirted the side of the car like a matador dodging a bull. I let out a visceral growl, mostly fueled by immense relief, and looked at the man in my rearview mirror. In the vibrating reflection I saw him spin around toward my fleeing car, his hands still wrapped around the stone. He opened his palms and the rock came apart in two pieces. He held them open for me to see, revealing brilliantly dyed quartz, glimmering like red diamonds. As I made the next turn and he fell out of view, I heard him shouting in the distance, his voice trailing away in the mountain air. “Fifty, fifty dirham! Only fifty!”

Never having been confronted with such a direct sales technique, I shook my head in wonder and vowed to greet future road vendors with less hostility. I had heard tales of the Berber people of the mountains, read about them in a guidebook or two, but witnessing their lives, and their mysterious ways, was an entirely different learning experience. They are chameleons in the truest sense of the metaphor. Their villages, known as Kasbahs, are constructed in the very quarry used for the building material. The result is a settlement that is literally one with the Earth. There is no interruption between the hillside and the home, no difference in the cliff and the kitchen. It is entirely possible to drive by the dwelling of one hundred people and never see it at all. And I think that is exactly how they would prefer to have it.

Cairo to Casablanca to Marrakech to Madness

2009-09-27T05:48:00.001-07:00

As it turns out, the African continent is much wider than one might easily believe. Weaving through the sky, one moment above the Mediterranean, the next over the dunes and barren rock outcroppings of the Sahara, the flight from Cairo to Casablanca takes every bit of six hours. Looking down from 32,000 feet on Libya and Algeria (my mind drifting to thoughts of closed borders and the “Even More Distant Adventure” of the future), I was overcome with thoughts of the value added to the journey by Egypt. Egypt is so much more than pyramids. Sure, the famous icons must be taken in (they are the last standing memory of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World), but they are not the reason to travel to this fascinating place. Egypt is the birthplace of one of the world’s earliest civilizations, but it is the Egypt of today that makes for the most enriching exploration. It is the winding alley between Africa and the Middle East, it is desert and sea, it is a faded memory of lavish times, it is poor and crumbled and corrupt, it is smiles and heartache, it is sobering and intoxicating—it is a must hit for anyone with a sense of adventure, or even just a burgeoning desire to witness the unexpected.

We arrived in Morocco, the smell of sweat and butchered animals from Khalili market still clinging to our luggage, to a sparkling airport, French language directories, porters shining marble floors, and hallways of boutiques and patisseries—all antithetical to the developing world. We looked at each other with smiles that reflected disbelief, and hidden relief in the calm and order of the place. The air-conditioned, European-made train that transported us to Marrakech was clean and comfortable. We detrained to welcoming and honest faces, were given a fare price for the cab ride to our hotel, and were escorted down wide, open boulevards of swaying poplar trees and elegant fountains spurting in grand roundabouts. Our three-star booking for the night was brand new, boasting the cookie-cutter-meets-chic feel of somewhere like suburban Orange County. It was all too much to take. Our first impressions of Morocco were analogous to the feelings we had upon arrival in Kathmandu, but from the opposite end of the expectation spectrum. It wasn’t until the next day, when we ventured into the labyrinthine souqs (covered market streets) of the old medina, that we discovered the true face of Morocco—a face that would slowly reveal itself to us, one mysterious feature at a time.

Two Sounds

2009-09-22T02:45:00.000-07:00

It finally happened. In the legendary El Fishawy coffee house— a Cairo institution for 242 years, a framed mirror of the same age, pocked and rippled, reflecting the numberless faces of Egyptian society, cigarette and flavored shisha smoke hanging in the air like velvet drapes, a prize winning cockroach, well fed and confident, scuttling unfazed along the frame of the doorway, camel leather bean bag cushions threaded with opulent beads, a turnstile of toothless hagglers and touts slanging swords, snake skin wallets, King Tut masks, braided anklets, golden Aladdin lamps, lotus extract perfumes, henna tattoos, and the most destitute, Kleenex, a team of demonstrative servers barking at the constant rotation of sludge-sipping locals and starry-eyed visitors, trying to keep their wits in a place that effortlessly strips them away—an Arabic speaking woman looked me over then spoke to the man beside her, who after releasing a hearty laugh, smacked me on the knee and shouted through a smile, “She said you look like Jesus!”

The woman turned out to be the only Christian we met in eight days, so I assume she would know.

I will be the very first to admit the beard is not handsome. It is unkempt and unbecoming. Aside from my moustache, which insists weekly on falling over my upper lip, I have only trimmed my facial hair once in nearly four months (sixty days ago in an Indian barbershop called Habib’s). It protrudes from my cheeks in puffy tufts. When I swim it holds water for almost half an hour. When I wake up in the morning it is matted and flat, but by the time I sit down to breakfast it has already spread its wings. Sometimes it itches and chafes. It requires a vigorous shampooing at least biweekly. I am not proud of it. To be honest, there are times when I am mildly ashamed. Between my recycled clothes and the beard, most people I meet probably think I am on some type of spiritual pilgrimage, wandering the Earth, exploring the world and my place within it…wait a minute.

I suppose, more than anything, the beard has become a symbol. It is a barometer. It tells the story of how far we’ve come. It reminds me of the freedom, so sweet and special, that has filled our hearts. It is the physical realization of the absence of rules. It is a silent protest to the regulations that govern our normal lives. It stands for the temporary casting away of responsibility. It embodies the spirit of the vagabond that has taken hold of us and transported us to places we never imagined we would see. It is the symbol of happiness and discovery and wanderlust. It reminds me of the beginning of my marriage and the living out of a dream.

There will be two sounds the moment it comes off: my tears landing in the bathroom sink, and Jeannie’s lips hitting the cheek she hasn’t kissed in two months.

Fasting and Feasting

2009-09-20T10:44:00.000-07:00

At the moment, Cairo is a city completely drenched in religious commitment. Every breath, every bow, every waking moment is spent in observation. The very ticking of the clock represents the transmission of God’s time. Their religion is in their clothes, in their speech, in the air they breathe. It is on the face of every man, woman, and child—deep reverence and faith, so palpable it pours from their eyes when they see me, from their mouths when they address me. Their religion echoes off the walls of the vaulted bazaar, bounces down the blind alleys littered with shiny streamers, rises from the footsteps of elders in gallabiyas and burqas. They emit the kind of passion and exuberance that is powerful enough to grab you by the neck. Uniformed policemen stop in the middle of the street to read the Qur’an in a full and bold voice. When the ear piercing call of the muezzin rings down from the minaret on every city block, shopkeepers take to their knees in the middle of the crowded market, prostrated in prayer, removed from the scene by some higher audience. They close their eyes and bow their brows to the earth, oblivious to the sale they so zealously pursued just moments before.

We have called upon this Arab country of nearly 75 million Muslims during the most holy period of the Islamic calendar. Ramadan is in full tilt, and the ferocity that occupies daily life the whole year round has been elevated to a fever pitch. This holiday lasts one month, and brings with it each year a particular set of traditions and rituals, the most paramount of which is the requirement to fast, a giving up of four particular pillars of daily life. From sun up to sun down Muslims are not permitted to eat. They are not permitted to drink either, even water. Smoking is forbidden during this time, as is the company of your husband or wife, meaning no touching of any sort. It is a time to endure daily life without distraction, to reflect on the importance and power of God. And the Egyptian people are steadfast. A large meal is consumed before four o’clock in the morning, and then believers commit to zero intake of food and water until the sun has set at six o’clock in the evening—a fourteen hour fast, everyday for a month.

After four days of drinking Turkish coffees with sugar in the morning, eating large kebab lunches at midday, and guzzling waters in the afternoon heat, I decided I couldn’t bear the burden of asking one more fasting Egyptian to serve me a meal. My effort to assimilate needed to take on new meaning. I made the decision to fast. Not for the remainder of Ramadan (let’s be realistic), but for one day. I would eat no food and drink no water and not touch Jeannie from dawn to dusk. I recruited her brother, Russell, and his girlfriend, Amelia, for moral support. I realized doing it alone in a group of four might be too tall an order—my will is strong, but so is the force of peer pressure. So the three of us formed an alliance, and set a plan for a midnight meal that would have to provide sustenance for one entire cotton-mouthed day.

Before our day of fasting I spoke with several Egyptians about our plan. I was met by all of them with the same reaction—a deep belly laugh, followed by a battering of questions that always concluded with a resounding, “Why?!” I would respond with pleads for advice, hoping for a tip or two from a fasting expert. The wisest words I received were these: “Eat yogurt before sunrise, and then rely on the strength of Allah throughout the day!”

The day of the fast was predictably hotter than the other seven we spent in Egypt. The desert sun was scorching the second it showed itself. I was hungry when I woke up. By noon my taste buds were completely shriveled. My tongue was sandpaper. Bottled waters came to life and screamed at me, raining down on me with cartoony taunts. My lips smacked together at the site of apples and bananas on the nightstand. By late afternoon my anguish had reached its peak. I smelled a morsel of food in the hotel lounge and almost crumbled. But as the clock ticked past four, like a marathon runner visualizing the final mile, I refocused myself on the goal, and rather than being bothered by the thought of food, I let my mind dream of the feast that waited just beyond the setting sun.

And what a feast it was.

Plump and pickled green chilies stuffed with jalapeno cheese, cubes of feta over ripened tomato slices, potent salad of chopped basil and white onions in olive oil, softened grape leaves stuffed with salted vegetables and cumin, smoked ham and aged beef, wood oven fired bread (crisp and soft in the same bite), a dozen different spreads and sauces in hues of lavender, olive (green and black), crimson, and speckled yellow, lentil soup so thick and rich a fork might be a better tool than a spoon, saffron rice with veal heads, cow stomach loaded with spiced rice and partitioned to bite-size chunks, grilled salmon with rosemary potatoes, gravy-drenched prime rib, kebabs of every shape and texture (skewered and spun over endlessly fanned coals), baklava by the pan load, powdered donut balls, coconut bars drenched in honey, and finally, three or four bubbly puffs of cantaloupe flavored shisha.

After our traditional meal it became quite clear to me why Ramadan is such a treasured time in Egypt. The nightly Iftar feast that follows the fast is one of the most wonderful eating experiences imaginable. We sat amidst Egyptian families, with the sound of ouds and other Arabic instruments harmonizing in the background, and witnessed them throw off the shackles of the day, breaking bread with one another and rejoicing in the blessings of life, thanking God for the gift of food, drink, and surely after the final embers of the shisha pipe have been extinguished, the pleasures of the fourth pillar of the fast.

The Bendel's Are Coming!

2009-09-20T10:32:00.000-07:00

There might be light at the end of this unbelievable travel tunnel, but I can rest peacefully about this fact knowing that I’ve witnessed two particular events: Grandpa Bendel backpacking in Italy, and his son (my father-in-law) on the back of a camel in Egypt. These are images, which while naturally have been captured for eternity on film, are undoubtedly burned permanently in my mind’s eye. It is my wish, and duty, to share these images with the readers of the blog, and at the same time give thanks and pay my gratitude to the Bendel family, a clan of incredible people that not only made the Distant Adventure possible with their overly generous support, but with their emotional backing and love. To Gramps and Carla Fischera and Joy, to Russ and Judy and Russell (and Amelia!)—this adventure couldn’t have happened without you, either from home or from the entrance of the Coliseum or from the alleys of Khan al-Khalili!

2009-09-20T10:30:00.000-07:00

2009-09-20T10:19:00.000-07:00

His Holiness

2009-09-18T05:05:00.000-07:00

I knew she meant business. The alarm was ringing at the same the sun was freeing itself from the clutch of the Roman horizon. She was out of bed, showered and primped, before I had time to clear the creases of the pillow from my face. She had even, to my dismay, bedded down in a damp and dark motel room, turning a blind eye to the ring of dirt around the mattress, solely because of its proximity to the Vatican. Donning a long dress, a shawl, and a glimmering crucifix around her neck, Jeannie looked down at me in bed and asked me if I was coming, knowing full well such an invitation was irresistible. The Pope was in town. He was to address a group of pilgrims in the auditorium behind St. Peter’s Basilica. The Swiss Guard would be checking for tickets, the kind of tickets that required half a year of correspondence with the Church. This fact did not bother Jeannie in the least.

The sacrifice of the damp pillow proved worthwhile when we looked up at the walls of the Vatican City just steps from the motel. Dressed in my Sunday best (gelato-spotted khakis and a thrice-worn shirt), I nearly tripped over myself trying to keep up with Jeannie. As she motored across the square, domes glinting overhead in the morning light, I could see that she was suddenly overcome with fervor. The symmetrical columns of the Basilica, the copper ornaments and bells, the realer-than-life statues on its roofline, the vaulted archways like passages to centuries past; these are the designs of heaven’s architects, and when beholding them amidst the company of visibly giddy nuns, balding robed monks, and five thousand joyous fanatics, it is hard not to be inspired. But there was no time to stop and marvel. Jeannie was on the move, dipping and plunging through the throng, searching (the way only she can) for just the right opportunity to free someone from their two extra tickets.

Sometimes I wonder if as a child she was installed was some kind of computer chip, a visual aid that allows her to scan a crowd, target an individual and immediately calculate the perfect approach. What looks to me like one more bobbing head in the crowd must be a glowing red arrow in Jeannie’s eye. When she located her arrow she absconded in its direction, leaving me behind in a precarious tip-toe between the tiny feet of a hundred elderly nuns. When I finally caught up to her, having moved more than one sister to mutter a sin under her breath, she was accepting (with a radiant smile) two golden tickets from a young priest. She held them in her right hand while holding the shoulder of the suited man in her left. Her eye twinkled for the clergyman in such a way, bold yet demure. I think he was ready to leave the priesthood there and then.

She turned to me, her body tense with energy, and mouthed a silent scream. I’m not sure what excited her more, the thrill of success, or the fact that we were five minutes away from seeing the highest agent of the Catholic faith.

When he appeared, to the uproarious clamor of the crowd, he seemed to glide like an apparition above the marble steps of the stage. His long garments swayed in slow motion around his concealed feet. He was a vision of white; his robe, his sash, his hair, all glowing like they he had been lit from the inside. He appeared like an animated spotlight, raising his arms in triumph and tossing rays of light over the enchanted crowd. He was encircled in a halo-shaped aura, a force field of power and reverence. He was met like a rock star about to perform a famous guitar solo, the crowd swooning at his every subtle move. The pilgrims around us waived their national flags, Poles, Portuguese, Germans, Czechs, Spaniards, Scots, Brazilians, Chileans, Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, all competing for a just a papal nod. When he would acknowledge their presence, they would erupt into song, singing words of praise in their native tongue, swaying arm in arm, then embracing each other with complete abandon. The rapture of the crowd contrasted with the stoicism of the Swiss Guard and the papal entourage was startling. And there we were, somewhere in between, reveling in the experience and the mystery of the glow of His Holiness.

2009-09-18T05:02:00.000-07:00

Green Shutters

2009-09-17T03:12:00.000-07:00

It’s hard not to love a place whose pastime is to stand in a third floor window, the shutters tossed open, languidly gazing at the hustle of the daily happenings below. You never know what you might see from such a perch. A fisherman turned salesman, his rod traded for a calculator, hawks the catch of the day, sardines and scampi from ice buckets. Old women haggle over the just the right weight on his scale. A shopkeeper unlatches his doors and slides a postcard turnstile out to the street. A chef peruses wicker baskets of fresh produce; peppers, red onions, tomatoes, garlic, and eggplant, displayed in a kaleidoscope of bountiful heaps on the sidewalk. A uniformed busboy eases a hand truck down a flight of stairs, carrying two cases of Chianti to a restaurant cellar. A tourist attempts to frame the perfect photograph, adjusting the lens over the shadows of bed sheets and boxer shorts drying in the breeze, pinned to balconies and clotheslines with wooden clips. One smitten couple departs just as another arrives, steeling a final glance at the diamonds dancing over the sapphire ripples of the Mediterranean. This is Cinque Terre. To resist its charm is a futile exercise.

I instead surrendered myself fully, and discovered a piece of remote and rustic Italy that will linger in my mind for many years. This twenty kilometer strip of the sundrenched Italian Riviera, five hours by train from Rome, is linked together by a set of small coastal villages. The communities are carved into granite cliffs that pour down to the sea. Were they not painted in brilliant yellow, pink, and red, the dwellings would probably disappear right into the rock. Homes are stacked on each other like coins, as if there were a race to be closest to the water. Each tiny village has an even smaller marina where row boats and orange buoys bob in the waves. Weathered grape vines cling to hillside terraces that look like the stairways of giants, climbing all the way to the peaks of the surrounding mountains. A salty haze hovers over cruise ships on the horizon.

Being in Cinque Terre is like walking through the pages of a magazine. It’s like you swear you’ve been there before but never dreamt you would be able to go back. It’s new and nostalgic all at once. It’s the kind of place people go to visit and wake up five years later with bronze skin and an Italian accent.

2009-09-17T03:08:00.000-07:00

The Proudest Scharetg

2009-09-17T02:56:00.001-07:00

Being a Scharetg, Part 3

2009-09-15T02:42:00.000-07:00

When the village castle, now converted to a fifteen room historic hotel, was inconceivably full (it’s hard to imagine a No Vacancy sign in such a place), our intention to stay in town was somehow commuted to an invitation to sleep in Judith’s home. Once I got around the imposition of the matter, I was beside myself with excitement. A real life Swiss home stay? With foreign Scharetg’s? I filled my head with these jubilant thoughts for the entire two hour drive from Lucerne. When we left Paspels last summer, we told Judith and Lisbeth we couldn’t resist being away, that we would return within a year. The calendar had implausibly completed one full cycle, and he we were, once again preparing to knock on their door. This time however, they were prepared for our visit, and were even armed with what they called a “surprise.”

Having been on the road for three months, “home” has become a term with very loose definition. I have learned to own my identity as a vagabond. With this comes the acceptance that sometimes home is a train terminal, an airplane seat, a hotel room, a beach or a jungle hut. Jeannie has become my common denominator. Home is the place where Jeannie is. But arriving in Paspels activated some heightened sense of my notion of home. Returning to this place I had only been once before, for only a few hours, I was overcome with a strange sensation I can only describe as belonging. The mountains looked like home. The cow bells sounded like home. The billowing chimney smelled like home. The air tasted like home. Judith and Lisbeth felt like home.

When Lisbeth, waiting for us in the driveway, came charging for Jeannie with open arms, a beaming smile, and a kiss for each cheek, I knew something had changed in the last year. The woman who had treated us with some caution, who had not fully accepted the potential of our familial connection, who had guarded a corner of herself, was holding a new look in her eye. She looked at me with a recognizable twinkle, with certain warmth in the creases of her smile. She looked at me like she knew me, not like she remembered me, but really knew me. She wrapped her arms around me and it was impossible not to reflect the same emotion. We had spent one hour together in our lifetime, but when we embraced I knew something between us was bigger than time.

This feeling became real with the revelation of their “surprise.” Lisbeth had been very busy since our last meeting. She had visited the church and taken the historical records out on loan. She had met with village elders and written notes on their memories. She had studied birth documents and death records. Our door knock last summer had inspired her to engage in a personal quest to discover her own history, a search that eventually led her to the musty cellar of her aunt’s home. It was there that she discovered a piece of art that changed her understanding of who she was, and at the same time illuminated a branch of her family tree that extended across the vast Atlantic.

Faded by almost two centuries of existence, Lisbeth held the dusty portrait in her hands while her aunt described the man on the canvas. His name was Johan George Scharetg. He was a citizen of clout in 19th century Paspels. He owned three homes and a large plot of land in the village. He had a wife and young son. He was a mountaineer. But equal to his love of the Alps was his affinity for the bottle. When his drinking habit took priority to his responsibilities, his land ownership came into jeopardy. He eventually lost all three of his homes, his entire fortune, and presumably a large majority of his dignity. Desperate times forced him to make a desperate decision. With little means in Switzerland to provide for his family, he packed provisions and set out in the direction of hope and rumored prosperity. He went west to a foreign land, a place a world away, a dream known as America. He left behind a massive debt, a promise to return with money, and a five year-old boy named Luzi, a miniature namesake who would never see his father again.

My head was spinning as Judith and Lisbeth unfurled this tale. As the details came out, one layer at a time, their carefully translated words began to deliver an incredible truth. This was the man who came to America and completed the registry at Ellis Island. This was the Swiss citizen, lured by adventure and desperation, who immigrated permanently to the United States. This was the man who fathered Otto and subsequently four generations of silent-G-offspring. I had to say it aloud for it to be real: “The man in the portrait is my Great Great Grandfather.”

