I never before thought it possible to fall in love with a piece of luggage. But alas, it has happened to me. I am smitten.
Last weekend I brought utter joy into my life with the purchase of a top-of-the-line Samsonite Spinner Silhouette 11 26" Expandable in blue (on sale at Macy's, bien sur!). I figured that since I am literally living out of a suitcase, I might as well go all the way and get a great one, right? This bag was worth every penny. Sturdy, lightweight, and zero effort required - with four nifty little wheels, the thing practically moves itself. Even the American Airlines agent at the check-in counter was impressed. She felt bad putting stickers on it. I gave her my blessing.
Meanwhile, I have found a nice little home to store this fab new purchase and empty out its heavy contents for awhile. For this next round of Parisian living - aka Paris Part Deux - I (somehow) landed myself a gorgeous, spacious and impossibly affordable apartment in Le Marais, my dream neighborhood in Paris, in the center of just about everything - at least, everything that is adorably "Paris" to me. And as of this very moment, I am on vacation. Yes, a real vacation. Today marks the start of 5 entire weeks of doing nothing at all. 5 weeks blissfully free of airplane travel. 5 weeks of not coming within 10 feet of an airport. 5 weeks free of stress, void of any complications whatsoever. Other than daily French classes, there is absolutely nothing on my agenda. I have convinced myself that after an insane year, and after the surprising success of having passed the FSOA, I deserve this. Thus I offer sincere apologies in advance to my loyal readers, but my goal for the next 5 weeks is to be totally boring.
Although knowing me - and as many of you know me - something nutty will happen. So consider keeping your expectations low, but stay tuned nonetheless. Notice I haven't ruled out travel by train...
Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Modern, to a point
I have decided that I would make a really bad prisoner. Today I am in Paris, gazing out at the smoggy ash that hovers over the city and listening to the local news. The hot story on the news is about a young French national named Florence Cassez. The 35-year-old has been held in a Mexican prison for the past five years on questionable kidnapping charges; today the effort was renewed to fight for her release. I was in Dubai for 5 days longer than planned, with access to all the creature comforts I could possibly need: a bed, a hot shower, a treadmill, lip balm, peanut butter… All this, and I couldn’t handle it. After only 5 days, I snapped.
Yes, I would make a very bad prisoner indeed. Which is yet another reason I need to always maintain a low profile while traveling, and do my best to stay out of trouble.
Dubai was an interesting, confusing place: modernization permitted, to a point. Open-mindedness encouraged, with limits. All walks of life welcomed, with exceptions. The internet was relatively open, but many sites were blocked, for reasons that seemed contradictory and inconsistent at best. I could stream episodes of the (borderline pornographic) TV show Gossip Girl, but I couldn’t access Skype. I could read Wikipedia’s page on Israel, but couldn’t reach Israeli’s official tourism website http://www.goisrael.com/. It didn't make sense.
On the second night of my “imprisonment”, I was at dinner with a work colleague. He is Irish, and has lived in Dubai for 15 years with his wife and two small children. He is Western in every sense of the word: lifestyle, dress, religion and tradition. He seemed to be a typically cool and easy-going guy, and so I began to pick his brain for suggestions on how to spend these days, how to make the most of my time here. More than anything, I wanted to go to Israel for a few days, at least until the ash blew over and I could return to Paris. I asked him about this, if traveling to Israel from here was an option at all, or if there would be any repercussions. I had just learned that the Israeli delegation were denied visas to attend our conference; I wasn’t sure what a fresh Israeli stamp in my passport might mean if I needed to return to Dubai to catch a flight home.
And so I asked him this simple question; any and all expression on his face disappeared. He looked back at me without a hint of recognition or comprehension, as though I was speaking Hebrew. His response was brief: “I don’t know what you are talking about”.
I asked again: Can I fly to Israel from here? Again, his response: “I really don’t know to what you are referring. We don’t use this word here [“Israel”]. It means nothing to us. It doesn’t exist”.
The mood quickly turned from lighthearted to creepy. I didn’t have much to say to him after that; instead I tried to fathom how such an open-minded dude from Ireland could be so ignorant. The next day, I visited a travel agency at the mall, and asked the travel agent - a young woman from Delhi, India - about the option of popping over to Tel Aviv for a few days. She literally looked away and ignored the question, and instead tried to sell me on a package deal to Sri Lanka.
I tried to give them both the benefit of the doubt; perhaps a requirement of gaining UAE citizenship is to never recognize Israel’s existence? Regardless, I was spooked. I returned to the hotel, gave up on any thoughts of visiting Israel, and settled in to stream another episode of Gossip Girl. Luckily this didn't get me arrested.
Yes, I would make a very bad prisoner indeed. Which is yet another reason I need to always maintain a low profile while traveling, and do my best to stay out of trouble.
Dubai was an interesting, confusing place: modernization permitted, to a point. Open-mindedness encouraged, with limits. All walks of life welcomed, with exceptions. The internet was relatively open, but many sites were blocked, for reasons that seemed contradictory and inconsistent at best. I could stream episodes of the (borderline pornographic) TV show Gossip Girl, but I couldn’t access Skype. I could read Wikipedia’s page on Israel, but couldn’t reach Israeli’s official tourism website http://www.goisrael.com/. It didn't make sense.
On the second night of my “imprisonment”, I was at dinner with a work colleague. He is Irish, and has lived in Dubai for 15 years with his wife and two small children. He is Western in every sense of the word: lifestyle, dress, religion and tradition. He seemed to be a typically cool and easy-going guy, and so I began to pick his brain for suggestions on how to spend these days, how to make the most of my time here. More than anything, I wanted to go to Israel for a few days, at least until the ash blew over and I could return to Paris. I asked him about this, if traveling to Israel from here was an option at all, or if there would be any repercussions. I had just learned that the Israeli delegation were denied visas to attend our conference; I wasn’t sure what a fresh Israeli stamp in my passport might mean if I needed to return to Dubai to catch a flight home.
And so I asked him this simple question; any and all expression on his face disappeared. He looked back at me without a hint of recognition or comprehension, as though I was speaking Hebrew. His response was brief: “I don’t know what you are talking about”.
I asked again: Can I fly to Israel from here? Again, his response: “I really don’t know to what you are referring. We don’t use this word here [“Israel”]. It means nothing to us. It doesn’t exist”.
The mood quickly turned from lighthearted to creepy. I didn’t have much to say to him after that; instead I tried to fathom how such an open-minded dude from Ireland could be so ignorant. The next day, I visited a travel agency at the mall, and asked the travel agent - a young woman from Delhi, India - about the option of popping over to Tel Aviv for a few days. She literally looked away and ignored the question, and instead tried to sell me on a package deal to Sri Lanka.
I tried to give them both the benefit of the doubt; perhaps a requirement of gaining UAE citizenship is to never recognize Israel’s existence? Regardless, I was spooked. I returned to the hotel, gave up on any thoughts of visiting Israel, and settled in to stream another episode of Gossip Girl. Luckily this didn't get me arrested.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
A crack in the cloud
The P.A. system squeals to life, and the 500 travelers sprawled around Gate 202 fall silent, so silent that I can actually hear the sound of 500 people holding their breath.
"Attention passengers traveling on Emirates flight 73 to Paris..." The 2-second pause that follows feels like 2 thousand years. "We will be boarding the aircraft by zone. Please check your boar..." We stop listening; our collective sigh of relief causes a wind tunnel effect across the gate. I have no doubt that everyone around me is feeling exactly as I do: hesitant. Not one of us will dare believe that this is really happening - that an aircraft will depart Dubai and fly into Charles de Gaulle Airport - until the plane touches down at its intended destination.
By pure chance, luck, coincidence – whatever you want to call it – I just happened to be awake and watching CNN at 3:00 AM this morning, when the news broke that airports around Paris would begin to resume service today. I had just returned from a night of debauchery, Dubai-style: drinking cocktails and puffing on hookah pipes at Jambase shisha bar, and later salsa dancing with an Egyptian named Samir at Trader Vics. The evening was planned as a farewell party of sorts for one of the lucky travelers at the Holiday Inn who had secured a flight out the next day. We were 11 in all - a group of virtual strangers that I was perfectly happy to bail on in favor of staying in and sleeping. But had I done so, I wouldn’t have had such a wild night out. I wouldn't have been awake at 3 AM. And I certainly wouldn’t have been one of the first to learn that a sliver of hope had broken through the dark cloud over Paris.
At that very moment, I decided it was time to get out of Dubai come hell or high water; this much-awaited easing of restrictions in France provided an opportunity to do just that, and I wasn't about to let it pass me by. With the encouragement of mom and the financial blessing of my employer, by 4:00 AM I was packed, checked out and on my way to the airport.
The news was accurate: a flight back to Paris was scheduled and confirmed to depart in 4 hours. This alone was a miracle.
The airport was still reasonably quiet as word about Paris had not yet spread. Regardless, I knew that securing a seat on this flight would involve a battle, and I was prepared for the fight. The reservation agent confirmed what I had expected to hear: he wasn't authorized to sell any seats; I would have to stand by for this flight, just wait and see. With determination and relentlessness as my guides, I put on an Oscar-worthy Damsel In Distress performance – tears, messy stories, little white lies - and quickly won over the handsome Emirates Airways supervisor. In exchange for one outrageous charge on my Visa card, he approved the sale, and handed over a boarding pass for the first and possibly only flight out that morning. Holding this precious document in my hand, I felt a strong urge to kiss it. I think I did. Maybe I should have kissed the supervisor instead.
And so it is: I am on my way! But as I sit at the boarding gate now, I can't help but think how anti-climactic this will all turn out to be. As the hopeless hours grew into hopeless days, I had begun to envision all the fabulous adventures I could create from this otherwise irritating situation. Hopping on a flight to Destination: Anywhere; road-tripping with strangers across the continent; taking trains through unknown cities and beautiful landscape. Or blowing off Europe altogether and venturing toward Israel, Bali, Nepal, anywhere but here! I felt unreasonably envious upon hearing of other peoples' adventures and crazy travel plans to get home. It all sounded fabulous, exciting, and utterly complicated.
But alas, the end of this story for me will be a drama-free one. Direct flight back to Paris, 30-minute taxi ride from there. Believe me, I know how lucky I am right now. I know I struck gold by getting on this flight. But as much as I cannot WAIT to get out of Dubai and be on my way back home, I can't help but feel a strange sense of let-down. What can I say, that's just me.
"Attention passengers traveling on Emirates flight 73 to Paris..." The 2-second pause that follows feels like 2 thousand years. "We will be boarding the aircraft by zone. Please check your boar..." We stop listening; our collective sigh of relief causes a wind tunnel effect across the gate. I have no doubt that everyone around me is feeling exactly as I do: hesitant. Not one of us will dare believe that this is really happening - that an aircraft will depart Dubai and fly into Charles de Gaulle Airport - until the plane touches down at its intended destination.
By pure chance, luck, coincidence – whatever you want to call it – I just happened to be awake and watching CNN at 3:00 AM this morning, when the news broke that airports around Paris would begin to resume service today. I had just returned from a night of debauchery, Dubai-style: drinking cocktails and puffing on hookah pipes at Jambase shisha bar, and later salsa dancing with an Egyptian named Samir at Trader Vics. The evening was planned as a farewell party of sorts for one of the lucky travelers at the Holiday Inn who had secured a flight out the next day. We were 11 in all - a group of virtual strangers that I was perfectly happy to bail on in favor of staying in and sleeping. But had I done so, I wouldn’t have had such a wild night out. I wouldn't have been awake at 3 AM. And I certainly wouldn’t have been one of the first to learn that a sliver of hope had broken through the dark cloud over Paris.
A Hookah pipe makes everything seem OK.
