Expatiperro

Links to Facebook Albums

2009-12-28T09:36:00.000-08:00

Well, my is over, but the memories remain! For those of you all who weren't able to view my pictures through Facebook during the trip, here are direct links to the albums, so that even the non-members can enjoy.

Dubai

Petra

Jordan

Israel and Palestine

Egypt

Bulgaria and Thessaloniki

Romania

Budapest

Auschwitz

Kiev and Krakow

Chernobyl

The Baltic States

St. Petersburg

Moscow

Mongolia and Siberia

Thailand, Laos, and China

Still Chugging Along...

2009-12-07T01:26:00.001-08:00

Remember me? It's been a while, so you might not, but things are still moving along here, albeit at a slightly faster pace than I can blog at. In the space of the last month, we've passed through Eastern Europe, crossed the Mediterranean, explored the ancient ruins in Egypt, took in an enormous number of holy sites in the Holy Land, circumnavigated Jordan, and are now trying to get a grasp on the paradoxes of runaway capitalism in a conservative Muslim country in Dubai. Jumping from continent to continent, culture to culture has left my head spinning, but with some down time on the horizon, catch-up posts will be frequent and will happen soon.

Driving in Romania: Dangerous and Loving It

2009-11-04T01:15:00.000-08:00

I've always found that there's something about renting a car outside of the US that's so much more adventurous and exciting. There's no clean airport counter with handy brochures; no smiling Avis/Hertz/Dollar representatives trying to sell you extra insurance covers of gas reimbursements; no big, gas-guzzling American cars sitting out in the parking lot. Instead, there are shady one-room offices on the outskirts on the city, bearded men with thick accents asking for your passport, and tiny, inevitably European cars that a handful of frat boys could pick up and flip over. The whole process just feels so much more unpredictable, even exotic, for lack of a better word.

To start our week driving around Romania and Transylvania, Kyle and I picked up a rental car Monday morning in Bucharest, Romania. We chose the cheapest option, a four-door Dacia Logan, and apparently the law "you get what you pay for" applies in Eastern Europe as well. What we got for our €23 a day: a dirty, slightly dinged-up car that needed to be jump-started with no power steering, no ABS brakes, a radio that shorted out after two hours, smearing windshield wipers, and a lack of windshield wiper fluid. On the plus side, the clutch was set up so that the car was nearly impossible to stall, and it had seat belts.

Our car in hand, we set off on our drive north. Even on the main roads, you pass horse-drawn carriages, which, believe it or not, seem to have just as much right to use the lane as cars driving 60 mph. Drivers make passes going around blind corners, and you can only cringe as the guy in front of you pulls out to pass with a semi barreling towards him in the other lane. Of course, this being Romania and with a certain 'natural selection' process occurring on the roads (only the good drivers survive!), accidents are surprisingly rare, at least that we've seen.

(So you don't think that it's just me who's making this up, here's a funny article on driving in Romania. It's a few years old, and our car isn't quite as bad as the one described, but it's an entertaining look on what it's like to be on the roads here.)

It's not all near-death experiences, though. The scenery is beautiful- like everywhere else we've been, the fall colors are spectacular- and the Transylvania Castle's we've seen have been just as amazing as they're described. Driving is by far the best way to see a place as large and varied as this, and a few adrenaline rushes on the road is a small price to pay to see the sights.

Off the Radar and Like No Place Else

2009-11-01T06:46:00.002-08:00

Roaming the Dunes on Curonian Spit

The funny thing is, running into a deer with our car was one of the less memorable parts of our day driving across Lithuania. Sure, the front of the car got slightly bent out of shape; the driver (none other than yours truly) was a bit shaken up by the sight of Bambi bouncing off the bumper; and the four other passengers were temporarily reduced to screaming, stressed-out captives. But in a day jam-packed with sights and stories, the one about the accident ranks down on the list.

Let me backtrack a bit and start from the beginning. Our weekend in Lithuania, the southern-most of the Baltic states, was spent with three of Kyle's friends from England who had taken some time off work to join us on our adventure. Lithuania is one of those places, like Timbuktu, that one hears of in passing, might be able to find on a map, but really has no idea what is in it or why on Earth someone would go there. And walking around the capital, Vilnius, which apparently is the country's biggest city but could have been mistaken for a ghost town the weekend we visited, my questions as to the allure of the place only grew.

That all changed when the five of us hopped into our rental car and set off on a cross-country drive (of 400 kilometers). The Lithuanian countryside is gorgeous: the narrow roads snake past gently rolling hills. Cobalt-blue lakes contain picturesque castles on islands, connected to the mainland by drawbridges straight out of a fairy tale.

Trakai Castle

Our first stop of the day was the Hill of Crosses, a Catholic pilgrimage site for the past few centuries that gained increase importance during the Communist years, when it became the place to quietly protest the ruling regime. There are around 200,000 crosses on this hill alone, so many that it's impossible to get a sense of the topography of the land-- the crosses just seem to rise like trees from the flat ground.

A small percentage of the crosses on the Hill of Crosses

Two hundred kilometers past the Hill of Crosses, we reached the coast, where we caught a 3 minute ferry ride to the Curonian Spit. At 100 kilometers long, it's the world's largest and spit, a giant sand dune barrier between the Baltic Sea and the Lithuanian shore. After getting off the ferry, we quickly crossed the 1 kilometer width of the spit and watched a glorious sunset from the beach.

Baltic sunset

Darkness upon us, we set off driving the 40 kilometers we had left before our destination, the town of Nida. A narrow road through a forest late at night is never the set-up for a cheery story, and this one was no exception. I'll skip the details, but a brief summary is that the deer survived and ran off, the car was only cosmetically damaged, and no human was injured.

That adventure in the books, we proceeded to Nida, where we had hoped to be able to find a place to stay without making a reservation. Imagine our surprise when we drove into town and found ZERO sign of life. No people on the streets. No lights shining through any windows. No open hotels. After a brief and slightly frantic search, we found the only open hotel in town, a huge place in which we were the only guests.

Some graffiti we found the next morning next to our hotel

The next morning, thing returned to normal. The drive back to Vilnius was uneventful, Kyle's friends returned to England, and he and I boarded an overnight bus that took us to Warsaw, Poland. But our time in Lithuania was fab: it's perhaps the only place in the world where in one day, you can go from city to sacred pilgrimage site to giant sand spit, with a little wildlife thrown in there, too.

Rain and Occupation in Riga

2009-10-29T01:51:00.002-07:00

We woke up our only morning in Riga to swirling skies, howling wind, and pelting, cold rain. Days like this make you want to stay in bed, but with only one day to spend exploring the capital of Latvia, we knew had to get out and do some sightseeing, weather be dammed. Armored up in multiple layers and waterproof jackets, Kyle and I marched out the door to battle the elements.

The weather suited the mood of our main destination of the day, the Museum of the Occupation of Latvia. Like all the Baltic States (and much of Europe), Latvia was the victim of a series of invasions and occupations, starting in 1940 and not ending until 1991. The history is simultaneously fascinating, incredibly depressing, and nearly totally unknown in the US. In the years after WWI, the three Baltic States were some of the most developed in Europe, with democratically-elected governments and living standards on par with the Scandinavia countries. Unfortunately, they were located between two of the most powerful and bellicose countries in Europe, Germany and the USSR, and in the years immediately before WWII they essentially became their doormat. Germany gave control of the three Baltic States to the USSR (notwithstanding that at the time they were independent, autonomous countries); the USSR invaded and occupied them; Germany turned on the USSR and invaded the occupied territory; the USSR fought back and eventually took them back.

In the German and both Soviet occupation, the population was terrorized and many were deported en masse to concentration camps or Siberia. During the German occupation, he Jewish population on Lithuania, for example, went from nearly 200,000 to zero. The Russians, in just ONE YEAR, arrested and deported to Siberia nearly 10% of Latvia's population. Estonia suffered similar tragedies. In each of these three States, institutions were wiped out, and the intellectuals, scientists, teachers, and politicians were persecuted and killed, leaving just a shell of what each country used to be.

Given this history of repression and destruction, it's incredible that all three Baltic States emerged from the Soviet years as vibrant, active, and most importantly, historically aware places. Each capital city has its own museum dedicated to those years, and the one in Riga was arguably the best, with fabulous displays of original propaganda posters, artifacts from exiled Lativan in Siberia, and exhibits illumination many aspects of life under occupation. It's sobering and a bit depressing, absolutely. But there's no better way to appreciate your own freedom and fortune than seeing how others have had theirs taken away.

Essential Estonia

2009-10-29T01:16:00.007-07:00

Russian Orthodox Church, Tallinn

Rested, laundered, and relaxed, Kyle and I said goodbye to Helsinki and boarded the ferry that would take us over to the Baltics. Two hours later, we arrived in Estonia's capital, Tallinn, and were met at the ferry terminal by Martin, who would be our Couchsurfing host for the next four nights.

Tallinn, and the rest of Estonia for that matter, is a place whose reality contrasts with what the world expects it to be. While it is a Baltic state along with its more Slavic neighbors Latvia and Lithuania, it refuses to be bunched together with them. Looking around, you can sense that it has much more in common with Scandinavian countries- the language looks and sounds almost Finnish, the people are blond and fair-skinned, their English is probably better than mine, wi-fi is ubiquitous, and in conversation they are insistent that they are only tied to the other Baltic States by an accident of geography and the Soviet occupation, and not by any voluntary choice.

The capital also contrasted with the expectations. The old town is beautiful, an incredibly well-preserved medieval area with some of the oldest buildings in the region, including the oldest town hall in Europe. Wandering around its winding lanes was like being transported back in time, at least if you didn't see the souvenier shops lining the streets. Our three days there was plenty to explore the gorgeous city center, visit several museums, and eat some delicious food (including a meal at the wonderfully named "Hell Hunt" restaurant).

A building on the old town square, Tallinn.

Our three nights there were somewhat less bucolic. Martin and his friends did their best to show us the incredible nightlife of Tallinn, whose small size (only 400,000 people) belies the intensity and energy of its bar and club scene. Highlights included eating some of the best chicken wings I've ever tasted at a cafe at 5 AM; making best friends with a 50 tear old bartendress and earning a standing invitation to come back to Estonia and stay at her place; going to a birthday party of one of Martin's friends and meeting not only the Estonian Oprah, but also both the most famous actress and weatherman in Estonia. Over the weekend, sleep was definitely fleeting.

Monday morning we picked up our rental car, said goodbye to the city, and set off across the countryside. Outside of the few main cities (definition: population 5,000 and up), human life seemed to dissappear, replaced by endless forests, huge lakes, and sandy coastline. After our hectic stay in Tallinn, a little time spend relaxing was much appreciated.

Fabulous Finland

2009-10-27T15:08:00.000-07:00

After three exhausting weeks of travel around Russia, with the constant sensory shocks of being in a place completely unfamiliar and alien, we needed a break. Luckily for us, our final destination on our train journey, Helsinki, proved to be the best possibly place to chill out, get things done that we needed to get done, and enjoy being in an ordered, relaxed, non-adrenal-gland-draining environment.

Helsinki might be the world's cutest city, a small town that somehow also manages to be a completely unpretentious capital of a first world, developed country. Tress line nearly every street, almost matching the heights of the buildings around them, which are all under 10 stories tall. Trams carry people (and tourists, as one of the tram lines also serves as a type of "tourist bus") around the city, coexisting peacefully with cars. The Baltic Sea and its inlets give Helsinki its unique form, and from almost any point in th city you can see the water. Like St. Petersburg, there's no sense of hurry, just a casual, calming mood that imbues the city and its inhabitants.

Our chill-out time was helped by our foray into a different kind of accommodation: Couchsurfing. For the uninitiated, CS is a community of people who offer up their apartments without charge for travelers to stay in, in exchange for good conversation, cultural interchange, and the opportunity to make new friends from around the world. Our host, Ville, was a fantastic host, letting us sleep on his floor, telling us the best places to go, and engaging in some great conversation with us.

The two days that we spent there didn't leave us with a lot of time to explore every nook and cranny of the city (and the pouring rain on our first full day didn't help, either), but luckily Helsinki is a small enough place that it isn't took hard to see most of the major sites in just that small amount of time. Samples (from Kyle's camera) are below.

Russian Orthodox Church

On Suomelinna Island.

Travelogue Russia: St. Petersburg

2009-10-27T13:04:00.000-07:00

While we had technically completed the Trans-Siberian Railway the moment we stepped off the train in Moscow on September 30th, our trip through Russia still had one leg remaining before we set foot in the last stop on our itinerary, St. Petersburg. The night train from Moscow to St. Petersburg is said to be the busiest and nicest stretch of rail in the country, the Russian equivalent to the Northeastern Corridor, except without the overpriced tickets and overhyped "high-speed" trains. After a night spent with two snoring Russian businessmen who enjoying moving around the small cabin in only their underwear, Kyle and I stumbled out of the train station into the 9 AM twilight and were ready to take on the city.

St. Peter and Paul Fortress on the Neva, at sunset.

If Moscow is a representation of what Russia is today, a clash of the Soviet and capitalist eras, then St. Petersburg is a representation of what Russia was before the 1917 Revolution, a near time capsule of life during the Tsarist age. Massive, ornately-facaded Baroque palaces line the broad streets, which cross over canals that give the city an air of Amsterdam or Venice. Old trams run down the streets past pedestrians who stroll as if they have no particular destination in mind and are just out to take in the scenery. Even far out from the city center, St. Petersburg presents an elegant, unhurried face, of a city trying to ignore that it was ever a witness to some of the horrors of the 20th century.

Down a canal.

We spent our first day walking down the main street, Nevsky Prospekt, and passed a few hours in the Hermitage, which might be the world's most outsized art museum (yes, including the Louvre). Everything about the Hermitage is enormous and grandiose, like the insanely comprehensive collection of art (world-class collection in things ranging from Russian archeology to 19th century French art to Japanese prints), as well as the over-the-top Winter Palace where the Hermitage collection is housed (the place has 400 rooms!!). It's the only museum in the world where a room with two--TWO-- da Vinci masterpieces could be overshadowed by the decorations of the room where they hang. And best of all- free admission for students, a rarity in Russia. They say that if you spend 30 seconds in front of every world of art in the museum, you'd be there for like 50 years; after exhausting 3 hours there, I completely understand.

High culture was the theme of the rest of our four days in St. Petersburg. We took in a Russian ballet, Swan Lake, where we battled other tourists for the best seats and shot a few dirty looks to other tourists who mistook the ballet performance for a social hour. We went to the Russian State Political History Museum, the main Cathedral, and the Summer Palace (Peterhof). After the hustle and bustle of Moscow, a relaxing, cultural experience was exactly what the travel doctor ordered.

Fountains at Peterhof

On the Road!

2009-10-12T11:11:00.004-07:00

Despite a few wrenches thrown in at the last minute, and our exhausted states after an amazing and incredibly social weekend in Tallinn (to be blogged about soon), we're finally on the move in our own car! So it's a rental car- unfortunately, we learned after arriving in Estonia that buying a car in the EU without having EU citizenship is a week-long process, not to mention the headache that could come with selling it back- but being in control of our transportation after three weeks at the Russian Railways mercy is a welcome change.

We picked up our Opel Astra (we're taking name suggestions) at 11 AM in downtown Tallinn, and by 11:30 we were off in the countryside, driving on one of the main highways (a 1 lane, partially paved road) through thick forests and past six-point bucks. Outside of the major cities, there's not a lot going on in Estonia- many of the towns that we passed weren't even noticeable from the side of the road, and we would have passed them without realizing their presence had it not been for a road sign and a church steeple punctuating the treeline.

There's not a much better way to get a sense of a size of a place than driving through it. You know that the US is enormous when you spend three full days in a car, and you STILL haven't reached the other coast. Conversely, you know that Estonia's essentially a blip on a map when you spend eight hours behind the wheel and cover 2/3s of the entire country. If you don't believe me, check out today's route:

Tonight we're staying at an adorable bed and breakfast in Viljandi, a small town that apparently is on a lake, but that we haven't been able to see yet on account of darkness. (On that note, adorable is the adjective that comes to mind most often when describing anything in this country) Tomorrow we set off to the coast, then take a left and drive down into Latvia. We'll spend three days there before returning to Tallinn, dropping off the car, and catching a night bus to Vilnius, Lithuania, where we'll rent another car and meet up with three of Kyle's friends.

Not having a car has slightly complicated our itinerary, but I'm choosing to think of it as a gift, as a way to more fully explore the transportation options available to us. By the time we're done with the trip, about the only modes of transportation we won't have taken will be an ox-drawn hay cart and Segway. Though if I see a Segway tour offered in Vilnius, I might have to add it to the list.

Travelogue Russia: Moscow

2009-10-08T08:03:00.001-07:00

Twenty four hours on the train later, we arrived into Moscow's Kazansky station, and immediately dove into the morning rush-hour crowds that packed the metro. Moscow's metro is unlike any other subway system in the world. For starters, it's one of the deepest systems in the world, with some stations over 150 feet underground, and every ride begins with a 3 minute escalator descent down to the platform. Trains come every 60 seconds, but even that isn't enough to adequately cull the crowds that jam the system day and night. And for a subway dork like me, riding on original 1950 model Soviet stock is a huge thrill.

A 1950s era subway car, still in use in Moscow.

But the most unique aspect of the Moscow Metro is its sheer beauty. Every station is a work of art that tell a story or celebrates an event with stained glass, bronze sculptures, faience tiles, mosaics, and painting. Of course, the subjects of the artwork is closely tied in with the era in which the subway system was built- the 1930s, when Communism and Stalinism were in full swing. Changing lines, it's not uncommon to pass a bust of Stalin, a mosaic depicting a particularly moving speech by Lenin (complete with throngs of cheering proletariats), stained glass memorializing a WWII battle, and hammer and sickle plasterwork below a coffered vaulted ceiling. In the metro, it's hard not to feel like you're in a bit of a time warp, like by going underground you've entered a time warp where the the Soviet Union still exists.