But an even bigger truth still hung in the air. What about the child he left behind? What came of Luzi, the fatherless five year-old? These questions didn’t need to be posed. The clues lied now in Lisbeth’s warm embrace. The answer was in the way she looked at us, the way she held us with those familiar and knowing eyes. Luzi is her Grandfather. Our family tree, though decorated with extensive branches, shares but one trunk. Johan George is our patriarch, and the source of a common blood line that took almost two hundred years and thousands of miles to discover.

The paint is faded. A layer of dried dust sits over his face. Decades in an underground cellar have imparted some unintended creases. But through the decay of time shine two blue eyes that enlighten an undeniable fact. I look like the man on the canvas. So vivid is the resemblance, Lisbeth demanded the portrait now belong to me. Like the man himself, the art will make the journey to America. It will symbolize adventure, learning, and the trials of life. It will stand for the importance of family. It will hang on my wall until the day it belongs to my son. It will silently remind us what it means to be a Scharetg.

Being a Scharetg, Part 2

2009-09-12T04:42:00.000-07:00

After visiting the garden in Luxembourg last summer, we motored south across the Alsatian countryside and through (literally by immense tunnels) the Alps to Switzerland. My mom and sister had an important place to show me. It was a location they had traveled to some years earlier with my dad, a spot remote enough that it can only be reached by car. Together we recreated the journey to a town represented cartographically as a microscopic dot—you have to hold the map at just the right angle for it to appear. They took me to a place called Paspels, a place that by equal parts rumor, legend, and historical fact is home to the elusive, mysterious, and scarcely seen species known as the Scharetg’s.

They warned me that when we arrived in Paspels I needed to be alert. One heavy blink could shade the village from view, they cautioned me. Driving on the single road that meanders through the village, you pass the last home in town as quickly as the first. There is one post office, one store, one school, one firehouse, one chapel, one castle, and one crumbly watchtower. It is after brunch before any of these structures feel the sunlight of morning—the Alps are so close and so impossibly large they cast a shadow over the village until nearly midday. But when the sun does summit the peak, it flashes a warm sheet over a place so perfect and pristine that it can’t possibly be alive. You’ve read of it in story books and you’ve seen it in films, but never imagined it was a living, breathing place. Just having your feet on the ground is a spiritual experience. The sound of cow bells rising from emerald hills and echoing through mountain air is a sound that acquaints you to the wisdom of the creator that made beauty possible.

Perplexed (yet eternally grateful) that any person could leave this place for another life, we set out to learn if anyone still in Paspels could pronounce our name. An Ellis Island registry that had surfaced in the nineties listed Paspels as my Great Great Grandfather’s place of origin. We knew that if there were any hope for uncovering the mystery of our family history, this was the place. Hoping our enthusiasm would compensate for our lack of German speaking skills, we built the courage to go knocking on doors. We thought the post office would be a good place to start. My always clever sister had scribbled eight big letters on scratch paper—SCHARETG. When a woman opened the locked door of the post office, I thrust the paper into her hand. All three of us watched in shock when she gave one quick glance to the letters on the note and our name rolled flawlessly off her tongue. Her eyes got big, she pointed to a cluster of homes over our shoulder, and unloaded a story in German that for all we knew was the answer to our lifelong questions.

We thanked her in our best accents and practically ran down the road to the homes at which she had waved her finger. It was with only one more knock that we found two women with the same name. Judith and Lisbeth, two Swiss Scharetg’s, live in the flesh. The only thing that made this dream more exciting was that the younger of the two spoke wonderful English. We spent one blissful hour with this daughter and mother duo, explaining in great detail who we were and what had brought us to their village. We told them what we knew of my Great Great Grandfather, that he had gone to America to give birth to Otto, who fathered Edward, who raised Kevin, who brought my sister and me to existence. Judith, a beautiful young woman with eyes bluer than the alpine sky, listened to our tale with childlike glee. She furiously translated our words to her mother, who more reserved and guarding of her wisdom, listened carefully and slowly nodded her head. She was visibly wary of these foreigners that had knocked on her door. She seemed to know something that she wasn’t prepared to share. A quiet truth lied behind her slightly furrowed brow. We left Paspels that day with hugs and kisses, but it would take one more year and another pilgrimage to the village to fully realize the circumstances that allowed this chance meeting between oddly familiar strangers.

2009-09-12T04:38:00.000-07:00

Being a Scharetg, Part 1

2009-09-11T01:42:00.000-07:00

I’ve spent my entire life watching people go cross-eyed when they see my last name. During roll call on the first day of school, when the teacher rattled off name after name, I was the kid that waited for the awkward silence. I would raise my hand while the teacher rolled her tongue, smacked her lips, and stuttered blindly over the letters on the class sheet. When I was the kicker on my high school football team, my name would be in the box score in the Saturday paper for every extra point I had kicked on Friday night. The editor, completely baffled by such an arrangement of letters, would simply try a new variation every time my name was written, hoping that at least one would be correct—it never was. I added it to the dictionary of the spell check feature on my computer, but there’s still a squiggly red line beneath it every time it’s typed. I have heard every possible pronunciation. The only people that can get it right the first time are other Scharetg’s, and they are my cousins. “The G is silent,” is something you learn to say in your sleep. I’ve even watched my best friends pause contemplatively when they write it down. I think half the emails that have ever been sent to me are sitting in some sad forgotten box in cyber space.

Growing up as a Scharetg, you face two possible options. You grow tired of being butchered and you reject the name, or you find solidarity in the oddness of who you are and become hopelessly proud to be a Scharetg. I remember when I was first confronted with the choice. It was in one of those early day class rooms with the tiny chairs and the tiny desks. The teacher said, “Richards, Rooney, Ryan, Sanders...oh, ah…” I stood up and thrust my tiny hand into the sky. “Scharetg!” I belted out with an emphatic smile. It would take thirty more attempts with that teacher, but at least I tried.

I have a special admiration for those who take the name by choice. My mom is perhaps the greatest ambassador of all. She was a Gray before she was married. She didn’t understand the struggles that lied ahead. I have such vivid memories of standing behind her at the video store, at least once a week, listening to her spell our name to the same clerk behind the counter. “S-C-H…A-R…E-T-G.” I could time his sigh and then the scribbling of his pen. “One more time,” he would say. My mom is so proud of her name. Maybe she likes being different, maybe she is a glutton for punishment, but mostly I think she just loves my dad. I see the same passion in Jeannie.

My name has taken on new meaning in the last year. My identity as a Scharetg has evolved greatly through new discoveries. Nestled in the remote Domleschg Valley of the Swiss Alps, in a village of four hundred people, is a house with a cellar that contained secrets of the very meaning of being a Scharetg.

Legacy

2009-09-09T14:51:00.001-07:00

My father was a creative man. He was an artist with many mediums. Brick and mortar, lumber and drywall, steel and rebar, people—he skillfully composed his masterpieces through the application of all these elements. His gift was his vision, an ability to see a finished creation. He could start with an object in Form A and transform it to Form Z, touching every consonant and vowel along the way, using every letter as a building block. He could produce a goal from less than a whispered idea. Contorting a list of simple criteria, he was able to dream of an end product that astonishingly exceeded expectations. He did the impossible, and he did it all the time.

Many contend his greatest work was his final project. When he was given the assignment I remember hearing about the challenge he had been charged. He told me it was a unique mission, one that would impact the lives of many employees. He was tasked with developing the Amazon.com corporate headquarters in Europe. The company had chosen Luxembourg as the location of the building. Though the city-state is centrally located in the continent, sharing borders with France, Germany and Belgium, he understood the new building would require the relocation of dozens of employees and their families. The very decision to consolidate the division and centralize the European team was met with great resistance. He knew the building would have to be special. He set out to create a workplace that would excite the expats moving to an unknown land. They would be far from the comforts of home, but my father was determined to create an office that inspired the same appeal.

Luxembourg is a place with two identities. As a major financial and business capital, the population of the city triples during work hours. With so many companies moving to Luxembourg, the need for building space is accommodated through the development of new land. Modern business parks and massive office complexes dot the peripheral areas of the city. Wide-laned roads and cement parking garages connect characterless blocks of cubicles and desks. This is the new Luxembourg. But at the physical center of all this newness is an old town with a history centuries old. Cut into a deep forested valley called the Grund, old town Luxembourg is a set of narrow cobbled streets connecting 14th century neighborhoods. Ancient churches and watchtowers cast afternoon shadows over public squares and monuments. People meet for lunch in Italian restaurants carved out of crumbling brick. The air is filled with the din of coffee shop conversation at cafes on every corner. Mature trees shed their leaves and show the seasons. It is a place so full of culture and life it seems to be oozing from the cracks in the sidewalk. This is where people want to be. This is the identity of the city everyone wants to know.

But the practical business person knows that creating an office in such a location is impossible. It is too small, too dense, and far too exclusive. And of course exclusivity comes with a price, surely one that would be too large for a pragmatic company allowance. There were many compelling reasons to believe that opening an office in 21st century Luxembourg meant renting space in the sprawling complexes outside of town. My father didn’t believe any of them.

The Grund became his goal. He combed its cobbled streets looking for the perfect place. It took him months. His vision was uncompromising, and although he uncovered many possibilities, the faultless building was elusive. He ultimately found it in the form of a four story structure, so deep in the Grund it actually abutted the canal flowing in the valley floor. It was originally built as the Bofferding brewery in 1764. He knew it when he saw it—the same walls that created Luxembourg’s national beer would house the activities of the Amazon.com European division. This was a realization that would take months of negotiation. The building was in a dream location and it came with a dream price.

My father’s favorite part of the building was the garden situated between its rear wall and the canal. The garden was a stunning real estate quality, an unbelievable find. With land being so expensive in this district of the city, space for a garden (if it even existed) was simply out of the question in terms of budget. But my father became enamored with the garden. He saw it as retreat for people during the workday, a peaceful place for lunch, a flowered visiting spot for family. It became his fixation and the crux of his negotiations. He worked on a deal over the building for nearly half a year, and when agents couldn’t settle on the appropriation of the garden he nearly walked away from the whole thing.

Last summer, along with my mom and sister, I visited the garden behind the building that is now the European headquarters for Amazon.com. In the center of the garden is a maple tree. It seems to glow even when the sky is gray. It has been planted there in honor of my dad.

I needed to make the pilgrimage again this summer, to check on its growth, to touch its leaves and hold its trunk. It still glows. It was important for me to share the garden with Jeannie, for her to witness the symbols of my father’s life. She knew him in person only for a short time, but she knows his spirit through seeing his work. His legacy lives in the garden in Luxembourg.

2009-09-09T14:50:00.000-07:00

Monster in the Metro

2009-08-31T01:39:00.000-07:00

Hayley looked at me through squinted eyes with a half smile that told me instantly she was trying to tell a lie. She is entirely incapable of such an act, so when she uttered the words, “do you have our tickets?” what she really said was, “we never bought any.” I adore her transparency, it is one of her greatest traits, but in this instance it exposed our delinquency and confirmed our guilt instantaneously. The brute standing behind her (a terrifying mutation of Cruella de Vil, Janet Reno, and my disciplinarian 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Gagnon) came forward and barked at me in Czech. I stared back at her with starry eyes, preparing to play dumb. She flipped to English and foiled that plan.

“Tickets, you must have tickets! Metro not free! Now you pay big fine!” She mentally fiddled with some numbers and then declared our crime was punishable by 700 krown a head—a sum that would cost our group over 220 US dollars, or as I saw it through a more palpable conversion, seven pans of roasted pork knee and duck breast. In any currency this was outrageous, and all five of us agreed. Her request for payment was met with a collective, “No way!” In a steady, sure-handed motion that revealed anticipation of our resistance, she reached for her cell phone and dialed 1-5-8, the three digit number for the Policie.

We found ourselves entrapped in a matter of moments. One second we were blissfully returning to the city center from a peaceful picnic on a cliff above the Vltava River, in the next we were being held captive by a formidable underground officer who took her job way too seriously. To be fair, we were without tickets. And to be entirely honest, we had discussed the topic of our ticketlessness, and acknowledged that the city’s services were certainly not gratis. But in our defense, there was nary a ticket machine in the underground, there were no regulating turnstiles to the escalators, and every other passenger around us seemed to be passing through with complete liberty. We had simply followed the crowd—until, of course, we were plucked from it by the money-hungry-metro-monster. In this moment of moderate desperation, as we stood in the grips of authority with a sizeable amount of money on the line and the Policie in pursuit, everyone’s true nature suddenly came to center stage.

Jeannie flew directly into protection mode. The officer bit and Jeannie bit back. In not so many flattering words she told the officer that her imposed fine was preposterous and that her position in the city’s law enforcement hierarchy was underwhelming. The relentless officer was a bitter and cruel woman and Jeannie did her best to mirror her personality. By contrast, Hayley put on a meek grin, shyly glanced down at her hands, innocently twirled her thumbs, and batted her eyes in a heart-melting look of remorse. She looked far too sweet to be penalized. The officer, impenetrable by Hayley’s girlish charms, continued to press us for money. This is when Joe, the doctor, appealed to her rational side with scientific demonstrations. “Look at this gentleman here,” he said pointing to a man walking freely through the subway. “I just watched him walk down these steps and on to a train without showing a ticket. Why aren’t you stopping him?” She was not wooed by Joe’s application of the Socratic Method. I stood by and watched these three thwarted attempts, amazed by the way each appeal was a perfect representation of their individual character.

And then it was my mom’s turn. She looked at me, wide-eyed and rearing to go, and silently mouthed the words, “Should we run?”

Here I was, staring in the face of authority, contemplating our next move, mentally weighing thoughts of defiance and obedience. My inner rebel was arguing with my conscience. It was a moment, like many others in my life, when I wished I could ask for my mother’s advice. And here she was, right in front of me, suggesting we turn and run. My own moral compass, live in the flesh, proposing we evade the law.

In a bizarre moment of eerie role reversal, I shook my head at my mom’s mutinous idea. The Policie arrived in the subway seconds later. When they deferred jurisdiction and all the power to the metro-monster, I knew we wouldn’t see daylight until some paper was produced. I discreetly reached for my wallet and produced 700 krown—a fine for one person seemed more reasonable than full penance for five. I extended the bills in my hand for a long time before she took them. She scribbled something in a notebook and then handed me a ticket in exchange for the cash. Before she was able to say another word we were swiveling on our heels and heading for the stairs. We never looked back.

We avoided the monster’s dungeon for the remainder of our time in Prague, favoring sunlit streets and our own feet for transportation. We vowed not to let the subway saga sour our experience in the Czech Republic. The capital city is one of staggering beauty. The wonder of its architecture seems endless; layers upon layers of rich hotels, restaurants, churches, castles, and clock towers. The food is some of the best we’ve eaten on this journey. But what made Prague the most enjoyable is clearly the people we were able to explore it beside. My mom is here now and I somehow feel at home, thousands of miles from California. She gives me a certain type of happiness that no one else can. Hayley and Joe are incredible. They have each enhanced the adventure with their easy and infectious laughs. It would be hard to find a more willing couple. Before I can finish the question, “would you guys like to…?” they have already answered affirmatively.

Still Bigger Than Us

2009-08-28T01:27:00.000-07:00

“I’m going to the dining car to get some brek,” she said. She zipped my oversized jacket over her tank top, grabbed ten euro from my wallet, and pulled open the sliding door that partitioned our private seats. I shouted behind her for a cup of coffee as the door latched shut and she disappeared down the hallway of our second class car. Pausing for a moment to study the Czech countryside passing outside the window, I shifted back to my computer and returned to thoughts of Krakow. We had left the southern Polish town just two hours before, on the first Vienna-bound train of the day. The early departure had required an alarm at dawn, motivating Jeannie to pass the first third of the trip in a horizontal, three-seat nap. I had passed the time quietly; writing, following the horizon, and watching her sleep. Now that she was gone I became engrossed in my journal. I totally lost myself.

When I came to my senses I was startled to still be alone. I blinked hard at my watch, trying to make sense of the time. An hour had passed. Jeannie had not returned from the dining car. She must have decided to eat there. That would be out of character, but you act out of character in places like this. She wanted my coffee to be hot, so she waited to order it after she was done eating. The dining car was packed. The server was busy. They were out of coffee so she was waiting for tea. They wanted zloty and she only had euro. It took time to negotiate the currency. No. None of these stories were working in my head. Something was wrong.

With a consciously controlled sense of urgency I rose from my seat and opened the door to the hallway. The image of her walking away was vivid in my mind. I turned in the direction she had gone and walked toward the dining car at the back of the train. Approaching the end of our car, the rear windows came into view. I stared through the smudged oval panes in complete disbelief. My knees knocked. The windows at the end of the car gave way to open track. Where there should have been three connecting coaches and the dining car, there was nothing but railway and Czech farmland, rapidly disappearing into the distance as we sped to the south. Jeannie was gone.

I stood there looking through those windows for what felt like eternity. Each passing tree, a blur of green and brown, suddenly symbolized our widening gap. The train seemed to mock me with its rattling, its vibrations, the blowing of its horn. I was fleeing the scene, racing away from a solution, and there was nothing I could do about it. I was being held hostage by the train and by the unbelievable circumstances.

Ten dizzying minutes passed before we approached a station and came to a stop at the platform. I leapt from the opening doors in search of an English speaking conductor. My search ended abruptly when the only conductor on the platform waived his hands and shook his head at my questions. He cut me off in a guttural language I couldn’t make any sense of. He pointed down the track to a set of cars about a kilometer away and then ushered me back onto the train. I surmised from his hustled rant that the cars down the track would be reconnecting with our train. This was something I could hold on to. Surely Jeannie was sitting in that dining car a kilometer away, about to be reconnected to our coach. I stood at the rear windows for thirty minutes until finally the wheels in the distance started to turn. Moments later, an engineer was fastening the clamps between the coaches. I loomed over his shoulder while he finished and then nearly bowled him over as I ran past him on my way to the dining car.

A server, two Austrian men, and fifteen open tables. Impossible. How could this be? I jolted one of the men from his eggs and toast and rattled twenty questions off his forehead. Trying to ignore the bead of sweat rolling down my cheek, he informed me he had not seen a blonde woman, and had in fact boarded the train in Warsaw, not Krakow. Like me, he was headed to Vienna. The server, overhearing the anxiety in my voice, chimed in from behind the kitchen counter. “The dining car from Krakow is on its way to Prague,” she said. Finally someone had put into words what I already knew to be true. Jeannie was on her way to another country altogether.

I needed to be alone to think. Racing back to my seat, our seats, I took a quick inventory in my head. What did she have? My jacket, ten euro, maybe less, her rail pass, flip flops. That was it. I couldn’t imagine how she must be feeling. Where was she right now? When had she realized we were disconnected? I sat down and buried my head in my hands. I tried to be rational. Getting off the train would only complicate the situation. Backtracking would allow for more error. We both knew where the hotel was located in Vienna. I would go there and wait for her to arrive. Would it be tonight? Tomorrow? Where would she sleep? I asked these questions while the train pressed on, steaming its way to Austria.

I fought with myself to stay positive as my trail of hope sputtered behind the caboose. I barely noticed when we slowed to a stop. I lifted my head from my hands and looked out the window. There she was, standing on the platform, my jacket zipped all the way up to her quivering chin. Our eyes met and hers filled with tears. It was obvious that she was shocked to see me. I was physically consumed with relief. It started in my legs, passed through my stomach on its way to my shoulders, and left my body through a smile so big it hurt my face. We laughed and held each other. We spent the rest of the passage to Austria discussing every angle of our separation, and the aimless train hopping Jeannie had enacted to get herself to the platform where we reunited. We stayed joined at the hip for the remainder of the journey—not even a trip to the water closet was done without each other’s company.

Having traveled unscathed through Southeast Asia, China, and even India, I think Jeannie and I can both agree that we might have dropped our guard upon arrival to Europe. At dinner that night, having acquired the time to let the day’s events simmer, we found an odd pleasure in the notion that travel in the Western World does not come without challenges. The world hasn’t become too small after all.

80,000 Shoes

2009-08-26T01:12:00.000-07:00

We had heard stories of the shoes from traveling acquaintances. We had seen images of them in the documentary aired on the bus ride to the camp. Our guide even warned us just moments before we entered the wing of the museum. But nothing can prepare you for the sight of 80,000 shoes. More than the massive rooms filled with pots and pans, more than the piles of twisted reading glasses, even more than the tons of human hair—there is something about the shoes that is completely shattering. I think it is the personality that is contained in a shoe. There is something even more human about a shoe than hair. The mountain of shoes is the story of 40,000 people—each pair the reflection of who they were in life, and in death. The size, the shape, the color, leather, or rubber, or cloth—each characteristic is a memory of the person who walked in that shoe. The thick boots of working men, the fashionable heels of urban women, the tiny booties of babies; thrown together in heaps of hatred.

