The Man with 3 First Names

Until Next Time

2011-07-05T18:09:00.002-04:00

I'm back in my spot of contemplation as I await my departure from Lebanon. Sitting at the same computer in the Centre d'Affaires in the Cedar Lounge at Beirut International Airport, I always like to take a minute to appreciate my time in Lebanon before boarding my flight to Frankfurt.

There really is nothing else like family. My cousin Raymond said it best this evening as we sat on his balcony looking out over Roumieh. He said that all of us may have different experiences and different viewpoints, but when we sit together we can see something special in each other that runs in our blood. Flatteringly, he remarked how special it is to have a cousin like me that three generations after leaving Lebanon can still feel the spirit of this country and our family. After about 10 days of hearing my cousins say less than loving words about my other country, it was a great feeling to hear Raymond raise a toast "to Lebanon, to the US, and to the greatest cousin in the world."

I don't know if his last comment was quite accurate, but maybe he was talking about someone else. Regardless, it is me that is unbelievably fortunate to have such a large group of distant relatives that so willingly welcome me as part of the family. I am even more fortunate to have an immediate family that is close and truly care for each other, but there is something particularly gratifying about returning to one's roots. The feeling grows stronger as one begins to understand those roots. It is as if the tiny frail ends of a tree root have suddenly found new nourishment and grow strong, wrapping themselves around the source of this nourishment.

My younger cousin, Jean Charbel, Raymond's son, asked me today if I would stay in Lebanon forever. "Why you have to go back? Stay here. We have many universities in Lebanon." I promised him that I would try to come back next summer, but he insisted that next month would be better. The prophetic youth then told me that someday I would live in Lebanon with a beautiful wife and a happy family. I told him that I would like that very much.

So here I am again with such mixed feelings, preparing to leave one home to return to another. Each time I visit Lebanon, I become a little more aware of the country's shortcomings and the difficulties of living in a place like this, but at the same time, I grow more and more attached to the people and the culture. There is no problem or defect that Lebanon could ever have that could sever my love for this country. It is a place like no other, and it will always be part of me.

For tonight, Lebanon, I say, "Until next time."

Home

2011-06-28T04:18:00.003-04:00

Sitting by the old stone church surrounded by family and friends, I watched the sunset behind the alter as the choir sang the movingly melancholic songs of a Maronite mass honoring St. John. I feel a sense of peace in the midst of this chaotic land of conflict and prejudice. Why is it that I feel so comfortable in a place full of so many problems? I feel at home. I feel a sense of belonging that is somewhat inexplicable. Three generations before me, my great-grandfather left this land to find a better life. I am so far removed from this place, and yet it is a part of me that I can't escape. Whatever part of Lebanon flows through my blood, its influence over me grows stronger with every moment I am here.

Despite the innumerable problems that Lebanon faces on a daily basis, there is something enchanting about this country and its people. They are a people that find it so easy to hate, both others and themselves, and yet they are a people so warm and hospitable that it is often difficult for an outsider to comprehend. Lebanon is a country of constant contradictions, but that is part of the intrigue.

I am a very lucky person because I feel as if I have so many homes. I was born and raised in North Carolina, and it is clearly my home by definition, but I feel at home in so many other places. After four years living in Austria, it is easy to understand why I feel at home there; I know my way around, I understand the language perfectly, I sometimes speak the language well, I have great friends there, and I feel comfortable there. I am also at home in Lebanon, the land of my ancestors. My family's history in Lebanon has brought the country close to my heart, and I will always consider it one of my homes. I have also spent over 10 years traveling regularly to Slovenia, Croatia, and Bosnia & Hercegovina. Despite having no real connections there other than some of my best friends, I feel at home in those far off countries.

I recognize how lucky I am to feel at home in so many places because I have seen the pain of those that are forced to live somewhere that they don't feel at home. On this visit to Lebanon, I have been working with an organization helping to resettle Iraqi refugees. I had the honor of interviewing a young woman from Iraq that is living here in Lebanon while waiting to be resettled with her husband in the states. Her life and the lives of her family were threatened in Iraq, so she has a genuine fear that may prevent her from ever seeing her real home again. She lives in Lebanon, a country that she admits is beautiful, but she does not have a home here. Many factors keep her from feeling any comfort or sense of belonging here. I wish I could explain the sadness that this woman feels living here, separated from her husband by bureaucracy, but it is something you can only appreciate by seeing it in her eyes and hearing it in her voice.

There are so many people in this world that have no home or have been forced out of their homes. I am thankful in so many ways that I have been blessed with so many homes.

Coming Home and Doing New Things

2009-09-15T17:39:00.000-04:00

My return home from three months of world travel was anything but easy. I arrived back on August 10th, spent a couple days meeting up with friends, visiting family, and trying to adjust to the culture shock of being back in Charlotte, North Carolina. By the 12th, I was diving headfirst into law school orientation at Charlotte School of Law. I’ll spare you the details of the ridiculously long orientation program and jump to the part where I ended up in the emergency room.

Saturday afternoon at orientation, I started having horrible stomach pains, but I pushed through the rest of the day before going home and straight to bed. The next morning, things still weren’t right, but I wasn’t in serious pain, so I went back to orientation. Throughout the day, the pain gradually got worse until I finally had to leave, just two short hours before the end of the orientation. I first drove myself to an urgent care center, where the doctor told me I needed to go to the hospital within 24 hours because something was definitely wrong, but she didn’t have the testing capabilities to determine exactly what. The pain was bad enough that I drove myself straight to the emergency room.

I pulled into Carolinas Medical Center first, but there was a line of cars waiting to get into the ER parking lot, so I kept driving and ended up at Presbyterian hospital. When I pulled into the ER entrance and saw the valet parking sign, I knew I was at the right place. I tossed the guy my keys and went inside. After two hours of waiting, I was finally taken back into the ER, and it didn’t take them long to realize I was in more serious condition that it appeared. They hooked me up to an IV of fluids, shot me full of some pain killers, and gave me some nausea medicine. The nurse came in later and said that I was the first potentially fatal case of the night - isn’t that comforting?

Long story short, I ended up spending a week in the hospital with gall stones and pancreatitis. After five days of drifting back and forth between excruciating pain and the soft warm high of Demerol injections, I finally was able to have surgery. A week and a half of school had been lost before I was finally able to join my classes. Since then, everything has been good though.

The question now is what is to become of this blog? I said back at the beginning that I’m not a blogger, but I have become kind of attached to my site and can’t quite let go. I won’t be traveling as much with school now, so I can’t share exciting stories from the road, but surely I can find something else to talk about. My plan is to start posting texts about school and my opinions on current legal issues that I find interesting. It may sound a little dry, but hear me out; I might actually have something worthwhile to say. My first new posts will be coming within a week, so stay tuned!

The Typhoon Broke My Umbrella

2009-09-14T17:08:00.002-04:00

The Star Ferry Terminal and Hong Kong Skyline

Crossing the bridge from Kowloon to Lantau Island on my way to the airport, the Hong Kong “Symphony of Lights” illuminated the island outside the car window. The sky scrapers were flickering with colored lights while lasers danced in the sky. It was a fitting farewell from Hong Kong and Asia. In a few short hours, I would be on board my Singapore Airlines flight to San Francisco - returning to American soil for the first time in almost three months. My heart raced with anticipation of any number of things: the excitement of flying my favorite airline in the world, getting closer to home, catching up with old friends and family, starting school, wondering when and where my next trip will take me.

My short stay in Hong Kong was pleasant enough. I can’t say I fell in love with the city, but I enjoyed myself and would be happy to return someday. I spent my first day wandering around the city in the dismal pre-typhoon weather. All of the shopping malls and various points around the city had signs stating that signal 3 had been raised for the Special Administrative Region, i.e. a typhoon was anticipated to hit within 12 hours. I had an umbrella with me, but less than an hour after leaving the hotel, a gust of wind literally ripped my umbrella to pieces. The metal frame of the umbrella had snapped into multiple pieces, and the fabric had ripped. I tossed the umbrella in the nearest garbage can and continued wandering around the harbor in the wet, windy weather. I paused to snap some photos of the statue of Bruce Lee along the Avenue of Stars.

The next day, I felt bored with Hong Kong already. The weather was still wet, sticky and cloudy, so my outdoor activities were limited, and I just wasn’t in the mood for museums. In the evening, I decided to go ahead and hop over to Macau. I walked down to the ferry terminal, grabbed a ticket, and boarded the next hydrofoil to Macau. Although the typhoon had passed without ever hitting Hong Kong, the water was still incredibly rough from the windy weather. The two Japanese girls behind me couldn’t quite handle the ride, and they spent the 1.5 hours taking turns running to the restroom, seasick bag in hand.

I would probably point a canon at that building too

I was pleasantly surprised with what I found in Macau. Floating into the port, one can’t help but notice the gargantuan Las Vegas style hotels and attractions that line the Cotai Strip. MGM Grand, Wynn, The Venetian - they’re all there, along with some local casino establishments. I took a cab into the center of town and the ruins of Sao Paolo. I climbed to the top of the fortress, snapped pictures of the old facade, all that remains of St. Paul’s church. Later, I wandered down the cobblestone pedestrian only streets that weave their way through the old Portuguese colonial buildings. Macau isn’t as refined as Hong Kong, but I found it’s rough-edged character enchanting.

Ruins of Sao Paolo

After making a couple laps around the old city, I started hunting for a good Portuguese or Macanese restaurant for dinner. I ended up at a small restaurant tucked in an alleyway near the cathedral where I enjoyed some Pasteis de Bacalhao (Fried Salt Cod Cakes) and Arroz de Marisco (seafood rice). The food was outstanding and served in massive quantities. I felt bad leaving behind so much of the giant pot filled with deliciously creamy rice loaded with prawns, squid, octopus, clams, mussels, and fish. Properly satiated from dinner, I walked back to the ferry terminal and was back in Hong Kong by 1AM.

They really are everywhere

Hong Kong was my last stop in Asia, and I was on my way back to the states, but my journey wasn’t over yet. I spent a few short hours sleeping in San Francisco before an early flight back out of the US to Vancouver. I spent a great weekend with my good friend Jon wandering around Vancouver, eating good food, and having some good laughs.

I might like you better, if...

2009-08-05T01:27:00.010-04:00

Old Lijiang

Naked fire, eh...

Maybe this has something to do with the naked fires

Uhhh???

Yes, miss, I did just take your picture

I may have walked a little too quickly from the plane towards passport control in Chengdu, but I was trying to keep up with a particularly long-legged American in front of me that was setting the pace. I worked myself into a very slight sweat in the warm humid airport. The quarantine officer took my H1N1 declaration, gave it a once over and then sent me on my way. As I walked through the gate towards passport control, though, an alarm went off because my temperature was too high. An officer jumped towards me, grabbed my arm and said, “We must take your temperature again.”

Before landing, they had played an informational video on the plane about customs and quarantine procedures in China and the new protocol for the prevention of the spread of Swine flu (H1N1). The video started with a shimmering red and gold image of the Chinese state emblem and pomp music like that of an old news reel - both suitable for a communist propaganda film. The film was in Chinese with English subtitles, but they had neglected to consider the readability of the subtitles against different backgrounds, so the white text was projected onto a white background during most of the film, so I only caught a few key words. My favorite part of the film was watching the cartoon depictions of different flu symptoms. Nothing like a runny nosed cartoon character to get you excited about visiting a new country. I guess I had been properly warned about the strict health precautions being taken at the entry points to China.

I followed the officer behind a curtain in the quarantine area, where I was handed a face mask and asked to sit down. A doctor gave me a thermometer and asked me to place it under my arm. He then proceeded to review my declaration and repeat most of the questions verbally. “Have you had trouble breathing, runny nose, congestion, fever or other symptoms recently? What cities and countries have you been to in the last 7 days? Where are you staying in China? What is your mobile phone number? What is the phone number of someone else that knows your travel itinerary?” The questions went on and on. The doctor took back the thermometer, recorded the temperature and asked me to wait because another doctor was going to check my throat. I guess it’s a good thing I had an over 5 hour layover before my flight to Lijiang. In the end, they had collected too many passengers of questionable health to make me wait any longer for the check-up. “Your temperature is normal, so we will let you go now, but please contact the authorities immediately if you develop any symptoms.”

Passport control and customs were a breeze after worrying that I might get stuck in some medical quarantine area for god knows how long. I found my way to the China Airlines check-in counter, but they wouldn’t check me in for my Lijiang flight because it was still too early. I pleaded with them to just check my bags and then I could wander the airport hands free until it was time to collect my boarding pass. The agent agreed, took my bags and printed out my boarding pass, which she then set aside and said I could collect in 4 hours. Luckily, the Chengdu airport has a surplus of tea houses with internet access, so I settled down in front of a terminal with a glass of jasmine tea. It didn’t take me long to realize that the health inspections weren’t the only sign I was in China. Youtube, twitter, facebook and my own blog were, among many other sites, inaccessible from within the PRC. It took me a while to figure out what I could do after I checked my email, but I ended up checking the news and browsing the couch surfing site.

Eventually, I was granted my boarding pass and went on to my connecting flight. On board, a young, short Chinese woman was sitting next to me. After she had already fastened her seatbelt and settled into her seat, she decided she needed her reading light on but couldn’t reach it. I figured out what was going on, and I turned on her light for her before she had to move all of her stuff and get out of the seat. She said thank you, one phrase I could understand, and then proceeded to ask me something in Chinese. I told her that I don’t speak Chinese, but that didn’t slow her down one bit. She gave a look of disappointed understanding and then continued conversing with me in one of the few languages in the world that I have absolute zero comprehension of. Eventually, she smiled and went back to reading her book. I then switched my focus to the news being shown on the overhead screens. Once again, it was a poorly subtitled Chinese broadcast, but one story really caught my attention.

“This year’s butter cow and butter calf at the Ohio state fair will be accompanied by an equally buttery farmer and his wife.” No need to worry about what they think about Americans on this side of the world - they know we have excellent butter sculptures in Ohio.

After having collected my baggage in Lijiang, still laughing about the buttery farmer, I stepped outside to find a taxi. I was directed to the next taxi in line, which was being watched over by its rather surly female driver. She was probably only in her late 30s or early 40s, but she looked like she was almost 60. I told her the name of my hotel, and she said 100. I didn’t catch what she was saying the first time around, but once repeated, I realized what she was saying. I figured her asking for 100 yuan for the ride to the hotel was a signal to start bargaining, but since I had reached the limit of her English, we weren’t getting very far. One of the airport staff saw me struggling, came over and said, “meter?” Yes! Meter! That’s all I want is for her to use a meter. The ride into town was silent, and I feared for my life every time Little Miss Giggles overtook another vehicle on a blind curve in the dark. Once in town, Giggles decided she had had enough of the silence and turned on some music. The last thing I expected was for the CD to start playing a techno beat, but I was pushed over the edge when the lyrics came on. “I might like you better, if we slept together.” It was impossible to contain myself any longer, and I started laughing out loud. The driver just looked at me like I was crazy.