Much like the metro system, the rest of Moscow lives in an uneasy space between its Communist past and its capitalist present. Flocks of tourists line up to enter Lenin's mausoleum, which sits directly across from the Louis Vuitton and Cartier stores that are the new tenants in the former Soviet state department store. Multinational banks occupy buildings that still have the decidedly anti-capitalist hammer and sickle symbol carved into their sides. A 24-hour McDonald's is in eyesight of the Red Square, where Soviet military parades used to file across. And when you're at the market, don't forget to buy your Lenin coffeemug or Stalin matryoshka doll.

Protest like it's 1979: Communist demonstration in Yekaterinburg.

Despite the myriad of signs of it's Communist past, Moscow is firmly rooted in the capitalist, money-grubbing world. For starters, it's EXPENSIVE. A Big Mac meal at McDonald's (at which we ate for research purposes, of course) costs $7; computers are marked up 50% from US prices; even a burger and coke dinner at an "American-style" diner set us back $15 a person. Luckily for us, Russia's fast food options are tasty and cheap; if it wasn't for those, we would have gone broke. How any Russian (average salary: $750 a month) affords anything is beyond me.

(Runaway capitalism might have also played a part in the other most frustration aspect of our time in Moscow: the closures of nearly every restaurant recommended in our guidebook. Nowhere else I've been has a year-old guidebook been so hopelessly out of date.)

Even though Moscow had it's share of frustration, there are so many interesting things to see there that it's hard not to have a good time. Lenin's body and mausoleum was as bizarre as we'd expected; St. Basil's cathedral is even more mesmerizing in person than it is in pictures; the Gulag (Soviet forced labor camp) museum was sobering; and the vodka museum was intoxicating. Not even the closures and four days of cold and rain could dampen (or freeze) our spirits- Moscow's a city that deserves to be seen for itself.

The Kremlin

Travelogue Russia: 48 Hours to Yekaterinburg

2009-10-07T08:01:00.001-07:00

Long-distance train travel might be the ultimate test for restlessness. You're on a train for days at a time, confined to an 8 by 75 foot train car, except for the few precious stops that are long enough for you to run outside, stretch your legs, and buy fresh food to diversify your diet beyond the noodle ramen, over-priced dining car dishes, and vodka. In between those stops, you're left to your own devices. Reading is a popular pastime, as is card-playing, journal writing, and crosswording. The dining car becomes the social nexus of the train, unless you're lucky enough to have a compartment to yourself, in which case you can invite guests over to chat. But when it comes to external motivations and a wide variety of things to do, train travel isn't the best place to find those. Sanity is only guaranteed to those who can slow their minds down, develop routines, and find enjoyment in watching the landscape pass by.

All that time on the train leads to the a development of a community of Trans-Siberian travelers. After just a few hours on our first Russian train, we knew the names and stories of almost all the people in our car. There were are our cabin-mates, Charlotte and Andy, a friendly young British couple taking three weeks to travel across the Trans-Siberian before starting new jobs. There were the three Australians in the cabin next door, blasting pop music on their iPod speakers and dropping in repeatedly with invitations to join them in vodka shots. There were Cristina, the social center of the car, constantly popping her head into rooms to dish on the latest bathroom update (open, closed, closed unless you bribe) and pass the time chatting about anything. These were the faces we saw at almost every stop on the rest of the trip- despite Russia's size, the number of places of interest to tourists is pretty limited. Better to be friendly and take that vodka shot, if it means getting on well with your fellow travelers the rest of the trip.

After two days of riding the rails, we finally reached Yekaterinburg. Our 36 hour stop there wasn't so much to see the sights as it was to rest, wash clothes, shower, and move our legs. The town was cute- more cosmopolitan and commercialized than Irkutsk, friendly, though without a must-see attraction. Yekaterinburg is known for being the place where the last Tsar and his family were murdered, so we visited the church commemorating that event, as well as a small photography museum. Three hours of sightseeing in the bag, we returned to the hostel, relaxed and caught up on a good night's sleep, and the next morning hopped on our final major train leg of the trip, the express train to Moscow.

Eurasia Trip, Phase 2!

2009-10-06T07:53:00.001-07:00

We just arrived in Helsinki, Finland, earlier this afternoon, meaning that we've finally ended our Trans-Siberian route, a trip of nearly 5,500 miles that took us three weeks to complete. This last ride, from St. Petersburg, was one of the most painless ones we've had- just 6 hours, an entire car practically to ourselves, and zero hassles from customs officials. It's hard to believe that as recently as 20 years ago Soviet and NATO forces were facing off against each other across the same strip of land that we passed through without a hassle in 20 minutes. History moves fast.

Now that we're out of Russia and off the train, it's time for the next phase of our trip. In a couple of days, we'll take a ferry from Helsinki to Estonia, where we'll (knock on wood) buy a car and spend six weeks making our way from the Baltic Sea to the Mediterranean. Along the way, we'll take in the Baltic states, the WWII sites in Poland, Kiev and Chernobyl, Vlad the Impaler's Transylvania, Post-Soviet Bulgaria, and Northern Greece. And instead of staying in hostels, we'll be trying our luck with Couchsurfing, a community of travelers who offer free accommodation and a chance to learn about a city from someone who actually lives there.

Like usual, we have no idea what to expect, but whatever ends up happening will be an adventure. If you'll be in this part of the world and want to share the experience with us, send me a note!

Travelogue Russia: The Border to Lake Baikal

2009-10-06T07:40:00.005-07:00

The Russian leg of our trip officially began at 3 PM on September 20th, though for the previous seven hours we sat just feet away from the border with little to do but twiddle our thumbs and pretend that the increasing pressure in our bladders had nothing to do with a need to pee, since the bathrooms were locked and no amount of pleading would persuade the snarling carriage attendant to open them. We were waiting to cross the Mongolia-Russia border, which one could have easily thought was in a war zone due the the security measures in place to stop illegal smuggling. Passport photos were studiously compared with the faces of their holders; armed guards marched on the platform next to the train peeking under the carriage; brusque border officials kicked us out of our cabin to search the luggage compartments. Then we moved fifty feet, crossed a chain-link fence that marked the border, and repeated the entire process again, in case one of us had suddenly conjured up 75 contraband leather jackets in the ten minutes since Mongolian customs. During this entire process, at no time were we allowed to leave the train or, in a cruel Soviet-style twist, use the bathroom. Instead of letting us relieve ourselves, the carriage attendant spent the day tending to her nails, eating soup, and vacuuming the entire cabin. Twice.

After a day of a front-row seat to bureaucratic inefficiency and OCD cleaning, we were finally on Russian tracks, and 12 hours later we were in a cold and rainy Irkutsk. Irkutsk is the unofficial capital of SIberia, which makes it one of the few outposts in one of the most vast and remote swathes of land on the planet. Even though it's the principal city in the region and one of Russia's main cities, it had a certain backwater feeling to it. The tram we took from the train station to our hostel looked straight out of 1950, with corrugated metal sides, a peeling Soviet red-and-white paint job, and a complete lack of functioning gauges on the driver's control panel (which the driver gave her complete, um, divided attention to as she chatted away on her cell phone). The city's buildings seemed to be sinking into the slowly melting permafrost, which surprisingly didn't render them uninhabitable; Kyle spotted one man leaving from partially-sunk house whose doorway had shrunk to no more than 3 feet tall.

What a house in Irkutsk looks like before it sinks into the permafrost.

The 35 degree temperature, freezing rain, and the fact that most of the city's sights were closed made our only day in Irkutsk a short one. But the next morning we were up early to meet our Mongolia to Irkutsk cabin-mates Andy and Charlotte at the bus station. We were off to Listvyanka, a town an hour from Irkutsk by public bus and the jumping off point (literally) for Lake Baikal. It's impossible to adequately describe the immensity and beauty of the Lake. The water is a deep, incomparable shade of blue which stretches beyond the horizon on one side, and on the other is just the foreground to jagged snow-capped mountains. The clear, brisk air makes the reds, yellows, and oranges of the autumn trees seem even more vivid than they already are. But despite the stunning scenery around the Lake, all the area's energy focuses down towards the water. There's just no escaping it. We knew that we had to dive in.

We dropped our bags at our guesthouse, threw on our swimsuits, and set off on a walk along the shore to scout potential jumping-in sites. Along the way, we explored abandoned barges, filled our cameras' memory cards with pictures of the views, hiked up into the hills, and took a chairlift to a viewpoint with panoramic views of the Lake. And with the sun going down and the temperature not getting any warmer, it was go time. With a Russian family cheering us on, we did the deed.

The follow-up to the swim might have been the funniest part of the day. To celebrate, we returned to the same restaurant where we had eaten lunch, and whose waitress had laughed in our faces when we asked her if she knew any good places from which to jump in. This time, we came armed with the video of our swim, which drew an "Oh God" and an eye-roll when we showed her it. After she took our order, though, we noticed that she wouldn't stop staring at us. Maybe she was in awe of our amazing cold-water tolerance? Not quite. A few minutes later she comes up to the table, points at Kyle, and says, "You... actor? Lost?" Despite our denials that Kyle was not, in fact, Matthew Fox (the star of the TV show Lost, for you non-addicts), she wouldn't take 'no' for an answer, and so our meal ended with a photo and most likely the highlight of our waitress' day. If you hear any rumors that Matthew Fox has gone off the deep end and is traveling around Siberia taking dips in freezing cold lakes, you know where they started.

Kyle, or Matthew Fox?

A bonfire with other Trans-Siberian travelers ended our night, and the next morning we returned to Irkutsk to catch the longest train ride of our trip, across Siberia to Yekaterinburg.

A User's Guide to the Trans-Siberian

2009-10-01T23:57:00.004-07:00

We're finally in Moscow, having finished the major rail portion of our trip. 7000 kilometers over 6 and a half days through high steppes, taiga forest, and mountain ranges, most of the time while being confined to a 8-foot wide, 75 foot long wagon. Here's a breakdown of what life is like on the world's longest direct train journey.

The Compartment

Your home during the trip is a 7-foot by 5-foot berth, with two bunked beds on each of the long walls, and a window and collapsible table opposite the door. Your luggage goes wherever you can squeeze it- under the lower beds, in the alcove above the door, on the floor, between your legs on your bed. If squeezing your luggage in is tough, trying to fit four normal-sized people is even harder. It's a 3 dimensional game of Twister, maneuvering arms, legs, and feet in such a way so that no one feels their personal space is completely obliterated. It's much easier said than done.

The Provodnitsa (carriage attendant)

This might be the most important relationship you ever form in your lifetime. She's surly, serious, OCD about car cleanliness (can you say vacuuming twice a day?), and definitely does not speak English. She's also responsible for your comfort and security, whether it's turning down the heat from "infernal" to merely "boiling", switching off the Russian dance music pumping through the in-car speakers, or unlocking the bathrooms during the interminable border crossings. Needless to say, messing up this relationship can have serious effects. Luckily, the way to her heart is as easy as buying the trinkets she pushes down the aisle once a day. Postcard for a bathroom visit, anyone?

The Food

... is whatever you can get your hands on. The food in the dining car isn't the best choice, as it tends to be queasiness-inducing, at least in those items which are actually available (the menu is more of an aspirational work, as opposed to a description of what's on offer). Also, cost of dining car food usually bears no relation to the prices that are printed on the menu- friends of ours ordered what they thought was a 600 ruble cutlet, only to be charged 1100, which they managed to bargain down to 700 before the waitress walked away. Other than dining car food, your only other option is supermarket food bought before getting onboard, which means lots of ramen noodles. Great if you love MSG, bad for everyone else.

September in Siberia

2009-09-29T10:29:00.004-07:00

One of the unexpected surprises of traveling in Russia has been watching the seasons turn before our eyes. September in Siberia is a temperate lull between the infernal, bug-infested summers, and the frigid, inhospitably cold winters. Throughout the countryside, trees erupt in an explosion of colors, turning gold and orange and contrasting with the deep blue lakes and brightly painted houses.

From the train window, the Russian landscape rolls by in bright, vivid colors that only appear for a few short weeks a year.

Other benefits of fall traveling include fewer tourists, cheaper prices, and a more relaxed atmosphere everywhere we go. But in terms of pure aesthetics, the colors of the landscape might outweigh them all.

On Expectations, and Overcoming Them

2009-09-27T04:06:00.000-07:00

A week into my Russian travels, I think it's time that I made a small confession- up until 2 months ago, this was the last place on Earth I wanted to travel to. I mocked friends of mine who took a "spring break" trip to Moscow (though in my defense, what kind of Spring Break trip is it when the temperature never breaks 30?). Russian cuisine seemed either like an oxymoron, or just a fancy way to describe a wide vodka selection. Overhearing the language on the streets in San Francisco, I could never warm to it in the same way as I did to Romance tongues. And while the Russian people who I knew from home are warm, generous, and incredibly nice, I blindly believed that stereotype that native Russians were gruff, cold, and unfriendly towards people who weren't like them. Combining all these elements, why on earth would I go to Russia when there were so many other interesting, more appealing places to travel to?

One of the benefits of traveling widely and off the beaten path is that you get exposed to and confronted with a huge number of people, many of whom you have preexisting ideas and opinions about. I'm sure you all have had, or still have, some of these thoughts- the French people are stylish but pretentious; that Italians are lazy; that Chinese people are pushy and loud; that Brazilians are gorgeous and know it (well, that last one is true). And oftentimes, when you travel to a place to which you've already developed preconceptions, you view your trip through that same lens, judging the country and its people based on what you expect to see, what people have told you what you'd encounter.

Traveling with an open mind is not only a "good" thing, but a vital attitude to have in order to really absorb a place and give your trip a deeper meaning. It takes a lot of effort and energy to overcome preexisting notions, but the payoff is immense- the ability to judge for yourself, and not just regurgitate whatever other people have told you to say whenever you're asked how your trip went. And who knows, sometimes what you've heard from others before your trip just gets confirmed when you visit yourself. But you can't know that until you've gone.

I'm happy to say that my seven days in Russia have pretty much exploded the stereotypes I carried with me into this trip. Russian people couldn't be nicer- the gruffness that I had been expecting melted away with the first "thank you/you're welcome exchange," and evaporated away completely with the friendly responses I've received to questions in broken/non-existent Russian. The weather's been comfortable, not the sub-zero weather I had steeled myself for; the food's been passable, great in some circumstances (and the vodka delicious and plentiful). And I've found myself wanting to learn some Russian, and kicking myself for not having picked up a few phrases before I left.

Russia hasn't become one of my favorite places in the world (that list is long and unfortunately not Russia-inclusive). But it's been a hell of a lot better than I had expected.

Lake Baikal, or How to Add 50 Years to your Life

2009-09-25T07:21:00.009-07:00

Lake Baikal, in eastern Siberia, is a pretty impressive body of water by anyone's standards. 30 miles wide, 400 miles long, and over a mile deep, it holds 20% of the world's freshwater. To put that in perspective, if all of the other freshwater sources dried up and left Baikal as the only place to get drinking water, there would be enough to supply the entire world's needs for 40 years. To call it vast would be an understatement; the only real way to fully appreciate its size is to float out to the middle to the lake and convince yourself that even though you can't see land on the horizon, you're not on the open seas.

There's a local tradition (though it sounds like a convenient way to knock off a few of the weaker tourists) that says that whoever takes a dip in Lake Baikal will add 25 years to their life. Not being ones to turn down an chance like that, we took the bait, braved the 48 degree waters, and dived in. It's not comfortable, you might get hypothermia, and if you're like me you'll scream like a schoolgirl at a Jonas Brothers concert, but in hindsight, it was well worth it. Enjoy.

High Steppe-ing

2009-09-18T20:55:00.004-07:00

Next to Siberia (coincidentally our next destination), there aren't any other places as remote from the Western consciousness than Mongolia. Other than Genghis Khan and the Mongols, there isn't too much else notable about this place, or at least notable enough to merit a mention in world history class. Which is why being here has been fascinating- it's as if every time we step outside or talk to a local, we are learning something radical and new about the country, its history, and its people.

Stepping outside without proper preparation today, however, could imperil your health. Right now, the snow is falling heavily, and although its "only" 30 degrees, it feels considerably colder. Could that be because it's still officially summer for another two days, or because just yesterday it was 70 and sunny enough to give me a nice tan? Lest one think that this is a freak event, a very short story: after being picked up from the train station by the hostel owner, we asked her, trying to make small talk, when winter started. "Oh, next week," was her nonchalant response. If you think that Mongolia's climate is anything less than extreme, think again.

Mongolia has been a hard place to get my head around. There are few paved roads outside the capital, Ulaan Baatar; instead, trucks rumble across the hard-packed steppe, their paths visible from miles away due to the plumes of dust they kick up. In UB, the former nomads who make up a majority of the city's population still live in gers, or traditional tents, which are made slightly more permanent by the addition of fencing around them. The seeming isolation of the city from the rest of the world is belied by the Korean shabu-shabu restaurants, Mexican food joints, and German bakeries that line the streets. The Mongolian National Symphony (which we saw perform, along with award-winning throat singers, dancers, and musicians at an absolutely fantastic "Cultural Show", where the $9 tickets were a guilt-inducing bargain) plays the overture from the Barber of Seville, but using only traditional Mongolian instruments. But it's these exact dichotomies, Mongolia's inability to decide how far it wants to enter the developed world, that makes it a captivating place to visit.

The other, more readily-apparent draw for visitors is the extraordinary natural beauty of countryside. On the steppes, this beauty lies in their never-ending, barren expanse. Flat grassy plains lead to rolling brown hills on the horizon, with only small herds of animals breaking up the monotony of the landscape. The sky is indescribably vast and blue; by a totally subjective comparison, the Montana sky looks like it's being viewed through a pinhole.