We traveled from Krakow to the Auschwitz and Birkenau German Death Camps to bear witness to one of the greatest human tragedies in history. The camp itself has been converted to a museum, allowing the visitor to walk the same gravel roads as the one million people who died there. We entered the barracks, we stood in the suffocation cells, we touched the execution wall, we walked inside the gas chambers. The hours we spent at Auschwitz and Birkenau are some of the most solemn hours of our lives.

Jeannie and I were partnered with a brilliant guide. He provided all of the objective facts you expect in a historical tour: the timeline of the concentration camp, the names of political figures, the events that led to the Holocaust, the methods of industrialized death. But as a descendent of those persecuted in the Second World War, he told the story through the eyes of the victims. We were made to feel their plight. Through his words we were able to comprehend the madness of their fate. Somehow, for a moment, he was able to put us into a pair of the 80,000 shoes.

There is a quote inscribed on one of the brick walls as you enter the gate to the camp. It says, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” As our guide walked with us through the past, never once even hinting a smile, I held this quote in my mind and eagerly anticipated a close to the tour cloaked in hope for the future. I followed our guide, his hands clasped behind his back, thinking that surely the pain and the sadness he endures every day, the horror he relives for dozens of visitors every week, is made tolerable by a hopeful belief that mankind has learned from the atrocities of the Holocaust, that we are not condemned to repeat it. In his closing thoughts, through a thick Polish accent, he instead asked us to dwell on war in Africa, on the crimes against human rights in China. He then thanked us for coming, and left us staring out over the train track that transported one million innocent people to their end.

Home Field Advantage

2009-08-23T09:47:00.000-07:00

It might be the perfect square. The sun seems to fall on its cobblestones in just the right way. At its center is a bewildering mermaid statue—bare-breasted, clutching a shield in one hand, an unsheathed sword in the other. She sits on a squat base, spurting water spontaneously at untamed children. Young parents hopelessly corral the juveniles, taking hidden delight in their recklessness, in their willingness to soak their clothes without care. A small flock of pigeons, wings iridescent in the afternoon light, hop and flutter around an old woman and her bread crumbs, always keeping one eye on swinging boots. A new couple strolls by with ice cream cones, working furiously to keep the melting treat off their fingers. A working artist has a dozen easels opened up, displaying years of dedication. His art reflects the square itself; rich oil on cloth canvas, so dense it looks three dimensional. He paints the tenements that form the public space, the buildings that surround the mermaid in imperfect ninety degree angles, massive structures of shared walls, shared lives. He paints the orange tiled roofs, oval balconies, undraped windows like eyes into private worlds. Outdoor cafes line the apartments, wood tables and chairs (nary a vacant one) under the shade of beer-branded umbrellas. They serve pork chops, pierogi, eggs in sour rye soup. They serve the dish of the day. Church bells chime a song in the distance. Then three thoughtful bongs.

I think I smell him before I see him. The smell isn’t offensive, or foul, just distinctive. He smells musky like the communal cologne on the bathroom counter of a country club. Looking up from my book, I see his shoes first, toed off directly with mine. They are tattered around the edge, cheap leather coming unglued from the sole. A bit of his wool sock peaks through untied laces. His pants reflect the same mileage. He is wearing a shirt with two dozen unnecessary buttons, most of them unclasped anyway. A bulge in his breast pocket reveals a pack of cigarettes. His sleeves are rolled up and his shirttails are tucked in, showing loops with no belt to hold. He is stooped in a posture that admits his age. His six-toothed smile is as big as the square.

“In-ter-na-shee-nal game,” he says to me in practiced syllabic cadence. He thrusts out his hand. Clutched in his arthritic fingers is what looks like a leather journal, bound shut with a braided latch. Stolen from what I’ve been reading, I am without words. He takes the moment of silence as an opportunity to nestle between Jeannie and I on the bench. Cautiously moving my bag to the side, he sets his journal on the bench, unlatches the braid, and opens the cover, revealing a black and white board and a collection of chipped checkers.

Jeannie and I exchange an amused glance as the old man begins to banter in Polish. He slowly sets the board, deeply concentrating to center each circle within each square, his fingers moving with the slightest perceptible tremble. When the board is finally set, and he has recited an entire Polish speech, he produces ten zloty from behind his pack of cigarettes and tucks the bill neatly beneath the corner of the board. Jeannie and I share a chuckle, and I reach into my pocket to produce the price of admission. I only have a twenty zloty note. Jeannie uses it to replace his ten. I pocket his ante, and the game is on.

Having not played checkers for a combined twenty years, Jeannie and I stumble into some elementary mistakes early in the match. The old man hops and skips over our pieces with childlike glee, laughing and smacking his bony knee at our expense. But as the match progresses, and tactics of the game are refreshed in our minds, the momentum slowly turns. He stops to contemplate his moves. He doesn’t laugh as freely. He rubs his chin and scratches his head. Suddenly his back row is all exposed. We descend fiercely on his end of the board. The worn purple corner of the zloty stares up at him from under the game. Now he is stammering, making excuses in Polish, waving his finger at our move. Without a tremble, he swiftly reverses our previous attack, and uses his last checker to creatively triple-hop over our final three pieces. In one hurried motion, the board is closed, the latch is shut, and the cash is in his pocket. He manages a mumbled thank you as he shuffles away, leaving us alone on the bench, ten zloty poorer.

Getting Extra Credit

2009-08-22T10:09:00.000-07:00

His memory is easy to see in my mind. Freckled and red-haired, eager and quick with a proud smile, a cheerful kid prepared to submit the crowning achievement of his 7th grade body of work—his country report, complete with poster boards, essays, illustrations, and dioramas. He knows how many lakes are in the northern territory, he knows about the people’s culinary love of herring, he is familiar with their general obsession with reindeer. He learned the weather is frigid in the winter, but mild and surprisingly pleasant in the summer. He is ready to talk about aurora borealis, equipped with pictures of purple stripes in the night sky. He loves that the national sport is ice hockey. He is prepared with a few words in the native tongue, like hei and kiitos. He is even armed with the national flag—a snow white fabric decorated with a slightly off-centered blue cross.

For almost fifteen years, Chris Simmons has been filled with the dream of one day visiting this place he got to know so well. So when the itinerary of the Distant Adventure was finalized, and Finland was on the tour, Simmons did what had been waiting in the wings since he was thirteen—he bought a ticket to Helsinki. And using those fifteen years of wisdom, he brought along his better half, Sara. On second thought, maybe she brought him.

What Simmons probably left out of his report is that the bicycle should be the Finnish national icon, or at least the symbol of the capital city. Helsinki is built for bicycles. It is the only city I have ever visited with separate bicycle signals (red—yellow—green…go), and a bike lane as wide as the road itself. In our best effort to assimilate, we hired two bikes, borrowed two more from our hotel, and took to the streets for two days of exploration. (I learned quickly that Jeannie is as daunting for fellow road travelers behind handlebars as she is behind a steering wheel. She actually sent a Finn over the top of his front wheel when she made a sudden right turn—it was his fault.)

To know Simmons is to know wanderlust. Seeing Finland through his curious eyes was the instant remedy to even the slightest hint of traveler’s fatigue. His passion for the nuances of foreign life was energizing. He questioned everything, took delight in everything. Plus, I had someone to share in the oddities of Finnish cuisine—fried whole whitefish and reindeer sausage. (My travel mate wasn’t up for the latter—her love for Christmas runs too deep.) Simmons has an unmatched excitement for things that exist in only one place. He found the planet’s only pub tram—a city cable car converted to a bar, transporting cider drinking tourists from one end of Helsinki to the other. At our farewell dinner we ordered “snaps” from the appetizer menu, thinking we were getting some Finnish style peas. Moments later, our waiter produced a shot glass filled with a toxic potion. Simmons will try anything once. He hasn’t lost touch with his inner 7th grader. I love him for that.

Time Traveling

2009-08-21T13:11:00.000-07:00

I think the very name of the track is what imparts so much mystery. The Trans-Siberian Railway; named after a place in the most remote reach of the world; a geographic location that seems never to be visited by people, but for those zooming one meter over the earth in a steel car; a place that seems only to exist in fables, foreign films, and Paul Theroux passages. A land that lives in dreams; images and pictures passing by in a blur of white and muted green outside double-paned glass; a nocturnal world of lunar reflections, a secret lake the looking glass of a crater-pocked moon.

The deep reverberation of steel on steel, the jarring click-clack of bindings, the creaking of the top-heavy hypnotic sway—these are the echoes of old days, frozen winters of clearing ice and laying track. The infiniteness of travel, the possibility of exploration and innovation, the curiosity of man is embedded in each crossbar of the railway. The spirit of expired adventurers, hopeful beginnings and painful endings, the souls of risk-takers and dreamers live on the Trans-Siberian. How many eyes have gazed upon these hills, these trees? How many bags have been toted over this stripe of rocks, how many farewells whispered through these windows?

Subterranean Tangle

2009-08-18T02:03:00.000-07:00

We have an idea for an exciting new reality show. We are still working on the title, but the premise is something like this: A pair of American newlyweds is given a Moscow metro subway map. Two stations on opposite sides of the city are selected. They must navigate their way from one station to the next. Cameras will follow their ill-fated trail and capture their slow and gradual collapse. The show will be a voyeuristic exploration of the waning patience of a couple, the slow demise of good-nature and humor, and the ultimate implosion of the human resolve to succeed. I can smell the Emmy, and it smells like borscht.

The Moscow subway system has a network of over 100 stations—none of which are possible to find. They truly are camouflaged, hiding under cover of monuments, shops, restaurants, and totally unmarked buildings. I swear one metro entrance was actually under the counter of a nondescript bakery. When we accidently said the magic word—“sesame roll”—lights started flashing, bells began ringing, the baker congratulated us with a hug, and a trap door to the subway steps opened up behind the bread case. We weren’t planning on going anywhere, but when you happen upon a station you have to capitalize on your good fortune.

Things get even messier once underground. Nothing is in English. Nothing. To compound this challenge, the signs in Russian might as well be in Chinese—their letter system, known as Cyrillic, is what gave Campbell’s the inspiration for alphabet soup. Three stops on the “blue” line might look something like this: KPACH3NRCCИCMCOβ – ПОРДГЗКЛЛЭСТУ – PYRCMХШЪЮЯФХТТС. My brain shuts down at the sight of four consonants in a row. Realizing this might be a problem for non-Russian speaking visitors, the Muscovite metro designers thoughtfully color coded the six lines that crisscross the city. These gents apparently have a twisted sense of humor. The “magenta” line bleeds dangerously close in hue to the “brown” line which looks suspiciously like the “orange” line that is undeniably the same color as the “red” line. Oddly enough, the two colored lines which are the most distinguishable are the “blue” and the “slightly lighter blue” lines.

To add fear to this wicked mix of anger and confusion that has now overtaken you, the Moscow subway system is the deepest in the world. Rapid escalators transport you to the core of the Earth, to hot liquid magma levels. Your eardrums pop during the subterranean descent. It is hard to concentrate when you are 1,000 leagues under the sea, and when you become lost you start to feel like a smoked-out ground mole that will never see daylight again. You might be miles from your destination, but the sight of a single sunray is enough to inspire relief.

Desperation, failure, resilience and triumph—who knew a mode of mass transport could provide all these things in one harrowing trip to pick up your laundry?

New Places, New Faces

2009-08-17T08:32:00.000-07:00

Doing as the Muscovites do, we grabbed some Big Mac’s from ”McLenin's,” some beers from a subway station vendor, and retreated to the steps of the Red Square to watch the final light of the everlasting day disappear. It was 10pm, and there was still enough daylight to properly salt my fries. Our travel unit had doubled overnight with the exciting addition of Stacey and Mike, and we were all riding the high from the football match we had just attended. Our new travel partners, in a stroke of genius, had scored four tickets to the Russia v. Argentina international friendly. The atmosphere of the game was electric, and gave us all a charge that would last the whole week. With the foreboding brick towers of the Kremlin in the foreground, and the onion-shaped kaleidoscope domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral in the distance, we tore into our late night snack while patriotic chants from the match rang in our heads.

We weren’t two bites into our Russian burgers when we were startled by the boisterous salutations of a tipsy local. Almost in one motion, he introduced himself as Pasha, hurled himself onto the step beside me, and threw a signal to a bag-toting babushka that apparently meant we would be requiring some additional beers. The frumpy grandma-turned-vendor, a colorful scarf bound tightly over her silver hair, shuffled over to us and traded four bottles for 200 rubles. Pasha’s gesture cemented our friendship immediately. For the next three hours we occupied a corner of the Red Square and told tales of lives lived worlds apart. For each difference we discovered ten similarities—Pasha is a marketing manager for consumer products sold in grocery stores. We shared some secrets of the trade, learned some Russian toasts, and set a plan to meet the following night. We provided Pasha an opportunity to practice English, and in return received an after dark walking tour of Moscow that became the highlight of our week in Russia.

Jeannie and I were grateful to be able to share our post-India breath of fresh air (both figuratively and very literally) with Mike and Stacey. They were great travel partners and are the most loyal of friends. Mike, charging intensely down the road to be a medical doctor, was allocated two weeks of vacation this year. With his program director deciding when those two weeks would fall, Stacey and Mike committed to meet us on our trip, regardless of where in the world we happened to be. On the day they learned of their vacation dates, they raced home and tore through our itinerary to see whether they would be needing sweaters or saris in their luggage. True to their promise, they packed their bags for Russia (and managed to tie in a Turkish escapade on the side).

Sunset Sessions

2009-08-15T10:36:00.000-07:00

I think what I enjoy most about a sunset beer is the opportunity it provides for a little quiet reflection. Sit down. Order the local favorite. Let the sights and sounds pass through. Sip down the day. This is the process that has become my favorite pastime. Did you see this? Remember that? I can’t believe… This is how most conversations begin when we find a seat and rehash the discoveries of the day. The liveliest of discussions usually take place over this opportune refreshment. This time and place becomes our sanctuary from the madness of the day, a chance to rest the feet along with the senses. We talk about home and how far we’ve come. We talk about our family and friends and decide who would have appreciated the day’s events most. We remember faces and names as we recall the people who have shaped our experience. The daily mysteries of the world, swallowed down one hoppy sip at a time.

It’s hard to pick a favorite. The Toohey’s in the shadow of the Opera House. The Chang in the hut at the Karen Village. The Tsing Tao at the base of the Great Wall. But if I had to pick only one, if I only had one beer left to drink, I’d have to have to choose the sunset session at the Shanti Lodge in Agra, India.

As our rickshaw pulled up to the Shanti Lodge, Jeannie and I commented on the three-legged dog guarding the doorway, and concluded the building looked more like a halfway house than a dining establishment. A week in India had given truth to the adage that no book can be judged by its cover, so we threw our inhibitions to the trash heap beside the entrance and ambled over the crippled doorman. An odd combination of curry, coriander, and dirty laundry hung in the air as we followed hand-written signs to a shadowy stairwell. A pair of wayward vagabonds from the West, dreadlocked and bearded, were on their way out. “Get to the roof,” one of them offered in a slurred voice. Daypacks over our shoulders, we marched five stories upwards, our noses following two separate trails of garlic and coconut. The stairwell was dark in the fleeing light of the day, but became progressively brighter as we climbed toward the sun. The last step gave way to the roof above the fourth floor. Walking across the top of the building was like falling into a dream. The Taj Mahal—glowing orange in the sunset like the last ember of an incent candle, hovering above the wafting haze of five centuries of worship, swallowing the purple horizon in overstated majesty—was close enough to run our hands over its silky marble dome. This called for a beer.

Only one problem: no such item on the menu. Not deterred by the “listed” offerings, I kindly asked the same fellow who had handed us our menus if it would be possible to have one. He offered me a sideways glance, looked over his shoulder, collected the menus, and muttered something about a tea pot through closed teeth. Before he disappeared down the stairs he gave me a loaded look. It was the kind of glance you share with your best friend when you promise to keep a guilty secret. For ten minutes he was gone. When he returned, carrying two tea cups and a porcelain pot, he was sweating and out of breath. With a wink and half smile, he placed the covered tea pot on the table in front of me. I watched him disappear again, then sat forward in my chair and lifted the cover of the pot. The frothy head of a fresh poured brew stared back from the curve of the spout. Looking out over the Taj, I sipped my tea like an English gentlemen, and savored the secret of the clandestine beverage.

The Bear's Last Dance

2009-08-15T10:32:00.000-07:00

The image is indelible. A roadside bear, balanced on its hind legs, eye level with a man, holding a rope in one paw, the other paw postured in a forlorn waive, swaying to and fro in a freakish waltz-like two-step. The sight through the bus window haunts you as you pass by, yet somehow, unbelievably, the bear eventually becomes one more page in the India catalogue of splendid horrors. While in Jaipur this week, I referenced this catalogue of memories from my first India trip in 2003, and was affronted with the recollection of this captive animal. Without the capacity to comprehend the meaning of the dancing bear, I hadn’t asked any questions or pointed any fingers six years ago. On this visit, however, accompanied by the female Steve Irwin, I thought some investigation into these animals might provide enlightenment, and hopefully help to perish the shocking image that has clung to my mind for over half a decade.

In the spring time, the female Sloth Bear gives birth in the jungle to a litter of four cubs. As a nocturnal creature, the new mother waits for darkness and then clambers through the night in search of food for her young. With four mouths to feed, and an appetite of her own, she is forced to leave her cubs unattended while she looks for honey, termites, or anything that might provide a meal. But she is not the only one on the hunt. This is prime season for the Kalander people of northern India. Dispersed in bands, the Kalanders find the bear, ambush and kill her, and then follow the cries of the cubs. The discovery of the four young bears is a financial boon for the village. The cubs will provide a solid source of income for a new generation of Kalander men, and they will allow the villagers to uphold a 400 year tradition.

The fate of the cub is intolerable. A burning metal rod will be thrust through its nose. A rope is strung through the fresh wound and bound to a primitive muzzle. The head gear is attached to a leash and the bear is tethered to a stake. His life is now limited to the world within the radius of his four foot rope. His canine teeth and each claw will be pried out with rusty tools. For the rest of his existence he will be taunted with music, and forced to dance on the side of the road. Passersby will gawk and snap photos, and toss scraps of change to his captor, ensuring this cruel cycle will make yet another turn.

It is easy to make villains of the Kalander people. Yet this is not completely fair. The bears are a way of life to these villagers. In many ways the bears are all they know. This is a centuries old tradition, a practice that has been handed down from father to son for countless generations. To break the cycle would take years of effort, endless planning, and the initiative and foresight to introduce a new culture to an ancient group of people. This would be impossible. Yet after a week in India, having not seen a single roped bear, it seems to have been accomplished.

The name of the organization is Wildlife SOS. They have established four rehabilitation centers across India for traumatized Sloth Bears. Since 2002, they have managed to work with the Kalander people for the surrender of over 500 bears. Jeannie and I paid a visit to the center in Agra, and had an opportunity to meet some of the animals. Their enclosures are fantastic and the level of care is incredible. Their noses are allowed to heal, they are able to roam large areas, and they even become socialized with other bears. But even more impressive than the treatment of the rescued bears, is what the organization does for the villagers. Those who surrender a bear are provided with a check for 50,000 rupees. This money provides a Kalander man the capital to create a new source of income. The organization then trains the men and their families in textiles, jewelry making, and other crafts that can be sold. They even subsidize group weddings and help with large expenditures while the villagers get on their feet.

Wildlife SOS estimates that only 60 bears still remain captured in India. They believe by next summer the last bear will be surrendered and the practice of dancing bears will be completely eradicated. This is such an admirable organization and they certainly provided a better image of the bear to stow away in my catalogue of memories.

At the Train Station

2009-08-12T23:48:00.000-07:00

The man struck the boy with so much force the child’s feet came unglued from the ground. He used the heel of his open palm and planted it squarely enough to send the boy into horizontal flight, his body like a dirty rag tossed to a garbage can. When the child hit the platform of the train station, it was his cheek that broke his fall. It skidded against the cement like an eraser on a chalkboard. Disoriented and starry-eyed, the child resiliently catapulted to his feet in an act powered by adrenaline. He simultaneously emitted a yelp that can only be described as animal-like. The scream was equal parts anger and fear. In a flash of fury the man was over the top of the boy again. He swung at him with his foot this time. The boy, more nimble now in his state of heightened awareness, dodged the kick and scurried out of the man’s reach. Having missed his target, the power of the kick was displaced, and the man nearly came out of his shoes. He spun around like a top. When he finally settled himself, he was looking directly at us. His aggression instantly disappeared. He had a devoted look on his face like he had just completed a duty for our benefit. The man had seen the child begging Jeannie for food, and he wasn’t going to allow that to happen.