Waking up the next morning to a gray, rainy sky in Lijiang, I felt tired and a bit short of breath. Crap, was I indeed coming down with a case of H1N1? Had they inadvertently exposed me to the virus while I sat waiting in the quarantine area at the airport? I didn’t have any other symptoms, so I sat back and tried to think what could be the problem. Suddenly it occurred to me that I wasn’t too far from Tibet. What’s the elevation in Lijiang? I got on the computer to google the information, and sure enough, Lijiang sits at an altitude of about 2400 meters (almost 8,000 feet), more than high enough for some minor altitude sickness. Symptoms of altitude sickness include fatigue, shortness of breath and dehydration among others. Coming from an elevation near sea level, it is no surprise that I was having difficulty acclimating to the new altitude. To adjust to long-term stays at altitudes above 5,000 feet can take as long as 30 days. Yay! I’m not dying, I’m just oxygen deprived! The internet recommended lots of rest, avoid physical exertion, drink lots of water and ask for some oxygen for severe cases. Feeling more comfortable having self-diagnosed my condition, I opted not to be the American dork asking the hotel for oxygen, but I did follow the rest of the advice.

I spent some time wandering around the old town of Lijiang, which is picture perfect. The streams and canals around the city were crossed by numerous stone and wooden bridges. The old architecture of the Naxi homeland was a taste of “true” China, albeit in an almost Epcot fashion with everything so well-renovated and full or tourists. I lost my way down the narrow stone alleys of the town, which was the perfect way to explore. At one of the squares, a group of elderly women were performing traditional Naxi dances. It seemed as though the lead woman knew what she was doing, while the rest just kept looking around at each other for clues. There were a number of pauses and missteps, but it added to the charm factor of the whole thing. Walking away from the dancers, I heard the jingling of bells and the shouts of horsemen. I turned to see two traditionally dressed men riding horses rapidly down the road. I grabbed my camera to take the picture, and they turned and rode directly towards me. I was in definite danger of being trampled by two small horses ridden by two small men, but in the end, I passed right between the two… just barely.

The shopping was tempting, but I couldn’t cope with the trouble of transporting some of the beautiful ceramics, and I just couldn’t quite justify purchasing one of the large traditional fox skin hats, though I’m still a little disappointed about that one. The smell of dried yak meat wafts down every street and alleyway of Lijiang, and once I saw where the smell was coming from, I figured out what I had just had for breakfast. I had picked up a sushi roll from the buffet with some mysterious brown shreds inside. It didn’t taste like any fish I had tasted before, but I couldn’t quite place what it did taste like. The smell of the yak meat was a perfect match to the flavor still lingering in the back of my mouth. Yak sushi, breakfast of champions.

I’ve enjoyed my limited time in Lijiang, although I keep peering towards the mountains in hopes of catching a glimpse of Jade Dragon Snow Mountain, but the clouds this time of year seem to just sit permanently on the peak. The first day, I wasn’t even convinced the mountain existed the clouds were so thick. Over the course of time, I have seen the base of the mountain and some of the lower peaks surrounding it, but the clouds refuse to give up their resting place, and I’ll be leaving without having seen the main peak. Such is life.

Just a drink, a martini, shaken not stirred

2009-08-04T01:24:00.003-04:00

Riding off into the sunset on a speed boat with mountains of limestone jetting out of the water, it all felt very James Bond. Was I on my way to check in at a new beach resort, or was I unknowingly being transported to a meeting with Dr. No? Arriving at Rayavadee, the Cambodian method of wading through shallow waters was unacceptable for a guest like me. Instead, because the boat couldn’t reach the resort pier at low tide, they brought a dock out to me by tractor. It was all rather peculiar, but I loved it. Two guest services personnel were waiting on the dock to welcome me, and back on the beach, the guest services manager had my check-in documents ready. I was escorted to a beautiful open-air waiting room where they brought me a fresh coconut milk and lime welcome drink, and I signed the registration papers.

I was eligible for an upgrade, but they suggested I take a look at both bungalows first. The higher category room had a private “hydropool” in the garden but was located further from the beaches and main pool. The lower category room they had prepared for me, however, was directly beside the main pool with a view of Railay beach, and the interior was identical to the other bungalow. I opted for the room with a sea view that already had a chilled bottle of Prosecco waiting for me. The bungalow was fantastic, full of mahogany and all the creature comforts one could desire. My favorite part of my orientation tour, however, was when the young lady escorting me around the resort pointed out that the closet was double sided with one door on the bedroom side and one door in the bathroom. “If you need the restroom quickly, fastest way through the closet.” I spent the first evening in the room giggling childishly at how wonderful this place was (and imagining myself rushing through the closet to the toilet). I popped open the bottle of Prosecco, ordered some room service and made myself at home.

The next morning, I enjoyed breakfast at the main restaurant and then walked around the resort taking some photos. I spent a few hours swimming and enjoying a perfectly sunny day. I walked to all three beaches on this 26 acre property and had some excellent French fries in the Grotto bar inside a cave at Phranang beach. I wanted at least one perfect day of beach relaxation on this trip, and I lucked out and got it. It was, afterall, monsoon season, and showers could have put a damper on my beach time at any moment, but the sun was shining all day.

Should I take the M1 to the M2 down to 342, or stay on the service road all the way to Railay beach? It may sound like trying to figure out which highway to take to get somewhere, but this is what was going through my head while trying to find my way back to my bungalow late in the evening after a great dinner of steamed sea bass with ginger, chilies and lime at the Krua Phranang Thai restaurant on the opposite end of the property. The paths around the property were quite narrow, full of vegetation and not incredibly well-lit. the exception was the service road, which was wide enough for golf carts to pass by and had plenty of lighting. The real question is which way I was least likely to be attacked by wild animals. Against my better judgment, I decided to take the smaller, shorter path to my room. Sure enough, while walking quickly down the path trying to ignore the unidentifiable sounds of the night, rustling in the bushes and splashes in the ponds, a medium-sized gray monkey jumped straight in front of me on the path and looked me in the eyes. I glared right back at him, he let out a yelp and bolted faster than he came. I guess I’m one scary monkey.

Some more breakfast and some more swimming in the morning before I had to bid farewell to my short-term home at Rayavadee. The staff encouraged me to come back and spend more time soon, and I agreed to try my hardest. Back on the speedboat tilted up at full speed towards the mainland, my Bond-like adventure was over.

2009-07-31T12:24:00.001-04:00

I've had a very interesting welcome to China, but alas, access to my blog and facebook have been blocked by big brother. Just a mobile post to say I will be posting again on Tuesday, inshallah.

Gimme one dolla'

2009-07-30T08:07:00.004-04:00

Photo-op in front of Angkor Wat

Raining at Bayon Temple

Ta Phrom Temple

Some kids helping move the rice seedlings

West Bantay Lake in the storm

I hate rain - always have. Give me snow or give me sun, just don’t get me wet unless I plan on it. The meteorological madness that let loose the last two days apparently didn’t care to pay attention to my preferences. Harsh sunlight and incredible heat, downpours of biblical proportions that may last 10 minutes or may last all night, the weather bounced between these radical conditions with only seconds of notice. Despite the obligatory moisture that goes along with rainfall and is noticeably in contradiction to my opening partiality towards remaining dry, I actually found the sudden storms both afternoons perfect for the setting. The scenes created by the torrential rainfall beating against 1,000 year old temple ruins or whipping across the rippling lake were almost cinematic in nature. If I hadn’t been worried about my camera getting too wet, I would have been running around in the rain taking more photographs.

I started out yesterday exploring the ruins of Angkor Wat. For those of you familiar with this national symbol of Cambodia, you probably have an image in your head of the temple and may suspect that there is a surrounding complex. The few of you that have had the opportunity to visit know that there is so much more to it than that. Angkor Wat is but one temple complex in an expansive national park full of ruins. Temple after temple rest amongst the trees and lakes that go on for miles. After visiting the main temple, I returned to the hotel for lunch and a swim before setting out again in the afternoon. It was while visiting Bayon temple that the skies opened up, and we sat surrounded by the leaky stones of the temple, smiling Buddha faces peering at us from all directions. It was another one of those moments, where I felt as if I was standing between eras. The ancient pride of the Khmer people lying in silent testimony of the former greatness of this land as the percussion of the rain drowned out the sounds of modern life. The steady beat of water dripping through the stones reminded me that time had not been suspended.

Walking back to the car with our umbrellas overhead, a young girl approached us on the elephant terrace. She was wearing pajamas, soaking wet, and jumping from puddle to puddle making a bigger splash each time. The girl started chatting playfully with my guide, and as he paused to explain something to me, she reached for my umbrella, and I reluctantly handed it over. I was nervous she might take the umbrella and bolt, leaving me to face the elements, but instead she stood beside me stretching to her limits to try and hold the umbrella above my head. When the guide finished talking, she motioned to me as if to say, “Get moving, we have stuff to see.” My guide asked her what grade she was in - fourth. Then he inquired as to what exactly she was doing here - selling postcards of course. That’s when she remembered that she’s supposed to be working. “Hey Mr., you want postcard? One dolla’! Ok, ten postcards, one dolla’!” Frustrated by my negative responses (I had already bought 10 postcards from another young girl), she finally said, “Ok, no postcards, just give me one dolla’!” She followed us to the road constantly reminding me that I should just fork over some money because she told me to, but switched targets very quickly when a group of Brits were getting ready to get in a Tuk Tuk back to their hotel. She blocked the entrance of the Tuk Tuk, leaving them standing in the rain, smiled innocently and said, “Gimme one dolla’!” Priceless, simply priceless. That night, the rain came harder and harder, thunder rumbling incessantly with occasional flashes of lightning. At some points, I thought the hotel might float away the rain was so hard.

In the morning, things had calmed down, and the sun was out like usual. We returned to the Angkor complex to visit Banteay Srei temple, another example of intricately carved elegant temple architecture from year 967. From there, it was on to Ta Phrom temple, used in the filming of Tomb Raider, and then on to one more temple, the name of which I can’t recall. We also made a brief stop at the Landmine Museum, something not every country has. The civil war in Cambodia only officially ended in 1998, so tragic remnants of the decades-long conflict still dot the country. Signs litter the roads between town and the temples, ‘Mine Field Cleared by…” I know that should be a positive message, but it really makes me wander how many non-cleared fields are a short walk away.

My touring program continued in the afternoon, when my village guide came to take me out to his village. We rode down another dirt road pocked with large holes, ditches and puddles of unknown depths. Once in the village, we started walking around as the guide explained his village origins, the social intricacies of village life in Cambodia, and the local farming economy. We stopped at the home of his siblings to see how the planting of the rice seedlings was going and to enjoy some fresh coconut water. The driver had left the village to drive to the other side of the lake where he was supposed to meet us after a leisurely boat ride. Trekking through the fields and forests near the village, I once again started thinking about those mine field signs. In heavily mined areas, it’s always best to stay on paved surfaces, but instead, I was making my way through drained rice paddies and rural dirt paths. Brilliant. Turns out my worries were misdirected. My guide pointed out an ant nest on the ground surrounded by rather large black ants. “These ants are very poisonous and aggressive, so just jump over them.” Fabulous, just what every fat American in shorts and sandals wants to hear while wandering through the countryside of Cambodia.

I made it to the shores of West Bantay Lake without any ant bites or exploding landmines. The boat was tied to a post a good 5 meters into the lake and it wasn’t getting any closer. I took off my sandals and waded out to the boat. I’m not quite sure how I accomplished it, but I managed to climb aboard the boat from the water, and then we looked out into the distance and saw a wall of water coming towards us. The dark clouds dimmed the sunlight, the wind picked up and began to turn the lake into an angry sea. Suddenly the rain dropped on us as if the gods were taking turns pouring buckets over us. The wind was blowing the rain sideways, soaking us from all directions. Rather than sitting on the edge of the boat, we were standing in the middle, directing our efforts to finding the driest place possible in a makeshift swimming pool. We watched as small fishing boats were rocked from side to side, taking on more water until they sank almost completely into the lake. For a brief moment, the rain subsided, but the guide looked out into the distance and said, “One more coming.” After a second round of being beat about by bullet-like rain and rough winds, we were left with a sunny blue sky and proceeded across the lake where the car was waiting.

The last stop of the day was a silk farm, where I saw how silk worms were grown and fed, how they spin their cocoons, and how the cocoons are turned into raw and fine silk for weaving. The Artisans de Angkor silk farm finds people from the villages and brings them out to the farm for training and then allow them to work for the locally significant sum of $150 USD per month. It’s income that they wouldn’t otherwise have, and a skill set that they can take with them anywhere. Most of them are also given English lessons at the silk farm, another skill valuable in the long-term. We often forget how fortunate we really are.

2009-07-25T08:45:00.001-04:00

No chance to access the Internet, but I am sitting in a theatre in Cambodia waiting for a dance performance to begin.

Rollin' down the River

2009-07-23T11:52:00.010-04:00

Luang Prabang exudes an enchanting character unlike any other I have experienced thus far in Southeast Asia. I love how the French colonial architecture has mixed with local design elements and nestled itself among golden temples, lush greenery and the waters of the Mekong and Khan rivers. The town is quite small and very quaint. I’m not the only Farang (foreigner) to fall in love with this place, as almost every other shop, restaurant or hotel is owned by a Westerner, but the place is not a tourist trap, it is still quintessentially Lao. Today, I set out with my guide to discover just exactly how Lao the area really is.

It was raining hard as we left the town, and my guide was concerned that we may have trouble getting down the road to the village. One phone call ahead to the village and his worries were moot because it wasn’t raining there. Turning off the main road, I quickly realized the source of his concerns. The road to the village was a narrow dirt road with many steep hills and sharp curves, and when I say “dirt road,” I don’t mean a North Carolina style dirt road paved with gravel, rather genuine dirt that when mixed with large quantities of water would turn into a slippery, muddy path of nastiness. Once at the village, we boarded one of the traditional long narrow wooden boats with a local fisherman for a short cruise down the river. We stopped at the various nets and bamboo traps along the way to check for the morning’s catch. On the other side of the river, we stopped for a demonstration of how the local Lao Lao rice whiskey is made.

The Lao Lao village was small and rural. There are no access roads, only the river. Chickens and dogs roamed freely around the village while young ladies wove silk and grandmothers tended their grandchildren. A petite middle-aged woman came out to welcome us and took us to the site of her Lao Lao production. She had already steamed some sticky rice in the morning to prepare for our visit. She washed the sticky rice repeatedly before draining it and mixing it with a rice derived yeast. Normally, they make the yeast themselves also using sticky rice, but during the rainy season, they cannot dry the rice because they have no drying machines. Once mixed with the yeast, the rice is added to a large pot for fermentation. After weeks of fermentation, the rice produces rice wine, which must then be distilled to make rice whiskey. Long stalks of bamboo are used to fuel the fire underneath the distillation barrel. The ends burn in the fire, and the stalks are pushed gradually deeper into the cinders as they burn away. A metal distillation funnel and a lid sealed with a cloth rim ensure that the rice whiskey makes it’s way into a clean jar through a cloth filter.

Following the demonstration, I bought a couple bottles and we moved on to some old caves downriver. Originally thought to be the home of a Naga (a mythical serpent), many animists used to make sacrifices in the caves. One of the local Kings decided to turn the cave into a sacred place for Buddhists as well, hoping to convert some of the local village people. Soon the caves were filled with Buddha statues. From as early as the 15th century, the Buddhas of varying size and shape peer tranquilly out towards the river. The hike up to the upper cave was long and exhausting, and the thick sticky air made the journey daunting. A wet sweaty mess, I survived and saw the place where my guide’s family and other villagers once hid during the war, side by side with centuries of Buddhist history.

