The Year of the Human Being

Understanding a Culture through Food - Where Dialects Disappear, Cuisine Remains

eriklang — Tue, 9 Apr 2013 04:23:44 GMT

In Ethiopia, mastering how to tear off the right amount of communal injera and propel the morsels into your mouth without tasting your berbere-stained fingers scores big points. The contrast of my guide Gitachew’s smile against the shadowy gojo bet served as confirmation. Our host muttered to his wife, and she rose from her Lilliputian stool to roast the coffee. In a place where so much is hard to come by, Abyssinia’s ancient bean is cheap and plentiful. Heavy smoke peeked out from a well-worn stewpot, and when it was presented before me, I knew to waft the suspended aroma to my nose with my right hand. Again, Gitch gave me a smile.

In a world where traditions taper under the reigns of corporate chains, food is often the final respecter of a culture. A drive through the Southern USA harbors miles of hackneyed highway, intermittently interrupted by ticky-tacky towns. Yet, within a short distance, the traveler’s palate is rewarded with a palette of barbecues, all unique - from the mustard-based sauce of South Carolina northward to the tang of vinegar. Where attire has assimilated and dialects have disappeared, cuisine remains.

Food is the fastest facilitator of cultural ken. It not only offers insight into what our planet yields in a particular place, but educates us in etiquette. I met a sadhu in Rishikesh, India who promoted vegetarianism because humans are the only creatures capable of farming. This was an unprecedented argument for me, and one that seemed so logical I wondered why I hadn’t heard it before.

Food is the primary purveyor of cultural pride. When you’ve made new friends with a native, the first foray into local life is frequently a seat at the table. Minutes into meeting Augustin in Spain, he insisted on ordering the most expensive cheese I’ve ever consumed, for no other reason than the fact it came from his village of Cabrales.

But, perhaps the best part about opening your mind to foreign fare are the stories you get to tell the next time you open your mouth. There’s an odd liberty in sampling something folks back home find shocking. Whether it is deep-fried scorpion in China or oven-baked guinea pig in Peru, victuals that vex your pals make for thrilling tales.

Gitch’s approval in the gojo wasn’t because of baksheesh, but because he wanted me to understand his people…and there may be no better way to understand a culture than through its food.

Play El Misti for Me

eriklang — Sun, 22 Jul 2012 00:00:00 GMT

This time, the tour bus came to our doorstep. Jill had found a cheap company running box vans to Arequipa…Peru's second-largest city, and therefore a more popular transit point than Puno. We greeted our driver, Oscar, and took our place behind a French guy and his whiny teenage children. We found their insolence nearly intolerable, taking the "you don’t know how fortunate you are to get to go to Peru" view. Then, in another example of youthful rebellion, the road ahead was blocked by a slew of large stones in the street, placed by disillusioned students. Oscar shrugged and apologized to us. He said, “I don’t even know why they’re upset. They don’t know how fortunate they are to get to go to college.” With no police in the vicinity, the situation looked like a stalemate. Oscar pulled a u-ey and eventually we were on the highway crossing the high plain.

Our pit stops weren’t as exciting as the ones on the way to Puno. We stopped for a photo op at Lagunillas, a mirror-still lake with flocks of flamingoes, took a bathroom break at an off-ramp overlook and ate lunch at a Peruvian equivalent of Stuckey’s. From there, the Frenchman and his enfants terribles boarded a bus to Colca Canyon, a well-known hiking destination that we did not have the time or will for at that point in the trip. Motoring on, the land became more arid. Oscar began pointing out roaming bands of vicunas. A giant cinder-capped mountain rose from the desert floor. It was Peru’s most famous volcano, El Misti, and beyond it sat our destination. The steep descent into Arequipa was full of switchbacks, and littered with wooden crosses to remember those who’ve died taking a curve head-on. Our first glimpse of the valley was at a place called Yura, which had a colossal concrete plant that blanketed the surrounding village in ashen dust.

Like Lima, Arequipa has a sprawling, could-be-anywhere feel about it when you don’t factor in the surrounding geography. Consumerism has hit the city hard, and with no Inca ruins in the middle of town, the place has a more prosperous Euro atmosphere. Oscar dropped us off at a gated complex a couple of miles from the central plaza. We had made a reservation, but unbeknownst to us, that reservation had been canceled by the hotel via e-mail in the wee hours of that morning. The lady on premises begged us to patron her sister property instead, which we knew nothing about. Jill looked up the best-reviewed hotel nearby. We stepped into a cab while she was still trying to convince us to spend money at her other hotel. Later, she had the audacity to charge us for the reservation, although it she was the one who canceled it without 24 hours’ notice. (The charge was successfully contested and refunded, by the way.)

With only a matter of hours left in Peru together, I had no problem splurging on accommodations, especially after a handful of nights sleeping in the freezing cold. Our new spotless digs sat in a primo location, and offered the best complimentary breakfast of any place I’d paid for a bed. Jill and I used Arequipa as a spot to relax, catching up on souvenir shopping and postcard writing. We did, however, hit the town’s #1 attraction, and it was well worth it. The Monastery of Santa Catalina is a walled city within a city that once housed hundreds of cloistered nuns. From 1580 until 1970, Santa Catalina was a microcosm locked away from the rest of the world. Today, most of the over 215,000 sq. ft. compound is a museum. I found it generally creepy, in an Exorcist kind of way…but it was fascinating. The monastery even produced its own saint, the Blessed Ana de los Angeles Monteagudo, around whom a local cult has formed. One of the weirdest things I witnessed was the bottled tongue of a deceased priest who willed it to rest in the late sister’s quarters.

As one might expect, Arequipa is not without its share of fine dining. We went out for not one, but two fancy suppers. The first at an Argentine steakhouse, and the second at a two-story place with a spiral staircase designed by none other than Gustav Eiffel. Again, I climbed iron steps designed by France’s most famous architect, but this time it was about 1,000 fewer.

Our flight from Arequipa to Lima was uneventful, and unimpeded by the fog all too common at both origin and destination. Neither of us seemed over the moon about returning to the capital and closing out our trip, but we were determined to make the most of our last two days, and anxious to see Barranco, a neighborhood just south of Miraflores. After so much time spent reading travel guides, a red flag should’ve arose when I read the adjective “Bohemian” to describe Barranco. If I’ve learned anything, this arty term is guidebook code for “dirty.” Perhaps we wouldn’t have known better if we hadn’t stayed in a posh Miraflores flat prior, but the Barranco neighborhood and our “Bohemian” homestay were disappointing.

Only two activities were left in Lima that appealed to us. The first was a unanimous must-do, and that was to eat at one of the handful of restaurants run by world-renown chef Gaston Acurio. The other was something that took a little more time to think about, and that was paragliding. We’d seen the “Paraport” on our first day in Peru. It looked cool enough for me to instantly reach for my camera. Now, three weeks later, we discussed taking flight ourselves. In order to fly, a 9+ mph updraft must be blowing from the ocean. We were basically “on-call” for the day. We received a green light from the parasailing company, but the day was foggy and gray. We decided to postpone.

Our last day in Lima was bright and sunny. The weather was perfect. We went to the grocery and had a picnic in Parque Kennedy. We walked over to the Paraport, sat on a bench, and watched people leap from the cliff, one after another, like lemmings. After a second or two out of sight, a chute would come back into view, and ascend above the cosmopolitan high-rise apartment buildings. Jill and I debated whether or not we should step into the long line. With a lot of persuasion (or rather, begging), Jill agreed to take the plunge with me, in a manner of speaking. Although we both went tandem with different pilots, paragliding ranks highly in my opinion of possible Peruvian pastimes. It offers the best view in Lima – above the buildings but lower than the aircraft, with nothing to obstruct the panorama but a handful of cord.

That night, we walked through Miraflores to Gaston Acurio’s restaurant, Panchita. The style is Andean home-cooking, but the atmosphere is as uptown as it gets. Because ya gotta go big before ya go home, I ordered the most exquisite delicacy on the menu, slow-roasted 21 day-old suckling pig.

Peru was the Cool Whip atop my pumpkin pie of a trip. I’m glad that I got to end my time overseas in a country that I never got tired with. Of all the nations I visited, I would say that Peru was the best value for my money.

After five continents and dozens of countries, my fears of being stabbed in a back alley, or having my pack nicked from the roof of a bus, or contracting malaria all proved irrational. As I caught up on episodes of Modern Family I’d missed using the in-flight entertainment system, part of me was happy to be on my way back to the USA. But, another part of me wished that I could just keep travelling.

Bouncy Island Home

eriklang — Wed, 18 Jul 2012 00:00:00 GMT

Perhaps our greatest triumphs and tragedies occur in youth, when our skins are thin and wisdom is wrought from new experience…when the first taste is the sweetest and the first cut is the deepest. For yours truly there are seldom memories as saccharine as that of the 1990 Grassland Elementary Geography Bee. For reasons unknown, the entire 4^th grade class crossed the country lane to the neighboring chapel, next to a farm with a burro we could blissfully beckon to as "Hey, You Ass!" without fear of reprimand. The church was something straight out of Footloose, and one by one incorrect responses were met with an order to sit on the floor in the middle of the room and shut up. It came down to me and a kid whose name I can no longer remember; “What Scandinavian nation exports the most automobiles?” I said Sweden. I can't remember what ol’ what’s his name said. Suddenly, I had more fair-weather friends than I’d ever had before. For a brief moment in time, the perpetually picked-on nerd became the glorified geography genius.

Besides the chance to represent my county in the state bee, my prize was an outdated children’s book, Far-Out Facts. Published by National Geographic Magazine, it was a compendium of abridged articles and photos from earlier periodicals. One of these blurbs headlined, “Bouncy Island Home”. It was about a tribe living on an artificial atoll in a body of water whose name appealed to my juvenile Hey You Ass! sense ofhumor, Lake Titicaca.

The world of the Uros people revolves around the tortora, a reed that grows in the shallows of the highest navigable lake on Earth. Some 500 years ago, in an effort to get away from the aggressive Inca, the Uros developed a method of building portable islets out layers of tortora, isolating themselves from their ornery onshore neighbors. In addition to providing the base for the islands themselves, the Uros construct their homes and boats from the abundant reeds, and even consume their soft, edible roots. Becoming aware of such a strange place completely blew my ten year-old mind. I said to myself, “Someday, I want to go there.”

I got my chance when Jill and I bought bus tickets to the Lake Titicaca town of Puno. For around $30, we were able to find a coach company that made four touristy stops and fed us a buffet lunch. The morning began in the little Andean hamlet of Andahuaylillas, and to a place nicknamed the “Sistine Chapel of the Americas”. The Church of San Pedro was one of many built during the missionary heyday of Peru. Five hundred years ago, emissaries of the exploitative Catholic Kingdom of Spain sought to justify their presence by leading natives to the Lord. In addition to outlawing coca (which they felt gave the locals satanic stamina) and quinoa (because the grain is not mentioned in the Bible), the Spanish bishops utilized every bit of bling available to make their sanctuaries shine. It was thought that lining the interior of a church in sparkly stuff would seduce the savages into salvation. In comparison to the riches of the Far East I had encountered earlier in my trip, the glitter did little to wow me. However, the murals manipulated so that they might mean something to the lost souls of Peru were spectacular, as well as a still-operable organ played by pulling wooden levers.

Our next stop was Raqchi, site of the largest Incan temple found thus far, and once an exclusive royal retreat. It was hard for me to imagine why a place of such importance would be situated there. Its placement in a wide valley made it easy for conquistadores to raze, but perhaps its position in the middle of the empire made it feel impregnable to the Inca. After that, it was lunch and a siesta in our seats before waking up to the creak and hiss of air brakes. All morning we’d been gradually ascending along the Altiplano (“high plain”), a tabletop tundra that ironically took us to our greatest Andean altitude. We pulled off of the highway for a brief photo opportunity at La Raya Pass, which at 14,232 feet, marked the highest spot I’ve ever been to on earth. Even the physically demanding apex of the Inca Trail (Dead Woman’s Pass) sits a whole 432 feet lower. Half-awake, with the mountain wind whipping my dry eyes, the fact that even at such a high point of my trip (pun intended) I really just wanted to get back on the bus made the whole thing feel anticlimactic.

Beyond the pass, in the northern basin of Lake Titicaca lies the polis of Pucara. Pucara proved interesting for me particularly because it sits on the remains of a pre-Inca civilization. When you’ve been inundated with the impressive impact of their ruins again and again, it’s easy to forget that in the span of human history, the Inca were relatively recent. Before integration into the greatest empire of pre-Columbian America, a plethora of peoples populated Peru. The Pucara were masters of pottery, and that skill survives today with the Toritos de Pucara, two ceramic bulls placed next to each other on a rooftop, often coupled with a cross. The talismanic figurines are popular throughout Peru and said to ward off evil spirits. The modest museum in the modern-day village displays fine examples of Pucara artisanship. There was a squat stone statue of their chieftain God, El Gran Degollador (The Great Decapitator). We were told not to take photos, but I was so captivated by it that I lagged behind the group, and found myself alone with him. So I did what any opportunist would do and snapped a picture. (Without flash of course…I’m not a monster.)

We arrived in Puno via Juliaca, a frightening looking place even from the perch of a tour bus. The glow of sunset gave off an ochre aura beyond the mountains shadowing the town. A rough and tumble port on the largest lake (by volume) in South America, this is where Peruvian sailors square off with the only naval vessels of landlocked Bolivia. Besides its naval history (Peruvian swabs train on Lake Titicaca like many USN cadets do on Lake Michigan) Puno also hosts a university full of disillusioned youth and a small but growing tourism industry. That said, it severely lacks the old world charm of Cuzco. The Chicago-like lakefront wind chill and its higher elevation makes Puno much colder than Cuzco, too.

But, as the old saying goes, nothing worth doing is easy – and I’d decided that visiting the floating islands was worth doing back when Nolan Ryan was still pitching. Most tourists who cruise Titicaca end up spending the night on one of two natural islands farther out in the lake, Amantani or Taquile. I’d heard that the Uros were overrun with isla-hopping gringos y gringas, but when given the opportunity to spend the evening on the “Bouncy Island Home” I’d seen more than a score of years before, I didn’t care. We wouldn’t know until two days later, but it turned out to be a good move.

After a nice dinner and a chilly night in a typical hotel room, we were met by a cabbie outside of our hotel. Instead of taking us to the port, where double-decker sightseeing boats were taking on passengers, the driver took us to a remote spit that had a discomforting resemblance to the Meadowlands spot where Paulie gets whacked by Clemenza in The Godfather (you know- the “Leave the gun, take the cannoli” scene). Through the bulrushes in a little white motorboat sat Victor, patriarch of the family-owned Uros Khantati homestay. Puttering along the narrow maze of channels cut through the tortora, it was already apparent that this was going to be a cool experience.

Stepping foot on the floating islands felt almost as otherworldly as bobbing in the Dead Sea. Remarkably, the only tourists we came upon were a German couple touring South America with their hyperactive 5 year-old twin boys, who seemed to be perpetually locked in fraternal fisticuffs. Thankfully, Victor ferried the rambunctious kinder and their courageous parents back to Puno. But before they left, they told us that if they’d known how nice it was going to be, they would’ve stayed another day. When Victor returned, he summoned us from the relaxation of our hammocks to his handmade tortora boat. The boats take a few months to build, and are now constructed with a hull full of plastic water bottles, in a brilliant example of recycling for the sake of better buoyancy. The tortora shell of the watercraft decays after about 18 months, but it’s just another part of a lifestyle that requires constant renewal through the use of the reeds. As I’ve already mentioned, the cut tortora reeds provide the material for not only the islands themselves, but the homes, boats, and bellies of the Uros. The reeds that have yet to be reaped provide a haven for the carachi, a small edible fish. Using a bamboo pole to push us through the shallows, Victor took us to his nets, and with each yard drawn from the water, we withdrew one or two trapped carachi. I was happy to help him re-lay the nets along the shoals, a little bit of manual labor I’m sure he has no problem passing off to tourists so they can say they went fishing in Lake Titicaca. Upon our return, we were presented with a lunch of fresh trout prepared by Christina, matriarch and “President” of Khantati Island, a portable pad not even an acre in area.

After our fishing excursion, we met our island-mates for the evening, a pair of twenty-something brothers from The Netherlands. Unfortunately, we only got to hang out with one of them, as the other was soon laid out with the sneaky soroche sickness. That night, we assembled for dinner, and Victor and Christina proudly told us about their heritage. Most of it was relayed in Spanish, but Jill made a great ad hoc translator. They began singing traditional songs in Aymara, the language of the Uros, and it wasn’t long before the lone guitar on the island was in my hands. Missing the high E string, it didn’t make much difference. We went through the only two common songs I could come up with: “El Condor Pasa” – the de facto national anthem of Peru, and one I was only familiar with because of the Simon and Garfunkel version – and “La Bamba.” The ensuing sing-a-long was yet another moment that will live long in my memory.

