Maggie's Travels

What this was

2010-12-30T15:39:00.005-05:00

Hello reader. Why have you come here? It's been more than a year and a Half since I returned from my travels. This blog was the documentation of seven months of what would turn into a nearly year long trip that began in August 2008. I stopped posting here after I made it once around the world.

The journey was far from over when the writing stopped, though. I went back to Europe for a little while and bartended in one of the Greek Islands for a few weeks. I reconnected with old travel mates and made some new ones. Then I turned around and decided to go the other way with a cross country road trip across the United States. What I learned from that six week driving journey was how much our own country offers, if only we'd get outside once and a while and go see it.

The entire year's journey I can say now, over a year later, was one of the best things I've ever done for myself. I learned more in that year than at any other time in my life. ALl it created in me was the desire to see more and to do more.

Here for you are some links to some of my favorite entries, photos and memories from the trip of a lifetime. Enjoy. And safe travels.

-Maggie Mae

This is Paris, City of Love

Children and doves on the Greek port Island of Syros.

An emotional journey east from Florence to Istanbul

Istanbul, Dark and Light

India, a slap in the face

The Pushkar Camel Festival (Some of the best shots from the whole trip)

Finding my calm in the chaos of Varanasi

"...And then I saw it, a human foot crackling in the flames."

Happy Solitude on the Annapurna Circuit

Images of the mountain children of Manang

Altitude sickness led me to develop an expensive Coke habit

The climb to Tilicho Lake, the highest altitude lake in the world

How the French experience altitude sickness at 17,700 feet

New Years, no resolutions

Home at last

2009-03-20T16:20:00.003-04:00

March 24, 2009

Well, surprise! I'm home in Ridgefield, Connecticut. It's not that much of a surprise, really. I've been home a week.

I've been meaning to write a conclusion to this blog, but it's been a struggle to come up with some wonderful moral of the story to sign out on. I've never been good with endings.

The problem is, there is no conclusion. There is no big lesson. I left home thinking travel would help me figure out what I want to do with my life, where I want to live, what I want to be when I grow up. But it did just the opposite. It opened up a whole new world of possibilities.

I had been planning to keep going until May, head back down to the Thai Islands, then explore Hong Kong and China. But after getting back to Bangkok after a big loop through northern Thailand, Laos and Cambodia, I found that I just didn't have it in me to take another overnight bus ride, or adjust to a new language or figure out a new exchange rate. I hit a big wall and got stalled in Asia's sweaty, hot City of Lights.

Sleepless in Bangkok, I started getting in touch with family members, friends and former colleagues at home. I was testing the waters for a return. Could I get my job back at the newspaper company in this awful economic climate? Did I even want to return to that? Could I move to New York and get a job there? Should I just take off again?

I knew I wanted to come home, at least for a little while. I wanted comfort. Travel is exciting but uncomfortable.

What I decided finally is that this isn't the end of my travels. I'm already off next week to return to Greece to pick up that job DJing in Corfu for part of the summer. Big move up in the world: newspaper editor to DJ at a youth hostel. Sorry, DJ's assistant. Even better.

The move back to Europe is to bide my time a little through this summer. The fact is, Greece is the only place in the world where I have a set job. A return to Europe will also allow me to reconnect with many of the friends I made early on in the trip.

Home is strange. There is also a new topic of conversation floating around amongst a large percentage of my friends: Settling down. I listened to a group of my girlfriends talking the other night about the merits of white versus yellow gold wedding rings, picking out a signature drink to match their bridal colors and buying houses in good school districts. I had nothing to say. And I didn't want to bring up my trip. Instead, like in much of the rest of the world, I sat back and observed. When one of my friends called for us to throw in some extra money to tip our waitress, I handed over some Cambodian riel and walked out.

But besides that, home is strange because the familiar become unusual when you're used to the unfamiliar. But how easy it is to slip back into old habits, to pick up the same conversations. Right now I'm torn up inside about leaving again. There seems to be some unfinished business here.

But as I said before, I've never been good at finishing much of anything.

Angkor wow

2009-03-20T16:01:00.000-04:00

March 20, 2009

FInally, here are my photos from Angkor Wat.

Bug spray

2009-03-13T10:50:00.002-04:00

March 13, 2009

For the past six weeks or so I have been doused in mosquito repellent. It is my one line of defense against malaria. I said to hell with the pills. I don't want scary nightmares or hallucinations.

I have a love/hate relationship with bug spray. I'm getting sick of this greesy, chemical smell. When ever I spray it on, I just feel dirty. But, at the same time, this smell and this feel carries with it some nostalgia. It carries with it memories of summer camp and firefly chasing.

It's cool to think that in the future, it will also remind me of the Mekong River, the beaches of Cambodia, and these hot, sweaty nights around Khao San Road in Bangkok. I just saw an elephant walk down Soi Rambootri.

I already feel wistful about this trip and I'm still on it.

Visions of Laos

2009-03-13T09:11:00.002-04:00

March 13, 2009

I just purchased a laptop in Bangkok, an item I've been going crazy without for the past 6 and a half months. This blog could've benefited much more if I had a computer with me on long bus trips and during down time from all the sight seeing and the general cultural enrichment.

So, I've finally had a look at all the photos I've taken since India, back in October. Thought I'd show y'all some of the places I've sort of breezed over in the past few weeks.

Laos is a beautiful, vibrant, slow-paced country. The gentle, green Mekong is the lifeblood of the country. Monks draped in saffron robes roam the streets of the cities. Laos is a land of waterfalls and Asian black bears which are much smaller than their North American cousins. They also have manes, like lions.

The little, dusty village of Vang Vieng is a must-stop for the younger backpacker crowd. The draw: tubing down a subsidiary of the Mekong and being roped in (literally) by Lao people at riverside bars, then drinking, dancing, and trapezing back into the river to float to the next drinking establishment. The only problem with this town, beside the yearly casualties of tubing (and people do die from this activity), is that about one in four people get food poisoning while there. I was one such case.

Though I've no photos of it, the capital city of Vientiane is another stop on the trail to Vietnam or Cambodia. It was frightfully hot while I was there. I spent my few days in the city recovering from food poisoning moving from air-conditioned cafe to air-conditioned Internet cafe to air-conditioned museum. Then I continued the journey southward.

The last photos are of a place in southern Laos called 4,000 Islands. This was one of my favorite stops. Many of the islands in the Mekong have only gotten electricity in the past three years. Lao people spend much of the day lazing in hammocks in the shade under their houses built on stilts near the riverside. Though mentioned in the Lonely Planet, this place still feels like it hasn't fully been discovered. In a few years, though, it might just become another Vang Vieng.

Too hot to think

2009-03-13T07:54:00.003-04:00

March 13, 2009

I have been meaning to blog for ages, but since arriving back in Bangkok, I've felt like the walking dead. It is so hot here. It's too hot to eat. Too hot to think. Too hot to sleep.

I don't even have the brain power to load photos. That takes time, but little effort, and yet, I can't bring myself to sit in front a computer for long periods of time watching files upload. I will take you back to Laos and to the temples of Angkor and to the Killing Fields and to the lovely beaches of Sihanoukville, as soon as I can get some sleep and inspiration.

Mugged

2009-03-07T09:56:00.002-05:00

March 7, 2009

Today I was mugged.

I'm in Sihanoukville, a Cambodian beach town on the Gulf of Thailand. It's beautiful here. I've spent the past several days here relaxing on a big, white, empty beach, lolling on a sun chair sipping banana shakes. After a week of heavy sightseeing at Angkor Wat and in the busy capital city, Phenom Penh, this place has just been serenity.

This afternoon I was walking back along the main road in town having dropped off a bicycle I rented for a few days. I've had several people warn me about taking care to watch my bags because young men on motorbikes have been known to ride up next to unsuspecting tourists and just tear or cut the bags off people and drive away into the night. While bike riding yesterday with a South African girl I met on the bus from Phenom Pehn, I noticed she was getting hassled by two young men on a motorbike. I passed along the warning and the two of us stopped pedaling and took a detour to avoid the boys who were driving suspiciously slowly around us. We lost them without incident. I felt like a savvy traveler, looking out for my fellows on the road.

Well today walking along this busy street, watching the clouds turn a deep blue as the sun set, I was just thinking about how much I love Cambodia, how it has been one of my favorite stops, and how the people have all been so kind.

To steal a phrase from Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood (a great beach read, btw), just as these pretty pink and blue thoughts were floating about my head, I felt a tug at the back of my shirt. Before I realized what was going on, a young thug riding on the back of his buddy's motorcycle ripped my small money bag right off my body. It happened in a split second. I had no time to react.

I feel really stupid having received all these warnings and even spreading the news to others. I'm angry too, though not as much as I would have expected. I only lost cash, and I think just $30 at that. For having been on the road for more than 200 days, I feel lucky that an incident like this hasn't happened sooner.

When I was in college in Montreal, I was robbed multiple times. Car stolen, bike stolen, bag of shoes stolen from the back of a van during a move. My boyfriend at the time also had his car broken into twice in the four years he visited me. So I'm no stranger to this shitty, sinking, humanity-hating feeling you get when you've just been ripped off.

But I still love Cambodia. I love the people and am fascinated by the history and the culture. Oh, and the food is to die for. If any of you reading this happen upon a Khmer restaurant, order the Fish Amok. It's divine.

I feel like traveling has made me a more accepting person. This is not the worst thing in the world. I'll get over it. By the time I got back to my hostel not 15 minutes after the incident, I felt OK about it. One cigarette and a stiff vodka pineapple helped. I accepted what happened and shrugged it away.

Still, thank god I didn't have my camera on me.

Cambodia, a history lesson

2009-02-24T07:58:00.007-05:00

Feb. 24, 2009

I'm back from watching this horrible documentary on the Pol Pot Regime. Though the subject matter in itself was horrific, the French-made film was of such such poor quality it was laughable, which makes it all even more depressing. That aside, the film offered a crash course in modern Cambodian history.

So from what I gathered, here's a brief history:

Cambodia broke free of colonial French rule in the mid 1950s and instated a then 19-year-old prince as king of the land. Prince Sihanouk kept the country stable for about 17 years, declaring it neutral during the American war with neighboring Vietnam. However, the North Vietnamese Army began smuggling in weapons through the jungles of northern Cambodia and parts of Laos leading President Nixon to begin a bombing campaign in those parts. Prince Sihanouk condemned the bombing, still maintaining Cambodia's neutrality to the war.

Then some stuff happened. The film narrator said it all so fast it was hard to follow. Lots of Cambodians were killed by American bombs. There was plenty of internal political strife in the country. Sihanouk retreated (or was forcibly taken, not really sure) to Beijing where he remained for several years as new leaders struggled for power. Among them was Communist-leaning Saloth Sar, later known as Pol Pot, who led an insurgency, the Khmer Rouge, under the Communist Party of Kampuchea (CPK). But it was American-backed General Lon Nol who formed a new government by coup.

During this time, the Khmer Rouge, which consisted mainly of boys 15 years of age and younger from villages around the country, were stepping up the pressure on Lol Non, aiming their attacks mainly at the capital in Phnom Pehn. Despite American air strikes on the insurgency, the Khmer Rouge managed to take over the capital.

Many rejoiced at the victory of the Khmer Rouge, but the celebration was short-lived. On the same day the insurgency did away with the Lol Non government, marching through the streets of Phnom Pehn, the new victors, young men all dressed in black, proclaimed that the city must be evacuated.

"Leave immediately," the Khmer Rouge officers said. "The Americans are planning to bomb the city. You will return in 3 to 4 days. Leave your doors opened. We will watch over your belongings."

From this point further, most of my history actually comes from Stay Alive, My Son, a first hand account by Pin Yathay of his own escape from the Killing Fields.

The city people were ordered to move onto farms set up by Pol Pot to begin a new type of society. It was based on ideals of simple villages, where the work of the individual is meant to benefit the whole community. It was supposed to be a completely egalitarian society, however the Khmer Rouge enforced this idea of equality by executing those who were seen as revolutionaries which included the doctors, the teachers, anyone learned, anyone seen as too strong, too self-righteous, too much of an individual. Thousands of people died during the evacuation, or later on the farms of disease or of starvation. Yathay saw more than a dozen members of his own family die before he and his wife made the decision to try to flee to Thailand, making the heartbreaking decision to leave their surviving six-year-old son behind.

(I'm realizing now this history lesson isn't as brief as I meant it to be. Cambodia has been fascinating to me, and I've only been here a day.)

To wrap up, the film stated that the Pol Pot regime self-destructed in 1979. The leaders enforced a massive wave of torture and execution fueled by internal paranoia which ended up diminishing the regime itself. The country then wallowed through a decade of occupation then by the Vietnamese. There was a mass exodus of Cambodians displaced by the Pol Pot Regime to Thailand. The international community at this point began to take notice of the situation and began relief efforts.

Then in 1991, the UN took over the situation instituting a cease-fire and the repopulation of the country. That's as far as I know. Some of this information, I have to admit, was aided by Wikipedia. Though the history listed on that site is much more thorough than mine, it's also notably pro-American slanted.

Anyway, wow. What a story. I came out of watching the documentary with my mind spinning, mostly because I was trying to figure out what the French filmmaker had said at all. But a walk down the bustling and brightly lit Pub Street in Siem Reap has spoken volumes as to how far the country has come since the UN came in just 17 years ago.

When I started on this trip, Cambodia was not even considered among the countries I wanted to visit. Granted, I knew very little about the place. Cambodia equaled land mine-zone to me. But this city is bustling with tourists. I know many young travelers who stated that Cambodia had been their favorite stop. And yet, I still must remind myself, I've only yet seen where the tourists go. Despite the new wealth here, there are street children and amputees everywhere.

Well, phew. This is the first time I've been inspired to write in a long time. This place must have struck some kind of chord in me.

Tomorrow I visit Ankhor Wat. That should make for some amazing photos. Unfortunately, my camera lens is broken. Six months of travel has taken its toll on my equipment. I can still take photos, but it's trickier now with a lens that doesn't open as wide as before, and no more auto-focus. Ahhh well...

Much more soon.

A hasty hello from Cambodia

2009-02-24T04:32:00.003-05:00

Feb. 24, 2009

Hello from Siem Reap. I write this greeting with haste because in another fifteen minutes I'm off to watch a documentary on the Pol Pot Regime and the genocide that he oversaw in Cambodia during the mid to late 1970s.

I left the lovely, slow-paced country of Laos this morning taking a short flight from Pakse. It's hot here and quite dusty, a little reminiscent of some of the cities in northern India, though not nearly as frenetic or polluted. My initial impression of this city is that it is more modern than expected. The people so far have struck me as kind, much like the Laotians, though there is a distinctly higher level of pressure put on the tourists here by the tuk tuk drivers and the women selling goods in the market.

What is also striking is how young the population is. I have yet to see a local over the age of 35. According to American journalist Karen J. Coates in her moving book Cambodia Now, as of 2003 roughly 50% of the country's population was under the age of 19.

I'm off now to go watch this documentary and learn more about why that is the case.

The happy temple

2009-02-19T07:32:00.003-05:00

Feb. 19, 2008

After returning to Chiang Mai from our three day jungle trek, Julie and I decided to spend a day exploring some of the sites around the city. We rented motorbikes and drove a windy 30 kilometers up Doi Suthep, the lush mountain that serves as the backdrop for the city, to the Wat Phrathat Doi Suthep itself.

The relic of the temple, a bone of the Buddha, was erected by a 12th century king who carried it on a white elephant. The place that the elephant stopped was where the king built the pagoda where the temple now stands.

I've seen many a wat since arriving in Thailand, and I have to say this one was by far my favorite. The place high on the hill overlooking the city of Chiang Mai is filled with positive energy. The place is filled with shining golden Buddhas and bells that glint in the sunlight. All the visitors, tourists and Thais alike, circle the place in placid though not dour deference. All the monks seemed to be smiling.

It was a place of holy happiness.

Most beautiful toilet

2009-02-17T08:45:00.001-05:00

Feb. 17, 2009

The Sphinx, the Great Wall, the Taj Mahal are tokens compared to this gem we came across at Doi Inthenan in Thailand.

Thai jungle trek

2009-02-17T08:18:00.002-05:00

Feb. 17, 2009

Two and a half weeks ago, Julie, my American friend, and I signed up for a three day, two night jungle trek. We were grouped together with two young German guys and spent the nights in local Karen villages high in the hills of Northern Thailand.

On the first day we visited Doi Inthenan, a stupa located at the highest point in Thailand at 2,142 meters. That's like a sand dune compared to the hills Julie and I climbed out of in Nepal. Nevertheless, the temple was gorgeous surrounded by blossoming gardens.

Later that afternoon, the four of us were led through the forest to a small village where the locals were finishing up their celebration of the Karen New Year. We all received simple string bracelets not to be removed for at least three days for good luck in the new year. So long as it doesn't get too dirty, mine will be stuck on me well passed the time that I come home to Connecticut. I still have a string bracelet I received during a Hindu blessing in Pushkar from back on Election Day. (I think the blessings of good luck and good health went to Barack Obama and not me that day as I was later laid out with a bad bout of food poisoning.)

The next morning, we headed out through the bamboo jungle passed waterfalls and through arid, terraced rice fields to go elephant riding. I felt bad for the creature, which lumbered slowly in the heat of the day. Julie and I agreed that riding in the back of a pickup truck to the launch point of our trek was far more exciting.

On our last day, which happened to be my 25h birthday, we were taken bamboo rafting. Local children sitting along the riversides washing elephants cheered and splashed us as we floated by.

It was a very cool and different way to celebrate a quarter century.

Travel dreams

2009-02-13T20:33:00.005-05:00

Feb. 14, 2008

Oh my Buddha, what a month it's been. I have only a few minutes now to write anything as I'm waiting to board a bus to Vang Vieng from Luang Prabang.

I left northern Thailand five days ago via a two day boat ride down the Mekong into Laos. This is a slow-paced and pretty country that until only a decade ago relied entirely on the rivers here for all their transportation needs because no roads were laid in this part of the country until then. With China emerging as a major economy, however, modern highways have been built to link the economic giant with Thailand and other trading partners.

This little city I leave today is heavily influenced by French colonialism. The buildings along the main street Sisavangvong have French doors and shuttered windows with roofs in the Laos Buddhist style, pointed at the edges. Little cafes serve delicious thick Laos coffee and fresh authentic baguettes. This UNESCO World Heritage city is just entirely quaint.

I've had a lot on my mind in the past few weeks. For about a month, I was sort of dragging my feet, feeling overcome with road weariness and even guilt about spending all my money. I started thinking about coming home sooner than originally planned. But I got a burst of rejuvenation in northern Thailand after doing a three day jungle trek over my 25th birthday and then heading over into Laos by way of this gorgeous river which winds through jungles and gorges.

I've also received a job offer that would take me back to Europe. Back in October I stopped off in this hostel, The Pink Palace, on the Greek Island of Corfu on my way to Istanbul. One hazy evening there after sidling up to the bar and taking over the music selection in an attempt to avoid dealing with an annoying Canadian, I was tentatively offered a job as the DJ's assistant in the upcoming high season. At the time, I just took it as an empty offer, inspired by ouzo. However, six weeks ago, the DJ got in touch with me via Facebook and said the job is mine if I want it.

Looking at the situation at home and talking to my parents and friends, it seems like staying abroad for a little longer and waiting out this financial crisis might not be a bad idea. So now I'm trying to maneuver this giant U-Turn that will take me back to Europe in two months time. Ideally, I'd like to make a real adventure out of it, flying to Hong Kong and then making my up to Beijing where I'd hop on the TransManchurian Express for a six day train journey into Russia. Then I'd fly from Moscow or St. Petersberg into Moscow. It would be a lot of hard miles, but I think it would also bring this trip to a whole new level.

Oh boy, my bus is here in two minutes. I must run. Farewell Luang Prabang. Hello Vang Vieng.

