tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58924453326864197382024-03-13T23:52:47.116-07:00Rambling RoversThe raucous record of two brothers' walks through world. Offers anecdotes, tour reviews, cultural introspection, half-wit wisecracks, gustatory hijinx, and the general trappings of Gentleman Adventuring.PNThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07941960861931140648noreply@blogger.comBlogger52125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-18797985592476560052016-11-25T03:21:00.000-08:002016-11-28T05:39:47.883-08:00"It's Thailand"<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the small beach town of Ao Nang, down a nondescript alley, wedged between trinket shops and Thai massage parlours is a most incongruous establishment: A shooting range. Despite being the size of a (small) 7-11, this plucky storefront boasted “SHOOT GLOCK!” and “TRY SNIPER RIFLE!” and displayed a conspicuous pile of hardware on the front counter by the lounging tout. Given the complete lack of soundproofing, not to mention any apparent reinforcement to the back wall of the shop (behind the plywood targets), we momentarily assumed that these were airsoft, or video games, or...well, anything sensible and sensical. But this is Thailand. At our slightest expression of interest, the tout leapt into action, proclaiming “THREE-FIFTY SEVEN! REAL MAGNUM!!” and swung an enormous Smith and Wesson revolver into view. “You shoot!” he encouraged, fumbling a handful of thumb-sized cartridges onto the counter. For just over a thousand baht, with no waiver, no training, and no personal protection whatsover (to say nothing of the unfortunate neighbors) you too can go Dirty Harry on the mean streets of Krabi.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitCEFwRGTwBhw1mYi55Ovs93Rir0tuZE-8CWJ4Ov2uZ4d9KHs2Tv9nzNhyeYDaL7r29QE97poCvyyRfcJSDfKScJz_5wYkzdogj9DLW8ShelORuVti04Kuf9gwBUuB8XO6EEZwO5fmNDc/s1600/IMG_20161115_112100343.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitCEFwRGTwBhw1mYi55Ovs93Rir0tuZE-8CWJ4Ov2uZ4d9KHs2Tv9nzNhyeYDaL7r29QE97poCvyyRfcJSDfKScJz_5wYkzdogj9DLW8ShelORuVti04Kuf9gwBUuB8XO6EEZwO5fmNDc/s400/IMG_20161115_112100343.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drive the front of your car and<br />
don't wait for your turn, it'll never come.</td></tr>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Welcome to Thailand. It’s a thrumming country on the cusp of joining the first world, and in a pell-mell hurry to get there. The result is a national culture of devil-may-care pragmatism where a tenuous “it works” is the status quo. When we gawk at the rough edges and obvious potential for catastrophe, Thais seem to approach things with a combination of blithe optimism and zen fatalism. With a little practice, we’ve learned to adopt their standing cultural shrug and just say “It’s Thailand.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A glance into the streets perfectly captures this this state of affairs. Bangkok traffic is famous for its relentless melee of cars, delivery vans, tuk tuks, scooters, food carts, and jaywalkers. The lane lines are a suggestion at best, as drivers form new lanes at will and impatient scooter riders fish ladder up the wrong side of the street. Pedestrians cross with reckless confidence and the ubiquitous traffic cops appear to direct cars essentially at random. And yet, it mostly works. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR5nSOp5jZgrsr0SVXIrUCJeUbhLA7CKZcF_hl0csNY_k2OBOgRJJODA-7HAQwPNW5Y1A1sZi59ASmweaSm1ZU-V1WTeYbBYTEVBvovbhRZNmEoP1BxaVpMMKlmxGVOUGcT7C7AQe00gc/s1600/IMG_20161117_192626761.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR5nSOp5jZgrsr0SVXIrUCJeUbhLA7CKZcF_hl0csNY_k2OBOgRJJODA-7HAQwPNW5Y1A1sZi59ASmweaSm1ZU-V1WTeYbBYTEVBvovbhRZNmEoP1BxaVpMMKlmxGVOUGcT7C7AQe00gc/s320/IMG_20161117_192626761.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The neon lights and cheap speakers are all part of the fun.</td></tr>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Perhaps nothing is more emblematic of the resigned disregard for Bangkok’s intractable gridlock--and the character of Thailand more generally--than the tuk tuk. As we experienced on our tuk tuk food tour, they’re not meaningfully different than a bathtub with three wheels and a two-stroke engine. The driver straddles the front wheel, gearshift between his legs, and tears along with two terrified passengers sitting atop a bench seat that conceals the fuel tank, a pressurized gas canister essentially strapped in with hose clamps. Hop in, hold on, and don’t think too hard. Admittedly, the tuk tuk ought not to exist. It is not the product of a regulatory loophole, or a savvy compromise between four wheels and two. It lacks the maneuverability of a motorbike, and any of the safety or comfort features of a car. The tuk tuk exists solely because tourists ride them, and tourists ride them because it’s fun (or “</span><a href="http://www.thaizer.com/culture-shock/sanuk/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">sanook</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">”, if you want to dig a little deeper into the Thai national character.)</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfvbc64G7jql5y3mz6DjebXEnn3z-On3zuliPq88GiNeQQOl85W7O_MuoHEF5EMz_FNM-Q4VDFjLBgVP1FhTfSLLcVu4txEBqBZ_0AtbsijBCcl5USkYApwkluq6EyzAa1YJBKs1Ae0Xs/s1600/IMG_20161117_203958144.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfvbc64G7jql5y3mz6DjebXEnn3z-On3zuliPq88GiNeQQOl85W7O_MuoHEF5EMz_FNM-Q4VDFjLBgVP1FhTfSLLcVu4txEBqBZ_0AtbsijBCcl5USkYApwkluq6EyzAa1YJBKs1Ae0Xs/s320/IMG_20161117_203958144.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's called a "Thai kitchen" and that refers to where it is,<br />
