Changing the Bogies

Quick Update

2011-03-23T19:29:00.000-07:00

Thanks to my friend Em for suggesting that I label my entries. You can now click on the topics to the left to more easily find a travel adventure that interests you. Unfortunately, they still appear in reverse chronological order...

Where now? Depends on if the government holds off on a shutdown long enough to get me some more passport pages, otherwise I may be sticking close to home.

Lisbon, at last!

2010-08-10T14:45:00.000-07:00

I need a Vasco da Gama quote ASAP! Please!!!?
If you could get a short one that would be wonderful. I'm having a horrible time trying to find a quote said by this guy. It's killing me! Please, help! Thank you so much in advance!!!! =D
"T.T." on Yahoo Answers

"We left from Restelo one Saturday, the 8th day of July of the said year, 1479, on out journey. May God our Lord allow us to complete it in His service, Amen."

"Vasco Da Gama" Best Answer Chosen by Yahoo Viewers.

Sorry about the delay on this one. Since my last post I’ve traveled back to the Western Hemisphere and become absorbed in a week-long choral directors’ workshop in Cannon Beach, Oregon. My access to both the internet and to endless stretches of time for writing blog entries has been somewhat curtailed. So, without further ado…Lisbon!

Like any good capital of a former European commercial empire, Lisbon is pretty well chock-full of impressive architecture, sculpture, and museums. This one also has a wealth of maritime history and a fair helping of Moorish ruins.

Here, the statue of Dom Jose presides over the Praco do Comercio, the main square at the base of the Baixa district. In one of the first instances of grand scale European urban planning, his entire neighborhood was rebuilt after the earthquake of 1755, though the consensus of most historians suggests that the empire never recovered.

The Se is the largest of many cathedrals in the Alfama district.

This is Saint Vincent. In the distance is the monastery that takes his name, the Sao Vincente de Fora.

By contrast, the Bairro Alto district offers a picturesque maze of well-graffitied alleys and some of the most intense nightlife on the Iberian Peninsula. The party starts at midnight and goes well past dawn.

Finally, here is something of a pictorial essay on the Mosteiro de Jeronimos, probably the most outstanding example of Manuelian architecture in the city.

The monastery was built in celebration of Vasco Da Gama’s successful establishment of the sea route to the Orient, and is located on the site where he held the prayer vigils prior to his departure.

While Da Gama’s initial voyage yielded only a small payload of spices, this more than paid for his voyage. The commercial success that followed for Portugal gave King Manuel I the nickname “the fortunate.”

Finally, here is one piece of architecture from the mountain retreat of Sintra. What was once part of a private estate is now one of the biggest tourist centers in Portugal.

Regrettably, this is the end of this year's journey. From Cannon Beach, I'm headed home to Sitka to begin a new school year. Until next time, friends!

Aveiro

2010-07-29T04:57:00.001-07:00

I briefly had the opportunity to leave Lisbon for the coastal town of Aveiro. Once a significant port, the town is now famous for its salt production and its canals. Here are a few shots of the town at night for your viewing pleasure.

The town's most famous landmark is this unusual circular pedestrian bridge. The unusual span sits at the intersection of two canals and provides access to each corner.

Ultimately, Aveiro was a nice place to spend a little time away from the press of (mostly Spanish and French) tourists infesting Lisbon. This is still a tourist destination, but one not quite so saturated as the capital.

Next time: More Lisbon. Or something.

Lisbon at Night

2010-07-29T04:28:00.001-07:00

I am a man in Portugal. I can piss wherever I want.

Roy, from the hostel

Lisbon can pretty much speak for itself. Enjoy!

Marea Neagra (The Black Sea)

2010-07-25T11:49:00.000-07:00

maggie and millie and molly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles, and

millie befriended a stranded star
who's rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles: and

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

for whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea

e e cummings

Talk to any Romanian, mention you’re touring the country and they will inevitably ask if you’ve been to the sea. With a coastline of only about 150 miles, the country is close to being landlocked, but you’d never know it. Everyone here vacations at the Black Sea, generally as often as possible.

After the relative hard work of managing Chisinau, Tiraspol, and the miserable train ride back to Bucharest, it was time for a break, so I decided to see what the buzz was all about. I chose the resort of Mamaia, the most renowned of Romania’s Black Sea resorts.

Mamaia is a strip of land between the coast and man-made Lake Mamaia; about five miles long and just over 300 yards wide. While the quality of the sand certainly has its moments, it is poor compared to more famous beaches, and this is not the reason to visit Mamaia. More interesting is the thick clot of Romanian beach-goers that clings to the shore like a pulsating, libidinous frosting, caked onto the beach as far as the eye can see. The thick film of Slavic machismo, bare-assed toddlers, and admirably even-tanned women spills well into the sea in all directions, making one imagine that the entire Romanian coast is lined in such a fashion.

On a lark, I started hiking the beach to the north, curious to find where (and if) the mass ends. Ultimately, I hiked for about three hours (with an occasional stop for a cold glass of Ursus) before coming to the industrial complex that marks the end of useable beachfront. Just north of Mamaia is an undeveloped section of beachfront where the humanity thins. The population becomes both exclusively male and highly concerned about tan lines, but all sporting the *ahem* Full Mihai, if you know what I mean. About two-thirds populate the beach and the water, and the rest awkwardly perch in the underbrush like concerned ferrets.

News Flash. Lonely Planet? This would be good information to have!

Needless to say, I thought this a place better to leave to the imagination rather than to document with photos, and I did not stop for a cold Ursus. Here, instead, are some notable facets of resort life.

I’m not sure if you can appreciate the rarity of this. This is surely the only 70’s model Cadillac in all of Europe. I have no idea who owns it, but it was sold in Lubbock and licensed in Canada. I imagine the bird dung is local.

Deep-fried anchovies (or Hamsie). Surprisingly tasty if you can get over their little eyes staring at you. I found it helpful to give them names before consuming them. Imagine I gave one of them your name.

Like the ancient Romulans from whom they take their name, Romanians can be cruel in their forms of entertainment. Here, children with immune system failures have their enclosed habitats pushed onto a swimming pool as the crowd laughs at their efforts to stand up.

Mamaia’s nightlife is equally vibrant to its beach culture, though I seem to have been in the wrong section of town to experience it. I was, however, finally able to experience a much-storied tourist scam that is common throughout Eastern Europe and Russia, the infamous “Tourist Police.”

It goes like this. Some guys come up to you, ask you a bunch of questions, then claim to be the police and ask for your passport. With your passport in hand, they demand a bribe to return it. Here’s how it went down.

I’m sitting on a bench, around midnight, doing a little people watching on the promenade. Two guys pop out of a car and start darting around with no apparent purpose. The fat guy comes up to me and says something unintelligible in Romanian.

Me: “Huh?”
Fat Guy: “Tureest? Where frohm?”
Me: “Alaska”
Fat Guy: (motions for his friend to come over) “Tureest. Alaska.”
Other Guy: “Tureest?”
Fat Guy: “What Otel you stay?”
Me: “The one over there.”
Fat Guy: “Pasaport?”
Me, realizing what’s going on: “Hahahahahaha. Pasaport? You must be the ‘Tourist Police!’ No, I don’t think so.”
Fat Guy: “Tureest. Alaska. Pasaport.”
Me: “Wow. You guys are really bad at this. You should at least dress up or something.”
Other Guy: (shrug)
Me: “No, really. I just had you pegged as some losers at the beach. At least stand up straight.”
Fat Guy: (shrug)
Me: “Okay. Nice meeting you. Incantat. La revedere. Pa.”
Fat Guy: (shakes my hand like a sissy)
Other Guy: (shakes my hand like a sissy)
Me: "You know, you people should learn to shake hands, too."

I am briefly stunned that anyone has ever fallen for this.

Ultimately, Mamaia was a lot of fun. More, really, than I expected. While more expensive than most of Romania by a long shot, it still falls short of Alaska prices. And given a choice of the Black Sea or the basalt boulders of Sandy Beach, well...

Next time: Portugal.

Part Deux

2010-07-23T01:36:00.000-07:00

When a train moves from China into Mongolia, it's necessary to change the wheels, or bogies, in order to accomodate the difference in rail gauges between one half of Asia and the other. So it is with life. Sometimes to move forward requires fundamental changes in how we propel ourselves.

Well, there’s a new low. I’m quoting myself.

Chisinau’s central train station is one of those improbably beautiful buildings. Unfortunately, my camera was packed away and I can’t share most of it with you. Here, however, is a nifty snap of the main platform.

Notice anything unusual? Here’s a different angle:
Have you figured it out yet? Look closer. Here’s one more:
Now, if you’re highly observant, you can clearly see that here in the Republic of Moldova, the sistance between the rails is exactly four feet, eleven and five-sixths inches. And, as everyone knows, the standard gauge for most of Europe is four feet, eight and one-half inches. So, you know what that means? Exactly. On the ride from Chisinau to Bucharest we’ll be Changing the Bogies!

The need for a bogie change on entering the sphere of Russian influence is generally ascribed to Tsarist paranoia. It was believed that foreign invaders would have a more difficult time supplying their troops given an incompatible rail system. The reality is that Russian (broad) gauge was developed before a universal standard applied. Even so, Hitler proved this wrong when he broke the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact with his invasion of the USSR. Nonetheless here for your amusement is a brief documentation of the process.

After a customs and border check on the Moldovan side, each individual car is lifted up by means of these powerful jackscrews.

The car is lifted, and the bogies are wheeled out and replaced.

Truth be told, it’s an excruciatingly boring process. I wasn’t able to document it very effectively in China as it happens on that route at 2 in the morning in a poorly lit hanger. While there’s a certain exquisite boredom that comes from sitting on a moving train, there’s something far worse about sitting in a train that is not moving. Still, I have to admit, in spite of the length of the process the 14 hour journey back to Bucharest was pretty fun, mostly for sentimental reasons. The second class sleeper cars are identical (almost. These ones are blue. Russian ones are green.) to those used on the Trans-Siberian railway. Thanks again to Mr. Stalin for producing a rail car without operable windows in the staterooms. I also missed the dour provodnitsas and the flies. But then again, I'm not much of a four star hotel guy.

Next time: Beach Break.

The Country that Doesn't Exist

2010-07-21T03:11:00.000-07:00

There was so much to grok, so little to grok from.

Valentine Michael Smith

If you’ve never heard of the country of Trans-Dniester, you can probably be forgiven in that on a technical level, said country doesn’t actually exist. The border guards have a different story, however, and semantic arguments such as “No, you don’t need to see my passport because your country is imaginary and lacks international recognition,” appear to have little weight with them.

Trans-Dniester (or Transnistria, or Transdniestria, or Stanga Nistrului, or the Pridnestrovian Moldavian Soviet Socialist Republic, or the PMR), is a strip of land between the eastern border of Moldova and the river Dniester. Ethnic Moldovia never laid claim to the region—during World War II is was considered a buffer zone with bordering Ukraine. During the collapse of the Soviet Union, many ethnic Russians and Ukrainians in Moldova retreated to Trans-Dniester fearing Romanian reunification. A brief conflict erupted, but as that Moldova lacked a formal military, and Trans-Dniester was backed by the Soviet 14th Army, the outcome was never really in doubt.

A visit to Tiraspol (…which would be Moldova’s second largest city, were in not the capital of a non-existent country…) feels much like a visit to Russia, with perhaps a thicker Soviet vibe. The western alphabet is virtually non-existent here, and the hammer and sickle is often-present (though subtle) in the iconography of the city.

A statue of Tsarist General Alexander Suvarov, founder of Tiraspol, graces the main thoroughfare.

Trans-Dniester has its own currency, customs agents, president, foreign policy and all of the trappings of a functioning government. Though there exist here certain ubiquitous facets of Western culture, this is probably as close as one can come to experiencing the old Soviet Union in modern times. For a country which is not officially recognized by any member of the United Nations, Trans-Dniester seems certain of its existence, even to the extent of these billboards: one recognizing the anniversary of the Soviet and independent government, and the other recognizing Trans-Dniester’s close (though, of course, unofficial ties with Moscow).

If you’re wondering, that’s Russian President Dmitry Medvedev and Trans-Dniester’s current and only president Igor Smirnov there in front of the Disneyland Moscow backdrop.
"Igor! I do not like this one. Put back the Bora Bora!"
"Nyet! Nyet! It must be Moscow!"

Here is yet another beautiful Orthodox Cathedral. Every town here seems to have one.

Unlike elsewhere in the world, people seem to be working in Trans-Dniester and Moldova. Unlike the eerily silent construction cranes of Dubai, building projects here continue, including this complete gutting and replacement of the town square.

Probably better not to ask where the money is coming from. While Trans-Dniester is extremely proud of its Kvint brandy, it is also known for its organized crime which likely accounts for much of the region's wealthy elite. Ironically, while Igor Smirnov claims that it is his life's work to have the country recognized by the UN, it is the region's (alleged) reputation as a base for trafficking Moldovan women and surplus Russian military hardware that is the major obstacle.

Next time. Changing the Bogies, Part Deux.

Chişinău

2010-07-18T15:47:00.000-07:00

I haven’t been everywhere, but it’s on my list.

Susan Sontag

My arrival in Chişinău (Kish-No) was nothing short of thrilling. The Autogar (bus station) is directly in the middle of the city’s sprawling central market. To say the place bustles would be dramatic understatement. The sound of frenetic Moldavian popular music saturates the thick dance of people and buses pressing through the crowded streets and alleys. Unfortunately, I couldn’t quite capture the right picture to paint the motion of the place (perhaps because my camera bag was in a constant state of being cased by the locals). One guidebook compares the market to Istanbul, but let me tell you, Istanbul has nothing on this place. In fact, more accurate to phrase it the other way ‘round: “Istanbul’s busy markets hearken to more exotic locales, like Chişinău.”
Before I delve into Chişinău, please indulge me in a brief yet necessary rant about my guidebook. I tend to travel with either a Rough Guide or a Lonely Planet depending on which publication is most current. Unfortunately, there is no English language guidebook for Moldova, so I have been equipped with the 2004 Lonely Planet for Romania and Moldova—the last such publication of which I am aware. It’s out of date, yes, but it shouldn’t be that out of date. Bluntly, the book is a disaster. The authors seem more interested in providing snide commentary than useful information. My hunch is that the Moldova section in particular has been little revised since the first edition of 1997. The result for me has meant numerous long hikes to nonexistent hotels or internet cafes, and a certain sense of befuddlement that I’m not vibing the same country that the book describes. Needless to say, unlike most of my guidebooks which I abandon out of necessity, I can’t wait to leave this one in a nice incinerator or squatter stall.

Rant over. Now, Chişinău.

A delight on many levels. Unlike many of it’s contemporaries, Chişinău is stunningly verdant, not just filled with green spaces and civic parks, but it is rather a city interwoven with forest, as if only the bare minimum was sacrificed in the name of its construction.

A lot of European cities seem to have one of these, though they tend to spell it differently. In Rom..Moldovan, it’s spelled Arc de Triumf. While this one isn’t particularly impressive, I couldn’t help but be a bit taken with the goofy Jetson’s style street lights that line the square.

I should take some time to explain some geographical distinctions. Moldova is the country I’m visiting: a former province of Romania. Moldavia is currently a province of Romania, where Iasi, Suceava and the Painted Monasteries are located. The confusion comes in that Romanians refer to Moldavia as Moldova, and Moldova as the Republic of Moldova, or Republica Moldova. Moldavia and Moldova (or Moldova and Republica Moldova) were once a united kingdom before the formation of Romania. Said kingdom was called Moldavia (or Moldova). Aren’t you glad that’s settled? So next time some kids transfer into your Men’s Choir from Moldova, you know what to ask them to find out where they’re from, right?

Here is the obligatory statue of the Moldavian hero Stefan cel Mare (Stephen the Great. Actually, it translates something closer to Stephen the Big, but that just sounds odd). Collectively, Romanians and Moldovans don’t have much in their collective history to cheer about. (This could explain why Romanians in general strut around like tough stuff, but shake hands like sissies. But I digress.) Virtually every city in Moldova (and Moldavia!) has a statue much like this one.
The Moldovan hero’s face unsurprisingly adorns the local currency.
Behind the Arc, is the Orthodox Cathedral. Note the structure in front of the building.
Yes, that’s right. It’s a much larger (nuclear, perhaps?) version of the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch.

I should also mention that one reason I’ve really been enjoying Moldova is that it’s been putting my linguistic skills to the test. While most of the younger generation of Romanians speak at least some English, an English speaker is rare to find here. Like in Latvia, Russian was the preferred language for over 40 years, then suddenly, even native Moldovans have to reacquire their native tongue. As a result, not only do few people speak English here, but many speak Romanian/Moldovan poorly as well…just like me!

This is the Hotel Turist, my home for an excruciating, yet delightful two nights. It looks pretty normal from the outside, and the staff were generally quite friendly. However, the interior décor is something unspeakable. If there were to be a Russian language remake of The Shining, it would be shot here. During the day, the place is so creepy with its long, pitch black, dark woodgrain hallways that one hustles to one’s room, fleeing some imagined pursuer. At night it isn’t much better, with a single low-wattage fluorescent lamp flickering at a regular interval. The key locks the door from the inside, so the process of securing the door seems like it can’t happen fast enough. Once inside the room, the dingy wallpaper, ancient bedspreads, and residual smell of fifty thousand cigarettes remind one of being inside a diseased lung. I didn’t take any pictures for fear of what unseen poltergeists might appear on the prints.
Finally, here are some unexpected finds. The current location of the University Place Clock Tower, and this unlikely bust of John Stein.

Next time, “So you thought Moldova was off the beaten path?”

You went where??

2010-07-16T11:56:00.000-07:00

Here’s where the fun begins.

Han Solo

With travel as with life, there is a battle within us. Each of us struggles (or doesn’t struggle) to find the curious balance between independence and security. On the road, we can create an itinerary, pre-book our lodging, run down a list of the must-sees. I think we do this because it makes us feel safe. We imagine that we can control the adventure.

I always forget that feeling safe is not why I travel. At least at first.

Ultimately, there is a point in each of my journeys when I’ve completely exhausted my safety blankets and simply walk to the station and buy a ticket to somewhere that strikes my fancy at that particular moment.

Scary? Yes.

Exhilarating? Yup.

So, having found myself at the same hotel in Bucharest without the slightest interest in Bucharest; and then finding myself in Iaşi without frankly much interest there either, my fear of the unknown finally submitted itself for an ass-whooping at the hands of my own boredom.

So, I went to the Autogar and after much wrestling with my fear and posted bus schedules, a somewhat hesitant approach to a ticket counter with the opener “Vorbiţi Engleza?” (roughly, “Y’all speak English?”), three nice Romanian ladies shrugging and giving that wandering what-the-hell-are-we-going-to-do-with-this-idiot look, and a completely unexpected display of linguistic prowess by an American (yes, that’s funny), I managed to secure for myself a four hour maxitaxi into the Republic of Moldova.

I don’t know that I’d really intended to go to Moldova, but it was a good call. Turns out I even speak some Moldovan, almost exactly as well as I speak Romanian. Who knew?

Some background, since I’m just going to take a stab here that most (both) of you don’t know much about this particular corner of the world. Republica Moldova, more or less, was the eastern part of Romania before World War II when (guess who?) the Soviets annexed it into the USSR. Remind you of anything yet? No? Go review.

Now, when I set out, it really was not my intent to tour the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. Nonetheless, here we are.

As with Latvia, in the annexation of Moldova, many ethnic Romanians were deported to Siberia. Ethnic Russians were moved in to take their place. Written language was switched into the Cyrillic alphabet, and Russian became the language of commerce and advancement.

With the 1991 collapse of the Soviet Union, the newly formed Moldavian government’s first mandates were to revert back to the Western alphabet, and establish the limba de stat as Moldovan (er, Romanian). Oh, and adopting a national anthem that just happens to be the Romanian national anthem, and...

Fearing that this was a prelude to Romanian reunification, the ethnic Russian population, well they, well, I’ll tell you in the next post.

Oddly, reunification never happened. In fact, in 2001, Moldova freely elected a Communist government to power under Vladimir Voronin. Last year (and this also may sound familiar, but the BBC was more interested in reporting an Iranian revolution than a Moldovan one…), the Communist government was again re-elected under allegations of foul play and twitter-organized street protests by the opposition parties. The follow-up election again established near-majority support for the Communist Party.

But, since no party was able to form a ruling coalition, and since constitutional rules prohibit a third dissolution of the government within the same year, Moldova is currently under an interim government headed by pro-unificationist Mihai Ghimpu.

Ghimpu’s pro-Romanian sentiments have made him just a bit unpopular. Recently, the Moldovan populace is in an uproar over Ghimpu’s declaration of June 28 as a day of mourning for the Soviet occupation, rather than acknowledging the Soviet liberation.

Ghimpu’s popularity is at a stunning 2%. Even Al Haig had better ratings when he was president.

Say what you want about Moldova, or communism, or whatever, but this is not the story of Latvia. Certainly it seems there's no cookie-cutter approach to the disintegration of empires. And this particular story is certainly not playing out to Western expectations. Could be why we've never heard of the place?