Three countries, one day

2009-02-03T05:51:00.004-05:00

Feb. 3, 2009

Time has flown since I arrived in Thailand on January 4. Sleepless overnight bus trips and nights on the islands that stretched into the next morning left me tumbling through each day. When I returned to Bangkok to meet up with Julie, my sense of time and place seemed warped. My journal from that time is filled with an attempted recollection about the days on the islands, but it amounts to little more than this:

Jan. 7 - Jan. 22: Left BKK, arrived Ko Phan Nang and painted myself in day glo to attend jungle trance party and Full Moon Party, hung out for two days in Krabi, met some Brits in Ko Lanta, hung out in a tree house with some Thai Rastafarians, drank buckets, went to Ko Phi Phi, met Aussies and Canadians at a hostel called the Rock, drank buckets, partied, saw a shark, painted others in day glo, partied, lost 600 baht at sea, ate banana chocolate pancake, partied.

There's also some other stuff in there about a half-naked, leaping Australian, but that story (like so many others) will be saved for the book.

Anyway, as I said, time flew and suddenly I only had a few days left on my visa. On January 1 of this year, the new Thai government changed some of the tourist visa rules. To extend my visa in the country, I would have to pay about $50 and would only get seven days added on. However, if I left the country and returned by land, I could get two extra weeks for only the cost of transportation and the fee for the other country.

Julie and I were bound for Chiang Mai, a city in the mountains of northern Thailand. We were planning to do a lot in the north country. We had a jungle trek scheduled and wanted to take Thai cooking lessons and look into a short meditation course. If I wanted to stick around town, I had to make a visa run.

I booked a day trip to Burma through a company that also offered some sightseeing along the way.

I left early on the morning of Jan. 28th. Our first stop was to a hot spring near Chiang Rai. It was a complete tourist trap. There was a big, boiling natural fountain in the middle of a parking lot encircled by chintzy souvenir shops. The highlight of that stop was boiling an egg in the spring.

Next we headed to a pagoda in the old city of Chiang Rai. There I learned the difference between a pagoda and a stupa. Both are holy Buddhist structures, though a stupa normally holds the bones of a monk or members of the royal family, whereas a pagoda is larger and contains fragments of the bones of the Buddha or the king or queen.

Our next stop was to the Golden Triangle, where the borders of Thailand, Laos and Myanmar all converge along the Mekong River. The area used to be known for its intense opium trade. Drug dealers used gold to change instead of fumbling around with the different currencies of the three neighboring countries.

We took a boat trip across the Mekong to the Laotian shore to visit a small village which was also just a big tourist trap. There were Canadians walking around the village with life-jackets on like they were expecting the river to suddenly recede and then surge with the force of a tsunami.

The stores in the village offered much of the same jewelry, T-shirts and souvenirs you can find in Bangkok, though they also sold really cheap cigarettes and python whiskey. (See photos). That was pretty cool.

After spending 30 minutes in Laos, we returned to the Thai side of the river and headed up to the Myanmar border where our guide took myself and two French Canadians across to get our visas extended. I enjoyed my stay in Burma, all five minutes of it.

Our last stop was to a Karen Longneck village. The women in these villages wear loops of silver wrapped around their necks and knees. The purpose, our guide told us, is to protect the women from tiger attacks and snake bites. It all just seemed like blatant subjugation of the women to me.

The women sat in their huts not speaking, staring out at us tourists like listless caged animals in the zoo. The whole scene made me uncomfortable. I snapped a few photos before retreating to the van where I waited until we left to head back to Chiang Mai.

I was exhausted. It was a long day running across the borders of three different countries. I was ready for some down time in the city.

The Grand Palace

2009-02-03T05:02:00.002-05:00

Feb. 3, 2009

I crammed in some more culture during a visit to the Grand Palace in Bangkok. It was big and sparkly.

I'm feeling lazy on the writing front, so here's the Wiki entry on the place:

The Grand Palace (Thai: พระบรมมหาราชวัง, Phra Borom Maha Ratcha Wang) is a complex of buildings in Bangkok, Thailand. It served as the official residence of the Kings of Thailand from the 18th century onwards. Construction of the Palace began in 1782, during the reign of King Rama I, when he moved the capital across the river from Thonburi to Bangkok. The Palace has been constantly expanded and many additional structures were added over time. The present King of Thailand; King Rama IX, however does not currently reside there but at the Chitralada Palace.

The Palace is however still very much in use; as many royal rituals are performed here by the King every year. Other royal ceremonies celebrated here are coronations; royal funerals, marriages and state banquets. The Palace grounds also contain the offices and buildings of the Bureau of the Royal Household, the Office of the Private Secretary to the King and Royal Institute of Thailand.

Cool. It made for more pretty pictures which, as we all know, speak a thousand words, give or take.

Is it obvious that I'm getting palaced and templed out?

Wat culture?

2009-02-03T03:05:00.003-05:00

Feb. 3, 2009

After several hazy weeks in the islands, I retreated back north to Bangkok to reconnect with my friend Julie, an American I met while trekking in Nepal in December. She had flown in from Delhi and was supposed to meet me in the islands but got stuck in the Thai capital after coming down with a walking flu.

I arrived in Bangkok with my tail between my legs, baked by the sun and borderline brain dead from too much bucket diving. I needed some detox. I needed some culture.

Julie and I joined up with two of her friends who she met while volunteering in Nepal, Martha, from Columbia, and Haley from Nova Scotia, Canada. The four of us spent an afternoon at the Wat Arun, the Temple of Dawn located on the bank of the Chao Phraya River in the Thon Buri section of the city. The Thai Buddhist temple is an impressive sight, its facade completely constructed of seashells and crushed pieces of china.

Pretty pictures are about all I got out of the experience. I spent half an hour by myself sitting on a green patch of grass near the temple staring into space. My brain needed a bit of a rest.

Drunk monkey

2009-02-03T02:52:00.002-05:00

Feb. 3, 2008

Even the monkeys like to party on Ko Phi Phi.

Playing with fire

2009-02-03T02:49:00.002-05:00

Feb. 3, 2009

Ko Phi Phi is an island of lethal beauty. Warm water the color and clarity of blue diamonds laps up against soft ivory beaches where bronzed Venuses and Adonises lie out under the southern Thai sun.

In the town, bars advertise cheap drink deals, wet T-shirt contests and Maui Thai boxing. The Kings of Leon's single Sex on Fire is on constant rotation in every other restaurant. Anyone wearing more than a swimsuit is overdressed.

People show their daring by leaping off 65 foot cliffs, or by battling their buddies in the boxing ring to win free vodka buckets. Grown men fight off nausea and tears as they get bamboo tattoos or when they find out through a hungover haze that they spent most of the night before with a ladyboy.

The Ibiza Bar hosts a nightly party on the beach pumping electro and hip hop as people dance and mingle wriggling up to one another under neon lighted palm trees. Poi dancing and Thai Fire Limbo is often on the schedule of activities for the night.

Everyone on this island is playing with fire in one way or another. Leave your inhibitions, hang ups and emotional sensitivities on the mainland. Otherwise you may get burned.

A nice day on Ko Lanta

2009-01-27T02:43:00.007-05:00

Jan. 28, 2009

I'm sure my parents are cringing after checking out my last entry. The Thai Islands are a bit too much fun.

The thing about the islands is that they are full of people just on holiday. Unlike those of us who have been on the road for months, a lot of tourists are there for only a couple weeks. They have a spending and partying power that is dangerous and contagious.

I did have one nice day out with some fellow travelers on the laid back island of Ko Lanta in the Andaman Sea. My Canadian friend Ben and I rented scooters, while three daring Brits hired a tuk tuk for the day to bum around the island.

We rode through a rubber tree plantation and visited the old town. We also stopped at a sea gypsy village and at a local market where we sampled some of the exotic fruit.

This was one of our more productive and innocent days.

Enjoy les photos!

Bucket dive

2009-01-26T07:56:00.004-05:00

Jan. 26, 2008

I have been a major slacker with this blog of late. The Thai islands are full of many fun and beautiful distractions.

But this is the main reason I have been unable to approach this blog to write anything worthwhile or coherent.

Update: My friend Julie added this little witticism: "Instead of spending my time in the islands getting my PADI, I got a license in bucket diving."

Thanks Juliana Jones.

Obamarama

2009-01-26T07:39:00.004-05:00

Jan. 25, 2008

I know this is a little late, but I just wanted to express how proud I am to be an American these days. I can already see a difference in the way people react to my telling them that I am from the States since Barack Obama was elected president. Instead of suspicion or "Oh, you're one of those types!", I get "OBAMA! (high five)"

Obama is an international superstar. His image is everywhere. I get a special rush of pride when I see people from other parts of the world sporting t-shirts with his likeness, such as this funny Brit I met in Ko Lanta.

I ended up watching the inauguration in a bar on Ko Phi Phi with a couple from Alaska and a whole crowd of Canadians, Scots, Brits, Aussies and Irishmen. Several in the crowd were in tears following Obama's speech.

It is an exciting time. I kind of wished I could have beamed myself home for the day to watch the inauguration. But at the same time, it was wonderful to represent my country abroad during such an historical day.

America, f*ck yeah!

Thailand: Disneyland for backpackers

2009-01-17T08:33:00.004-05:00

Jan. 17, 2009

Hello, from the Land of Smiles.

I must apologize again for being terrible at keeping this little travel journal updated. I've been on the beach for several days... or is it weeks? Who knows. I'm totally bragging. I know it's like 12 degrees in New York now. Hahahahahahaha.

I figured when planning this trip that by around this time of year, more than four months on the road, I'd want to head somewhere warm and beachy to hang out and stay still for a little while. I also figured it would be a great opportunity to sit down and start some serious writing.

As I was buying my plane tickets last summer, visions danced through my mind of me bronzed and basking on an empty Thai beach, a laptop (cheaply purchased in Bangkok) on my lap (a good place to place one) and a Pina Colada or some other coconutty concoction in my hand. But the truth is lying on the beach all day is not conducive to creativity. And also, I don't have a laptop cheaply purchased in Bangkok because the BKK and this little country are not as affordable as I expected.

Thailand is overloaded with tourists. A fellow backpacker quoted some statistic that around one in six people in Thailand is a tourist. The Thai people have taken advantage of the popularity of their beautiful country and created a place that is easy and convenient in which to travel. Just walk into any hotel on Koh San Road and you can book a ticket to any region of the country, or of SEAsia for that matter. You'll find yourself the next day on a nice air-conditioned luxury bus with a crowd of 40 other Westerners headed for tropical paradise. But it's not tropical paradise. There are 7-Eleven's everywhere. This country kind of reminds me of Florida.

OK, granted besides Bangkok, I've only been in the islands where tourism is the main industry and prices are jacked up. Tomorrow I'm headed to Koh Phi Phi, the beautiful beach where The Beach was filmed. But the popularity of that movie and the spread of the news about the beauty of this area through word of mouth has brought in the masses. The other day I ate at a KFC in a mini-mall.

Don't get me wrong, it is kind of nice to be in a sunny, clean country with well-paved roads and understandable traffic patterns. I don't begrudge the Thai people for trying to capitalize on the massive tourism industry. I've had lots of fun here over the past couple weeks. I reconnected with Ben (see above picture), a fun Canadian I met in India a few months ago who is one of the best travelers I've yet met. I also befriended a slew of new people from England, Canada, the U.S. and Australia. I attended a trance party in the jungle and a beach party under the full moon. I've climbed a waterfall and seen an elephant and eaten lots of spicy coconut soup and pad thai.

It's all been great fun in the sun. But for some reason, it all feels sort of uninspiring.

New year, no resolutions

2009-01-06T02:51:00.004-05:00

Jan. 6, 2009

I write to you now from Bangkok having flown in from Kathmandu via Delhi on January 4th. I spent my Christmas and New Years with a group of people I met during my last days trekking the Annapurna Circuit.

It might seem odd or sad perhaps spending the holidays with people that one barely knows. But travelers are a different breed. We find a common bond with our fellows on the road. We bunk up to save a few rupees and share meals and stories to pass the time and gain information about where next to bring the adventure. We make friends and form relationships that though maybe fleeting as we head in different directions, are intense and unforgettable.

Over the past four months, I've come to realize that the world is much more accessible than most of us know. I've received several e-mails from friends and former colleagues who say how jealous they are of my trip. The thing is, all it takes is some money and the will to actually leave your house.

I saved up for two and a half years living at home with my dad and working at a newspaper company (where you don't make very much money at all) to be able to fund this trip. Though Europe hit the wallet pretty hard, since I arrived in Asia, everything has been quite affordable. Even the 19-day Annapurna trek only cost about $500. That money went for food, lodge expenses, renting and buying some gear, and the 2,000 Nepali rupee fee to walk in the Sanctuary. Outside of trekking, you could live comfortably on less than $100 a week in Nepal. A few months of savings could last you years in India.

There are many ways to live in this world. Those with any kind of desire to get out of their current situations, to escape the world they know for a while, should just get up and do it. The Lonely Planet guidebooks (Bibles for the budget travellers) were driven by the philosophy "All you've got to do is decide to go and the hardest part is over. So go!"

My best friend asked me the other day if I had made any New Years resolutions. I'd kind of forgotten all about making resolutions.

"No," I told her. "I've made none, because I'm doing exactly what I want to be doing right now."

Annapurna: The highway

2009-01-06T02:25:00.007-05:00

Jan. 6, 2009

These are images of the three day walk from Kag Beni to Naypul, a walk that normally takes five to six days. I was running out of money and anxious to get back to Pokhara to get a hot shower and some good food.

It was amazing to witness the extreme changes in climate in the quick walk. In one day I moved from the windy, chilly town of Marpha, the so-called apple capital of Nepal, to almost tropical Tatopani, lush with orange trees.

Though the scenery is still phenomenal, the walk along the Kala Gandaki river is not as interesting as on the other side of the pass because the trail has been developed into a road. The innkeeper of the Red House Hotel where I stayed in Kag Beni told us that her husband had hired a motorbike to make the drive down to Pokhara. Instead of rejoicing in the convenience of the new road, she lamented the jeep tracks.

"It used to be a six day walk out of these mountains," she said. "Now it can be done in a day."

I found this attitude echoed by many of the villagers around the Annapurna Circuit. On the other side where I started out the trek, scores of men work each day shoveling into the side of the ridges, slowly chiseling away boulders to create a road over there as well. In a few years time, the Annapurna Circuit will no longer be the old mule trail that it has been for hundreds of years. Soon it will be transformed into the Annapurna Highway.

Annapurna: Kag Beni

2009-01-06T01:54:00.002-05:00

Jan. 6, 2009

Here's another album depicting the village and the surrounding areas of Kag Beni, the last town up the Kala Gandaki River that may be visited freely by tourists. Beyond this little town lies the Mustang Kingdom. Much like Bhutan, the region charges tourists a daily fee to see the place. The act keeps tourism in check and allows the region to maintain much of its authenticity.

Though I didn't venture into the kingdom, I climbed up a high cliff one day to take photos of the Thorung La pass and the further regions including Mustang. Apparently from the top of the peak, one can also see as far as Tibet. I, however, lost the path and then decided to quit the search and descend to town when the midday winds kicked in. On the way down, I witnessed a young shepherd boy running down the mountain full speed, sliding along the rocky terrain, unafraid of the velocity, sure in his step. It was amazing to see someone so adapted to this alien terrain.

Annapurna: Muktinath

2009-01-06T01:30:00.002-05:00

Jan. 6, 2009

Just as I was about to give up on my Annapurna commentary, I had another look at the photos of the last days of my trek. The images brought me right back into the mountains. I feel like they need to be shared.

These photos depict the holy village of Muktinath, the first town you reach after crossing over the pass from Manang. Every year thousands of Hindus and Buddhists make a pilgrimage to the town to visit the holy temple in the hills.

The mountain Dhaulagiri is the prodominent feature on the western horizon from the town. The mountain seems to breath steam from its peak. Women sit along the one street through the town selling jewelry and hand-woven yak wool scarves (that's where I got your Christmas present Mom!).

I sent several postcards from a nearby little town called Jharkot. Outside the post office which was nothing more than someone's back pantry, a woman was cutting up yak meat. I don't know if the postcards sent from that little post office just below Thorung La will ever arrive. If they do, it will be a tremendous feat having had to be carried by humans and mule trains through the mountains down to the valley and then carried by car to Kathmandu where it will be airmailed to Europe and eventually sent overseas.

The last two photos in this album are really special to me. I awoke early one morning in my hotel room in Muktinath with a bright light shining in my eyes. Thinking it was the sun, I got up to pull the shades closed. When I looked out the window, I saw that it was actually the moon, full and massive setting behind the mountains.

I later learned that that is the closest the moon will come to earth for many, many years. I was in a magical spot to witness it.

Annapurna: All down hill from here

2009-01-05T09:25:00.007-05:00

Jan. 5, 2009

I have to start this year off by apologizing. I've been quite neglectful of my little web journal over the past few weeks.

Starting off writing about the Annapurna Circuit was much like how I started off trekking, full of vigor and enthusiasm. But after a few days of writing, again much like the trek itself, I became lethargic. Frankly, I was kind of sick of the topic.

Walking the 220 kilometer circuit with the additional side trip to Tilicho Lake was an amazing experience. However, much has happened since I returned to Pokhara Valley on Dec. 19. The holidays and a new group of friends I happened to meet toward the end of the trek kept me busy and distracted over the past weeks. Let me attempt to get back up to speed...

After making it over Thorung La, I still had eight more days of hard walking ahead.
Spending nearly three weeks at high altitude in need of good food and a hot shower, I was ready to get out of the hills and head back to Pokhara. I was also running out of money. There is nary an ATM above 3,000 meters in the Himalayas.

I spent several days in villages near the pass before splitting up from the group and making a three day run from the village of Kag Beni back to Pokhara. (I don't have my Annapurna map with me now or my journal from the trek so I don't have altitudes or distances available. However, the trip from Kag Beni to Pokhara normally takes five days.)

Toward the end of my trek, I was planning to spend some time in the village of Tatopani where there is a famous hot spring. (Tatopani literally means hot water in Nepali, a fact I learned several weeks later when a new Nepali friend of mine continuously ordered Whiskey Tatopanis at Tom and Jerry's Bar in Kathmandu.) However, I arrived in the village on day 17 an hour after dark. I was so low on money by that point and so antsy to be back in Pokhara, I ended up skipping the springs leaving early the next day for Ghorepani.

That second to last day of the trek was pretty much eight hours uphill through tiered valleys and orange country. I arrived in the village just before sunset hungry and exhausted. The electricity was out, so I sat alone in the dark of an empty inn hovering over my black tea and fried rice. I was writing in my journal by candlelight enjoying the calm and solitude when in busted in a noisy foursome just down from Poon Hill where trekkers traditionally go to watch sunrise and sunset over the mountains.

The group, consisting of three Irish folk and an American woman, gathered round the wood burning stove where I sat and talked about their trek. They were doing the five day Poon Hill Trek. They would be heading downhill to Tatopani the next day, the walk I just did in reverse.

In spite of my fatigue, I was happy for the company and I ended up exchanging e-mails with the others before slipping off early to bed while they stayed up laughing and drinking roxy. I wanted to wake up before dawn to watch the sunrise on my last day of trekking.

When I got to my room, I fell right into bed and was out like a light. I awoke to the sound of scuffling and laughing in the room next door. Thinking it was time to get up, I leaned over to look at the hour on my cell phone. It was 11 p.m.

Through the wall next to me which was thin as cardboard I heard Julie, the American, and Kevin, one of the Irish blokes, talking to each other. Then Julie started singing Christmas carols at the top of her lungs.

The next morning atop Poon Hill, Kevin and Julie only then realizing that I had been witness to the impromptu concert the night before, apologized profusely. I just laughed and told Julie she's lucky she has a good voice.

I parted company with the colorful group after breakfast that morning. They headed downhill to Tatopani, and I headed downhill to Naypul where I would leave the Annapurna Sanctuary and take a taxi back to Pokhara.

The return to town was just as I imagined it would be. I spent almost a week doing absolutely nothing. It was wonderful.

