Definitely Out There

Kinderkamp!

paul_meet_world — Wed, 17 Jul 2013 06:26:00 GMT

I met Anna in New Zealand, in a rather sleepy city called New Plymouth on the north island. Hailing from Germany, she'd been traveling for months (seven I think?). We'd spent a night drinking with a big group on the roof of the hostel, the group dwindling down until there were just the two of us.

No, nothing happened, but I'd definitely made a new friend. Months later, I'm in Berlin and I realize I know someone in Germany! So I look Anna up and she's just outside of a little place called Weisbaden. Now, due to my tremendous inability to make good plans in advance and some obligations on her part, I wasn't able to see her before I went to the Netherlands.

So instead I saw her afterwards, haha. She was working at this enormous summer camp for kids (430 of them) and she had a spare tent with my name on it. So not really knowing what to expect, my train (which I reckon knew exactly what to expect for its future) pulled into Weisbaden HBF around 5:30 in the afternoon.

Anna and her boyfriend picked me up and drove me out to the camp, located around a soccer field, near a wood. The kids had already left for the day and as the staff was eager to inform me, that meant party time!

In no time at all, a cup of Frau Roscher (a local brew composed of apple wine most locals add coke to) and a plate of fresh food was plunked in front of me and a campfire was sparked. Amidst swirls of German chatter, refills pressed into my hands, and the occasional cry of "Palleta!" As another pallet was thrown on the fire, we proceeded to have a good ol' time in the German style. Oh! There was even a fire show, which was hilarious and awesome all at once.

The next morning, breakfast came at 7. It was one of the roughest mornings I'd had in a long time. These people are dedicated. Now, when I was a kid I spent years at summer camp - first a coed camp, later at the Boy Scout camps that doted the Oregon landscape. I'd often wondered what it would be like to be a counselor - working behind the scenes, and yeah, we all knew they partied. As an unofficial and in no way responsible for anything temporary camp counselor shadower, I've got to say these people put their heart and soul into it. I was barely able to drag myself up out of my tent, but the men and women were already up, joking, laughing, and ready for the kids.

Which was good - nothing was stopping those kids. When the buses pulled up it was like a ravaging hoard descended upon the camp - which was fitting, given the theme. This year we were Vikings! Which meant playing lots of Viking chess, building a longship (no, really, though it was totally not sea-worthy), and building a small village (I can only assume to plunder later in the week). In the morning I got to shoot some arrows, then did some wrestling (in which I lost to a girl about half my weight - she was a scrapper), and went on a nature walk. Later in the afternoon I hung out with one of the counselors as she kept tabs on a couple dozen kids running around and playing with various outdoor toys. At one point one of the guys donned a bunny suit and proceeded to be chased by approximately six hundred small children with murder on their minds - I for one would never have had the guts, but he never lost his smile, even as they tackled him and proceeded to smother him with their tiny bodies.

I was somewhat at a loss with all of the kids. Beyond never having much experience with tikes and not being super comfortable with them regardless, I was experiencing a somewhat disorienting reversal to a common phenomenon on the road. Usually the younger the locals are the more likely they are to speak English - in Asia especially it seemed like every kid spoke fluent English, whereas all the adults just kind of shrugged apologetically. In Germany, they have years of English in schools, and as such all of the teens and twenty-somethings spoke great English (and we had some fun conversations about language, let me tell you), whereas all the children during the day spoke pretty much none - their English classes hadn't started up yet. So I had quite a few conversations with kids throughout the day where they would say something long and complicated to me in German, genuinely interested in who this strange foreigner was and where he'd come from (midway through their camp), and I replied in English that I didn't have the faintest clue what they were saying because I only spoke English. At which point they'd look at me like I had two heads and say something in German that I presume translated to "What? I can't understand you, I only speak German!" Then we'd repeat this exchange two or three times (seriously, kids just don't give up). Eventually a counselor would step in and help out - "He says he likes your shirt." "Tell him I say thanks." Weirdly enough, in a country where just about everybody spoke great English, this was one of the few times in my trip I felt the most caught out in the dark because I didn't speak the language.

They set up a long moonwalk bouncy catwalk kind of thing and the kids and adults all took turns bouncing down the stretch. I even hopped on, pulling a couple moves like the long stride, the front-flip bounce back to feet, and the almost-break-my-neck roll. At one point the announcer (because they even had their own PA system) called all the counselors out by name for an impromptu councilor silly walk-off.

When the kids finally left, it was a bit more subdued. Anna explained to me that a lot of the counselors have a kind of one day on, one day off schedule when it comes to late night partying, much to my great relief. I was already exhausted, and I'd only been doing this for a day. So it was a relatively uneventful night - except for the shower party.

Oh! And one more little gem - at some point in the night a girl wandered up to me and said, "What do you call it when you take a group of children on a walk in the night through the woods so that you can scare the crap out of them?" To which I had to reply, "I think you just say we're taking a group of kids on a night hike to scare the crap out of them." AND SO WE DID! Every year the counselors come up with incredibly elaborate schemes to terrify the kids (no joke - this year they rigged a harness so they could pull one of the guides straight up in the air twenty feet so that she'd seem to get snatched right in front of the kids) and this year was no exception. Unfortunately, somebody from the previous night must have blabbed to the kids they took out that night, because when the guide disappeared amidst hair-raising screams the kids kept on calmly walking down the path, seemingly unperturbed. Or perhaps they just breed them that ruthless and bad-ass in Germany, I don't know.

The next morning I was slightly more prepared for the ungodly hour we all got up for. Everyone had asked/demanded/cajoled me to spend another couple days or even just finish out the last week of camp, but I'd already spent more time there than I'd planned. I genuinely wish I'd spent more time at summer camp. The Germans had put everything I'd known as a kid to shame and fulfilled just about every expectation of what I thought it would be like to be a counselor. I really wanted to spend another day, especially after they added me to the roster as a special guest - it was a truly heartwarming and welcoming stop on my trip, and one I am deeply thankful that I tripped into.

Anna drove me in to town that morning and helped me every step of the way onto the train to Brussels. As we bid goodbye I told her I'd learn German for next year - we both knew it was pretty impossible. Even now though, I feel summer camp calling me back.

Germany to the Netherlands

paul_meet_world — Sat, 13 Jul 2013 06:20:00 GMT

When you're by yourself there is no real sanity check. When I first started traveling in February, I equated the open planning to jumping without a chute. Since then I'd fallen into the habit of lining my accommodations up immediately after or sometimes even before I bought the ticket. Then I found myself sitting on a platform in Hanover, having missed my connecting train, heading towards a large park I was almost certain would be closed by the time I reached it. Two buses through two small towns still separated me from the Kroller Muller museum situated in the middle of a sculpture garden in the middle of a park. That night I might very well have to sleep a la bum - the occupation I'd been writing in all the forms might finally come to pass (and I found myself regretting the all too accurate joke).