The temperatures that night dropped below freezing in the uninsulated hut walled with paper thin reeds. But we were provided with enough heavy alpaca blankets to maintain homeostasis, and anchor my feet to the bed like no hospital-cornered bed at the Ramada ever could. Waking up with a numb nose, I was reluctant to relinquish myself of the woolen weight and step into the cold. But we were ready to leave bright and early, because Victor had graciously offered to take us to a neighboring island and convince the captain of a passing tourist boat into giving us a couple of seats on a day sail to Taquile.

Most tourists make the floating islands a whistle-stop and chug on to overnight in Taquile or Amantani. Both islands are different from the Uros in the obvious fact that they are large, natural islands in the lake, and the not-so-obvious fact that the inhabitants of Taquile and Amantani do not speak Aymara (the language of the Uros) but Quechua (the language of the Inca). The slow trip from Uros Khantati was tedious, but tempered by the beauty of the dark blue waters surrounding us. It was nice to get out into the open lake, where the immensity of Titicaca truly takes shape. We were even able to espy the snow-capped mountains of Bolivia in the distance. But, sadly, Taquile was not as interesting as we’d hoped it would be. Despite the uniqueness of the community (Taquilenos are masters of handmade fabric, sport a Spanish peasant fashion left unchanged for centuries, and consider dogs and cats culinary delicacies), the island itself was disappointing. As nothing more than two of the daily tourist stock herded up and down the rocky slopes, we were more than ready to return to shore.

Once again, we arrived in Puno to an ochre twilight, but this time by water. We would be leaving the next day for Peru’s second city, Arequipa, then on to Lima and the plane that would finally bring me back home.

Inca Dinca Doo

eriklang — Thu, 12 Jul 2012 04:26:00 GMT

Although little can be done if fate fingers you for a victim of soroche sickness, Jill and I had taken all precautions possible within our power, including ample time for altitude adjustment. But, in a rookie mistake that a now globetrotter like yours truly should've sidestepped, I overestimated the concreteness of my constitution and indulged in an unhealthy amount of chicha. There’s nothing quite like the fear of facing a four-day backcountry climb through the tallest mountains you’ve ever crossed when in a condition that calls for Imodium. Like my final night in Delhi before flying to Addis with stops in Saudi Arabia, this was no time to fall ill, especially after a couple of setbacks in Cuzco… Jill’s iPhone was likely lifted from her coat on a trip through a flea market, and to add insult to injury, her sunglasses went MIA the following day. Malaise was no option. Like in one of the greatest travel movies ever filmed, we the Griswolds were no longer on Vacation, but rather on a quest. Machu Picchu was our Wally World, and we were hoofing it, Andean elevation or Aunt Edna be damned.

Steeped in history and steep stairs, the Inca Trail is the traditional route to Machu Picchu, a precipitous path plied by natives that was never known to the Spanish. Not of much practical use to Peruvians pre-1912, Machu Picchu was "rediscovered" when aboriginal agriculturalists brought a Boola Boola Yale boy through the bush there a century ago. Today, the Inca Trail is the most famous and most crowded route to the ruins, sans the switchback road that brings fair-weather feet to the peak via motor coach. The popularity of the trail can be a turn-off, as well as the price tag. While the walkers are limited to a couple hundred per day, you’re never far from a fellow gringo and camping close to him…making the commodes less like a rustic retreat and more like a bad Bonnaroo trip. Because it is the prima donna of all Peruvian pageantry, the average cost of the affair was more than triple my pseudo-safari through the Simiens of Ethiopia. However, the trail is still the original blaze, and more importantly, those who stroll in the spirit of the indigenous Inca get to watch the sun rise at the site hours before buses begin to arrive.

I wondered if our tour company might be tempting Viracocha by giving us “I Survived the Inca Trail” t-shirts before we even started. But it didn’t take long after leaving the minibus to determine that we’d fortunately fallen in with a good group. Made up of couples on vacation, co-workers, an ex-stepmom with her ex-stepdaughter, and a crew of roller derby teammates, our fellow trekkers were fast and fit, contributing to the overall atmosphere of the journey. Freddie, our animated guide, acted as a loquacious liaison between the more-Quechua-speaking, less-European- looking quartermasters and porters (referred to by the vernacular cheski ) and our mostly English, un poco Espanol cohorts. For reasons unknown, I was one of the few in our crew given a Quechua nickname, Erik-cha.

From day one, the cheski made our fast and fit group look slow and sloppy. Jill and I were unique in having not hired a porter to carry our personal equipment, but that said, the cheski still carried twice as many pounds atop their nearly half-sized frames and swiftly scrambled up and down the slopes in sandals, trumping many a Timberland. The advantage to being outpaced became obvious on our first lunch break. Setting a precedent for piquant plates to come, our midday meal was lavishly laid out away from the elements, and every supper following would be avidly anticipated after a hard day’s hike.

The scourge of soroche broke the stride of one of the Reservoir Dolls roller derby squad, and a teammate compassionately accompanied her on her descent back down. The whole group seemed empathetic to those absent, well aware that any of us could suffer any number of physical setbacks before making Machu Picchu. Our greatest ascent took us through Dead Woman’s Pass, at an oxygen-thin altitude of 13,860 feet…the highest point on the Inca Trail or any other trail I’ve traversed. During a happy hiatus, we celebrated the achievement with a small ceremony dedicated to Pachamama involving sips of sangria, hojas de coca, and a cairn constructed from stones we’d walked up the mountain. Dinner was dark due to the accidental destruction of the mess lantern by a fellow camper. We didn’t know it then, but the incident gave Freddie a perfect set-up. At dinner, with flashlight in face as if a teenaged camp counselor, he talked about tragedies along the trail, and having to carry casualties off of the mountain. All smiles, he continued with a story about a man murdering his wife at our very campsite. We started to pose half-jokey questions as to why Freddie was so morbid. Then, he conveniently flipped his flashlight off, and after a giggly pause as we got wise to the gag, switched it on to reveal a Guy Fawkes mask, a la V for Vendetta. As if this alone wasn’t hilarious enough to a group of physically-exhausted, sleep-deprived, light-headed hikers, he went the extra mile by munching on capsules of fake blood. Maybe it was the altitude, but for some reason I laughed at his sanguineous drool until I got a headache.

The temp at camp was literally freezing, which left my extremities numb thru the night, but this was comforted by tent-side tea service the following morning, courtesy of the cheski. The third day of the Inca Trail is sometimes labeled the hardest, because it is nearly all a knee-knocking descent, and the effects of fatigue may slow you down. However, our group seemed to be thriving and getting along better than ever, both on the trail and with each other. We all knew we were lucky to have had nothing but clear skies and sunshine so far, and this only led to a greater appreciation for the amazing views. Freddie told us this was his first hike where it’d been clear enough to see the stupendous Salkantay glacier in seven months. We walked through cloudless cloud forest, around the nearly as Picchu-esque ruins of Phuyupatamarca and Winay Wayna, and through cave-like tunnels where the Guy Fawkes mask made its return as Freddie ambushed approaching hikers in the shadows, scaring the walking stick out of them.

We were informed that the head chef was celebrating his 40^th birthday, and the cheski had prepared a party for him that evening. At first, I met this news with skepticism, wondering if it might be a veiled attempt at increasing tip percentage. Jill was elected as the leader of our group to speak in honor of the occasion, and thank the cheski for all of their hard work. With the help of one of our group to translate into his second language, Jill thanked our chef and praised his culinary mastery while wishing him a happy birthday. If he was only forty, then either Andean anos are longer than American ones, or the years of hard work under the harsh Peruvian sun had aged him. His eyes started to well up with tears upon getting kudos. It was a touching moment.

Although the cheski stayed up late partying with their chef, we all agreed to wake up at 3:45am, hoping to get a good spot in line along the last checkpoint before Machu Picchu, opening at 5 o’clock. Determined not to have wasted our exorbitant admission and our aching ankles, we merited the second position in the queue. In the early morning twilight, we were moving faster than ever before. We overtook the tour group ahead of us, and made an adrenalin-fueled dash to the Sun Gate. There was an almost vertical climb up a stone flight of stairs known as the “monkey steps” that I would’ve liked to have gotten a photo of…but I couldn’t…we were in a hurry.

Seeing the sunrise over Machu Picchu was the icing on top of my whole international excursion. It made me glad I didn’t go west to east, because I might’ve been disappointed with later destinations if I’d seen Machu Picchu right off the bat. But, perhaps the best part of hiking there is the privilege of wandering the ruins in relative privacy for a couple of hours before bus-borne throngs of tourists show up. By noon, the crowds had become almost too much for Jill and I to handle. We returned to Aguas Calientes, a tiny pedestrian-friendly hamlet tucked away along the banks of the Urubamba. Although we would’ve preferred to leave at an earlier time, the only train out of town was hours from departure, so we enjoyed some street musicians while relaxing on a café patio.

We returned to Cuzco via rail and road, accompanied by Darwin, Freddie’s more-Quechua-speaking, less-European-looking apprentice. Once we arrived in Cuzco, our group went our separate ways, and Jill and I walked to our hotel after escorting a fellow hiker to her accommodations. The Inca Trail hike improved our attitudes overall, and marked a nonpareil benchmark of any travel I’ve done anywhere. Although reluctant to leave Cuzco (which remains our favorite Peruvian polis) we were ready, willing and able to light out for Lake Titicaca and our overnight stay on an island made of reeds.

Belly Button of the World

eriklang — Wed, 4 Jul 2012 00:00:00 GMT

There are pros and cons to traveling alone. Advantages include the freedom to follow your own itinerary and move along at your own pace, as well as the oft-overlooked fact that flying solo forces you to engage with locals, as well as fellow adventurer-seekers. The primary disadvantage, however, is loneliness…while standing awestruck unescorted before a world wonder can be a deeply satisfying experience, sometimes it is better shared with a friend or loved one.

After the second-longest leg of my trip, crossing the Atlantic and the Equator over the course of a dozen hours, I was excited to meet my girlfriend, Jill, at Jorge Chavez International Airport in Lima, Peru. My flight from Quito arrived at nearly the same time as her flight from Atlanta, so after a four-month absence, we reunited in the customs lane. Our first two days were spent in the Peruvian capital, at a rented apartment in a swanky section of town called Miraflores.

Lima is a sprawling, chaotic place, a consequence of rural émigrés seeking opportunity in the big city. While situated along the picturesque Pacific cliffs of the Costa Verde ("Green Coast" – though one of our drivers appropriately pointed out that it ought to be called the “Brown Coast”) Lima leaves little to be desired for the typical traveler. As with many large cities, there's plenty of great food to be found, but the task of getting from place to place in the sheer absence of public transportation (all of the minibuses and cabs are privately owned) in such a widespread metropolis is somewhat daunting. But, it didn’t concern us all that much, because within 48 hours we would be on a domestic flight to what was once the capital of the greatest pre-colonial empire in South America, Cuzco.

According to legend, it was the mythical founding father (Manco Capac) and mother (Mama Ocllo) of the Inca who chartered the city after declaring it the “Navel” (Qosco) of the World. In truth, the translation of “Qosco” from the Incan language of Quechua into European tongues is not exactly “belly button”, but more of a word representing the center of the body as a whole. This makes sense, because for the Inca, Cuzco sat in the middle of a vast territory that stretched for thousands of miles along the Andes Mountains from the southern frontier of modern-day Colombia to the northern half of Patagonia. The city itself was laid out in the shape of a puma, which along with the condor and the snake form the holy trinity of animals held sacred in Andean legend.

It didn’t take long after touching down in Cuzco to appreciate the beauty and culture of the place in comparison to Lima. Set in an alpine valley of narrow cobblestone avenues flanked by buildings with Spanish tile roofs resting upon foundations of Inca stone, Cuzco possesses the romantic charm Lima lost long ago.   But, it soon became clear that going from sea level to 11,200 feet in elevation would take at least a couple of days of physical adjustment. To combat soroche (altitude sickness), the local remedy almost always involves the frequently misunderstood coca leaf. Illegal in the United States, the coca plant is indeed the base ingredient in the production of cocaine. However, equating coca leaves with cocaine powder would be akin to claiming that gasoline and petroleum jelly are one in the same. While both products are made with oil, trying to fill up your car with Vaseline is a bad idea.   For all intents and purposes, the unadulterated hoja de coca acts as a mild stimulant, similar to caffeine, and works to relieve common soroche symptoms like headaches and indigestion.

Taking it easy for a couple of days in order to adapt to the altitude, Jill and I explored the town on foot. From our first dinner together, both of us were immediately impressed with the quality of Peruvian produce. It seems counterintuitive, but for such a mountainous place, the Peruvians have mastered the art of microclimate management. Through their age-old practice of steppe farming, where crops are grown on artificial earth-fill terraces hugging the slopes, they’ve been able to take advantage of the wide spectrum of temperature, precipitation and sunlight available from base to peak. On one mountain, hot, humid weather at the bottom yields tropical fruits, while temperate terraces near the top allow for the cultivation of winter grains. This kind of vegetative variety creates a cornucopia of consumables, and secured Peru’s spot in my own annals of world travel as the best overall country for cuisine. While in Cuzco, Jill and I gloated in getting great value for our money while tasting some of the finest dishes we’ve known. In addition to trying new fruits like the aguaymanto and sampling one of 300 varieties of potato, we also catered to our carnivorous curiosities and cut our teeth into alpaca steaks.

One Andean animal too strange for me to pass up was cuy, known to gringos as guinea pig. Native to South America, the furry rodents many of us (including myself) kept as childhood pets are considered a delicacy going back to before the time of the Incas, and in the Cuzco Cathedral, a provincial painting of The Last Supper depicts Christ and His Apostles dining on the roasted rodent. When the baked cuy made it to our table, it looked anything but appetizing; the entire creature lay on the platter before me, complete with a broccoli floret wedged between its prominent incisors. It marked maybe the only meal in Peru that didn’t impress me much. The meat was meager and gamy, and when my hand made contact with one of the claws of the cuy, it would bring back the sensation of handling guinea pigs as a kid and gross me out a little.

Still, I remained determined to try as many uniquely local perishables as possible, as I had throughout my trip. One of them was a homebrewed corn beer called chicha. Like the Tej Beat in Ethiopia, a Chicheria is a nondescript private operation, usually run out of a residence, marked by a pole with one end wrapped in red material mounted above the threshold. Traditionally, the maize used to prepare the alcoholic beverage is chewed and then spit into the mixture by elderly women. Enzymes in the old lady saliva catalyze the breakdown of starches enabling fermentation.   We were taken for chicha by Carlos, a young man who was our guide while exploring nearby Incan ruins on horseback. Because of the effect corn can have on the digestive system, even Carlos recommended that I not drink the entire glass of homemade hooch. But fancying myself as someone who doesn’t do things half-heartedly, after the obligatory libation of pouring the first sip on the ground to honor Pachamama (Quechua for “Mother Earth”) I guzzled the whole drink down my gullet, ignoring a warning I should have heeded.

Seeing the Andes from the saddle was a real treat. Trotting over the high terrain while Carlos piped away on a traditional Incan flute will remain one of my most distinct memories.   In all, we visited the ruins of Tambomachay (site of stone baths believed to be linked to an Incan water cult), Pukapukara (believed to be a hunting lodge or traveler’s rest), Q’enqo (a temple possibly used for ritual human sacrifices), and Sacsaywaman (a massive zig-zag fortress that represents the teeth of Cuzco’s puma shape and the site of a tragic battle between the Inca and the Spanish determined to conquer them).

Despite the best efforts of the Conquistadores to destroy them, there are so many Inca ruins remaining in Cuzco, and the Sacred Valley of the Incas nearby, that it’s impossible to cover them all in a handful of days. However, Jill and I managed to take a short trip to one of the most impressive Sacred Valley sites, and we were happy we did. The ruins of Pisac sit high above the modern village of the same name on the holy Urubamba River. Once a densely populated city, the huge ruins of Pisac became one of my favorite places in Peru, with elaborate watercourses and farming terraces still in use today. While there is automobile access to the site, Jill and I decided to hike the steep 2.5 miles up the mountain, in preparation for our next adventure, a four-day, three-night hiking and camping excursion to the greatest Inca site revealed to humanity so far…Machu Picchu.

Hambrosia

eriklang — Sun, 1 Jul 2012 00:00:00 GMT

I would not dare complain about a trip to Europe, but by my third week there, and well into my third month abroad, travel fatigue began to set in. The ennui of moving from city to city and room to room was further aggravated by two factors, one the obvious fact that Europe was my most expensive destination overall, and the other the less overt lack of challenge and adventure. The Old Country would prove a logistic cake walk in comparison to places like the Indian Subcontinent or East Africa, and although happy to have no want for hot showers, I was somewhat bored by the banalities of Continental comforts. This was also the first stop on my voyage where I was frequently exposed to the stereotypical American tourist, loud, obnoxious, and with an undeserved sense of self-importance. Where in other more exotic locales, I was excited to act as a positive ambassador for my people, in Europe I did my best to maintain a low profile, often embarrassed by the behavior of my fellow expatriates.

Nevertheless, I was still in Spain, and determined to make the best of it despite budget constraints and social inhibitions. The tourist traps of Madrid can only occupy three days at best. While it's an easy and pleasant city to walk, with an impressive and intricate subway system, after the Prado, the Reina Sofia, and the remaining parks and palaces, all that’s really left to do in Metro Madrid is eat, drink and shop. The good news is that there are plenty of places to delight in all three diversions.