Back at the village where we had boarded the fishing boat, my guide’s father, the former village chief, invited us for a traditional lunch in his home. We sat on the floor and enjoyed truly local fare. Chicken soup, minced pork and vegetables steamed in banana leaves, stir fried ‘morning glories’ (which upon googling, I just discovered are on the USDA’s “Federal Noxious Weed List” and the plants are illegal in the US…Mmmm…they were good though), fried river shrimp, bamboo shoots and hot chilies mixed with crab paste, all served with sticky rice. The food was delicious, especially the noxious weeds. I think my guide’s father was concerned at my single marital status because the lunch conversation seemed to revolve largely around weddings and marriage traditions.

After lunch, we went to a small village where we watched paper being made from mulberry bark, and then proceeded to a silk weaving village. The silk weaving village was a real treat because it was truly off the beaten track. We drove down another even more treacherous mud road as far as we could, walked across a rather rickety bamboo bridge, and then wandered down the path through the village to the silk weaving center. The women there demonstrated how the silk is dyed using natural products, as well as some of the long weaving process. One young lady was working impressively fast at a rather difficult pattern of silk. The owner of the center said that this particular girl earns as much as $6 USD per day because she is able to finish more weaving every day.

Tired after a long day of exploration, I took an afternoon nap before heading out for a walk around the night market and finding some dinner. I ate at a small restaurant called Arisai, which was excellent. The owner was a Lao gentleman who moved to Paris in 1975 when the communists took over. “Now we are able to come back.” he told me, and come back he did. His restaurant was elegant with a definite French flavor.

This town has a way of feeling both exotic and comfortable at the same time. The Lao people are very friendly, and they have taken the best of their colonial history and blended it seamlessly with their local culture and heritage like a fine woven silk of overlapping patterns and colors. On one side of the street you may have people enjoying sticky rice and steamed fish while fresh croissants and pain du chocolat are being served on the other. The sophistication of a French town met by the peaceful country existence of the people just a short way down the Mekong. I’m both surprised and delighted by what I have discovered here.

Morning on Phou Si Mountain

2009-07-22T08:00:00.000-04:00

It’s only 7AM, and I’ve already given alms to about 300 Buddhist monks and climbed Phou Si Mountain (just for comedic value, ph does not make an F sound in Lao). Pulling my camera out of the bag to take some photos of the monks, the lens immediately fogged over thanks to the incredible humidity. The sun had just finished rising as I knelt by the side of the road with my basket of sticky rice. The monks began to file past like an army of faithful draped in bright orange robes, each carrying a pot for collecting food. Locals and foreigners alike dropped sticky rice, candies and cookies in pot after pot as the monks and novices whizzed by.

Side by side with the more fortunate people giving alms were children and adults from poorer families also kneeling with baskets in front of them. As the monks passed by, they would drop some of their alms into the baskets of the poor people. It was a full cycle of giving occurring in a matter of seconds out on the hot moist streets of Luang Prabang.

My hands were unaccustomed to gathering the small clumps of sticky rice, so I was moving too slow for many of the monks. Knowing that there were many more waiting behind them and they had already collected plenty, several of the monks would pass by me without receiving anything when I wasn’t moving fast enough. Although I was giving more generous portions of rice than the locals, I was much more conservative than most of the foreigners. Eventually, however, my rice did run out, so I waited for a line of monks to pass before I rose to take some photos.

Not realizing that she was purchasing rice from a street vendor, an inappropriately dressed Dutch woman was dropping sticky rice into the monk’s pots by the fist full. When she got up to leave, she was followed by the women who had been shoveling rice in front of her for the last hour. Not having negotiated a price for the alms, she was suddenly confronted with a hard round of negotiating.

With most of the monks having passed by, we hopped into the van and drove to the foot of Phou Si Mountain. It’s not a monolithic mountain, but in the heat and humidity, trekking up the hundreds of steps was challenging. Along the way, I passed a large black scorpion hanging out by the side of the path. I was relieved to see that he had as little interest in me as I did in him. At the top of the mountain, I was faced with beautiful views over the city settled between the Mekong and Khan rivers. Fog was rolling between the mountains as the sun slowly melted it away. We walked around the stupa and past the monastery, where more people were presenting alms to the city monk. Over the top and back down the other side, covered in sweat, our morning on Phou si was over.

No More Virgins in Chiang Mai

2009-07-21T11:04:00.006-04:00

“Passenger Stephen George please come to the service counter.” I thought maybe the announcement had something to do with making sure my luggage was transferred from my Dubai flight to my connecting flight from Bangkok to Chiang Mai, but the news was a little less mundane. The Thai Airways staff had received a message at the gate requesting that they notify me that my flight from Chiang Mai to Luang Prabang in 4 days had been cancelled. I think the gate staffed were pleasantly surprised and somewhat relieved at how well I took the news. I took the phone number for Lao Airlines in Chiang Mai and thanked them for letting me know. Why should I get upset? I’m on vacation.

I made it to Chiang Mai where I was met by a compact, energy-filled, young lady who was to be my tour guide for the next couple days. For those of you that have met my friend Uzma (Hi Uzma!), Gina is the Thai version. Her smile and her bubbly personality were contagious, and I think I spent most of my time with her laughing. Having not slept much since I left Doha, I was a little tired and chose to take a long nap at the hotel when we arrived. Gina returned in the evening to take me to a local khantoke dance performance and dinner.

I had a very large and enjoyable dinner of chicken soup, yellow curry with pork, crispy noodles with tamarind, fried chicken with herbs, fried bananas, chili paste with tomatoes, chili paste with eggplant, sticky rice, steamed rice, fresh cucumbers and long beans, stir-fried mixed vegetables, and fresh fruit with sweet rice cakes for dessert. Gina thought it would be best that I sit on the floor to have a real local experience, and once I saw the “tables”, I completely agreed with her decision. The tables still didn’t have seats, they just brought you and the food a bit higher. By the time the dance performance was starting though, my right leg had gone completely numb. I was trying so hard to follow local etiquette and keep my feet behind me to prevent pointing the soles of my feet at someone (a sign of disrespect in Thailand), but I was beginning to worry that my leg might fall off from lack of circulation. I managed to maneuver into a more comfortable position without offending anyone. On the way back to the hotel, Gina mentioned that she hoped it would not rain in the morning. She explained a local ritual to prevent rain that involves having a virgin place an upside down stalk of lemongrass into the ground. "Problem is, impossible to find virgin now!"

The next day, Gina and I, despite a little rain, went up to Doi Suthep, a local mountain crowned by an important Buddhist temple. The mountain is called Elephant mountain because the legend says that an elephant carried the remains of the King to the top of the mountain and then died itself. “Do you know why the elephant died?” Gina asked. “Try walking up the mountain and you’ll know,” she answered for me.

At the temple, I learned to always walk clockwise around the temples and how to pay respect to Buddha in the Thai style. When visiting the mountain, it is said you are allowed to make one wish, so I followed the tradition and wished away. There is also a very interesting tradition involving asking an elephant figurine any questions you might have. You first ask the elephant your question and then try to lift the figurine with your pinky (for men, ring finger for women). Then, you repeat your question, but ask the figurine to become heavier or lighter if the answer is yes. I tried it, and I liked my answer.

The day continued with visits to a Jade workshop, teak carving factory, silk weaving factory and a few more temples. When the tour ended, Gina asked if I would like to join her for the special Sunday “Walking Street”, a local market where they close down some of the main streets in town to allow vendors to set up their goods for sale. Together, we wandered around town a bit looking at all the cheap goods on offer. We stopped at a street stand to try some of the local noodles, which were fantastic; spicy and sweet, full of flavor, and right up my alley. After our spicy dinner, we grabbed some black jelly, a strange herbal gelatin made from the root of a Chinese herb that supposedly helps lower cholesterol. The jelly is shaved off a giant jiggling mass, placed in a bowl of crushed ice and topped with palm sugar. It was a perfect dessert.

Gina didn’t accompany me on Monday. Instead, I took an all day Thai cooking class. We went to the market in the morning and then prepared six different Thai dishes during the day, eating each one after we were done cooking that particular course. It was a fun class, and Thai food is a lot less complicated than I thought. During my first day in Chiang Mai, I had visited a tailor to have some new suits made for school since many events require formal business attire, so after the cooking class, I stopped by for my final fitting before they pack up the suits and ship them home. You have to love a place where you can get three bespoke suits made in two days and it costs the same as one suit at home. I polished off the day with a walk through the night market where I bought some tasteless t-shirts for gifts.

This morning, I packed up and went with Gina to the airport where we said our goodbyes. Boarding my Lao Airlines flight to Luang Prabang, I wasn’t the only one that found it amusing that we were flying a small Chinese-built propeller plane. Several of the young Western travelers whipped out their cameras and started posing in front of the plane. I had to practically fold myself in half to fit through the door of the plane, and I kept hitting my head on the overhead compartment doors that were a little less than overhead for me. At one point during the flight, people sitting towards the front started turning around with a look that screamed, “What’s that smell?” The smell was our inflight meal being passed out by the stewardess starting from the back. Despite the smell, I chomped right into the pork meatball sandwich. It wasn’t the best meal of my life, but it didn’t kill me.

There’s something delightfully old-fashioned about sleeping in a four-poster bed surrounded by a mosquito net blowing gently under the breeze of a ceiling fan (ok, so I have an AC unit too). I’m laying here getting ready to call it an early night here in Luang Prabang, and I have a very pleasant first impression of this town. The French colonists left their mark on this small town full of colonial era buildings, bakeries and coffee shops, yet the town has a distinctly Lao flair to it. I wandered up and down the main street of town this evening and visited the night market. The people here seem friendly and easy-going, and I think I’m falling in love with the overall atmosphere. It’s hot and sticky outside, but somehow that adds to the experience. I had dinner at a traditional Lao restaurant recommended by my guide here, and I’m not entirely sure what I ate, but I enjoyed it. I started with some fresh spring rolls and then moved on to a Luang Prabang Pork Casserole (really more of a hot pot type dish) with sticky rice. The spring rolls were very familiar, but I’m not sure I want to know which parts of the pig were in my pork casserole. There was a lot of indistinguishable gray and white minced meat, some of which I think were different organs, but even with my highest suspicions, not knowing for sure meant I was able to eat and enjoy. Tomorrow, I have an early start to my Lao adventure, so I’m off to eat my goodnight cream puff (Vive la France!) and drift off to sleep under my mosquito net.

A beautiful day in Chiang Mai

Squat and wish - guess Jessica is good for something!

Gina and I at the Yaang Come Village Hotel

My room at the Hotel Les 3 Nagas in Luang Prabang, Laos

Flight attendants are now demonstrating how to fasten and unfasten your seatbelt

2009-07-20T12:13:00.000-04:00

The call to prayer is echoing through the Dubai airport, and I have chosen to pray for the surprisingly large numbers of clueless travelers wandering the planet. I’m no fool - I know that I travel much more than the average person and have the benefit of years of learning experiences. Only recently, however, have I come to realize that there are some people out there that are truly incapable of figuring out the most basic elements of travel.

On my way from Amman to Doha, I was boarding my Qatar Airways flight when three very small, very pushy Indonesian ladies were trying to force their way past me onto the plane. One particularly scrawny one kept trying to squeeze past me pushing my backpack from side to side in the process. I was severely annoyed and purposely blocked her every move. Once on board, it turned out we were all sitting together in the same row…joy. I’m not sure how exactly the girls made it from Indonesia to Jordan, but it appeared as though they had never been on a plane before in their lives. They repeatedly tried to fasten their seatbelts backwards and could not figure out why it wasn’t working. Once I showed them how the seatbelts worked, we started for takeoff. One tiny bump while climbing to cruising altitude, and the girls covered their faces in fear. When the flight attendants came around with food and beverages, the girls pushed the seats in front of them repeatedly expecting the tray to drop down - I showed them how the trays work as well. After the meal, the gentleman in front of the girl in the window seat decided to recline his seat. It came back suddenly, and the girl screamed and put her hands in a defensive position. When one of them wanted to get up to use the restroom, I had to once again demonstrate how to unbuckle the seat belts because just trying to stand up wasn’t working. When we landed, I let the girls get in front of me so that they could push and annoy someone else.

Finally, I understand why they demonstrate how to fasten and unfasten seatbelts in the airplane safety announcements. I was amazed by this random case of total unawareness, but it appears not to be an isolated case. Flying this morning from Doha to Dubai, an Indian fellow seated next to me had already successfully fastened his seatbelt (upside down), but he decided he wanted out. He started rubbing and pulling on the belt buckle. His efforts gradually became more and more frantic as he feared that he had strapped himself to the seat for life. I tapped him on the shoulder and showed him how to release the buckle. He repeated my actions and breathed a sigh of relief… then he put the belt back on, upside down again.

I was also amazed by the way some of the Arab passengers would outright ignore the requests of the flight attendants to do things like sit down, fasten their seatbelts, make sure their children were safely seated, move their purses, open their window shades, etc, etc… It’s amazing how little some people care. It was somewhat amusing to look around the plane at the number of passengers using airsick bags to pack away parts of their meals for later.

I’ll have to admit that I’ve also become a bit of a germophobe thanks to the media and the outbreak of H1N1. I have become painfully aware of every cough, sneeze and sniffle on the plane. A passenger a few rows back on one of my flights vomited during landing, and the flight attendant came by to ask all of the questions I was wondering. Is he just airsick? Has he been sick before flying? Does he have a fever? Unfortunately, he and his friends didn’t speak a word of English, so I guess we’ll never know.

Traveling isn’t easy anymore, and for some people it appears to be even more difficult than one might expect. I try to remind myself, though, that as annoying as the ignorant might be, with a little help, they might learn to be a little bit more pleasant.

Doing Doha

2009-07-19T12:06:00.000-04:00

Visiting shopping malls in foreign countries is always a great way to gain insight into the life of the local middle class. With one full day in Qatar, I spent, perhaps pathetically, several hours of it in the Villaggio Shopping mall in Doha. Villaggio is designed to be like a compilation of Italian cities, complete with a Venetian-style canal and gondolas. Unfortunately, this Vegas-like imitation didn’t even manage to reach second-rate theme park style. The canal is a short straight waterway through the middle of the mall, and the gondolas are staffed by young Asian guys that press start on the electric motor. Walking through the mall, there was a significant amount of activity around the giant Carrefore hypermarket and the surrounding everyday shops like H&M.

At the end of the canal, just before the food court (which was complete with Coldstone Creamery and Krispy Kreme Donuts), a small stand selling children’s books and music on Islam was blaring Koranic Suras read by a deep creepy-voiced man albeit with great annunciation. Past the loud lessons of Islam, one reaches the Via Rosso, the brightest, cleanest and flashiest portion of the mall. This almost completely deserted wing was replete with designer shops from Bulgari to Zegna. Inside every other shop, one could see women in the most elegant of Abayas, covered from head to toe in gracefully flowing black silk trimmed with jewels, their eyes peeking through a Niqab. The women were almost always reluctantly accompanied by middle-aged Arab men in gym clothes - mostly Adidas shorts and muscle shirts.

