Am I Corn or Kale?

Graz is a university town in the south of Austria neither of us had ever heard of until about a year ago, when I found out my good ol’ friend Luiz was living there, working on his Master’s degree on Rock Tunneling. We added Graz to our itinerary shortly thereafter as too good an opportunity for two high school buddies to catch up after nearly a decade. Luiz wasn’t sure if we could stay at his apartment until the night before our arrival, and by then we were already in touch with Beli and Gunter, nice couple we met through CouchSurfing.

Long story short, we slept in Luiz’s apartment but spent most of our time in Graz hanging out either with him, or with our CouchSurfing friends, or everyone altogether. The emphasis on the social made our time there extremely worthwhile. Graz has its share of sights, but the real fun came from cooking and talking about politics, culture, traveling, and language over wine and bread dipped in Austria’s number one natural resource, pumpkin seed oil. Luiz and I reminisced our middle and high school days in Brazil and complained about Dunga’s selection of the Brazilian squad for the World Cup.

***

On Thursday Norika and I joined Beli and Gunter on a road trip around the Austrian countryside. Our first stop was just North of Graz, where we visited none other than the Gubernator’s birth town. The outside of the primary school he attended is covered by a ridiculous collage with messages of encouragement and be-what-you-wanna-be, all crowned by a photo of his face on the very top. It’s quite creepy.

Across the street there was an attempt at an Arnold Schwarzenegger museum, which was actually nothing more than a room with at least one life-sized image of him as the Terminator, some of his old weightlifting equipment, and so on.

We proceeded to more exciting destinations like the Riegensburg castle, which we chose to admire from the distance because of the rain and the cost of admission.

Best of all was our introduction to an Austrian buschenshank: a type of restaurant based on a farm and only allowed to serve cold food, a certain (high) percentage of which must be produced on the farm itself. If such conditions are met, the restaurant pays less or no taxes; the food is therefore genuine, fresh, and quite cheap, with the added bonus of a beautiful view of the countryside. Peach juice, cured meats, local cheese, grated horseradish… we had no idea Austria would treat us so well — we had the best rye bread and even a “Bizarre Foods” moment when Gunter insisted we try a regional cheese variety that looks, smells and (allegedly) tastes like green mold. It was crumbly and not much different than something you would find inside of an unfinished container of feta cheese left in the fridge for a year. I thought it tasted like Parmesan on steroids; Norika thought it completely unpalatable and gave me the rest of her piece.

Later on we stopped by Gunter’s parents’ farm home for some emergency garden-tending; an invasive species of slugs from Spain was terrorizing Beli and Gunter’s plants, and we helped pick them off in the hopes they won’t come back with a vengeance. We suppose that was our bit of WWOOFing for this trip!

***

On Friday we met Luiz and his girlfriend at her flat for a traditional Brazilian lunch: rice, beans, and farofa (which he brought from his last trip to Brazil). In true Brazilian fashion, we did not rush and ended up taking the train to Vienna two hours later than we originally planned.

Luckily, our delay was no problem to our CouchSurfing hosts, Verena and Werner. They were very kind and accommodating people, and best of all, were happy to eat the spicy food we cooked.

Werner is an authority in Austrian, Czech and Bavarian beers, and he took us to a local brewery on our second night in Vienna, where we tried a chili beer (more of a novelty than a pleasant experience) and a tasty amber lager. The next night we stopped at an Irish pub (yes, they exist everywhere) and Norika tried a beer from Corinthia that has been brewed since 1217.

The weather in Vienna was rough — rainy, windy, and very cold. This situation limited our outdoor pursuits, but we did walk around the Inner Stadt, which indeed feels like an outdoor museum.

We also visited an outdoor market and drooled over all the yummy food and bought a large wall blanket from a man who was a great admirer of Junior, Socrates and Zico’s Brazilian soccer squad in the 1980s. Naturally, this earned us a significant discount.

***

Saturday afternoon we visited the Schonbrunn Palace and Gardens, the Habsburgs’ magnificent summer residence. Like the rest of Vienna, the bad weather did not stop it from being photogenic.

That night we went back into town to meet up with Werner’s friends and check out a Spanish band, Ojos de Burro, playing a free concert in an open air space in front of a cathedral-like building (we had walked by it during the day and wondered about what the deal was).

The music was awesome and we would have stayed longer if it wasn’t for the miserable weather.

***

We were amazed at how easy it is to travel around the city: on the way to the show, we hopped from the metro to a bus to a tram, so that we barely had to walk in the rain up until we arrived at our destination. Vienna may just have the best public transportation system in the world; there are tons of transfer points between the lines, as well as some interesting anti-anxiety measures, such as screens that show how many minutes commuters have to wait until the next train. Not least, station walls are decorated with the likes of this:

***

On Sunday we visited the Haus of Muzik (we thought of going to the Museum of Contraception, but found out that most of the information there would be in German). The museum cost about twice as much as we desired to pay, but was still a nice indoor experience that kept us away from the nasty weather for a few hours. I expected I’d enjoy the interactive sections more, but these rooms were crowded with families and in the end, the most exciting part was the more adult-oriented section on famous quasi-Viennese composers. We learned about Mozart’s ties with the freemasonry and that Beethoven was a nasty person. It turns out the latter obtained custody of his nephew (even though his brother’s widow was alive and well); this event directly led to a suicide attempt by the young man, who confessed the wanted to die because he couldn’t stand being essentially imprisoned by his uncle. Beethoven was such a pain to everyone around him that during the 35 years he resided in Vienna, he moved 68 times! A landlord’s nightmare, he was.

***

We almost forgot — this is how people surf in a landlocked country: on a river!

(photo taken in Graz)

We ended the last post on gelato, so we’ll start this one with gelato.

Although not intermittently, it rained every day we were in Lucca. Locals explained they’ve never seem this kind of weather in usually beautiful May, and that it was a shame. I didn’t care — Lucca was awesome. We stayed in the labyrinthine city centre, within the city’s famous and still solid medieval walls. The streets were narrow and paved not with asphalt but with old stone slabs, all of which did not stop the occasional car from driving dangerously close to people, buildings, bikers. The citta’ is full of character and would also constitute superb grounds for a game of “capture the flag”.

The rain made us feel less guilty about spending a lot of time online booking/planning our next few stops, something we sorely needed to get done — and did. When the weather cooperated, we had plenty to do: walking and biking along the walls (they are wide and up to 25 years ago, cars drove on them; now they’re only open to pedestrians and bikers), eating gelato, climbing Torre Guinigi for an aerial view of the city, walking some more and getting lost often. We visited a few churches, one of which featured the properly illuminated mummy of St. Zita.

Lucca was the first city that defied (and defeated) my map drawing ability, and we walked aimlessly for a while before finally finding our hotel. Eventually we arrived at the place that my relatives in Lucca booked for us; the cost was steeper than we would have liked, even though it was the cheapest B&B within the ancient walls — we’re in Tuscany and that‘s how it goes. Our hosts at the hotel were loud and enthusiastic, and every morning we had a filling breakfast that included a slice of delicious bucellato, Lucca’s traditional pastry.

***

The primary reason for our visit to Lucca was meeting my relatives, and I’m happy to say the experience exceeded my expectations. I won’t blab about my family tree here, but it was fantastic and a bit surreal to visit the house that my great-great-grandfather built over a hundred years ago, in which members of the Betti famiglia still live. We met my grandfather’s cousin Gianpaolo, who is 80 and eerily resembles my own grandpa when he was alive. What’s crazier, they were both bankers during their career — one in Sao Paulo, the other in Lucca. Go figure.On Thursday night we went out to dinner with Gian Luca and Giacomo, Gianpaolo’s sons. They introduced us to typical Lucchesi cuisine, and we had the best meal of our Italy trip. Fried polenta with mushroom ragu, a platter of cheese and cured meats (including the infamous lardo, which is what you think it is, but sliced very thin and with a subtly spicy seasoning, which makes it delicious and therefore wrong). Our main course was the classic tortelli with ragu, followed by sweet-and-tart strawberries for dessert, all accompanied by some great red wine. Wine in Italy does not disappoint: it costs as much as Boone’s Farm yet with the quality of a $10-plus bottle.

***

Giacomo suggested that we take a day trip to Pisa because it is only a 25-minute train ride away. We did so on Saturday and visited the famous Miracle Square featuring a large-domed basilica, lots of dumb-looking tourists and the iconic Leaning Tower. Despite its obvious fault, the tower is undeniably beautiful and we’re sure it would be fun to go up on top if it wasn’t for the long line and the prohibitive 15-Euro charge. We opted for staying on the ground and admiring the surroundings.

