Where's Miles

Bagan

2011-12-18T10:54:00.000-08:00

Along the way, while traveling here in Myanmar, I have bounced my question off a number of travelers and expats. "How come the people of this country seem so well adjusted considering their economic and political conditions?" Although unemployment and poverty rates are very high, crime rates are ultra low. Why?

The most popular answer has been Buddhism.

Buddhism was introduced to this region sometime around the 11th century. A series of kings made Theravada Buddhism a kind of state religion and put the country's resources to work along the Irrawaddy River in west central Myanmar, building what was to become Bagan, a grand center of Buddhist studies over the next two centuries.

Bagan, now a protected archaeological site about the size of Manhattan, contains over two thousand monument temples built during this period. Almost every temple is made of bricks and concrete and, after a thousand years, are still standing tall and strong. Some are the size of a one car garage - others the size of a basketball arena. Each is an operating temple open to the public to worship or explore. Many have stairs to the rooftops to check out the breathtaking views of the incredible landscape. Temple spires sprout from the plain off into the horizon like a vast sculpture garden.

It's a large area to explore. The two most popular ways to do it are by bicycle or horse drawn cart. They both have their advantages.

The first day, I shared a horse cart with Nadine, a Swiss traveler I met on the bus ride from Inle Lake. So for K6,000 we got our own personal driver for the day.

Though charming, soon after giddy up, we realized how slow this thing was going to be. An older guy on a bicycle passed us on the road with ease.

Oh well. At least we have shade.

The Bagan plain is a mostly flat area with mild weather, low lying brush, and a big blue sky. A zig zag of dirt trails connects all of the temples, the Burmese call payas.

As we rolled up to the first one, we were greeted by a friendly local man who showed us all around the temple and gave us some history.

I thought to myself. Well this is a really nice tour, and I know we paid a small fee for entrance to this place. But, there are about two thousand of these temples, and a private tour of each one just can't be provided for nothing. I wonder if he is going to ask for money. Will this happen at every paya?

Sure enough, on our way out, he asked us to look at some paintings his family did, many in the style of the ancient paintings found in the temples. They were actually pretty nice.

I remembered the lesson I learned at Inle Lake with the cigars. If I like them, I should buy them now. Otherwise I may lose the opportunity.

I negotiated what seemed like a fair price for a couple of paintings and then jumped in the horse cart to head to the next stop.

I said to Nadine, "You know, at the next stop I bet they'll have these same paintings."

Sure enough, the next stop had a bunch of people selling local art. And guess what, I saw the same paintings. Tons of them. Priced about 20% of what I had just paid.

So much for lessons learned.

As it turns out, Bagan is chock full of artists. Locals have realized there is money in selling swag to tourists. Many of them are quite talented. But it is possible to have too much of a good thing. Way too much.

It is difficult to get a moment of peace at some of the stops. Some vendors will follow you around the temples and are extraordinarily persistent.

I did buy a fair number of art pieces, but I had to disappoint scores of people who seemed desperate for a sale.

The next day, I rented a bicycle and, even though I had to battle sand drifts and direct sun, I got to see a much quieter side of Bagan. Lonely dirt paths branched off in every direction each one leading to another temple. Some are maintained by families that live on the grounds, but many are completely deserted. It was refreshing after the first day to be completely alone in such a special place.

I don't think I have ever seen so much ancient history packed with such density into one place. I kept thinking that any one of these temples would be a central tourist attraction in any other city. But this place has thousands of them.

It's nearly impossible to visit them all... but fun to try.

Inle

2011-12-13T16:56:00.000-08:00

On the day I was to leave for Inle Lake, I met up with Michael, a German traveler now living in India, who was taking the same trip.

We shared a cab to the bus station outside Yangon that the travel agent had written down for me. When we arrived, it wasn't exactly what I was expecting. I thought it would either be

a simple bus stop on the side of the road, or a proper station with parking stalls and attendants. This was a chaotic dirt lot randomly lined with about a hundred buses, none having any kind of markings I could read. We had to depend on our taxi driver to drive up and down the rows looking for the bus that matched our tickets which were written only in Burmese.

Once we found it, we realized this wasn't a tourist bus. We were the lone Westerners. The driver was busy packing the seats in the back of the bus with cargo which eventually included a couple of motorcycles. The other passengers were friendly.

"Mingalaba!", they'd say. This is like "hello" in Burmese, but literally means "it's a blessing."

We noticed some clear plastic bags they provided at each seat. I wondered if these were for garbage? Motion sickness? Then it became crystal clear. They were for spitting out betel nut juice. Many Myanmar people chew betel nut, mostly men. It stains their teeth dark red, as if they had just feasted on a pomegranate and hadn't taken a sip of water yet. But their teeth stay like that all the time.

We headed out in the late afternoon for the overnight journey.

Even though Nyaungshwe, the main town on Inle Lake, is less than 400 miles from Yangon (about the distance from San Francisco to Los Angeles), the journey would take about fourteen hours.

The modern concrete highway leaving Yangon soon downgraded into a bumpy asphault road, and then further into windy rocky dirt roads.

The bus had to stop frequently to pay tolls to groups of people sitting by campfires. I'm not sure if these were hill tribes that had to be paid off for safe passage, or if it's just that each town paved their own road and so collected their own tolls. I saw regular people from villages working on paving roads all around Myanmar.

By the time we reached the peaks of the mountain range, the temperature had dropped further than I had planned for, maybe about 40F. Never did I imagine it would be that cold while I was still in Southeast Asia. I bundled up the best I could.

Around 5 am, the bus dropped us on the side of the highway and we took a taxi to Nyaungshwe.

We had to pay a $5 USD government fee to enter the lake area as tourists. During my trip, I have tried to minimize any spending that goes to the oppressive government whether directly or indirectly. But there are certain things like the Myanmar entry visa and fees like this that are tough to avoid.

Before I left Yangon, I had asked the hotel clerk if he could help me make a hotel reservation. He did make a half-hearted attempt, but wasn't able to get it done for me. So here I was again. Rolling into an unfamiliar town at 5:30 am with no reservation anywhere. I didn't know if any guesthouses would even have their doors open this early. I'd hate to have to wander the freezing cold streets for several hours waiting for signs of life.

Luckily we shared a cab with some Swiss folks who did have a reservation at Nanda Wunn Hotel, which had attendants waiting for their arrival. I asked if they had any other free rooms, and as luck would have it, they had one left. So I plopped down and slept a few more hours.

Later that day, once everyone was open for business, I made arrangements to move to Teakwood Inn, a slightly cheaper and better located family-operated guesthouse.

Outside Teakwood, I was approached by a sweet-natured, older man named Nah Se who asked me if I'd like to take a boat tour of the lake tomorrow. He said he could give me a longer tour and for less money than booking it through an agent.

I try whenever possible to spend money directly with individuals and family businesses. Also, having an opportunity to speak with him beforehand meant that I knew how his English was and knew I'd be able to ask questions along the way. So I committed to a trip the following day. Nah Se would be my private guide and his son would drive the boat.

I hadn't read all that much about Inle Lake before I came. In fact, most of what I knew about it came from a novel I had been reading, Saving Fish from Drowning, which is set here at the lake.

I knew that people lived "on" the lake and that there were some homes on stilts in the water. What I didn't realize until Nah Se toured me around, was that the local Intha people, don't just live around the lake. They have entire floating villages in the middle of the lake. Complete with streets and intersections, these villages are built on bamboo or teak posts in the relatively shallow water. Homes, stores, and farms are arranged together the same as they would be on land. Except they aren't. You have to take a canoe from place to place.

The floating farms are legendary. The farmers collect seaweed from the lake floor and create a type of floating soil that they plant crops in. Everything from tomatoes, to beans, to cauliflower, to corn. The variety of vegetables along with the fish from the lake make for some very tasty local cuisine.

As they harvest, they take their crops to markets, some floating with shoppers browsing from canoe to canoe, and some land-based which are a little easier to navigate. The land markets also allow participation by the hill tribes, such as the Pa-Oh, that grow other crops up in the surrounding mountains.

Nah Se proceeded to motor me around to some of the favorite spots with tourists.

If I had known beforehand that the "tour" was going to have scheduled stops at places where I could buy stuff and the boat driver may benefit somehow from stopping there, I would have been cynical about it. But as it turned out, even if that was true, the sights and the stops were all very interesting and enjoyable.

One stop was at a weaving shop in a floating village where they spun thread from local cotton, silk, and lotus root, and then dyed the thread and weaved lovely clothing using hand made wooden looms. It was really very charming and impressive.

Another stop was at another floating home

where they were rolling cheroots, the local mini cigars that are very popular with the locals and visitors alike. They showed me how they made natural filters and glue to bind the wrapped leaves. They let me taste one of their mixtures of tobacco, banana, tamarind, and brown sugar. It was delicious, and so pleasant smoking it on the floating porch with my boat driver, that I couldn't help but buy a little hand carved wooden box of them.

After some other stops for lunch, and some mid-lake temples and monasteries, we called it a day.

Later after returning to town, I was wishing I had bought more of those lovely cheroots. I walked around town looking for more of those little wooden boxes of sweet cigars. But I couldn't find any.

When I ran into Nah Se on the road, I asked him if there is some place in town I can get more. He said. "No. Lake only."

I took that as a lesson. If you want it, buy it now. Because you may not have another opportunity.

The next day I was reading through the guidebook for other points of interest around the lake and I noticed there was a hot springs a few miles out of town. Anyone who knows me knows that I have a hard time saying no to naturally hot water. So I rented a bike and pedaled off into the countryside.

This was a great excuse to get out of the touristy area and see some everyday life out here.

I am hesitant to make the life of the local folks here sound too idilic. I know that these people struggle every day to make a living and stay out of the way of some of the very real political dangers around them.

But I have to say, riding through the country, the everyday life here seems peaceful and simple and downright pleasant. I know that's not true for everyone. But children laughing and playing in their school yard. A boy out for a walk with his flock of water buffalo. Kids flying kites after school.

It could be that the extra money this area receives from tourism just makes life a little easier around here than in other parts of Myanmar.

But it was nice to be able to look around and say, "everything is not broken here."

Myanmar

2011-12-09T16:40:00.000-08:00

I really only became aware of Myanmar when I traveled to northwest Thailand several years ago.

I was taking a bus toward Pai one day, and as the bus got closer to the Myanmar border, it became clear to me that there was some tension there. Just as there are heightened patrols near the Southwestern US border with Mexico, it appeared that Thai authorities had to keep Burmese people from entering the country.

But there were Burmese in Thailand. In fact, some of my favorite local people I met in Thailand actually turned out to be Burmese.

The more I learned about the severe economic and political conditions in Myanmar, the more I wondered how such universally wonderful people could be the products of such a difficult existence.

It made me curious enough to see for myself.

It takes some preparation to visit Myanmar. You need to arrange a visa before arriving there; You can only enter the country via air travel; and you must bring pristine, unblemished, US currency. Due to international economic sanctions, there are no ATMs here. They don't take credit cards. All the money you'll have access to is what you carry in.

As my plane descended toward Yangon International Airport, I got my first look at the countryside. It was sunset and the air seemed smokey. I could see some piles of trash burning on some of the farms which were arranged near the river in a kind of organic hodge podge rather than grids. The population even around the outskirts of the capitol did not seem dense at all.

I had heard that Burmese are somewhat thirsty for information about world news since their media are censored by the government. I expected them to be somewhat ignorant of the outside world.

But my 60-something taxi driver took great pleasure in showing me just how much he knew about my home when I told him I'm from San Francisco.

"You have very tall trees that grow just outside the city boundary. You can drive a car through some of them." (of our famous California Redwoods including Muir Woods)

"California has many Jennifers and Jessicas!" (Ha! That's true!)

His English was fabulous. I later learned that older folks tend to speak English far better than younger people because they stopped teaching English in schools after the new government took over. In fact, for some generations, there was no public school at all.

I didn't have a reservation at my first hotel choice, Okinawa Guesthouse . In retrospect, it probably wasn't a great idea to show up in Yangon without a reservation. There are no legible street signs to try and follow any guide book maps, especially at night. But I lucked out, and they had a room available.

I checked in and asked the desk clerk if he could change some currency for me. He said no. When I asked where I could get some local currency, he said "A bank." I thought this was a cruel joke because my understanding was that banks offered the international exchange rate for Kyat, the Myanmar currency. But since there is no market for Kyat (pronounced like chat) outside Myanmar, the international exchange rate is about 1/100 the actual local market value. Which would make $500 USD worth about $5. That's bad.

But he wasn't joking.

I asked some other hotel guests how they got their Kyats. They said that indeed, within the past month, the banks have been allowed to exchange currency at the local street rates. But it was night time, the banks were closed, and I was hungry. So one of them was nice enough to lend me two thousand Kyats (about $2.60), enough to buy an all-you-can-eat indian food meal around the corner and still have a thousand Kyats left over.

It used to be that you had to exchange your money for Kyat on the streets even though it was illegal. There are still plenty of folks willing to do so on the street promising better rates than the banks, but I heard story after story of visitors getting swindled by them.

Bottom, line: Use the banks. If I had used the exchange at the airport, I wouldn't have had to borrow.

I walked around the downtown area looking for the restaurant I heard about.

Life takes place on the street here. Markets spill out of storefronts onto the sidewalk outside. Many people are eating in alleys on little plastic stools while someone cooks them food on a pan over an open fire. Hardly restaurants. More like street camping. I hoped this wasn't what they had pointed me to.

It also just hit me as I'm walking around, that the folks here are kind of half Asian and half Indian. That shouldn't have come as a surprise to me seeing as the Western side of the country borders Bangladesh and India.

After awhile I thought I had found the place - a dirty little hole in the wall with people watching soccer on TV. The owner beckoned me in and confirmed his K1000 menu. I told him I only wanted vegetables, and he served me some good rice and dahl with some nice little veggie side dishes. It wasn't bad.

The next day, I got a much better look at the city in the hot sunlight.

My impression as I was walked around was "This is a city that used to be."

You see, Myanmar wasn't always poor. While it was under Britain, it was one of Asia's healthiest economies. Yangon was built up as any other Asian capitol would have been at that time. But after the 1960's when everything changed, it's clear that no other investment has gone into this place. No maintenance. No painting. No building. Nothing.

The sidewalks have giant holes that you'll fall into if you're not careful. People just walk in the street instead.

Some other travelers who had been down South awhile in Mawlamyine had adopted the slogan, "Everything's broken."

One day I watched while some firemen pushed one of their broken down firefighting vehicles back into the firehouse. It seemed kind of symbolic.

But the people walking in the streets. They aren't broken.

They smile and laugh. They are clean and well groomed. They dress nicely. They seem to have a sense of pride.

To me they looked like you or I would look like if our city was broken. We'd do our best. And that's what they're doing.

I found a bank and changed some money. I had to decide how much to change. For some reason, hotels here prefer to be paid in US dollars, while every other business wants Kyats.

To make things more complicated, some travelers were telling me it is tougher to change money outside the capitol. It's kind of now or never.

So after having $250 worth of my brand new US dollars rejected by the bank tellers for not being flawless enough, I left there with a plastic sack of K225,000 in small bills, rubber banded together. I felt like a drug lord.

I'll just have to hope I have the right mix of local and US currency.

Later that day, a Buddhist monk stopped me in the street and asked if he could talk to me for a little while. I know that in the past, it was dangerous for locals to talk publicly with visitors. They could easily be arrested for it. So even though I have heard it's not quite as bad these days, I was a little bit apprehensive about conducting an extensive conversation on a busy sidewalk. So we went and sat down for some tea in a room above a restaurant.

He seemed to know English fairly well, but his pronunciation was so terrible that I had a really hard time following what he was saying. I knew that monks were among the leaders of political change in Myanmar and have been persecuted endlessly for it by the government. He wanted to teach me about the Arakan people from the Rakhine State where he is from. They are one of the many ethnic minorities that complain of mistreatment by the Burmese majority.

He asked me to follow him to a certain area downtown with a concentration of Arakan people. I thought he wanted me to see their shops so maybe I'd purchase something from them. But I should have known better. Commerce and money are really the last things on the mind of any practicing monk. He refused every offer of anything I made to him.

He asked me to come upstairs above one of the stores to what turned out to be a sweatshop full of Arakan men making fine jewelry using crude tools and foot operated blast torches. I got the picture. He wanted me to understand that while the Burmese folks were operating the jewelry shops below, his friends were kept in hot, crowded conditions producing their merchandise.

It was a great experience talking with him. His goal was to bring some awareness to me and to practice English at the same time - and it worked.

I left his name out of this post for his sake.

A few words on the name of the country.

During the weeks leading up to this trip, I had been telling people that I was going to "Burma."

I said Burma for two reasons. First, because from what little history I knew, the current government had renamed the country Myanmar after having taken control back from Great Britain. I thought the citizens might still refer to their own country as Burma in defiance of their government. The US State Department still does. Second, more people know the name Burma. When you say Myanmar, people sort of squint and say "Where?"

But as it turns out, everyone in Myanmar says "Myanmar". So now I do too. From what I'm told, it's only folks outside the country that sometimes still use the fifty year old name.

After a day of walking around the hot, congested city, my throat is feeling kind of scratchy. At first I thought I was catching a cold, but now I think it's the smokey air.

I go to a travel agent with a nice clean air conditioned office. Seven identically dressed young employees who don't seem to have much to do, all look at me as I walk in. "I'd like to buy an overnight bus ticket to Inle Lake for tomorrow." Three of them help me simultaneously.

Hopefully this first class agency will put me in a nice comfortable bus.

I'll head out tomorrow.

Erosion

2011-11-30T20:32:00.000-08:00

There are a number of reasons why I keep returning to Thong Nai Pan Noi beach. Its natural beauty and friendly quiet atmosphere are legendary, especially to anyone that's had to listen to me reminisce about it.

But that sort of legend has a way of inviting development. New hotels, businesses, and crowds that often stamp out the very beauty and atmosphere that brought them.

I always suspected that would happen here too. So I feel the need to return as often as possible before it's all gone. Each time I go back, I don't know quite what to expect.

Traveling there from Ko Lipe, however, was more challenging than I suspected. It turns out it's virtually impossible to get from Lipe to Ko Phangan in a single day, even if you're willing to spring for a plane ticket. This is mainly due to the ferry schedules to and from both islands.

I resigned to the fact that I was going to have to stay overnight somewhere along the way. I chose to stay over in Surat Thani rather than Krabi because it is closer to the ferries in the Gulf, and I figured I could get an earlier ferry that way.

A nasty rain storm greeted me and I took cover in the only backpacker hotel nearby. When I looked at the dirty, overpriced rooms, the bell boy made sure to let me know he could call a hooker over for me, and ensured I understood by miming the whole transaction. Classy.

Just as I was about to begrudgingly hand over $14 to the desk clerk, four other backpackers approached me and asked me if I wanted to share a five bed room with them. They seemed nice and were in the same boat as me. A frenchman, an Italian, a Russian, and an Aussie-American. They had all been on the same bus and had all just met each other.

I shrugged and said, "Why not." The seedy hotel got exactly zero dollars from me. And I made four new friends.

Big win.

It's funny how sharing a hotel room with a total stranger feels so natural when there are no other english speakers in sight. Back at home it would seem preposterous.

We only had to tolerate the crummy room for a few hours while we slept, and then made our way to the ferry first thing. The others were looking for a nice quiet beach to relax, so I talked three of them into checking out Thong Nai Pan with me, though with a warning that I didn't know exactly what we'd find.

After the two hour ferry ride and the bumpy forty minute jungle taxi, we were finally there.

The first thing I noticed was that the first two bungalow resorts on that end of the beach had been completely demolished, and there was new construction under way.

I had heard before I left for my trip that my favorite bungalows at the opposite end might not be operating either. And sure enough, they were closed down for repairs. But the same family operates the Thong Tapan resort next door, and had some beautiful, comfortable bungalows up the hill for 500 baht. So we moved in.

I noticed the I-Sea bar on the beach wasn't open. It seemed vacant with no bottles on the shelves or music playing. It's a favorite spot of mine, so I asked Boo, our guest hostess, "Does Stefano and his wife still operate the bar?" She said no, not anymore.

Sigh.

Little by little, I noticed things were missing from the little beach community. The Bamboo Hut, a great family restaurant, was shut down, though only temporarily. But other little spots that had held fond memories for me had been torn down entirely.

Asking around, I learned that the luxury Rasananda resort, which opened a couple of years ago, has actually always owned the majority of the beach front here and was renting the land to the backpacker bungalows that have dominated the beach until now. They have decided to take back the land and expand their $250 - $1000+ per night hotel.

As you might imagine, the type of clientele that spend one hundred times more to stay at the same beach might tend to change the atmosphere of the tiny village. These are folks who tend to stay in their resorts, use its spa, and eat and drink at its top notch restaurants. They don't go out for $2 noodle plates or patronize the little pancake dessert cart on the road, nor do they play pool at the expat bar on the beach.

So as a result, those businesses have largely closed, or moved elsewhere.

In the past, I had always been worried that the beach would be ruined by ugly development and annoying tourist merchant shops. But I had it wrong. The beach is as quiet and beautiful as ever. But the people changed. And that turned out to be just as distressing for me.

Beauty alone doesn't make a place feel like home.

I also learned something else about Ko Phangan. I had always thought Thailand had a single "high" tourist season from November to February. But that's not the case. There are three distinct climate regions in Thailand. And even though the Andaman coast is indeed in its high season, the Gulf region has an entirely different climate. And I had unknowingly chosen the rainiest month of the year, November, to come to Phangan.

Luckily, the days I spent here were mainly sunny and beautiful. I had planned to stay up to two weeks, but I knew I'd be pushing my luck with the weather if I stayed much longer and I felt a sense of sadness that so much of what I always liked about this place was gone.

I knew it wouldn't last forever. And I was right. It's still a lovely place to visit, and I expect I'll be back. But I'll come in January or February. And I'll bring some friends to hang out with.

My new friends decided to move on to a more lively part of the island. I considered following them, but decided it was time to see something new.

It's time to head to Burma.

Lipe

2011-11-26T21:15:00.000-08:00

I have only a modest knowledge of geography.

When I imagine traveling to a country I have never visited, I tend to envision one particular city I know of, or some scene from a movie. I think that's pretty common.

Then I might pick up a guide book, or surf the web looking for more stories, descriptions, or pictures.

But then when I actually arrive, it hits me - how much more to this place there is that I will never see or never even hear about. All I can do is keep my eyes and ears open for new places to check out.

One day I was sitting at a hot springs back home, and I was chatting about Thailand with a guy I met. He was raving about this island Ko Lipe on the west coast near the Malaysian border. He said it was a beautiful, quiet place, and a great escape from the more crowded tourist beaches.

He seemed like the sort of fellow I'd like to meet out on a beach somewhere. We probably have similar sensibilities in such places. So I made a mental note to check it out if I was in the area.

That's really all it takes for me to choose a destination sometimes. A good tip.

So sitting in Railay, plotting my next move, I figured I wasn't likely to be any closer to Lipe any time soon, so now is the time.

I took a bus to Pak Bara, the nearest pier town, and headed over.

Ko Lipe is a small island in the midst of the Tarutao National Park. The only reason that construction is permitted on this island is that it has been the home of some sea gypsies since before it was even part of Thailand. Those gypsies retained their rights to build here, and in the grand tradition of other indigenous people exploiting their land rights (e.g. Native American casinos), Ko Lipe tourism was born.

As the ferry pulled in toward the island, it hit me that this place is just slightly bigger than I expected. I'll need to make a decision about which beach to stay at while I'm here. So I took a quick poll around the boat to see what people knew about the different spots.

I learned that the sunrise side of the island has cheaper bungalows and is quieter than the Pattaya Beach side where we landed. That sounded good to me, but required a sweaty 300 meter walk to the other side, where I promptly dropped my pack next to a very relaxed looking woman in a hammock and walked the long pretty beach to find my next home.

I found a place with some nice bamboo bungalows and asked for one right on the beach facing the water. It had a little bed out front with some pillows for enjoying the spectacular view of the white sand and turquoise water decorated with a few colorful long tail boats waiting for maintenance by the sea gypsies next door.

When I first heard of these gypsies, I imagined slim folks with long scraggly black hair and bandanas and jingly clothes that made them sound like Santa's sleigh while they danced around their camp fires at night singing pirate songs.

But actually, they pretty much just look and act like other Thais. Oh well.

At 900 baht, the bungalow was pricey for bamboo, but I decided to splurge since the spot was so beautiful. There were other cheaper huts around if I decided to stay longer.

I threw on my swim suit and jumped in the warm blue water for a much needed swim after the long journey.

I looked forward to laying on my little veranda afterward, but just as I got out, some clouds moved overhead and the wind started to blow.

For the next two days the wind kept blowing against my little hut, and woke me up early each day from the noise.

Suddenly, this expensive little hut didn't seem so awesome anymore. Especially when I noticed that if I walked inland just 50 meters or so, the wind completely stopped. It's only the sunrise beach that's windy.

Hmph.

So I looked around the island for a new home and found Sunset beach. It required a bit of a hike down a jungle road, but there was no wind, and the beach, although smaller, was very pretty as well.

The bungalows there aren't anything to write home about with their pink linoleum floors, and dingy easter egg interior, but it was quite functional and much cheaper at 500 baht to have my hammock hang just over the shore.

There were only a couple of places to eat here and one bar, so anyone with an interest in socializing would likely want to walk the twenty minutes into the village to do so. Just remember your flashlight.

I established myself as a regular at Mom's Tattoo Bar on the main walking street. I noticed it as soon as I arrived to the island because it plays a revolving list of easy listening covers to popular songs. Mom, who's actually a man, is a well known tattoo artist who also runs the bar and keeps the atmosphere lively.

I enjoyed my time on Lipe. It's a good atmosphere with some very pretty beaches. I also hear the diving is amazing around here.

But I knew this wouldn't be my new island paradise. My mind was on one place. One beach I always return to when I'm here. I figured I'd spend a couple of weeks there at least. So I had better head over if for no other reason than I could stop daydreaming about it.

I say my goodbyes to the Tattoo Bar staff and regulars.

Tomorrow, Phangan.

Asok

2011-11-20T18:58:00.000-08:00

Normally, when it's time for me to head to Bangkok for some reason, I stay in the Khaosan Road tourist ghetto. Although it does contain a number of products and services tourists need, like visa assistance, travel gear, and information - it is also dirty, the rooms are expensive, and worst of all, you can't walk five feet without someone trying to sell you something.

So even though I suspect there are cool things to do in Bangkok somewhere, I don't really know where to find them and so I usually minimize my time there.

But on this trip I got an invitation from my friend Leah to stay at her apartment in the Asok neighborhood. I'm not sure that's really the name of the area. Asok is the nearest Sky Train stop, which Leah shares with another popular tourist destination called Soi Cowboy, one of the city's red light districts. It's actually a single alley that is right on her block. We cut through the alley once so I could check it out. It helped that she was with me, otherwise, as a single guy, I would have had a hard time making it out of there without a lot of harassment.

Her apartment is lovely and made a huge difference to the quality of my time spent there. Being walking distance from good public transportation (unlike Khaosan) made it much easier for me to run errands around town like getting to the Myanmar (Burma) embassy for the visa I'd need later in my trip.

While exploring her neighborhood, I wandered into a brand new shopping mall called Terminal 21. It's themed kind of like an airport. They have signs that appear to be pointing you to different world destinations. At first I actually thought it was some kind of train station.

It's about eight stories high, and when I got to the fourth floor, I had one of the most surreal experiences I have had during this trip.

As I came up the escalator, there is a giant scale replica of the Golden Gate Bridge. It actually spans between the fourth and fifth floors.

Both floors are themed to look like San Francisco, my home city.

Everywhere I looked, there were details that reminded me of home. Some of them are obvious, like a giant full-sized replica of a cable car on tracks made into a coffee shop you can sit inside. And some are less obvious, like the signs of real stores, street signs, and public artwork, most of which no one who didn't live there would really associate with the city.

Everywhere I walked, I'd snap a picture of something that made me laugh. I know I looked funny to the other shoppers in the mall. Why did I care so much about the decorations?

The food court of the mall was called "Pier 21", and completely themed after Pier 39, the major tourist ghetto of San Francisco. It even had a Bubba Gump Shrimp sign above a Chinese restaurant.

That's what kind of spun my head. A fake sign for a real restaurant in a fake tourist part of a real city.

Mind. Blown.

One night, a few of Leah's friends and I were out at her favorite sushi restaurant, In the Mood for Love. After a number of drinks, Leah made the proclamation, "We should go to Railay tomorrow for the weekend!"