There are two common types of dress in Doha, traditional Arab costumes and Western clothing. Women of all ages seem to pull off both styles well. There is something mystical, almost magical about a gaggle of black clad women with their faces hidden floating by. Their age can be approximated by the evenness of their stride and the size of their backsides. At least in this portion of the world, butts seem to gradually enlarge with age. Older women are more likely to have a limp or unbalanced walk, whether this is caused by muscle pain, bone weakness or uneven ballast from their buttocks is anyone’s guess. The girls with slim figures and graceful footwork proceed into the second round of the game. Younger girls are more likely to have a glittery colored trim to their Abaya, but you must also decide whether it was their father or their husband that gave them the extra cash for such a flashy getup. With their faces covered, you are left to judge their beauty by their hands and their eyes. The beauty of a woman’s hand can be significant; fine, soft, delicate, well-manicured, the shape becomes as exciting as the curves of a model when the mind is left to wander. But the eyes… the eyes are the window to the soul. One can see a lot about a person’s life, attitude and beauty from their eyes.

Arab men are much better off sticking to the traditional thobe and gutra outfit of the gulf. The simple, lightweight outfit can be as casual or dressy as one wants. It is all about how a man carries himself in the outfit and small details like cuff links and the quality of the fabrics. Young Arab men that choose to dress in Western clothing seem to have the unfortunate habit of making themselves into uber-trendy, arrogant, Eurotrash peacocks, showing off their feathers by wearing sunglasses indoors or sporting the occasional black leather fedora.

The people watching at the mall only got better when they started setting up for a children’s performance in front of the Virgin Mega Store. The show appeared to be state sponsored with the goal of teaching people not to talk on the phone while driving. Seems to be an interesting tactic to raise the next generation of Qatari drivers with a general understanding of traffic regulations, but one has to wonder if that generation will survive through the present set of drivers. During the show, one performer was glued to his phone at all times. He announces that he is going for a drive, which is immediately followed by the gathering of kids from the audience for a song and dance on stage that tells parents not to talk and drive. With an annoying children’s song like that, maybe they’ll get the adults to stop talking on their phones while driving afterall. “Please don’t talk and drive, oh Papa, you’re gonna die.” (I’m taking some poetic liberties with the translation of the lyrics). Following the dance number, there is the sound of a car crash and some very foreboding music. The mobile-phone-loving actor soon appears with his face wrapped in red bandages… very creepy, but it was soon followed by another annoying song with all the kids dancing on stage. In the end, the gentleman didn’t learn his lesson, and I think he died. Time to sing another song kids!

As interesting as it was, I didn’t spend my entire visit to Doha in the mall. My entire mission for the visit was to visit the new Museum of Islamic Art, and that’s exactly what I did as soon as they opened on Thursday. The I.M. Pei designed building is beautiful, both inside and out. The building almost makes the beautiful pieces of art inside it pale by comparison. I think they did a fantastic job collecting and displaying pieces of Islamic art from different periods. The carved wooden doors from Syria and Egypt were my favorites, but there were also some amazing examples of metalwork, ceramics, paintings and carpets. I am curious how an illustrated page from an old Ramayana is classified as Islamic art, but it was a beautiful piece. All in all, I spent about three hours perusing the museum. They also had an impressive temporary exhibit about the “Book of Secrets,“ and Islamic text written in Moorish Spain and currently housed in an Italian library. The book is full of mechanical inventions, and the texts and illustrations were painstakingly restored by the MIA team. The exhibit used large flawlessly functioning touch screen computers to allow visitors to read the book page by page and see 3D models of the inventions and how they function. Unfortunately, the museum shop would not ship any purchases, and I didn’t feel like taking the time to make a run to the post office, so I missed out on some great books, DVDs and porcelain pieces.

Doha was a pleasant enough city to visit, and I’m very glad I made it to the museum. I got lucky because there was talk of a sandstorm while I was in town, and it was speculated to be the largest in many years, but it never materialized (although looking outside here in Dubai, visibility just dropped drastically). I’m also pleased with my visit to Qatar because it was my first time couchsurfing, and it was a great experience. I stayed with a young couple, Melissa and Dan, working in Doha. It was a perfect first, and I look forward to more couchsurfing to come!

A Treatise on Middle Eastern Driving Habits

2009-07-18T11:57:00.000-04:00

The following text deals primarily with the norms of traffic and driving in the Republic of Lebanon, however, examples are also taken from Iraq, Syria and Jordan where noted. Driving in the Middle East requires a select set of skills, the most important of which is awareness. Traffic functions differently in this region, and one should take note of some of the many differences explained herein.

- Most roads do not have painted lines, and when they do, they are merely suggestions of lanes, not regulatory markings meant to be followed. Two lane roads can easily become three or even four lane roads with a little precision driving. This is particularly important to note during heavy traffic when extra lanes are most likely to appear in order to increase the slow yet smooth movement of vehicles.

- Much like painted lines on the highway, most regulatory signs are also merely placed for encouragement. One-way roads are two way as long as there is room for two cars to fit. Going the wrong direction on major highways is perfectly acceptable if it is the closest route to your destination - stay as far to the left as possible and flash your lights at every passing car just to ensure their awareness of your position.

- The use of car horns is obligatory as an aid to other drivers. If someone is nearing your position on the road, give two gentle toots to alert the approaching driver. When driving past the home or workplace of a friend or family member, give a toot as a friendly greeting. On blind curves, it is advisable to honk once, especially if you are towards the center of the road or even completely within your own ‘lane’ - this is a warning for opposing drivers to merge slightly to the correct side of the road. Short blasts of the horn are always helpful tones with no negative or confrontational connotation whatsoever. One long loud honk, however, is a sign of anger and frustration - you are advised to remedy the situation immediately.

- Speed bumps can appear with little or no marking at the most random of locations. Always be prepared to brake suddenly or gain some minor degree of air time. In the case of Iraq, pay attention to other drivers for signs of an approaching speed bump - any speed less than 160 kph (100 mph) probably means there is either traffic or a speed bump.

- Military checkpoints should not be frightening, and they certainly don’t indicate a significant delay in your journey. Approach the soldier slowly with your window down and interior lights on if driving at night. A general greeting, wave of the hand and a thank you are all that are required of you for a quick pass through the checkpoint. Only prepare your ID or documents if asked. Even if your hosts demonstrate otherwise, it is always inadvisable to threaten to run over a soldier at a checkpoint. If the checkpoint has no barricades, no flags and no uniforms, it is probably not a checkpoint at all, rather militia members offering propaganda in exchange for donations - feel free to engage in conversation and/or negotiation.

- In Jordan, it is perfectly normal to see a smiling camel riding in the back of a pick-up truck.

- Popular opinion, or at least that of my cousin Mounira, suggests that having to stop for a herd of sheep or goats crossing the road is good luck, and one should unroll the window and inhale the scent of real life.

- Do NOT, however, inhale the air from any tunnels. Air circulation is not common and fumes can be noxious.

- Most cars in the Middle East are programmed to start an electronic beeping from the dashboard when the speed of the vehicle reaches 120 kph (75 mph). This appears to be more for the annoyance of all passengers than a warning to the driver of dangerous speeds. The exception to this appears to be in Jordan, where traffic police are abundant, and speed limits appear to be strictly enforced. If renting a car in the region, avoid Volvos if you have a lead foot, the high pitched tone of the warning is loud and ear-piercing - damn Swedes.

- One must always watch for the heads of customs officers popping out of the ground at border crossings. At the Syrian-Jordanian border in Jaber, customs agents stand in holes in the ground in order to tap the bottoms of automobiles as they pass over head to make sure nothing is hidden in one of the underside tanks. Don’t drive too fast through the border, lest you inadvertently decapitate a state official (something that certainly can’t be good). It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it… I guess.

- If a road appears to be just wide enough for a golf cart to pass through, it is probably still meant for two way traffic, unless it is located in a city, in which case there will probably be too many cars parked on the sidewalk to allow two way traffic.

- The following are the expected best practices for crossing through an intersection with a traffic light. Green means slow down and check for people running red lights. Yellow is just a color added to the signal for excitement and has no real meaning. Red means slow to an almost complete stop but accelerate again if there is no cross traffic. When turning right on a red light, it is possible that you will cause an accident if you stop completely; proceed slowly into the oncoming traffic.

- In most countries, traffic circles are used instead of traffic lights to allow smooth transit through an intersection for traffic approaching from all directions with the simple rule of yielding to traffic already in the circle. In the Middle East, however, traffic circles are often an excuse to install even more traffic lights, as lights are needed for entering the circle as well as proceeding around the circle.

- Pedestrian crossings are few and far between, so pedestrians seldom use them and cars seldom respect them. Always watch for pedestrians in the road. If you see an outstretched palm facing you with a slight incline, this is a polite request to slow or stop for the crossing pedestrian.

- To signal another driver to slow down or stop, clinch the finger tips of one hand together with your palm facing upwards and move your hand slightly in a downward direction.

- Turn signals are a sign of earnest desire or necessity to move in a particular direction. They should not be used in occasions when you should be able to proceed with little hindrance, but will generally earn you either a warning toot or space to proceed with caution when used properly. If other vehicles do not seem to be respecting your turn signal, open your window and start flopping your hand up and down - this is a signal to other drivers that something drastic is about to occur.

- Beware of flopping hands.

A Last Crusade for Jordan

2009-07-17T11:20:00.003-04:00

My attempt at getting some sun on the beach in Aqaba was perhaps a bit too earnest. I ended up with a slight burn on my shoulders and a little bit on my legs as well. Being the skilled person I am, I managed to tan just the left half of my right leg, front and back. Despite these small setbacks, I had a very pleasant and relaxing visit to Aqaba, staying at the newly opened Kempinski Red Sea Resort. The hotel is so new, in fact, that they won’t have their grand opening until late August. It was a fantastic opportunity to stay at such a nice hotel because the young staff were excited about the new property, eagerly serving the few guests, and they weren’t yet disillusioned by the often frustrating life in the service industry.

I asked the concierge on duty if she thought it would be possible for me to get a car and driver to take me to Petra, see the site and then proceed to the Amman airport in time for my 5PM flight to Doha. There was a bit of confusion as we talked through the process, but I was patient and helped her understand exactly what I needed, and eventually we had it all set. I would leave at 7AM, drive 2 hours to Petra, spend 3 to 4 hours walking around and then continue on for the 2.5 to 3 hour drive to Queen Alia International Airport.

At 7AM, I was closing up my suitcase as the phone rang. It was the concierge letting me know that my driver had arrived. I went downstairs to checkout, and she had breakfast and lunch packed up for my journey. It was a pleasant surprise, and the perfect example of how staff can go above and beyond before they learn to hate guests. It’s unfortunate for us nice people, but there are far too many overly demanding, impatient and outright rude customers out there to expect service staff to always offer service with a smile.

We made it to Petra right on time. The driver helped me purchase a ticket, and then I set out hiking through the rocks. It was early enough in the morning, that there were few other tourists there, so at times I felt like I was all alone in this incredible location. When the wind would blow through the rocks, I could almost hear the whispers of ancient Nabatiya telling me stories of ages past. I can’t begin to explain how picturesque Petra really is. A cool breeze blew through the rocks offering relief from the intense desert sun. Coming across the major structure of the ancient Nabatian city was breathtaking, and it really felt like a step back in time with no sounds of modern life nearby.

An enchanting morning of exploring part of the ancient world was over, and I was back in the car speeding away to the airport. I made it to Amman with plenty of time to spare and was soon on my flight to Doha.

Damascene Style

2009-07-13T15:50:00.001-04:00

My flight was scheduled to depart Amman at 17:00, and at 16:00 we still weren’t quite at the airport. What was I going to do if I didn’t make the flight? It was the last flight of the day to Aqaba, and another 4 to 5 hours in the car after the already over 3 hour drive from Damascus did not sound exciting. Sitting in the back seat twiddling my thumbs and thinking about the tight schedule, Jordan was passing by my eyes. The occasional gust of wind brought clouds of sand around the car.

Damascus was nicer than I had expected, but I still have mixed feelings about Syria. With only one full day to explore the city, I decided it best to hire a guide to ensure I see all the important sites. It didn’t take me long to regret that decision. I was in the middle of the capital city of a Middle Eastern dictatorship that thrives on propaganda. In many ways, Assad’s tight control of Syria has saved it from the problems Lebanon has faced over the years. The roads are well kept, the city is pretty clean by Middle Eastern standards, large spotless government buildings stand proudly throughout the city, there is little crime, Muslims and Christians live side by side in peace, and political unrest is unheard of. Images of Hafez and Bachar al Assad are everywhere in the country, and I half expected one of them to appear on my computer screen shaking their finger at me when I tried to access facebook and couchsurfing, both websites which are blocked from Syrian internet service providers.

My guide was more like the assistant minister of propaganda than a well-versed tour guide. I was disappointed with his ill-informed history and his obvious over-Damacusization of everything he could think of, and even found his commentary in general very boring. He seemed thwarted when I shot down his statement that September 11th was completely staged with an eyewitness account. He had insisted that to this day, they had never found any evidence that a plane had hit the Pentagon. My nearly 6 hour tour of Beirut had seemed long, but it was enjoyable and informative. The 7 hour tour of Damascus was never-ending and tedious, and I was visibly annoyed with the guide by the time we made it back to the hotel. That said, I did like some of what I saw in Damascus, and the Ommayad mosque in particular was beautiful. I only wish I had chosen to explore the city on my own.

Damascus reminds me of a Middle Eastern Seoul - a metropolitan city surrounded by mountains. In this case, the city is believed by many to be the location of the Garden of Eden, and the surrounding hills are home to the first evil, the story of Cain and Abel. The city has an almost mystical atmosphere to it, particularly in the old town. So many stories by so many people have been told in and about this city; Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel, St. Paul, the Prophet Mohammed, and many others. Layer upon layer of history hides in the most unlikely of places. At one point, we went into a pedestrian tunnel full of low-priced clothing shops, much like the metro stations of many European cities - Budapest comes to mind. Daddy Yankee was playing on the stereo while young misled Syrian men stood in their slim-cut button down shirts with their hairy chests bulging from the mostly open buttons. Apparently, while women are encouraged to cover up (to a much more moderate degree than many Muslim countries), men use their chests like peacock feathers to attract the shy members of the opposite sex. We were there to see one of the few exposed portions of the old Roman wall surrounding the city because where else would it be hiding?

This morning, I had breakfast at the hotel and then waited for a driver to pick me up for the drive to the Amman airport. Leaving Damascus, the rest of Syria appeared much more like I had expected. Like the Bekaa valley in Lebanon, the area between Damascus and the Jordanian border is dry and dusty, yet fertile. One thing that stuck out to me was that while the Syrian soldiers spray painted every available surface in Lebanon with pro-Syrian slogans, there is not a spot of graffiti anywhere in Syria. The border between Syria and Jordan was much less busy and much easier to pass through than the Lebanese-Syrian border. Even still, it was definitely another example of a complicated and confusing Middle Eastern land border.

Once inside Jordan, I can’t explain how, but the entire atmosphere changed. Even visually, the fertile plains of Syria gave way to sandy desert hills. Lebanon is definitely the most beautiful country in the region from what I have seen so far, but I every place has its own charms. I did manage to check in and board my flight to Aqaba, and now I am at a brand new hotel on the Red Sea. The Kempinski hasn’t even had its grand opening yet, but I’m here enjoying the view of the white sand beach from my balcony, and I look forward to enjoying some sun and swimming tomorrow.