Bottom line, Moldova is not a tourist destination for westerners. There are a few things to see, but nothing that can’t be found bigger and better in neighboring Romania. That aside, I found the place to be thoroughly fascinating, and quite the jackpot on the bus station travel Lotto. Not to mention that it's pretty high up on the not-likely-to-see-American-tourists-here scale, and that's always a good thing.

Iaşi? Sure, you betcha!

2010-07-14T23:28:00.000-07:00

Get it? No, of course not. Romania’s third largest city is pronounced “Yash.”

Okay, how about now?

Puns aside, I’m saving you the trouble of slogging through another report on Bucharest. If you’re that interested, I have a couple of posts in the archives. Suffice that since last time, the good people of Romania’s capital continue to smoke profusely, slather their pizza with ketchup, and park their Dacias on every available meter of sidewalk.

I don’t have too much to say about Iaşi either. Like most of modern Romania, as in the picture above, Iaşi represents some intersection of stately medieval monasteries, somber communist block apartments, and tacky capitalist advertising.

Iaşi is also home to Ioan Cuza University, perhaps memorable to Sitkans from the internet jam session we had with the jazz students here during the 2008 Sitka Jazz Festival. The university gives the town a youthful vibe, and it’s certainly more laid back than the bustle of Bucharest. Tourists are even more rare than in Bucharest—I imagine they’re out seeing the Painted Monasteries in the nearby Moldavian countryside. Nonetheless, I see that as a sign that I’m headed in the right direction. We’ll see where the winds take me tomorrow.

Observations on Latvia

2010-07-12T13:08:00.000-07:00

“Under capitalism man exploits man; under socialism the reverse is true”

Polish Proverb

I confess I’ve been putting this one off, hoping that another week would help me get my mind ‘round the puzzle of the Baltics. And maybe once ‘round the Baltics, then ‘round the rest of Eastern Europe, and then round the puzzle of humanity. But it’s not to be.

Latvia, like its neighbors Estonia and Lithuania, has spent most of its recorded history subjugated by one bigger neighbor or another. Riga, in fact, was founded by twenty shiploads of crusaders led by Albert von Buxhoeveden on orders from Pope Innocent III to Christianize the Baltics. Up to this point, the Latvians were having none of it, and had a habit of jumping in the Daugava after being baptized to “wash it off.”

Following several centuries of being subject to one foreign power or another (Sweden, Poland, and Prussia each had their turn, until Peter the Great established unequivocal Russian influence in 1709), Latvia had the opportunity to declare its independence after World War I.

This came to an end with the signing of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact between the USSR and Nazi Germany in 1939. The pact essentially divided Eastern Europe into spheres of influence between the two powers. On threat of military invasion, the Soviets demanded (and got) a new Latvian government, which proceeded to apply for admission into the Soviet union.

The 1940’s were bleak for the Latvians. In its first year, the Soviet government began the forced deportation of more than 35,000 of the Latvian intelligentsia to Siberia. A year later, when the Germans invaded the Baltics, the Nazi agenda began the systematic elimination of Gypsies and Jews. In all, over 85,000 Latvians were claimed by the holocaust. During the subsequent Soviet invasion in 1944, more than 160,000 Latvians fled the country. Following the “repatriation” of the Latvian SSR from Germany, the Soviet government deported even more ethnic Latvians and began the process of Sovietization, collectivizing farms, and migrating nearly a half a million ethnic Russians into the country.

With the collapse of the USSR in 1991, Latvia regained its sovereignty, and has now been independent longer than at any point in its history. Its streets are populated with cars from all over the western world (I even saw a Dodge here…), but the Ladas which are ubiquitous across Russia are curiously absent here. Until the recent financial crisis, Riga was something of a boom town: still a tourist destination for Russians, but eager to embrace the West. Happy ending, right?

But is that the whole story?

Suffice that while there is certainly a sizeable Latvian population in Riga, ethnic Russians (many moved in purposely during the Soviet occupation) comprise the majority. When the Baltic States seceded from the USSR in 1991, most of these Russians remained, being invested in the land by birth or marriage or property. So, is the story of Riga the story as told by the Latvian Museum of the Occupation? Perhaps. What then to do with the remaining (majority) of Russians? Where is their part in the tale?

Trying to comprehend Latvia gives me a glimpse into what has happened elsewhere in the world: Bosnia, Kosovo, Kashmir, Palestine. With ethnic groups calling the same territory home subtle dislike can turn to distrust. Add a failing economy, a failing government, one or more religions with exclusive claim to God? Add some patriotism, a demagogue or two, maybe some stockpiles of weapons? While the full set of ingredients for a Balkan style powderkeg aren't here, it's easy to see that things could go another way.

No, readers, this place is just another reminder to me that trust is saner than mistrust; inclusion better than exclusion; love better than hate.

Next time: Speaking of the Balkans...

Riga

2010-07-12T13:07:00.000-07:00

If you can’t stand American tourists, the Baltic Air flight from Oslo to Riga is a step in the right direction. It’s not that they don’t exist here, or that English isn’t spoken, it’s that here in Riga, English is people’s third language behind Latvian and Russian (though not necessarily in that order).

From a sightseeing perspective, Riga has about everything you could want from a European capital. Old Riga with its winding cobblestone streets feels much like the medieval metropolis that it once was, though I’m relatively certain the modern version has tackier restaurants. In addition, the city is home to a fine collection of architecture in the Art Deco style and a number of iconic modern structures..
This is Riga’s St. Peter’s Cathedral. If you click on the following pictures, you can see the burned out version following its bombing during World War II. Yes, these lenses can actually look back in time.

Statues of the medieval hero Roland are not uncommon in Northern and Central Europe. This one guards the town square in front of St. Peter’s.
This is the unfortunately named “House of the Blackheads,” rebuilt from scratch in 1995 after it was bombed by the Germans and demolished by the Soviets. Rather than a medieval acne treatment center, imagine a sort of fortified Elks Lodge available to the merchant class of the time.
This is Jurmala Beach. Once, this was the health spa destination for Russia’s elite. The infrastructure remains, though the beach is now a destination for locals, tourists, and Russian grape smugglers alike.

This is Olga. She is a Russian spy. This is obvious to me for a few reasons. First, her name is Olga. Can any of you think of someone named Olga who is not a Russian spy? No. Second, note the posture of her diminutive bodyguard: waiting for her command as to whether or not he should dispatch me. Fear not, patriots. She didn’t glean any useful information out of me.

Night on the Daugava

2010-07-10T13:30:00.000-07:00

I'll let Riga's waterfront speak for itself.

The Vigeland Sculpture Park

2010-07-06T12:21:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you, if this place is not on your personal “bucket list,” put it there.

My most resonant memories from my first trip to Norway come from this place, and even having after this most recent visit, I feel it calling me back. Truly, this is one of but a handful of places in the world that I have encountered with such legitimate and powerfully good spiritual Ju-Ju. I frankly debated whether I should blog on this place or not, questioning whether or not I could do it any justice.

Gustav Vigeland was Norway’s signature sculptor. His emotional range is only met by his vast productivity during his lifetime. I counted nearly 200 sculptures and bas-reliefs in the park that bears his name, though I’m pretty certain I missed a couple.

Having made a name for himself during the 19th Century, the secession of Norway from Sweden in 1905 gave Vigeland the opportunity to practice his craft with a focus that few artists are given to achieve. Initially, it was his intent to create an enormous fountain that would be placed in front of the National Parliament. As this notion became politically unviable, he proposed, essentially, to indenture himself to the government. In exchange for a house on Oslo’s Frogner Park and a stipend, the remainder of his work would become the property of the newly created Norwegian State.

Given state backing and free reign to practice his craft, Vigeland created over the remainder of his lifetime this spectacular result.

Laid out over a space of 80 acres, the park contains various series of Vigeland’s work: universal vignettes of life, organized loosely from birth until death. The human figures are just larger than life-sized, and are exclusively nude. This gives the work a timeless and eternal quality, never to be dated as fashions become obselete.

While his detail is sometimes crude, Vigeland’s emotional range is frankly astounding. Whether expressing the tender insecurity of adolescence, the wonder of new love, the donning of new responsibility, or the acceptance of death and loss, his intent is clear, compelling and universally understood.

The park has two centerpieces: a fountain in bronze, held up by titanic young men in the peak of their strength, and a massive obelisk, made up of human figures scrambling to the top.

The park made an impression on me at 21, and even more so now at 41, perhaps because I have lived that much more of my life that is reflected in Vigeland’s work. Oddly, the impression that I have this time is not just of the sculpture park, but of the people viewing and interacting with it. Guests from all walks of life walk amongst these statues almost as if they are new, living works themselves.

Or maybe I have that backwards.

What a feat! Here, with his life’s work, Gustav Vigeland created a mirror for the human experience and invited the whole world to view themselves within. The statues themselves don’t come to life, but they call on something deep within each viewer: an inspiration; a command to awaken that he or she should somehow become more alive.

Come here.

Really.

Tomorrow: Riga.

Oslo

2010-07-05T00:30:00.000-07:00

Let not thy mind be overmuch crossed by unwise men at thronged meetings of folk; for oft these speak worse than they wot of; lest thou be called a dastard, and art minded to think that thou art even as is said; slay such an one on another day, and so reward his ugly talk.

from the Volsunga Saga

I think it only fair to point out that I have been here before. Twenty or something years ago on tour with the Pacific Lutheran University Wind Ensemble. I even took a semester of Norwegian to enhance my experience, though frankly, English is so ubiquitous with the native population that there’s little point.

The good news? I remember almost all of the Norwegian that I once knew. The bad news? No one here speaks Norwegian, or, rather, people here immediately stop speaking Norwegian as soon as they recognize that you hail from the West. Still, it makes me feel just that much more like the protagonist in some sort of spy thriller. You know, when Tony Stark starts speaking French with a flawless accent while racing cars in Monaco? When James Bond busts out the Catalan while gambling in Sardinia? Yep, that's my life right now. Of course, it also doesn’t hurt that the remaining 70% of the English Language that was not derived from latin comes pretty much directly from the Viking invasions.

So. Oslo. City-wise, it’s a lot like Victoria, though they speak better English here. Historically? Think Viking Ships, Polar Explorers, Advocates for World Peace, Leggy Blondes, and lots of spendy museums devoted to these things, except perhaps the last. At least I didn’t find one. Could still be out there.

Nonetheless, here’s the tourist bit. I’ll try to cover the real reason I came back to Oslo in the next post.

This is the thoroughly horrid Karl Johan’s Gate, the place in Oslo where one can get the worst prices on plastic Viking helmets keychains of only the cheapest quality. There seems to be an area like this in every tourist city: where the tourist is met by his expectations.

With a little more historical bent, here are the Kon-Tiki and the Ra II: vessels built by Thor Heyerdahl which changed the perceptions of anthropologists regarding the interaction of early human societies. Following clues left in the ships logs of Spanish explorers, Heyerdahl theorized that South American civilizations could have colonized or originated the peoples of Polynesia. To prove his point, he constructed this raft, the Kon-Tiki, out of balsa logs and indigenous materials, and set sail from Peru.
Crazy Norwegians! I’d be okay with sailing from Peru to Fiji, I’m just not sure I’d do it on a balsa raft.

Some years later, noting the prevalence of reed boats in civilizations throughout the world, Heyerdahl completed a similar experiment sailing the Ra II from Morocco to Barbados to prove the possibility that ancient Egyptians sailed ocean-going vessels of exploration.

This is the Fram. No idea if it’s related to the oil filter. This was one of the most important vessels used in the exploration of both polar regions. The egg-shaped hull allows for the building pressure of ice to push the vessel up, rather than crushing it.

This is the Nobel Institute. You know, where they give out that prize?

On a lark, and having heard that it might be easier to get one than the last time I was in town (Jimmy Carter built houses and hospitals for the world’s poor for what? 20 years…?), I stopped in to ask if I could have one.

Well, look at that. They ARE giving them away. Num!

Next time: the Vigeland Sculpture Park.

Der Norske Opera & Ballett: Operahuset

2010-07-03T05:16:00.000-07:00

Architecture is music in space, as it were a frozen music.

Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von Schelling

After taking the train from Washington DC to Oslo, Norway (Yes, there was a flight or two involved, but those were spent in a sort of melatonin-induced haze, and one was on a Boeing 757 and should therefore be quickly forgotten), I checked into my hostel and headed directly for the new gem in Oslo’s woody crown, Den Norske Opera, or the Norwegian Opera House.

The building was completed in 2008 and replaces a number of unsatisfactory and less comfortable acoustical spaces across the city. Does this seem familiar? Why yes, of course it does. Oslo, like Sitka, had been trying to fund such a space since an Oslo newspaper reported that one was to be built nearly 127 years ago.

Granted, at 4.1 billion Krone, Norway may have invested just a little more money in the exterior. The massive marble roof/patio serves as an open community park, and as overflow seating via enormous screen-laden barges. The night I was here, an offshore barge held a full floating stage for an outdoor concert.

It’s said also that the exterior space was designed to encourage skateboarding, with the most accessible angles located where such activity would be the least likely to create auditory disruptions. Now, I’m no expert, but it seems to me that angles of the building, wisely, appear in fact designed to encourage skateboarding…DIRECTLY INTO THE NORTH SEA. But that’s just me.

Inside, the building houses three auditoriums, including the main stage of 1369 seats, a smaller stage of 400 seats, and a “black box” style theater with 200 seats. The main stage is comprised of a series of articulated lifts which allow an almost infinite variety of staging options.
There is a main lobby, designed to evoke ice and cleft wood. The facility itself holds 1100 separate rooms, including rehearsal facilities for music and dance, costume and design rooms, storage rooms and offices.

This is a great space, and it has created for Norway an iconic building that draws visitors and concert-goers for its own sake to discover the country’s superlative performing arts offerings. I can’t help but hold some affinity for the building, as it holds so many similarities to the space over which I have been given the privilege and honor of managing. But here are some quick factoids, just for fun.

Both the Opera House and the Sitka Auditorium were completed in 2008, and designed by world-class architects.

The Opera House seats nearly 2000 in three venues. The Sitka Auditorium seats 619 in one venue. Now, if you break it down by population, the Opera House seats less than 0.14 percent of the population, while the Sitka Auditorium seats nearly 7 percent of that city’s population. Simlarly, while the Opera House seems littered with its 21 pianos (mostly 7’ Bosendorfers), Sitka is home to a higher per capita of 9’ Steinway ‘D’s than anywhere outside of the Julliard School.

Both spaces are posted with annoying and histrionic reminders by the management.

Adam, there is an unburned palette here at the Opera House. I assume you’ll be right over.

Though it is filled with ample office space, none of the offices here are home to the award winning Sitka Fine Arts Camp.

Finally, and some of you may remember that it was shortly after my trip there that evidence of nuclear material at the Holy City of Qom surfaced from mysterious *ahem* sources. With this in mind, the following images may disturb you, but I think it important to put them on the internet for the world to see as quickly as possible. Yes, in the guise of a prop-building shop, there is evidence here that the Norwegians are again up to no good.

You’re asking yourselves, “Is that, in fact, the prototype for a giant robotic pig that is surely the first in an army of giant robotic pigs set to be unleashed on the world?” Well, of course it is. Beware, folks. Any strange giant pigs arriving in your towns are not to be befriended or trusted. Sure, it’s easy to say, “But it’s just a pig. Pigs are cute, and they taste good, and this one’s SO big, and he seems lonely.” Don’t be fooled. Call the UN! Call Hans Blix! Start drawing up some sanctions.

Next time: So What's to do in Oslo? or How I Got Me One of them Nobel Prizes.

A Day in DC through the Canon 10-22

2010-06-30T15:09:00.000-07:00

People who look through keyholes are apt to get the idea that most things are keyhole shaped.

Author Unknown

Here, for your pleasure, are some of the sights of our nation’s capitol, as captured more or less by the Canon 10-22mm lens. If the Tamron excels at bringing the far away closer, the Canon excels at cramming everything in the frame. This is great for photographing architecture, as you may have noticed that I like to do, though at the extreme wide angle the pictures have a great deal of distortion.

Here’s the US Capitol Building with the lens at full extension.

Now here’s the extreme wide angle. The lens is capable of covering about 135 degrees of ya ya.

The lens is particularly great for interior spaces, like this, the ceiling of the Smithsonian Museum of the American Indian.

It’s not bad for nifty self-portraits, either.

Here are a couple of shots of the Washington Monument, from not too far away.

Okay, Really. Enough about the equipment. Next time: Oslo!

A Taste of Tacoma with the Tamron 18-270

2010-06-28T20:17:00.000-07:00

Forget the camera, forget the lens, forget all of that. With any four-dollar camera, you can capture the best picture.

Alberto Korda

It wasn’t my intent, but I may have stepped over the line between “Guy with a Camera” and “Amateur Photographer.” I say that because I have just spent a significant chunk of money upgrading my camera and lenses. That said, I don’t like this at all. I don’t like that I can now have a discussion about the relative merits of my lenses beyond “If it’s far away, I just slap that thar big one on.” Ultimately, I hope not to talk about these things much. Instead, I hope that you notice a difference in the relative quality, sharpness, and creative range compared to previous trips.

Indulge me briefly on the lens upgrades I’ll be using this trip, then I promise never to speak of them again. I think.

To the right is the Canon Digital Rebel t2i with the standard 18-55mm kit lens. Looks like a completely normal camera, doesn’t it? To the left is the same camera, outfitted with a new Tamron 18-270mm zoom.

I bought the Tamron because it encompasses almost the full range of my last setup, but now that I put it on the Rebel, I find it curiously reminiscent of some testosterone laden remnant of a previous age, like perhaps the Gee Bee Racer.

Here’s a final shot of the camera with the zoom lens fully extended. Really, if I’d known it was going to look like this I would have opted for something less, ahem, compensatory.

But I remind myself that this is not about the lenses, it’s about the pictures. So, where best to try out my new setup than on some artsy Northern European modern architecture? So. Check it out.

Cool building. But wait. This isn’t Oslo or Riga. I’m not even in Europe yet. Guess what, you South Puget Sound poo-poo-ers out there, this is the Chihuly Museum of Glass. It’s not in Europe. It doesn’t smell bad. It’s in TACOMA.

The glass cone-shaped structure is the “Hot Shop,” where visiting artists create works before the eyes of fascinated patrons. Here’s the same structure from the inside.

This artist is manipulating the work inside what is called the “Glory Hole.”

Back to the lens for a moment, and here’s the one of the big reasons I bought it. Here’s a shot taken with the Tamron at full zoom.

Here’s the same lens, from the same position, at its shortest focal length. Nice, eh? In terms of build quality (sorry!) the zoom doesn’t go from one end to another with a lot of grace, but it keeps me from needing to slap a new lens on for distance.

Next time: Washington DC with the Canon 10-22mm.

On the Road Again

2010-06-25T16:57:00.000-07:00

The newest computer can merely compound, at speed, the oldest problem in the relations between human beings, and in the end the communicator will be confronted with the old problem, of what to say and how to say it.

Edward R. Murrow

If it keeps up, man will atrophy all his limbs but the push-button finger

Frank Lloyd Wright

Well, this is a new one. I’ve blogged from some of the most remote parts of the globe. Places where humanity’s hold on technology is tenuous at best. Mongolia comes to mind. The Zagros desert. The far reaches of Siberia. Places where one is so grateful that internet access even exists that the relative speed of said connections is immaterial. Places that one imagines to be barely inhabited, much less connected. Places so remote that the very fact of man's presence is a testament to the perseverance and tenacity of the species.

Wait.

Where does this remind me of? Somewhere important, I’m sure.

I’m sure it will come to me.

But I digress. Today’s blog comes to you not from the far reaches of the earth, but verily, from the skies above it. Yes. I’m blogging from Alaska Airlines Flight 2 from Seattle to Washington, DC.

Well, that’s exceptional, though I realize that it won’t be exceptional for very long. It’s just that for most of the jet-set business class, the coast-to-coast flight was the last refuge from the perpetually flooding inbox; the last peaceful bastion of unreachability; the final excuse to be offline for once.

Yes, good readers, the air commute used to be time to catch up on the little things—the important things—that we just don’t have time for anymore.

Like, say, Season 6 of Lost.

Now I realize that as I write this on my 2.2 pound netbook; uploading photos from my new 18 megapixel camera, that I am treading on dangerous ground. But I also suspect that soon, anyone will have the technology to accomplish what I’ve been doing from anywhere in the world with the imminent release of the new iPhone 9, with worldwide, satellite-driven 8GS and 450 terrapixels of 3-D holographic video capture.

So, while I’m bound to what will undoubtedly become tomorrow’s stone knives and bearskins, I’d best get this finished.

You’re wondering about my itinerary. Promise not to sigh dramatically when you see that Iran (or North Korea, or Gaza, or the Disputed Tribal Regions for that matter) isn’t on it. It’s sweet of you to worry, but you may be missing the point. Look, my 79 year-old mother doesn’t worry. Neither should you. Here it is:

June 19—Tacoma, WA, USA
June 25—Washington DC, USA
July 1—Oslo, Norway
July 3—Riga, Latvia
July 7—Bucharest (etc.), Romania
July 24—Lisbon, Portugal
July 31—Vancouver, BC, Canada

Did you sigh with relief? Click immediately on the archives. Go back to June 3, 2007 and re-read the entire blog before proceeding.