Jeannie was horrified. “Just look at me,” I said, as the man walked by and tipped his brow in service. In his mind, he had done us a favor. And from the look in his eye, I surmised the man believed he had done his country a favor. He saw beggar children as rats, as pollutants. They were contaminating the train station. Their rags for clothes, their filthy hair, their bare and rotting feet—these were the qualities the man would not have us see. His fit was powered by embarrassment. The station was choked with people. This would become the venue for his statement.

Jeannie hated him immediately. How could someone do that to a child? She looked over my shoulder at the beaten boy and his mates, a group of six disheveled and starving kids. They lurked behind a pillar, stealing glances at Jeannie while trying to hide from the man. A complicated mixture of pain and determination came over Jeannie’s face. Despite my appeals, she spun off for the snack stand with a fistful of rupees.

Like trained soldiers, the boys darted from the cover of one pillar to the next, until they were huddled directly behind the snack stand. Sensing a meal was near, they started to claw at each other for key position. Their energy became primal. The children were overcome with desperation. As Jeannie paid for the food, they began to shout at each other, throwing elbows and knees in an effort to get their hands in front of Jeannie first. She walked over to them with a plastic sack full of potato chips, one bag for each child. She clutched the sack to her chest while the boys feverishly hurled around in a final attempt to be at the front of the line. She uttered some words to them about sharing. Even if they spoke English, the words were still just inaudible sounds. Nothing existed beyond the potato chips in her hands. Jeannie handed the sack to the child in front of her. Hell broke loose.

The sack of chips was swallowed by a dusty cloud of flying limbs, bared teeth, scratching claws. The boys tangled with hopeless ferocity, like the sack contained the last scrap of food they would ever see. The fight was horrifying. I could feel their hunger with each fist connecting with each jaw. I could feel their anxiety, the fear and the dread, strong enough to make a boy choke his own brother. Human nature had been stripped to its most naked form right before our eyes. The rawness of the moment was too much to take. It cut through me like a knife. And then, just as the chips seemed to be settled into the hands of the strongest boys, four grown men, two of them in uniform, descended like shouting giants on the subsiding scrap. They grappled the boys by their necks, they kicked them like dogs, they swung their arms like helicopter blades until the melee was dispersed. The boys scattered like cockroaches to the edges of the platform, leaving only one thing at the sight of the fight—a crumpled yellow bag of smashed potato chips.

Jeannie was shattered. She looked at me for just a flash before burying her head into my shoulder. In that moment, when our eyes met for only a flicker, there were so many emotions on her face—horror, disgust, fear, confusion, embarrassment, and finally, guilt. She had extended the tenderest part of herself, and it had been returned as a bloody stump. She had behaved in a manner that complied with her purest belief, helping a starving child to food. How could things have turned out this way? How could one good notion create so much evil? She cried in my arms and we asked ourselves these questions. The two hour train ride back to New Delhi would not give us the answer.

One Becomes the Other

2009-08-08T23:12:00.000-07:00

At the center of every ancient Mughal palace is the Diwan-i-Am, or Hall of Public Audiences. This is where the emperor would accept petitions from the people and hear the grievances of the members of his society. This was a place where people came to air their laundry, expose their issues and beliefs. It was the physical heart of their civilization, and the epicenter of private affairs made public.

This ancient practice of full disclosure, this freeness with sharing the soft and vulnerable under-tissue of the self, must have fully permeated Indian society centuries ago. In today’s India, there are no blockades, no robes to cover and hide the truth. Every piece of beauty is yours to touch, just as every bit of pain is yours to feel. Beauty and pain: sometimes they are so tightly bound together they mesh into one, impossible to separate, impossible to discern. One becomes the other, like death and rebirth.

From the back of the rickshaw, I peered over our driver’s bony shoulder and spotted a herd of people in the middle of the road. Thirty, maybe forty men collectively shuffled their feet as if in a trance. As the three-wheeled vehicle sped closer to the men, and swerved to the right to avoid the caboose of the crowd, I realized their chanting was loud enough to rise above the pitchy whine of the rickshaw. Now beside the crowd, I could see they were all focused on the same thing. Their eyes were fixed to a gurney, hoisted high in the air by the biggest men in the group. Time suddenly moved in slow motion, the whizzing by of blurry objects became clear, and I saw the object of their attention—a deceased woman, dressed in a regal sari, and covered in heaps of pink flower petals. This was her final march to cremation.

A mother and child intercepted our path. The child was so young, so new to the Earth, that he had only looked upon the world he was born to that very day. He still bled from his navel. Pink and wrinkled, his skin was silently screaming at the undiscriminating sun. He clung to his mother—probably trying to find a way back inside—and she clung to him, with the instincts of an animal. She was magnificent. Her green eyes, dancing and sparkling, seemed to be colored from the same dye as her sari. Sun-kissed hair fell lightly across her perfect brow and down to the tip off her golden-pierced nose. Her scarlet lips, curled in a smile for her baby, revealed a charmingly crooked set of teeth. Ornately tattooed with henna cobwebs, her hand was a flyswatter for the infant’s head. When his hand is strong enough, he will take over as the swatter of his own flies. He will be swatting flies from his head for a lifetime. He is born to the street. Yet, as they teeter there together in the Diwan-i-Am, in the most public of audiences, they are the perfect embodiment of new life, an idyllic symbol of the wonder of recreation.

THIS IS INDIA

2009-08-07T08:34:00.000-07:00

She looks like a black ghost, seamlessly floating across space. Cloth stretches from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Her burqa reveals only one human feature to the world outside the garment: a pair of attentive eyes, darker than the garment itself, yet somehow tinged with golden brightness, like the sun reflecting off the desert mountains to the west. The eyes survey the scene and then they become locked with yours. Only a flash of contact feels like minutes. Time almost stops as you ponder the mystery of the moment. Then the third wheel of a motor rickshaw clips the edge of your shoe as it swerves around a stalled motorcycle. You vow not to break your concentration again. A holy cow, tall as you and wide as a water cart, safe in its sanctity, meditatively crosses the intersection of a thousand objects. He stops to graze over a heap of garbage and becomes an immovable obstacle in the stew of motor vehicles. A family of five (dad, mom, and three children—the youngest of whom is four months old and bound loosely in a shawl around mom’s neck) slowly maneuver a motor scooter around the cow’s backside. Not even air fills the spaces between their bodies. They brake hard, all thrusting forward in one motion, and so does every other small vehicle in the intersection, as they heed the deafening horn blast of the bus bouldering through. It looks like an antique, ten different colors as one chipped layer of paint gives way to the next. The front bumper, a massive piece of foreboding steel, clings to the frame of the bus by tangled wire. Sparks fly from the rear. As it lumbers by, you look through grease-smeared windows to the mob inside—nothing but bobbing heads, swaying in unison to the jar of each pothole. Bodies hang precariously from the opening that once was blocked by a door. A dozen men sit cross-legged on the roof. The bus passes from your vision and reveals the only larger object in the street. An elephant, bejeweled in stones and ornately painted in pink and green, carries a slight man wearing a matching turban. Bicycle wheels feverishly spin by the tree trunks that are the elephant’s legs. A street girl, of probably eight years, tugs at your shirt sleeve. She touches her mouth and her stomach. And then, like confetti in the wind, a group of women in saris catch the corner of your eye. The colors of their adornments are almost blinding. You think the orange sari might actually be on fire. They jump in a rickshaw and are swallowed by the bedlam. A group of monkeys walk the thin roofline of a nearby vaulted bazaar. A goat, bound by the neck with rope, sits and stands and sits again in the shadow of a parked car. A camel passes by, a wooden cart bound tightly over the hump on its back. The cart is carrying a life’s supply of an item you cannot identify. A fattened pig and a stray dog share the same roadside puddle, finding relief in the cooling properties of the mud. You are baffled by the presence of animals in a city of 2.6 million people, when you notice a wandering ascetic crossing the road in your direction. His beard is dreadlocked in crusty white tufts, offset greatly by his sundrenched and leathery skin. He has a strange glow that seems to rise above his outer layer of dirt. The glow exits mostly from his pale blue, cataract-riddled eyes. These eyes seem to look directly into your being, and you can’t help but wonder what he is seeing. You ready yourself for his remarks as he walks straight for you, and then he is gone, as if he visited you only in a dream.

Call it your spirit, call it your soul, call it your consciousness of self; whatever name you have for the inner most part of your being, the section of your gut that represents your existence, the private part that you share only with likeminded people, the deepest depth of the place where your mind and heart are intertwined—this is the place that is moved by the scene before you. It is a change you can feel, it is physical. First, this place within you is shaken awake. It springs to awareness as if a bucket of cold water has been thrown on its head. It opens itself to the violence, the mayhem and the tension, the woven chaos. It swallows the scene whole, and digests. Then, in the next breath, miraculously and inexplicably, this place within you is overcome with peace. At first, you reject the feeling. You don’t believe that this place within you could suggest serenity; the juxtaposition to the world outside is just too sharp. But then you realize, as you allow yourself to feel, this scene somehow touches the same inner chord as a silent view of the Swiss Alps. The madness before you evokes the spiritual effect of witnessing the day’s first ray of light. How this is possible, you may never know, but it is enough to move you to tears.

Symmetrical Sendoff

2009-08-05T06:46:00.001-07:00

It wouldn’t have been proper to leave Nepal without an exciting tale to tell. Symmetry seems to be fundamental in the art and architecture of this place—therefore our bookend had to be as interesting as our opening. Our time in this destination has been characterized by surprise, and the beginning effort of our passage onward was no different—for the first time in our journey, Jeannie was actually on time for our taxi to the airport, a clear indication she wasn’t going to spend an extra minute in Kathmandu.

Upon arrival at the airport, we were prompted to send our bags through an archaic structure of rusted steel and corroded plastic. The local security force has disguised this heap of decomposing materials as an x-ray machine. Where it should light up, it has gone dark. When it should beep, it has fallen silent. Come to think of it, there isn’t even a monitor behind it for examining what passes through its tired bowels. Its place in the airport is solely symbolic. It serves no other purpose. And its cousin, the metal detector, is no more functional. I walked through it with my watch, my belt, and the metal carabineer from my hiking pack just to prove a point. Not a peep.

When security is an issue (in this decade, a plane of 180 people was held hostage at this airport), government funds are nil, and infrastructure is nonexistent, you have the recipe for a good old fashioned firm-hand frisk. My pat down was abusive. After being squeezed in places I don’t let Jeannie touch, I was incredibly relieved to see that she had been funneled behind me to a line for women only. She became familiar with an open-palmed officer who looked much gentler than the brute who ordered me to spread. From the body search, the segregated lines continued to a row of luggage check desks.

We had our carry-on bags in tow, and as is usually the case during our airport shuffles, I was carrying the heaviest bag of the bunch, which naturally belongs to Jeannie. It is a pink and white duffle bag, decorated with a hundred tiny hearts. It makes a great accessory to my beard. I hadn’t personally seen the contents of this bag in weeks, but I knew it served as her supplemental luggage—whatever doesn’t fit in “the crate” finds a home in this satchel. I knew she had been collecting “treasures” from backwater merchants for weeks, and I could only assume they had all been accumulated in this bag I was about to present to an armed and ominous guard. Had that necklace she bought in Thailand been made from smuggled ivory? Was that strange bag she bought in China really just tea leaves? While I knew she would never intentionally buy or pack anything illegal, had she picked up anything questionable in one of the thousand smoky markets we’ve tramped through in the last six weeks? Whatever belonged to her was now mine, and I owned all of it alone, as she was now being inspected in the female line, forty feet across the packed and chaotic passenger terminal.

With a wide smile, I placed the pink-hearted bag on the desk, and met the squinted eyes of the man I would bare my belongings to. Our relationship got off to an awkward start when he unzipped the top pocket and a fluffy purple elephant popped out onto the table. He looked at the plush pachyderm, now flopped over with all fours to the ceiling, and then stared through me with immense distrust, and I think a little discomfort. He spent a long while examining that stuffed animal. Surely it was packed and restitched with some powdery substance. He’d come back to it, there were more questionable things to investigate. He pulled out a blow dryer. I yanked on the hair on my chin and said, “For my beard,” trying to lighten the mood. My joke was a flop. He set it down and produced a jewelry bag. He unbuttoned it and pounds of gold and silver came flying out. Necklaces and earrings and bracelets and rings went crashing to the table in a heap of pearls and stones and gems. There was enough for me to open my own shop. He added “pickpocket” to “drug smuggler” as his list of my identities continued to grow.

I could now sense in him a rising unease. He started to swivel his head from side to side, looking for backup, or someone to validate what he was discovering. I did my best to explain the situation. I told him the bag belonged to my wife. I told him that the items were not mine. The words I chose only dug deeper at my sinking hole, and I appeared now to be blubbering. I should have just kept quiet. What was lost in translation now had the guard agitated. The elephant, the blow dryer, the jewelry, and a laundry list of other feminine items were spread widely across the table between us. He started asking questions I did not understand. His accent was coarse and his mustache was distracting. I couldn’t produce any suitable answers. He began to reach boiling point.

He was about to come across the table when I sensed a presence behind me. It was Jeannie. “Oh my god!” she exclaimed at the site of her jewelry splayed out in twisted knots. She was dismayed. She set out collecting it, repackaging all of her prized items in the bag. Her disregard for the security officer was so swift, and committed with such strength, I think the bully had no idea how to react. She threw the elephant in the bag with such intent he actually helped her to reclose the zipper. The tables had been turned. His menacing look had been replaced with what I think was remorse. It was almost as if he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Jeannie looked at him in disgust and he nodded as if to apologize. I stood by, trying to disguise my amazement. My backup was stronger than his, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Redemption

2009-08-04T11:05:00.000-07:00

For the first time since leaving home, there is a sharp divide between Jeannie and I. Kathmandu has split us in two halves. It has that ability. On one side is an individual ecstatic at our departure, overwhelmed by the harshness of the city, underwhelmed by the reception of the locals. Kathmandu has a jagged edge. This edge scraped against my partner and nestled right under her skin. The chaos proved too dizzying, the smells a little too pungent. The wide smiles she has grown fond of in other places, the grins that help to offset the discomfort of underdevelopment, were just a little too lackluster in Kathmandu. When informed there will be a two hour power cut, Jeannie prefers it be told through smiling lips. So when the time came to bid farewell to our perpetually damp bed sheets and the yellowish brown water that sputtered from our showerhead, Jeannie was bursting with pent up enthusiasm.

I, on the other hand, found great redemption in the bitter qualities of this confusing place—the greatest of which was watching Jeannie. She provides me with an invaluable lens. The look in her eyes, the quick straightening of her spine, her carefully chosen footsteps—the way she responded to Kathmandu gave the liveliest of cities even more life. Seeing this world from her view makes it real for me in the way that is difficult to grasp on my own. Her reaction almost validates the reality of what would otherwise seem impossible or fake. I might not believe that a wild boar’s head, severed at the shoulder, skinned and pink all over, could be dribbling its last snort on a roadside table. Then I see Jeannie cover her eyes. I might not believe that a heap of trash, putrefying in a rancid bog, swarming with flies and maggots, could be piled so high on the bank of a river. Then I see Jeannie pinch her nostrils. I might not believe that a child, young and innocent, sweet-faced but hollow-eyed, could be sitting alone on a jostling street. Then I see Jeannie’s heart melt.

Once the shock and awe has subsided, and her blood pressure has returned to its normal state, I know Jeannie will appreciate where she has been. She has walked the streets that not many have, and she is better for it. In the meantime, however, I am relieved by the fact that we did partake in an experience in Nepal that provided some short term enjoyment for Jeannie.

We rose early on our third day and reported to the airport (where there is always an adventure waiting) to meet the Buddha Air Beecher 1900. We had two chairs reserved on this 18-seat, dual propeller aircraft. Twelve minutes after takeoff we were looking through oval windows at the largest mountain range in the world. In another four minutes we were crouched in the cockpit, staring through the windshield at Mt. Everest. We were flying through the atmosphere at 29,000 feet and I was eye level with the mountain peak. I was moved to shout something emphatic from the top of my lungs, but decided that startling the pilot at this juncture might not be in the best interest of my fellow passengers.

When I looked at Everest I was filled with this strange premonition that I will be back. I don’t know when, or how, or why, but I do know that I will look at Everest again—one more piece of redemption from this peculiar and striking place.

Apple Pie and Ice Cream

2009-08-02T11:21:00.001-07:00

Kathmandu is indeed a very strange place. It brings about in me the need to confront my own mortality. I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe it is the crush of humanity. Maybe it is the squalor. Maybe it is the cycle of life that seems to be palpable in a way I have never known. Maybe it is the vulnerability of the human condition I have been forced to exist within. In an odd and ironic way, the difference in the form of life here has brought me face to face with my own existence. It is visceral—a questioning in my gut. It is intuitive—a new breaker has been flipped in my mind. It is spiritual—something fresh and uncertain is stirring in my soul. We arrived here on what would have been my dad’s 57th birthday. Maybe there is something in the cosmos, some karmic realization rising from the symphony of religions and faiths that exist here. I don’t know exactly what is at play, but I do understand that something new has been awakened within my self.

I hope that when I no longer walk the earth, and have been reunited with my dad, I will remember moments like these with perfect clarity. I believe that fifty or more years will separate where I am now and my demise. So much will transpire in that time. Jeannie and I will have a family. My own children will travel the world. Reality states that no matter how hard I try, the days of now will be hazy and vague when my sunset comes. All I want is for these experiences to be vivid in the conversations I have with him upon our reunion. I want his impressions, his thoughts. I want to know his opinion. I have so many questions for him. In that space and time when we are together again, I hope we can fill eternity with conversations of how I spent my life. I suppose that if in death my memories are not returned to me in complete detail, I will be able to rely on my dad to tell them back to me in their entirety, for I know, and have proof, that he sees everything I do. Perhaps this would be even better than total recall—he was certainly the best storyteller I have ever known.

I would love for him to retell the story of the night Jeannie and I celebrated his 57th birthday in Nepal, laughing and eating his favorite dessert. Apple pie and ice cream.

When the Bell Rings

2009-08-02T08:07:00.000-07:00

You can almost time it on your watch. Suddenly the afternoon sun loses its killer instinct, pigeons flutter their dusty wings to a perch under an eve, Tibetan prayer flags undulate softly at the arrival of a new breeze, the chaotic squeal of the street comes down a decibel, and a tattered coat is systematically unfurled over a sidewalk table of brass ornaments and wood carvings. Then a new shadow creeps over the earth. One singular drop, weighing three ounces in volume, lands squarely on the center of your head, and has enough momentum to trickle all the way down your cheek. A rapturous pitter-patter deafens the blasts of horns and quenches the thirst of the road. The hovering dust of the day, stirred up from rickshaws and the stomps of incessant footsteps, is beaten down and becomes one with the drops in a milky, splashing mud. And then, as if a retainer is pulled out from the heavens, as if the tarp of the gods is snatched from the sky, a reservoir of water is dumped over the Kathmandu Valley. The monsoon has arrived.

And suddenly it is gone with the same passion it employed to arrive. The sun returns and casts flickers of light over the mild destruction of the rain. Potholes have been transformed to filthy mirrors, reflecting from above the dancing image of cobwebbed telephone wires, barred windows, and crumbling balconies. A quiet dissipation grabs hold of the city. The saturated prayer flags are now still in the air, but for a slow motion drip drop as they dry out. The birds return from the overhangs and make baths from the alleyway puddles. The sun conjures a mystical steam from the road as it sets back to its baking ways, and sucks the moisture right back into the sky, where it will dwell and stew until the bell rings tomorrow afternoon.

Sucker Punched

2009-08-01T08:58:00.000-07:00

Kathmandu is a humbling place. Jeannie’s initial description was poignant. As we glided over the city in our approach to the runway, she spied the town below and said, “It looks like its falling apart.” She has this unique ability. So often she utters the most simple of comments that strike me as so profound. I looked over her shoulder at the city below and instantly related to what she saw. From the air, Kathmandu looks like an unraveling patch. The valley metropolis is formed by layer upon layer of tireless humanity. It is alive. If you look closely you can see it breathing, its chest rising, its heart pumping. Action flows through its narrow streets like blood through veins. Bandaids cover old wounds. Splints support moldy buildings. Sutures mend cracked roads. Where the skin is broken, and it does bleed, the colors are blinding—yellow, green, red. And brown, even brown is brilliant in this place.

It is an assault we did not anticipate. Kathmandu is a sucker punch in the belly. For me, Nepal has always been cloaked in mystery. I can’t speak the name and not immediately think of the unknown. And it remained this way for me until my heels were on the ground. I’ve been overcome by preparation for the other destinations on this journey—so much so that this three day jaunt in Nepal has arrived entirely unplanned and unresearched. Had I opened a guidebook, or even glanced at a website, I’m quite sure our first two hours in this shrouded and distant land would have transpired much differently. It’s a good thing for me that my travel companion is determined, resourceful, and enchantingly persuasive. Were she to lack these qualities, I might still be spinning wheels in customs.