Taxi to another planet

2009-07-12T13:37:00.006-04:00

I spent my last days in Lebanon enjoying life in Roumieh, talking and eating with family and hanging out a bit with some of the local couchsurfers. My birthday was on the 8th, and there was a bit of confusion around the whole thing, but it ended up being a couple great days of celebrating. Originally, I thought that we might do a dinner at Jean's place, but I later found out that Jean didn't know it was my birthday and was having poker night at his place. The girls all knew about my birthday and wanted to take me down to Beirut for Chinese food, but I had already invited a few Couchsurfers up to Roumieh, so I aked if they would join us at Jeddo Mike's restaurant. Unfortunately, a friend of the family had passed away a couple days earlier, and no one wanted to be seen at a restaurant in the village on the day of the funeral. When all was said and done, four couchsurfers came to join me for dinner, and we had a nice quiet evening.

Thursday night, I went down to Chopstix for Chinese with the girls. The restaurant had relocated and was very nice, and I enjoyed the food, but Mounira wasn't so easily pleased. I agree that the restaurant was a little chilly when we came in, but Mounira insisted that it was colder than her refridgerator inside, and that she was going to need Panadol all night long. She also didn't like the food, but that's no surprise. The last time I went to Chopstix with her, she said she hated Chinese food, Lebanese food was the best and she was never going back to that restaurant again. The story goes much the same way this time around. She said, "In 10 years, when Chris is 50, maybe I will come back." I don't know when she decided I was 40, but we had a good laugh and made bets on how many days Mounira would be saying the same things about the restaurant.

On Friday, I stayed in Roumieh all day, and then I went down to say hi to Raymond, Rita and whoever else might be around before heading to Beirut for the evening. The couchsurfers had arranged an evening out in Ashrafieh for my last day in Lebanon, and we had a great time. Several of the Lebanese CSers showed up, along with a girl from Italy, her boyfriend from Denmark and about 4 or 5 Germans. I decided that the Charlotte CS group needs to up their productivity when the Lebanese started posting for their next events while still sipping beers at the current event. It was a fantastic evening, and Mazen gave me a ride home and offered a lullaby for the price of a taxi - I forgot to pay him, so no song for me.

Louis joined Jean, the girls and me for lunch on Saturday, and then we waited along with some more cousins for my taxi to Damascus to show up. A round of goodbyes, and I was off with my driver Emile to Syria. I helped Emile with directions to the top of the mountain, and then he took over saying he knew a faster way to the border. Emile didn't speak any English, but we managed just fine in Arabic. There was a wedding in Fallugha that afternoon, and it took us a while to get through the traffic, but eventually we made it down to the valley, past Aanjar and to the border. On our way down the curvy mountain roads, however, Emile already had me filling out my exit card for Lebanon and entry card for Syria, which is probably the closest I have ever come to getting car sick. I managed though.

Crossing land borders in the Middle East is very different from what I am used to in Europe. There was a lot of traffic at the border, so Emile told me to jump out and go inside to have my passport stamped. Apparently, I'm not quite Lebanese enough to know how to get my passport to the front of the foreigners line at the border, so when he found a parking space, Emile ran in and pushed me forward until my passport was stamped. Back in the car, we had our IDs checked one last time before we officially left Lebanese territory.

In the past, I've always left Lebanon by plane, and I missed my opportunity at the airport to sit in the Cedar Lounge and reminisce about my time in the country of my ancestors. I still feel a special connection with Lebanon, and it was just as emotional leaving by the road over the anti-Lebanon mountain range as it is flying over the lights of Beirut in the early morning. The longest border crossing I have ever seen by far, they give you a good 2-3 miles to reconsider before officially entering Syria. I kept looking around, and Emile told me, "No more Lebanon," and I told him simply that I love Lebanon.

Just in case you were wondering, there is, in fact, a Dunkin Donuts between Lebanon and Syria, and they must do a decent business because every taxi that crosses the border stops there to shop at the adjacent duty free store. When Emile asked me if I wanted to stop at the Duty Free store, I said no, but he stopped anyway and left me in the car. He came back with multiple bags full of cigarettes and a smile.

Up the road at the Syrian border office, I went inside to wait in another ridiculously long and unorganized line. This time though, my Lebanese heritage stepped forward, and I squeezed past all the Kuwaitis that kept jumping pointlessly from line to line, and I forced myself up to the window where held my passport firmly in place on the counter until the border officer finished with the six other passports that had already been shoved in his face. The Syrian entry card is the length of a short story, and I had filled it out in detail. Rather than read this obnoxious piece of bureaucracy, the border guard asked me every question on the card again, double checked my Syrian visa and then sent me on my way. Emile was relieved that I had a visa because he said recently the Syrians have been holding Americans trying to get a visa at the border for 6 or more hours, and then you still only have a chance of getting through.

Across the border, Syrian flags fluttered wildly in the fresh breeze from the mountains of Lebanon. The angular faces of Assad, senior and junior, stared into the distance frequently from billboards and signposts. It was immediately obvious that the roads in Syria were better than in Lebanon, but I guess that's the benefit of not having to endure 30 years of war. I pulled up to the Four Seasons in Damascus and was almost pathetically excited. Life in the village is fantastic, but it's no Four Seasons. Emile overcharged me for the taxi ride by $40, but I pointed out the discrepancy to him, he said I was wrong, and I dropped the issue. He was a very nice guy, so I just wrote off the extra charge as three hours of conversational Arabic lessons.

2009-07-11T16:12:00.001-04:00

Just a quick mobile post to let everyone know I made it to Syria in one piece. Look for a new post tomorrow!

"Chillout" Party in the Mountains

2009-07-05T03:40:00.006-04:00

Last night, I was invited to a couchsurfing party at someone's home up in the mountains above Jbeil (Byblos). I am always impressed by the grandiose interpretations the Lebanese choose when planning a party. This particular affair was dubbed a "Chillout Saj Night", Saj being a typical Lebanese bread used to make sandwiches. Before heading north, I made a quick stop in Beirut to pick up a Dutch couchsurfer, Jip, whom I had met a week or so earlier. Together we headed towards Jab el Dib with the intention of meeting some other Couchsurfers so that we could follow each other to the party.

Despite being sure of where we were headed, I managed to drive right past the meeting point, and traffic on the other side of the highway was far too bad to turn around. Instead, we called Roy and arranged another meeting point. I only noticed Roy's car at first, so I kept passing this little green car that for some annoying reason insisted on being behind Roy. After being a bit of a jerk for a while, I finally realized that he was with our group. Ooops.

We picked up another car along the way, and eventually arrived at a beautiful home in the mountains completely decked out for an incredible evening under the stars. The food was excellent, our hosts even better. The music was a bit loud for conversation, but it was perfect for dancing, so the group danced the night away. The American in me would never dream of calling such a gathering a "Chillout" party, but I suppose by Lebanese standards, it was pretty relaxing.

It was on the way home, late in the evening, that I realized just how great some of the Lebanese signs are. Two of my favorites belong to the chain of crepe restaurants "Crepaway", which you must pronounce with a French accent but with an English mind to really enjoy.

- "Right here, Crepaway"
- "Come as you are, Crepaway"

But last night, I became partial to the sign for Roadside Diner:

"Roadside Diner - There goes your heart."

What's not to love about this country?

Right into the Danger Zone

2009-07-02T03:48:00.004-04:00

My friend Patrick just left Lebanon last night after a solid week of exploring the country. I had a great time going all over the place and enjoying the beauty of this amazing country, but I'm happy to sit back and relax again in the village.

On Saturday, we started the morning with a drive up to Beit Meri and the ruins at Deir el Qalaa. I had signed us both up for a walking tour of Beirut, which was a little more of an undertaking than I had anticipated. We met our guide, Ronnie, at the entrance of AUB, and then started what turned out to be a 5.5 hour tour of the city. Quite possibly the longest walking tour I have ever taken, it was well worth it, and I finally feel like I really know the different neighborhoods of Beirut. While walking, everyone kept asking about a very distinct popping noise echoing through the city. I just said "probably" when Paddy asked if it was construction going on. Ronnie, however, revealed the truth when one of the Solidere security guards in town told the group, "Watch out for falling metal." The parliament had confirmed the election of Saad Hariri as Prime Minister that afternoon, and March 14th supporters were shooting guns in the air in celebratory fashion. I suppose it just adds to the atmosphere.

A little more than half-way through the tour, we stopped for a drink in Saifi Village, and I ran into my friend Mohamad, confirming that Beirut really is a small place. It was very interesting checking out the old Beirut Synagogue downtown. It is in dire need of maintenance, but it made it through all of the wars and conflicts largely unscathed (ironically, the Israelis actually destroyed the roof while shelling in 1982), and it sits in quiet witness of the historical openness and diversity of Lebanon.

One of our fellow walkers was a young lady from Ireland that managed to improve on the commentary in almost every stop. In front of the newly opened Syrian embassy in Beirut, she said, "That's the cleanest Syrian flag I've ever seen. They don't make 'em that clean in Syria - must be a Lebanese thing."

Standing in Martyrs Square looking over at the burial site of Hariri outside the massive mosque his money built, our Irish friend said, "They killed the man and put him in a tent! I don't want a tent. Seems they could do better than that."

Even in front of the statue of an assasinated journalist, her honesty brought on some laughter. "What was this fellow's name?"
"Samir Assir"
"Well that's a stupid name."

Having enjoyed each other's company for almost half of the day, the whole group decided to go out to dinner together in a small restaurant in Hamra, and it was a great meal with great conversation.

Sunday was an easy day with lunch at Isabelle's and then a quick jaunt up to Harissa and Notre Dame du Liban. Paddy, Mounira and I even stuck around for mass in the Basilica before heading home. On Monday, I had intended to take Paddy to the Jeita Grotto and the Khalil Gibran museum, but it turns out that both of those sites are closed on Mondays. I suppose I failed the tour guide test on that one, but we still packed a lot into one day. We visited the convent at Sayedti an-Nouriyeh, the Monestary of St. Antoine Qozhaya, had lunch in Bscharre and then made our way to the Cedars. It was a bit cloudy in Wadi Qadisha and up at the Cedars, so the views weren't as stunning as they could have been. Feeling a bit adventurous, I decided that instead of backtracking to the highway, we would take the small road over the second highest peak in the Middle East and into the Bekaa. As we climbed to almost 3,000 meters in altitude, we made it above the cloudline and had an incredible view of the Bekaa valley on one side and the fluffy white clouds on the other. The cool crisp fresh air and the patches of snow were too much to resist, and we spent quite a while enjoying the peak. After a couple of hours of dodging holes in the roads of the Bekaa, we got a little lost in Zahle looking for the road back over the mountain to Roumieh, but eventually we found it and made it to dinner a couple hours late.

The next day, we took it easy in the morning and then went to Jeita and Byblos in the afternoon. I became an unofficial guide at the caves not only for Paddy, but also for the two other Americans there that afternoon. In the evening, we had dinner at a Japanese-Italian restaurant in downtown Beirut. I think Paddy got it right when he said, "Look, they're already apologizing, the restaurant's name is Scoozi." The food was fine, but nothing more - I just couldn't turn down a chance to eat at such a random establishment. After dinner, we had a drink at El Gardel in the Gemmayze neighborhood, known for their bars and pubs. Once we realized that we were there on French music night, we moved down the street to a very traditional little coffee house/restaurant where we smoked Arguileh and listened to some live music. The performers played classic songs from the Arab world as the audience clapped and/or danced along.

Yesterday, we ended up going down to the South to check out the Roman ruins in Tyre. We ate some Knefe at Al Baba sweets in Saida on the way down, and then continued into Hizbollah territory. As we were exiting the highway into Tyre, I stopped for some guys handing out propoganda on the street. They were offering commemorative booklets on Hizbollah's victory in the 2006 war with Israel in exchange for donations. It was a small booklet, but it was full of photos and information from the conflict, and I was really curious to get a chance to look through it. Unfortunately, the USD$2 I was willing to offer for it was not enough for the guy I was negotiating with, and my Arabic skills were too limited to push the issue further. When he was trying to get me to give him $5 and offering to give me change for larger bills, I was having difficulty understanding, and instead of saying "I don't understand," I kept repeating to him, "You don't understand, you don't understand." He was a little confused but thought he didn't understand how much I wanted the book. Finally, I gave up, and drove off without my book. Just as well, I suppose; making donations to Hizbollah is frowned upon where I come from.

As we were leaving Tyre, we managed to catch the song "Danger Zone" from Top Gun on the radio, and we couldn't resist turning it up to add to the atmosphere of the UN tanks and Lebanese Army checkpoints along with the larger than life cardboard cutouts of Hassan Nasrallah and Hizbollah flags. Passing through Saida again, we stopped for a sandwich and to load up on sweets before returning to Roumieh. We ended the day with a great dinner at Jeddo Mike's, and enjoyed his stories.

This really is a spectacular place, and some day, I hope, they will find a way to live in peace and prosperity.

Feast of St. John

2009-06-24T15:05:00.004-04:00

I'm still enjoying a relaxing week in Roumieh with very little activity, and I have embraced it knowing that my friend Patrick is arriving on Friday night, so we'll have lots of touring to do together. Yesterday, I did make it down to Beirut for coffee with a classmate from the LFB program at IMD in Switzerland, which was great. We got caught up a little bit, discussed business and family, enjoyed some refreshing drinks and agreed to meet up again before I leave Lebanon.

Today is the feast of St. John the Baptist (Mar Youhanna), and he happens to be one of the patron saints of Roumieh, so every year they have a big mass down at the old Mar Youhanna church down the mountain. I went down with some of the cousins to celebrate the mass, and it was a beautiful way to spend the evening. People native to Roumieh from near and far came for the mass, and the choir had practiced for weeks for the occasion. Nassif and his fiancee were the star performers, and their voices were exquisite. Hearing the old style music, while the sun was setting in the distance and the priest honored St. John, was wonderful.

Following mass, everyone gathered to enjoy freshly baked cakes, sweets and manoushe. After a while, Mounira and I decided to walk back up to her place, which was a more intense hike than I had anticipated, but I suppose I had to make some sort of pilgrimage in reverence to St. John. Of course, half of the village stopped their cars on the way up to offer us a ride, but I, perhaps stupidly, insisted on walking. By the time we made it to Mounira's, I stopped for a glass of water and then continued home because I was in dire need of an ice cold shower. Only moments away from heat stroke, I was home, cooling off and preparing for an early night.

Relaxing in the Village

2009-06-22T04:00:00.003-04:00

After a month of traveling, it's nice to just sit back and relax for a bit. I keep saying that I'm going to go somewhere, but I haven't left Roumieh since I got here on Friday. It's just too easy to sit outside in the mountain breeze, sip some Turkish coffee and enjoy the simple things in life. Besides, time with family is never dull.

One of the funniest things I think I have ever heard was said over coffee yesterday afternoon. The usual conversational twists and turns that start with domestic Lebanese politics, then lead to the Palestinians and eventually Israel and the West, ended up with a mention of the holocaust. Someone said, "Hitler not only wanted to kill the Jews; he also didn't like Gypsies, Muslims and short people."