But after a few days, I did start to get kind of bored so I got in touch with Julie. I ended up reuniting with the wacky group over drinks at a bar in Pokhara called Busy Bees. I ended up hanging out with them everyday following that night until I left the country two days ago.

Through the holidays, all of us far from home, we became sort of a family. A weird, dysfunctional, funny-ass family. Let's just say from the moment I met this group, it was all down hill from there.

Annapurna: Altitude sickness

2008-12-31T03:53:00.005-05:00

Dec. 31, 2008

One of the lesser known symptoms of Acute Mountain Sickness.

Happy New Years from Nepal!

Annapurna: Thorung La

2008-12-27T09:16:00.008-05:00

Dec. 27, 2008

For those who take on the Annapurna Circuit Trek, what looms largest in the back of nearly everyone's minds is the Thorung La pass. At 5,400 meters, it is the highest altitude pass in the world. After spending days acclimatizing above 4,000 meters, the actual day requires a one kilometer push upwards to get to the pass before a long, steep decent of 1,800 meters and hours of walking to Muktinath. The dangers of Acute Mountain Sickness is a frequent topic of conversation.

Some of the symptoms of the illness include loss of appetite, sleeplessness, confusion and lethargy, problems that each of us in our group had exhibited to varying degrees of severity at one time or another above 4,000 meters. But we were ready to get over this little hill and move on to lower and warmer places.

Following the hard journey to Tilicho Lake, we were all ready to get out of that dark valley and back on the main trail to head to Thorung La. The inn keepers of the Tilicho Base Camp lodge closed up shop after we departed and also headed out of the valley for the off season. We had been at altitudes above 4,000 meters for several days, but we weren't sure we were ready to ascend above 5,000.

On Day 10, Alina, Yannick and I stayed at the one remaining open lodge in Yak Kharka for a night. It was still too cold to take showers, but Alina and I ordered a bucket of steamy water to just wash our hands and faces. It had been too freezing in Tilicho to even do that. Never have I so appreciated such a simple amenity as a bucket of hot water and soap. Dirt and grime dripped off our fingers into the basin.

The next day we had a short, mostly flat walk to the base camp of Thorung La (4,400 meters). It should've been an easy hike, but I was having a diffcult time catching my breath as we moved along the dusty trail. At the camp, a group of Nepalese herders were removing the saddles and heavy packs off the backs of mules. The animals each shook their backs off and then all laid down for a big roll in the dust. We asked where the herders had come from. They said Muktinath, the first town you reach after the pass. They had to ascend 1,800 meters in one day to cross the path. We would only have to do 1,000. It gave us some hope.

I awoke at 6 on the morning of Dec. 11 having slept only an hour or two, unable to rest longer because of the altitude. I had been worried the night before because the "easy walk" to the base camp left me winded and weary. However, on the 12th, I was up with the sun and ready for the hike.

I had a black cup of coffee, some hot porridge and started out in high spirits, full of energy. The way I felt that morning, psyched, pumped, ready to roll, was the same sort of feeling I used to get before big soccer games. During the 1,000 meter climb, I distracted myself from the perpetual upward climb with thoughts of soccer. I kept replaying in my mind glorious moments from my nearly 20 years of playing.

Then I started a little shit-talking session with the mountain, saying things like "Ok mountain, if you can even call yourself that. You may be tall, but have you ever scored a hat trick?"

The strategy worked. I was at the top before I even knew it. Though a little loopy from the altitude, I was feeling great. The days dealing with sickness and some sadness felt like they were behind me. It was all down-hill (in a good way) from here.

The whole group of six of us, Marie, Yannick, Alina, Christof, Tony and myself, all hugged each other at the summit and spent about an hour in the cold sunshine amidst the prayer flags before descending to Muktinath.

Annapurna: The climb to Tilicho

2008-12-23T08:48:00.007-05:00

Dec. 23, 2008

Tilicho Base Camp at an altitude above 4,000 meters is a small lodge that hovers in the shadows of Tilicho Peak (7,134 m) and the Muktinath Himal chain. The place has very few amenities, an outdoor toilet that is nothing more than a hole in the ground, tiny, simple rooms with four walls and two hard beds, and no showers, though it's far too cold to consider undressing there. The landscape is stark and beautiful but desolate. It is one of the most remote places I have ever been.

I awoke from my second long night of sleep feeling much better than I had the previous few days. I felt hungry again, though I was tentative about what to eat. In these high altitude lodges, as the trekkers were thinning out and the locals leaving to head to warmer climes, the quality of the food was becoming more and more questionable. Some of it tasted like real last rations, bottom-of-the-barrel type fare. The poorer quality food most likely is what made me sick, though my international comrades around me seemed to be doing fine eating the stuff.

I have a feeling my stomach ailments are correlated with our almost antiseptic, FDA-approved lifestyles back in the the U.S. of A. I remember one evening in New York City, a group of my friends all went out together for some Indian food. Everyone came back that evening with the runs except for this one little Filipino girl.

"Ha," she cackled. "You Americans can't stomach anything. Gain some damn microbes."

At Tilicho Base Camp, Alina, my Russian friend, was slurping down chicken soup which I wouldn't touch. There are virtually no refrigerators in these villages around the Annapurnas and there certainly wasn't anything of the sort at the base camp. The trek to get in supplies there takes several days. Because I didn't see any chickens running around outside the lodge, I wasn't going near the chicken soup.

I did eat eggs though. Two, fried with a little buckwheat toast. It was nice to eat food again.

Shortly after breakfast, Alina and I set off up the path to head to Tilicho Lake, a 3-4 hour walk. The way up is a long hard slog along a steep ridge and then up these switchbacks that rise high up the mountain out of sight. As soon as I started up, I started second guessing just how good I was feeling that morning. (See photo of me looking less than thrilled to be hiking at altitudes three miles above sea level).

Walking slowly along the pathway, I felt like a ghost. At one point I looked at the hundreds of meters of trails above me and thought about turning around and climbing back into bed. It was cloudy that day and quite cold and windy. I was hot from the effort, but also chilled to the bone by my own sweat.

But soon I started playing a little game with myself. "Ok, Maggie," I'd say. "Walk 20 meters to that boulder than catch your breath. Walk to that hairpin turn, then catch your breath. Walk 10 steps, then catch your breath."

I didn't look up the whole time and I didn't think about anything except the next target.

Along the way, I ran in to the Colombians who had set off early that morning with their guide to go to the lake. They were surprised, after seeing me in such a pathetic state the night before, that I was leading the way up the trail with Alina more than a hundred meters behind me and the others even further. The Columbians reassured me it was only about an hour more to the lake, that the hard part was over.

After getting through the switchbacks, the trail evened out substantially and headed over snowy flat lands covered in jagged ice spears. I picked my way through the ice and over a ridge and finally after several false ridges came to the lake.

Tilicho Lake, at 4,919 meters high (16,138 feet) is the highest altitude lake in the world. It was beautiful that day, a deep electric blue surrounded by white peaks under the cloudy sky. I stopped for a few photos, but once having seen it, I was ready to descend. It was cold and I was lightheaded and headachy from the altitude. I was also anxious to get out of the valley and push on toward Thorung La pass. It had been looming long in all our heads, this epic gateway at 5,400 meters to the other side of the circuit. Our hope was that our climbing at Tilicho would be helpful towards our acclimatization. We would know in a few days time.

Annapurna: A long, hard day

2008-12-21T03:46:00.010-05:00

Dec. 21, 2008

After sleeping for 15 hours straight, I awoke on the morning of Day 8 feeling like hell. My stomach was still tumbling and I had completely lost my appetite. The smell of certain foods, of Tibetan bread which is much like fried dough, of chapati, of even black tea and sugar, made my stomach turn. I half-heartedly ate a few bites of plain porridge, but then pushed it aside.

I didn't even trust my drinking water which I was treating with iodine pills. I wasn't sure the damn iodine was working.

My only consolation was that we expected to have an easy day. We were headed for Tilicho Base Camp which we learned was in fact still open. We were also told it was only a few hours walk on mostly level ground.

Alina and I left the lodge before the others, but I was moving very slowly. My rucksack, which on some days I barely noticed, was weighing me down and I dragged my feet through the dust. I couldn't buckle the hip strap because my stomach couldn't take the pressure. I hunched forward pulling on my chest strap to take some of the weight off my shoulders.

In the village of Manang (3,530 m) I bought a bottle of Coca Cola and a Mars Bar. As the altitude increases so too do the prices of food, especially on goods like soft drinks and chocolate which have to be carted by mules from over Thorung La or from way down the trail back as far as Beshishar. Coke cost 200 rupees (about $2.50) in Manang and the price only went up in some of the more remote villages we would soon encounter. My moody stomach which only seemed to trust these processed goods was leading me to develop an expensive Coke habit.

Our group stopped for tea in the village of Khangsar where we took out our maps and considered our various options for getting to Tilicho Base Camp. The lodge owner, a nice Tibetan woman, said the walk was easy and flat. She told us to take the low road along the river. We would then soon come to a new lodge where we planned to stop for lunch before pushing on to the base camp.

Alina and I headed off first following a trail down low on the ridge along the river like our maps indicated. We were soon told by two shepherds that the path we sought was actually higher up on the hill. I cursed the ridge and my stupid stomach and plodded up to the trail. A short time later, Yannick caught up with us and the three of us reached a ledge where the path ended. After some back-tracking and scouting, we found the right trail that led to the new lodge. Our one hour trek had taken twice as long.

At the lodge, we met up with Tony, Marie and Christof who seemed to have found the place easily and had already finished their lunches by the time we arrived. I ordered a Coke and some plain macaroni which again I barely touched. The others seemed to be in high spirits. Tilicho Base Camp was supposed to be a short, flat walk one hour away.

There were two routes to get to the camp. One which would take four hours and crossed high along the ridge and then descended abruptly to the valley where the lodge was located. The other, though much shorter in distance and time, was also noted to be much more treacherous. We would have to cross through a steep landslide area.

The other trio took off ahead of us, while Alina, Yannick and I took our time with our lunch. When we asked the lodge owner how long it would take from there to the base camp, he said two and a half hours if we moved quickly along the short route. The information we had received from the Tibetan woman was dead wrong and it was already 3 p.m. If we didn't move fast, we would soon been walking in the dark.

The three of us hustled along the trail and soon learned that the Nepali definition of "flat" is slightly skewed from what we Westerners think the word means. The path was a series of steep inclines followed by abrupt, rocky descents. Every uphill was especially torturous for me. I kept repeating The Little Engine that Could's mantra: "I think I can, I think I can."

But it was hell. I was weak from my crappy stomach, and weak from not eating anything. My back was breaking and the sun was blinding and burning me. My fake Chanel aviators made me look really cool, but did nothing to keep the bright rays from piercing my retinas.

When we got to the landslide section, I couldn't believe that this was even considered a viable route. The pitch was so steep, and the path, if it could even be called that, kept changing as each person tread across it, knocking lose the stones. Right before I was about to start along the trail, a herd of blue sheep came galloping down from above, knocking football sized rocks down with them, right where only 20 seconds later I would've been walking.

When the sheep disappeared, I tread uneasily trying to keep my eyes focused on both my footing and the hillside above me. I didn't want to be swept down by a stray boulder. The drop to the riverbed was about 300 or 400 meters. It would be a long and probably deadly slide into the icy water.

But we all made it through the landslide area, just as dusk was setting it. Had we been 20 minutes later, we would've hit that area in darkness. Finally we got to base camp as the sun was setting.

I don't know if my body could have taken one more uphill climb. I nearly collapsed at base camp and again was nauseated by the smell of other people's food. There were two Colombians and an older British man all at the camp that night in addition to our party. They all cheered me on as I tried to eat a few mouthfuls of mashed potatoes, but it was of little use. I was exhausted and feeling disoriented. In this high, dark valley truly in the middle of nowhere I felt pangs of homesickness. I was also concerned that I might be feeling the onset of Acute Mountain Sickness, in which case I would need to be evacuated. How would I get out of this place? Along the landslide area at night?

Unable to hold my head up, I drifted away from the dining hall fell into my bed finding sleep almost immediately.

Annapurna: Rest day

2008-12-21T02:43:00.007-05:00

Dec. 21, 2008

Starting out on the Annapurna Circuit, I felt robustly healthy and full of energy invigorated by the exercise and the mountain air. However, about a week in to the trek in higher altitudes and colder climate, some funky things started happening to my body.

Mainly, I was suffering from some gastrointestinal unease. This has been a recurring problem since I arrived in Asia. A little bout of food poisoning caused me to yak at the camel festival in Pushkar. I had the shittiest bus ride ever (literally) from Jaisalmir to Udaipur. I had a very nasty night in Varanasi. And now it was unhappy trails on the Annapurna Circuit.

In the village of Braga (3,460 m), my fellow trekkers and I agreed to take a rest day to better acclimatize and take a break from walking. I was popping pills for aches and pains and for my uneasy stomach and also spraying heaps of Second Skin on my heels which were blistering up from my new boots.

At the lodge in Braga, we met three other trekkers, a Brit named Tony, a French girl named Marie, and an Aussie named Christof. They all already knew Yannick because they happened to be on the same bus from Pokhara to Beshishar to start the circuit.

We were told garlic is good for treating and preventing altitude sickness, so we all scarfed down tons of it on toast. Word was floating around that the villages up at these altitudes were starting to shut down for the winter, and all the inhabitants were heading to lower, warmer places. The news put a bit of a damper on our moods because we had been talking about making a side-trip to Tilicho Lake, the highest altitude lake in the world. Rumor had it, Tilicho Base Camp was already abandoned.

During our "rest day", Alina, Yannick and I decided to visit Milerapa Cave, an alcove part of the way up Annapurna III where a monk, who was said to have the power of levitation, meditated for many years in the 11th century. Milerapa reportedly survived by eating nettles which gave a green tinge to his skin.

After climbing up to his cave decked in prayer flags, the three of us decided to ascend to the glacier line on the mountain. The climb wasn't tough technically, but it was steep and so far the highest altitude we had all reached (somewhere above 4,000 m, or more than 13,000 feet). We plodded upwards eventually coming to a space even with the dirty ice.

The mountains seen from this vantage point are sharp and brown peaked in white. A river cuts through the dry, amber valley like a sparkling sapphire necklace reflecting the brilliant sky. Above us, snow was blowing off the peak of Annapurna III. The mountain was creating its own clouds.

We saw up the peaks blue sheep, which are related to mountain goats, skittering among the rocks. Yannick found the skull of one of these horned sheep and created a little monument out of rocks placing the bone atop it.

We descended around 2:30 p.m. Though fairly early in the afternoon, it was already freezing. Once the sun goes behind Annapurna III, the valley is cast in shadow and the winds pick up. Back at the lodge around 4, I crawled into my sleeping bag to warm up. There I stayed until the next morning.

Annapurna: Bucket shower

2008-12-21T02:03:00.004-05:00

Dec. 21, 2008

After nearly a week trekking, laundry and a good hot shower were much in order. Alina, Yannick and I spent our sixth night in the village of Ghyraru (3,670 m), one of two higher altitude villages one can visit after Pisang where the trail splits. Trekkers exhibiting symptoms of altitude sickness are advised to take the low route through a forest. The higher trail is more strenuous but the views of the mountains are priceless.

It had been several days since any of us had showered. The temperatures were just getting too low, and finding hot water in these villages is not always easy. What came as a delightful surprise to us was that many of the lodges use solar heating for their showers. How progressive.

The problem with the system (the little I know about it) is it's very basic and doesn't allow for any reserve energy. If it's cloudy that day, you're out of luck. Also, you better be sure to be one of the first in the shower if you hold any hopes of getting heated water.

In Ghyraru, there was not even a solar system, but you could still get a hot shower, so to speak. I paid 100 Nepali rupees (about $1.25) for the lodge owners to boil up a bucket of water.

Shivering violently between scoopfuls, I frenetically lathered myself up, dancing around in my flip-flops, rubbing and smacking myself to both get clean and stay warm. All the while I gazed out a small window at the glaciers on Annapurna II (7,937 m) and IV (7,525 m). The whole affair would have been hilarious if caught on film.

I bought this shampoo in India called Rejoice which is aptly named because the only time I used it on the trek was when I could find a legitimate shower with steaming hot water. Any time there was steaming hot water around, I was in exultation. Needless to say, my hair remained unwashed for most of the trek because it was too bloody cold to get it wet.

Once clean and shocked wide awake by the shower, I had to do some laundry. Again this involved a heated bucket of water and more dancing around in the frosty air, scrubbing my clothes under the darkening sky.

The next day, my clothes were still quite damp (nearly frozen actually). I had to tie my underwear and socks to the outside of my rucksack to dry as I walked. My unmentionables fluttered in the breeze like Tibetan prayer flags under the Nepali sun.

Annapurna: Higher and colder

2008-12-20T05:36:00.007-05:00

Dec. 20, 2008

Everyday walking the Annapurna Circuit brings a complete change in scenery. From lower elevation Hindu villages, through rich river valleys and pine forests and into the stark Buddhist mountain towns, it is no wonder the path has been called one of the best treks in the world.

My Russian friend Alina and I ascended 800 meters on the day we joined up walking from Jagat (1,300 m) to Bagarchhap (2,160). We then had a comparatively relaxed fifth day of walking only about 10 kilometers but rising by 500 meters from Bagarchhap (2,082 m) to Chame (2,620 m).

The walk that day reminded Alina of autumn in the dark pine forests of Russia. Coming into view as we ascended were the peaks of Lamjung (6,931 m) and Annapurna II (7,937 m).

We could feel the cold as we rose higher each day. In the sunshine, we could walk in T-shirts, but any patch of shade made us shiver in our sweaty clothes. It was especially chilly at night and we knew it would only get colder as we climbed higher toward Thorung La, the highest elevation pass in the world. We went to bed early, sometimes as early as 7:30 if there was no electricity in the village. This walking everyday, up-at-dawn lifestyle was both invigorating and exhausting.

By Day 6, we had gained another trekking companion, Yannick, a French physiotherapist. Yann, who we called Yak the first few days when we couldn't quite remember his name, walked quicker than we did, but always started much later in the morning so we were constantly crossing paths.

Walking with the Frenchman and the Russian girl, I took a sort of strange pride in the fact that they could only communicate through my native tongue. Yannick said he found my flat New England way of speaking much easier to understand than a British or an Australian accent. Sometimes as the two stumbled through phrases, I felt like a referee of the English language.

If on the fifth day, we walked through Russia, on Day 6 we were in Yellowstone National Park. We passed by a massive unnamed rock formation curved like a bowl. We all walked in silence on the soft earth there. It was so quiet we could hear the flapping of crows wings.

Surrounded by such beauty, I started to feel at a loss of adjectives. The rivers ran ice blue, the sky was electric and clear and the air was fresh and crisp and getting thinner. I was starting to feel the altitude.

When the three of us stopped for lunch in lower Pisang (3,190 m), I smoked a cigarette that Yannick rolled for me. The thing hit me like a powerful drug. I was light-headed and laughing instantly.

The altitude was also doing something to all our appetites. Never before had I so appreciated sugar. I was devouring Snickers bars and heavily sweetening my tea. Alina went as far as to eat spoonfuls of sugar soaked in a little black tea straight from the spoon.

Around us, everything about the landscape was becoming bigger. The rivers and valleys were deeper, the mountains closer, colossal, the stars brighter. We were enraptured by everything around us, the beauty, beauty, beauty.

Annapurna: Quiet thoughts of nothing

2008-12-20T05:16:00.005-05:00

Dec. 20, 2008

Walking for hours along quiet trails, one's mind has plenty of time and space for wandering as well. What I found interesting in the early days of the trek was that I thought mostly of nothing. Yes, I had thoughts, flashes of ideas and memories, but mostly my mind remained peacefully vacant.

While in India, I had talked with people about meditation. I gave it a shot one morning on a rooftop overlooking the Ganges in Varanasi. I received simple instructions from a new Israeli friend to just sit still, close my eyes, concentrate on my breathing and try to think of nothing. It was a struggle trying to sit still and just be. I kept noticing little pains in my body and my mind swirled around from thought to thought as hard as I tried not to think.

