Sunday, May 2, 2010
To-Do's: Done.
Back to my original to-do list. I didn't quite check everything off, but I added a bunch of other experiences that I hadn't expected, so it worked out perfectly:
lie on a beach in Bali, although I might be convinced to move long enough to do a yoga class.
Shoot. First bullet point: no check. The Bali beach: the most crowded and chaotic I’ve ever seen; the beaches on Lembongan Island were either working beaches with boats, or rocky coves. All gorgeous- but i spent all my time walking the villages, or taking pictures, or lounging by the infinity pool.
take my Episcopalian self up to the top of Borabodur, to see what the valley looks like through the eyes of all of those Buddhas.
Check. And double check, and triple check. I don’t know how many times I actually went up there; on most of those trips I was surrounded by school groups and curious well-wishers and people who wanted to practice their English. But the couple of hours I spent up there at dawn were life-changing.
haggle in a bazaar in Istanbul. And see what makes the domes in Hagia Sofia stand up. And hear the calls to prayer five times a day.
Check. I am not good at haggling, but I learned that doing a sincere walk-away will probably drive the price down to a fraction of the original. More fun than haggling, though, is just talking to people at the bazaars. They are seriously entertaining (they do this for a living and they’re good at it.) Hagia Sofia: indescribably huge inside. I really miss the calls to prayer; exotic and hauntingly beautiful, and it keeps the culture in rhythm.
eat something that terrifies me
Check. Oxtail Soup in Yogyakarta. Baby squid in Malaga. Blind-faith frozen juices in Cairo. All of them: tasty.
climb the Acropolis and sit on the steps of the Erectheion, mainly because that was the topic of my first grad school paper.
Check. The Acropolis is impressive; the Parthenon is undergoing an incredible renovation; the Erectheion is exquisite. You can’t really sit on its steps- but I did sit close by and draw it. It’s the best sketch of my trip.
stand on a hill on a Grecian island and see the blue domes against the white walls and the blue sea, and maybe even get lost in the Labyrinth (they say the minotaur is gone.)
Check. Santorini was even more stunning, and more photogenic, than I had guessed. The scope of the volcano is something that is difficult to describe, let alone process mentally. I’m told that, despite the desolation during the winter, I’m unbelievably fortunate to have seen Santorini without a crush of tourists. And I saw snow flurries there- extraordinarily rare. It’s a breathtaking place. The labyrinth at Knossos? Meh. It was fun, but you need quite a bit of imagination.
embarrass myself in Italian. I’d like to learn a curse word in every country I visit.
Check. Embarrassed myself in every country, every day. After the first couple of times, it’s no big deal. The only people who were ever snarky about it were Belgian waiters, but most people are really kind.
stare down The Sphinx.
Check. It is magnificent, although it’s difficult to focus on that in the crazy crush of people standing on the platform to photograph it. (I’d also gotten strict instructions from my guide when I walked out on the platform: talk to nobody! Nobody, ok? Watch your bag! Don’t let anybody get close to you! (A little histrionic, perhaps, and a lot distracting.)
hear some crazy loud music in Zanzibar, and hang out with my old friends at a rooftop bar on a narrow windy street.
Check. I don’t know when I’ve had so much fun. Love the rooftop. Love the music festival. Love Zanzibar. Love my friends. Zanzibar in a power outage: magical. What a gift to see Stone Town by candlelight.
If I see a Maasai warrior silhouetted in a sunset somewhere along the way, I will be ecstatic. I want to fly past Kilimanjaro on the way back to Dar es Salaam, just so I can say that sentence aloud to somebody.
Mmm- no check. I wrote this when I had a plan to do a short safari; turns out the price of a safari for a single person is something like $500 a day. So no dice. However: I did see a fair number of Maasai in Dar and Zanzibar. They are beautiful and regal; I may be projecting this from Out of Africa, but I don’t think so. My friend Kate points out that even lions are afraid of the Maasai. They give pride a whole new name.
visit Italy as a grown-up, and slap my 21 year old self for having no idea whatsoever what architectural and cultural treasures she was half-appreciating as a backpacker.
Check. I saw Italy with completely different eyes, although my 21 year old self loved Italy too, and I have forgiven her for traipsing about blithely enjoying herself, as that is the whole point of Italy. Grown-up Katherine is slapping herself for failing to seize the opportunity to drink wine in a piazza with the Colin Firth look-alike.
pet the lions in the Court of the Lions, and have coffee in Parc Guell, and start dinner at 11 pm like the Spanish do.