I admit I was a little bit nervous, but less than I should have been - perhaps this is the confidence I've gained from so much successful travel. Perhaps this is the pride before the fall. Either way it would make a great story.

I had decided to go to this park for a couple reasons - when a girl calling herself Hoops chided me for only going to Amsterdam while I would be in the Netherlands, I asked her where a better alternative would be. Having already discussed my interest in post modern art, she suggested this enormous sculptural garden located in the heart of one of the Dutch's two privately owned parks. So first of all for the sculpture, secondly for the change of pace.

Europe has been a rapidfire array of large cities. Riding a train from one to the next I got into a routine - train to bus to hostel, then settling in I'd look for something to eat and something to drink. Gone was the wonder that had initially accompanied my arrival into a new country - no longer did I step off the plane and reel for a minute, stare out at the new place and go "oh my god, I'm here."

I had become jaded. Newness was old hat - the cities were all starting to blur and become boring, as if that were possible. Prague was Krakow
was Budapest, insulated as I was in a different hostel with the same set of foreign backpackers - here some Americans, there some French,
and always the Australians, haha.

Camping, I was hoping, would give me a break, a minute to collect myself and remember that this was living a dream - seeing foreign and (admittedly less so than Asia) exotic locales. It's hard when you've been doing anything for five months to remember the novelty of it when you first started - why you were so excited to do it in the first place. I needed a bit of a shift to snap myself back to the wide-eyed backpacker and away from the jaded bum.

I think sleeping out in the forest's a good way to start.

Nevertheless, first I had to figure out how I was going to spend the night in Apeldoorn. The train station let out into a quiet little corner of what was a sleepy little town (though apparently also the location of the previous Queen's palace). Without any internet to track something down and without the forethought to figure it out before I'd set out that day, I wandered around trying to find a hostel or a hotel - or possibly even a park with a decent amount of cover where a guy could sleep unmolested for a night. It was only as I was turning back towards the center of town that I happened to pass a bar with a few locals.

"Are you carrying your whole life with you?"

I turned around, and she exclaimed, "Oh my god, there's one on the front too!"

Not to give you the wrong impression - most people had been surprised at how little I was carrying. But regardless, these locals were friendly and curious, and most importantly pushing beer into my hand so that I would stay and talk awhile. It was refreshing to spend time with actual locals - as I said earlier you mostly find yourself insulated with other tourists while you travel; it can be hard to break out into actual local land. They switched fluently back and forth between Dutch and English, only rarely asking me what a certain word was. They pointed me towards a youth hostel up the road and a budget hotel further out, then one of them turned to me and said "or you could just stay with us. I've got my daughter for the weekend, but I just sent her off with my friend."

Now if you've got common sense you'll know that the answer here pretty much should be "No thanks, I should be going..." But I don't seem to have that instinct... Thankfully it's always worked out for the best. Even this time. We finished up our drinks, loaded my backpack onto the back of his girlfriend's bike and I got on the back of his (again, should not have done this) and we were off.

I wasn't used to riding on the back of a bike, and we kept having to stop so I could get off and stretch. Each time we started back up, he would push off to the cry of "We can do this! Because we are Dutch!"

I spent the night in their spare bedroom (that might very well have been his daughter's, which was kind of strange, and the next morning he dropped me off at the gates of the park, nice as you please.

Now, I'm not advocating for jumping and trusting everything will work out, or following strangers in a strange town home to spend the night - honestly it was kind of a stupid thing to do on my part, but it worked out great, and it was an amazing experience. Sometimes it's hard to tell who you should trust and who you shouldn't; and honestly I trust way too easily. But I'm really glad I stopped in Apledoorn and met those people - it was definitely a highlight for this trip.

The Party Scene

paul_meet_world — Mon, 24 Jun 2013 06:05:00 GMT

On the train to Budapest I met two girls from Australia who where headed towards Pamplona for the running of the bulls. I had totally forgotten! A year ago I had started a list of festivals, events, etc I should try to see if I was in the right place at the right time. Somehow I'd only gotten three things on my list and Pamplona was one of them - but I'd totally forgotten about it. A couple weeks before a world renowned event is not nearly enough time to check for places to sleep in the city, especially if you're on a tight budget (and getting tighter).

Well, they said, first we're going to Retox. Retox? What's that? I asked naively.

It turns out there's a set of four hostels in Budapest that are joined together: Retox, Grande, Carpe Noctum and Carpe Noctum Vitae. Hearing this the faintest tickling of my memory began to trigger - two years ago I'd decided to go to Budapest after watching a random ad for a hostel some girl had made and posted on her blog. It was Carpe Noctum Vitae! Oddly enough the only one of the four with vacancies when we pulled into town the next day.

Party hostels are a weird vibe. Every night an activity brings everyone together (usually with copious amounts of booze on the line) and every night goes late. Like 3 o'clock is "heading back early". Everybody's usually hungover and sleep deprived most of the time, but friends are made quickly and no-one's ever too grumpy. People have a habit of not leaving - I met four or five people who had come for a couple days and were on their third week already.

As nice as it was to visit, the party hostel atmosphere is a raging maelstrom of hormones. Lots of guys, lots of girls, lots of booze and you can see where this is headed.

Aside from the drama (and gossip is much beloved here) I also encountered my first couple having sex in the dorms (honestly, I'm more shocked it didn't happen more sooner.

It was a surreal experience though - I was awoken early in the morning to a creaking and a rocking. From a dead sleep I rolled over, trying to figure this out. I was on the top bunk, it was gently rocking... I knew the guy sleeping on the bottom bunk, and he had been alone when I stumbled in the night before - I peeked down and saw that he was still by his lonesome, and the bed was still arockin'.

Well it wasn't him, it certainly wasn't me... Slowly I turned to look behind me. Four bald cheeks stared me right back, bouncing away, not a care in the world.

Never one to buck etiquette, I felt it would be rude to interrupt (almost as rude as what I would be interrupting...) so I laid back down and tried to put it out of my mind. From gentle rocking to angry swells, the frequency accelerated and I was beginning to get a little seasick when the storm finally subsided.

Then the kissing started.

I never got to meet the couple face to face (mystery nethers they shall remain), as I checked out later that morning. On my way out the door Alex from New Mexico was talking to one of the staffers, adding another week to his stay. Catching the train up to Krakow, I briefly wondered if the hostel one of my fellow guests had recommended would be more of the same, and if I shouldn't break out of the circuit before I got too caught up in it. Luckily, I'd booked the wrong hostel and it was deader than dead in there. Well, maybe not luckily...

Regardless, a week later in Berlin, I'd somehow managed to stumble into another late-night partygoers situation - but that wasn't the hostel's fault; that's just Berlin.