But in the mountains, walking and breathing hard shouldering a relatively heavy pack, I think I was unconsciously meditating. Like I said in an earlier post, I've often found solace in the outdoors. The rivers are my holy water, the mountains my cathedrals.

When I did have thoughts, they were more often than not songs that popped into my head. Two pieces of music in particular which happen to share the same name repeatedly came to mind.

During steep and grinding ascents, it was Jeff Buckley's cover of Leonard Cohen's solemn but hopeful Hallelujah that I sang through struggling breaths. Well it goes like this the fourth, the fifth... the minor fall and the major lift...The baffled king composing hallelujah.

At other times, especially after conquering those ascents and looking around at the scenery and the mountains around me, it was Haaaaaallelujah! Haaaaallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hall-ee-lu-JAH! the famous chorus from Handel's Messiah.

Annapurna: Children of Manang

2008-12-20T04:57:00.003-05:00

Dec. 20, 2008

When I worked for the newspaper, one of my favorite assignments was to go to the elementary school and take pictures of children. Kids are the greatest and easiest subjects to shoot on film because they are so honest in their expressions. I expressed this sentiment earlier when shooting a scene in a Greek square of children chasing pigeons.

Kids don't try to look good or impress anyone. Even if they do, their innocence shines through.

In Nepal during the frequent power outages that plague this country, sometimes the only electric light is generated from the LCD screen of a tourist's Nikon. Their faces light up in the glow of these contraptions as they look at themselves projected back in the darkness.

Here's a sampling of some of these mountain children in the Buddhist Manang district.

Annapurna: Learn metric

2008-12-20T04:22:00.003-05:00

Dec. 20, 2008

As I write about my trek along the Annapurna Circuit I'll include the distances covered and altitude changes. My dad tells me I should write these measurements in miles and feet so folks back home can truly comprehend these numbers. But I've been traveling outside the United States now for four months and no one besides us stubborn Americans uses these old fashioned measurements. All the maps I have are in meters and kilometers.

Also weight is in kilograms instead of pounds. Along the trails I saw Nepali women and men hunched over bearing 50 kg sacks of rice, or fertilizer or stone dust. 1 kg = 2.2 lbs. That's 110 pounds! My own pack weighed in at 15 kg, so I was shouldering just over 33 lbs.

Although I've been thinking in terms of metric, it wasn't until I converted some of these numbers into miles that I truly comprehended just how high I was walking. Thorung La pass, the highest altitude pass in the world is at 5,400 meters. That's 17,800 feet above sea level, or about 3.4 miles, more than three times higher in elevation than Denver.

Where possible, I'll make these conversions. But it takes time, and everyone knows time is money, especially when you're paying for relatively reliable internet in a third world country. Go to this site for help with metric conversions if you need it.

Annapurna: Tal

2008-12-19T04:51:00.004-05:00

Dec. 19, 2008

This is Tal, the gateway to the Manang district of Nepal. Notice the flock of goats I passed on the way up, and the mule trains which are like Nepal's version of Mack trucks carrying food and supplies across the country along the "Annapurna Highway."

Annapurna: A new comrade

2008-12-19T04:02:00.009-05:00

Dec. 19, 2008

On my third day of trekking, I set off from Jagat shortly after dawn on the heels of another trekker, the young woman I had passed the day before on the trail. I had ended my previous day early in the afternoon and this woman caught up with me and stayed at the same lodge. I was one of five trekkers who slept at the Hotel Mont Blanc that night.

At dinner, the young woman sat with two Germans. I learned from their conversation that the woman, a Russian named Alina, is a fellow photographer and journalist. Hearing this, I struck up a conversation with her and the others. One of the men who was from East Germany commented that our little group consisted of an American and a Russian, and two Germans from either side of the Berlin wall.

The next morning, fully intending to set off alone ahead of the others, Alina was also up with the same plan in mind. When we took off, one of the Germans rubbing sleep from his eyes said "Oh look. A new team has formed."

I think both Alina and I had the same thought: We were content to go alone.

She got ahead of me, but I passed her on the trail in the village of Chamje (1,430 m). I walked alone for miles. It was a long, hard ascent along switchbacks and steep inclines to the Buddhist village of Tal (1,700 m).

Tal was one of my favorite places on the trek. The muscles burning from the climb is worth the entry to this heavenly little town. Tal emerges after a long, dusty hill in this quiet valley where the blue, grey river widens and bends creating sandy beaches. From the cloud covered hills that create the valley spill high, thin waterfalls.

Alina caught up to me in this little village and the two of us sat down for lunch. It was over black tea and pumpkin soup in placid Tal that the Russian and I decided to walk together.

Annapurna: Happy solitude

2008-12-19T03:27:00.005-05:00

Dec. 19, 2008

Day 2 of my trek, I was up before sunrise happily lacing up my new hiking boots. I ready for some real, hard walking.

A bowl of banana porridge in my belly, I walked swift and strong along the path leading through flat lands along a rumbling river. I passed women washing laundry in the stream, and men carrying crates full of chickens, hauling the loads on their backs held up by a thick band around their foreheads. I blew through the farming villages of Nagdi and Bahundanda which formed steps along the hillsides. before stopping for tea in Syange (1,100 m) and eventually ending my day in Jagat (1,300 m). I had walked about 15 kilometers and ascended almost 500 meters.

I was so happy and healthy on the trail. I was exhilarated by the river below me and the mountain peaks in the distance ahead. I also felt dirty, but a good, clean kind of dirty. Dirty in body, clean in soul.

For dinner that night I devoured a plate of dal bhaat, a common Nepali dish consisting of rice, potato curry, a spicy pickle and a lentil soup. All the walking and carrying of my pack left me famished. Eating this hearty meal was good and natural; I could feel my body's need for the food.

Right at the start of my walk, I passed a young woman, the first other trekker I'd seen on the trail. A few days earlier I feared I would meet no one else on the walk. But now, after spending day on my own, I didn't want to meet anyone else.

Annapurna: Setting forth

2008-12-19T02:25:00.007-05:00

Dec. 19, 2008

When I began planning this whole big trip around the world, something about Nepal called out to me stronger than any other location in the world. I wanted to see these mountains, the Himalayas, these natural monuments of the gods.

As a child I always found peace in the outdoors. Climbing to a high tree limb was like a prayer to me. I offered sacrifices to the wild in the form bloodied knees scraped on boulders and cuts from thorn bushes.

I was always off in the woods, scouting rivers, building forts. The forest was my sanctuary.

When I was 15 and as awkward and angsty as can be, my parents shipped me off to Utah for a two week Outward Bound course of rafting, hiking and canoeing. I joined a group of 18 others my age, many of whom were juvenile delinquents who were taking the course as remediation for minor crimes they had committed. The courses are meant to inspire individual confidence and to teach teamwork and trust.

For two nights toward the end of the trip, each of us kids were left alone in the desert where we were meant to reflect on the lessons we had learned during the previous days. I spent my time writing in my journal and basking in the sun listening to echoes from the canyons and the Green River far below. That solo experience reawakened the joy I had found in nature as a younger child. It was return to grace.

Now, nearly a decade later, I would be setting off alone into the Himalayas on what felt like a familiar journey.

I was nervous planning for the trek. It was late in the season, maybe too late. The most popular time for trekking is October. By December, the temperatures drop around the Annapurna range and many of the inhabitants of the villages in the hills start to abandon their lodges for the winter to take up jobs in Kathmandu and elsewhere. Thorung La, the highest altitude pass in the world which connects the 220 kilometer circuit, is in danger of being snowed in and impassable.

I also was getting mixed information on whether or not I should get a guide. Both Lonely Planet and another book on trekking in Nepal strongly discouraged trekking alone, especially as a female. I talked to one agency that caters specifically to female trekkers and got information about all the supplies I would need. The agency suggested that I hire a guide-cum-porter for the trip.

But talking to other trekkers around Pokhara, the resounding message was that the path is easy to follow, the Nepali people are kind and helpful, and there are many others trekkers on the route.

I was torn. Two nights before I was slated to leave, this particular agency ready with a guide for me, I thought about the trip, about how I would be spending almost three weeks with this one person. I hadn't spent that long with anyone on my trip. On the night before leaving, I decided I would go it alone.

On Nov. 30, I boarded a local bus to Beshishar (760 meters above sea level) followed by a jeep to Khudi (790 m) and set off on the Annapurna Circuit. That first day, because of a late start, I only walked a short distance to the small village of Bhulbhule (840 m), named after the sound of a small spring nearby. I was excited but still anxious about what I was undertaking. I also felt quite alone. I was the only trekker staying in the lodge. But then I looked out the window of my tiny room and saw this sight (see photo). The river, the forest, the mountain... they were like an answered prayer.

Return from the mountains

2008-12-18T09:32:00.002-05:00

Dec. 18, 2008

I'm back in Pokhara following a 19-day trek around the Annapurna circuit. Managed to pull a muscle only as I was getting into a cab to return to civilization. Good timing!

Will have tons and tons of things to report and pretty photos to post soon. But need to decompress right now. I'm off to eat a yak steak!

As appeared in the Easton Courier

2008-12-05T14:53:00.003-05:00

Written by Julie Weisberg, the current editor of the Easton Courier, Easton Connecticut, the position I held before departing on my worldwide journey.

Going off the grid

2008-11-29T04:41:00.003-05:00

Nov. 29, 2008

I am officially going off the grid for the next 16-20 days as I embark on a 150 kilometer trek of the Annapurna Circuit. The trek will take me through valleys and across plains and up over 5,000 meters to Thorung La, one of the highest altitude passes in the world.

The trek is not the wild adventure it once was. The trails are well-traversed and lined with dozens of small villages along the way. But still it is called one the best mountain walks in the world.

I am nervous but excited. It's a little late in the season to be undertaking the trek. Temperatures at the pass have been reportedly falling well below 0 degrees Fahrenheit in the past few days. But I'm feeling good and healthy, so off I go.

If you don't hear from me by Dec. 20, send in the search party.

Ahhhh... Pokhara

2008-11-29T04:34:00.003-05:00

Nov. 29, 2008

This is how I spent my Thanksgiving afternoon.

Rejuvenation in the mountains

2008-11-29T03:46:00.003-05:00

Nov. 29, 2008

I may have been a mountain goat in a prior life. For the second time on my trip, I have found peace and rejuvenation in a lakeside town at the foot of a major mountain range.

In Europe, my heart melted for Interlaken, Switzerland. In Asia, I have found Pokhara, Nepal.

Skirting Phewa Lake and within sight of the Dhaulagiri, Annapurna and Manaslu ranges, each with peaks over 8000 meters, Pokhara is actually the third largest city in the country. The city proper though is far from the lakeside along which a bustling tourist village has sprouted up. Thirty years ago my dad came to Pokhara when it was still a small village. He asked me if the old women still come up to tourists trying to sell magic mushroom omelets. Not anymore, Dad. Sorry.

Pokhara's lakeside district is lined with lots of good restaurants, Internet cafes and trekking gear shops. Everyone, rich tourist and poor Nepali alike, wears North Face gear. It's not the most authentic place in the world, but I admit it's nice to be back in a First World-feeling place after a few weeks in India where coming into intimate contact with extreme poverty is unavoidable.

Pokhara is actually a lot like Interlaken complete with its clear lake and paragliders in the sky. The town has even been called the Switzerland of Nepal. But in place of the apple orchards and crisp, cold air, there are rice fields and warm, hazy weather in the valley.

I've spent several days here doing some minor hikes and bicycling around town. One night I walked up to Sarangkot, a peak overlooking the valley, and then marched along the ridge to a small village called Kaskikot. There I was invited to spend the night with a Nepali family. Now this was an authentic experience.

Manbahadur, a man in his mid-thirties, offered me a room for the night in his family's house for 60 Nepali Rupees (less than $1). I had been heading toward a larger village where there was a guesthouse someone recommended to me, but this seemed like too good an experience to pass up.

Manny's elderly mother and sister kept busy around the fire in the middle of the floor of the house's kitchen/living room/dining room/bedroom. Manny's children
gathered around me asking all the questions they could think of in English. I sat with the family around the fire while the women squatted on their heels cooking up a meal of spicy chicken, curried vegetables, lentils and rice. I ate like the others with my hands, devouring the tasty food. Soon after the meal, I ended up going to bed in a room to myself adjacent to the main house. It was only about 8 p.m., but the electricity in the town was out and there isn't much you can do in the complete darkness in the hills of the Himalayas. I felt a little guilty about taking the room, knowing that on nights when they don't have guests, it probably is the bedroom for the old woman or the children.

I woke up before dawn and Manny's 17-year-old niece, and 10-year-old son climbed with me up to the peak over Kaskikot where there stands a modest Hindu temple. The children and I watched the sunrise over Pokhara from the temple for Kali.

When I left, I ended up giving Manny 400 rupees, more than I would've paid for a room in a guesthouse. The whole experience was well worth it.

Safe and sound in Nepal

2008-11-26T23:43:00.003-05:00

Nov. 27, 2008

Just wanted to write a quick note to let people know I'm safe and sound in Nepal, far away from the terrorist bombings in Mumbai. I woke up this Thanksgiving morning to the shocking news and spent a totally surreal half hour in a Pokhara internet cafe listening online to New York City's WCBS 880 about the news of India.

My next stop in about a month's time is Bangkok where this is going on. In a few days I'm heading off on a three week trek into the Annapurna mountain range, far away from all that... so long as I don't run into any Maoist rebels on the trails.

What a crazy world.

Life and death in Varanasi

2008-11-23T23:09:00.006-05:00

Nov. 23, 2008

The fire in the darkness reflected in the water of the Ganges was a magnet for my companion and me. Out walking along the ghats of Varanasi our first night in the city, my new Swedish/Porteguese friend Billie and I were drawn to the flames. They glowed orange in the faces of a crowd of somber men looking on from the steps along the riverside. Not wanting to intrude on whatever ritual was taking place, we girls climbed up into a cement enclave to look over the fire.

Then I saw it, a human foot crackling in the flames, the toes curling in the intense heat. I nearly fell to my knees at the sight.

The funeral pyres are part of the whole experience of Varanasi, also known as Benares, the holy city of India, the city of lights and the city of learning. One of the oldest continually inhabited places in the world, it has been regarded by Hindus, Buddhists and Jains as a place of great religious importance. One-time Redding, Conn. resident Mark Twain wrote "Benares is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together."

Even without knowing of its historical significance, a walk on the ghats along the misty Ganges at night, listening to the chiming of bells and women singing in the temples, and watching the funeral pyres, one can't help but be moved by the place.

I met Billie on the train from Delhi to Varanasi earlier this week. We agreed to split a rickshaw and check out a guesthouse together near the Assi Ghat in the south part of town near the river. I quickly learned that my new friend has a fiery soul herself.

Billie, who has traveled to India three times before, received her name from a friend several years ago. In Hindi, Billie means cat, fitting because her birth name is Caterina or Katervina or something like that. She speaks in the deep way the Swedes have when they speak English. It is a quiet but powerful voice.

Before each meal, she lays her hands on either side of her plate, closes her eyes to bless her food with Reiki energy. She works now as a street performer doing fire dances with poi sticks and fans. She's hoping to get some gigs this winter in Goa.

Billie has intense brown eyes that are always wide open, sometimes chillingly so. They are the eyes of a newborn taking in everything for the first time. When she makes eye contact, it's hard to look away. A thought once flashed through my mind that if I broke our eye contact, Billie might whip a knife out of her sleeve and slash my throat.

Though she scares me a little, I like Billie. She's energetic and resourceful. She talked me into taking a Kathak dance class with her. Her hope was that the traditional dance would help influence her fire performances. I was just kind of curious and wanted to do something that might make me feel pretty.

The woman who taught us was beautiful and intense with dark circles under her dark eyes. Billie called them opium eyes. This young woman had such fluidity to her movements, like her fingers and arms and feet were made of melting wax.

For me though, instead of transforming into a beautiful flower, the experience left me feeling as stiff as oak. Kathak is a graceful dance. I'm not really a graceful person. (Sometimes, with a soccer ball, I feel beautiful, but otherwise I kind of just plod... but with exuberance!

That night, Billie and I took our walk along the ghats and saw the burning foot. A man attending the ghat took the opportunity to explain to us the significance of the ritual. People from all over India and beyond come to Varanasi to die. It is believed that those who die along the banks of the Ganges in this holy city achieve instant enlightenment. The burning of the bodies is a ritual of purification. Only men attend the burning because it is feared that women crying out in mourning would disturb the spirit on its way to enlightenment.

There are five types of people who do not require the ritual purification when they die, the man explained. These are the Sadus, or holy men of Varanasi, pregnant women, children under age eight, those with leprosy, those with small pox, and those who died by snake bite. All these people, he said, are already pure having suffered before death.

The snakebite one strikes me as quite interesting. The man explained that the cobra is one embodiment of Shiva, so the person is killed and blessed by god.

When they die, the bodies of these five types of people are taken out to the middle of the river, weighted with a stone and dropped into the murky, green depths.

Many who come to Varanasi find the place fascinating but filthy. Nothing is hidden in India, but especially in this city. Animals and people share every space, rubbing up against each other, pissing and defecating everywhere. Spirituality is an outward and passionate expression. Children run along the ghats offering visitors little palm leaf bowls filled with a few flower blossoms and a candle to light and set adrift in the river as prayers for the dead. Always, always there is the sound of bells clanging in the Hindu temples. People sell sweet, greasy pastries and spicy, greasy food on the streets. While walking the streets or taking a chai break in a little makeshift street cafe, sometimes one sees spontaneous parades of men carrying the body of dead man or woman down to the riverside.

It's all a big carnival in the city of light. Everything is a celebration of life and death. These two things are viewed simply as continuations of each other.

Hippies everywhere!!!

2008-11-21T08:00:00.005-05:00

Nov. 21, 2008

Oh man. I need to get out of Varanasi. Hippies everywhere.

My friend from college pointed out that a comment I left for him on Facebook about buying a tam tam drum in Jaipur was a little more "out there" than normal. To quote him exactly, Mike Hand writes: "Holy f*&k-s$*t, girl.. Last I knew you, your hippie hatred knew no bounds. When did you go and become their queen?"

I've had four conversations about meditation today alone. I was prompted last night into giving my own interpretation of writing from the Tao Te Ching. I've been seriously considering enrolling in a ten day silent Vipassana meditation course in the foothills of the Himalayas. Yesterday, I bought a shirt made out of hemp for Chrissakes!

Where the hell did all this come from?

Finding my calm

2008-11-20T03:23:00.001-05:00

Nov. 20, 2008

For those of you who've been following my travels here for the past several months, you may have noticed that since I arrived in India the pace for posting entries has slackened. This is due to several reasons. One problem has been finding reliable internet. In the neighborhood in Delhi where I stayed several days ago, internet cafes are abundant. This however hasn't been the case in many of the other places I've visited.

Even when I've come across a computer that has been updated beyond Windows 95, many of the towns I've been in have been plagued by power cuts. I'll be in the middle of writing an e-mail and then the whole city goes dark and I lose everything I've written. In Varanasi, where I write now, the entire city goes without power between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m. everyday. It's just a part of life here.

Those excuses aside, the major reason I haven't posted much is I find India a daunting subject to tackle. This place is tough to describe and impossible to sum up. I wrote earlier about how overwhelming Delhi was when I first arrived after the two month party that was Europe. But now after spending more than three weeks in this country, I've discovered a strange calm amidst all the chaos.

My friends at home can attest that I am not the most patient of beings. But here, on Indian time, where everything is rushed, yet takes forever, where docile cows lumber down streets as autorickshaws and motorcycles scream past, where women dressed in glittering bangles and flowing saris create a human rainbow as they walk along streets overflowing with refuse, where children bathe in busted pipelines in between the train tracks at the Old Delhi station, where young girls walk through the desert with a jug of water on their head and a bare-bottomed baby hanging on their hip, where beggers lacking limbs plead for rupees at every intersection, where a hundred brown faces and onyx eyes watch as a Western woman walks by, where the ceaseless honking of cars mixes with the chinga-chinga-chinga-chinga Indian pop music in the marketplaces, where the smells of spices, oils, animal feces and flowers fill the air, where every other Indian man wants to shake your hand and introduce you to their family, where people come to a sacred river in the midst of a holy city to die, I've discovered an internal calm.