My culinary quest sent me in search of Jamon Iberico, a gourmet ham I’d only seen in Spanish travel shows and once at a fancy market in Seattle. At over $80 per pound, Iberico Ham is best hand-shaved directly from the preserved leg of a pampered pig. It took me a couple of tries before I found what I was looking for, at the San Miguel Market a couple of blocks southwest of the Plaza Mayor, a pedestrian-only civic center. It was everything I hoped it could be…hands-down the best ham I’ve ever had, paper-thin slivers of perfect pork…Hambrosia, the Ham of the Gods.

Of course, I perused other plates, dishes like Paella and Ceviche, even other meats like Spanish Chorizo, and Jamon Serrano, but nothing could compete with the incredible Iberico as far I was concerned. I ended up quite content with making my dinner a small sampling of Hambrosia followed by a glass of Sangria. On either my second or third consecutive night at the San Miguel Market, I stood in a common bar area with my ham and wine, and overheard a gentleman next to me pointing out to his foreign friend that my plate possessed the "greatest ham in the world". I insisted that his friend try a slice from my plate. He in turn insisted on buying me a few slices of the “greatest cheese in the world”. Already a huge fan of Manchego, I’d limited my cheese consumption in Madrid. Augustin, the Spanish gentleman, bought me Cabrales…a gorgonzola-like bleu cheese produced in only three villages, aged in local caves. After that, I added a couple of wedges of Cabrales to my nightly Iberico/Sangria ritual.

Before my jiffy jaunt to Lisbon, having plodded most of the pavement in central Madrid, I pondered the entertainment possibilities available upon my return. This is when I made the morally ambiguous decision to buy a ticket for the weekly corrida, or bullfight. Commonly criticized as an unnecessary and inhumane tradition, bullfighting has been outlawed in much of Spain, and is going the way of the evening newspaper, gradually disappearing from the national consciousness, popularly regarded as the graying remainder of a Philistine past. But, remembering my initial desire to immerse myself in local culture as much as possible during my short stays, I could not resist the curiosity of witnessing a tradition that may soon be nothing more than a memory, for better or for worse.

When I reserved my seat at the Plaza del Toros, no one knew that Spain would end up facing Italy in the Euro 2012 soccer championship game that evening. For that reason alone, the bullfight was moved up two hours, for which I had no objection, as I wanted to watch the match along with the rest of the country. Emerging from the Las Ventas subway station, I entered the imposing stadium, and took my seat among the crowd on the sombra (shaded) side of the arena, opposite the cheap seats baking in the blinding summer sun. Similar to the mental preparation I'd attempted prior to peeping in on cremations in India, I’d readied myself for a disturbing debacle. What I did not expect was such a melodramatic matinee.

More show than sport, the bullfight begins with an introduction to its cast of characters, who march across the dusty ring to pay gladiatorial tribute to the event officials as a brass band heralds their arrival. First the toreadors (whom I labeled matadors, though technically the matador is the lead toreador) then, the banderilleros, followed by the mounted picadores, the puntilleros, and finally the mule team that drags the fallen bull away once the fight is finished. Once the bull enters the ring, a handful of toreadors waving their indispensible capotes (capes) act as sharply dressed rodeo clowns, distracting the toro via various secants in a warm-up effort to arouse both cattle and crowd. After a few minutes, the toreadors leave the ring and two picadores ride in on horseback. The horse is covered in a blanket of armor and wears blinders, for obvious reasons. The picadores wield sharp medieval-looking pikes, and use their lances to impale the shoulder muscles of the bull. This understandably angers the bilious beast, and guarantees the horse will be subjected to at least one full measure of horns. In the second of five rounds I witnessed, one bull managed to maneuver its way under the armor and gore one of the horses, which immediately fell to the ground. In this instance, the mule tenders played the rodeo clown role, distracting the bull until the horse could be removed. I have no clue as to the condition of the quadruped victim.

The banderilleros follow, carrying barbed spears decorated with small floral banners (“banderilla” is Spanish for “little flag”). Even though the bull is bloodied at this point, he still retains a remarkable reservoir of vigor. One by one, the banderilleros coerce the bull to charge, and ideally, at exactly the right moment, the harpoon holder leaps into the air and jabs the barbs deep enough into its shoulders to make them stick. Many times, the banderillero fails make contact with one or both barbs, and elicits catcalls and hisses from a disappointed audience.

Then, the matador, with all his bravado, enters into the arena, and this is where the theatre begins. Decked out in a skintight sequined suit, he gracefully goads the beast through its last dance, and once it is fatigued to his satisfaction, the matador requests his kill sword (Estoque de Verdad, or "Real Sword") from the sidelines, and after making a somewhat effeminate ceremonial stance, charges head on toward the creature, aiming to plunge the sword deep into the bull, between a gap in the scapula and through the heart. As with the banderilleros, if the matador fails to execute this maneuver swiftly and cleanly, then he is jeered by the crowd.

Although the bull appears to be at a marked disadvantage by the time he faces the matador, he remains rather dangerous, as I would find out during the third round. The third matador, with his salt and pepper hair, looked older than the others, but appeared to have more experience. He began with an impressive set of moves, including the daredevil act of evading the bull while on his knees. Meriting overtures of “Ole!” ovations, I thought, “This is gonna be good.” However, this matador’s machismo was soon to meet its match. After a few masterful moves, one minor misstep placed the obstinate hombre in the piercing path of a horn. In what looked like a macabre mocking of Superman, the matador was sent aloft, along with his cape. When he landed, he was covered in blood, gushing forth from a wound in his leg. But at this point, his pride was punctured worse than his thigh, and despite the overt objections of his assistants, he defiantly set off to dispatch the bull once and for all. But this too was not to be. Going in for the kill, the toro sent his nemesis flying once again, and this time, the matador would not continue. As he was taken off to surgery, another matador from an earlier match finished the job.

When a matador misses his coup de grace, or if the bull is reluctant to give up the ghost and graze the fields of Elysium, the puntilleros are paged. With sharp daggers, they repeatedly stab the bull in the head until the deed is brutally done, and the vanquished vaca is hauled off by a mule team. I found this to be the most disturbing (and most dishonorable) aspect of the entire affair. When I was not sitting in awe, stunned by the sanguine spectacle, I thought about objections I had to the often offensive act of bullfighting. While I probably won’t go out of my way to attend another corrida, I should mention that in comparison to the meat and poultry so many of us consume on a regular basis, the bulls bred for the ring are treated as bovine kings until the day they die, and when that day comes, at least they have a fighting chance to take out the men marked to put them down. While I can’t condone the practice personally, if I had the choice (and I were somehow a cow with my current mental capacity), I would much rather make mortal combat than follow the herd to systematic slaughter.

Walking to the subway on my way back to the center of town, I heard cheers echoing in the distance. Instantly I knew; “Spain must’ve just scored a goal.” Eager to find a good spot to watch the game, I found a bar with a flat screen TV on an outdoor terrace not far from the Plaza Mayor. Devouring even more ham and cheese, I witnessed an easy 90 minute romp…Spain 4, Italy 0. I swiftly settled my tab and made a brisk walk to the Puerta del Sol, Madrid’s main square. Standing next to the large fountain in the middle of the plaza, the party approached from all avenues. Within minutes, I was surrounded by thousands of serendipitous Spaniards…some jumped in the fountain, some shouted congratulatory chants, and others (like me) just stood around smiling while sipping celebratory beer.

It was the kind of mass happiness I hadn’t seen since New Year’s in Thailand, and I felt fortunate to be present for such an event. The party lasted well into the wee hours, but I had the discipline to return to my hostel room at a decent time, not because I necessarily wanted to go to bed, but because I had a long day of travel the next morning, to a new continent in a new hemisphere.

Fado Through My Window

eriklang — Thu, 28 Jun 2012 00:00:00 GMT

In a pluvial disproval of My Fair Lady, nary an airborne drop would meet the Spanish soil. As I watched the verdant champs of France give way to the sepia vegas beyond the Pyrenees, I would soon meet the heat of Madrid in the summer. With its canyons of calles walled in centuries of constructions created for commerce, the capital offered little sanctuary from sweat. And, without the time or money to spend on an in-depth tour of Iberia, I beat a hasty retreat for Spain's cheaper coastal neighbor, Portugal.

Buying an overnight ticket to Lisbon was straightforward, and involved a half-hour wait at Atocha Station, which was the site of the worst terrorist bombing in Europe on March 11, 2004. My train would depart the following evening from the Chamartin depot north of town. One of my three male coach-mates was David, an affable Argentine-Canadian, and upon hearing the news that we would get an extra hour of sleep due to a time change at the border, we sauntered our way to the bar car for a couple of Super Bock beers coupled with conversation.

Both of us had similar fascinations with the small country ahead. We openly wondered how this strip of land could end up with a different language and culture than the nation it shares its sole border with, especially when that frontier possesses no noticeable geographic impediments. Also, Portugal has contributed comparably little to the world in the last millennium, besides the promotion of seafaring in order to gain territory and trade in human chattel.

Nonetheless, I was happy to arrive in Lisboa (as the locals call it) with the cool marine breeze caressing Europe’s only capital along the Atlantic. The city is more visibly weathered an impoverished than other Continental cities, but in a way, this added to its charm. Its setting along the hills above the mouth of the mile-wide Tagus (Tejo) River adds to the aesthetic. Morning found me moseying from Santa Apolonia Station to my hostel, then up four flights of stairs to my tiny room, painted pastel blue, with an open window facing a bustling back street. After this, my first order of business was to make a beeline for Belem, the borough to the west that bid farewell to explorers like Balboa before they set off into the unknown. The marina-marinated suburb offers pleasant waterfront walks, a renaissance tower steeped in history, one of the largest monasteries in Europe, and a massive monolith sculpture devoted to the ambitions of Henry the Navigator. But, despite my going ga-ga for geeky old sites, it wasn’t until later that day that I marked a triumph in my personal Portuguese Age of Discovery…the Pasteis de Belem.

Since 1837 (that’s 24 years before the American Civil War for geeks keeping score) the Pasteis de Belem has been turning out custard tarts that are the namesake pasty of the whole town. It was a packed place, no doubt, but somehow, I managed to muster enough hand gestures to make my order understood. I ended up with a half a dozen diminuitive flaky cream pies, and ate three of them under a statue of Vasco da Gama to countless quantities of calories. On my way back to the Praca do Comercio in one of Lisbon’s antique electric streetcars, I ran into a couple I’d met from Beijing on the train the night before. We talked about China for a bit, and after, I convinced them to take the second half of my delicious custard pies, happy to share the joy and spare myself the guilt of gluttony.

At this point I should mention that Portugal is overall not very veggie friendly. A lot of dishes labeled "vegetarian" at restaurants often have meat in them. Also, shellfish garnishes many plates, so I think anyone allergic out there should take care. Piri Piri sauce is popular, a spicy chili concoction created in their former African colony of Mozambique. Also popular is the practice of serving at least a half-liter (many times one liter) of wine per setting. This left me needing a nap. I fell asleep to the evening sounds of Fado being performed at the restaurant in the alley below my window.

Fado is a Portuguese folk music that developed in the 19^th Century. It’s characterized by mournful lyrics, and the singers traditionally wear black. Seeing the performances from a table in a crumbling stucco alley made me imagine Southern Italy, although I’ve never been there…but have seen The Godfather…and watching the women singing in ebony Victorian garb made me picture the wedding of a mob boss’ daughter, although I’ve never been to one…but have seen The Godfather.

My second day was spent working off a fraction of the pastries I’d consumed walking to the Castelo Sao Jorge, a Moorish castle propped on a high promontory above the city. The castle itself was not the most impressive edifice I’ve seen on my trip, but the view of Lisbon below is the best to be found.

That night, sounds began to approach from nearby corners, the muffled cries of “POR-TU-GUL! PORT-TU-GUL!” and the buzz of the vuvuzela, a plastic version of a South African horn that got the World’s attention during the 2010 World Cup and has served to annoy me on more than a handful of occasions. It was a big night, the Euro 2012 championship semifinal between Portugal and their Iberia-hogging enemy Spain. Like any good local, I went to watch the game at a bar. I’ll be honest and admit that I find soccer a little boring, and this game was no exception to that mood. After almost three hours, it came down to a penalty shootout. Pressure. The stakes are high. Two of Spain’s goals are answered…two are not. I see drunken men in tears, tearing Portuguese flags down from shop windows. Shirtless inebriates in the fetal position on the street screaming, “Quem!”

It was time to go back to bed. The short melancholic melodies of the Fado singers helped drown the cries of the forsaken fans of futebol.

Although I cheered for Portugal the night before, I did not spend my next Lisbon day listless over the heartbreaking loss, especially because now I knew I would be back in Madrid for the final match between Spain and Italy. Instead, I hopped on one of the frequent commuter trains west to the fishing-cum-beach town of Cascais. Sitting on a spit at the brackish junction of the Tagus and Atlantic, the sunny town of Cascais is as tacky as every cheap beach town should be, but a nice place for a palm-lined stroll.

When I returned to my room in Lisbon, something was amiss. I realized that the underwear I’d hung on a clothesline outside of my third-story window had fallen victim to the cool ocean breeze and landed in the greasy alley. I looked down upon not a soiled pair of boxer shorts, but my clean knickers hanging neatly from a window. This tiny act of random kindness was just one of the reasons why Portugal won me over with its frumpy charm. It’s also a value destination as far as Europe’s concerned, and a lot of Spaniards seem to go there just to shop. Still, I think the best part was falling asleep to the soulful sounds of Fado.

Before long, I was back at Santa Apolonia Station, cramming my bag into the tiny crevice under my bunk, and dreading the loss of an hour’s sleep aboard the return train. But, Spain would have its own rewards, particularly in terms of pork.

[Erik Lang is author of “The Year of the Human Being” a travel blog based on a true story about exploits on a trip around the world. He has struggled to keep up with his entries lately. Stay tuned for his next installment from Spain entitled “Hambrosia: Ham of the Gods”]

I've Seen London, I've Seen France

eriklang — Sat, 23 Jun 2012 00:00:00 GMT

When my guitarist/roommate/buddy Tripp and I made a brief visit to England to play some gigs and party with a producer we met in Texas, it was the dead of winter, which in London is dark and cold. Still, it was a marvelous trip, but making my first fair-weather visit to Europe was something I was looking forward to. In addition, after some seven years of studying the language in school (and technically my declared minor) I'd wanted to go to France, and now I had my chance. After a brief connection in Liege, Belgium, I was on a fast train to Paris.

Anybody who has known me for more than an hour knows my proclivity toward cartography, and whenever I would get bored in French class, I could always lose myself in one of the two maps guaranteed to appear in my textbook; one of "L’Hexagone" the nation of France itself (nicknamed due to its shape), and the other of the City of Lights. All these hours of mindless staring left a general plan of Paris inside of my head. And, although my command of the tongue is probably no better than a five year-old native, the ability to conduct all of my conversations without a lick of Anglais made me feel remarkably comfortable and confident, with an ease that I have not felt since I left the USA. Also, it may have been a factor in the absence of the infamous Parisian attitude being thrown at me, although I’m certain they knew I was a foreigner. (With the strange exception of the Turks, they always seem to know.)

Another costly destination, I decided only to stay for three days in the French capital, enough time to see the sights I really wanted to see. Like I said, I basically had the layout committed to memory, so after checking into my decent hotel in a not-so-decent neighborhood, I made my way to the Metro and rode straight the Place de Charles de Gaulle, where the Arc de Triomphe sits at the end of the Champs-Elysees. I think my favorite thing about riding the subway in a new city is boarding a train on the outskirts of town, making my way to a popular station then taking the steps to street level and being greeted for the first time by something you’ve only seen in movies. I remember Tripp and I emerging from Westminster, and as we surfaced, we were greeted with Big Ben. It was like, “Whoa…there it is, man!” The same thing happened when I exited at Times Square for the first time in New York, and it happened when I was presented with Napoleon’s Arch. Unlike many of the landmarks I’ve observed, the Arc de Triomphe was actually bigger than I expected. But, I still nixed paying admission to get to the top…that was reserved for Paris’ most famous landmark.

When I got to the Eiffel Tower, I found a mind-numbing queue snaking before me, due to the failure of one of the two elevators to the top. Disheartened, I was about to take my place in the long line when I saw a little sign that said, “L’Escalier”. With no wait whatsoever, I bought a ticket to climb the stairs to the top. In reality, you’re only allowed to take the stairs a couple hundred feet up to an elevator that lifts you the rest of the way. Still, it was a nice sweaty climb, saved me time (and money) and ascending step by step within the framework made it feel more intimate. Taking the stairs also had the unforeseen benefit of getting me to the observation deck in the sunshine, before a thunderstorm rolled in. The tempest itself commenced shortly after beginning my descent, which concerned me a little. I questioned how safe it was to walk inside the tallest metal structure in the country with so much lightning around. One would think that the Iron Lady of Paris gets struck frequently, and they’d have some sort of lightning rod at the top to divert the charge, but not wanting to take any chances, I didn’t stop to take any pictures on the way down.