Partial Check. I had a late dinner or two, and a great people-watching coffee in Parc Guell. I could still cry about the Lions though- it pains me to look at the picture I took of the empty box, where the lions should be. I’ll just have to go back after they’re restored.
see if I can love Paris (I don’t.)
No check. I adore my family, but they are not advance planners, so this part of the trip didn’t happen.
go back to London (which I do indeed love) and visit Primrose Hill, and Covent Garden, and Camden Town. And see what my sister’s been up to in Belgium, and drink a beer at Delirium Tremens with her exotic friends.
Partial check. I didn’t make it to London (see above,) but it was really fun to see my sister’s world. Her apartment is really cool, and her friends are cooler, and her boyfriend Axel is adorable, just adorable. I was not prepared for how good the food is, especially at the artisanal chocolate shop where Axel took us to a private tasting with his family. Delirium Tremens was kind of a tourist trap, and it wasn’t my favorite beer in Brussels.
secretly sketch people in airports (not in a creepy way) and stand on the deck of a ferry somewhere gorgeous, and ride some trains. I want to wear out some shoes.
Partial check. Actually, I did a lot less sketching than I’d planned. It’s too hard in public, particularly in a place where you’re already standing out. I did ride a couple of marvelous ferries (Bali and Zanzibar) and one dreadful one (Nile.) And I rode some Italian trains, and some Belgian trains. And I wore out 3 pairs of shoes. (I didn’t really wear out the chucks. But after they’d been in the ditch in Dar, I didn’t really want to look at them any more.)
appreciate getting warm, after a day spent in the windy cold. Or, appreciate a cold tropical beer after a day on the equator.
Oh, check check check. A travel joy. The list of things I appreciate right now, which I’d forgotten to appreciate before I left home, is staggering.
In short, I want to step entirely out of my life, my routine, and my comfort zone and see what the rest of the world has been doing while I’ve been sitting at a desk for 3 1/2 years. I need, quite literally, to lay my hands on some of the treasures I’ve studied in architecture school. The people who built these temples, monuments, marketplaces, duomos, cathedrals, hamams, and public places had something they wanted to say to future generations. Now seems like I great time to find out what it was, and then maybe I'll be better prepared to go build some of these things for myself. *
*or, at least think about lovely things while I'm waiting tables and job hunting.
Well. Huge check. I was looking for some big revelations about architecture. And I had some wonderful architectural appreciation experiences. But mainly what I got, by surprise, were revelations about everything else. Fundamental things, like reminders that people are inherently overwhelmingly good, the world is a safe place, and there is beauty in the most unexpected places.
Blindsided by the "Under the Tuscan Sun" moment
Oh, here it is. Italy has made me all emotional. It took a whole week, which shocks me- I’ve enjoyed myself, and appreciated it all, but until now I haven’t been transported, or carried away with ecstasy, or lost in another time, or anything like that. But suddenly here I am, on a train back to Florence with Tuscany flying past out the window, and I am having a full-blown Frances Mayes moment.
This one is actually courtesy of my dear friend Virginia. In addition to all kinds of support and cheerleading, plus a ride to the airport, she gave me a splendid travel gift- two CD’s worth of music for my IPod. I downloaded them without listening, so it would all be a surprise, and they’re just listed as Track 1, Track 2, etc. so I never know what’s next. I think I pulled up “Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes” in the Istanbul airport, and “Sittin’ on Trains” continues to crack me up. The one that gets me every time, though, is my true love Eddie Vedder, singing “Rise up.” Pearl Jam, after all of these years, still has the power to sing directly to my soul. This one goes,
“Such is the way of the world, you can never know
Just where to put all your faith, and how it will grow...
gonna rise up, find my direction magnetically..
gonna rise up, turn my mistakes into gold...”
And I am spinning off into thoughts of where I’ve been, where I’m going, what’s next, what I absolutely want to leave behind. I have a pretty clear idea of what my values are, and my priorities; I have a really good idea of how I do not want to spend my time, career-wise. What I haven’t figured out yet, is whether anyone will hire me to do the things I love, and not so much of the things I find excruciating. I’m not sure what kind of firm that would be, if it’s a firm at all. Going back a few years, my goal was to make a living doing something creative, and architecture was the most inclusive path of all my interests: social justice, sustainability, fine arts, literature, culture, a good blend of science and art. I’m trying not to lose sight of that train of thought, in a career that seems to start all its newbies out as digital draftsmen and Revit techies. I’m wondering, as I have for a long time, how to reconcile my needs for the next few years, with the realities of being an architectural intern, working on endless construction documents. I’ve been wondering for years whether academia isn’t a better option. Architectural history, or urban design theory would be great, and I’d be just as happy with a PhD as an architecture license, but I want to make sure I’m doing it for the right reasons.