As fate would have it, the Nepalese government requires the purchase of visa documents upon arrival at Tribhuvan International Airport. They are happy to accept your payment of 25 US dollars per visa in the form of American, Australian, or Canadian currency. I dipped a nervous hand into my pocket and produced a fistful of Thai baht, three Chinese notes, one Hong Kong dollar, and a cache of Malaysian ringgit, totaling out to a sloppy and meager 13 US dollars. We were 37 short. I scanned the foyer for an ATM machine. No luck. A dusty currency exchange counter was the closest substitute, and we had already determined that would be of no service to us.

Jeannie held our place in line while I pleaded with the customs agent to allow me five minutes of sovereignty, just enough time to run downstairs to the only existing cash machine in the airport. After gaining his reluctant approval, I snaked my way through the musky crowd and took to the stairwell, two steps at a time. Once outside, the sun greeted me with a smack on the forehead, and illuminated the presence of fresh meat to the mob of cab drivers on the curb. I waded through them to the shattered sign that marked the ATM. A stoic guard filled the doorway to the machine. “Broken,” he said. And nearly was my resolve. I took a look, just to be sure. There is no way that cash machine has produced a bill in ten years time.

Five opportunistic merchants, perceiving my situation, jumped to my side. As they would tell me, there was no shortage of solutions. One had a car waiting. The other would loan me cash. A third would sell me the visas direct. My trouble bone began to itch.

I retreated inside the airport, and out of their clutches, to convey the direness of our situation to Jeannie. She had moved two steps forward in line since our last contact, and had a new bead of sweat on her furrowed brow. I contritely reported the series of calamitous events that had emerged since my departure. Jeannie swallowed the circumstances. We were between a rock and an immigration officer’s baton. My mind was hot, and void of anything resembling a resolution. And then a flash of hope glanced off Jeannie’s lip. She grabbed her daypack and spun off in the direction of the murky money exchange counter.

From my place in line, I could see she was getting animated with the bearded man behind the desk. She was waiving in her hand what could only be one thing—an American Express Gift Cheque we had received as a wedding gift from her Aunt Joy. We have been carrying these cheques for weeks, attempting to exchange them for cash at every bank across Asia. We even spent the better part of an hour haggling with the Hong Kong branch manager of HSBC—the largest bank on the continent. No amount of conversation was able to produce cash in return for these cheques. We had established that. Yet there she stood, giving the bearded man a demonstrative earful. Even from thirty feet away, I could see she was methodically breaking him down. He fought and resisted. Jeannie cajoled and coaxed. Hands flew in ten directions at once. He stuttered and spit. Steam billowed from behind his beard. His eyes glazed over. And then finally, he collapsed. I will never forget the sight of those crispy green bills being pulled from his register. And I will always remember the look of expected victory in Jeannie’s eyes. All this on my dad’s birthday. Sometimes, I swear they share a soul.

The Gift of a Guide

2009-07-30T20:56:00.000-07:00

Sunlei is a bona fide genius. As a PhD, he spends his weekdays in a laboratory breeding table grapes. That’s right. He is currently working on a grape creation that has Thompson worried. He might also be the nicest person I have ever met. He is certainly the most patient and welcoming. The only thing that makes him better is his sweet-natured, and equally intelligent fiancé, Lin. Together, they were our personal guides in Beijing. We owe this opportunity to the Zaharris crew in Redding. They hosted Sun for a getaway at the ranch while he was studying for a year at Berkeley. One more reason to support foreign exchange!

What made our experience so rich with Sun and Lin, is the realization that we are nearly parallel couples (when you back out the genius part) living on opposite exposures of the planet. We are the same age, and though our environments are antithetic, our worldview is ironically similar. This provided me the opportunity to engage in genuine conversations, some that probably made Mao roll over in the Mausoleum. I unloaded piles of questions on Sun. Through his responses I was able to formulate an understanding of Beijing, and his life in China, that has surprised me, saddened me, informed me, and filled me with hope all at once.

Yet our time with Sun and Lin wasn’t entirely academic. They coached us through a Mongolian style hot pot meal that now wears the crown as our best dining experience in Asia. The Tsing Taos we drank by Houhan Lake are among the most memorable libations of the journey. Sun and Lin embody what the distant adventure is all about—a proper balance of enlightenment and unfettered fun.

The Disappearing Hutongs

2009-07-30T20:47:00.000-07:00

It is evident that life is changing in Beijing. Bulldozers blot the corners of most city blocks. Abrupt chain link fences obscure construction sites. Shiny new buildings cast shadows over communist era complexes. Polished garbage cans offer receptacles for recycling. Street sweepers whisk away dirt and grime. Posters in the subway support the heavily financed anti-tobacco campaign. Policies have been written to promote politeness, namely in the form of less public phlegm tossing. No menu is without photographs, and very few are without English translations. The first Wednesday of every month has been deemed “Queue Awareness Day,” where Beijingers are asked to refrain from line-hopping.

I think the Olympics last summer were the catalyst for most of these transformations. This month marks the one year anniversary of the games in Beijing, but the spirit of the event is still very much a part of everyday life. The five rings permanently decorate roadways and billboards, and a visit to the “Bird’s Nest” is on every Beijingers list of tourist must-do’s. The pride and singularity we witnessed in the production of the opening ceremony was not contrived—it is a very real thing, and a quality that truly defines the people of this city. The Olympic Games were over in three weeks, but their impact on Beijing will be everlasting.

The most interesting, and I believe most controversial, of these cultural renovations is the demolition of what the Chinese call Hutongs. Literally translated, Hutong means “narrow alley,” an apt description for these traditional neighborhoods. The alleyways are formed by small, single story dwellings. Four homes are blocked together in squares, creating shared courtyards and small public areas. Living quarters are tight, but the arrangement naturally fosters a strong sense of community. Their existence dates back to imperial times. This mode of living, this style of home life, proved harmonious for centuries. But the Westernization of Beijing has relegated the Hutongs to the endangered species list.

In today’s Beijing, they are recognized more as a stop for voyeuristic visitors than a place for modern living. For 150 yuan, one can commission a rickshaw driver for a thirty minute manufactured tour. The government has deemed the Hutongs as unfit for contemporary life. The Party contends that the plumbing is outdated, the electricity is inept, and that the Hutongs are an oily blemish upon the fresh new skin that is Beijing. They are bulldozed blocks at a time, and replaced with drab, characterless, hastily constructed, multilevel apartment complexes. Many residents in the Hutongs are delighted to accept the “upgrade”—if they can’t afford to pay for their new high rise apartment, the government is quick to provide the subsidy. Yet there are many who are fond of their traditional way of life. Those people who resist the change, and refuse to vacate for the arrival of the bulldozer, are delicately prodded from their positions by the government’s subtle tactics, like cutting their electricity and tying their water pipes. Something about not being able to flush can quickly change your opinion.

A Whole New Experience

2009-07-29T09:44:00.000-07:00

I’m back. Out from underneath the long arm of the law. Mao can’t hold me down. I’ve risen above the man. I broke free from the chains. Let freedom ring! Okay, this is a bit melodramatic. But still, I can now report something I never imagined I would be able to say: I have been censored by the government.

The night of our arrival in Beijing, I was hunting through my bag for a clean pair of socks (knowing full well no such item existed) when I was startled by a shrill cry from the opposite side of the room. Jeannie was aghast. Fist pounding and feet stamping ensued. “My Facebook page is blocked,” she exclaimed. I rushed to console her, all the while thinking what a blessing six days would be without “The Face.” After all, this journey is about traveling beyond comfort zones and testing ourselves by living without the normal conveniences of life. “Oh my gosh, your blog is blocked too,” Jeannie said. Now I was pissed.

Jokes aside, this encounter with cyber censorship brought us eye to eye with a shocking truth. In the year 2009, 1.2 billion people live their lives in a world where the national government determines what they read and when they read it. The Party controls the media. If they decide they don’t like the message, or even the tone, it’s gone. Anything that doesn’t satisfy their agenda is immediately filtered, leaving only their carefully chosen words for consumption. The truth is spun, facts are disguised, and a nation of people is left with only one perspective. My American soul doesn’t allow me to imagine a life like this. I reject it even as a possibility. But this experience has forced me to confront this reality.

In Hong Kong, where the media is still free, I read an article in the South China Post about an entrepreneur from mainland China who founded a Twitter clone site in Beijing. What started as a social networking site, soon evolved into a public forum for people to post their personal views. There was a groundswell of liberal commentary on the site in the weeks following the recent unrest in Urumqi—a region in western China populated by an ethnic minority group. The government presented the creator of the site with an ultimatum. He either allowed the Party to censor the material posted by his users, or he faced having his site shut down. He refused to allow censorship. Days later, millions of people found a blank page when they visited the site. This ultimatum is not only presented to Chinese companies. Both Google and Yahoo allow the government to censor their search engines. An enquiry in Beijing produces an entirely different list of sites than one in Los Angeles.

Yet the Chinese people have many reasons for which to thank the People’s Party. I wasn’t in Beijing twenty years ago, but I gather the overall condition has improved. Life is crowded and congested, but I think the average person is happy. I can’t help but recite the old adage, ignorance is bliss. I think we could all benefit from a little less mauling and mayhem on the evening news. There I go, a true American, presenting two sides to the story.

Just Getting There

2009-07-29T09:32:00.000-07:00

6:12—Kiss Jeannie. She barely opens her eyes. We discuss dinner plans.

6:14—Snatch my bag. Out the door.

6:19—Canned coffee in hand. Flag down a cab. Request Dongzhufen Subway Station. Driver shouts at me. I stare blankly. He speeds off.

6:31—Second taxi arrives at station. Pay 10 yuan. Bolt through turnstile.

6:33—Subway is packed. I pry in. Smashed against glass. People touching every part of my body.

6:36—Thirty more crush inside. Man sneezes on my cheek.

6:44—Change lines. Tunnel is like Qwest Field after a Seahawks game.

6:59—Arrive at bus transfer hall. Locate #980 to distant Miyun. Grandma hawks giant phlegm. Misses my leg by two inches.

7:04—Dust cigarette ashes from seat with back of hand. Settle in for 100km ride.

7:22—Slide over for new seatmate. Great guy. Smells like fish.

7:49—Fish guy dozes off. Rolls head onto my shoulder.

8:37—Arrive at first Miyun station. Persuaded off bus by man with three-inch-long nose hairs.

8:38—Feet on the street. Middle of nowhere. Nose Hairs pulls out a price sheet. Points to an idling car. Conned.

8:39—Call him a name he doesn’t understand. Laugh boisterously at his price. Haggle hard.

8:45—Negotiate the plan: Nose Hairs will provide remaining ride from Miyun to Jinshanling, I will trek 14km to Simatai, where he will meet me and provide return to Miyun. Settle on 280 yuan. Both happy.

8:50—Use translation book for small talk with Nose Hairs. Nose Hairs’ name is June. June is forty.

9:17—June buys me a water.

9:43—Harrowing hill. Bone-rattling road. I am tense. June is cool.

10:20—Deep breath. Gaze upon the crumbly glory of The Great Wall of China.

2009-07-29T09:29:00.000-07:00

The Sights of Tiananmen Square

2009-07-29T09:22:00.000-07:00

The first time I acknowledged the existence of a world outside the United States I was seven years old, settled between my mom and dad, watching images of Tiananmen Square on the nightly news. I saw a young man, feet glued to the concrete, stand nose to nose with a menacing machine. I learned that night what a tank is.

We spent our first full day in Beijing, rather predictably, engaging in the compulsory, yet completely invigorating, visit to Tiananmen Square. As the largest public gathering place on the planet, it is one of the few locations I’ve seen that is astonishing in its nothingness. It is a massive, wide open plot of socialist cement. The distant edges of the square are lined with memorials, museums, and of the greatest interest, the Mao Mausoleum. Only a thirty meter obelisk, paying tribute to the heroes of the revolution, and one waiving red flag of the Republic, interrupt the openness of the square. The sun, beating off the harsh finish of the concrete beneath your feet, has the ability to bake your emotions, and stir within your chest the sheer power and force of the People’s Party. It is impossible to stand in Tiananmen and not feel the spirit of lives lost at the cost of ideals.

Jeannie and I, as the only Westerners in the square, looked out upon the endless throngs of Chinese pilgrims who made the distant trip from rural China to Tiananmen, and wondered what they felt in their chests. They took their turn subtly bowing in the direction of the building that holds Mao’s corpse. They marveled in awe at the stately gates of the Forbidden City. They saluted the stern-jawed members of the Red Guard as they marched past in perfect unison. But before they stopped to bear witness to all of these things, before they paused to take in Mao and the gates and the guards, before they pondered the sites of the capital they had only read about in history books, the same sights they had surely dreamt of observing on some sublime day in the future, they halted in their tracks to behold the most glorious sight in Tiananmen Square—Jeannie Scharetg.

It started with one brave child. She approached Jeannie with the kind of unbridled curiosity that only a five year old can possess. She sat next to her on the ground, threw out two fingers in an emphatic peace sign, and bared all six of her tiny teeth for the camera. Her parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, and cousins all snapped furiously at the buttons of their digital cameras. There was an explosion of flash bulbs, a symphony of beeps. And just like that the seal was broken. The flood gates were lifted. All of the timid onlookers who had been standing in the flanks came rushing to Jeannie’s side. They each flashed the same embarrassed smile, uttered the same Chinese words, and nestled their shoulders closer and closer to Jeannie.

They ogled at the miracle of her blonde hair, braded tightly behind her head in two bobbing pigtails. They peered intently at her green eyes. They wondered at the freckles on her arms. They studied the red polish on her toenails. Men and women alike drank in her impossibly long legs.

And there I stood. The ogre. I was slowly ushered to the side by the more ambitious of the photographers. Mere minutes before, I had read in my guidebook that the Chinese often refer to white men (quite affectionately I’m sure) as “Big Noses.” They’d probably never seen a beak quite as astonishing as mine. They must have feared I would cast a shadow into their photos with the American goddess. And this, compounded by the fact that my beard has now reached semi-barbarian status, was enough to preclude me from even one snapshot. “Move the big-nosed-barbarian-peasant-ogre to the side!” I know this is what they shouted to each other in Mandarin. So I shuffled into the distance and watched the turnstile of giddy Chinese spin round and round. They are indeed the most shutter-happy lot I have ever known. Had I been in a more entrepreneurial mood I would have started selling tickets.

I get a great rise from the thought of Jeannie’s photograph spread across the vast subcontinent of China. The mantle at home. The desktop at work. The attachment on an email to an entire contact list.

“What did you see in the capital?” the villagers will ask upon their return.

“Mao, the Forbidden City, and this girl!”

Wonderful Complexities

2009-07-29T09:18:00.000-07:00

Pinches were mandatory. It wasn’t a dream. When we woke in the morning, having bedded down the previous night in a Beijing hotel, we were indeed in CHINA. I dashed to the shower with a feeling of triumphant arrival. This land, after all, has been elusive. My attempt at visitation in 2003 was denied (the respiratory disease, SARS, put a quick kibosh on that plan). Then Jeannie’s gastric battles in Hong Kong held Beijing in the wind once again (nursing her to health was paramount). And finally, even as we looked down on mainland China from the window of a 747, threatening electrical storms delayed our landing (we spun our engines for two extra hours as we waited for more temperate skies). To be in Beijing was a victory, and the completion of a personal pilgrimage of sorts.

I’ve long been interested in the contemporary history of the People’s Republic. The book, Lost on Planet China, sufficiently stoked this fire, and gave room to my burgeoning fascination with this country of 1.2 billion people. Perhaps it is the complexities of this place that intrigue me so. Even the most simple of questions seem impossible to answer. Is China communist? Is China capitalist? I guess it is the hunt for the answer, even though a definitive conclusion is unlikely, that really turns my key.

The core of my interest lies in the creases of the passive face that exists at every turn. Mao Zedong is everywhere in the capital. His image is at the center of every piece of currency, his meek grin is emblazoned on every type of souvenir, his “Little Red Book of Quotations” is more available than the day’s newspaper, and of course, famously, his massive portrait overlooks the gates of Tiananmen Square. All this, while it is widely known that his policies and practices as the Chairman of the People’s Republic brought about the demise of 38 million of his countrymen. And so exists the wonderful complexities of Chinese society.

10 Reasons I Would Be Happy To Live In Hong Kong

2009-07-22T03:53:00.000-07:00

1. Life exists to a Michael Jackson soundtrack—it’s like living in the Thriller video without the werewolves and freaky yellow eyes.

2. The girls laugh at everything I say.

3. You can spend the morning walking through a mountain jungle, the afternoon on a white sand beach, and the evening in a heaving city of seven million people.

4. You can read an article in the People’s Daily (mouthpiece of the government) and then pick up the South China Post to get the real story.

5. The knockoff Gucci bags are authentic enough that I will never have to buy Jeannie a real one.

6. When you need a respite from pork buns and roasted duck, there is an expat quarter that feels like a cross between San Diego’s Gas Lamp and London’s West End.

7. The exotic imported beer is Coor’s Light.

8. A view from the 61st floor stares straight into the midsection of the neighboring building.

9. You can discuss your recent traveler’s bowel ailment in the backseat of a cab without disturbing the driver.

10. When the China sun goes down, the lights come on, and the world actually becomes brighter.

Fingers of Fury

2009-07-21T03:56:00.000-07:00

Ok. I can’t resist anymore. These massages must be discussed. Massage has figured so prominently for us throughout our Asian tour that I would be doing an injustice to our experience if I didn’t commit to some kind of honest documentation. I guess my hesitation to come forward with the massage blog has been a subconscious guilt about the uninhibited pleasure of the act. Massage is, after all, a completely indulgent practice for us. Let’s be straightforward. Massage holds no medicinal benefits for us, as we are in perfectly reasonable health. To be utterly forthright, massage has been a form of pampering that we (and some more than others) have unabashedly thrown ourselves to for the last three weeks. Jeannie has actually become hopelessly addicted. I was urged to hold an impromptu intervention on a street corner just two nights ago. Enough is enough. Her retort is that we are contributing to the local economy. She is too clever. While this claim does hold some merit, I can’t be tricked that easily. I know her well enough to see her true motivation. But it is so hard to blame her. Even as I stood there, placing a one week embargo on massage, my mind was teasing me with thoughts of the next foot rub.

Massage is so embedded in the culture of this region. While there is certainly heavy marketing to the traveling demographic, it is not only on offer in the tourist quarters of each town. We’ve done a decent amount of backstreet navigation, and I can attest to the fact that some of the best (and also most aggressive) massage parlors are not on Main Street. I’m actually convinced there isn’t a city block on this continent that doesn’t have at least one parlor. They grow here like we grow coffee shops at home. And they have every service imaginable. One of the more exotic offerings is what they call “ear candling.” In this treatment, a hollow candle is lit and the base inserted into your ear drum. The rising air pressure from the flame apparently works to extract wax, and as they say, all of the negative energy from the area between your ears. Naturally, after the intervention, Jeannie pointed out I needed one of these.

One of my favorite pastimes has been to observe the local parlor tactics of stirring up clientele. All four Asian countries we’ve been to have employed their own unique style. In Bali, the friendly masseuses around our hotel angled ever so sweetly to get my first name. One woman in particular cunningly lulled me into a conversation about the island. I made the rookie mistake of introducing myself. For the next two days, “Caseeeeey!” echoed across the beach every time I came within eyeshot. The Malaysians take a more subtle approach, and rely on signage to create business. Plastic signs, neon signs, wooden signs, corrugated metal signs—logos and branding figure heavily in the modern financial culture of Kuala Lumpur, and it is no different in the massage trade. In Thailand, they rely on the power of seduction. Each business owner places the two or three best looking female members of the staff in the doorway, and tells them not to be shy. After a day in any Thai city it is impossible to rid your head of the notorious call, “Hellroooh, Massaaaaaa….” In Hong Kong, parlors are much stealthier. They hire street hustlers to patrol entire city blocks. A brisk tug on the back of your shirt sleeve alerts you to a small woman, whispering something in a surreptitious voice about “massage…foot…shoulder…ear.” You get the sense she is hawking something illegal or taboo. I find this tactic quite unnerving. It’s actually enough to make me prefer the hollering of the Balinese and Thai.

Ultimately, it was two regrettable massage incidents that moved me to pull the plug on our parlor participation. I suppose my penance is to divulge them now.