At that very moment, I decided it was time to get out of Dubai come hell or high water; this much-awaited easing of restrictions in France provided an opportunity to do just that, and I wasn't about to let it pass me by. With the encouragement of mom and the financial blessing of my employer, by 4:00 AM I was packed, checked out and on my way to the airport.
The news was accurate: a flight back to Paris was scheduled and confirmed to depart in 4 hours. This alone was a miracle.
The airport was still reasonably quiet as word about Paris had not yet spread. Regardless, I knew that securing a seat on this flight would involve a battle, and I was prepared for the fight. The reservation agent confirmed what I had expected to hear: he wasn't authorized to sell any seats; I would have to stand by for this flight, just wait and see. With determination and relentlessness as my guides, I put on an Oscar-worthy Damsel In Distress performance – tears, messy stories, little white lies - and quickly won over the handsome Emirates Airways supervisor. In exchange for one outrageous charge on my Visa card, he approved the sale, and handed over a boarding pass for the first and possibly only flight out that morning. Holding this precious document in my hand, I felt a strong urge to kiss it. I think I did. Maybe I should have kissed the supervisor instead.
And so it is: I am on my way! But as I sit at the boarding gate now, I can't help but think how anti-climactic this will all turn out to be. As the hopeless hours grew into hopeless days, I had begun to envision all the fabulous adventures I could create from this otherwise irritating situation. Hopping on a flight to Destination: Anywhere; road-tripping with strangers across the continent; taking trains through unknown cities and beautiful landscape. Or blowing off Europe altogether and venturing toward Israel, Bali, Nepal, anywhere but here! I felt unreasonably envious upon hearing of other peoples' adventures and crazy travel plans to get home. It all sounded fabulous, exciting, and utterly complicated.
But alas, the end of this story for me will be a drama-free one. Direct flight back to Paris, 30-minute taxi ride from there. Believe me, I know how lucky I am right now. I know I struck gold by getting on this flight. But as much as I cannot WAIT to get out of Dubai and be on my way back home, I can't help but feel a strange sense of let-down. What can I say, that's just me.
Coming down through the ash
The departure board at CDG. I am one very lucky gal.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
A legend in Dubai
Apparently, I am a legend. This according to Raj, one of the new friends I have acquired amongst the many stranded travelers hovering around the Holiday Inn Express, Dubai Airport. Raj has spread the word amongst his new motley crew of friends that I – a solo American female traveler – have done the unthinkable: I rented a car, and have spent the past two days driving around Dubai.
"Legend" might be a bit extreme, but I can't help but laugh. I grew up in Southern California, where a life sans car just isn't a life. And further to that, I am a gypsy at heart. I thrive on movement. Having been brought to an utter standstill by one huge cloud of ash is driving me batty; being stalled in this "sandbox" (phrase borrowed from a friend) at an airport hotel, surrounded by nothing but abandoned construction projects – not to mention a lobby packed with cranky and anxious Brits – is downright suffocating.
So to me there was no question; renting a car was the only antidote to this feeling of "stuck". Early Saturday morning, before I could think twice, I was at the Budget counter, where a reservation agent handed over my keys to freedom. I splurged on a navigational device (possibly the smartest 20 dollars I have ever spent) and set off on a GPS-guided city tour in a spiffy little Toyota - with manual transmission, thank you very much. Despite the breakneck speeds, the confusing road signs, and the maze of freeways and construction zones, driving around the city is actually a lot easier than one might think. In fact, I find it absolutely exhilarating.
I do realize how fortunate I am that women are permitted to drive in UAE, although I have seen very few female drivers on the road. And just this morning I was warned by another new friend to take extra caution and avoid getting into a collision with an Emirati. (Seriously, I hate stupid warnings like this.) Reason being, supposedly their status as subjects under the Monarchy would make me, the foreigner, instantly and automatically at fault - no matter what. I don’t know how much truth is behind this, but of course the feisty redheaded New Yorker in me immediately responds with "Bring It". (To which you might respond, "whoa tiger!") But then I stop to consider where I am and who I am, and decide that it's probably best to keep my mouth shut and my eyes on the road, lest I get myself into all sorts of trouble.
While at the rental counter, I had informed the agent that I might return the car in Paris. The overland journey couldn't take more than a week or two, could it? Concern flashed across her face; she wasn't so sure I was joking. 48 hours later, as the minutes tick past, more flights get canceled, and the volcano continues to spew dirty ash with no sign of stopping, I assess the tires on this mighty little Toyota and wonder... could I do it? Now THAT would entitle me to "legend" status indeed.
Burj Khalifa on the right: currently the tallest building on the planet.
"Legend" might be a bit extreme, but I can't help but laugh. I grew up in Southern California, where a life sans car just isn't a life. And further to that, I am a gypsy at heart. I thrive on movement. Having been brought to an utter standstill by one huge cloud of ash is driving me batty; being stalled in this "sandbox" (phrase borrowed from a friend) at an airport hotel, surrounded by nothing but abandoned construction projects – not to mention a lobby packed with cranky and anxious Brits – is downright suffocating.
So to me there was no question; renting a car was the only antidote to this feeling of "stuck". Early Saturday morning, before I could think twice, I was at the Budget counter, where a reservation agent handed over my keys to freedom. I splurged on a navigational device (possibly the smartest 20 dollars I have ever spent) and set off on a GPS-guided city tour in a spiffy little Toyota - with manual transmission, thank you very much. Despite the breakneck speeds, the confusing road signs, and the maze of freeways and construction zones, driving around the city is actually a lot easier than one might think. In fact, I find it absolutely exhilarating.
I do realize how fortunate I am that women are permitted to drive in UAE, although I have seen very few female drivers on the road. And just this morning I was warned by another new friend to take extra caution and avoid getting into a collision with an Emirati. (Seriously, I hate stupid warnings like this.) Reason being, supposedly their status as subjects under the Monarchy would make me, the foreigner, instantly and automatically at fault - no matter what. I don’t know how much truth is behind this, but of course the feisty redheaded New Yorker in me immediately responds with "Bring It". (To which you might respond, "whoa tiger!") But then I stop to consider where I am and who I am, and decide that it's probably best to keep my mouth shut and my eyes on the road, lest I get myself into all sorts of trouble.
While at the rental counter, I had informed the agent that I might return the car in Paris. The overland journey couldn't take more than a week or two, could it? Concern flashed across her face; she wasn't so sure I was joking. 48 hours later, as the minutes tick past, more flights get canceled, and the volcano continues to spew dirty ash with no sign of stopping, I assess the tires on this mighty little Toyota and wonder... could I do it? Now THAT would entitle me to "legend" status indeed.
Burj Khalifa on the right: currently the tallest building on the planet.
At the mall
I can't help but stare. You would too. Inside the Spanish clothing store Desigual, known for its wild use of color and ultra-modern cuts, a woman dressed in traditional Muslim clothing – only her eyes revealed – picks ups a brightly-colored sleeveless sundress. She holds it up to her petite frame, trying to assess the size and imagine the fit, as any woman would do. The contrast of this wild and sexy print dress against her black burqa is nothing short of striking.
Her male companion watches her, and makes a face to indicate he doesn't love the dress. She puts it back and moves on, and as she turns I am surprised to see her black head-covering is adorned with beautiful, multi-colored beads. Over her shoulder rests a large Fendi bag. Her wrists and fingers are fabulously adorned with jewels, her nails polished to perfection. From the little I can see of her actual face, I know she is absolutely stunning.
Later, I am deep in conversation about culture and religion with a Pakistani security guard outside Garret’s Popcorn shop. I beg for him to explain to me the laws and traditions that govern this woman's dress, and to help me to understand when and where she will wear that sexy sleeveless number she was admiring in the shop... Inside the home? While on vacation? I am needy for information and facts, desperate to understand how religious tradition and the likes of Louis Vuitton can blend together so seamlessly here in Dubai. The guard simply can’t answer. A devout Muslim, he is dismayed that women have become "too much sexy" in recent years. And so I am left wondering, and fascinated.
If you haven’t guessed by now, I have made my way to a mall. But this is more than just a mall: the famed Dubai Mall is a shopping planet. For perspective, take this factoid: inside this one building, there are 15 – yes 15! – optical shops. More than 12,000 retail shops, a gigantic indoor aquarium, an Olympic-sized ice rink, an indoor golf course... this is a world onto its own. Anything and everything can be found here, from Gap t-shirts to Magnolia Cupcakes. One Red Velvet cupcake to go, please!
There is little I really need to buy, other than some toiletries and underwear. But when in Dubai, shopping malls are the place to be. It's Friday night, and this place is packed. The shoppers here represent every degree of religious tradition you could imagine: from ultra-conservative to none at all. Referred to as the (wealthy) melting pot of the Middle East, (almost) every walk of life, (almost) every ethnicity, (almost) every religion is represented in Dubai - and certainly they are all here in this mall tonight. The blend of culture reminds me of New York City, only cleaner – and without any Jewish delis.
I spend most of the evening people-watching. I realize that whether the Pakistani security guard likes it or not, there is no denying that the women here are incredibly sexy and absolutely stunning, even where only their eyes are revealed. Makeup, handbags, shoes, jewels... anything that can be seen on the outside is simply fabulous. Amongst all this extravagance, I feel plain. I make a beeline to Sephora and sit myself down in a chair at the Shiseido counter, requesting a makeover. For the next two hours I trustingly place my face in the hands of Rudy, a lovely Venezuelan-Syrian nomad who has made her way to Dubai by pure chance. Her English is limited, and she is relieved to discover I speak Spanish. We chat about Dubai as she transforms my eyes and face into a degree of gorgeous I have never known before. All around me, cosmetic-hungry Arabic women eagerly fill their designer bags with perfumes, eye shadows and lipsticks as their men patiently wait. Just when I start to think how normal this all seems, that I could be anywhere, the blaring music inside Sephora stops and all goes quiet, indicating it's time for prayer.
Her male companion watches her, and makes a face to indicate he doesn't love the dress. She puts it back and moves on, and as she turns I am surprised to see her black head-covering is adorned with beautiful, multi-colored beads. Over her shoulder rests a large Fendi bag. Her wrists and fingers are fabulously adorned with jewels, her nails polished to perfection. From the little I can see of her actual face, I know she is absolutely stunning.
Later, I am deep in conversation about culture and religion with a Pakistani security guard outside Garret’s Popcorn shop. I beg for him to explain to me the laws and traditions that govern this woman's dress, and to help me to understand when and where she will wear that sexy sleeveless number she was admiring in the shop... Inside the home? While on vacation? I am needy for information and facts, desperate to understand how religious tradition and the likes of Louis Vuitton can blend together so seamlessly here in Dubai. The guard simply can’t answer. A devout Muslim, he is dismayed that women have become "too much sexy" in recent years. And so I am left wondering, and fascinated.
If you haven’t guessed by now, I have made my way to a mall. But this is more than just a mall: the famed Dubai Mall is a shopping planet. For perspective, take this factoid: inside this one building, there are 15 – yes 15! – optical shops. More than 12,000 retail shops, a gigantic indoor aquarium, an Olympic-sized ice rink, an indoor golf course... this is a world onto its own. Anything and everything can be found here, from Gap t-shirts to Magnolia Cupcakes. One Red Velvet cupcake to go, please!
There is little I really need to buy, other than some toiletries and underwear. But when in Dubai, shopping malls are the place to be. It's Friday night, and this place is packed. The shoppers here represent every degree of religious tradition you could imagine: from ultra-conservative to none at all. Referred to as the (wealthy) melting pot of the Middle East, (almost) every walk of life, (almost) every ethnicity, (almost) every religion is represented in Dubai - and certainly they are all here in this mall tonight. The blend of culture reminds me of New York City, only cleaner – and without any Jewish delis.