So I’ll be abroad for the month of July, and back in Sitka sometime in early August.

That’s it!!

Sitka!

I knew that seemed familiar.

2009-10-07T17:52:00.000-07:00

From xkcd.com

Finale

2009-08-17T02:32:00.000-07:00

One regret, dear world
That I am determined not to have
When I am lying on my death bed
Is that
I did not kiss you enough

Hafiz

I’ve been thinking for some time of how to wrap this up. The fact is, I’ve had a lot of pretty amazing experiences to try to get my head around.

Upon returning from my travels I’m often first congratulated for returning in one piece and second asked if there was ever a point at which I felt afraid or alone. It’s an understandable reaction when one spends a summer traipsing across the Axis of Evil.

The short answer is “Thanks,” and “No, not really,” but that doesn’t get to the heart of it.

You see for me, epic travel has become a spiritual experience. Each day begins with the questions: “What do I want?” “Where should I go?” And then I go there. Each day questions of survival demand answers. “Where will I sleep tonight?” “What will I eat?” “Where is the internet?”

Seriously folks, how often do we get to do that in the routine of our daily lives?

To get away from one's working environment is, in a sense, to get away from one's self; and this is often the chief advantage of travel and change.

Charles Horton Cooley

In our regular lives, we have ‘stuff’ around us that makes these questions irrelevant. We know where we will sleep, and probably what we will eat, too, and certainly what roof will be over our heads. We even have control over whether or not there will be toilet paper there, and if the shower will have pressure or hot water. One day is much like the last, and the next.

And all of that control sometimes allows us to forget that we live in the moment—in the now. And now is the only reality.

A journey is like marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it.

John Steinbeck

When one is on the road, this becomes obvious. If one is in the Imam Mosque in Esfahan, there’s not much point in fantasizing about the Blue Mosque in Istanbul or longing for the Burj al Arab in Dubai. And there’s no point in worrying about where you’re going to sleep in Bucharest when you haven’t yet found a hostel in Sofia.

And so the traveler happens by accident upon something wondrous.

“Remember what Bilbo used to say: It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."

J.R.R. Tolkien, via Samwise Gamgee

In the act of asking, moving, and surviving, he suddenly becomes aware of the universe in a way that his daily routine could have never allowed. The universe begins to offer him exquisite moments: one at a time and of all different kinds and flavors. Unexpected friends. Glimpses of untold beauty. Tastes. Smells. Conversations. Unplanned connections. The traveler realizes that he is no longer traveling. He is centered within himself as the world whirls around to reveal herself to him, in a manner unsullied by his own will. The very earth becomes his traveling partner and expert guide.

Not only does fear become irrelevant, it never occurs to him.

(Come to think of it, he may have left his fear in a field near the Ceahlau Massif a few summers back along with that flash drive that slipped out of his pocket.)

Bizarre travel plans are dancing lessons from God.

Kurt Vonnegut

He finds himself on the other side of the planet, experiencing things planned and unplanned, flirting with the wind and sun, cussing out Romanian taxi drivers in their own language, ballooning over ancient dwellings, having tea with chador-clad biology majors and their mothers, breathing, sweating with a straight razor to his throat, watching sunrises and sunsets and kitesurfers and those ubiquitous Dutch tourists, putting toes to sand on three different continents, being tickled to sleep by the wind, awakened by the sun, and referring to himself obtusely in the third person in a glorious and pompous run-on sentence.

But maybe that’s just me.

Traveling is like flirting with life. It’s like saying, ‘I would stay and love you, but I have to go; this is my station.

Lisa St. Aubin de Teran

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that these experiences are exclusive to solo travel. Solo travel simply encourages us to recognize the moment, and each moment’s gift to us. Ultimately, travel is a metaphor for how we can choose to live our lives for the better. When one carries a backpack, one cannot help but scrutinize what’s inside it in an effort to make it light and manageable—unnecessary weight has a direct and palpable cost in aches and pains at the end of the day. Similarly, in daily life why can we not scrutinize the things that burden us unnecessarily? How can we lighten our load?

On the road, it is obvious that one’s relationships are temporary. One is grateful for traveling companions for the hours or days that they last. At home, can we not be more grateful for those close to us, and in tremendous acts of love allow them to change and grow, even if it is beyond us? Can we not allow them to depart, not with sorrow, but with gratitude for the gifts that they brought to us?

But I’m getting trippy here. It must be time to wrap up the wrapup.

And no, I never felt alone. Possibly because I never was. Friends, until the next journey...

The autumn leaves are falling like rain
Although my neighbors are all barbarians
And you, you are a thousand miles away
There are always two cups at my table.

T’ang Dynasty Poem

Puerto Plata

2009-08-15T15:49:00.000-07:00

A real friend is someone who takes a winter vacation on a sun-drenched beach and does not send a card

Farmer’s Almanac

I don’t have a lot to say about Puerto Plata, except that there’s a curious and sadistic joy in knowing that I could have either returned to Baranof Island a week early, or I could have spent four days here. Unlike the rest of my journey, I have no architectural wonders, historical tidbits, archeological finds on which to report. Here is surf, sun, and surf, including this private beach within easy walking distance of my resort.

While these beaches were not entirely deserted, the reader will have to examine them very closely to find evidence of other people here.

Ultimately, as you can see, this was the perfect finish to two months on the road.

Next time: the wrap-up.

The Pines of Rome

2009-08-05T16:29:00.001-07:00

All the pathos and irony of leaving one’s youth behind is thus implicit in every joyous moment of travel: one knows that the first joy can never be recovered, and the wise traveler learns not to repeat successes but tries new places all the time.

Paul Fussell

Yes, I know. That’s one of the Fountains of Rome. Even Respighi got those mixed up now and again.

After four days in Bucuresti, I took a Blue Air flight out of the abysmal Baneasa Airport to Rome. With regards to Dennis Potter, seeing Baneasa for myself gives me a vivid understanding of the term ‘terminal illness’.

I’ve been to Rome before. Here’s a link to the post from my last visit. If you want to see pictures of the stuff that makes Rome Rome, you’ll find them there. If you want more, let me know. I have just under a thousand from my 48 hours there.

This time, the nature of my visit was very different. I stayed again at the delightful Maryelen Bed and Breakfast and during this trip I was able to enlist a local guide, though to be perfectly honest, I suspect that she wasn’t Italian at all. Her accent seemed genuine at times, but she seemed entirely unimpressed with my stories of massive precipitation and days-long ferry travel from my native land. Oh well, I guess I’ll never know.

Instead of seeing the sights of Rome (“Meh, I have pictures of that. Yeah, that too. Yep. And that.”), we spent most of the day at a friend’s cabana on Lagu Bracchiano, about an hour into the Italian countryside.

We also toured Castle Bracchiano, with an Italian tour guide. While I could pick out enough Latin to discern a fact or two (my “native guide” was also useful), I don’t have much useful insight, except that it was a groovy medieval castle, and there was something about Catherine de Medici receiving her lovers there. *shrug*

We returned to Rome in the afternoon, and in the finest Italian tradition, began the carefree process of eating dinner, including apertivi in multiple locales, and a leisurely walk through the parks in the heart of Rome, which I present to you today.

And it is here that the European part of my adventure comes to a close. After two nights in Rome, I flew Aer Lingus to Dublin for an overnight layover and then on to New York City. I will spend the next few days on a beach in Puerto Plata in the Dominican Republic before returning to Seattle, then Anchorage, then home in time (maybe) for school.

Bucureşti în timpul nopţii

2009-08-05T13:34:00.002-07:00

Night is the blotting paper for many sorrows.

Author Unknown

Bucharest, hmm, III?

2009-08-05T13:34:00.001-07:00

Travel at its truest is thus an ironic experience, and the best travelers… seem to be those able to hold two or three inconsistent ideas in their minds at the same time, or able to regard themselves as at once serious persons and clowns.

Paul Fussell

There’s something about this country that just calls to me. Romanian history is a centuries-long study in heartbreak. As the back doormat of Europe, Romania has the distinction of getting conquered by just about everybody on the way to conquering who they were really after.

There are no Wonders of the World here (even the House of Parliament is only the second largest building in the world) nor is there natural beauty that can’t be found in spades elsewhere. It’s not bad, but it’s not superlative. The local cuisine is satisfying, but it’s not like one finds Romanian restaurants even in major cities elsewhere. Frankly, if it weren’t for Nadia Comaneci, I don’t think I ever would have heard of the place.

So what’s here? Well, for me that’s pretty simple. Romania is one of two places in the world that I can practice speaking, well, Romanian. In retrospect, perhaps I should have chosen a more widespread language to learn, but hey, what would be the fun of learning a language everyone knows? Having tired of mosques, kebabs, rock formations, calcium sulfate, roman columns, and carpet salesmen, I’m now enjoying the adventure of performing daily survival tasks in a language upon which I have a very precarious hold.

I’m pleased to find, in spite of a two year hiatus from linguistic study, that I have a great deal more confidence in speaking the language. Words and phrases come to me more easily, and I even find myself thinking in Romanian at times. Aural comprehension is elusive, though. Again, I find myself faced with the problem that when one speaks with a respectable accent, locals assume that you would like them to speak as quickly as possible. But that’s more of the fun, and it isn’t a kebab.

(And, I should add, not only can I identify when I am being screwed over by a cab driver, I have a great deal of appropriate vocabulary for just such an occasion!)

So, it’s been two tours of four days each (with 36 hours of Budapest in between) of wandering the homogenous sprawl of Bucharest in search of aventura mica.

First, what would a trip to Bucharest be without visiting the world famous Mike Kernin head?

After wandering in the parks to the north of Bucharest one day, I ran across a military parade starting from the Arc De Triomphe.

Extra Credit if you can name this man without a Google search. Okay, never mind. I’ll save you the trouble. It’s President Traian Basescu. Extra Credit if you can describe the political upheaval that surrounded him during my last visit in 2007. Jody, a correct answer here will put you over the 139% mark in Chip's AK Studies class.
Initially, I thought perhaps Romania was going to finally get it’s act together and launch an invasion of the Republic of Moldova. Really guys, it would be a shot in the arm for patriotism and national self-esteem. C’mon. Reclaiming the territory that Stalin snagged? What’s Russia going to do? You’re in NATO and the EU now. Believe me, there's nothing like a little imperialism to solidify the ol' political base.

But alas, it was just the pull-out parade for Iraq. There were several Union Jacks and Stars and Stripes hoisted by the military units: the Romanian presence in Iraq was categorically under foreign command.
Nothing like a little fly-by.

I won't bore you with the pictures of relatively clean canals (compared to my first visit), or regale you with stories of seeing people picking up trash(!!?!) in downtown. Romanians continue to park their Dacias on the sidewalks, in bike lanes, and in outdoor cafes but hey, baby steps, folks.

The Palace of Parliament

2009-08-05T07:22:00.000-07:00

Tyranny is always better organized than freedom.

Charles Peguy

"Who are you?" he asked.
"I am the future queen of this world, at the very least. You may refer to me as Mistress Koboi for the next five minutes. After that you may refer to me as 'Aaaaarrrrgh, hold your throat, die screaming, and so on.'"

Eoin Colfer, from "Artemis Fowl, the Arctic Incident"

My last time in Bucharest I viewed but did not tour this building.

Palatul Parlimentului (Palace of Parliament), also known as Casa Poporalui (The People’s House) or more commonly as Casa Nebunului (The Crazy Man’s House). As you may have already realized, an excess of vowels is never a liability when playing Scrabble in Romania.

It’s huge. At just over three and a half million square feet, it’s the second largest government complex in the world behind the Pentagon. Its substantial marble content makes it actually the heaviest building in the world.

The whole mess began really back in 1971 when Ceausescu traveled to Pyongyang to meet his contemporary, North Korean President Kim Il-Sung. As we all know, the occupation of autocratic tyrant can be a lonely one, and Ceaucescu found in Kim Il-Sung a model on which to base his cult of personality. Ceausescu was impressed by the grandeur of the capital and set about bringing East Asian communist ideals to his own country.

His policy of “systemization” commenced shortly afterwards, forcibly relocating rural residents into badly-plumbed and under-funded communist-style apartment buildings. Ceausescu used the earthquake of 1977 as an excuse to condemn and raze nearly a quarter of Bucharest’s historical district in order to make room for the new Centru Civic. The most grandiose result was the People’s House, a bombastic white elephant which had not yet reached completion in time for his televised execution on Christmas Day of 1989.

In the days after the revolution, substantial debate over the disposition of the building was to follow. Many, acknowledging that the palace’s construction had bankrupted the country, wanted it dynamited. Others, with typically Romanian common sense, advocated that it be used as a casino. Ultimately, the new leadership elected to put the building to use and acknowledge its value as a purely Romanian landmark.

In spite of its unbearably moda communista dreary exterior, the interior of the palace is ridiculously opulent. The building is constructed almost entirely of materials of Romanian origin, including one million square meters of marble from Transylvania, 3500 tons of crystal, 700,000 tons of steel and bronze, 900,000 square meters of hardwoods, and 200,000 meters of carpets. The gold and silver inlaid curtains were handmade by nuns from Moldavia.

The Ceaucescus were demanding patrons. These staircases had to be redesigned and rebuilt three times before they were found acceptable.

This is the Sala Unirii, where gymnast Nadia Comaneci was married in 1996 (“to some American guy,” said our guide. Apparently, American gymnasts aren't so well known here...). Note the massive, empty marble frame. Ceaucescu had intended that his portrait go here, facing a portrait of his wife, Elena, on the opposite side. Romanians joke that his portrait should have better been facing a mirror so that he could constantly behold himself even when sleeping.

Like many of the ballrooms, the Alexandru Ioan Cuza room has gold leaf inlaid in the stucco ceiling.

Here is the view from the balcony where Ceaucescu would have been shot had the building been finished in time. Yes, the avenue is designed after the Champs de Elysses. Yes, that's a Seattle Mariners flag next to those of the EU and Romania.

Sadly, Ceaucescu’s vision brought horrible suffering on an already downtrodden people. During the construction of his legacy, systemization and his industrial programs had gutted the Romanian economy to the point of collapse. While the younger generation of Romanians criticize the current government (deservedly so) for its corruption. Some even call for the return of a Ceausescu ("At least he built stuff"). But these people never suffered the indignancy of compulsory gynecological exams to verify that they weren't having abortions (For a riveting bit of Romanian cinema on the subject check out Cristian Mungiu's Four Months, Three Weeks, and Two Days).

The building is now used for the country's parliament, though much of the building is empty and some of it still unfinished. Which is a pity, because it really would have made a fine casino.

Budapest

2009-08-02T05:19:00.000-07:00

Tourists don’t know where they’ve been, travelers don’t know where they’re going

Paul Theroux

After 18 hours in Sofia, and another four days in Bucharest (more on this later), I took yet another night train to the capital city of Hungary: Budapest. They're very different cities, so don't make the same mistake Michael Jackson did.

I confess that some part of me felt strangely uncomfortable to find that Budapest is in fact two cities straddling the Danube, given the unfortunate names of Buda and Pest. The inane backpacker discussions about “Have you been across to see Buda?” or “We’re going out in Pest tonight,” somehow managed to deflate just a little bit of majesty from the place.

The entire Magyar language is completely unrelated to any of the Indo-European languages found in the rest of the continent. That Hungary uses the western alphabet combines with a series of unfortunate linguistic coincidences to create a number of “false friends” within the language. For example, in Magyar, the word ‘fatal’ refers to a medieval wooden platter on which food was served. Somehow I just couldn’t manage to seat myself at the “Fatal Restaurant” (sorry, no pic…) for dinner.

Nonetheless, the city has some impressive sights. Unlike Bucharest or Sofia, the magnificent architecture and abundance of statues gives the impression that one has entered Europe Proper. This is Buda Castle, located yes, in Buda:

The Pest shore of the Danube is dominated by the House of Parliament.
The Szechenyi Chain Bridge connects Buda’s Castle Hill district with Pest.

Budapest is full of fountains and statues honoring artists and nationals. This subtle portrayal of William Shakespeare conveys both his intestinal discomfort and an excruciating ligament injury.
Music teachers are especially revered here. In this statue, Bogdan the One-Eared is shown clutching at his conductor’s baton after having dispatched a pair of out-of-tune bassoonists.
Zoltan the Giddy’s choral conducting style is easily recognizable, in spite of his almost neurotic dependence on the octavo.
On the Pest side, St. Stephen’s Basilica is the dominant piece of sacred architecture on the skyline.

Nominally, I found Budapest to be a delightful, vibrant city, full of interesting sights, history, and cultural events. It is not prohibitively expensive, as one finds in the European capitals farther west, yet it remains a viable center of culture.

For my tastes, however, stepping off the train into Budapest was nearly a step too far. During the rest of my travels (even in Turkey), I was one of a relatively small group of backpackers, and just about the only amateur photographer serious enough to use a “look-through-the-eyepiece” style SLR camera. Stepping off the Ister Express onto the platform at Keteli Station, I found myself moving with full herds of the self-seeking pack nomads that migrate from hostel to hostel via Eurail during the European summers.

While I didn’t exactly throw elbows to get some of the pictures you’re seeing, there were at least three to six other photo jockeys at every location. Even at midnight, even with tripods, when I used my own to gather some of these.

Ultimately, in Budapest I felt as though I’d entered Europe, and while that might be fine for just about everyone else, the storied European experience is not something I’ve ever been drawn to. Maybe next time, but not right now—somehow it just didn’t seem to fit with the theme. So, for me it was back on the Ister Express and to the relative sanity (!) of Bucharest.

Sofia

2009-07-30T00:58:00.000-07:00

Let’s change this up a bit. I know that there are a bunch of you following, but we need to get you more involved. Time for a little audience-participation quiz.

I’ll post the pictures of the sights in Sofia, and y’all leave me some comments telling me what they are and why they’re important. The winners will have a choice between a first edition “Changing the Bogies” T-shirt and a giant golden potato.

The truth is, I really hadn't planned to spend time in Bulgaria, so I didn't have a guidebook. I have some idea of what these things are, but not much. So now it's your turn to provide me with information.

Ready? Here goes. These four require identification.
#1

#2

#3

#4

The following pictures require some caption or otherwise droll comment:
#6

#7

#8

#9

Leave a comment with your answers to one or all below. Don’t forget to identify yourself.

Tourkey

2009-07-25T02:11:00.000-07:00

One always begins to forgive a place as soon as it’s left behind.

- Charles Dickens

Overall, my experience in Turkey has not been an entirely pleasant one. Unlike Iran, Turkey suffers from the scourge of tourism to a degree outside of my comfort zone. Granted, Turkey’s sights are nothing less than spectacular. Unfortunately, that’s no secret from the throngs of mostly European tourists who flock here in the summer.

When tourists flood into a location, its character is inevitably changed. As infrastructure is developed and locals begin to earn their livings from the visiting population, novelty turns to inconvenience, and hospitality turns to contempt. To the local, every tourist begins to look like a walking ATM, and to the tourist, every local begins to look like a scam artist.

I generally prefer to consider myself a traveler rather than a tourist, preferring uncertainty to comfort and interaction to sightseeing. Frankly, I’ve found this difficult in Turkey. In Sultanahmet, the ‘main drag’ of historical interest in Istanbul, nothing of the indigenous culture remains. The neighborhood is glutted with tourist hotels, pansyons, and hostels. Any interaction with an actual local is bound to dead end in some intention to part you with your money. The usual “Excuse me sah, veh you frahm?” conversation which I found so genuine and delightful in Iran, here inevitably ends with a pointed invitation to visit his “family business” and some hours-long attempt to sell you a carpet.

Outside of Istanbul, the tourist track is also well-worn. Bus transportation is easy, cheap, and plentiful here, but inevitably when one disembarks in one of the tourist towns, one is besieged by touts hard-selling whatever accommodation they represent. “No” is not recognized as an answer, even in Turkish. Tragically, because this ‘brand’ of salesmanship is firmly rooted in near-eastern warmth, the net effect is one of emotional manipulation. To ignore one of these touts is to be followed with pleas of “My friend, where are you going? Why will you not let me help you?”

Sadly, I’ve found it impossible to be polite to these people any longer. They are everywhere, and they are annoying. The only thing that seems to be effective is mounting up one’s backpack and walking briskly away, but even that doesn’t spare one from tortuous minutes of haranguing. It makes me a little sick that hearing “Hello, may I help you?” in a Turkish accent brings forth a conditioned response of contempt and revulsion within me. One of the Iranians I spoke to expressed some dismay that she had approached some other western tourists and they had completely ignored her. She wanted to know why this was. I didn’t understand at the time. Now I do.

Tout-“Helloo Sir! May I help you?:
Me-(attempt to walk briskly by)
Tout-“Where are you from? Australia?”
Me-(walking briskly by)
Tout-(following me) “Where are you going so quickly, sir?”
Me-(in droll American accent) “No English.”
Tout-“Francais?”
Me-“No English. No French.”
Tout-“Then what? German?”
Me-“Klingon. Hab SoSlI' Quch!”

Several minutes later, on the way back to the hostel:

Same Tout-“Hello again sir! I see you have come back.”
Me-(muttering obscenities, trying to walk by)
Tout-“But if you would only get off your high horse for but a moment we could talk about…”
Me-(stopping)“My horse? My friendly horse? So you can frankly pretend to be friendly friendly with me before you ask me to go to your friendly ‘family business’ and try to sell me a friendly carpet that I don’t frankly want? If I frankly wanted a friendly carpet, I would WALK into your FRIENDLY STORE. You friendly people are what’s frankly wrong with this friendly country.