***

On Sunday night Gian Luca met us at the B&B and we walked with him out of Porta Sant’Anna to the Palazzi Betti that my great-great-grandpa (Gian Luca and Giacomo’s great-grandfather) built with the capital he earned in Brazil. His name, Egysto Betti, is discreetly engraved on one of the outside walls; slightly less subtle metalwork featuring his initials along the banister on the stairway, so if you look from the side you see EB-EB-EB-EB-EB going all the way up. The ceiling on the ground floor was 4 meters high, and to me the place had the most bizarre mix of “historical” and “personal” I have ever experienced.Gian Luca lives on the ground floor apartment with his wife Alita and two children, Matilde and Giulio, who are technically on the same Betti generation as me. Upstairs lives Gianpaolo and his wife Franca, who came down to meet an talk to us; despite the language barrier, we were able to understand quite a bit of Italian; wild hand and arm gesticulations sure helped drive points across. Giacomo also paid us a visit, along with his son Alessandro. The children were kind and positively excited about the visit. Matilde gladly showed Norika her collection of stickers, and Giulio played with miniature cars just like I did when I was his age. Alita sacrificed her Mother’s Day rest and fixed a delicious dinner for us, and we chatted away about soccer and Formula 1 and more soccer and the 2010 World Cup and the 1994 one and 1982 and 2006 and so on — you get the idea.  It was a delightful time that made our trip to Lucca even worthier, and very, very special.

***

On Monday we took an early afternoon train to Florence and the eight hours we spent there deserve about a paragraph. Its main museums were closed on that day (including the Uffizi, which holds what is generally regarded as the best Renaissance collection in the world) so our sightseeing options were more limited. First we visited the Duomo — though we did not climb up to get a really good look at it, the amazingly detailed outside of the cathedral was perhaps more impressive. Once again in the rain, we walked around a square displaying violent statues, toward the old city and briefly among the bourgeois shoppers at Ponte Vecchio. It was not our scene, so we went in search of our last, glorious gelato. Three-flavor combos: mango, raspberry, and then coconut (for me) and dark chocolate (for Norika). We had a decent pizza and wine dinner and then back to chaotic train station.

***

We had previously reserved seats on the Rome-Vienna train (our ride was from Florence to the Austrian town of Bruck ad Mur) and were shocked to find out that we were to occupy the middle seats of a packed six-person cabin (there were already four young people and a lot of luggage). No one was happy with the arrangement and eventually one of our cabin mates negotiated a seat change. The rest of us were subjected to a rough night of uncomfortable sleep and sore necks; we’re very glad that’s the last overnight ride of our entire trip.

We arrived in Bologna in the rain, but were happy to find out our luggage performs well in wet situations — Norika’s extensive research paid off once more. That’s excellent news, as based on the forecast the rainy weather will accompany us for the rest of week (and of our stay in Italy).

Predictions aside, we did catch plenty of sunny breaks while in Bologna. On our first full day here, we walked around  Piazza Maggiore and the adjacent Piazza del Neptuno, and climbed endless steps up de Torre degli Asinelli, which stands next to Bologna‘s own leaning tower, Garisenda. From the top we got a great view of the millions of red bricks and tiles that characterize the city; we also engaged in some accidental voyeurism when we spotted a man doing sit-ups on his deck, naked.

We later walked through a few of Bologna’s main basilicas; due to large volume of Renaissance (or older) artwork in these facilities, I have tried — however unsuccessfully — to convey to Norika the idea that visiting churches in Italy equates to touring free museums.

***

Although Bologna is a nice place, it is undeniable that we are undergoing culture shock, partly from no longer being “off the beaten path.” Our Eastern European tour exceeded our expectations, but now we are back on track (Bologna is the first European destination previously in our plans that we have actually reached) and the Euro is finally hurting us.

While we can understand quite a bit of the language — especially compared to what we‘ve experienced so far — it doesn’t mean we can understand all of it; combine that with the fact that Italians generally don’t speak English as well as Slovenians, and we got ourselves some interesting situations, be it ordering food or asking for information. Norika was particularly bitter about what she labeled the “elitism” of Italian restaurants that don’t fully describe their dishes (at least in Italian itself). We understood that an “insalata verde” meant “green salad”, but we couldn’t possibly fathom that an establishment would charge 3.50 Euros for a meager bowl of plain lettuce, only and nothing more than lettuce. Now we know.

Of course, being in back in a Latin culture also means personal space and general civility are greatly reduced; Italians are perfectly fine with the idea of standing very close to a person getting cash at an ATM, cutting lines, not giving the right of way to anyone else other than themselves, etc. Evidently, the driving can be erratic and it is often unclear whether a specific narrow road is pedestrian-only or a bus route. Traffic lights are not efficient and at times both pedestrians and cars get reds, which in turn generates a complete disrespect for any type of system and means everybody walks or drives whenever they feel like it.

Perhaps even more bothersome is that, at least in Northern Italy, fashion is paramount. High-end shops with contorted mannequins wearing ridiculous attires could be funny, but it is not because real flesh shoppers dressed in shiny leather and brand-name sunglasses drool over the windows and actually consider buying that crap. It’s not funny because you see 12-year-old boys with expensive hairdos, tight black pants and white jackets trying to look cool to barely pubescent ladies. I have nothing against creative DIY, Goodwill fashion, but the way Italian stylists manifest their inner muse is fascist and disgusting.  Sorry, that was a rant.

Hey, there are awesome things about Italy too. At least in Bologna, most museums are free and we had a great time during a rainy afternoon watching documentaries about horrible places at the M.A.M.Bo, the museum of modern art. Sadly, one of the documentaries was on Sao Paulo, which is frightening because the other two covered the greatest environmental disaster of modern times (Aral) and present-day slavery (Dubai) — not a fun group to be a part of.

As expected, the food here is generally quite good; fresh pasta cooked al dente with ragu really destroys our motivation to eat the boxed spaghetti with pre-made bottled tomato sauce we cook back in the U.S. On a more fortunate salad experience, Norika tried her first true buffalo mozzarella (it tasted like cheese instead of I.V. fluid) and the largest, freshest green olives ever (they were so plump and fleshy that they looked and felt like fruit). Wine is relatively cheap and inevitably tasty — we even tried a bubbly variety that was not like any sparkling wine we ever had.

Even our simplest meal at a desolate pizza joint had its charm: we got to watch the trashy “Italy’s Got Talent” show and were delighted by a peculiar act that involved two masked men wearing thongs and with faces painted on  their gluteus area; they wore a “wig” around their waist and danced with their behinds to the camera to a medley of “Grease” songs, with their cheeks flapping to butt-lip-sync to the lyrics. The judges thought it was hilarious, and so did we; the act was not nearly as graphic as the soccer talk show featuring a large-breasted woman with a cleavage so low that it was below the talk table level. Most of the conversation as dominated by sleazy middle-aged soccer commentators complaining about Lazio letting Inter Milan win so that their rival, Roma, would not take the lead on the tournament stands. Every once in a while the woman would say something, always making sure to gesticulate with her arms in such as way that her mammaries would bounce and threaten to escape.

Not least, there is always gelato: we have promised ourselves to have it once a day during our week in Italy, and already know that switching back to ice-cream after we leave will be sad and perhaps traumatic.

Monday was a day of traveling. We finally activated our Eurail Pass and are still unfamiliar with how exactly it is supposed to work (some officials seem puzzled as well). At one of our transfer points we only had 4 minutes between hopping off a train and onto another unknown train. Luckily for us everything has worked out so far, but we can already tell that the stress level can be significant during multiple-transfer trips.

In the afternoon we had a 5-hour layover in Zagreb. The good luck that has graced us since our arrival in Eastern Europe did not go away, and we discovered that the train station was situated right in the middle of the Croatian capital, allowing us to store our luggage and walk around the city for a while, and then lay on the grass, have a picnic, and relax at one of Zagreb’s parks.  The city was vibrant and full of young people, many of which chose the parks to shamelessly make out with their significant others, imprinting Zagreb in my mind as Europe’s PDA capital until somewhere else tops it.

***

After a gorgeous train ride through the mountains, rivers, and villages of the Slovenian countryside, we arrived at the capital city of Ljubljana. Over our first 24 hours here, it looked like our Eastern European luck had run out. While we had no trouble finding our couch surfing contact’s apartment building, her name was not listed by the ringing bell board and we were locked outside for 45 minutes, when a nice man who lived on the same building showed up and helped us reach her.

Natasha was a CS pro: based on the schedules posted on the doors in her apartment, there are couch surfers in her place more often than not. She was getting ready to go meet up with a couple of Serbian CS dudes who — we came to find out — had spent the previous day sending out couch requests to Ljubljana girls and rounding them up for a night out. We were exhausted (we had been up since 5:30am) but had just had some very strong coffee on the train, so we hastily decided to tag along with the random, large group.