I spend most of the evening people-watching. I realize that whether the Pakistani security guard likes it or not, there is no denying that the women here are incredibly sexy and absolutely stunning, even where only their eyes are revealed. Makeup, handbags, shoes, jewels... anything that can be seen on the outside is simply fabulous. Amongst all this extravagance, I feel plain. I make a beeline to Sephora and sit myself down in a chair at the Shiseido counter, requesting a makeover. For the next two hours I trustingly place my face in the hands of Rudy, a lovely Venezuelan-Syrian nomad who has made her way to Dubai by pure chance. Her English is limited, and she is relieved to discover I speak Spanish. We chat about Dubai as she transforms my eyes and face into a degree of gorgeous I have never known before. All around me, cosmetic-hungry Arabic women eagerly fill their designer bags with perfumes, eye shadows and lipsticks as their men patiently wait. Just when I start to think how normal this all seems, that I could be anywhere, the blaring music inside Sephora stops and all goes quiet, indicating it's time for prayer.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Delays and cancellations
I am stranded in Dubai, without a single item of warm-weather clothing. No sandals, no bathing suit, no sunblock. Not even a pair of sunglasses. I have come here with a surprisingly small suitcase (surprising for me, anyway) packed with a modest assortment of dark-colored business attire. I thought I would be in and out of here, days and evenings spent indoors at work. Never did I imagine that a cloud of volcanic ash would anchor me to this bizarre place, with a brilliant sun shining overhead and more free time than I actually want to have.
Travel mishaps happen, and I have never been one to be bothered when they do. Cancelled flights, re-routes, whatever it may be, I have always been the sort of traveler who coasts along, believing that everything happens as it should, and that I will get there eventually.
But this time I feel frustrated. After all, it wasn't just anywhere that I was heading back to. It was Paris. And not only was I due to return, but I was ready to do so with a renewed sense of spirit, a rediscovered inner joy that had been temporarily lost. My timing was off when I first arrived in March. Emotionally and physically exhausted, I found it difficult to embrace the opportunity I had created for myself. But this trip to Dubai may have been exactly what I needed. Unexpectedly, the time away has hit my "restart button". It's as though I have been given a rare opportunity to start again, to begin anew my life in Paris. And with a busy week ahead planned for all sorts of adventure and new discoveries, I was eager to get back. But as I sit here at the Atlantis hotel, surveying the latest news and flights statistics – another flight cancelled, another airport closed – it looks as though "starting over in Paris" is going to be delayed for awhile.
Travel mishaps happen, and I have never been one to be bothered when they do. Cancelled flights, re-routes, whatever it may be, I have always been the sort of traveler who coasts along, believing that everything happens as it should, and that I will get there eventually.
But this time I feel frustrated. After all, it wasn't just anywhere that I was heading back to. It was Paris. And not only was I due to return, but I was ready to do so with a renewed sense of spirit, a rediscovered inner joy that had been temporarily lost. My timing was off when I first arrived in March. Emotionally and physically exhausted, I found it difficult to embrace the opportunity I had created for myself. But this trip to Dubai may have been exactly what I needed. Unexpectedly, the time away has hit my "restart button". It's as though I have been given a rare opportunity to start again, to begin anew my life in Paris. And with a busy week ahead planned for all sorts of adventure and new discoveries, I was eager to get back. But as I sit here at the Atlantis hotel, surveying the latest news and flights statistics – another flight cancelled, another airport closed – it looks as though "starting over in Paris" is going to be delayed for awhile.
Monday, April 12, 2010
En route to Dubai
Is it too much to ask that the use of deodorant be an international norm? At the present moment, I am crammed into a suffocatingly long transfer line at Doha airport, trying to stay afloat in this sea of weary travelers. I have just stepped off Leg One of this journey into the Middle East; Dubai to be exact, where I will officially add another world region to "the list". So far, this corner of the world is as smelly as any other.
On board my Qatar Airways flight, I have passed 6+ hours numbing my overactive mind with the greatest selection of films ever on offer while in the air. Gaze fixed forward, I revel in one feature film after another, beginning with An American in Paris. It seems fitting.
Every so often, my attention is pulled from this movie stupor by the main screen overhead, where a flight map ensures that at all times, I am aware of the distance and direction of Mecca in relation to the aircraft. Mecca: due West, 781 miles. The screen soon fades, the plane touches down, and I step off the flight and into the warm, dry air, thinking to myself that this looks exactly like what it is: an airport in a desert.
Jeans and high heels brush past burqas and sandals; some heads are covered by the traditional Ghutra, others adorned with Armani shades. East meets West in this airport terminal; the modern and traditional so easily blend. I pass through security without having to remove, take out, take off, unpack, undo, open, search or show anything at all. I feel spoiled and lucky that my native language is the official language of Air Travel.
The frenetic activity inside the glitzy universe of the Duty Free mega-shop repels me; instead, I tap into a rare moment of desperately craving a cocktail, yet there is not one bar in sight in which to indulge this desire. An airport without a bar, imagine that. I can get an A&W root beer float, a cheeseburger and fries, or as many cartons of cigarettes as I desire, but no cocktail. The world is funny that way.
On board my Qatar Airways flight, I have passed 6+ hours numbing my overactive mind with the greatest selection of films ever on offer while in the air. Gaze fixed forward, I revel in one feature film after another, beginning with An American in Paris. It seems fitting.
Every so often, my attention is pulled from this movie stupor by the main screen overhead, where a flight map ensures that at all times, I am aware of the distance and direction of Mecca in relation to the aircraft. Mecca: due West, 781 miles. The screen soon fades, the plane touches down, and I step off the flight and into the warm, dry air, thinking to myself that this looks exactly like what it is: an airport in a desert.
Jeans and high heels brush past burqas and sandals; some heads are covered by the traditional Ghutra, others adorned with Armani shades. East meets West in this airport terminal; the modern and traditional so easily blend. I pass through security without having to remove, take out, take off, unpack, undo, open, search or show anything at all. I feel spoiled and lucky that my native language is the official language of Air Travel.
The frenetic activity inside the glitzy universe of the Duty Free mega-shop repels me; instead, I tap into a rare moment of desperately craving a cocktail, yet there is not one bar in sight in which to indulge this desire. An airport without a bar, imagine that. I can get an A&W root beer float, a cheeseburger and fries, or as many cartons of cigarettes as I desire, but no cocktail. The world is funny that way.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Rio through the lens
For those of you with curiosity and some time to kill, click on the country name to see complete photo albums from this recent adventure: Colombia and Brazil
And below, a sampling of Rio captured on film.
The man, the myth, the legend.
Never too young to become a futebol addict
Ipanema Beach on a beautiful day.
Locals at play. Always.
Precious faces.
And below, a sampling of Rio captured on film.
The man, the myth, the legend.
Never too young to become a futebol addict
Ipanema Beach on a beautiful day.
Locals at play. Always.
Precious faces.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Back to Reality
I changed my mind. I have decided that the itsy-bitsy speedo-like bathing suit on Brazilian men is actually pretty hot. Only in Rio de Janeiro do they - and can they - wear it oh, so well.
Shameful exploitation. Sue me.
I have also changed my mind about Rio. It really is the Cidade Maravilhosa: a gorgeous city constantly at play, its people phenomenally kind, generous and welcoming to a foreigner like me. I am happy to say that with just 2 days of (finally) brilliant weather, my high expectations about Rio were met. Funny how everything looks better when the sun comes out.
Now, as I step aboard American flight 452 bound for Boston, I would like to send a special shout-out to all the kidnappers, hijackers, terrorists, rapists, thieves, muggers, pick-pocketers, scammers, con-artists and drug-dealers who left me alone during my travels. Before setting off I was feeling pretty scared of all of you. Thank you for letting me off the hook and passing me by. You have my utmost appreciation.
It would be easy to think of this flight home as heading "back to reality". But throughout my traveling life I have come to understand that just the opposite is true. To me, it doesn't get much more "real" than landing in a foreign village and having no clue where I will sleep that night; or driving past a slum filled with barefoot kids and swallowing my guilt for having just bought another pair of shoes; or searching for a functioning phone and a calling card so I can check in with Grandma; or sharing a filthy shower with 30 young backpackers and their pubic hairs; or trying to explain to a pharmacist exactly what is wrong when we speak two very different languages; or carefully eating around the bits of pork because in this particular country, "vegetarian" includes chicken, seafood, turkey - pretty much everything but beef - and I have no idea how or if to ask for what I really want; or constantly carrying around a wad of toilet paper in my bag, knowing that it would be a rare luxury to find any in a public bathroom... that is, if I am lucky enough to find a public bathroom at all.
You may disagree, but I don't think of this past month as a "vacation." Rather, to me it was just another (albeit very exciting) slice of the life I have built for myself. And it is a life I thrive on! Traveling tests me. It challenges me. It takes me out of my comfort zone and sets me on a path that requires and demands flexibility, spontaneity and one very open mind. Traveling reminds me of all that exists beyond my relatively neat and tidy world. For all of these reasons, I travel. And for all of these reasons, I am already contemplating what and where might come next.
Hey Evan, can you spin that globe for me once again?
Shameful exploitation. Sue me.
I have also changed my mind about Rio. It really is the Cidade Maravilhosa: a gorgeous city constantly at play, its people phenomenally kind, generous and welcoming to a foreigner like me. I am happy to say that with just 2 days of (finally) brilliant weather, my high expectations about Rio were met. Funny how everything looks better when the sun comes out.
Now, as I step aboard American flight 452 bound for Boston, I would like to send a special shout-out to all the kidnappers, hijackers, terrorists, rapists, thieves, muggers, pick-pocketers, scammers, con-artists and drug-dealers who left me alone during my travels. Before setting off I was feeling pretty scared of all of you. Thank you for letting me off the hook and passing me by. You have my utmost appreciation.
It would be easy to think of this flight home as heading "back to reality". But throughout my traveling life I have come to understand that just the opposite is true. To me, it doesn't get much more "real" than landing in a foreign village and having no clue where I will sleep that night; or driving past a slum filled with barefoot kids and swallowing my guilt for having just bought another pair of shoes; or searching for a functioning phone and a calling card so I can check in with Grandma; or sharing a filthy shower with 30 young backpackers and their pubic hairs; or trying to explain to a pharmacist exactly what is wrong when we speak two very different languages; or carefully eating around the bits of pork because in this particular country, "vegetarian" includes chicken, seafood, turkey - pretty much everything but beef - and I have no idea how or if to ask for what I really want; or constantly carrying around a wad of toilet paper in my bag, knowing that it would be a rare luxury to find any in a public bathroom... that is, if I am lucky enough to find a public bathroom at all.
You may disagree, but I don't think of this past month as a "vacation." Rather, to me it was just another (albeit very exciting) slice of the life I have built for myself. And it is a life I thrive on! Traveling tests me. It challenges me. It takes me out of my comfort zone and sets me on a path that requires and demands flexibility, spontaneity and one very open mind. Traveling reminds me of all that exists beyond my relatively neat and tidy world. For all of these reasons, I travel. And for all of these reasons, I am already contemplating what and where might come next.
Hey Evan, can you spin that globe for me once again?
Thursday, September 24, 2009
It rains in Rio
(September 21, 2009)
I don't know why I got off the bus. I knew it was turning onto the street on which I am currently living, Rua das Laranjeiras (sounds like larangitis).
My Portuguese is still pathetic, but with a little effort I could have mumbled through the words to confirm the bus' general direction. But I didn't ask for help, and instead stepped off and into a swarm of drenched Cariocas rushing home from their work day.
Now, I too am drenched, trudging, squishing and sliding through the flood that was once a street, soaked to the bone, my umbrella a useless shield against the evening's impressive downpour. My shoes have become heavy weights, filled to the brim with cruddy rainwater. My denim skirt is stuck to my thighs, riding up where it shouldn't. Wouldn't you know, I think to myself, it rains in Rio de Janeiro! And just then, I start to laugh out loud as the bus I was just sitting on passes by, and heads right past my front door.