I don't think this is a rare proclamation for her. She has made no secret that Railay is her favorite place on Earth. She is an avid rock climber, and besides having a gorgeous beach, it is a climber's paradise. I have no solid itinerary for this month, so of course I say "I'm in! I have the perfect frisbee!"

So the Thailand beach combing portion of my trip began the next day. Only this time, rather than the grueling overnight bus from Bangkok, we just hopped a plane - she with a round trip ticket - me with a one way. Normally after dark, you'd have to stay overnight in Krabi and take a boat over to Railay beach in the morning. But Leah has a number of friends there, so we got the VIP treatment at the airport. A van ride to the dock and a boat waiting to motor us over in the dark. I can see why this is a favorite weekend activity for her. I'd do it too if I lived in Bangkok.

After a solid weekend of frisbee and paddle ball, Leah returned home, and I mulled my next move.

I could fly back to Bangkok and start my Burma trip.

But as long as I'm already in South Thailand beach mode...

Kyoto

2011-11-15T19:00:00.000-08:00

On the early side of Sunday morning rush hour, I made my way to Tokyo Station where I planned to jump on the Shinkansen (bullet train) to Kyoto. Luckily, Sunday morning rush hour is somewhat lighter than weekdays, but still an impressive showing of suits, briefcases, and school uniforms.

Once in the station I started to make the mistake of following any sign that pointed to "Shinkansen". That's a little bit like going to an airport and following any sign that says "airplane". There are actually more than one company and multiple parts of the station from which the trains might leave.

Although the train ticket price rivaled that of an airplane fare, I have to say the experience is much smoother. Just like all trains, you just show up at the right time and walk on, throw your bag over your seat, and away you go.

The interior of the train is more comfortable and spacious than the coach cabin of an airplane. The seats are more like business class seats. I was anxious to see what the ride was like. Would it feel like a rocket? Would the passing scenery just look like a big blur like I was in warp drive on the Starship Enterprise?

Well, not exactly. I'd say it feels more like being on an airline jet zooming down the runway right at the moment before you lift off. Except you never lift off. You just stay at one constant speed except for the occasional stop every half hour or so.

In a little over two hours, I arrived at Kyoto Station.

As soon as I walked off the train and into the station I instantly felt a whole different energy than Tokyo. People walked slower, dressed more casually. I just felt more of a peace about them. And mind you, this is still in a crowded train station.

Outside, I got my bearings and walked the several blocks to K's House Kyoto guesthouse. As backpacker hostels go, this one kinda wins. Very modern, spacious, and clean with lots of handy things like bikes for rent, cheap laundry machines, and free wifi. But the staff is the best part. Their English is just ok, but the service is top notch and super friendly. They even gave me a double room for the price of a single person in a dorm. Maybe it was my winning smile. Or maybe it was the grey whiskers which gave me some extra juice. Half the price of Tokyo.

My room wasn't ready yet though, so I rented a bike for a couple hours to explore the nearby neighborhood. Bikes are widely used here. It's a super flat city, which certainly helps. But a couple things took some getting used to.

For one thing, bikes aren't welcome in the street for the most part. I immediately got honked at when I ventured into traffic. I had noticed before how annoying it was that so many people rode their bikes on the sidewalk, even in Tokyo. But now I realized that's where you're supposed to ride. The bike lanes in the crosswalks should have been my first clue.

The other crazy thing about biking Kyoto is that parked bikes are not appreciated anywhere. The guesthouse clerk made me read a statement and nod my head in understanding that the police may remove bikes that are illegally parked on the street, especially near busy buildings, but really anywhere.

When I asked where I could park, he smiled and said "Nowhere."

Biking around for a couple hours, I got a feel for what a Kyoto neighborhood looks like. A few large avenues a mile or so apart, with each square mile containing it's own neighborhood with lots of tiny streets that wind around and dead end in a way that makes it fun to explore and get lost in. The little streets are lined with densely packed brownish wooden townhouses sprinkled with little shops and restaurants. Very charming. Lots of kids walking and riding bikes. It seems like a very pleasant place to live.

I still had to buy a return ticket to Tokyo, so I returned to Kyoto Station, which as it turns out is a stunning piece of architecture. It's fifteen stories of transportation, shopping, hotels, and entertainment. I'm not normally a big fan of malls, but I a saw a set of escalators rising and rising out of sight, so I took a ride. I kept going up and up and up, amazed at how enormous the indoor space was, until I looked around and realized I was now outside on the roof in a little garden with fake cricket noise and a rad view of the city.

Outside, I stumbled on a kind of school dance competition going on. It looked like high school kids probably from different local schools, each with a high energy choreographed dance in traditional Japanese outfits and painted faces. The music seemed to be a hybrid of traditional and modern. The kids were having a blast.

And that wasn't the only community festival going on around the station that evening. I could tell this is a town that fosters art and culture. Being the historic center of so many components of Japanese culture (e.g. Shintoism and Zen Buddhism), I bet there's a festival of some kind just about every week. I saw posters advertising cultural events all over town.

Over the next couple of days, I set out to see some sights and eat at some everyday restaurants.

Shoren-in Temple - It's kind of hard for me to understand all of the history, what with so many sects of Buddhism and generations of priests and emperors. Something about Jodo, Tendai, and Shin sects. But I gathered that this was a temple for the emperor, one of who's sons studied traditional arts here and became a high priest. What really impressed me though is the architecture of the interior spaces and how they were incorporated with the beautiful surrounding garden. Inside were simple mats and decoratively painted sliding panels for storage and privacy. The walls all opened up into the garden so that it felt like the same space. Very peaceful and lovely.
Heian Shrine -I randomly rode my bike past this place and it was really big and orange, so I checked it out. I didn't really know what went on here normally. But on this day, the place was bustling with families. Each family had one or two little kids around four years old each dressed in traditional garb. The boys looked like little shogun warriors and the girls where in colorful kimonos. Apparently this is a popular place to take family photos when your kids are a certain age. It was super cute, but I was a little bit self conscious about snapping too many pictures of their kids, so I just stole one or two.
K yoto Imperial Palace - For the one thousand or so years before 1869, this was the residence of Japan's emperors. After that, they headed for Tokyo. But this place is still fairly well preserved, especially the lush gardens. You have to register with your passport to take one of the relatively few daily tours. By this time, I was getting a little tired of just gawking at buildings, but my favorite part of this tour was standing at what was, for those thousand years, the back porch of the emperor - where he would sit in his quarters and look out over his exquisitely manicured landscape. I guess it's kind of like sitting in the president's oval office chair. Neat.
Fast food - The guesthouse gave me some tips of where to eat like a local. One was a fast food joint that sold rice bowls. It was a good place for me because they had pictures of all the food I might order. I just had to point. So I pointed. Then he asked me a question. Uh oh. I pointed again and smiled. At some point he said "beeh?". Oh I have a choice of meat. "Yes beef."
Ramen - Another tip was a local ramen house. I brought some other folks from the guesthouse there with me. When we got there, we weren't sure we were in the right place. It was a tiny little space with bad fluorescent lighting. But there were some people waiting outside for a table. Good sign. The colorful proprietor came out and grunted some stuff at us and gave us an English (like) menu. Basically our choice was big noodles, regular noodles, or small noodles. We chose the noodles. They were delicious.
Gion - This is the historical center of geisha culture (they say geiko here). I took a tour around the neighborhood where schools, dormitories, tea houses and theatres teach young trainees called meiko and showcase their talents. But it's not as if they are walking around everywhere greeting tourists. Sightings of them are actually kind of rare. The tourguide from my guesthouse, Miku, tried to give us the best chance of a sighting outside an exclusive tea house. People were waiting outside like paparazzi. But nothing. Then on our way back, Miku and I spotted a real life meiko in the subway of all places. Miku was certain she was legit, and seemed kind of star struck. The young girl did indeed look like a painting. Hardly real. Her expression was fixed into a mysterious expression I can only describe as fascinating.

All in all, I really enjoyed the vibe of Kyoto. It's a little upscale, but in a crunchy, cultural way. I could see myself living here.

But only after I learn Japanese.

Tokyo

2011-11-12T00:30:00.000-08:00

I had four days off work before heading off on my next Asia trip. Somehow I managed to fill up all four with packing and shopping for various travel needs like a proper frisbee for Thong Nai Pan, or fresh new US currency suitable for trading in Burma.

Also, for the past few weeks I've been checking the news daily to see whether downtown Bangkok was expected to be flooded when I arrive there in a week. I was excited to meet up with some friends there after Tokyo and get my travel visa to Burma, but I had no intention of wading around in dirty chest deep water to do so. And the chances of that hovered around 50/50 for weeks.

But now it was time to board the plane for Tokyo, and a great time to finally crack open the
Japan guide book a friend lent me.

Although the flight is a mere eleven hours, you still lose about two days on the calendar to get there. My flight out of SFO left around 10 am Wednesady, and I landed in Tokyo 4 pm
Thursday. At least I'll get a day back on the way home.

By the time I cleared customs and took the hour train ride from Narita to downtown

Tokyo, It was around 7 pm, right at the tail end of rush hour. I've heard about how they physically cram people into crowded trains during peak periods, so I was crossing my fingers I'd miss that.

The first thing I noticed was that I was the only man on my train car that wasn't wearing a suit and tie and holding a briefcase. I rarely see men in suits in San Francisco where I work so this was definitely a curiosity to me.

The two trains I took weren't too packed, but when I arrived at Ikebukuro Station, I saw what urban hustle and bustle is all about. Even after 7 pm, the station was gushing people from one corridor to another.

The next thing I realized was how out of place I was. Besides not being in a suit, I was the only caucasian in sight in a homogeneous sea of Japanese. At home I'm used to seeing a melting pot of faces and races, but this place didn't seem at all diverse.

Tokyo is an international city, but it's not really a big tourist destination. At least not for foreign tourists. So I realized quickly, this place was not going to accommodate me as an English speaker the way so many other destinations seem to.

As out of place as I felt, no one seemed to notice me. I'm not sure whether it's because they are too polite to stare or that they are so intensely focused on their own destinies. But I felt fairly invisible.

I barely remembered to write down detailed directions to Hotel Sakura before I left home. I even felt a little silly when I snapped a picture of the website's map on my iPhone. But thank god I did. After following my written directions and walking through town at night with my heavy bags for twenty minutes or so, I realized I had no idea where the hotel was. But the iPhone map got me oriented and I found it. That's one point scored in favor of travel paranoia.

I was pleased to see that my ultra budget room ($80/night) even had a private bathroom, although it was comically small. Kind of like something you'd see in an RV. But I like RVs. So I was happy.

I was tempted to crash out. But no way. I'm in Tokyo, man. Time to check it out. I had a few hours before the subways all shutdown around midnight, so I ventured.

I rode the JR train to Shinjuku where I heard there was some nightlife. My first mission was to find some tasty sushi.

I followed the crowd out of the station to the first major intersection where everyone split off in different directions. I chose to walk straight across the major street into a wide, brightly lit, promenade. There were some young men in light grey suits standing around with bleached blonde heavy metal haircuts. One of them approached me and asked me in very broken English if I was looking for a good time. He said I had wandered in to the red light district.

Well that was quick. I had no idea. It didn't look all that seedy. There were no girls in sight. Just a lot of drunken business men and regular looking restaurant facades.

He pointed me down the street to find some food. But before I got too far, a very friendly African man seemed very happy to see me, and w

ouldn't leave my side unless I let him lead me to a nice hostess bar. His car salesman style turned me off, however, and only resolved me to resist doing anything he suggested. He followed me for several blocks before I convinced him he was wasting his time.

As it turns out, Nigerian men have begun to infest Tokyo streets touting for such places. I would have thought Japan would have demanded more discretion. I guess they are fine with sleeze as long as it's outsourced.

I actually have no objection to hostess bars, and might have gone to one with friends if it weren't for the seedy touting.

I found some sushi which I happily slurped down, and wandered around a bit more. I found some cool little hole in the wall bars and restaurants. I was actually surprised how few sushi places there are here. It apparently isn't any more prevalent here than it is back home. There are lots of other types of food Japanese eat that we just don't see much of in the West.

Unfortunately, I don't have any idea what most of it was. Walking by restaurants, I'd see many pictures showing bowls of randomness with Japanese scrawl next to them. No clue. Good thing I know how to order sushi.

I spent the next day or so exploring neighborhoods and seeing some sights.

Mori Art Museum - At the tippy top of the Roppongi Hills Mori tower is one of Tokyo's newest and best art museums. It was raining pretty bad one of my days there, and a museum was a perfect escape. The exhibit was on Metabolism, an architecture movement that started in Japan in the early 60's that focuses on large scale, extensible structures.
Imperial Palace East Garden - To me, the remarkable thing about the Imperial Palace is mainly its longevity. It has been there in the center of Tokyo (formerly known as Eno) since something like 1100 and is now surrounded by highrises. Mainly the palace area is a giant ancient fortress. There are still structures, huge walls and large moats that used to keep the royals safe from the angry masses. As an ornate garden though, it doesn't hold a candle to Golden Gate Park.
Akihabara - Also called Electric Town, this is gadget central. I didn't see much here that blew me away except that I was fairly creeped out by the baby doll touts, girls dressed in french maid outfits, and shouting something like baby talk, promoting nearby businesses.
Harajuku - Known for its young, ultra stylish crowd, I wanted to see what this place was about. From what I could tell, it's mainly about shopping. There are tons of big brand and boutique stores here lining the boulevards, kind of like a more stylish union square. Honestly, my impression of Tokyo is that it's mainly about shopping and making money. They seem every so style conscious. Go, go, go. Earn, earn, earn. Shop, shop, shop. Faster, faster, faster. I'm certain that I missed on huge chunks of what the city has to offer, but for the most part, Tokyo seems pretty darned superficial to me.

On my last evening before heading off to Kyoto, I met up with my friend Kristen, a blogger and a kind of professional traveler. On this trip, she and her newlywed husband Scott were working on a semester at sea program which had stopped in Japan that week.

Kristen's friends Tracey and Andy both live and work in Tokyo, and happily took us out to a couple of cool restaurants in Roppongi. One was kind of a fancy chicken grill, and the other was a stylish hole in the wall Ramen house. Both very good, and both would have been near impossible for me to navigate myself. This is clearly the way to see Japan. With a knowledgeable guide.

We made it a pretty early night.

I wanted to see some of the legendary Tokyo late night scene, but I was plagued my first few days in Asia with some wicked jet lag. So the perfunctory all nighter was not to be.

Tomorrow, Kyoto.

Bali

2011-02-19T18:57:00.000-08:00

Bali surprised me with it's size and depth. I expected a small island with limited sightseeing opportunities, but I was pleasantly mistaken.

Bali is roughly twice the size of Oahu, but home to four million people, with a delta of roads that wind their way up the sides of the multiple volcanic mountains with many small villages along the way. Not many big highways, not a lot of clear road signs. So travel can be tricky and confusing. Most people hire a driver or a tour bus to take them anywhere substantially out of town. But I'm not most people. I rented a motorbike. And I used it.

Points of interest are abundant, from ancient temples, to tropical bird sanctuaries, to hot springs. I had a happy hopelessness that I certainly wouldn't see nearly all of it.

Here is a rundown of some sights I managed to lay eyes on:

Ubud Monkey Forest

I didn't have to travel far to see some wildlife. My villa was located on Monkey Forest Road which is named for the cool monkey preserve located smack in the middle of Ubud. There are no cages. No fences. The monkeys, Balanese long-tailed macaques, just roam free in this park. I'm not sure why they don't wander off into town. Nothing's keeping them from doing so, except the constant supply of potatoes and bananas getting handed to them in the park. I guess that's enough.

I've never really been surrounded by monkeys before. I was a little uneasy at first. There are a lot of them. Everywhere.

They are sort of human-like in their facial expressions. It was a little eery. But they were pretty docile for the most part. As I walked by them, they would look me up and down to see what I was carrying. This is because ladies sell small bananas to tourist on their way into the forest.

They didn't, however, appear to be warning people that those bananas are like crack to the monkeys. If they see you have some, they will bum rush you. They'll ask nicely for about three seconds. If you hold out on them, they'll take matters into their own opposable-thumbed hands. I saw one girl get mugged. First a monkey climbed onto her back trying to grab one. She screamed, but for some reason she wouldn't give it to him. Probably just too shocked. I yelled, "Give. Him. A. Banana!" It worked. But soon after, another monkey held out his had demanding another one. She gave it to him. But he didn't leave. He pocketed that one and demanded the rest. She hesitated briefly, then capitulated - and the bully scampered off with the whole mother load.

But it was all in good fun. If you were banana free, they more or less ignored you and went about their monkey business: grooming their friends for bugs, playing king of the dirt heap, eating, or napping.

Lake Batur

Anytime someone says "hot springs," I pretty much have my pen out scribbling directions before they finish their next sentence. Chad said he had been to some volcanic hot springs at the lake just below Mount Batur after he had done a sunrise hike there a couple weeks before. He wanted to head back up there again with me, but the day we were supposed to go, something came up and I was on my own.

It would be a bit more of an adventure heading up the mountain alone, but I didn't have many extra days to wait around, so I went for it.

I bought a road map, but really the only directions were: Take the road out of Ubud that heads uphill. Keep going uphill until you get to the rim of the volcano. Then look for the big lake in the crater. Find hot springs near lake.

Heading out of town I noted all of the homes and business displaying their wares along the road. It became clear to me how much of the local economy is based in arts and crafts. Each building had a different specialty. Some had hand carved furniture; some had big wooden cats; some were galleries with paintings hanging; some made ceramics. It appeared this was more than just an island of rice farmers and hotel folk. Art is a real part of their culture and economy.

After an hour or so of driving uphill I realized my super-fuel-efficient scooter was likely to run out of gas, and I hadn't seen any gas stations for awhile. It was getting more and more rural. I began to realize why many homes had glass bottles of yellowish liquid on display. They are the country gas stations. Convenient ones too. The Absolut Vodka bottle of unleaded gasoline proves that it's exactly one liter. Fifty cents, and I had bought myself another hour on the road.

As I neared the top of the mountain, a man frantically waved me down to stop. He yelled, "Police! Police!" He wanted to warn me that there was a police roadblock ahead. They are known to cite tourists for driving without a proper international driver's license. I told him it was ok. I had a proper license. But he insisted that I follow him on a shortcut around the roadblock. I figured it couldn't hurt so I went with him. I wanted to trust him, but after a half mile or so I thought maybe it wasn't such a great plan.

He didn't bring me to an ambush - just a tourist restaurant where he'd presumably collect some kind of commission for my patronage. I went into the restaurant but didn't really feel like eating there and headed out. He got upset, but I wasn't interested in anything more he had to say. I just headed for the lake.

The road down the rim of the caldera toward the lake was super steep and full of hairpin switchbacks. I had to be careful of my speed, careful of sand in the road, careful of other cars and trucks. But it didn't take long to get down to lake level where I hit a T in the road. I didn't expect a choice here. There were signs pointing in both directions and some men sitting under the sign. I hesitated just long enough, before riding off to the left, to indicate to them I might be lost... and so picked up another interested local who caught up to me on his bike and asked me to stop.

I knew if I stopped for him, he'd probably want something from me. But I kind of needed his help. Indeed, he whipped out a small box filled with drawings. He said he is an artist and he'd like me to check out his work. He wasn't super clean and seemed like he could use some money. He said he knew the hot springs and would take me there.

Normally I'm not big on buying lots of things when I'm traveling. But in this case I had a reason. We could help each other. The drawings were actually very nice. I wasn't totally convinced he really drew them, but considering the artisan culture here it seemed entirely possible. I picked a drawing of two characters, Jayaprana and Layonsari, from a Romeo and Juliet-type story I heard from a local that week. He packed it carefully and lovingly into a torn piece of cardboard so it wouldn't get bent up in my bag, and then escorted me to the Toya Devasya hot springs.

The hot springs are developed, not the natural kind I found in Washington. The warm water feeds into some small pools in a resort-style pool area with a view of Lake Batur. Soaking in that mineral water was a relaxing way to recover from the long ride up and the resort seemed like a good place to stay if one wanted to spend a few days exploring the volcano.

Me. I'd just be happy to find my way home, which I did, and I only got lost three or four times.

Green School

I met Stara in Ubud. She's a teacher from California and had come out to Bali to see about possibly working at Green School, an experiment in high-quality progressive education with green values and architecture - or as our tour guide put it, "more than just a hippy school in the jungle."

They give guided tours twice a week after school hours, and Stara, who had been volunteering there, invited me over to check it out.

I had lost track of time that afternoon and didn't really leave myself enough time to make it considering I hadn't been there before. But miraculously, I remembered enough of the directions and just barely arrived in time for the tour.

The kids were all just leaving for the day and all seemed very relaxed and shiny. I signed in and Stara ushered me into the already-started presentation.

I felt like I was going on a tour of Jurassic Park. The grounds were stunning. Towering bamboo structures surrounded by green jungle. Everything is made of bamboo, including all of the custom made classroom furniture. It is one of best green building materials because of its strength and how fast it grows back after harvest. The beautiful main building is the largest bamboo structure in Asia. It's no surprise that they have won some prestigious architectural awards.

We checked out their zoo where they are protecting endangered species, and the gardens the students maintain to provide their own daily lunches. They have a water vortex, an ingenious way to harness electricity from the river running through the school. Even a mud wrestling arena.

It's an impressive show of motivation to make all of that happen in such a remote place.

I was pleased to see what happens when you combine lofty ideals and tons of human energy.

Tirta Gangga

Chad and I managed to get one road trip in together. He wanted to check out Tirta Gangga, a water temple built by a former king in the northeast mountains. On the way, we'd swing by a nice little-known beach he had seen once before.

After about an hour and a half we somehow found the lovely little beach and bumped our motorbikes down the rocky, muddy road to the secret place .

It reminded me of my beloved Thong Nai Pan Noi, but it was a little overcast, and the beach was lined with warungs waiting for us to sit down and patronize their businesses.

I was happy to sit down and have a refreshing drink and a swim after the long ride. We took a dip and then plopped down on some some lounge chairs. But then... drip... drip... drip... uh oh.

We ran for cover, and so did the stray dogs, as the sky opened up and poured down rain.

It stopped after a bit, but the day was flying by, so we headed back out to get to the water temple.

Tirta Gangga is another example of Balinese building prowess. If there is one thing they know, it is how to sculpt a lush landscape to maximize the use of water and create an enjoyable space. Kids were playing and swimming in one section while Chad and I walked an in-pool labyrinth and admired the exotic plants in the garden.

But the journey was so long to get here that the day was already almost over. We had to start thinking about the ride home.

A guy from the beach had tipped us off to a scenic ride back to Ubud. I kind of suspected it would take even longer than the ride up. But what the heck. Why not see some new scenery.

I'm glad we did. Because this was one of the most spectacular rides I made during my entire stay. We weaved through small villages and up along winding mountain roads; through unimaginable jungle valleys carved into rice terraces; much of this while the sun was setting over it all.

We relied heavily on the kindness of strangers. Every time we came to a fork in the road and stopped, a local person would approach us and ask where we wanted to go, and point us in the right direction. Sometimes they'd say "follow me!" and lead us out of the maze.

It was a great experience for me and galvanized my appreciation for the Balinese people and their lovely home.

Terima Kasih to the Balinese, my new favorite people.

Gili

2011-02-14T19:11:00.000-08:00

There is really no way I'd ever come to Southeast Asia and not find a nice warm beach to sink into.

I had heard from some friends that the Gili Islands, just off the coast of Lombok, are lovely and they had a backpacker brand of life that went on there. It sounded right up my ally.

So, although I was enjoying Bali, I needed to take my pilgrimage. I didn't know how long I would want to stay there, so I left Bali after only four days just so I was sure to have enough time on the beach. I'd return when I was sufficiently relaxed and golden brown.

Prices vary widely here. Negotiation is always necessary for just about everything. And transport is no exception.

Chad told me that he got a round trip from Ubud to Gili Trawangan on a fast boat for about 550,000 rupiah (about $60 USD). But when I asked around, travel agents kept saying, "you mean for one way?"

I managed to find a guy that would do the round trip for that much, but I had to wait to buy the ticket because the sea was rough from a storm the night before. But it calmed down, and at 7 am the next morning the van picked me up in front of Wardani's and zoomed a group of us down the mountain to the boat dock.

When I saw the boat, I suddenly remembered that I get sea sick, and that I didn't bring any Dramamine. The boat was smaller than I thought, and everyone had to sit down below.

Luckily, when I boarded, I sat down next to Helen, a nice young woman from Holland. More important than her origin though, was that she had extra Dramamine.

The boat ride was actually pretty smooth anyway and I managed to keep conversation and not fall dead asleep like I usually do with those pills.

After an hour or so, the boat rode right up on the sandy shore of Trawangan and we hopped down into the water up to our knees and wandered toward town through a forest of touts shouting "You need room?" Sometimes touts might take you to a nice place, but it's generally a better idea to walk a bit away from the place you get dropped off and find your own place.

After checking out a few, Helen and I found neighboring bungalows that seemed pretty nice for about $15 USD. They weren't air conditioned and didn't have hot water, but were otherwise pretty comfortable. Large, with private bathroom, fan, nice bed, and a front porch. The proprietor of the establishment, Easy Bungalows (about 500 meters east of the harbor), was true to his business name. Very mellow. Friendly. No frills. No hassles. He also seemed to run the miniature bar, Gili Boy, on the beach across the road, attached to a big tree with a hammock swinging next to it.

Trawangan has no motorized vehicles. No cars, trucks, or motorbikes. Nothing. It's refreshing to be free of the noise and smell of all that. Instead, folks walk or ride bicycles. And if you need to move some gear or a few friends, they have cidomos, tiny horse drawn taxis powered by ornate little ponies with sleigh bells attached to them. They don't have to honk to clear the way. You can hear them coming by the sound of Santa's eight tiny reindeer. "Ching, ching, ching, ching!"

After dropping my bags, I told Helen I'd meet her for dinner and took a stroll to see what the west end of the two kilometer island looked like. It got more and more beautiful as I got just outside town, with it's natural coral white sand and pretty blue water. The sun was starting to set and it made me want to stay out there, but I saw some dark clouds and heard some thunder so I figured I'd walk back toward home. But I wasn't too worried. I figured since the wind was blowing the other direction, the storm probably wasn't going to hit the island.

I was wrong.

I walked back to within a few minutes of my bungalow, and it hit. Like someone turned on a giant shower nozzle to full power, the rain sent everyone heading for cover. I ducked into a small store. I hadn't properly prepared for this. I didn't have my waterproof rain jacket with me, and I had a cloth backpack full of electronic stuff.

As I sat there for minute trying to figure out what my next move was, three local teenagers ran out into the sand road in front of me in their swim trunks holding bars of soap. They laughed and danced and soaped up their bodies and hair, happy to have the free shower. Smart.

The shop owner gave me a little plastic bag. I put my camera and phone in it, pulled off my shirt and flip flops, and stuffed it all in my pack, tucked it all under my arm, and ran for it. It was tougher than I thought. The water in the road was almost to my knee and I wasn't super sure where I lived. I had only seen it once after all. And the world all looked different now.

As I ran, I thought, maybe this beach vacation wasn't such a great idea after all. This rainy season business is for the birds (or fish?). But I made it to my place and peeled off my soaked-through shorts. I only had one other pair, and I knew this pair would take at least a day or two to dry.

Later I found the much smarter Helen who had taken shelter in a place with food and beer along with some friendly Spanish guys. Now that the rain had stopped, we got a chance to see what goes on here at night.

Even without motor vehicles, Trawangan isn't super quiet. It's bustling with people along the main beach-side road and at night it starts to pick up. Roadside restaurants and bars actively recruit customers and a few live music and dance spots begin to come alive.

I'd say the population is largely early twenties European and Australian folks and the businesses here cater to that demographic.

Drugs are hyper illegal in Indonesia, but for some reason here "magic mushroom shakes" are abundant and openly advertised, and since the Gilis are also devoid of any police, people seem generally less worried about real world laws.

Unfortunately for me, an avid vodka drinker, foreign liquor is outrageously expensive in Indonesia. A bottle of Absolut vodka is about $80 USD. That was a blow to discover, and rendered me practically Amish for the month since beer doesn't really agree with me all that well, and the cocktails with local booze are pretty watered down. Ah well. Probably better for me anyway.

The food here ranges from good to very good. They have traditional dishes like Nasi Goreng, western food, and best of all - super fresh seafood. I decided Scallywags was the best place I ate while on the island. Great selection of fresh seafood, nicely prepared. The funny thing about pricing here is that good food isn't priced much more than the mediocre. We ate one night at The Trawangan Resort, a brand new first class hotel at the far west end, and had a delicious tuna steak for about $5, about the same price as a similar dish I had at a mid range warung run by teenagers.