Turkey Was Nuts

paul_meet_world — Tue, 18 Jun 2013 17:18:00 GMT

Immediately upon hitting the ground I was headed out with two new friends I'd met on the plane. Two Aussies, one of whom was headed to a festival in Izmir. He even offered to let me tag along as his plus-one.

So in short order, having never even made it into the city, we booked a bus from Istanbul to Izmir. For ten hours. I had done long bus rides before. I'd ridden the bus back and forth between DC and NYC for a year every few weeks, I'd even taken not one but two night buses in Vietnam, curled up fetal in a bed/couch/seat designed for someone a foot shorter than me.

It's only when you spend 9 hours or more on a bus you really start getting cabin fever. Now don't get me wrong, this bus was fantastic. I'd never been on a bus with regular drinks service. Every couple of hours the second-in-command would come around offering tea, crackers, juice, candy bars; morsels to sake an increasingly restless clientele.

I'm convinced if we all hadn't been able to get out for an hour on the ferry we would have revolted and steered the bus into the foothills to become roaming road pirates, living off the fat of tour buses and shipping trucks.

However, we made it into town and then via taxi up and out to the foothills surrounding this city, wrapped tightly around an enormous mountain. Up and up, weaving through hairpin turns, the lights of the city always twinkling behind one shoulder or another, we made it to a small lake nestled in an elevated valley.

It was the sixth day of this seven day festival, and of the previous five days it had rained three. There were still people, dancing, eating, milling about, but the crowds were thin, the spirit somewhat crumpled.

I watched my new friend play his set, even danced a little bit. Wrapping up at 2, he hopped off stage, tried to shake the frustration of the circumstances he'd been dropped in to, and led me off to show me life among the party people.

The next morning, sore, tired and more than a little sleep deprived, we tried to take a shuttle back to the bus terminal but wound up at the airport instead. The crook of a shuttle driver wanted another $10 apiece to take us to the train station (which we'd gotten off of one shuttle and onto this one under the assurances that we'd be heading to) Rolling with the punches, we flew back in to Istanbul.

One day later, again having slept little to none the previous night, again dirty and ragged, we attempted to make it in to Istanbul once more. This time we were successful, and I spent my night in one of the most magical settings I've been in since the start of my trip. In my quest to find a cheap bed in Istanbul I'd found a hostel that rented its roof out - five beds on a balcony with a clear line of sight to the sea, the Blue Mosque, the Hagia Sofia and the palace. The heat of the streets was mitigated by the cool zephyrs further up, the city lights bleeding amber into the dark blue evening sky.

I slept well that night, and woke to a crow perched not three feet from my head, in one of the more sudden awakenings I've had in my life.

I left Istanbul that day, after briefly walking it's streets and seeing the sights. While more time in this unique city with its enormous, ancient history would have been nice, I just couldn't wait.

This was the departure - from here I slid into the European part of my trip. I couldn't have stayed put if I tried.

Stranded on the Delta

paul_meet_world — Sun, 26 May 2013 05:56:00 GMT

While in Ho Chi Minh City, I met a fellow American named Rachel (from NC) who helped nudge me over a little boundary that had been holding me back most of my time in Asia. Every time I'd landed in a new country, I'd wound up spending all my time in the first city I got to. I was really getting frustrated with this - Bangkok kinda sucks, and I'd heard only amazing things about the islands down south and Chiang Mai and Phuket are both supposed to be awesome. Rachel wanted to get out of the city, and with her pushing me along, I managed to get out too.

Together we went down to the Mekong Delta. Now, sometimes a hurdle looks enormous until you jump it, then you look back at the tiny little thing and wonder why it was such an overwhelming barrier. To get down to the Mekong Delta you have to book a tour. You can book a tour in your hostel, in your friends' hostel, in a hostel down the street, or even (if you're feeling crazy) in any of the travel agents that line the street all the way down there. The Mekong Delta comes in three flavors: 1, 2 or (yep, you guessed it) 3 days. After checking with six or seven different places, we chose to book with Rachel's hostel, as it seemed to have the best balance of cost, ammenities, and likelyhood of being there when we showed up the next morning. We also booked the 2 day option, choosing to spend one night at a 3 star hotel (instead of a 4 or 5 star, or a homestay).

The next morning we showed up bright and early at 6 AM. The tour wasn't actually leaving until 7:30, but we had to have breakfast - the Vietnamese are absolutely amazing when it comes to making sure you're fed; breakfast was always free and it wasn't just bread and cereal, they'd actually cook you omelettes or make you a sandwich. Then a group showed up to collect us and take us to the actual bus itself. One thing one learns about travel in Vietnam, it's never through just one company and it's never just one step. While you're reading, keep a count of how many handovers you see - that's pretty much the norm. In fact, let's count together - this is 1.

Boarding the bus (2), it was a pretty homogenous group of white people - which isn't that shocking, we're pretty much the biggest slice of tourism in Asia - most everybody else lives there or doesn't travel much. Even though we were leaving so early, we were still in the heart of rush hour in Ho Chi Minh City, which is a unique beast that seems to live on regardless of the time. Our tour guide did his best to keep us entertained and informed in the hour or so it took just to get out of the city, and spoke English with a pretty minor accent but had an odd habit of repeating himself in five or six word chunks. Five or six word chunks. He went on to relate the following bits of information:

The number of motorbikes in Vietnam is 3/4 the total population of Vietnam.
Part of this is because if you're a man and you want a girlfriend, you have to have a motorbike. "In America you say 'No money, no honey'. In Vietnam we say 'No motorbike... no honey.'" (Rachel and I spent a good portion of the trip trying to come up with something that would actually rhyme - my best attempt was "No motorbike, no girl-you-like".
If a man has a small motorbike, then he has a small girlfriend.
If a man has a big motorbike, then he has a BIG girlfriend.

There was also some information about bathroom habits in the countryside - "You see gentleman standing on side of road, he is peeing. You no see ladies on the side of the road, they go behind the bushes for peeing." Needless to say, I found him way more entertaining than I should have.

When we got down to the river itself we transferred from the bus to a boat (3) and set out to see the floating market - "Biggest floating market in the world. Bigger than the fake one in Thailand - no tourist junk here, only fruit and vegetables. Real market!" It was a little late in the day for the market, as business tends to be fast and furious around 5:30 in the morning and trail off as the day wears on and stock dwindles. From there we saw rice paper, coconut candy and popped rice get made the authentic, ridiculously hot way. Then we took a ride through some of the little streams that branch off the river in traditional canoes (4) they row by standing up and crossing their arms while making little figure eight patterns with the oars - you kind of just have to see it. I think this was my favorite activity of the day - cruising silently down these little streams past dilapidated huts and the occasional tomb (the Vietnamese used to bury their ancesters wherever - in the middle of a rice field for instance, with a simple concrete crypt, because they believed it established the land as theirs; after all, their dead were buried here), the gentle rock and sway of the boat...