It hasn't been all rain, cold and muck here in the Cidade Maravilhosa. The weekend was pretty nice, and in my first two days I was quite the tourist. Within hours of arrival on Saturday morning, I was whisked away for a jam-packed and carefully planned day under the direction of a local friend: right on schedule, he picked me up and generously treated me to a tour-by-car of Rio's hottest beaches, lunch of toasted sandwiches and frothy, blended Acai at one of the city's many amazing juice bars, then straight to the famous Maracana stadium for some futebol, passionately Brazilian style, then finally ending up at Salgueiro dance hall, a popular school and showcase for the fantastically wild sounds, rhythms and dance moves of Samba. It was my own personal Rio Highlights tour, and all this following the overnight flight from Bogotá left me more than ready for a good long nap. Or, for another glass of energizing Acai... which incidentally I have been trying to slow down on ever since learning that the magical berry is pretty darn fattening. Dammit.
Sunday I woke early and did what pretty much everyone does here on Sunday: I went to the beach. As seen on any postcard or in every guidebook, the beaches on weekends really do become packed to the gils with all of Rio's young, tanned, athletic and beautiful... plus everyone else. Intimidating for a white girl like me? Maybe a little!
It's fantastic, though. Endless miles of picturesque coastal roads are closed to traffic on Sunday, creating a virtual paradise for joggers and cyclists. These lanes become as packed as the beaches, and it would be impossible not to notice what an active and health-conscious bunch the Brazilians are. Every city block is home to a gym, a pilates studio, a natural foods market, a store selling exercise apparel, a juice bar or two. Needless to say I am loving how healthy this city seems to be. And I am relieved to have finally found a place - maybe for the first time ever! - where I can actually enjoy eating. Countless sushi restaurants, tons of fresh fruits and juice bars.... just drop in a Whole Foods Salad Bar and a jar of peanut butter, and I will have found culinary heaven.
The beach provides the stage and setting for exhibiting all the hard work and exercise that create these lovely bodies, and the vast population of well-toned and bronzed young men playing football and volleyball in the sand is particularly nice to look at. And believe me, these boys are plentiful! After so much time spent all week inside a gym, these perfectly sculpted dudes wouldn't dare stay indoors on weekends. I appreciate the spectacle, but I have to say that the itsy-bitsy speedo-like choice of bathing suit is somewhat of a distraction. No offense intended, but I grew up in California where a good pair of board shorts is considered sexy. Hey Rio boys, your bodies are hot but take a cue from those Cali surfers: leave a little to the imagination!
Despite all of this endless beauty and yummy eats, I have to admit that I haven't been as immediately wowed by Rio as much as I thought I would be. Maybe my expectations were too high. Maybe there has been just too much rain. Either way, I haven't really been feeling the essence of Rio just yet. I am thinking a change of scenery is in order, a break of sorts, a small journey to see some landscape, culture... and something different. Maybe I will head South for a day or two - or North - and give this great city a chance to dry out and warm up. I'll be back for the weekend, camera firmly in hand - and photos to share.
I don't know why I got off the bus. I knew it was turning onto the street on which I am currently living, Rua das Laranjeiras (sounds like larangitis).
My Portuguese is still pathetic, but with a little effort I could have mumbled through the words to confirm the bus' general direction. But I didn't ask for help, and instead stepped off and into a swarm of drenched Cariocas rushing home from their work day.
Now, I too am drenched, trudging, squishing and sliding through the flood that was once a street, soaked to the bone, my umbrella a useless shield against the evening's impressive downpour. My shoes have become heavy weights, filled to the brim with cruddy rainwater. My denim skirt is stuck to my thighs, riding up where it shouldn't. Wouldn't you know, I think to myself, it rains in Rio de Janeiro! And just then, I start to laugh out loud as the bus I was just sitting on passes by, and heads right past my front door.
It hasn't been all rain, cold and muck here in the Cidade Maravilhosa. The weekend was pretty nice, and in my first two days I was quite the tourist. Within hours of arrival on Saturday morning, I was whisked away for a jam-packed and carefully planned day under the direction of a local friend: right on schedule, he picked me up and generously treated me to a tour-by-car of Rio's hottest beaches, lunch of toasted sandwiches and frothy, blended Acai at one of the city's many amazing juice bars, then straight to the famous Maracana stadium for some futebol, passionately Brazilian style, then finally ending up at Salgueiro dance hall, a popular school and showcase for the fantastically wild sounds, rhythms and dance moves of Samba. It was my own personal Rio Highlights tour, and all this following the overnight flight from Bogotá left me more than ready for a good long nap. Or, for another glass of energizing Acai... which incidentally I have been trying to slow down on ever since learning that the magical berry is pretty darn fattening. Dammit.
Sunday I woke early and did what pretty much everyone does here on Sunday: I went to the beach. As seen on any postcard or in every guidebook, the beaches on weekends really do become packed to the gils with all of Rio's young, tanned, athletic and beautiful... plus everyone else. Intimidating for a white girl like me? Maybe a little!
It's fantastic, though. Endless miles of picturesque coastal roads are closed to traffic on Sunday, creating a virtual paradise for joggers and cyclists. These lanes become as packed as the beaches, and it would be impossible not to notice what an active and health-conscious bunch the Brazilians are. Every city block is home to a gym, a pilates studio, a natural foods market, a store selling exercise apparel, a juice bar or two. Needless to say I am loving how healthy this city seems to be. And I am relieved to have finally found a place - maybe for the first time ever! - where I can actually enjoy eating. Countless sushi restaurants, tons of fresh fruits and juice bars.... just drop in a Whole Foods Salad Bar and a jar of peanut butter, and I will have found culinary heaven.
The beach provides the stage and setting for exhibiting all the hard work and exercise that create these lovely bodies, and the vast population of well-toned and bronzed young men playing football and volleyball in the sand is particularly nice to look at. And believe me, these boys are plentiful! After so much time spent all week inside a gym, these perfectly sculpted dudes wouldn't dare stay indoors on weekends. I appreciate the spectacle, but I have to say that the itsy-bitsy speedo-like choice of bathing suit is somewhat of a distraction. No offense intended, but I grew up in California where a good pair of board shorts is considered sexy. Hey Rio boys, your bodies are hot but take a cue from those Cali surfers: leave a little to the imagination!
Despite all of this endless beauty and yummy eats, I have to admit that I haven't been as immediately wowed by Rio as much as I thought I would be. Maybe my expectations were too high. Maybe there has been just too much rain. Either way, I haven't really been feeling the essence of Rio just yet. I am thinking a change of scenery is in order, a break of sorts, a small journey to see some landscape, culture... and something different. Maybe I will head South for a day or two - or North - and give this great city a chance to dry out and warm up. I'll be back for the weekend, camera firmly in hand - and photos to share.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
I Leave Colombia
18 September 2009
I leave Colombia...
With a counterfeit 10,000 peso note. Not sure how it ended up in my wallet, but it has quickly become my favorite souvenir.
Maybe with a few extra pounds around the waistline, thanks to too many cold cervezas, freshly-roasted corn on the cob drenched in butter, sinfully yummy treats made of arequipe (basically caramel) and the arepas. Oh those damn arepas... imagine a big piece of corn bread in the shape of a thick pancake, lightly fried in oil and butter, and filled with a sweet white cheese that oozes out as you try to slow the speed of inhale. It's heaven on the go for a snacker like me.
With tremendous respect for a culture that is diverse, progressive and open-minded. I never once felt odd for being a solo female traveler. I was never stared at or made to feel uncomfortable or intimidated in any way, as I might be in many other corners of the world. Here's a secret for you: Women completely rule in Colombia. They are modern, educated, sophisticated and confident. Just don't tell the guys this. They would probably deny it.
Having made new friends from Montevideo to Asuncion to Alberta to Tel Aviv, not to mention every corner of Colombia. This is why I travel, after all.
With a few new excellent slang words to round out my Spanish vocabulary.
Waxed, manicured and pedicured for such little money that I felt compelled to give the gals a ridiculously large tip.
With immense appreciation for a remarkable country and its incredibly kind people. I have never before felt so totally welcomed or unconditionally accepted as a foreigner. In every respect, Colombia greeted me with open arms.
Equal parts grateful and annoyed that as a well-kept white girl from the United States, I generally breeze through security and Customs without a second glance. I recognize that I probably just jinxed myself.
So excited to finally be en route to Brasil that I might start jumping up and down and screaming with glee right here in the Customs line at the airport in Bogotá. But I won't. See previous mention.
With the knowledge that I can live and survive just about anywhere, all I need is a yoga mat, a decent pillow and an internet connection.
On my way to Rio but already wondering where the next adventure might take me.
I leave Colombia...
With a counterfeit 10,000 peso note. Not sure how it ended up in my wallet, but it has quickly become my favorite souvenir.
Maybe with a few extra pounds around the waistline, thanks to too many cold cervezas, freshly-roasted corn on the cob drenched in butter, sinfully yummy treats made of arequipe (basically caramel) and the arepas. Oh those damn arepas... imagine a big piece of corn bread in the shape of a thick pancake, lightly fried in oil and butter, and filled with a sweet white cheese that oozes out as you try to slow the speed of inhale. It's heaven on the go for a snacker like me.
With tremendous respect for a culture that is diverse, progressive and open-minded. I never once felt odd for being a solo female traveler. I was never stared at or made to feel uncomfortable or intimidated in any way, as I might be in many other corners of the world. Here's a secret for you: Women completely rule in Colombia. They are modern, educated, sophisticated and confident. Just don't tell the guys this. They would probably deny it.
Having made new friends from Montevideo to Asuncion to Alberta to Tel Aviv, not to mention every corner of Colombia. This is why I travel, after all.
With a few new excellent slang words to round out my Spanish vocabulary.
Waxed, manicured and pedicured for such little money that I felt compelled to give the gals a ridiculously large tip.
With immense appreciation for a remarkable country and its incredibly kind people. I have never before felt so totally welcomed or unconditionally accepted as a foreigner. In every respect, Colombia greeted me with open arms.
Equal parts grateful and annoyed that as a well-kept white girl from the United States, I generally breeze through security and Customs without a second glance. I recognize that I probably just jinxed myself.
So excited to finally be en route to Brasil that I might start jumping up and down and screaming with glee right here in the Customs line at the airport in Bogotá. But I won't. See previous mention.
With the knowledge that I can live and survive just about anywhere, all I need is a yoga mat, a decent pillow and an internet connection.
On my way to Rio but already wondering where the next adventure might take me.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Beaches and big lips and shopping OH MY!
As the saying goes, careful what you wish for.
I have always thought it would be pretty amazing to look like Angelina Jolie. And wouldn't you know, this morning I awoke with lips so puffy and swollen, you'd swear I had been injected with collagen overnight. Only unlike it is for Miss Superstar Humanitarian Wondermom, big lips aren't looking so sexy on me. It must be a sunburn, unless some creepy crawly little thing bit me during the night... but let's not go there.
Maybe the swollen lips are punishment handed down by the Gods of Self-Imposed Rules, because as of now I have officially broken all three of my own. The first: No Coffee. Well come on, I am in Colombia after all. Can you blame me? The second: No Blackberry. Impossible, silly rule for an addict like me. The third: No Shopping. What can I say? I am weak. Pathetic and weak.
But isn't it always the case that when traveling, you just never seem to have the right clothes with you? Or, more like my situation right now, you start to hate the few things you do have? I look back on my 6 weeks traveling around Europe, and wonder how I didn't burn the 8 pieces of clothing I wore during that entire time. Come to think of it, maybe I did.
In my defense, the shopping wasn't completely my fault. The boutiques in the high-class beachfront neighborhood of Bocagrande (think La Jolla) are just too enticing to pass by. They beckon me with their very reasonable prices and fabulously unique made-in-Colombia fashions. Shame on them, not me. Those damn boutiques turned "not shopping" into Mission Impossible. And I am Angelina, remember? Not Tom Cruise.