The next couple days were spent exploring the island by bicycle and searching for the perfect spot to sun and swim. The island can be completely circumnavigated on a bike in about 2 hours, and that includes walking it half the time because the sand is too deep.

The sunbathing actually proved a bit more complicated. It turns out throwing a towel down on the sand is a poor plan. Little sand flies pecked at my feet the first day and left me itchy and polka-dotted from the ankle down where I had been in contact with the sand.

Lounge chairs and shaded cabanas solved that problem, but the owners of said furniture fully expect you to patronize their establishments if you use them. A smoothie or beer will generally appease them for awhile, but it adds up.

And since you're near the equator here, shade is key. The sun can be brutal at mid day. One day on an organized snorkel trip, I made the rookie mistake of applying sunblock everywhere but my back - forgetting that the position one is in during snorkel makes one's back closely resemble a solar panel to the mid day sun. So after dropping that ball, I had a crispy sunburn that required careful sun management for next few days.

But the sun redeems itself each day on the far west beach by providing, by far, my favorite part of Trawangan - sunset. As the sun gets low, a healthy number of folks walks, bikes, or carriages out to a lone beach bar that plays music and serves drinks while folks pull up their chairs for the day's drive in movie. Somehow at that time of day, the water and the sky blend to precisely the same color. You can't tell where one ends and the other begins. The only clue is the occasional shadow from a small wave breaking on a distant reef. I have never seen anything like it. It's a lovely daily island ritual.

But don't wait too long after sunset to scurry to town or the mosquitoes will surely find you.

My favorite spot to go after a bite was the Sama Sama bar, a pub and live music venue. Every night the house band would serve up classic reggae and pop favorites with a rotating roster of surprisingly solid singers and musicians. It was one of those centers of town where both locals and visitors came to have a good time and socialize.

Trawangan is one of three Gili islands, and Gili Meno, one of the others, is so close it seems like you could swim to it. But the locals warn against it.

I read that the other islands are quieter. I wanted to see what they were like.

During the sunburn snorkel trip, we stopped for lunch on Gili Air. "Air" means water in Indonesian. Go figure. I took the opportunity to have a self-guided tour of the island to see if it was a place I might like to relocate.

I walked along a good portion of the coast checking out the accommodations, the crowd, and the beach. It was certainly quieter than Trawangan, but there were a number of places to hang out, so it seemed suitable in that way. But the beach was barely present. The water lapped right up to concrete steps or retaining walls in most spots. So I wasn't moved.... to move.

So after five enjoyable days in the Gilis, accruing sufficient sun damage and bug bites, I decided to head back to Bali to explore that island some more.

I considered trying to find some Dramamine for the ride home, but considering the ride was so smooth on the way in and the likely mark up on such an item would be heavy, I decided against it.

Big mistake.

The ride home was not smooth. The swells in the open sea on the way back were tremendous. The boat rocked side to side and forward and back. The fast boat hopped white caps, caught air, and slammed back down for a solid forty minutes. Luckily while boarding I had made a bee line for the seat near an open window. I was able to focus on the horizon and imagine that I was riding a motorcycle over some pleasant grassy hills. I knew if I lost focus, I would lose more than that. A girl two seats ahead of me confirmed that and filled a couple of plastic bags to prove it. It worked though. Although I wasn't comfortable at all, I did somehow, miraculously manage to avoid getting very nauseous. But boy was I glad to reach land again.

I hoped my Puffy villa was still available. I asked the driver to drop me at Wardani's, and sure enough, my villa was available for me. I negotiated a better rate than my previous stay, dropped my bags, and jumped in the pool.

I felt grateful to be back home in Ubud.

Ubud

2011-02-06T19:46:00.000-08:00

Nyoman drove Chad and I up the windy, chaotic jungle road, teaming with motorbikes and small cars - none of whom seem too interested in western-style rules of the road. During the hour plus drive from the airport in Denpasar to Ubud, I tried not to let my eyes bug out too wide, or white knuckle the seats too hard. I knew I'd eventually get used to the flow of traffic, and I knew Nyoman was a pro. I just focused on conversation best I could.

Chad has been living in Ubud for a couple of months now. His girlfriend Cara has been coming here for years to design and manufacture women's clothing and jewelry. Bali has an abundance of skilled tailors, and Ubud is a relaxing and relatively inexpensive place to focus on a creative business.

Chad came out with her this year and took this opportunity to try his hand at some creative endeavors of his own during their four month stay.

They have a community of friends in the area, and Chad began to rattle off everything that was going on in town in the coming days. I never imagined having a social schedule out here. It's a little like being at home.

A few days before I arrived, Chad had told me he found a nice place in town I might like to stay. At 300,000 Rupiah per night (about $30 USD), it was a bit steep for my budget, but made for a nice soft landing without having to trudge around in the heat looking for a place. So I asked him to book two nights.

I was glad I did, because I kind of fell in love with the place as soon as we arrived. It is one of two brand new small villas behind the Wardani's restaurant in the middle of downtown Ubud. But even though it is downtown, it opens onto a couple acres of traditional rice paddies with a jungle river behind it. It's stylish with Balinese handmade wooden furniture including a comfy outdoor setee over a private wading pool.

It was much more than I expected. When I'm in Southeast Asia, I'm accustomed to far more basic accomodation. But I certainly didn't mind living like Puff Daddy for a couple days at least.

The next few days I got my proverbial feet wet on the island. Many visitors to Bali choose towns like Kuta Beach or Seminyak. I had heard that these places were a little too spring break for my taste. Ubud, although still overrun with tourists, is the arts and cultural center of Bali, and about an hour inland from the beach. That itself is a departure for me since I'm a bit of a beachcomber by nature.

Even Ubud was bigger and busier than I expected, at least a few square miles. The roads are tiny and lined with boutique after art gallery after dance theatre. Although tiny, the roads are also packed with too-big-for-town tour buses, motorbikes, vans, and taxis. The traffic during the day can be maddening, but for only about $3-5 per day, you can rent a motorbike and weave through it pretty easily.

I tried to do a walk around town one day to check out the shops, but the heat and humidity made that a one-day-only endeavor. Now I see why the villa has a wading pool. You have to wash that sweat off at least three times a day or be unfit for human companionship.

The first evening in town I had two other firsts. After eating a nice fish dinner with some of my new found friends, the sky opened up and I saw what the rainy season in Bali is all about. First a couple of drizzle drops, then a couple bigger drops, and within a few seconds, buckets of rain make you grateful that you have comfortable shelter. Next first? Cara asked me to ride her motorbike back to my villa in the rain so she could ride with Chad to a late-night party I was far too jet lagged to attend. I had only ridden a bike like this once before about three years ago, and it was daytime, and dry, with sparse traffic. But I made it. And it gave me the confidence to rent one for myself.

Honestly, I didn't know it was rainy season when I made plans to come here. With powerful geographical ignorance, I made the laughable assumption that, since Bali is close to South Thailand, it must be sunny and beautiful during February. But it's not really that close. It's at least a three hour plane ride. That's further than Seattle is from Los Angeles. And those climates aren't remotely similar. It was only when I checked the weather when I was packing for my trip that I realized how much rain I might be in for.

It actually didn't turn out to be a big deal though. Each day would generally start out pretty sunny, and then cloud up later in the afternoon. Every couple of days there would be an hour of hard rain and then it would be over for the day. It's the reason this place is so green and lush and beautiful. It's part of the personality of the place - like the fog in San Francisco.

I could do without the traffic and the constant touting of taxi drivers. You can't really walk fifty yards without hearing "Taxi Boss?" But aside from that, this town has a really nice hospitable energy. The locals take great pride, not only in the tourist areas, but also in their own homes and villages. Even the lower income areas are nicely kept and landscaped. Twice a day, everyone lays out cute little flowery offerings and incense around their homes and even in the roads. The culture is present and true, even among the distraction of all the foreigners in their town.

It's peaceful and warm. I think I'll like it here.

Layover

2011-02-05T20:49:00.000-08:00

I have been curious about Indonesia for a couple of years now. Sometimes when I would speak of Thailand, folks would say "yes, but you should see Bali."

It had been knocking around on my checklist of places to go, just waiting for a sign that I should pull the trigger.

Then late last year, my friend Chad told me he'd be living in Ubud, Bali for a few months. Another friend, Lilian had also told me that she really loved Ubud.

That was sign enough for me.

Having a friend in a far off place, especially one that knows his way around always makes a huge difference when traveling in a far-off place.

At Chad's going away party in San Francisco, I told him to expect a visit from me in February. I wasn't sure he entirely believed me. But I was sure.

I had some trouble choosing a flight. I had to juggle price, itinerary, comfort, and the ability to use a big bundle of flier miles. I ended up choosing Singapore Airlines, mainly by prioritizing flier miles and comfort. Since they are in my United program, I should be able to get close to a free international flight by combining miles from this trip and opening a new United credit card account.

For that, however, I really compromised on itinerary. This trip would have two stops and take 27 hours. One stop in Seoul, Korea, and another eight hour stop in Singapore. I had heard Singapore Airport is a great one for a long layover. They have places to sleep, shower, watch free movies, etc. I even heard they give bus tours around Singapore for people with long layovers without having to clear immigration. But I'd be there in the middle of the night, so that didn't seem likely for me.

So after sixteen hours of traveling, I was set free inside the Singapore airport around midnight.

I hoped to find a nice place to take a good solid nap. But I had two problems. 1) Since it was afternoon SF time, I wasn't remotely sleepy even though I hadn't slept much on the plane, and 2) I hadn't made any reservation in the airport's transit hotel.

So I set out to explore this layover wonderland I had heard so much about.

There was no wonderland. Only a creepy, deserted, giant airport terminal. It kind of reminded me of The Shining with its exquisite, long empty corridors.

There were a few people scattered about trying to sleep with coats over their heads in airport chairs. But I heard there were couches, so I set out to find one.

I found a nice quiet area with lounge chairs and plopped down on one, but soon realized I had a problem. My phone's battery was almost dead, so I didn't trust its alarm would wake me up to catch my flight. So now I needed a chair near an outlet.

I probably walked two or three miles, circling around nooks and crannies, trying to plug my phone into different jacks. I had an adapter for Indonesia, but not for Singapore. Ugh.

I could only find good outlets at laptop counters. So since I wasn't tired anyway, I decided to plug in and read for an hour and then go back to the lounge to nap.

After an hour I still had another task to accomplish though. Chad had requested a bottle of tequila since liquor is very expensive in Bali and I was allowed to enter the country with one liter of alcohol. I intended to buy a duty free bottle and carry it on the final leg of my flight. But the duty free shop said I should buy it from the same terminal as my flight. And, sorry, but the train for the other terminal is shut down until 5 am.

By now it was 3 am. I walked by the free movie theater and took a seat hoping to get sleepy. They were showing Flying High starring George Clooney. It was going fine until the movie kept skipping backward 30 minutes and showing the same part over again.

Oh well. It was 5, so I took the train to my terminal, bought some tequila, and re-settled there. No real sleep but thankful to be done moving around.

The aiport began to revive, and became the bustling place you'd expect. I closed my eyes for a an hour or so, but still couldn't sleep.

After the two hours, the flight landed at the airport in Denpasar, Bali, I cleared immigration, and got my pack.

Chad had told me he'd have a driver pick me up and he'd have a sign with my name. There were sign people all over the airport, so I was a little nervous leaving the building since I might have passed him inside. Outside there were tons of signs. I walked by the line of people, squinting at each small sign.

Then I heard, "Miles!"

There was Chad and the driver, Nyoman. Quite a welcome sight.

After a big hug and my apology for being a zombie, Chad bought a couple of beers at the airport curbside bar (yes curbside), and we walked to the car.

I asked, "Is this ok? Driving around with beers?"

He said, "This is Indonesia, man!"

Oahu

2011-02-03T01:33:00.000-08:00

It has been over ten years since I've been to Hawaii. All three times were in the 90's and all three times I was in Maui. Twice with my ex-wife, Michelle, once on our honeymoon, and once with my good friends Jim and Pam for the Y2K new year.

When I think of those times in Maui, I always remember how nice it smelled. Some kind of blossom. I never really figured out which one. The weather always seems to be nice and warm. It rains a bit, but the sun always seems to come out and make a nice day out of it.

For this travel break I wanted to go somewhere Erin could come along. Since she just started a new job, she only had about a week to spare for the break.

Our friend Jamie's dad, Jim, lives in Oahu. He owns and operates the Sunshine Arts Gallery in Kaneohe on the windward side of the island. He also has a vacation house a few miles north that he rents to visitors. Last time he was in San Francisco, he offered to let Erin stay there if she ever made it out.

So we made it out.

Honolulu is a cheap and relatively quick five hour flight from San Francisco. All we'd need is a rental car for the week. Looking online for a car, all we could focus on is "what's the cheapest we can get?" My advice is: don't do that. Go with a car company you have had good experience with in the past. We went with Advantage where the drill is: Their shuttle picks you up and takes you away from the airport to their lot, then you find out the insurance they quoted online only covers pencils and pens, not actual cars. The actual insurance combined with the taxes and fees they didn't mention online approximately double the original quote. Now that you're off in BFE, the notion of even trying to get to another company to get another quote feels difficult, even futile. So you give in.

Somehow we remained nice enough throughout the fleecing for them to offer us a Mustang convertible at no "extra" charge. They must have felt sorry for me and my non existent negotiation skills. But I was stoked for the drop top.

We were starving, so I asked the girl at the counter what she liked to eat around there. She gave us the best culinary tip we got all week. Nico's at Pier 38 in Honolulu. They serve up a mean slab of fresh caught fish. I had the Furikake Pan Seared Ahi with Ginger Garlic Cilantro Sauce. My goodness that was delicious.

After a top-down cruise through downtown Honolulu, and a brief stop at Waikiki beach, we decided to head out of Dodge and search for our host's gallery across the island. Once you get out of the city in Oahu, you're in the country. Jim's gallery is on the side of the highway all by itself. The colorful yellow muraled building was hard to miss.

We arrived just before sunset and got the quick tour of the joint. There are lots of nice island style paintings and photos for sale. But they are also a major framing operation, which seemed to be a big focus for everyone.

Jim had told us the week before that the house was rented the first night we got there, but free the rest of the week. We could stay in a room above the gallery the first night. It was a room filled with paintings along with a futon and a fridge. That worked out just fine.

We felt lucky to have the house to ourselves the rest of the week, where we could cook and relax in style. And that we did.

The house is a few miles north in Ka'a'awa across the road from the shore and is fully equipped with kayak, boogie boards, snorkel equipment, beach chairs. Pretty much everything you'd ever want. Jim was happy to let us use the place. All he asked is that we helped with a few chores to get the place ready for the next renters. I'd say that was a pretty good deal.

It was sure a good thing we had a car though. Because Ka'a'awa ain't near much.

Luckily, Oahu ain't that big. Nothing is more than an hour away really.

I had a feeling that the North Shore was going to be the place to check out, since it's known for its world class surfing. And I tend to like surfing towns.

Pupukea was only about fifteen minutes drive and is home to the Banzai Pipeline, a seemingly endless beach of perfect 10-15 foot tubular curled waves. The stuff really good surfers drool over.

We lucked out, and wandered into the Volcom Pipeline Pro surfing competition that was being televised live. Maybe if you watch some of the footage, you'll see Erin and I spectating from the beach.

The rest of the week we spent trying on different beaches for the best fit, occasionally rolling out a boogie board or a kayak to shake things up.

We enjoyed Waimea beach, which lies at the mouth of a river valley historically populated by the island's original inhabitants. The inland part of the valley is a preserve which offers tours and is home to a flock of awesome (and kind of fearless) peacocks.

Although the best sunsets are probably seen from Waikiki, Turtle Bay Resort was our favorite place to sip a Mai Tai and watch the sun go down. $4 happy hour beers and free validated parking. No too shabby.

Hawaii is pretty expensive by and large, and isn't chock full of fantastic dining. I was hoping for lots of fresh seafood joints, but I wasn't impressed by any place after Nico's, and wasn't going to throw down big bucks for resort style dining.

So we did most of our own cooking and made a number of stops at Foodland, the local supermarket chain. They do have some solid deals in their deli. A big bowl of tuna poke with rice for $5. We saved a fair amount of dough by getting a club card there also. You just have to give them your phone number and you're a member.

One interesting note though. There is a Foodland in Laie which seems to be a Mormon town. There is a BYU campus there. We found out the hard way that they don't sell any beer, wine, or liquor in that town, nor are they open on Sunday.

Now that's devout.

Oahu is great place for surfing and for hanging out on the beach. Without the generous accommodations, however, I'd probably be more likely to spend a bit more for a flight to get to an equally pleasant but much cheaper country.

But this week it worked out well for us.

Thanks to Jim for making our stay so welcome and comfortable.

Festival

2010-07-28T10:00:00.000-07:00

During my previous stay in Seattle, I had bought tickets for two days of the Capitol Hill Block Party, a three day, four stage music festival in the streets of downtown Seattle. Friday was already sold out.

Music festivals are always a pleasant way to spend a few summer days, and the day after the event Erin was scheduled to fly in to meet me.

I couldn't afford another $150 per night motel stay, so I figured I was going to do some serious urban camping for the weekend.

But on my way back from Orcas I got some good news from Erin. It turns out some folks we know, Mike and Sarah, who moved from San Francisco to Seattle had offered up their Wallingford townhouse for us to stay in, and I was welcome to come and stay ahead of Erin's arrival. For some reason, I mistakenly thought they lived in a far flung suburb, so I never considered staying with them before.

To compliment that windfall, Mike also pulled some strings and got me a ticket for the otherwise sold out Friday shows. Things were shaping up nicely.

They weren't going to be home when I rolled into town, so they left a key for me under the mat.

I managed to find their neighborhood, but got turned around and almost knocked on the door of a house with the same address on the wrong street. So when I did find their townhouse, I was a little bit sheepish about just waltzing inside.

After a few hello, hello's, it seemed clear no one was home. I went upstairs and immediately recognized some art they had bought from Erin's restaurant, so I knew I was in the right place.

Whew.

Something else I noticed about their neighborhood... It was lovely. The houses dotting the shady street seemed to be built around the 1920's. One and two story single families with walk up porches and little grassy driveways that headed toward the back yard. After looking at a few real estate fliers over the past weeks, it seemed like home prices here were a good $200,000 below what they would be in San Francisco. They are still not cheap, but down into the realm of realistic.

This is the first time I had felt that I was in a city that I could both enjoy and afford (real estate-wise) at the same time. It was a new feeling.

Of course... there's the weather.

I have been getting a completely false impression of Seattle weather during my multiple stays. Every single day has been sunny and hot - generally in the low to mid 80's. All the Seattleites have been walking around in a euphoric daze shaking their heads at how nice the weather is. Clearly, I'm getting a skewed impression. Nevertheless, I like it.

After poking around on Google Maps' public transit feature, I was able to navigate the city bus system down to Capitol Hill to meet Mike and his friends within about thirty minutes.

I didn't recognize most of the bands on the bill except for MGMT, Atmosphere, and The Dead Weather. I was looking forward to hearing some new music. Luckily, Mike and his friends were pretty dialed in to the music scene and pulled me around to some good acts.

Here were some of my favorites:

Victor Shade aka RA Scion - Absolutely awesome MC. To me he sounds a lot like Zach de la Rocha from Rage Against the Machine only with more of an old school hip hop feel.
Head Like a Kite - Hipster producer Dave Enimo collaborates with a variety of artists to put out well-crafted Broken Soul / Hip Hop / Electro tracks. Some of those artists joined him on the Neumos stage.
Atmosphere - Always high quality hip hop.
Night Marchers - They sounded like punk to me, but their Myspace page lists them as Rock / Afro beat / Concrete. Maybe that's a joke. The lead singer looked like he walked right out of the suburbs of San Diego, which was in contrast their hard sound, but they had the tightest performance of any other band I heard.

Another popular attraction at the fair were the ever-present "street meat" sausage vendors. These guys are on the corners outside the bars in the neighborhood every night of the week, and they were slinging more dogs than ever for the special event. I had my fair share for sure. The traditional fixup in Seattle is a polish sausage with grilled onions and cream cheese. I have never heard of cream cheese on a sausage, but people sure did seem to love it.

The security staff seemed to have a rough time. Not because of the crowd. They were pleasant for the most part. But because of all the crazy rules they were required to enforce. There was a bit of a rat maze that one had to navigate to get from alcohol to non-alcohol areas of the event, and from indoor events to outdoor events. By the last day, the rules seemed to have gotten more strict and the staff seemed tired of debating with attendees about the rationale for all of them.

On the last night, after the final show we saw at Neumos, we strolled out the exit door where workmen were packing up the outdoor part of the event, and the street meat vendor was still hard at work. I said, "It smells like wieners out here!" The security guard laughed out loud. Hopefully I cheered him up a little.

I might make a tradition of this annual festival. Good times.

In between concert days, I got to take advantage of the warm weather. Believe it or not, Seattle has a proper beach called Golden Gardens near Ballard. It comes complete with sand, ice cream vendors, and boats that sail right up to shore. I imagine it's pretty vacant most of the year. But when it's 85 degrees, even on a weekday, the parking lot is full and white-skinned sun worshipers abound. I plopped down to join them for a bit.

Ballard also has locks, those cool water elevators for boats. Apparently the lakes around the city are controlled by dams, so the water level of the lakes is slightly higher than the Puget Sound. It's fun to watch boats (and even kayaks) sail into the locks, then float up to lake level to be set free. Only a few steps away is the fish ladder. Boats aren't the only things that need a lift. Salmon swimming upstream to spawn also need some help, so the city built a neighboring water staircase so the salmon can hop back up to their spawning grounds in the lake. It seemed like such a modern day environmentalist idea. But the ladder was actually built in 1917.

While I was in Ballard, I made it a point to stop into that guitar shop I had seen on my last visit. I walked in, and Robb the owner was in there alone plucking out an impressive folksy solo. I smiled and took a lap around the store looking for something in my price range. It was clear many of them weren't - many of them over a thousand dollars. When he finished his song, I explained to him that I was a beginner, but that I'd like a decent instrument to practice on without spending too much. He spent about an hour with me talking about guitars and what might work. He showed me one he thought was appropriate and offered to re-string and adjust it for me. It would be even better than it was from the factory. I knew that if I was to buy an instrument, I'd like for it to be from someone like Robb. He lives and breathes fine guitars and knows as much as anyone I'd ever have access to. He clearly wouldn't deliver an instrument he wasn't proud of. He is also an avid outdoorsman and we chatted about my trip and places I might visit after leaving Seattle. He scribbled a map of some mountains near Crater Lake we might like to explore. I bought the guitar, thanked him and headed off feeling like my mission was accomplished. Now all I need to do is learn how to play it properly.

The next morning, Erin flew in to meet me and drive the final week of my trip with me. We spent next two days retracing some of my steps. I wanted to show her the places I thought she'd love, like Fremont Vintage Mall, an awesome second hand store full of fantastic treasures. I was right. She loved it.

We also got to spend some quality time with Mike and Sarah who showed us their favorite neighborhood spots, The Latona in Green Lake and Ivar's Salmon House, a great place to eat on a nice day right on Lake Union. They have a dock at the restaurant, and a steady stream of boats floated in and tied up to have a bite or a happy hour drink.

In between our sunny walks by the lake in Fremont and lunch at Pike Place Market, we managed to outline a plan for our travel over the next week. We'd head for Columbia Gorge in northern Oregon and then Crater Lake in the south, before heading toward the redwood forests or possibly the Rogue River valley.

The morning we left Seattle, it was finally overcast and gloomy. I was glad I got to see the city in its natural and usual state, and also glad it was only for a few hours.

Southward, Rusty.

Orcas

2010-07-22T19:00:00.000-07:00

I was back on the road once again destined for Orcas Island with no specific plan as to where I would stay. Somehow I procrastinated this little detail once again.

It's only about an hour and a half from Seattle to Anacortes, the jumping off point to take the ferry to the island.

I heard that there are no reservations needed for the ferry, but that you should get there about ninety minutes before departure to secure a spot for your car on the boat. So that doubles the travel time, really.

I used that downtime to check the island for campgrounds and to see if I could make a reservation. I noted that Moran State Park wasn't sold out, but I figured I'd toot around and then end up there if I didn't see anything else.

I have never driven a car onto a ferry before so this was a new one for me. I liked watching how they load cars on strategically since the ferry makes more than one stop.

I couldn't help but be a little nervous that this would be a horrible time for Rusty to break down. I crossed my fingers that she wouldn't give me another "click" when it was time to drive off.

But she didn't. After an hour or so of cruising, about forty cars rolled off the boat and onto the island.

I guess I expected to see a town greeting me. It was really just the ferry port and a couple of food and trinket vendors. Someone directing traffic just sent us all off onto the little highway that circles the island. I sure was glad I had my car for this trip. If you don't have a car or a serious road bike, you're kind of stranded. This was really the country.

I drove and drove along the highway hoping to see something hospitable. There are lots of little ranches and roads winding off into pretty meadows, but nothing resembling accommodations for visitors.

After about twenty minutes on the highway I saw a sign pointing to some visitor information. I stopped at a big weathered wooden sign with a simple map of the island just showing dots for the three towns. The little box attached which promised more information contained exactly one dirty diaper.

So I kept driving.

I got to Moran State Park and it was getting late so I decided to snag a campsite. The girl at the booth said they had three left and only a few for tomorrow. I knew I was staying two days so I reserved both nights, happy once again that I'd have at least one day off from home searching.

Moran State Park is lovely. The campground stretches around a calm picturesque lake with a couple of cute little docks for paddle boating or kayaking. Part of the park is reserved for Camp Moran, a classic overnight camp for groups of kids or adults with bunks and kitchens and its own private area of the lake. One night I actually heard a crew of kids off in the distance belting out some camp songs. I felt like I had traveled back in time about thirty years when people really still did stuff like this.

I settled in and cooked myself one of my Trader Joe's Indian food packets - I like the blue ones - and cracked open a beer. I picked up Michael's hot springs book just to see if there happened to be anything around these parts.

Miraculously, besides the springs I had already visited in Olympic park, there was one other listed in the northwest part of Washington.

And it was on Orcas Island!

What a great coincidence. I probably should have checked this before I picked an island. But I totally lucked out. They aren't natural, they are part of a commercial resort, but I'd go looking for it the next day.

The next morning while I was doing some writing inside the van, I heard some young teens arguing outside my campsite about the meaning of the word "ghetto". I wrote it off as inane chatter, but soon realized that they were probably referring to Rusty. They were right. Rusty is ghetto. She actually has a pair of cotton Dockers patching a hole in her pop top canvas. But she was definitely the coolest thing in that campground, Dockers and all. I remembered what it was like to be a teen and envying the wrong things.

Before heading to the hot springs, I took a detour up Mount Constitution to the lookout tower built by a conservation corps in the 30's. It looks out over all the surrounding islands and off into Canada.

It also contained a mini museum that gave a brief history of Robert Moran, the park's founder. I was intrigued to learn that he moved to Seattle from New York penniless, started a ship building company, and eventually became the mayor of Seattle. After that his shipbuilding company became so large, they actually built the USS Nebraska, the flagship of the US Navy in World War I.

Moran was so stressed by the job that, at the age of 47 , he developed a severe heart condition and had to quit the company. He wasn't expected to live more than a few years, so he moved out to Rosario, a house he had built on this island to spend his last days.

But he didn't die. The calm of the island cured him. And he lived another forty years.

He tried for years to donate his land on the island to the State of Washington, but they had no concept of land conservation at the time. It wasn't until the 30's when the national park system took off that he was able to convince Washington to create a state park with his land.

The whole story brought an extra dimension to the island for me.

From there I set out to find Doe Bay Resort & Retreat, the home of these hot spring pools I read about.

The resort is in the town of Olga, which reminds me of Bolinas, only more sparse. The kind of place the "real" hippies scooted off to when they gave up on the rest of society. It's a journey to get there. But it's relaxed, rural, and peaceful, with a bit of a sense of humor. A sign along the road reads, "You are now entering the O zone."

The Doe Bay resort fits that mold quite well. It's super relaxed. It's a WWOOF site, where volunteers can work for their room and board. They serve food from their organic garden in their restaurant. The rates for guests are not cheap though. I found out I could camp on their grounds, but it would cost $55 - more than double what I was paying for the state park. The pools, however, are cheap to use. $15 for half a day. For that, you get use of their dry sauna and three soaking pools, which are quite pleasant, but far from natural. I think they even chlorinate them. Still the best $15 you can spend in the area, I imagine.