Between downpours, I had just enough time to take refuge at L’Hotel des Invalides, built by Louis XIV as a home for disabled and elderly veterans, but now home to the Tomb of Napoleon and the French Army Museum. In addition to housing the remains of the Emperor (shipped there from St. Helena after he expired in exile) there are also tombs dedicated to two of his sons and Marshall Ferdinand Foch, French commander during the First World War. The Army Museum was more interesting than I expected, particularly the Napoleon relics, including his horse, preserved and presented in a glass case, a la Chairman Mao.

After the deluge, the clouds made way for a brilliant azure sky, and I began walking along the Left Bank (Rive Gauche) of the Seine River. I crossed over to the Right Bank (Rive Droite) to snap a picture of the Place de Concorde, and one of the four obelisks known Cleopatra’s Needles, stolen from Egypt by Napoleon’s Army, one of which can be seen in London. I continued my walk along the waterway, past the National Assembly and onto the Ile de la Cite, a small island in the middle of the Seine, where Paris began, and home of the famous Notre Dame Cathedral.

I’d contacted a Parisian friend of a friend via e-mail, but he was out of town (or said he was out of town), and in lieu of meeting him in the city, he gave me some suggestions on where to eat. I took him up on his advice and went to two places that day. For dinner, I went to Aux Crus de Bourgogne and had their namesake dish, Bourgogne Beefin a Red Wine Sauce. After that, I went to the World-Famous Berthillon Ice Cream stand to satisfy my sweet tooth. By that point, it was getting late, and I’d had a full day, so I took the Metro back to my hotel and made a plan to sleep in.

My plans were thwarted by hotel housekeepers, vacuuming the rooms next to me at around 7am. “Oh well, I thought…there’s plenty of Paris to see.” Since it was a pleasant morning, and my working class neighborhood was not far from it, I decided to make my first stop the last stop for lots of famous Parisians, Pere-Lachaise Cemetery. Fortunately, I’d had the foresight do download a .pdf map of the gargantuan graveyard to my iPod before I got there, so I was able to find most of the folks I was interested in paying my respects to through the maze of tombs. After finding George Melies, the pioneering director portrayed by Sir Ben Kingsley in the movie Hugo, I had to visit Oscar Wilde, if for nothing than to see the resting place of a man who had the last words, “Either these curtains go, or I do.”

After that, it was writers Honore de Balzac, Marcel Proust and Gertrude Stein (which took me some time because the name on the stone is Alice B. Toklas), painter Georges Seurat, entertainers Sarah Bernhardt & Edith Piaf, Polish composer Friedrich Chopin, and perhaps the most visited resident of them all, one James Douglas Morrison, frontman for iconic 60’s psychedelic group, The Doors.

Drawn to a restaurant after visiting her tomb, I had a lunch of goose liver pate, steak frites and cognac superieur at “Sarah Bernhardt”. Since I’d been roused from my bed so early, I still had plenty of time to visit the premier art museum in town, and arguably the world, The Louvre. On the way, I walked by the Pompidou Center, a strange modern building that’s “inside-out”.

I have to say, the Louvre didn’t impress me much. First of all, it was incredibly crowded, and dealing with school groups and tourists in Bermuda shorts shoving you out of the way so they can take a picture of a painting they’ve seen a million pictures of is annoying. While the Venus de Milo was nice to see in person, the piece de resistance, Leonardo’s Mona Lisa, is small…stuck behind layers of unsightly acrylic and constantly crowded by numbskulls with Nikons.

What did impress me was the Musee d’Orsay, which I visited on the following day. Located in a picturesque former railway station, the museum may not have the bragging rights of the Louvre, but it’s less crowded, and the art is more accessible, making it more enjoyable. Like at the Louvre, I still had to wait in line for a while, and while I was herded between the velvet ropes, a group of Chinese teenagers blatantly cut in line. For me, after being in China, this was not surprising, as standing in line is just not in their nature. But a couple of French guys behind me were quite upset. They tried their best in broken English to communicate with the Chinese adolescents who spoke no French.

-“Euh, Pardon, we are standing here!”

-“Ok” (Chinese kids do nothing)

-“Euh, but that is not fair!”

I told the gentleman (in French) about how the Chinese just don’t know how to stand in line. We all had a good laugh about it while the teenagers continued to push ahead of people. This marked the first time I talked trash about someone in a foreign language they didn’t understand (other than English). It made me wonder how many times the Chinese have bad-mouthed me without my knowledge.

My last day in Paris began with a walk though Montmarte, the historic red-light district, and home to the famous Moulin Rouge. Then I went to the Sacre Coeur (Sacred Heart) Cathedral, built in 1871 to honor the tens of thousands killed during the war with Prussia that I mention in my Berlin blog.

Perched atop the Butte Montmartre,the highest hill in the city, a climb to the dome of the cathedral affords a beautiful view of town, and from a different perspective than the Eiffel Tower. My only unpleasantness in Paris came outside the grounds, where there was a group of West African men swarming people in an attempt to tie a strand of yarn around the wrists of tourists for bonne chance (“good luck”) then demand money. This scam is not isolated to France, and people have tried this on me from Cambodia to India, and so on. But, one man was aggressive, and despite my repeated refusals, grabbed me by the arm. This is when I violently pushed him away and got loud. It was the only time in Paris I felt the necessity to act in such a stern manner.

Otherwise, as mentioned, I felt very comfortable and relaxed in Paris. But, I must say, Paris did not strike me as the romantic city I’d always imagined. Instead, it is a hectic and dirty world capital, ironically lacking the charm of most other European locales I’ve visited. Even so, it was well-worth the visit, and I’m happy I got the chance to finally walk the streets I’d memorized from my French textbook all those years ago.

On my last night, I went for a stroll through the Latin Quarter, still searching for the romantic Paris I’d envisioned. I came upon a bar with a giant orange neon sign that read, “TENNESSEE”. Naturally, I had to check it out. I couldn’t get an answer as to why the place was named for and decorated with paraphernalia from my home state (it’s run by Brazilians) but they were happy to have a genuine Nashvillian in their establishment, and they made a mean Mojito.

Low Country Livin' (Part 2)

eriklang — Wed, 20 Jun 2012 00:00:00 GMT

After a long solo sojourn, I've learned to appreciate the value of visiting someone you know. Of course, I’ve made acquaintances along the way, but these are new relationships based on new experiences, so it’d hard to say how many, if any, will stand the test of time and space. It was a real comfort to spend three days as a guest in Marieke’s home in Maastricht, where I could sleep in a place without fear of housekeepers barging in, or battles with bedbugs.

Situated on the Maas (Meuse) River in the southernmost province of Limburg, Maastricht is wedged in a pocket of the Netherlands closer to Belgium, Germany and France than it is to Amsterdam. This has given it a unique identity throughout the ages, and the place is so pan-Continental that it was chosen in 1992 as the location for the summit and subsequent treaty that led to the formation of the European Union, and a currency, that while currently troubled, is still worth more than my own, making things pretty pricey for yours truly.

Marieke and her jovial housemate Marion were welcoming from the start, and cooked up a traditional Dutch meal on the first night of my residency, consisting of a tasty potato, cheese and greens dish, as well as a mouthwatering meatball. Obliged to show my gratitude, I offered to cook dinner the following night. It was then I was notified that I might need to prepare enough food for six people.

A few days before I made it to Maastricht, while volunteering at a local music festival, Marieke and Marion met a touring band from Stillwater, Oklahoma called The Other Lives. On the roster of ATO Records and with an impressive resume that includes opening for Radiohead, it was clear that both of them were somewhat star-struck by the attention they’d received after their initial introduction. Now, the group was looking forward to a couple of days off, and wanted to spend them in laid-back Limburg, which had since become their favorite stop in Europe.

All I was concerned about was becoming a third (or seventh) wheel. But, Marieke and Marion were both magnanimous hosts, despite their busy work schedules, and Marieke even went out of her way to borrow her Mom’s car and take me on a day trip to Belgium. If there is a Heaven (and I hope there is) and they have beer (and I hope they do) then it will most certainly be Belgian. The quality and quantity of malted manna made there is astounding. Besides a stop at Val Dieu (Valley of God) a genuine Trappist monastery where bliss has been brewed for centuries, we also went to a shop in nearby Aubel with a selection that left me speechless. On my trip, I’ve kept a compendium of quaffs…and out of the dozens I’ve tasted, more than half have now come from Belgium alone.

But, all beer runs must come to an end, and there were four rock stars to cook for upon our return. With Marieke and Marion manning the side dishes, recipes "borrowed" from my girlfriend, and a half-apricot half-egg custard pie that was pure perfection, we whipped up a delicious dinner. While I’ve ascribed adjectives above alluding to the idea of prima donnas, The Other Lives are in fact a group of down-to-earth, super-friendly folks, who began as playing together a decade ago. I really enjoyed hanging out with them, especially Josh, Jonathan, and Colby, and we had a really fun time.

It is odd how on a trip like this, much of the mundane can make for memories as sublime as the sights. This will be the hallmark of my Maastricht memoir…not moseying through museums, but making my way to the market…not engrossed in edifices, but absorbing amity. By my final day in what is a miniscule municipality, I hadn’t even crossed the Meuse into the historic district, but it didn’t matter to me. Unsatisfied with the idea that I could leave without laying eyes on the touristy part of town, Marion made for an excellent tour guide as she led Marieke, Jonathan from the band, and me on a nighttime stroll. In hindsight, I’m happy I got to see more of the place before I left. But as I’ve alluded to above, my favorite memories of Maastricht will be magnificent moments of celebrated camaraderie…and the Belgian beer, of course.

Low Country Livin' (Part 1)

eriklang — Sun, 17 Jun 2012 00:00:00 GMT

Originally, my plan after landing at Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam was to immediately catch a southbound train, so I might mooch off of my friend Marieke and crash at her place for a couple of days. But, if there's anything I’ve learned in my months of solo travel, it’s that plans can, and often will, change. Instead of awaiting my arrival in Maastricht, Marieke and her friends were on Terschelling, an island in the North Sea. I was kindly invited to join them for the Oerol ("Everything") Festival being held there, but logistically it would take more than the half-day I had to ride a train to the northern coast and catch the ferry leaving the mainland for a two-hour sail. So, I decided I would try and meet them the following day, especially because there are worse places than Amsterdam to be stuck for an evening.

In fact, Amsterdam is probably my favorite city in Europe. I’d been there more than a decade before, in the dead of winter, and still thought it was one of the prettiest places I’d seen. Now, in the summer, the town was in full bloom like a Dutch tulip, and I was ready to bask in its bouquet. Its status as a world financial capital during Holland’s Golden Age left it with romantic 17^th and 18^th-Century brick buildings, complimented by more miles of canals than Venice. Upon walking the idyllic alleys, it comes as no surprise that Rembrandt and Van Gogh drew inspiration from them. Sometimes Amsterdam gets a bad rap, resulting from its lax attitude regarding drugs and prostitution, but its dens of dope and decadence are generally confined to their own quarters, leaving the rest of the city so comfortably clean that there were times I felt as if I were walking though a swanky shopping center somewhere in a wealthy stateside suburb.

One of my Mom’s favorite anecdotes from my young childhood involves a time when she took me to church, and I first noticed the practice of communion. I inquired as to why I couldn’t approach the altar for a free wafer. She said, “That’s for people who love Jesus.” Apparently, I misheard “Jesus” as “Cheeses” and exclaimed, “But, I LOVE cheese!” Well, today, I am no different in my affinity for the curdled arts, and the quality and quantity of the cheese available in the Netherlands is without par. Stumbling upon the Saturday Farmer’s Market in Nieuwmarkt might have been one of the most fortuitous circumstances of my entire trip. Puns about Gouda being “Gooda” aside, I seriously left the market with such a satisfied palate that I honestly felt my visit to Holland had already been worth it.

The remainder of my Amsterdam afternoon was spent enjoying the weather and reacquainting myself with the sights. Due to the near-perfect weather, it felt almost sinful to spend time indoors at the Rijksmueum, but as the Netherlands foremost collection of paintings, I couldn’t resist. The most famous masterpiece is The Night Watch by Rembrandt, but my greatest amusement came from eyeing a work called The Syndics of the Drapers’ Guild. I couldn’t stop staring at it and thinking, “Where have I seen that painting before?” After a few seconds, it came to me; “Those are the dudes on the box of Dutch Masters cigars!” It humorously reminded me that my roots are not from the haute couture realm of art collectors. After walking by the Anne Frank House on my way back to the Oostdock seaport near the Centraal Train Station, I retired to my tiny cabin on a “hostelboat”, ready to get up early and make my way to Oerol.

As I mentioned earlier, travel plans often change, and while I was on my way to the port of departure for Terschelling Island, a place called Harlingen Haven, I received a text message on my travel phone from Marieke. The weather out in the North Sea had not been as kind to her and her pals as the weather had been for me in Amsterdam, and after a night of camping in inclement conditions, they had decided to return to the mainland. However, I still made a plan to catch the ferry and join them for at least a day at the festival. But, due to my lack of attention, and incomprehension of the Dutch language, this was not to be. At some point, my train was “split” at a station. Not understanding the foreign announcement over the PA, I ended up in the wrong city, a place called Groningen, some two hours from Harlingen. Still, one of the best things about the Netherlands is that distances are never that great, and there are lots and lots of efficient trains to catch in case you miss one. However, this meant that taking a ferry out to Terschelling was no longer worth the expense and I would have to kill time waiting on a friend in Harlingen. Harlingen is a nice little seaside town, with not much to do but stroll atop the levees along the shore and sip coffee (or beer) at corner cafes. I had no problem with this. In comparison, I think that Harlingen, Holland is much nicer than Harlingen, Texas.

But then, I think most of the Netherlands are nice. The efficiency of their infrastructure and the hospitality of their citizens are both enviable. Unlike in many other places I’ve been on this trip, the way they do things just makes sense. Of course, the Dutch will not hesitate to kvetch about their woes, or their lackluster climate, or their lack of hills. But, when you’re rolling past their verdant fields, the grass in the Netherlands seems greener...and that's not a double-enterndre concerning cannabis.

I Am a Doughnut

eriklang — Fri, 15 Jun 2012 00:00:00 GMT

My Grandmother (Oma) told me this is what JFK said when he visited Berlin. But, pastry aside, folks from Berlin are called Berliners, just like volks from Hamburg are Hamburgers, and hunds from Rottweil are Rottweilers. Years before President Kennedy closed with "Ich bin ein Berliner", my Oma lived in Berlin, while many around her died. She said that having to step over bodies in the street after Allied bombings affected her greatly, as she found the question of why she was not among the dead to be overwhelming.   Owing no small part to her distaste for the Russians who murdered her parents in what is now western Poland, Oma ended up in the American Sector of West Berlin following the war. This is where she was doggedly pursued (some might say stalked) by a GI from Missouri who would later become my father's father.

My Oma had no desire to return to the Old Country. For her, all that Berlin represented was bad memories. When I was a kid, Berlin was the epitome of Cold War example; the enemy back then wasn’t a clandestine crew of camel jockeys called Al-Qaeda, but rather a big bad bear known as the Soviet Union. I can remember a time when instead of fretting over a terrorist with explosive underwear, we were merely worried about total nuclear annihilation. I was only ten years old when the Berlin Wall came down, but it will undoubtedly retain a permanent place in my memory as one of the most historic events in my lifetime.

My hostel was located near the Alexanderplatz, a drab throwback to the Stasi –stained days of the Deutche Demokratische Republik (DDR), featuring statues of Marx and Engels, as well as a “world clock” keeping time with comrade capitals like Havana and Hanoi. After checking-in, I decided to walk west. My first destination was the famous Brandenburg Gate, originally built to promote Prussian power, but now better known for its role in bisecting Berlin. Not far from the gate, about a 15 minute walk away, is Checkpoint Charlie, the most famous US Army border post in Europe. The original gatehouse and signs letting you know that you are entering/leaving the American Sector still stand, but nowadays the armed guards have been replaced by tourist touts posing for photos in retro uniforms. Only a couple blocks from Checkpoint Charlie, there is a section of the Wall resting upon the remains of the Nazi Gestapo headquarters, as part of an open-air museum.

One of the things that impressed me most about modern Berlin is the effort it has made to reconcile its reprehensible past.   Instead of concealing or denying their embarrassing 20^th Century history, the city candidly confesses its prior crimes, and has dedicated many monuments to its victims. One of these is the stark memorial to Jews murdered during the Holocaust. The plaza is full of massive monoliths of alternating width and height, creating cavernous alleys between. Across the street, just inside the titanic Tiergarten (Berlin’s version of Central Park) is another monument dedicated to the Holocaust’s homosexual victims. It is comprised of a large cement block with one small window. When you look in the window, you see a TV monitor showing same-sex partners making out. It was an odd monument…but then again, I think the weirdness of Berlin part is a big part of its appeal. Sometimes the town took the quality of a never-ending Mentos commercial.