Mountains and rock formations occasionally break up the steppes, and it was at the base of one outcropping that we spent two nights at a remote ger encampment two hours outside of UB. We did the typical things that tourists do in Mongolia- ride horses, take short hikes, absorbing in the scenery. We also got a chance to see some other traditional Mongolian activities, thanks to the tourist camp next to ours and the 200 Germans who were bussed in for the day. Steins of beer in hand and cameras strung around their necks, we were presented with an exhibition in traditional archery, wrestling, and horse racing. The whole scene was a little bizarre, actually- the Germans were allowed to try their hand at the archery, which inevitably led to arrows (thankfully rubber-tipped) flying into crowds of people; the wrestlers posed for photos after the wresting exhibition, which turned into something resembling a paparazzi rush as the crowd shoved cameras into their faces; and trinket sellers descended on the camp, materializing out of nowhere.

Mongolian wrestlers during their photoshoot, post exhibition

As a final note, the more time I spend here, the more I'm amazed at how much the Mongols contributed to world civilization. Paper money? The Mongols. The concept of diplomatic immunity? The Mongols. The violin bow? The Mongols. Creating the trade routes that bridged the East and the West and led to a flowering of trade and thought that brought about the beginning of the Renaissance? Goes without saying. For a basic overview, read "Genghis Khan", by Jack Weatherford. For a deeper understanding, come to Mongolia.

Back on Track

2009-09-16T06:41:00.001-07:00

Apologies to all for the delay between blog posts- I've just posted a few from the past week below. If you're looking for an explanation as to my absence, I have two good ones.

First, the Chinese authorities have set up a 21st century, digital version of the Great Wall, known as the Great Firewall, which ostensibly protects their citizens from any malicious information on the internet. Sites of all sorts are blocked- YouTube, Facebook, and Blogger among them. Though there are ways to get around the restrictions, the firewall's existence does make staying in touch difficult.

Second, my trusty black Macbook passed away on Saturday. He was three years old, and had been suffering from system crashes for some time. He lived a good, fulfilling life, and will be sorely missed. Thanks to the wonders of globalization, though, I was able to buy a new one at the Beijing Apple Store, and I'm back whole again and haven't missed a beat.

Now that I'm in Mongolia and have a working computer, updates will be more frequent. Thanks for sticking with!

The Greatest Wall of All

2009-09-16T06:04:00.006-07:00

One thing that you can't help but notice after reading the tourist information guides at the main Beijing sites is the Chinese overuse of superlatives. Everything in the city that we visited was described using some combination of "the biggest", "most magnificent", "most awe-inspiring", etc. A relatively simple temple was hailed as the most important construction of its kind in world history, and the audio tour of the Forbidden City was filled with so many statistics supporting its grandeur that it left your head spinning. Now I fully recognize that China has accomplished many amazing things and firsts in its long history (invention of the compass, toilet paper, and printing press, among others), but it's hard not being to dismiss the constant emphasis on their greatness (superlativity?) after hearing it for the 79th time.

However, if there is one place in China deserving of a superlative, it's the Great Wall. A ribbon of stone that snakes across ridge lines, climbs impossibly steep slopes, and stretches from horizon to horizon, the Wall defies description. No amount of reading or pictures could have prepared me for just how big and impressive it was; it wasn't until we took a tram up to the Wall and walked on it for 6 miles that I could fully get a sense of its scale and appreciate its monumentality. Admittedly, I was expecting to be underwhelmed; instead, I was blown away.

Words don't do the Wall justice at all, and pictures only marginally capture its size, but in the absence of a teleportation device, the shots below are the best I can do. Enjoy.

Beijing-ing

2009-09-16T02:32:00.003-07:00

After the calm and quiet of Laos, it's no understatement to say that China has been an incredible shock. The sensory overload hit right as I got off the bus taking me from the Tianjin airport to that city's train station- cars and people were everywhere, and the smog almost completely blocked out the early morning light. The high speed train took me the 80 miles to Beijing in under 30 minutes (ticket price, $10), and soon enough I was eating breakfast with Kyle, my travel buddy for the next 3 months, and his friend Stacey.

Outside of the Tienanmen Gate

No amount of preparation could have prepared me for what I encountered exploring Beijing my first day there. The city is ENORMOUS, in both population (15 million and counting) and scale. A city block is about half a mile long, and skyscrapers and cranes fill the horizon. Cars choke the streets, bikes and electric scooters weaving around the traffic jams.

The best way that I've come up with to describe the city is a living, breathing dichotomy. Old neighborhoods called hutongs, with their narrow lanes, quiet streets, and bucolic pace of life, seem to be worlds away from the hypermodern city that surrounds them. (Says Kyle as we bike through a hutong: "Can you believe that we're in a country that's at all developed?"). Men in business suits walk through parks where old women in traditional dress gather to sing karaoke and practice their ballroom dance skills. A bicycle crammed with 5 people stops at an intersection next to a Mercedes, both vehicles unaware of, or simply not acknowledging, the contrast between them. A McDonalds sits a quarter of a mile from Mao's mausoleum. Past and present, old and new, developed and underdeveloped; all of these opposite lie right next to each other in Beijing, and no one seems to bat an eyelid.

Biking through old Beijing neighborhoods

Choir practice in a Beijing park

Our four days in Beijing took us to all the major attractions. The Forbidden City is beyond massive, with buildings and palaces that seemingly never end. The Temple of Heaven sprawls just as much, encompassing pagoda after pagoda. A bike tour of the hutongs allowed us to see what life in the city was like before the push for development and modernization. Unfortunately, a bout of illness kept me from going to the Summer Palace, and Mao's Mausoleum was closed our four days there for "special reasons" (meaning that my pursuit of the Dead/Embalmed Communist Leaders Triple Crown- visiting and viewing the bodies of Lenin, Mao, and Ho Chi Minh- has been at least temporarily set back). But apart from those two setbacks, everything we wanted to see, we saw.

All in all, Beijing is an experience, something that, like most things in China, has to be seen to the truly appreciated.

Vientiane, or Keeping It Slow

2009-09-16T02:21:00.002-07:00

Languorous... is the most accurate word to describe Vientiane. Time just seems to slide by, with no destination in mind, just enjoying its slow journey down the Mekong towards whatever place it might happen to end up at. Life is unhurried- the near lack of stoplights in this, the capital of Laos and its most populous city, attests to that- and the general feel of this place is that of a backwater provincial town. It's what I imagine a Mississippi river town would have been like 200 years ago, before the arrival of any railroad or settlers, the pace of life dictated by the calm flow of the waters which are its lifeblood.

The main road in Vientiane, with the victory arch (paid for by misdirected US aid money) in background

There is a peaceful lack of people here, especially compared to Bangkok. The incessant din of traffic and people is absent here, replaced by birds chirping (including one in the rafters directly above my bed), the only bright lights flickering fluorescent bulbs illuminating Beer Lao advertisements.. Other than that, there's not much here.

I passed my one full day doing everything the city had to offer. Check- the Lao Revolutionary Museum and its collection of anti-imperialist photos and artifacts (which included fanciful paintings of evil French and American soldiers throwing Laotian children down wells, as well as standard exhibits on how Communist life is better than the alternatives). Check- Wat Sisaket and its rows upon rows of Buddha statues. Check-Haw Pha Kaew, and its stash of even more Buddhas (or at least the ones that the Thais left behind after their numerous invasions). Check- the market and the potentially GI-cramp causing noodle lunch I had there. Those sites in the bag and three more hours of daylight to kill, I even had time to use the city-wide Wi-Fi (two bucks for 4 hours, and one of the surprising finds in this seemingly-backwater place).

Wat Sisaket Buddhas

During my time in Laos, I was lucky enough to meet up with a good number of other travelers passing through Vang Vieng and Vientiane on a well-worn backpacker's path from Thailand through to Vietnam. Among them was a British couple my age who were on a 15-month Asian trek; a Dutch girl traveling on her own for 3 months; two Germans who had driven from Munich to Mongolia, ridden third-class trains across China, and were stretching their money as far as possible in Laos. We spent our night together eating fresh fish on the banks of the Mekong, then end up at a hostel bar, drinking Beer Lao and listening to the Germans tell stories from their epic drive. If I wasn't psyched for the driving part of my own trip before, I certainly am now.

My solo part of the trip ended the next day with a cab ride to the airport, a flight to Kuala Lumpur, and then a red-eye to Beijing, where I met up with Kyle and his friend. Lessons learned- that it still is possible to travel Southeast Asia on $5 a day; that whatever you do on your trip, there will always be someone with a more impressive and adventurous story than yours; and that backpacking solo can be just as fulfilling as going with a buddy.

A Step-by-Step Guide to Bus Travel in Laos

2009-09-09T01:00:00.003-07:00

1. Decide on your destination, then choose what type of bus you want to take. Minibuses are faster, but your driver will likely be blind and/or insane. Safer to choose the "VIP" bus. (Note: the "VIP" bus in most case is neither a bus, nor for VIPs. This is Laos, after all.)

2. Go to the nearest travel agency to buy your ticket. Realize 5 minutes later that you overpaid.

3. Kill time for an hour before your bus leaves by drinking a liter of beer and watching your 18th episode of "Friends" in the last 48 hours. Seriously, Rachel, just marry Ross already!

4. Catch a tuk-tuk to the bus station. Get dropped off in the middle of nowhere and watch helplessly as the only bus there drives off empty. Commiserate with other backpackers about the frustrations of Southeast Asian bus travel.

5. Get pushed by tiny Laotian woman into another tuk-tuk. Hear her say something about going to a different bus station, but the engine drowns her out before you fully understand her. Continue griping about Laotian bus travel with the two Irish girls next to you.

6. Arrive at the other bus station, which is completely empty save for a handful of other similarly confused and abandoned backpackers. Sit down, open book, and pretend you don't see the buses full of backpackers passing by on the highway. Continue doing this for the next hour.

7. Watch as a brightly colored bus pulls into the station. Get on said bus. Start to relax.

8. Stop relaxing when bus pulls onto the highway and takes hairpin turns at 40 miles per hour. Pretend the queasiness in your stomach is from carsickness and not your suspicious-looking smoothie you had with lunch.

9. Ignore the drunken Irishman walking down the aisle behind you, singing a particularly ear-splitting, atonal version of Michael Bublé.

10. Arrive in Vientiane. Get off bus, grab your bag, and unsuccessfully bargain for cheap van ride into town. Try to convince yourself that although you paid 2000 kip more than you wanted, in the long run, 25¢ isn't anything to lose sleep over.

11. Get off tuk-tuk, walk to hotel, pay extra for A/C because you're so tired, and go to sleep. It's been a long day. You've earned it.

Scenes from Laos

2009-09-07T20:23:00.005-07:00

After successfully catching my train from Bangkok on Saturday night (second time's a charm), I'm now in Laos, in a small town the countryside called Vang Vieng. The journey here was a bit of an adventure. The final stop of the train was in the Thai border town of Nong Khai, on the other side of the Mekong river from Laos. We took a tuk-tuk from the station to the Thai border crossing, waited in line with Laotian workers and Thai traders for 30 minutes, and then hopped on a bus across the river to the Lao side. Another 30 minutes waiting in the heat and humidity, and then I was on a minibus for the 3 hour ride to Vang Vieng, sharing space with 5 very pissed off Brits who had just discovered that they had paid twice as much for their seats as I had.

Laos is fascinating. It feels as though it's stuck in some indeterminate time in the past, where clocks move a little slower, life is a little more relaxed, and Western tourists are still a novelty, if not yet a scourge. On the minibus ride from the border to Vang Vieng, looking outside the window was like looking through a history book from a French expedition at the turn of the century. Families bathing in roadside rivers; women in traditional cone-shaped hats working in rice paddies; cows lazily crossing the road, unbothered by the pick-ups that are swerving to avoid them. We drove on the country's main highway, a one and a half lane, partially paved road. Cars are few and far between; more common are pickups-turned-taxis with dozens of people crammed into the back, and occasionally we pass a cart being towned by what looks like, but logic won't let me belive is, a push-powered lawnmower.

After the drive up, Vang Vieng feels like a Western oasis, an MTV Spring Break dropped into the middle of a rice paddy. The town caters solely to the grungy backpacker set looking for a deal; it seems like every Laotian here runs either an internet cafe, travel agency, or hostel, sometimes all three. The bars and restuarants all have Western style menus, which you can order from as you watch "Friends" and wait out a torrential rainstorm. (I made it through most of the first season doing just that Sunday night.) With so many comforts, you have to force yourself to look up and appreciate the natural scenery- jagged limestone mountains surround the town, their impossibly steep slopes hiding huge caves within.

Scenery around Vang Vieng

Yesterday, my only full day here, I went on a caving/kayaking expedition. We spent the morning swimming and tubing through a deep cave under a mountain just outside of town, and after lunch we kayaked down the river back to town. Before finished the day though, we stopped at one of the many riverside bars, where we drank Beer Lao with fellow backpackers from all over the Western world, had mud-wrestling competitions, danced to the latest American music, and lept from 30 foot high rope swings into the river below. If it weren't for the rice paddies around us, I might have mistaken it for Cancun.

In a couple hours, I'll be catching a bus back down south to the capital, Vientiane, where prices are more expensive (think of a $10/night hotel room compared to a $3) and life is slightly busier. From what I hear, though, it's a great place. Looking forward to checking it out.

Bangkok's Traffic 1, Matt's Travel Plans 0

2009-09-04T07:32:00.004-07:00

In a see-saw 90 minute match, Bangkok's traffic defeated Matt Thier, maintaining its streak of ruining time-sensitive plans.

The result was especially bad news for Thier, as it caused him to miss his train to Vientiane, Laos, which rendered a $30 ticket useless. He was philosophical afterward, saying that there was really nothing he could have done to have avoided the result. But still, "it was hard to sit there and not imagine every second as pennies going down the drain," he admitted.

The match originally tilted in Thier's favor. Leaving his cousin's home with an hour to spare on what is normally a 30 minute trip, he encountered little traffic on the initial protion of the route, whch allowed him to enter the city easily and in almost record time. But 3 kilometers before the train station and just as his spirits were rising, the red headlights appreared on the horizon in front of him.

"I had a bad feeling when I saw the red, but I still had hope that we would make it there in time," Thier recalled. "I mean, we did have 40 mintues to spare- no traffic jam could be that bad, right? But obviously, I was overly optimistic."

Through a translator, Bangkok's traffic said that he struggled to find his game early, missing easy diversions and failing to direct traffic in an efficiently jam-causing manner. But luckily for him, he got back on track just minutes before it would have been too late.

"I don't play to lose. I'm a winner. I have my undefeated streak to defend, and I'm not going to let a little farang (foreigner) knock me off my pedastol," Bangkok's traffic brashly decalred.

"Plus, it's Friday. I'm always worse on Fridays," he added.

For Thier, the loss was bad enough. But adding insult to injury, on the way running into the train station, he slipped and fell into a puddle, soaking his shoes and the left side of his body. The final blow to Thier's ego came when the drive back to his cousin's took 20 minutes, or less than a quarter of the duration of the outbound trip.

"It goes to show that nothing's guaranteed when you're travelling," Thier moralized. "You plan and plan, and then just when things seem to be going well, someone throws in a wrench. In this case, considering the opponent, I guess I should have seen it coming."

"But whatever. At least I don't have to be on a rickety old train tonight."

Bye Bangkok, Hello Midnight Train to Laos

2009-09-04T03:26:00.002-07:00

Busy last day in Bangkok. Spent the morning at Dusit Park, a complex of Royal buildings, popping my head into a couple of museums on Thai art and Royal history. It's really a bit ridiculous just how much the Thais revere their monarchs- any mention of the king and queen is combined with adjectives like "generous", "noble", "kind and munificent", and "gracious and benelovent". Note to readers- my biography better include comparable descriptions of my life.

The best stop at the complex was a museum soley dedicated to the king's photographs. Turns out the guy has a thing for photgraphy, though if you let this mueseum describe it, he single-handedly revolutionized the art and lead Thailand to the vanguard of the medium. Looking at the photographs, I'm not sure I'd give him that much credit- there's a series of shots of literally puddles, and while I'm no art expert, it's hard to see too much artistic value in those. (The captions were also great- one credited his photographs for saving hundreds of lives in the aftermath of a flood 25 years ago, without saying exactly how that happened.) That being said, the pictures weren't bad, and it's pretty cool to have a monarch how was hobbies other than his consorts and waging wars.

Passed the rest of the day checking out what I was missing by not being a backpacker here on Khao San Road, had an amazing lunch at a hole-in-the-wall local place (only foreigner there, score!), and picked up some Buddha souvenirs for future gift-giving (lay your claims now). Wish I had more time to write and post photos, but traffic and a tight schedule tonight have conspired to leave me with nearly none.

In a couple hours, I'll be on a night train to Laos. Not sure what to expect, though something tells me that Southeast Asian trains lack certain frills that one might find on European ones. Here's hope that beds aren't among those. All I know for sure is that in 12 hours, I'll be walking across the Mekong River into Laos- seems that the train doesn't actually go into Laos, but instead stops just short of it- and getting a chance to experience what Thailand would have been like 50 years ago. Slow paced, quiet, and ridiculously cheap.

Looking forward to the chill-out. Catch you all from the other side of the river.

Exhausting Bangkok

2009-09-03T04:56:00.006-07:00

Three days into the trip, and fatigue has been a constant companion. I'm not sure how much that is due to the lingering effects of jetlag, but it's a given that most of it is due to just being in Bangkok- a bustling, hyperkinetic, and energy-taxing city if there ever was one. Traffic jams are a constant, walking down the street is a full-contact sport, and there are people and activity everywhere- no where else does the phrase "teeming masses" apply more than here.