We headed into the heart of Ljubljana’s alternative scene, which also happened to be rather shady (the bars sold beer without receipts and allowed indoor smoking despite it being strictly prohibited). After a while, we got sick of the smoke, loud techno music, and a couple of arrogant Slovenian girls who ignored Norika probably on the basis of her being American. Much to the disappointment of the blunt Serbian guys, Natasha called a cab and the three of us left to a different bar on the other side of town so we could experience the audio cancer that is turbo folk. A Serbian singer Natasha likes was performing accompanied by a keyboard player and a guitarist. What did it sound like? Equal parts standard heavy metal guitar, cheesy regional pop keyboards with pre-recorded drum beats, and awful lyrics (or so we were told, because we obviously couldn’t understand them), it would have been a lot more comical if it hadn’t been so incredibly loud — Norika is convinced that she has suffered irreversible ear damage. The Balkan version of “Jersey Shore” guidos sporting white jackets and absurd hairdos were loving it.

We slept in and woke up feeling subpar. Within minutes of walking our daytime exploring, we sat down to look at the map and I ended up with a massive piece of gum stuck in my behind. We did the best to remove it before lunch, but it wasn’t enough to stop me from trying to steal the chair cushion when I got up and started walking out of the restaurant — by the time Norika and I became aware of this embarrassing situation, I was already several feet from my seat.

In any case, Ljubljana is a remarkably functional city. It is rather small to be a country capital (about 280,000 people, a fifth of which are university students), with recycling bins all over the place and, at least near the city centre, way more bikers and rollerblades than drivers. The expression “environmentally friendly” could have been invented to describe this place. Unlike some of the other places we had visited where old historical sections have been turned into tourist camps, Ljubljana’s have been incorporated into newer buildings and business (e.g. different areas of the Ljubljana Castle have been turned into art gallery spaces). That said, we can’t quite claim that this city matches the charm of Budapest or Istanbul, nor that it can match our unforgettable experience in Pecs. In a way, it feels like a “hangover” stop, perhaps as Annecy would have felt after Amsterdam and Paris.

***

Our host Natasha was busy most of the time, but she did provide us with some invaluable advice on food (Slovenian soups are both filling and delicious), wine (Slovenian wines are very good and cheap; they are mostly consumed within the country) and desserts, specifically cakes. Also significant was her suggestion that we check out the resort town of Bled on a day trip. After looking the place up online, we knew we wanted to spend way more than just a few hours there. We had found our next destination.

The Eastern Europe guidebook in our B&B describes Bled as so beautiful that it looks as if it was created by some “God of Tourism”. That description is accurate: Lake Bled is one of the most gorgeous places we’ve ever been to, period. We’re talking a beautiful thermal lake with a tiny island in the middle where a medieval church was built; above it, to the northeast, there is a 999-year-old castle perched on top of a steep hill. In the background, forests of light and dark green, and past them, the Julian Alps. It’s ludicrous, unbelievable eye candy.

While the town of Bled itself is rather touristy, we appreciated the bike/pedestrian path that goes all the way around the lake. Following a routine that started in Budapest, we’ve been buying sandwich supplies earlier in the day and eating most of our meals in our room; we are thus able to set some money aside to try out local desserts like the decadent Kremna Rezina, (“Cream Cake“), which consists of a tower of fresh whip cream on top of a layer of custard; there are thin layers of pastry on top and bottom which do little to dissuade one from the impression that you‘re about to consume a block of cream. Like all other desserts we tried in Bled (or Slovenia for that matter), it was amazing.

We stayed at a small B&B ran by a 61-year-old round man aptly named Bojan… and his 84-year-old mother who did not speak a word of English. Over the course of a few overlong conversations during our breakfast, Bojan told us about how controlling his mom was and how she wouldn’t let him change anything to improve the place. “Wait until I’m dead” was apparently her standard argument closer. She seemed very sweet to us, but not someone to be messed with, for sure. Bojan also ranted about his family, economics, the Slovenian judicial system, boats, doctors, real estate, and to my delight, life behind the Iron Curtain. It was fascinating to finally chat with somebody who lived most of his life on the “other” side of history, and hear about what is now better and what is now worse.

***

Though we hadn’t exactly planned it that way, our days in Bled were mostly occupied with hiking. We got very lucky with the weather and scored three sunny days in a row — just two weeks after a chilly time in Istanbul, we were back in shorts and t-shirts. On our first day, we climbed up to the castle to witness the jaw dropping view of Lake Bled and the church island; we then walked down and all way around the water, taking an obscene amount of pictures of all these things throughout the process.

The second day we took a bus to Lake Bohinj, which sits within the lines of Slovenia’s one and only national park.

We actually had no idea what there was to do there (we just heard it was a nice place to visit), so upon our arrival we got a travel map from the Tourist Information center and decided to climb one of the surrounding hills to reach a nice viewpoint for the area.

As I mentioned before, Slovenia seems like a fully functional country… up until you reach a poorly marked trail in the middle of nowhere. We had little trouble finding the awesome viewpoint, but on the way down — just seconds after I mentioned I was surprised that we had not got lost — our trail disappeared and we found ourselves… lost.  At least we had a pretty good idea of the general direction we had to follow (that is, down) and eventually we found a rocky creek streaming down the hill. We thought of walking along it, but nature was quite stubborn and we had no choice but activate trooper mode and walk on the creek, stepping from rock to rock so as to not get our feet wet. We climbed over fallen trees from time to time, and aside from a single misstep (when 30 minutes later we did find our trail, I sank my right foot ankle-deep into mud) we came out of this adventure unscathed.

After our lunch picnic, we irresponsibly decided to walk the 10K trail around Lake Bohinj, throughout which we also got a bit confused (“lost” would be an overstatement compared to the earlier situation). Our setbacks made it seem like we were going to miss our bus back to Bled, so for the last few minutes we were sprinting past people in order to make it to the bus stop… and learn that we were actually an hour early (the bus we thought of getting only ran during high season).

On Saturday we hiked to a different part of the national park to visit the Vintgar Gorge. There were two trails right past the park entrance, one leading up and the other down. Once more, the lack of signs or information boards (or even maps, in this case) led us to gamble on our path, and up we went. Forty-five minutes into it, there was nothing to indicate that we were on the right way, and even after asking a couple of hikers about “Vintgar” and being told we were indeed on the right track, when we reached a village (not a gorge) Vintgar I felt like breaking things. When we finally turned to walk all the way back we realized we were not so lost after all — we simply didn’t know the path took a 300-degree turn right before reaching the village. Anyway, we did find the gorge and it was beautiful and worth our while and everything was fine. But Slovenian trails are emotional roller coasters.

***

Sunday morning Bojan dropped us off at the train station and we bid Bled adieu. Little over an hour (and another beautiful train ride) later, we reached the end of the line, walked out of the station in Nova Gorica and crossed the most unguarded border we have ever seen — getting into Italy required nothing more than crossing a road, no passport checks, no stamps, no nothing. That’sa motherland.

Marcelo’s account:

I had done my homework on Turkish bath procedures, so it was no surprise when I was guided to a private cabin where I could lock up my belongings and walk out wearing nothing but a small towel (“peshtemal”) wrapped around my waist.

As I stepped outside the cabin, I was greeted by a Turkish man with a grey mustache. He was twice as wide as me, and was wearing nothing but a towel as well — my masseuse, or bather, or whatever you would call it.

I followed him into the bath itself. The first domed room, with white tiles along the wall and a large marble table in the middle, was already quite warm, but my first mission would be to sweat profusely in order to open up my pores. We walked to a second room, also white but considerably hotter and with a marble sink near ground level, at which point we gestured towards a wooden door and sent me in. I walked alone into the hottest sauna I’ve ever seen; I had to breath slowly and carefully so as not to burn the inside of my respiratory tract, and within seconds my skin was completely moist.

I was half-hallucinating when I walked out on my own accord a few minutes later, wondering from room to room to find the large man. Eventually it was he who found me, and again he guided me to a different room, this one with several marble sinks. He made me sit down next to one and proceeded to dump hot water over my body. Then things got physical — it was time for the scrub of a lifetime, when I watched in horror as grey pieces of my dead skin fell off me as if I had been covered in Elmer’s glue. I thought I had mentally prepared myself for that, and I was wrong. Around that point, I couldn’t help but notice that the man’s enormous belly was very clean.