I spent most of the day on Monday snoozing on the beach in Bocagrande, Blackberrying under a shady blue carpa (rentable by the day for only $5... or $4 with a little sweet-talking). Feigning sleep became my best defense against the parade of vendors marching up and down the beach, selling everything from recently deceased fish to massages to plastic watches. It was a perfectly content afternoon of beach naps and shopping, meant to be topped off with a trendy sushi dinner at Tabetai - where one very sexy Colombian sushi chef (he studied in Venezuela under a Japanese master) mixed up some of the most amazing sea bass ceviche and spicy tuna that I have ever tasted. I am happy to report that the new dress I had just guiltily bought quickly paid for itself. What else explains the complimentary glasses of wine that appeared at my table all evening?!
Tuesday was much less of a perfect day, and all I will say is that those of you considering a day trip to the beautiful Playa Blanca on the Island of Baru, well, don't. Yes, the beaches are gorgeous and oh so Caribbean, with pristine turquoise waters, swaying palm trees and long stretches of sugary white sand. But make this trip only if you plan to spend the night sleeping on a rented hammock or in a tent - something I would have loved to do had I timed my visit a little more, and if I wanted to tolerate the mosquito attacks that would surely be a part of this experience (which I didn't).
Early on Tuesday morning, I booked a seat on a high-speed motor boat, thinking I would avoid all the big tour groups and head direct to the island. Not quite so. By the time the boat actually got going, then made various stops around the bay for who-knows-what, then dropped off some folks at the touristy Aquarium, then slowed here and there to give a talking tour around the archipelago, it was well after 1pm when we actually made it to shore. And we had to turn around and head back at 3:30! The cruise out was fun enough, but the ride back was so smashy, choppy, churny and whiplashy I thought my spine would crack into two. I think actually it did. And so I hobbled my way back to the hotel, popped a few Motrin, and began to wonder if it was all really worth it. The jury is still out.
Wednesday. Hot, muggy, tired, icky. I have given myself a day off, and apart from a luxurious $4 spa pedicure, I have done as close to nothing as possible all day. Later tonight, I will take my achy back, two hilariously puffy lips, some cute new clothes and a dwindling bank account, and bid farewell to the beautiful city of Cartagena. Medellin awaits.
Snoozing beachfront in Bocagrande
Floating by the dock of the bay
Cruising away from Cartagena
There was a time I would only eat Lucky Charms.
Fresh coconut water served beachfront on Playa Blanca
I was caught! Yes, I bought some fruit in return.
Happiness comes in the simplest of forms.
I have always thought it would be pretty amazing to look like Angelina Jolie. And wouldn't you know, this morning I awoke with lips so puffy and swollen, you'd swear I had been injected with collagen overnight. Only unlike it is for Miss Superstar Humanitarian Wondermom, big lips aren't looking so sexy on me. It must be a sunburn, unless some creepy crawly little thing bit me during the night... but let's not go there.
Maybe the swollen lips are punishment handed down by the Gods of Self-Imposed Rules, because as of now I have officially broken all three of my own. The first: No Coffee. Well come on, I am in Colombia after all. Can you blame me? The second: No Blackberry. Impossible, silly rule for an addict like me. The third: No Shopping. What can I say? I am weak. Pathetic and weak.
But isn't it always the case that when traveling, you just never seem to have the right clothes with you? Or, more like my situation right now, you start to hate the few things you do have? I look back on my 6 weeks traveling around Europe, and wonder how I didn't burn the 8 pieces of clothing I wore during that entire time. Come to think of it, maybe I did.
In my defense, the shopping wasn't completely my fault. The boutiques in the high-class beachfront neighborhood of Bocagrande (think La Jolla) are just too enticing to pass by. They beckon me with their very reasonable prices and fabulously unique made-in-Colombia fashions. Shame on them, not me. Those damn boutiques turned "not shopping" into Mission Impossible. And I am Angelina, remember? Not Tom Cruise.
I spent most of the day on Monday snoozing on the beach in Bocagrande, Blackberrying under a shady blue carpa (rentable by the day for only $5... or $4 with a little sweet-talking). Feigning sleep became my best defense against the parade of vendors marching up and down the beach, selling everything from recently deceased fish to massages to plastic watches. It was a perfectly content afternoon of beach naps and shopping, meant to be topped off with a trendy sushi dinner at Tabetai - where one very sexy Colombian sushi chef (he studied in Venezuela under a Japanese master) mixed up some of the most amazing sea bass ceviche and spicy tuna that I have ever tasted. I am happy to report that the new dress I had just guiltily bought quickly paid for itself. What else explains the complimentary glasses of wine that appeared at my table all evening?!
Tuesday was much less of a perfect day, and all I will say is that those of you considering a day trip to the beautiful Playa Blanca on the Island of Baru, well, don't. Yes, the beaches are gorgeous and oh so Caribbean, with pristine turquoise waters, swaying palm trees and long stretches of sugary white sand. But make this trip only if you plan to spend the night sleeping on a rented hammock or in a tent - something I would have loved to do had I timed my visit a little more, and if I wanted to tolerate the mosquito attacks that would surely be a part of this experience (which I didn't).
Early on Tuesday morning, I booked a seat on a high-speed motor boat, thinking I would avoid all the big tour groups and head direct to the island. Not quite so. By the time the boat actually got going, then made various stops around the bay for who-knows-what, then dropped off some folks at the touristy Aquarium, then slowed here and there to give a talking tour around the archipelago, it was well after 1pm when we actually made it to shore. And we had to turn around and head back at 3:30! The cruise out was fun enough, but the ride back was so smashy, choppy, churny and whiplashy I thought my spine would crack into two. I think actually it did. And so I hobbled my way back to the hotel, popped a few Motrin, and began to wonder if it was all really worth it. The jury is still out.
Wednesday. Hot, muggy, tired, icky. I have given myself a day off, and apart from a luxurious $4 spa pedicure, I have done as close to nothing as possible all day. Later tonight, I will take my achy back, two hilariously puffy lips, some cute new clothes and a dwindling bank account, and bid farewell to the beautiful city of Cartagena. Medellin awaits.
Snoozing beachfront in Bocagrande
Floating by the dock of the bay
Cruising away from Cartagena
There was a time I would only eat Lucky Charms.
Fresh coconut water served beachfront on Playa Blanca
I was caught! Yes, I bought some fruit in return.
Happiness comes in the simplest of forms.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Cartagena, like no other
Under the brightest of moons, with a cool breeze blowing through the plaza just outside the city's walls, the voice of Placido Domingo - live, in the flesh - rises up into the clear night. On the other side of the wall, just steps away, this magical sound is swallowed up by the heavy rhythms of salsa music pouring out of Donde Fidel Salsa Bar. Like you might find in any American sports bar, a large number of men fill the space in this legendary spot, staring intentedly at a big screen TV. Only tonight, they aren't watching any sort of big game, but rather videos of live salsa bands as turned by the resident Video Jockey. Swaying and rocking in their seats, they are enchanted by these native rhythms, completely oblivious to the famous tenor belting a tune just around the corner.
It must be Saturday night in Cartagena.
And lucky for me, I am here now, peering through the gates to catch a glimpse of Sr. Domingo, then strolling across Plaza de Los Coches and straight into Donde Fidel to join in the nightly rumba. There really is no where else I would rather be tonight, because in a matter of hours I have fallen completely in love with this city. Despite the overwhelming heat and the occasional nasty mosquito, Cartagena lives up to is reputation as the gem of Colombia. Hectic, hot and beautiful by day.... steamy, sultry and downright sexy by night. As far as cities go, Cartagena is everything and more.
I felt the city's charm the moment I arrived; it would be impossible not to. Imagine row after row of quaint colonial buildings in every color, old-world balconies draped with magnificent flowers, all overlooking a maze of narrow cobblestone streets that see surprisingly little traffic. Around every corner is a spacious plaza, or a lovely garden, or a bustling marketplace, or an ancient church, or a lone vendor selling plump avocados. A police officer stands vigil on every block, watching over the city as horse-drawn carriages trot by. An entire block of enticing candy stalls make up El Portal de los Dulces, adding more sugar to an already sweet atmosphere.
What makes it all so magical is that all of this life and ambience and beauty is trapped within the confines of an imposing stone wall that encircles the historic center, offering a striking reminder of the city's complicated past. As the LP guidebook points out, the city wall deterred pirate attacks and pillaging throughout the centuries, but in modern times it is no match for the tourist machine that flocks here daily. This may be true, but I haven't noticed the tramplings of tourism nearly as much as I thought I would. The crowds here feel much more authentically local than they do extranjero. Or maybe all the tourists are hiding out in internet cafes and coffee shops, wherever they can find air con and refuge from the sweltering afternoon heat.
I will admit that earlier tonight I was doing just that. In desperate need for a late-afternoon boost and some beloved cafe ambience, I broke down, made a beeline for the nearby Juan Valdez Cafe, and had my first cup of coffee in nearly 2 months. And damn was it good, right down to the very last drop of tinto. I must say, all that hype about the fabulousness of the Colombian roast isn't just hype... or maybe I was merely growing desperate. Regardless, it was worth the wait.
What's more, it seems my pattern of making new friends in cafes has followed me all the way to Cartagena: soon enough, a conversation was struck with a friendly father and son duo from Bogotá, and next thing I know this lovely family is inviting me to their beachfront apartment in the nearby town of La Boquilla. Happy to accept, I spent the afternoon lounging by their pool and completely enjoying the company. And, I was reminded that if making friends is what the cafe scene brings, then I need no other reason to start drinking coffee again.
And so here I am, totally at peace in Cartagena. After 10 exhausting days of traveling and constant movement, I have decided to stay put for awhile. I have completely settled in at a lovely little hotel in El Centro, and have no desire to leave. Why would I? For 20 USD per night, I have a large tiled room in a recently-renovated building, cable TV that includes English news channels, a private bathroom, access to a common kitchen, a huge living room area with free high speed internet, a wonderful staff with whom I have become friends, and a location in the historic center that could not be more safe or perfect for a lone traveler like me. I have groceries in the fridge and some photos on the public desktop. At least for the next few days, I am completely and happily at home.
Splendid balconies
Stunning architecture
Incredible interiors
Plaza de Los Coches
A city's fortress
Candy for sale along the Portal de Los Dulces
Ripe avocadoes for only 1 dollar!
A newfound friend (wearing my jaunty hat)
The central "courtyard" at my current home
It must be Saturday night in Cartagena.
And lucky for me, I am here now, peering through the gates to catch a glimpse of Sr. Domingo, then strolling across Plaza de Los Coches and straight into Donde Fidel to join in the nightly rumba. There really is no where else I would rather be tonight, because in a matter of hours I have fallen completely in love with this city. Despite the overwhelming heat and the occasional nasty mosquito, Cartagena lives up to is reputation as the gem of Colombia. Hectic, hot and beautiful by day.... steamy, sultry and downright sexy by night. As far as cities go, Cartagena is everything and more.
I felt the city's charm the moment I arrived; it would be impossible not to. Imagine row after row of quaint colonial buildings in every color, old-world balconies draped with magnificent flowers, all overlooking a maze of narrow cobblestone streets that see surprisingly little traffic. Around every corner is a spacious plaza, or a lovely garden, or a bustling marketplace, or an ancient church, or a lone vendor selling plump avocados. A police officer stands vigil on every block, watching over the city as horse-drawn carriages trot by. An entire block of enticing candy stalls make up El Portal de los Dulces, adding more sugar to an already sweet atmosphere.
What makes it all so magical is that all of this life and ambience and beauty is trapped within the confines of an imposing stone wall that encircles the historic center, offering a striking reminder of the city's complicated past. As the LP guidebook points out, the city wall deterred pirate attacks and pillaging throughout the centuries, but in modern times it is no match for the tourist machine that flocks here daily. This may be true, but I haven't noticed the tramplings of tourism nearly as much as I thought I would. The crowds here feel much more authentically local than they do extranjero. Or maybe all the tourists are hiding out in internet cafes and coffee shops, wherever they can find air con and refuge from the sweltering afternoon heat.