Mercy. Quite a tangent for a happy train ride through Tuscany...but, as much as I’ve been delaying thoughts of this, on the other side of this trip is real life, whatever that looks like next. I’ve said this before, but this is the first time in years and years that I haven’t been able to picture what’s next, partly because I’m not sure what exactly I want, or how much of it is even within my control when architecture is at its lowest ebb in the last 80 years.
Job hunt aside, I am excited about a lot of things when I get home, mainly catching up with my dear ones. I missed some things at home. I missed a record-breaking winter, in terms of snow. I missed a friend’s 40th birthday at a skating rink, an also an elopement party, and three people started new jobs, and two of my favorite little people learned to crawl while I’ve been gone. Mostly, though, as my friends have said, “A lot has happened, but nothing’s changed.”
And I don’t know about everyone else. But I sure have. Of course, it started long before graduation, but that was a big moment. And I do, after just a few weeks of travel, feel so, so much better- my sense of perspective is a lot clearer. Despite the pace of the travel, and six overnight travel segments, I’m way more rested than I was at any point during grad school. I’ve been sleeping as long as I like, eating when I’m hungry, walking everywhere my feet will take me. When I told one of my favorite professors about my trip, she said, “It’s perfect- you’ll start to get your humanity back.” And without the constant deadlines and late nights and all of us living piled up on top of each other in the studio and racing towards design reviews, it’s true: I feel very much at home in the world.
Superlatives
Best View:
Sunrise, Borobudur
Zanzibar Coffee House rooftop
Florence sunset from the Piazale Michelangelo
first peek at the pyramids
snow on Hagia Sofia
Best Meal:
Ada and Alfredo’s, Rome
kebap, Spice Bazaar, Istanbul
Greg and Kate’s homemade tortillas, Dar
Byzantio: Athens, fish dinner with Ellie
Best Music:
Street performers, Barcelona
Busara- Mem Suleyman
Grand Bazaar: Dire Straits from a laptop
Best Hotel Gecko:
Manohara Hotel, tiniest gecko ever
Greg and Kate’s porch
Nusa Lembongan: epic battle with cricket
Best travel segment:
boat with the chicken, Nusa Lembongan
bush plane out of Zanzibar
bus, Granada to Cordoba
Best Overall:
Istanbul, the whole package.
Best Hotel breakfast:
Zanzibar Coffee House
Hotel Side
Santorini
Most Universally Accessible subway:
Athens. Thank you- it made the $1.50 ride back to the airport so much more pleasant than the $70 cab ride into the city.
Best travel outfit:
hands-down, black wrap dress over jeans. Modest enough for Islamic areas, easy to layer, excellent pickpocket defense.
Most Beautiful Language:
Italian
Turkish
Swahili
Best Drink:
Sahlep, Istanbul
Zanzibar cappuccinos
Beachside beer, Dar
Chimay bleu, Belgium
Best Line:
You can have al the Turkish Delight you like, but none of it’s as sweet as your smile....
Best sound:
flipping of train schedules
call to prayer
cheese sellers
Best Piazza:
Piazza del Campo, Siena
Piazza Navona, Rome
Piazza Signoria, Florence
Best dessert:
caramel gelato, Florence
Prettiest fields:
Rice fields, Java
Olive/cherry groves, Spain
Best Pastry:
Nannini, Siena
Butter Street, Brussels
Worst Fellow Travelers:
Rome Airport, semester abroad kids: I don’t know why Rome let them in, but I hope America doesn’t take them back.
Best smelling city:
Brussels
Best Hotel Location:
Hotel San Giovanni, Florence, above the Duomo
Hotel Side, Istanbul, overlooking Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque
Acropolis View Hotel, Athens, aptly named
Manohara hotel, at the foot of Borobudur
Best Travel Book:
Shantaram, Gregory David Roberts
West with the NIght, Beryl Markham
Best Market, in the Whole Wide World as Far As I am Concerned:
Spice Bazaar, Istanbul
Most Impressive volcano:
Santorini.
Mt. Merapi
Worst line:
Everything, just everything said to me by the men of Eqypt.