Though our language barrier was nearly impenetrable, I could tell that he was done with each step of the bath because he would slap my back with great force. We walked to the basin, where I laid down on top of another towel and had my body lathered in soap. For the second time (the first was before the scrubbing), the large man rearranged my peshtemal in order to cover a minimum portion of my body, thus allowing for maximum scrubbage. The marble slab was hot and my body felt the impending burn; I tried to suck it up and after a while, with the heat and the steam and the creamy foamy feeling that surrounded me, I felt almost delirious.

Massage followed. I’m not even going to beat around the bush here: it was painful. For a few seconds there I thought either my neck was going to break or my arm would be detached from my body. By the time I turned around with my belly facing up and the masseuse managed to crack my back by pressing most of his weight onto my folded arms, I looked up at the dome above me, with round holes arranged in a circle with sunlight shining through, and for a moment I was convinced that my childhood dream of being abducted by aliens had finally come true.

Another slap in the back, and I was free to stumble back to the basin room, where the guy made sure to wash my head using up half of the RTW-trip’s supply of shampoo. After that, I was left alone (not before the man made absolutely clear that he would appreciate being tipped for his services) to wash off whatever was left, and then sit, stupefied, pouring cold water on myself.

Eventually the large Turk came back and showed my to a dried set of towels. At that point, when things couldn’t possibly get more awkward than they had already been, they did — the man thought it would be important to show me how to properly wrap my peshtemal around myself, presumably so that next time I come to a Turkish bath I’ll know what to do. Naturally, that process involved me taking off my soaked towel and putting on the new, dry one the right way, which he proudly did (I must admit that the correct method makes much more sense than my Western technique).

I returned to my cabin, laid there for a few minutes drinking water, and after paying for everything I stepped outside to meet Norika in front of the nearby mosque and compare stories. Apparently, her service was short but equally intense. Her version of the mustached gorilla was an older, larger woman wearing nothing but a bright pink bikini bottom. I suppose she got me beat.

***

The next day we were not surprised to find out that our flight had been canceled. We were told to go to Turkish Airlines’ main office at Taksim Square, which gave us yet another opportunity to see more of Istanbul.  On the way there, we stopped at a dock to inquire about boats to Romania, but had no leads whatsoever.

Also unsurprisingly, the main office was total chaos. Aspiring flyers stood outside, waiting for their number to be called so their future could be rescheduled. When it was our turn, we were given the choice to fly to Vienna on the same day, Budapest on Wednesday, or Lisboa on Thursday (Amsterdam was a lost cause due to the insane backlog). Because we had already booked another night at our guesthouse, we went with plan B and just like that, here we are in Hungary.

***

Budapest is stunning. We stayed at the Lavender Circus, a hostel on the third floor of a 19th-century apartment building that caters specifically to young couples traveling on a budget; instead of the large dorms with multiple beds, this place only offered double rooms with shared bathrooms. In other words, it was exactly the kind of hostel we have been looking for all along. The owner was an extremely artsy/lover type (at night he would project silent films onto the walls of the building); 30 seconds after we arrived he was already pouring us glasses of Hungarian wine before showing us the place and letting us pick a room; he furnished and decorated every room with his art and antique furniture, making each one a unique environment. The Lavender Circus was the polar opposite of your typical Best Western fare. 

Budapest used to be two cities, Buda and Pest, sitting on opposite sides of the fabled Danube River. Buda has an old historical center, whereas Pest is more “modern” (19th-century buildings instead of much older). The hostel was located on the Pest side, right across from the National Muzeum that we did not go to.  Just a few blocks from our hostel was the Central Market (read: awesome food). Over our two full days in the city we tried six different kinds of rektes (basically a bulging strudel with 90% of its weight in the filling) and purchased other amazing picnic supplies.  

We crossed the beautiful green metal bridge (I still fail to remember its name) and spent our first day walking around the Buda side, through parks and around the citadel built in the Middle Ages.. We continued on to the old Buda Castle, the historical downtown, and the Fishermen’s Post. Buda is hilly, and from many spots one can see the enormous Parliament building (the biggest in Europe) sitting along the banks of the Danube River; this particular urban landscape is deservedly a UNESCO heritage site. 

The next day we got to ride the oldest underground train system in continental Europe (Hungary is full of surprises). We stopped at the train station to buy tickets in advance and then walked toward to the Heroes’ Square. Norika recollected that on her first trip to Hungary (when she was 12) the tour guide spent an excessive amount of time explaining the background of each of the numerous men depicted on the statues surrounding the square. We quickly walked by them and then went on with day’s real plan: to visit a Hungarian thermal bath — apparently, Hungary has the second-most thermal waters in the world; fateful Iceland is first.

I wasn’t sure what to expect (especially because Hungarians call these places “spas”), and I think we were both a bit hesitant to go — especially once we found out that the outdoor swimming pool would be closed for cleaning. Fortunately, there were two more outdoor pools, one of them with awesome jets and currents that made the place feel more like a water park; the other was even hotter (38 degrees Celsius, which essentially made it a huge hot tub) and, much to my personal amazement, featured big old Hungarian men hunched over chess boards. The indoor section was even more impressive: dry and steam saunas of different temperatures, aromatic hot tubs and pools of different sizes and shapes, etc. There were so many sections that we did not have time go everywhere we wanted! Either way it was a worthy experience, completely different from our Turkish bath a few days prior but also quite old school. We left the spa rejuvenated and were not too bothered that the free concert at the St. Stephen’s Basilica we had heard about was simply not happening.

That night we had our best Hungarian meal yet (noodles with curd cheese and bacon, and Hungarian sausage with pita and the most incredible mustard) and the next morning at the station we tried the greasy Langoz (a thick and salty elephant ear served with a type of sour cream and cheese), though these meals were nothing compared to what awaited us on our next stop.

***

Late Saturday morning we arrived in Pecs. We were searching for another place to visit in Hungary on our way to Slovenia, and found this to be the perfect place for a weekend stop — even though we did not know the city was one of the 2010 European Capitals of Culture until our couch surfing friends informed us.  This was our first couch surfing experience and we stayed with an awesome couple named Geri and Nelli who are both lawyers–funny!  We immediately clicked with them and though we only spent two nights there it was hard to say goodbye. 

Another lucky coincidence of the weekend was that the PEN festival was going on in Pecs (by the way, Pecs is pronounced “paech”).  We got to meet many of Geri and Nelli’s awesome friends during a pre-game party.

PEN is a university music festival that lasts four nights and it was probably best that we only caught the final night because it was more than enough fun!  Set among several buildings of an old leather factory there were four stages, a dance bus, and our favorite: the silent disco. Peeking into the room while waiting in line provided the silly sight of hundreds of people dancing to no music at all. Looking more closely, we noticed that the dancing people had headphones on and were all holding some sort of walkman/music players. Once in, we found out that was a sort of handheld radio broadcasting two “stations”, so everyone in the room is actually dancing to one of two different songs, which becomes quite comical when one of the songs call for you to sing along.

We were responsible enough to leave our camera at the house; it appeared that most people at the festival were operating on some level of drunkenness, including the workers at the food tents (Marcelo somehow got paid to eat pizza — he handed a 500 bill and got 600 back, which made up for an earlier moment when we were slightly ripped off).

*** 

The next day Nelli had to take the afternoon train to Budapest, where she works, so we accompanied her and Geri on some errands on the way to the train station.  Again, lucky for us, this involved stopping at Nelli’s mom’s house to eat some delicious food.  Before rice & breaded pork patties and poppy seed cake for dessert, we had the best cabbage soup ever. Dropping her off at a tiny train station was a lot more melancholic than we could have ever expected, and we are certain we will see her and Geri again. 

After that Geri took us on a quick detour to a traditional, small town bar that gave us a poignant taste of less glamorous lifestyles (it‘s still OK to smoke indoors in Hungary, and apparently it‘s also OK to bring your little infant baby with you when you are drinking and smoking a Sunday afternoon away).

We drank our coffees and drove to the next village to stop by Nelli’s grandparents house. We briefly met them, a painfully sweet older couple who we also hope to see again. Like Nelli’s mom, they also gave Geri a bag of food (fresh honey, homemade salami, etc.). We loved to see how much of the food at Geri and Nelli’s was homemade: even the palinka (Hungary’s signature spirit) was distilled by Geri’s grandfather! After a few more errands and some driving through the countryside, we took a short walk through Pecs’ recently remodeled main  historical square and then went back to the apartment to eat sandwiches and watch a movie (Nelli‘s recommendation was “Two Days in Paris“, in honor of our itinerary change). Our marvelous stay in Pecs — and Hungary — was coming to an end.  