Because of all this, I'm especially grateful for my lodging situation with my cousin Seth on the outskirts of the city. The housing development we're in looks more Florida than Thailand- there's a man-made lake, luxury cars parked in most driveways, and its SO quiet, which is wonderful after spending the day being auditorily assaulted by motorcycle engines and car horns. I have my own big room, private Western style bathroom (no squat toilets! toilet paper!), and the use of Seth's maid and personal driver. I'm fully aware that I'm being spoiled rotten- passing fellow Western tourists today in the city, I kinda felt bad for them and their hostel lodgings- but I like to think that this is karma for whatever future shady hostels/campsites I'll be in during the next few months. But for now, I'm thoroughly enjoying the amazing meals, getting my laundry done, and having my own ride into Bangkok whenever I feel like going sightseeing.

Seth's maid Maam, and half of this morning's ridiculous breakfast.
Soon to come: two great lattés and a plate of heart-shaped waffles.

As for the sightseeing- I'm still trying to figure this place out, but the best description I can come up with is that Bangkok is a dense modern city built on top of a modest old one. The 'on top' part is especially apt, as traces of "Old Bangkok" are few and far between. I couldn't help but laugh when Seth's driver, as we were driving into the city yesterday, pointed out a pretty old wraught-iron building and made special note that it was old. How old? I asked. "Oh, fifty, sixty years!" was his sincere response. Lest I think that this was an isolated case, today he pointed out two more old buildings both built around the same time as the previous one, and he gave special mention to a hundred-year old train station as being especially historic. I guess that in a city where change is a constant, "oldness" is a relative concept.

However, not everything is shiny and new in Bangkok, and I've spent my time here visiting some of the relatively more ancient sites. First on Wednesday's agenda was the Royal Palace and the Phra Kaew Temple, both in the same complex, and built around the time of the city's founding in the mid 18th century. The site was basically a fantasyland of Thai architecture- spires shooting up to the sky, gold gables and roof decorations, everything a little too oversized, which the pictures below show well.

What the pictures don't capture is just how seriously people here take the monarchy, which is kinda impossible to overstate. The King and Queen's pictures are all over Bangkok, on buildings, on billboards in the medians, on money, and it's illegal to insult or show disrespect towards the royal family. Knowing the history of Thailand though, it's hard to blame the Thais- the Kingdom of Siam (Thailand's name until the 1930s) was the only country in the area to resist European colonization and maintain its monarchy. If I were Thai, I'd be proud of that heritage, too.

Wat Phra Kaew, all blinged out.

Me, with the Royal Palace in the background.

Another thing that Thais take seriously is their religion, Buddhism, and I got to see just to what extent they do at my next stop, Wat Pho. (Wat means temple, fyi.) The temple is large and rambling, but what makes it special is its Buddha statue, which is EMORMOUS. We're talking 40 feet high and probably 100 feet long, painted in gold, and looking like it's about to break through the building where it's housed. It's almost too big to appreciate, and certainly too big to capture in a photo- below was about the best I could do- but it's definitely a sight to be seen.

The massive Wat Pho Buddha- it's even bigger than it looks here.

Yesterday, I got a sense of some of Bangkok's neighborhoods by taking walks through Chinatown and Silom, a business and tourism district. Honestly, I wasn't too impressed or floored by either area- Chinatwon was just massive outdoor shopping bazaar, and my Lonely Planet guide failed to inform me that nothing AT ALL happens in Silom between 5am and 10pm. Maybe if I was from Kansas and had never seen a city before I would have been impressed, but in my case, it was a wasted couple of hours.

Bangkok, or Bejing?

The days wasn't a total wash, through. On a whim, I dropped into the Queen Saovabha Snake Farm, expected some dry exhibits on snakes in Thailand. Instead, I was BLOWN AWAY- there were about 100 different types of snakes on display and a really cool museum with exhibits on snake venom, first aid, and snake biology (with videos that made getting bitten by snake even seem fun). Coolest of all, though, was the snake show. The handlers brought out abot 10 different types of snakes, threw them on the ground in front of a small audience, and prodded them with sticks, as we watched them get POed and try to attack them. PETA probably wouldn't approve, but it was a great show- totally unexpected, and definitely made my day.

Cobra abuse?

I'm not really sure how I feel about Bangkok as a city. I came in with big expectations, given its reputation as the backpacker mecca of Southeast Asia, but I'm not really seeing what all the fuss is about. There's cool stuff to see, for sure, but apart from a few things, I haven't seen anything that has made me fall in love with the place. Maybe I'm not the target audience for the city's debauchery, or maybe I'm just missing something. In any case, I have one more day left- I'll be visiting some museums- and then it's onto Laos. Looking forward to the peace and quiet.

Safe, Settled, and Jetlagged in Bangkok

2009-09-01T04:40:00.002-07:00

Finally in Bangkok, after what seemed like an eternity (but in reality only a slightly shorter 20 hours) on the plane and in the Taipei airport. I flew on China Airlines, which I should not have done for a number for reasons, but especially because even the woman that sold me by ticket said it was a terrible carrier. Narrow seats, not much leg room, food that even a prisoner would turn down, and an in-flight movie that was either an infomercial about Austria or a documentary about Classical music. I was too doped up on sleeping pills to tell, though the drugs probably made the film more entertaining.

While that movie was great, even better was the informational video they played right before we landed in Thailand, titled "Fascinating Bangkok: Culture and Diversity". Using the cutting edge 1980 effects of synthesizer music and neon graphics, the film presented Bangkok in all its glory, and told us what to expect- which, judging from what was shown on screen, would be a chorus line of smiling monks, smiling old women on boats, and smiling youth in school uniforms playing in parks.

Sadly, I was greeted by none of those people when I got off the plane (these videos are obviously made to manipulate your hopes), but the actual greeters might have been better. At the airport to meet me was my cousin Seth and his driver, Tueng. Seth has lived in Bangkok for the past 15 years working as an architect, and he's been gracious enough to host me at his house in a gorgeous and spacious housing development just outside of the city. It's great having a home base while I'm settling into my travels, and especially great because I haven't seen Seth in years, and it's been fun to catch up. That he has a person who cooks for him, and who just might have prepared me a fantastic Thai dinner, also doesn't hurt things. :-)

So here I am, trying not to succumb to sleep at 8:30pm, and trying to process the change of scenery that's occurred around me in the past 24 hours. Quick first impressions of Bangkok:

It's hot. Like, a thick, stifling, muggy heat, one that fogs up your glasses when you step outside and makes you feeel like you're moving through molasses.
A disconcertingly large number of Thais are wearing thos anti-SARS face masks (though sadly I have yet to see one with a Hello Kitty design. Sorry Grant.). Whether this is to protect themselves from the pollution here, or a potential H1N1 pandemic is up in the air. Whether these masks are an effective prophylactic against either, I'll leave that for you to say.
Bangkok is big, and it sprawls. Lots of traffic, too.

I would write more, but the last two bulletpoints were done with my eyes closed, which might mean that my body is sending me a message; Talk soon!

And Off I Go Again!

2009-08-30T20:41:00.004-07:00

Well, it seems that my last year-long adventure abroad wasn't enough to satisfy my wanderlust. I'm setting off tomorrow on a four month trip through Asia, Eastern Europe, and the Middle East, crossing off about half of the items on my list of "Places I Need to See Before I Die" and covering nearly 20,000 miles of land. In lieu of writing out the ridiculously long list of where we're going (you'll get a complete rundown of our destinations as they unfold), here's something a little easier on the eyes:

I'm starting off in Bangkok on the 1st, making my way solo around Southeast Asia for 10 days before meeting up with my travel buddy, Kyle, in Beijing. Then it's onto the Trans-Siberian Railroad, which we'll take across the steppes of Mongolia, the forests of Siberia, and the Urals to Moscow and St. Petersburg. We'll cross over into Finland, hop on a ferry to Estonia, and buy (yes, BUY) a car. With said car, we'll meander across Eastern Europe for 6 weeks, catch a plane from Greece to Cairo, lead Beduins in an uprising against the Turks (oops, got carried away, sorry), and finally end up in Dubai befre heading back to London.

Kyle's introduction should also say that he is the mastermind behind this expedition- if it weren't for his invitation, extended only 5 weeks ago, for me to join him, I'd probably be spending the fall trolling Craigslist (for jobs!), sitting on my butt, and feeling listless and unfulfilled. As it happens, I'll probably be spending my winter doing just that, but if there's any reason to put off that fate, this trip would be it.

My expectations for this trip are none. All I know for sure is that whatever happens, I'll have amazing stories to tell, great photos and videos to share, and memories to last me more than this lifetime. Keep checking in- I'll be posting pictures regularly, and I'll also be making short videos of each of the different places we visit, for more of a intimate view of the sights and the joys (and surely the frustrations) of traveling.

Bags are packed, tickets are in hand, and the plane is warming up its engines. It's go time. Enjoy the stories.

-Matt

Closing up shop

2009-06-30T09:18:00.003-07:00

First off, apologies again for my lackluster blogging habits, and for leaving you all hanging about my time in Istanbul. I could write several posts about just my last few days there, but given that I'm short on time (for reasons that you'll discover soon), I'll just say that it was a wonderful break from my life in Barcelona, which put my teaching life behind me and gave me some perspective on my previous 9 months there. In my two weeks of travels, I met a lot of great people, drew up some future travel plans based on their advice, and had a fantastic time exploring Istanbul, one of the most fascinating places I've ever visited.

And now I'm back in Barcelona, soaking up my last full day as a resident of the city. My bags are 95% packed; my furniture is nearly all sold or pawned off; and I'm putting off taking down the posters on my wall until he last possible moment, as seeing bare walls would really make my impending departure that much more real.

The most frequent question I get asked when people know I'm going home is whether I'm sad to be leaving Barcelona. I really hate this question, not because it isn't valid (I would certainly be curious as well), but because any straight-forward answer would be too simplistic and leave out most of my real feelings. So the result is a rambling, convoluted mess of an answer that reflects my own unsettled thoughts about my feelings. Of course I'm sad to leave Barcelona- my time here has been one extended adventure since I arrived in September, and I'm just getting to the point where I feel like I know- really KNOW- the city and could almost call myself a local. My job here was engaging and interesting, with the added benefit of allowing my to support myself on 20 hours a week of work. The friends that I've made here are some of the closest people in my life, people from whom I've learned an immense amount. In short, I wouldn't trade my experience living in Barcelona for anything in the world.

So am I sad to leave the city? Yes. But I'm also excited to go back home. One aspect of living abroad is that when faced with a different culture and set of habits from the ones that you're used to from home, you end up reflecting a lot on your old way or life, and and you challenge your preconceptions on how the world, and by extension you, should work. Through this process, you realize one of three things- I really like things in this new country; I really like things in my old country; or I like things from both countries. Not to sound like Uncle Sam, but after nearly a year in Spain, I've come out feeling more American than before. I miss BBQ ribs, weekday afternoon baseball games, and the undeniable convenience of American shopping. I miss friendly, positive attitudes, a sense of destiny, and the belief that tomorrow will undoubtedly be better than today. And most of all, I miss my family, my friends, and my home.

This year has been an incredible learning experience. Among other things, I've learned how to talk constructively to children, and the related fact that kids are not dogs; how to manage my own finances; and how to live independently, and in a foreign language to boot. I've developed a new-found appreciation for European style; expanded my pork-related cooking repertoire by 800%; and come to enjoy shopping in open-air produce markets. I've conquered the manual transmission (in a medieval Italian city!); discovered my inner interior designer; and realized that the best way to learn a new language is to make a continuous fool of yourself for almost a full year.

There's a lot more that I can write now, but I'm off to prepare for my last Barcelona experience. And this one's a doozy- the first concert on U2's new worldwide tour. Sure, the new album kinda blows, and we'll be sitting too far away to see or hear much of anything, but at least I can take solace in the fact that when Bono closes the show with "Beautiful Day" (which he just HAS to do), he'll be singing it just for me. And what an end to my Barcelona year that will be.

Istanbul, Day 1- Old and Older

2009-06-13T10:26:00.007-07:00

I'm back on the roof of the hostel after my third full day in Istanbul, and it's about time I write down all of the incredible things I've seen here before they all blend together and it's too late.

After a night's sleep recovering from the hellish travel day before, I set off Thursday morning to explore the major sights: The Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia, and the Bascilica Cisterns (all conveniently located 5 minutes from where I'm staying). The Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sohpia are the two most iconic Istanbul landmarks, and they stand facing each other across a wide landscaped plaza. The Blue Mosque was first, and it's gorgeous, especially from the outside, where its white marble facing reflects the sun and its many domes cascade down from the massive one at the top. The inside is pretty, but a bit of a letdown after my initial judgment- it's pretty, for sure, and its huge inner area is impressive, but it's no more interesting than the other mosques in the city (if not less so), and much more crowded.

The Hagia Sophia, on the other hand, is no letdown at all. Yes, from the outside it looks like a pile of bricks and butresses (built to keep the dome from falling in for the 4th time) and I was expecting the inside to disappoint, but what it lacks in outside appearances it more than makes up for with its interior. Simply and crudely put, its GIRNORMOUS- which is especially impressive considering that half of it is taken up by floor to ceiling scaffolding due to restoration work. If Istanbul is a place where East meets West, then the Hagia Sophia is the collision point- built in 540 AD under a Christian Roman Emperor, you can still see 1000 year old mosaics on the walls and ceilings; turned into a mosque after the Muslim conquest in 1450, there are huge panels with Arabic script hanging from the walls. I could keep writing forever about how breathtaking it is, and pictures don't really do it justice- the only way to get the full picture is to see it yourself.

My last big stop on the first day was the Bascilica Cisterns, which outdate the other two but are a new addition to the tourist route, having recent been discovered and restored only 20 years ago. Basically, what is it is a huge underground water storage room, but built with way more craftmanship than it really deserves. Columns pillaged from Roman temples; column bases made out of Medusa faces; beautifully vaulted ceilings; dim lighting to make it all seem even more mysterious; and best of all on a hot day, 65 degree temps. Props to Alex and Andrea for giving me the heads up on this- the Bascilica Cisterns definitely rival the other two destiniations on the day.

On the way back to my hostel for the day, I made one last stop- the little Hagia Sophia, a church-turned-mosque built at the same time at its big brother. But unlike the real Hagia Sophia, this one was free of the tourist hoards- or really any tourists, for that matter. It had also just been restored, so the inside as perfectly preserved, with painted Muslim designs on the ceiling above columns still displaying the monogram of the Byzantine emperor who built it. In addition to being quiet and clean, it's also an active mosque, which led to a really cool moment: taking pictures of the interior of the mosque while someone was praying (which sounded vaguely like a Jewish prayer), putting the amazing acoustics on full display. Sadly, the moment was interrupted when the caretaker decided that that it would be a perfect time to vacuum the floor. Oh well, it was cool while it lasted.

Day two and three, next up...

Istanbul, First Impressions

2009-06-10T10:27:00.003-07:00

Why hello there. It's been a while, hasn't it? I feel that I owe you all an apology, but instead of that, I'll jump right into whats been going on in my life the past month (and flesh out the title of this post a bit).

Springtime in Barcelona has been fab. The weather's turned from intermittently sunny and warm/overcast and cold to a steady partly cloudy and 75 degrees, to the extent that I don't even need to look at the weather forecast to know what I'll need to wear. I've been taking advantage of the weather to do the things I've neglected to do up until- tan at the beach, play ping pong on the outdoor tables scattered around the city, lunch on sidewalk cafes. The company on these activities hasn't been bad, either. I've made a handful of new friends, including David, an American who's here on a research fellowship to study linguistic nationalist movements, but he seems to spend most of his time wandering the city and tempting me with new adventures. My super-cool friend Elena also stopped by for a week on her way back from a semester spend doing research in rural Senegal. I can't even begin to imagine the culture shock that she must have experience on her return to civilization, but part of what makes her super-cool is her cheery disposition and positive attitude, and it was great to catch up over tapas, the riots on Las Ramblas after Barça won the European Club Soccer Championships, and day trips to the countryside.

On the job front, I'm happy to report that I no longer have one. I gave my boss three weeks notice in mid-May, and I was let go at the end of that month after he found my replacement. I expected that I'd be a little more upset about this than I actually was, but at the same time, I haven't found ti that liberating, either. I suppose that just living in Barcelona and working 20 hours a week is liberating enough; additionally, with my clock ticking down on my time in Europe (just three more weeks left), it was a matter of time before my employment had to come to an end.

Now that I am uncommitted and independent, I'm backpacking around Europe for the first time since I've moved over here. I spent three days in Oxford, England, visiting my close friend Jason, who's there doing a Ph.D. in politics. I was taken aback at how much I liked Oxford- it's the prototypical university town, a mix of Yale and Hogwarts, and about the only place where college students can live in a real castle. Jason showed me a fantatic time, taking us punting (think Venetian gondoliers, but without the uniforms or class), allowing me to peek my heads into all the Gothic colleges around town, and introducing me to such Oxfordian pursuits as formal college dinners and pints at The Truf (the pub where Bill Clinton didn't inhale).

And after a 12 hour trip, I now find myself in Istanbul, looking out at sunset onto Asia across the Bosphorus, listening to the evening call to prayer being sung from the minarets of the Blue Mosque. I can't really give too detailed of a description, since I haven't wandered far from my hostel yet, but so far, the striking things about the city have been its minarets, flags, and water. Flying into the city and driving into it, you can see hundreds of slender and elegant minarets piercing the sky above the city, and the mosques that they're attached to are made of overlapping, seemingly floating domes. Turkish flags are everywhere- this country is as nationalist as it's made out to be- and from the roof of my hostel I can make out four GIANT one about 5 miles away. And water- it's hard to say strongly enough just how much the Bosphorus shapes the city, both in its layout, and in its character. Orhan Pamuk, in his memoirs of growing up here, writes that the Bosphorus is the oul of the city, and from my 6 hours here it's hard to disporve that claim. Once I walk around tomorrow, though, I'll be sure to check it out in more depth.