Regrettable Incident #1: We were deep in China Town, Kuala Lumpur. It was long after dark. Jeannie initiated a hard path for the neon “REFLEXOLOGY” sign on the corner. I followed. We were greeted inside the shadowy door by three men and one woman—together, they comprised the massage staff. (Sidebar: I am sure men give terrific foot reflexology treatments. I, however, at this time and place, was not excited about the possibility of a guy rubbing on my big toe.) As the staff shuffled into position, grabbing their oils and buckets and towels, I deftly maneuvered my way out of the seats where the male masseuses were getting set, and into the chair belonging to the only female member of the staff. Quite pleased with myself, I contentedly removed my shoes, and exchanged a smile with my girl. Without saying a word, she oiled up and set straight to work. I closed my eyes, relaxed my head on the pillow, and let her work her magic. It wasn’t a minute later when I thought to myself, “My, what strong hands this woman has.” When I lifted my head to take a look, I think my heart must have skipped a beat. My foot was engulfed in the meatiest paw in Malaysia. She had knuckles like Chuck Norris, maybe even a little hair between them. When I asked my masseuse her name, her Adam’s apple moved six inches. I said it was shadowy.

Regrettable Incident #2: Having put incident #1 behind me, and taking more than my fair share of heat from Jeannie, I determined that no future parlor visit could produce a more surprising outcome, and opted to get back in the game. That is when I became a bit too bullish. Feeling bored by the thirty minute foot massage I had adopted as my staple service, I confidently negotiated a price on the granddaddy of all parlor programs: The Bangkok Special Two Hour Traditional Thai Massage. For what felt like half of a day, the strongest woman in Asia worked feverishly to break my skin, using the pointed angles of her bony elbows. Through the haziness of my painful stupor, I remember her balancing all of her weight on my spine, using only her kneecaps for stability. She pulled on my foot while driving her heel into my groin. She tied my arms in a knot behind my head. The massage evolved into a showdown of sorts. She was trying to break me. I was trying to keep my hip bone connected to my leg bone. How much pain can one small woman inflict? This little devil would be happy to show you.

Good and Evil in Indonesia

2009-07-20T08:10:00.000-07:00

I’d be telling a lie if I said that it didn’t rattle my cage a bit. We were, after all, in the Indonesian capital city of Jakarta just three weeks ago. Sure, we’ve contemplated the dangerous reality of our presence in this part of the world—we’ve spent several nights in the last month with a Marriott roof over our heads. But before we jump to fretting over our personal safety, Jeannie and I have both noted that the recent hotel bombings prompt us to think about our friends in Bali. Throughout our travels across the island, we had many opportunities to mingle with the Balinese people. We found them to be open and generous, qualities that enabled us to engage in many conversations beyond simple salutations.

The nature of our journey allows us to form meaningful, though short, relationships with the service people that intersect our course. Flight attendants, taxi drivers, waiters and waitresses, hotel receptionists—all have a story that can provide invaluable insight to the culture, practices, beliefs, and history of a place. It was a taxi driver in Bali, named Mr. Mara, who left a lasting impression on us both.

It was our last night in Indonesia, and we had been celebrating (as is usually the case). Mr. Mara picked us up outside the restaurant we had selected for the night. I assumed my standard position in the front seat (not sure if it’s the length of my legs or my affinity for chatting with strangers that usually lands me that spot in cabs). We saw immediately that Mr. Mara was amenable (jovial is a better word) so we jumped straight into name-trading and discussions of the King of Pop. I had spent part of the afternoon visiting the Kuta Beach Memorial at the site of the 2002 terror bombing—an act that took the lives of over 200 innocent people, and utterly crippled the tourism industry across the resort island. I was curious about Mara’s whereabouts the day of the explosion, and how the attack had impacted his business.

In the same way we can all recall in an instant where we were, what we were doing, even what the weather was like on September 11th, Mara flew into a vivid retelling of the night seven years ago that changed his life. He was working as a host in a seafood restaurant in the cultural center of Bali, a town called Ubud. This part of the island, known for its local art and traditional dance performances, probably falls last on the typical tourist’s list of Bali Must-Do’s (it’s a long way from the pool bar). When people stopped visiting the beaches altogether, you can imagine what that did to the landlocked, artistic town of Ubud. Mara and his coworkers were laid off in just a matter of weeks.

To compound the loss of his job, Mara’s family life quickly spiraled into a series of tragic events. His hunt for a new source of income was intensified by the anticipation of the birth of his second son. His wife was seven months into her pregnancy when sudden complications arose, requiring an immediate cesarean section. The doctor informed Mara the procedure would cost the equivalent of $750—a sum of money that the unemployed Mara could only dream of acquiring. Seizing his only option, he wrote a letter to the Indonesian government, petitioning for help with the hospital fees and the surgical procedure. By the time he received a negative response from his local officials, it was already too late. Mara was in the hospital room when the fetus was removed from his wife’s womb. As a devout Hindu, it was now Mara’s responsibility to complete the burial ceremony, an act that required him to take the body of his unborn son to his childhood village on the northern coast of Bali. He wrapped him in sheets and rode three hours through the middle of the night—holding his son in one hand and the throttle of his motor scooter in the other.

The cab had fallen completely silent, but for the sobs of Jeannie in the backseat. This story, and the way he told it, was almost too much to bear. Just before we all coiled into despair, Mara tempered his tale with the sensational news that another son had been born, six months ago. His beaming smile returned, and he relieved us with the laugh we had come to enjoy so much in the first half of the ride. Right up until we arrived at the hotel, he entertained us with stories of his newborn and of his seven year-old, a young upstart who has found a passion for Balinese dance and speaking English.

Captured by his laugh and his ability for storytelling, we hadn’t even noticed he had circled his taxi around the front loop of the hotel. I reached into my pocket and retrieved the rupiah I needed to pay the fare. At the same time, Jeannie reached into her bag and produced a twenty dollar note, the kind with Andrew Jackson on it. When she presented it to Mr. Mara, his head nearly hit the ceiling of the cab. The prolific storyteller started to stutter. And then he fell speechless. I still think I saw a tear form in the corner of his eye.

We got his business card. Jeannie, in her purest form, decided immediately upon our return home we will put together a package of sorts for Mara and his family. I have a feeling, given the recent headlines, he will be needing that package more than ever.

A Visit from Molave

2009-07-19T04:08:00.000-07:00

I answered the hotel phone to the petite voice of a Chinese woman representing the Toni&Guy Hair Salon. She was looking for Jeannie, who apparently had made an appointment to have her hair colored and cut. The woman politely informed me the purpose of the call was to confirm that her appointment would be canceled due to the typhoon.

“The what?” I interrupted. She responded with the innocent giggle I have grown to appreciate as an endearing trait of the women in this country.

“You did not hear it? There is typhoon level 8 coming for Hong Kong. It arrive tonight and stay tomorrow.”

I thanked her for the call, returned the phone to the nightstand, and then turned to look out the window of our 61st floor guestroom. The sky was a bit darker than it had been the previous day, but there was no reason to suspect a storm was on the way. Intrigued by this possible turn of events, I reached for my Asia guidebook and flipped to a section where I recalled reading something about extreme weather in Hong Kong. Sure enough, I found a special color inset amidst the black and white text with the heading, “Typhoons: What to do.” My eyes were drawn to the last sentence of the script—“If a T8 typhoon is headed for Hong Kong, retreat to your hotel room, close all the windows and drapes, and wait for the storm to pass.” Wow. This required further investigation.

I threw on some sandals and was standing at the front desk in two minutes. A group of Westerners had congregated at the counter. A bombarded staff member, with slightly less than total mastery of the English language, stood with wide eyes and pointed to a freshly drafted memo pasted to an easel. It started, “Attention Valued Guests…”

What I learned from the memo was nothing short of thrilling. Typhoon Molave was stewing, and apparently conjuring strength, in the sea to the south. Before midnight, the typhoon was to make landfall, and bring with it torrential rain and gale force wind. The worst of the storm was to last twelve hours. The memo warned that power outages were a great possibility, and generally offered advice right to boarding up your windows and tying down your house pets. I love a good storm. This had me excited. I raced upstairs to get Jeannie. There was an urgent trip in store—we needed provisions.

In the room, I was met with nervous eyes and an anxiety that nearly pacified my enthusiasm.

“C’mon, Jeanne, this will be fun,” I said. “We can sit up here in the room and watch the whole thing pass by. I already asked the concierge if the top of the hotel would rock back and forth, and he said no.”

Oops. I guess she hadn’t yet considered the teetering of the hotel as a possibility. Putting the thought in her head was an error. I gave her my best “I’m here to make everything alright” hug, grabbed a stash of Hong Kong dollars, and bolted out the door.

Once on the street, I realized I wasn’t the only one on the hunt for supplies. Every store, sidewalk, and street crossing was packed with people, all dashing about with an overt sense of urgency. A light drizzle began to fall from the sky, hastening the already rapid footsteps of pedestrians all over the city. All at once a thousand umbrellas popped open. I took two or three pokes in the eye from grandmas with wayward bumbershoots, but couldn’t be deterred from the mission. I charged on, and returned to the hotel with rations in hand, just as the sky opened up and released the wrath of the South China Sea.

Trekking Thailand

2009-07-18T05:58:00.000-07:00

If this journey is about being exposed to life-changing experiences, Thailand delivered. After spending four days on the sundrenched islands of Koh Samui and Koh Phangan in the Gulf of Thailand, we jetted to the northern region of the country, and the traveler’s hub of Chiang Mai. Closer to Burma than Bangkok, this town of one million people is known as Thailand’s second city. It qualifies as a must-hit on the backpacker’s circuit of Thailand as a reputed jump off location for trekking the mountains of the Land of Smiles. After happily ingesting our recommended dose of island sand and surf, we were ready for what Chiang Mai has to offer—jungles, rivers, hilltribes, and as reported by fellow travelers, elephants.

Of the 200 outfitters that provide guided treks through the highlands, my travel book suggested one in particular that seemed to meet our needs. Rather conveniently it doubled as a guesthouse. And so Eagle House #2 became our home for the night. Spartan at best, the room was a challenge for Jeannie. It smelled a bit stale, the pillow was not without stains, and an insect or two also called it home. But for $7, the price was certainly right. Jeannie set out to redecorating immediately. I think the frazzled bed spread hit the floor before my bag. “I’ll be using my Balinese sarong for a blanket tonight,” she said. Without any further explanation I knew I’d be on my own for finding covers. Bed linens or not, I also knew a night at the Eagle House would be repaid in the next two days.

The following morning we rose early, I having slept quite soundly under a towel. Backpacks in tow, we climbed into the bed of a pick-up truck for our ride into the mountains, with our guide, Mr. Dang, at the wheel. Each side of the truck bed was fitted with a bench large enough for five rear ends. So along with four Germans and two Brits, Kelly, Shomit, Jeannie and I left the busy streets of Chiang Mai for the bamboo forests of the hinterlands. Our first stop was an eighty meter waterfall at the edge of the Mae Tang National Park. After a stuffy ride in sweltering heat, we relieved ourselves with a refreshing swim in the roiling natural pool. It took all the strength I had to stand upright under the crashing of the falls. The site served as a wonderful introduction to the wildness and the beauty that lay ahead.

After stopping for a Pad Thai lunch at a remote roadside café, we motored up the steep country road to a forest service station, where we bid farewell to the truck. We spent the rest of the afternoon trekking through a lush (and very soggy) mountain rainforest. Between thick bamboo groves and banana leaves the size of cars, we looked out over mist-covered mountain ridges that led right into Laos. The views were shocking, and inspirational enough to make me forget about the leaches that were sucking on my feet.

The air grew thinner as we climbed, but was still so thick with moisture you seemed to drink it rather than breath it in. Shirts drenched, shorts muddied, and knees weary we arrived at our destination for the night—a hilltribe village of 300 people, known as the Karen. We bathed in the river. We watched men cultivate a rice terrace. We ate a chicken that walked the village that morning. We sipped whisky with people of the tribe. We slept on the floor of a wooden hut. We did things we will probably never do again.

The next morning we woke to crowing roosters, ate a breakfast of fresh eggs and the toast we had trekked in the day before, and wasted no time in setting out on the trail. Jeannie and Kelly presented the tribe with some children’s books on our way out of the village, and then we ascended over a massive mountain ridge. The morning was especially hot. Jeannie was distracted from the heat only by her elaborate pattern of inflamed mosquito bites. Fortunately, the trials of the jungle were soon forgotten when a family of elephants appeared from behind a dense thicket of ivy. They were to be our transportation for a three mile journey down the river. I can say the ensuing experience is truly one of the greatest things I’ve done in my life.

For two hours Jeannie and I rode alone upon the back of a quiet, steady animal. Our elephant was a magnificent being. Only separated from the creature’s back by a handcrafted wooden seat, we patted the head and rubbed the shoulders of our friend as he generously shared with us the stunning banks of the Mae Tang River. Only the gushing of the water and an occasional trumpet from the elephant could be heard. The forest at our sides was completely still. I will never forget the silence and peace of the experience. I may never feel closer to nature again.

Animal Sightings

2009-07-18T03:31:00.000-07:00

Animals have been a surprisingly large part of our experience. Perhaps it is Jeannie’s love for the creature kingdom that has steered us to observing, discussing, and contemplating the native fauna of each country we’ve visited. There were the seal pups of the Kaikoura Peninsula in New Zealand, the koalas and their joeys at the Sydney Zoo, the sticky-toed geckos (and trumpet fish) of Bali, the reticulated python exhibit in Kuala Lumpur, and the pinnacle of all animal experiences, the Tiger Kingdom in Chiang Mai, Thailand. All of these creature encounters have been fascinating, and we have enjoyed watching their behaviors immensely. But none of these live-in-the-flesh animal sightings have been quite as intriguing as the ones on the a la carte dinner menu.

In our travels through Australasia we have learned that no being is safe. Crocodile steaks anyone? How about a nibble of Kangaroo Jerky? Have two. Ostrich is common. And no menu is complete without a little snake. Moving on to the seafood offerings of the evening: octopus, eel, shark, barracuda (tooth-snarled head included, of course!) In the mood for pork? Rest assured, knuckle soup is always in demand. Beef fillets and chicken breasts are just boring. Why eat that when you can munch on the intestine, bladder, esophagus, or knee cartilage? I’ve heard the spicy cow brain is delightful. If cow is too mainstream for your taste there is always donkey. But don’t plan on eating the rib meat—hoof is the way to go.

We’ve spent most of our time digesting the more palatable of the native offerings, although I haven’t dismissed much. I’m not inclined to denying the recommendations of our restaurant hosts. I’ve paid the price more than once (I’ll conclude the details there), but every sampling has been worth the risk, with the exception of maybe one. In a local back-alley Malaysian restaurant in Thailand, we enjoyed a spicy beef satay. It was delicate and rich all at once, and unarguably delicious. As we dined, a large and greasy rat sauntered arrogantly alongside the patio tables. “My, what a meaty rat,” we joked, turning back to our beefy skewers. Only a day later, when walking through a hidden grocery market, did we see a skinless rodent, petrified in the prone position, prepped and fried, two buck front teeth still intact. Special price—only 100 baht. My satay was 200.

I’ve read that the cuisine of mainland China favors the four-legged furry friends of America. I’m accepting of all cultural differences, but that might be one practice I’ll be forced to turn a blind eye against. Fido for dinner is enough to make me green about the gills. If it registers that high on my queasy scale, I think it might be enough to make Jeannie’s head explode. Her head is just too pretty for such an incident. I’ve kept an eye open for all things wild and exotic on this journey, but I really hope that’s something we don’t see.

Muay Thai in Koh Samui

2009-07-12T18:50:00.000-07:00

I’m really not sure if it was perspiration or water from the trainer’s bottle that exploded from the boxer’s brow, and flew directly down the neck of my Singha beer. The 200 baht premium for ringside seats was already paying for itself.

Chaweng Stadium, an arena taken straight from a Van Damme classic, was rife with local Muay Thai fanatics and Westerners wearing nervous expressions. Shomit and I did our best to appear relaxed, but the tension in the place was palpable. The boxers swayed around the ring, gloved hands circling their cheeks, with resemblance to cobra snakes, seemingly charmed by the beating of the drums from the top row of the bleachers.

As the three minute round progressed, the rapping of the drums hastened, and so did the pace of the bout. The fighters traded heavy blows, catapulting through the air and slashing at each other with their feet. Their bodies came crashing together, now joined from the shoulders in a twisting grapple. The more aggressive of the two began driving his knee into the rib cage of his opponent. A red welt the size of a pancake began to bubble around the recipient’s kidney. The aggressor, sensing the opportunity, unbuckled his grip from the neck of his hostage, and unleashed a battery of snapping punches.

In a final ditch to escape, the defeated man turned in our direction. He was close enough for us to see his eyes glaze over as he parted from consciousness and crumpled to the mat. The local contingency went bonkers. Baht changed hands like cards in a poker game. Men shouted emphatically at each other in Thai, carrying on with an energy that flirted with turning hostile. The same intensity we had witnessed in the ring could be felt now in the crowd. It was clear in the way some of the men postured (and by the cut of their jibs) they were not foreign to being inside the ropes. Something about an ear that looks more like a cauliflower tends to give that away. After the collaterals had been collected, and a sufficient amount of fingers had been pointed, the crowd settled back into their seats and we settled back into our Singhas. This was only the first fight. We had six more on the bill.

Touted by promoters as the “most devastating martial art,” Muay Thai boxing feels like the national pastime of Thailand. It seems as though every town has at least a handful of stadiums (to be accurate, the venues I’ve seen are more like smoky bars than stadiums). The match spectators are nearly all men. (The stadium makes a great location for sizeable groups of entrepreneurial Thai women. They clog the exits looking for paying dates.)

While the matches do seem to encourage some of the seedier practices of Thai society, there are elaborate traditions to the sport that I have not even begun to understand. Every bout begins with a ritualistic song and dance, in which the fighters very serenely engage in what looks like prayer. It also appears to be a sport of great honor and respect. The fighters attack with abandon between bells, but when the battle is over they embrace and sip water from their opponent’s cup. For all of its violence, there is a strange beauty to Muay Thai. We’ll have to see if it’s beautiful enough to lure Jeannie from the massage parlor in Bangkok.

Where Have All the Americans Gone?

2009-07-11T10:27:00.000-07:00

We can count them on one hand. Today marks the one month checkpoint of our world journey. Five new stamps decorate the pages of my tattered passport. For thirty days we’ve tramped up and down foreign streets, eaten in countless restaurants, and explored more than a healthy dose of markets. We’ve slept in fifteen different beds. And we’ve only met five Americans (two of them were Kelly and Shomit). I’ve met more new people in the last month than I have in the last year, but none of them can sing the Star Spangled Banner.

The Fourth of July was nothing more than a day between the 3rd and the 5th. We toasted a Tiger beer or two, and I daydreamt for a few moments of a barbequed cheeseburger, but the day passed without a smile from a compatriot. It is quite surprising, really. And this part of the world is not void of Westerners—there are Aussies aplenty, the Dutch love the warmth, the Germans are easy to spot in their Speedos, and the regal British accent is easy to hear. Even the Canucks are well represented (we’ve found they want no relation to us).

Locals assume we are Australian. When we say California they stretch their necks and curl their brows. Then they sing a Michael Jackson hook. MJ is larger than life. I regret to think we are not present due to the economic times. We’ve all made concessions in the last eighteen months, but travel must remain a priority for us as a society—especially foreign travel. And there are bargains to be had. I get the sense that every downturn we’ve experienced at home has been felt twofold here. Prices on menus have been obscured with white out and scribbled over with reduced amounts. Domestic flights between destinations can be nabbed for the price of pizza delivery back home. And, as Jeannie has become rather familiar with, sixty minute massages on the beach require a $5 investment.

Worlds Apart

2009-07-08T21:12:00.000-07:00

As we depart Kuala Lumpur, we are struck by the vast differences between our first two ports of call in Southeast Asia. While a short spatial distance separates Malaysia and Bali, they are worlds apart in character. This fact became immediately apparent from surface observations, and the gap only broadened as we dug deeper into the nature of Malaysia and its vibrant capital city, known simply as KL.

The culture and demeanor of Bali is widely characterized by its religion. As a Hindu state, Bali is an island within Indonesia, both literally and figuratively. The surrounding lands are occupied predominately by practicing Muslims. In Bali, you find ornate constructions of golden deity statues and brightly adorned temples shrouded in aromatic incent smoke. At the base of every doorway, both public and private, is a bright green receptacle, similar to the shape of an ash tray, fashioned from folded palm leaves. The Balinese fill the trays with incent candles and slow burning flower petals. Malaysia, meanwhile, is an Islamic state with exclusively Muslim political leaders. Mosques and minarets can be found down every road. The star and moon symbols of the Islamic faith are boldly portrayed on the national flag. The call to prayer pierces the air five times a day, when rhythmic Arabic chants are belted out from loud speakers positioned atop equidistant minarets.