It seemed absurd at first, but over the past few days we grew more used to the bizarre reality that our scheduled arrival to Europe has coincided with the greatest disruption in the history of aviation. When I first related the news to a half-asleep Norika on our first night in Istanbul, she must have thought it a dream: “of course an Icelandic volcano has cast a gigantic cloud of ash over the entire continent…” zzz.

To make matters more challenging, we heard back from my relatives in Northern Italy and they won’t be in Lucca during our planned stay there — good thing we have sorely slacked on the reservations department. We suppose that’s just the jolt of spontaneity our trip needed. Naturally, we have devised a series of alternative plans in case we can’t fly to Holland tomorrow afternoon; we may fly to Barcelona instead, or better yet (if we can’t fly at all), find a boat that would take us to Romania and travel across Eastern Europe, completely scratching the Netherlands and France off our itinerary. Who knows.

***

These concerns have definitely not stopped us from enjoying the present moment. Istanbul is a marvelous city and one of our favorite stops thus far. It is beautiful, chaotic, somewhat walkable and it oozes history. It also happens to be about 50 degrees cooler than the last few places we’ve been in, but having eaten baklava almost everyday, how can we complain?

Like many other fabled great cities (i.e. Rio de Janeiro), Istanbul is defined by its geography. It sits partly in Europe and partly in Asia, relying on seven bridges as well as ports and boats to connect the two sides. There is nothing plain about this place — unless you are right by the water, most of the time you will be either walking up or down steep road; in effect, this not only represents a valuable work out opportunity for overweight tourists, but also generates beautiful views of neatly stacked multicolored buildings at a distance.

***

Our guesthouse room may have left something to be desired, but our breakfasts on the terrace are delicious and feature a stunning view of the Blue Mosque.

The mosque’s architecture was heavily based on the building it sits opposite to: the Hagia Sophia (except that was built nearly a 1000 years before… in 537 A.D.!!!)

Although we don’t plan on going to too many museums during our Europe leg, Istanbul was a necessary exception, if anything because its two most famous museums (Hagia Sophia and the Topkapi Palace) don’t carry much artwork — instead, the buildings themselves often ARE the artwork. The Blue Mosque (which charges nothing for admission, as it is actually a functioning mosque, blaring prayers from its impressive six towers five times a day) and the Hagia Sophia are so massive in size and design that our camera had a hard time figuring out what to focus on: there were simply too many arches, windows, domes.

Blue Mosque:

Hagia Sophia:

In contrast, the Topkapi Palace was not a single large construction, but rather a series of courtyards with scattered buildings throughout. It was more museum-y as it featured expositions of Ottoman objects (weapons, jewels, thrones, etc.); the most jaw-dropping relics contained obscene amounts of emerald and ivory; the strangest included the supposed staff of the prophet Moses, samples of Mohammed’s beard and other antiques of questionable authenticity. Most viewing rooms did not allow photographs.

We also let curiosity take us into the creepy underground world of the Basilica Cistern, also built in the 500s. There is not much to say about it: it’s just a dark, wet, and fascinating place to be.

***

Eventually, we decided to experience the intense realm of Turkish commerce. The notorious Grand Bazaar is indeed overwhelmingly grand, possibly the world’s first shopping maze. Our first time there was nearly traumatic; out of at least 20 entrances, we happened to walk in through the one full of jewelry hagglers angrily yelling on their cell phones, something we thought only happened at stock market exchanges. After a while we made it to more friendly grounds and got lost wandering through the isles and narrow roads around the covered section.

The Egyptian Bazaar (also known as the Spice Bazaar) was cooler. First of all, it was smaller and thus a more manageable market to explore. The colorful shops offered more edible items than the ones at the Grand Bazaar: spices, teas, sweets, and dried goods were mostly inside, while the outdoor shops sold everything from cheese and fish (one of the shops had a whole blue marlin laying on its stand) to kitchen ware. We followed the plan we devised a long time ago and stocked up on almonds, hazelnuts, and apricots (a total of 3 pounds of goods!) so that the Old World won’t lead us to starvation with its prohibitive food costs.

Finally, we discovered crazy shops under the Galata Bridge selling leggings and fake soccer jerseys for roughly $3 a piece. As he ripped open plastic packages and tossed shirts into large disorganized mountains of shirts, the man at the soccer jersey shop yelled a lot of things that would probably remain unintelligible even if we understood Turkish.

***

On Sunday, we embarked on a short boat tour of the Bosphorus; it was cool and windy, but worth it for the nice views of the greater Istanbul, including the Ortakoy Mosque and the awesome Fortress of Europe.

***

Monday is theoretically our last full day here, so we wanted to get a little more adventurous and explore a less touristy part of Istanbul. We crossed the Galata Bridge and walked away from the Golden Horn in search of a particular Turkish bath that (despite being unable to find much information on it online) we hoped would have a more local flavor than the hamams around the Sultahnamet area: the Buyuk Hamam, which was built in friggin’ 1533. Of course, we were also hoping that the full treatment would be considerably cheaper than the 40+ euros that the places nearby were charging. I am happy to say in advance that we were successful on both accounts.

Because the hamam’s male and female sections are completely separate (only the most touristy ones aren’t so), we each set out on our own culturally shocking adventure.

To be continued…

Krabi feels different than other places in Thailand. For one, there are ample, walkable sidewalks — along one particularly long stretch by the river, there are even ramps for wheelchair users, albeit they are very steep (possibly more than 45 degrees) and would arguably be more dangerous than regular steps. Secondly, there are parks — you know, with grass and places to sit so people can watch the water or have a picnic. Not least, the city is dotted with bizarre statues: a giant crab near the pier, a golden saber tooth tiger over a city map, and what can only be a Neanderthal holding street lights.

The area where we are staying has a touristy feel to it (e.g. there are pizza places nearby), which is not surprising as Krabi is a common departure point for day trips to paradisiacal islands and caves; the latter are particularly abundant throughout this province. On our first night here we walked leisurely around the town, settling at an open air food court where we gorged on desserts and noodles dishes.

The next morning we walked several blocks to reach not a Laundromat, but a street washing machine — our clothes and towels were tainted from 10 days in Ko Jum, and the need to do laundry is an inevitable reality check. Norika managed to score a 15-ft piece of string for free at a hardware store, and then devised an intricate clothing line system in our bathroom at the guesthouse. She was very proud of it.

While we waited for the laundry to be done, we had a bizarre breakfast of rice porridge soup (the only thing we actually ordered) that was brought along with deep-fried dough, strange doughy buns filled with who-knows-what, and countless variations of ground pork (pork with mushrooms, pork with quail eggs, pork with seaweed, cabbage pork rolls, and so on). It was an unexpected but ultimately awesome experience; based on how many locals were at this breakfast joint (they closed at 11am), we hit jackpot. It probably helped that we were further from the tourist district.

***

In the afternoon, we took a song taew to the Tiger Cave Temple (Wat Tham Sua), just 5km out of Krabi. The cave temple itself was packed with monks chanting and people waiting in line to get a New Year blessing from the elder monks. We then decided to challenge ourselves and climb all 1237 steps up to the temple on top of the mountain; the first few were a piece of cake, but soon they started looking more like steep Angkor Wat steps. The heat was infernal and our sweating quite profuse. The view from the top was rewarding, though not as much as the cool breeze that graced our soiled selves.

Coming down was a bit easier and a lot faster, though our legs started feeling like jell-o. After a quick break, we took a path toward more caves — these ones featuring only shrines instead of  full temples set up inside of them. All along you could still hear monkeys screeching and monks chanting (there were speakers set up in different parts of the temple complex, so the voices, however distant, were omnipresent). In the end, the path was just a teaser of all the caving Krabi has to offer, but by the end of the patht we felt defeated by both man and nature, and were more than ready to get back to our hotel.

***

April 13th marked the official beginning of Songkran, the Thai New Year/Water Festival. We couldn’t join the celebrations in Krabi because the guesthouse owner thought it would be prudent for us to leave to Surat Thani in the morning rather than in the afternoon, just in case things got too crazy and we missed our train connection from Surat Thani later that night. We were crammed into a song taew with other white tourists and splashed with water here and there as we made our way to a farang-only bus station; we all had colored stickers attached to our chest to instruct the bus company’s workers on what to do with these white masses of walking flesh once they were deposited at the next stop.

Surat Thani was different. There, inside of a slightly less crowded song taew, we got a glimpse of the mass hysteria that takes over the minds of Thai people during Songkran. Little kids and adults alike shot at everyone with water guns, while others sat on the side of the road with huge barrels of cold water, filling up buckets and tossing the contents at cars and people passing by. All the while, everybody is screaming — Norika thinks this is the one time of the year when Thais let their voices cut loose; indeed, it is very uncommon for a Thai person to yell.