I had a good time there chatting with folks that worked there and others that had been long time visitors. It's that kind of place that people come back to again and again and bring their friends and family.

I might just do that myself someday.

Breather

2010-07-21T11:00:00.000-07:00

I am in love with San Francisco, but I have a crush on Seattle.

I've been poking around the wilderness for awhile now. I am starting to miss relaxed city life a little. When you're traveling, you can get kind of torn whether to keep on pushing forward and seeing new places... or whether to relax and enjoy the places you really like.

The two plus days I spent in Seattle with Darren were great, but didn't feel like nearly enough. I enjoyed the people and the neighborhoods and I wanted to feel it out some more.

Although I initially set out to explore British Columbia much deeper, I also gave myself permission to skip it if I was having a good time somewhere else. I needed a rest from the daily grind of moving from place to place, and I wanted to relax somewhere I knew I'd enjoy. I had completed my big loop around Olympic National Park, so I headed back to Seattle for a breather.

I had a choice to make about accommodations. I could probably find a nice creepy parking lot or industrial neighborhood to hide in at night for free. Or I could go in style and spring for a motel. It seemed almost like cheating on Rusty to do so, but after a couple of weeks alternating between wilderness and pseudo urban homelessness, I was ready for a soft bed and a shower of my very own. So I got on Priceline and booked myself a two night Travelodge fantasy vacation.

Since I already wrote about the city before, I won't blather on about day to day movements. But I will breakdown the highlights of my stay.

Paseo - One day I rode my bike a surprisingly long way to the nearest laundromat to repair my road funky clothing. While walking up the final block along Fremont Street, my nose caught wind of what I later learned is a town gem. My spider sense also noted the giant midweek lunchtime line in a quiet residential neighborhood. I suspected something special. This little neighborhood food stand cooks up Caribbean and Cuban goodness. Their specialty is a grilled pork sandwich dripping with aioli and smothered in caramelized onions and pickled jalapenos. It would be a grave mistake to try and eat one without a healthy stack of napkins nearby. But it is every bit as delicious as it sounds.

Alissa - Thanks to the magic of Facebook, it came to my attention that my friend Alissa happened to be in Seattle on business one of the days I was there, but we only had about two hours to try and meet up before she left town. So I biked downtown and met her and her coworkers for happy hour. I learned that she had a new job working for a non profit called Code for America. One of her coworkers who came strolling in was none other than Tim O'Reilly, a profoundly high ranking nerd hero for those of us in the tech world. Tim, who sits on the board for the company, is far from a nerd himself, however. He was very friendly and hung out with us until it was soon time to leave. It was an unexpected and fleeting brush with greatness.

The Tractor - I was somewhat indecisive about whether to see Antibales at Neumos or Jesca Hoop at the Tractor Tavern one Tuesday night. It came down to weather I was in the mood for a wild dance party or a more intimate acoustic evening. I had already been to Neumos and heard good things about The Tractor. After a long hot day of biking around town, I opted for the latter. The Tractor is in the Ballard neighborhood, on a lovely strip roughly similar to Hayes or Noe Valleys in San Francisco. I grabbed a bite nearby at a marvelous, authentic Mexican restaurant called La Carta de Oaxaca. Great vibe and fantastic food. While walking down Ballard Avenue toward the venue, I was mesmerized by a beautiful acoustic guitar shop which was sadly closed for the night. For some reason, before I left on this trip, I had a vague premonition that I was going to buy a guitar in Seattle. I knew I needed to return to this place another day.

The show started later than I expected, so I actually caught both opening acts as well.

Kaylee Cole - A young town-hipster with some real talent happy to have a break to play a good venue. She came with nicely written songs and was charming and comfortable on stage. I got to chat with her for awhile after her set and let her know how much I enjoyed her music.
Blake Mills - He was really Jessica Hoop's backup guitar and vocalist, but had an album of his own and has some serious guitar skills. I wanted to buy his CD, but he only sold cassette tapes. How tragically hip. I scoffed and passed on it, but regretted it later on when I realized that the boom box I carry in Rusty actually has a tape player.
Jesca Hoop - She has an interesting background, including nannying for Tom Waits before her career started. She and Blake paired up with their acoustic guitars and mounted their two stools on stage. I was blown away by the performance and also by how empty the venue was for their show. She somehow balances a happy go lucky personality with that of a total perfectionist. She is soulful, funny, cute, and a fantastic performer. Go see her if you ever have the chance. It's rare these days since she lives in England now.

Erin was scheduled to fly in to Seattle to finish out the road trip with me in about a week. I had a few days to kill in the vicinity and was thinking about hitting the San Juan Islands. But I wasn't too sure which island to choose. You have to take a ferry to each individual island, so I really needed to pick just one of them to visit.

I was chatting with a friendly guy in a cool little coffee shop in Fremont. After talking with me for a bit, he decided that I would probably like Orcas Island the best. He also suggested that I return for the Capitol Hill Block Party, a three day music festival in the streets of downtown Seattle. I didn't recognize most of the artists on the bill (either because the bands were mostly local or because I'm mostly out of touch with popular music lately), but the dates were just before Erin was to arrive to meet me.

I took his advice. I bought tickets for the show and did some research on Orcas Island. I had a few days to kill before the music festival. It would work out just right.

Orcas, here I come.

Victoria

2010-07-18T14:00:00.000-07:00

In the morning, I found myself in Port Angeles with no real plan to speak of.

The town is one of the ports for ferry travel to Victoria, British Columbia. I hadn't really planned to head into Canada at this point in my trip. But it was right there.

Honestly, at this point, I was feeling a little bit tired of being in the wilderness. I was also tired of moving every day and just crossing my fingers that I'd find a place to sleep. I wanted a room reserved for me for the next night.

I got online, found a backpacker hostel in downtown Victoria only a few blocks from the ferry terminal, booked a room for me, and found a parking lot for Rusty to stay behind. I packed a backpack, took my bike along for some urban transportation, and boarded the next ferry.

After about an hour on the water, we floated into the Victoria harbor. It was clear that this place was much more interesting than the port I had left. A cute little mini-ferry tooted by; A seaplane zoomed out of the sky and splashed in the water; Nicely architectured hotels lined the coast. I had a good feeling about this.

You need a passport now to travel to Canada. I knew I'd have some international formalities to attend to, but I didn't expect the full-on customs regimen. Something about me always seems to be a target for the special examination. A Canadian customs guy pulled me aside (of course) and went through every zipper of my bag, and picked through all my toiletries. He also pointed out that I had a bike but didn't have a helmet (I forgot it in the van), asked me what I do for a living, where I was staying. He was friendly enough, but I was starting to feel a little overly scrutinized. I am the tourist you are trying to attract, right?

The ferry lets you off right in the middle of town. Victoria is the capitol of BC and the legislature building is right there on the water, along with museums, hotels, and everything tourists love.

I was a little overwhelmed. I was a little nervous now that I might get a ticket for no helmet, but noted that the bike taxi guy didn't have one. Good enough for me. I rode to the hostel and checked in, then headed out for a bike tour.

Only having spent one day in a town puts me in no real position to judge. But at first glance, the downtown section seemed to be mostly dedicated to tourists. Hotels, horse drawn carriages and bike taxis, people selling activities, etc. I'm sure there's more to it if I were to get further out of downtown, but there you go.

I can recommend the place I ate there though. The Noodle Box cooks up some very nice stir fry. It's not super cheap, but I gained confidence watching the crack staff working hard in the display kitchen, and was rewarded with a tasty dinner. It sure beat the camping food I had been eating for the past few days.

One curious thing I noticed was an unusual proportion of fancy old hot rods driving around in the streets. It seemed like they were cruising the streets showing off their rides, Hollywood Boulevard style. Little by little, I suspected there may be some kind of car show in town. It sure is a nice place for one.

The hostel had it's own bar inside, so I bellied up to see if I could glean some wisdom about some local spots to check out. This is where I started to lose more faith. The folks that had been around town the longest chose to remain at the hostel bar rather than the other offerings in town.

That was ok though. I wasn't planning to stay long. My main goal of the evening was just to give Victoria a look and then decide where to head the next day. Rusty's parking was only paid through the next day so I didn't have any choice but to ferry back anyway.

I chatted with folks and mulled my next move.

I was still feeling tired of moving every day, and kind of missing Seattle. I looked over the other options in the region, but really there was only one thing to do. Go back to Seattle and stay a few days. It might not be cheap, but I'd be doing what I wanted. It was settled. I couldn't call for a reservation anywhere yet though, because my phone wouldn't work until I returned to the US.

The next day, my suspicions were validated. There was indeed a car show in town called Northwest Deuce Days. I noticed that almost all the cars had stickers indicating a model year of 1932. I asked one of the proud car owners about it, and he informed me that "Deuce" is a slang name for the Ford Model B, the first mass produced vehicle with a V-8 engine, which spawned the world's love affair with the muscle car.

These are the classics of classics.

The show was impressive. They closed several square blocks of streets downtown and lined them with over eight hundred of these mint condition museum pieces. Each one cared for, restored, customized, and actually driven by individual owners. I'm sure it was great for them to all have a place to hob nob and trade tips and stories. But for me, it was a spectacle I felt lucky to catch by accident.

Ok. Back to Washington!

Springs

2010-07-17T07:00:00.000-07:00

Michael lent me a book that gives the low down on various natural hot springs around the Northwest. I found one listed in the Olympic park, so I set out one day to find it.

I intended to drive straight to the hot springs, but got distracted along the way by the extremely pretty Lake Crescent, and had to walk around the shores for a bit. Then headed for the Elwha River valley where these springs were supposed to be.

The map in the book was pretty weak. The roads and campgrounds it listed didn't really match the maps the park handed me. Also, I learned as I drove into the park that all the campgrounds nearby were totally full.

That was kinda bad because it was after five in the evening. Once I found the trail head, there was still a two mile hike to reach the springs - and I hadn't found the trail head yet. I couldn't really stomach coming all that way and turning back, so I decided to try. It does stay light out pretty late here - well after nine. I did, however, have to accept the fact that I would be homeless at nightfall with no place lined up to sleep.

Oh well.

I powered Rusty up a very long very steep windy road with relatively little certainty I was going the right direction. I worried about her air-cooled engine overheating and crapping out way up there. But eventually I hit the end of the road and saw people with wet hair and towels. Good sign!

So I speed-walked up and down the trail until, finally, I reached the first pool. It was just some stones pushed together to dam up some of the hot water gurgling down the hill. It was steaming and a little murky and smelled like sulphur. Some people that were just leaving said this was the warmest one but there were some more pools up the trail further and one really nice one at the end.

I dunked into the warm one for a bit. It was natural alright. Black silt poofed up from the bottom and settled on my belly. It did feel quite nice after that hike though. I could have soaked there for awhile, but I decided to check out some other pools. I walked by some with people in them, but kept on walking until the trail got kind of ambiguous. It started to look less like a trail and more like footprints from people just exploring the woods. I guess that's the end.

But something told me to follow some footprints up a hill that didn't look like it lead anywhere. I followed the prints about fifty yards straight up a steep hill until I came across the most lovely of all the pools. It was made out of pieces of fallen tree trunks and boulders surrounded by the brightest green ferns I have ever seen. It was peaceful, warm, and totally empty.

FUCK... YEAH!

I hopped in and reveled in my little adventure victory of the day. It wasn't super warm, so I figured out how the folks adjust the temperature by throttling the amount of cold water that comes in.

I got it just right, and soaked as long as I could, certain other folks would come up to visit this jewel. But no one ever did - I think because it was late in the day. After awhile I started to worry about sunlight, so I began the two mile walk back to Rusty.

I was too relaxed to really worry about the fact that this was a Friday evening in prime camping country. I'm a little spoiled with the weekday camp-wherever-you-feel-like it mode. I looked on a map to see if there were some remote, primitive camp areas somewhere I could get to before dark.

I drove to a couple along the Straight of Juan de Fuca, but they were super tiny, and full to the brim. Along the way I kept my eyes peeled for little roads or areas I might not be noticed. Maybe I'm just a little paranoid about getting hassled by police, but I have heard about steep fines for illegal overnight parking.

By now it was completely dark, so I had no other real choice but to drive a few miles toward the town of Port Angeles to see if I could either blend in there or find a cheap motel.

It turned out to be a decent sized town, mostly dedicated to the port activities and to the neighboring national park. I drove around for awhile deciding on an optimal spot. I do my best to avoid parking near homes, to avoid any obvious trespass, and to avoid attracting the attention of anyone, especially police.

I found a street next to a shopping center that had an SUV parked with a for sale sign in the window. I parked right behind it like a kid playing hide-and-go-seek ducks behind a tree.

It worked. I didn't get hassled. However, I did learn that if you park by a car with a for sale sign in the window, that people actually drive up and slow down to check it out at all hours of the night and morning. Each of them, I was certain, was scrutinizing my van and whether or not it was occupied. But they were probably just checking out the car for sale, maybe wondering if Rusty was for sale too.

I split promptly at 6 am.

Olympic

2010-07-16T10:00:00.000-07:00

Seattle is not far from Olympic National Park. It sits at the northwestern most corner of the lower forty eight states.

I got some tips about some crazy nice terrain in there, so I chose that as my next stop.

I wanted to check out the Hoh Rainforest, but it's on the opposite side of the wilderness from Seattle and, in order to preserve the natural state, no roads cross directly through the park. My choice was to either backtrack south to Olympia or take a northern route.

Since I didn't plan to head south for awhile, I knew if I took the north route, I'd have to drive back the same way I came. There was no way around backtracking, so I headed south to start a clockwise loop around the park.

I was pretty sure I'd have a hard time making it to Hoh before dark, so I planned to stay near Moclips at Pacific Beach State Park. Maybe it was just that it was foggy and cold there, but I'll go ahead and not recommend this stretch of Washington in case anyone is considering checking it out.

The closest inland towns of Aberdeen and Hoquiam are pretty bleak. Sitting directly at sea level, they had signs posted proclaiming they are "tsunami ready". The signs pointed which direction to run in case the big wave comes. Clearly a political reaction to the deadly 2004 tsunami, the town leadership chose to spend their energy on this "readiness" rather their clear economic troubles. Maybe the fancy new nuclear power plant down the road will help with that. Oh wait. They never finished building it.

I just stayed the night in the crowded campsite (really just a parking lot) on the foggy coast, then headed up into the Olympic first thing in the morning.

One thing that has really jumped out at me while driving in Washington is the extent of logging.

In the part of California I'm from, we don't really have patches of forest missing unless it is due to a wildfire or real estate development. We do, however, have large portions of land devoted to agriculture - long stretches of crops. It seems clear that in Washington (and maybe Oregon too), trees are the crops. The wood is their economy. Most hillsides have trees in varying age groups. A stretch of small Christmas sized trees, then some adolescents, then some that look almost natural except for the uniform size and placement. Some roads even have signs listing the cutting and planting history dating back to the turn of the last century. Maybe every thirty years or so, they cut the trees again and re-plant. As a result, there seem to be almost no natural old growth forests left. These state and national parks are protecting those trees from what seems like otherwise certain demise. I have started to appreciate the parks' role much more on this trip.

Even the parks are not always natural forest. The land, in some cases, was acquired sometime after logging had already occurred. But it's striking when you pass a national park entrance sign, you're likely to see an immediate change in the scenery.

These are the memorable parts of my couple days in Olympic:

Hoh Rainforest - There were some nice free primitive campgrounds along the Hoh River, but I opted this time for the national park campground at the end of the highway. It was $12, but the scenery throughout the campground was almost every bit as lush as the surrounding area. I think the name "rainforest" is stretching the word a bit though. It is very green indeed, with moss hanging from the enormous trees, but not the dripping, chirping, exotic display of natural diversity one might expect from the Amazon. A large river runs along the park area with giant white trunks of driftwood littering the shores - fallen trees from the mountain washed downstream bit by bit.

Crescent Lake and Quinault Lake - These were the lakes I saw up close, but really this part of the country is peppered with them. Beautiful calm blue lakes bordered by tall steep stands of tall green trees. This area was cut out by glaciers. The ice cut out deep, dramatic canyons and left behind all the lakes, sounds, rivers that surround Washington and British Columbia. Pick a lake, any lake, and it will likely be gorgeous. And I haven't seen much in the way of crowds at the lakes, presumably because they are so ubiquitous.

Glaciers - This was my first time ever laying eyes on a glacier. It wasn't as close as Shannon and Kathleen's experience in South America. They got to boat right by car-sized chunks falling into the ocean - but it still counts. I didn't realize that there were areas this far south that had snow and ice year round. All of the big mountain ranges (Rainier, Baker, Olympics, etc) all look like ski season is in full effect from far away. This is the middle of July, and it looks like a storm just came through this week.

Olympic Hot Springs - That one deserves its own post.

Seattle

2010-07-14T13:00:00.000-07:00

I didn't know much about Seattle before now. I knew it rained a lot. I knew it was a center of rock music in the 90's. I have heard it was a nice place, and always wanted to check it out, but for some reason I never did.

I met someone from Seattle recently who gave me some tips on music clubs and neighborhoods. She said I'd probably like Capitol Hill near downtown. It was a place to start. While driving in on the freeway from Mount St. Helens, Darren booked us two nights in a hotel on Broadway and Madison just a couple of blocks from the main strip in Capitol Hill.

We rolled in with just enough time to change clothes and head out to dinner. We would be here on a Monday and Tuesday night, so we weren't expecting a ton of nightlife, but we'd try to find something to get into.

Darren scored the first point. He yelped the neighborhood for good reviews, and came up with The Honey Hole, a delicious sandwich shop/cocktail bar on Pike Street. I actually found it with my nose before we saw the sign. I had a fantastic pulled pork sandwich. Cool vibe, solid food. Four thumbs up.

Even though it was a Monday night, we scanned the local paper for music we might both enjoy. We decided on a little venue called The Can Can. They were hosting some live ambient electronic music which accompanied a cult monster movie, The Toxic Avenger. The music turned out to be at the extreme end of ambient. Ominous background noises might be a better word.

The bar was cool and the movie was quite entertaining, but we soon got bored and retired to the hotel.

Darren's an earlier riser than I am, so the next day he left the hotel ahead of me to check out the Experience Music Project, an interactive music museum in a building designed by Frank Gehry and launched by Microsoft co-founder Paul Allen.

I caught up to Darren there and retraced his steps while he checked out the adjoining science fiction museum.

All in all, for such a touristy place, I thought they had some good stuff to get kids into playing and recording music, as well as some very interesting exhibits on Jimmy Hendrix, the history of Seattle music (hint: it's not all grunge), and nice a display of gowns worn by The Supremes. Fun for the whole family.

For lunch we went down to the famous Pike Place Market, where they are known to toss fish around to the delight of tourists. This would be the general equivalent of Pier 39 in San Francisco, except this place was actually enjoyable. They had decent stuff for sale, and nice places to eat at all budget levels. It didn't feel nearly as cheesy as I would have expected. I got a nice grilled wild salmon sandwich and a beer and we ate on the lawn overlooking the harbor.

Seattle isn't just known for music. It's also known for coffee, so we had to try some local brew. We passed on the original Starbucks (which is also in Pike Place Market), even though they still make their espresso using the original machines, not the chain setup. Instead we enlisted the help of Yelp again and found another local spot, Seattle Coffee Works.

In there we chatted up the young barista to give us some exploring tips. She suggested checking out the Fremont neighborhood to give us a taste of real Seattle living. She gave us bus directions and we navigated the bus system without incident.

The general feel I got at every touch point in the city has been fantastic. The people have been friendly and bright, the layout of the city is pleasant. There appear to be an abundance of great places to eat, hear music, and spend time. If it weren't for the fact that we came during the very best weather of the year, I would easily be able to live here. I'm not sure what it's like to live in a place that rains 150 days per year, but I think I'll probably still stick with my home.

Besides that rain thing.. this place is a real gem. So far one of my very favorite cities.

Later we took the ferry to Bainbridge Island for a cheap cruise along the Puget Sound. There's not a whole lot on the island, but we had a good supper at Shima Sushi at headed back.

We were determined to see some more music on Darren's last night of his month off. It was still only a Tuesday night, but there were still some decent looking listings.

Darren liked the review he read of Ariel Pink. They were playing at Neumos down the street in Capitol Hill, so we checked it out.

The venue was great. It reminds me of my favorite spot in SF, The Independent. I wondered if we had just gotten lucky, or if Seattle is full of venues like this. I suspect the latter. The band was solid too, hints of Bowie and Soundgarden.

We felt accomplished, packing a lot into one day. I drove Darren to the airport the next morning, returned to the hotel with just barely enough time to use their laundry machines to wash my road-funky clothes, and then realized I had no idea where I was going next.

Where's that map?

Darren

2010-07-12T15:00:00.000-07:00

One of my oldest friends, Darren, lives in New York but was in California this month. He wanted to do a few days of my road trip with me so he changed his flight home to leave from Seattle instead of Los Angeles and then flew to meet me in Portland.

I asked him to help look into things for us to do. It is actually nice to have a break from planning for a couple of days. It turns out it's a fair amount of work to organize my various notes I have made over the past several weeks in preparation, and then research all the possible places to go. I threw him some high level options, but during the time I would have been helping him research, I was looking for a VW shop in Eugene to listen to my weird engine noise.

By the time I left Eugene with my fresh repairs, Darren was already about to board his flight to Portland. I rolled into PDX airport just as he called to tell me he was out of baggage claim.

He had made some calls and thought it would be fun for us to camp outside Mount St. Helens which is only an hour north of Portland. We could spend the next day exploring the volcano, then head up to Seattle to spend a couple of days there. Neither of us had ever been.

I seconded his plan, so we headed toward the campground. Unfortunately though, since we took our sweet time eating dinner in Portland, we didn't arrive to the Seaquest State Campground until after eleven at night. Darren said the ranger told him there would be room, but we should try to arrive before ten.

We rolled up to a closed gate at the park entrance. That wasn't a welcoming site, but if people were camping in there, I knew they weren't imprisoned, so we gritted our teeth and opened the gate, closed it behind us and rolled into the pitch dark parking lot.

It turned out fine. We found a spot, slipped some money into the self registration box, and popped Rusty's top. This was the first night of my road trip I had been comfortable enough to pop the top, potentially drawing attention. It makes it a little more comfortable in back because you don't have to hunch. You can stand straight up. But it's especially key to get the extra loft bed for a second person. Without that it would be cramped.

In the morning we headed up Mount St. Helens.

I was in the sixth grade when the volcano blew up. I remember seeing the news reports with the dust and the mud flows, but you definitely get a better perspective when you see it up close.

Twenty miles from the blast, trees were blown straight over, snapped off their bases, or incinerated entirely. Most of that area is still an eerie gray ash color. Rivers in the area were filled completely in, and brand new rivers were cut a year later by snow melt.

Most of the highway and bridges in the area had to be completely rebuilt. The national park system built an entirely new set of buildings for education and viewing.

It's cool to see how the region has recovered over the past thirty years. It is slow, but noticeable. We hiked among the hummocks (that's what the guides called them) along part of a new river next to the also new Clearwater Lake. Trees and wildlife have returned. It doesn't feel like a forest yet.

But it will again.

Eugene

2010-07-11T16:00:00.000-07:00

I woke to another warm van in the casino parking lot. The shuttle bus that transports the lazy gamblers the fifty yards to the entrance was circling the lot every few minutes. I knew my shabby van with, not only curtains drawn, but my orange towel hung in the windshield, was a sore thumb. So I split.

I still hadn't decided whether to stay on the coast or whether to head inland toward Eugene. I knew I probably wouldn't go to the Oregon Country Fair, although I had originally planned to meet a couple of friends there.

I wanted to see some more of the coast, so I drove north to check out the big dunes.

Unfortunately, the coast was cold and foggy that day. There was nothing to see. So I took highway 38 toward Eugene.

The first feature of that leg was a wetlands restoration project that featured a nice place to view herds of Elk enjoying their new digs. That proved a good place to pull over and eat breakfast. From there, the highway follows the Umqua river for several miles under the shade of some pretty green trees.

Immediately inland from the coast the weather was sunny and hot. While packing for my trip it occurred to me that I really had no idea what to expect temperature wise. I think of the Northwest as cooler than California, but it is summertime and some folks told me to expect sunny warm days. Here it was. No air conditioning. This is the reason I didn't go to the South for the summer. Let the sweating begin!

Once I left the shady river zone, it was sunny rolling hills.... more sunny rolling hills..... and then after another hour or so....... Eugene.

After that leg, I started to notice a new noise. A troubling one. Rusty has a manual transmission, and when I'd rev the engine high enough to shift.... at the top end, there would be this awful rattling sound.

I'm not the most mechanical guy. I know the basics about how an engine works. But I don't feel all that confident about discerning a harmless noise from a fatal one.

I could tell the noise followed the engine speed and not the wheel speed which wasn't good. It could be something as simple as a fallen screw bouncing on the engine, or something as serious as a loose piston. I know that I'm driving a car that is very old and questionably maintained. I am painfully aware that the engine could, in theory, crap out at any time. It didn't seem to be something I could ignore.

The good news is that I'm now in Eugene - home of many old VW vans. I looked online and found a number of specialists in town. So I tried to visit a couple of them so they could offer their expert opinions on my new mystery.

But it was after 6 on a Friday. They had all closed down, some for the whole weekend.

Hmm.

I parked Rusty downtown, and pulled my bike off. I took a leisurely tour, looking for someplace good to eat or fun to hang out. But Eugene is a college town, and this is summertime on a festival weekend. All I could here were the proverbial crickets.

My phone rang, and it was Chad, my friend who was working at the country fair. I had hoped to see him while I was in Oregon. He told me he was in Eugene at his friend Shauger's house and they were about to grill. I told him about my noise worries and, to my great joy, he told me Shauger used to own and work on his own VW bus.

This is one of those times when I thank the gods of serendipity. It seems like when something goes wrong on a trip, there is always a solution - even if I don't see it at first.

I get by with a little help from my friends; One love; It takes a village; insert your own cliche here.

Shauger and Heather live in a wonderful house in town. It turns out he is a very interesting guy with great artistic and engineering skills, and no surprise, is a burner. It would be Heather's first year on the playa this year and we spent the evening telling stories and getting her psyched up.

In the morning Shauger took a look at Rusty and quickly determined that the rattle was harmless. It appeared that a rusty piece of the muffler mount had finally separated, but only left a tiny space between the metal parts. The vibration at high revs caused it to make contact and make the rattling sound. I pushed the pieces further apart with a screwdriver.

Jankification complete.

However there was a catch. After opening the engine hatch to take a look, Shauger noticed that when I first started the engine, a six inch stream of gasoline shot out of one of the worn, frayed hoses attached to the fuel injector.

Although it stopped after a few seconds, it was too serious to be ignored. Gasoline spraying on a hot air-cooled engine could start a fire. And that would be very bad.

So after a delightful brunch at a local favorite breakfast spot, Keystone Cafe, we stopped at an auto parts store who gave me a small piece of hose for free.

With some coaching, I proceed to do my very first VW engine repair. I cut two pieces of new hose and replaced the old cracked ones. It made me nervous to repair something so vital. But also made me feel good that I could do it... and even better that I was that much less likely to burst into flames during my trip.

Thanks Shauger, Chad, Heather, and Eugene.

Time to pick up Darren at the Portland airport.

Oregon

2010-07-10T22:00:00.000-07:00

It's funny how states really look different when you cross the border. Oregon is no exception.

The town of Brookings, Oregon is just over the border from California on the coast. Beyond that town, there is almost no civilization. Mostly state parks and some tiny towns.

But the coastline and beaches beyond Brookings are stunning. Giant black rock formations decorate the shore with windblown sands bordered by long yellow grass. Much of the coastline is pretty rugged, but there are many beaches that are not only beautiful but, most notebly, empty. There are no towns, so there are no people. At least not many. I saw some people like me, who had just pulled over on the highway to behold the grandure. Some locals walking their dogs. But I really almost didn't believe my eyes when I saw a long haired woman riding her palomino horse along the beach with her dogs running alongside. It's just nothing that ever happens on California beaches. A nice day like this one + beautiful beach normally = crowded. It was hard to compute this new beauty to people ratio.

It seems the best way to enjoy these beaches at length would be to get a campsite at one of the nearby state parks and then roll out for the day.

I may have hit it on an especially nice day. It was a bit windy at the beach where I stopped. But I passed many smaller beaches protected by rock cliffs that would likely be less windy.

When I return to the redwoods, I'll be sure to build in some time to visit these beaches again since they aren't far from here.