In retrospect, I may not have used those exact words, but I'm certain the starting consonant was correct.

Tout-“Ah, but if you would only come to my store I’m sure we could…”
Me-(walking briskly away, muttering.)

The other facet of this is the tourists themselves. I got lucky in Ephesus to arrive early, go to the ‘wrong’ entrance gate, and get my pictures of the theater and Library at Celsus just before the first plague of French tourists swarmed in from the north. I was not so lucky at Nemrut Dagi, however. Perhaps it was unreasonable of me to expect that if I took the alternate route, slept in the one accommodation within miles of the mountain, and woke at 4:00 AM to reach the monuments before dawn, that I would not be greeted by over 200 tourists who were already there before me.

Yes, I get that this is the high season. But at 4:00 AM??

After traveling in Turkey for 10 days, I started to get the hang of how to stay off the backpacker circuit until the last possible moment so that I could see what I’d come to see. Still, early on I realized that I needed to see what I’d come for and get out as quickly as I could before my irritation transformed to hatred.

In retrospect, my time in Iran set me up for a sucker punch in Turkey. The genuine interest I found there, the sincerity, the absence of an agenda—while something similar can be found off of the tourist circuit in Turkey, I fell for it too many times to forgive.

But I wouldn’t have wanted it the other way. To have cultivated distrust of locals in Turkey and then traveled to Iran would have removed everything good and true about that experience. As it is, I’m going to need a while to gain some perspective on the Tourkish experience before I pass judgement for myself.

The Acropolis of Pergamon

2009-07-25T02:00:00.000-07:00

One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.

- Henry Miller

I actually started to worry, but after an hour (a whole hour!) by myself in the Pergamon Acropolis I shrugged my shoulders and made my way back to town, only to be nearly run off the road several times by the day’s first wave of tour buses.

Needless to say, the respite from unwelcome company was a delight, and the results are here, a no-holds-barred, free-for-all, no-cliché-left-underused photographic essay on marble columns for your blog viewing pleasure.

Again, the big disappointment with visiting these sites is that everything that isn’t too big to fit in a Messerschmitt is on display somewhere in a former imperial capital of Western Europe. In this case, the reliefs from the Altar of Zeus are on display in Berlin.

It is disconcerting, and I’m not sure what’s to be done. It seems to me that one should be able to view the treasures of Shah Abbas somewhere near Esfahan, rather than on display in the British Museum. Similarly, to learn that the treasures of Ephesus, Pamukkale, and now Pergamon are legally claimed by some museum’s collection…it just isn’t right. Imagine if the Constitution or Declaration of Independence had been spirited away. “Welcome to DC, everyone. Sorry to disappoint you, but everything that wasn’t nailed down during the War of 1812 is still in the Louvre.”

But I digress.

As you can guess, I’m a bit relieved to be done with mosques and marble columns for a while. Next time, a wrap up of Turkey (mmm…Turkey Wrap) and on to Eastern Europe.

Assos

2009-07-21T13:05:00.002-07:00

A little hard to get to and off the standard Aegean tourist track is the village of Assos, on the site of the ancient Greek town of the same name. I don't have a lot to say about it, except that Assos is sort of a model tourist village winding its cobblestone paths down the hill from its ruins. Atop the hill are the ruins of its acropolis, where I was treated to a fabulous (albeit tourist filled) sunset and views over the Greek island of Lesbos.

Ephesus

2009-07-21T13:05:00.001-07:00

I have gazed on the walls of impregnable Babylon along which chariots may race, and on the Zeus by the banks of the Alpheus, I have seen the hanging gardens, and the Colossus of the Helios, the great man made mountains of the lofty pyramids, and the gigantic tomb of Mausolus; but when I saw the sacred house of Artemis, that towers to the clouds, the others were placed in the shade, for the sun himself, has never looked upon its equal, outside Olympus

Antipater, Greek Anthology IX.58

Sadly, this restored column jutting out of a swamp on the road to Ephesus is about all that remains of the Temple of Artemis. Slightly more absurd is that just above the swamp, the Turkish Army has set up an observation post, apparently to distract any would-be attackers with tea and backgammon. It occurs to me that I'm not supposed to take pictures of Turkish military installations, but I figure if this represents a vital security risk, they need a lot more help than their facade of tommy-gun-toting jandarma would seem to invite.
This would be a strategy consistent with Ephesian history, rife with military incompetence so absurd as to be effective. When attacked by the Lydian King Croecus in the 6th century BC, the Ephesians protected themselves by roping off the temple and retreating behind the boundary. Croecus, perhaps believing that he had run into some new and baffling TSA security measures, emptied his pockets of liquids and gels and showed the Ephesians mercy, even bankrolling the final construction of the temple.

Ephesus itself is one of the best preserved set of Roman Era ruins outside of Pompeii. Remember that Ancient Greece and Rome extended to both sides of the Aegean Sea, so essentially the west coast of Turkey IS Ancient Greece. While the theater is impressive, the crown jewel is the Library of Celsus, built in the second century AD by consul Gaius Julius Aquila as a memorial to his father, Celsus Ploemaeanus.

In its heyday, 12,000 scrolls were stored in special humidity-controlled galleries to prevent damage from moisture. These precautions did not protect them from being burned, however, when the Goths sacked the area in 262 AD.
This is one of four statues representing the intellectual virtues. Unfortunately, the ones at Ephesus are plaster copies. The originals have long since been removed to Vienna.

One might note that the Apostle Paul spent some time in prison here, but hey, where didn't the Apostle Paul spend time in prison?

Next time: The village of Assos. Ancient Village Charm with Modern Tourist Prices.

Eastern Europedate

2009-07-21T12:50:00.000-07:00

A night train out of Istanbul; a three-hour-in-the-middle-of-the-night border crossing; 18 hours in Sofia, Bulgaria sans guidebook; and I've arrived in Bucharest, where I've lined up a hotel in the suburbs for most of the week. My Romanian is not only less rusty than I imagined, it's actually far better after a two-year rest. While I can communicate effectively, my comprehension is abysmal, and that I speak with relatively little accent makes for some awkward moments with the various former gymnasts and washed up bodybuilders who populate the place. Nonetheless, I'm having a blast of a week with my favorite adopted former eastern bloc republic. Today, for example, I ventured out to see Transformers II in the very same theater where I saw Transformers I. And it made as little sense. If it weren't for McDonald's, Coca-cola, and Michael Bay, I'd surely be homesick.

I've been running about a week behind real time on the blog posts. Look for a couple more out of Turkey and one from Sofia in the next few days, then we'll be caught up.

Pamukkale and the Hieropolis of Phrygia

2009-07-19T05:05:00.000-07:00

Art is the signature of civilizations.

Beverly Sills

After suffering the night bus (11 hours) from Istanbul to Göreme, and then another night bus from Göreme to Malatya (9 hours, ending in I and a fellow Nemrut-seeker being dumped unceremoniously on the side of the road *somewhere* at 4:30 AM), I decided that a little air travel was warranted.

With the help of this fellow (and lots of him saying “No Problem”), I was able to secure a ticket via Turkish Air back to Izmir on the west coast. His name is...wait for it, wait for it...Romeo, and he wanted to know if I knew any American women who might want to marry him. I told him “No Problem.” Line forms to the left, ladies. Don't be shy! His name's Romeo!

From Izmir, I was able to visit in the span of as many nights Pamukkale, Ephesus, Assos, and Bergama before returning to Istanbul via train and fast ferry.

So. Pamukkale.

At first blush, the UNESCO World Heritage site of Pamukkale appears (at least to the lifetime Alaskan) to be an unlikely glacier in the midst of the surrounding countryside.

Further inspection finds that the white material is not ice, but a massive deposit of calcium carbonate which has emanated from natural hot springs her since before Roman times. The resulting travernine terraces cascade from the face of the plateau in the shape of clamshells and water lilies for several hundred meters in each direction.

The springs of Pamukkale (“cotton palace”) have found their way into just about every tourist brochure in Turkey, and sport the crowds to prove it.

For the Romans and their predecessors here, the Pergamenes, the site was developed as a commercial center and as a health spa, enjoying visits of no fewer than three Roman emperors during its heyday. The ruins of the Hieropolis of Phrygia include an impressive colonnaded street and one of the most impressive ancient theaters in Turkey.

The theater is particularly impressive and continues to function as a performance venue, comfortably seating 7000 of its original capacity of 10,000. The ancient kings of Pergamon still refused to have their graduation ceremonies here, worrying that limiting students to 100 tickets each would bring excessive complaints from the community.

Next time: Ephesus and the Library of Celsus.

Nemrut Dağı

2009-07-18T03:44:00.000-07:00

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

NEM-root DA-(swallow uvula). Don’t worry, the Turks mostly skip the second word, too.

Mount Nemrut is hard to explain coherently, perhaps because it’s not very coherent at all. Imagine going up in the mountains in central Turkey, far beyond civilization on a narrow mountain road on switchback after switchback, ascending mountain after mountain until just above what has to be the highest horse pasture in Asia Minor you come to the highest mountain in the area.
Atop the mountain is an enormous burial mound, and facing to both the east and west are the parallel ruins of several enormous, long-toppled statues . Their disembodied heads rest in front of their bodies, looking sightlessly over the deserted mountaintops.
Many of the heads you recognize from both Persian and Greek culture. One you do not.
The mystery head in question is that of Antiochus I Epiphanes. Ringing any bells? No? Son of Mithridates I Callinicus, founder of Commagene? Still nothing?

Right.

Commagene was a small kingdom in eastern Anatolia, having split off from the Selucid (Persian) Empire during the first century BC. Antiochus, the second (and last) king of Commagene initially negotiated a non-aggression pact with Rome, then concluded that he must be divine and proceeded to devote his country’s resources towards the construction of his own burial temple.

Claiming to be descended from the Persian Kings Darius I and Xerxes I, and claiming shared ancestry with Alexander the Great (and Apollo, actually), Antiochus created his temple as a tribute to both ancestries. Each of the statues had dual identity: Zeus was also Oromasdes; Hercules was also Artagnez; Apollo, Mithra; and so on. Antiochus, having ties to both cultures, could simply be himself.

Here, an eagle, symbol of the Commagene kingdom, stands in front of Hercules and Apollo.
Antiochus and Kommagene/Fortuna sit behind Zeus/Kenguiher.

I had someone take this picture of me with Antiochus. It was less time consuming than carving my own bas relief of myself shaking his hand.

Perhaps more impressive than the statues themselves is the funeral mound behind them.

After two millennia, the mound is still fifty meters high and atop the highest mountain in the region. I thought only the Welsh were nuts enough to carry rocks up a mountain, but perhaps I was mistaken.

Ordinarily, I wouldn’t link to someone else’s pictures, but in this case it’s necessary to make an exception. My big disappointment with Nemrut Dağı was that a certain series of stone carvings had been temporarily removed for restoration. Various reliefs show Antiochus shaking hands with Zeus, Mithra, and Heracles rather like absurd stone celebrity autographs. Roger Schmidt has a real picture of these, if you’d like to visit his house.

Finally, here’s the long awaited sunrise over Mt. Nemrut. Honestly, I thought that by going the long way to Nemrut, overnighting in the only building for 50 miles around, waking at 4:00 AM to make the final ascent, that I would experience the sunrise in relative peace. Instead, I found that there were already over 200 tourists (mostly Turkish) sitting at the summit.
Next time: Pamukkale.

Hot Air Ballooning over Cappadocia

2009-07-17T06:19:00.000-07:00

The best way of travel, however, if you aren't in any hurry at all, if you don't care where you are going, if you don't like to use your legs, if you don't want to be annoyed at all by any choice of directions, is in a balloon. In a balloon, you can decide only when to start, and usually when to stop. The rest is left entirely to nature.

William Pene du Bois

Reportedly, this is some of the best ballooning in the world. Because it’s over a national park, because wind conditions tend to be light and variable 320 days out of the year, because these rock formations are indeed pretty cool, I’d be hard-pressed to disagree.

I was up before dawn at the Kapadokya Balloon office to meet up with the other folks who plopped down the better part of a week’s salary for a two hour aerial adventure. At the launch site, the balloon is laid flat and filled with cool air until it takes its shape.
This Turkish astronaut was called a “freak” after his spacecraft failed to shield him from cosmic rays. Fortunately, at Kapadokya Balloons, he’s found acceptance and a living wage for his mutant powers.
Eventually, the balloons tip into their vertical position.
Liftoff!
The views were spectacular.

Unlike most of the less experienced companies in the air around Göreme, the pilots at Kapadokya are highly skilled, using wind currents to move the balloons within feet of the fairy chimneys.

In fact, our pilot skillfully landed our craft next to this table of champagne that happened to be sitting out in the desert.

Next time: The mysterious ruins at Nemrut Dağı.

Cappadocia

2009-07-17T05:47:00.000-07:00

Progress is man's ability to complicate simplicity.

Thor Heyerdahl

After three nights in Istanbul, I took a night bus to Göreme (GOR-eh-meh), a town in the middle of the magical land of Cappadocia (Cap-a-DOHK-ya). The area was formed when the three volcanoes in the region filled the basin with compacted ash (called “Tuff”): effectively an extremely soft stone. Because of the pliability of the geological material, the processes of natural erosion are exaggerated to an extreme which gives Cappadocia qualities of an alien landscape. Rivers and natural run-off carve nearly vertical gorges in the terrain. Where the tuff is combined with more erosion-resistant basalt, the tuff erodes underneath, creating a series of rather phallic formations called colloquially “Fairy Chimneys.”

Just as the indigenous stone is easily eroded, it is also easily excavated. Having been taught by the native fairy peoples to carve houses from the mountains, early humans quickly bottled and enslaved the remaining fairies, often trafficking them to Ireland, or worse, to Hollywood for use in Disney films.

This fairy family, beset by difficult economic times and struck by foreclosure, is forced to downsize to a more modest Fairy Ashtray in the suburbs.

Göreme is one of the last remaining villages where the chimneys are still inhabited. Here are some examples of excavation blending with modern construction:

The stone excavation didn’t stop with the chimneys, however. Cappadocia is also home to the ruins of a number of underground cities, inhabited as far back as Hittite times (1900 BC). Forty so far have been discovered, but only a few are open to the public, including this one at Derinkuyu. Poor lighting made quality picture taking difficult, but here is the ventilation shaft which reaches to a depth of 85 meters below the surface.
In total, the eight-level underground complex spans 1500 square meters and includes stables, wine presses, churches, armories, and so on.
Located in the middle of Anatolia (central modern Turkey), Cappadocia changed hands numerous times between the Persians, Greeks, and Romans. By its geographical location, Cappadocia remained a relative backwater of each state, remaining under standing orders to keep trade routes open and levy tribute. It is because of both its proximity to trade and culture and its relative isolation (and, perhaps, its inhabitants’ propensity to hide underground) that Cappadocia became a stronghold of early Christianity. Over a thousand early churches are carved from the stone in the area including these in the Göreme Open Air Museum.
Here’s a fresco from one of the underground churches near Göreme. This dates from the second Iconoclastic Controversy of 843, which I should know a great deal about since I did an oral presentation on it during my senior year in college. It appears that instead, I remember exactly nothing about the Iconoclastic Controversy of 843. I even had to look up the date. Liberal Arts Education: Fail.
Finally, to see the scope of the dwellings, here’s the town of Üçhisar, spilling down from its central rock fortress.
Tomorrow, even more pictures of rocks: Cappadocia from the basket of a balloon.

The Blue Mosque

2009-07-14T06:34:00.000-07:00

I think that travel comes from some deep urge to see the world, like the urge that brings up a worm in an Irish bog to see the moon when it is full.

Lord Dunsany

Commissioned by Sultan Ahmet in 1609, the Blue Mosque sits just across from the Aya Sofya and took seven years to complete. I'll let the building speak for itself.

I had to take most of these pictures at dawn to avoid the scourge of vacatıoners and the carpet touts they attract. I was lucky enough to find the fountain turned off for this pic:

Sunset was a different story. Most of these represent meticulous timing to avoid taxis, clueless backpackers, and partygoers.

Istanbul: City of Shirtless Hairy Men

2009-07-14T06:30:00.000-07:00

Most travel is best of all in the anticipation or the remembering; the reality has more to do with losing your luggage.

Regina Nadelson

A number of things conspired against me to keep me from exploring Istanbul to my full delight. With a foot in two continents and millennia of history central to two major world religions, Istanbul is a complex city that defies easy understanding. Mosques bubble above the length of its skyline like exquisite stone pimples ready to leak into the Bosphorus.

While one can’t walk five blocks in old Istanbul without running into another spectacular mosque, this building has special significance. The Aya Sofia was commissioned in the 6th century by the emperor Justinian, and for over a thousand years was the largest enclosed space in the world until the construction of the Mt. Edgecumbe High School Gymnasium in 1694. Located in the midst of the old Byzantine Empire and at the seat of the Eastern Orthodox Church, the 30 meter hovering dome was the inspiration for most of the religious architecture in the city.

The Galata Tower dominates the skyline above Istanbul’s other city center just across the Golden Horn.
I found the graffiti interesting on the Taksim side.

The city of Istanbul is divided neatly in half by the Bosphorus River. The European side is divided again by an inlet called the Golden Horn. Unlike New York, whose five boroughs have been connected and reconnected by a century-and-a-half long episode of obsessive-compulsive bridge construction, Istanbul is fully dependent on public and private ferry travel. Southeast Alaskans should study carefully the picture below:
The skilled ferry traveler will note that the fast ferry above a) is moving, b) appears to have a working engine, and c) is not currently grounded for weather.

Turkey’s national hero is Mustafa Kemal Ataturk. In addition to unıfyıng the country, picking up the pieces of the Ottoman Empire, and preventing the redistribution of Turkish territory to Allied countries after World War I, Ataturk modernized the men’s fashion industry by popularizing the tailored suit.

Tomorrow’s episode: A pictorial of the Blue Mosque.

Back to Tehran

2009-07-10T04:52:00.000-07:00

Am I not destroying my enemies when I make friends of them?

Abraham Lincoln

In order to rally people, governments need enemies. They want us to be afraid, to hate, so we will rally behind them. And if they do not have a real enemy, they will invent one in order to mobilize us.

Thich Nhat Hanh

Gee, I wish we had one of them doomsday machines.

General "Buck" Turgidson

On our way back to Tehran from Esfahan we passed by the nuclear facility at Natanz. Unfortunately for the good reader (and for the security of the ENTIRE WORLD), Yasna prevented me from taking photographs. She actually busted me just as I was draping the curtains of the minibus over my telephoto. Thanks, Yasna.

The truth of this is that the Iranian people collectively believe that their nuclear program is for the generation of clean energy, or at least I have yet to meet one that doesn't. They see the development of nuclear energy as a sovereign right and as a purely domestic issue. I, personally, don’t believe this, though I understand why the Iranian's do.

My feeling is, first, it would be one thing if Iran were a legitimate democracy with effective checks and balances. If there was any question about this, recent events have proved that it is not. A government that rules by fear, turns the clubs of Lebanese thugs (the Basiji. News flash. Most are not Iranians) on the peaceful protests of its own people, and acts to promote its own hegemony over the well-being of its citizens has no business being in the nuclear club.

Secondly, if Iranians were seriously interested in clean energy, I can think of a couple of places they could start. How ‘bout we think about getting some of these off of the streets? The Paykan (a copy of the Hillman Hunter, last produced in 1960) dominates the streets here. Like the AMC Hornet, its poor performance is only eclipsed by its lack of aesthetic value and abysmal fuel economy. That, and the fact that it, like most of the cars on Iran’s streets, lacks a catalytic converter and still burns leaded gasoline.

Too bad this relationship didn’t work out. For both sides. Aside from the obvious irony, my Kiwi pal Steve suggested that if I could get this sign back to the States and onto Ebay I could have paid for my trip. Probably true.

This is the closest that we got to Qom, the second holiest city in Iran, and the seat of clerical power here. It was on our itinerary, but word came from the Intrepid office that we were under no circumstances to visit Qom. It’s hard to say exactly why—Yasna’s answers were somewhat superficial. The truth either had to do with the prayer services there being a potential target for terrorism, or with the dissent that is appearing within the ranks of the clericy there. Either way, it made for some intriguing discussion.

Instead, we stopped at the Imam Khomeini Shrine. We'd missed it the first day. Something about a bombing there, blah, blah, blah. I wasn't involved, for the record. “Imam” is a term which refers to a revered religious leader in Islam. A fair translation is “Saint,” though that’s a complete oversimplification. The honorary title of Imam was applied to Ayatollah Khomeini after his death in 1989.

The shrine itself is a modern take on ancient construction, utilizing steel girders where mud bricks were once used. The entire complex is being refitted for aesthetic reasons—the interior has all the charm of an empty Costco with its entire stock of Persian carpets spread around.