I'm in a great state of mind now, refreshed by my time in England (being surrounded by English was such a treat), and ready to dive into another culture. If you have any tips on what I can do here, don't hesitate to let me know.

Maltesed

2009-05-17T05:57:00.004-07:00

Apologies for not posting more frequent and timely updates. I would make the excuse that my life here is uneventful, normal, and boring, but the truth of the matter is that I've just been too lazy and unmotivated to post. Let's fix that...

Two weekends ago, I went with my Sardinia companion and general travel buddy Grant to Malta. A little geographical background- Malta is a country just south of Sicily made up of three islands, but whose total land area is only about 300 square miles (about the size of Queens). It's a little difficult to conceptualize just how small a 300 square mile country is without seeing it for yourself, but as a rough idea, from Malta's highest point, you can see over half of the country. On a map, the lone airport's runway seems to run half the length of the main island. And traveling from one end of the country to the other by a public bus and ferry takes about 2 hours. On bad roads. With traffic. Get the picture?

The inspiration for this trip was Grant's desire to visit North Africa or someplace near it to practice his Arabic, but the motivation for the trip came from the €10 roundtrip tickets we found on Ryanair's website. (How they make money selling tickets that cheap is beyond me, but I only wish they could do that in the States, too.) Between the time when we bought the tickets and actually got on the plane, I did some reading on Malta, which gave me the impression that Malta was like England, but with more sun and religion- it's an Anglophone country, is famous for its beaches and nightlife, and is incredibly Catholic. Reading these description, I convinced myself that going to Malta would be a good preview of what I would be like to return home and deal with the culture shock. People speaking English all the time, food that doesn't all contain ham, American meal schedules- I was psyched about visiting a US-lite.

But oh boy, was I ever wrong. Malta is by far the most unique, eccentric place that I've ever visited, and my expectations could not have been more wrong. Some general impressions:

Malta is technically an Anglophone country, thanks to being an English colony up to its independence in 1964. But the language that we heard most often was Maltese, which sounds like Arabic, but with an Italian accent. If you're trying to imagine how that sounds, just think of someone speaking a slurred Hebrew and randomly accenting various syllables while gesticulating wildly. And if that sounds strange, the way Maltese is written is even stranger. Total gibberish to an outsider. The langauge is a result of Malta's history- because of its strategic location, it's been fought over for thousands of years, and at various points has been ruled by the Phonecians, Romans, Arabs, Italians, French (for two months), British, and anyone else who wanted to control the Mediterranean.
SO CATHOLIC. I was expecting this before coming, since Malta was ruled for a few centuries by the Knights of Malta, a super Catholic order whose members were European nobility. It's said that Malta has one church for every 1,000 people (or 400 churches for a population of 400,000), but the reality never hit me until we arrived and saw that the skyline was composed almost entirely of steeples and crosses, literally one per city block (we counted 13 just from our hotel window). And these were not small churches; on the contrary, they were all substantial buildings, especially one on the island of Gozo which supposedly is one of the biggest domes in the entire world- you could literally see it from half of Malta.
SO OLD. In addition to all of the countries that have ruled Malta in recorded history, there are also megalithic ruins from an unknown civilization that date from before Stonehenge. And these aren't just piles of stones- they are entire buildings (including the world's oldest free standing ones), catacombs, and temples which were all intricately carved and painted, and whose designs you can still see today. These ruins are everywhere- some were found when farmers stuck shovels in the ground- and just incredible to see. The most impressive one was the Hypogeum at Hal-Saflieni, a three story temple/burial chamber carved entirely underground, and designed to look similar to the above ground temples of the time, 4,000 years ago. You can't help after seeing these sites, especailly the Hypogeum, rethinking your conception of the ancient world, and wondering what other things that they were capable of doing, which didn't survive the years.
SO CHEAP. As unexpected as everything else was in Malta, nothing could have prepared me for the ridiculously cheap prices on just about everything in the country. Our deluxe hotel room with views of the Grand Harbour? €50. A delicious, filling lunch with drinks? €7. Bus fare from the capital, Valletta, to any point in the country? Less than 80¢. And while admissions to historical sites and museums wasn't dirt cheap, they did give 50% student discounts. After me playing Grant's sugardaddy in Sardinia, it was nice that neither of us had to worry about money the entire trip.

So now back to the travelogue. Grant and I arrived in Malta bright and early on Saturday morning, took a bus to Valletta and checked into our hotel, and immediately set out to explore the city. Three hours later, with the city throroughly explored, we caught a bus (admittedly one of the most exciting parts of the day- Malta's buses are from the 1960, lack doors, are covered in handpainted designs, and have amazing names the the Duple Dominator, Tiger Cub, and Rocky) to the twin cities of Mdina and Rabat, where we checked out some Roman catacombs, ate some delicious Maltese pastries, and looked inside a couple of grossly oversized churches. A full day in the books, we caught the bus back to Valletta, napped and supped, and then caught an amazing stroke of luck. The annual fireworks was supposed to end of the day before Grant and I arrived, much to our disappointment. But due to "tehcnical difficulties" (i.e. prematurely exploding fireworks), the final night of the festival was pushed back to our first night in Malta- which, in a double stroke of luck, we got to enjoy from our hotel room window, which overlooked the Harbour. Note to my readers: You have not lived until you have seen 30 minute fireworks show choreographed to the Star Wars soundtrack.

The fireworks show, from our hotel room window.

The next day began with a 6:30am wake-up call to claim tickets to see the Hypogeum. Because of its fragile state, the government only allows 70 people per day in, which means that tickets sell out at least two weeks in advance. But being the sympathetic people that they are, the authorities leave open one tour a day for procrastinators like us. The catch? Having to get up a an ungodly hour the day before to claim the tickets, and having to pay €20 per person. But still, it was well worth it, and also a great opportunity to make friends with the other die-hard tourists. Tickets in hand, we decided to spend the day visiting the island of Gozo, the supposed home on Calypso's cave, and a bucolic escape from the only-slightly-less bucolic main island. This trip, however, required us to cross the entire country, a feat we accomplished on public buses in two hours for 80¢. Gozo proved to be a little too bucolic for our tastes, perhaps because it was Sunday and NOTHING was open, but it was a nice place to chill for a day.

On our last day in Malta was dedicated to seeing neolithic temples, walking around Valletta, and poking our heads in chuches to see what was inside (highlights included a Caravaggio painting, St. John's wristbone, and the column on which he was decapitated). Up to this point, nothing in the trip has done anything to make me feel like I was an an American-type country, or at least make me remember what it's like to be at home. So to solve this problem, we went to the Hard Rock Cafe. Trashy? Yes. The best BBQ I've had since leaving the US? Definitely. Any regrets? None whatsoever.

Our trip ended the next day with a mad dash to the airport, and a reminder of how cheap our airfare really was- the 15 minute taxi ride to the airport cost double what we paid for the 2 hour flight. We landed in Girona, said our goodbyes (until our next trip, anyone have exotic suggestions?), and I booked it back to Barcelona for a full day of teaching. All in all, it was an exhausting trip, but in the best possible way. I feel so lucky to have seen a culture and country so different than any I'd experienced before, and one that challenged my assumptions on history, human progress, Catholic ferverency, and general afforability. Now if only the rest of the world could be so cheap...

Missed Opportunities...

2009-05-09T04:28:00.004-07:00

A lazy Saturday morning found me browsing the internet absentmindedly. Stumbling on this site, I saw a postcard confessional which had me kicking myself for not having thought of it earlier:

Granted, the vocabulary that my students learn does have a decidedly West-coast slant. Particular teaching highlights include "hella" and "hecka" as amplifiers, "chillin'" as a synonym for "hanging out", and "royally POed" to describe intense frustration. But I wish that I had been fiendish enough to intentionally mess with my students' vocabulary. I mean, how funny would it be to hear Spaniards talk about how "whack" a situation is?

Barça Soccer: A Case in Point

2009-05-06T13:38:00.003-07:00

So I'm sitting in the living room, reading some political blogs after having finished dinner. The radio's on in the background: it's tuned to the Champion's League soccer semifinal match between Barça and Chelsea, and Barça's losing 1-0. The result of this game will decide who will go on to the finals and have a chance to win the European soccer club title. Due to the vagaries of the competition rules, all Barça has to do to advance is tie; Chelsea needs to win. It's not too much of a stretch to say that nearly the entire city is tuned in to the match; there's nothing more dear to Barcelonans than their blaugrana.

Anyways, I'm sitting at my computer, when from out of nowhere and simultaneously, my flatmate starts screaming, car horns go off, and a cheer from what sounds like thousands of people erupts from outside. Barça had just scored the tying goal in the FINAL minute, and when the match was whistled over shortly thereafter, the pandemonium only intensified. Right now, just a minute after Barça officially moved onto the finals, I can still hear annoucers jabbering away excitedly on the radio, cheering from outside, fireworks, and car horns. If I didn't know the origin of these noises, I would fear for my safety.

As my stunned flatmate said, "Que fort." Que fort, indeed. I imagine I'll be hearing about this match for days, and I'll definitely be hearing its aftermath all tonight. I'm just glad that I don't have early classes tomorrow...

Torture Memo Authors on Trial... in Spain?

2009-04-29T11:52:00.003-07:00

I normally don't post news articles on this blog, but something caught my eye today while I was browsing the New York Times:

Spain's top investigative magistrate opened an investigation into the Bush administration Wednesday over alleged torture of terror suspects at Guantanamo Bay.
Judge Baltasar Garzon said documents declassified by the new U.S. government suggest the practice was systematic.
Garzon said he was acting under Spain's observance of the principle of universal justice, which allows crimes allegedly committed in other countries to be prosecuted in Spain. [...]

In a 10-page writ, he said documents on Bush-era treatment of prisoners, recently declassified by the Obama administration, "reveal what had been just an intuition: an authorized and systematic plan of torture and mistreatment of person denied freedom without any charge whatsoever and without the rights enjoyed by any detainee."

There's a lot that I can (and probably should, but won't now) write about this, like whether the torture memos were justifiable, or whether Obama's decision to release them was wise. But since this blog focuses on Spain, I'll hold off on a US-centric angle and write instead from an across-the-pond perspective.

Judge Garzon might be the closest thing that Spain has to a government celebrity. He is Spain's preeminent jurist, and everyone that I've talked to not only knows who he is, but also seems to have a good opinion of him. You might have heard of Garzon before- he was the one who ordered the arrest of Augusto Pinochet, the former military dictator of Chile, on human rights abuses charges, which eventually lead to Pinochet's five-year detention in London.

I'm still not 100% clear on what legal authority he has to order the arrest of non-Spaniards who commit crimes outside of Spain, but he's known as a crusader for justice and for impartiality. That the Bush administration is in his crosshairs doesn't mean that it's a given that anyone will be brought to trail (even Pinochet returned to Chile, and the US would surely resist any extradition attempt); nevertheless, it can't be a good sign fo anyone, not the least the US' image in Europe and around the world.

Yoo, Bybee, and the other torture memo authors better not have any European vacations planned in the future. At least not any that don't have a Spanish jail on the itinerary.

Força Barça

2009-04-28T14:40:00.004-07:00

It's a bit embarrassing that even after seven months here, I haven't written about Catalunya's number one obsession- el futbol. But over the past week, there have been two major matches which have given me a good look at the depth of this obsession, and I'm starting to grasp exactly why soccer is such a powerful force in this little corner of the world.

Bigger than ham, mushrooms, and pooping peasants, soccer is what Catalan life revolves around, and the most important team in its universe is FC Barcelona, or Barça for short. Barça plays in the top Spanish league, and this year it's sat atop the rankings since the season began in the fall. From what my flatmates tell me, this year has been an exceptional year- Barça routinely destroys its opponents, no small feat in La Liga, which is widely considered to be one of the top leagues in the world. Even to the untrained eye, you can't help but be impressed by the way that Barça plays. Its passes are crisp; the ball moves across the field with ease; the players look like they're toying with their opponents; and goals can only be described as spectacular. As an inexperienced soccer fan, there's no better way to become passionate for the game. Still, I wonder if I'm just setting myself up for disappointment. It's like learning to appreciate classical music by listening to Mozart play his own concertos: there's no better education, but afterwards nothing else can compare.

(As an aside, I'm surprised that soccer hasn't caught on in the US. It's not difficult to draw parallels between it and other American sports. Like baseball, it's a relatively static game punctuated by rapid spurts of action, and points/goals are few and far between. Like football, it's a physical sport with a rabid, involved fan base. And like basketball, there is consistent movement, with little stoppages of play. [Note: last comparison not valid in the 4th quarter of most NBA games.] )

Barça's success this year is not just of interest to those who are rabid soccer fans. Instead, the entire city is following the team's exploits, reading about the previous game on the Metro, talking about it at cafés, and watching every game on television. Tonight's game was demonstrative: a semifinals match in the Champoins Leage (a competition of the best club teams in Europe), and the city streets were deserted, stores closed early, and bars were packed with people watching the hometown team take on Chelsea, a top British club. Even the kids that I teach follow the team. The first thing my 8 year old asked me today was if I was watching the game. (Another student, a 6 year-old, can name Barça's entire roster.) If there is such a thing as a non-soccer fan in Catalunya, I'd love to see it.

The key to understanding Barça's appeal to Catalunyans can be found in its slogan, "Més que un Club." While many teams claim to represent more than just its owners desire to make money by overcharging on tickets and consessions, to people here, Barça is more than just a club. It's a symbol of Catalan sovereignty and pride, dating back to the Franco years when Catalan culture was severly repressed and nearly stamped out. Deprived of the ability to openly speak their language and celebrate their traditions, Catalans of all types gravitated towards the Barça football club to project their nationalist feelings and protest against the Dictadura. That's why today, the most heated rivalry in all of Spanish soccer is between Catalan Barça and the formerly Francoist RC Madrid, which was heavily supported (and even today still is) by the military and conservative types. When these teams play, life in Barcelona comes to a stand-still; the glow of TVs can be seen out of nearly every apartment window, and tensions run so high that normal conversation is impossible in the days leading up to a game.

If it's possible to read more into soccer than what's presented on the field, then the Barça football club reflects not only the Catalan identity as we see it today, but also it's development and self-definition over the past 75 years. It's not only a club, but a point of difference between Catalans and other Spaniards, who might never have had to experience the suffocating repression and subsequent rebirth of their culture. But enough about this; despite these deeper meanings, to Barça fans, only one thing matters: the final score of the last match.

Is this Barcelona, or Birmingham?

2009-04-17T15:03:00.004-07:00

No, this post does not refer to confusion regarding racism or the KKK (though these costumes found in Holy Week processions could lead to that uncertainty). But what does have me wondering if I have been transported to the South is some bizarre weather that's struck Barcelona this past week- namely, thunderstorms and hail.

In normal years, Barcelona doesn't get much in the way of rain. The large amount of rain that the city's received this year has been an anomaly, surprising the locals, though it's pretty normal by San Francisco standards. But things have gotten weird since I've been back from Sardinia. Last Friday night, there was a huge thunderstorm that hit the city for a few hours. For someone who hasn't heard thunder for almost a year, it was a shock for me, but oddly enough also made me feel less homesick, like I was visiting my relatives in Louisiana and not 5,000 miles away. Anyways, this storms caused some massive beach erosion, lots of fallen trees, and the papers even dropped a few mentions of the "G-W" phrase as a possible cause (if you're having difficulty, think Al Gore, not George W.).

This was followed up on Thursday by something even weirder: a hail-storm. In a span of five minutes, the day went from sunny and warm, to cool and end-of-days-ish. Pellet-sized bits of hail fell for about 5 minutes, completely interrupting a class I was holding, though no one really cared. And just as soon as it started, the hail stopped, the sun came out, and everyone acted as if nothing had happened (which might have been even more surprising than the weather in the first place).

At the least, the wild weather has made me feel a little more at home, and has made my days a little more unpredictable. It's also giving me a great excuse to plan some weather-themed lessons, which for an idea-starved teacher is the greatest gift of all. So it's time for my students to put their wellies on and go outside- though sadly there's no Southern BBQ as a reward for getting through class.

Exploring the Medierranean

2009-04-15T12:29:00.007-07:00

Though one might think otherwise from reading my blog, my life's been more than working, produce shopping, and enjoying the mostly sunny springtime weather (though I would be completely happy if it were just the last one). Two weeks ago, taking advantage of a week off of work, I went with my friend Grant to Sardinia.

Sardinia is one of the melting-pot areas of the Mediterranean, and as a result, its history is incredibly fascinating. It boasts a huge number of prehistoric remains, some of them massive in scale and probably testaments to a well-developed civilization that inhabited the island over 3000 years ago. The language is unique as well- while all Sards speak Italian, they also speak their own language, which has influences from Latin, Arabic, and other tongues, but sounds nothing like any of them. (We got a first-hand experience with Sard from the lady that ran our hostel, who might have been the only person on the island not to speak Italian. SO FRUSTRATING.)

But one thing about Sardinia that is especially appealing to Catalans is that it contains the only place outside of Spain where Catalan is spoken. The official language of the town of Alghero (or l'Alguer) is Catalan, and it was definitely a surprise to be able to read street signs and talk to the taxi driver (though he also spoke fluent English, which we quickly reverted to). Alghero's Catalan status seems to be a big source of pride to Barcelonans, almost to the point of them fetishizing it- in the travel bookstore I found a surprisingly large number of travel guides to Alghero, which became even more surprising once we got there and found a definite dearth of things to do. So let's get onto that...