I haven't been so hassled as I was when I first arrived. It could be that I've gotten a bit of tan from spending two weeks in the desert. It could be that I'm better at ignoring the calls from every other Indian man or street merchant and have taken on a bit of a thousand yard stare that keeps the hawkers at bay. I'm sure those things have something to do with it. But perhaps while taking this journey, I'm beginning to stumble upon my inner Om.

Bedbugs

2008-11-20T02:32:00.004-05:00

Nov. 20, 2008

Look what the bedbugs in Varanasi did to my feet last night. Weird tanline too, eh?

Udaipur

2008-11-17T03:45:00.002-05:00

Nov. 18, 2008

This was the number one thing to see listed in my Rough Guides book to India, the floating palace in Udaipur. Check.

Safari through the Thar Desert

2008-11-17T02:46:00.002-05:00

Nov. 17, 2008

While in Jaisalmer, the boys and I decided to check off Lonely Planet's #3 "must-do" thing in India: "watching a bright moon out in the Thar Desert in Rajasthan during an overnight camel safari."

We booked the one night/two day tour through our hotel and took off in the jeep about 40 km outside the town to meet up with our guide, Tiger. The first thing he did when we met was tie bright orange turbans around each of our heads. The turbans served the functional purpose of keeping the sun directly off our heads and necks. They also were meant perhaps to authenticate the whole experience. I just think those bright orange scarves were mainly made to mark us as tourists, easily seen from miles away in the desert.

After getting turbanized, we mounted up. Jamie's camel was named Sonya. Ben rode Mr. Magoo. My camel was called Victoria. Vickie and I got along just fine.

Tiger, a Muslim from a small village 200 km north of Jaisalmer, explained to us that he had to leave his home and his wife and five children to search for work in the city after his home region experienced a massive drought. The Thar Desert hasn't seen rain in years and the drought has devastated the region's farming industry. The desert skyline is now lined with thousands of windmills the government built to pump water to all the small villages in the area. The water supplies them with enough for drinking and washing and to sustain some livestock, but not enough to continue farming. Instead, the villagers now make most of their money by cutting stones, Tiger said.

He took us to some of these villages where we were met by crowds of small children all a chatter, excited at the sight of a handful of goras (white people). As I pulled out my camera, dozens of hands grabbed at my arms as the children wanted to see the digital images I had just snapped of them.

During the hottest parts of the day, Tiger led us into the shade of a tree. He unsaddled the camels and let them loose to wander and graze. Then he made us lunch. Just watching him prepare the food and cook and clean the dishes and utensils using a splash of water and handfuls of sand made the safari worth the money.

He built up a small fire from tumbleweed kindling and boiled water and powdered milk together and dumped in almost a cup of sugar to make some super sweet chai.

"No sugar, no power. Full chai, full power. 24 hour," Tiger chanted. "Camel college, full knowledge."

Then he whipped up some spicy and delicious curries, some of the best tasting food I've had since I arrived in India. After lunch we all took a siesta in the shade.

It wasn't too long before the boys and I agreed that Tiger might have been out in the desert for too long. That evening as Tiger cooked, Jamie busted out his guitar and I took out my small drum from Jaipur and the three of us started singing Radiohead and Oasis songs. Tiger suddenly burst in banging on my drum and started screeching every English word he knew in rhyming couplets. Actually, Tiger only seemed to speak in rhymes. Beside the little history he gave us about his life and the drought, Tiger's English was limited to "camel college, full knowledge, full chai, no power, 24 hour." As we tried to sing through his screeching and banging, Tiger then launched into a crazed rendition of Aqua's Barbie Girl.

The boys and I looked at each other like who is this madman we're left with in the middle of the Indian desert. But thankfully he eventually wore himself out.

After dinner, the boys and I passed around a bottle of whiskey and then nestled under heavy blankets to fall asleep on the sand dunes underneath the bright, waxing moon.

Rough Guides #3 best thing do: Check.

Jaisalmer, the Golden City

2008-11-17T02:21:00.004-05:00

Nov. 17, 2008

While in Pushkar, I met two funny Westerners, a smallish English bloke named Jamie, and a largish Canadian named Ben. I ended up joining them to travel to other parts of Rajasthan.

We headed first to Jaisalmer, the Golden City, located in the heart of the Thar Desert in the far west of the state near the border with Pakistan. The town stands on a ridge of yellowish sandstone, crowned by a fort, which contains the palace and several ornate Jain temples. The town is also known for its havelis, or private residences which follow the Islamic style of architecture and feature rooms of intricately carved stone.

The boys and I stayed together in one haveli within the fort. We split the cost of 90 rupees for the simple room. That's a total of about $2, or $0.65 each per night. The catch was, we agreed to book an overnight camel safari through the hotel. That's where many of these Jaisalmeri hotels make their money. Still it was well worth it for the experience. More on that in the next post.

Pushkar Camel Fair

2008-11-16T01:13:00.001-05:00

Nov. 16, 2008

A major reason I decided to explore Rajasthan was that my visit to India happened to correspond with the timing of the Pushkar Camel Fair. Each year Pushkar, a holy town in the Hindu faith, hosts the world's largest camel fair featuring competitions such as the "matka phod", "moustache", and "bridal competition."

Thousands of people from all over India go to the banks of the Pushkar Lake where the fair takes place. Men buy and sell their livestock, which includes camels, cows, sheep and goats. The women go to the stalls, full of bracelets, clothes, textiles and fabrics. A camel race starts off the festival, with music, songs and exhibitions to follow.

The festival falls each year around Kartik Purnima, the night of the full moon, the day, according to legend, which the Hindu god Brahma sprung up the lake.

OK, so that was the Wikipedia explanation of the event. For me though, my experience of the fair was that I spent most of the time avoiding it as I fought off a brutal bout of food poisoning. Welcome to Asia.

The smell of cow and camel dung mixed with whatever spice it was that was in the food I spent a long night vomiting up, hung thick in the air around the town. I could only bear walking around the grounds under the desert sun for brief periods of time. But the short time I did spend there were well worth it if only for the photos I got. Check out those colors and those dancers and those beautiful, beastly animals.

Superstar

2008-11-14T11:53:00.004-05:00

Nov. 14, 2008

This is constant in India. Now I know how Britney feels.

The Pink City

2008-11-14T10:18:00.003-05:00

Nov. 14, 2008

After leaving Delhi, I headed west to the desert state of Rajasthan. My first stop was to Jaipur, the state capital also known as the Pink City. The city is a bustling place with a population of about 5 million. The whole city was painted pink in the mid-nineteenth century in honor of Prince Albert who came to visit.

Jaipur is known not only for it's color but also for the fact that it is one of the first cities to be laid out in an orderly grid, like Manhattan. But that's about the only orderly thing about the place.

Though not a massive as Delhi, Jaipur is similar in terms of its intensity of touts and hawkers. After a few days in the country though, I'd learned to better manage the onslaught of "Hellos" "What country?" "You want pashmina scarf?" Still, somehow I got talked into buying a block print blanket, a tunic shirt, and a drum. I don't even play drums. Why do I need one, exactly? I have no idea. The guy selling it made a really cool sound though, and once I showed interest he pretty much followed me through the streets banging out a rhythm to the pace of my steps. I just had to buy the damn thing.

It turned out to be kind of a fun purchase though. As I was walking back to my hotel, banging thoughtlessly on the thing, I passed a little boy amidst a throng of sari-wearing women. He had two little drums in his hands and was hitting them absentmindedly. When I saw him, I bent down and banged on my own drum eliciting laughter from all the women and the biggest, sweetest smile from this little boy who banged right back. That was pretty neat.

Those are the kind of moments that make this country beautiful.

A snapshot of India

2008-11-14T09:47:00.005-05:00

Nov. 14, 2008

I've been in India for more than two weeks now which is unbelievable to me. Time has just flown by. I've seen so much in these past days, it's all been a big colorful blur.

Now that I've found internet that I think is reliable, I'm going to bombard you all with photos, many of which I think are some of the best I've taken on this trip. This country lends itself to the camera. Here is one I quite like of a woman selling floral wreaths as offerings to be laid under images of Hindu gods and goddesses. She's sitting along a main road under the new metro line near the Main Bazaar in the Paharganj district of New Delhi.

Many, many more photos to follow.

Indian lucky

2008-11-11T01:18:00.004-05:00

Nov. 11, 2008

Learning the different customs of a new place by inadvertently trampling all over them can be awkward at best or be dangerous at worse. Sometimes though doing something taboo can be completely hilarious.

When I left Delhi to catch a train to the desert state of Rajasthan, I had to say good-bye to my new Kashmiri friend Rafiq. I threw my rucksack into the back of a waiting autorickshaw and turned to him to bid farewell. He put out his hand to shake mine, but instead I gave him a big hug and kiss on the cheek and then jumped into the waiting vehicle which sped off for the train station.

A few nights later while talking with a British lady I met in Jaipur, I learned that Indian men and women never show public displays of affection. They never hold hands, and they certainly never hug or kiss.

"It's like having sex," she said.

So now I'm probably being talked about back in Delhi like the whore of Babylon, and good ol' Rafiq is getting pats on the back for getting Indian lucky the other day with an American girl.

Dusty, smoggy, funny Delhi

2008-11-07T02:49:00.004-05:00

Nov. 7, 2008

I have arrived in India and wow! This place is a slap in the face.

India peels your eyes, drums your ears, waters your mouth and tweaks your nose. It is stressful and dirty and too-close-for-comfort. But at the same time, this place is a good shock to the system, one that can save you from slipping into a cultural coma.

Arriving in Delhi on Oct. 30, panic set in as soon as I stepped off the plane. Everyone was supposed to queue up to get through customs, however Indians don't seem to believe in lines. They are much more comfortable in a close, pushy mass.

After getting through immigration and retrieving my checked bag, I stepped out of the airport into the hot, smoggy morning in India's capital city. I did what all the guidebooks say and sought out a pre-paid taxi that would take me to the hotel of my choice. My guaranteed taxi instead took me to a different hotel than where I wanted to go. When I complained to the driver, he turned off the engine and then pretended like the car wouldn't start again. Anxious and overtired and on the verge of tears, I climbed out of the cab and walked into a guest house called Hotel Blue.

As I signed the guest book where they overcharged me for a prison cell with no bathroom, I shot the cabbie a look of death. It wasn't just death, though. It was the look death might have after traveling for 24 straight hours and spending a six hour layover trying to sleep under some chairs in Dubai's airport. I saw fear in that cabbie's eyes when I looked at him looking back into my eyes. It gave me a bitter tinge of satisfaction.

The Hotel Blue is officially a flea-bag hotel. On the bed and walls were giant winged bugs flitting about. I was tired and freaked out and had no real idea where I was. For the first time on this trip I actually broke down and started crying. What the hell was I doing in this mad, mad country? How could I fend for myself against hawkers, scammers, cabbies, malaria, and massive fleas?

But exhaustion overtook me. I cursed the bugs and wrapped myself tightly in my sleep sheet and slept all through the day and the following night.

The next day, I promptly checked out of Hotel Hellhole and hoofed it across Connaught Place to a funky-sounding place referenced in my Rough Guide's book on Delhi called Ringo's Guesthouse. The book touted the cheap hotel as a famous meeting place for backpackers from all over the world. Great, I thought. Travel companions.

This is where I learned the importance of having an updated guidebook. The one I had dated back to 2002. A lot can happen in six or seven years. Ringo's is officially over. The place was dead. Regardless, the rooms are cheap, so I decided to stay.

That second day in town, I took my first autorickshaw ride to India Gate and visited the National Museum, a rundown showcase of mostly Hindu artwork in the middle of a rundown city. Later I wandered around Connaught Place, the supposedly ultra-modern, metropolitan district in town, which is really just a giant, trafficky round-about. All day I spent ignoring people left and right saying, "Hello, Where you from? What is your name? You want tour to Agra? You want rickshaw?"

As I headed back to the guesthouse that evening, I was within meters of the place when someone behind me said, "Hello beautiful. You want a tour?"

I couldn't help but laugh. I felt insane. Enough. Stop trying to sell things to me. But the person who spoke to me, a young Kashmiri man seemed kind and spoke decent English. I kind of wanted someone to talk to.

His name is Rafiq, which in Kashmiri means "a kind friend" and he turned out to be a good and helpful guide over the next few days in Delhi. Yes, I had to sit through a pitch from his brother to hire a private car to go to Agra, Jaipur and the Pushkar Camel Festival, a deal which I turned down. But over the next few days, Rafiq showed me around the neighborhood and took me to Paharganj, a vibrant marketplace and hippie alcove near the new train station. He also took me for a ride in Delhi's new metro system which turns out to be the cleanest thing in the whole city.

One day I stopped at an Internet cafe to look up information about trains and travel around India and to catch up on e-mails. In a flustered state, I left the cafe forgetting my iPod behind, still plugged in to the computer I was using. I didn't realize what I had done until late that evening. Kicking myself for such a stupid, stupid forgetful thing to do, I wrote the iPod off as lost.

The next day, Rafiq met me for breakfast and I told him about losing the iPod. He said we would go inquire at the cafe to see if it was there. When we got to the place, Rafiq said a few strong words in Hindi. The cafe clerk shot me a look like "Stupid white girl" and retrieved my iPod and headphones from a locked cabinet.

I couldn't believe it. Rafiq laughed and lightly slapped me on the head. Things seemed a lot sunnier in Delhi, in spite of all the smog.

Fly Emirates

2008-11-02T13:21:00.010-05:00

Nov. 2, 2008

I received a big present the other day. Gulf Air overbooked my flight on Oct. 30 from Athens to Delhi so they asked me if I could be bumped to another airline and compensated with a free flight between Delhi and Kathmandu. Awesome! Who cares about a six hour layover in Dubai. Free flight to the Himalayas.

I was bumped from Gulf Air to fly Emirates Airlines to Delhi. Now I have never endorsed any product or company in the blog (or formally anywhere else for that matter, as far as I can remember), but I have to say Emirates is the best airline I've ever flown with. The flight attendants are super nice and smiley and wear funny hats with scarves (How Middle Eastern!), they serve food that is tasty, the captain is calm sounding and tells you about your flight, the seats are comfy, and you get your own T.V. with hundreds of movies and lots of different music to listen to.

It may just be that I've been on the road for two months and haven't been near a T.V. that spoke English in a while, but I was positively giddy to learn that I could turn to a channel that showed a live camera feed from under the wings of the plane, and then switch to another channel to watch Estelle and Kanye West's American Boy music video about fifty times in a row.

Oh, and they gave me free wine. And free snacks when I got to Dubai, which, by the way, has a really cool airport. My mom, who last year took a similar flight to India through Dubai, aptly likens the airport there to Mos Eisley Cantina, the bar in Star Wars. (I am not a nerd. I had to Wikipedia the name of that place.) The airport has rocket ships on the ceiling and palm trees along the people-movers and glittering lights everywhere. It's like a casino, mall, space station all rolled into one. I would've taken pictures of the place, but I didn't want to be mistaken for a terrorist.

I napped for several hours on the carpetted floor of the terminal under a line of chairs before boarding my second plane onward to Delhi. That flight was delightfully uneventful and I really have nothing more to say about that. I'm pretty sure I fell asleep humming pop songs.

Reflections on Europe, interrupted by ouzo

2008-10-28T23:22:00.003-04:00

Oct. 29, 2008

It is just after 5 a.m. now here in Athens and in a few hours after the sunrises I will board a plane to Bahrain and then on to Delhi. I was going to take some time this morning to write a final entry from Europe, to reflect on my first two months on the road and remember all the places I've been and people I've met.

But that's not going to happen anymore. I sit here now in the common room of the Aphrodite House Hostel traumatized by two Canadian girls who couldn't handle their liquor.

Some time in the night, a British bloke and an American or Canadian guy busted into the dorm room with one of these Canadian girls limp in their arms. She fell into the bottom bunk adjacent my top bunk as another girl offered slurred instructions on how to take care of her. Then the sounds of quiet gagging and whisper-yelling were accompanied by the perfume of ouzo.

"We need a bucket," stage shouted the Brit.

After a short while things settled down. The girl barfed quietly from time to time in the bucket. I covered my head in my sleep sheet and threw on my iPod and fell back to sleep.

Some time passed when suddenly a loud thud sounded against the dorm room door.

"Can someone open the bloody door?" real-shouted the Brit.

Into the room he and the other guy stumbled with the second Canadian between them. She was thrown/placed in the bed beneath me. She then proceeded to puke all over herself and the floor near my shoes.

Everyone was awake at this point. Some of the others in the room seemed worried. I was just plain grossed out. I have no sympathy for people who can't handle their liquor. And as much as this trip has opened my eyes to all the possibilities of this world, of different jobs I could pursue, I know I will never be a nurse.

The room was an effluvium of ouzo and vomit (how do you like that word of the day?). I had to get out of there.

Downstairs I retreated to the computers. The bartender, a thin, tall blond from Australia, leaned languidly against the reception desk counting her tips, puffing on a cigarette.

"My room is a shitshow," I said, jokingly but tinged with real resentment. "This is your doing, isn't it."

The girl gave me an I-didn't-do-it shrug and laughed through an apology. Bitch!

Ugh. So now I sit waiting for daybreak. So long Europe. Right now, I couldn't leave you soon enough.

Dead islands

2008-10-28T19:00:00.002-04:00

Oct. 28, 2008

I thought I had a lot to say about the Greek Islands being dead in October and resembling a post-apocalyptic world, but it's the night before I depart for India and my mind is on other things. So just look at the pictures of arid and empty Mykonos and me along with two other travellers shunning the cold and laughing into the wind.

Children and pigeons

2008-10-28T11:02:00.002-04:00

Oct. 28, 2008

A fellow traveller and I stumbled across this square on the Greek port island of Syros the other day. Children are my favorite subjects to photograph because their expressions are so honest. When you combine a camera with children and thousands of hungry pigeons, you get the opportunity to capture something magical.

Fixing the ruins

2008-10-28T08:58:00.003-04:00

Oct. 28, 2008

One of the disappointing things about Europe is the scaffolding on everything. The metal and wooden platforms creep up the sides of nearly every cathedral, holy site and ruin like a fungus that attacks healthy trees. Nowhere is it perhaps more apparent than at the Acropolis in Athens.

I went on a walking tour led by a funny, dorky but knowledgeable South Carolinian named Walter. He has spent the better part of the past four years in Athens trying to convince his would-be in-laws to allow him to marry their Greek daughter. Walter's been earning a living giving these walking tours of the sites, a tour so comprehensive you really don't need more than a day in Athens to see it all.

Visiting the Acropolis all covered in construction material was a let down. The Temple of Nike Athena, the goddess of victory, was completely covered. Walter told us it was once a grand temple with a statue of the goddess, her wings chopped off because the Ancient Greeks feared she would fly away from the city. It was hard to picture, beneath all the metal bars and construction zone tape.

The Parthenon itself was buzzing with workers buffing the marble clean.

The Greek government is undertaking a controversial project to fix the temples and ancient theaters at the Acropolis. Workers are digging up fallen columns to re erect in their historic sites. In places where the columns and other pieces of building are missing, the government is just bringing in newly cut marble to resemble the old.

We left the temples on high and descended to the Agora, the ancient market place that was the center of life in Ancient Greece. This I found even more depressing. I didn't take many photos there because there was nothing to take pictures of. There were pieces of cut columns strewn about an overgrown, lumpy yard. There were empty pedestals with writings about the grand statues that they once held. All the statues that actually remained were devoid of limbs and heads. The place reminded me of a neglected and abandoned cemetery.

Walter told us the Greeks are very proud of their ancient history, but still smart from the centuries of war and the decline of their once great civilization.

"Either the Persians destroyed it, the Turks dismantled it, or the British stole it," Walter said.