The parking lot is a virtual campground, as Iranian families travel from all around to spend their weekend vacations here.
I confess, that was a bit puzzling to me at first, but remember that the great irony of Iran is that secular and sacred are not counter-balanced—they are the same. In the absence of discos and a bar scene, Iranians flock to public parks (and, well, political demonstrations. In Kashan our minibus stumbled into the midst of a commando Moussavi rally. At first there was a huge cloud of smoke on the sidewalk in front of us. Then, big green banners and lights. Turned out the smoke was a giant barbecue. Someone came onto our bus with a tray of lemonade and big smiles). In the absence of a Disneyland, Iranians flock to the shrine of Imam Khomeini. It makes sense.

Inside, after two attempts (I first noticed the metal detector, then remembered that I was carrying my hunting knife, then remembered that I was an American), I paid my respects to the Ayatollah. While the jury is still out on his vision, he is revered here, just as Genghis Khan is revered in Mongolia eight centuries later. His picture is found everywhere and on every denomination of currency. Unlike Genghis Khan, his memory is treated with far more respect. For instance, there aren’t seventeen Irish pubs, three kinds of vodka, and forty tour bus agencies with his name on them. For that matter, Iran may be the only country in the world that doesn’t have an Irish pub. Who knew?

The “My New Hero” award goes to Mark who, following some intestinal distress related to a poorly washed salad at the truck stop (serious. Truck stops here look like that. I told you it was the second holiest city in Iran) outside of Qom, disappeared to the bathroom outside the shrine before we could enter. A long time passed, and Jost and I decided it might be time to effect a search and rescue operation. Finding Mark having just finished his, er, covert mission, he explained that upon finding no toilet paper available in the restroom that he had a) found a creative use for the small bills in his wallet, and b) felt the need to flush several times to hide the evidence of his blasphemy from the next visitor to the stall.

Finally, though I didn’t get my pictures of the nuclear site, I did manage to snap this photo in front of one of the murals that now decorate the former US Embassy in Tehran, a.k.a. The International Den of Spies, a.k.a. Where Liz Will Took Her LSAT’s. The building is now inhabited by the Sepah militia (a group committed to defending the revolution), and stories abound about would-be photographers having their cameras confiscated by gun-toting militia members as they attempted to take pictures of the murals. For your useless trivia file, Friday afternoon appears to be the best day to do this, as the Sepah militia is either busy at work on defending the afternoon siesta, or defending the revolution elsewhere in the city.

Cappadociupdate

2009-07-10T04:46:00.000-07:00

After taking the night bus from Istanbul, I've been in the town of Goreme (GOH-deh-meh) for the past three days. The geological formations here are tremendous. I've taken pictures hiking through them, ballooning above them, and even from the underground churches and cities here. At some point during my minibus tour yesterday it occured to me that I've taken over 500 pictures of rocks. I mean, they're spectacular rocks, but they're rocks nonetheless.

The good news? I'm just about caught up on Iran, given that the government there wouldn't allow me to upload any photos. We'll be back to real time in a day or so.

Tonight, it's another night bus, this time to Malatya and on to the gonzo ruins of Nemrut Dagi.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Sheikh Lotfallah Mosque

2009-07-08T13:39:00.000-07:00

For every beauty there is an eye somewhere to see it.
For every truth there is an ear somewhere to hear it.
For every love there is a heart somewhere to receive it.

Ivan Panin

We fear things in proportion to our ignorance of them.
Livy

After dinner last night it was my intent to visit Imam Square one more time to get some night shots of the Imam and Sheikh Lotfallah mosques. The Iranians had other ideas about that, however, and I’d not had my tripod set up five minutes before I was approached by a trio of young men interested in my origins. The usual small-talk schtick in Iran goes something like this:

“Excuse me, Meester. Eef you are not so busy, I would like to ask you a question.”

Expecting “Wheer you from?” followed by “Aah, Greezlee!” one smiles and responds, “of course.”

“Wheer are you from?”
“Alaska,”
“A-las-kaa?”
“Yes.”
“United States?”
“Yes.”
“Can you explain to us the way the seetuation in Iran ees described een dee media there?”

Naturally, I’m happy to have this conversation. I simply find it delightful that strangers ask strangers this sort of stuff here. I mean, can you imagine if our interactions were liberated from the small talk about weather and we moved straight from “Hello,” to “Give me your thoughts on American foreign policy during the period following World War II and preceding Vietnam?”

One delightful thing about this country is that discussions about politics and religion don't require the same kid gloves that they do elsewhere. It's assumed that opinions may differ. Crazy, huh?

These particular young men were very interested in letting me know that they believed that Ahmadi-nejad had won the election fairly and that the Tehranis were engaged in protracted feelings of sour grapes. (This would make them what one of our group dubbed "Dinner Jackets." Confused? Say "Ahmedinejad." Now say, "I'm a dinner jacket." There you go.) During our discussion, one of their number disappeared and returned with ice cream for everyone to fuel our chat.
Just after we’d finished saying our goodbyes, another group of young men appeared, literally as if they’d been waiting in line.
We chatted for some time about more conventional issues. They wanted to know what I thought about Esfahan and I was happy to share. They also offered me ice cream (What's Farsi for "Dude. Do I LOOK like I need more ice cream?") and invited me to join them for dinner, which I politely declined. I finally was able to break away for some pictures at the other end of the square and was approached by this absolutely delightful group of young ladies; Mohzdah, Mahtaba and Marjan (and Mohzdah's sister, whose name I did not catch); students at Esfahan University.
They were interested in Alaska and if I’d bought anything in Esfahan and if I needed any help. I explained that everyone here wanted me to buy a carpet, but that I didn’t want to carry one around with me for an entire month in Turkey and Eastern Europe. This guy……spent some time chatting me up about my family. Eventually, he jokingly asked if I had a sister he could marry, and then suggested that if I wasn’t interested in the girls (ew!) that I could marry his sister. I told him that if I didn’t want to carry a carpet in my backpack, what was I going to do with his sister? During this chat, a bigger and bigger crowd started gathering, and while Marjan, Mahtaba, and Mohzdah took their leave, a number of children gathered to try their hand at English. This young lady…
…(who reminded me quite endearingly of my youngest niece, Isabela) took me to the extent of my Farsi vocabulary (One. Two. Four. Seven. Twenty. Do you speak Farsi? I don’t understand Farsi. Do you speak English? Where is the bathroom?) before sharing her own English vocabulary. The family behind this young man…
kept motioning me over to join their picnic. When I declined the second time (my other new friends were keeping me very busy), they sent me a plate with cheese and grapes.

Seriously. Cheese and grapes. Can you imagine this happening at Wright Park in Tacoma or in the Anchorage Town Square?

Before too long, the three “M” girls returned to give me their email addresses, then again later to introduce me to their mothers.
I finally tried to leave the square around midnight. On my way out, I was approached by another trio of freshly shaven university students.
“Excuse me, Meester. Eef you are not so busy, I would like to ask you a question.”

I smiled, giving the knowing sideways nod that Iranians understand to indicate the affirmative.

“Please, can you tell us why the UN and the US are doing nothing to help us in our efforts towards democratic reforms?”

I had a very meaningful discussion with these guys. They expressed great despair over seeing their government take lethal action against other protesters like themselves. I discussed with them the three instruments of foreign policy (diplomatic, economic, military) and explained that since the US has no diplomatic avenues with Iran and is already using economic sanctions, the only option left is a military one, and I didn’t think anybody would like that was a good idea. They said that they would prefer that US soldiers shoot them to having their government shoot them. I respectfully disagreed and told them conclusively that any changes in Iran would have to come from within Iran.

It’s both hopeful and distressing to me that the world looks to the United States in situations like these. Hopeful in that it's nice to know that we are still regarded as some bastion of democracy and distressing in the knowledge that military intervention is the fastest and worst possible method of social reform.

I told the young men that I'd had my beard shaved at the hands of a hard core Dinner Jacket earlier that day (In itself a soul altering experience. Let's have 4" straight razors at the next company trust-building retreat!). They seemed pleased and accepted that while it wasn't military intervention, it was the best I could do.

The Bridges of Esfahan County

2009-07-07T05:58:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, if you stand on the bottom rail of a bridge and lean over to watch the river slipping slowly away beneath you, you will suddenly know everything there is to be known.

Winnie the Pooh

Among Esfahan’s distinguishing treasures are the footbridges that cross the Zayandeh River. As is typical with public places in Iran, these Safavid Era bridges are surrounded with green spaces and even boast their own teahouses.
The Si-o-Seh Bridge may be the most famous of these. Unfortunately for my photographic efforts, the Zayendeh River is pretty much as dry as it can get at this time of the year…
…which is too bad, because I'd really been looking forward to riding a giant swan when I got to Esfahan. These ones were too depressed even to try.
I suppose it’s okay as it allowed me to get what would have been impossible shots from the middle of the river…
…and to show the construction underneath.
I have to admit, the Esfahanis know how to dress up their river. The Ferdosi Bridge accommodates ordinary automobile traffic, but the lighting at the base makes it spectacular at night.
The foot bridges are even more impressive at night. Here’s the Khaju Bridge, about a mile east of Si-o-Seh.
Khaju has been known as a meeting place for as long as it has been around. During my time shooting the bridge I made more friends (I’m almost getting used to the fact that this will happen everywhere I go in Iran, and no, that guy isn't Saddam Hussein), and encountered an impromptu jam session with a large crowd singing and dancing under the bridge. Here’s Khaju under moonlight.

The Si-o-Seh is also remarkable at night and is a favorite spot for locals to congregate in the cooler evening hours.

Imam Square

2009-07-06T23:15:00.000-07:00

Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep.

Dilbert

After two nights in Yazd, we made our way by local bus to the city of Esfahan, truly the jewel of Persian culture and architecture. The French poet Renier called Esfahan “half the world,” and it’s easy to see why.

The crown jewel of Esfahan is Imam Square, built by Shah Abbas in the early 17th century. It is currently the second largest area of its type in the world, behind Beijing’s Tiannenmen.

You’ll notice that both of the large mosques are situated asymmetrically compared to the footprint of the square. This is intentional. Shah Abbas intended this to symbolize the understanding that only God is perfect, and the works of man are necessarily flawed.

The Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque (no relation to Queen Latifah) is unusual in that it has neither a minaret, nor a courtyard. The building was dedicated to Abbas’ father-in-law, and never was intended for public use. During Abbassinian times, the mosque was used for worship by the members of Abbas’ harem.
The Imam Mosque is certainly one of the most impressive in the world. The tile work is exceptional, and the building itself is of a significantly larger scale than the others I've seen in Iran.

Shah Abbas was 51 when work began on Imam Square. Eager to see it completed before his death, the Shah insisted on faster construction, pushing for the walls of the square to be started before their foundations were complete. His architect, Ali Akbar Esfahani, went into hiding rather than submit to royal pressure (for more on 17th century micromanagement, see the Vasa). Stymied by further delay, Abbas had two of Esfahani’s sons killed and one of them blinded. Finally, after attending business management seminars and reading “The One-Minute Dictator,” Abbas relented and Esfahani was allowed to continue work without the further maiming of his family.

If the pictures I’ve taken of the Imam Mosque seem a bit avant garde, it’s because due to the summer heat the entire courtyard is filled with scaffolding and canvas for the purpose of keeping worshippers cool during Friday prayers, and, apparently, limiting my selection of angles. Finally, here’s a shot of the inside of the dome, which sports a six second acoustic flutter.

Yazd

2009-07-06T06:11:00.000-07:00

It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle if it is lightly greased.

Kehlog Albran

This is Yazd, home to one of the largest remaining Zoroastrian communities in Iran.

The Amir Chakhmaq Complex is unusual in that it is three stories rather than the usual one or two. The wooden structure in front is a nakhl, used for the observance of Shiite rituals during the month of Moharram.
The architecture here is dominated by badgirs, towers that reach into the sky to redirect cool breezes into the buildings there. Yazd is extremely hot in the summer. The middle five hours of the day are nearly unbearable. It's easy to see why so many (pre-freon) technologies were developed to keep things as cool as possible in the desert.
This is the Jameh Mosque. These two 48 meter minarets are visible from just about anywhere in the city.
Just outside of Yazd are these, the Towers of Silence. This was an important site in Zoroastrian burial rituals. The Zoroastrians believe in the purity of the elements, and therefore don't allow the bodies of the dead to mingle with fire or earth. Instead, the dead were placed atop these towers until they were picked clean by animals at which point the bones were buried in stone chambers. Modern Zoroastrians now opt to have their bodies sealed in cement for burial.

Ironically, the area around the "Towers of Silence" is now a sort of skate park for youth motorcycle training exercises.

Later, Tracy (my Australian, er, mate. Mite?) and I took a camel excursion on the outskirts of town.

Afghan children came out to greet us from their nearby refugee camp.

In spite of the lens flare, this photo was not taken by J.J. Abrams.

Finally, here's a shot of the view from the rooftop restaurant at our hotel in Yazd.

Iran

2009-07-06T06:02:00.000-07:00

Ward: Beaver, you knew what Larry was doing was wrong. You could have stopped him.
Beaver: Gee, Dad. I have enough trouble keeping myself good without keeping all the other kids good.

Forget what you know about Iran. Forget the riots, the chadors, the crowds chanting “Death to America!”

Think Mayberry.

Serious.

Think “Leave it to Beaver,” but with June under the hejab.

Maybe it’s the net effect of a religious government on an already hospitable culture, but I have never encountered a friendlier, kinder place, or a more generous culture of people.

I know. Shocking.

People fill the public parks in the evening for family picnics. I haven’t gotten through a day without people shouting greetings at me from their cars, approaching me with genuine openness and curiosity, or inviting me for tea or a meal.

Alcohol is not freely available here. Perhaps as a result, domestic violence is rare, and drunk driving is unheard of. (They do have a vile thing called Dellester that comes in beer bottles, but tastes like the drained backwash of Dole Fruit Cocktail. Seriously, this Islamic beer stuff would make anybody want to nuke Israel).

Wait. Bad beer. Where does this remind me of?

Right.

Utah.

Come to think of it, Utah and Iran are even topographically similar. Both Tehran and Salt Lake City are situated near inland salt water bodies and salt flats, though notably absent from one's entry into Tehran are the enormous fireballs that greet the visitor to the Salt Lake neighborhood of Hell.

Politically, Iran has an “elected” government which executes the laws made by a group of high ranking religious leaders. Many people in Iran even have a picture of their Supreme Leader in their homes and businesses. Tell me this doesn’t sound like Utah.

As for the hejab (dress code), are there any dads out there who haven’t at one time or another thought it might be a good idea to wrap their daughters in a head-to-toe black sheet until such time as they can be married to a suitable prospect who passes family muster? After being in Iran for some time, I begin to question which is worse, women being commanded to dress a certain way, or women being socially pressured to dress a certain way.

You may find it interesting to note that the most common plastic surgery in Iran is not breast augmentation or reduction, nor is it liposuction or the tummy-tuck. Vanity in any culture encompasses only what is to be seen.

Right.

The nose job.

Of course it sounds cliché, but the sticking point here is a simple one: Freedom. There is no freedom of religion here, the press is certainly not a free one, and expression is curtailed. Even dress is regulated by the government. In some ways, it reminds me of a really big middle school run by a group of far-too-heavy-handed teachers.

And the people here respond. The recent protests don't herald a pipe-dream story of a new revolution. They’re the natural reaction of a people repressed in too many irritating ways to a system of government that they value, but does not value them. Like the too-strict, overcontrolling teacher, the government may get its way, but is progressively losing the hearts and minds it needs to function. Like a group of students starving for respect, the people of Iran don't necessarily want to throw out their government, they simply want a government that cares for them.

Abarqu and Zein-o-din Caravanserai

2009-07-06T01:05:00.000-07:00

Beauty is unbearable, drives us to despair, offering us for a minute the glimpse of an eternity that we should like to stretch out over the whole of time.

Albert Camus

After Shiraz and Persepolis, we traveled across the desert to the town of Abarqu for a night, then to the restored Zein-o-din Caravanserai at the base of the Zagros Mountains. Abarqu has a few notable sights, including this exceptionally well preserved ice house, a surprisingly effective building design for reducing the heat of the desert to create and store ice during the winter months. Abarqu is also the site of a particularly old cypress tree, estimated by Russian and Japanese scientists to be approximately 7000 years old.
Venturing into the sticks of Iran becomes more and more reminiscent of Tattooine. I'm pretty sure this is the part of the Mos Eisley Spaceport where Jabba the Hut confronted Han Solo.
On our way to Zein-o-din, we stopped for a break in the town of Nir.

Me: Where are we?
Yasna: I think it is Nir.
Me: Near what?
Yasna: The city is Nir.
Me: Yes. Near what, Yasna?
Yasna: It is Nir! Nir! The city is Nir!

I milked that for a while.

Expecting to see more support for Ahmadi-nejad the farther from the major cities we traveled, we were not disappointed. Still, you can see from the removal of the eyes from his posters that opposition is not absent even here: Nir...
The Zein-o-din Caravanserai: a small fortress in the desert which once housed merchants traveling the Silk Road. This caravanserai was commissioned by Shah Abbas in the 16th century and has been restored to the quality of an elegant 4 star hotel. I was particularly impressed with the bathroom facilities--this is the first place I've seen a complete menu of squatters, thrones, and urinals (all well plumbed and meticulously clean) anywhere on my travels. The seasoned traveler gets excited about these things.

The greeting chamber opens onto a main courtyard where camels and other livery were housed.

The roof of the Caravanserai has a number of raised, dome-like sections; a technology used to cool the interior of the building.Finally, we were treated to a spectacular sunset to cap off the day.

Persepolis

2009-07-05T12:28:00.000-07:00

The bravest are surely those who have the clearest vision of what is before them, glory and danger alike, and yet notwithstanding go out to meet it.

Thucydides

Today we spent visiting the ruins at Naqsh-e Rostam and Persepolis: the archeological highlights of the Achaemenid Empire. Think Darius the Great, Xerxes, Persian Empire. Those guys. That movie “300” but without the extraneous posing, bleached color palette and absurd costume design. (I know. Bad example. Not much left, huh?)

Persepolis (or Parsa) was the seat of the first Persian Empire before Alexander the Great burned it to the ground on his way to routing the Indian subcontinent. There is some debate as to whether this was an intentional retribution for the burning of Athens by the Persians a few years back, or if it was the result of an extreme party foul by the Macedonian soldiers celebrating their victory.

How, pray tell, does a stone palace burn to the ground, you ask? It had something to do with the choice of lead cleats to hold the stone blocks together. This and several other violations of the Fire Code of Hammurabi resulted in the building’s demise.

Persepolis is remarkably well preserved from the first six feet above the ground: the depth of the ruins that was buried under sand for millennia.

Overall, it’s right up there with the Roman ruins, and far less Popeified.

The Naqsh-e Rostam is the burial place of four of the Achmaenid kings: Darius I and II and Xerxes I and Ataxerxes I. Their tombs are almost identical, carved out of sheer cliffs that look to be 100 feet high.

If the topography looks familiar, you’re right. This is also near the site of galactic historical interest where Kirk defeated the Gorn.

Updatinople

2009-07-05T12:20:00.000-07:00

My flight out of Tehran was delayed just long enough to get me to my connecting flight a minute before the doors closed. My backpack was not so lucky. For the moment, I'm sweating it out in a Turkish hostel in the Sultanahmet district of Istanbul with no camera, no change of clothes, and 5 minutes of battery life left in my laptop. I'm told my bag will be here tonight, but it's already well past 10PM. We shall see.

The good news is that apparently there's no need for an Alaskan diaspora to Iran. Didn't see that one coming.

Oh, and feel free to leave some comments. It's getting lonely out here.

Shiraz

2009-07-05T00:58:00.000-07:00

People are like stained glass windows: they sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light within.

Elizabeth Kubler-Ross

Yes, that Shiraz. Sort of. Shirazi wine was once famous in Iran before the Revolution in 1979, though it’s not made here anymore because of the Islamic government's prohibition on alcohol. What we know as Shiraz is probably little like Shirazi wine: the term was hijacked by the Australians in an attempt to market their own version of Syrah. You know how those Australians can be.

What’s left when the vineyards are closed? A double-handful of Zand Era mosques; the tomb of my favorite poet in all the world, Hafez; and a lot of the friendliest people you can imagine spending a couple of days with.

First, a word about my group. There are eight of us: Two Aussies, a couple from New Zealand, another Yank (yeah, I know. There are two of us in the country.), a Swiss gentleman, and group leader, a lovely Iranian girl by the name of Yasna.

We flew from Tehran to Shiraz on Sunday on Iran Air (I tried to talk my countryman, Mark, into asking for the Kosher meal. Curiously, he declined. Something about the Iranian government’s threats to bomb Israel, blah, blah, blah. Wuss), and spent the next two days exploring the city.

This fortress, the Arg-E Karim Khani, was used when Shiraz was the capital of the Zand Empire in the mid 18th century. It amuses me somewhat that the Farsi word for fortress is ”Arg.” Also, I try not to think of this building as “Argh! Kareem Kandi!”

While it served as a prison under the most recent Shah, the interior now houses a garden. I made a number of friends here. One after another, locals introduced themselves (using limited or no English), then asked for a picture with me. I’m hesitant to speculate as to why. Perhaps it’s my exotic appearance or stunning good looks. A few minutes after having our picture together, this man returned with his family in tow. Maybe they’re planning a collage.