I am meeting Darren in Seattle on Sunday, so I need to decide when and where to cut inland. For now I'll head up the coast as far as I can before dark and then re-evaluate.

Along the way I pulled over to look at a map and determined that the whole coast between Coos Bay and Florence, where the coast turns into sand dunes, is a national recreation area which is attached to a national forest. I wondered if this might be one of the few places where I could just park by the beach overnight. I imagined an armada of vans and campers just like rusty parked at sunset by the water.

I raced toward Coos Bay to try and beat the sunset.

I didn't make it. Just as I roll into town, the sun was gone. The town didn't appeal to me much, so I attempted to try and navigate the dunes area in the dark. I made several attempts to poke into various nooks and crannies, but nothing seemed to work and there were long stretches of highway in between, and no van armadas, only full campgrounds. I wasn't too sure about the overnight rule differences between national forests and national recreation areas. It was getting late. I was nervous that if I made a mistake with national park rules, it could mean a hefty fine.

I remembered passing a casino with a huge parking lot full of big RVs. I know that casinos often trade free parking for the hope of luring customers, so I drove back into Coos Bay, snuck in between some RVs, drew the curtains and called it a night.

Redwoods

2010-07-09T14:34:00.000-07:00

The people in Eureka were super nice. But I didn't see much around town that I wanted to explore. They did have some well stocked stores though, so I bought some organic fruit and headed up the highway.

One of the places I was very interested to stop was Redwood National Park. It's actually a mix of state and federal parks. I think the state likes to handle the campgrounds since there don't seem to be many federal ones.

The park stretches along the coast from just a little north of Eureka almost to the Oregon border.

I stopped at the national park office in Orick for some information. I was considering staying in one of their campgrounds. This seemed like a worthwhile place to throw down a few bucks for camping. They were mostly full though. You really need to make reservations this time of year. They had some less popular ones available, but they were still $35 and not in the old redwoods. They suggested I camp outside the park and come in for day use which seemed like a good idea, although one day I'd really like to camp in there. The ranger suggested I drive up Newton B. Drury Parkway which parallels the 101 through the forest. It is actually the old route 101 but they wanted to get trucks out of there so built a new piece of highway for them.

In no time I was smack in the middle of probably the most amazing forest I have ever seen. Thick with sky high redwoods. The ground covered with waist high ferns and big bright green clover underneath. It was truly breathtaking. The canopy obscures the light to give it almost the feel of a movie set rather than real nature.

I hiked and explored. I read some stories about how the forest was saved from destruction by San Francisco environmentalists back in 1918. Nice to know the folks were still keeping it real as activists even back then. I knew I wasn't done with this place. I'd return again for sure. But I can't stay long. I must reach Portland by Sunday.

My goal for the evening was to reach Crescent City which is at the north end of the redwood park. Just east of there is the Smith River National Forest. One of the few things I actually researched for my trip is overnight camping rules, and I knew that US national forests (not parks) are basically a camping free-for-all. Outside developed campgrounds, you can basically camp wherever you want as long as you abide by some park rules. If you want to build a fire, you need a free campfire permit also. But I didn't need that. Just a place to park Rusty.

So I drove to the beach in Crescent City to eat lunch and do some writing by the ocean with the redwood forest acting as the background. Pleasant to say the least. This was actually my first bit of sunshine since I left San Francisco.

Then as the sun began to set, with about an hour left of sunlight, I headed about ten miles east into the national forest.

Again, I fumbled around with where to park. I thought once I passed the entrance sign, I could just park anywhere. But there are private homes inside the boundaries also. Who knew? So using trial and error, with light fading fast, I finally found a little road just past the Panther Flat Campground. It didn't seem to lead anywhere and was otherwise deserted, but did have a little waterfall right next to it.

I'll take it.

Just as it was getting dark, I parked Rusty and pulled the curtains.

This time I was really out in the boonies. The park information I grabbed from the ranger station gave the usual warnings about storing food properly to avoid mishaps with bears. But my problem was that I didn't have a trunk and didn't have a bear canister. Nor could I really use one. I am stocked up with groceries in here.

I suddenly found myself really worried about bears smelling my food. I wanted to cook some chili on my little stove inside Rusty, but I figured that would waft quite an aroma through the air. I opened a pack of beef jerky and even the smell from that made me nervous.

I know it was just that it was my first night in the wilderness. Note to self: I should probably try and eat dinner while it's still a little bit light out if I'm going to be in the middle of nowhere in the pitch black of night in bear country.

I popped a Netflix DVD into my Macbook, sipped a little Jameson, and went to sleep.

I awoke to a warm van. The sun outside was intense. I was parked by a river, so I took the opportunity to get my first bath of the trip. Normally I give myself baby wipe baths, a trick I learned at Burning Man. It works great, but after a few days you still crave a real shower or bath. The water was freezing cold. But I felt invigorated by it.

Before I headed north again, I wanted to visit the redwoods one more time. I needed to find a place to eat my breakfast.

The forest I stayed in was only a few minutes from Jedediah Smith Redwood State Park, which is absolutely jaw dropping. I vowed to make a reservation and stay here in the park, if not this trip, then sometime soon. The main park costs $8 for day use, but I found a little street up the road called Walker Road Scenic Drive. It's a bumpy gravel road, but goes straight through some amazing forest and ends up at a sunny river. Just perfect for a fruit and granola breakfast, my favorite.

From here I'll head into Oregon. I still haven't decided on a destination for tonight yet.

Mendocino

2010-07-07T22:53:00.000-07:00

Click.

That's the only sound Rusty made when I turned the key. Over and over.

My battery seemed ok. My headlights worked fine. I have two separate batteries and both had the same results. I asked another guy in the lot if he could give me a jump start, but I was pretty sure it wouldn't work.

It didn't.

My mom sent me a book called How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive right after I told her I bought Rusty. The book has very easy to read instructions and cartoon-like pictures to help troubleshoot problems. So I whipped it out.

I tried to locate the starter and solenoid under the car and follow the instructions. But it seemed like maybe the starter was just dead.

The jump start guy suggested I walk up the hill just a block to the Chevron station, where there was a mechanic. I didn't see any way I could get Rusty there without towing. I wasn't in a place where I could try a push start. It was starting to get later in the afternoon, and I figured I had better get some repair plans going if I am to even make it out of town by the following day.

I called AAA. The week before I left town, I purchased their Premier package which provides long distance towing. I figured there was a decent chance I'd need it sometime during this trip. I figured I'd likely have to spend a day or two in a town I didn't intend while waiting for a part. I just didn't expect it to be on day two.

He towed me the 1/4 mile up the hill to Schlafers Automotive in Mendocino where Robert the mechanic told me he could order a starter in from Fort Bragg and have me on the road by the same time the next day.

I told him Rusty is my home, and he immediately offered to let me stay in his driveway overnight. He even let me run an extension cord to his office so I didn't have to run on battery power.

I pulled my bike off the rack and proceeded to survey the town. I was pleased to note that my new home was only a block from the local eats and drinks.

Mendocino, formerly known as Big River, is an exceptionally charming little town full of adorable little old seaside homes. It was smaller than I expected, maybe only six square blocks or so. The main old town area seems mostly set up for tourists. Lots of shops and inns. But it's most striking feature is it's adjoining headlands - A grassy prairie ending at sandstone cliffs surrounded by stone islands, some covered with white birds.

Dinner in town was a tough one. Almost every restaurant is so "charming" that its average entree is around $25. Oh come on. I managed to sniff out Patterson's Pub, a regular neighborhood bar that served decent bar food. Some grey haired locals were strumming and singing some old hippy standards. I think I heard some Grateful Dead and some Beatles.

I met some Aussies that were also on a road trip from San Francisco to Seattle and some ladies on a coastal getaway from Chico. Nothing like a pub to drum up some company. It was a nice evening, but I couldn't help but hope I'd be able to leave town the following day.

The next morning, Robert said he was ready to put in my starter. I reminded him that I wasn't certain why Rusty wouldn't start. He thought I was a VW "head" that already knew what I needed, when really I was just speculating. After doing some diagnostics, it came to light that I actually just had a bad wire connection to the starter. I didn't need to wait for the part after all. He said he'd fix the connection, and within an hour I was a free man once more.

I was in Fort Bragg in no time and picked up a few more supplies. By this time it was late afternoon but I really wanted to make up some ground. I at least wanted to reach yesterday's destination of Rockport. Rockport is the last town on the coast before Highway 1 goes inland for awhile. I wound my way up and down the narrow sea side highway. I saw Westport which I knew was close to Rockport, but before I knew it, I was in a lovely redwood forest. I kept thinking I'd get back to the coast, but after awhile I accepted the fact that I must have past right by Rockport.

I kept driving. I decided to try and make it to Eureka before sundown. It was a little tough driving straight through Humboldt Redwoods State Park. It looked like I nice place to explore sometime, just not today.

I made it to Eureka and stopped for some gas before finding a place to sleep. I pumped the gas, went to start the car, and guess what I heard.

Click.

Oh no. Not again. Big sigh.

I remembered where Robert was lying under the car when he found the problem. I went into the van and got a head lamp and stuck my head under. I immediately saw a blue wire hanging loose. I thought that looked like a likely culprit, but the engine was too hot to crawl close enough and grab onto it.

I clued in the gas station security guard and cashier to my plight. They were very understanding, told me not to worry about blocking the gas pump, and offered me some free coffee.

I decided to try another angle and within a couple of minutes, I managed to reconnect the wire. Suddenly I felt very foolish for paying a mechanic to do that for me before. I also felt annoyed that he didn't really fix it very well while charging me a tidy sum. If only I had taken a few extra minutes with mom's book, I might have fixed it myself in the first place.

The gas station offered to let me stay on their lot for the night. It wasn't exactly the romantic beach front location I had envisioned, but by this time it was late night, and I didn't have anywhere else to go.

How about over here by the propane tank?

Alone

2010-07-06T14:15:00.000-07:00

I don't mean alone in the sense that I am without a travel partner.

I mean that, at least during the first half of my day, I really hardly saw another person.

Still paranoid from the night before, I woke up at dawn and scurried out of Gualala. Just outside town I pulled into a view point parking area. It was still foggy and cold but still very pretty.

No one joined me. I hung out there for awhile and caught up on my Rusty chores. Very few cars passed on the highway.

As I drove on from there, I began to sink into that world where if you see a sign on the side of the road that interests you, you can actually pull over and check it out. You have time. Nice view here? Let's see it. Charming town? Let's investigate. It's not a world that I get to live in all that much in normal everyday life. There's frequently some kind of schedule to adhere to.

I passed a road with a sign that read Manchester State Beach and KOA campground. Initially I thought, "State beach.. hmm... They probably charge for parking. It's probably crowded. KOA campgrounds are cheesy." Then I thought, "Why not check it out?" I pulled a U-turn and drove down the country road, past the cheesy campground and into a small, completely deserted parking lot. There was nothing there but some signs and a remarkably clean outhouse. The signs explained that due to budget cuts they had to remove the trash cans, so please pack it out yourself. They also explained that this is the point where the San Andreas fault meets the ocean. Cool. I walked onto the lonely black sand beach. Not a soul as far as I could see. No footprints. Just me.

After leaving the beach I attempted to make some progress toward Rockport, my next destination. But soon got distracted by a cute miniature town and had to pull over again. It turned out the town is called Greenwood. It's nothing but a few clusters of cliffside cottages and a couple of places to eat. One of the places, Greenwood Pier Inn, felt a little like Harbin Hot Springs by the sea with pretty gardens and a hot tub on a big deck. It seemed like a great place for an ultra quiet romantic getaway.

Ok. Now I really must drive.

Ok one more stop. Another empty view point. Why not. This time as I walked the trail toward the cliff, I thought I heard some voices, which was strange because there were no other cars around. As I got closer, I realized they were sea lions, barking and sunning on a big rock out in the water. They must be a fixture, because someone built a pretty bench out of driftwood way out on the cliffside just to watch and listen to the chatter.
Onward.

Rusty is one of the slower vehicles on the road. I find myself pulling over a lot to let people pass. Once I pulled over by a road called Gordon Lane and decided to just drive down the road, just 'cause, well.... Gordon.

My next pull-over was after a rather large bridge just before entering the town of Mendocino. The road I pulled off on sloped down toward Big River State Beach. Big River lived up to its name. A calm wide waterway with a big cayak shop waiting to send folks upriver into the big trees just inland. I drove down to check it out. This was the first phone service I had since Bodega Bay the day before so I wanted to make a couple of phone calls.

While dialing I realized that it wasn't even noon yet. I had such a full day already. This must be what it feels like to be a morning person.

I walked down the beach a bit, but I saw there was a road that went further up river. I figured I'd head back to Rusty and drive it rather than walk all the way down there and back.

I got in and turned the ignition key. Then I heard that sound you never want to hear when starting your car.

Click.

North

2010-07-05T22:00:00.000-07:00

Today I left to begin my road trip north.

Originally, the plan was to have no plan. Just do a free form exploration. The hope is to see some of Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia. But if any one of those places holds onto me, the others can wait. I'd give myself around a month. Maybe more if I couldn't bear to leave.

But then I got an opportunity I couldn't pass up. One that required some planning. My old friend Darren has the time and desire to come meet me and spend a few days on the road. Since he'll need a plane ticket to do so, at least one time and place must be concrete.

The only thing more rare and cherished than one of these two month travel jaunts of mine, would be a few uninterrupted days with Darren. As he lives on the East Coast and has a busy life of his own, this opportunity may never again resurface.

Plan engaged.

So today I left with a loose agenda to make some daily hops and skips up the Pacific Coast in order to reach Portland or Seattle by the 11th.

First stop: Gualala.

My mom stayed there once awhile back and considered it quite charming, so I made it my first stop of the trip.

Part of the point of buying Rusty the camper was to sleep in her as often as possible, both for the charm of it, and to save money on accommodations. I have been told that once one gets north of Mendocino, it's quite common for folks to just park and sleep along the side of the road and generally no one minds. But I am conditioned to city life. A life of rules and tickets and easily spooked town folk.

As I rolled into Gualala around sunset, I still hadn't really hatched an exact plan for where to sleep. The entire way up Highway 1, I didn't see even one single van or RV on the side of the road. I saw a couple of pay-to-stay lots asking around $20. Just to park? That's city prices!

I started to get nervous. It seemed clear that parking on the highway in the middle of nowhere was just an easy target for highway patrol. I would at least need a town where other cars were parked so I could blend in a little bit. I read that motel parking lots and neighborhoods were good candidates. But the lots I found were just too sparse. I'd still be one of the only cars.

As a cop out, I drove up to one of the regional campgrounds I had passed just before town. I'd have to pay, but at least I'd be legal. But, alas, the campground was full and the place was crawling with park ranger cars. No flying under the radar here.

So I drove back to town and up a residential road into a neighborhood, but Rusty, with her put-putty VW motor, was like a noisy beacon for creeped-out neighbors to come stare me down off their street. Yikes.

So there I was - That Guy. The scraggly dude in the funky old van, in the dark, circling the quiet streets of this charming town - evaluating each potential spot. Too public, too private, too dark, too bright. It seemed like the town was set up mainly for tourism, mostly hotels and motels. Who was I to skirt their economy by getting a free ride?

Then I found a street. Behind a shopping plaza off Ocean Drive, with a couple of other cars parked there too. No one around to bother - at least not until morning.

I parked the van, got out and walked around the corner to check out the surroundings. I was satisfied. I got in the van and then just sat in the back in the dark for a few minutes. I think I was waiting for some security guard to come banging on my window. I didn't feel free and relaxed. I felt like I was hiding from the world.

After each passing minute with no one rousing me, I proceeded to eat my dinner, organize the van a bit, and do a bit of writing.

After an hour or so, I began to relax a little. But not enough to turn on a light.

I decided I'd go to sleep early, and get up at dawn before anyone came to open their stores.

This is an adventure indeed.

Rusty

2010-05-04T22:50:00.000-07:00

I have been working at The Bank for awhile now. In fact, my contract does not allow me to work there longer than 18 months without taking a contiguous 6 months off. Since I started in November 2008, that 18 months is now. It's kind of a relief to have an expiration date. It's a date everyone knows is coming and we can all plan for it. There is a chance they can arrange to have me work longer, but I've been looking forward to having at least a couple of months off this summer, so I'm taking the time off regardless.

I have tossed around some ideas for places to go during my time off. One friend said she might go to Madagascar. That sounded intriguing. I still want to visit Japan. Now that I have some money saved up, I can consider trips to places with slightly larger price tags.

But it occurs to me sometimes while I'm traveling, that I am flying so far from home to visit foreign countries, when I have never even really explored my own home country that extensively.

So I toyed with the idea of a cross country road trip.

After mulling over possible routes, I decided that the most pleasant place to drive during the summer might be the Northwest, including Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia. The weather is likely to be nice and mild and I hear that part of the country is striking, to say the least.

It occurred to me that, although I have grown up and lived most of my life in California, I have never been much north of Mendocino in my adult life. It seems like a crying shame. So I should. I will.

I haven't owned a vehicle in a couple years now. I have liked living car-free. It has been surprisingly easy. The only real drawback is when it comes time to leave the city. I'm helpless... stranded. I can rent a car. But it's tough to justify spending $60 to go visit a friend just to say hello. I knew I'd have to rent sometimes, and in the long run I'm still ahead budget-wise. But still.

Taking a trip for a month or more in the Northwest seemed like it would be expensive. Accommodations can cost upwards of $100 per night, at least around the Bay Area. That would drain my savings too quick. So I thought maybe I could get a vehicle I could sleep in.

Once an Australian friend of mine told me how common it is down under for young people to buy a van, take a trip for several months, and then sell the van. I had never considered such a thing, but it made so much sense. A used car is worth more or less what it was a few months before. So, besides gas and repairs, the use of it is essentially free. It made renting a car seem outrageously expensive by comparison. I wondered if I could do something similar.

Because of the economic meltdown over the past couple years, the RV market was the first and most deeply affected. RVs and the like are the first luxuries to get sold off when folks need extra money. The market had been flooded with cheap ones.

That's great when you want to buy one and hold onto it. But what if you want to sell it in a few months when you're done? You can't. Craigslist is flooded with them.

There are other problems with an RV I couldn't get over. One is that most of them are pretty big and cumbersome to drive around. They don't seem especially "cool" to drive. Maybe for a few days, but not day in and day out. Storage is also a problem. Where would I park the thing? I live in the middle of a dense city. Parking is difficult, and though I have a garage parking space, an RV wouldn't fit in it. I'd have to store it somewhere... for a fee.

I focused instead on the VW Vanagon. I have always thought they were super cool, and the Westfalia conversion turns them into a mini RV. Best of all, it might even fit in my garage.

After some research, I realized a couple of things. Westies are old. The last Vanagons were built in 1991. They are also popular. Even though the Bay Area has a higher than average concentration of them, they still aren't super easy to come by. And when you do see them, they can be pricey. Prices range widely, from about $7,000 to $15,000. There is even a company that specializes in fixing them up and selling them for as much as $60,000 or more. Mind you, these are 20 year old cars.

The good news is that, if I could somehow scrape together the cash to get one, I could, in theory, sell it pretty easily when I was done with it.

I watched Craigslist closely for weeks to get an idea of values, and one Sunday in April, made some appointments to see them and asked my good friend Michael to come along since he has a better eye for mechanical issues than I do. He was enthusiastic about helping because he really likes VWs. He had a couple old buses of his own, so he knew what to look for.

Mainly I just wanted something in reasonable shape mechanically that would work well to camp in. I was beginning to form a fantasy in my head of parking it on the edge of a cliff somewhere overlooking a lush valley, and chilling at places like that for a few days at a time.

We saw a couple of vans that were in various states of disrepair or discomfort. I was ready to give up for the day, but Michael found a couple more listings and called them since they were on the way home.

We met Moishe to see his rust colored 1981 air-cooled Westy. It was parked out on Telegraph road in Berkeley. He popped the top for us and we got in. As soon as I walked into it, I knew I wanted it. After Michael gave the thumbs up on its mechanical state, I immediately offered Moishe a little less than he asked, and he accepted.

I knew that I was taking a risk. This was, after all, a 29 year old car, and I had not had it checked out thoroughly by a mechanic. But a car that old will always need something. If it drives well now, that's good enough for me. It had a few blemishes. The sliding door and hatchback had been replaced. The paint job on them wasn't exactly professional. The pop top worked well, but was painted black for some reason, and had some of the canvas patched in spots. But his phone rang several times from other prospective buyers. I knew I might not have Michael again so easily, and I also knew the closer we got to summer, the more scarce these vans would get.

So I pulled the trigger. For better or for worse. I handed over $5,500. It felt like a fair price to me given the supply and demand.

And so I drove her home, with Michael following behind on the Bay Bridge (just in case). I had resolved myself to the possibility that she might not fit in my garage. I had measured the height of my garage door and the height of the van. It was close. Very close. Any my driveway has a slant which makes it hard to tell what will really happen on entry. Before deciding to buy the van, I asked myself, "If you didn't have a garage at all, would that prevent you from buying the van?" It wouldn't. I would still buy it. So I did. And guess what... It fit. Just barely.

Hallelujah! That makes my life so much easier.

Now she needs a name.

What better name for an ancient rust colored cutie pie.

Rusty.

Castle

2009-10-01T20:33:00.000-07:00

Rob's birthdays are legendary.

He likes going big. Nothing extravagant, generally, but something special - boating trips in Croatia, super fun costume parties, that sort of thing. Even between birthdays, Rob plays host to his friends regularly for Sunday roasts and weekend gatherings at his London loft. He has a great talent for orchestrating and executing occasions for his friends to gather.

While having a gathering of my own back home in my Lower Haight flat one day, someone mentioned that, for this year, Rob had decided to rent a castle in Scotland to celebrate his and the other late September birthdays of our friends Joe and Tiffany.

I was sitting on a decent pile of frequent flier miles. I had been waiting for a trip idea to come along that was far away and interesting enough to be worth using the miles. Frankly, I enjoyed the idea of using them for something extravagant and almost irresponsible. I'd get a charge out of feeling somewhat jet set.

My eyes widened. I rode out the rest of that conversation, probably half listening. When I caught a break, I whipped out the phone and sent Rob a quick text message: "Can I come to your birthday party??"

He immediately responded with an enthusiastic "Really!??"... and the planning began.

I had some previous engagements I had to work around. I've only just started a new contract job and have already taken some time off. Also, Erin's sister's wedding would be the weekend following, so although I couldn't stay for the follow up party back in London and I wouldn't get to visit all the UK friends I wanted to, I would be able to swing a full week in the UK. So mid September, just after my own birthday, I hopped a plane and headed East.

It occurs to me that it's been awhile since I have flown somewhere I've already been. It's quite a luxurious feeling, I must say. Without having to do any research, I knew exactly what trains to take from Heathrow Airport and the walking route to get to Rob's front door. He texted me, "Need directions?". "I'm oriented!" I replied.

When I arrived late in the evening, Joe and Shana were already there. They had arrived from San Francisco the day before. As it turns out, about half of the people heading to the castle party are from San Francisco. Especially impressive considering the relative distance and the fact that most of the others were not traveling to London for free like I did.

Although I had planned to take a day trip to Brighton the next day, a late night Farkle tournament and its accompanying cocktails left me somewhat incapacitated until too late into the next morning. Instead I managed to do some shopping in Camden Town with Joe and Shana. Rob had given us a loose dress code of "castle wear" and I managed to find a couple of plaid items to accommodate my interpretation.

The remainder of the SF contingent showed up that day. We would all travel early the next morning by air to Edinburgh (pronounced Ehdinbruh) and so we took it easy that night and prepared a delicious BBQ dinner.

That evening, I was delighted to suddenly come face to face with Toria who stopped by to surprise me. I had been terribly disappointed I wasn't going to see her on my trip out this time around, so it was a big boost for me to see her walk in and hang out for a bit even if only for a couple of hours on her way in and out of town that evening. She's one of my very favorite people.

We all wanted to get a decent night's sleep and so Rob's loft soon resembled an orphanage. Anything comfortable to sleep on would be lined up the entire length of his main room's floor. All trying to sleep on the wrong side of the clock, we tossed and turned, and made a feeble attempt to be well rested for our journey into the grassy lands.

At dawn, with military precision, we assembled, picked up a few local London friends, and managed to move ourselves and all our castle gear northward. Once in Edinburgh, we rented four cars and wound our way through the rolling green countryside.

There was very little town to see on the way. We noted the somewhat tiny towns of Perth and Blairgowrie, but none lasted very long to drive through. Most of what we saw was sheep munching on the plentiful grass, and hay bales arranged like giant beige toilet paper rolls sitting in large formations along the landscape.

It wasn't green everywhere though. The hilltops were mostly beige. It was mainly the farmland with sheep and cattle to fertilize the soil that seemed to turn up the color knob. But the farmland was never ending. You could imagine these plots and towns existing in the same precise state back hundreds, maybe thousands of years. In fact, while we were in the air, our pilot announced in a very matter-of-fact manner that we would be passing over the town of Nottingham. You mean there's really such a place? Well if there was, it would be here, that's for sure.

The rental car we were driving in was outfitted with a GPS navigation package, however it required a street address to get us past the center of the closest town. Beyond that, all we had were directions from the castle's caretaker, Mel. Our castle had no use for a street address. Luckily, her directions were spot on, and after winding around a single lane road for awhile wondering if we might be lost, the castle and it's surrounding domain emerged. We had seen a couple of pictures so we knew this must be the place. And sure enough, as we crossed through the black iron gates, Mel was standing in the giant wood doorway waiting for our arrival.

She gave us all a tour and explained that the castle has been a family home for some years. The family had been responsible for salvaging a rather run down shell of a building and transforming it into a grand place that strikes a balance between rustic and authentic yet comfortable and homey. With family photos still decorating each room, it seems the family still uses the house as a country retreat and rents it out while they're not using it. This would be our home for the next three days. We were the, albeit temporary, lairds and ladies.

From the upper floors one could get a good look at the valley surrounding the castle. Green grass and sheep as far as the eye could see with babbling brooks weaving their way through the property.

There were clearly farms belonging to other families in the Glen Isla valley. But Mel informed us we had something known as "rambling rights". As occupants of the castle, we had the right to hop fences and explore any property we wished as long as we didn't disrupt the livestock. I liked the sound of that.

Besides food and drink, the castle was stocked with just about everything one might want during a cozy highland getaway. The "bootery" next to the front door had enough rubber galoshes for everyone to meander through the marsh. The "piggery", although devoid of any pigs, did have a clothes washer and dryer and as much firewood as we would need to keep the largest fireplace I have every seen ablaze with warmth. I have been learning to play proper chess recently and sure enough there was a gorgeous leather chess table with tournament pieces ready and waiting for me and my challengers, along with a myriad other games perfect for a big chill type weekend.

The kitchen was cavernous with a low arched stone ceiling. You could imagine the servants down here cooking away and walking plates of roast beast up the back servants stairs to the main dining and living floor which had room for all of us to hang out comfortably.

From there, a spiral stone staircase lifted you up the five story building, and wooden doors would greet you as you were winding your way up, each with its own room themed for the family member that sleeps there.

The master bedroom housed a four poster bed with a purple mink comforter and was universally described by everyone who slept in it as the most comfortable bed they had ever experienced. It also had a claw tub surrounded by an antique partition and a reading nook up some stairs in one of the corner turrets looking out a small sunny window.

The place was littered with interesting ancient books on regional history, maps, and outdoor activities. Every room was filled with charming but inviting antique furniture and each was outfitted with a carafe of scotch whisky and a couple of glasses.

Part of our group went out to grocery shop for the week while others napped and got their bearings around the house.

We were lucky that some in our group were magnificent cooks. All week we had delicious dinners and desserts. It could have been spaghetti and sauce every night if it had been left to some of us less kitchen worthy. We all contributed in our own way to the festivities. But I am quite thankful for those who cooked.

On a few occasions, groups of us would throw on some rubber boots, kilts if we had 'em, and anything plaid, and then head off into the horizon to survey our domain. Since we didn't really know our way around too well, we'd often find ourselves in a pickle, needing to cross a stream or hop a barbed fence. It was an adventure to be sure. It wasn't unusual to get jabbed or soaked along the way.

While climbing one of the nearby "mountains" (more like foothills), we noted an abundance of a certain shrub that was clearly dry and out of season, and was responsible for that beige color at the hilltops. Someone said it was heather, but I'm not sure of that. I noticed that a few of the plants still had their vibrant purple flowers from their blooming season. That brought me to the conclusion that during that season (maybe spring?), all of the surrounding land that was not bright green would be bright purple. I couldn't imagine how breathtaking that would be. We climbed up to the peak of the nearest mountain and beheld a lonely loch with a single cabin on its shores. No other building as far as you could see. Tough for a city boy like me to imagine.