The reconstruction of the sites is an attempt to bring back the beauty of the old.

But aren't they called ruins for a reason?

Istanbul, dark and light

2008-10-27T18:49:00.005-04:00

Oct. 28, 2008

It was a long, hard journey to Istanbul and I arrived in a city that seemed steeped in melancholy. There was a hard edge to the sounds of the city and the streets amplified by a light but steady falling rain. The scowls of the kebap sellers and fruit vendors in the Beyoglu district mirrored my own blue mood.

During the night on the Dostluk/Filia Express from Thessaloniki, I was wrenched out of a dreamy sleep by the sound of banging on the sleeping compartment door.

"Passports, visas," yelled a Turkish border control officer. The young Greek woman in the bunk below me handed over her passport which the officer glanced at and then handed back. She sighed and turned over in bed and back into sleep. I, however, joined all the other Americans and Australians who were marched off the train and onto the tracks in the cold, pre-dawn hours. In pajamas and with sleep in all our eyes, about 20 of us shivered as we waited to pay for our visas into Turkey.

The next morning as the train rumbled through Istanbul's outer limits, through the slums built up against the ruins of a city that was once the center of the Ottoman empire, past herds of wild dogs roaming the streets, and tired buildings that looked abandoned but had laundry strung from the balconies, I was struck by what Turkish author Orhan Pamuk calls the huzun of the city. The word is Turkish for melancholy, but a vast melancholy felt by the individual but shared by an entire people.

Pamuk mentions one Turkish scholar, Burton, who in his 1,500 page tome Anatomy of Melancholy accepts it as a positive affliction, "one that paved the way to a happy solitude, because it strengthened his imaginative powers."

I can relate to Pamuk's observation. All my writing here and in my journal is done when I am alone, feeling usually somber and reflective about travelling from friendship to friendship.

"It didn't matter if melancholy was the result of solitude or the cause... solitude is the heart of melancholy," writes Pamuk. Then quoting Burton, he adds "All other pleasures are empty/none are as sweet as melancholy."

I tried to remember and embrace those ideas as I trudged through Beyoglu looking for a place to do laundry. Dirty clothes are definitely a negative affliction.

Don't ever go to Istanbul with dirty laundry. The Turkish people don't have laundromats anywhere. I asked at my hostel where I could get my clothes washed. The young man at reception pointed to an alley across the street that led to a second-hand clothing store. I walked in to the store bewildered to find that it was more like a dusty attic than a proper place of business. Clothes, shoes, costume jewelry was strewn everywhere without reason. Two cats licked each other sitting atop a pile of velvet dresses.

"Uh, I need to do laundry and I was directed here," I said to a hippie-ish looking young man.

"Oh, but it rains today. You can not wash your clothes," he said.

"Oh, but I really need to. Really really," I said.

"They will not dry. We have no dryer," he said. "We hang them on the rooftop to dry."

Exasperated but down to my last pair of clean underwear I said it didn't matter. I'd find my own way to dry them.

I paid the man 10 Turkish Lira and came back an hour later to collect my soggy clothes. Then making no friends in my hostel room, I hung my clothes from every available bar or door corner. Above my bottom bunk, I hung T-shirts and socks and my towel creating what resembled a child's fort around my bed. Listening to the rain and the splashing of cars through the puddles, I fell asleep within the cocoon of clothes awaking later to the sunset call to prayer.

The next day was a different story. It was sunny and bright and warm. I awoke in a better mood knowing I wouldn't be mired in my own solitude much longer. An Aussie friend, the one I visited in London, would be meeting me later that day.

Istanbul is a city of dichotomies. Built on two continents, its people and society are influenced by both. As much as Istanbul may be influenced by Europe and resemble in certain ways more western cities, it is tied to its Middle Eastern and Muslim history.

Everywhere little boys run around selling tissues, pleading with their dark eyes for a couple lira. The young people go out at night in Beyoglu sitting outside cafes and bars down the back alleys of the main streets clapping and singing along to the fiddle and flute-heavy Turkish pop music. Fruit vendors sell fresh, frothy pineapple and pomegranate juices. Cats and dogs laze about, asleep on sidewalks and ship decks, gnawing on fish heads or rummaging through trash cans. Despite the number of strays, the streets are kept clean of their droppings by the Istanbullus who discreetly pick up the waste of the homeless but beloved animals.

In the Egyptian bazaar close to the tourist attractions Topkapi Palace and the Blue Mosque, men sell fresh fish and spices and Turkish Delight. Shoe shiners hold their posts on nearly every random street in the city. Fishermen line the bridges and sell their fresh catches to cooks who fry up the fish and sell sandwiches for four lira along the docks of the Golden Horn.

The blue eye, or evil eye symbol is everywhere. Shopkeepers hang them above their doors and people wear necklaces warding off evil spirits and other general malevolence. When I was very young, a friend of mine who had lived for several of her earliest years in Turkey, had her childhood room filled with the evil eyes hanging from shelves. They used to scare me, especially at night. But now I find them beautiful and haunting and a reminder of that long ago friendship.

The Istanbullus in the markets work hard to make their living. Though there are hawkers among the crowds, most in the markets are good businessmen who will barter and haggle but won't over pressure you to buy anything. And they maintain a light-hearted sense of humor. Robbie and I were so struck by the professionalism of one particular spice seller, we returned the next day to buy tea and meat flavoring.

One of our days in the city, we took the ferry up the Bosphorus to mouth of the Black Sea. The boat docked at the foot of hill atop which stands the ruins of a citadel. As I stepped off the ferry, I realized that it was my first time walking on Asian soil.

Our first few nights, Rob and I struggled to find good cheap food. We asked the receptionist at the hostel for some suggestions and he accompanied us across the street to a small, local kitchen where he spoke a few Turkish words to the owner. I explained to a young man who spoke a little English that we wanted a big, hearty meal for 15 lira. He smiled and told the cook what I'd said.

We were served a brilliant, spicy meal of falafel, skewered meat, peppers and other vegetables and salads that we were never quite able to identify. They also gave us yogurt drinks to temper the fire of the food.

Later we found a cafe where we smoked apple-flavored nargila and sipped thick, delicious Turkish coffee.

There was a lot we didn't do in the city. We missed the Whirling Dervishes and didn't visit a hamam, or Turkish bath. But the city of darkness and light, of poverty and plenty, is a place to which I would like to return. I will remember the sadness and solitude I felt, but I'll also recall the old men sitting on stools and sipping their tea outside cafes, their smiles and their laughter.

An emotional journey east

2008-10-22T16:46:00.007-04:00

Oct. 22, 2008

It was a long journey east that finally brought me to Istanbul late last week. I left Florence feeling rather melancholy. Part of it had to do with the stress of planning my trip to Turkey from Florence, hundreds of miles away and separated by a country and two seas. But the main thing that started playing in my mind was that as the travel season in Europe winds down, a lot of people aren't heading elsewhere, onward, beyond... they are going home.

I bid farewell in Italy to my two Aussie mates, Nat and Naomi, who were heading to Rome and then back home following a short stop in Singapore. Right now, they are either wandering through an Asian market in search of wallets, souvenirs or Bags!, or unpacking and readjusting to life in Mt. Gambier.

On October 11th, I hopped on a quick but crowded train to Bologna where I connected to a sleeper train to Brindisi. The compartment, which I shared with five Italian women, was about as comfortable as sleeping in a vending machine.

At dawn, the train arrived in the port city. Brindisi will remain in my mind as the first place I ever brushed my teeth in a public restroom. Thankfully it was a clean one, and I didn't even have to pay to pee.

In the Let's Go Europe and Lonely Planet guidebooks, they say Brindisi is a place you don't want to linger. It's just a town where you're either coming or going through the port. But I liked the town on that early morning. It had a warm and tropical feel, reminiscent of Florida. Palm trees line the streets and all the buildings are salmon-colored. The waitress at the train station's cafe served me a strong cup of coffee and a croissant with hazelnuts and gave me a nice smile when I attempted some Italian to ask directions to the port.

"Just straight ahead. Follow the signs that say 'This way to Greece'" she said.

The Mediterranean breeze was rejuvenating. The ferry to Igoumenitsa was called the Ionian Sky. Most of the day on deck was filled with reading and listening to music and watching the wake of the boat. I fell asleep for a while lying against my backpack with the afternoon sun on my face. The watercolor sunset that evening uplifted me. But as soon as darkness fell, I sank again into a state of despondence and worry.

The ferry arrived in Greece around 9 p.m. My plan was to find another ferry to Corfu where I would spend two nights before continuing on to Turkey. Luckily, I met two Asian women on board also looking to get to the island that evening. The three of us teamed up to find a boat that would take us back to the island which we passed en route to the main land. During the summer, a ferry from Brindisi connects directly to Corfu everyday, but with fewer visitors, the route is only open every few days.

The three of us found a ferry, one of the last of the evening, and chugged back across part of the water we just sailed landing on Corfu around 11 p.m. I talked the women into splitting a cab with me to the Pink Palace, a famous hostel notorious for its ouzo circles and toga parties, among other extracurricular activities.

When we arrived, we were greeted by Nick, an Italian American guy with a questionable past, and Andy, a one time CPA from London turned DJ/bartender. They greeted us warmly giving us each a welcome shot of pink ouzo.

The Pink Palace provided some relief from my forward movement. During my one full day there, I joined a group of mostly Canadians for a boat cruise along the coast which included cliff diving and bat cave swimming and beach sitting. It also included ouzo. Lots and lots of anise seed-flavored firewater.

The Pink Palace was a lot of fun. Too much fun, maybe. I would've stayed longer, but I had to get to Turkey by the 16th. I didn't sleep the night before I left Corfu because of the booze cruise (or Ouzo Cruizo.. my term, copyright pending) and the subsequent hours of drinking on land. I spent most of the night ignoring a boy from Alberta who inexplicably had an Irish accent. Accountant-turned-barkeep Andy gave me lots of free pineapple vodkas and let me play with the music all night. By daybreak, he offered me a job as his assistant DJ in the high season. It may have just been a drunk offer, but then again you may just see me cutting this trip short so I can return to Greece next March.

That morning, I got a ride from the Palace to the bus station where I fell asleep at a table for several hours before boarding a bus and then a ferry and then another bus along the Albanian border to Thessaloniki. Though the drive was beautiful, through dramatic landscapes of mountains and cliffs and seashores, it was the longest f-ing bus ride of my life.

In Thessaloniki, nine hours later with sunset again approaching, I was frantic. I took a cab to the train station with the hopes of securing a bed on the Dostluk/Filia Express, formerly the Direct Orient Express, to Istanbul. In Greece and Turkey, they haven't yet uncovered the full possibilities of the Internet... or the telephone for that matter. The only way you can book a ferry, or train, or bus in these countries is by showing up at the port, or terminal or station. So I was relying on a cancellation or just some luck that I could still board this train, showing up 30 minutes before it was to leave. Thankfully, there was a free bed for me.

A pretty, red-headed Greek girl with whom I would be sharing the compartment, asked me where I was from. When I told her Connecticut, she seemed concerned.

"You are a long way from home," she said.

It was true. In that moment having covered so many miles over land and sea, I felt suddenly a million miles away. However, once the train started moving and I settled into my top bunk bed I was lulled into a dreamy sleep.

Moving around from place to place, sleeping under different roofs every few nights can make a person realize just how vulnerable she is. But getting in motion, watching the world blur by out the window of a bus, feeling the ground drop away as a plane takes off, or watching the whitewater of the wake of a boat can be exhilarating.

Knowing you will be waking up in your final destination before being rocked to sleep by the rhythm of a train is one of the best feelings in the world.

Running errands in the shadows of monuments

2008-10-21T10:36:00.004-04:00

Oct. 21, 2008

Sometimes when you start travelling too quickly from place to place you stop taking in the sights of a place and start running errands. Visiting the monuments, cathedrals and battlegrounds can become chores in and of themselves when in the back of your mind you know that you have to figure out how to get to the next place, keep all your belongings in order and decide where to stay.

Even eating becomes a hassle. Especially alone.

Eating out is expensive. Many people told me, you go to Italy to eat. Besides one pizza in Rome after visiting Vatican City, the only Italian food I ate was some crusty bread and Nutella.

Cooking is the cheapest way to eat on the road, but it's a pain to buy food and cook for one. Most of the places I've stayed, I've been lucky enough to meet people who will join up to cook a meal. But not always.

In several of the places I've visited in the past few weeks, I found that I spent more of my time running errands than enjoying myself. Finding cheap Internet can be difficult (hence the prolonged gaps in keeping this sucker updated). In Prague the errands began with laundry and catching up on the blog. In Florence, I decided I really needed a haircut and found a place in the basement of the train station where they did a damn good job for only €15.

Planning how I was going to get to Istanbul from Florence to meet up with a friend took days of Internet searching, reading, and futilely asking for help at travel agencies. When I booked my train from Florence to get to the port in Brindisi, I told the ticket agent that I needed to get to Greece and wanted to make use of my Eurail ticket.

"There is no way to get to Greece," said the woman. "It is impossible."

"Yes, I know, by train, there isn't a way, at least not through Italy, but by ferry I mean," I stammered. "I want to use my Eurail. I've been told it works on the ferries."

"No, there is no way to get to Greece," she said.

She was wrong of course. I knew she didn't understand what I was asking. But still her words echoed in my head.

I made it though, to Turkey, with a brief stopover in Corfu. I'll tell more about all that soon. But let me tell you one thing. Never attempt to do laundry in Istanbul. Especially when it's raining.

Pisa, Siena, Florence

2008-10-15T17:14:00.003-04:00

Oct. 15, 2008

After spendıng a day ın Venıce, I hopped a traın rıde to Florence to meet up wıth two gırls who I'd met a week earlıer ın Swıtzerland. Naomı and Natalıe of Mountgambıer, Australıa have been travellıng through Europe for the past three months. We booked a hostel together ın a place that ended up to be more lıke a flat wıth rooms to rent. Our fırst nıght there, an Arab guy clogged up the shower and accıdentally flooded the place. My room was spared, but the gırls bags and clothes were soaked after the water seeped from one end of the apartment ınto theır room.

Wıth all the extra towels soaked, the Arab asked bewıldered, "Do you thınk openıng the wındows mıght help?"

The next few days, we three gırls wandered the cıty spendıng much of our tıme at the bıg outdoor market near the Duomo. Nearıng the end of theır trıp, the gırls are stockıng up on presents for theır famılıes back home. Wıth several more months of travel ahead of me (and much cheaper shoppıng optıons approachıng ın Indıa and Nepal) I refraıned from buyıng much.

We also dıd the normal tourıst stuff you do when you head to central Italy, vısıt The Davıd (He's huge... and hot), walk around the cıty, make daytrıps to Pısa and Sıena, and get talked ınto dancıng wıth Italıan men.

I bıd the gırls farewell on Saturday boardıng a traın to Bologna and then on to Brındısı where I would catch a ferry to Igoumenıtsa and then another ferry to Corfu. Twenty-four hours of travel, but the beaches and some free shots of Ouzo were callıng my name.

Paying to pee

2008-10-11T10:53:00.002-04:00

Oct. 11, 2008

All over Europe there are places that charge you to use the bathroom. At nearly every train station, you have to drop €.80, or 100 Crowns, or a half Franc into a machine to get through the turn style to use the facilties. It reminds me of that awful Broadway musical Urinetown that I saw with my A.P. English class in high school.

Not to be vulgar or anything, but when I have to pay to pee, I want to make the most of my visit. I take my time in there revelling in this service I've paid for. And then I wash my hands at least twice and use as many paper towels as I can grab.

What pisses me off is water closets, or loos, or toilettes that you pay to use that are filthy, or that have broken toilets, or that are squatters. Yes, I've visited a squat toilet already, in France! I wasn't expecting to hit one until India. In these times of economic crisis, I want my every pence to be spent in a worthwhile fashion. Some soap in the dispenser would be nice.

Venezia

2008-10-11T10:29:00.004-04:00

Oct. 11, 2008

I left Prague just as I was starting to fall in love with the city. The Internet cafe/sex shops, the world weary men and women sucking on their cigarettes, the swans preening beside the river, everything in that dark, Gothic city started working its charm. But Italy was calling. I needed to get south, follow the sun.

I took an overnight train from the Czech Republic and woke up in Venice on Oct. 7. I spent the day walking down the twisting alleyways and over countless bridges straddling the canals. The only map I had was in an art book that had only monuments and places of interest marked with no street names. I doubt street names would've helped. Venice is an intricate series of narrow walking streets along the waterways. Most of the morning I just followed signs that said Per Rialto, Per San Marco trying to find Saint Mark's Square.

Every second shop sells Carnival masks or Pinnochio wooden puppets. Laundry hangs from clothes lines over the milky, blue canals. What struck me most about Venice were the sounds of the city. Because there are no cars, trucks or buses, you hear more clearly the sounds of everyday life, of silverware clinking in restaurant kitchens, of Italian voices, of children laughing.

It's a beautiful place, and I'd like to go back again someday, with a companion and more money.

Praha

2008-10-06T06:09:00.001-04:00

Oct. 7, 2008

Munich to Prague, tail between my legs

2008-10-05T15:37:00.006-04:00

Oct. 6, 2008

Two days at Oktoberfest was plenty. I am somewhat ashamed to admit I learned nothing about Munich except how much zee Germans love zere beer.

I left town on Friday by train to Prague. The Czech Republic just seemed like a nice place to see next. It's really in the opposite direction that I need to be heading. I have a Eurail that covers Italy and Greece and eleven days from now, I'm supposed to meet a friend in Istanbul. So what am I doing heading north? I need a geography lesson, or at least a map of Europe.

I wrote off my first evening in Prague to recover from all the steins of beer and the pretzels and the sausage. Ugh. Heartburn. Actually that's been plaguing me since Rome. All the pizza and 3 Euro wine didn't help much in Italy, nor did the 3 Franc wine (that's $3 U.S.!) in Interlaken.

After an early night's sleep, I spent my first morning in search of a laundromat. All my clothes reeked of beer and cigarettes. When entering a new city, the best thing in the world is to feel clean and have a fresh set of clothes.

Whoever was in charge of Prague's city planning must have had an identity crisis or something because all the streets end at odd angles and pick up new names every other block or just end at a giant Gothic tower. Despite directions and a map, much of Saturday morning I spent tromping past the crystal shops over the cobblestones with a bag of my dirty laundry on my back.

The laundromat turned out to be inside a mall. Don't people go to malls to buy new clothes?

So wash done, 1,000 Crown in my pocket (about $55), I set off to explore the city with a French engineering student named Thibaut. We took a free tour of the city which taught me nothing about Prague except that it is famous for its glass and its Pilsner beer, there are giant statues of babies climbing up the giant TV tower at the edge of town, and it's quite cold in October.

I met yet another Australian and two Canucks on the walk. Following the tour, the five of us agreed to really dive into Czech culture and go find a warm bar somewhere. Not to bring up stereotypes or anything, but guess what the Canadians wanted to do. Watch hockey.

The NY Rangers were playing their opening NHL game against Tampa Bay in Prague of all places. So we had to find a local place to watch the local game.

After the Rangers' victory, we tromped along the winding streets to a bar called U Sudu, recommended to me by a friend from home who studied here (Thanks Travis!).

The place was wild. When we walked in, I thought we were in the wrong spot. It looked like a tiny local dive on street level. But in the back of the front room was a set of stairs that led down into a series of caverns, each room with different music and a different atmosphere.

I prodded the others to all order shots of absinthe with me. When our drinks arrived, none of had any idea how to take the shot. We each got a box of matches and a spoon and some sugar.

"You have to light the sugar on fire and drop it into the shot," suggested the Canadian guy. But the sugar wouldn't catch or melt or whatever it was supposed to do. So we all resigned to mixing the sugar in and just knocking back the glass.

Fire water. Whiz bang. That definitely did not help my heartburn.

After the shot, the Canadian girl got the hiccups and pulled the waitress over to ask if there was really wormwood in the drink.