All too soon, and luckily as it started to rain, we were back on the main boat and away toward the bus we'd come in on. The rain came on fast and hard, and Rachel and I couldn't resist a good five minutes of Forest Gump quotes ("And one day, it started to rain..." "Sometimes it even seemed like it was raining up..."). The bus started to head back towards the city, and at one point the tour guide asked how many people were doing the 2 day tour - three hands went up. 3 day tour? No hands went up. Well, of the three, Rachel and I made up two, and the third was a girl from Australia named Vineeta. It being Vietnam, and me being the only guy, the tour guide assumed I was going to be leading our little intrepid band (to be fair, I was also the oldest by a good 6 years).

He drifted down the aisle, squatted down by me and handed me a piece of paper. "The other bus is running about an hour late, so we're going to drop you off. If it doesn't show up in two hours, give me a call - that's my cell phone." I told him I didn't have a cell phone, and Rachel and Vineeta swiftly chimed in that they didn't either. "Well, borrow somebody's."

With that settled, they deposited us in this great big three-walled cafe, where all of the signs were only in Vietnamese. Now this might not sound like a big deal, but up until this point every sign we'd seen had been in English FIRST, then in Vietnamese if it was in another language at all. Furthermore nobody working there/hanging out at one of the tables spoke English either - and there weren't that many people to check. So, with no other recourse, we waited. And waited... One hour, an hour and a half, then an hour and fifty minutes, and right when we were starting to get really nervous, a bus pulls up and the tour guide frustratedly waves at us to get on.

So we board the bus (5) and the first thing we notice is that the tour guide is Chinese/Vietnamese, and everybody else on the bus (except one dude who didn't say one word for the remainder of the trip but was definitely American) is Chinese. The second thing is despite there being three of us, there's one seat. The tour guide exasperatedly told us to take our seats. When we pointed out the obvious inconsistency (after first sending V to the only obvious seat) he flips out and down these two little hotseats - flimsy contraptions that take up the last remaining space between the sliding door and the real seats in the van. He then goes up and sits on the hump behind the gearbox next to the driver.

We drive and drive and drive and eventually come upon this enormous bridge - just ridiculously oversized. It had been four-lane highway so far, and in an interesting dearth of highway construction skill every quarter mile or so where the pieces of road were joined up there was usually a gap of several inches in height between one section and the next - our driver took to swerving crazily across the lanes as each gap approached in an attempt to lessen the impact. So the bus pulls over to the shoulder in front of this huge bridge and our new (and much less patient) tour guide tells us the following things:

There are a lot of bugs out here.
Dont get bit, as we don't have time to take you to a pharmacy tomorrow morning.
Be at the bus station by 8 tomorrow morning, or you have to get a new bus.

As we begin to pepper him with questions about what the hell is going on and where the bus station is and where we're supposed to go next, he jumps back on the bus and pulls away as an old toothless man wanders up next to us. This new guy doesn't speak one word of English, but waves for us to follow him across the freeway - not really having any other options, we follow.

Traffic in Vietnam is nuts, and crossing four lanes of busy rural highway with a big backpack on your back is not recommended. I'm just saying.

Once we make it across the deathrace, we find a woman in a pink jumpsuit sitting on a motorbike, plus another motorbike the old man is beginning to climb on to. Doing the math, we're still short a seat - until a third bike pulls up, driven by a young man. The girls are a little bewildered and digging their heels in - they want to know where we're going, what is going on. Myself, I figure "hell, it's not like we've got any better plans" and jump on the back of the new bike (6), which immediately jets off through this big archway straight out of a Tomorrowland park entrance. In big characters across the top it says something in Veitnamese, then underneath Industrial Residence Park. We zip past row after row of abandoned apartment complex ruins, like some strange sci-fi set of the near future after a worldwide disaster. Rachel and V have disappeared far behind me at this point.

After a while the ruins give way to jungle, and the occasional hut. Then we take a turn onto a little concrete sidewalk that runs parallel to a stream. As we whip past the occasional local on foot, they all raise a hand and cheerfully exclaim "Hello!" Without enough time to respond, I pass by in silence, feeling accidentally antisocial. We eventually pull up to a little compound (7), and I dismount the bike, gesturing towards the walls - "Is this it?" I get a nod before the biker pulls out and away.

Entering the building, I find three little boys playing a videogame on a laptop, while a couple adults sit further back in the garden. The adults all pointedly ignore me, but one of the three boys looks up - "Hello! What's your name?"

"Paul. What's yours?"
"How old are you?"

"27, what's your name?"

I sat down, made polite small talk with them, and eventually got their names and ages - supposedly the 8 year old was 16, which I immediately filed in the "don't trust this kid" category. The girls showed up 30 minutes later, met the kids, and we all proceeded to make small talk until one of the boys asked if we were hungry; "Do you want a little bit of food, or a lot?"

We got the spread - rice paper, rice, vegetables, tofu, beef and even a fish caught straight out of the river (which maybe should have given us pause - Rachel and I had just gone to a museum two days prior that made a point of how much Agent Orange had been dumped in the Mekong during the war). It was delicious, and afterwards some locals showed up and had some drinks with us - which the little kids would run off to fetch whenever it was requested.

We bunked down that night, safely screened off in bug nets on beds provided (though by then it was too late, I already had ten or twelve bites on each extremity). It was ridiculously hot and humid that night, and the one fan only pointed at V's bed. However, the tiny lizards were entertaining to watch as they scurried up and down the walls, edging close when they thought we weren't watching.

The next morning we were awoken bright and early at 6, and fed a traditional breakfast of egg and french bread before the old man set off with us in tow to the boat. "Boat? No, we take bus." "No, boat!" Replied the speaker of the group of three boys.

*Shrug* Well, we didn't seem to have any other options. So with the old man in front, then me, then Rachel, then V and the three boys, we set off through the village. You could tell this was making his day - we passed by houses, in front of a local gathering spot, even through someone's garden at one point, as he took the opportunity to show off his foreigners. Again, everyone greeted us with a wholehearted "Hello!" which we now had enough time to respond to.

The procession eventually led up to a small traditional boat (with eyes on the front and everything) and we boarded, found our seats, and rapidly pulled away from the harbor (8). The old man stood and smiled, the boys waving excitedly as we motored out of sight. The early morning sun warming our faces, the breeze off the water ruffling our clothes, we sat back and enjoyed a quiet, unexpectedly comfortable ride down the river, even passing under the enormous bridge we'd seen the night before. Eventually the boat pulled up to the dock, and as we exited the craft the driver tugged my shirt and held out a note:

Tourist wait here. Other tourist come soon. Fifteen minute maybe.

And that was it. Well, it was a small town, and there was a little pavilion just off to the right, so why not? So we gathered up in the shade of the pantheon and waited. And waited. And waited. After about 30 minutes, the group of tourists we'd boarded the bus with the day before all start to trickle past, and the tour guide shouts "Hurry! We are late! Get on!"