No lands like these would be complete without a mythical legend. As we were strolling back from the mountains we came across a plaque that gave some information. Apparently Glen Isla, the region we were in, used to be the home of two giants, husband and wife. The townspeople feared the giants as they would periodically throw boulders down onto to the town from above. Luckily we didn't see any giants, but there was a neighbor farmer they called "Big John". Maybe he was a descendant.

While we filled our days with rambling, our nights were all eating and drinking, with the occasional dance party. We brought a bit of sound equipment for just this purpose and some folks really went all out with some opulent period costumes. I had to wonder if the castle had seen this kind of party before. I sure hope so.

On our final day, part of our crew arranged to see one of the original whisky distilleries in the area. I had a different mission. I used to have a favorite scarf that got lost last year. The pattern was a dark blue and green plaid - a pattern that I noticed quite frequently around these parts. I figured I'd be able to find a new scarf if we headed to town. So on the way back some of us stopped in Blairgowrie to do a little shopping, and sure enough found some lovely lambswool scarves and one with the pattern I wanted. Success! I knew there was a practial reason for coming to Scotland.

Sadly, the party had to come to and end and we zoomed back to Edinburgh and real life.

It was a big chill indeed, and I couldn't have spent it with a better group. Thanks all.

I certainly can't think of a better use for those flier miles.

Belize

2009-06-18T12:36:00.000-07:00

While lounging around on our secluded Tulum beach day after day, Erin and I had plenty of opportunity to read through our guide book and learn about surrounding areas we might jaunt off to. We both have friends and family that have recently been to Belize. We knew it was another culture entirely from Mexico. English, albeit a Carribbean variety, is the official language, and where else can you see a toucan, the country's official bird?

All signs were pointing us to Caye Caulker, a small island off the coast of Belize City. By all accounts it has a relaxed atmosphere, reasonable prices, and a whole new menu of Carribbean culinary delights. It is about a six hour bus ride from Tulum - three to the border, and three more to Belize city, so we could surely get there in a single day.

Well it turns out getting there in one day isn't such a slam dunk. The main difficulty being the first bus to Chetumal, the Mexican border town, leaving Tulum at 10:30 am and the final ferry to the island departing at 5:30 pm. That doesn't leave a lot of breathing room for immigration, bus changes, and finding the ferry terminal from the bus station. We decided it would be close, but worst case, we could spend the night in either Chetumal or Belize City if need be.

On the bus to Chetumal we met some English and Aussie backpackers who had the same destination in mind. As we arrived at the bus station, we were greeted by a gentleman who recognized us as folks likely headed for Belize City. He asked if that's where we were headed and told us he had a bus leaving in 20 minutes. If we wanted to go we should buy a ticket immediately from the teenager beside him at a small desk. Until now, we had only ridden the first class ADO buses, with proper ticket counters, uniformed staff, and fancy computer screens. Also, a handy rule of thumb we tend to live by is that products and services being touted by folks that approach you are frequently inferior and/or overpriced. We had, however, heard from some other travelers, back in Tulum, that the bus down to Belize was a major step down in comfort level, and when he pointed his bus out, it was certainly consistent with what we'd heard. There was a cardboard sign in the windshield with some crayon writing: "Belize Express". The man told us that he could get us to Belize City before the last ferry departed.

We made a leap of faith, and handed over about $10 USD per person and crossed our fingers. All seven of us hopped aboard the otherwise empty bus and felt some optimism for the first time about making it all the way before nightfall.

Before getting to the nearby border, we stopped at a gas station and I noted that the bus's co-captain put fully half of the ticket money he had just collected from us into the gas tank for the three hour drive ahead, leaving them only a small profit for such a long ride.

After breezing through immigration at the border, we drove the last leg to Belize City where we were dropped at what I would consider a pretty janky bus station, given that this was the country's capital city.

We knew we didn't have much time to make the ferry and also knew the dock was several blocks from the station, somewhere in this shanty town. The taxi touts descended and successfully herded us into a taxi van where we just made the last ferry. The San Pedro ferry left at the same time. Based on the boat size and the crowd size, we could tell they were going to the big place, and we were going to the small place. Fine with us.

Around 6:30 pm with the sun beginning to set, we landed in Caye (pronounced "key") Caulker. From the dock, the town looked cute and colorful. Brightly colored buildings lined the sleepy coast.

The other backpackers hit the hostel two steps from the dock. It seemed pleasant enough, but they were out of private rooms, so we walked around a bit until we found a decent room just before nightfall. While walking around though, we learned (and smelled) that this day was the very first day of lobster season. Everyone in town was out grilling up big fresh whole lobsters, and waving us in to have a taste. Which I did. And it was, well, delicious.. and relatively cheap ($15 US).

The next day we had more time to look for a place to live, and settled on Mara's Place Guesthouse, which was essentially Mara's family's house with some guesthouses sprinkled around the property. We chose the one that was kind of like the basement of the family house, but it was the biggest room and had a couple of hammocks shaded beneath the house above. This turned out to be an excellent decision.

You see, just after we settled in and went out to get some sun, the sun vanished, and more rain than I had ever seen began pouring from the sky. This is the type of rain that will soak your clothes through in about three seconds. I'm almost surprised there is any air at all between the enormous raindrops. It's almost like a waterfall. We ran for our covered hammocks to wait it out. After all, this is the tropics. It's prone to rain from time to time, especially in the summer.

But it didn't stop. Occasionally it would tease you with a let up. But then it would come down again within a minute or two. In fact, it continued so long that we began to plot what we might make a run for during the next pause in rain. We need money. ATM? We're running low on water. Where exactly is the store? We had no time to think. When the rain stopped. Ready, GO!

Over the next couple of days it didn't rain quite as much and we were pleased with what the small island had to offer. Fruit and granola breakfasts (my favorite kind) at Amor y Cafe, informal but extremely delicious backyard BBQ dining at Wish Willy, fresh homemade cookies at Jan's Pastry Shop, and irie cocktails at The Oceanside and Herbal Tribe.

The town seemed like the kind of place that one could settle in for awhile. There is one main road that you have to walk up and down to do anything. And it's the type of place where you will see the same person three times in one day, because you all live and do your business on the same street.

One day I saw an unusual white guy dressed in suspenders and pushing a wheelbarrow. He seemed to be out of a Tom Sawyer novel. I first noticed him because of the usually intense effort he was putting into what seemed to be a failed snot rocket attempt outside of a grocery store. After that, every time I saw him on the road, he just didn't seem entirely normal. But I didn't think much of him. However, later that week, I saw a pair of similar looking fair skinned blond fellows (maybe brothers) dressed almost exactly alike and appeared to be trying out for the same part in the Tom Sawyer play as the first guy. When I heard them speak Creole, I knew they were local, so I flipped through my guidebook to see if there were any clues. The conclusion: Mennonites. Apparently there is a sizable population in Belize. It definitely catches your eye to see poor white people in a mostly black and latino country.

After a few days, the weather wore on us. The Tulum weather had been so much better. Clear and sunny. This rain was no good. Although some folks around town would say "probably sunny tomorrow," a young carpenter we met ducking from the rain for a moment had a more credible non-tourism-boosting statement. "It's like this almost every day here this time of year."

We returned to the janky bus station and with no Belize Express bus to drive us, we took a public bus back up to the border. After four more bus transfers, by nightfall we were back in paradise. Tulum.

I never did see a toucan.

Tulum

2009-06-15T00:05:00.000-07:00

Erin and I arrived at Cancun airport at around 11 am. We planned to arrive in the morning because we knew we wanted to try and get to Tulum the same day and secure a place to sleep before dark. As we were landing, I could see that the region is densely forested in every direction. It is fairly flat with a thick two-story-high web of trees and bushes. I tried to imagine what Mayans did to get through this stuff armed only with machetes.

Tulum, Mexico is a two hour bus ride south from Cancun's main bus station. ADO is the major bus company in that area and has very nice first class buses that will take you down the main highway in style for about $6 USD and plop you right in the middle of the pueblo in Tulum. From there we asked a cab driver to take us to a nice barato cabaña on the beach. You have to take a cab because the beach hotel zone is a couple of miles from town. The beach area is next to a park preserve and is protected from development. Right now that means, no piped in water or electricity (each hotel has to bring its own), and no non-hotel commerce. This makes the beach quiet, quiet, quiet.

After some driving we realized the cabbie might bring us to his buddy's place, so we asked him to stop at a place we'd seen in our guide book, Diamante K. We inquired and found they had a very charming and comfortable cabaña for $40, exactly our budget. For a first try this seemed pretty good. We could scan the area for better deals the next day, but this place seemed really pleasant. Out front, a sign informed us that this hotel was "eco chic". Although I'm not entirely certain what that means, it certainly seemed to fit. This was not the sort of place that just threw together some palapa roof shacks. The cabañas were indeed basic, but I was certain that a real live architect guided the placement, orientation, window positions, materials, furniture, and decor of each individual building. Every window had a postcard perfect view, the wooden doors were hand carved, cool sculptures in the sand perfectly lit at night. There were definitely some pros at work here. With not much more in the rooms than a bed, and only candle light in the shared bathrooms, it felt more like stylish camping than a hotel.

But really, this part of the world is all about the beach. Turquoise 80°F water, fine white powder sand, coconut palms lining the coast. It's jaw dropping. And it's all yours. No crowds, no distractions. Just peace and quiet and perfect beach.

We walked the beach for about a mile or so and decided that we liked our place and we'd stay put for now. But while walking by resort after resort, we could clearly see the vacancy. It did indeed feel a bit like a ghost town. Some beach front restaurants were shut. The empty beach chairs begging the question: Why, on such a perfectly lovely day, would this place (this beautiful place!) be empty?

Abraham, a friendly guy from Oakland that works at the Weary Traveler Hostel in the pueblo answered it the best I think. "Five minutes on CNN." That is all it took. Someone in the media decided the Swine Flu was a hot story. Although after a week it turned out to be a non-story, the news media, with that decision, turned paradise into a ghost town.

You could say, "Great! More Tulum for me." But instead it just seemed sad. Mainly I felt for the locals who depend on the tourism revenue. But also, after about a week of soaking up the sun and natural beauty, I kind of wanted to socialize with some other people. It seemed a shame that all this wasn't being properly enjoyed.

I chatted with some of the few other tourists who were around and we all had the same reaction: Why is this low season anyway? The weather is great. Everything is beautiful. Where is everyone?

Indeed, the heat, which I was most concerned about before our arrival, turned out to be not so bad, especially at the beach. I expected more mosquitoes. There were some. But I've seen much worse.

I'd say the roughest part about staying at the beach is the distance from town. Our hotel had a restaurant, but there weren't really enough customers to keep it open regularly. So they'd open when they felt like it. And when they did, the prices were at least double what you'd find in the pueblo. So we resigned ourselves to cabbing to town twice per day to eat. That wasn't really so bad. The taxis around Tulum are cheap, clean, friendly, and plentiful. A ride one way is 40-45 pesos ($3 USD) which just became part of our meal budget.

My personal favorites in town for food were Don Cafeto, an open air restaurant on the main road. I couldn't stop ordering their delicious garlic fish fillet. After sampling many restaurants, they seemed to have the best food. I also could rarely pass by Pollo Bronco without my mouth watering. It's a mainly take out place with some tables which just grills whole chickens all afternoon. You can get a 1/4 chicken with rice, tortillas, salsa, and lettuce (make your own tacos) for 30 pesos (about $2). It is just plain delicious.

One day, we decided to rent some bikes so we could ride further down the coast and check out some more hotels and see the coastline. We went to Iguana bicycle shop which was recommended by everyone we asked as well as our guide book. We were somewhat surprised to find that renting two bikes for a day costs 200 pesos (about $15 US). I tried to negotiate to no avail. We rode the bikes about 7km down the highway, stopping at the occasional resort to check it out. The paved road ends at the park preserve and turns to dirt. We decided at this point to turn around since it was super hot out and we were going to have to ride all the way back. Just as we started to head back, Erin's chain started to slip. Within about two minutes, the slip turned into complete dysfunction. It wasn't that the chain was loose, it was that something inside the gear assembly had completely broken inside. There was no way to fix it on the road. We'd have to try and start back toward the bike shop to get another bike, but we were miles from the shop. So we McGyver'd together a tow rope out of our two bike lock chains. I towed her behind me. It wasn't all that hard to pedal pulling two bikes. However, keeping control of the bikes and not wiping out was another matter.

We made it about 4km and came across a local policeman. I tried my best in Spanish to tell him what was wrong. I asked him if there is any bus or truck that could take our bikes the rest of the way to town. Just then his supervisor drove by in a large pickup. After some more sign language and pitiful sad faces, they allowed us and our bikes into the bed and drove us back to the shop, probably saving us from heat stroke and/or a more severe roadside wipe out.

At the shop I asked the manager if we could have a few more hours added to our rental period. It seemed reasonable seeing how much of our day had now been spent just tending to this broken bike. But he said "No. It worked when you left with it." He could sense that we were confused and dissatisfied with his refusal, so he continued with something like, "I know that in America when things go wrong, you get some compensation. But not in Mexico. Here people know that sometimes these things happen."

While asking around town for other places we might rent a cheaper bike, our wise old friend Abraham responded, "No, Iguana's the only place. But you know you can rent a car from Alamo for $15 per day, right?"

Now we do.

Summer

2009-06-07T23:13:00.000-07:00

Well in my last travel post, I wrote of my plan to work six months and then take two months off. It wasn't easy. I had to turn down some offers of full time employment in a difficult job market. I ended up finding a contract with an uncertain length (a few months they said). Miraculously, it turned out to last exactly six months. Fate I suppose. So I planned another trip.

This time, however, I knew I wanted some of my time off to be at home in San Francisco. Summertime is a great time to be in the city and I knew I would be missing home no matter where in the world I went. But I also knew that after having wound myself back up into a busy city living pace, I was due for a nice relaxing getaway to help me wind myself back down to a properly relaxed state. As always, I pictured a beach, a hammock, and not much else. I really miss Thong Nai Pan in Thailand (my ideal place for said wind-down), but June just isn't the best season to go there. That's a trip for January.

I have been hearing for several years now about Tulum, Mexico. A tranquil, rustic beach town a couple hours south of Cancun on the warm Caribbean Sea. Flights to Cancun are cheap and prices have dropped in the region because of the down economy and the recent Swine Flu scare.

I had actually just settled on Tulum just a day or so before the Swine Flu news hit. I was ready to cancel the trip, but continued watching the news, hoping the danger would subside. After about a week it became clear that the news media had overreacted and that the flu was no more dangerous than any other seasonal flu. But the damage to public perception had already been done. Occupancy rates dropped to the 20% range and the hospitality industry began to wheel and deal.

Travelling with my girlfriend, Erin, I wanted to keep our budget to about $90 USD per day for the both of us. This meant trying to find reasonable accommodations for about $40. Rates on websites and in guide books indicated this was possible but that most rooms went for much more than that. Word of mouth, however, was telling us that prices were lower now. But we just weren't going to know for sure until we arrived.

We bought two airline tickets. We knew we'd be in the area for about three weeks. Other than that, we'd figure it out as we went, and just hoped our budget would hold up that long.

We packed a couple of backpacks and hopped an overnight flight to Cancun.

Home

2008-08-20T18:26:00.000-07:00

Rejoining life at home has been a slow process the past couple of days.

I have become accustomed to a life where the day's to do list might be to mail a letter or take a pleasant walk. It is very noticeable to me how much slower I move now than I did when I left. I can still imagine the week right before I took off for Thailand, moving a mile a minute to get all my affairs in order. It's different now.

Many of my friends who have seen me recently have remarked how much more relaxed I seem. I think that has been a big benefit of the past few months. Now, though, I wonder how to keep it going. Life at home will require more from me in terms of showing up to work promptly, keeping chores done, and keeping scheduled commitments to folks. My calendar has become quite dusty lately (if that's possible for a Google calendar).

The first few days, I attacked a foot high pile of unopened mail. Not too many threatening letters thank goodness. I also bought and unpacked a few things you need when you have a home.. shower soap, a clock for my nightstand.... my electric rotary toothbrush! woo woo!

Funny thing though. Mostly, I have just left everything packed in boxes. The clothes don't really feel like mine anymore for some reason. Pants don't fit so well. I've lost some weight. Every day I find myself putting on the same clothes I have had in my backpack for all these months. They feel like mine.. and all I really need. For some reason though, it felt urgent for me to get the backpack itself stored and out of my sight. Although it's been a good companion, I really began to resent packing and unpacking it all the time. Time to put it away.

I have some theories on why I lost weight. Probably a few reasons. First, no kitchen of my own. Since I didn't have places to put much food, I could only really eat when it was time to go find a meal. So I found myself hungry a fair amount, but got used to it. Second, budget. I have been in such a mode of saving that rarely, if ever, did I have a large sit down meal with multiple courses, baskets of bread, desserts, etc. Third, no gym. Muscle is heavy, and I have lost a fair amount of that. It's funny how what used to seem like a bit of a chore (going to workout) now seems like a privilege, one I have very much looked forward to returning to. I miss it. Fourth, walking. It seems like at least half the time on my trip, my ankles were sore due to the amount of walking I was doing. Whether it's traveling to and from cities, running errands, or just being a tourist and seeing sights, I was always walking. Rarely was there a day when I sat on my bum all day long. Well maybe a few times.

Now, unfortunately, it's time to think about working again. I still consider myself on vacation from work until after I return from Burning Man. But that will be the biggest adjustment for sure.

My plan is to not get a full time job, but gigs instead - three to six month projects. My goal, and it is a lofty one, is to work six months and have two off in between projects. Whether for traveling or just to have time off at home, it seems possible if I budget for it. It may not work out that way, but that is the goal I am setting for myself. I have decided that time for working on personal projects, visiting friends, traveling, or just plain relaxing is an important part of having a full life, and not enough people demand that time.

Wish me luck. I hope I can stay on track.

Return

2008-08-17T14:41:00.000-07:00

The sad day finally arrived. I had run out of time and money to continue my fantasy life of new friends, new experiences, and no work. I had promised to be home by Saturday night to meet some German friends who are staying at my flat, so that became my final deadline. My return flight was rescheduled to stretch out the inevitable. The new flight would leave London at 8:30 Saturday morning, which would get me home about four hours ahead of my guests.

Rob gathered some friends for a big last Friday night out on the town in Soho, and Toria was nice enough to come down to London to see me off as well. To really maximize the last night, the plan was to play through. Stay up all night, move the party back to Rob's loft, and see me off to the airport. It's a stretch for a geezer like me, but the idea is to be tired enough to sleep on the flight back and begin the process of getting back onto California time.

The night was a blast. After going out dancing at a club party billed as "the best funk night in the world" (later certified by Toria), we all returned to Rob's and played music reminicent of our times together and drinking gallons of Red Bull to stay awake. We danced all the way up until a painfully sad round of hugs and kisses and me taking my last backpack trudge toward the nearest airport, hoping for a seamless journey.

Ha.

With a total of twenty pounds in my pocket and filled with sadness to leave, I got in a cab with a driver, who after arriving to the subway station, let me know he had no change at all. Jerk. I made him find me some change and return me to the tube station PDQ.

Groggy and jittery from caffeine, I wandered into a mostly empty Kings Cross tube station at 5:30 to catch the Picadilly line to Heathrow airport.

Murphy's Law of subways dictated that the Picadilly line was, of course, shut down. I grabbed the nearest employee I could find (a janitor perhaps?) to tell me what I should do and he gave me another route to take to find another rail train to get there.

I started to really worry that I would miss my flight. Mostly I was concerned for my guests arriving in San Francisco that evening. I imagined them getting to my door near midnight with no one there to greet them.

While doing my best to follow the instructions, I ran into a guy with the same problem, only he had directions given to him that took him in the opposite direction. Great. He managed to convince me that his directions were right and mine were wrong, and I followed him. We made it to the Heathrow Express train and I made it to the airport within about twenty minutes of my intended arrival time. Not too bad.

Once I was on the plane, I was mostly assured of getting home eventually. How late could I be?

Murphy's Law of weather dictated that Houston, my only stop along the way, was shrouded in thunderstorms. This gummed up things there quite a bit. My flight out to San Francisco was a solid two and a half hours late, getting me home only an hour or so before my guests arrived. How is that for cutting things close?

Groggy, and unshowered, we managed to just beat last call at Molotov Cocktails down the street and get one good beer down the hatch before crashing out big time.

Now I'm home to a completely empty room and no particularly solid plan for my next few days. They call this part of the travel experience "re-entry".

Deep breath.

Country

2008-08-13T23:08:00.000-07:00

Pondering what to do my last week of my trip, I had a few considerations. I knew I wanted to return to visit my friends in Brighton. I felt I had seen most of what I wanted of London except for the never ending stream of great club music that plays there.. however that is mostly Thursday through Saturday. Rob has been so great in opening up his home to me, and nothing but welcoming, but I wanted to make sure he had his place to himself sometimes and that I wasn't always there, so some time away from London was certainly in order.

Fortunately, I got an invitation from some new friends I made at the Big Chill Festival to come up to Northern England for a couple days. (Vic)toria Jocasta Varley and Saffron Mina Katrina Glew (I love their names) hail from Halifax, a small ruralish town in the north of England near Leeds. I met them at one of those late night parties after all of the main music stages had closed down and all of us dance addicts all buzzed toward the nearest beat within ear shot. Those tend to be the best parties with the funnest people. This party was the best of all, tucked in a cider tent, DJ decks in the corner, and a gaggle of avid dancers, throwing down with five mile smiles on their faces.

Toria told me there was a burlesque show up in Huddersfield that would be fun. I knew if they said it would be fun, it would be. And what a great opportunity to get out of the more touristy areas and see some down home English living. So I took a train up there to meet them for the show. Folks tend to dress up for these things, and I am a mere shaggy backpacker, so I borrowed a couple of things from Rob, since we're about the same size, and did my best.

Huddersfield turned out to be a cute town with a surprising array of pubs and night life for such a small place. It is a college town though, and that always helps keep a town active. The ladies, in a concerted effort to throw their full support into the new burlesque club, dressed up to the nines with sequins, feathers... the works.

The show was great. Along with the traditional elements of burlesque (a cheeky MC, feather dances, strip teases, and great jazz/pop singers), they also threw in some creative, more modern takes on the art form, playing rock music and more up to date skits, like a crime scene investigator strip tease, for example. World class entertainment in a small town. Gotta love it.

I was also pleased by the quality of the music playing in the clubs and bars around town afterwords. The experience will, along with others in my travels, help me not to be so arrogant about what cities have really good entertainment.

The next day, the three of us headed to Halifax. We stopped off to meet Toria's family and wiener dog, Eric and then headed up to stay with Saffron's family, her cute little two year old, Molly, and Molly's chilled out, VW bus enthusiast dad, Jules. They live in a cute house at the top of a hill surrounded on every side by rolling greenery and nothing but stone masonry buildings. Again, nothing but great hospitality from them. We stayed up late, drinking wine and playing old school hip hop vinyl albums most of the night. How can you beat that.

The next morning I returned to London just in time to repack and head down to Brighton. Pete and Adeline were there to welcome me, of course, and I immediately remembered why I wanted to return. The feel of the place re-enveloped me immediately. Brighton is a big tourist destination which does affect the feel, but it nevertheless seems like a pleasant place to live as well.

This time, however, I did manage to find my friend Roussos, the hippyish Greek guy I spent time with in a couple of Thailand cities. I knew he was living in Brighton and had a little stand selling clothes and trinkets, but never found him during my last visit. This time, thanks to the magic of Facebook, I managed to contact him and he gave me more exact coordinates.

Roussos leads a pretty charmed life. He is always positive, always has a big smile on his face, and is one of the friendliest people ever. I think this has helped him to manage exactly the life he wants. He is a life long traveler. But while most other travel enthusiasts return home to get a real job to fund the next trip, Roussos designed his own job. This year he went to Thailand and Morocco to develop some relationships with suppliers of his products. Then he managed to fall into the opportunity to setup a table and racks outside of a store on a quiet, sunny, tourist shopping street. The shop owner liked Roussos so much, he discounted the rent he normally charges for the spot just so he could get on his feet. He told me one day, he got tired of looking at the restaurant across from his table and wished he could have the palms and coconut trees of Thailand to look at. Soon after, the restaurant changed hands, became a Thai restaurant, and they painted pictures of palm trees and sunny skies in front of his face. Ahhh.

Roussos says his main problem now is keeping items in stock. Business is good.

Way to go, man.

Chill

2008-08-05T06:59:00.000-07:00

I came back to London to spend a day preparing to head to The Big Chill festival held on the grounds of Eastnor Castle near Ledbury, England. Rob and friends rented a van and we were off early in the morning for the several hour drive up north.

The grounds at the festival are set among rolling green hills with plenty of lakes, trees, and nice views to put one in the mood to relax, listen to great music, eat great food, and meet some great folks. The crowd at the festival is, on average, older than many other popular festivals around Europe. There are a healthy number of families and older folks which helps to bring down the rowdy factor somewhat. There is something for everyone there including carnival rides, crafts, and shows for the kids, organic, veggie, and vegan food plus yoga for the heath conscious, and an evening-only nature art walk for those able to pull themselves away from all the music and dancing. I wasn't so able.

I'm one of those people who, as long as there is some good, fun dancing somewhere, I have to find it and jump right in. The grounds were just littered with fun parties, including scheduled stage shows and impromptu, guerrilla style parties in bar tents and food stalls. Just bring your decks, DJs, and the party will find you. I was unable to escape the fun for a couple of evenings and didn't make it back to camp until well after sunrise.

Here were some of my favorite artists:

A. Skills - This guy is a twenty four year old master of the turntables and remixer of funk, hip hop, and breaks. Somehow I had never heard of him until the day before the festival. I had decided to listen to as many of the festival artists as I could so that I could decide which shows to try and make. I never got past "A" in the alphabetical list of artists. Once I found A. Skills, I just couldn't stop downloading and listening to the tracks. Who needs B through Z I guess.

The Bays & The Heritage Orchestra - I have been impressed with the innovation that has been happening in music during the past few years. Bedroom music production with inexpensive equipment, the introduction of live video performance to music shows (see Coldcut), live digital sampling on stage to create one's own accompaniment (see Jamie Lidell, Loop!Station). But this performance was one of the most ambitious projects I have ever personally witnessed. The Bays are already known for being an improvisational electronic music act. They don't rehearse or make albums. It is one thing to have a jam session with a basic rhythm section and some electronics, but now they have decided to do it with a full string and wind orchestra. What?! To accomplish this, they assembled an impressive set of technology and talent. Along with The Bays live performance, an orchestral composer was on stage with music software that allowed him to send "sheet" music in real time to the conductor and musicians on stage, each of whom was outfitted with his or her own flat screen music stand which would display the arrangement as it was being composed. The large stage video screens alternated between showing the music score being assembled, the artists themselves, and ambient images that fit with the largely Drum & Bass songs. It was a mind blower, I have to say.

Roisin Murphy - I had seen her before at the Melt festival in Germany. I dragged my friends straight up to the front of the stage to see her and created some new fans in the process.

Thievery Corporation - Sometimes at a festival, you lose your friends and find yourself on your own. This happened the first night after an entire day of soaking up the entertainment, sunshine, and local scrumpy. Sometimes it's fun to be lost though because you get to wander about free and aimlessly. Late at night, I wandered to a stage playing great music. I just walked straight to the front and danced with the folks having the best time. I don't know how long it was before I finally asked someone, "Who is this?". "Thievery Corporation!" "Of course it is." (Continued dancing)

The Real Meat Sausage Company - This was not a music artist, so much as an entertaining display. Near closing time on the last evening of the festival, several kids working in a sausage stand were having the time of their lives singing soul music and dancing while occasionally stopping to serve the last bits of food they had remaining. It was extremely endearing.

Thanks once again to my friends, new and old, who made this trip so smooth and fun for me.

London

2008-07-29T15:27:00.000-07:00

I have been very much looking forward to getting to London. I planned to spend a couple of weeks there, a welcome change from the past few weeks of constant movement.

As I was arriving on the airplane to Stansted Airport, I realized that, although my friend Rob had given me good instructions for getting to his home in downtown London, I was out of cell phone credit, and even if I had credit, his phone number was in my email. I didn't have it written down. My plane was about an hour late, so I wouldn't make it to his door until about 2 am. Wow, I sure hope he answers.