Here are several examples of Zand era mosques. Those who have visited the middle-east will notice that the he Persian Islamic style is significantly more colorful than in many other Muslim nations.

Finally, here is the tomb of Hafez. I spent most of the late afternoon and evening reading poetry and meditating here. I was also approached by a number of people interested in conveying their regards. I am particularly awed by the openness of these people to foreigners and I feel charmed and honored to be a visitor here.

Dubai in a Day

2009-07-04T22:52:00.001-07:00

The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: 'If this were only cleared away,' They said,'it would be grand!'

-Dodgson

Let’s get this straight. Dubai is insane. Dubai is like Las Vegas on crack, on steroids, on more crack, sheikified, on more steroids, then powered by unlimited wealth and an unlimited ambition to ‘out-do’. To be fair, it's a bit more tasteful than Vegas, too. Dubai is Dune meets Futurama meets laissez-faire capitalism. Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid al Maktoum makes Donald Trump look like a kid with a Monopoly and Lincoln Log fetish.

Essentially, Dubai is a small sheikdom which for the past 180 years has been ruled by a hereditary line of business geniuses. In recent years, its growth has been exponential and ridiculous, with skyscrapers clawing up from the desert and man-made islands groping into the ocean.

This is the Burj Dubai, now the tallest building in the world. A little reminiscent of Barad Dur. Hmm. Barad Dur, Burj Dubai. Tom Marvelo Riddle. There are plans in the works for another skyscraper that will be three times the height of the Empire State Building. Here’s another shot of Burj Dubai through an arch at the faux-Emirati village condo development slash shopping mall that surrounds the building.

I almost stayed here. It’s the Burj al Arab , one of the tallest hotels in the world, and the world’s only seven star hotel. I thought about booking a room, but I decided that the helicopter transfer from the airport would be wasted at night. That and the whole $1086/night thing. Still, I could have dined at an underwater restaurant or perhaps played a match or two with Andre Agassi on the helipad. Maybe next time.

This is a series of condos (each unit has its own beach) on the Palm Jumeirah, an enormous man-made island in the shape of a palm tree, rooted by a six-lane freeway which tunnels under the Persian Gulf to end in yet another extravagant hotel and access to the largest aquarium in the world. Man-made island. Six-lane freeway tunnels under Persian Gulf. I still have a hard time conceiving of someone conceiving of this. Ultimately, Dubai's archetecture has (until the recent economic crisis brought its cranes to an eerie standstill) been limited only by human imagination and the laws of physics.

And this is just the architecture. I didn’t have time to explore the indoor skiing, egyptian-themed malls , or nightlife. Again, next time.

Tomorrow: Iran!

In Solidarity...

2009-06-30T22:28:00.000-07:00

...with the Moussavi supporters here, I've had my beard shaven off. Protests of this nature are about all that is left to the reform movement. Lest you think I'm living a life without excitement, my barber was a hulking embodiment of conservative Islam, so noted by his thick beard and the prominently displayed picture of Ayatollah Ali Khamenei looking down on him as he held a 4" straight razor to my throat.

More Update

2009-06-30T01:09:00.000-07:00

After a couple of days in Yazd, we've been in Esfahan--truly one of the most beautiful spots in Iran. We have one more night here, then on to Abanyeh and back to Tehran by private bus. Though I've enjoyed my time here, I'm craving some of the many things one cannot procure in Iran and thus am somewhat eager to leave. Saturday I fly back to Dubai for a brief layover and then on to Istanbul. Or Constantinople if you're old-school. Or Byzantium if you're hard core old-school.

Update

2009-06-26T22:07:00.000-07:00

In spite of what you’ve surely been hearing on the news, I’ve been having an absolute blast in Iran. A blast as in I’ve been having a lot of fun, not as in I’ve had explosives tied to my body. Imagine me entertaining nomads, wandering city streets, sleeping under the stars, and scaling ruins. Last night we even stayed in an authentic Caravansei, a sort of a fortified middle-eastern truck stop that once housed merchants along the Silk Road. Today, I’m in Yazd and plan to tour the desert by camel this evening.

I’ve given up any hope of posting photos until I get to Turkey next Sunday. Each time I try to log on to my Photobucket account, a nasty, imposing bit of Farsi script comes up. I assume that it says that I am an enemy of the state and should cease and desist. Whatever it says, you can expect a few more updates like this one followed by several legitimate (photo infused) posts the week after next.

Of course, with the recent death of Michael Jackson it seems certain that the communication embargo will be lifted shortly as the foriegn media finds its new chew toy. We shall see...

Iran has a siesta culture, meaning there’s a break in the middle of the day when it’s just too hot to do anything so most shops close down. Everything is extraordinarily cheap here—I may have spent $120 in an entire week, mostly on meals. Islam is, of course, everywhere. In the cities, most women wear a mahdi (waistcoat) and headscarf, but out here in the sticks it’s rare to see a woman not dressed in the full chador. Nearly everyone I’ve encountered has been extremely friendly and curious. Most of those with good English skills have been eager to talk politics, especially after discovering that I am an American. Some, also, have asked numerous questions seemingly to determine my suitability for marriage to their daughters. One of the nomads we stayed with was extremely interested in the wooden flute that I brought with me. I think he may have offered his sister for it, but fell short of offering his sister, her passport, and a travel visa to the US. Alas. Maybe in Turkey.

Cut to the Chase

2009-06-26T06:30:00.000-07:00

It seems that rioting in Tehran is an activity appropriately reserved for the afternoon and early evening hours. I haven’t seen any first-hand, but this afternoon, riot police had a presence at almost every street corner. Moussavi supporters seemed to attempt to gather in force, but there was no place to do so.

More or less, we’ve been confined to the grounds of the Atlas Hotel for most of the afternoon. On some level my tea-time discussions with fellow westerners here make me feel perversely like I’m in some enclave of British Colonialists pratting about when the Zulus will be done fighting and how grand it would be if they'd do their carrying on within sight of the hotel.

From this perspective, there hasn’t been much to see. I took a long exploratory stroll this morning and found little evidence of anything but a city going about its normal business. On meeting my group and guide at noon, we were informed that due to the unrest it would be unsafe for us to use the subways, and our walking tour of Tehran was cancelled. There were plenty of stories from the other travelers about getting caught in the protests the previous day, and while I could perceive a heightened police presence, there really was nothing to report from my vantage point. As the afternoon wore on, I began to see more of what I believe were Basij, Ahmedi-Nejad’s plain-clothed militia, speeding around on motorbikes and carrying billy clubs (One of our group claimed to see a troop of them carrying swords, but I can’t confirm this. Besides. He’s from New Zealand and we all know what those folks are like).

We did make an outing to a student art show and coffee house in the late afternoon. While walking back to the hotel, pedestrians informed us that we were headed into the center of the rioting, and that perhaps we should be headed the other direction. Nope. Our hotel’s over there. We’ll just walk faster towards the rioting, thank you.

Really, overall, there’s nothing much to see from this vantage point. We can’t get on top of the buildings. Western media is cut off here, so I really don’t even know what’s happening on the larger scale. The Tehran Times has several articles praising the Supreme Leader’s course of action, the police for showing great restraint, and criticizing Western involvement.

We leave Tehran for Shiraz tomorrow morning. Perhaps the internet works outside of Tehran.

Initial Reactions

2009-06-21T22:06:00.000-07:00

I know you want to hear about civil unrest. You'll just have to hear me out.

Friends, Fellow Alaskans, far more significant than anything you may be seeing or reading about in the media, I've made a tremendous discovery here. This may stretch the limits of your imagination, but yes, I may have found a place in the world where they haven’t heard of Sarah Palin.

Which, I guess, makes sense. Seeing as she hadn’t heard of Iran…

So no joke, here’s the verbatim from a conversation I had with two terrifically bored young soldiers of the revolution as they were guarding the British Embassy during my morning stroll.

Me - Salaam
Guard – Hallo
Guard#2—Wheer you froom?
Me - *shrug*
Guard#1 – Breeteesh?
Me - *shakes head*
Guard#2 – Austreelian?
Me - *shakes head*
Guard#1 – Wheer you froom?
Me – United States
Both Guards - *nod* ahhh
Guard#2 – Froom what ceetee?
Me – Alaska
Both Guards – Ahhh. *raise claw hands* GREEZLEE!

God Bless Iran.

Seriously, my Alaskan friends. Here’s our chance. We can DEFECT to IRAN on grounds of political persecution from all of our well-meaning, non-Alaskan friends. Imagine. No more inane conversations about she who would be king. No more scratching our heads at why the Gov. is marshalling a parade (?) in New York (?), getting in a tiff with Letterman (?) and still not able to form coherent sentences during interviews. We won’t have to be ashamed of our heritage any longer, friends. Granted, there may be a few trade-offs...

As an aside, limitations on internet access here seem to include any sort of media hosting sites. Bottom line. No pictures, at least not for a while. I guess those will have to come in a lump once I get to Turkey in a few weeks. Unfortunately, this means you'll have to hold your breath for my Dubai post as well.

All is well...

2009-06-21T16:44:00.000-07:00

Exhale, please.

Supreme Leader Ali Khomenei has blessed me with a sliver of internet access this morning. Briefly, I'm well. Internet has been down since I arrived. Hopefully, it will be up long enough for me to complete a few posts today.

xoxoxo

Update from Dubai, Part II

2009-06-19T04:56:00.000-07:00

Again, no pictures, no quotes. Soon I'll get my act together.

I fly the red-eye into Tehran tonight (though at this point, red-eye sounds positively luxurious) and since I'm not sure of my ability to upload from there, I thought I should post one more update from Dubai.

For those of you who haven't been following the political situation in Iran, here's my ridiculously simplified version of recent events. Presidential election last week posted suspicious results. Opposition supporters take to the streets. Western media gets excited. Opposition takes to the streets again. Some of them get shot. Western media takes pictures. Western media gets thrown out. Supreme Leader gives a speech today, declaring the election fair and balanced and all of this is pretty much Britain's fault, thank you very much. John flies to Tehran.

So more or less, social networking like Facebook and Twitter and Blogger and the Internet in general have been up and down and up and down since weeks before the election. I'm simply not sure how much or how often I'll be able to post over the next two weeks.

Intrepid's safety page offers the following:

Iran has recently undergone some elections resulting in civil unrest surrounding the legitimacy of the election results.

All our groups in Iran are safe and accounted for. Intrepid does not plan to re-route or cancel any trips at this stage, however we are monitoring the situation closely and are in regular contact with our Operator and leaders based in Iran.

Currently the main areas of protests are in Tehran and other larger cities, and generally do not impact our trips at all. The only disturbance we have experienced so far as been some traffic delays.

We will make any decisions based on information from our local Operator and from Australian Government advice. Currently the Australian Government advice is:
'The Iranian presidential election was held on 12 June 2009. In the immediate aftermath of the election, some clashes have occurred in Tehran. This is a period of heightened political tension. You should avoid any large political gatherings.'

Avoid any large political gatherings. Got it. Thank you Australian Government.

Here's the AP's timeline of events.

Here's also a nice Time Magazine piece on recent events.

Hopefully you'll hear from me in a few days.

Update from Dubai

2009-06-17T23:32:00.000-07:00

Someone tell Deepak Chopra that there's another state of consciousness that he missed. It has something to do with a day of trans-continental air travel, being wired on Comtrex to allow your ears to pop on descent, not having them pop on descent, passing through 11 time zones in 4 days, double dosing on Comtrex to ensure ear poppage on final descent, and so on. One way or another, I find myself awake, competely dehydrated, and still fending off a bronchial infection in my well air-conditioned hotel room here at the Arabian Courtyard in Dubai.

It's hot here.

No energy for exploring at the moment--it's midday, and not a good time. I have managed, however, to find a pharmacy and acquire some antibiotics (they're OTC here), and a gallon of water to while away the hot hours. Apologies for not having any pictures up--it's rather been the last thing on my mind. Hopefully tonight.

My hotel is in the old quarter, called Bur Dubai. As a result, I haven't seen much of the glitz and development that the emirate is famous for. With luck, hydration, and Zithromax I should be able to post some observations for you later.

A Day in DC

2009-06-16T16:45:00.000-07:00

My time in New York has been a blast, other than not really getting enough sleep and trying to nurse a respiratory infection that makes me think I've flown to Ketchikan. I've had some great conversations with the cab drivers. Today's ride to JFK was with an aspiring Haitian jazz guitarist who quizzed me about chord substitutions and triplets.

Yesterday I had a relatively uneventful trip to Washington DC to make the final arrangements for my Iranian Visa. The flight on JetBlue was delightful, the embassy (sorry. Interests Section. We don't have consular relations, remember?) was notoriously nondescript (literally an empty storefront in a building of empty storefronts. Understandable). After tendering the institutionalized bribe that is "expedited service," I waited most of the day for the visa to be prepared, and made it back to Dulles without incident (the cabbie expounded on the various celebrities who are no longer welcome in his cab. Dan Rather, Newt Gingrich, and Ann Coulter made the list).

Right now, I'm wrapping this up just in time to board a 12 hour flight to Frankfurt followed by a 4 hour flight to Dubai. I've shut off my iPhone and left it with Tim to be picked up on my return in August, so don't bother to call. Email is best. I'd love to hear from you.

I checked with the folks at Intrepid regarding the safety of the Iran trip. They reassured me that they have a long history of rerouting their trips away from trouble when it's necessary. I've consumed about every morsel of news there is to consume (from far beyond the usual sources) and even with all that, it's honestly hard to distinguish the big picture amidst the spin in this situation. Fear not, I'll keep my wits about me.

New York

2009-06-14T16:14:00.000-07:00

There are only two mistakes one can make along the road to truth; not going all the way, and not starting.
Gautama Buddha

Okay, so maybe the recent rioting in the streets of Tehran makes the claims of my last post somewhat out-of-date. I’m not scheduled to fly into Tehran for another week. This may or may not allow time for the political situation following the recent ‘elections’ to settle down. What’s certain is that Intrepid has a good track record of shutting its trips down when they become dangerous. The Iranian Interests section in Washington DC should be an interesting place to be as I fly in to take care of my visa tomorrow.

But for right now, I’m in New York, a city which I’m struggling to get my head around. My dear old friend, Tim Heavner , lives here in what is possibly the least expensive flat in Manhattan. It’s actually smaller than the place that I lived in during college. If it weren’t on the 9th floor, you could just about park a jeep in there and still have room to shower. But a flat in Manhattan isn’t about its creature comforts. It’s about location. To live here is to have 24 hour access to all the world has to offer. There are restaurants of every imaginable ethnicity all within a few blocks of Broadway. Street vendors sell fresh fruit and spices from all over the world. It’s two subway stops to the New York Philharmonic , City Ballet , and Metropolitan Opera (In fact, had my flight not been late last night, we were set to see the NY Philharmonic perform Benjamin Britten’s War Requiem…). I almost missed this airborne statue of Doc Severinson suspended above the LDS temple.

I don’t have time to “see the sights,” only to experience the briefest morsel that the city offers.

As I’ve said, I’m struggling to get my head ‘round the city, and I’m not pretending that I can. It’s a city of extremes and a city of contradictions. As Sitka is extreme in its access to nature, Manhattan is extreme in its access to people. Everything that is attractive about this place is dependent on the sheer concentration of humanity that exists here. Ironically, both Sitka and New York are listed as the largest cities in the country: New York for population, and Sitka for area (the City and Borough of Sitka spans all of Baranof Island—about the size of Delaware).

Most palpable is the sense of bustle here. People are everywhere. There are no empty cafes; subway cars; sidewalks. In fact, one’s personal sense of space is always in a state of negotiation. In spite of that (or perhaps because of it), the same sense of anonymity that is so rare and precious in a small town creates a barrier between individuals here. In New York, people is a collective noun, not a collection of persons. People is a force of nature to be waded through. There seems an unstated rule that anonymity is not to be tread upon by needless personal interaction. The net effect is that of loneliness rather than intimacy. Drowning in the desert. Starving as one gorges.

Don’t misinterpret this as a slam on New York. It’s not. All of us base or cultural perceptions on the culture from which we originate. For me, Manhattan is a pit stop on the way to somewhere else (yes, somewhere with riots. Cross your fingers for me). Someday I’ll come back here for something more like the Full Meal Deal.

The Itinerary

2009-06-08T23:31:00.000-07:00

Perhaps travel cannot prevent bigotry, but by demonstrating that all peoples cry, laugh, eat, worry, and die, it can introduce the idea that if we try and understand each other, we may even become friends.” -Maya Angelou

I'm taking the leisurely route out of Alaska this time: A week and a half in Tacoma, punctuated by a weekend trip to visit friends in Portland; a long weekend with an old friend in New York, also punctuated by a day jetting in and out of DC to take care of the matter of an Iranian Visa. If I were cool, I'd have a Google Earth graphic zooming in and out of my various planned destinations. I'm not that cool. Deal.

On Tuesday, the 16th of June, I will board a 16-and-change hour flight from New York City to Dubai in the United Arab Emirates. People have asked me if I've seen Slumdog Millionaire. No, I haven't, and that's Mumbai. Dubai, for those of you who aren't versed on your other-side-of-the-world geography, is something of an Arab-world Las Vegas wired on Rockstar and steroids. Not the over-the-counter stuff. The Ronnie Coleman stuff. The stuff the East German weightlifting team used. The stuff they bake in the snickerdoodles in the break room at American Gladiators. But more about Dubai once I've seen the place.

I'll be there just around 48 hours before I fly to Tehran for a two week tour of Iran. "Aren't you at risk?" asks Ralph, the dude from breakfast yesterday, echoing the thoughts of most other folks I've shared my plans with.

The short answer is no.

For one thing, I'm with a tour group. If you as an American want to travel in Iran, that's the only way to get a visa these days. You can check out the specifics at Intrepid Travel.

Take a half a step out of the mainstream media and one finds that a visit to Iran promises hospitality barely imaginable in the West. If you have an hour to devote, check out Rick Steve's documentary on the subject. If you are interested, you can check out the US State Department's travel warning or the country specific information on Iran. While neither encourage travel there (consider the source), the only real concerns are for people claiming dual US-Iranian citizenship, which the Iranian government does not recognize.

Of course, I could be wrong. If so, my travel insurance policy covers the repatriation of my body.

Moving on, after two weeks in Iran, I fly to Istanbul, Turkey for some travel of the "not sure where I'm sleeping tonight" variety. There are a few things I have in mind to see there. The fairy chimneys of Cappadocia for one. Nemrut Dagi if I make it that far. Where they make the engine parts for the Chenega and Fairweather. I'll bring some back if I can make room in my pack.

We'll see what happens from there. Greece, maybe? More of Italy? Romania? Expect me back in the States sometime in early August.

Is this thing still on?

2009-06-02T22:03:00.000-07:00

“When preparing to travel, lay out all your clothes and all your money. Then take half the clothes and twice the money.”

~Susan Heller

The stars have aligned and I am again a few days from another epic journey. This time I’m headed to Dubai, Iran, Turkey, (more about these later) and well, I’m really not sure after that. After two years of speaking English, sleeping in the same bed each night, and living on a rock where the most diverse cultural experience is hanging out at the cruise ship dock and chatting up raincoat-coordinated tourist couples, I’m eager to embrace the aesthetic of ‘lostness’ that brought me such unexpected delight on my 2007 trek. I’ve also missed blogging and the curious sense of connectedness that it creates. Lostness and connectedness. Contradiction? Perhaps.

I’m also eager to apply some of the lessons I learned the first time around. For instance, I’ll be packing a spare set of glasses. And a set of airline itineraries printed in the local script. And a sleeping bag.

In addition, I’ve indulged in a little upgrade of my blogging equipment. When I traveled in ’07, it had been 5-6 years (an eternity, as you know, in the computer hardware business) since an ultra-small laptop had been commercially available. Now, so-called netbooks are all the rage. While I feel a sentimental attachment to the '01 Fujitsu Lifebook that accompanied me around the world, its 56 minute battery life was absolutely unbearable, especially in the second-class compartment of the Trans-Siberian railway in which the provodnitzas took perverse pleasure in turning the single power outlet on and off and on and off as I was trying to squeeze off a blog entry. Don’t blame them. There’s not much to do on the Trans-Siberian, especially when your only job is attending a samovar and scowling.

So, a few weeks ago I ordered one of these. A Dell Mini 9 Inspiron. 2.2 pounds. Roughly the size of a trade paperback.

With a backup battery, I’m promised 11 hours of life; USB2 gives me storage options, and ultimately, some day I can hack the Mac OS onto it. The only problem? It looks new. Answer? Crapification.

I can tell you that I got some pretty strange looks around the SHS office when I began the process of valmorphanizing a brand new Dell into something with that "fresh from the Dumpster" look. With a little packing tape from the SFAC office, some athletic tape from Mr. Vieira, a 15 cent Alaska Flag sticker from Ben Franklin, and a little wood stain from Mr. Hughey’s shop, the new machine has a thin layer of theft-deterrent. It's still missing something. Duct tape? Wheel bearing grease? I'm sure I'll find something between here and Tehran.

Think what you like. It’s my trip. Customize your own computer.

I’m leaving for Tacoma tomorrow, and will post some more updates of my preparations in the coming week. Either way, I wanted to get a post up before I left, partly to test the new equipment (believe me, if you’ve ever tried to update your software in Mongolia…) and partly to make sure I still remember how.