Even more excited were those (men, women, kids, everybody) who crammed themselves onto the back of fast-moving pickup trucks, still managing to make room for one or more large barrels of water; riding through town ruthlessly spreading wetness around, we soon learned to watch for these mobile units — not that we could do much to stop our luggage or selves from getting soaked.

Water itself was fine; we became concerned once we saw people dipping their hands into bowls containing a nasty, clay-like mix and spreading it over other individuals’ faces. Even more mischievous was the idea of mixing food coloring into the water — once I saw that, I threw my respectful observation of conservative Thai customs and immediately took off my Spain jersey  to spare it from staining (I had considered myself smart for wearing , as it would dry quicker than any of my other shirts. Clearly I didn‘t know all the rules of the game).

***

Early Wednesday we arrived in Bangkok without a clue about the city’s safety status. The day before, Norika checked the U.S. Consulate recommendations on traveling to Thailand; essentially, it just advertised against excessive stupidity. A couple of Germans we chatted with on the bus to Surat Thani told us Bangkok was “really dangerous right now”, but we figured they knew no better than us. Our responsible plan was to store our luggage at the train station, wander around for a bit, and get a feel of the city’s mood.

To our surprise, Bangkok was eerily quiet. Not only were most businesses closed for the holiday, but it also appeared that the red shirts themselves had magically dispersed after their April 13 deadline for the government to step down. Over the course of several hours, we agreed that it would be safe  to walk toward Khao San Road, which just a few days ago was site of the most political violence Thailand has seen since the early 90s. Luckily for us, this time the only guns around were made of plastic and full of water.

The first time we walked through Khao San we were delightfully soaked in a matter of seconds. The street was packed with both Thais and foreigners, water flying everywhere and random hands rubbing the aforementioned clay slime (we suspect the concoction contains baby powder) over faces, including ours. Purchasing a clunky water gun and then some water to chase after others seemed silly, so instead we simply served as willful targets for those who were really into the whole water fight thing (once again, there are no action shots because our camera is not waterproof; all we could do was — quite literally — soak in the experience). Within a few minutes we felt we had had enough of it and walked a few blocks North to grab a bite, ending up with coconut ice cream served inside of… a coconut. In the meantime, the obscene heat dried our clothes.

The second time we got soaked was on our way back through the Khao San area. We couldn’t avoid it without taking a long detour, and no matter how strategically we moved about, we were eventually detected, wetted, and slimed. It was considerably less glorious than the first time around and made us wish we could retaliate, but at least we still had a ways to go before reaching the train station and being wet wasn‘t all that tragic. We ended up at a seedy market area where we had our last spicy green papaya salad (Som Tum), and then walked into a 7-Eleven in search of a specific brand of iced tea that contains, of all things, wheat. Along with soymilk in juice boxes, this had been our manufactured drink of choice while in Thailand (we did, of course, try each local beer brand once: Chang, Leo, and the famous Singha, all of which, as well as Cambodia’s Angkor beer, were at best mediocre).

On our way out of 7-Eleven, we were ambushed by a single Thai man who cruelly dumped a bucket of cold water on each one of us, soiling our clothes and our bags for the third and final time. At this point, Norika wished she had a power-washing bazooka to teach him a lesson. We had probably been building up to this for a while, but it was precisely at this point that we felt ready to get out of Thailand and move onward with our trip.

Disclaimer: This is an abnormally long post because we’ve been offline for so long…

It took us nearly 32 hours to get from Siem Reap, Cambodia to Ko Jum, Thailand. This leg was at times even more bizarre than the previous one, but another long post like that would be boring. Instead, here’s the compiled list of the modes of transportation that brought us here:

1. Tuk Tuk  from guesthouse to taxi;

2. Taxi  from Siem Reap to border;

3. Feet across Thai-Cambodian border and immigration;

4. Tuk Tuk  from border to train station;

5. Train from Aranyaprathet to Bangkok (more specifically, 6-hour ride on 3rd-class train diesel-fueled without sealed/sealable windows, meaning the detritus and smoke from the front wagon would flow through the subsequent cars, melding with one’s sweat-covered skin to form a disgusting film of dirt, a process that was certainly similar to what was happening inside of our lungs. We believe this is the closest our trip will bring us to the experience of being a coal miner. It cost us $1.50 — no joke — but you would have to pay us a lot more than that for a repeat);

6. Train from Bangkok to Thung Song Jn (overnight ride after a 3-hour layover featuring a not-so-romantic dinner of day-old pastries at the cockroach-ridden Bangkok train station);

7. Motorbike taxis to bus station (who would think twice about hopping on the bike of a motorbike carrying their RTW luggage?);

8. Bus from Thung Song Jn to Nue Klong… or not! (we got dropped off at the wrong city, Klongtom. Ironically that was one of the most expensive legs of the whole journey);

9. Song Taew from Klongtom to Nue Klong;

10. Song Taew from Nue Klong to Laem Kruad;

11. Long boat to Ko Jum dock;

12. Motorbike taxi, though this time with a side car, from dock to the bungalows.

Unlike Phuket — Thailand’s ultimate party/resort destination — Ko Jum is a serene, almost monotonous locale. Electricity is a recent development (we were very glad to have a working fan in our room), and as seen in the pictures, our bungalow was not the most solid construction. There was no hot water per se (I lie: depending on the time of the day, the sun would have warmed up the water and it was possible to take a hot shower… though that was not exactly a pleasant thing given the 100-degree weather), and the toilet could only be flushed manually, by dumping buckets of water in it.

***

We spent our first few days in Ko Jum doing, at least by everyday life standards, what amounted to very little. On our first night here we were graced with a superb lightning storm watching opportunity (our island was dry, but the storm faraway looked awesome), and then again later in the week. We’ve been getting up early (before 7am, not simply by choice but also because the sun shines through the cracks of our little bungalow right into our eyes) and heading out to the beach before it’s blazing hot. By late afternoon, the sea water here is so astonishingly warm that it is barely refreshing at all; the same can be said about the breeze, so we’ve spent these hours in the shade, reading a lot. They call this time of the year (April-May) not summer, but rather the “hot season”; by now we know that it’s no joke.

A large portion of Ko Jum’s coast is covered in rocks, so we’ve been walking to spots a little ways from our “hotel” to find a sandy beach and have a nuts and dried fruit breakfast picnic (until we ran out of those). The result is that we usually have a surreally beautiful beach all to ourselves. Of course, come 9:30am the heat is unbearable and sun merciless; even the water feels hot. Thus our main crisis has revolved around sunscreen conservation (as any given capitalist would have realized at some point, vendors at a remote tropical island can charge an exorbitant amount for a little bottle of sunscreen).

In any case, the nature is this place is quite amusing, though most of the time in a subtle way — the exception being a breed of clumsy-flying beetles that hatch only in April and which have taken a liking in terrorizing me… until they fall belly up to the ground and fail to recover, displaying a most shocking evolutionary flaw. Otherwise, we’ve seen a strange (aren’t they all?) brown jellyfish, a big hermit crab, and other crabs of different shell and/or body sizes (some of them very, very tiny — smaller than a house fly); later in the week, we briefly spotted a large (2 ft?) lizard.

But the really interesting find came up one clear night when we were hanging out on the beach watching the stars sit still and the bats fly by. I got up to look for bigger crabs (which are hard to spot during the day, so we figured they must come out at night). At some point I took a break from my crab bullying and started walking towards the rocks near the water, and my eyes magically found a rock that seemed distinct from the rest — it was about the size of a soccer ball, lighter colored, rounder and had a few holes in it. Looking more closely, I realized it must be a large chunk of dead coral (there are lots of dried up pieces of coral along the shore, along with shells and little rocks). I took out my LD light and shone it into one of the holes and found a reptile’s head, its eye looking back at me (probably full of hatred for being awoken in such a crass manner). I called out for Norika, who gave it a look  and quickly classified it as a small turtle. Hanging out inside of a rock. Obviously, I kept wondering around the beach looking for other awesome things that night, but kept going back to the coral rock, waiting there with my feet in the still warm water trying to get a better look at the turtle; the tide was rising and it seemed like at some point over the next hour or two it would have to swim out (also obvious is the fact that by this point Norika was already sitting elsewhere reading a book; we’ve both been reading a lot more than our usual, taking full advantage of book trading and free time in general). Eventually, I caught a glimpse of a couple of turtle legs that looked much more like paddles, and then OUCH! something bit, or stung, or straight up drilled into my right ankle. I quickly reached for and grabbed the culprit, which looked like a minuscule crustacean about 1/8 inch in size — big enough for me to stop exploring and call it a night.