I will admit that earlier tonight I was doing just that. In desperate need for a late-afternoon boost and some beloved cafe ambience, I broke down, made a beeline for the nearby Juan Valdez Cafe, and had my first cup of coffee in nearly 2 months. And damn was it good, right down to the very last drop of tinto. I must say, all that hype about the fabulousness of the Colombian roast isn't just hype... or maybe I was merely growing desperate. Regardless, it was worth the wait.
What's more, it seems my pattern of making new friends in cafes has followed me all the way to Cartagena: soon enough, a conversation was struck with a friendly father and son duo from Bogotá, and next thing I know this lovely family is inviting me to their beachfront apartment in the nearby town of La Boquilla. Happy to accept, I spent the afternoon lounging by their pool and completely enjoying the company. And, I was reminded that if making friends is what the cafe scene brings, then I need no other reason to start drinking coffee again.
And so here I am, totally at peace in Cartagena. After 10 exhausting days of traveling and constant movement, I have decided to stay put for awhile. I have completely settled in at a lovely little hotel in El Centro, and have no desire to leave. Why would I? For 20 USD per night, I have a large tiled room in a recently-renovated building, cable TV that includes English news channels, a private bathroom, access to a common kitchen, a huge living room area with free high speed internet, a wonderful staff with whom I have become friends, and a location in the historic center that could not be more safe or perfect for a lone traveler like me. I have groceries in the fridge and some photos on the public desktop. At least for the next few days, I am completely and happily at home.
Splendid balconies
Stunning architecture
Incredible interiors
Plaza de Los Coches
A city's fortress
Candy for sale along the Portal de Los Dulces
Ripe avocadoes for only 1 dollar!
A newfound friend (wearing my jaunty hat)
The central "courtyard" at my current home
Friday, September 4, 2009
Sevilla in Santa Marta
Yes, I lie. And just like when with a group of 20-something backpackers I am 28 years old (end of story), my name when receiving unwanted attention from locals (mostly men) is now "Sevilla". It's a good one, don't you think? First of all, it's more easily pronounced around here than my real name; second, it offers a degree of anonimity; and mostly, I just love the way it sounds. So exotic.
So La Blancita Sevilla now finds herself in Santa Marta, staring at the biggest bowl of fruit salad I have ever seen in my life. Papaya, pineapple, banana and watermelon drenched in fresh yogurt and granola: Colombians certainly know what to do with fruit. Last night for dinner I had sliced mango from a street vendor and an ice cold beer at La Puerta bar. See how much fun it is to be a non meat-eater?
It feels great to have finally reached the coast, and the very long bus journey to get here was well worth it. Here in Santa Marta I am seeing some major contrasts to the pretty, organized city life in the interior. This is Caribbean territory: dusty, hot, chaotic streets packed with people and kids and dogs and construction projects, this town moves fast and slow at the same time. Although the city is apparently building up quite quickly, with big plans in the works to attract more visitors, there remains that chilled-out vibe typical to any beach town. I have noticed here some obvious disparities in income and maybe a lower standard of living than I have so far seen around Colombia. But again, it's nothing like the desperate, painful poverty I have witnessed elsewhere in the world. It's more like living contentedly within one's means - along a very long stretch of beautiful sandy shore. Not exactly awful.
This morning I took myself for a jog and swim along this beautiful sandy shore, introducing myself as Sevilla to the few folks who wanted to chat and cheer me on as I ran. I thought I might get this kind of attention as the only gringa jogging, but within minutes it was happily stolen from me: this kid, no more than 17 years old and clad only in tight little swim trunks and his MP3 player, took to the middle of the beach as though it were a stage, and started to dance. And I mean, DANCE! He was outrageous. Thrusting and grinding and shimmying and shaking - he looked like a backup dancer in a Janet Jackson video. Or Shakira's number 1 fan (she is Colombian, by the way). Literally everyone on the beach just stopped and stared - we really couldn't help it - and a group of giggly teenage girls nearby did their best to copy his every move. He either didn't notice or didn't care: he just kept on shaking it. It was quite a show, and I was glad someone took away all the attention!
I have been here for less than 2 days, but feel I have done and seen enough in this town. There are some Must See places close to Santa Marta, like stunning national parks and rewarding cultural hikes, but I am just not in the mood to see them. I am quite tired of being on the Gringo Trail and going where all the other travelers go. And anyway, I am itching to get to Cartagena (remember Romancing the Stone?), a city I expect to be beautiful and fun and full of things to do.
In addition to doing my laundry, feeding me this gorgeous fruit salad, and generally looking out for me, the wonderfully helpful owners here at Casa Familiar in Santa Marta have arranged a shared vehicle of sorts that will take me door-to-door (a four hour journey) to my next stop right in the center of Cartagena. As much as I don't mind the buses (see previous post) this will be a welcome and convenient way to travel.
And so, Sevilla goes to Cartagena... until then!
Inside Casa Familiar
Fabio and granddaughter Melanie, the management team at Casa Familiar
So La Blancita Sevilla now finds herself in Santa Marta, staring at the biggest bowl of fruit salad I have ever seen in my life. Papaya, pineapple, banana and watermelon drenched in fresh yogurt and granola: Colombians certainly know what to do with fruit. Last night for dinner I had sliced mango from a street vendor and an ice cold beer at La Puerta bar. See how much fun it is to be a non meat-eater?
It feels great to have finally reached the coast, and the very long bus journey to get here was well worth it. Here in Santa Marta I am seeing some major contrasts to the pretty, organized city life in the interior. This is Caribbean territory: dusty, hot, chaotic streets packed with people and kids and dogs and construction projects, this town moves fast and slow at the same time. Although the city is apparently building up quite quickly, with big plans in the works to attract more visitors, there remains that chilled-out vibe typical to any beach town. I have noticed here some obvious disparities in income and maybe a lower standard of living than I have so far seen around Colombia. But again, it's nothing like the desperate, painful poverty I have witnessed elsewhere in the world. It's more like living contentedly within one's means - along a very long stretch of beautiful sandy shore. Not exactly awful.
This morning I took myself for a jog and swim along this beautiful sandy shore, introducing myself as Sevilla to the few folks who wanted to chat and cheer me on as I ran. I thought I might get this kind of attention as the only gringa jogging, but within minutes it was happily stolen from me: this kid, no more than 17 years old and clad only in tight little swim trunks and his MP3 player, took to the middle of the beach as though it were a stage, and started to dance. And I mean, DANCE! He was outrageous. Thrusting and grinding and shimmying and shaking - he looked like a backup dancer in a Janet Jackson video. Or Shakira's number 1 fan (she is Colombian, by the way). Literally everyone on the beach just stopped and stared - we really couldn't help it - and a group of giggly teenage girls nearby did their best to copy his every move. He either didn't notice or didn't care: he just kept on shaking it. It was quite a show, and I was glad someone took away all the attention!
I have been here for less than 2 days, but feel I have done and seen enough in this town. There are some Must See places close to Santa Marta, like stunning national parks and rewarding cultural hikes, but I am just not in the mood to see them. I am quite tired of being on the Gringo Trail and going where all the other travelers go. And anyway, I am itching to get to Cartagena (remember Romancing the Stone?), a city I expect to be beautiful and fun and full of things to do.
In addition to doing my laundry, feeding me this gorgeous fruit salad, and generally looking out for me, the wonderfully helpful owners here at Casa Familiar in Santa Marta have arranged a shared vehicle of sorts that will take me door-to-door (a four hour journey) to my next stop right in the center of Cartagena. As much as I don't mind the buses (see previous post) this will be a welcome and convenient way to travel.
And so, Sevilla goes to Cartagena... until then!
Inside Casa Familiar
Fabio and granddaughter Melanie, the management team at Casa Familiar
The Journey by Bus
Let me tell you a bit about traveling by bus in Colombia (photos forthcoming).
First of all, we are not talking rusty old open-air trucks with caged chickens on the roof and 30 people packed into 10 seats. Hardly! These inter-city buses are super deluxe coaches with cushy seats, full power air-con and movies galore. And thankfully so, since the lack of trains leave little alternative.
Walk into a bus terminal, and you are immediately hounded by uniformed reps from the many bus companies whose purpose is to sell you a seat. Santa Marta? Cartagena? Para adonde vas? they all yell out to you. It's a bit dizzying, but if you can stay focused you know to go straight to the ticket counters. Check around before making any commitment: there is a lot of competition with so many companies taking the same route, so prices can be somewhat negotiated. But we are already in the cheap anyway (example: $27 for a 13 hour journey).
Waiting, backpacker style (yes, that is my wheely-bag in the middle)
Waiting for the bus, there isn't much to do other than eat some of the many sweets made of arequipe (caramel), watch one of the dramatic telenovelas that consistently blares from the TV, or use the loo. You may be shocked to hear that the bathrooms at these terminals can be surprisingly clean, but entry is guarded by a very bored-looking attendant. What a job. To enter the facilities, you must hand over a handful of pesos, average 25 cents. In exchange, you might get a smile, and you will definitely get a small stack of toilet paper. The San Gil bus terminal charged all of 35 cents to use their bathroom, maybe because the stack of toilet paper was sealed and stapled inside a little plastic baggie. 10 additional cents for the sanitation measure. Worth it.
Cuantos pesos para entrar?
Something I need to investigate is whether men are charged as well... And do they get toilet paper? Or even a smile?
Once the coach pulls in (right on schedule), bags are tagged and loaded securely underneath as everyone scrambles to get a good seat. A vendor or two walk through the aisle, selling cold drinks, snacks, sandwiches, empanadas, you name it. A movie starts to play, but to my dismay it's Taken once again. I love this movie, and of course love Liam, but I just saw it on the last bus ride and it's a tough movie to watch when traveling solo. So instead I pop in the earplugs, pop some Ambien, and lay back to hopefully sleep through the very long ride ahead. Destination? The beach.
First of all, we are not talking rusty old open-air trucks with caged chickens on the roof and 30 people packed into 10 seats. Hardly! These inter-city buses are super deluxe coaches with cushy seats, full power air-con and movies galore. And thankfully so, since the lack of trains leave little alternative.
Walk into a bus terminal, and you are immediately hounded by uniformed reps from the many bus companies whose purpose is to sell you a seat. Santa Marta? Cartagena? Para adonde vas? they all yell out to you. It's a bit dizzying, but if you can stay focused you know to go straight to the ticket counters. Check around before making any commitment: there is a lot of competition with so many companies taking the same route, so prices can be somewhat negotiated. But we are already in the cheap anyway (example: $27 for a 13 hour journey).
Waiting, backpacker style (yes, that is my wheely-bag in the middle)
Waiting for the bus, there isn't much to do other than eat some of the many sweets made of arequipe (caramel), watch one of the dramatic telenovelas that consistently blares from the TV, or use the loo. You may be shocked to hear that the bathrooms at these terminals can be surprisingly clean, but entry is guarded by a very bored-looking attendant. What a job. To enter the facilities, you must hand over a handful of pesos, average 25 cents. In exchange, you might get a smile, and you will definitely get a small stack of toilet paper. The San Gil bus terminal charged all of 35 cents to use their bathroom, maybe because the stack of toilet paper was sealed and stapled inside a little plastic baggie. 10 additional cents for the sanitation measure. Worth it.
Cuantos pesos para entrar?
Something I need to investigate is whether men are charged as well... And do they get toilet paper? Or even a smile?