"Are we going to start hallucinating?" she asked, glassy-eyed. The Aussie started play-slapping our faces to see if we had "drunk face." That was enough for me. I just wanted bed.

The next day, I skipped a chance to meet up with the others to check out some museums. Instead I took some time catching up on my blog and figuring out my next steps in the trip. I'm sort of happily lonesome. A break was needed from the intense two day friendships.

After running my own errands, the plan was to walk around much of the old part of the city and maybe check out some museums. Instead I wandered into a mall. The warmth and glow lured me in.

Later I wandered to another warm and glowing place: the Museum of Sex (Thanks to Karen Terry for that suggestion!). The place mostly scared me. There were lots of extremely painful looking devices on display. I admit though that I did enjoy watching a 1920s silent Spanish film that featured fleshy, older prostitutes "mingling" with members of the ruling class to jaunty piano music. The film was shot upon personal order of King Alphons XIII (we should call him King XXX). According to film historians, the king and his subjects indulged in these "pastimes on joyous rainy evenings."

Today I leave Prague. I'm pretty tired and kind of sick and need to head to a warmer climate. Everyone in this country seems to have a runny nose.

Tonight I take a 15 hour train ride south and will wake up in Venice. Then later in the afternoon, I take another train to Florence where I'll meet up with two Australians Natalie and Naomi whom I met in Interlaken.

I have a few hours now to kill in Prague. Perhaps I'll go to a real museum. I like the city more than I did before, knowing that I'll be leaving it behind in a few hours.

See you in Italy.

Oktoberfest

2008-10-05T09:43:00.007-04:00

Oct. 6, 2008

What can I say about Oktoberfest? Ummmm. I'll just let the pictures speak for themselves. All I know is most of the photos I found on my camera the next day are of me, meaning I drunkenly passed my camera around the Hofbrau Tent and posed for hours. "Look how much fun I'm having!" What an idiot. It was fun though. At least it looks like it was. I don't remember most of the people I'm hanging onto.

Prost!

Wonderful Interlaken

2008-10-05T07:55:00.005-04:00

Oct. 5, 2008

I never thought I would repeat the overused, tired Will Ferrell, Christopher Walkin Saturday Night Live joke, but one visit to Switzerland has convinced me that the world really could use more cowbell.

I arrived in Interlaken on Sept. 25th or 26th, I can't remember now. Several days and nights bled into one in the quest to get to the mountains. After three uncomfortable train rides following an all-night romp through Rome, I, along with Americans Ian and Justin and Aussie Luke, arrived at the foothills of the Alps.

The town of Interlaken is located in the heart of the Alps situated between the Lakes of Thun and Brienz and at the foot the Eiger, the Mönch and the Jungfrau peaks. The lakes are an icy, green-blue color and look fresher than any water I've ever seen. The town is known for its adventure sports and many backpackers on tight budgets blow apart their wallets to go canyoning, sky diving, rafting, or participate in other high adreniline sports. The sky over the town is filled with paragliders drifting down from the peaks.

As I have to live off two years of savings for the next eight months, I shied away from the more expensive activities. Instead, the boys and I headed into the forest one day to do a high ropes course.

It was a little frightening how little training we received to do the courses which took us into trees at heights upwards of 50 feet. A Canadian girl gave us a five minute lesson in how to attach and reattach our click clacking carabeaners as we made our way from obstacle to obstacle.

"Don't remove both your carabeaners at once," she warned me as I dangled a dangerous four feet above the ground on the training course. But that little warning was it and we were off.

"Have fun," she said.

And we did.

The four of us spent seven hours hanging out in the trees, climbing and swinging and ziplining through the canopy. It was a playground high above the rocky forest floor. The jangle of bells from the cows grazing in a nearby field was occasionally drowned out by a "Wahhhooo" or "Weeeeeeee" as we flew through the trees.

After conquering our fear of heights, several of us spent the next few days hiking through the mountains. I would say goodbye first to Luke, who was returning to Melbourne, and then to the American boys who were heading to Nice and then Cinque Terra. I made new friends though in Intelaken, all Australians. They really are everywhere in the world those Ozzies. One wonders how the country keeps functioning when most of their population seems to be away from home.

I went on a seven hour hike one day with Matt from Melbourne, and Butch from Perth. We took a train up to Lauterbrunnen, village of waterfalls, and then hiked all day. We played categories and 20 questions for most of the hike. I think the high altitude had some effect on our minds because Butch stumped us with "iron" as a thing. How boring and obvious is iron?

On the walk down from the peaks, a kindly old Swiss woman gave us each an apple she picked right from the tree.

I left Interlaken sooner than I probably should have. Our hostel, Balmers, is the best at which I have yet stayed and all the people I met were all fun and down-to-earth. I plan to meet two girls Natalie and Naomi in Florence in a few days. I didn't want to say goodbye to everyone, but I really just couldn't pass up a free ride to Oktoberfest.

Roma

2008-10-03T15:53:00.003-04:00

Oct. 3, 2008

I've come across some interesting characters on this trip around Europe. In Rome in particular, I hung out with several cool but kind of weirdo guys. On my first night in town, I joined three Americans, Ian, Justin and Rome (of all names), and an Australian named Luke, on a stroll/bar crawl around the city. I stopped to take a photo of the building nicknamed the Birthday Cake when all four guys started dancing and harmonizing to the Backstreet Boys. It was both fabulous and frightening. I had befriended a boy band.

Rome (short for Jerome) told me he is polyamorous, whatever the hell that means. "Maybe you're not secure enough for that type of relationship," he said.

I said, ewww, that's gross, dude. The other guys agreed.

I spent the next day with Luke, Ian and Justin at Vatican City. I had no idea how big art hawkers the popes all were. As I said before, all of the Renaissance paintings feature mostly naked, muscly figures. You'd think they'd make the pope blush.

Ian and Justin, who are traveling together, convinced Luke and myself to stay up all night, see the sights of Rome and then catch an early train to Switzerland. It seemed like a brilliant idea. Spanish Steps, Trevi Fountain, Coliseum all by night were amazing. Getting on three different trains starting at 6:30 a.m. after staying up all night was not so much.

Whirlwind through Europe

2008-10-01T17:34:00.003-04:00

Oct. 1, 2008

OK. Wow. I need to take a second to catch up. In the past seven days I have gone from London to Rome to Interlacken, Switzerland to Munich where I now write from a crowded hostel filled with drunken Oktoberfest kiddies. I have lots to say about all the places I´ve seen in the past week, but the constant forward movement and the thrill of meeting new people and seeing new places has kept me from my writing responsibilities. I apologize to you, my loyal readers (hi Mom and Dad!). But I´m also disappointed myself because keeping this up has allowed me to process everything I´ve seen and done.

Wow, traveling is awesome. But none of you wants to read about me bragging. Just to get on top of things, I´ll give a brief recap of the past week with photos and perhaps more elaboration to follow in the coming days.

London: The trip was more a chance to hang out in a comfortable place with a friend then go sightseeing and do the tourist thing. Did see all the sights but also spent lots of time playing Uno and drinking beer on a couch. It was hard to leave something that felt very close to home. But I guess the main point of travel is to get away from what is comfortable and familiar.

Rome: I came, I saw, I conquered in two days. Lots of beautiful old things to see. The thing which struck me most about all the artwork at the Vatican and within the Sistine Chapel is that all the Renaissance artists loved painting huge, bulbous muscles on every human figure. Men, women, babies, everyone. They were all fleshy, beer-bellied, bohemoths back in the day. Visited the Colleseum, Spasnish Steps and Trevoli Fountain all at night. Had tons of fun with two Americans and an Aussie I met walking the streets singing That´s amore. But Rome doesn't have much of a nightlife at all.

Interlacken: The two American guys I met in Rome talked me and a guy from Melbourne into ditching Italy and heading to the Swiss Alps. Such a good decision. Ended up spending more time in Interlacken then the guys who told me to go there. The water from the mountains is so fresh you can drink out of puddles. Interlacken, a small town between two lakes in the Jungfrau Mountains is known for its outdoor sports. People spend heeps to go bungee jumping, canyoning, sky diving, and partake in all sorts of other high adreniline activities. Met a guy from California who was "so stoked" to be hanging out in the "Swiss-fucking-Alps". I skipped all the expensive stuff and did my own adventuring with two Aussies yesterday. We took a train to Lauterbrunnen, a small town in the hills known for its waterfalls, and then embarked on a seven hour hike. Saw mountain goats, mountain cows and mountain children. Also saw some pretty spectacular mountains. Would´ve stayed longer in Switzerland but couldn´t pass up a free ride today to Munich and Oktoberfest. Totally rad!

Oktoberfest, night one: Went to Haufbrauhouse. Drank a liter of beer. Started too late to enter the tents. Still sore from seven hour hike through the mountains. But starting bright and early tomorrow. Should be a good day. Will write more when the hangover fades.

Londtontown

2008-09-29T06:35:00.002-04:00

Sept. 29, 2008

This photo album includes shots of many of London's tradiational tourists stops, including some photos from inside the British Museum where my favorite things to see were all the mummies. Did you know the Egyptians mummified their pets including goldfish? So weird.

Exactly the same but with a different accent

2008-09-29T06:03:00.004-04:00

Sept. 29, 2008

One of the things about travelling is you come to realize that people everywhere are really the same. Yes we have different languages, different religious beliefs, different customs, but when it comes down to it, we are all more alike than we realize.

Back in Strasbourg at the film festival I attended, New York filmmaker Ari Taub made that exact point about the common bonds of people in his feature film Last Letters from Monte Rosa. The film about the Italian and Nazi perspective of battles in World War II portrayed the soldiers not as the monsters we learned about in American History class. They are just men struggling with the situation they are thrown into, yearning get home alive to be with their family and friends.

In London, I stayed at a household full of Australians. We spent one night just hanging out, drinking beers and playing Uno which the Australians pronounce "you know." The Aussies were all talking about the then upcoming Grand Final for the AFL (Australian Football League). The underdog Hawthorn Hawks would be taking on the Geelong Cats, last year's Grand Final victor. The Aussies I was with are all rabid Hawthorn fans. The team hadn't won a Grand Final in 17 years.

"If they win on Saturday I will actually cry," my friend Rob told me.

I sat back for a second sinking into my own thoughts. A sudden deja vu struck me about the situation, an unexpected comfort in this house in a foreign land. Just a month earlier I had been hanging out in a living room in Stamford, Connecticut with some friends drinking beers and listening to conversations about the New York Giants. I realized then it was the same exact situation as back home. Just a different game with a different accent.

Update: Hawthorn won. I wish I had been with my Aussie friends to see that.

The long road to London

2008-09-24T06:17:00.005-04:00

Sept. 24, 2008

I don't know with the election and the banking crisis going on in the States if any of you there even heard that there was a big fire in the Channel Tunnel on Sept. 11. No one was killed by the fire, the cause of which has yet to be determined, but the incident has limited the amount of traffic in between France and England.

It also threw a big wrench into my plans to head to London.

Bus tickets doubled in price overnight. With limited access to the tunnel, the companies now have to ferry all the buses over the English Channel. The bus lines, trains and boats have all run into major snags and delay issues because of the need to reroute and rethink travel. This turned my six hour bus ride into a ten hour nightmare.

The worst was when I asked a clerk at the duty-free shop on the ferry how long the drive from Dover to London would take. She guessed an hour. In reality, with all the weekenders returning from the coast, it turned into a three hour, stop-and-go torture session that left me clawing at the windows. My iPod had long since died, I'd read The Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing cover to cover, and I just wanted to get the hell off that bus.

When we finally arrived, my friend Rob who who had been waiting for me at the station for two hours found me in a zombie state. I had trouble forming full sentences or expressing rational thought. But after a stiff few drinks and a good night's sleep all felt better again in the world. London's been fun (photos to follow), but I'm off again tomorrow, this time to Rome.

Enough with buses and trains for a little while. I'm flying to Italy.

Paris part deux: Different fireworks

2008-09-24T05:22:00.010-04:00

Sept. 24, 2008

Completing a near perfect loop around France, I returned to Paris last Friday. When planning this trip back in Connecticut weeks ago, I hadn't intended to stay in France as long as I did. The dream was to follow the sun to the warmer climes of Croatia, Italy, Greece. But one little thing held me up: My passport was stuck at the Indian Embassy in Paris for two weeks to secure a tourist visa.

Paris had been such fun the first time around, I didn't mind what I expected to be a glorious return. It also afforded the opportunity to make a trip up to London to visit a new friend who I'd met weeks earlier while in the City of Love.

Paris felt different the second time around, however. I spoke with my Aussie friend Rob and asked him what I should do there without him.

"You'll be fine," he said. "Go find yourself a drinking buddy."

That seemed like a fine plan to me. The problem was it was difficult to meet people at the hostel where I was staying. The place lacked a common room where travellers tend to congregate and make friendships for a day. The only person I ended up meeting was a girl from the States who happened to be my bunk mate.

One of the interesting things I've learned from travelling is how intense these little temporary friendships can be. Within five minutes of talking, my roommate confessed that she is in Alcoholics Anonymous.

"It's so strange I'm telling you this," she said. "Some of my friends that I've had for years at home don't even know that."

My new non-drinking buddy and I decided to set out to walk the city together. We found a giant flea market ("Marche aux Puces") and wandered through Montmartre and ended up at a Salvador Dali museum. Later that Saturday evening, I met my new friend after an AA meeting, and we headed to a strange and spectacular fireworks show that combined pyrotechnics with Circ de Soleil-style dance and movement.

This time in Paris was a very different experience from the one I'd had several weeks earlier. Though it lacked the same romance and excitement of discovery that I had found earlier, the city still had it's fireworks.

Notes from the Strasbourg Film Festival

2008-09-22T08:05:00.004-04:00

Sept. 22, 2008

The Strasbourg Film Festival which ran from Sept. 12 to 21, was meant to be a showcase of "creative, edgy, out-of-the-box and maverick filmmakers of all genres including experimental and avant-gard as well as more traditional dramas, thrillers, romantic comedies, daring documentaries and wild ride animation," according to the festival Web site.

Unfortunately, the general consensus of most of the filmmakers to whom I talked was that the whole affair was pretty poorly organized. I was in town to hawk my mom's short documentary Dinosaurs and Rocketships (See earlier post). However, despite my efforts, only a handful of people showed up for its international debut.

There was practically no advertising for the festival. None of the locals I talked to even knew there was a film festival going on in their city. And there was no information pamphlet or schedule of events printed up. To find out what was going on, you had to practically stumble by chance into one of the venues when a film was showing.

Despite all that, I did see some pretty wild films and made some good new friends. Among my favorite films were two shorts by Canadian filmmakers, one called Tumbling After by Bryan Skinner, a mockumentary about a misfit burlesque troop, and the other called Birthday Girl by Erin Laing, a dark comedy about a 12-year-old girl who plans her own funeral for her birthday party.

I also watched a feature film called Last Letters from Monte Rosa. The World War II movie by American filmmaker Ari Taub told a story of battle from the perspective of soldiers in a Nazi defense unit who are joined by Italian reinforcements. The film was interesting in offering a view of the war from the side of the enemies. Mr. Taub said the picture was supposed to show the humanity of the soldiers and their hopes and fears which are universal for nearly all men. Needless to say, Mr. Taub who is half-Jewish, said he received some flack from the Jewish community in his hometown of New York.

The dialogue was entirely in German and Italian and translated with French subtitles, so watching the film was an interesting experiment for me. But my comprehension of French has improved so much over the past few weeks, and the subtitles were simple enough that I pretty much got it.

After the film premier, Erin Laing, Bryan Skinner, Ari Taub and some of his actors and his producer went out to dinner with some of the festival organizers. One of the actors, an Italian American named Carmine Raspaolo, mistook me for one of the film fest organizers and asked why my English was so good.

"Because I'm from Connecticut, baby," I said.

"Oh man, I live in Long Island," he said. "We're neighbors."

Mr. Raspaolo is recognizable from tri-state area television commercials and from a recurring part on season one of The Sopranos. I find it kind of weird that I'm meeting so many actors on this trip.

I spent another night in Strasbourg before hopping on an early train back to Paris last Friday. I had fun in the city, but it was too cold and too small for me. Though pretty with lots of medieval and Swiss-German influenced architecture, Strasbourg center reminds me of a big, expensive outdoor mall. Every street is lined with dozens of clothing and shoe shops and beauty parlors.

And there are teenagers everywhere. Inexplicably. They just hang out in their hipster clothes, talking and laughing loudly, not sullen so much as too cool for school. I felt like I was in high school again and unable to find a table to sit at in the cafeteria. Screw that.

A kind stranger

2008-09-20T10:07:00.013-04:00

Sept. 22, 2008

I arrived in Strasbourg near 10:30 p.m. last Tuesday and the first thing I noticed about the city was the cold. It was a shock from the warm sun and gentle breezes that I left behind in the south of France.

I was coming to the Alsacian city to attend the Strasbourg Film Festival in which my mom had a short documentary entered. (See post below and watch a 30 second preview of her film Dinosaurs and Rocketships).

When I got off the train, I was in a bit of a panic. It was night and I didn't have my bearings in this new strange city. There were no cabs at the train station and I couldn't figure out how to get the ticket machine for the tram to work. So I did what I was told to do in one of those inspirational travel books I read before embarking on my trip: I asked help from a nice and safe-looking woman.

"Parlez-vous Anglais?" I asked a woman who looked like a librarian.

"Only a little," she said warily. After eying my pack and listening to my horrible Franglish explanation of the situation, she let her guard down and decided to help me. She explained I needed coins for the tram machine but I had only bills. I watched her consider the situation for a second before she smiled and gave me her last tram ticket. She then boarded the tram with me and told me she would take me to my hotel.

I was bowled over by her generosity. I could tell she was going home from a long day and probably had a long ride ahead of her. From inside the tram, the city looked pretty safe and well-lit and I saw people around everywhere. I told the woman it wouldn't be necessary for her to escort me as long as she could point me in the right direction. But she insisted and walked me right up to the front door of my hotel.

I scribbled my name and e-mail address on a piece of paper and told her to come to my mom's film screening. The woman smiled and took the paper, but I haven't heard from her yet and she never came to the show. But it again was yet another act of kindness I have found from strangers on the road.

Dinosaurs and Rocketships

2008-09-19T10:38:00.007-04:00

Sept. 22, 2008

After two weeks in the warm and slow-paced south of France, I took a train last Tuesday from Aix-en-Provence to the Alsace city of Strasbourg. The visit wouldn't just be a tourist stop for me however. I was there on business matters.

My mom, Liz Fulton, had a short documentary accepted into the Strasbourg Film Festival, and I would be attending the event as her rep. A longtime television journalist who now does freelance editing and producing for the news segments for NBC and CBS's morning show programs, my mom had created the documentary with her colleague and friend Bruce Stanberry of Hastings on Hudson, N.Y. The 17-minute documentary called Dinosaurs and Rocketships is about a wacky artist from Woodstock, N.Y. It offers a glimpse into the life of Steve Heller, a 60-something year old eccentric who creates life-size dinosaur sculptures out of scrap metal and rocketships out of valuable old car parts. He is essentially a Peter Pan figure, someone who never outgrew his love for tinkering and toys.

The film was a pet project for my mom and Bruce who shot the piece over the course of a few days and edited the piece over several weeks.

"It's a little film with a big heart," my mom has said.

The documentary was one of 155 accepted out of about 750 entries for the festival. It has also shown at the Simon's Rock Festival and will be shown at the Woodstock Film Fest in October.

What Kris misses

2008-09-18T06:21:00.004-04:00

Sept. 18, 2008

Kris, my old buddy and one time eighth grade boyfriend from Redding, Conn., has been living in Europe since he graduated college. Originally from France, he is tri-lingual speaking his mother tongue in addition to English and Spanish. He's also working on his Dutch.

Kris lived for a while in Amsterdam before moving to Bilbao, Spain where he presently resides.

One day during our brief travel time together I asked him what he misses most about the States. He answered quickly.

"My family. I miss my mom and dad and sisters."

OK, I said. That answer was too obvious. I wanted to know what he missed culturally, the day-to-day kind of stuff.