A walk through the Tiergarten is a wonderful reprieve from the hustle of the surrounding city. While I was ambling down a forest path, I came across three Goth teenagers in black hoodies. There was a dog running around off-leash (one of many I saw) sniffing and digging and minding its own business. All of a sudden, for no apparent reason whatsoever, one of the little the punks went and kicked the poor pup with his combat boot. I doubt the teen would’ve acted in such a foul manner having known that the canine’s owner saw the whole incident, and was probably six and a half feet tall and easily three hundred pounds in weight. Defending his dog, the irate hulk walked up and punched the kid square in the mouth. Unlike the other acts of violence I’ve seen on my trip, this one amused me to no end. I thought, “Maybe now that little turd will think twice before he kicks another dog.”

After that, I went to the Siegsaule, or the “Victory Column”. Designed by the Prussians to commemorate their martial triumphs during the 1800’s, much the tall tower was made with melted cannons surrendered by foes. I paid three Euros to climb the stairs to the top, and it made for a great view of Berlin. Descending the Victory Column, I walked along the Spree River to the Reichstag, the German Parliament. After taking a few photos, I figured it was time to call it a day and get some dinner. So far on my round-the-world voyage, I’ve done my best to eat local dishes exclusively while in a particular place. Already a fan of German cuisine, this was no problem for me. For my first dinner, I had a Berliner Boulle with a salad. The German “Meatball” was more like what Americans would deem “meatloaf” and it was uber-satisfying. In the following days, I would also devour Weinerschnitzel (a lightly breaded veal cutlet) and Currywurst (a savory sausage smothered in ketchup and cumin). The Berlin beverage of choice is beer, and I had a couple of good ones, including a pilsner called Berliner Kindl. I thought it was delicious, but I still had yet to taste the wonders of Belgian brews. (I’ll get to that in a later entry)

The remainder of my time in Berlin was spent with more sightseeing. What I thought would be two hours in the German Museum of History turned into six, and I also visited the quirky and interesting DDR Museum (devoted to the Communist regime in the East). While I walked by the massive TV tower many times, I decided to save my money and declined a ride to the top, especially after having satiating my appetite for an elevated view at the Victory Column. On my last day, I walked to the spot of Hitler’s Bunker. Destroyed by the Communists after the war, the spot where Das Fuhrer spent the last month of his life underground in a microcosm of self-delusion is now an apartment building parking lot. I wondered what it must be like for the people who live there, knowing that their auto is stationed in such a significant space.

Last but not least, I have to mention how much I enjoyed Berlin as a whole.   While the weather was unseasonably cold, the people were warm and polite…from the moment I landed at Tegel airport north of town, to the moment I took off from Schoenfeld airport south of town. When I got to the U-Bahn (Subway) station after I’d arrived, an automatic kiosk was my only option for buying a ticket. Unfortunately, although I’d just withdrawn some cash from an ATM, the part of the machine that accepted bills was out-of-order. Queuing behind me, an old man with a cane witnessed my predicament. Not wanting to hold him up, I let him play through, and without speaking a word of English, he purchased an extra ticket and handed it to me. I was at the U-Bahn Station again outside of my hostel at 4am on my day of departure. A young guy came up to me and started speaking German. I politely said, “Ich nie spreken sie…” Then he said, “Francais?” and I said, “Un peu”. He asked me if the train I was waiting on was heading to Schoenfeld. I confirmed this for him and for the next hour on the way to the airport, and we had a good conversation in what one might call “Frerman” or “Grench”. When there was a French word I stumbled on, I usually knew the German equivalent, and vice-versa. He told me his name was Maris, that he was a photographer from Basel, Switzerland (hence the proficiency in German and French) and that he was born in Tunisia. We discussed the differences between the US and European economies. After getting to the airport, he insisted on buying me a coffee and a strudel. I thanked him in both of his fluent languages, and went to my terminal stunned that I’d actually had such a long talk without using a word of English. Then, I got my boarding pass for Amsterdam.

My Piece on the Middle East

eriklang — Wed, 13 Jun 2012 00:00:00 GMT

After returning my rental car and spending a couple of warm sunny days in Tel Aviv, it was time to end my 2-week visit to the Middle East. Because I'd heard that the security at Ben-Gurion Airport is tight, I pulled an all-nighter and arrived for my 4:50AM flight at 1 o’clock in the morning. After my brief delay while coming back from Jordan, I was prepared for some hassle, but I wasn’t prepared for absolute lunacy.

For the sake of continuity, I shall present an excerpt of my dialogue with Israeli agents using question/answer format. Below, I am represented by the letter "E" (Erik) and the agents are represented by “SOB” (Strict Officer (of the) Border):

SOB: “Where are you flying to?”

E: “Berlin”

SOB: “Why is your hair so messy?”

E: “Because I’ve been up all night. Wait a minute…messy? My hair is always messy.”

SOB: “Why were you up all night?”

E: “Because I didn’t want to pay for a hotel room that I had to leave by midnight.”

SOB: “Wait here, I will get my superior.”

(After an hour of waiting)

SOB: “Where are you flying to?”

E: “Berlin”

SOB: “Where did you visit in Israel?”

E: “Many places, I rented a car.”

SOB: “How did you know your way around?”

E: “Avis gave me a map”

SOB: “Who’s Avis?”

E: “The rental car company…they have an office downstairs.”

SOB: “Did you speak with any Arabs while you were here?”

E: “Uh, yeah.”

SOB: “Why?”

E: “Well, they’re kind of all over the place.”

SOB: “I see from your passport that you went to Jordan.”

E: “Yes, to Petra for a day trip.”

SOB: “Did you speak to any Jordanians?”

E: “Yes, my tour guide.”

SOB: “What did you talk about?”

E: “Um, Petra.”

SOB: “Sit down, this is going to take a while.”

(After another hour of waiting)

SOB: “Where are you flying to?”

E: “Berlin”

SOB: “Do you have a weapon?”

E: “No”

SOB: “Is this your checked bag?”

E: “No, it’s my carry-on.”

SOB: “This is too heavy. You must check it.”

E: “How do you know?”

SOB: “Sir, I ask the questions, not you.”

SOB: “You will have to take your checked back through the security line.”

E: “Well, then I will miss my flight.”

SOB: “How could you be so stupid and thoughtless with your checked bag?”

E: “What? In a dozen flights around the world I’ve never trouble carrying this bag on board.”

SOB: “Wait here, this will be a problem.”

(After yet another hour)

SOB: “Is this your first visit to Israel?”

E: “Yes, and it will be my last.”

SOB: “Have a nice flight.”

This is only a snippet of the harassment I received from rude twenty year-olds. To add insult to injury, while I sat in my lonely chair for hours at a time, my interrogators sat around joking with each other and talking on their cell phones, as if their only intention was to make me wait for nothing. Also, after completing the tedious task of going through customs, passport control and the x-ray scanners (unnecessary given the fact that my bags were checked by hand a handful of times), I saw numerous people at my gate with bigger and no doubt heavier bags than the one I was forced to check, meaning that all of the intimidation, insult and hassle was probably performed out of sheer boredom, or just for kicks.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not anti-Israel, not in the least. Security stresses aside, I had an amazing and unforgettable experience. But, my perspective of the situation has changed since my fortnight foray into the Middle East. Perhaps I should have prognosticated it, but after speaking with people on all sides of the issue, I was still taken aback by the sheer pauperism of pragmatism. When I suggested to Jewish folk that it might be better to recognize the fact a partition wall won’t make the Palestinian problem “go away” I would receive a sharp retort like “Well, tell them to stick to a peace treaty for once!” I also met Palestinians who are certain that the Holocaust is a fabrication designed to gain international support for Israel. And, in a country where Christians are merely a cultish minority, I would get either one or the other polarized position.

In America, at least in my lifetime, we have been brought up to tender tacit support for the modern State of Israel. During my stay, I felt more comfortable in Jewish neighborhoods, not least because it is unlikely that I could pass as a Palestinian, but Judaism is also a factor in my family tree, and I grew up proud of my ancestry to chosen people. However, since seeing what I have seen in Israel, then juxtaposing it with my jaunt to Berlin, I’ve thought about a some stuff…

When I went to the West Bank, I noticed that the Israelis have full reign over the turf. Not only did I hear an account by a Bethlehem shop-keep of how the IDF stormed his home and took his father away for 48 hours worth of “questioning”, I also saw a similar event occur. Police in black flak jackets and bulletproof vests, along with helmeted soldiers came to a house I was walking past in broad daylight, entered the premises and came out with a young Arab man in cuffs. Of course, I cannot speculate as to what the young man did (it could’ve been something terrible), but it seems like it’d be hard to muster trust when the soldiers of (technically) another country have carte blanche to apprehend anyone they desire in your country. At the border post on our way back to Jerusalem, anyone Palestinian (or Palestinian-looking) was ordered off of the bus for a more thorough inspection. Caucasians like me didn’t so much as have their passport checked. Watching the action from our seats, Julio and I both openly discussed the segregationist nature of the spectacle. Say what you will about the need for Israel to protect herself, but the method in which this was handled could only conjure up connotations of South African apartheid in the American psyches of both Julio and me. I thought about the greatest King of Israel…David. I thought about how he slew the mighty Philistine with a stone. I thought about the Palestinians who have no recourse but rocks to chuck at the mighty armaments of their opposition.

It should go without saying that the most obvious metaphor I can draw from my post-Israel stay in Berlin involves the partition wall itself. There are many exhibitions in Berlin devoted to the divider that left the city bifurcated for nearly thirty years. After visiting some of them, I can only conclude that these types of cement boundaries, including the one along the US-Mexican frontier, will not be remembered by history favorably.

There’s lot I’ve ruminated on since I’ve been in Berlin. It is a city that has been facing its demons for more than a half-century. It is where my grandmother worked as a wartime nurse during its darkest days, and also where she met and married my grandfather, who was part of an occupying army. One could argue that without the awful atrocities committed by the Nazis during WWII, the modern State of Israel might not exist. Once could also argue that I might not exist.

I Looked Over Jordan & What Did I See?

eriklang — Sat, 9 Jun 2012 00:00:00 GMT

Just like with the West Bank, cross-border driving was off-limits according to Avis. After doing some research on making the trip to Petra on my own, I realized it would cost me the same amount of money to join a tour group, plus, I'd get a free buffet lunch. When I got in the "Fun Time" tour van for my day trip to the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, I was surprised to see Asimar, my Brazilian buddy from Nazareth. I was a little miffed at having to pay a $55 “exit fee” to the State of Israel, but my entry into Jordan was fast and free. On the other side, we received a running commentary from our Jordanian guide Riad during the duration of our two-hour drive to Petra. On the way, we made a couple of stops; one near the tomb of Moses’ brother Aaron, and another at the Wadi Rum, a semi-fertile desert valley ascribed to the annals of history because of its use as a base of operations for one T.E. Lawrence, a British officer who led a ragtag band of Arabs in a revolt against the Ottomans during WWI, better known as Lawrence of Arabia.

In the Wadi Rum, at a tourist-trap-type shop, an elderly Arab snuck up on me and began wrapping a kufiya (a traditional headdress worn by Arab men) around my head. Having just received two tidbits of advice from Riad (“You need something to protect your head from the sun” and “Jordanians don’t know exchange rates”) I decided to keep my kufiya if I could get it for a bargain. Surprisingly, the Jordanian Dinar is a valuable currency, worth 40 cents MORE than a dollar. So, when the old man told me it’d be 12 dinar, I said, how about 12 (Israeli) shekels? He accepted my offer, and instead of paying an exorbitant $16.86, I paid a reasonable $3.06 (Asimar took advantage of this discrepancy as well). So, looking more Arab all the time, with my beard, sunglasses, and fancy new head-wrap, I rejoined my tour group and awaited Petra.

A UNESCO World Heritage Site, and labeled as one of the Seven “New” Wonders of the World, Petra is an ancient city carved into isolated red-rock canyons. The capital of the pre-Islamic Nabatean civilization, Petra represents examples in rock-carving that can only be contended with by the Ethiopian Churches of Lalibela, and its location in a red sandstone desert canyon only contributes to its bucolic beauty. The Nabateans also had a knack for rerouting water to serve their desires, and the manner in which they did it is nothing short of amazing considering the technology available.

As we entered the complex, I was told by our guide that a horse ride into the site was included with our entry ticket. However, no one in my tour group seemed to want to exhibit their equestrianism.   I decided, in the spirit of the late great Lawrence of Arabia (who actually captured Petra from the Ottomans) that I would happily saddle up, but only if my steed wasn’t tethered to a lead-rope, and I had the freedom to gallop as fast as my four-legged friend and I could go. The Jordanians were happy to oblige, and one of them was even willing to take my camera and get a few action shots. When I placed my left foot into the stirrup, I was a little disappointed to find that my horse had a build more like that of a pony. Then, one of the Jordanians handed me an improvised crop made of rubber tubing and said, “Don’t worry, he’s fast…he’s Arabian.” I said, “How do I get him to go?” And he said, “Whip him in the ass and say “Harah!” The Jordanian wasn’t lying. Much like the arm-wrestling ability of Matt Dillon’s little brother in LA, my horse’s stature belied its strength. At first, I was sure I was headed headfirst like an ostrich into the sand, but within a few seconds, we both syncopated into a rhythmic canter, and it was marvelous. Although the Jordanian never told me how to stop, a tough tug on the reins and a “Whoa!” seemed to suffice. Now, I had no choice but to wait for 20 minutes until my tour group caught up with me. Standing alone at the Siq, the one way in and out of the ruins, I reflected on all of the movies that have been filmed there, most famously Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. I also thought about the Christian Rock band that took Petra as its moniker, and how my Mom used to lecture the lead singer’s son as a substitute teacher.

Once Riad and my group arrived, I was treated to an informative tour about the ruins, the most impressive being the “Treasury”, a massive misnomer of colonnaded carvings that in fact served as a royal tomb, and an amphitheater that is unique as it is the only one of its kind to be chiseled from a cliff.

After a decent buffet lunch on our way back, we bid farewell to our guide and made our way back to the Israeli border. This was my first taste of the unwanted attention I would receive from ennui afflicted immigration officers. Looking at my passport, and then looking at me, I was asked, “Do you have an ID picture of you wearing a beard?” I said, I’m sorry, I don’t, but if you have a razor I’ll shave it off right now!” Not ones for cheeky humor, I was detained for an extra twenty minutes, which I didn’t really mind, because for some reason, they had Led Zeppelin sounding through the checkpoint speakers. Bobbing my head while sitting in an uncomfortable chair and waiting on my passport, I reminded myself that I should get a new copy of Houses of the Holy.

I spent the next day relaxing in Eilat on Shabbat. After that, I got in my little car and drove across the Arav Valley, toward the Dead Sea. My first stop was Masada, another legendary historic site, and one of the most important monuments in Judaism. Also the subject of many a movie, Masada represents the epitome of the “never surrender” attitude. Originally built by Herod the Great (big surprise there), Masada was a fortified city sitting atop a mesa 1,300 feet above the Dead Sea. Herod constructed the compound for fear of insurrection, brought about internally by his own subjects, or against his Roman patrons. Fortunately for him, Herod died before he ever had to take refuge in his alpine abode, and only enjoyed as a vacation home. But, the siege-ready pleasure palace he created would be utilized successfully decades later as part of a legendary revolt against Rome. While the Jewish rebellion was quashed quickly in other parts of Israel, the Masada occupants would hold out for nearly 100 years.   Eventually, in 72AD, the Roman Governor-General Silva decided enough was enough and used a combination of soldier and slave labor to amass an epic earthen ramp to the top. When the Romans finally broke through the defenses in the spring of 73AD, they were stunned to find almost all of its 1,000 inhabitants had committed suicide. As the story goes, the inhabitants of Masada, knowing that their fate was sealed, cast lots and chose ten out of the thousand to kill the other men, women and children. After that, the remaining ten again drew straws, and one out of them was charged with dispatching the others, then finally ending his own life by his own hand.

The story of Masada is the paramount tale of devotion to Israel, and maybe anyone willing to die for their cause. In fact, many Israeli soldiers have their swearing-in ceremony on the mountain, where they declare “Masada shall not fall again.” Using the same logic that convinced me to continue biking along the Galilee, I decided to brave the 100+ degree heat (with no breeze) and hike the original “Snake Path” to the summit. Once I arrived to the top, after a well-deserved break, I explored the ruins on my own, and I really enjoyed it. I also explored the southern half of the mesa, which contains ruins of a post-rebellion Christian Byzantine Church, as well as some of the rebel dwellings. I don’t know if it was the stifling desert heat, or the disinterest in anything but the most morbidly fascinating of the remains, but I found myself exploring the whole southern side of the mountain alone. All of a sudden, a thunderous roar came from above and behind. Then, three fighter jets buzzed over my head. I instantly started to sing at the top of my lungs, “Sharif don’t like it! Rockin’ the Casbah! Rock the Casbah!” remembering the Clash video from the MTV of my youth. I thought it was funny, but then again, I was also quite dehydrated.