Unfortunately, V had wandered off to try and find some coffee, leaving her bag behind. Rachel thought for a second and then dropped her bag too - "Hold on, I'll get her." Now I have three bags and no girls - I can't take the bags and potentially leave them stranded. Nor can I leave the bags to get stolen. Meanwhile the tour guide is yelling at me to hurry and get on - I do my best to pick a spot midway between the packs and the dock, staying in sight of the tour guide should he decide to ditch me and pull away, while doing my best to reassure him that the girls will be back in just one minute. "One minute, one more!"

The girls finally come walking up, while I gesture furiously at them to run, and we all board the boat (9) and it pulls away.

The rest of the day was very similar to the previous day - if not for the homestay, the second day would have been a complete waste of time. At the end of the day we're back on the bus that ditched us by the bridge, heading back to Ho Chi Minh City.

I'm exhausted, sunburned, bug-bitten, and Rachel is fast asleep, cutting off bloodflow to my shoulder, but I couldn't be happier. I finally got out of the city and saw some "real" Vietnam. It had been a wild, sketchy, at points frightening trip, but I'd learned the backpacker matra:

"Don't worry so much, these things tend to work out."

An American in Ho Chi Minh City

paul_meet_world — Tue, 21 May 2013 21:59:00 GMT

Landing in the airport of a foreign country for the first time is always a moment of disorientation. I'd been through Bali, Singapore, Thailand, but it seemed like Vietnam was something completely apart - a new kind of foreign-ness. Coming in to Ho Chi Minh City we passed lazily over the Mekong, drifting into a sleepy little airport, and then it was through the somewhat repulsing force of Vietnam's immigration service. Immigration officers with guns spaced out at the end of a long open hall, seeming to say "come here if you want, but we're not too happy about it." But maybe that was just me.

$65 poorer and a really nice visa sticker later, I stood in front of an ATM and tried to reason out the value of dong. Most ATMs have suggested amounts, which is a good way to gauge the value of the local currency - like an American ATM would show you predetermined amounts of $20, $50, $100, etc. All of Vietnam's banks (and all the banks in Vietnam are Vietnamese) don't do this - they just give you a big blank to fill out: you tell us how much dong you need. So I took a stab at it: 2000 dong, that sounds like rather a lot - surely with that I can at least get into the city and get some food... After seeing some of the taxi/hotel hawker prices I went back for another 200,000.

I'd been warned about the taxis so I battened down the hatches and surged through the ranks - a shake of the head here, an emphatic no there, twisting around a driver trying to block my path then an intricate dance of the hands as I kept the paper with the address out of the snatching grasp of another tout. They became more desperate as I made my way down, but I finally grabbed one of the safe ones. Cruising in to Ho Chi Minh is a trip (ba-dum ch, tip your waiters!) - the cars press together down streets with no apparent traffic laws but it's the motorbikes that press the insanity of the road down on you. Later a tour guide would tell me that there were 3 motorbikes to every 4 citizens of Vietnam. That almost seemed like a low estimate. During rush hour you can stand on a street corner and watch an endless parade of motorcycles blow past you. They fill up both sides of the street, most of the intersection and even come up on to the sidewalk much more than they should.

The taxi dropped me off outside of a bunch of travel agencies and it almost felt like a setup - I'd get out, lost, and they'd try to sell me a room in a hotel somewhere else entirely. "It's right there," he said exasperatedly, pointing. It really wasn't - no sign, no hostel, nothing remotely resembling Saigon Youth Hostel. "Right there," with a stab of the finger. "What, that alleyway?" I said with a tilt of the head. He grunted, setting my bag on the ground. "Yes." And then he was off into the night.

So I wandered down into the narrow alleyway, past men on motorbikes, whole familes eating on the pavement, nail salons trying to press flyers into my hands and half a dozen other hostels. One man resting on a motorbike took pity on me, "Where are you trying to go?" I showed him the address and he smiled, rocked a baby gently and said in flawless English, "No worries bro, you're almost there."

Behind him on the wall there was some simple stenciled graffiti:

Bangkok Blues

paul_meet_world — Tue, 14 May 2013 21:46:00 GMT

Before getting on the plane to Thailand I begged every crew member not to let me on. Sniffling and coughing, trying to force my way through the language barrier, I'd explain just how bad an idea it was to trap 80 or so other people in an enclosed airspace with me. Sadly it was
not to be - so I sickly drifted from Singapore to Thailand. Taking the train out from the airport there were no seats, so I stood in the middle of the train coughing, wheezing and swaying limply with the rocking of the train, no doubt causing several passengers to wish they'd brought their face masks that day.

Upon arriving at my hostel the woman working the front desk took one look at me and said, "You need a doctor." I waved her off, saying I was fine. "You need to see a doctor," she insisted. Again, I told her no - "fine, but if you change your mind I'll take you to one."
An hour or two later, lying in bed with chills, a fever and vertigo, I decided I might indeed need a doctor. Dragging myself back downstairs,
I spoke to a different woman behind the front desk, "Doctor tomorrow; not tonight, tomorrow morning 7 o'clock."

So I staggered back upstairs, each step forcing me to realize my legs had been remade from some slurry of concrete, lead and wet noodle.
Upstairs I layer up with every article of clothing I have and a second blanket. Laying down, I tried to put the spinning and melting
sensations out of my head, and eventually passed out. A few hours later the lights click on and the first woman is standing over me as
awareness gradually trickles in. She's saying something, but it takes a couple tries before the words filter through: "Do you need doctor
now?"

No, no, I murmur, weakly pawing at the air, I'll last til tomorrow morning. Though not at all sure of the truth of the words, I want to
end this confrontation as quickly as possible, feeling six sets of bleary eyes arrowing down on me from the other bunks in the room.
The next morning I wake up feeling somehow worse, but 100% ready to let a foreign doctor take a crack at treating me. I go downstairs to
find a man behind the counter. Repeating the instructions I had received, I told him I wanted to see a doctor and that the ladies had
promised to accompany me. He rejoins that they are both off shift and have gone home, and that he can't leave the front desk - but the
hospital is down the street, on the other side of the main road.

This is my first true interaction with crazy Asian traffic. Bali's pretty wild, but the streets you have to cross are never that wide.
Vietnam is just about as intense, but you're more assured that the motorists will break around you like a water 'round a boulder in a
stream. Weaving slightly, at once ten times my normal weight and weightless, I waft gently across a busy two lanes of stop and go traffic. Pausing at the median, I take a minute to gather myself before plunging through the next two - unlike the previous lanes there's no stop. Cars are humming past at 60 MPH. There's a brief break and I throw myself across the street, turning to see a car barrel down upon me as I cross the last five feet, life flashing before my eyes, memorial services beginning to write themselves and then I'm off on to the safety of the
sidewalk.