Stuff I learned

2007-10-16T11:53:00.000-07:00

“The time to enjoy a European trip is about three weeks after unpacking.”

~George Ade, Forty Modern Fables

It's long past time I wrapped this up. Here it is, like the last 60 seconds of a Saturday morning He-Man cartoon: the moral of the story. Condensed. Humor me.

You are not your stuff.

We, particularly westerners, become very attached to our things, our jobs, our locations. Ultimately, we believe that if only we had the right stuff, the right spouse, the right salary, somehow we would be happy. This illusion fades quickly on the road. When one is riding the Trans-Siberian railway with a few books, a few items of clothing, and a crappy little PC, one is compelled to ask, "Without the things with which I usually surround myself, what remains?"

In fact, as my good friend and kindred adventurer Roger Schmidt describes, the fewer people we take with us, the easier and more profound our immersion in a new culture. While I enjoyed my time with my Intrepid group, I can't help but think of how different my experience would have been had I left the English language behind as well. This brings me to my next point.

People are the same everywhere you go.

When I first boarded the Air China flight from Vancouver to Beijing, it was my first time without a safe bubble of English speakers to protect me. I feared that I would find myself in an alien environment that I could not control. Instead, I found myself recognizing universal life dramas everywhere I went. People in China, Bucharest, and Moscow work too hard and ride subways home, exhausted. The Mongolian shepherd looks the same as the American school teacher as he cares for his children. Twenty-somethings wear the same hopes and dreams in their expressions as they return from parties in Durau, go mountainbiking at Whistler, or marry in Saint Petersburg. Ultimately, whatever the language or the economic status; whether you delight in eating moon pies, cow's tongue, pig's brains, or drinking fermented mare's milk; our common human experience reaches far beyond our ability or inability to speak a common language.

Fear is merely fear.

During my travels I had the opportunity to experience more fears than I knew I had. In passing through them, I came to recognize that they are exactly and merely that: Fears. Shadows without substance. The first (and second, and probably third) time I stepped off a train in Romania without knowing where I would be sleeping; struggling to find a flight out of Russia; shivering myself to sleep in the three-walled bus shelter outside of Ceahlau, I was filled with fear. And then, suddenly, I wasn't. Mysteriously, things managed to work out without being planned. Even more mysteriously, the unplanned adventures were the best ones. Ultimately, real danger doesn't care if you're afraid or not, nor does your fear do anything to avert it.

We are all merely visitors.

Even in our own lands, to our own spouses, children, and parents. It is the nature of all relationships to be temporary. This is obvious when one is on the road. I met innumerable people whom I spent the most delightful few hours or days or weeks with. But then we went our separate ways. As all of us will. But the temporary nature of our relationships doesn't deny the most important lesson.

We need each other.

It's just a little more obvious when one loses one's glasses in a Ger tent in Mongolia and needs to talk to an optometrist. Or when one needs a friendly local's help to negotiate the post-Soviet postal bureaucracy in Saint Petersburg. Or when one moves to a small town on a remote island in Alaska.

Post-Script:

FYI: Air China found my luggage, Airaag tastes like liquid Stilton, and I still don't know what happened to my flight through Kaliningrad.

Thoughts

2007-07-28T12:35:00.000-07:00

The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one's own country as a foreign land.

~G.K. Chesterton

Today is 34 hours long. Of those thirty-four, I will spend fourteen in air travel. I will spend another seven repeating the phrase, "I am in North America and I will no longer roll my 'r's." During the remainder, I will finish the Harry Potter book that I picked up in Bucharest (it's in English, sorry) lest I am exposed to unwelcome information from sources unknown.

In all honesty, after six weeks it's a bit jarring to hear english and to once again have permission to take verbal communication for granted. While my head hurts from trying to assimilate too much Romanian, it's a very strange thing to understand everything that people are saying around you. I suppose that's truly one of the delights of travel abroad--when the normalcy of your own culture seems alien.

Bucharest II, Electric Boogaloo

2007-07-27T02:36:00.001-07:00

“The beauty of the world has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.”

- Virginia Woolf

When I arrived in Bucharest a few days ago, it was the hottest day on record. With the exception of a few places in Italy and Hungary, this was literally the hottest place on earth. Stepping off the Rapid in Gara de Nord was like walking into a sauna with the thermometer registering 44 degrees Celsius (that’s about 110 degrees American). The city government had instituted Codul Rosu (code red), closing government offices and stores from 11 o’clock in the morning until 6 in the evening. Even after dark, the paved streets of Bucharest acted like a brick oven, keeping the city near 100 degrees Fahrenheit until well after midnight. A number of the elderly died from the heat. A block away from my downtown flat, people crowded on the sidewalks to watch an apartment building burn down.

A similar group of people crowded into Municipal Stadium to watch Julio Iglesias’ career burn down.

Since then, the weather has returned more or less to normal, with temperatures in the 80’s and 90’s, and has allowed me to explore more of the city. Today, I spent most of the day visiting Herestrau Park, an area in north Bucharest past the Arc de Triumf. The park surrounds Lake Herestrau, the largest of the string of lakes created by King Carol II to drain the marshes and define the city’s northern borders.

The park is home to a number of unusual statues of figures from European culture and politics including, curiously, the world’s largest Mike Kernin head. It’s also the home of the Village Museum, an area similar to that in Russia’s Suzdal which houses examples of Romanian wooden architecture.

This is a stunning example of the craftsmanship of the wooden churches of the Maramures:

This modest Moldavian rental apartment doubles as a wine cask during the low season:

Interestingly, generic Cheerios are used to feed statues of migratory waterfowl even here.
Finally, I leave you with this enduring image before I return to North America...I hope. It can't be harder than getting out of St. Petersburg, right?

Into the Breach

2007-07-25T02:14:00.000-07:00

Fear has its use, but cowardice has none. I may not put my hand into the jaws of a snake, but the very sight of the snake need not strike terror into me. The trouble is that we often die many times before death overtakes us.

Mahatma Gandhi

After two nights in Suceava, I debated continuing through Moldavia to Iasi, or perhaps to Constanta and the Black Sea coast. But I felt the call to go deeper into Romania, to even smaller towns and places where I would find less English and all of the non-adventurous things that come with it. So from Suceava I took an evening Personal train to the non-destination of Tirgu Neamt, so that I could catch a bus to Statione Durau and a hike through the Eastern Carpathians and catch a ride back to Transylvania.

The Personal was everything it was cracked up to be. Early on my journey from Pascani to Tirgu Neamt I was cased out by a group of prostii (let’s say that translates as ‘thugs’. If you really want the definition, I’ll tell you later) who pegged me as a foreigner but weren’t clever enough to realize that I could understand them as they debated first where I might be from, then how much money I might have and whether I was worth beating the crap out of. As a veteran of the Tacoma public transportation system (specifically, the #1 from Parkland through Downtown to TCC), I wasn’t particularly impressed, so I pretended to get off the train at one of the whistle stops and moved up a couple of cars without incident.

After a two-hour mini-bus ride to Durau the next afternoon (I ran into the head Prost at the bus stop. Still wondering if he had missed the mark, he asked if I speak english. I said "a little, but not really" in a respectable romanian accent. He left puzzled.), I had planned to hike the 5 kilometers up to Dochia Cabana, spend the night, then proceed across the Ceahlau (Chalk-Low) Massif to the Bicaz Gorges and back into Transylvania. Unfortunately, five kilometers is harder than it sounds when a) it adds roughly 3000 feet of elevation, and b) you’re packing around an extra 20 kilos more on your back than the extra 20 kilos you’re usually packing around elsewhere.

After it had taken me two hours to traverse the distance that the hiking guidebook said should take 45 minutes, I realized that it would be dark before I reached the cabana and, since mountaineering does not personally qualify as something that I’m arrogant or stupid about, elected to return to Durau.

Now, in the Rough Guide and Lonely Planet guides, Durau is barely a blip on the radar. What neither mentions is that during Soviet times, Romanians were forbidden from traveling abroad. As a result, the national parks and hiking trails within Romania are exceptionally well developed. In fact, Durau is something of a hotspot for domestic tourism, with several hotels and nearly every house in the area offering a cazare (room for rent) or set up as a pensione (guesthouse). So, I figured that it would be a simple thing to find accommodation, then go to Plan B in the morning.

What I hadn’t counted on was that it’s a three day weekend for most of Moldavia. Imagine stumping for a bed in Williamsburg on the 4th of July, or Yellowstone on Memorial Day and you have the idea. Oh, and you have shitty English. After it became apparent that there was no bed to be had, I figured I’d have a try along the road out of town.

As it turns out, the driveways of the few pensiones in the town of Ceahlau were filled with the same BMW’s as in Durau. No buses were leaving town at this time, and taxis were nowhere to be found.

As night fell, I seriously debated sleeping in a haystack, but decided that while it would make good print, it would probably limit my chances of hitching a ride in the morning on anything other than a horsecart. I made myself reasonably comfortable in a field on the side of the road, but after night fell completely, I was nearly tripped over by a trio of Romanian teenagers.

“Buna seara,” (good evening) I said, bound by the unfortunate Italian accent I had picked up from hearing the Alitalia flight attendant repeat the phrase incessantly during my trip to Rome.

“Buna seara,” each of them said in disbelief at having nearly tripped over a bearded Italian flight attendant in their backyard.

As they wandered into the distance, one of them expressed disbelief using some english phrases that he had learned from a rap album.

When I repeated the experience with a stray dog, who instead of responding politely and moving on, began barking with dismayed fury (and igniting a cascade of other barking stray dogs across the hillside), I decided that I had picked the wrong spot and headed in the pitch black night back up the road.

Eventually, I chanced on this. Really, given the alternatives it was quite nice. And the price was right. It’s interesting how one’s standards change. For instance, how often does one think upon going to bed, “Hey, my bedroom is relatively free of feral animals and disease carrying insects. And cars only roar by every 45 seconds or so!”

So at dawn I caught a ride to Bicaz on one of the early minibuses out of town, full of young Romanian couples still dressed in their party clothes. The driver was completely insane, flooring the pedal at every opportunity along the winding one-and-a-half lane mountain roads. It was actually much more like a carnival ride than a bus trip, so much so that one of the young men I struck up a conversation with had to stop the bus to hurl (rather mightily, though it wasn’t quite Pythonesque) over the mountainside.

From Bicaz, I caught a larger bus across the Bicaz gorges to Lacu Rosu and finally Gheorgeni—the most remote train stop in Transylvania. Unfortunately, the mode of transport made meaningful photography impossible, so I can’t share this part of the journey with you. Imagine winding roads through massive limestone cliffs, up to 300 feet high in places. There is one section (called the Neck of Hell) where the road is actually carved into the cliff leaving a space only slightly lower than the roof of the motorcoach for several meters.

I arrived at Gheorgeni at roughly 8 in the morning, hiked the 2 km out to the railroad station and took the 2 o’clock Personal back to Brasov. I’ve just spent the past two nights there (grateful to be in a bed and under a roof, and for the full complement of four walls) doing some hiking with some new friends from the hostel. After that I’ll head back to Bucuresti before flying to Vancouver on Saturday.

The Painted Monasteries of Southern Bucovina

2007-07-23T11:37:00.000-07:00

To seek exalted beauty with humility and to communicate it with awe, have always been and always will be considered noble, for it is not dependent on the times one lives in.

-John H. Wurdeman

After an afternoon in Sighisoara, I took a westbound train to Cluj-Napoca (sorry, no pictures. I was tired. Imagine another charming Transylvanian city, but with more discos) before taking an eastbound Acelerat train to Suceava. With the help of the Rough Guide to Romania and the Vodafone Nokia I picked up in Bucuresti, I was able to arrange accomodation and a ride from the train station (Gara) during the six hour trip.

I should point out that Romanian trains come in four varieties: Intercity and Rapid (wait. Say those again, this time with the emphasis on the last syllable. Go on. Really, read them again. One more time. There. Much better.), which are similar to the modern trains of Western Europe; Acelerat (acceleRAHT), older but manageable--similar to the Trans-Sib cars; and Personal (have you got the hang of this now?), old, slow--stopping at every chicken coop between destinations, and a bit dodgy at night.

With its belching factories, Suceava itself is something of a victim of communist industrialization. In fact, the ambient aroma made me eerily sentimental for Tacoma during the late 1980's. In its heyday, it was the capital of the principality of Moldova during the reign of Stefan cel Mare (Stephen the Great) in the late 1400's. As a result, Suceava is really a delightful destination behind a facade of industry. This statue of the Moldovan hero guards the path

to the ruins of the Cetatea de Scaun a Moldovei (Princely Citadel)
Notice the odd silver tent in the middle of the courtyard. No, it's not a base for restorations or an oddly placed cafe. Really, you'll never guess. In an effort to attract locals to the citadel, they erected this really bad wax museum with facsimilies of random celebrities, international fugitives, and many others.

After a day to explore the city, I and some of my fellow travelers toured four of the various monasteries in the region. Most of the monasteries were built by Stefan cel Mare in celebration of victories over the Turks, though many like the one at Gura Humorelei were dedicated by wealthy families who didn't have the sense to pimp their horsecarts or purchase British football teams.

In an effort to make religious teachings more accessible, the monks of the 14th century covered their hermitage walls, inside and out, with depictions of various scenes from church history. The depictions are similar from monastery to monastery, though the state of repair is not. For instance, the monasteries at Voronet and Humor have faded in collaboration, and what has faded from northern exposure at Voronet can be implied from observing the sheltered wall at Humor.

The frescoes are stunning, both in detail and in sheer volume. One could spend years studying them in detail, from both an artistic and a theological perspective. Anyone with a fascination for iconography would well enjoy a week in Southern Bucovina. While Michelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel on two inches of plaster, anonymous monastics painted these buildings on less than a half of an inch.

Inside, the frescoes are even more stunning. The nuns at each of these monasteries have begun the painstaking cleaning of the walls, turning them from blackened ruins to vivid works of art. While interior pictures were forbidden in all but one of the buildings, each of the antechambers are decorated with depictions of saints being martyred in an infinitely sadistic set of circumstances. Apparently, violence sold albums even in the 14th century. Oh, and I was tempted to bring this sign home with me for use at school social functions. Sadly, the nuns wouldn't allow it.

Update

2007-07-21T00:36:00.000-07:00

I've been in Suceava the past two nights (pictures to come) visiting the monasteries and enjoying Moldavian hospitality. Last night I caught a train to Tirgu Neamt and in a few minutes I will take a bus to Durau and attempt an ascent of the Ceahlau Massif. The plan is to come down from the south side near the village of Neagra and hitchhike through the Bicaz Gorges to Lacu Rosu and Gheorgeni, where I can take a train back to civilization. If you don't hear from me by Wednesday, start making phone calls. It would figure that I'd go to the trouble of getting mauled on the other side of the world instead of my backyard. So. Noroc!

Sighisoara

2007-07-19T00:35:00.001-07:00

"The thin and precarious crust of decency is all that separates any civilization, however impressive, from the hell of anarchy or systematic tyranny which lie in wait beneath the surface."

Aldous Huxley

Of all of the Dracula tat in Romania, this is the most legit. This little medieval town is the birthplace of Vlad Tepes, Prince of Wallachia. Known by his enemies as The Impaler (C’mon, Can you even THINK of a cooler nickname than that?), he was the inspiration for Dracula. Unfortunately, Vlad really wasn’t much of a vampire. He wasn’t even accused of vampirism during his lifetime. It really wasn’t until 400 years later that the whole embarrassing bit of fiction got out of control.

The fact is, Tepes (Vlad would be the surname, I believe. Actually, let’s just call him Vlad. It has more of a ring.) simply chose, as a legitimate exercise of his governance, to impale people. Often. Under his rule, the punishment for most crimes was death, and let’s face it. If you’re going to go with capital punishment, leaving criminals to die in the public square with a stake up their…um…well…let’s just say the crime rate was fairly miniscule.

Really, this is just a page out of the great Khan’s playbook for Asia. I mean, the Chinese spend centuries building the Great Wall, and as soon as GK shows up, they desert it. Why? Reputation. So you’re in the army of the Sultan Mehmet II and you’re headed to Targoviste to get this Wallachian upstart in line. On the way to the capital you run into a 3 square kilometer forest of your captured buddies roasting on spits in the midday sun. I'd think it was time to pack it in and head home.

So he’s the Machiavellian’s Machiavellian. It’s not like he drank blood.

Well, okay, the whole thing with inviting the disabled and destitute to his castle and asking them if they were interested in “release from life’s sufferings”, then burning them alive. That might be a little over-the-top. Though again, deep in your heart, don’t you think that a Dick Cheney administration would at least give it a cursory glance as a welfare reform platform?

So anyway. Sighisoara. Put the ‘h’ after the second ‘s’ and you’ve got it. And roll the ‘r’ just a hair. The yellow building under the clock tower there--that's the place where the lil' tyke was born. Nice place, really. Maybe a little touristy, but not bad--it's Romania. Worth about a half a day, tops. Personally, I’d hate to be the guy that gets to crawl out there and change the clock to daylight savings time. And, like everywhere else around here, there's an unbelievable Orthodox church.

Transylvania

2007-07-16T12:05:00.000-07:00

“Wandering re-establishes the original harmony which once existed between man and the universe.”

~Anatole France

"We must protect the All-Spark Cube" It barely makes sense in English.

-Bryan Lovett

My four days in Bucuresti were marked with a variety of unexpected adventures. I was given an introduction to traditional Romanian food, including sarmale (meat-stuffed cabbage leaves) and mamaliga (polenta), and my favorite, clatitele (crepes filled with inghetata—ice cream). I did not particularly care for the minced pig brains, though they might have washed down better with a little Mongolian Airaag.

In addition to the usual new-city adventures of braving public transportation (Bucuresti’s trolleys are among the loudest trains on earth. I speak with some authority here), I visited a Romanian multiplex to see Transformers. Unlike in Russia, where overdubbing is the norm (I saw part of an episode of ‘Lost’ there. *shudder*), movies are shown in English with Romanian subtitles. And they don’t have napkins at the snack bar. I’m not sure how these two things are related, but I suspect that they are.

In addition, one afternoon I made the acquaintance of a Romanian cello student and spent much of the day with a number of student musicians as they spoke very rapidly and contributed to the solvency of my long term holdings in Philip Morris. I was a bit lost in the language, but one of them spoke fluent English (from watching the cartoon channel…gotta love them subtitles) and attends school in Louisiana, so he was able to translate my viola jokes for those who didn’t understand them the first time around. (Viola Jokes. The universal language of orchestral musicians around the world. Also, musicians griping about their conductor doesn’t require any language skills to recognize. FYI.)

The biggest adventure occurred on the two and a half hour train ride to Brasov. I was in a berth with five Romanian women who were content to talk amongst themselves until the final hour, when an old gypsy woman in the group started speaking to me directly. Speaking to me directly and not stopping. And not recognizing that I couldn’t understand a thing she was saying.

It took the other women in the compartment to translate for me that I was being propositioned. She suggested that I should come to her house in Alba Iulia and told me that her husband was in jail. She also suggested that she could join me in my Brasov hotel if it was more convenient for me. This went on for some time, to the amusement of the entire cabin. Eventually I gathered my nerve and my conversational skills for the correct response. “Imi pare rau. Maine, poate. Am multe prietene, si pula mea e foarte obosita.” Sadly, I can’t translate this for you in this forum, but once you exhaust your resources you can email me and I’ll oblige.

Brasov

Near the entrance to Transylvania, just north of Bucuresti lies Brasov, a charming town which is attractive to foreigners and locals alike. Unlike Bucuresti, the historical portion of the city is well cared for and lined with restaurants and shops. The many highlights include the Biserica Neagra (the Black Church so named because it was once in a substantial fire) and the White Church (um, because it’s white?) and the first Romanian language school.

This guy reminded me of Branden Forst for some reason.

Rasnov

Not a major destination, the tiny town of Rasnov is notable for the reasonably well-preserved medieval castle looking down on the town. Now the fortress is inhabited by souvenir shops and museum pieces. Some of the fortress is in ruins, but the site offers fabulous 360 degree panoramas of the surrounding valley and Carpathian Mountains.

I also found this interesting. Suffice to say that in spite of its modern appearance, the citadel sounds and smells as if it functions as it did five centuries ago.

Castle Bran

I hesitate to call this a tourist trap, simply because of the relatively under-developed state of the Romanian tourist industry. My suspicion is that once the EU discovers the country as something other than the origin of immigration issues, the tourist venues will quickly become as horribly saccharine as in the rest of the continent.

Castle Bran is advertised as “Dracula’s Castle”, though the connections to Vlad the Impaler are tenuous at best. Actually, they’re entirely non-existent. Bran is simply a Tudor style fortress with intimidating ramparts. And it’s currently for sale, with an asking price of 2 billion. Of course, that will get you four bedrooms and a partial view in Sitka.

Like the Great Wall, the castle’s lower entrance is saturated with tourist shops offering a selection of traditional Romanian clothing and Dracula themed merchandise. Where the automatic weapons fit in to the Dracula mythos, I don’t understand. But then, I said that about the Brasov sign.