Best Art:
Miro Museum, Barcelona
David, Florence
Caryatid Porch, Acropolis
Hardest Place to Communicate:
Cairo (but it wasn’t a language problem)
Greece
Spain
Best Museum:
New Acropolis
Fundacion Joan Miro
Best Urban Design:
Siena
Florence
Most moving architecture:
Borobudur
Duomo, Siena
Best Fashion:
Italy
Zanzibar
Worst self-inflicted travel injuries:
applying DEET to directly to eye in Bali, brought about by being freaked out by the phrase “Japanese Encephalitis” and having to use DEET in the first palce
bike crash
Worst hotel:
Arabesque, Cairo. Scary.
Most dramatic scenery:
Santorini, Greece
Nusa Lembongan, off the coast of Bali
Best Hotel:
Zanzibar Coffee House
The Tanis, Mushroom Bay, Lembongan Island
Hotel Side, Istanbul
Worst travel segment:
Quatar to Rome. Curry. Ick.
Best bathroom:
outdoor bathroom in Bali.
Zanzibar Coffee House
Worst Cab Driver:
Athens
Best Cab Driver:
Athens.
Best Beer:
Orval, Brussels
Westmalle, Brussels
Chimay, Brussels
Best beer labels:
Kilimanjaro, Tanzania
Serengeti, Tanziania
Tackiest souvenir I should have bought:
sexy priests calendar, Rome
Mannequin Pis chocolates, Brussels
Fun Facts
In Cairo, you hiss to get someone’s attention. It kind of sends chills down your spine. You make repeated kissy noises to get through a crowd. You make movie-vampire noises to get your camel to sit down. If you are a camel, your verbal response to this sounds like a geyser erupting.
In Indonesia, a horn honk means “hello.”
Greek alphabet: B’s are V’s, P’s are R’s, E’s are S’s, upside-down U’s are L’s- it’s like doing a cryptoquote.
Bali- we do outdoor stone bathrooms, with high walls for privacy. It makes SO much sense, sun-bleached and airy, especially in comparison to a dingy interior mildewed water closet.
Many places (Indonesia, Istanbul, Greece) have the small-hose-and-faucet set-up next to the toilet. And rarely is there any paper. Why?? How??
Always ask, before surrendering every stitch of your laundry, whether the establishment in question has a dryer.
Public boat with the chicken: way better than the wave-jumping speedboat.
If you have to have a meltdown, do it somewhere safe. Case in point: white-knuckle it past the the 12 foot swinging rebar and road craters and elderly people and veering motorbikes in Dar, and then find a quiet road and clean ditch into which to crash your bike.
Worth the extra money in advance: substantial travel bag.
Holding the restroom’s toilet paper hostage in order to extort a tip for handing it to you: Not Nice. That kind of karma will come back to get you, people.
Istanbul: everyone walks arm-in-arm. Brothers, friends, family- it’s really sweet.
Jessica was right, my white t-shirt needed to be destroyed after about a week.
Taking the camel route to see the pyramids- totally worth it for the distant view from the Sahara.
The cab driver doesn’t want to see the map, address, or directions to your hotel. No matter what country, no matter what language the directions are in. This is true even if the cab is a rickshaw, or a dala-dala. You will not be able to convince them to look.
Oxtail soup: better than it sounds, and much much better than it looks. Pigeon tongue soup? Can’t report, I chickened out, can that be real? Do pigeons even have tongues?
From Boram, who works at my hotel in Istanbul: Kalamata olive, with lemon juice, capers, and olive oil.
From Ellie, Byzantio restaurant, the plaka: baked feta. Tomatoes, olive oil, green peppers, crusty bread.
In Europe, the messier the dish, the fewer napkins they will give you. I think it’s a game.
Language seeps in over time, even when you’re not trying. A language comes back to you quickly, even if you haven’t needed it in years.
The Dar Es Salaam airport staff is not afraid to ask pointed questions about your toiletries. This is definitely a game. It is not a fun game, but it is a game.
Italian fashion: Want It. All about the boots.
A La Kate: If you see a puddle in Africa, and it has not rained in the last 20 minutes, do not step in it.
People on cell phones in public places, are annoying in any language. Petulant children are petulant, with all the same noises, in any language.
Public restrooms around the Vatican: the nicest in Rome. Thank you.
Curry: a mean, mean thing to serve on an airplane. It looks vile, tastes worse, and smells worst of all. Multiply this by 300 people in a small space, and it’s cruel. I blame you, Qatar Airlines, for two days of The Quease, in Rome. And I didn’t even eat it.