The actual doctor's visit was pretty uneventful. They laughed at my insurance, asked me repeatedly if I was allergic to anything and just
how bad my reaction was ("but what happens when you take sulfa?" "I don't know, were you going to give it to me?" "No, no... but do you get a rash), and made me take out cash from an ATM that charged me $5 for the transaction (later I would find this to be standard in Bangkok).
Five days later, having finished my course of antibiotics, I was well and truly sick of Bangkok. Admittedly somewhat unfairly, I had written
it off as a crappy place where people go to feel miserable. On probably the lowest note of the trip I was ready to get the hell out
of the country.

Though I had, I never gave Thailand a chance to recover.

Singapore: My First City State

paul_meet_world — Mon, 6 May 2013 21:23:00 GMT

I arrived in Singapore late at night. Catching one of the last trains from the airport, I was pleasently surprised to find it clean, comfortable, cheap and easy to navigate. Unfortunately upon exiting the train station, I found myself significantly more lost.

Approaching some old men in front of a 7-11 to ask for directions, I found myself overwhelmed by their helpfulness. One of them took me down the road in his van, pulled over and, unfamiliar with the area, proceeded to walk with me down the street until we found the hostel I was staying at.

The first thing that struck me about the hostel was that reception met me at the door and requested that I remove my shoes before entering. I'm not oblivious to Asian culture, and even in Bali I would remove my shoes before entering a home, but a hostel struck me as more businesslike and therefore removed from the practice. It was close to midnight, so in whispers I was lead to a pitch-black bunk room and allowed to sleep for the night.

The next morning I woke and tried to extend my stay, but they were fully booked. This wound up being the best thing that happened to me in Singapore. I used their wifi to book another hostel, Gap Year, right off the Boon Keng stop. Run by Donald and his wife, a charming couple with a serious foodie fixation, I found the accomidation to be convenient, clean, friendly (free alcoholic drink at 9 every night), and most importantly air conditioned! It's the little things on the road that really make a difference, and let me tell you, air con in Asia is massive.

I spent my second day in Singapore checking out Little India, Chinatown, the Buddha Tooth temple, and the area surrounding the Sands, an unbelievably massive set of buildings on the water that absolutely towers over the surrounding architecture.

The next day I wound up repeating my steps, seeing things I'd missed the first time through.

There are three important things to note about Singapore: as a tiny city-state with virtually no physical resources, they rely upon the intelligence and business-savvy of their population. The upshot of which is they love to shop. They also love religion - there are shrines and temples and mosques and churches everywhere, and you'll find the people deeply devout. The third, and in my mind most important thing, is that they love food. Hawker stalls sprinkle the city, offering a bewildering array of Chinese, Indian, Malaysian, Thai, and half a dozen other ethnic cuisines at staggeringly low prices. I have not set foot into an actual restaurant in Singapore because why would I need to? The food here is superb, and if you know where to hunt out the true gems amongst the stalls, you won't be disappointed.

I've been traveling on my stomach since I arrived, eating my way through one highly recommended dish after the next. Yesterday I had chicken rice (which is exactly what it sounds like) once sampled (and recommended) by Anthony Bourdain - for $2. It's getting to be time to moving on to Malaysia, but with this nasty cough I caught and all this good food around, I've been putting it off.

Maybe Wednesday I'll head out...

Bali Magic

paul_meet_world — Fri, 3 May 2013 20:49:00 GMT

Bali's kind of a magical place, I thought to myself as I hurtled at frightening speed down the motorway one night. This thought threatened to be edged out by the realization of how precarious my continued good health was. Flip-flops, shorts and a tank top would do almost nothing to insulate me against the pavement should one of the cars or motorbikes hurtling past at similarly frightening speeds knock or jostle us into a crash. Mayte, as if sensing my thoughts, gunned it a little, putting on speed as we turned onto a straightaway.

Mayte was the key here. Introduced to me through Doug, she was an LA local who had gone to school in Boston before heading out to Bali on an unexpected scholarship. Like me she had kind of fallen onto the island - when offered a sweet deal, she said yes, only to find it was less sweet after she arrived. That hadn't stopped her from falling in love with the island though - after longer than she should have she quit out of her internship and found real work on the island, going on three years now. Courageous and friendly, she wants the best for her friends and will go out of her way to get it for them. It's because of this girl I was able to get down into something a little closer to the real culture of Bali. When Doug and I met up with her my second night in Bali she immediately sat me down at the night market and ordered us some satay.

We hung out with her friends, Indonesian locals who welcomed me into the fold without a second thought. Everybody played a musical instrument, and Mayte explained to me that this is because for the youth of Bali there isn't much around to entertain and fill up time, despite the idylic settings. A musical instrument is relatively cheap, and practicing is free - they find themselves grouping up, forming bands and playing shows before too long, singing covers and local songs to locals and tourists alike. One of the first guys she introduced me to had just gotten himself a new rockabilly hammer, a sweet slick looking guitar straight out of an Alley Cats performance or something similar. Sadly I never did get to hear him play, but I heard him sing and it was pretty magical. It always amazes me how guys who struggle to speak English can sing like the classics.

However, we hadn't met up that night to sing (which was good, as it spared them of having to hear me try). The band split up for the evening, jetting away on four different scooters, while Mayte and two of the guys took me out to a little residential area. I had come out that night to learn how to ride! Well, at least how to ride a motorcycle (or scooter). Lessons were held on a relatively empty dusty road under the full moon, zipping up and down the stretch of road. My first twist of the throttle and the bike threatened to scoot out from under me, but soon I was opening it up more and more, the night air and dusty concrete wiping past me at speed. The end of the road would rear up, broken concrete fading into a field, and I'd awkwardly pivot about before heading back down the stretch again. My first time down and back I almost planted the scooter into some concrete pipes at the side of the road as I turned it around and goosed the throttle too much, but two more cycles after that I was feeling pretty confident. Not anywhere near confident to actually take the scooter out into traffic, but we call that survival instinct where I'm from.

Later in the week Mayte also took me to a traditional compound in Ubud where her friend lives - a great walled structure with a small shrine/temple inside, surrounded by families in houses. Here I learned that these complexes are handed down through families - when a family is granted land, they build one of these complexes, and the whole family lives in houses contained within. As a son marries, his new family is brought into the complex, gradually filling it up over time. When the complex begins to get crowded, the oldest son retains possession while the younger sons are pushed out to make their own ways in the world. Similarly women find themselves in somewhat of a tenuous position. Mayte told me of a young woman who came from a wealthy family. Her groom came from a poor one, and her family worried she would not be well looked after. To settle the matter, they bought land and put it in her name - though his entire family moves in with him and his new bride, she retains possession of the property, barring them from seizing it and ousting her should the worst happen.