"Yes, akeed, during the war, we were very afraid of Hitler in Roumieh because we have too many short people."

You never know what you're going to hear next in this place.

Natasa, Borut and Grega all were hoping to come to Lebanon while I am here, but for various reasons, none of them could make it. Another friend, Patrick, decided to come next weekend though, so I get to do some touring afterall. With that guarantee of being forced out of the village coming up, for now, I'm going to take advantage of some quality relaxation.

2009-06-20T01:39:00.001-04:00

It's good to be home again... at least one of them. It's a beautiful summer in Lebanon.

2009-06-19T14:22:00.001-04:00

Under the watchful eye of Ataturk, it is forbidden to access facebook from the Istanbul airport. I am on my way to Beirut! Ya habibitna Beirut, shoo sayer bi dinii...

The Turkish Bunny Hop

2009-06-17T16:31:00.005-04:00

A wise man once said, "Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get." I certainly bit into one big surprise chocolate tonight. It started innocently enough with me inquiring about the possibility of seeing a Dervish ceremony this evening. Lily at the hotel said it would be no problem at all, and she proceeded to organize everything for me. Around 5PM, I received a phone call from her, "I have arranged for you to go to a very nice place for the Dervish ceremony, and they have folk dancing, live music and a belly dancer as well. Dinner is included and your driver will pick you up at 8:15."

I immediately had my doubts about this all-inclusive package, and I also was frighteningly aware that I would be alone within reach of a belly dancer. What was done was done, though, and I decided to bite the bullet and see what would happen.

Arriving at the restaurant, a traditional Turkish drummer started playing a beat and marched me into the dining room, where I had a table for 25, set for one. They had my Mezze waiting for me at the end of the table closest to the stage. "Gangsta's Paradise" was playing over the stereo system, but oddly enough, it was being played with Turkish folk instruments. When Brittney Spears' "Toxic" came on next, I knew this was destined to be an interesting evening.

The other groups had been seated, and it was time for the Dervishes to come out. The band, including a great vocalist, did an excellent job of playing the moving religious music while the Dervishes spun themselves into a trance with their white robes floating gracefully at their sides. With one hand reaching towards God and the other drawing energy from the earth, the Dervishes put on a good show, but it was obvious that these guys weren't the real thing, and my troublesome sense of humor made me want to break out in song, "Oh Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel..." All kidding aside though, the Dervish ceremony was very calming and almost magical, and I would love to see the real thing some day.

A few folk dances and one hip rocking belly dancer later, it was time for some audience participation. I managed to remain seated using my photographer ruse as an excuse. The belly dancer embarrassed a few poor men, and then some random group dancing broke out. Soon, the Turks returned in force for another folk dance with the unavoidable display of the Turkish flag and some grunts of national pride. With that out of the way, the Turkish guys then started grabbing people from the audience and started one final display of Turkish culture, The Bunny Hop. I could barely contain myself when I realized what was happening around me, but I finally let out a chuckle when a mentally handicapped fellow in the middle of the line started grabbing the chest of the guy in front of him instead of the shoulders. Luckily, the stranger in front seemed to be aware of who was behind him and shrugged it off.

I had officially seen all I could handle, so I packed up my camera and made my way out the door. My driver seemed more than happy to be leaving a little earlier than expected.

Tea - a rather pointless monologue

2009-06-17T13:00:00.001-04:00

Let’s talk about tea for a moment. I can hear John laughing already, but I have no cans of tea for you to sniff at the moment, just a few observations about tea as a culture. I have been in many tea drinking societies around the world, a couple on this trip already, and they all do things a little differently. Possibly to improve the world’s understanding of me as a person, I think I should share some of the positives and negatives I have experienced when it comes to tea. First of all, I strongly agree with the Persian tradition (also Turkish, Kurdish, Iraqi) of serving tea in clear glasses. The beautiful amber color of properly brewed black tea should be enjoyed by the imbiber through an unadulterated glass vessel, period.

As long as we’re talking about black tea in the Middle Eastern tradition, I have to say that the Persians do it best, followed closely by the Kurdish. The refreshingly sweet addition of cardamom to the black tea is delightful, and the occasional addition of saffron in Persian tea just makes it a step more regal. Turkish tea is nice, but it dulls in comparison to its Eastern neighbors. The Turks do a fine job, however, on the apple tea that is also prevalent on the Anatolian peninsula - it’s similar to a hot apple cider though, and can hardly be classified as tea. The best thing about tea in the Middle East is its relationship to hospitality and relaxation. In the regions I have mentioned, it’s virtually impossible to live out a day without being offered or invited for tea numerous times. Sitting back and enjoying this hot golden beverage with a healthy dose of sugar just feels right in this atmosphere. Drinking tea helps lend a pace to life; it’s time to converse, time to negotiate, time to soak up the sights and sounds. It’s much easier to complete a major purchase when you and the salesperson are both sitting back with a tea in hand, as is so often the case. It puts both parties on equal footing in a relaxed situation - the exchange of money and goods becomes secondary to the sharing of tea.

Tea in the “Western” world tends to be a major disappointment. Nothing was more disappointing than ordering a tea at the Ritz-Carlton in Istanbul and being served a bitter, over-brewed white cup of brown nastiness. It took four packets of sugar just to overcome the tangy bitter flavor of scalded tea leaves. The British like to combat improperly brewed tea (ok, sometimes properly brewed too) with milk and sugar. This is the bland man’s attempt to emulate the perfectly balanced Masala Chai of their former colonies in South Asia. Masala chai is supposed to be a blend of sweet and spicy with a touch of milk or cream to help bring balance to life. It’s an incredibly pleasurable beverage, but it is very different from the Middle Eastern tea beverages and a proper role-model for British tea lovers. In America, we’ve been overwhelmed with trendy new tea shops that offer every imaginable blend and flavor under the sun. I’ve fallen in love with many of these establishments, but a tea purist would find many faults in their offerings - that’s ok, I’m a moderate tea lover at heart, so I’ll take advantage of their fruity blends and bastardized versions of tea staples from around the world.

I had in mind to continue my tea lecture with writings on my experiences in Japan and the fine green teas of Asia, but instead, I’ll end things here with the option to continue when I make it to China and might be confronted with more tea traditions or tea travesties. Time will tell.

2009-06-17T05:59:00.001-04:00

Even God is not immune to the imposing nature of technology today. I'm having tea in Goreme and the prayer call from the mosque was briefly interrupted by a cell phone ringing over the loud speakers. Unfortunately, the conversation was not broadcasted.

Kapadokya - Caveman Style

2009-06-16T12:53:00.005-04:00

The wind is whistling around the rocks and hills as I sit in my big comfy hammock-like chair and stare out the “window” of my cave. I think there might be a storm tonight, which could only add to the surreal experience of peering into the life of Kapadokya (Cappadocia). It’s like another planet out there with the towering rock formations littering the landscape. Hell, it’s like another planet in here too - I mean seriously, I’m sleeping in a cave.

Aside from the disappointment of finding out that I could have stayed at the Flintstones Hotel down the road in Goreme, today has been a very nice introduction to the region. Rocks, caves, churches, mountains, “fairy chimneys,” mosques, hotels, restaurants, tea houses; they all start to look the same after a while, but the peaceful atmosphere and mystical nature of this region are captivating. Early Christians took refuge in the caves and underground cities, carving out homes and churches from the volcanic rock. They had an invisible civilization, as it were, and their mark on this land is moving, unfortunately, so have the Christians. Back in the 1920s, there was a forced population swap where Christians from Kapadokya were moved to Greece and the Muslim Turks were transferred from Greece to here. It’s a tragic story of politics that changed the history of this region forever, but it has made it no less fascinating to visit.

One of the highlights of the day was stopping at a local ceramics workshop in Avanos. Deep inside yet another cave, one family has been producing and selling ceramics according to local tradition for the last 200 years. One of the potters demonstrated how they still use a kick wheel to turn the pottery. He made a perfect vase in about 3 minutes. They offered to let me try, but I didn’t want to embarrass the potter by making a something better and faster. Later, one of the guys in the shop asked me if I had seen the whirling dervishes perform yet. When I told him no, he announced that his cousin that had demonstrated the pottery-making was also a Dervish. “He spun around on that wheel so much as a child that he couldn’t stop, so now he goes every night to perform as a Dervish.”

I’m finding the rural regions of Anatolia to be much more to my liking than the bustling city of Istanbul. Cities can be a lot of fun, but I love exploring and relaxing in the more authentic locations.

2009-06-15T08:09:00.001-04:00

I am resting in a cave somewhere in Turkey, and I like it.

Two Days in Istanbul... not Constantinople

2009-06-15T00:08:00.002-04:00

14 JUNE 2009

I had planned on having my first couch surfing experience staying at someone else’s place here in Istanbul, but I didn’t manage to find a host, so I ended up at the Ritz-Carlton instead. Not a bad trade, in theory, but I would have preferred to meet some more locals and have someone with whom to explore the city. That said, I’ve been very well taken care of at the Ritz, and Istanbul is a beautiful city. Straddling two continents, split by the turquoise waters of the Bosphorus, minarets shooting up towards the blue sky from every neighborhood in the city, Istanbul is enchanting in many ways, but I’m not in love. With 16 million people, Istanbul is a huge, busy city, and somewhat overwhelming.

On the way to the hotel from the airport, my taxi driver lectured me on Istanbul traffic and then nearly got into a fist fight with a particularly rude motorcyclist. Instead of wasting my time with a fight, he wrote the number of the license plate on his hand and simply said, “I kill him later.”

Saturday, I decided to hire a guide and explore the old town. Together, we explored the streets of Sultanahmet, visiting Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque, the Basilica Cistern, Topkapi palace and the spice market. In between, we stopped at one of the more reputable rug wholesalers in town, and in a moment of weakness, I ended up purchasing three beautiful carpets from the Ararat region of Turkey. My guide had stepped out for a cigarette while I made my carpet selections, but when she returned, she said that I had picked out her favorite one. “When he pulled out that carpet at first, I immediately fell in love - you have great taste for beautiful things.”

Wandering around the spice market, I was impressed by the honesty of one vendor vying for my business. “Come in, we cheat less here, just enough.” The great success of the day was when we hailed a taxi to go back to the hotel and ended up with the same driver that had taken us into town. Over 30,000 taxis in the city, and we managed to find the same one twice. My guide was very happy because she said she almost always has to argue with drivers from the old town. The spice guy may cheat less, but taxi drivers here have a tendency to cheat more. That’s why it’s always better to get a driver at one of the major hotels because the hotels only allow the more honest drivers to work their properties.

It was my intent to have a relaxing day today, perhaps spending it by the pool at the hotel, but the Concierge, Cenk, had other plans for me. Cenk sought me out at breakfast to make sure I had a good tour yesterday. He pulled out a map and asked what all I saw on the tour so that he could plan out the day for me. His list included three suggestions, Dolmabahce Palace, a Bosphorus cruise, and a visit to the Ortakoy neighborhood. I decided to take his advice and do all three. I took a taxi over to Ortakoy, where I wandered around a bit and then boarded a boat to see the city from the water. After an hour long cruise, I decided to walk back to Dolmabahce and my hotel from Ortakoy because it looked deceivingly nearby from the water. Though longer than expected, the walk was very pleasant, but it ended with a disgustingly steep uphill trek from the river to my hotel.

Upon my return, Cenk announced that he had made dinner reservations for me at a place voted one of the 50 best restaurants in the world, Kosebasi. I was very excited to try the restaurant, but I have to admit that I was not impressed. The best part of the meal was the bread - a variety of fresh baked Turkish flat breads that were fantastic. Otherwise, all of the food was good, but nothing memorable. I went heavy on the eggplant tonight with yogurt-eggplant dip, pickled eggplant dip, and Patlincanli Kebap (minced lamb kebabs with grilled eggplant) all accompanied with a tomato salad, a Turkish cheese pastry and a small Lahmacun (meat pizza). The food was nothing special, and the service was mediocre as well. The place seemed to do a lot of delivery business with the breads, pizzas and kebabs, and I would probably be very satisfied with the restaurant as a delivery place, but I strongly disagree with the rave reviews the restaurant received in general. I took a short stroll after dinner, and then returned to the hotel for a tea and a scoop of pistachio ice cream.

Tomorrow, I leave for the Cappadocia region, where I hope to get a more authentic view of Turkey.

Iraq in a nutshell - Pistachio probably

2009-06-14T16:28:00.003-04:00

The Main Gate of the Erbil Citadel

The Kurdish flag flying in the old Erbil Citadel

Fish grilling to perfection

The finished product
Eating ice cream with a former Kurdish body builder
The Erbil Citadel
Kurdish Textile Museum
Enjoying Arguileh
Some big Kurdish Guy
Lazgin and our "ninja"

What exactly did I get while I was in Iraq? Probably lung cancer, possibly some new business opportunities, definitely a desire to go back and spend more time. My time in Iraqi Kurdistan was very brief, but it was full of priceless experiences and the incredible hospitality of the Kurdish people. I have nothing but good things to say about the Kurdish people and the enormous strides they have made towards creating a stable and prosperous region in a very turbulent part of the world. The welcome I received rivaled that of my own champions of hospitality back in Lebanon, and it was one of the very few places in the world where I actually felt completely comfortable being an American.

My friends in Iraq are definitely very well-connected within the Kurdish regional government, and I had the great pleasure of meeting some of the movers and shakers of the region and learning more about the Iraqi Kurdistan. I have many interesting and entertaining stories from my short time in Iraq, but I don’t feel that it is appropriate for me to share many of the details in an internet post. I will, however, give a brief explanation of how I spent my time in Erbil.

As the guest of some successful business people in Erbil, I was lucky enough to be able to visit some of their stores and offices and to learn more about business in Kurdistan. I was able to sit in on a meeting with two Swedish Kurds that are trying to develop the film industry in the area. I enjoyed many glasses of perfect Kurdish tea that reminded me very much of the warm glasses enjoyed with Mansour out at Willow Creek Inn. Multiple times a day we would sit back and smoke some excellent Arguileh (aka Hookah or Shisha) with various fruit flavors, sometimes even with the tobacco packed into some fresh fruit. The thick sweet smoke felt icy against my face, and the Shisha we get in the states or Europe pales in comparison. The food was all excellent, although most of it was transplanted from an area I am very familiar with, Lebanon. One night, amongst some very important company, we enjoyed some local fresh-water fish, grilled to perfection by an open fire. One evening, we negotiated our way into the historic Erbil Citadel right at closing time, and wandered the ancient streets and visited the Kurdish textile museum.

The most important thing I can say about Iraqi Kurdistan is that it is a wonderful place, where I felt very safe and very welcome, and with any luck, I will be returning soon. The opportunities available in the region are innumerable, and I sincerely hope that I can find a way to take advantage of them. Next time, I hope to spend a great deal more time in the region and explore some other parts of the area, particularly the mountains. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even bring a tour group with me one day. Many thanks to the people of Kurdistan!