Once the coach pulls in (right on schedule), bags are tagged and loaded securely underneath as everyone scrambles to get a good seat. A vendor or two walk through the aisle, selling cold drinks, snacks, sandwiches, empanadas, you name it. A movie starts to play, but to my dismay it's Taken once again. I love this movie, and of course love Liam, but I just saw it on the last bus ride and it's a tough movie to watch when traveling solo. So instead I pop in the earplugs, pop some Ambien, and lay back to hopefully sleep through the very long ride ahead. Destination? The beach.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Pretty teeth in Colombia
Here's something you may not have known about Colombia: everyone has great teeth. Shiny, straight, white, beautiful teeth. For those of you who know me, and know how obsessed I am with straight, white teeth, you can imagine how much I am enjoying this discovery.
Apparently, dental work is very affordable here, and those who don't yet have perfect teeth have braces. In fact, I have seen more adults with braces in the past week than I have in my lifetime. Turns out it's only about $100 to have the metal put on, and about $25 per tightening once a month. This is outrageous! As you can imagine, I have already heard stories of budget travelers planning on getting their wisdom teeth pulled and fillings replaced while in Medellin. Maybe I should get some work done as well??
Rumor has it that Medellin is also the place to go for plastic surgery. Lots of fake everything. I will be in that city sometime next week; I promise to report back.
For now, I remain in beautiful San Gil, about ready to set off for the long journey to the northern coast. San Gil really is an adventurer's paradise, like Lake Tahoe or Colorado in the summertime: every mountain and river sport imaginable is on offer here. And everything is very affordable, so how could I refuse?
Paragliding yesterday was fun if not a little bit barfy. A group of us went up to a ledge overlooking the canyon of Curiti, and waited for the wind to be just right. Finallly it was my turn to fly.
Strapped tight to my trusty pilot, Jaime, we set off just as it began to rain, and a gorgeous rainbow appeared in the distance. Floating high above the valley far, far below was an amazing experience. Crazy Jaime was all too keen to freak me out though, with tricks and flips and turns and gliding down so close to the trees inside the canyon that my shoe actually brushed some leaves. I was terrified but loved it. As I said, it was a little barfy. But really fun.
And today - again, simply because I am here and it's THE thing to do in San Gil - I went river rafting with two couples from Bogota. Now, it is a universal rule that to be a rafting guide, you must be hot. Our guide Jason was no exception. So don't feel sorry for me, the lone female traveler sounding like a 5th oar. Quite the contrary: cruising the river with a gorgeous rafting guide and his perfect Colombian teeth.... Well, I was just fine.
Apparently, dental work is very affordable here, and those who don't yet have perfect teeth have braces. In fact, I have seen more adults with braces in the past week than I have in my lifetime. Turns out it's only about $100 to have the metal put on, and about $25 per tightening once a month. This is outrageous! As you can imagine, I have already heard stories of budget travelers planning on getting their wisdom teeth pulled and fillings replaced while in Medellin. Maybe I should get some work done as well??
Rumor has it that Medellin is also the place to go for plastic surgery. Lots of fake everything. I will be in that city sometime next week; I promise to report back.
For now, I remain in beautiful San Gil, about ready to set off for the long journey to the northern coast. San Gil really is an adventurer's paradise, like Lake Tahoe or Colorado in the summertime: every mountain and river sport imaginable is on offer here. And everything is very affordable, so how could I refuse?
Paragliding yesterday was fun if not a little bit barfy. A group of us went up to a ledge overlooking the canyon of Curiti, and waited for the wind to be just right. Finallly it was my turn to fly.
Strapped tight to my trusty pilot, Jaime, we set off just as it began to rain, and a gorgeous rainbow appeared in the distance. Floating high above the valley far, far below was an amazing experience. Crazy Jaime was all too keen to freak me out though, with tricks and flips and turns and gliding down so close to the trees inside the canyon that my shoe actually brushed some leaves. I was terrified but loved it. As I said, it was a little barfy. But really fun.
And today - again, simply because I am here and it's THE thing to do in San Gil - I went river rafting with two couples from Bogota. Now, it is a universal rule that to be a rafting guide, you must be hot. Our guide Jason was no exception. So don't feel sorry for me, the lone female traveler sounding like a 5th oar. Quite the contrary: cruising the river with a gorgeous rafting guide and his perfect Colombian teeth.... Well, I was just fine.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
When in Colombia
The movie was in German and Turkish with Spanish subtitles. El Otro Lado, The Other Side. It was a compelling indie drama about race and political persecution: a great way to spend a sleepy Sunday night in Villa de Leyva. The real attraction though was the "movie theater", if one can call it that. Set up in La Patriarca Salon de Eventos, the screening room was nothing more than a large-ish meeting room lined with rows of over-sized, swiveling office chairs, set up theater style to face a screen in the front of the room. An attendant offered in-seat service of drinks and snacks to the three people in the room, including me. It was oddly cozy, and I thought, who really needs surround-sound and jumbo screens and extra-large containers of popcorn? This works just fine.
Which goes back to my previous observations about the Colombian people seeming to have everything they need, no more and no less. It's not about bigger, better, newer, shinier, more more more. It's about figuring out what's missing, or what's needed - like a movie cinema in this tiny town - and filling that space to the point of "just right".
As Andres said, si no tenemos, hacemos. Now I am starting to get it.
So today I find myself in San Gil, "adventure capital of Colombia" and 4 hours closer to the Carribbean coast. A fresh glass of papaya juice at one of the many juice bars inside the produce market seems to be the perfect precursor to my first experience with parapente, or paragliding, which happens in about 1 hour from now. I can just picture my dad now rolling his eyes, thinking what a nutcase I am. But as they say, when in Colombia...
Which goes back to my previous observations about the Colombian people seeming to have everything they need, no more and no less. It's not about bigger, better, newer, shinier, more more more. It's about figuring out what's missing, or what's needed - like a movie cinema in this tiny town - and filling that space to the point of "just right".
As Andres said, si no tenemos, hacemos. Now I am starting to get it.
So today I find myself in San Gil, "adventure capital of Colombia" and 4 hours closer to the Carribbean coast. A fresh glass of papaya juice at one of the many juice bars inside the produce market seems to be the perfect precursor to my first experience with parapente, or paragliding, which happens in about 1 hour from now. I can just picture my dad now rolling his eyes, thinking what a nutcase I am. But as they say, when in Colombia...
Monday, August 31, 2009
A lazy weekend in Villa de Leyva
On Saturday afternoon, I stepped out of the lovely little La Roca hotel, and was greeted by Andres, a local guy hanging around the plaza doing nothing in particular. He and his rescued dog Venga escorted me to the weekend market, where I proceeded to go nuts over all the luscious fruits and veggies. Fresh produce: my idea of heaven. Andres introduced me to a variety of fruits I had never before tasted... including a sweet-potato thing best eaten drenched in honey and salt, with a tiny round of coconut fruit in the middle. Yum! Unlike I would do back home, I never once considered washing off the fruit before eating it. Maybe I am naive, but I couldn't imagine these fresh crops being drenched in pesticides.
Later, I sat with Andres and Venga, munching on crisp string beans while he gave me a good long lecture on the state of Colombian politics and the strength of the nations's export-based economy. He reiterated that the country, with its vast supply of primary resources, is not at all dependent on tourism or on imports, and this explains its relative success. "Si no tenemos, hacemos", he told me. If we don't have it, we make it. A pretty good DIY philosophy, if you ask me.
Later that day and still laden with bags full of fresh mangoes and mini plums, I ducked into a gold-plated church and happened upon a full-scale Colombian wedding. It was stunning; everyone was dressed to the nines, dark suits and elegant dresses. Of course I hovered in the back of the church and waited to take some photos of the splendid celebration as the wedding party exited the church. And I was not the only gringo to do so!
So now we come to Sunday. Having just returned from a bouncy, one-hour cabalgata through the surrounding hills on the back of a lazy little horse named El Principe, I am now happily stoned on Motrin, and will probably spend the rest of the day exploring the little town, snacking on local treats, and people-watching in the plaza. Maybe I will go see the indie movie playing tonight at the Salon de Eventos in Casa Quintero, not even caring what language the film is in.
Yeah, it's a tough life. But someone has to do it.
PS: I will upload some photos just as soon as I find the patience to do so. Stay tuned!
Later, I sat with Andres and Venga, munching on crisp string beans while he gave me a good long lecture on the state of Colombian politics and the strength of the nations's export-based economy. He reiterated that the country, with its vast supply of primary resources, is not at all dependent on tourism or on imports, and this explains its relative success. "Si no tenemos, hacemos", he told me. If we don't have it, we make it. A pretty good DIY philosophy, if you ask me.
Later that day and still laden with bags full of fresh mangoes and mini plums, I ducked into a gold-plated church and happened upon a full-scale Colombian wedding. It was stunning; everyone was dressed to the nines, dark suits and elegant dresses. Of course I hovered in the back of the church and waited to take some photos of the splendid celebration as the wedding party exited the church. And I was not the only gringo to do so!
So now we come to Sunday. Having just returned from a bouncy, one-hour cabalgata through the surrounding hills on the back of a lazy little horse named El Principe, I am now happily stoned on Motrin, and will probably spend the rest of the day exploring the little town, snacking on local treats, and people-watching in the plaza. Maybe I will go see the indie movie playing tonight at the Salon de Eventos in Casa Quintero, not even caring what language the film is in.
Yeah, it's a tough life. But someone has to do it.
PS: I will upload some photos just as soon as I find the patience to do so. Stay tuned!
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Hiking with Pal
I woke early this morning to the sound of church bells clanging and roosters crowing. Glancing around the room, I sighed with relief and went back to sleep. Ahhhh.... I though, no roommates.
For the sheer kick of paying only $7 per night for a place to stay, I spent Friday night in a shared dorm room at a backpacker hostel, the ecolodge Renacer Guesthouse. One night was more than enough. Especially since my roommate for the evening was Alistair from the UK. A lovely man, friendly enough, but it just felt really uncomfortable, especially when I came into the cramped little room wrapped in nothing more than a towel, and there he was. Awkward indeed. But maybe the first time always feels that way.
Needless to say, I like my privacy, and by the next morning I had reserved a private room at Hospederia La Roca, a charming little hotel that feeds directly into Plaza Mayor. A big comfy bed, private bathroom, endless hot water and a TV with cable. Plus, the location can't be beat, and the architecture and layout are stunning: like an old Colonial mansion set in an English garden, with 2 large, open air, hydrangea-filled courtyards in the center. All this for only $10 more per night. Is there any question?
My stay at Renacer wasn't all for naught. The lodge is very nice, immaculately clean (as actually all the hostels and hotels have been so far), and tranquily set up in the hills a good 10 minutes from town. Although a bit too removed for my tastes, the area is great for hiking, and the trails behind the lodge lead to trickling waterfalls and a birds-eye view of the town below. For this hike I joined up with a family of three from Canada: single-mom Stephanie, the adventurous Jordan (9) and the well-mannered Ariel (12). We were led the entire way by Pal, a local dog who clearly had taken this path many times before. Anytime we were lost or unsure in which way to head, the kids would insist we follow Pal. And every time, the kids - and the dog - were right. He was the most reliable guide I have ever known, and we couldn't beat the price for his services!
Now let me take a moment to speak about this family. Stephanie works in education in Canada, and through some clever program has been paying into a fund for the past four years that allows her to take the 5th year off of work - fully paid. So what does she do? She sets off on a 10-month backpacking tour of Central and South America with her two kids, who keep up with school via emails from their teachers. Her kids are smart, well-adjusted, adaptable and open-minded. Not yet teenagers, they have already been exposed to more of the world than most adults ever will be. And they seem to love it; the travel bug is permanently a part of who they are.