Count your change.
Sitting in Piazzas is just as educational as museums.
Taxi fares will eat you alive. Taxis in traffic = financial nightmare.
Orval: if you want to appear smart, it’s “Un Orval.” Every other beer in Belgium is “Une,” for some reason, Orval is masculine. It’s also delicious.
Lightbulb Moment.
I saw something in Florence which stopped me in my tracks. I was walking along the river at sunset, across from the Uffizi, and saw a blue neon sign, the length of the building, across the back of the museum. It said simply,
all art has been contemporary.
Just like that. All art has been contemporary. And of course, that was the whole point of the trip, although I hadn’t thought of it exactly like that. There were days when I was snarky about some iffy contemporary art at the Vatican, and days when I was a little weary of ancient temple ruins, and days like at the Miro museum when I was moved to tears by the sculpture. All of this art and architecture I saw, from 3,000 years ago at Saqqara to the street performers in the square, have been contemporary at some point. All of them were trying to express something fundamental, to encapsulate something about their core beliefs; as Dr. Schaffer would say, to inscribe their cosmology on the earth and make sense of their universe. The pyramids? life after death. Borobudur? the path to enlightenment. The Acropolis? seat of the gods. Italian piazzas: monuments to participation in civic life. And on and on. I wanted to see these places, and learn what was so important to these artists that they had to inscribe it in stone.
This raises the obvious question, one we discussed at great length in school- what is it we, here, are trying to say? What legacy are we leaving behind? As architects? As people? Nobody is interested in another discussion about sprawl, strip malls, big-box stores, and monuments to the culture of “personal mobility” and consumerism and the automobile. But this is a very personal issue to me at the moment, given that I am at a, shall we say, awkward point in my career. In that I do not have one at the moment. Which, actually, is a great time to consider, what is it I would like to say, given the chance to inscribe something in stone myself? Is it, “All people deserve safe, well-designed, affordable housing?” Is it, “Our American cities could use some sensitive urban design?” Or maybe, “Our buildings need to be as sustainable as possible,” or just “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” It may be years before I get to design anything, anywhere, for anyone- but I’m going to quit talking about what I don’t want to do, architecturally speaking. I’m throwing my energy behind the “all art has been contemporary” sentiment, and tackle it from that approach for now.
Frequently Asked Questions
So. Six weeks after returning home, I’m finally posting some last entries and some summary thoughts. I’m omitting some details: I skimmed over Brussels, because that was really more family trip than World Tour, and because I shredded a couple of those entries and subsequently imposed a temporary moratorium on family travel, as that is way more stressful than traveling alone around the world. We definitely had some fun, and saw some sights, and oh my gracious merciful heavens, the food....beer made by monks, and chocolate, and frites, and a whole place called Butter Street. It was great. So without further ado, on to FAQ’s since I’ve been home:
Frequently Asked Questions:
What was your favorite place?
Istanbul. Hands down. In fact, I have not let anyone get farther than, “What was your fa....” without saying, “Istanbul Istanbul Istanbul!” Why, exactly, is harder to explain. But then, I showed up in this gorgeous, exotic place in a gentle snowstorm, and was treated like a princess wherever I went, and was immediately assaulted in the best possible way with a barrage of colors and sounds and tastes and smells I’ve never experienced before. There are spiral strings of lanterns hanging in doorways, and minarets, and tiny winding European lanes, and kebap men who look like Luka from E.R., and hamam ladies who will scrub you within an inch of your life, and blue-jean stores sitting on top of Roman ruins, and waterways and bridges and palace harems and Turkish delight, and olives and eggs for breakfast, followed by tea on the rooftop overlooking Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque. The hawkers and shillers remember you and treat you like family every time you walk past, and they yell across the street and call you by name and ask how your day was, and you yell back things like, “Hey, Romeo, I just got back from Istaklal Street!” and it’s fun because his ACTUAL name is Romeo, and how often to you get to yell that?