Iraqi Kurdistan - First Impressions

2009-06-13T04:46:00.005-04:00

07 JUN 2009
Arif, Lazgin and I flew together on the Austrian Airlines flight to Erbil in Iraqi Kurdistan. I really felt genuinely excited, and surprisingly (at least to me personally), I wasn’t the slightest bit nervous. Exiting the plane in Erbil, a friend of Arif’s from airport security was waiting for us with a flashy bus with tinted windows. We were taken to the VIP side of the airport, where our temperatures were taken to check for swine flu, and we were ushered quickly through passport control and into a very posh lounge. Apparently, normal procedure prohibits vehicles from driving up to the airport, so usually you have to take a special airport bus to the waiting cars, far from the terminal. It wasn’t a great shock to figure out that Arif’s friends had their bright white Toyota Land Cruisers waiting right outside the door. The not-so-standard procedure that Arif always follows involves a leisurely stop at the office of the head of airport security for a cup of tea.

I felt immediately comfortable in these surroundings, not just because of the special treatment my friend had arranged, but because everyone was very eager to welcome me to Kurdistan, and the laid-back-drink-some-tea-ten-minutes-means-two-hours culture was right up my alley. Laying here at 2:30AM in a fortress like hotel that doubles as the British consulate, I have really seen very little of Kurdistan or even Erbil, but I’m very content and really like the place. I met for juice and arguileh with some of the guys in the early evening, and then a large group of us went out to the beautiful restaurant Marina in the Christian district of the city. The food was great, the live music was moving (they even played my favorite Iraqi song, Khuttar), and the company couldn’t have been better. On the way into the restaurant, though, everyone had to pass through a security check including a metal detector. Funny thing about it, they started to search my camera bag, but Saad told the guard, “he’s American, he won’t blow himself up,” and I was sent on through. We did note, however, that the metal detector wasn’t on, and they didn’t search any of the other guys because they didn’t have bags - we’ll give the security team a D+ for putting on a good show.

Driving at high speeds along the European highways suddenly pales in comparison to flying 100mph down the seemingly endless straight roads of Erbil in a Toyota Land Cruiser, the windows of which are tented so much that it is practically impossible to see outside in the dark, slowing down only to gently hop over the occasional speed bump. Tomorrow, the real exploring begins.

Austrian Airlines Premium Class Meal: Assorted appetizer plate including Hummous, Moutabel, roasted vegetables and fresh bread, Prawns in a creamy parmesan tomato sauce served with buttered rice and sauteed spinach, assorted Arab sweets and hot tea for dessert.

Leaving Slovenia

2009-06-13T04:35:00.005-04:00

I arrived in Istanbul last night, and I am finally back to free high-speed internet access, so I'll be catching up on my blog posts over the next couple days. Not all of them will be in chronological order just to forewarn you.

06 JUN 2009
My last day in Slovenia was the perfect culmination of another great visit to the country. I rode with Natasa’s brother, Borut, to Celje, where we spent some time hanging out at Tropic Bar and having a great lunch prepared by Natasa’s mother. It’s like being home, surrounded by close friends in a country I love, eating Eta’s great food. Upon returning to Ljubljana, I met up with my new friend Jorge and another local couch surfer. The young Slovenian girl that was hanging out with us was quite the character, but I really enjoyed meeting her. The amusement started when she told Jorge, “I have to tell you, I have emotions.” It turns out that she had a Guatemalan roommate while volunteering in Ecuador to whom she was obviously very close. Just by fact of origin, Jorge had given her “emotions.”

When asked if Jorge reminded her of her friend Marcial and why, she replied, “You move and you smile.” Who knew that non-Guatemalan people were so cold and stationary? During dinner at Pizzeria Osmica, things got even more interesting. The girl began to explain how Latin people touch each other a lot more than Europeans in general. She admitted that she was sad because she really wanted to ask Marcial to “lay on top of [her], just to feel his weight and presence” before they said goodbye, but she was too shy. “Next year though, people laid on top of me,” she said very matter-of-factly. The conversation took another radical turn when she mentioned the interesting reactions one gets “if you just ask someone to touch you anywhere.” Apparently, she attempted this experiment with one girl and one guy, and the girl was very uncomfortable, but touched her behind the ear and “gave [her] emotions.” The guy touched her hair, but she was unmoved by that. Jorge recommended that she not try that question on people in Guatemala if she ever visits.

Soon enough, it was time for the young girl to go back to work on editing a film for her university. Jorge gave her two pecks on the cheeks to say goodbye, and she practically melted. I did the same, and she said, “He’s just American.”

Jorge and I finished the night by meeting some of the folks from his youth hostel for some drinks and a long walk in the rain and lightning. Trying to jump over a large puddle, I sorta kinda ended up jumping into a large puddle and splashing the poor English girl behind me. She pointed out every puddle for the rest of the night and asked if I’d like to jump in again. As far as these young folks were concerned, the night was young, but at 2AM, I thought it best to retire to my hotel to pack and rest before my 6AM departure to Iraq. Many hugs and multiple goodbyes, followed by the chorus of “please stay alive,” and I was back to the hotel, ready for another adventure.

2009-06-10T13:19:00.001-04:00

Safely back from Iraq. Nothing but great experiences, and I can't wait to go back. More detailed posts to come from here in Vienna.

2009-06-08T17:44:00.001-04:00

"Don't tell the authorities," were the last words spoken to me tonight. Needless to say, I am having a fascinating time.

2009-06-08T03:29:00.001-04:00

Hot. Random power outages remind me of Lebanon. I think I like it here.

2009-06-07T09:01:00.001-04:00

Very well cared for in erbil. Tea and nuts, who needs more?

Getting to know the bar with Valeria

2009-06-05T14:19:00.005-04:00

Having returned from my excursion to central Verona unscathed by the wrath of the photo Nazi, I changed into my bathing suit and went to the pool. The wind was a little chilly for swimming in an unheated pool, so I chose to soak up some rays instead. A very eager young Italian gent was working the pool area and seemed quite bored, so he kept bringing me things like water, towels, even a Caiparinha. After a couple hours at the pool, I went back inside to write some emails and check up on the happenings on facebook. The computer room was apparently part of an art tour of the hotel for some visiting Americans. The large group all properly labeled with their names and hometowns wandered in, surrounded me and started commenting on the creepy clown pictures all around me. The guide explained the origins of the various pieces of "art" in the room, and even pointed me out as one of their guests. Who knew I was a tourist attraction?

Soon enough, it was time to get changed and take advantage of some more of my room perks, specifically, a cocktail and dinner. At the bar, Valeria, the bar tender, was excited to have her first guest walk through the door. I gave her my cocktail voucher and she began to mix me a "Siren" cocktail. She handed it over to me saying, "It's really quite odd. Do you know what it is?" It was a blend of pear juice, pineapple juice, vodka and saffron, the golden color of which was meant to be reminiscent of the sculpture I had illegally photographed earlier. Chatting a bit, Valeria and I started talking about her favorite drinks. This young Italian woman was easily bored by traditional drinks and enjoyed experimenting at the bar. She promised to make me one of her favorite drinks after dinner. I enjoyed my Siren along with some fantastic olives, sundried tomatoes and Parmeggiano Reggiano.

Down in the restaurant, all of the staff were eagerly awaiting my arrival for my "Flower Paintings" dinner. They gave me my choice of tables in the empty restaurant, and immediately poured me a glass of Prosecco. After receiving my approval for the menu the chef had prepared for me, they dashed off to get things rolling. I carefully noted every part of the meal, and I intended to photograph it as well, but sometimes I got a little fork happy before I could grab my camera.

I started with an amuse bouche of a poppy seed encrusted scallop with a balsamic reduction. Next came some fantastic fried zucchini blossoms stuffed with ricotta cheese and anchovies, perfectly fried langoustines and a mango puree.
The next course was a plate of kamut noodles with a ragout of rabbit, valpolicella olives and marjoram.
The main course consisted of lamb medallions "cacio e ovo" served with artichokes and a savory baked egg custard. Coconut-lavender semi-freddo served as a palate cleanser. Dessert was by far the most creative of the dishes, and I have great intentions of repeating it when I get home. It was a "Sweet Club Sandwich" - thin slices of saffron and basil cakes layered with strawberry and vanilla gelato, pineapple "fries" and strawberry "ketchup".
Everything was topped off with a nice espresso and some friandises.
After dinner, I went back up to check on Valeria at the bar. She was ready to fix me her special twist on a Caiparinha. Fresh oranges, muddled with some sugar syrup and crushed ice, a splash of amaretto and Schweppes Bitter Lemon to top it off. It was fantastic - such a refreshing drink, and the orange/amaretto combo was very good. Valeria and I then proceeded to go through every bottle on the shelf discussing possible combos, the good and the bad, and even trying a few samples of the more unusual bottles. I woke up bright and early the next morning to drive to Slovenia. Multiple Slovenia updates to follow.

"Artwork" at the Byblos Art Hotel

2009-06-04T03:24:00.003-04:00

Creepy shrunken heads at the bar
Creepy clown in the computer room
Creepiest clown in the computer room
Uhh, yeah, this was in the hallway
My absolute favorite, man falling from balcony. Love it.

Verona Photos

2009-06-03T14:34:00.004-04:00

Verona's Roman Arena in the background
Mmmm...Gelato
Some statue on some Piazza somewhere in Verona
Mr. Alighieri
Does this guy know "Prepster" is written on his up-turned collar???

Byblos Art Hotel Photos

2009-06-03T14:13:00.003-04:00

The pool

My generously sized bathroom

My Room

The Hotel lobby

Front driveway of the hotel

The Photo Nazi

2009-06-03T14:09:00.001-04:00

Things at the Byblos Art Hotel were pretty quiet while I was there, but that just meant the staff were all that more eager to be of assistance. The room rate I had booked at the hotel was based around the Marc Quinn art exhibit in town, and it included a ticket to the exhibition, a special cocktail, a “flower paintings” dinner, and complimentary transportation to and from the center of Verona. I was determined to take advantage of all the perks.

Still hopped up on my perfect cappuccino, I grabbed my camera and headed out the door with the hotel’s driver. He dropped me at the edge of the main square, and I was off to explore Verona. It wasn’t my first time in the city, but back when I visited in high school, we were young brats that didn’t really know where to go and didn’t really pay attention to where we were. I remember visiting the supposed home of Romeo’s Juliette and seeing the Roman arena, but otherwise, Verona was a very unremarkable city in my mind. As it turns out, Verona is quite a nice little city, and I thoroughly enjoyed my second visit. I wandered down the streets taking pictures and taking in the architecture and atmosphere. The goal of my time in Verona was to visit the art exhibit at Juliette’s house. Apparently, Marc Quinn is some up and coming British modern artist, and not surprisingly, I had never heard of him before. I had a ticket to his exhibit though, so by God I was going to see it.

Making my way to the exhibit, I made a detour to check out some of the smaller piazzas, watched the tourists along Via Mazzini, and stood under the disapproving glare of Dante Alighieri. Fighting through the crowds in Juliette’s courtyard, I soon realize that the museum I am so eagerly trying to reach is closed. I had another hour before the museum would open, so I went to grab a gelato and wander some more streets. With a cone of banana and coconut gelato in hand, I stumbled upon a fabulous pastry shop full of local cakes and sweets, but alas, it was closed for the day. Back under the balcony Shakespeare made famous, the doors of museum were opening, and I was one of the first people inside. I handed my ticket to the woman at the register who then stared at it, turned it upside down, looked at the back, and then asked me, “What is this?”

When I explained that the piece of paper she was holding was a ticket for the exhibit given to me by my hotel, she grumbled some choice Italian expletives, printed a new ticket and sent me on my way. At the top of the stairs, an Italian gentleman that suffered from some form of brain damage saw my camera and yelled, “NO FLASH!” followed by a cordial, “Buon Giorno, ticket please.” He insisted that I start my exploration of the exhibit on the 3rd floor, so I made my way up the next flight of stairs. Once there, another museum employee came to me and said, “Photo si, flash NO!”

“Ok, no flash.” I examined the photograph-like paintings of flowers and some glasswork, and I even took some pictures, but I didn’t dare use my flash. One more floor up was Quinn’s most famous work, the Siren. It’s a very peculiar golden sculpture of Kate Moss in an incredibly modesty-compromising position… but she is wearing underwear. Less than floored by the masterpiece, I still felt it was necessary to take a photograph for posterity. I made sure that my flash was off, snapped a picture, and within seconds, a young Italian woman came running in yelling, “NO PHOTOS! NO! NO! NO!”

“I was told no flash.”
“NO PHOTO!”
“Downstairs they said, photo si, flash no.”
“Now you are upstairs, NO PHOTO!”

Fine by me, Il Duce, I already got my damn photo.

The Perfect Cappuccino

2009-06-01T04:51:00.004-04:00

It was a crazy weekend in Geneva, but I had a great time on my surprise excursion. It's great to have so many friends scattered around the world, and I really appreciate Grega hosting me for the weekend. On my way down to Verona, I ended up parked in front of the Mont Blanc tunnel for nearly two hours, but it was a beautiful day in the alps, and I joined the crowds of people that abandoned their vehicles to lay in the grass and enjoy the sun. Once I finally made the nearly 7 mile drive through the tunnel, I realized that I was probably lucky to have been one of the people waiting outside the tunnel instead of being one of the people inside with all the police, fire fighters and ambulances. I'm still not sure what happened in there, but I am sure it was more of an inconvenience than a few hours of waiting.

Once in Verona, I pulled up to a large well-manicured villa and found myself immersed in the world of the European "yacht-club" crowd. Everyone is attired in pastel colors, with collars up and sweaters draped over their shoulders. The hotel itself is completely filled with random pieces of modern art; a few naked women here, random brightly colored blobs there, sculptures of unusually contorted people sitting on pedestals, and the random incredible Venetian glass chandelier in the lobby.

After the long drive, I was in no mood to sit for an extended dinner and people watch, so I chose to have the quintessential non-Italian, Italian meal in my room. I had a Cesar Salad and Spaghetti Bolognese (ok, so Spaghetti alla Bolognese is actually Italian, but I still felt overly American ordering it). I cracked open the bottle of local red wine that the hotel had left in my room as a welcome gift, and had a nice evening in front of the TV.

Breakfast this morning was relaxing. I had an assortment of Italian cheeses with some fresh bread and prosciutto, some yogurt, a boiled egg, and a small apricot tart. The best part of sitting on the terrace by the fountain was enjoying my morning cappuccino. So often in life, one is confronted with mediocre cappucinos or worse, but in this establishment, the coffee was strong and dark, the milk properly frothed and mixed in ideal proportions with the aesthetically crucial swirl at the top. It was indeed the perfect cappucino.

Shortly, I plan on visiting the exhibit of modern art by Marc Quinn, the ticket for which was included in my room rate. The afternoon will probably involve some relaxing by the pool and some photography of the property. Tomorrow... well, I don't know about tomorrow yet, but I'm sure I'll figure it out soon enough.

2009-05-31T16:24:00.003-04:00

I made it safely to Verona after a longer than expected drive, and I've settled in at the über-hip Byblos Art Hotel. Pictures and updates to follow in due time.

2009-05-31T09:25:00.003-04:00

For a short moment, with pretty woman playing on radio nostalgie, I was able to see the peak of Mont Blanc through a break in the clouds. Spectacular as it was, I am now stuck outside the mont blanc tunnel due to some accident inside. It has been over an hour already, but I think we may be allowed in the tunnel soon.

100 mph through Europe

2009-05-30T12:16:00.005-04:00

Some plans with a friend fell through, so I found myself trying to decide what to do with my weekend. Having recently discovered that my friend Grega had moved from Ljubljana to Geneva, I figured, "I have a brand new Mercedes C class that is dying to hit the highways, why not go to Switzerland?"