He thought for a while, a long while actually, before brightening with an answer.

"Mexican food," he said.

Une brève leçon de vocabulaire

2008-09-18T06:09:00.003-04:00

Sept. 18, 2008

Here's a fun little vocab lesson to freshen up your French:

puce - flea
poux - lice
pousse - push
pouce - thumb
poutre - beam
pute - prostitute

I especially like the last one. The more you spit on the P, the better your pronunciation.

Rocamadour

2008-09-18T04:05:00.010-04:00

Sept. 18, 2008

Last week, my friend Kris took me to visit Rocamadour, a tiny town built into the side of a canyon wall above a tributary of the River Dordogne. The town was founded in honor of Saint Amadour whose body was discovered there in the 13th century fully intact resting in a rocky alcove. The place is a tourist attraction for the French and has long been a pilgrimage site for religious figures, noblemen and kings, though it seems off-the-beaten path for many other visitors to the country.

The place is also known for its award-winning goat cheese. I happen to think the stuff smells and tastes of petting zoo.

But the town is beautiful in its own right. Kris took me to meet the mother of his cousin's girlfriend who lives in the town. She is an artist who runs a shop and sells stain glass artwork and jewelry.

Later, we went to canyon's edge and watched a demonstration involving eagles and condors and other big and beastly birds. It was probably one of the coolest and weirdest things I have ever experienced.

From out of the air dove birds with eight-foot wing spans. Falcons swooped in plucking fish from a puddle. A parade of parrots and parakeets lit up the sky in a rainbow of color. Then they brought in falcons to come sit atop our heads. Why? I don't really know, those crazy Frenchies. I just clenched my teeth and hoped the pretty bird digging its talons into my skull wouldn't poop on me.

Sick on the road

2008-09-18T04:05:00.004-04:00

Sept. 18, 2008

They say a traveller's greatest fear is an empty bank account. I would add that a traveller's second biggest fear is getting sick in a strange land.

Shortly after arriving at my relatives' house in Sos, I began to get a scratchy throat. I kind of passed it off as the result of too much fun in Paris. My sore throat didn't keep me from eating or drinking the wine and Armagnac local to that region. I didn't have a fever or any other maladies.

When after a few days the sore throat persisted, my cousin Toby took me to the local pharmacy and got me this awful, minty throat spray. I took that and popped a few aspirin and felt fine.

Late last week, Kris Caren, an old friend from Connecticut, picked me up from my family's house. He was doing a trip from Bilbao, Spain, where he works, to the tiny town of Cotignac where his family lives, near Aix-en-Province, and asked me to come along for the trip and meet his family. I told him I was in.

We drove first to central France to a region called Le Lot to meet up with his cousin who lives now with his girlfriend and infant daughter. They were nice people and gracious hosts, though I spent much of the time just trying to decipher what they were saying in French. It was a good lesson in immersion but I kind of felt a little lonely not really being able to participate in the conversations. And my mood began to darken as each day in the cold, damp countryside the pain in my throat started to sharpen.

Last Saturday, I woke up with my right ear ringing and my throat on fire. The worst effect of the pain was probably on my mental well being. I suddenly wanted my mom and my cat and my bed. But Kris, who is from my hometown Redding, turned out to be my savior.

As it was the weekend, most doctor's offices were closed. Kris got on the phone and organized for a doctor to come in and meet me for an emergency visit. He then explained to that I had mal à la gorge. The doctor worked quickly taking my blood pressure and heart beat then digging his fingers into my neck to feel my glands.

"Angine," he pronounced. Strep throat.

The doctor wrote up a prescription for Amoxicillan and some heavy duty aspirin and sent me on my way. But even before taking the anti-biotics, I felt better. It was invaluable having someone with me who could speak the language and who took charge of the situation. Though Kris is a good friend, I found the situation to be yet another act of human kindness that I have found everywhere on the road through France.

Fun facts about France

2008-09-17T07:05:00.003-04:00

Sept. 16, 2008

I have been without access to the Internet for almost a week and it has been killing me because I have so much to share. To start I offer a few fun facts about France:

Driving through the southern countryside, one frequently happens upon straight stretches of road with perfect rows of trees lining each side. These trees were not just planted for their aesthetic appeal. According to my learned 17-year-old cousin Guy, the trees were planted by Napoleon so his soldiers could march in the shade. Thoughtful guy, that Napoleon.

Now, however, the French government has outlawed the continued planting of these trees and has even ordered many of the trees chopped down. The reason is to prevent motorists with epilepsy from having seizures as they drive through the dappled shade.

Another fun fact comes from several fellow travellers in Paris. They say traditionally the French work 35 hours or less per week. Up until recent changes were enforced by President Nicolas Sarkozy, it was illegal for employers to ask their employees to work more than 35 hours per week.

Also, workers get two hour lunch breaks and the entire month of August off. People here live at a more leisurely pace. Each of their meals is a celebration of the food and company.

Three weeks into this trip, I have yet to find a café where I can order a coffee-to-go.

Jenny's jugs

2008-09-11T05:50:00.002-04:00

For the past several days I have been staying with family in the southwest of France deep in the country about halfway between Bordeaux and Toulouse. These family members, who I had never met before being picked up at the train station, are situated on a very distant branch of the family tree.

We share a great-granddad. Or actually that's not right. Graham, the father of the family here, is my maternal grandmother's first cousin. My great-granddad was his grandfather. Graham is my mother's age, and his cousin, my grandma, is 91. Graham's kids, Flossie, Ned, Guy and Toby are all a little younger than I am, but they are a step up in terms of generations. So I am actually the baby of the family, I have learned.

Though we are practically strangers, far genetically removed from each other, I have been warmly welcomed in this household. The family lives in a lovely old converted farmhouse surrounded by fields and forest. No other houses are anywhere in sight.

The house itself is a happy clutter. Since the family moved in here about a decade ago, they have started a series of building projects that never seemed to be finished. There are unpainted walls and unfinished rooms. But the house is lived in and full of life and light.

The heart of the household is the kitchen. Fresh tomatoes from the garden sit in a bowl on the table. Three old dogs lie on the floor next to overflowing laundry baskets. The kitchen smells of warm food, of mussels and garlic, or roasting duck, or whatever other delicious meal Jenny, the mother of the family, is preparing.

The thing that stands out most vividly in the kitchen is Jenny's choice of decor. From the ceiling hangs dozens of yellow jugs. The cabinet is also filled with them, and so are several pieces of furniture in the other rooms. Jenny loves her yellow jugs. (I asked the boys Toby and Guy if it would be too forward of me to tell their mother that I too liked her jugs).

Jenny, this little, blonde Scot with her eccentric taste, is so funny. When I asked her, jokingly/obviously if yellow was her favorite color, she said "Oh God, I can't stand it anymore."

"My favorite color is gray."

In the countryside of sullen sunflowers

2008-09-10T07:19:00.003-04:00

It has been several days since I left Paris on a speeding train to the southwestern countryside of France. I arrived in Agen on Saturday and was greeted at the station by my very distant Scottish cousin who I'd never met before. We drove through golden fields of vines and maize onward to his tiny village called Sos.

Like nearly all little fiefdoms in France, you first see the church steeple as you approach. Then you enter the square and drive pass the patisserie and the boulangerie and the little old women gossiping in the shade. The house where my distant relatives live is just outside the village proper, through a forest of trees which grow in neat straight lines and above fields which have only just been planted.

Anyone who has ever seen the film or read the novel Chocolat will know the type of place where I am. All the villagers are familiar with nearly every aspect of one another's lives and exchange lengthy greetings in the grocery store or at the post office. The sun shines brightly down here, away from the cold and rain of the north country.

What has struck me most in this pleasant area are the fields of sunflowers. I have just missed them in their full glory. After a summer of dazzling jaune, of wind dances and sweet pollenation, their petals have withered and the flowers have gone to seed. Now they stand sullen, bowing their heavy heads. Nearby a small church where medieval graves are still covered in offerings and candles, the sunflowers seem to also to mourn the dead. Or maybe they hunch their shoulders and shun the bright blue sky grieving the memory of their lost beauty.

This is Paris

2008-09-07T09:38:00.001-04:00

Police in Paris

2008-09-07T05:38:00.003-04:00

My only question is, what do they do if the criminal they are chasing runs up a flight of stairs?

Conversations en Francais

2008-09-06T11:30:00.004-04:00

So it has already been pointed out to me that mon Francais est tres pathetique. One of my new friends, Piotr of Poland, noted that I have an error in my last blog entry's title. It should read "Paris, je t'aime". But despite my shortcomings, I've spoke more French in the past few days than I ever have before. That's saying a lot since I took two years of the language in high school and went to university in Montreal.

Here people have been patient with my butchering of their beautiful language. Parisiens at the bars and cafes seem to want to engage in conversations with me and my fellow travelers. Last night I had a lengthy conversation with an old man originally from Turkey who only spoke French. With the aid of some over the top gesticulation we covered topics ranging from my travel plans, American politics, the beauty of Paris and even the Olympics. We really had a breakthrough in understanding when we put on a reenactment of the Americans stunning victory in the 4 X 100 meter men's swim relay using a handful of peanuts. Michael Phelps was quite delicious.

What I discovered was how quickly one can improve in a language just by diving in and holding little conversations with the locals. Within one afternoon of just talking and asking questions, I was already noticeably more fluent by the end of the night.

So I would encourage people visiting a foreign country to attempt these little conversations in the foreign language. Just swallow your pride, and perhaps a little wine. And some impromptu food puppetry couldn't hurt in the slightest.

Paris, j'taime

2008-09-05T09:26:00.004-04:00

I have fallen in love with the City of Lights. The present capital of the European Union, its centerpiece the Eiffel Tower dressed at night in blue, is one of the most beautiful and romantic places I have ever been.

Everywhere you look, on nearly every street corner there is a vision of history and art. I have already stayed two days longer than expected. I missed my train to Agen this morning partly because I overslept, but partly because I have made some friends and want to linger.

Something keeps me in this city. As I booked yet another night at my hostel in le Republique this morning, the girl at the front desk said that perhaps I am supposed to be here.

With Paris however, it wasn't quite love at first sight.

My first night in an uncomfortable hostel left me disoriented and nervous walking around the city alone. On my first day, I climbed the steps in Montmartre up to Sacre Couer to get a panoramic view. The vastness of the city was overwhelming.

Walking alone through the city is a bittersweet experience. Everywhere it seems couples fawn over one another, touching hands and exchanging tender caresses. Those first few days, it felt quite lonely.

Then on Tuesday I walked into Notre Dame to sit alone in the dark and gather some courage. Tourists walked the perimeter snapping photos in the hushed cathedral. In the pews, several people their heads buried in their hands, prayed for mercy and forgiveness. I'm not really religious at all, but the place stirred something within me. I lit a candle and asked for safe travels and some ease for my heavy heart. I also asked for some companionship.

When I left, a weight had lifted. And very soon I made some friends.

That night I went out to a bar near my hostel just to have a drink and write in my journal. Sitting at a table on the street, a young Romanian man and his hoodie-wearing friend came up and started to heckle me. It wasn't threatening but it was annoying. The ponytailed Romanian professed to me his endless devotion. I told him that it would really piss me off if, when I wasn't looking, my new love ran off with my camera.

Eventually the bartender saw what was going on and got the two men away. I think he liked me and was looking out for me because I gave him a one Euro tip. (I had yet to learn that you don't tip at all in France). Several middle age French men and two German girls who witnessed the exchange invited me over for a drink. All except for one were very nice and quite interested in my plans for travel. The one however told me I talked too loud, "a typical American." Well, he was a typical pompous French guy, I thought.

But one man, a French film actor named Marc Duret bought me a beer and talked about his experiences working the states. He had just that night come from the premier of his new film Commes les Autres and was sipping champagne in celebration. I thought the film was some small Indy-type project. But the next day, everywhere I looked were posters for the film. And in the post office on TV there was a preview for the film and my friend appeared before me and the rest of the country. It was a brush with celebrity and I didn't even realize it.

The next day I went to the Catacombs with my roomate in the hostel, a Welsh girl named Sarah. Deep beneath the streets among the bones of six million Parisiens we made another friend, Piotr from Poland. He took a picture of Sarah and me grinning next to a pile of skulls and femurs stacked like wood. Afterward, he joined us on a stroll along the Seine and a visit to the Eiffel Tower. He is finishing up six months of study in Paris and plans to travel himself, perhaps to India. Perhaps we will meet again.

I also met an Australian named Rob who now lives in London. We spent most of today running together to train and bus stations to book our tickets in seperate directions. It maybe wasn't the most romantic of afternoons, but we got along well and he's promised me a place to stay and a grand tour if ever I should come to London.

One of the most surprising things I've learned is how nice and helpful the Parisiens are. Last night Sarah, Rob and I spent a night out on the town and lost track of time before realizing the Metro had closed and there were no taxis around. We were kind of lost and quite far from the hostel when we flagged down a bus. The driver gave us a free lift home.

Several times I've found myself standing on a street corner with a map and people actually have come up to me to help me get where I'm going. And even when someone doesn't speak English and I at least attempt French in my pitiful, bumbling way, we can hold silly, disjointed conversations.

I've so much more to share and photos to post soon. Ahhhhhh Paris. J'taime.

La cuisine

2008-09-02T13:28:00.005-04:00

It's been nearly a week since I arrived in France and in these few days I've had some of the best meals of my life. My uncle's partner Nicolas is an excellent chef and the two of them absolutely spoiled me during my time at their house in Lhuys.

For my uncle's birthday we had a fruit plate with melon, figs and raspberries along with thinly sliced viande de grisons. That was followed by Nepalese pork with saffron carrots, potatos with shallots and flat greenbeans.

One night we had sausages of wild boar, Polish buffalo and ostrage. And of course cheese! So much cheese! And with names like poetry!

We had Maroilles, an orange crusted cheese from Burgundy, Appenzell from Switzerland, Brie de Meaux, Reblochon from Savoie, Cantal from Auvergne, Roquefort, Buche de Chèvre, Munster Alsace from Strasbourg, Comté and a gooey creamy Dauphiné.

C'est magnifique. What is unfortunate is I probably won't eat this well again the rest of my trip.

A stuffy hostel

2008-08-31T20:43:00.004-04:00

It's 2:43 a.m. in Paris, my first night here. I can not sleep at all.

The hostel where I am staying in Montmartre is nice, clean, safe it seems, but quite stuffy. I share a room with three other people, a smallish Asian male, a nice Iranian guy and a girl from Toronto. I checked in around 9:30 this evening after getting off the train from the countryside and then went out to dinner with my uncle's friend Nicolas.

It was a perfect Parisien night, picturesque even. It was the City of Lights as it is envisioned in dreams. The outdoor cafe we went to was filled with beautiful young people laughing, cigarettes burning, the smoke drifting up into the moody light. Nicolas and I had a light dinner and drank a bottle of wine and talked about the weekend I spent with my uncle whom I've never really spent time with on my own. It was a refreshing visit. I learned more family secrets than my dad would probably like me to know.

Tonight would be my first night really on my own. After dinner I returned to the hostel expecting to find my bunkmates up and bonding and giddily talking about their own adventures. Instead I walked into a pitch black room with three people breathing heavyily in their bunks. I felt my way along the side of the bunkbed, stumbling into the corner and blindly seeking my toothbrush and T-shirt to sleep in.

After changing and getting ready for bed, I climbed into the top bunk as quietly as I could, the bed creaking and moving beneath my feet, only to drop my bottle of water loudly upon the floor. The girl from Toronto flipped on the lights and the two boys in the bottom bunk all groggily inquired what I was doing.

"I have work tomorrow you know," said the Canadian. "Don't break anything."

Yikes. It's freaking 11:30!

So now I sit up in the computer room unable to sleep and disappointed I will view Paris tomorrow through dejected eyes.

The abbey and cathedral in Soissons

2008-08-29T18:35:00.004-04:00

The heads of saints

2008-08-29T17:01:00.011-04:00

For my uncle's 66th birthday today, we and two of his friends drove into the Picarie ville of Soissons for lunch and a stroll around the town to view a beautiful and old abbey and cathedral. They will likely be the first of many beautiful and old buildings I see during my time in Europe.

The Abbey of Saint Jean-des-Vignes, a 9th century gothic church, stands at the center of Soissons towering above the residential community. Both the residences and the abbey were the victims of several wars. Though settlement of Soissons dates back to prehistoric times, most of the buildings that stand today were constructed in the mid-twentieth century following the decimation of the town during World War II. The abbey was reduced to just a façade during the French Revolution when soldiers took target practice shooting off the heads of saints.

Nearby the abbey stands the Cathedral de Soissons which dates back to the 11th century. It was also a victim of war; one of its towers was destroyed in World War I. It, however, has been mostly restored. Among the artwork that line the walls is a 15th century tapestry depicting the martyrs Gervasius and Protasius, the patron saints of the cathedral. The saints are both seen in the moment before their deaths, one by clubbing and the other by beheading.

Day 1: Bienvenue to my blog

2008-08-28T18:36:00.007-04:00

Bonjour and bienvenue to my first ever attempt at blogging. It's starting out somewhat rockily as I endeavor to compose properly spelled and grammatically correct sentences on a French keyboard. No QWERTY here. It is more like AZERTY. And I can makes these things: é è ç à!

Just to briefly introduce myself, my name is Maggie, I am a 24-year-old journalist and just yesterday I embarked on a brief jaunt around the world. I left my job, bid farewell to my boyfriend and gathered up my life savings for the trip. In my head, the departure would be romantic and epic. In reality, it was hectic and rather sad.

Leaving the job was not easy. I worked for two and a half years at the Connecticut-based company Hersam Acorn Newspapers as a reporter and later editor at papers that served the community in which I grew up. I learned a lot at the job, way more than I ever did at college, and I came to enjoy telling the interesting and exciting stories of the people from my hometown. However, living at home and writing about the same people and the same issues every week became tiresome. On slow weeks, we often had to scrape the bottom of the barrel for subject matter to fill the paper. More than once, I ended up writing page one feature stories about close friends and relatives because there was nothing else going on in town.

Things started to feel claustrophobic. I wanted to get out of town. I wanted to be the one with the interesting and exciting stories to tell.

I started thinking about a solo trip around the world about a year ago, but really did all the planning over the past two months. After leaving Hersam Acorn about six weeks ago, I kind of forgot about the whole concept of deadline. I was still running around buying my gear, canceling my phone and panicing right up until my dad ushered me into the car for the drive to the airport.

Leaving the boyfriend was horrible. Austin and I said our hasty and teary good-byes yesterday evening at a commuter parking lot near the Merritt Parkway in Stamford. My dad who waited in the car, reminded me that we had to make it quick. It was rush hour after all.

Despite heavy traffic, I made my Air India flight in time. After a turbulent seven hours over the blowy Atlantic, the plane landed at Charles de Gaulle this morning. I write this now from my uncle's farmhouse in the tiny village of Lhuys, about an hour and a half drive from Paris.

Over the next two months, I'll be traveling around Europe before flying to Delhi at the end of October. The plan then is to see Nepal, Thailand, Hong Kong and places in between before coming home sometime in 2009. I will be updating this blog as frequently as possible with photos and stories.

The aim of this online project is to offer readers the perspective of a young American woman traveling alone internationally and reporting on things going on in the world beyond Connecticut. I'm especially excited to find out what the international community thinks about our upcoming presidential elections. What I've heard so far is the French don't like McCain but are somewhat leary of Obama. Well, that's how my uncle feels anyway and technically he's American. So I'll get back to you on that one.

In conjunction with the blog, I'd like to meet you all out on the road. Anyone from one of Hersam Acorn's coverage towns who might be traveling or now living abroad or who knows someone else who is and who has a compelling story that folks back home might enjoy, should feel free to get in touch with me. If I happen to be in the same area at the same time, I'd be happy to sit down for a coffee and a chat. I'll try to keep my upcoming travel plans updated. I may be reached by e-mail at Maefly2008@gmail.com.

I'm off for now. Bon soir.