Not to make this all about me, but I’ve been reflecting on this, and Istanbul is definitely the most “me” of all the places I went, or at least “me” as I’d like to be. I really enjoyed all of the places I went, but I’m not really the tropical surfer girl that matches Bali, or chic fashionista in Rome, or the Spanish night clubber, and so on. I’m not at home in places that feel rigid and culturally stuffy (coughPariscough); whatever the opposite of that would be, a place that totally embraced a floaty, free-spirited lifestyle, would probably also wear on me before long. Istanbul, however, is a perfect mix of traditional and bohemian; there’s a sense of being rooted in a European past, with a free-spirited flair, and all kinds of people seem to live there harmoniously. It’s old-world and modern, and eastern and western, and land and sea, and young and old at the same time. I like balance. I like harmony. I like inclusiveness. But mostly, I like colors and sights and sounds and smells and tastes, all together in one big riotous display, in a snowy fairy-tale city.
How in the world did you plan all of this?
Well- I had time for all of this to percolate, long before I left. I knew where I absolutely had to go (Borobudur), and which places would be nice if I had all of the time and money in the world (Kathmandu and Thailand), and which places shouldn’t be wedged into a multi-country tour (Israel). So, I went on the “Know Thyself” principal. It’s easy ahead of time to figure out your comfort zone in terms of accommodation, level of planning, pace, budget, etc. I relied heavily on hostelworld.com, and Lonely Planet. If you don’t want to share bunk beds in a hostel, you don’t have to. If you want to book cabs from your living room ahead of time, do it. If you don’t want to go somewhere, don’t, even if you feel you should. Move quickly, or linger, or change your mind. It’s your trip. And once you have figured out all of the above, my unsolicited advice is,
Do Not Apologize. You owe nobody an explanation, for any part of your trip: your choice to travel alone or with others, your pace, your must-dos, your omissions. I spent the first month explaining, defending, rationalizing to strangers who felt comfortable criticizing my choices and scolding me for moving too fast. I wish I had saved my breath. By halfway through, I had a couple of strategies. the “OH I’M SORRY, MY EARS ARE STILL STOPPED UP FROM THE PLANE. I’M HAVING TROUBLE HEARING YOU.” Say this about twice, just a little too loudly, and your seat companion will probably give up from the awkwardness. Deliberate misunderstanding is fun, too. One guy leaving Africa chastised me for not staying long enough to trace Livingstone’s footsteps. Which, actually, was not a priority for me. He then took issue with the fact that I have no plans to move to Africa. He said, “Next time I’m in America, I’m going to check and make sure you’ve moved!” And I said brightly, “Great! I’ll be there! So nice to meet you!” From here on out, I’m responding to such condescending people with a string of foreign words I’ve picked up: “Karibu! Merhaba! Chocoran! No speak-a! Non Schpreken!”
I mean, sheesh, it’s not like I didn’t give this any thought. I did. For months and months. And what I needed was not cultural immersion, or to sharpen my language skills, or to forge international lifelong bonds, or to trace the source of the Nile, or to rest for weeks somewhere quiet. I knew exactly what I needed. I needed motion, and possibility, and adventure, and to take in as many of the great sights as I could, in the time I could afford to travel. That semester I spent on crutches, and felt trapped and broken down and stuck at my teeny-tiny desk in that basement studio with all of the towering claustrophobic shelves, I got a GPS for Christmas. I cried. Because other than the rest of the people stuck in that room with me working 120 hours a week, I didn’t know anyone else who wouldn’t be able to use a GPS for years. Back then I really couldn’t see a time ahead when I’d be able to do anything other than travel the two miles back and forth between my house, where I spent up to six hours a day asleep, and campus, where I worked the other eighteen hours a day, seven days a week. Things got better. Much, much better, and I really loved the rest of my time at NCSU. But I still didn’t have any freedom to speak of- it was a big deal to accept a dinner invitation, let alone travel. So all I wanted to do, when I finally had the chance, was to hurl myself all the way around the world as fast as possible, and stand in all the great places I’d been studying, and breathe some different-smelling air, and be shocked by the bright colors of piled-up spices in the bazaars, and wade out in thigh-high water to ride a boat with a chicken, and fly in a bush plane out of Zanzibar, and people-watch in piazzas, and wrestle my way through crowds to take a picture of the Sphinx. None of this needed to be defended and explained to the people who felt free to criticize my choices; to them I say godspeed, and please go spend your vacation time and hard-earned money doing exactly what it is that YOU need to do, and I won’t judge. (You can tell it still rankles me though.)
Did you ever feel like you weren’t safe? Was it scary?