***

As with Siem Reap, food here is relatively expensive when compared to our cheap luxuries in Chiang Mai, though at least the restaurants here can use the “remote location” excuse.  Of course, we eventually found a couple of reasonable places that don’t seem too exploitative. Like most of the other restaurants we’ve been too in the past few, err, weeks, these ones also feature an abundance of insects — not on the menu, but flying around the tables. We have realized that, while in a place like the U.S. the presence of insects inside of a restaurant can be a deal breaker, here it is regarded as a mere inconvenience; most places lack any walls, so keeping bugs out becomes a bit difficult (most restaurants also have kittens everywhere, which is OK until one of them jumps on and claws you bare leg).

At night, servers in most establishments here will place one of those burning anti-mosquito spirals right under the dinner table; the potentially toxic smoke keeps the mosquitoes away, but not the flies or the aforementioned beetles, making eating a bit of a battle.

***

Later in the week things got a little more interesting. We took a long walk down the beach and then through a narrow dirt path to one of the island‘s 3 villages. We did some market research on the snorkeling tours offered by different agencies, only to decide later that we would just stick to the one offered by our own bungalows. The next morning we hopped on a long tail boat with four other people: a nice German couple, Christoph and Kira, and our unengaged guides.

Our boat first took us to the Phi Phi islands. If from far away the scenery was already impressive, up close the steep rocky walls of the islands were incredible. I had never seen turquoise water before — at least not that turquoise! Eventually the guides took us to a bay that has become one of the “mandatory” stops on these kinds of boat trips, as it harbors the beach where the movie “The Beach” (the one where Leonardo di Caprio and his buddies try to start an utopia and then bump into machinegun-yielding drug lords… something like that). Of course there were tons of boats at this place, which was quite silly.

In any case, the reason for the day trip was snorkeling. I had had a taste of it during our trip to Ilha Grande, but had never experienced “real” snorkeling with multicolored corals and all. I was obviously amazed by the reefs, the plethora of fish, big and small, the occasional seahorse or starfish, odd looking fellas like toadfish and sea cucumbers, creepy urchins, and on and on and on. We did not have the capacity of taking underwater pictures, so logic would indicate that this section of the story would be either short or really boring, full of pointless details. Alas, not so. We snorkeled at three separate locations, starting at the relatively crowded bay (thankfully we were far from the beach itself where all the speed boats were stationed, and we left right as a massive passenger boat arrived and certainly played its part in obliterating the beautiful reef). The next stop was at the beach on Mosquito Island, where we had a pleasant fried rice and pineapple picnic and then explored the waters nearby.

The third and final stop was meant to be Bamboo Island, yet we never actually reached the island, stopping rather at a seemingly random spot (it surely wasn’t, otherwise the quiet guides wouldn’t have known where to anchor) in the middle of the ocean. Not long after we jumped in, Norika pointed out the frightening truth: there were jellyfish scattered around these waters. At times you could only see a couple, but other times the tide would bring a few too many for our liking, so after a short while Norika and the German couple were back in the boat, unsuccessfully trying to extract some information from our unhelpful guides on how harmful these creatures actually were. Being stubborn — I was just getting the jest of diving for longer periods of time — I stayed in the water, carefully doing 360-degree checks to make sure I would remain safe. After a while, the only jellyfish I had in sight was being devoured by a group of medium-sized fish, so I summoned the others back to the water, assuring them that all was well.

Naturally, after a while the jellyfish returned. At this point, it was almost time to go and the guides were trying to flag the German couple, who was swimming obliviously a little ways from the boat. Norika got out of the water and, seeing the guides’ plight, asked me to swim out to bring the Germans back. I told her I would… but after just one more dive. I was serious, just one more dive so I can have a better look at the sweet ten-pronged blue starfish I had spotted a while back. I swam toward the deeper area and, slightly bummed that I was unable to spot the starfish again, came to terms with it and sank into my last dive anyway. A few seconds later, the pressure building up on my head and oxygen running low, I started my quick swim back to the surface. Then, on my way up, out of nowhere, right in front of my mask, on my face, there it was. A jellyfish. Purple. No larger than Andre the Giant’s fist. And just like that, the jellyfish brushed against my lips.

Have you ever wondered what it feels like to be stung by a jellyfish? Let me tell you. First of all, it is not like a cut, which takes a few moments before it truly hurts; instead, the pain is instantaneous, a mix of a burn and an electric shock, perhaps a little acid spill sprinkled on top. Soon afterward, it feels like enormous blisters are popping up on your skin; surprisingly, at least in the event of a simple brush as was my case, there is no obvious evidence of swelling. It is an internal, visceral pain that doesn’t let go for several  hours — it still hurt just as bad when I went to sleep that night, and though I felt better by the next morning the effects weren’t completely gone until about 24 hours after the fact.

Absolutely freaked out an in pain, I immediately took out my mask and swam as fast as I could back to the boat. I hastily explained to Norika what happened and collapsed on the floor, hoping that perhaps our guides would have a good idea on how to remedy my suffering. Once they understood what had happened, both men started laughing, a laughter that said “oh man, that farang just got stung in the mouth by a jellyfish! That‘s totally hilarious!” On the flipside, their reaction did make me feel like I wasn’t going to die or need any serious medical attention, something that my body wasn’t quite ready to believe. Shortly after the Germans (that I should have swam toward instead of diving into the world of pain) got back on the boat, I got my consolation prize: we saw a couple of dolphins swim by, thus completing an unforgettable snorkeling adventure.

***

We left Ko Jum on Sunday morning on a modest boat that had only 3 life-vests available despite carrying 20+ passengers. We are currently in Krabi, and will stay here for a couple of days until the beginning of the Thai New Year (aka the “water festival”) festivities, April 13. From there we’ll be headed to Bangkok, where we will hopefully be able to indulge in some watery fun instead of bloody clashes. The news are scary…

We left Chiang Mai a little after 8pm Sunday night and arrived to our destination at 2pm Monday.  We knew before we started that this leg of the trip would be one of the most strenuous and our expectations were met.  The first nine and a half hours we were on a “VIP” bus headed to Bangkok.  The seats were extra wide and reclined enough so that you could easily reach the person behind you, and you even got a large towel-like blanket for the ride.  Unfortunately, these attempts at comfort did not trump the frigid air conditioning, which made the whole thing feel like a cryogenics experiment.

When we did arrive in Bangkok at 5:30 am,  we were deposited into a huge maze-like bus station (only one of Bangkok’s many stations).  After wandering back and forth in the wrong direction for about twenty minutes we finally found our way to the inside of the bus terminal where we were able to buy a ticket for the next leg of the journey.  We hopped on the bus and rolled out of Bangkok at 6am.

Then came the fun part: we arrived to Aranyaprathet (still in Thailand) at 9:30 am — a short journey during which we actually got more sleep than the entire night before. Once in “Aran”, we stepped out of the bus and were immediately approached by touts trying to sell us tuk tuk services.

(20 minutes later)

“You are scared.” It was odd that this sentence was coming from a (supposed) border patrol officer, trying to get us into a quarantine control room to fill out a meaningless form about whether or not we’ve been coughing over the last month. His statement, however, was within reason: we had arrived at the dirty border city of Poipet, land of scams, casinos, pick pocketing, and more scams. The level of dishonesty (something that, as far as we know, we hadn’t experienced in Thailand) has bled through the border and applied to our tuk tuk driver, who first took us not to the border crossing per se, but rather to the Cambodian Consulate on the Thai side of things. Scam spotted! We already knew about how this “consulate” sells fake visas that prove useless once you actually try to enter Cambodia, so we staunchly refused to get out of the tuk tuk until the guards gave up and our driver took us to the border crossing spot.

Borders are messy, but this place was just ridiculous. Enforcement of who was coming and going was seemingly sporadic, which is why we were butting heads with the quarantine form officer. We didn’t recall reading anything about filling out health-related forms to get into Cambodia, and were flat out refusing to follow the guy’s orders. “You don’t go there, you don’t go to Cambodia”, he said, while dozens of other people continued to walk past him. We pointed out this treatment discrepancy to him, and he explained that those people were going to the casino (not sure how he would know that without asking or checking any of them) which was located BEFORE the immigration/customs office. Now, is it normal for casinos to exist between a border and an immigration office? We eventually gave in to the quarantine man, on the grounds that filling out the forms would cost us nothing. Oh, and they DO make you write “holiday” as the reason for your trip!

Next up came the actual visa purchase, which as we knew would cost us $20 and require a passport picture. We had these in hand, but we also knew that the officers would request an additional 100 Baht as a mysterious, extra fee. We said no, no, no. It is not often we catch ourselves openly opposing people in a position of authority, but in Cambodia this is pretty much the modus operandi: it is impossible to know who to trust, so we were starting out every interaction by refusing to do whatever we were told; if the person gave up and let us move on, it was probably a scam attempt and they would just try to get someone else to fall for it; if they did not budge, then it was probably the real deal.