In parts of Bali there is a ban on the construction of buildings. The government has mandated that no structure shall be taller than a coconut tree. Conversely, the shining jewel and national symbol of the progress of Malaysia, is the Petronas Tower, which from 1996 to 2003 was the tallest structure in the world. At 88 stories, it brilliantly reflects the Malaysian sun, and epitomizes the collective desire of the Malay people to embrace the western ideal of modernity. They are very proud to offer Starbucks.

While Bali is embedded in native tradition and is largely homogenous, Malaysia is defined by its multi-ethnicity. As an important destination on early trade routes, Peninsular Malaysia has long been a contested strip of land. In different periods it has been occupied by the Portuguese, the Dutch, and the British. When the Queen ultimately decided to vacate the peninsula, the Japanese came swooping in, and owned the land throughout most of World War II. All the while, mass immigration from India and China led to the creation of strong communities of both peoples. It wasn’t until 1957 that Malaysia declared independence and Malays really defined a sense of nationality. Today they are a proud bunch, and most of the ethnic Malays consider themselves Malaysian rather than descendants of their motherlands. But the influences of the past are undeniable, and walking the street can feel like teleporting from one continent to the next. We all agree that the KL China Town is one of the most pulsating city blocks we’ve ever experienced.

The Doctor Fish

2009-07-08T06:07:00.000-07:00

Somewhere in my scouring of travel magazines over the past year, I stumbled upon an article about a breakthrough foot therapy gaining a cult following. The treatment had somewhat of an underground mystique—I got the sense you could only partake in the service after being ushered down a dusty alley and through the drapes of a smoky doorway by a small man named Lee with a Fu Man Chu. As the kind of guy that will always follow Lee down an alley, I was instantly intrigued. I stored the article somewhere in the hazy recesses of my mind and determined to keep an open eye for Lee, the alley, or if lucky, both at the same time.

As it turned out, the mysterious foot therapy found us, rather ironically in the midst of one Kuala Lumpur’s many brightly lit shopping malls. No smoke, no drapes, no Fu Man Chu, just a huge vinyl sign that read: CUTE FISH SPA.

For five Ringgit (equivalent to $1.50 USD), you can submit yourself to one of the most bazaar sensations imaginable for ten titillating minutes. The Malays have discovered a toothless fish that exists for one purpose alone—to devour the callused and dead skin that clings to the soles of your feet. When you plunge your sockless toes into their tank they attack you with the veraciousness of piranhas. A foot frenzy ensues. They nibble and peck, suck and gnaw. The bigger ones chew. It takes all you have not to squirm out of your skin. Jeannie squirmed right out of hers just watching me get the treatment. Kelly was brave enough to offer up a big toe. That was all the doctor fish could get out of her.

Amazingly, I departed the CUTE FISH SPA walking on a cloud. The stuff is gold. I’ve been working Shomit for the past two days to import the concept to the states. The Doctor Fish idea has legs, er, fins.

Quarantine in Kuala Lumpur

2009-07-06T17:43:00.000-07:00

Somewhere between the icy winds of Mt. Tongariro and a hazardous stroll through a congested market in urban Bali, I contracted a nasty little bug. This pest soon morphed into a full blown upper respiratory infection that not only gave me a thunderous cough, but the inclination to a call on medical attention in Asia. I’m hard to find at a doctor’s office at home, if that helps clarify how dire my condition became. But there was no moment quite as perilous as facing the confines of quarantine upon arrival in Malaysia.

When our flight landed at the Kuala Lumpur International Airport, we deplaned not to the cheery and festive faces we had grown accustom to in places like Fiji and New Zealand, but to stern eyes raking over us from above tightly strapped surgical masks. Without masks we were a minority. Blue masks, grey masks, green masks, black masks, designer masks—and me, my stuffed nose and whooping mouth of bacteria exposed to the world. I never knew the sensation of having a naked face until this moment. The feather in my throat now stroked heavily at my esophagus. Brutal. I stifled a cough that would have crumbled the walls of the airport, and dizzily followed the crowd toward the sign that read: H1N1 QUARANTINE CHECKPOINT.

Attempting to hide amongst the sea of people filing through customs was futile. I imagined a massive red arrow bobbing just above my head, shouting out to the customs agents, “This is who you’re looking for!” Trying to appear healthy and sprite, I approached the counter to receive my compulsory questionnaire. I grasped a pen in my sweaty palm and scanned the questions on the form. Oh, no.

Have you recently been to a country defined as a H1N1 hot zone by the World Health Organization (Australia)?

Check.

Have you been trekking in any remote areas?

Check.

Have you been suffering from a cough for more than five days?

Check.

I am not the lying type. And I especially don’t like lying to immigration officers in developing countries. But it was time to throw my moral concerns to the wind. I answered “no” to every question on the form.

Moments later I was standing before the customs officer, knees knocking as he discriminately flipped through my passport. He paused for a moment on my Chinese visa, and took a long look at an old stamp from a port in Mexico. There was to be trouble. And then he opened the page with a stamp from Australia so fresh I think the ink had yet to dry. The time had come. Visions of dark hallways, gloved doctors, and padded rooms danced in my head. I was ready to throw myself at the mercy of the officer, confess all my sins, and explode with the cough that was bottled so deep in my chest. The words were forming on my tongue when he reached for his stamp, pounded it against his ink pad, and pressed it to the inside of my passport. I don’t think he’d ever seen an American so happy to be in Malaysia.

The Balinese Art of Spearfishing

2009-07-05T07:30:00.000-07:00

We have united with our first visitors. Jeannie and I deplaned in Indonesia to the beaming smiles of Kelly and Shomit. They are the most adventurous of people, with curious hearts and open minds. They have the gift of the traveler’s paradigm—there is no problem too big, no mystery too small. As a couple, they are the perfect travel companions. Plus, it’s great to have a guy around. It took no more than twenty four hours after meeting with Shomit to engage in some good old fashioned “mantivities.” With his initiative, I even tried something new—something I’ve always wanted to try. Spearfishing.

Look no further than the attached photo for the proof of this statement: spearfishing is harder than it appears. When we left the beach to meet our captain and expert of the aqua spear, I had visions of returning to the homestead with the bounty of the sea—maybe a red snapper, or a yellowfin tuna. We learned from the locals that the seas were teeming with them just beyond the waves. Feeding from Shomit’s confidence, I even told Jeannie (with an inflated chest) to save room for lunch, as I would be the provider for the day. It’s a good thing there was a restaurant beside our bungalow.

It turns out I cannot swim nearly as well as fish. Getting close to them can be extremely challenging, especially when carrying a despairingly primitive weapon. I got the sense that most of the fish I encountered were not foreign to the spear—giving me great reason to doubt the scientific claim that the scaled creatures have no memory. They were somehow able to keep a two meter distance from the end of my spear at all times—a minor complication when the leash on the shaft is one meter long.

Then, of course, I was greatly limited by my selection of prey. The big fish, tuna and snapper, swam too deep. I nearly popped my eardrums and permanently suctioned my mask to my face in a futile twelve foot descent. The shallow reef fish were too beautiful. I was so mesmerized by their colors I forgot I was fishing for nearly half an hour. Some of the reef fish were actually large enough to be accompanied by a side of rice and fried noodles, but I didn’t have the heart to take one down. Then I discovered the perfect compromise; a fish that swims at a reachable depth, and doesn’t shimmer like a kaleidoscope in the sunshine—the trumpet fish. Slow and docile, it made the perfect target. There was only one problem. The trumpet fish has the same girth as the very spear I was using to snare it. Only the master marksman could hit such a target. Or a lucky beginner without a clue of how to spearfish in Bali. Luckily, I belong to the second camp.

When I returned to the bungalow with my catch, I soon learned the Balinese love to engage in a good laugh. When they looked upon my trumpet, and the fish that Shomit was holding (to his credit, “it looked much bigger when it was underwater”) they spared no breath in berating our skills. I actually had to plead with the proprietor to have the cook even prepare my catch. But alas, a meal was produced. It’s a good thing there was plenty of cold Bintang available to wash it down.

It's a Backpack With Wheels!

2009-07-02T05:17:00.000-07:00

Ever hold the vision of a moment in your mind for months at a time? I suppose we all anticipate future scenarios. Some people believe you actually create those happenings by thinking and dreaming about them coming true (there’s a great book about this phenomenon called, The Secret—thanks, Shomit). I shouldn’t say that I dreamt about my particular moment, it would be unkind to hope for it to come true. But I certainly did think about it. And I certainly envisioned it in fairly vivid detail. This vision became very real on a beach in Bali. Allow me to set the scene.

We had big plans for the day. The manager of our beach bungalow hotel kindly made our van arrangements the night before. We met our driver at a quarter of ten, and without delay began the erratic road dance of moped dodging. We had a boat to catch. We were to board a passenger watercraft to Nusa Lembongan, a tranquil island located within one hour’s journey from the east coast of Bali. The boats to Nusa Lembongan depart from the village of Sanur—a long way from the resorts and Italian boutiques that typically characterize the western view of Bali. Our driver disposed of us a half kilometer from the beach, very conveniently at the footsteps of a grotesque souvenir shop and an ATM machine. We grabbed our bags and tramped down the colorful road to the boat.

By the time we reached the beach Jeannie had accumulated salty dew on her forehead and collarbone. The morning was hot. Balinese bustled up and down the beach and along the sidewalk that shanks the shore. A steep ramp adjoined the road’s end and the sand’s beginning. We studied the waterline for the dock that would unite us with our boat. No such thing. Our boat bobbed in the water, a sure twenty foot wade from dry land. This was the moment of truth.

For three weeks now Jeannie has survived brilliantly with her luggage situation. After months of debate, incessant balancing of pros and cons, and more than a healthy serving of my input, Jeannie made the personal decision to invest in a suitcase. As a devout proponent of the backpack, I cautioned her strongly against the pitfalls of the traditional suitcase. So Jeannie thought she discovered the perfect compromise when she found a suitcase with both wheels and “shoulder straps.” This piece of luggage has an extremely generous allowance for filler, so naturally, it was filled up. It became filled to the point where the straps are now completely obsolete. They’d surely snap like an overstretched rubberband if they were ever employed. I like to call her bag, “The Crate.”

With our toes at the end of the ramp, about to descend across the sand to our boat teetering in the waves, we exchanged a glance that contained a million thoughts. More thoughts than I could ever hope to include here. With all my belongings bound tightly to my back (and for the record, capable of running to the boat if need be), I waited for her next move. In true Jeannie fashion, she took a deep breath, and defiantly marched down the ramp to the sand below. She towed that bag a hundred feet across the beach, the wheels leaving a design in the sand never before seen by the Balinese. Two bold footprints, followed by winding symmetrical grooves. She was like Neil Armstrong staking the American flag on the moon.

This was the moment I had played over in my mind countless times—the moment that Jeannie’s luggage came crashing against the realities of the developing world. In our great bag debates before we left home, I did my best to paint the ugliest, most inconvenient and uncomfortable scenarios for Jeannie. I think one of those scenarios actually included a beach and a boat. What I didn’t envision, but most certainly should have, was Jeannie arriving on the scene and doing what she always does—conquering the challenge.

An Evening at The Opera House

2009-07-01T07:16:00.000-07:00

I may be carrying all of my worldly belongings in a 65 liter backpack, but that doesn’t preclude my desire to experience the pleasures of high culture. So given the opportunity, Jeannie and I purchased tickets to a show at the world famous Sydney Opera House.

I prepared for our night of elegance by donning my finest attire—the striped shirt I reserve for special occasions (any event where a t-shirt is not up to standard), my jeans (freshly washed in the hotel Laundromat), and my hiking shoes (a distinct class above my Rainbow sandals). I looked dapper. That was until I saw a man, who looked strangely like Pavarotti, dressed in a million dollar tuxedo, garnished with a shimmering white scarf. I looked like riffraff.

Jeannie and I meekly followed Pavarotti up the majestic steps of the Opera House. We thought maybe under the guise of custodians we’d be permitted to see the show. With mild trepidation we presented our show cards to the usher, to which she took one glance and muttered, “You are entirely in the wrong place.”

Fortunately for us, she was right, and not just discriminating against my fragrance, eau de backpacker. Our tickets were for the show in the playhouse, located around the side of the Opera House, and not for the Baroque Showcase being held in the main theatre. So we parted from Pavarotti, and shuffled over to a side of the venue where I drew fewer downward looks. I should add that Jeannie looked more beautiful than any of the champagne sippers who frowned at my trail shoes.

Surfer's Paradise and the Gold Coast

2009-07-01T07:09:00.000-07:00

Driven by what some may call an overzealous desire to see as much of the country as possible, Jeannie and I caught a domestic flight this week on Virgin Blue, Richard Branson’s offering to the Australian premium economy airline industry. We jetted to the middle of the eastern coastline, known here as the Gold Coast. (Our wintertime travels have prompted us to rename this popular beach destination the Cold Coast). But worry not, despite brisk weather and even a spit of rain, we managed to have a wonderful time in the fine state of Queensland.

We owe much of our good time to the hospitality of Stephanie and Jonas. A high school classmate of Jeannie’s, Steph has lived in Australia for ten years. She has an Australian education, an Australian passport, an Australian mortgage, and even a bit of an Australian accent—for all intensive purposes, she is Australian. And additionally, an outstanding tour guide. Her boyfriend, Jonas, is a Swede with an equal passion for all things Aussie. He is a hat designer for the Australian surf company, Billabong, and a very intelligent guy. Jeannie and I enjoyed their company a great deal.

We made a home for ourselves in the tourist epicenter of the Gold Coast, a three kilometer stretch of sand, surf and high-rise accommodation, called Surfer’s Paradise. (I have a positive predisposition for any town with an apostrophe in its name. Maybe my marketing side leads me to respect the tactics of the tourism board that named the town. How can you avoid a place called Surfer’s Paradise?) The general aesthetics of the place are of the same cut as Waikiki Beach. Dueling towers scrape the sky at forty stories and higher, restaurants and bars entice diners to overpriced meals and Mai Tai’s, souvenir shops beckon the weary with promises of goods at wholesale pricepoints. But behind the commercialism is a surf break that warrants the location’s namesake.

With Steph as our guide, we were able to explore much of what southern Queensland and the Gold Coast has to offer. Over the course of three days we became very acquainted with her two-door Land Rover. My favorite coastal stop was a surf break called Burleigh Heads. (The longer I resist the razor I think this might become Jeannie’s nickname for me.) We stopped there at sunset and I counted 88 surfers bobbing in the water. From Burleigh you can peer across the bay at Surfer’s Paradise. It is only from here that you can truly understand the expansiveness of the city skyline.

The next day we ventured into the rainforest highlands that form the interior of the coast. We spent the afternoon tramping along the Queensland Food and Wine Trail. My wallet made its first appearance at a small winery by the name of Thumm (pronounced like “tomb,” with the aid of a German umlach). As the proprietor’s first customers of the day, we were treated to an extremely comprehensive tasting, one that quickly became a sampling of every varietal offering from the winery. By the time we reached the desert wines my ability to taste critically had flown away with the Kookaburra in the vineyard. When the owner opened the door to his aging cellar, I was already the proud owner of a 25 year-old Port.

We followed our wine tasting odyssey in true Aussie fashion—with an hour long cheese and beer sampling. The Witch’s Chase Cheese Company, located at the top of Mt. Tamborine, makes their signature cheese on the premises, and even draws their principle ingredient from the cows and goats that reside on the mountain. Their product is remarkable. And for the record, I’ve never seen anyone power through a cheese tasting like Jeannie. She can muscle down a slice of Gouda faster than you can say Leicester.

Aussie Kindness

2009-07-01T07:02:00.000-07:00

I think the biggest surprise of our time spent in Australia is how few surprises there have been. There is a clear brotherhood between the land Down Under and the land of Stars and Stripes. But if there is one fundamental difference to point out, it is the general kindness, and openness, of the Aussie spirit. I don’t mean to say that we as Americans are cretins, just that the Aussies are noticeably more outgoing in their gestures of warmth. Take this sign, for example. The lifeguard explains that swimming here will guarantee certain death by drowning in a deep hole, but just can’t refrain from wishing you a “nice day!” Having a pleasant afternoon isn’t exactly my next thought after envisioning being sucked into a deep hole. I guess that’s where I differ from the common Aussie.

The greatest quality to their kindness is that it can be coaxed to even greater levels. Aussies love a good compliment. At a beach bar in Surfer’s Paradise I gushed to the bartender for a bit about how much I enjoy Australian beer. I told him it was the best I’d had (maybe exaggerated a bit by consumption of said product), and my drink suddenly became gratis.

They seem to be very trusting people. They are willing to show themselves in a way that is quite endearing. Conversations come easy—a quality in a host that is invaluable to the traveler. Some of my most memorable experiences here have been chatting with the service people I’ve encountered. The man in the convenience store who sold me a calling card, the guy who showed me how to make my coffee at the self-service machine, the Gold Coast cab driver from New South Wales, the concierge at the hotel desk—its amazing where a conversation can go from a simple, “hey, mate.” (For the record, I think “g’day” left the Aussie vernacular the same time we stopped saying “groovy”).

Sydney: California Reincarnate

2009-06-26T22:48:00.000-07:00

As much as I want to be on the other side of the world, I can’t escape the fact that Sydney is a slice of California, albeit a very satisfying slice. Take away the “mate” and the “good on ya!” call outs, the fifty cent coins the size of beer coasters, the Union Jack flying from every flagpole, and the cars traveling down the left side of the road, and you are right back in the Golden State. The good news is that Sydney is a perfect hybrid cross of perhaps my favorite two American cities—San Diego and San Francisco.

Sydney has the same cosmopolitan swing of the City by the Bay (Jeannie is in paradise). There is a section on the west side of town called Paddington, lined with boutiques and couture (as I’m told) shops. The businesses share walls and stretch for as far as you can see. The three stories of space above the shops have been partitioned to apartments, reminiscent of the Victorian architecture of San Francisco. There is also a niche here for fine dining. Restaurants tend to skew to the upscale (which, for us, equates to breakfast at the corner mini mart). Of course, there is the Sydney Harbour Bridge, which beside the Opera House, is most certainly the icon of the city. The bridge is magnificent, and in all fairness, a worthy equal to the Golden Gate.

But beneath the metropolitan swagger, Sydneyites have an affinity for the beach and the sun that cannot be denied. There is a relaxed feeling to the city that reminds me so much of San Diego. The people here are the kind who will stop for a sunset, and maybe even applaud a spectacular one. My kind of people. The downtown waterfront is a near replica of my college town—grand yachts and small schooners, Princess cruise ships and retired naval vessels, small shopping villages and outdoor bars, even high-rise condos and a loft that looks like mine from the glory days. I think I might have lived here in a past life. And I wouldn’t mind living here in a future one.

The Seals of Kaikoura

2009-06-26T22:42:00.000-07:00

Traveling south down Highway 1 through the wine lands of Marlborough, there is a coastal community halfway between Picton and Christchurch by the name of Kaikoura. Famed as a whale watching departure point, Kaikoura is also known for its “crayfish” eateries—the Kiwi nomenclature for lobster. We received a tip that delicious meals could be had there for a price that wouldn’t require us to skip breakfast the following day. So we made a bee line for the peninsula. What wasn’t made completely clear was that the backdrop for our lobster lunch would be taken from a dream. The Kaikoura peninsula is where the Southern Alps drop down to the sea. The contrast of snowcapped peaks against shimmering green waves is almost too much to comprehend. This is the kind of place you want to share with everyone you love—just so you can see the look on their face when they behold the view.

Between cracking lobster legs, we struck a conversation with the proprietor of the restaurant. He spoke frankly about New Zealand politics, Maori culture and influence, and the socialist ideals of his society. We enjoyed the chat, and I know he did too. I’m not sure if it was our lively discussion, or the sixty dollars we ultimately spent in his establishment, that led him to reveal to us a local secret. His secret turned out to be worth more than gold.

Following his directions, we backtracked twenty kilometers up the ocean road that had taken us into town. We abided by his very specific cues, passing the crayfish truck called Nin’s Bin, and parked Lau Lau on the side of the road next to the sign for Ohau Stream. It is here that a freshwater brook filters down to the Pacific from the Alps above. Grabbing our cameras from the van, we found the trailhead that hugs the stream, and followed it under the leaves of massive ferns and palms. The bed of the stream is lined with large boulders, a steady flow of snowmelt toppling over each rock. With the Pacific at our backs, we walked toward the sound of the falls—and then we happened upon perhaps the most remarkable phenomenon.

Thirty seal pups. Frolicking, playing, practicing for their circus debut. A fifty foot waterfall dropped to a circular pool, smaller than the one in the Bendel’s backyard. We stood on its edge, and the pups popped up at our toes to say hello. They jumped and dived. They barked and splashed. They flirted with us, and each other, with complete abandon.