Descending Masada, I only had a ten-minute drive to Ein Bokek, a resort spot on the Dead Sea that I’d booked a long time ago as my Israeli “splurge” destination. My hotel was a terrible value for the money, but I suppose what I was really paying for was the private shoreline on the lowest spot on Earth. At 1,388 feet below sea level, the Dead Sea is also one of the saltiest bodies of water on the Globe. In ancient times, the area was avoided by the majority of civilization, and the refuge of exiles like John the Baptist. Devoid of life due to its salinity, it was believed that no bird could fly across it. In modern times, however, it’s been touted as possessing therapeutic qualities, a kind of natural health spa.

The experience of swimming in the Dead Sea is almost inexplicable.   Actually, “swimming” in the Dead Sea is impossible. At 33% salt, you absolutely cannot sink in it. When you stand in the deep water, you just bob up and down at chest level. When you lie on your back, you sit suspended above the surface, and will never sink below it, no matter how hard you try. Compared to the Red Sea, or the Sea of Galilee, the water is warm and slimy. It was one of the weirdest experiences of my life. When you get in, you’re advised not to stay in the saline water for more than 20 minutes, because it will dry you out. Also, if you happen to get any of it in your eyes, like I did, you will go temporarily blind until you flush your face with fresh water.   Still, this did not deter me from returning to the tepid pool after frequent breaks. The sensation of saltwater suspension was so strange that I couldn’t get enough of it.

Wandering the Desert

eriklang — Thu, 7 Jun 2012 00:00:00 GMT

I woke up tired and sore on the morning following my bike ride, but I was ready to jump in a car as soon as possible, so that I had the freedom to explore at my own pace. That morning at Avis, I ran into Julio, whom I hadn't seen since the West Bank, also renting a vehicle. We briefly discussed rolling together, but it was soon apparent that we wanted to see different things. I was presented with a Nissan Micra, a tiny little tin can of a car that looks like the offspring of a Mini and a VW bug. Happy to hit the highway, I made a beeline for the Mediterranean coast to see the ruins of Akko (Acre) and Caesarea. The old fortress of Akko is set along a stunning spot of seashore and is steeped in centuries of history. An important port in antiquity, it was the place in Greek mythology where Hercules came to heal his wounds. Alexander the Great built a mint in Akko…the Ptolemaic Egyptians took over and lost it to the Syrians, who in turn lost it to the Romans, who in turn lost it to the Arabs, who in turn lost it to the Crusaders, who in turn lost it to the Arabs again. Napoleon tried to capture it (but failed), the British took it from the Ottomans, and then handed it over to the Zionists. There are some cool Crusader-era tunnels there, but otherwise, it is really only worth spending a couple of hours in. Another interesting tidbit...Bahaullah, the founder of the Baha’i faith, was imprisoned by the Ottomans as a heretic and died there soon after.

Speaking of the Baha’i, my trip down the coast to Caesarea involved driving through the modern port city of Haifa, where the Baha’i world headquarters is located. Although I was tempted to make a visit (especially after visiting the temples in both India and America) I decided to just pass through and observe the temple sitting atop Mt. Carmel from afar, so that I could take my time in Caesarea. As far as I’m concerned, I feel like it was a good decision.

The remains of Caesarea represent the largest Roman ruins I’ve seen so far, and probably will see on this trip. Complete with aqueducts to channel fresh water from the interior, the port built by the tyrannical Herod the Great (and named in tribute of his Roman patron) is an incredible feat of engineering, for any day and age. Herod’s goal for Caesarea was to build the greatest city on Earth, and in his day, it surely must have been a contender for that title. Like most stuff in Israel, the history is sandwiched layer upon layer there, and after Herod died, the Romans made it their provincial capital, and Pontius Pilate governed from there between 26 and 36AD. According to the Acts of the Apostles, the first Gentile to be converted to Christianity was a Roman centurion in Caesarea, and the Apostle Paul was imprisoned there before being transported to Rome to stand trial before Caesar himself, with unfortunate consequences. During both Jewish revolts against Rome, it was the martyrdom place of still-renowned Rabbis. It later became an important hub of the Byzantine Christian Empire, before falling to the Muslims. Noticeably, the evidence of Arab architecture (including a very obvious minaret) is completely ignored by the Israeli Park Service. Still, Caesarea was one of my favorite places to visit in Israel. Standing in the exact spot where Pilate would have been entertained by chariot races with the azure waters of the Mare Nostrum (the Roman term for the Mediterranean-"Our Sea") as a backdrop was awesome for a history geek like me.

As time flittered by into the late afternoon, I knew it was time to make a decision as to my plans for the evening. I found a café with Wi-Fi, and figured that since I had an automobile, I might as well make my way through the desert, but before that, I decided to book a room and drive back to Jerusalem for the evening. This turned out to be a choice I would later regret. Having found a great deal online at the Zion Hotel in the New City, I didn’t realize that the hotel sits in the Ben Yehuda pedestrian shopping plaza, and how hard it would be to find a place to park in the area. I was aware of the crazy traffic in the area, but having negotiated places like Manhattan and the Chicago Loop in a van (with a trailer no less) I wasn’t worried about the congestion. But, when I arrived, although I found plenty of 1-hour and 2-hour spots, I was having a lot of trouble locating an overnight lot. One of the most stressful memories of my trip will be cruising the crowded lanes on New Jerusalem for over an hour and a half desperately trying to find a place for my tiny rental car. By the time it was all over, the gas I wasted in search of a parking space, and the price I had to pay for it, would negate the great rate I found at the Zion Hotel. But on a positive note, once I found my room, I ventured out onto the plaza and found Israeli Chicken Schnitzel. Obviously inspired by Teutonic tastes, the Chicken Schnitzel in Jerusalem involves a breaded and fried cutlet, wrapped in a pita stuffed with hummus, pickles, and a variety of veggies. Fantastic.

Early the next morning, I set out for the Negev, Israel’s southern desert. Per my rental agreement, I was forbidden to drive in the West Bank, which meant I had to take a massive detour toward Israel’s southernmost city, Eilat. I didn’t mind though, as I had a plenty of bottle water and a gas station sandwich to provide me sustenance as I saw the scenery. Heading toward the outpost of Mitzpe Ramon, I saw a sign for David Ben-Gurion’s homestead and tomb. As I took the remote road to the site, an ibex (a type of mountain goat with long horns-the symbol of Israel’s park service) jumped right in front of my Nissan. As I swerved and hit the brakes, the ibex stopped and stared at me. I snapped a picture of it and told the suicidal quadruped, “Watch out! This is a rental for heaven’s sake!”

The tomb of the Father of Modern Israel (also the namesake of its primary airport) is set in a panoramic location looking over a desert canyon. As I walked, relatives of the ibex I nearly turned into roadkill wandered freely. When I got to the tomb, I observed the swearing-in ceremony of forty or so teenaged army conscripts. Afterward, I had a pleasant conversation with two of the young IDF troops, before carrying on to Mitzpe Ramon. The “Ramon Lookout” has become a nice little desert community for tourists and retirees, like an Israeli Palm Springs, if you will. Although the views from the overlooks were worth taking a few pictures, I didn’t see the point in hanging around the place for very long. Driving through the Negev, it often felt like I was in Southern California. But then, I would see two things that would remind me of my unique location. The first were massive tornado-like dust devils, cyclones reaching the sky that instantly brought to mind the “Pillar of Cloud” that screened the movements of Moses from the Pharaoh’s pursuers during the Exodus. The second were American-made tanks on maneuvers crossing the highway, turrets gleaming in the sun.

The temperature continued to rise as I rolled into Eilat. Wedged between three other countries, Eilat is in a strategic position as Israel’s only outlet to the Red Sea and therefore, the Indian Ocean. Today, it is not only an important shipping center, but also a seaside resort full of high-rise hotels. Again, as with almost everything in Israel, the closeness of everything amazed me. Coming in through the Arav Valley, I spotted a city on the horizon. I said to myself, “There’s Eilat!” But as I got closer, I saw an unfamiliar flag flying overhead. Then I realized, “That’s Aqaba, in Jordan!” Eilat was astonishing to me in this way. The beaches themselves are not much to speak of (although the water is clear and cool), and perhaps only a couple of miles in length. From a chair sitting in Israel facing the sea, you can look to your right and see the Sinai Mountains of Egypt, barely 5 miles away. In front of you, the Saudi Arabian shoreline is visible across the Gulf of Aqaba, only 8 miles away, and to your left, the city of Aqaba, Jordan, less than one mile away, as if it were an extension of Eilat save the giant Jordanian standard waving in the ocean breeze. The airport in Eilat sits smack in the middle of town, and its closeness to the city (as well as the low-flying planes) makes for a weird ambience.

I really dug Eilat, and while the high-rise hotels start their rates at $200/night, I found a hip little hostel called Corinne located only a 10 minute walk uphill from the beach. The owner, David, is a friendly and helpful guy, and spends his downtime painting canvases behind the reception desk. The place is full of his artwork, and the rooms are in tiny little huts that while claustrophobic, are clean and have everything you need, a comfortable futon bed, wireless internet, a TV with tons of channels, and most importantly, air conditioning. It was my favorite accommodation in Israel, for only $40/night.

Unlike many other places in Israel, secular Eilat doesn’t really play by Shabbat rules. Although I debated the necessity of making a side trip to Jordan, when I realized I could do it during the Sabbath, and reminded myself that I may never be as close again, I asked David to help me organize a jaunt to the world-renown ancient city of Petra.

Biking on Water

eriklang — Tue, 5 Jun 2012 00:00:00 GMT

As the Egged bus wound its way from the top of the hill, we passed a sign marking the point where we were now below Sea Level. Still many meters below us, along the shore of the Sea of Galilee, lay the town of Tiberias. As soon as I saw it, I realized that the municipality was simply too diminutive to keep my attention for the three days I'd planned there. On my way from the depot to my hostel, I happened upon an Avis rent-a-car office. I went in and asked for a quote beginning the day after tomorrow. Cutting my reservation short by one day wasn’t nearly as much of a problem at my hostel as speaking English. Settled into my room, I set off for the shore.

Again, as with so many things in Israel, I was amazed by the dwarfish "Sea". From the top of the hill above Tiberias, you can see the entire body of fresh water, and although the lake is 8 miles in breadth at its widest point, you can still observe the opposite side regardless of vantage point. Although Tiberias has a long and rich history, there isn’t much evidence of it today; historic temples have been replaced by hokey high-rises, and the town of 30,000 caters primarily to tacky tourists. As I walked the shoreline “Promenade”, I witnessed hundreds of cosmetic-caked pre-pubescent girls cackling in some sort of singing competition. I was immediately turned-off by the spectacle. It felt as if I could’ve just gone to a shopping mall in the States instead.

But I had to remind myself, this is the Sea of Galilee…the stuff of Sunday school legend…and I was determined to get out to the sites sacred to the ages. At that time, the best course of action seemed to be renting a bicycle from the hostel. The next morning, after using the English-speaking owner as an interpreter between the desk clerk and myself, I procured a satisfactory Schwinn. Two younger guys saw me, and followed me to the bike storage so that they too could rent rides. Already quite warm outside, my agenda wasn’t as ambitious as their plan to circumnavigate the Sea. I wished them good luck, and before I set off, I returned to the Avis office to reserve my car for the next day. By the time I was really on the road, I’d managed to catch up to one of the young men, a 22 year-old Kiwi named Chris. He was biking slowly because his other friend, Gabriel (from Brazil, not the Peruvian Gabriel I met in Jerusalem) got a flat tire and had to return for a replacement cycle. I told him I was planning to stop at Tabgha, the Mount of the Beatitudes and Capernaum before returning to Tiberias. We ended up riding together, talking about our Israeli experiences thus far. When we got to Tabgha, where the Altar of the Loaves and Fishes is at (the place where Jesus fed the multitudes) we dismounted and parked our bikes at the foot of the Beatitudes Mount. We followed the trail up to the church built on the Spot of the Sermon on the Mount. The chapel itself is serene, but the views of the lake are phenomenal. Besides the Beatitudes, the cornerstone of Christ’s teachings, I was also reminded of the fact that it was in this place where common phrases like “Salt of the Earth” and “Judge not, lest ye be judged” were uttered. I think both Chris and I recognized a spiritual ambience there.

The way back down the Mount wasn’t as easy for us as the way up, and we got lost on a fruit farm, our descent blocked by banana and mango trees. Chris plucked a couple of bananas from a hand, tossed one toward me and exclaimed, “Lunch!” Looking over my shoulder, I stuffed it in my knapsack and asked, “Did we really just steal bananas from this holy mount?” But, my guilt soon subsided when we came across a farmhand planting mango trees to ask for directions. He was so excited to present the fruits of his labor to us that I thought, “Surely he wouldn’t mind us nicking a couple of bananas.”

By the time we finally made it through the brambles and briars down to the main road, Gabriel was there waiting on us. This was when both of them talked me into joining them for the long-haul, 34 miles around the Galilee back to Tiberias. Gabriel kept asking, “When will you have a chance to do this again?” and Chris seconded it with “Yeah man, you gotta do it! Then you can say you biked around the entire Sea of Galilee!” I said, “I guess you’re right” and we pedaled on to Capernaum.

The well-preserved ruins of Capernaum are a sight to see, and they represent a consensus of scientists and spiritualists as being a definite place where Jesus conducted His ministry. It was here that he recruited five residents as Apostles; four fishermen named Peter, Andrew, James and John, and one ostracized tax collector called Matthew. After taking a few photos, we were again on our bikes and headed to the northern inlet of the river Jordan. Sweaty and craving a cooling dip, we were put off by the dirty trash-laden waters of the small stream. After drinking some of our own bottled water, we decided to keep on truckin’ until we came to a suitable swimming spot. Scoping out the shoreline, it wasn’t for another 10 miles of so that we came across a picturesque looking spot called Kursi Beach. Merely looking for the shortest route in, we didn’t realize we’d snuck in without paying the entrance fee. But, no one bothered us, not even the gatekeeper when we left through the proper port.

Up until we got to the eastern shore of the lake, I had my doubts as to how a tempest of the biblical proportions I’d read about could happen. But, as we paddled in the cool waters, the west wind was generating immense waves, literally large enough to surf on. We all discussed this phenomenon over a light picnic afterward. Already feeling worn-out, but impressed with myself for keeping up with two in-shape 22 year olds up to that point, I informed them that if I had the power of Christ, I would have left them behind and simply biked across the water by now.

But, with miracles failing to materialize, I once again set off with my supportive compatriots along the road. The heat was starting to get to all of us, and I openly noticed that there were no other cyclists on the road, but we pressed on. At the southern mouth of the Jordan, I convinced Chris and Gabriel to make a pit stop at Yardenit, a touristy Baptism spot. As soon as we arrived, I knew that American Protestants had to have a partnership in the site. It was very touristy, to the point that it almost seemed like a sort of religious Disneyland, but, at least the river was clean, and we even saw some large catfish and otters.

Returning along the southwestern Galilean shore, the same west wind that had provided such enjoyable waves back at Kursi was proving to be a harrowing headwind. Absolutely sore by the time we reached Tiberias, I was so happy to have completed the journey that I told the guys to clean up so I could take them out for a couple of Brewskis.

After hitting a British expat pub called Big Ben, we decided to walk together along the Promenade one last time. When we got to the end of the boardwalk, an older American couple asked us when the light show was going to start. None of us had heard about the Sound and Light show. So, as the crowd of tourists gathered, we decided to stick around and see what all of the fuss was about.

The sound and light show was so insipid that it was hilarious. Outdated by at least a score, it features ho-hum fountains and inflatable Palm trees, some of which are inoperable. The announcer preps you in English with “The Sound and Light Show will shortly commence. It features ethnic rhythms couple with modern beats.” We couldn’t help but joke about it with one another, although the Russian tourists standing next to us kept tapping me on the shoulder and saying, “Very Beautiful, No?” Smirking, I just said, “Da”

Pulled into Nazareth, Feelin' 'Bout 1/2 Past Dead

eriklang — Sun, 3 Jun 2012 00:00:00 GMT

When Robbie Robertson of the Band wrote my titular line, he was referring to Nazareth, Pennsylvania, and Levon Helm, the man who sang it, has sadly only recently become all the way past dead. But, it was fitting that I should arrive in the original Nazareth just needing a place where I could lay my head. After French mass, I spent my last night in Jerusalem with some new friends I met at Ecce Homo, Niels from the Netherlands, Gabriel from Peru, Leslie from the UK, and Estelle from the tiny island nation of Mauritius. Estelle, a volunteer at the Convent, grabbed a guitar from the community room, and I played while we all had a rooftop sing-a-long. At one point we were all singing Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" (made popular by Jeff Buckley, and later, Shrek) and it felt so amazing to sit strumming that song with an amazing view of Jerusalem that chills went down my spine. It made for a late night, but having inside info from Estelle about the absence of housekeepers on Sunday, I was able to sleep in and make a late checkout. Leaving my bags at the Convent we went on the Ramparts’ Walk, a touristy stroll along the walled perimeter of the Old City. It was a good end to my first three days in Israel, and that afternoon I caught an Israeli Egged bus to Nazareth.