Needless to say that this put us into a thick, stressful state of mind (especially as we are carrying all of our luggage/valuables with us!). We eventually proceeded through the crowds and across a bridge, where we reached the Cambodian immigration and boarded on a free shuttle that took us to a transportation hub reserved (and mandatory) for all international visitors. There we encountered a bizarrely bureaucratic scheme (apparently Poipet has sort of a taxi mafia), and after negotiating with a noticeably tall Cambodian man for about 15 minutes we settled for a taxi ride to Siem Reap, where we would then be transferred for free to a tuk tuk, that would then deliver us to our guesthouse. Not quite sure if this was ture or not, we paid for a little over half of the ride, reserving the rest to the taxi driver once we reached our free transfer in Siem Reap.

The taxi ride, of course, was something else. Our driver would constant and erratically honk his horn every time he approached and/or passed someone, and made a couple of suspicious stops, where he would leave the car and talk to random people, something that left us quite confused. He eventually picked up an extra passenger, not that we had much of a say  in the matter. Two scam-fearing hours later, we miraculously arrived in Siem Reap and boarded our free tuk tuk connection, during which we had to try really hard to convey that we did have a guesthouse booked already and there was no need to drop us off elsewhere, thank you. So no, this story does not have an unpleasant climax, nor does it have any pictures, because the shady factor there was off the roof. In fact, Poipet made us wish we had visited Ciudad del Este, Paraguay (the third part of the Iguazu Falls triple border); despite its reputation for being a sketchy place, it would have probably looked like Switzerland in comparison to shifty Poipet.

***

Of course, we came to Siem Reap for the same reason 2 million other people do so every year: to see the Angkor Wat ruins (well, we also needed to renew Norika‘s visa, so we could also call it a glorified visa run). I won’t delve into the details of the temple complex too much, as that information is readily available. Overall, the temples were awesome, the weather was ruthlessly hot, the guilt-tripping Angkor kids were not as numerous as we expected, and the steepness of temple steps was not for the faint of heart. We should mention that the cost-benefit of a trip to Angkor Wat is not the greatest: the U.S. dollar is the de facto currency here, and prices are very inflated due to the touristy nature of the place. In other words, this is a better side leg of a Southeast Asia trip than a true holiday destination… unless you come with a large group of people who wants to play capture the flag in the ruins.

And now the photo fest. Ruins, roots (including Ta Prohm, the temple that got owned by nature and was made famous by the infamous Tomb Raider movie), the occasional monkey, the occasional monk, a partial sunset pic, Norika making fun of sunset viewers who decided to stick aroundthrough the bitter end and must have had an awful time getting down from the top of the temple, sunrise at Angkor Wat, more ruins.

***

Tomorrow we’ll be heading back to Poipet, crossing the border back into Thailand, taking a train to Bangkok and then another one down to the South. We hope to reach the island of Ko Jum by Friday mid-afternoon. We don’t expect to have Internet service on the island (possibly as a consequence, the place doesn’t exist on GoogleMaps), so no blogs will be published for the next week and a half, which doesn’t mean we won’t be writing them or taking pictures — it just means that our online presence will be null, and our lives will be significantly simpler for a few days…

I must have jinxed myself when I pointed out my lack of motorcycling experience, because a few hours after the last blog post Som decided she and her brother would come pick us up (on their motorcycles) the very next morning so we could all ride together to an organic farmer’s market. Clearly, I survived.

At the market we met one of Norika’s host moms and gave her a small, vacuum-sealed portion of dried Northern Michigan cherries. Our generosity, however, was quickly one-upped as she presented us with a bagful of fresh organic produce from her farm. Since we don’t turn down free food (even at a place where food barely costs anything), we went back to our hostel and reacquainted ourselves with our dormant cooking skills.

Oh, our hostel. Over the past couple of days, Norika and I realized that we cannot be classified as backpackers. Firstly, we don’t have a bulging backpack with dirty hiking shoes hanging off the back (our luggage has wheels and we are very grateful for them). Secondly, we find little pleasure in laying on the hostel’s living area floor watching stupid action flicks all day (not sure all backpackers do that, perhaps it’s just the odd breed that has been around here; at the risk of coming off like an elitist prick, who comes to Thailand to eat canned beans, spaghetti, mac n’ cheese, and french fries? That stuff probably cost about 3 times more than a regular Thai meal!  Anyway, I’m closing my parenthesis of negativity). Lastly, the economics of hostels dictate that, when traveling as a couple, it costs just as much to book a private room than stay at a dorm where you pay by the bed (and are forced to pay for two, regardless of your willingness to forgo comfort and share a twin). It is possible that our position on this may evolve a bit during our trip through Europe, but for now, we’re just travelers, thank you very much.

In any case, I shouldn’t criticize food choices so much, as some of the stuff that we’ve eaten over the past few days can be considered pretty offensive (especially to our bellies). The other night Som took us out to dinner, suggesting afterward that we go eat some toast. I was obviously quite confused as to why anyone would eat toast for dessert, especially after dinner, but was persuaded to accept the proposal based on the promise of ice cream. I was not disappointed: I had a delicious cup of black sesame (!)  ice cream. Som ordered the toast anyway: in pure Thai style, it was a sweet, covered not in butter or jam but rather by a generous dose of condensed milk. It was decadent.

That said, our most offensive meal, by far, was the all-you-can-eat Korean BBQ joint we went to a couple of nights ago. The place was huge: it looked like a large, wall-less warehouse with wooden booths (hundreds, I would estimate), with a stage in the front where musicians and comedians took turns trying to cause the most annoyance. In the middle, long tables were set up as a buffet, one with large platters of pre-made dishes, another with fruit, vegetables and mushrooms, a couple more with desserts, and finally the stars of the place: a bizarre selection of raw meats (not just chicken, pork or cow cutlets but also liver and other less identifiable things) and seafood (fish, squid, octopus, little shrimp, large shrimp, etc.), to be cooked by you, the customer, who will make use of an ingenious fire stove that sits in the middle of your table. The strange device features an elevated middle section where the meat is cooked, while the circle around it serves as a bowl where you make soup with vegetables and mushrooms and whatever else you decide to eat in this absurd, indulgent feast.

Perhaps consequently, we took the next day off and spent it sitting around our room reading and/or online. These restful hours proved to be a wise move, because yesterday was brutal. We got up at 5:45 a.m. to get to the station on the other side of town on time for the 7:00 a.m. bus toward Lampang, which would drop us off on the side of the highway so we could visit the Elephant Conservation Center (its actual name has been changed to Thai National Elephant Institute, or something like that). Despite making it to the station on time, we were told the 7 o’clock bus wouldn’t drop anybody off except at bus stops, so instead we had to wait till 8:30 a.m. before heading out on an hour-long trip to elephant land.

Unlike many (most?) other elephant camps in Thailand, this center actually treats its animals nicely, with a focus on healing elephants who get hurt elsewhere (the nation’s main elephant hospital is there). Sure, part of the deal was an elephant show where they busted out a couple of tricks (e.g. cool elephant paintings), but for the most part they were showcasing traditional domesticated elephant procedures, like moving around huge logs and so on.

The center also features an elephant dung paper “factory”, where the aforementioned product is manufactured by hand — and not just the elephants’ digestive system. It’s a neat sustainable process and the proceeds go straight back to the elephants’ bank accounts.

What has gone unsaid so far is that elephants are incredible (and that they have rather long eyelashes). It is amazing how one moment a creature can inspire such awe and respect, and then suddenly when they get a bit too close the feeling mutates into fear. They are huge, powerful, strong, and you just don’t wanna mess with them.

After catching a couple of the shows and seeing the animals bathe, we set out to find transportation back to Chiang Mai under the scorching afternoon sun. We crossed the highway, found shade, and hoped a bus of some sort would drive by and be gentle enough to pull over and pick us up. Really lucky us: the wait took less than 10 minutes.

A few hours later we met up with Som and P’Pae for a farewell dinner/night out: Som is going to Japan on Saturday, so P’Pae took us to a nice restaurant and picked out some more great food:  coconut milk soup, deep-fried morning glory, and a crazy seafood curry served inside of a coconut.

Then… we went out, one of those nights out for the ages, the kind that we can only pull off a few times a year. We  finally got to see the side of Chiang Mai that had been less apparent: that this city, at least of weekends, needn’t sleep, as long as bar owners have paid local enforcement a little extra something to keep from getting shut down after the city’s 2 a.m. curfew.