I made the last train from the airport by about five minutes, and arrived at Liverpool Street Station to a deserted financial district. I hoofed it about fifteen minutes or so to his door and buzzed.

Nothing. Buzzed again. And again. Then I sat down wondering what I would do next. I had a ton of gear strapped to me and no phone or clue where I was really. Silly rabbit. I guess my luck had to run out some time.. and look at how unprepared I am for this. No idea what to do. He is either asleep or still out somewhere. I buzzed again.

Success! He awoke and saved my sorry unprepared behind. He gave me a quick and dirty tour of his really cool top floor loft, and pointed to where I should sleep.

So pleased.

The next few days I spent being a tourist. Walking along the Thames river, snapping pictures of fuzzy-hatted guards, figuring out the subway system, etc.

In the evenings after folks got off work, I got a little taste of life as a local in London. I got introduced to Rob and Anita's inevitably delightful local circle of friends. We went to see the Dandy Warhols at a local rock club, went to a fun art museum happy hour, and went to see a friend of a friend DJ at a little dive bar in the Angel district. Later in the week, Rob hosted a sunday barbeque at his loft where we gorged on grilled veggies and meats and sipped cider and bloody maries.

London is clearly one of those places that takes awhile to get your mind around. There is plenty to do and it is scattered all over town. I have to say though that I expected the city to feel far more oppressive. I was pleased to see that the city planners limit the height of most buildings, so without having giant skyscrapers, plenty of sun light gets through to the not-so-hectic sidewalks. Clearly a large and busy city. But not stressful or intimidating at all.

So as not to darken Rob's door too long at one time, I contacted some friends Adeline and Peter who I had met in Thailand. They live in Brighton, along the south coast of England, and invited me down for a visit. I will be attending the Big Chill festival with Rob, Anita, and friends the following weekend, so I headed down to Brighton for a few days to enjoy the unusually pleasant warm and sunny weather.

After hearing lots of good things about Brighton, I was not surprised to see that it is a perfectly charming and comfortable town situated directly on the English Channel. England isn't known for its beaches, but Brighton enjoys a healthy number of visitors to its beaches due to its as-good-as-England-gets weather and its convenient one hour train ride from London.

The town feels to me like what San Francisco would be like if the Russian Hill neighborhood was pushed directly on to the sand of Ocean Beach. The 1920's architecture matches closely with light colored three-ish story bay windowed buildings. The streets are lined with bustling mom and pop businesses, from cute sushi joints and lively dive pubs, to organic grocery stores and purist record shops.

Pete is a great juggler and brought me to Odd Balls, a great shop in town where they sell all things circus. I bought myself a new colorful light-up poi set that I can spin instead of fire when it's dark at night. They will look great on the playa this year. Safer and still cool.

Pete and Adeline have taken great care of me and woven me into their lives here for a couple of days. It's a beach lovers life where working is fine, but relaxation and sun time are paramount. It's no wonder that I have enjoyed everyone I have met along the way that hails from here. The vibe is top notch.

I decided that London and Brighton are to occupy the remainder of my trip and so I changed my flight home to leave from England rather than Germany a few days later than planned. It's a little pricey for the change, but worth it for the extra time, and relieves me of a lot of travel and other expenses to leave from Frankfurt.

I will head to the festival this weekend which promises to be a great time, but I will return here for the last few days of my trip.

Melt

2008-07-21T02:11:00.000-07:00

I knew before I left for Europe that there is a lot to see here. I knew that there was really no way I would see everything I wanted to and so I envisioned a trip where I would pick four to five cities, and sink into them for a couple of weeks each, much as I have during the rest of my journey. I didn't want to "box check", which is what I call it when folks bounce quickly from city to city, sight to sight, taking pictures, packing up and leaving for the next stop. It doesn't seem fun or relaxing to me. I wanted to spend my time getting the feel of cities, working on hobbies, work skills, etc.

But that wasn't my only consideration. From my experience in Buenos Aires, I knew that big cities could be difficult to meet people, and I had a number of friends, both old and new, living and traveling in Europe, so I wanted to meet up or stay with them as often as possible. Also, I am on a pretty tight budget. Couch surfing with friends or sharing accommodations is an important way to keep costs down. I haven't found even a dormitory bed in Europe for much below $30 per night, even in Eastern Europe, which I thought would be much cheaper. I guess I would have to go further east toward Romania or Bulgaria to find better deals.

So, as a result, I have found myself moving around much more than I expected, trying to coordinate with friends' schedules. It occurred to me along the way, that I haven't spent more than two nights in one bed since I stayed at Heather's for a few days in Ghent, Belgium. This is partly due to the fact that, during the busy summer season, it is advisable to reserve a room or bed before arriving in town. Without seeing the place though, it's risky to pay to reserve for more than two nights, so one must immediately start looking for a new place upon arrival if the first place doesn't work for whatever reason. It is exhausting, always looking for my next home just about every day. Also, the truth is, that the past few towns have not been places I would care to stay for two weeks, especially in a dorm bed, so I am motivated to keep moving.

Back in Krakow, I was faced with another decision of where to go next. I had to fly out of Prague to London in a few days, so I couldn't go anywhere too far away. I considered going to Wraclow, Poland. It sounded like another cute Polish town and appeared on a map to be closer to Prague than Krakow. But the map was deceiving. Train tracks don't run between those cities, so it would be a long, complex journey back to Prague.

I learned that a group of folks I had met through Sarah back in Berlin were headed to the Melt! music festival near Dessau, Germany. The ticket was a bit pricey, but given that I would camp with borrowed gear, and not pay for any accommodations for a few days, it was close to a wash. Also, getting back to Prague was quicker from there. And, hey, check out another cute-yet-bleak Polish town, or jump up an down to some great music for a few days.

Sold.

I hopped a train west and soon was in camp with a really nice group of folks who were quite welcoming, considering I was such a last minute stranger addition (who is that guy again?).

The festival is held at the site of an old coal mine, with a number of colossal pieces of mining machinery used as a back drop for the event. There were five stages of music running non stop for three days from early evening until well after sunrise. There was a long list of artists, most of whom I had not heard of. This is becoming more and more common in the new world of obscure yet popular Myspace hipster bands and a bottomless supply of electronic music artists. Or maybe I am just not hip to the European music scene. Maybe that's it. But I fully expected to come away with some new favorite artists, and I did.

One group I was excited to see was Stereo MCs. They have been around since the early 90's and were my first exposure to electronic music back in the day. I was hoping they would put on a good show, and they put on a great one instead. One of the highlights for sure. I love seeing older musicians blow away the youngsters.

One artist, I hadn't heard of before, and now feel quite embarrassed about it, is Roisin Murphy. I don't know much about her or how long she has been around, but she put on one of the best all around shows I have seen in a long time. The music seemed to have many influences, but it felt like it was trying to bridge the gap between electronic music and soul music. My first impression was that she is a nouveau Annie Lennox with a house music accompaniment. Over the course of the show, she showed a style all her own. But mostly I was impressed by the overall show. Her band and her backup singers were outstanding. Her own vocal performance and stage presence was really impressive. She is obviously in to fashion. She had many costume changes with some pretty wild getups. Riveting. Some of her music feels more at home in a dance club than in my living room, but it certainly has its place.

Unfortunately, the event was plagued by some pretty hard rain at times. Any surface not made of concrete became a slippery muddy mess. But on the bright side, dancing in the rain and mud to a Drum & Bass group with a live MC called Commix was the other great highlight of my time there. It wasn't really so much that I wanted to get wet and muddy. It's just that the music was so good, that I couldn't stand to hide from the rain under the bar tent any longer when the music was shouting at me to dance. Good times.

Krakow

2008-07-16T03:50:00.000-07:00

I had a choice to make.

In order to ensure I would be in London on schedule later this month, I had to book the airline ticket well in advance. As you can see from some of my travel, I tend to be more of the wandering type than the scheduling and planning type. This meant that I had to know where I would be flying to London from. I didn't really know several weeks ago which direction I would want to travel from Prague. I heard good things about Krakow, Poland to the north. Kristen and Mary were traveling south toward Hungary. My friends Ashley and Crystal would be in Prague a while longer. So where would I be on the 22nd? I knew I probably wouldn't be in Prague for two weeks, but I also figured I wouldn't get too far. So I booked the flight from Prague, knowing I would have to back track to make my flight.

I decided to go for Krakow, Poland. It was a cheap train ride from Prague and my friend Sarah from Berlin even said she would hop a train to check it out too since it was close by. I checked in to a delightful hostel called Nathan's Villa. It is one of those backpacker's paradise places. A great place to meet people, it has a bar in the basement open until people stop ordering, a movie theater room showing the DVD of your collective choice, free laundry if you don't mind mixing your clothes with others', and a nightly barbecue out on the ping pong deck. Sometimes a hostel can make or break a town in your memory. Although not five star accommodations, Nathan's is there to make it a good stay.

Like every town, Krakow has a big old castle, and lively and touristy town square. Nothing really new there, but right away I enjoyed the Polish folks' disposition. In Prague, we would observe this general feeling of a place we called the "smell of communism", kind of a bleakness. That grey film was still present in some places here in Poland, but the people here were friendly and sunnier than those I had left behind in Czech.

Off the beaten tourist track, there is a nearby neighborhood called Kasimierz which has a ton of nice restaurants and bars. Historically, it is the old Jewish quarter of town with many old synagogues. It has been run down in recent years, but is enjoying a come back now with cute places to eat and drink popping up mainly around its central plaza. It's popular with young locals and travelers alike.

The most historically significant sight to see in Krakow is about an hour out of town by bus: Auschwitz.

I had visited some Holocaust museums and memorials in Berlin where I had seen some pictures and learned about history. It is never an uplifting experience, but I felt pulled to go to the place. The main place. The scene of the crime.

Before now, I had a general understanding of what went on here. But a couple of things struck me as I walked around.

There are a couple of sections to the site. The original complex was a Polish military base the Germans took over. The Nazis converted it into a death camp, but there was a problem. Not enough capacity. They couldn't kill enough people fast enough. So, besides the other camps around Europe, they built two more enormous sections here, complete with higher capacity gas chambers and ovens to dispose of remains. Although the new camp could house 100,000 people, the vast majority of people brought by train to the camp were never housed. They were marched directly to the gas chambers. It was a factory bent on efficiency... a horrible type of efficiency.

Also, the Nazis saved and warehoused everything they thought was of any material value, including hair, medical prostheses, luggage, and clothing. For some reason, the display that had the greatest effect on me was the barracks building that houses a mountain of shoes. The shoes, to me, were a reminder of the individuality of the victims. Some of them were fashionable shoes. Some of them were work shoes. But, for me, it underscored that each of those pairs of shoes also went with a pair of feet, attached to a person with an education, with a hobby, with friends, with a future. Until they got here.

I wondered how a nation of people could allow this. I wondered how many every day people knew what was happening. I wondered who could work at a place like this. I wondered how citizens could vote for a platform of hate. How was this possible? I think that is the point of these museums. It seems so unthinkable. But it occurred only fifty years ago in a highly cultured and educated country.

I met a young Polish girl while traveling. When I mentioned Krakow was on my route, she immediately brought up Auschwitz. Even though she was only 25 or so, the subject brought deep emotion to her immediately. The war, the atrocities, have still left great scars here, even for those were not alive to see them.

Charming

2008-07-12T03:12:00.000-07:00

I had originally planned to stay in Prague at least a week. But after a few days of sight seeing, I was ready to see something else. Kristen and Mary were heading south toward Hungary to volunteer on their Habitat for Humanity project. They planned to stop in Cesky Krumlov a couple hours south of Prague. It sounded nice, so I went along for a couple of days.

I'm glad I went. The town is so cute and charming. It's tucked between some green hills and surrounded by the curve of a passing river which winds through part of the town. There are still tourists here, but they seem like more of the "Czechs getting away for the weekend" variety.... kind of like Tahoe City in California. It was quiet, but with plenty to do, and enough night life to keep us busy for a couple of evenings.

Traveling different continents this year, I have observed that there are those things in every town along the way that guide books point you toward for a day of sight seeing. In Asia, we used to joke that every town had a waterfall only a day hike away that was a must see. In Europe, the equivalent is castles. Every town has some ancient castle with a few centuries of history, and you simply must go. Krumlov was no exception.

We enjoyed walking the castle grounds in town, partly because the building, although grand, was fairly laid back, had mostly free admission, and provided a great view of the small town. They even had a couple of cute brown bears on the grounds.

It seemed like at every turn during our walking tour around town, Mary and Kristen in their best exaggerated East Coast accents would exclaim "Oh stop it!" or "Would you look at that" or "They have got some nerve", observing some new adorable view or building.

We met three jovial Irish lads who we spent both evenings with drinking Czech beer and generally disturbing the relative peace of Eastern Europe. If there is anything louder than an American, it's an Irishman with a few pints under his belt. Good fun.

Prague

2008-07-11T10:27:00.000-07:00

After a much too brief stay in Amsterdam, I hopped a Sky Europe flight to Prague, Czech Republic. Sky Europe is one of the much talked about European super discount airlines. The advertised fare for the flight was 7 Euro (about $10 US). Unfortunately, these airlines advertise their fares sans a laundry list of taxes and nickel and dime fees that end up adding about fifty Euro to any ticket, so you can never get too excited. The flight, no frills as it was, was still operated efficiently and professionally. The big old airlines have a thing or twelve to learn from these guys.

I was excited to meet two separate sets of friends from the Bay Area who coincidentally happened to be scheduled to be in Prague the same week. I was disappointed, however, that I wasn't able to book the same hostel and had to find one of my own.

My arrival was tricky. Even though Czech Republic is a burgeoning, independent EU country, it is still recovering from being a communist, Eastern Block country and is still rough around the edges in areas like efficiency and customer service. The shiny new airport looks great, but getting into the city center was an IQ test I barely passed.

You must take a bus from the airport to a train station or take a private shuttle or taxi. The normal buses and shuttles don't run late in the evening though, and since my flight arrived late, I had to brush up on the late night transit system which is completely separate.

To my surprise, the day bus was still running since I made it to the curb before 11pm, however I wasn't sure if the train station it brought me to would be. Let's hope. I also needed some local currency and to buy a ticket for the bus, but all of the normal human help for this was shut down.

I had a couple of nuggets of wisdom under my belt. One: The money you get from the ATM is rarely in a denomination small enough to take public transportation. Two: You can sometimes get smaller bills from the ATM by requesting an odd amount (1900 CZK rather than 2000 CZK). Three: You might actually need coins, so try to find a way to get some change.

I confirmed that the sole bus ticket machine only took coins, no bills. Since there were no stores open, I looked for a change machine. I only found a machine that took foreign currency (not local) and changed it into Czech Crown. I gave it a couple of US dollars and it spit out a 20 crown coin.

Nearing 11pm, what could have been the last frequent day bus pulled up, and a horde of confused tourists rushed the driver with their naive wads of Euros and huge denomination bills. It seemed like some folks were getting tickets and some were getting turned away. I asked the driver in Tarzan sign language if I could buy a ticket waving a 100 crown note. He waved me away and pointed to the ticket machine on the sidewalk. I ran to the machine but it seemed to be made as a movie prop rather than something for real humans to use. No one could figure out how to operate it, including me.

I thought maybe he just objected to my 100 bill because he couldn't make change. I produced my 20 crown coin for him and he nodded his head and gave me a ticket and a couple of coins back. Success! I got on the bus, the driver closed the door leaving a substantial portion of the horde behind, and drove to the nearest train station. Poor horde. They are probably taxi bound now.

I ran into the train station to catch the last day trains along with everyone else. I asked a local who I heard speaking English where to go and she happily explained the metro signs and how they worked, and also told me which station I should transfer at.

After some aimless midnight wandering in the city center, I found my hostel (my friends Kristen and Mary's too) and all was well.

The next few days we toured the city, checking out its sights. Here are a few observations:

The city center is as picturesque as everyone had told me. However it may be a bit too picturesque. We kept commenting that (especially tourist areas) looked more like a movie set than a place where people live and work. We were constantly joking as we would walk down a less travelled road and saw no people, that the town forgot to cast extras for the street. The buildings, as old and beautiful as they are, all seem to have a less than authentic finish of stucco and pastelish paint. It just plain looks like Disneyland. This isn't really a complaint. We had just never seen anything like this before.
Everything here costs extra. There are some sights you can see for free, but even some cathedrals charged an entrance fee. Public restrooms all cost money, even at MacDonald's. Sitting at an outside table at a cafe might cost extra and those pretzels the bar puts on your table may seem free, but think again.
Many of the local folks we had contact with were not the friendliest sorts. I am not sure what attributes to this, but even at our hostel, simple requests for common things were met with the body language equivalent of an eye roll or a heavy sigh. Come on, now.
One understandable reason for this is that the place is just crawling with tourists. This can't be too fun for the locals, and honestly wasn't super fun for me either. I am beginning to develop a distaste for hordes of people. I sort of miss the days of mostly deserted beach towns.
There are plenty of bars and restaurants. Prague is definitely into beer. It is the home of the original, authentic Budweiser beer. Each bar tends to be loyal to one beer in particular, so that makes ordering one simple enough. As prevalent as the establishments are, though, we had trouble finding too many places open after 10 pm. It's a pretty quiet place at night. I imagine if we knew some locals, we could have done better. I actually had the name and number of a local who is a friend of a friend, but I dropped the ball and never called.

Within four days, we all felt that we had seen all there was to see. The general atmosphere of the place was not holding us there, so we moved on sooner than I had originally intended.

Vices

2008-07-08T09:40:00.000-07:00

Besides bikes, Amsterdam is known for its permissiveness. Coffee shops don't look or smell like Starbucks, and red lights aren't meant as traffic signals everywhere, especially in dark allies.

I arrived on an historic week, however, as it pertains to permissiveness. The European Union demanded that, starting July 1, Holland stop allowing smoking inside places of business. I was a little confused when I read that the ban only includes tobacco smoke. The famous coffee shops still allow smoking of pure marijuana indoors. I was aware, however, that the vast majority of Europeans that smoke pot, mix it with a fair amount of tobacco - partially because it makes a joint burn better and partially because it dilutes the extremely potent local varieties. So those wishing to smoke weed in a coffee shop had two choices: Smoke outside, or smoke it pure.

The ban did not just affect coffee shops though. As I walked or rode my bike around town in the evening, I would see a familiar sight to someone from California... a crowd of people outside each bar smoking their cigarettes. Although this was familiar to me, I suspected this was a totally new sight to see in Holland. I confirmed this with a bartender at a nice jazz club I stopped in. Before getting in though, I had to push my way through a couple of people smoking directly in the doorway - a practice that hasn't sunk in as rude yet here. Most of the Dutch people I spoke to about hadn't seem to have given much thought to the consequences of such a ban. I wondered if anyone thought this might hurt tourism or business at the coffee shops. I wondered how anyone would know if there was tobacco in your joint. I wondered if the ban would cause people to start smoking pure joints thus becoming far more incapacitated. Maybe they would stop rolling joints, and use bongs and pipes with smaller amounts. Maybe folks all over Holland would smoke less altogether. In any case, I knew it would affect the feel of the town and I was a little disappointed I got here after the imposition of this little corner of the new world order.

Some Dutch folks I discussed this with were delighted with a tip I handed down to them, which is that, with such a ban in effect, you can gauge the crowd in bars before you go inside by the number and makeup of the folks out on the street smoking. It beats walking in and out of places.

Another signature aspect of Amsterdam is the red light district. Prostitution is legal here, but mainly confined to this one neighborhood in town. I took a field trip down to the town center in the daytime to take a gander. I found the spot on the tourist map that indicated the general area and parked my bike. The neighborhood looked more or less like the rest of the city. The street was bustling with locals and tourists and I wondered if I was in the right place. I took a quick right turn down an alley to check another street and immediately had my whereabouts confirmed.

Before I arrived here, I had a vision in my mind of what the red light district would look like. Maybe dark and seedy with women doing some kind of slinky pole dance or maybe just sitting on stools filing their nails or something.. all in a room lit so that passers by could see them and then maybe ring a little bell if they wanted to get inside.

It wasn't exactly like that, but I wasn't far off. The most jarring thing for me was that, while walking down the extremely narrow allies, I found myself eye to eye with the ladies with just a pane of glass between us. Also I could hardly see the ladies until it was just them and me directly in front of one another. They are not passive either. They are salespeople and they wink and wave folks in, and will even open the door and come out to throw a verbal sales pitch occasionally if they think it will work. Oh and some of the ladies aren't really ladies at all, which they were not shy about demonstrating. I was a little bit shocked by the whole thing, but intrigued at the same time. I never once broke my stride, afraid that one might try and latch on.... but I did walk up and down a few allies. Crazy!

All in all, I have to say that, although this part of town clearly caters to human vices, it didn't seem all that seedy. However, I did note on two occasions, shady characters in darkish corners, who as I passed by actually said "Pssst". Really? Pssst? Nothing screams seedy like Pssst.

Amsterdam

2008-07-05T11:28:00.000-07:00

At the last minute before I was to hop a train from Ghent to Amsterdam, Heather came to her senses and decided to go along at least for a day or so. After all, it was 4th of July weekend. So instead of buying a train ticket, I bought her a tank of gas, and we drove over. It's about three hours in a car or a train.

We parked the car out of town and took a free ferry into the town center. Like any good Amsterdamer, my first task and hand was to obtain a bicycle. I knew bikes were commonly used there, but I had no idea to what degree. Bikes are king. There is almost as much pavement devoted to them as to cars and trains. And they are always bustling with riders. Bike lanes are not necessarily just white lines painted on the road, but a separately engineered roadway altogether in many cases. Special street lights, street signs. In fact, Heather pointed out to me that, since Holland is a pretty flat place, you can get around the entire country by bicycle and still enjoy the same road accommodations you do in the city.

After awhile, I noticed that, for such a large metropolitan city, it was pretty quiet. There are cars driving around, but not very many. I remembered how loud Pai, Thailand was and it was a tiny little town. It was just jammed with loud motor bikes. Here people mainly bike, walk, or ride a street car.

The central part of Amsterdam is organized like a half wagon wheel, with a series of spokes (roads) and pretty canals that arc around the town as cross streets. It struck me again, as it did in Barcelona, but more so here, that EVERY building in the half wheel was charming, historic, and beautifully kept. The buildings are narrow and a few stories tall. Taller than they would have been had they not been taxed based on their footprint. This also makes for tight spaces inside, and narrow, steep staircases. Since space is so tight, most buildings have a pulley attached to the roof to hoist up residents' belongings when they move in and out.

I didn't find out why, but many of the buildings tilt. Since they are all jammed together, their tilts in relation to one another are obvious to the eye. I thought maybe they tilted forward so that when you hoist stuff up, it doesnt smash through your downstairs neighbor's window, but they tilt sideways too, or don't tilt. I don't get it really, but the effect makes them look like kooky Tim Robbins cartoon houses. It's very cute.

I also noticed quickly that much of the town, as charming and beautiful as it is, looks the same everywhere! I kept getting lost because one street and canal looks more or less like all the others. Good landmarks are few and far between, and for me, the Dutch street names were hard to remember.

I got lost more than once. But no worry. Just keep riding around until you run into something you recognize. You can't get far in a wagon wheel.

Unfortunately, as soon as I arrived on Friday afternoon, I felt a virus taking hold of me quickly. I tried my best to fight it off, but I couldn't do it. I knew I was going to be spending a lot of time in bed, and not having any big nights for a couple of days.

Sick on my only weekend in Amsterdam.

Damn.

Brussels

2008-07-03T16:36:00.000-07:00

For kicks, Heather and I took a train trip down to Brussels, the Belgian capitol, to visit with Daisy, Heather's long time friend and Brussels native. Daisy's family has operated a dry cleaning business in the center for a number of years.

We all met up at Daisy's favorite bar downtown for some Belgian beer (of course). After arriving in town, I immediately noticed something was different. Even though Brussels is only about an hour from Ghent, the language spoken by folks here is French, not the Dutch I was used to in Ghent. Huh?

Another history lesson for Miles. There are two main regions of Belgium: The northern area of Flanders which is Dutch speaking, and Wallonia in the South which is home to the French speaking Flemish people. Somewhere along the line in history they both ended up part of Belgium, along with a small piece in the East that speaks German. (Note! Heather has informed me this is all wrong... I will repair it. sorry Flemish folk!)

At first I was confused at why the street names on street signs were so darned long. Then Daisy informed me that they are written in both French and Dutch since Brussels is officially a bilingual city. This is confusing since that means all streets really have two different names. Depending on whether it is a proper name or a common word (like Oak Street) the translation might be completely different when written in Dutch or French. Fun.

We had fun that night, and crashed at Daisy's until the next day when she gave me a personal guided tour of the city while Heather headed back to work in Ghent. We walked up and down the city to each neighborhood, stopping in her favorite spots for food and drinks. I especially enjoyed the street cartoons that are all around the city, many in the style of Herge. She is clearly quite proud of her home and also an amazing and hospitable hostess.

Thanks Daisy... and I love your French accent.

Belgium

2008-07-01T13:18:00.000-07:00

Waffles and chocolates and beer... Oh my!

My lovely friend Heather Rae lives in Ghent, Belgium with her boyfriend, Jurgin. They were kind enough to invite me up to their home for a few days for a taste of some Ghent life and tasty BBQ. I took them up on it.

I had planned to check out Amsterdam while in Europe, and Ghent is only a couple of hours away by train.

The night before I left Barcelona was the much anticipated European soccer final between Germany and Spain. I was a bit torn who to root for since earlier in my trip I had spent a couple of weeks watching the games in Berlin and pulling for Germany with the rest of the crowd. Now I was in Spain feeling a bit sheepish about waving a white, red and yellow flag around, but I was (not so) secretly hoping Germany would win since I know more people there.. .and besides.. who likes a flip flopper, anyway? I watched the game at The London Bar in the El Raval neighborhood of Barcelona. I chose the bar because I read that Pablo Picasso and Ernest Hemingway used to get drunk there.

When I rolled in, there was one seat left at a table of six or so folks who I soon learned were all from San Francisco. What are the chances? Pretty high I suppose. Barcelona is full of tourists, and the two guys I met at the Turkish food place right before I headed for the bar were also from SF.

Spain ended up winning and I celebrated along the Rambla with the rest of the Spanish for a little while before heading to bed for my early flight. Some folks reminded me that the celebration in Barcelona was not nearly as large or as passionate as the party in Madrid. You see, folks from Barcelona are Catalan, and barely consider themselves Spanish at all. In fact, many of them support seceding from Spain altogether. But they were still excited anyway.

The next morning, I flew from Barcelona to Brussels and hopped on a train to Ghent, St. Pieters station. Heather had given me some instructions and I managed to navigate the trains and crazy street numbering system in Ghent, and arrived at her door without a hand-holding cell phone call. Woo!

She fed me and then sent me out to check the nearby town center. Hey... this place is, like, medieval! Barcelona had some buildings from that era, but Ghent has a whole town center that conforms to a period spanning a time between the 14th and 16th centuries. Very charming old buildings filled with shops, outdoor restaurants, and cozy pubs. The town center also has a system of stone canals running through the town, so many of the buildings are right on the water. There is even a town castle. Neeto.

After realizing that Belgians are known for their chocolates, I made a bee line directly for the tastiest looking hand made truffle shop. For only about 7 Euros, I got a quarter kilo of fresh hand picked scrumptious chocolates which I intended to bring home to Heather as a gift... Unfortunately, it was mostly gone by the time I made it back to her house. Probably the best chocolates I have ever had. I probably bought a full kilo by the time I left.

Later, after a big big BBQ dinner, Heather took me out to sample one of the other Belgian delights. Beer.

My friends know that I am not a big beer drinker. I generally stick to vodka and wine. But when in Belgium...

I especially liked the Rodenbach and Orval beers she pointed me toward. Orval and other beers are brewed by Belgian monks. They take their brewing very seriously, and since some brew only in small quantities, their beers can be as sought after as fine wines. I'll be looking for those brands at Toronado, a bar in my neighborhood at home that specializes in exotic beers.

I found the people of Ghent quite pleasant. It is a university town, so it was tough to tell how the outskirts might look. But I found the folks quite stylish, attractive, and friendly. I was surprised at how great their music scene is as well. They have a fantastic radio station, UrGent.fm and I did some listening to their local DJ's. Awesome.

I was disappointed that my travel schedule didn't allow me to stay for their jazz festival nor for their ten-day town party, Gentse Feesten. Heather told me they set up music stages on the canals. It sounds great.

I could certainly hang out there for awhile. It has an easy, mellow feel to it.

News Flash: I posted new pictures to my Flickr site.