We flew into Alghero on Friday night and went straight to our bed & breakfast, where we would spend the next four nights. We had chosen the Mamajuana not just because its name sounded illicit, but also because the guidebook had given it rave reviews, especially singling out its breakfast, "served at a cafe across the street," for special mention. Imagine our surprise the next morning when we discovered that not only was there no cafe across the street, but that the breakfast was actually served from a VENDING MACHINE located under the B&B's stairs. While a breakfast of Fanta and Kinderbueno candy bar made us feel a little better, we did feel let down by the guidebook (Rough Guide, you will rue the day you were printed), and set out to explore the city on partially empty stomachs.

Disappointment was the theme of our trip for the next three days. The day trip I had planned to visit Neptune's Grotto, "without a doubt the post popular excursion" (sic) from Alghero, was scuttled when we discovered that it was closed for "renovations," necesitated by a freak storm three months earlier. (How a natural cave can be renovated is beyond me, but I digress.) Grant's ATM and credit cards refused to work, which turned me into a sugardaddy, and turned our trip into an exercise in thriftiness. A dinner became a let-down when I ordered a pepperoni and melanzane pizza, expecting an exotic meat and melon delight, but instead received a peppers and eggplant (apparently the correct translation of the menu). And the 5 movies I had downloaded onto my computer before leaving were rendered useless when I forgot my recharging cable at home. Instead of the movies, our nightly entertainment was tag-team solitare and six episodes of Project Runway Grant magically had on his iPod.

Things changed for the better at the midpoint of our trip. After a 4-hour search involving two long bus trips and much groveling, we managed to rent a car that promised to liberate us from the mental captivity we were feeling. But before we could drive freely on the Italian roads, we had one more difficulty to overcome: the manual transmission. Undaunted, our intrepid adventurers tackled the challenge head-on. Armed with nothing more than guile, confidence, and printed instructions from eHow.com, Grant and I conquered our vehicle with only a minor mental breakdown to show for it. (N.B.- Avoid driving in medieval Italian cities at all costs. This is from experience.)

The last three days of the trip were a complete change from the first three days. We explored the northern coast of the island, which was blissfully empty of tourists and the high prices that they bring. We saw prehistoric ruins, walked on amazing beaches, ate meals that didn't come out of a vending machine, and stayed in hotels with ocean views and cheap prices to boot. For an exampe, the photo on the right was taken from our €60 a night hotel room, overlooking the Mediterranean, and with views of Castelsardo, a hilltop fortress dating from the 14th century.

But my far the coolest, and most photogenic part of the trip, was out day visiting Capo Testa, the northern-most part of the island, and the site of some of its most dramatic scenery. Blue-blue water, light-sand beaches, and rocks strewn all around. In Grant's words, "It looks like where Gaudi practiced his designs." Anything else that I can write can't do it justice, so I'll leave you all with some pictures to get a sense of the scene.

After spending four hours playing on the rocks, everything else was just gravy. We had a celebratory bottle of wine (or three) at dinner, retired to our room which overlooked the beach and had views of Corsica, and woke up the next day to make it back to Alghero in time for our return flight.

All in all, it was a fantastic trip. One not-so-good effect of great trips, however, is a bit of a travel hangover, which has hit me hard and made it next to impossible to get back into the swing of things at work. Oh well, worse things have happened (like, say, breakfast out of a vending machine). Just 2 more weeks until our next adventure (MALTA!), and then possibly a trip with Jason to Istanbul in June. Updates to come!

El crisis and my classes

2009-04-15T04:16:00.004-07:00

As much as I would like to think that English instruction is so vital that it's resistant to the economic crisis, so far it's turning out to be just as vulnerable as Coke (a-Cola) parties on 30 Rock. Last month, I lost 3 hours due to budget cutbacks at companies where I taught; today, I just found out that I'm losing another 2.5 hours a week for the same reason. This makes me sad for a few reasons, least of which financial; Fernando was one of my favorite students, class was fun and easy to prepare, and now I have another chuck of my week with nothing to do. Free time is deceiving: the more of it you get, the less idea you have of what to do with it.

It's not hard to see all the ways that Spain is suffering because of the economic crisis, especially from my foreign, English teacher perspective. Companies are cutting back on expenses, and those that haven't canceled their English classes have cut back on other costs, like flower purchases, bottled water, and according to some of my students, writing implements (bring your pen to work day!). The amount of for rent signs up in empty store windows is staggering- in fact, the car dealership that used to be on the ground floor of my building moved out a few months ago, and I doubt that anyone will move into the space while I'm still in Spain. And the gym that I go to is packed with middle-aged adults during the afternoon, when one would imagine that most of them would be at the office.

From what I hear from family and friends, the scene at home is similar, which makes me all the more hesitant to go back. It's a bit ironic that it has been easier for me to find work living illegally in Spain than it has been back home in the US. But if my recent lost classes are any trend (and I suspect that they are), I might be equally unemployable on both sides of the Atlantic. And if that's the case, what difference does it make where I live?

Why I enjoy produce shopping

2009-03-31T05:06:00.003-07:00

My receipt from a recent trip to the produce market:

2 packs of lettuce
1 bunch of asparagus
2 nectarines
2 big apples
2 lbs of oranges
4 bananas
4 yellow plums

Total: €5.89

It's not just produce that's this cheap. At the grocery store, I can spend around €30 for enough food to last me the entire week. And at the neighborhood farmer's market, I can supply myself for even cheaper. It's been a while since I've gone grocery shopping in the US, but from what I remember, it would cost me almost double what I spend here to eat comparably back at home.

Despite being cheap, the food here, especially the produce, is GOOD. Like, perfectly ripe, bright colors, and keeps for a good amount of time. I guess that that's a result of the food being grown closer to the city- Barcelona is surrounded by farmland, and most fruits and veggies come from the province. A short supply chain means tastier, cheaper food. Makes you wonder why this hasn't caught on in the US, if just for economical reasons.

Another benefit: a consistently healthier diet. When food is this cheap, why would you even want to eat junk food?

Oh, and one more bit of news.

2009-03-16T17:09:00.003-07:00

This is pretty cool, too. An email I received a couple of days ago:

Hi Matt,

I am delighted to let you know that your submitted photo
has been selected for inclusion in the newly released sixth
edition of our Schmap Barcelona Guide:

Barcelona Museum of Contemporary Art (MACBA)
http://www.schmap.com/barcelona/sights_elraval/p=67627/i=67627_42.jpg

The backstory to this is brief. In October, I spent a day walking around the Raval (an old, formerly seedy, currently bohemian neighborhood) taking pictures of grafitti and interesting architecture. I posted the pictures on Flickr, and a few months later got a email saying that this particular one had been shortlisted for the guide. And then, voila, here it is.

After the Catalan TV appearance and the guidebook photo, what ridiculous thing could possibly happen next? Or maybe it's better to sit back and be surprised...

Springtime in Barça

2009-03-15T13:16:00.002-07:00

I've hit my stride over the past couple of weeks. Classes have gotten easier to plan and less stressful to teach; the hours I spend on the subway don't seem as substantial as they once were; my flatmates are more civil and open to making conversation; my laundry's even getting washed with more frequency. Granted, the latter's only occurring once every 10 days as opposed to the previous once a month, but every big change starts with a small step.

It's not that I wasn't in a groove before. I had a routine, a basic established pattern to my normal day, and I was fairly content with it. But there was something inherently stressful about the way I had been living, stressful in some way that I can't put my finger on. Lessons weren't planned with much foresight, and sometimes the thought of teaching gave me such anxiety that I dreaded going to class. This spilled over into my life outside of work, which could be easily seen in the overstuffed laundry basket, the bare pantry shelves, and the dust-bunny tumbleweeds that rolled across the floor of my room.

The thing is, nothing major in my life has changed. I'm still teaching the same amount of classes to the same students. I'm avoiding the gym as much as I always have. My recent clothing purchases aren't a good enough explanation for my recent mood change. (Though I must say that it's easier to look happy when you look good.)

But coinciding with my mood change has been the arrival of spring here in Barcelona. The weather here has been unbelievable over the last 2 weeks. Cloudless days; the temperature perfect for a slight sweater or long sleeve shirt, no jacket needed; mild nights that make you walk briskly, but that still allow you to linger outside to talk to friends or to stand alone, taking in the night scene. The sun here is bright, almost painful without sunglasses, but the path it takes is still low enough in the sky for the light to be flattering, even in midday. Barcelona is made for photographers, and at this time of year, walking around without a camera is a waste of energy.

I never cease to be amazed at the effect that the weather has on people's mood. Case-in-point: On Sunday, I joined some friends at a BBQ, held on a friend of a friend of a friend's (the most random, yet best way to make connections) terrace in the Gothic Quarter. Walking to the apartment, I was joined on the street by throngs of other people, tourists and locals, who all shared the same stupefied, this-is-too-good-to-be-true expression as me. It was as if we all shared the same thought, that we couldn't believe our luck for being in such a beautiful place, on such a beautiful day. The kind of day where anything seems possible, when opportunities are endless, when you feel lucky to be alive. (A type of day that happened all too infrequently to me in New York.)

The BBQ was fantastic- an assortment of people from all over the world, very few of them who knew each other before arriving, all eating hamburgers and chicken while looking out over the roofs and church towers of the old town. (Pictures would be posted, except that I broke my own rule and left my camera at home.) It was all a bit surreal- minus the satellite dishes, it was the same view one could have seen 500 years ago. That thought, along with the weather on the ups and the great company, made it was hard not to feel that we weren't in the best city on the planet, at the best possible time.

In the end, I guess that the weather has pushed me into a new equilibrium, a happy balance. The word is that it should stay like this until July, by which point I'll be back in the US. So if there's any change in my mood, I won't be able to chalk it up to the weather; it's all on me.

Quitting shouldn't be this easy...

2009-02-18T10:22:00.004-08:00

Since November and the start of my teaching career, I've been teaching English classes for two different agencies. Most of my classes are with one agency- seven classes a week, for a total of about 15 hours- while I only have two hours of work a week with the other. Now I like each job very much (they both put food on the table), but as time as passed, I've come to enjoy my main job much more than my other one. The pay is better, I have a better relationship with my boss, and most importantly (at least to me), it doesn't require me to teach at 8 AM Mondays and Fridays.

The past few weeks, I had been strongly considering leaving my minor job, in order to focus more on my primary job, as well as my private classes. Now, I'd never quit an job before, but I assumed that there were certain actions that one had to take to formally cut off ties: resignation letters, a talk with the boss, emotional goodbyes to your co-workers and students. And I assumed that these actions would be in play even in the world of Barcelona English teaching, with its emphasis on temporary employment and job-hopping.

So I drafted up a resignation letter, prepared my goodbye speech, and summoned the courage to call my boss. And what response did I get? (A paraphrase follows)

"Matt, things aren't this formal here. No need to give me two week. Come in at the month and collect your paycheck. See you then."

The lesson from this experience? That teaching English in Barcelona is a temporal, causal profession; that being unprofessional is accepted, if not expected; and that I shouldn't feel like I have to make every exit a graceful one.

My Catalan TV Debut

2009-02-10T12:49:00.006-08:00

I can't embed the video into this blog post, so you'll just have to follow this link to see my appearance on the Catalan state news. No, I wasn't involved in a crime or catastrophe- the segment is on cooking classes in Barcelona, or as the title translates to, "The attraction of cooking." Not quite as exciting as having my mug shot put up on screen, but still, pretty cool. And story behind it is as follows.

Last month, I accepted an invitation extended to me by two of my students and enrolled in a month-long, once a week cooking class. Over the 4 class sessions, we learned how to make "cuina de mercat," or "market food"- meals that we could make easily, with vegetables and meat that was easily gotten at the farmer's market or grocery store. Cod with mustard sauce, vegetarian paella, tradiational Catalan beef stew, tiramisu- all of it tasty, quick, and easy to make. Though not idiot-proof - I'm still capable of messing up almost anything that touches my hands in the ktichen, so don't expect perfection if I ever try to cook one of these dishes for you. But all in all, it was a great cultural, linguistic, and delicious experience.

The segment is 2 minutes long, but I only appear in the last 30 seconds. And no, I'm not falling asleep during my close-up; that's just my intense concentration/intense hunger combination face. Enjoy!

________________

UPDATE, 2/11: The video was finally uploaded to YouTube! Enjoy the embedded, condensed version.

The Things I've Learned, No. 355 and 356

2009-02-10T10:14:00.002-08:00

No. 355: In order to correctly play bingo, the cards that you give out to your students must be different from each other. If the cards are the same, everyone gets the same result.

No. 356: If your students are 7 and 9 years old, aren't experienced bingo players, don't have a firm grasp on English, and are slightly gullible, you can pretend that that's how the game is supposed to be played. And since there are no losers, there are no tears at the end of the game. Everyone wins, including the teacher.

Adventures in Macs and Exchange Rates

2009-01-26T02:59:00.003-08:00

Last week, my lovely 13" black Macbook began to have trouble charging. In order to get it recharged, I had to set the power cord at just the right angle, pushing it into the computer, and I had to hold it there until the battery was recharged, which takes about two hours. Now, I had no real problem doing this- my computer is my baby, it gave me an opportunity to catch up on my 30 Rock watching, and I didnt have anything better to do (the dirty little secret about teaching is that you don't actually work ALL that much)- but I figured that I couldn't keep it up for too much longer. I need my computer for everyday tasks, like emails and lesson planning, but more pressing was the fact that I'm a total computer addict and would suffer horribly if the inconvenience became too great. Sooner or later, I figured, I would have to figure out what was wrong and decide what to do about it to fix it permanently.

This morning, however, my hand was forced when the power cord conked out for good. In order to save my computer (and my sanity), I went to the Apple store to see if they had any power cords in stock. And luckily for me, they did- to the tune of €90!?!? Now, I know that Apple is a classy company, and that their products carry a premuin for being so cool and well-designed, but a €90 power cord? You have to be kidding me. Still, I didn't have a choice, so I was ended up buying it anyways. I guess that Apple knows that their customers are easily persuaded/have low resistances.

The price itself wasn't the worst part. Right after I got home, when curiosity got the better of me and I looked up how much the power cord cost in the US- $75. Which equals... €60. Or 30% less than what I ended up paying. Up to now, I've been pretty good about not comparing the euro to the dollar, and as a result, I've been rather oblivious to the price differences here compared to the US. But this is baaad.

Another point- I found out at the check-out counter today that all Apple accessories come with a two-year warranty. I had my old power cord for... 2 years and 3 months. You really have to hand it to those Apple engineers- it takes skill to design a product that breaks down so close (yet not close enough) to the end of the warranty date.

Alive and Well in Barcelona...

2008-12-22T12:47:00.004-08:00

Well, well, well, it's been a while. In case you were worried about me, I'm alive, still have a roof over my head, and am eating three moderately healthy meals a day. And who could ask for anything more?

I figure that since it's been an inordinate amount of time since I last posted, you've been dying to know about how life has been going over here for me. (Or you might have forgotten that this blog exists, which I would completely understand as well.) As tends to happened over the course of two months, much has happened. Some highlights include:

-Settling into teaching. This has been both extremely exciting and indescribably frustrating. I haven't experienced many better feelings than the one you get after a class where everything goes well, the students enjoy it and actually learn the material, and the hour's over before you know it. However, on the flip side, there aren't many worse things than a disaster class- no matter how much you prepare, the students aren't receptive, you forget the worksheets, and to fill the remaining 45 minutes, you have to resort to playing Simon Says over and over.

-Getting used to kids. I teach three different pairs of siblings: a 9 and 7 year old, a 6 and 4 year old, and a 6 and 5 year old. With the exception of the 9 year old, who speaks fantastic English for her age (complete sentences, great pronunciation, big vocabulary), all of the kids are at a pretty basic level, and since they're so young, I teach mainly through repetitive exercises, games, and coloring activities. Not having to prepare worksheets and conversation topics is a big time saver (I really wish I could teach my adults by having them color Teletubby pictures), but learning how to deal with kids has been a huge effort, especially since this is my first extended exposure with kids.

After 2 months of experience, I've come to the conclusion that kids are simultaneously adorable, AND total pain-in-the-asses. One minute they're hitting you on the back and begging you to play hide and go seek, and the next they're super excited about coloring a worksheet and telling you how much they love English. But by far the best part about kids- their short attention spans. If a lesson bombs, by the time the next class rolls around, they have no memory of how bad the previous class was. And for a beginning teacher prone to lesson meltdowns, that's a god-send.

-Winter break and traveling. I took advantage of my winter holidays to spend a week traveling around Andalucía with my parents, and then took off for Paris on New Yeas Day for 5 days to meet up with a friend from Columbia. Highlights included a private tour of the Alhambra; getting repeatedly lost driving around Córdoba and Sevilla in a rental car; an endless train trip to Paris involving 2 train changes and a night in Montpellier, France; stumbling into an anti-Israel protest in Paris and watching people burn cars from 20 feet away; having my first American breakfast in 4 months at an American-style diner in Paris; and not getting deported while flying back to Barcelona. My break was capped off by a visit from a dear Columbia friend, one Mr. Learned Foote, who had to suffer through my repeated questions on the state of the US, as well as some juvenile pranks of mine. But that's another story.

Needless to say, after 3 weeks off, readjusting to work has been a challenge, which has been made more complicated by the fact that I've lost 25% of my hours, leaving me perilously cose to the break-even line. Lots of free time and not much money to burn is not a good combination, so I'm having to scrounge for hours wherever I can find them. At least it gives me lots of time to hit the gym...

So I'm hoping that this post is the start of a more consistent pattern of posting on this blog. I do have lots of things to write about, and many pictures to post, and hopefully I'll be able to give you guys a better look at my life here in 2009 than I did last year. And if I begin to slack off, don't hesitate to call me out on it (thanks Mom and Anne!). Feliç Any Nou, y fins aviat!