Mayte showed me a lot those couple weeks I was in Bali, usually on the back of her scooter. Whipping through the streets of Bali, weaving in and out of cars, trucks and a hundred other scooters and motorcycles, I felt like I was flying. The wind roared in my face, the unforgiving concrete shot past my incredibly inadvisable flip-flops, and the island seemed to spread out before me, daring me to experience it all.

We hung out late at night in swimming pools, drank arak, lazed about on beaches, nearly drowned after heading out too far in a rip tide, belted out punk rock and love anthems in a marathon four hour kareoke session, ate the best of just about everything Bali had to offer and still found time to stargaze now and then.

John and Camille opened the island to me, Doug and Cat and El romped around on it with me, and Mayte helped me feel a little bit of a connection to the magic of this place.

Oh yeah, and she stood by AND DID NOTHING while a monkey sat on my head.

Photos: Bali

paul_meet_world — Fri, 3 May 2013 03:14:00 GMT

The Bali leg of my RTW '13 trip

Climbing Mt Batur

paul_meet_world — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 20:23:00 GMT

It's been a busy few days in Bali.

After getting back from Amed Cat and El settled down into some serious planning for El's remaining time in Bali.

We spent a day going to Pura Tirta Empul, a water temple dating back to 926 AD. Located in Ubud, its waters are considered to have healing properties. The temple was a bit of a drive, but once we got there we were greeted by some stunning scenery. Set into the forest, the temple is built of ancient stone, peppered with huge holy trees. Gates riddle the compound, ornate and protective, repelling evil spirits from the holy site. Admission was $15, which is somewhat steep for anything in Bali, but it was worth it.

When we approached the pools the water from the spring collects in, we were offered a chance to bath in it. Like many holy sites in Bali, one is not permitted to enter without wearing a sarung. Fortunately a local was kind enough to lend me one and even tie it on.

The water was cold, refreshing, pure. After wetting myself down I felt a sense of spirituality I rarely encounter as a dyed-in-the-wool athiest. It was a special place. Later I snuck in and got a glimpse of the actual spring itself - at the bottom of a great pool the mud boils, roiling in dreamlike clouds as the water exits out of the earth.

A few days later Cat, El, Doug, John and I all attempt to climb Mt Batur. The drive in to the mountain is unusual - the mountain is an active volcano and thousands of years ago the mountain blew, leaving an enormous caldera surrounding the current mountain. It's so big there's a lake, several tiny villages, a large town, some meadows, farmland and even the remains of a lava flow stretched out below the mountain. To drive in you must first climb up, then descend the enormous ridge surrounding the volcano.

To actually climb the mountain itself, you must hire a guide. The hike up is fairly easy, and straightforward. It's a difficult climb, but only because of the sheer steep incline, not because of any technical skill or hazards. There is a group at the bottom the locals refer to as the Batur mafia - nothing goes up the mountain without going through them. Doug had actually managed to successfully sneak in and climb up by himself previously, but this time he was stuck with the rest of us. Initially attempting to charge us a ludicrous $30 dollars a person to "guide" us up the mountain, John managed to talk them down to $20.

Halfway up the mountain we had gone through half our water. The guide himself hadn't thought to bring any and had consumed half a bottle of our supply himself. El was forced to turn back, which was a good call as it only got steeper and more difficult from there.

At last we ascended to the top of the volcano. We were able to see for miles (or kilometers if you prefer) in every direction, and to wander up and sniff the steam vents that peppered the upper slope. It was a tremendous sense of accomplishment, but only half the battle - now we had to get down. First we paused for pictures. We had arrived at the same time as a pair of Canadians, and after John snapped a picture of me with the Canadians (who I had never met, but jovially leaned into the frame as John was taking the picture) our guide suggested that the Canadians might like a picture as well. We all assumed he meant a picture of themselves to remember the occasion, but as they pulled out their cameras he slung an arm around me and leaned in with a cheesy grin. After a moment of nonplussed expressions all around, we went with it - somewhere out there in this big wide world there's two Canadians whose names I don't know with a picture of a Balinese and an American guy they don't know either. Maybe someday the magic of Facebook will bring us together.

To cut a long story short we made it down without incident, but we were definitely feeling the hike in our bones and muscles the next couple days. It had been a great experience, a little bit of a trial, and a remarkable memory to make.

Takin' it easy in Amed

paul_meet_world — Sun, 21 Apr 2013 02:29:00 GMT

We spent the weekend in Amed, a sleepy little fishing village and vacation spot, for Camille's birthday. During the day we went snorkeling around a sunken Japanese wreck that had been turned into a reef.

I've never snorkeled before, it was pretty incredible to float among schools of neon fish, staring down at undulating fronds and multicolored coral. After some initial trepidation I even learned to dive down to the wreck for a closer look. At dinner we ate local food while a local band played an acoustic mix of American and Indonesian tunes. We were alone except for a group of four young women from France, Colorado and Romania. Later in the night we danced and tried to remember all the words to Oasis and Green Day songs.

The next morning we got up before dawn and rode jukung, narrow boats with an inverted sail and port and starboard pontoons, out into the ocean with the local fishermen. They have multiple means of locomotion, including sail, paddle and a small outboard motor; however our engine's ripcord tore out on the third pull. As we rowed out to sea luminescent plankton followed each stroke of the paddle like brief green sparks. The stars were on full display as it was a clear morning and none of the boats have lights. As the sun rose from behind the island opposite of us its mountain peaks faded from view, giving us the illusion the whole island was disappearing in front of our eyes, leaving behind open waters. We didn't catch any fish, but the view as a fellow boat tugged us back into harbor was spectacular - green mountains rising up as though they were great pinched riffles in the dough of the land, each a different shade as they retreated back into the heart of the island.

Bali's not that bad

paul_meet_world — Sat, 20 Apr 2013 17:21:00 GMT

The flight from Darwin to Bali was short, but the transition was the greatest so far. I was finally going to leave 'white' culture and start seeing something... not necessarily radically different, but different nonetheless. I had heard lots of bad stories about Indonesia that had me on guard as I got off the plane.

Cat's family had moved to Bali the year before, and as kind, warm, inviting people they had offered to host me and were thankfully there to pick me up at the airport. In short order they picked me up and whisked me out to their guesthouse. Bali was definitely a different place and a different culture.

I had already been warned about the traffic, but found it less insane than I had been led to believe. There are no real lanes or rules, but it works - as a giant sprawling organism it moves forward in spurts and gasps, wild sprints as motorcycles push through gaps left by larger vehicles. The structure I think of as a wat was in full evidence here; tall narrow tiers in front of temples, gates, houses. Narrow streets, shrines, everything flew past me in a blur.

It took me a day or two to shake off the culture shock; the first day I walked down to the Circle K (they're here too) still on my guard, still being overly careful. In the following days I've found the people to be warm and caring, if a little focused on the money, and the weather and environment to be hot and tropical. Bali is definitely a vacation hotspot, a welcome break from the hurley-burley of traveling.