The town where Jesus grew up is today a unique city. Nazareth is 70% Muslim, and 30% Christian (most of them Arab). Strangely, the Jewish population lives in nearby Nazareth Illit, located high on a promontory above the town. From what I understand, less than a decade ago, Nazareth was not a place you’d want to overnight in…rife with junkies and crime. But, a young Jewish man named Moaz changed all that. He saw promise in the hometown of Mary and Joseph, and worked to develop the Jesus Trail, a hiking/camping path leading to the Sea of Galilee following the ministry of Christ. He also ambitiously befriended Muslim families in the community, and managed to successfully turn an old mansion into the Fauzi Azar Inn, which was where I could finally “lay my head” in a dormitory bed.

With a population of only around 60,000, Nazareth is not a very exciting city, and still not a place where folks typically spend the night. This is a pity, however, because Nazareth’s reputation is growing by the minute, especially as a culinary capital. Some of the best food I had in Israel was in Nazareth. For dinner on the night of my arrival, I went out with a fellow dorm-mate named Tirian, currently training as a lawyer in Ireland. At an Arab Christian restaurant called Tishreen, I had Araes. Picture this…the most delectable lamb kebab you’ve ever tasted, wrapped in cheese, then baked into a filo dough pastry…so delicious it was stupid. For lunch the following day, I went to a new restaurant that was formerly a boxing gym, and had Arabic sausages rolled into a pita, with a Tabouleh salad, washed down with Araq, a potent, anise-flavored liquor. If you ever happen to be in Israel whist dieting, do yourself a favor and stay away from Nazareth.

When I got to Fauzi Azar, I was informed of a morning tour around town available to guests. More importantly, I was informed that said tour was free. So, I made sure to wake up early enough to take advantage of it. Along with two British blokes and a friendly Brazilian Hospital Administrator named Asimar (whom I would later hang out with in Jordan, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it) I was led around Nazareth by an American guide named Linda. Linda arrived in Nazareth years ago as a vagabond backpacker, and fell in love with the town. Moaz hired her to work at the Fauzi Azar, and asked her to take over the city tour after the original guide left. Having Linda as a guide (who’s been in Nazareth long enough to get to know everybody) was a real treat, especially because as a California orphan, she harbors no bias toward Israeli or Palestinian causes. The cool thing about the tour is that we avoided all of the religious landmarks, and focused only on the day to day life of modern Nazareth. We went through the Souk (market) tasting complimentary produce, from green plums to grape leaves, stopped at a confectionery and tried Helvah, a sesame-based sweet, went to a spice mill that still utilizes 150 year-old steam-driven equipment, and met that most symbolic tradesman, the Nazarene carpenter. While the tour took longer than I expected (and therefore left me pressed for time) we were never pressured to buy or give any money, and that made for a spectacular experience.

Knowing my bus to the Sea of Galilee was arriving shortly, I had to kick it into high gear and get a move on. First, I stopped by the Basilica of the Annunciation, a giant church dedicated to the spot where the Virgin Mary was notified of her role in the Immaculate Conception by the Archangel Gabriel. While it was pleasant, the church itself is rather new (built in the 1960’s) so it didn’t do much for me in term of historic interest. Far better was the Church of St. Joseph nearby, which actually contains 1^st Century ruins of a homestead thought to belong to stepfather of the Prince of Peace and His revered mother.

After that, I only had a few minutes to visit a place that the Sisters of St. Mary of Zion-Communite de Chemin Neuf (the Order that runs the Ecce Homo Convent in Jerusalem where I stayed) told me to stop by before I left Nazareth. At the beginning of 2012, they opened an International Interpretive Center on the Virgin Mary, right across from the Basilica of the Annunciation. When I got there, I saw a sign on the door that notified me of their new business hours. Disappointed, I reckoned I wouldn’t have time to see the Center before my bus arrived. But then, an Arab gentleman started talking with me through the locked gate. I told him I’d been sent by the Sisters in Jerusalem. He said, “One minute.” Then, he opened the gate for me, and I was greeted by a Sister who took me on a VIP tour of the fancy new complex. Alone in the theaters for my own private screenings, I saw the different presentations they’d prepared on the Virgin Mary, including ones about her role in Jewish and Islamic culture (Keep in mind, Mary was Jewish, and she is cited often in the Holy Qu’ran as an example all Muslim women should emulate). The purpose of the interpretive center is to promote peace between the three great Middle Eastern religions using Mother Mary as an example, and I definitely don’t see anything wrong with that.

Expressing my gratitude to the nuns who gave me a personal tour, I made a 50 shekel ($13) donation to the Order and rushed out to catch my bus to Tiberias, along the shores of Lake Kinneret, also known as the Sea of Galiliee.

Palestinians, Partitions and Prayers

eriklang — Sat, 2 Jun 2012 00:00:00 GMT

While Shabbat shuts down the Jewish part of the Old City, to Jerusalem's Muslim population, it’s simply Saturday. Still excited about seeing the Holy Land, I decided to return to East Jerusalem and catch an Arab bus to Bethlehem. After seeking the help of some kindly locals, I located bus 21. As I was about to board, a heard familiar American accent ask, "Is this the bus to Bethlehem?" I said, “Yep”. And so began my acquaintanceship with Julio Cesar, an Angelino tourist. As the crow flies, Bethlehem is only 10 miles from Jerusalem, but due to military checkpoints, and the recently constructed concrete wall separating Israeli-held and Palestinian populated territory, the ride now takes around 45 minutes.

When the bus dropped us off at Beit Jala, Julio and I were approached by scores of taxi drivers, hoping to score some shekels by taking us on a tour of the West Bank. Since the quoted rates were far less than Israeli fares, and both Julio and I could split the cost, we decided to hire Mahmoud for the morning to show us around. Our first few stops were at sections of the partition wall itself (which Mahmoud referred to as the “Apartheid Wall” to see the impressive (and often incendiary) graffiti tagged on the enormous barrier. A lot of the painting is by Banksy, arguably the most famous graffiti artist on Earth, and is stunning, in both aesthetic and conveyed message.

After that, we visited Herodion, an ancient fortress built atop an artificial mountain by Herod the Great. This would be one of many sites I would visit on my trip that served to prove the megalomania and paranoia of the Roman puppet King of Judea. Besides the amazing ruins, the site afforded magnificent views of the surrounding countryside, including the Dead Sea. It was also in this area where the biblical prophet Amos lived. Although Mahmoud was pushing hard to extend to trip to more distant destinations, I wanted to return to Jerusalem before 5pm, and Julio was primarily concerned with seeing Manger Square.

I have to say, Bethlehem itself is not deserving of much fanfare. The center of town (Manger Square) is essentially just a parking lot, surrounded my souvenir shops, and the Church of the Nativity. The Byzantine flourishes that remain in the church are a sight to see, and the entrance, a tiny portal known as the “Door of Humility” is a funny little testament to its troubled history throughout the ages; the door was made smaller and smaller over the years in order to inhibit the ease of entry for attackers. Once inside, however, the church opens up into a grand structure, then two staircases lead down into a claustrophobic grotto where a 14-point star marks the traditional spot where Christ was born. Again, like so many other Holy sites, the likelihood that the star marks the actual nativity nave is up for debate, but seeing the reaction of pilgrims to the place is moving. Directly behind the grotto is a little niche called the Altar of the Adoration of the Magi. An interesting story about the centuries-old mosaic showing three kings bearing gifts is that when the Persians invaded in 614 AD, they spared the church after seeing one of the Magi depicted wearing similar clothes to their own.

Leaving the crowds at the Nativity Church behind, we walked about a block behind the building to the Milk Grotto Chapel. This is a place of Christian mystery and superstition. The church is built over a white rock that is said to have originally been red. As the legend goes, Mary, Joseph, and the infant Child of God stopped at this spot on their flight to Egypt to escape the persecution of Herod. As Mary fed the baby Jesus from her bosom, some of the milk spilled on the rock and turned it white. Now, women come from all over the world to ingest a grain of the chalky rock (usually in tea or water) with the hope that it will cure infertility. Julio and I spoke with a Franciscan priest at the site. He said, “I know this sounds like a joke, but I have 2,000 letters upstairs of times when it has worked!” But, then he went on to say, “You know, it’s not the rock that cured these women…the rock is not magic…it was their faith. It is all about faith. It’s hard to have such faith, but if you really believe, God can do anything.”

Content with our sightseeing, Julio and I went searching for a place to have lunch. Both of us wanted to try some traditional Palestinian fare. Sitting at an outdoor café with a frosty mug of Taybeh, I tried Mansaf, a dish made from stewed lamb cooked in jameed (dried yogurt) plopped over a bed of pine nut-saturated rice sitting on top of layers of pita like sajj bread. It is served with a buttery chicken-soup stock that is poured over the plate at your discretion. It was a very, very good meal.

As we ate, two young Palestinian men with a rudimentary knowledge of English inquisitively chatted with us. The look on their faces was not pleasant when we told them that we were from the USA. Oddly, they could not seem to grasp the concept that both Julio and I could both be Americans, because to Palestinians, ethnicity has just as much to do with nationality. I explained to them that Julio is just as American as I am, and Americans can look very different from one another. Julio spoke with them intelligently and diplomatically when they began asking questions about American military support for Israel, and our attitudes towards Palestinians. I proud of Julio (and proud of my country) as he told them over and over that most Americans are good people, and only want peace for everybody, especially for themselves and their families.

Since I’ve been here, I’ve been astounded by the rhetoric and hype I’ve heard in conversations with both Israelis and Palestinians, even though I expected it before I arrived. For example, Israelis refer to the folks in the West Bank and Gaza as “Arabs” and not “Palestinians”, because calling them the latter implies that they belong in Palestine. Calling them the former implies that they could live anywhere in the Arab world. The conflict in 1948 is called the “War of Independence” by Israelis, and “The War of Occupation” by Arabs. Mahmoud pointed out “Refugee Camps”, which for the most part are really just neighborhoods for the displaced; most of the refugees live in permanent houses, some of them quite fancy…it’s nothing like the ramshackle slums I’ve seen in India or Ethiopia. The fact of the matter is that I can sympathize with both sides in many ways, but I also feel like an indoctrination of exaggeration has occurred in many cases.

I made it back to Jerusalem in time to catch a French mass at Ecce Homo performed by Father Ed. Although I feel like I only understood about a quarter of what was said, it was certainly an experience I won’t forget. With some time left in my day, I again left the Old City via Damascus Gate and went to a place known as the Garden Tomb. This is a place considered an as an alternative site for the crucifixion and tomb of Christ. In 1883, British General Charles Gordon identified a hill resembling a skull outside of the Old City and began excavations, wondering if this was the spot of the real Golgotha (Golgotha means “skull” by the way). Soon, the archaeological digs yielded the remains of tombs that scientists have since disregarded as pre-Christian, but bear striking similarities to those mentioned in the Gospels. A very quiet, green spot in an otherwise noisy and urban area, the Garden Tomb was if nothing and interesting place to relax. The actual crucifixion location for believers in the Garden Tomb actually sits just outside of the property in the middle of an Arab bus depot. Of course, cynics claim that the only reason the Garden Tomb is promoted is because it is the only Passion site that Protestants have any stake in. But part of me thought, wouldn’t it be fitting of the Awesome Irony of God that his Son was not put to death where an ornate Church now stands, but rather where Muslims catch public transportation? Of course, if I’ve learned anything about Israel as a whole so far, it’s that it leaves more questions than it does answers.

Pickpockets, Partitions, and Prayers

eriklang — Fri, 1 Jun 2012 00:00:00 GMT

Even after recollecting its repeated references in the religious services of my youth, nothing could prepare me for actually arriving in Jerusalem. After hopping a hired Sherut (Minibus) from Ben-Gurion Airport for the 45-minute ride, I was dropped off at a corner in predominantly Muslim East Jerusalem, where I made my way to the Damascus Gate, breaching the Old City wall. After getting a little lost in the maze of alleyways that make up the ancient part of the town, I finally found the Via Dolorosa ("Way of Sorrows"- and the Passion path of Christ) and my guest house, located atop a church and convent run by the Sisters of St. Mary of Zion, an order of French nuns. When I got to the rooftop and the stunning view that awaited me, the first thing I noticed was the size of the Old City. In all my years, I'd never imagined it as so small. The entire walled section is only 0.35 square miles in area, and is still twice as large as it was during Roman rule. There are some 30,000 people crammed into this tiny citadel of a city, which feels more like being inside a castle than a town…and this Lilliputian living space is further divided into neighborhoods occupied by Jews, Muslims and Christians, all coexisting as tense tenants. Ethiopians would scoff at what a Jerusalemite considers a “long walk” as nothing is more than a 15-minute stroll from something else.

Although I was fatigued from my early-morning flight out of Istanbul (and the lengthy immigration process required for Israeli entry) I was too excited to see this legendary place that I quickly left my bags behind at the church and hoofed it in the heat through St. Stephen’s Gate (Lion’s Gate), ascending the Mount of Olives. The Mount of Olives is not known as a particularly friendly area, but contains some of the most holy sites in Christianity. As I took a wrong turn, I was met by an elderly Palestinian man in full Arab garb who began talking with me. At first, I was reluctant to accept his assistance, sure that he would lead me into a shop and demand that I buy something. But as we walked, I noticed that everyone in the neighborhood greeted him, and it became obvious that he was somehow respected within his community. He took me to a café where he bought a bottle of grapefruit juice for us to share, then proudly pulled photos from his pocket and began telling me the stories associated with them. I was surprised by the snapshots he handed me…posing with Bill Clinton, Condoleezza Rice, and even accepting a key to the city of Memphis, Tennessee! It turns out that the gentleman I met was Ibrahim Ahmad Abu El-Hawa, creator of the Jerusalem Peacemakers, a multicultural non-profit organization committed to promoting non-violent conflict resolution in Jerusalem. His family has lived on the Mount of Olives for centuries, and he has opened his home for free to any travelers seeking tranquility. At his house, I met Europeans, Americans, and Africans, mostly hippie-types with the same desire for peace in the Middle East as Ibrahim. Fidel, one of the boarders, took me up to the rooftop, where I enjoyed views of Jerusalem to the east, and the Dead Sea to the west (again, much closer than I thought). Ibrahim invited me to dinner, but I was eager to get a move on and see some sights before they closed. He invited me to stay as a guest in his home whenever I wish.

After such a gracious introduction to Jerusalem, it was ironic that I would experience the seedier side of the Mount within minutes. After visiting the Church of the Pater Noster, which is the traditional place where Jesus taught His disciples the Lord’s Prayer, I walked out into the street with a serenity I’ve seldom felt, reflecting on the words of a prayer I’ve recited countless times. A Palestinian teenager approached me and asked me if I’d like to buy an olive branch. I declined, especially because I could have easily acquired an olive branch from anywhere on the mountain free of charge. Then, he kept trying to stuff the branches into my pockets, simultaneously trying to pick them and pilfer what he could from my knapsack. Although it marked the first time I’d caught someone trying to pickpocket me so far on my trip, I was wise to his attempts, and gave him a stern warning. This was a “What Would Jesus Do?” moment for sure. Here I am, on my way to the Garden of Gethsemane (where Jesus was arrested before His crucifixion) feeling peaceful, and now I’m tempted to smack the hell out of this Muslim boy. I managed to walk away without incident, but it really made me think about the difficulty in maintaining pacifist virtues, and loving your neighbor regardless of race, color, or creed.

The Garden of Gethsemane and the church next to it were very nice. Even better is that unlike many of the holy sites dotting Jerusalem, it in is a spot that both scholars and scientist agree on. There are even a couple of living olive trees there that have been scientifically dated to be more than 2,000 years old, making them a witness to whatever biblical events occurred. I sat inside the church for a mass in Portuguese, and seeing the emotions on the faces of the Brazilian pilgrims was very powerful.

There were many other sites I walked by or made brief visits to, including the Church of the Ascension, the tombs of the prophets Haggai, Zachariah and Malachi, the Church of Dominus Flevit (traditional site of where “Jesus wept” for Jerusalem (Luke 19:41)), the Church of Mary Magdalene, and the Tomb of the Virgin Mary. All in all, a pretty busy first afternoon. Because the Old City is about as dry as the desert climate it sits in, I went through the Damascus Gate and back into East Jerusalem to quench my thirst with a Palestinian beer. Taybeh, which is brewed in the city of Ramallah, remains the best-tasting Middle Eastern beer I’ve had so far.

I woke up early on Friday morning, and enjoyed breakfast with Father Ed, a visiting Francophone priest from Winnipeg, Canada. (A super-personable fellow, Father Ed and I would have long geopolitical conversations every morning until I left Jerusalem) I left the Ecce Homo Church (Ecce Homo is Latin for “Behold the Man” and is revered at the place where Pontius Pilate presented Jesus to the people of Jerusalem, and crowned Him with thorns.) and walked the Via Dolorosa to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the traditional site of Christ’s crucifixion. I was told to expect crowds, but luckily, there weren’t many visitors when I arrived.