Payday!

2008-11-22T02:28:00.003-08:00

My first week has finally ended. As you might be able to infer from the tone of that opening sentence, I'm extremely excited for the weekend. Teaching is beyond exhausting. But I'll write about my experiences and reflections later, so to not depress you as you all begin your weekends.

Another good reason to be excited about the end of the week is that Friday is payday. Because my boss is the world's most awesome man, he let me choose how often I wanted to be paid, and weekly seemed the least stressful and most regular option. And not only that, but due to the fact that I'm working here illegally, I have the benefit of getting paid in cash, without any money deducted for taxes. With perks like that, it's a wonder that any English teacher even thinks about becoming legal in Spain.

So if you see a white guy walking down the street with a big grim, looking in store windows for things to buy, and 180 newly acquired Euros to burn, say hi!

Jobs! Work! Gainful Employment!

2008-11-11T08:36:00.003-08:00

Last week, both my Catalan and TEFL classes came to a close with final exams, test corrections, and much celebrating. While this was a generally happy period, it did mark a major shift in my life. With my language classes over for good and no more courses looming on the horizon, I could not tell myself that I was "on vacation," or "taking a break" between semesters. No, my friends, I was now officially and unquestionably "unemployed."

I suppose that finding myself in this position was a given at some point in my life, since all schooling must come to an end. Unless you're one of the lucky ones who has a job lined up while in college and never gets fired or leaves, being stuck between jobs or schools with no paycheck or class schedule is a pretty standard experience. And since I had never experienced anything like it before, seeing that I spent my previous 20 years enrolled in school, I was excited about the possibilities it might bring. Just think, I could do anything! No obligations to tie me down, no matriculation to a university just months away, no schedules or constrain my desires. All I had on my plate was pure, unencumbered freedom.

Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), my romantic view of joblessness has been put on hold. Today, I was hired for not one, but TWO teaching positions at different private language institutes around Barcelona. (Let me take a quick break to reread the last sentence, and to break into a ridiculously large smile when I let it sink in.) I start work next week, initially at 15 hours a week, but with a chance to increase that to 20, or maybe higher. And the starting pay is nothing to complain about, either- at 15 hours a week, it's enough to cover my basic living expenses, and any extra hours I get on top of that is just icing on the cake (or, more money to travel with).

As for the classes themselves, I'll be teaching kids in one-on-one and small group classes, and adults in company classes. From what I hear, their levels are intermediate to advanced, which is a huge relief since I don't have much practice teaching beginners. And most of the classes are conversation-based, which is great because not only do they require less preparation, but they are infinitely more fun to teach.

I don't really know a lot about the companies I'm working for, but when I start work next week (actually this Friday for one of the classes), I'll let you guys know how they go. Also, the interview process was pretty entertaining - I interviewed at five places overall, out of the 20 places I sent emails to - and definitely worth relating to you all. Look for it in a post in the near future.

Election Obsession

2008-11-01T12:07:00.002-07:00

In September, before I packed up my life in the US and moved to Barcelona, one of my concerns was that by being abroad, I would be missing out on much of the election coverage and excitement. Sure, I would be able to read updates online, but that human element, the feeling that you're part of a unified, collective voting public would be missing. I was scared that I would be so tuned out that I would wake up on November 5th and have no idea how Oba-, I mean whoever happens to win came out on top.

Well my friends (said sincerely, and not in the McCain overused and insincere way), after wasting my entire Saturday agonizing over political blogs, polling sites, and make-your-own-electoral-map pages, I can say that my fears were misplaced. I'm as up to date on the latest polling and Electoral College scenarios as any "Bob the Machinist," "Sally the Statistician," or "Mott the Hoople" (thanks to John Stewart for the last one) living in Topeka, Boise, or Nashville, which of course would make me a real American, as opposed to all you latte-drinking, gay-marrying, effete liberals who are surely reading this. Now excuse me while I bake an apple pie, yell insults at some Muslims, and find ways to protect my wealth from being redistributed.

If anything, it's way too easy to get access to the latest political information, and being 6 hours ahead of East Coast time means that I read much of the news before most of you all back home do. Newspapers publish articles online before they go into print, and everything that is broadcast on TV is either available on Youtube, or on the stations' websites. And the main blogs that I follow (here, here, and here are a few) sum up most of the news I want to know, from across the rational chunk of the ideological spectrum. If it wasn't for the exotic food in the refridgerator and the street signs in Catalan outside my window, I could easily think I was at home.

Just before I left the States, I read an article in Esquire by Chuck Klosterman on the experience of being an American abroad (in his case, Germany). Even though he's 4,000 miles away from New York, Klosterman still can't escape the pull of the hyperkinetic and self-obsessed American media. And not only that, but his awareness of the events described in the press were the same as they would have been had be still been in the US. Klosterman writes,

Even if I were in the U. S., I still would have experienced both of these events [the NBA playoffs and the Democratic primaries] with the same remoteness I have in Europe. I was not going to travel to Boston or Los Angeles to watch a basketball game; I wasn't going to hold a cardboard sign and hop around like an idiot at the Pennsylvania primary....

As far as I can tell, my experiences with both phenomena were virtually identical to the experiences I would have had in New York. I was not more or less informed. The experiences were not more or less real.

Klosterman goes on to say that it's only by living abroad that he's seen how static life really is in America, despite the media's declarations to the contrary. Distance leads to perspective, and then to a realization that most of what we take to be news is really just recycled garbage, designed to tempt, but not quite whet, our appetite for more "news." And unless we manage to isolate ourselves from the media-produced ether that surrounds us, we're all captives to the narratives that are spun for us.

I guess that most of this post is a way to make up for wasting an entire Saturday doing... well, nothing. I would say that I can't wait for the election so that I won't be captive to political blogs, but something tells me that nothing will change after Tuesday. We'll all find new things to agonize about, new debates that polarize us, and new issues that demand our investigation, donation, and dedication. Or if we don't find it, we will have it handed to us by someone in the CNN Center, 30 Rock, or the Fox News Mothership. And life will continue on as usual.

But in the meantime, if you want to know about the latest Obama rumor or dirty Republican trick, just ask me. Even 5,000 miles away, I'm right in the middle of things.

Thursday wth Herbie

2008-10-31T12:50:00.005-07:00

One of the things that I love about Barcelona is that there's always some sort of cultural event going on, and this month's featured one is the Barcelona Jazz Festival. I love jazz, though I'm a bit ashamed at how casual I am about pursuing my interest in it- ask me how a certain song goes, or who wrote a specific piece, and I'm usually at a loss. But since there are events going on all around town through the end of November, I figured that now would be as good of a time as any to five into the scene and check out some groups.

Last night, I went with my friend Carlos to see Herbie Hancock and his 5-piece band play a three hour set at the Palau de la Musica Catalana. I have to admit that while I've definitely heard of Herbie Hancock before, the only song of his I can actively remember listening to is a pop duet with John Mayer (which in my defense is quite kick-ass). But of the 6 songs played, I recognized the melodies of two or three of them, which pleasantly surprised me. I guess all those jazz concerts at UHS exposed me to a pretty wide variety of artists, though I could have learned a lot by actually reading the programs instead of making paper airplanes out of them...

Carlos and I, pre-concert

Anyways, the show was absolutely fantastic. Hancock got his start in Miles Davis' band, so there are similarities between his sounds and Davis', but Hancock throws in a little more funk, which takes the form of electric piano riffs, synthesized beats, and some really bizarre rhythms. By far the most interesting song was "Seventeens", which is in 17/4. That is, 17 beats to a measure- or in Herbie's words, "trece más que cuatro... muy dificil"- when most songs only have 4 beats. If it was as hard to play as it was for me to count the beats, I have mad respect for the band. (For comparison's sake, Dave Brubeck's "Take Five", in 5/4 time, was groundbreaking when it was first played. This is Brubeck, times 3 and change.)

While the music was top quality, the show was almost stolen by the venue. The Palau de la Mùsica Catalana is a modernista masterpiece, designed by Domènech i Montaner, a contemporary of Gaudí. While the outside is more restrained compared to other modernista buildings (for instance, Casa Batllò, on the right in the picture), the inside can only be described as whimsical, in the best possible sense. The rainbow-colored stained glass windows on every wall give the space an open, breezy feel, and the huge skylight that drops down in the middle of the ceiling seems to connect the hall with the world outside. There are mosaics on almost every surface, and giant sculptures burst out from the walls (occasionally leading to obstructed views, as I found out in March when I went to a guitar concert at the Palau). Some pictures I took in March are below, but to get a better sense of the space, check out this website:

Looking back at the hall, from above the stage

The aforementioned obstructed view

Design Tips?

2008-10-28T13:16:00.002-07:00

So I could use a little advice. Ever since I started this blog, I've been thinking of ways to make its design cleaner, clearer, and generally more snazzy. Yet every time I try to change things around, I'm thwarted by my lack of technological ability, and my lack of aesthetic appreciation. The current design is basically the best and most fool-proof thing I could think of, but ideally I'd like something a little more stylized and pretty.

That's where you guys come in. Does anyone have any tips on how I could sharpen up the look of this site? Either by changing the background colors, adding a new template, changing the title picture, really anything- all advice is welcome. Just leave a note in the comments section, and I promise that I'll take it into consideration. :-)

Lessons in Empathy

2008-10-28T09:59:00.002-07:00

You can stop worrying: I am still alive and well, and I haven't "gone Spanish" and forgotten my prior life in the US. My lack of updates has less to do with being lazy (though I can't deny that I've been guilty of that), and more to do with a schedule that's hardly left me time to eat, not to mention reflect and write. But with my Catalan professor having taken ill this week, I have some free time to catch you all up on my life these past two weeks.

The main reason for my suddenly jam-packed life is the Teaching English as a Foreign Language course that I've enrolled in. Five days a week for between 3 and 8 hours a day, my 16 classmates and I learn pretty much everything there is to learn about basic ESL pedagogy, a task that's made much more difficult by the fact that no one has taken a basic English grammar course since 6th grade, if they've taken any at all. I'm one of the lucky ones who has some grammar background (thanks Mr. Tacke!), and having learned two foreign languages has been an incredible help, especially in comparing grammar forms to understand English. Still, to say that it's like drinking from a fire hose would be an understatement. Passive vs active voice, modal verbs, the seven different ways you can construct the future tense, adverbs of frequency- we're having to absorb as much of this as we can, and hope that we can regurgitate enough of it back out on the final exam to pass the course.

Besides the classroom section, we also have to teach 6 lessons to a group of English language students, who we affectionately, but appropriately, refer to as our "guinea pigs." Class sizes range from 4 to 17, and people's abilities range pretty widely, too, which makes for some tough teaching. This, combined with the our unfamiliarity with basic ESL teaching methods, has made our time in the classroom quite the rollercoaster ride, the difference being that we're paying significantly more for these classes, there's no safety belt, and the entire ride is inverted. Hope you brought your barf bag.

Anyways, all of these challenges bring me back to the title of the post. For me, the hardest thing about teaching has been making sure that my students are understanding what I'm trying to teach. Since we're all new teachers, it's hard to judge the difficulty of a lesson that we're planning to give. Since we don't have much knowledge of their abilities, even if we know how hard a lesson will be, it could be completely inappropriate for the students that show up. And since students want to impress their teachers, they won't admit to not understanding a grammar point or vocab word, and instead just nod their head and act like they get it.

What I've realized in my two weeks of classes is how vital it is to put myself in my students' shoes, and try to see what I'm doing from their perspective. Being a native speaker, it's hard to understand just how diffucult learning English must be and how different it is from other languages, and it's easy to assume that students are getting everything, or when they aren't, they're just not trying hard enough. But the reality is probably different, and to be able to get your points across, you have to understand what it's like to be on their side. In this way, effective teaching, almost more than anything, seems to be about empathy. Of course, teachers have to prepare materials, practice their delivery, and carry themselves in a certain way. But there's that other element that plays a big part too.

El gimnàs

2008-10-12T08:51:00.002-07:00

After a week-long search, I finally signed up for a gym- the Can Ricart complex esportiu. I would try to describe it in this post, but words can't really do it justice- it is beyond cool. All I can say is that it the Dodge Fitness Center, and, dare I say, the SF JCC, have nothing on it.

Amazingly enough, and despite its 25m pool, huge basketball court, and excellently-equipped fitness area, this isn't some tony private health club. Nope, this beautiful facility is run by the city of Barcelona, for the benefit of everyone who lives there. Like most great things, there is a cost involved, but it's pretty minimal- 35 euros a month to go at any time of day (it's only 25 if you just go in the mornings), plus 15 euros more for towel service and access to the spa. And it attracts a wide variety of people- lots of young guys and women, but also a fair share of older people who want to stay/get in shape. Yay for European governments caring about their citizens.

The story behind Can Ricart is pretty cool- the building was originally built in the mid-19th century as a textile mill by the Ricart Company, one of Cataluyna's biggest manufacturers and a vital part of the region's and country's economy (think of it like the Spanish version of GE). By the late 20th century, times had changed, the factory was closed down and abandoned, and eventually it fell into the city's hands. After a multi-year restoration project, it reopened in 2006 as a fitness complex, though they preserved many of the architectural details from when it was a factory- check out the wrought-iron columns and staircase in the exercise room (second picture).

One downside to the gym is that it's a 15 minute walk from my apartment, though perhaps that will make going to work out more of an event, and thus make me more excited to go. We'll see about that. But, if any of you want to experience the glory that is Can Ricart, I do have 2 guest passes.... which I will gladly hand over in return for a visit to Barcelona. :-D

Bolets!

2008-10-09T15:05:00.003-07:00

Catalans have a number of somewhat bizarre (at least to an outside observer) cultural obsessions- fireworks, staid group folk dances, and this adorable little guy (which you can order here, just in time for Christmas!). Food is another fecal, I mean focal point of Catalan culture, and this time of year, Catalans come together in a shared preoccupation for bolets, or wild mushrooms. Families across the area spend their weekends up in the Pyrenees, digging around the woods in a passionate search for all sorts of varieties of mushrooms. In bookstores, there are shelves full of books on shrooming, with tips on the best time of year to go (right after it rains), the best areas for different varieties, and the vital information on how to tell deadly from non-deadly types.

In Catalan class last year, Xavier mentioned that going bolet-hunting in the fall is quite a big deal, but I never realized just how big a deal it was until tonight. On prime-time television (which of course was at 10 PM) on the Catalan equivalent of NBC, there was a full hour reality TV show on families going bolet-hunting in the mountains- kids running off into the woods while calling out "where are you, Mr. Bolet," fathers who followed them with a videocamera shouting words of encouragement, and mothers, back in the car, looking like they would rather be anywhere else. According to my roommates, this is a fairly popular show, and pretty representative of how some Catalans get wrapped up in the season.

Anyone want to do some mushroom hunting soon?

One week into classes

2008-10-09T13:43:00.004-07:00

Three weeks into my time in Barcelona, I can finally justify my existence here. My Catalan class started up on Monday, and for at least the next four weeks, I'll be spending my Monday through Thursday evenings at the University of Barcelona working on my "Oral Agility" (which I believe refers to speaking skills). My professor is a lovely woman named Laura, who fits many stereotypes about Spanish women- she has a deep baritone voice, spends a lot of time in the sun, and is very opinionated and enjoys making broad statements. She is a fantastic teacher, however, willing to correct us when we make mistakes, but always in a reassuring way.

Given the class' name, it's not surprising that we spend almost all of our time talking, debating, and doing group work exercises, which has been not only a great way to work on my pronunciation, but also to get to know my classmates. There are around ten of us, though not everyone comes to class all the time- chalk that one up to the fact that none of us are getting graded. The majority of my classmates are from Europe- two each from Italy and Spain, and a Romanian- but there are also people from Peru and Brazil. What they all have in common, though, is that they not only speak Spanish fluently, but most of them already speak one or two other languages. By far the most impressive of the group is Radu, the Romanian philology student, who I think could carry on a conversion with any European, regardless of where they're from- Romania, France, Italy, Spain, England, Germany, Austria, Switzerland, and Barcelona, as far as I know right now. What's been interesting to notice is that the people who already speak multiple second languages are those who are getting the hang of Catalan the quickest. Is it because they have a natural knack for languages, or because they have experience learning new ones?

People's motivations for taking the class have been fascinating to hear, and I think reveals a lot about language politics in Calatunya. I wrote before about how everyone at the University is insistent on speaking Catalan; it turns out that the official language of the University is Catalan, meaning that all official communication, documents, and most classes are in the language. All of my classmates are students at the University, and they all have stories about not being able to understand their classmates, or worse, their professors and exams. For them, this class isn't just to pick up another language, or to be able to go shopping at the market and not look like a tourist, but a necessary skill to have so they don't fail out. The fact that the University conducts all of its business in Catalan, and makes my classmates take this class, says a lot about the importance of Catalan to Barcelonans- as a point of difference to the rest of Spain, and as a way to hold on to and build off of their past.

This first week has been a big fish-out-of-water experience. Not only am I the only American (and thus the resident expert on all cultural exports), but I'm the only one who's taking Catalan for fun, and not to survive in University classes. My speaking skills are weaker and vocab is smaller than my classmates, but then again, I've only taken two semesters, and I've only been speaking it consistently since I got into town three weeks ago. There have been other highlights and funny stories from class, but since this post is getting long, I'll save those for another time. Stay tuned.

Tallada de cabells

2008-10-05T08:10:00.005-07:00

With the possible exceptions of giving instructions to a plastic surgeon or trying to talk your way out of getting arrested, few foreign language exchanges are more fraught with peril than going in for a haircut. Challenges include knowing the appropriate vocab (bangs, layering, highlights, tapering, curved neckline, etc), trusting a new barber, and worst of all, hoping that this new barber doesn't ignore your instructions and instead give you whatever the popular hairstyle is in that particular country.