Overnight, I had ditched my plans for Croatia and took off to Geneva with the hopes of heading down to Provence for a bit as well. I loaded my stuff in the car and took off. I waved Trieste, said hi to Venice, sped through Milan, admired the Val d'aosta, tunneled through Mont Blanc (which cost 33EUR by the way!), passed quickly through France before finally getting a bit lost in Geneva. Watching Europe pass by at high speed is a thrilling experience. At several points along the way, I was close to just pulling onto the shoulder of the highway to take pictures, but I decided this was a bad idea for a number of reasons. The open fields with random patches of trees, the hills and valleys, quaint villages with stone churches and the occasional castle, rushing rivers, snow capped alps in the background; I couldn't help but enjoy myself. Besides, I was driving through Italy, which has great sandwiches at their gas stations - nothing beats stopping at an Autogrill for a snack.

I managed to leave Ljubljana without thinking to print directions, so I tested my European geography skills by navigating my way to Geneva with no map, no directions and no GPS. I made one wrong highway choice and headed down the road to Genova from Vercelli, but as soon as I noticed the alps in my rear view mirror, I figured I was probably going the wrong direction. The mistake cost me about an hour thanks to highway construction and a decidedly sparce offering of exits. About 30km outside of Geneva, I called Grega to get an address, thinking I could manage to find his place with the help of my iPhone. For future reference, written instructions and a second-rate GPS tracker are of little help when you're driving solo in a new city. I finally just paused at a stop light to take a look at the map, and then found my way to Grega's.

Almost immediately, we took off to meet some of Grega's colleagues for dinner. Working with the UN and other NGOs in Geneva, Grega has met some interesting people. I've always been fascinated with the world of international diplomacy, so it's fun meeting people from so many different countries working in the field. After dinner, we met some more friends for drinks, and it ended up being quite a long night. Two bars and one club later, the two of us walked a young Mexican woman back to her apartment and then got home just as the sun was rising.

After a few hours of sleep, we enjoyed a nice day wandering around the lake, walking through the old town, and hanging out with more friends. Now, I'm relaxing in the apartment, listening to the dogs bark down the street. Unfortunately, my new favorite hotel in France, La Bastide de Moustiers, is fully booked the next couple days, so my plans for Provence have evolved into a couple days in Verona before heading back to Ljubljana.

In the Shadows of an Empire

2009-05-25T17:14:00.004-04:00

Felix and I woke up relatively early this morning, but we didn't rush out to an active day. We stayed in the apartment for quite a while eating breakfast, listening to music, and just generally goofing off. When we finally did leave the apartment, it was a beautiful day out in Vienna. We decided to enjoy the weather as much as possible, so we took a nice walk around the Hofburg palace and ended up having lunch at the Palmenhaus restaurant in the Burggarten.

We started with a salad of fresh greens topped with a sizeable slab of goat cheese all drizzled with some Styrian pumpkin seed oil and balsamic. Felix had an Indian influenced chicken burger with coriander, fresh fruits and chili sauce. I had risotto with King prawns and sun dried tomatoes. The meal was concluded with a Mango lassi ice cream sundae. A few scoops of yogurt ice cream, mango puree, fresh strawberries and whipped cream. It was a fantastically fresh and light dessert that went perfectly with the sunny weather.

After lunch, we walked around the gardens and found a nice spot to lay down for a bit. History was all around as I looked up from the grassy gardens of the former seat of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. We were protected from the heat of the springtime sun by the shadow cast by the Hofburg. The golden double eagle of the Hapsburgs glowing in the daylight, I couldn't help but wonder what it must have been like to call such a magnificent palace home. If only the aging trees in the garden could tell us the stories they have seen; the whispers of military leaders, the gossip shared by the women of the court, the games played by blue-blooded children.

More rest, some reading and some computing made up the rest of the day. I accompanied Felix on his way to work the nightshift at a local hotel late this evening. Wandered around town a bit, and grabbed a Dürüm kebab on Kärtnerstrasse. In front of the State Opera House, they were showing the ongoing show from inside on a large screen. I enjoyed my kebab while listening to the arias, and then grabbed an ice cream on the way home. Vienna is such a great city, and I miss living here sometimes. The culture and history that oozes out of every corner of this place is remarkable. I have another day to enjoy here, and then it's on to the next destination.

The Coming Apocolypse

2009-05-24T17:27:00.004-04:00

The sun was beating down on the Mozart city. Tourists wandered past Carpe Diem snapping photos of the antique-style iron signs hanging from the building facades along the Getreidegasse. Three of us sat on the terrace enjoying some bite-size snacks for lunch, but time was nearing for us to pay our bill and head to the train station to meet Angie upon the arrival of her train from Munich. Those of us that survived any sizeable sojourn at the American School knew the type of chaos our students were capable of causing, but none of us were prepared for the apocalyptical signs that would accompany our gathering.

At the very moment that we were preparing to leave our seats, the exact number of former AISers and SIPsters necessary to knock the planetary alignments off whack had arrived in the city. The sky went black and the rain began to beat down on the passers-by. With a crack, rumble and flash the wind whipped through the awnings and rain was falling sideways into the restaurant. Golf ball sized hail began to pour from the heavens - it was if the city was being stoned in pre-emptive action against our transgressions.

Eventually, the weather improved slightly, and we made the run back to our apartment. Wet but full of anticipation, we awaited our scheduled gathering at Murphy’s Law - the first large meeting of our former students in almost 10 years. Spending the evening at the Irish Pub, hugs, kisses, smiles, laughter and stories of days-gone-by were in abundance… as were the drinks. We all enjoyed ourselves over a few beverages - some may have indulged in a few too many, but it was a great night.

Earlier in the day, some of us had stopped by the school to trigger some more memories and say hi to old friends and teachers. Much had changed at the school, and yet everything was the same. New paint, new faces, but everything was still eerily familiar. We spent some time catching up with our old history teacher, Mr. Agardy, who seemed happy to catch up on all of our personal stories since we left the big yellow building, and applauded us on our ambition and successes. Over an hour was spent in the Dean of Students’ office chatting away like it was 1999. We also stopped by the main office and said hello to Frau Gundringer, the one that keeps the school running as smoothly as possible. The headmaster was in his office right next to us when we stepped in. His door was wide open, but he never bothered to come out to greet us - didn’t even give us a hello from his desk. Part of me always felt like I was more mature than he was back in high school, but I can say with relative certainty now that he is about as childish as a school administrator could be. Such a lack of simple courtesies is appalling for someone in a leadership position. Once upon a time, he was one of my favorite teachers, and I still think he belongs in a classroom instead of an office. When I left the school back in 2000, he and I were not on great terms, but I never stopped being cordial, and I would expect the same from him. Besides, his problems with me should not affect the way he greets my friends.

No disappointments or difficult memories can overcome the fact that my decision to leave home and move to Austria at the age of 14 was the single most important decision of my life. The lessons I learned, the experiences I had, the people I met and the friendships I found will last a lifetime. It wasn’t all a fairytale, but sometimes it feels like it when I’m surrounded by the amazing people with whom I shared that period of my life. Last night, we enjoyed dinner together, followed by a few drinks at one of the old bars along the river. From 1993 to 2002, former students of all ages gathered to remember the good times and laugh at the bad. Age and circumstance have changed us all, but we can never forget the school that brought us all together.

What's Not to Love?

2009-05-20T18:50:00.004-04:00

The last two days, I have been serving as a guide here in Salzburg for two great clients. I really am one of those lucky few that has a job they truly enjoy. Sure, travel planning and touring have their trying times, and, yes, I have had some difficult times with clients. Overall, however, my job is fantastic. I get to travel to great places, become friends with my clients, show them some of the things I love in life, and most of it happens with at least some great food & drink. These couple days have been no exception. As is often the case, I actually find myself wishing I had more time to show my customers around the so many other places that I like so much.

Yesterday, we strolled through Salzburg, visiting some of the major sites and enjoying local specialties along the way. The city glowing with energy under a beautiful sunny sky, we set out this morning to visit the Hohensalzburg Fortress and Schloss Hellbrunn with its "water games." Great times with great people. My one disappointment for the day was that my old high school ice cream haunt had been completely renovated, and even that was not a total disappointment. Cafe Rialto is now quite the happening little place with a very trendy interior, and they still have the best ice cream in town. I'll miss our old corner table, though, and the tacky colors on the walls. Such is life - change happens.

Another highlight of the day was hanging out at the Augustinerbrau beer garden with my old friend, Sophia. Sharing stories, catching up, speculating with great anticipation about the events of our upcoming high school reunion; it was a typical afternoon chat between friends, but the atmosphere just felt right. The giant tree covered terrace was a perfect place to waste away an afternoon. Things are just beginning to get interesting... I can feel it.

Oh, and by the way, beef tartare and mashed potatoes in a cone...YUM! Who knew? The asparagus creme brulee was good too. Tomorrow, I'm going after some banana-chocolate-chili sorbet and rhubarb sherbet.

Servus aus Salzburg

2009-05-19T11:04:00.005-04:00

I am back in my old high school town of Salzburg, and I'm having a great time with some customers. We wandered around a bit in town, had some lunch (big YAY for asparagus season), and stopped for coffee and dessert at the Hotel Sacher. Tonight, we're going to a concert at the Mozarteum, and tomorrow is still up in the air a bit. It's my first time staying at the Goldener Hirsch Hotel in Salzburg (thanks, Daniel), so I thought I'd share some pictures of the room.
A nice bottle of Austrian red wine as a welcome gift.

Am I a dork for loving the door?
The obligatory bathroom shot.

2009-05-18T13:58:00.003-04:00

My welcome gift from the Hotel Koenigshof - You can keep your real bugs, Andrew Zimmern, I'll take the chocolate ones.
A fresh springtime dessert from Cafe Rischart - Erbeer-rhabarber datschi (Strawberry Rhubarb....uuhhhhh...datschi). Really much more appetizing than it looks.
Busking Munich style - yes, that is a grand piano being played on the street.

Airline Passenger Etiquette

2009-05-18T10:46:00.004-04:00

Riding as a passenger on an airplane may seem like a fairly straight-forward activity, but after sitting next to my seat buddy for 8 hours, I've come to the conclusion that there is a very important code of behavior for plane travel.

1.) When people have their headphones on and are watching a movie, they probably don't want to talk to you.

2.) Chewing gum on an airplane is no different than chewing gum in any other public place. People CAN hear you when you chew with your mouth open. "Smack, smack, squish, smack, pop." The only oral noises I want to hear from you are words, but only when you are not violating rule number 1.

3.) If the airline meal has given you a particularly heavy case of gas, excuse yourself and make use of the lavatories. Yes, I CAN hear that as well, and we won't even talk about the smells.

4.) It is a simple courtesy to close your window shade when the sun is shining on someone's video screen.

5.) It is better to gently wake someone and excuse yourself to sneak past their seat than to awake them by straddling their lap and passing gas.

There are more rules that we may add to the list as the trip continues, but these are the ones that applied to last night's flight. I'd also like to mention that Lufthansa should really invest in some quality noise-canceling headphones for their business class seats if they are going to make it virtually impossible to use your own headphones with the inflight entertainment system. That would have made the smacking and farting slightly more tolerable.

Airline meal: Mixed greens with hearts of palm and potato salad, Spinach stuffed gnocchi with roasted cremini mushrooms and vegetable cream sauce, Manchego and roquefort cheese with raisins and dates, tres leches cake with fresh berries, topped off with a nice glass of port.

Somali Driver's Ed

2009-05-17T16:14:00.002-04:00

I haven't even left Charlotte yet, but things are already off to quite a start. I finished packing around 2PM, and my cab came to pick me up at 3PM. The driver seemed innocent enough when we set off, but it turns out he may have been a little too innocent.

The ride to the airport took twice as long as it should have, and I was having considerable difficulty determining which route he was trying to take to get there. He passed my usual route down West Blvd and headed down Tryon instead. I thought he was going to take I-277 to Wilkinson Blvd, but he passed that as well. Turned out he just wanted to drive around uptown looking for a sign for the airport - I opted to give him directions instead. Even with my directions, however, the language barrier cost us a few extra miles due to missed turns. While I was trying to direct him, he opted to make a few phone calls instead, chatting away in Somali. I figured the language was either Amharic or Somali, so I took a guess based on facial features and asked if he was from Somalia. He became very excited and started to share his life story.

Amidst the explanations of how he left Somalia because of all the unrest, moved to Saudi Arabia for 5 months, spent 3 months trying to get into a university in Italy and then finally fulfilled his dream of moving to America, he also added that he has only been driving for 2 months. "You've only been a taxi driver for 2 months?" I asked.

"No, got my driver's license 2 months ago, been driving taxi for one week. Soon I will learn my way to the airport with help from people like you."

We were pulling onto the entrance road to the airport as he was wrapping up that last sentence. That's when he tried to merge directly into an oncoming red toyota. There was some swerving, honking and a quiet "sorry," but we survived without impact.

The airport was packed, and traffic was at a stand-still, but I opted to get out and walk to the Lufthansa counter rather than sit in the taxi any longer and risk death so early in my trip. Once inside, the staff at Lufthansa took care of me as usual, and I made it through security quickly, despite the long line. I'll be boarding my flight to Munich in the next 20 minutes, and I'm looking forward to a long pleasant flight and a day of relaxation in Munich before things really get started.

Entering the Blogosphere

2009-05-11T23:37:00.004-04:00

In less than a week, I will be on my way around the world again. The trip will take me almost three months, and I will be visiting at least 17 countries along the way. I'm sure I'll have the usual stories and adventures to share along the way, but it's just too difficult to keep up with everyone's email addresses anymore, and someone always gets inadvertently left out. For this reason, and this reason alone, I have finally thrown in the towel and started a blog.

I am not a blogger by choice, rather convenience. This whole concept, while sometimes interesting and fun to follow, is just a little too trendy for me. I've always felt my time would be better spent writing a book and selling it than spewing stories into the bottomless pit of cyberspace. That said, I tend to like my friends and family, and for some reason they like to keep track of me when I'm wandering around the planet. Posting on this thing will be much more efficient than sending out emails.

Don't expect me to post something everyday - I don't even know if I'll have easy access to the internet in many locations. I'll post when I feel like it and I can, so deal with it. I'll do my best to make sure I share when something particularly entertaining happens.

So, why exactly am I spending my summer traveling, when I really shouldn't be spending the money? School - that's why. On August 12th, I will be starting law school, a three year commitment that will severely limit my travel opportunities. For the last four years, I have been running my own business organizing tours in Slovenia, Croatia and Bosnia & Herzegovina. It's been fun, it's been a learning experience, and it's been a great excuse to travel on a regular basis to far off places. Don't misunderstand me, I'm not done with the travel business. It's just on hiatus while I pursue other ambitions. Being in school full-time precludes me from hopping on the Lufthansa flight to Munich whenever a good fare pops up, so I'm going to do my best to get as much traveling out of my system this summer as possible. Envy may make some dislike me for the journey I'm about to have, but alas... I don't care. Traveling keeps me sane (as sane as I get), and I'm thrilled to be visiting new places, meeting new people, trying new things, and over the next few months, I'll try to share some of those experiences and what they really mean for me.