My personal philosophy is that the world, by and large, is a safe place. I behave accordingly, after taking precautions against the percentage of it that’s not. I registered with embassies. I took a few travelers’ checks, although they’re a pain, in case of purse-snatching. I got vaccinated. I took malaria meds. I trusted my instincts, and if a place felt iffy, I was extra careful. Thanks to two of my dearest friends, I even took an international cell phone, mainly because they are both attorneys and there is no point in arguing. And they bought it for me, and I appreciated it. Most of Raleigh had my passport info, and my bank knew exactly where I was. Having taken care of all of that before I left home, though- I proceeded as if I were safe, and I enjoyed myself, and other than common-sense behavior, I didn’t give it much thought.
You did all of this ALONE?
Surprisingly, I was never, for one second, really alone. And, for the record I am, at least internally, the most shy person I know. I love people but there is no question that I am an introvert. It’s documented. INFP. So, sure, there were a couple of moments which would have been more comfortable with company, such as arriving in the pitch-black pre-dawn darkness on a Grecian island, or walking the streets in Cairo. But a couple of important thoughts here. Firstly, it’s far more likely that your issue will be finding some alone time, rather than needing company. This is particularly true in places which don’t see many Americans these days, or places where you’re traveling in the off-season and you happen to stand out, or moments when you really, really need a bit of solitude and are suddenly surrounded by quizzical strangers. Secondly, the situations that are slightly uncomfortable are, I’m convinced, really good for you in the long run. People have commented, over and over and over, that I must be really brave to travel alone. I am not particularly brave, but I have learned to embrace awkwardness, because when you travel in strange lands, you are going to feel awkward, a lot. You are going to stumble over words, and make a gesture that you later remember is considered rude, and you are going to get lost, and fumble around with the currency. You may incur some Italian transit fines for not knowing the rules, and you may wreck a bike now and again. It’s all fine. In my daily life, it is so, so easy for me to avoid most of these things which make me uncomfortable. I’m not convinced that’s a good thing. Educators call it “disequilibrium.” It puts us in the zone. We learn. We grow. It’s good for us.
The third point here is really my favorite, though. When I said I was never really alone, it’s partly because of all the people I met on the road, but mainly because I have lucked out in the friends-and-family department back home. My Mom, who was not for one second comfortable with any of this, bought me my plane tickets for graduation, Christmas, and my birthday, which all happened within a week. She also wrote me a card for every single week I was gone, to open on Sundays. My friend Andie bought me a travel bag covered in guitars, which went with me everywhere. My friends Karl and Matt loaned me a compass, an ace Eagle Scout kind of thing which I pulled out now and then for figuring out things like, “is this temple facing east? Oh, they oriented it towards the sunrise!”, but the two times I was lost and pulled it out feeling a little shaky, I suddenly did not feel the least bit alone. My friend Jessica babysat my house so I had no worries about the home front while I was gone. My other friend Jessica gave me a crossword puzzle book: not just any crossword puzzle book, but one with a swank girly cover, and with all of the puzzles partially complete. She laughed about it being a “busted up gift” which I could toss out the window at any time, but I got through every single puzzle while waiting for flights and sitting on trains, and I had company the whole time. My bookmark for the puzzle book was one of my friend Chrisy’s “Intention Cards,” which we get out every now and then and draw one from the deck (one of the many reasons I love Chrisy is that she has things like New Age Casserole recipes, and decks of Intention Cards.) This particular card said something like, “the healing has already begun,” and by the time I caught that first whiff of Bali breeze, I knew it was true. My friend Virginia gave me a neon green suitcase handle that said “Travel Junkie” so I could spot it at the airport, and the most fabulous CD of travel music ever. My friend Tyler tried to buy me a carton of cigarettes, in case I got in a jam and had to barter my way out (Jessica of the crossword puzzles put a stop to this, but I totally appreciated the sentiment anyway.) I had no less than three households charting my progress on maps in their living rooms (my niece and nephew had me as a flag moving around their globe, until the dog ate it and I was replaced by a palm tree.) And I never once checked my e-mail in some lonely spot without someone checking in and sending news, or laughing about some story from my blog. I had a surprise “bon voyage” party, and a last-night-before-you-go dinner with friends, and a home cooked “Katherine’s home” dinner before I’d even unpacked.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Day 50. Malaga.
One. 9 a.m.
Ah. There has been a travel romance. Not mine- I just saw the aftermath of this one, while having coffee at my hostel this morning. A kid who works at the desk is outside, kissing the hand of a blonde girl with a backpack. Clearly, she is headed off in the direction of the square with the taxis. He is deadly serious as she walks off, and he stands there watching her woefully all the way down the lane. There is despair. Coming and going all day, I have seen him 5 or 10 times at the desk. He looks like a shipwreck.