In Chile, where everyone and their mothers (literally) had a mullet or some variation on the theme, one had to be especially cautious about getting a haircut, because barbers tended to treat gringos' hair as blank canvases to practice hairstyles they would later give native Chileans. For my only haircut there, despite my explicit instructions ("Por favor, no quiero chocopanda" - Please, no mullet), I walked out looking like something out of a Jeff Foxworthy skit, though I did get many compliments from my Chilean friends on my chic 'do.

Unfortunately, Spanish hairstyles seem to be stuck in the 80s as well, but on Friday, I decided to throw caution to the wind and get a trim. Before heading to the salon, I boned up on my hair-related vocab, told myself that in the worst case, I could just shave my head, and downed a glass of wine. Nerves calmed, I let the barber tell me how he wanted to cut my hair, and I closed my eyes to wait to see how it turned out.

I'm happy to say that I don't have a mullet. Perhaps the best description for the hairstyle I got is "Euro-trendy"- short on the sides, a little longer on top and in front, with my bangs swept over to one side. I don't know if I'd be caught dead with this in the US, but in Barcelona, it feels acceptable, maybe even a bit... stylish? Jeez, I didn't think I would have ever used that word to describe myself.

(Unfortunately, I don't have any pictures, but I'll post some when I do.)

Grafitti

2008-10-02T08:12:00.003-07:00

One of the fascinating aspects of Barcelona otherwise clean and proper street life is the ubiquitous graffiti on the buildings lining the sidewalks. As opposed to US graffiti, which seems random and destructive, here it has more of a "street art" appearance, with vibrant designs and messages. The graffiti in Barcelona is especially striking whenever the shops are closed: the lowered metal gates are covered in colorful markings, pictures, and designs, which frequently related to whatever is being sold behind them. During siestas and weekends, this street art forms a striking backdrop to the everyday activities that take place on the sidewalk, which makes for some pretty cool pictures.

Last Sunday, I walked around the Raval, taking pictures of some of the more interesting designs. You can find many of them here, but I've also attached a couple of shots below.

Rosh Hashanah, Spanish Style

2008-10-02T06:03:00.005-07:00

Last Monday night, I went to Rosh Hashanah services with the local Reform congregation. A lot like stumbling onto the Democrats Abroad group in Barcelona, I was very lucky to find this, and just in the nick of time. At the debate party on Saturday, I met a fellow young Jew, Josh, who has been living in Barcelona for a year teaching English at a private school. Very graciously, he and his boyfriend invited me out afterward to a festival/concert put on my the city government in honor of Ramadan (Barcelona has a very large number of Muslim immigrants from Pakistan and South Asia), where we drank Moroccan mint tea, checked out the delicacies at the food booths, and listened to some very eclectic and diverse music acts from around the world. As we split up later that night, we exchanged contact information, which led to us meeting up two nights later at the Gran Hotel Catalonia ballroom for services.

The services themselves, being mostly reform in format, were familiar, but the congregation was a lot different than anything I had experienced before. Not surprisingly, the Jewish community is small here. I would say that there were an equal number of expats at the service than locals, and even among the locals, many are originally from Argentina. Given the past 500 years of Jewish history, or lack thereof, in Spain, I wasn't terribly taken aback. (Though before the Inquisition and expulsion of the Jews from the Spanish Empire in 1492, Barcelona was known for its religious toleration. One of the oldest synagogues in Europe is there, and the park near my house, Montjuic, or Mount of the Jews, takes its name from a Jewish cemetery.) However, even though many people were not native speakers, the services were conducted in Spanish- and even the transliterations were in Spainsh, which took a bit of getting used to. Baruj ata Adonai, elojeinu melej a-olam, etc...

Perhaps the small number of Jews here is related to the slightly intimidating security measures that I encountered in trying to get into the services. To get on the guest list, I had to email the congregation with my name, passport number, the name of my congregation in San Francisco, and why I wanted to go to services with them. The next morning, with my Jewish identity confirmed, I got a call from the secretary with the time and address of the services. Arriving at the hotel, I was asked what I was going there, and after responding that I was here for Erev Rosh Hashanah, was further interrograted Mossad-style about who I talked to on the phone, what the name of the congregation was, and when I had first gotten in touch with the temple. Finally, after 5 minutes, some misunderstandings, and Josh's vouching for me, I was able to get in.

Were the security measures necessary? I can understand, given Judaism's somewhat complicated history in Spain, if Jews here feel a little uneasy about being too outspoken or conspicuous. Many Jews here were originally from other parts of Europe who came to Spain fleeing the Holocaust, and who understandably might be scared to practice their religion openly. But I can't help but wonder if the security measures do more harm than good. Barcelona is an incredibly diverse and tolerant city, with people from all over the world, and of all different lifestyles, living and working together. And maybe if us Jews practiced their religion openly, people would see us for what we are, and not much different than everyone else.

I could be totally quixotic. But maybe a little openness could do wonders for being more accepted. And if it helps a certain non-fluent 23 year old trying to get into his first Spanish-language service, that's a plus, too.

Updates on the past week

2008-10-01T12:07:00.008-07:00

It seems that I have a bit of catching up to do, not just due to the amount of time that's passed since I've blogged last, but also because of how hectic this week's been. Some highlights:

-The Festa de la Mercé, the annual week-long pyrotechnical orgy that I blogged about earlier, came to an end last Wednesday with an enormous fireworks show on Montjuic, the hilltop park a few blocks from my apartment. My ears might still be ringing from the 30+ minute series of explosions, and I didn't even leave my apartment.

The fireworks show on Montjuic, from my living room window.

-Officially registered for classes. This wasn't quite as easy as it should have been, since I had to run around town to get various forms stamped and deposit money into bank accounts, but after a two day adventure, my spot is confirmed. Registration was also made a lot more difficult because the university is insistent on using Catalan everywhere, including speaking it to people who don't understand it well. Like myself. It's actually a little bit ridiculous- even to questions asked in Spanish, they respond in Catalan. At least I didn't have it quite as bad as the exchange students in front of me, who I overheard saying to each other as they left, "Did you understand any of that? I really don't think that was Spanish." I suppose total immersion is the best way to learn a language, but when giving instructions on something as important as registering and paying for classes, you would think that they'd want to make sure you understood what they were saying.

As for my course, I'll be taking a high level beginners class, which has the slightly amusing title "Agilitació Oral." Since my Catalan pronunciation leaves a lot to be desired, the more oral agility I can get, the better off I'll be.

-Watched the Democratic Debate with 100 other Obama supporters at a Democrats Abroad meeting. This was SUCH a godsend- I had been looking around for a week trying to find Americans in Barcelona who wanted to watch the debate, when I stumbled on a Google group of the local chapter of Democrats Abroad. The debate watching party was everything you would expect it to be, in a room filled with die-hard Democrats: people shouting down McCain, cheering every Obama point, and spontaneously bursting into pro-Democratic chants. And of course, in case you were wondering, the unanimous choice for the debate winner was Obama.

My new digs!

2008-09-23T15:13:00.006-07:00

So now that you know about the dining habits about my apartmentmates, I should probably tell you all about how I came to be living with them in the first place. They are the same people that I was discussing in my second post as I was looking for a place to live, and despite my uncertainties about the next-day meeting, I was lucky enough to be the one they chose to fill the fourth bedroom. They are three girls from the Barcelona area, in their mid 20s, all students or new professionals, and they are extraordinary kind and willing to be amused by my attempts at Spanish, or even lamer attempts at Catalan. I wish that I could tell you all their names, but in spite of how much I like them, I haven't gotten their names down yet. Does that make me a bad person?

My initial feelings about the neighborhood were spot on- this is an awesome place to be. It's not that the neighborhood itself is particularly cool, but it's perfectly located- I'm a 10 minute walk to Las Ramblas through the Raval (the bohemian area where I had been staying before), I'm a block away from a stop on the main subway line that can get me anywhere I want within 10 minutes, and I'm a 5 minute walk from Montjuic, the park where most of the main events from the 1992 Olympics were held, and which is great for running, biking, and swimming (at the Olympic Pool, € 30 per month). I can also get pretty much anything I need within three blocks of my building- fruit stands, hardware stores, a manicure, a massage at the "Massage Club" across the street, you name it. And if I ever get a Barcelona resident's card, I can make use of the free bikes on the rack directly outside my front door.

I'm also quite pleased with the building I'm in. I haven't quite pinned down the age of it yet, but it looks like 1940s era San Francisco apartment building, eight stories tall with bay windows. There's a tall, narrow inside atrium (which our guest bedroom looks out into), and an elevator, which luckily we don't need because we're on the second (or as they say here, the first) floor. Our apartment isn't huge, but comfortable- 5 bedrooms, none too big; a cozy kitchen; a huge full bathroom; and what basically amounts to a toilet closet, in case the real bathroom is occupied. My room isn't anything special, probably about the same size as my junior year room in Hartley, except with a 12 foot ceiling and tile floor.

Pictures of my building and room are below. The pictures of my room were taken right when I moved in, so things have been moved around a bit. Also, I'll hopefully be painting the room tomorrow (a really nice blue-grey pastel color, if I can say so myself), so by the time you read this, the whitewashed walls will be no more. Also, if anyone wants a guided tour via webcam, just message me on AIM or Skype- if I'm home, I'll be more than happy to show you around! And for those Google stalkers, and as a reward for reading this entire entry, here's my building on Google Maps.

My building, from across the street.

The BiCiNg rack in front of my building. My windows on apartment is on the second floor, right about the Citroen showroom.

My room, before moving furniture and painting.

Spanish Dining Habits

2008-09-23T14:26:00.002-07:00

So people eat dinner here late. Like really late. A typical night here starts at 10, when, after settling in after work, you make dinner. Weekend nights start even later, with dinner starting at 11, at the earliest. On every night in the week, restaurants are deserted until at least 9, with the exception of tourists, who can easily be identified in those hours as the ones walking around the city, peering in the empty eateries, and loudly wondering/complaining as to why no one is out.

My apartmentmates follow a similar schedule- home around 8, in the kitchen around 10, eating at 10:30 and then off to their rooms to work or sleep. I'm trying to blend in and get the hang of their nightly routine, but it seems that I'm not quite understanding it yet, especially with the time window for dinner. Today's discovery: that apparently 11 is post-dinner time. I say this beacuse here I am in the kitchen at 11:30, eating my pasta with capers, olives, and ham in olive oil (a little too heavy on the olive oil, not enough pasta, but delicious capers), and I'm all by myself in the only lit room in the apartment, alone, as everyone else sleeps.

I'll get the hang of this one day.

Festa de la Mercé

2008-09-22T06:26:00.003-07:00

This week, Barcelona is celebrating the Festa de la Mercé, which commemorates the patron saint of the city. While supposedly a religious festival, it seems more dedicated to celebrating Catalan culture and heritage, and to that extent, there have been cultural expos, food tastings, concerts, and street fairs going on all around town.

By far the most exciting and terrifying of these events is the Correfoc, or Fire Run. I'm a little unclear on the significance behind it, but it consists of hundreds of people, dressed up in Devil costumes, running up the main street, shooting fireworks at each other and into the crowd on the sidewalk. At the same time, ranks of drummers marching behind them banging out martial beats, while huge dragon figures dance down the street shooting sparks out of their mouths. And the crowds, despite the flying sparks and loud explosions from the fireworks, stand their ground and looking like they were having a fantastic time.

Like most great travel adventures, we hadn't planned on going to this ahead of time, instead stumbling onto the parade after seeing some quaint and decidedly tamer Catalan folk dancing in the town sqaure before. Needless to say, it was a little shocking to find ourselves caught right in the middle of it, but I did manage to take some pictures.

One of the parade comapnies, spraying the crowd with sparks

Ducking from the sparks. At least one person is wearing a safety mask!

Looking down the street at the back of the parade. The ambulance on the right was the only one that I saw.

Vicky Christina Barcelona

2008-09-19T15:53:00.003-07:00

Tonght, I went with Aditi, Mariel, Sarah, and her boyfriend to see the movie "Vicky Christina Barcelona" on its opening night in Spain. Either Woody Allen is quite popular here, or the movie's title got people's attention, because the theater was packed- though in an orderly way, since tickets here come with pre-assigned seat numbers. That is an idea that needs to get exported to the New World, and fast.

Anyways, one of the joys of seeing the the film here, especially after having seen it in San Francisco, was witnessing how the audience's reaction to it differed from back at home. Not surprisingly, people here seemed to connect with the setting, as the entire movie takes place in places where they pass through every day (in fact, one scene is filmed down the street from where I'm staying now) . But more entertaining was the audience's reaction to Vicky's master's thesis on Catalan Identity. The running joke in the movie is that it's a pointless topic, and no one has any idea what it's good for. But the Barcelonans in the theater, judging from their prolonged laugher, found the topic ridiculously absurd. Whether its self-effacement, or disbelief that anyone would want to study their culture, I'm not sure, though from my limited experience talking to them, Catalans don't tend to think of themselves as particularly special.

This is really refreshing coming from the US, where we hold ourselves in pretty high regard, as something exceptional. It's a fairly common belief that our form of government is the best, that we are the center is global events, and that our culture is the most dominant (for better or for worse), and we don't even look at other countries to see how they live. I mean, American Studies is fairly popular major at many schools around the country, and while I don't have any numbers to back this up, I'd suspect that it rivals or surpasses other cultural studies majors in number or students. On the other side of the ocean, though, I doubt that anyone here would go to the University of Barcelona to study Catalan Identity.

There's something to be said for keeping a distance between your home culture, and the culture that you study- in objectivity, in curiosity, in keeping an open mind. Though I can also see the benefits of more in-depthly studying your own culture, especially in finding ignored parts of it to dissect and explain. In any case, I couldn't help but be struck tonight by the healthy reaction in the Barcelona theater, and on how, judging from that one brief moment, they were able to take themselves lightly.

Settling in...

2008-09-18T14:25:00.003-07:00

Two days into my Barcelona adventure, I'm beginning to get the hang of things, and I've come a long way from when I landed here on Tuesday. Of course, that's not really saying much. I started off in the Barceona Airport overhearing a conversation in what I thought was Catalan, which I discovered was actually German when I tried to join in (to an objective listener, the languages have nothing in common). And I was all set to impress my cab driver by talking in Catalan, but when I forgot how to say where I was going, I gave up and had an awkward conversation in Spanish.

I've been saved from being eaten alive by the Barcelona jungle by Sarah, Mariel, and Aditi, the three awesome American girls I am staying with. Sarah and Aditi are here on a grant, serving as English language assistants in two public schools, and Mariel is in the same position as me, looking for whatever work she can get (tomorrow, she is interviewing to be a rickshaw driver, and she has a bar promotion gig lined up as well). They have a cozy, brightly painted apartment in the Raval district, a bohemian, formerly seedy area which has seen a recent revival as the chic place to live. My room is an "interior" room, which means that it doesn't have a window, but for a free place to crash for a few days while I get my bearings, it really can't be beat.

I'll write more about some of the things we've been up to the past few days, but a brief sample includes:

-Going out to eat with a teacher at Aditi's school, who told us that she was a vegetarian, "except for ham and bacon." In related news, I've consumed a pork product with every meal.

-Starting our own "Editing and Translation Service," with ads posted on Craigslist and loquo, Spain's version of Craigslist. What qualifications do we have, you might ask? Other than speaking English, not many, I might say, except that I want your business and wouldn't be caught dead admitting that. We did get our first email today (!!!), though unfortunately the potential customer wanted a document translated from French, a language none of us speak. While we might exaggerate our qualifications, faking language capabilities might be hard to do.

-Buying bunnies at the pet market on Las Ramblas. We bought Mila and Penelope yesterday, and they've been running around the apartment ever since (as you can tell from the last post). They are beyond cute, though we might run into problems in a few months when they start mating (our bad for buying a guy and a girl). But for now, they're sitting rather contendedly in their cages, and looking soooooo adorable I just can't stand it omg.

-Apartment seaching! While I love living with the girls, one of my goals while I'm here is to spend time with native Catalan speakers, and the best way to do that is to live with them. I visited two apartments today, both in the middle of the city, and both rather inhabitable. The second of the two I adore- three Catalan-speaking girls in their 20s live there now, the bedroom is decent size, and it's in a fantastic area, not too far from where I'm staying now. There's also an extra bedroom that won't be occupied (perfect for visitors!!!). I'm meeting with them tomorrow, though I'm not really sure for what- it's either for a second round of interrogations, or for me to give them the deposit. For all my Spanish abilities, there are certain times when I magically lose my comprehention abilities, which are usually at the most crucial points in a conversation.

My life's in a bit of flux now, and I apologize for not giving a deeper view of what it's been like living here. When I get a chance to settle down, more updates will be forthcoming. Until then, wish me "bon sort"!

A message from our new bunny

2008-09-17T09:17:00.003-07:00

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74444444444444444

(This is what happens when you let a baby rabbit use your keyboard as his hopping grounds)

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Getting Started...

2008-09-17T02:35:00.000-07:00

In Chile, a "patiperro" is someone who can't get enough of traveling and exploring new places. Falling somewhere between vagabond and globetrotter, and an adventurer at heart, a patiperro is constantly on the move, seeking out new sights, cultures, and languages. He stays in one place long enough to feel comfortable and conversant, but leaves before he can truly settle down and become attached. But instead of traveling to run away from something, a patiperro travels to learn more about himself, his native country, and the world at large, fully intending to apply the lessons he's learned on the road when he returns home to settle down.

This is a blog about my expat life in Barcelona, Spain. I'm here during the fall of 2008, ostensibly to study Catalan language at the University of Barcelona, but really to live independently outside my comfort zone. Expect updates about local life, learning the language, Catalan idiosyncracies, and other adventures. Comments are welcome!