I have heard about people traveling with kids like this, but have never actually seen it with my own eyes. I have so much respect for Stephanie, and feel relieved to know that a nomad like me can continue being a nomad, even once children become part of the equation. I wonder though why this type of lifestyle has to be the exception? Why can't backpacking through developing countries with kids be considered normal? Why must our adventurous traveling lives end if we have children? Don't we owe it to them, to the next generation, to expose them to everything we possibly can? Aren't we doing them a huge favor? Stephanie certainly is. I would love to catch up with these two in 15 years and see where life has taken them. Jordan, he'll probabably be a world-class surgeon working for Doctors Without Borders in Ghana or Guatemala. Ariel, well she of course will be Canada's Foreign Affairs Secretary, or the Secretary General of the UN. All because their mom was smart enough to make the right kind of sacrifices and give them this amazing opportunity. Something I will certainly keep in mind as my own future unfolds.
So now, back to Villa de Leyva, the setting for this tale. I am in love with this little town. I am already thinking English teacher by day, yoga instructor by evening/weekend. I could open up a little yoga studio and cater to locals as well as backpackers looking for some exercise during their travels.... Hmmm.... Maybe get myself a horse to get around on...
And why not? Villa de Leyva is something like paradise, without a beach. This perfectly preserved colonial town is so picturesque, straight out of a movie setting. All the low-lying buildings are white-washed with dark orange roofs, and they line narrow streets paved with massive cobblestone (over which I am constantly tripping). The weather is perfect; breezy and cool but never cold. A good percentage of the 10,000 person population is children, who spend much of their days flying kites in the gigantic main square, Plaza Mayor, bigger than any plaza I have ever seen. The people are warm and friendly, and everyone seems to own and adore a healthy, happy dog (I haven't seen one icky cat anywhere!).
This town is so safe and peaceful, I would eat my shoe if I got mugged here. It's just not possible.
And so I continue to wonder... where is this scary, dangerous Colombia I keep hearing about?
For the sheer kick of paying only $7 per night for a place to stay, I spent Friday night in a shared dorm room at a backpacker hostel, the ecolodge Renacer Guesthouse. One night was more than enough. Especially since my roommate for the evening was Alistair from the UK. A lovely man, friendly enough, but it just felt really uncomfortable, especially when I came into the cramped little room wrapped in nothing more than a towel, and there he was. Awkward indeed. But maybe the first time always feels that way.
Needless to say, I like my privacy, and by the next morning I had reserved a private room at Hospederia La Roca, a charming little hotel that feeds directly into Plaza Mayor. A big comfy bed, private bathroom, endless hot water and a TV with cable. Plus, the location can't be beat, and the architecture and layout are stunning: like an old Colonial mansion set in an English garden, with 2 large, open air, hydrangea-filled courtyards in the center. All this for only $10 more per night. Is there any question?
My stay at Renacer wasn't all for naught. The lodge is very nice, immaculately clean (as actually all the hostels and hotels have been so far), and tranquily set up in the hills a good 10 minutes from town. Although a bit too removed for my tastes, the area is great for hiking, and the trails behind the lodge lead to trickling waterfalls and a birds-eye view of the town below. For this hike I joined up with a family of three from Canada: single-mom Stephanie, the adventurous Jordan (9) and the well-mannered Ariel (12). We were led the entire way by Pal, a local dog who clearly had taken this path many times before. Anytime we were lost or unsure in which way to head, the kids would insist we follow Pal. And every time, the kids - and the dog - were right. He was the most reliable guide I have ever known, and we couldn't beat the price for his services!
Now let me take a moment to speak about this family. Stephanie works in education in Canada, and through some clever program has been paying into a fund for the past four years that allows her to take the 5th year off of work - fully paid. So what does she do? She sets off on a 10-month backpacking tour of Central and South America with her two kids, who keep up with school via emails from their teachers. Her kids are smart, well-adjusted, adaptable and open-minded. Not yet teenagers, they have already been exposed to more of the world than most adults ever will be. And they seem to love it; the travel bug is permanently a part of who they are.
I have heard about people traveling with kids like this, but have never actually seen it with my own eyes. I have so much respect for Stephanie, and feel relieved to know that a nomad like me can continue being a nomad, even once children become part of the equation. I wonder though why this type of lifestyle has to be the exception? Why can't backpacking through developing countries with kids be considered normal? Why must our adventurous traveling lives end if we have children? Don't we owe it to them, to the next generation, to expose them to everything we possibly can? Aren't we doing them a huge favor? Stephanie certainly is. I would love to catch up with these two in 15 years and see where life has taken them. Jordan, he'll probabably be a world-class surgeon working for Doctors Without Borders in Ghana or Guatemala. Ariel, well she of course will be Canada's Foreign Affairs Secretary, or the Secretary General of the UN. All because their mom was smart enough to make the right kind of sacrifices and give them this amazing opportunity. Something I will certainly keep in mind as my own future unfolds.
So now, back to Villa de Leyva, the setting for this tale. I am in love with this little town. I am already thinking English teacher by day, yoga instructor by evening/weekend. I could open up a little yoga studio and cater to locals as well as backpackers looking for some exercise during their travels.... Hmmm.... Maybe get myself a horse to get around on...
And why not? Villa de Leyva is something like paradise, without a beach. This perfectly preserved colonial town is so picturesque, straight out of a movie setting. All the low-lying buildings are white-washed with dark orange roofs, and they line narrow streets paved with massive cobblestone (over which I am constantly tripping). The weather is perfect; breezy and cool but never cold. A good percentage of the 10,000 person population is children, who spend much of their days flying kites in the gigantic main square, Plaza Mayor, bigger than any plaza I have ever seen. The people are warm and friendly, and everyone seems to own and adore a healthy, happy dog (I haven't seen one icky cat anywhere!).
This town is so safe and peaceful, I would eat my shoe if I got mugged here. It's just not possible.
And so I continue to wonder... where is this scary, dangerous Colombia I keep hearing about?
Friday, August 28, 2009
Poker face in Bogota
When traveling, there are only two reasons a backpacker doesn`t go out to party at night in a city like Bogota: 1. He has no money. 2. He doesn`t want to get mugged. For me, the latter is most definitely true. Such is the reason I find myself deep in a game of poker with 7 guys at the youth hostel Destino Nomada, enjoying the relative comfort and security of being off the street, without a money belt digging into my pelvis bone. I can pretty much guarantee that these 7 guys are staying in tonight because they have no cash. But I don´t mind at all; their company is welcomed. And in the process I discover something very important about myself: I pretty much suck at poker. So much for beginner´s luck.
As for Bogota, I just have to say that all of you people at the State Department who write those scary travel advisories really need to step back and gain some perspective. Or at least, come here for awhile and see for yourself what´s going on. Because scary, dangerous, crime-ridden Colombia seems to be anything but. In fact, it feels no more scary or dangerous than say, the Bronx after dark. Even that might be a stretch. In fact, I would rather be here in Bogota than in downtown Los Angeles. Or in Yellowstone National Park, hiking alone. Which makes me wonder, if the State Department had to write a travel advisory about visiting the U.S., and foreigners actually read it, would anyone EVER come visit my country?
Now don´t get me wrong, street crime is most definitely a problem in Bogota, particulary at night. (But isn´t that the case in almost any hectic city, especially one that is relatively poor by international standards?) And the narrow, cobblestone streets do get pretty jammed with people, almost to a claustrophobic degree. But most of these people are students, I notice. In fact there are students everywhere! Apparently the Colombians take their education very seriously, and the system is top-notch here. Maybe Bogota is like Boston.... with Salsa dancing.
And there are tons of kids here. Happy little kids who laugh and play in parks, like kids do everywhere. In my so-far-failing effort to get a visa for Brazil, I had to stop by the American Embassy today to get more pages added to my passport. "Please come back at 3:00pm", the nice lady tells me with a big, hospitable, American smile. Three hours? For real? I don´t have to wait a week? I can`t help but wonder if this surprising lack of bureaucratic paper-pushing nonsense is Obama´s influence. Just let me think it is.
So anyway, to kill some time I taxi north to Parque Simon Bolivar. Supposedly, this park is bigger than Central Park in Manhattan. It is pretty fabulous, although I remain partial to its New York cousin. The park is a beautiful and peaceful place, a perfect respite from the smelly traffic and diesel fumes of Bogota´s main roads. And on this sunny weekday, it is jam-packed with adorable school children who are quite literally "frolicking", if I can use that word. Scary, dangerous Colombia???
But as a bible thumper reveres his own great book, I believe everything I read in my Lonely Planet guidebook. And I am warned by the LP authors to avoid walking on the streets at night in the center of town, exactly where I am staying. So I do. Instead - the book wisely tells me - get up early, sightsee and enjoy the city, and consider staying safely indoors at night. For an old gal like me who loves her sleep, this is so not a problem.
Speaking of age, whenever I do the youth hostel thing, if anyone asks, I am 28 years old. End of story. But have you ever noticed how innocently expressing love for a song can instantly give you away? Once again my cards stink. I fold. The radio starts blaring that soul-wrenching ballad "I need you now.... more than words can say I need you now....." by Alias, circa 1990. "Oh my god I LOVE this song" I exclaim without thinking. The game stops. 14 young man eyes are on me. They are confused. Dumb-founded. "How old ARE you?" they ask, practically in unison.
I just smile, and keep singing along.
As for Bogota, I just have to say that all of you people at the State Department who write those scary travel advisories really need to step back and gain some perspective. Or at least, come here for awhile and see for yourself what´s going on. Because scary, dangerous, crime-ridden Colombia seems to be anything but. In fact, it feels no more scary or dangerous than say, the Bronx after dark. Even that might be a stretch. In fact, I would rather be here in Bogota than in downtown Los Angeles. Or in Yellowstone National Park, hiking alone. Which makes me wonder, if the State Department had to write a travel advisory about visiting the U.S., and foreigners actually read it, would anyone EVER come visit my country?
Now don´t get me wrong, street crime is most definitely a problem in Bogota, particulary at night. (But isn´t that the case in almost any hectic city, especially one that is relatively poor by international standards?) And the narrow, cobblestone streets do get pretty jammed with people, almost to a claustrophobic degree. But most of these people are students, I notice. In fact there are students everywhere! Apparently the Colombians take their education very seriously, and the system is top-notch here. Maybe Bogota is like Boston.... with Salsa dancing.
And there are tons of kids here. Happy little kids who laugh and play in parks, like kids do everywhere. In my so-far-failing effort to get a visa for Brazil, I had to stop by the American Embassy today to get more pages added to my passport. "Please come back at 3:00pm", the nice lady tells me with a big, hospitable, American smile. Three hours? For real? I don´t have to wait a week? I can`t help but wonder if this surprising lack of bureaucratic paper-pushing nonsense is Obama´s influence. Just let me think it is.
So anyway, to kill some time I taxi north to Parque Simon Bolivar. Supposedly, this park is bigger than Central Park in Manhattan. It is pretty fabulous, although I remain partial to its New York cousin. The park is a beautiful and peaceful place, a perfect respite from the smelly traffic and diesel fumes of Bogota´s main roads. And on this sunny weekday, it is jam-packed with adorable school children who are quite literally "frolicking", if I can use that word. Scary, dangerous Colombia???
But as a bible thumper reveres his own great book, I believe everything I read in my Lonely Planet guidebook. And I am warned by the LP authors to avoid walking on the streets at night in the center of town, exactly where I am staying. So I do. Instead - the book wisely tells me - get up early, sightsee and enjoy the city, and consider staying safely indoors at night. For an old gal like me who loves her sleep, this is so not a problem.
Speaking of age, whenever I do the youth hostel thing, if anyone asks, I am 28 years old. End of story. But have you ever noticed how innocently expressing love for a song can instantly give you away? Once again my cards stink. I fold. The radio starts blaring that soul-wrenching ballad "I need you now.... more than words can say I need you now....." by Alias, circa 1990. "Oh my god I LOVE this song" I exclaim without thinking. The game stops. 14 young man eyes are on me. They are confused. Dumb-founded. "How old ARE you?" they ask, practically in unison.
I just smile, and keep singing along.
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