Photos: Australia

paul_meet_world — Wed, 17 Apr 2013 03:06:00 GMT

The Australia leg of my RTW '13 trip

Crocs and Northern Territory Girls

paul_meet_world — Mon, 15 Apr 2013 09:00:00 GMT

Australia has just flown past - 3 weeks in 3 cities and it's already over.

I spent the last week in Darwin with Allison and Mark, an amazing couple I met while traveling in South America. The Australians and the English and everybody else from the empire have a phrase: "you're a legend, mate!" These two are legends. Running dangerously close to travel burnout, these two took me in, gave me a place to sleep (with delicious, delicious air conditioning), fed me, and showed me around town all week, asking nothing in return. They are truly marvelous people.

Well, I saw some kangaroos, koalas and crocodiles, but Australia's coming to a close for me and I don't feel like I've spent nearly enough time here. I've only just started to get a feel for the country and culture. But I guess it's a good thing - leave them wanting more. I'm headed to Bali now, which will begin the shift away from English-speaking home-away-from-home and into strange new lands. This is a whole new level of traveling. I'm looking forward to it, with not a little nervous apprehension on the side.

Melbourne seems like Portland to me

paul_meet_world — Mon, 1 Apr 2013 02:07:00 GMT

I'm in Melbourne when it hits. Burnout.

I've been traveling for 36 days, I've managed to burn through 5k, and in a desperate attempt to curb that dinner tonight is eggs, rice, salt and pepper.

Melbourne's a different city than Sydney. It feels smaller, more arty, and more like Portland; this is fantastic. The hostel I'm staying at is a lot different than the one in Sydney too. There are just as many people, but it's less social. In Sydney the Irish, English, Swedish, Canadians, we all hung out together. Here the French stay with the French, the Italians keep to themselves, and so on. It's just a different aspect of travel.

When Cat and Ariel come in to town Thursday I expect I'll feel a lot better. Until then I'm killing time and hoarding my dollars. I've signed up for a few tours too - tonight there's comedy, tomorrow a graffiti walk (those of you who follow my Instagram [@drewablank] expect to be inundated). I didn't get any sleep in Sydney, every night seemed to go til 2 or 3, so in going to take some time to recharge my batteries out here. I went to a fantastic museum today, the Victorian National Gallery.

The architecture was on par with the works displayed, which seems to be the theme of the city. The buildings really stand out here, they seem very avant garde compared to any other city I've been. Until next time, I'll be taking it slow and easy in Melbourne.

Feeling Manly in Sydney

paul_meet_world — Thu, 28 Mar 2013 01:51:00 GMT

Feeling very manly here...

Sydney has been a rush. When I first came in I didn't think I was going to enjoy it too much - I'd been mainlining nature and now all of a sudden I'd have to switch gears to city life. It just seemed so abrupt. The shuttle from the airport to my hostel went from bad (waiting two and a half hours for it to show) to worse (dropping me off six blocks from the hostel with bad directions). The hostel itself made me need to leave and get a drink. The rat guarding the gate seemed like the final straw.

Maybe it's cliche, but the bars in Australia was where things started to turn around.

There was a craft brew pub right next to the hostel, so I immediately got to try some local beer. My first night I met an anthropologist and a counselor who bought me drinks and told me stories of life in Oz. The second night I'd only stopped off for one drink before taking a nap but I got waylaid by Gerry and Jay, an owner and creative talent for Heckler, a successful ad agency in Australia. They told me about some of the sights to see and took me back to the company to show me some of the work they did. I've always been fascinated by the work Weiden+Kennedy do, but these guys were all that creativity and a glimpse into where it comes from.

The next day I set out and saw the sights - the Opera House, the Bridge, the Botanical Gardens... And this weird little gem down an alley:

The third night I took Gerry's suggestion and took the ferry to Manly. When I got there it was bucketing down, but I chanced on to a local concert going down at the massive bar (well, set of bars all housed in one building). It wouldn't normally be my thing, but the energy of the crowd got me all wrapped up in some boot-stomping Aussie country, so much so that I missed the last ferry back. Two of the local boys adopted me, gave me a couch to crash on and some late night munchies. The next morning I rode the bus out to a graffiti spot one of them had told me about. Sadly it had been erased, but his heart was in the right place. From there I headed over to the world famous Bondi Beach.

More than the bustle of a massive metropolis, it's the people of Sydney that make me glad I visited here.

Closing thoughts on New Zealand

paul_meet_world — Tue, 26 Mar 2013 00:39:00 GMT

My time in New Zealand has come to a close. It's been a rush - I've covered just about every bit of coast on the South Island, shot through the north, and seen so much scenic, incredible, varied pieces of nature that I've become rather jaded. I've seen seals and penguins, had fantails attack me, climbed mountains and even helped brew a local craft beer or two.

There's still so much I haven't done - I didn't make it to the mud pools, the hot beaches; I still have not seen a kiwi or even a tui! I've only seen one of the (at least) three species of penguin that appear in New Zealand. I've seen the smallest bit of Maori culture. There's still skydiving and bungee jumping, cliff diving and cave tubing.

Of course no one can do it all. People stay here for months, live here even, and they still can't get it all in. Maybe that's an important note for travel - you're not crossing countries off your list, ticking off places like they're done and dusted. Travel should be a taste on the tongue, a scent, a view caught for a second before the trees pass in front of you or the weather changes. It's an ephemeral brush of something familiar but alien.

Maybe that's just the wanderlust talking. As they say, sometimes you meet twice. I'm pretty sure for New Zealand and me that's a given.

Working hard when there's beer involved

paul_meet_world — Sun, 24 Mar 2013 00:36:00 GMT

It's been awhile, dear readers.

For the past week and change Gabe and I have been WWOOFing at a brewery outside of New Plymouth called Mike's Organic Brewery (or mike's, according to the bottles).

It's been a completely different experience than the previous WWOOFing host we had. Though we were asked to work more hours and the work was often more difficult, it was a lot easier to throw ourselves into the work. For most of the week we worked 8 hour days labeling bottles, packing them up, cleaning kegs and tanks, helping out at the store, setting up and taking down for events and even a little light painting. In return we got a small cabin to stay at, which we shared with a German named Ferdinand, two square meals and a nightly allotment of the beer we'd been working with.

Along with Ferdinand we worked with Sam, from Washington, and two Bavarian girls that unfortunately didn't find the experience as rewarding as we did.

The work that brought us closest to the brewing was the most rewarding - seeing the process from start to finish was the biggest reward for the long hours and hard work. The first WWOOFing experience left a bad taste in my mouth when we were done with it, this one washed it clean. Though I hadn't been considering it, I know find myself wondering if maybe I should look in to trying to WWOOF in another country as I travel.

Photos: New Zealand

paul_meet_world — Mon, 18 Mar 2013 23:56:00 GMT

The New Zealand leg of my RTW '13 trip