Two. 10 a.m.
Another great street, and another great plaza. Marques de Lanos, ending in Plza de la Constitucion. This street was designed in 1882, in the style of the Chicago School. I actually like it better than La Rambla in Barcelona. On La Rambla, you are separated from the street fronts on either side by busy and congested streets, and you are essentially confined to the pedestrian median. Here, the street is all yours, storefront to storefront. It's a beautiful street, and a Spanish Plaza at the end where people are gathered, and sitting, and lounging by the fountains- for a minute I thought I was in Italy.
Three. 10:15 a.m.
The fake statue people followed me here. There were just three of them today, though, and they seem to be a club: one Gandalf, one Orc, and one Dwarf costume. I don't know why we are doing Lord of the Rings in Spain. But then, I don't know why we are doing any of these fake statue things.
Four. noon.
On a quest for boots. I know. I already bought boots. But I have a specific need. I suffered pangs of jealousy in Italy, over Italian fashion in general and the tall boots in particular. Almost everyone on the street wore some variation of knee-high boots, with some combination of sweater/dress/long coat on top. The first step towards getting what you want, is being able to name it. I want that look.
Five. 3 p.m.
I am wearing my standard Dansko clogs and beat-up travel jeans as I duck into the PIcasso museum to check the closing time. I am bogged down by a shopping bag holding new boots, and also now Spanish groceries, (I decided Italian Pasta night would be more fun if I could also have a Tapas Night at home.) The guard yawns as I walk in. He could not be more bored. I walk back to my hostel to unload. I put on the new fancy jeans I bought at H & M yesterday, and the new black boots I just bought on sale. I am not sure about this look. I do not wear Italian-style skinny jeans tucked into tall black boots. But the only way to find out whether you can rock a look, is just to go out and wear it like you mean it. All the better if you are somewhere far from home with no permanent witnesses.
Six. 3:20 p.m.
Back at the Picasso Museum, 20 minutes later. The yawning guard, who was pretending to be a statue person 20 minutes ago, is now falling all over himself with welcome. He directs me excitedly to the "tickets" window and practically escorts me up the stairs.
I am keeping the new jeans and boots.
Seven. 4 p.m.
Small communication breakdown: I speak no Spanish, so it's all a guessing game which I don't mind. In a Spanish gourmet shop, buying a present, I see a sign that says "bocadillos." They are like 1.80 euros, so I figure it must be something small. They have one with "jamon york," and since I have developed a ham problem here between Italian prosciutto and Spanish serano ham, I order one. The shopkeeper fires a question at me in Spanish, and when it's clear that I'm baffled by this, she smiles and makes a flipping motion with her hands, so I assume it means "heated."
I thank her, pay, and leave; when I open my bag later, I find a football-sized ham sandwich. Ah- not "heated," but "buttered." There is a good 1/8" thick layer of butter on my ham. Wrong wrong wrong.
But it was tasty.
Eight. 9 p.m.
I just did a bad thing. I decided to go to a tapas place, recommended by my hostel, for dinner. They had a note posted saying, "The puntalitos are great!" So of course I ordered some. I was curious about what they would actually be- some form of vegetable? some kind of bread-y thing? Something with ubiqutious ham?
No. Puntalitos are baby squid. Teeny-tiny fried baby squid.
I am fine with calimari- and if it's sliced in rings and looks like something other than squid, all the better. But these: whole, deep-fried, crispy, BABY squid, no bigger than a quarter. Baby carrots are great; baby corn, baby peas, what have you; miniature vegetables, no problem, but eating baby animals of any kind just seems wrong, wrong, wrong, too. Right?
But they were tasty too.
Nine. 10 p.m.
Last food adventure. On the way home I spot something that looks glazed, crunchy, and sweet in a window. I get a choice of honey or sugar. When I order it in my best Spanish, which is bad, the girl tries to give me ice cream. I finally manage to communicate. When I get it, is....wet bread. I have no idea what it was supposed to be- but, essentially, I have wet bread, with honey on top. Yuk.
But, I have had communication difficulty all through Spain. My sister and I figured out later that I'm used to hearing Mexican Spanish, because I have at least watched Dora the Explorer with my godson and I know a handful of words. Nothing here sounds like Dora the Explorer. I say, "Gracias," and they say, "Glathia." It's tricky. But Analucia is its own place, and so is Barcelona, and well, by now, I'm quite comfortable looking like an idiot anyway.
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