Old

2008-06-25T02:34:00.001-07:00

So everything I said about Barcelona buildings being just like Buenos Aires.... Well, I'm going to back off that statement a bit.

I took a walking tour of part of the city yesterday. I chose the Barri Gòtic, the oldest part of town. It would probably take a solid week to walk around all of the different historic parts.

It is sad to say, but this is the first time I have every been around anything nearly this old. I was in Bangkok for a couple of days, but didn't take any historic tours and most of the city is on the modern side, so I won't count that.

Often I walk around as a tourist in a new place looking for things that would make interesting pictures, and then snap a few for the day. I am frustrated by the fact that there is rarely a building or a view down an alley that I don't want a picture of. I could snap pictures constantly all day long at every home, every church, every park. And the pictures barely come close to capturing the charm, the warmth, the colors of the beautiful old city.

Coming from a city that has a fair amount of charm of its own, I am used to seeing pockets of excessively well kept historic sights spread around the city, like the Painted Ladies of Alamo Square or the gardens and homes on the one notable block of Lombard Street. But here, it seems like every building is at least charming if not exquisite. I find it difficult to believe that every building owner in the city has this much class, taste, and money to take of their properties this well. I have to believe the city government must somehow be forcing beauty down owners' collective throats. Is that cynical? I did read that, in fact, the city recently spent on the order of two and a half billion Euros to beautify and redevelop one coastal area of the town.

Besides beauty and charm, I am struck by the sheer age of some of these sites.. Buildings that are not just museum pieces. They are everyday life. Last night I saw a local Asian family pushing a stroller into the door of a 15th century building that was across the alley from Count Wilfred the Hairy's old house, which stood there some time in the 800's.

But that's not old. That neighborhood is all sitting on top of the ruins of a Roman city that bustled here around the 4th century.

This is all a lot for me to take in, considering the oldest building in San Francisco, The Mission Dolores, was built in the 1770's. To me, that's about as old as it gets in the Western U.S., and that building is practically a museum.

I suppose that if, when I was a kid, I was able to walk up and touch historical places and things this old, I may have been more interested in history in general. It is much more fun than books.

And with all that going on, the city also has a fantastic coast line with first rate beaches. I will feel quite guilty sitting around on the beach with all of these great sights still left to see.

But I will get over it.

Barcelona

2008-06-24T03:58:00.000-07:00

When I made my plans to come to Spain, I decided when to come based on weather (it can get very hot in late July and August), and to be here when my friends Crystal and Ashley from San Francisco would be here. Chalk it up to general ignorance, but I had no idea that I was arriving on Barcelona's biggest holiday of the year, Saint John's Day.

The day before the holiday, which is tied to the summer solstice, businesses start shutting down pretty early, and virtually everyone in the town turns out to set off fireworks and party in the streets and on the beach all night long. The following day is the actual holiday and the whole town is shut down.

So I was lucky to arrive at such a festive time. The beach party was fantastic. However, today I will need to find something to do and eat that doesn't require a business to be open.

It looks like a walking tour day!

From the relatively small amount of Barcelona I have seen so far, my main observation is how similar much of the architecture is to that of Buenos Aires. The little "don't cry for me" terraces, wooden window shutters, the ceramic sidewalks. This shouldn't come as a surprise considering Argentina was settled by the Spanish, but it's cool to see those influences first hand.

Danke

2008-06-18T06:32:00.000-07:00

Sinking into life in Berlin has been nothing but pleasant. The only thing that would have made it better for me would have been if I had known more German when I arrived. I planned to try and cram a couple quick weeks of German lessons (on my Mac perhaps), but alas... there has really been no need. Many Germans speak English. But shame on me anyway.

My friends Crisi and Sarah, both of whom I met in Thailand, have been great hosts and guides, especially Sarah who has put me up in her place the past week or so. Her flatmate, Timo, has been quite hospitable as well.

Sarah and Timo live in Kreuzberg, a geographically large neighborhood south of downtown with a large Turkish immigrant population. There are many Turkish bakeries, restaurants grocery stores, and other businesses in the area.

The past weeks here in Germany (and Europe for that matter) have seen daily UEFA soccer playoffs. I knew football was a big deal in Europe, but I did not expect to see the utter preoccupation with the daily games. In the U.S. we have sports fans, and sports bars where they tend to go to watch their big games. During this playoff time, however, every game is a big game to everyone. And if it is your country playing today, it's really really big. Face painting, dressing in national colors, etc. Each evening after work on any block in any neighborhood, there are tables, chairs, and big screens set out on the sidewalks, for neighbors to gather together and watch the games and enjoy the mild summer weather over a beer or two.

So besides the German game days carrying a special excitement, the Turkish game days do as well, especially in Kreuzberg. Also exciting is that both teams have done nothing but win. When the Turks advanced to the next round last week, thousands of Turkish immigrants flooded the streets of Berlin and partied all night.... and this isn't even the quarter finals.

The German locals have been equally delighted about their team's success, but have been somewhat less raucous in the aftermath.

I have noticed examples here and there of Berliners' extra civilized behavior. For example, at a beer garden showing the Germany vs. Poland game, enough fans had turned out so that all of the benches set out in the yard to watch the big screen were filled. So the bar denied entry to other folks so that the bench sitters could see the screen. I don't think I have ever seen that before.

Also, riding my borrowed bike around town has been a relatively low stress affair, considering this is a bustling major metropolis. Drivers and pedestrians alike show a tremendous amount of courtesy and consideration out on the road. The extensive presence of bike lanes is helpful as well.

As always, it is so difficult to see everything there is to see here. I am trying not to stress about it. I am alternating tourist days with relaxation and recreation time. If I don't see all of the must sees here, it's OK.

The next couple of months of travel has begun to take shape as well. I bought tickets to visit Barcelona, Spain next week and Ghent, Belgium near Brussels to visit friends there the week after. From Ghent I will likely hop up to Amsterdam for a few days before visiting friends again in Prague, Czech Republic. In early August I will attend The Big Chill festival in England, which was recommended by a good friend in London whose tastes I hold in high esteem. It's pricey, but you only live once, right?

I am feeling especially lucky to have these friends in such great places. I did not expect so much company and support when I originally planned my trip to Europe. But after a relatively solitary time in Argentina, I have a new appreciation for time spent, not only someplace new, but someplace with good friends.

Danke amigos.

Berlin

2008-06-09T10:25:00.000-07:00

I knew I would like Berlin. I have met some super cool people from Germany while traveling, and I have especially enjoyed the folks I have met from Berlin. I fully expected to like it here.. and I already do.

Germans have traveling in their blood. It is a part of their culture. I think it may be for this reason that I have found them to be quite hospitable to people like me traveling to their country. Upon arrival I had already been offered three different apartments to stay in, a bike to ride around town, and a cell phone to use.

Everyone here is especially impressed by my choice of season to visit. It is quite warm and sunny here now.. a departure apparently from the past several months. It was not rocket science though. As I recall, I just looked on lonelyplanet.com to see "when to go", and then fine tuned that with some friends' suggestions.

After two days here, I have been invited to a party on a rooftop of an abandoned war torn building, headed out for a day at a nearby lake, attended a lively beer garden to watch the German national football team play (and win) a playoff match against Poland, and practiced my poi spinning at a beautiful river side park. The busy, fun lifestyle here seems to rival that of my dear home. The folks in this neighborhood seem young, bright, creative, and laid back.

Like I said, I knew I would like it here.

Layover

2008-06-05T21:00:00.000-07:00

After a delightful week on the beach with good friends, I headed back to San Francisco for two days before heading to Europe. Two days is not very much time to do much of anything except a long list of errands. However, staying any longer would have meant either a later return home in August or a shorter stay in Europe, and a more expensive plane ticket. So two days it is.

I realize now just how spoiled I am with what I consider necessities. Not that I am carrying very much with me, but certain things like having my brand of toothpaste and deodorant (Tom´s of Maine), certain vitamin supplements, a new pair of jeans, flip flops, etc. These are all items that, for some reason, I thought I could find in any decent sized city. I couldn't find any of them in Argentina and now I am not so sure about Europe either. So now is my chance to shop till I drop, and load up on goodies.

My most prized item to pick up is my Macbook. Since I chose not to bring it along to any beaches or developing countries, I have been relegated to Internet cafes for quite some time. I plan to try and be productive over the next two months, getting myself geared up again for work, diving back into some hobby projects, and finally having access to some new music again.

I also got a recharge on face time with loved ones back home. It wasn't much time, but it did mean a lot to me to see some of my favorite faces and to remember what makes home so special.

Tomorrow I will begin my twenty nine hour door to door journey to Berlin starting at 5 am and culminating at the main Berlin train station at 6 pm the next day.

Deep breath.

Conned

2008-06-05T10:51:00.000-07:00

I had a very strange experience back in Guatemala that I refrained from writing about until I had a better idea of what actually happened.

One day back in April, I had been trying to make a number of airplane reservations online. After two successful payments, my Visa company got spooked and put a hold on my card, so I was unable to finish the rest of them. I sent an email to my issuing bank and gave up for the day.

I went to a local bar to return my friend's laptop that I had borrowed. She and some other friends were there and were talking to a fellow I hadn't met. I gave the folks at the table my sob story about the airline flights and credit card problems.

Coincidentally, the new fellow, named Darius, had an airline story to tell as well. He said that he flies around the world a lot for work and has accumulated over two million frequent flier miles that will soon be expiring. He said he couldn't possibly use them all before they expire, so his intention was to give them away to anyone that wants to fly somewhere. He said he didn't want anything in return. He just didn't want to see them go to waste especially if they could benefit others.

The something-for-nothing red flag went up in my head. I am quite a skeptical sort, so although I wanted to believe he was for real, I was definitely crinkling my nose about it. I had plans that night so I couldn't stay and chat about it, but he suggested we meet up the next day and he could hook me up.

That night, some of us discussed what could be up with this guy. We smelled a scam, but the guy didn't seem to want anything. He said that he would purchase the tickets for us, so I thought maybe he is collecting private info like passport numbers. Who knows. But at the same time, someone was offering me a free flight, so I planned to follow along with it until he requested something I wasn't comfortable with. Then I would drop out.

The next day, I opened a One World frequent flier account through American Airlines since he mentioned his miles were with that group. I figured I would ask him to transfer some miles to me online rather than buying a ticket and see what he says. I also happened to have a friend who was out of money and desperately needed to return to the States, so I let her know when I was meeting him so she could potentially benefit.

I met him at Zoola, a pleasant restaurant and hangout spot, operated and frequented by Israelis. He said that he had just finished arranging for a ticket for another friend of ours and to just let him know where and when I wanted to go and he would arrange it. His manner made it seem just so easy and plausible. I still wasn't sure about the guy. But I felt more comfortable about the situation. He said he didn't want any personal information. Only a first and last name to list as the passenger name. He seemed concerned that somehow having personal information would be a bad idea for him and the people he was helping.

I asked about transferring miles and he said it was a big hassle to do because the miles were all tied up with his company, a big New York investment company. He said that he was very good with math and that's why he had this important seeming job. His story made a lot of sense. He said that he didn't know his flier miles belonged to him and had been accruing them for years. He had just become aware of this huge balance of points when someone from the company contacted him to let him know many of them would expire soon. He said he was having trouble giving them away because people were creeped out by the idea of taking something so valuable from him. There must be a catch. I decided to keep playing along.

The friend I brought along, however, seemed to get spooked and decided not to go with us to the Internet Cafe to purchase the ticket. He seemed really confused about it and annoyed that he had to try so hard to give stuff away.

Before we left Zoola, a group of Israeli travelers began to give Darius a hard time. He wore a star of David as a necklace. And I suppose when he didn't speak any Hebrew, they naturally asked him where he was from. He said he was from Beiruit, born to an Arab father and a Jewish mother. The Israelis would not let this claim stand. They could not fathom this and continued to pummel him with questions about his upbringing. After awhile it became somewhat heated and he got frustrated so we left.

When we got to the Internet place, he brought up some airline screens where he listed out ticket possibilities for me to get from San Francisco to Frankfurt and back. He said the points he had were only good for first class, so like it or not, I would have to fly first class. Shame.

We picked a set of flights which totaled about $7800 retail. He said he was sending the info to the company travel agent and that I should get a confirmation. He said it sometimes takes a few minutes and sometimes takes a couple of days. I gave him my email address although he didn't seem to want it, so that this person could forward the confirmation directly to me.

That was that.

At this point, I still wasn't convinced. I also didn't feel super comfortable with the idea of this guy having any type of change or cancellation control over my trip to Europe. But at this point, he still has not asked me for a thing. He is seeming more and more legit all the time. So I am pretty happy now, hoping to soon get a confirmation for a free first class flight to Germany.

He hung out with my group of friends that night and continued to offer these tickets. He also made some other strange claims though. He said he could count cards. No doubt part of his math genius tool set. He claimed he could keep track of six decks of cards during black jack and would play folks at the bar. It is a tough claim to verify since counting cards only gives you a slight advantage. You still lose sometimes. But ok. He can count cards. Great.

He didn't play for money. He didn't ask anyone for anything. In fact, he bought a couple rounds of drinks as I remember.

One observation my Israeli friend made was that, for a man with such a well paid job, his star of David necklace was obviously cheap. She thought that was strange.

So, as you might imagine, I was eager to check my email to see about a confirmation of the flight. He had said he spoke with the travel agent and everything was a go. But each time I checked, no confirmation.

A couple of days passed. I hadn't seen him around town. Neither had others.

He had arranged for three different people in town. After all the offering he was doing, only three of us followed through with him. One of the others actually had a phone number for him and called him up. He answered and said his travel agent had called and was concerned with all of the different names he was buying tickets for, but that he explained and everything was fine again. Just be patient.

The other person was a girl who by now was pretty creeped out by the guy. He had been hitting on her pretty relentlessly even though she told him she had a boyfriend in the next town. A true fact. But he continued to pester her with phone calls and visits. Nothing too outrageous though.

After three days or so, I was pretty well convinced that I would never receive a confirmation. We could not for the life of us, however, figure out why he did this. We had some theories: For attention, compulsive liar, maybe a gift that might be cashed in later for some kind of favor, or just enjoys messing with people's heads.

He did borrow money from one person that probably was never returned. But it was not very much. Not enough to warrant all of the energy required to put so many people on.

My main problem at this point was: I need a ticket to Europe. If I buy a ticket now and the confirmation actually shows up, I will have wasted my money. But the longer I wait, the more expensive the ticket may get. After about five or six days, I was satisfied and purchased my ticket.

We all talked about it for days, just boggled at who this guy was and why he did this. I resigned myself to the fact that I would never find out any more about the guy.

But then I did.

Last week, a couple of folks from San Pedro emailed me to announce that at least some of the mystery was solved.

Darius was not his real name. His real name is Simon Gann and he is a true blue con man. He also has an identical twin brother named Jordan who was just sentenced to prison for his cons. Simon is wanted in Massachusetts and several other authorities are investigating him.

As to what his motives or intentions were with this frequent flier deal.... I still don't really know. The "con" in con man is short for confidence. Con men build confidence and trust in their victims before abusing that trust later on somehow, usually leaving the victim lighter in the wallet. It is possible the behaviour is just compulsive. He can't stop lying and making up stories. Or maybe there really was more in store for us. I would like to think that I would have been smart enough to pull away from him if his story started to change. But who knows? These guys are pros... and I am just trusting, albeit skeptical, soul.

Surfing

2008-06-01T10:06:00.000-07:00

For a couple of days I have been waiting for the right opportunity to take a surfing lesson. Every now and then I go to one of the shady tents where the surfers (aka instructors) hang out and ask them when a good time for a lesson might be.

Surprisingly, rather than sell me any old time slot, they seem legitimately concerned that I have a good time, so they continue to council me to be patient and wait for better conditions.

Since there isn't much to do in Sayulita but eat delicious food, sleep, and surf, I spent a fair amount of time out on the beach. I noticed one particular instructor seemed to be especially enthusiastic about teaching so I decided he was my best bet.

Like the others, he preached patience. He suggested we meet the next morning before the waves got too crowded with others. When I met him the next day, he looked out at the surf and pushed the lesson out another hour and a half so the waves would be breaking in the right spot. An hour and a half later, he pushed it another thirty minutes. Then, finally, the gods whispered to him that it was time, and he pulled a Norwegian guy and me down to the water line.

He taught us how to position ourselves on the board to paddle out, some general surfing etiquette, and then finally how to hop up on the board and the proper stance once upright. That was really it. Not much to the lesson. But then he swam out with us to the spot where folks were waiting for waves and then, as a wave would come, would yell "Paddle! Paddle! Paddle! Jump up!", then he'd give the board an extra push, and just like that, I was up and surfing on the very first try.

Since I am a snowboarder, the general balance and sensation of riding was not new to me, so I was surprised how easy it really was once one catches a wave. As it turns out, paddling around is much more challenging than riding a wave. I knew that paddling around required a lot of back and shoulder strength. You can tell by the tell tale muscle tone on most surfers. But I wasn't prepared for the neck strength it took just to keep my chin off the board, so as not to swallow tons of sea water. The proper posture is to have your shoulders and head well above the board while resting on your rib cage. Try staying in that position on and off for an hour. That turned out to be even tougher than the paddling part.

Armed with new confidence in my shredding skills, I rented a board the next day with Michael, who has done a little surfing, and we headed out for the waves... slightly bigger than the day before. As it turns out, having a dude in the water yelling "Paddle! Paddle!" and pushing your board for you is more useful than I thought. Choosing waves to paddle on was a challenge. Besides judging which ones I might catch, I was also preoccupied with not getting run over by other surfers, and so I had a hard time catching many at all.

All in all though, I consider the adventure a success. I don't think I will become an addict anytime soon. Running out to chilly Ocean Beach at 6 am before work still doesn't really appeal to me. But I will try it again next time I have more friendly 85 degree water to play in.

After a delightful week of beach bumming, I am off to San Francisco for a two day layover before heading off to Germany. I am creating an extensive shopping list of items to recharge mt backpack for the final two months of my trip.

Bye bye beach.

Sayulita

2008-05-30T15:43:00.000-07:00

After about twenty hours of travel, I made it to Puerto Vallarta airport just about an hour before my good friends Shannon and Michael arrived from San Francisco. I immediately needed to shed my jeans and shoes for I am now highly aware of being in a new tropical zone of the planet. My hair went from merely wavy, to full afro in about twenty minutes. I was concerned the weather would be oppressively hot way down here below the southern tip of Baja California. But the cool Pacific breeze keeps the weather perfect all day and night.

They had arranged with Marc, a friend from home, to stay on his boat which is stored here at a nearby marina. Some friends of Marc's immediately greeted us at his boat and we had an immediate welcoming committee. Cruisers are similar to backpackers ad RV folks, in that they provide a friendly, helpful community at any marina around the world. These folks were no different.

The next day we headed for Sayulita beach, a small surfing town just north of PV. Within an hour or so, Shannon used her signature mixture of luck and sociability to secure us the guesthouse of a local beachfront business owner for less than the price of a normal hotel room. She really is a secret weapon. The place is the upstairs floor of a building overlooking the water with beds both inside and outside on the large deck, complete with puffy chairs and a hammock.

I didn't do much research about this beach before I arrived. I was mainly excited to see my friends and hang out at the beach. But I became immediately aware that this is a popular beach to learn how to surf. The waves are small but constant and the water nice and warm. Teachers and rental shops line the beach.

On Wednesday I thought I might like to take a lesson while I am here, so I asked at one of the tents along the beach. He says it is $30 US for an hour of training and would I like to get started right now. I tell him that today I am just chilling, swimming, and reading, but tomorrow I will probably hit him up.

The next day when I went out to find the guy, I realized there really weren't any waves out on the water. The teacher confirmed that it was now, indeed, a poor time to try and learn. I guess that was my first lesson of surfing. If the waves look good now, go.

Duh.

Fútbol

2008-05-26T08:07:00.000-07:00

After a delightful week in Córdoba, I began my journey back toward the northern hemisphere by returning to Buenos Aires the day before I fly out and head to Mexico.

But what should I do with my one day back in the capital city? I have seen everything I really cared to see during my three weeks I already spent here... except one thing. A fútbol game. Since I am not much of a sports fan, I had never motivated to see a game while I was here, but I regretted that after leaving. I have heard that seeing a game here is quite an experience.

Soccer is deeply ingrained in the everyday life of Argentines. On days of games, you will pass one storefront after another with a television surrounded by patrons.. people on the sidewalk watching through the window outside.. people surrounding magazine stands, and parillas.. all fixated on every moment of the game. They don't just have a national team, or teams representing each city. They have a team for individual neighborhoods. I am not certain of the actual number, but I think Buenos Aires has about fifteen proper large fútbol arenas just in this city. The fans of each team are, true to the term, fanatics. The are extremely loyal and go to great lengths to show their support.

When I arrived early in the morning and checked into the hostel, I noticed they had a sign up sheet for that day. A guided trip to a game.. Boca vs. Vélez. Transportation, local guides to keep us from touristing ourselves into trouble, and a ticket. No excuse. I must go.

They took us to the arena quite early. Eventually I realized this is so that we get good seats. Although our tickets had assigned section and seat numbers, no one seemed to heed these. The bleachers began to fill up quickly just after we arrived and became tough to find many seats together. We got there early enough to get seats underneath the upper deck. Apparently people sometimes throw things from up there (or worse), so getting seats protected from the mayhem is part of the wisdom we paid the guides for.

At least an hour before the game started, the fan sections at either end of the stadium began to show impressive life. Little by little the fans spread out their colorful banners, handed out colored doohickies to wave around in the air non stop.. a marching band showed up on both sides.. colored smoke machines began to waft their colors into the air... and then the singing started.

Each team has a set of songs that are something like war chants only more melodic. They are loud, repetitive, and come with waving arms, hopping up and down in sync, and taunts to the other side. Occasionally, the chants from the super fan area would inspire the more relaxed areas of the stadium into the chants and waves. At these times we could really feel the emotion, and see it... and hear it. The intensity I could see in porteños in everyday life got turned up to eleven. Holy cow. The loud chants and songs did not stop. Ever. The fans were always loud, always hopping, always waving their arms for the entire duration of the game, not to mention the hour before the game. I was certain they would poop out eventually. They didn't. That's loyalty.

Soccer games, luckily, are fun to watch. I enjoy basketball back home, and these games have the same constant energy and team play, so I was fairly riveted. The game ended in a tie, 1 to 1. This was actually good for our personal safety, I was told. The fans exit the arena at different times. The visiting fans leave first. Only after they are completely gone, the remainder of the spectators may exit. This is to avoid the inevitable fights that will occur between opposing fans. Apparently, if the final score favors one team too much, the taunting afterword can make for some after game mayhem, even with the sequestering measures in place.

So after an adventurous night of sports, I returned with our group to the hostel. Since May 25th is Argenina's independence day, the hostel celebrated by providing a complementary locro dinner. Not bad.

So now I am heading back to the northern hemisphere. I will fly to Mexico and head to Sayulita beach to reunite with my lovely friends Shannon and Michael from back home.

But first I have one final errand. I must find a specific brand of dulce de leche to bring to Germany. I have been promised an apartment for a few days in Berlin belonging to a friend of a friend. The part-Argentine resident has a craving, and is willing to swap accommodations for sweets.

Onward!

Cordoba

2008-05-21T12:15:00.000-07:00

By the time my two week lease at my Palermo apartment was up, I was quite ready to see some different parts of the area. I had a few options, and had a tough time making a decision where to go even up to the last day.

I could have gone to Iguazu Falls which I hear is quite a sight to see, but it is a 20 hour bus ride. Even if I take the overnight bus and sleep for eight hours, I would still have twelve more to sit through.... for a waterfall. I would also love to see the glaciers in Patagonia, but it is winter and that is some pretty serious territory. That was tempting still, but also quite an expensive flight or a long bus ride. Both places were sort of like saying "Well as long as I am in San Diego, I may as well visit Seattle since I am right there". Too far. I just want a leisurely road trip out of town. Someplace friendly, with some nice nature and some history to explore.

I chose Cordoba, a college town about a ten hour drive from Buenos Aires. It is such a little blip on the map between other points of interest that for some reason I pictured a little village like Truckee or Flagstaff. Not so much. Cordoba is about 30% larger in population than San Francisco... over a million residents. A real city to be sure.

But a more intimate city than Buenos Aires. The city moves at a friendlier pace and is far easier to walk around without taking Advil for my aching ankles like in BA.

I arrived after an overnight 10 hour journey from the BA bus station. Bus stations in Argentina are nothing like I have ever seen. They are approaching airports in their size and level of organization. The buses are generally quite luxurious. I bought a "Cama" seat which looks something like a super first class airline seat... leather, big and puffy, and they recline into an almost horizontal position... perfect for snoozing for a few hours of my ten hour journey.

Unfortunately, because of my apartment check out time and the bus schedule, I arrived to Cordoba at 5:50 in the morning to a completely dark and foreign city.

I had the address of the Tango Hostel and took a taxi... but felt like a creep ringing the bell that early in the morning. I shoudn`t have. The hostel is a friendly, youthful, communal living type place where people cook and eat meals together, explore the area together, and go out at night together. It is not uncommon for people to buzz into the place at that time of the morning after a night out. Exactly the type of situation I needed in Buenos Aires. But I am happy to have it now... and suspected towns outside of BA would be more like this.

Cordoba also happens to be the town where Che Guevara went to high school. He grew up as a boy about an hour southwest in Alta Gracia and his home is now a museum. Some folks from the hostel and I took a quick $1 bus ride up there and checked out his house, took pictures with his famous motorcycle, and tooled around the cute little town.

I hadn`t had much in the way of recommendations from friends about Cordoba, but I am glad I made the trip up. It gives one a far different impression of Argentina and it`s folk than just getting to see the big city. I may see one or two more towns before heading back up to Mexico.

Talk

2008-05-16T17:35:00.000-07:00

Talk is cheap.

Especially on the Internet. Although I have been a high tech professional for a number of years, I still sometimes find myself a very late adopter of new technology. This week I got my first real introduction to Skype. I had it before on my Mac back home and I have chatted online with it a bit, but never really dug into it as a way to make phone calls.

But now as a lowly foreigner stuck in a metropolitan area with no cell phone, Skype means a whole lot more to me. I have seen folks using it in Internet cafes while I have been on the road. I knew it was there, but didn´t feel particularly inclined to slide myself under the web of cords and microphones and headphones and monkey around with all that high tech nonsense. I have been perfectly satisfied with email and chat.

But this week I had a couple of instances where I really needed a phone but didn't have one. One was to call a guy I met who gave me his Argentine cell phone number. I couldn't get Skype to dial the number so I probably won't see that dude again unless I borrow a real phone from someone. So that was strike one for Skype.

But it really saved me today when I had to, after an extended procrastination, call AT&T to deal with my cell phone problems from back home. Remember that my phone was stolen back in Guatemala and, although I was able to suspend the account from the web, I was not able to make an insurance claim to get the phone replaced. They only have a phone number. I also wanted to strip down my service plan to make it cheaper (since I can't use it anyway) but since I had suspended the service online, they required me to call in order to make changes. On what phone!

I had one of those $4 per month things on my account so if the phone is lost or stolen, they will send me a new one. So I had to call them on two different phone numbers in order to downgrade my plan, and to make my insurance claim. I knew these calls would suck and would take forever.
I was right.

But thanks to Skype, which, after sliding under the web of cords, allows you to make phone calls for free from anywhere to U.S. toll free numbers, it didn´t cost me an arm and a leg, and I was able to surf the web while I toiled on the "phone".

AT&T on the other hand, totally screwed me. I was already really pissed about the fact they wouldn't just let me park my cell phone number for a few dollars a month and let me pick it up again when I come back home. Nope, they made me pay for a whole calling plan, the cheapest of which came out to about $60 per month with taxes and insurance attached. This for a phone I am not using at all.

Then after some more chat, I realized that I actually had a $50 deductible on the phone which I would have to pay in order to have a new one sent to me. Great.

So after going around and around with them about how I might reduce my monthly bill, I finally suggested to them, while reading their own website during the conversation, that I change my account to a pre-paid account which is a ridiculous, usurious per minute fee, but no monthly fee at all. But I am not using the phone so the crazy per minute fees don't matter. Then when I get back home, I will start a new contract with some company to be determined at that time (AT&T may be considered) and receive a brand new phone for free. No $50 needed. And I will get to keep my phone number.

Thank you Skype for making the call easy... and no thanks to AT&T, who´s best suggestion was for me to pay $230 over the next three months for a phone and account I cannot use. Now I am paying nothing and get to keep my number.

Now back to traveling.