Apparently during the month of June, when sharks lurk off the east coast of the South Island, mother seals guide their pups up the Ohau Stream to the safe oasis of the falls. The pups flop nearly a kilometer inland along the boulder strewn stream. They find a home in the freshwater pool at the base of the falls, while their mothers fish the coastal waters for food. We enjoyed their company, and their antics, for nearly an hour. Almost forgetting that nightfall was looming, we parted from our furry friends, and hustled back down the trail in the final minutes of daylight.

Ode to Lau Lau

2009-06-23T23:31:00.000-07:00

So much adoration for a collection of metal, rubber, and plastic. We are so indebted to our beloved van. To Lau Lau, we write this love letter:

There was never an easier task than to name you. You became Lau Lau, after the Hawaiian luau delicacy. To the Hawaiians, Lau Lau is an expensive leaf, used to wrap only the finest ingredients of the feast—tender pork and rich seasonings. Like the protective leaf, you brought us into your encasement, and let us marinate inside your sheath.

You carried us across 1,200 kilometers of the most spectacular country we’ve ever seen. Your home on the islands is one we will worship for all times. You showed us the cities, run on coffee and bustling with energy, fashionable and trendsetting, full of surprise, multicultural and multifaceted. You showed us the towns, caught in mild winter hibernation, proud of their unique offering to the tourist, enchanting with their solitude and silence, their isolation and indifference. You showed us the wilderness, startling in its magnitude and intimidating in its force, so pure and inspiring, at times taken straight from a Brothers Grimm fairy tale, spectacular enough to make you laugh and cry all at once.

You were not always amenable. Sometimes you would stall in the middle of a zipping intersection. Sometimes you would growl and moan when you disliked the way you were handled. There was once when you refused to wake up. But you always came around when we needed you most.

Our time at the coast was perhaps the best. We’ve never enjoyed the road like we did then. Through your windshield, we saw the Southern Alps cascade down (straight down) to the roiling green sea. We didn’t know that nature could be constructed like that. We stood beside you on a black sand beach, and realized we were in the most beautiful place we’d ever seen. It was the three of us. And we will never forget.

Thanks for the memories, Lau Lau. We will always remember the van with the tags DMU 425.

Until we meet again,

Casey and Jeannie

New Zealand: Musical Surprises

2009-06-23T18:39:00.000-07:00

Lionel Richie is a hero. Not the solo Lionel of the late 80’s and 90’s, but the godlike lead man of The Commodores. The guy is a music icon here. Not far behind in the ranks of idolatry is Billy Ocean. I hadn’t heard a Billy Ocean song in eight years before arriving in New Zealand—I’ve heard him every day since. Kiwis are counting the days to his New Zealand arrival. Ocean is doing a show in Rotorua at the end of June. The ad reads, “Don’t miss this rare opportunity to see Billy live in concert performing all his hits, and songs from his new album.” He has a new album?

New Zealand radio is an audio timewarp. They specialize in songs that make you say, “daaamn….” Disc jockeys in this country have somehow compiled a list of all the songs you haven’t heard in a decade but you can still sing along to every word of the chorus and verse. Having the radio on is like accessing the music vaults of your childhood. The Kiwi fascination with 1980’s soft rock is inspirational.

They've got some music of their own too. A new song called, “I’ll Always Be There,” is on heavy rotation in every bar, restaurant, and shop. The singer mentions being in a campervan, so it became an instant classic for us. Also, quit surprisingly, one of my favorite acts from home, The Flight of the Conchords, is popular here. They are a comical Kiwi band, but I had imagined they were marketed specifically for Americans. Not true. New Zealanders find them humorous, as well. As it turns out, Brett, is actually the lead in a band of his own here, called Black Seeds. Apparently it is serious music—looking forward to checking it out.

The All Blacks and The Rooster

2009-06-21T03:47:00.000-07:00

Jeannie and I agree there is no feeling quite like being one with the local energy. There is something about becoming unified with a cause (especially when it is not previously your own) that is particularly liberating. When we woke up on Saturday morning we decided to be loyal All Blacks followers—the name of the beloved New Zealand national rugby team. The team name is derived from the jerseys, or kits, the athletes wear on the field—black from head to toe. There is a passion here for the sport that rivals the football fascination in Europe and Brazil. The heart of the country seems to beat with the All Blacks. So we bought tickets to the international match, and synchronized our hearts to the same beat.

France traveled to Wellington for the meeting, bringing with them a congregation of high-brow fans, touting red, white and blue, and carrying on in a Napoleonic fashion. (I said we were unified). We even saw a group of women all costumed as Mary Antoinette—only the French are brazen enough to travel to the opposite pole of the earth dressed like that. (You can see how it was easy to be unified).

When we thought the flag-waiving francophiles couldn’t be more audacious, they committed an act that outdid any sort of sporting insolence I’ve ever witnessed. They delivered the ultimate disrespect on foreign turf. Just before the starting whistle, a rooster was tossed to the pitch from the front row of the field level section. Its erect tail feathers were painted a brilliant blue, its midsection was pure white, and from the neck up it was blood red—a living, breathing, extremely frenetic embodiment of the French flag. The rooster, surely flabbergasted after being sprung from a smuggled sack, dashed and cut from side to side, darting up and down and across the field—80,000 eyeballs fixed on its painted plumage.

A brute squad was quickly formed. Six security guards in neon yellow vests chased the bird from sideline to sideline. The French supporters jeered with delight. The match officials watched at first with amusement, but as the rooster continued to avert capture, it was easy to detect their impatience. Had one of the guards not grabbed hold of a wing in the next moment, I think one of the defenseman for the All Blacks might have tackled the rooster himself. With the cock caper put to an end, and the Antoinette impersonators sufficiently rallied, the match finally got underway.

By halftime, the rooster had been all but forgotten, as the All Blacks jumped out to a ten point lead. Fans rose from their seats to visit the concession stands, in search of fish and chips and cold Steinlager. I was preparing to do the same, when a collective gasp filled the stadium air. The rooster was back. Back in black. Like the dark knight, it paraded proudly across the pitch. No one chased it now. It strutted like only a rooster can—washed clean of its tricolor paintjob, and redone in a monochrome black. It had a new attitude. The crowd went nuts. The All Blacks, and the Kiwi supporters, had exacted their revenge.

My Tongariro Expedition

2009-06-19T15:07:00.000-07:00

Blind chance led me to the experience that will define my travels through New Zealand. Driving south from the geothermal region of Rotorua, Jeannie and I arrived in the lake town of Taupo. Nestled beside the largest fresh water lake in the Southern Hemisphere (the lake is of the same name), Taupo is a small town that exists primarily as a launching point for all things hair-raising. New Zealanders have an addiction to adventure and the outdoors, and they have capitalized on a brilliant combination of the two with a burgeoning tourism industry. Anything you can imagine that will give you a legal high can be found in Taupo—skydiving, luging, jetboating, rafting, bungee jumping, canyoning, even zorbing and shweebing (you’ll have to look those up). While all of these are sure to induce an adrenaline rush worth the cost of admission, I was told the most thrilling endeavor in Taupo is the Tongariro Alpine Crossing.

Regarded in New Zealand as the most epic single-day trek, the Tongariro Crossing is an 18km hike across the Mangatepopo Valley and the South Crater between the Ngauruhoe and Tongariro Mountains. During the winter months (of which we are settled deep into right now) the Crossing is not permissible without a guide. Because the trek is through New Zealand’s most treasured National Park (Tongariro is revered by Kiwis in the same way we admire Yellowstone), they are able to regulate who enters and exits the trailhead. The Crossing is apt to sudden changes in weather that can disorient even the most experienced mountaineers. Severe cold and wind create bulletproof ice that latches to the ridge of the crater, making it impossible to cross without crampons, and sometimes the use of an axe. The Crossing is also volcanically active.

I learned all of this at the counter of an adventure outfitter in the center of town. As I stood at the counter, with the mountain nearly casting its shadow over my shoulder, Jeannie peered at me with big, timid eyes. With one look I knew exactly what she meant to say—“I’ll get my nails done, you go on the trek.”

The next morning I was up two hours before dawn to catch my bus to Base Camp. I met my guide for the day, a quick-witted New Zealander with the chapped lips of a mountain dweller, and the rest of my trekking crew, a multi-national group of about thirty. There was only one other American on the bus, a Minnesotan expatriate living in Australia. My guide fitted me with sturdier shoes and my crampons, sold me a hat and a pair of gloves for ten New Zealand dollars, and prepped me with cautionary tales of hikers gone astray. He boasted the forecast was in our favor for the day, but warned that completing the full Crossing was still not certain. As the sun rose over distant eastern hills, we saw clear skies over the mountain. Things looked promising, but we would have to wait until we reached the rim of the South Crater—the highest and most exposed point of the trek—before we would know if it was safe to continue. After promising to heed all warnings and directions, my boots were on the trail.

The first two hours were spent tramping along the frozen valley floor toward Mt. Ngauruhoe. This spectacular volcano is also known as Mt. Doom in the movie, The Lord of the Rings. It rises up from the valley to a height of 2,300 meters, and is presently covered in snow from the craggy peak to the base. It is inspiring. My fingers were frostbitten, but I couldn’t be deterred from capturing the mountain on my camera.

When we reached the base of Mt. Doom, we gathered as a group and took our direction for the next stage of the hike—Devil’s Staircase. This forty minute climb is as much a test of will as it is stamina. I suppose they are able to call it a staircase because of the stone steps carved out of the cliff by years of heavy-booted adventurers. The staircase belongs to the Devil for obvious reasons. I think the Irishman who had fallen in line behind me during the ascent must have exhausted every expletive he knew. His language certainly made the staircase owner proud.

From the top of the final step, we were able to look back upon the valley from which we came. The day was still clear, and you could nearly see to the ocean. In the distance, the ice and snow gave way to lush vegetation, and further beyond, groves of Redwood trees dotted the hilltops. Ahead of us now was the South Crater, a bowl-shaped piece of arid land left by the blast of Mt. Ngauruhoe two thousand years ago. It would take an hour to cross, and from its opposite rim we would determine whether or not the complete Crossing was in our future. Halfway across the crater, the ice became too thick to continue without the aid of crampons. Through previous sections of the trail, rocks and large stones had penetrated the ice, allowing for stability and traction. Now our footing was simply one expansive sheet of wind-frozen water.

For the first time in the day, I was forced to reckon with just how cold I was. My fingertips were unrecognizable beneath my gloves. My mouth was too numb to form words. And I thought with one more wind gust that the moisture running beneath my nose might harden to ice. The wind was strengthening now, and it pushed in front of it an ominous cloud—a cloud that very deliberately wrapped its gray fingers over the rim of the crater. Our blue sky was polluted.

I could sense anxiety from our guide. He attempted to keep the mood light with the same humor he’d been practicing all morning, but between jokes, I watched him study the clouds with a nervous eye. We continued to the top of the rim, until finally we were in the cloud. The wind blew the hardest now. It seemed to come from all directions at once. There was no way to put it at your back. We had reached the highest point of the trek, from where the Emerald Lakes are visible, but I couldn’t see more than ten feet before me. The cloud swirled about us, as we huddled like Emperor Penguins on a glacier. The wind picked up dry snow from the ice and sprayed it at us like sand. The choice was clear—we had to turn back.

There was a sliver of blue sky remaining on the horizon from where we had come. We descended the rim now with great purpose. I let myself imagine for a moment if I had been on the rim alone. Not needing any more spinal chills, I quickly diverted my thoughts and focused again on getting down to the crater below.

Interesting Intersection

2009-06-19T14:49:00.000-07:00

There is an intersection in New Zealand where the Earth’s most natural wonder meets Mankind’s most shameless commercialism. It is here you will find the entryway to Hell’s Gate Geothermal Park and Mud Spa in Rotorua.

Suckers for a good gimmick, Jeannie and I fell hopelessly into the clutches of Hell’s Gate. The proprietors have somehow pried a piece of sacred land from the Maori (ancient residents of the area) and partitioned it into a thirty minute Disney-like walk of mud pools and sulphur springs. Despite the profit-making, the site is remarkable. The insides of the Earth are on display. Openings in the crust give way to boiling pools of liquid. Mud explodes into the sky in fits of fury. Pure white steam billows from behind rocks and trees, giving an otherworldly feel to the environment.

The walk was cold, so we were easily enticed to a soak in the mud spa. The brilliance of their ploy was now on full display. Neither of us can deny, the spa was enjoyable. So I allowed myself to look beyond the merchandising of Mother Nature, and let Jeannie smear hot mud on my face.

Road Trip!

2009-06-17T00:51:00.000-07:00

Call everyone you know—Jeannie is camping! Okay, so our “tent” does have a six speed manual transmission in place of a zipper fly opening, but still, she is getting in touch with her National Geographic side. To be honest, our home for these seven days in New Zealand is nothing short of remarkable. At 2.7 meters tall (about 9 ft for those north of the hemisphere), our abode is classified as a 2-berth camper van, and is replete with fridge, dual stove top, dining table, double bed, flat screen television, DVD player, toilet, shower…everything but the kitchen sink—oh wait, there is a kitchen sink. So Jeannie’s not exactly eating grubs from the underbellies of mossy logs, but as a firm believer in baby steps, I am embracing every minute of this experience.

We became acquainted with Lau Lau, our affectionate moniker for the Ford Freedom diesel van, in Auckland on Tuesday morning. Kea Campers is the outfitter, and they have over delivered on our expectations to this point. A cheery gent, named John, picked us up from our airport hotel the morning after our arrival, and provided us with a free forty minute lift to the depot. A sturdy man with a crooked and easy grin, John used every minute of those forty to help us plan our weeklong itinerary. John has guided three-week trips across the country more than sixty times. I was his astute mentee, scribbling his wisdom in shorthand on the back of a white envelope. By the time we arrived at the depot we were proper Kiwis, ready explore the wonders of the North and South Islands.

What we weren’t ready for was driving a manual two-ton vehicle down the opposite side of the street. (Full disclosure for those who don’t know: I didn’t learn to drive a stick shift until last summer, and when I did, it certainly wasn’t with all traffic rules completely reversed!) And here’s a note to those who haven’t yet tried, changing gears with your left hand is an entirely different undertaking. I once spent two months brushing my teeth with my left hand (“just in case”), but I am far from ambidextrous. And yet, it is amazing what you can accomplish when you have no alternative—and an encouraging wife. Flustered, and captured in a moment of doubt, Jeannie fixed on me and confessed her trust in my ability, actually saying she believes there is nothing I cannot do. Never having felt quite so manly, suddenly I was confident, and away we went, bumping down the left hand side of the road, drawing honks from fellow Kiwis.

First Class to Fiji

2009-06-15T02:57:00.000-07:00

The Travel Gods threw us our first jump ball. We arrived at the Honolulu airport two hours early for our dawn-break flight to Nadi, Fiji—a fortuitous layover location for our passage to Auckland. After twenty “Hawaiian minutes” in queue we learned our aircraft had been diverted to Samoa. I then learned that Samoan aircraft diversions rank highly among the things that make Jeannie squirm. Something about an airplane making an unexpected landing—even though I’m quite sure it arrived without trouble—on a South Pacific airstrip can be rather unnerving. Our stopover on the island nation was scheduled to last two hours, with a New Zealand bound flight departing in the early afternoon. We were derailed by the Samoa situation.

Presented with our first mishap, we looked at each other with adventurous smiles. Our nervous grins grew larger when the Air Pacific attendant informed us that flights leave for New Zealand daily—once daily, to be precise. And just like that, the potential for adding a 24th country to the itinerary was in our laps. So Jeannie, as is customary when presented with a challenge, took the wheel and determined to make our inaugural international day a bit more memorable. Three hours later, our plane arrived at the gate. As we descended the jetway, Jeannie dipped into her carry-on and produced a shiny tiara, beaded with plastic pink stones, and completed by a two-foot white veil—the merchandise of a new bride. When she dons it I’m not sure what shines more, the reflective heart-shaped center piece or the bared teeth beneath her upturned lips. The headdress screams, “Upgrade Me!” And naturally, that is exactly what happened.

The ensuing flight was most certainly the most delightful of my avian career. Larry, our Fijian attendant, provided service fit for royalty. Champagne, followed by coffee, coconut muffins, tropical fruit, yogurt, omelets, French toast, champagne, chicken sausage, hash browns, cookies, tea, Cassava snacks, guava juice, and finally champagne—all while the vast expanse of the South Pacific passed underneath, dotted by the kind of clouds that make a mariner rejoice in equatorial weather.

When we expressed our gratitude and offered countless vinakas (Fijian for “thank you”), Larry informed us that of the eight first class chairs, five had been booked for catering. Only three passengers showed up, leaving all of the trimmings for two more fortunate souls. He smiled, pointed to the sky, and said, “somebody’s watching.” I looked at Jeannie, who said, “I wonder who that is…” with the smiling eyes of a knowing wife.

Travel Tips: Oahu

2009-06-15T02:47:00.000-07:00

Climb Diamond Head (the view of Waikiki is spectacular), Sip a sunset Mai Tai at the Banyan Court on the waterfront at the Westin Ala Moana Surfrider, Eat the fish tacos at Duke’s, Rent a paddle board at the Hilton Hawaiian Village Lagoon (it’s easier than it looks), Bodysurf at Sandy Beach Park (the break that Obama made famous on his recent vacation), Visit the Dole Plantation on Hwy 99 en route to the North Shore (slurp a pineapple smoothie in the garden), Order the half-plate Shrimp Scampi and half-plate Lemon and Butter Shrimp at Giovanni’s Shrimp Truck in Hale’iwa (it looks scary—you have to trust me), Scoot by Waimea Bay Beach if the lot is full (it’s not worth messing with parking), Go one mile north just passed Pukukea and have an even more gorgeous beach to yourself, Stop for the Shave Ice in Historic Hale’iwa Town (make sure to get ice cream in the bottom, and try the Azuki beans), Hula down to the nightly Luau at Paradise Cove (though not the most authentic of experiences, it is fun and worth the spend—you’ll feel good about a little culture to balance your beach and Mai Tai splurge).

Foreign Flavor--Just a Pinch

2009-06-15T02:42:00.000-07:00

If we are learning to ride a bike, Hawai'i is our set of training wheels. That which is different and exotic is what stirs the traveler’s appetite, and our time on the island has certainly whetted our pallets. The soft feeling of the air against your face, the smell of brilliant tropical flowers growing freely against the sidewalk, the hypnotic strum of a ukulele—these are the elements that awaken you to the fact you are not at home. Yet in the distance, an American flag waives above the still blue waters of Pearl Harbor.

The comforts, the ease of access, the freely spoken conversations—we are not taking them for granted now. We know that in the coming days our ability to connect to our world, as we know it, will be altered. But our week here has not been entirely without challenges.

On Wednesday, we stopped briefly for lunch in a small teriyaki shop, hoping to take culinary advantage of the strong Japanese influences in Oahu. Jeannie (always knowing exactly what she wants) asked the cashier for white chicken breast meat with her rice bowl. The unsettled employee crossed her brows and replied with the catch-all Hawaiian phrase—“ehh?!” This response is less a word than it is a brisk exhalation of air. It also serves as an indication to move on. Not grasping her tone, Jeannie asked again. This time the cashier replied with a dismissive, “yeah,” and collected our money. Our teriyaki bowls arrived on the counter a moment later, the chicken grizzled and striated. I took great delight as I crunched it between my teeth and dreamt of ordering lunch seven weeks down the road in Beijing.

Jeannie and I are enjoying the process of getting to know each other as travelers. Of course, in our time together we have mastered the domestic shuffle across the states, and we’ve been south of the border more than once. But the tone in these first days on the road is different. We both understand we are each other’s homes. For the next four months we belong to the world, and we belong to each other. We are each other’s keepers. We are learning to make concessions for the greater good of the trip and for our own individual experiences. We will see the world from the same footprints, but through different eyes. We are committed to embracing this fact.

Vagabonding

2009-06-10T11:14:00.000-07:00

Just as the wedding decompression commences, the globetrotting exhilaration begins. Such is the pace we have set for our lives. And neither of us would change a thing.

It has been years since I have felt the heart palpitations that can be induced only by the anticipation of extreme travel. The spirit of the vagabond has begun to permeate my being. It brings entirely unique feelings of joy, enthusiasm, and anxiety. My eyes are ready to see, my ears ready to listen.

I am filled with the energy of a child on the first day of school. I have jitters at the thought of meeting new people and making first impressions. I am prepared to learn and accept my new lessons. I am anxious about getting lost, but thrilled to rediscover our way. I am now fully aware of that feeling you get when you know you are on the edge of something big—something that will change your life and make you new.

This time in Hawaii will be a balance of honeymooning and housekeeping. We are newlyweds, and are enjoying the quiet bliss of a love changed by our vows. We are also only days away from crossing the distinct line of vacationers to vagabonds. There is much to do before we are off the American grid.