Being perhaps the holiest site to the Christians of the World, it is impossible to ignore the raw emotional vibes throughout the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. It is a surreal place to wander through, regardless of the faith one subscribes to, if any at all. Pilgrims climb a small flight of stairs up to a tiny chapel, where they observe the rock where the cross was placed, enclosed by glass and surrounded by oil lamps, icons, and incense censers. Devotees then await their turn to crawl into a tiny box, where they place there arm through a hole to lay their hand on the holy stone. But like with so many places in Jerusalem, there is conflict even within this sacred site. Stewardship of different sections is bitterly divided between the Roman Catholics, the Armenian Orthodox and Greek Orthodox. This rivalry has gone on for centuries, and ever since the rule of Sultan Saladin (1174-1193) the keys to the church have been in the hands of a Muslim family, who opens it in the morning and locks it up at night, because the Muslims have been the only people all three denominations can trust in consensus. In fact, one of the strangest consequences of this infighting has involved a ladder that was placed by the Armenian priests on a ledge belonging to the Greeks to clean an upper section of their chapel. Because the ladder rests on the Greek part, they would not allow the Armenians on it, or to even remove it. This ladder has remained in the same place since the 1800’s, in sesquicentennial limbo. Observing evidence of the petty squabbles only served to detract from my reverence of the place, and served to annoyed me. I wondered “What if I moved the ladder, or pretended to accidentally run into it? What would happen then?” The issue seemed so trivial and childish that I could hardly believe it has carried on for so long.

But knowing that Shabbat (Jewish Sabbath) was happening at sundown, I couldn’t contemplate the mysteries of interfaith antagonism for long, because I still had a lot to see. First, I went through the Jewish Quarter, and visited the Tomb of King David. While it’s unlikely that it's actually the final resting place of the Goliath-slaying harpist, it’s still an important site in modern Jewish history, as it’s the place where the devout prayed between 1948 and 1967 while the Western (Wailing) Wall was under Jordanian control. At the Jewish holy sites, men are required to wear a head covering, and after a paper kippa (skullcap, like a yarmulke) I was given kept falling off, I decided just to buy my own for a couple of dollars and a affix it to my noggin with hair clips so that I wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore. Having gone from zero-to-Jew in a matter of seconds, I visited other sites integral to the Jewish faith, including the Western Wall itself, although I planned to return for the beginning of Shabbat later that evening. In addition to that, I went to the Cenacle (spot of the Last Supper), the Church of St. Peter Gallicantu (where it’s believed that Peter denied Jesus (“before the cock crow thou shalt deny me thrice” (Mark 14:66-72) “Gallicantu” means “rooster crow”, by the way), the Church of the Dormition (where it’s believed that the Virgin Mary died), the tree from which Judas’ supposedly hanged himself after selling out his Rabbi, and the grave of Oskar Schindler (the Austrian Catholic who saved 1,200 Jews from demise at the hands of the Nazis, and the inspiration for the movie Schindler’s List).

After returning to Ecce Homo to wash up and put on some nice clothes, I awaited the wail of the siren signifying the start of Shabbat. I clipped my kippa to my cranium and followed the mostly orthodox and Hasidim crowd to the Western Wall. As the sun began to set, it was amazing to integrate myself into the thousands of men working their way to the Wall to pray (Women are separated by a partition to pray in their own section). I managed to make my way to the giant bricks of the holiest site in Judaism and bow my head for a bit. Then, I walked in reverse (you’re not supposed to turn your back on the Wall – kind of like meeting Queen Elizabeth, I suppose) and watched the celebrations occurring around it. It is really an experience to witness Jews of all kinds singing and dancing together in big Hora circles.

In a hurried 48 hours, I’d managed to visit most of the places I’d wanted to see in the Old City. At this point, the Jewish shops and amenities would be largely unavailable for the next 24 hours. But, the Muslim Sabbath (which goes from Thursday thru Friday night) was just ending. I made a plan to find an Arab bus and spend my Saturday in the Palestinian Authority.

Nobody's Business but the Turks

eriklang — Thu, 31 May 2012 00:00:00 GMT

As I mentioned before, after six weeks in India and Ethiopia, I expected Istanbul to be a breath of fresh air. I'd heard so many nice things about the city prior to my arrival, and I found the previous praise well justified. However, as an unplanned connection point between Addis Ababa and Tel Aviv, I had only three days to enjoy Turkey’s top town, so it was imperative that I see and do as much as possible.

While the customs process at Ataturk Airport was needlessly slow, my trip into town via the commuter train (metro) and streetcar (tramway) was relatively painless, even in the rain. The first thing I noticed is how easy it is to walk the historic old city peninsula, where the bulk of the tourist sites are concentrated. Although I technically traversed a handful of neighborhoods, Sultanahmet, Sirkesci (where I stayed), Begoylu, Taksim, Cantankuran…they cumulatively covered an area smaller than one Beijing borough. On my first afternoon, I mindlessly breached the Galata Bridge, oblivious to the fact that I was crossing a continental boundary until I’d already reached Asia. Of course, the traditional borders between landmasses are just lines made up long ago by people smarter than me. The best part of being on the Galata Bridge is visiting one of the many fine seafood restaurants sitting on the water underneath the roadway, and watching the sunset over the beautiful Bosporus and the bountiful boats while imbibing a beer.

On my first evening, apart from getting to know my surroundings, I made an effort to familiarize myself with the food. During my 72-hour stay, I tried no less than five different types of kebabs. Here are my personal rankings, from least liked to most mouthwatering:

5. Doner Kebab: Identical to the mutton meat Americans know best from Greek Gyro Sandwiches, but sans tzatziki (cucumber sauce) sometimes accompanied by lavash, the Turkish equivalent of pita bread, topped with toasted sesame seeds.

4. Iskender Kebab: Doner Kebab meat drenched in tomato sauce and saturated lavash, with plain yogurt.

3. Kofte Kebab: This is softer, greasier and tastier, akin to a mutton meatball. However, the sparse seasoning leaves it somewhat bland.

2. Sheesh Kebab: The best quality meat, usually steak, lightly seasoned. Tastes like typical meat from the grill.

1. Adana Kebab: My favorite of them all. It’s similar to Kofte, but with more spice. It comes in a slightly flattened, tubular form.

Turkish sweets are quite tasty, typically implementing honey and nuts, usually hazelnuts and pistachios. I made sure to try Turkish Delight, which involves pistachios suspended in rosewater and fruit jelly (often made from pomegranate) and sometimes covered with chocolate. Very nice. Of course, I had to wash my delicious food down, and I tried a plethora of potables. Turkish coffee is famous for being strong. When I ordered it for the first time, I wondered why it was served with a tiny bottle of water. After taking my last swig, I understood why, as the bottom of the cup is coated with a viscous sludge of soggy grounds. In terms of taste, it paled in comparison to Ethiopian roast, but certainly served its utilitarian purpose as an alertness aid. I enjoyed the teas better, particularly the apple tea, which unlike a spiced cider, was more akin to a hot, tart apple juice. Speaking of fruit, Istanbul is inundated with juice stands, usually serving fresh-squeezed orange, carrot, watermelon, grapefruit, or pomegranate juice. I’m a sucker for these beverages, and every time I had one I thought, "Boy, I should buy a juicer when I get back home." Then I thought, “Eh, probably not, because I’ll just get tired of cleaning it.”

Other more mature libations include Efes Pilsen (the most popular local beer) Turkish wines, and Raki, a vodka-esque liquor that I remember trying years ago with my friend Raj’s old Turkish college roommate. If I (barely) recall correctly, I went temporarily deaf in one ear after killing most of a bottle. So, that experience taught me to remain reserved when it comes to Raki.

As one might presume, I overate a little while in Istanbul. But fortunately, I had a handful of amazing historic sites where I could burn off some of the calories.

Speaking of History, another memory I have of my History teacher Mr. Caldwell (whom I mention in my Axum entry) is of him coming up to the classroom chalkboard (yes, chalkboard, not dry-erase, which now gives away my age) and scrawling the words “HAGIA SOPHIA”. Called the Aya Sofya by the Turks, the “Church of God’s Wisdom” is one of the oldest architectural wonders of the world. It’s no surprise that Caldwell loved the building so much, as it is steeped in layer upon layer of history. Built by the Byzantine Emperor Justinian in 537 AD, the grandiose domed structure was the most impressive house of worship in its time. It was so impressive, in fact, that when the Muslims conquered Constantinople in 1453 (and renamed it Istanbul), instead of razing the church to the ground, they simply converted it into a mosque. Nowadays, the building serves as a museum, and the combination of Christian mosaics with Islamic additions is strangely stunning. Because of its beautiful design, but more because of its rich history, the Aya Sofya has been one of my favorite places to visit during this trip.

Across from the Aya Sofya lies arguably the most aesthetically pleasing structure in all of Istanbul, the picturesque Blue Mosque. Because I arrived during afternoon prayers (and because I am not Muslim) I was denied entry, but the outside of the building seems like it’s just as impressive as the inside, if not more so. After snapping a few photos and exploring the grounds, I went looking for the Basilica Cistern, an underground reservoir built to supply the Aya Sofya and surrounding citadels with fresh water. The entrance to the cistern sits in a small, squat, Spanish-tiled building that almost looks like the bathrooms at a highway rest stop. But once you descend the 50-some-odd stairs to the bottom, it’s like something straight out of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. The Cistern is a giant, spooky, colonnaded pool of water only about a foot deep (with some pretty big fish swimming in it, no less) and even includes two mysterious Medusa head carvings, seemingly placed at random, one of them upside down and the other on its side (there are many theories as to why they sit in this fashion). The Basilica Cistern wasn’t in my original sightseeing plan, but I’m glad I decided to check it out.

That evening, it occurred to me that the sunset in Turkey was happening far later than it had in Ethiopia. Perhaps this was due to my northward shift in latitude. But, with plenty of daylight to spare, I made my way down to the ferry terminal for a twilight cruise across the Bosporus. For only four Turkish Lira, ($2.15) I enjoyed an hour-long roundtrip sail to Asia and back. I particularly fancied the after-dark return trip, view and illuminated Istanbul from the sea…a great end to a great day.

With one full day left, I decided to visit Topkapi Palace, which I’d been told wasn’t much to see after the Aya Sofya and Blue Mosque. However, I’m glad I didn’t skip it, as it was definitely worth the pricey admission charge and the tedious throngs of tourists. Topkapi was the primary residence of the Sultans of the vast Ottoman Empire for 400 years, from 1465 to 1856. The opulence of the Ottomans is without compare. Not only is it huge, and possesses the best views of Istanbul, but it is intricately decorated with artisan carvings and tile-work, and is full of priceless treasures secured as spoils for the Empire.

With my audio guide plugs in ear, I wandered the Harem pondering what it must have been like not only to have hundreds of wives, but over 300 concubines. (To paraphrase one of my favorite Mel Brooks films, “It’s good to be the Sultan.”) Then, I saw a long line snaking its way towards a small building. I queued up figuring there must be something worthwhile inside. Once I entered, I viewed a trove of artifacts, including personal objects from the Prophet Muhammad himself, including his sword, his caftan, and even hairs from his beard! They also displayed the “staff” of Moses (Moses is also revered in Islam, known to Muslims as the Prophet Musa), but I must say I have doubts as to its authenticity…I mean, it seems hard to believe that even with the greatest of care a stick survive for four millennia. In addition to the religious relics, there were untold riches of jewels and gems on display. One of my favorite items on display were two rain gutters made of solid gold from the rooftop of the Kaaba in Mecca.

Luckily, I was able to see all of the historic places in Istanbul of interest to me, but there was still one more thing on my list to do, and that was to experience a genuine Turkish bath. Honestly, I had no idea what to expect. I went to one of the oldest baths in town the Gedikpasa, which has been operating since 1475…that’s some 80 years before old Bill Shakespeare was even born. The Hamami (Bath) area was impressive, with centuries-old marble under geodesic domes. When you arrive, you leave your clothes in a locker and don a small towel, then shower and sit in a steam room and/or sauna until a fat hairy man comes for you. He then douses you with water, and proceeds to roughly scrub you with a coarse exfoliating glove. After that, he orders you to lie on the ancient marble slab, where he gives you a somewhat painful massage. Then, he takes something like a pillowcase full of soap, blows it up like a balloon, and deflates it against your body in order to whip up a sudsy froth. As I lay half-naked on the slab with the heavyset hirsute Turk lathering me, I thought about all of the men who’d bathed in that very spot before me for the last half-millennium…then I thought, “Boy, I hope someone cleans this slab every once in a while.”

So, now, I am in Israel, and I have seen and done so much in my first three days here that I fear I will have a big blog backup. But, I will do my best to catch up whenever I’m not busy, which isn’t very often. As I’ve mentioned before, I'd heard nothing but good things about Istanbul, and as expected, I really, really enjoyed the city. I think it’s the first town I’ve been to on my trip that I could see myself living in given the opportunity.

Adieu, Addis

eriklang — Tue, 29 May 2012 00:00:00 GMT

Ah, Ethiopia…So much to abhor, but much more to adore. I'll have to review my previous entries, because I might have said this about each country I’ve visited thus far, but Ethiopia really has been my favorite destination of them all. Sure, there have been maddeningly frustrating events along the way, but for all of the unwanted attention I’ve received from different derelicts, I can’t imagine walking into a European hotel to a chorus of smiling staff greeting me with "Hello, Mr. Erik!"

My last few days in Addis Ababa were spent hotel hopping in search of a hot shower. And while I never found one, I still managed to relax and enjoy myself. Moving closer to the center of town (The Piazza) I booked a room at the oldest hotel in the city, commissioned by Empress Taitu in 1907 after it appeared to her in a dream. Although the structure has character, unfortunately, I don’t think it’s been renovated since it was built. My room door did not lock, the toilet did not flush, and the TV did not work. Nevertheless, I decided to stick it out and wait on Antonio, the Portuguese Ambassador, to pick me up in his Mercedes with diplomatic tags.

The Ambassador took me to dinner at what I think might be the best place in town, Ristorante Castelli. Although I’d already been there for lunch earlier that day, I had no problem returning for seconds. While the hotels here may be a poor value (especially because faranjis are charged overtly inflated rates) the food here is an absolute steal. At Castelli, it is possible to have a meal of homemade fettuccine in truffle sauce, house-made mozzarella cheese, roast beef that melts in your mouth, a bottle of local wine, and a tiramisu dessert for less than what you’d pay for the never-ending salad at Olive Garden. My talk with the Ambassador was more than interesting. Born in Mozambique (a former Portuguese colony) he kept me entertained with accounts of his storied past, including his political imprisonment by the fascist Salazar/Caetano regime for being a Maoist prior to the anti-colonial “Carnation Revolution” of the 1970’s. For possessing the wisdom of someone who seems to have seen and done it all, the Ambassador exuded a spirit and joie de vivre that I can only hope to harbor later in my own life. After a delicious meal and delightful discussion, I bid farewell to Antonio and struck up a conversation with the grandson of the restaurant owner, a half-Irish half-Italian bloke named James. James and I got on famously, and being from a famous family, he treated me to a VIP evening of jazz clubs and discotheques. The next day, I once again went to Tomoca, now my favorite place on Earth for coffee, and began my morning with more macchiatos.

My VIP treatment continued for the next couple of days. After I left the tattered Taitu for the Churchill Hotel, I ended up meeting three starting linemen and two coaches for the University of Kentucky football program, who were in Addis Ababa briefly to work with the Hope Enterprises charity. Then, I finally met with my coworker Yordanos’ family when her sister Selam came to pick me up on my last day in Ethiopia. Relaxing in their beautiful home, I was served a hearty lunch and fresh coffee (in the traditional manner) and really enjoyed just killing time in conversation with Selam and her Mom, Atzede Tekle. When her father Asmelash Minaye came home, they took me out for dinner at a new French restaurant called Mandolin (named for the slicing device and not the musical instrument) where I was treated to a superb filet mignon in Roquefort sauce. Giving me a ride to the airport, Asmelash showed me a new building his construction company had just completed, and mentioned more than once that he wished he’d met me before the day I had to leave. The feeling was mutual.

Great time I had with Yordanos’ family aside, I was ready to move on with my trip…but, Ethiopia is the kind of place I’d like to come back to and visit after 10 years, just to see how things have improved. One of the ironic results of never being colonized is infrastructure deficiencies. For example, while the British were responsible for unspeakable atrocities during their rule over India, they still left the impoverished country with railroads that are now used more than ever. Ethiopia has had to grow on her own, and sadly with no help from her former regimes, from which she is still recovering.

But Ethiopia is a land of faith, hope and love…and my visit, despite its difficulties, left me with sincere wishes for a bright future. Now, I am in Istanbul, and as I expected, it does not disappoint. But, no longer am I getting the star attention like before. In fact, I’ve been mistaken for Turkish more than once, which I’ve found very strange. There are lots of tourists here from all over, so it’s been harder for me to just start talking to a fellow foreigner, unlike in Ethiopia. While I’m happy for the hot showers and the clean bathrooms, I’ve got to tell you, I already sort of miss Africa. At times, it was a challenge, no doubt…but it was also the most adventurous destination I’ve even been to, and I’m glad I visited before it becomes so popular that it’s frequented by faranjis.