Sinaia: Peles Castle

This is the gem of the Transylvanian destinations thus far. Built for King Carol I starting in 1875, Peles was wired for electricity when it was opened in 1883. Outdoors, the grounds are landscaped with statues and fountains in the English style. Indoors, the 160 room structure is an homage to European style, with each of the reception rooms decorated to match a different regional character. Other ‘modern’ conveniences include a massive retractable skylight which services the castle’s central hall.

Sibiu

Currently I’m spending my second night in Sibiu, another two and a half hours from Brasov. My train journey was not as interesting as the last, as I shared a car with a group of school children and a berth with a couple of Americans: Peace Corps volunteers in Ukraine whom I met at the hostel.

Sibiu is another charming Transylvanian town with a distinct German bent. Here are some highlights:

Aliens have landed for the celebration of Sibiu as the cultural center of the EU. So has Julio Iglesias. His spaceship doubles as a disco ball.

The Orthodox Cathedral is extraordinary.

These statues adorn an ordinary garage in Sibiu. I could live here...

Tomorrow I’m catching a train somewhere. I don’t know where. Maybe North. Ish.

Europe’s Worst Capital? Depends on who’s talking.

2007-07-16T01:20:00.000-07:00

“I soon realized that no journey carries one far unless, as it extends into the world around us, it goes an equal distance into the world within.”

~Lillian Smith

After two nights in the heart of Rome, I caught the Leonardo Express (it’s a train. I’m getting the hang of them) to Fiumcino Airport to get on a flight offered by an airline which does exist, does list departures on the main board, does have employees, and does have name recognition. And, I might add, flies to a country which also exists, even on non-Olympic years.

I have a difficult time explaining to people (especially Romanians) why I chose to visit Romania. I have an even more difficult time explaining (again, especially to Romanians) why I’ve chosen to spend the bulk of my free hours learning to speak Romanian. The simplest answer is “I want to,” a motivation which in recent decades has been laden with so many connotations of immaturity and egocentrism that it is scantly believable by Westerners anymore. (If you don’t believe me, try wearing an all-black wardrobe for fourteen and a half years.)

I suppose one could think of it in this way. Faced with great loss, how does one behave? Those of you who have gone through your own divorces understand the pain of having one’s lifetime bonds ripped away. Even when the initial shock begins to fade, a palpable emptiness remains. When one feels but two-thirds of a person, what does one do? Should we feed the emptiness, or should we heal it and begin to fill it? Will we heal the wound only to leave the hole burning within? Do we fill our emptiness with bon bons? Obsessive exercise? Alcohol? Self-interested women half our age? Or perhaps we learn to listen to our whimsy and follow it to a sparsely populated sub-arctic island, an obscure Eastern European romance language, and an eerie familiarity with the cadence of worldwide rail travel?

(Actually, a lot of this has to do with the fact that I can’t speak Klingon correctly since the surgery. I swear, the ENT didn’t say a thing in the pre-op about not being able to speak Klingon anymore. I’d take legal action, but hey, who wants to be “that guy who sued his doctor because he can’t speak Klingon”? Get real.)

But I digress.

So I landed in Bucharest. (That’s Bucuresti if you want to be cool. It’s pronounced the same, but with a hint of an ‘h’ before the ‘t’.) In the process of my linguistic research, I made some acquaintances here and one of them was kind enough to pick me up at the airport, assist me in selecting from the lineup of chain-smoking taxi drivers, and show me a bit around town. (If you’ve been following the blog to this point, you can expect that she’s improbably beautiful. True. I shrug at you. It’s my movie.)

So. Bucharest.

If you’re a tourist looking for a charming European capital you won’t find it in Bucuresti. If you’re looking to discover a frontier Las Vegas where the casinos lose money and the hookers are plentiful, cheap, and beautiful, you won’t find that here either (I admit that I didn’t exhaust my resources researching this last part, but for the sake of literary continuity I ask you to accept my cursory judgement).

Nah, think of Bucuresti more like a cross between Detroit and Mos Eisley. Outside of a potentially charming center filled with Parisian architecture and tiny Orthodox cathedrals , most of the city consists of massive 8-10 story communist style apartment blocks. So much so that it is a simple thing to become completely lost as one intersection looks very much like the next. Under Ceaucescu (think Kim Jung Il, but without the glasses) huge tracts of homes were bulldozed to put up these buildings (as well as the “People’s House”
—largest building in Europe. Second in the world to the Pentagon. Also second ugliest to Paul Allen’s EMT.) As a result, many families were forced to turn their pets out onto the street, resulting in certain public relations problems involving feral cats and packs of stray dogs. His policy of banning contraception, instead of resulting in a more potent work force, created a generation of paint sniffing orphans populating the subway stations. Check out the movie “Children Underground” for an excellent documentary on this issue.

Near the city center, the canals are dirty, and Romanians have an unfortunate habit of parking their Dacias on the wide adjacent sidewalks, making them virtually impassable to pedestrians. Views of the cathedrals are obscured by power lines, buildings, and untrimmed trees. In general, the town could benefit greatly and cheaply from the efforts of a community beautification campaign and a modest budget for landscaping. That is, if and when it wants to look like most every other tourist capital in Europe.

But the value of modern Bucuresti is not in its sightseeing, but it its people. The overall vibe of the city and suburbs is not one of fear, but of love. While the city parks carry a few sleeping drunks and paint stained teenagers, on any given day they are 95 percent full of families, couples, grandparents, and children playing. Unlike much of the US, where parks have become government maintained havens for the lowest common denominators of society, the parks in Bucuresti are the vibrant heart of the city.

While there is (as in any big city) a willingness to overcharge foreigners, most Romanians I have encountered are friendly and helpful. Those under the age of 30 have a reasonable ability to communicate in English, and there is an occasional sense of wonder that someone would bother to learn any Romanian at all. And the stray dogs are actually WAY nicer than the ones in Siberia.

When in Rome...

2007-07-12T02:56:00.000-07:00

Every tomorrow has two handles. We can take hold of it by the handle of anxiety or by the handle of faith.

-- Unknown.

Fear is only as deep as the mind allows.

-- Japanese Proverb.

So imagine this. You’re in an airport, say, in Russia. You think you have a flight out, but as far as you can tell, no one has heard of your airline. So you figure you should go over to the domestic terminal, since it’s a Russian airline and your first stop is in, say, Kaliningrad. Except that the airline isn’t there either, and there’s nothing even remotely resembling your flight. And, oh yeah, you’re REALLY screwed because in the domestic terminal, nobody even pretends to speak English. And never mind that your well-being is completely in the hands of the chain-smoking sharks masquerading as taxi drivers who dictate DeBeers-like prices for the 2km trip between terminals.

Here’s what you do. You wait for the Alitalia counter to open and you book a new flight to Rome.

Now, ordinarily Rome is a beautiful place. But add to the landmarks the Western Alphabet (literacy!), all-night street cafes, laundromats with internet access, and a bed-and-breakfast owner who treats you like long lost family, and Rome becomes a vacation from the vacation.

While China’s architectural antiquities are impressive because of their age and scale, and Russia’s buildings and sculptures impress and intimidate, Rome’s history makes an impression for its longevity and sheer good taste. Between Ancient Rome’s political dominance of the Mediterranean and the Vatican’s religious dominance of Western culture, one can’t turn a corner in Rome without being reminded that it’s been the seat of one empire or another for the better part of two millennia. And the food ain’t bad, either.

The cathedrals, statues, monuments, and ancient ruins in Rome are literally too numerous to count. I did manage to visit a respectable chunk, however, and in case you were wondering I did not meet any improbably beautiful young Italian women interested in showing me around. Perhaps I was too intent on my photographic assignment to notice the queue.

Whatever the reason, here are some highlights from Rome:

There is no wasted effort in the art and architecture within Piazza San Pietro

Note the subtle evidence of modern empire here at the Piazza della Republica.

Psh! Like this place isn’t a total ripoff of the Lincoln Memorial.

Even under renovation, the Piazza Venezia is breathtaking.

Next stop, Bucharest!

St. Petersburg

2007-07-09T00:30:00.000-07:00

“The World is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page.”

-St. Augustine

I’ll let the town speak for itself.

The night train to St. Petersburg
Peter the Great in front of St. Isaac’s Cathedral.
The Church on Spilled Blood.
The Hermitage Museum. The blue chairs in the foreground are set up for the Elton John concert later in the evening. Um, sadly, I missed it.
Again, I was fortunate to find a local guide. Ykaterina was kind enough to show me around her city. As you can imagine, this was far more insightful and enjoyable than shuffling through the city with a tour group.
Increases in tuition helped this young couple to decide to adopt a bear cub rather than face the costs associated with a human child.
Legal costs, however, are mounting.
The view from St. Isaac’s.

The Children of Rosenthal

2007-07-09T00:24:00.000-07:00

Mozart: “Some people call me Mozart.

Tatyana: “What a nickname, did you think it up yourself?”

Mozart: “It’s a long story…”

From “The Children of Rosenthal” –Leonid Desyatnikov

Without doubt the highlight of my trip to Moscow was a night at the Bolshoi. Originally, I had hoped to spend the night of July 4th watching Swan Lake, more to spite the firecracker wielding clueless of America than from any particular love of Tschaikovsky. But the overnight train departing for St. Petersburg would not permit this, so I ordered tickets for the opera for the night before.

As it turns out, it was the best thing that could have happened. On the marquis for the 3rd of July was “The Children of Rosenthal,” by Leonid Desyatnikov. Never heard of it? Of course. It’s new. Who does new operas? Seriously, didn’t Alban Berg kill the form for mass audiences with “Wozzeck”? (Please, don’t be offended, oh one other person on the planet who loves “Wozzeck”. It really is my favorite. Seriously, who can’t love an opera about a guy who sells his body for scientific experiments?)

Anyhoo. “Rosenthal” is a delight for anyone who appreciates polytonality, minimalism, Soviet politics, and just a hint of plagiarism. It’s about a Soviet geneticist named Rosenthal who ‘duplicates’ Wagner, Verdi, Tschaikovsky, Moussorgsky, and Mozart, and raises them as his children. After the fall of the Soviet Union, of course, there is no longer any money for such Stalinist experiments, and the quintet find themselves singing for kopecks on the streets now populated by corrupt policemen, prostitutes, unscrupulous taxi drivers, and souvenir hawks. Mozart falls in love with one of the prostitutes, but her pimp is unwilling to give her up (take THAT, Amadeus). Predictably, this leads to an unfortunate end for our heroes (and a mass death scene for the greatest operatic composers in history--that's got to be worth something to somebody).

As the Muscovites scowled (this is quite normal) and the foreigners slept (also quite normal), I found the music delightful. As each of the ‘children’ sang his aria, the music shifted subtly to reflect the represented composer. Vadim Lynkovsky was solid as Rosenthal, but both Maksim Paster as Tchaikovsky and particularly Valeriy Gilmanov as Moussorgsky upstaged the leads with powerful and sublime performances. Which is not to say the leads gave poor performances—this is the Bolshoi, after all.

At intermission, as I was snacking on caviar (pause...), I overheard some Armani-wearing Americans talking with both great authority and great ignorance as only Armani-wearing Americans can do. “Ya know, the thing is, the music’s just GRATING to me. I mean, granted, it’s all part of the experience and all, but to MY ear, I just don’t see how they can get away with that.”

Dude!

Where ya been for the past century?

Moscow

2007-07-09T00:05:00.000-07:00

“Advocates of capitalism are very apt to appeal to the sacred principles of liberty, which are embodied in one maxim: The fortunate must not be restrained in the exercise of tyranny over the unfortunate”

Bertrand Russell

Moscow. Where to start?

To be fair, Moscow deserves far more press than I’m about to give it here. In addition to its wealth of famous attractions such as Red Square ,the Cathedral of Christ the Savior,St. Basil’s Cathedral, or Lenin’s Tomb.

I could easily spend an entire entry on a number of interesting things about Moscow. For instance, the Metro (subway) is undoubtedly the most beautiful in the world. Why do the police officers wear such big hats? How have the men convinced the women to wear clothes like that? (News Flash. Jan Lovett. JDHS dances=convent socials. Russian scientists have made huge advances in fabric adhesives and/or creating personal gravitational fields. Walk around Russia for ten minutes in midsummer if you don’t believe me.) For that matter, after spending ten days in Russia, I have yet to encounter a Russian woman under the age of about 32 who is not stunningly beautiful. Much older than that? It's a puzzle.

But I digress.

Unfortunately, I didn’t take pictures of any of these things for your benefit. Pictures of the metro are forbidden, the cops tend to be corrupt and don’t particularly like you taking pictures of their dorky hats, and the other thing, well, that’s just tacky.

So instead, I give you this: the most significant spot in Russian history. This, right here, is where we won the Cold War.
Do you see it? Here’s another view.
Look closely, just to the left of the glass dome. Don’t see it? Well, that glass dome is actually the ceiling
of a massive underground complex. A mall. Buried just outside of the Kremlin. And in the mall is this.

That’s right, the very place where Capitalism KO’ed Communism. The ring where ,
on January 31, 1990, Adam Smith knocked Karl Marx out for the count. You probably thought that was the Berlin Wall. Nope. Sure, Ronald Reagan went all-in on the nuclear poker game, but it was Ray Kroc who put the last nail in Lenin’s Tomb. Guesses as to which gets more visitors each day?

And kids, you feel just as sick after eating at the one in Moscow as you do back home.

On another note, Sitkans might appreciate this. I thought it was kind of cool.

Update

2007-07-08T00:20:00.000-07:00

Two days in Moscow, an overnight train to St. Petersburg, most of a day sweating out a missed (or possibly nonexistent) flight in the Pulkovo 2 airport (fortunately, a year in Southeast has taught me to find a peaceful meditative state whilst sweating in airports), and I am spending the day in Rome writing run-on sentences before flying to Bucharest tomorrow. Pictures and commentary to come...

Suzdal

2007-07-05T05:19:00.000-07:00

Zat anotha feckin’ church?

-Brian "Down in One" Clancy

Seventy-four hours on a train seems longer than it sounds. Especially when one shares a berth with three other men. Even the internal disinfectant preferred by the locals proves ineffective when its anesthetic benefits have to be weighed against its post-metabolization aroma. Add to this an air conditioning system so intermittent that it could only have been designed by a particularly sadistic Soviet bureaucrat, and the train quickly becomes a rolling steel purgatory.

Needless to say, it was a relief to depart the train just short of the bustle of Moscow (the world’s most expensive city, or so it’s said. Sitkans, no doubt, know otherwise.) for a welcome shower and lazy afternoon in the town of Suzdal.

Once the capital of the principality before Vladimir and then Moscow, Suzdal managed to escape the cultural purges of both the industrial revolution and Soviet rule with its medieval history intact. The city is a virtual museum of Orthodox architecture, sporting mint specimens of churches and monasteries of each of the past eight centuries. Church domes dot the countryside like acne on a Blatchley gym class. The town of roughly 11,000 is host to roughly a million visitors each year (I’m told that the Suzdal International Cucumber Festival is a big draw. Personally, I’d expect that weekend to account for at least half of the year’s traffic…).

Can’t miss sights in Suzdal include the Museum of Wood Architecture, which includes examples of craftsmanship carefully transplanted from all over the country.

Suzdal’s kremlin is host to a treasure trove of religious icons. Currently, photography is allowed because it is undergoing restoration.

Suzdal is also the site of the monasterywhere many of the Romanovs discarded their wives for any variety of reasons. Points to the Czars over the Brits for not needing to invent their own religion to manage such things. And there's a nice view...

Highlights from the Trans-Siberian Railroad

2007-07-01T06:39:00.000-07:00

Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.

~Mark Twain

After three mind-numbing days on the train from Irkutsk to Vladimir, here are some of the highlights.Cows at Sukhbaatar Station
Sunset over Ulaan Ude Station
The world’s largest Lenin head. Ulaan Ude.
Lake Baikal

Banya (bath house) on BaikalSwimming in Lake Baikal. Estimated temperature: 40 degrees Fahrenheit. Estimated time until organ failure: 12 minutes. The lake was covered with ice only two months ago.Mariinsk StationChildren playing with Lenin: IrkutskYuri Gagarin statue: IrkutskTrain station: Unknown

Crossing the Russian/Mongolian Border

2007-07-01T06:34:00.001-07:00

Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgement that something else is more important than fear.

-- Ambrose Redmoon

After an eight hour border crossing, I have spent my first six rubles on necessities.

Ulaan Baatar

2007-07-01T06:30:00.000-07:00

The greatest happiness is to scatter your enemy, to drive him before you, to see his cities reduced to ashes, to see those who love him shrouded in tears, and to gather into your bosom his wives and daughters.

-Chinggis Khan

We’ve spent the last two days in Ulaan Baatar, the capital of Mongolia.

As hick towns go, this one is a doozy, and not in a bad way. Since the fall of the Soviet Union, Mongolia has become a model democracy, voting out its leaders three times since it became fully independent of Soviet rule. The architecture is still dominated by communist era blockhouses, but modern buildings are springing up like green weeds through the concrete. The stalinesque House of Government boasts a new facade, and the statues in Sukhbaatar Square (after the Mongolian communist revolutionary hero) have been relocated to make room for the real hero of Mongol history.

Imagine that once upon a time, Roy Rogers had brutally conquered the known universe. Genghis (Chinggis, as he’s called here) Khan still rules here. In addition to the massive statue at the front of the Government House (something akin to an unholy union of the Buddha and the Lincoln Memorial…), his face adorns not only money and tacky souvenirs, but microbrews and at least two different kinds of vodka. In the wake of failed communist economic policies, the Great Khan’s face is the only visible and successful marketing tool. Even these mannequins seem depressed. Interestingly, the government is considering legislation to prevent the further dilution of his legacy to commercialism.

What’s important to remember is that the western view of Genghis Khan as a brutal warmonger is simply a product of pro-european spin. Here, he’s warrior, poet, ruler, philosopher and rock star all in one. In fact, it wouldn’t be out of reason to suggest that one would be wise to consult his playbook before committing to a land war in Asia.

Modern Ulaan Baatar would find itself well at home in the American West. In many ways, it’s to Mongolia what Anchorage is to Alaska: the bridge from the rustic to the modern. Like Alaska, nearly half of Mongolia’s population are centered in the city, and Ulaan Baatar does the job of much larger population center with regards to goods and services.

In other ways, the city is as rough and tumble as they come. To say the traffic is dangerous would be a significant oversight. Like much of Asia, traffic laws seem to be more suggestions than statutes. From the western observer’s perspective, road markings appear to exist less to govern traffic boundaries and more to employ civil servants. Cars are imported from Korea (left hand drive) and Japan (right hand drive), and fall into one of two categories: jacked up sport utes covered with aftermarket bull bars and other armaments, and subcompact sedans covered with dents. Curiously absent from Mongolian streets is the pickup truck. Taking its place in surprising numbers is the tricked out minivan. Who knew?

Of course, many other icons of America’s cultural invasion of the world are missing, too. Noticeably, McDonald’s. In fact, as of this writing I am now halfway between Beijing and Moscow and there has not been so much as a crumpled happy meal box to indicate the existence of the vapid clown and his death snacks. Coca-Cola, on the other hand, covers this part of the earth as completely and embarrassingly as a bout of genital warts, though this may also be attributed to its usefulness as a digestive aid and paint dissolver.

Update

2007-06-27T18:47:00.000-07:00

I haven't found a cafe in Irkutsk that will allow me to upload photos from my flash drive, so y'all are going to have to wait for pics of Ulaan Baator and Lake Baikal. Today we hop a train that takes four days to get to Vladimir and we'll have a night in Suzdal before going to Moscow. Needless to say, the Trans-Siberian hasn't upgraded to net access (AC power is a little sketchy, too). Internet access is plentiful in Moscow (or so I've heard), so I might even be able to steal some wireless once I get there.

Also, I've figured out enough Cyrilic to allow me to enable comments again. Sorry for the glitch!

xoxoxo

Terelj National Park

2007-06-24T02:29:00.000-07:00

Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not.

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

I’m going to let Terelj National Park speak for itself. In stark contrast to the industrial blight of Beijing, we spent the night at a Ger camp in the wilds of Mongolia. [Think cabin camping at Yellowstone, only the horses are smaller and tastier.]

When one thinks of Mongolia, one often thinks of desert. While this is true in the South as one crosses the Gobi, the north and west of the country are characterized by sweeping plains and majestic mountain ranges. Overall, the country is remniscent of a quasi-medieval Montana, substituting yaks for walmarts and dromedaries for casinos.

I don’t think the pictures can quite express the breathtaking views, but here they are anyway

View from the Ger camp.

Some of our group elected to ride Mongol horses during the afternoon.

This is called “Turtle Rock”

That’s because it looks like a turtle.

Eight hundred years ago, this guy would have been the scourge of Central Asia. He wouldn't have hesitated to put a medieval cap in your ass either.

This camel doesn’t speak English, so I had to use the phrasebook to ask him for a picture.

I didn’t ask. Apparently, dinosaurs still roam the earth.

I didn’t ask about this either. Don’t stress about it. The Nazis stole the symbol from the Tibetans, not the other way around. Still, it's a little shocking.

Unbelievable!

Later on, we had to defend the camp from an invasion by Chinese tourists.

By the way, I'm receiving comments these days, so leave some. I'm just curious if I have any readers...