not what it's cooking.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJJOp9AyAlaLglWQCh0WNKm5ic7CrNYJMiqC1Db70yG8kyB1-KuSRaLnlPvNAHlnNY3An9OKOPllhVi1kcd53fXBB1dVPXKaBJIAh8mDN1PgG1UxokCDuyPO7n5HFAVdEPKpB_RDDzwhc/s1600/IMG_20161117_204033675.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJJOp9AyAlaLglWQCh0WNKm5ic7CrNYJMiqC1Db70yG8kyB1-KuSRaLnlPvNAHlnNY3An9OKOPllhVi1kcd53fXBB1dVPXKaBJIAh8mDN1PgG1UxokCDuyPO7n5HFAVdEPKpB_RDDzwhc/s320/IMG_20161117_204033675.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cooking up a storm may well include cooking in a storm.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfvbc64G7jql5y3mz6DjebXEnn3z-On3zuliPq88GiNeQQOl85W7O_MuoHEF5EMz_FNM-Q4VDFjLBgVP1FhTfSLLcVu4txEBqBZ_0AtbsijBCcl5USkYApwkluq6EyzAa1YJBKs1Ae0Xs/s1600/IMG_20161117_203958144.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJJOp9AyAlaLglWQCh0WNKm5ic7CrNYJMiqC1Db70yG8kyB1-KuSRaLnlPvNAHlnNY3An9OKOPllhVi1kcd53fXBB1dVPXKaBJIAh8mDN1PgG1UxokCDuyPO7n5HFAVdEPKpB_RDDzwhc/s1600/IMG_20161117_204033675.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Even thinking that the tuk tuk exists as clever evasion of regulations or codes is, itself, a misread of Thailand. Instead, think about a place where asking for permission simply...isn’t considered. “Thai street food” is a common phrase you’ll see in cookbooks and travel shows but the real truth seems to be that in essence it’s *all* street food. Got a rolling cooler and a hibachi? Congrats, you’re in the restaurant business. Even for places with a fixed address, the average Bangkok restaurant </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 14.6667px; line-height: 1.38; white-space: pre-wrap;">seems like a hermit crab; it scuttled off the street to try out a storefront. Indeed, many hole in the wall spots stay true to their roots (or perhaps just maximize table space) by annexing the back alley for a fry kitchen. Those guys under the canvas tarp, sweating and toiling at woks over blazing charcoal blast furnaces jury-rigged from oil cans, they’re not hobos. They’re whipping up today’s special while getting blasted on pirated mp3’s and cheap hooch.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">We have a dozen more examples, of course, from the jungle “Monkey Trail” constructed with a perilous economy of lumber to the Mad Max “long tail boats” powered by salvaged V6’s, crankshaft and all. When we marvel, sigh, and say “It’s Thailand”, it’s not a pejorative. In the race to hop aboard the first world economy train, everything is a first draft and there’s plenty of time to edit later.</span></div>
PNThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07941960861931140648noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-18648339842351215412016-11-20T17:52:00.001-08:002016-11-20T17:52:30.507-08:00Headless Buddhas and Floating Markets<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqOug4x8HpDNEgMsBM5jAi4DvDmQ_zynbBcD7PUVvlfmSb6OhHK2m3zszM-TrzA1MfaH1rMQTdD9XBv-930-Q-U-l6WsKDVYZWJMiexZlTODg4rAhBWv7nyZbX5sgLyVtTxixYy-3tm4k/s1600/Judea%252C-de-oude-hoofdstad-van-Siam-1663.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqOug4x8HpDNEgMsBM5jAi4DvDmQ_zynbBcD7PUVvlfmSb6OhHK2m3zszM-TrzA1MfaH1rMQTdD9XBv-930-Q-U-l6WsKDVYZWJMiexZlTODg4rAhBWv7nyZbX5sgLyVtTxixYy-3tm4k/s320/Judea%252C-de-oude-hoofdstad-van-Siam-1663.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline;">Our first full day in Bangkok was not actually in Bangkok, but 40 miles north in the ancient capitol city of </span><a href="http://whc.unesco.org/en/list/576" style="font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">Ayutthaya</span></a><span style="vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">. Pronounced “Ayudaya” (or “Iudea”), it was a sprawling, cultural center, royal residence, and seat of regional power from the 1300s to 1700s. Early Dutch ambassadors to the court of King Narai in the 1600s particularly remarked on the carefully planned city layout, and masterful use of rivers and canals for trade and logistics (and when the Dutch are impressed by your locks, you’ve done something right). Our understanding from the (somewhat scant) information at the site is that the city sat at the confluence of three rivers, and used the rivers, tidal flood plain, and purpose-built canals for a sort of water pressure arbitrage, resulting in an ability to shunt the flow of water at will around many miles of waterways. So, something like Amsterdam, </span></span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Versailles, </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">and Venice, rolled into one. They could even use the system for defense, arranging flows to flood surrounding fields at high tide and making the city effectively un-siegable, so add </span></span></span><a href="http://ramblingrovers.blogspot.com/2007/08/rennes-without-reservations-and.html" style="font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">Mont Saint Michel</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline;"> to that list too. </span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiySZ7HFc6qDlSAg2bE9uhb3pJlGOWkn7GJSKPwktX7VSyEmKODcSkKlqRQQSMFOq2ywYqyMpzNpp88pJvBgyZb1LYEUogsDJAOvRYFaI4WPG0mmL8sNe30rIKRJmg6ZGgyJDVEM1CXOyg/s1600/IMG_3262.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiySZ7HFc6qDlSAg2bE9uhb3pJlGOWkn7GJSKPwktX7VSyEmKODcSkKlqRQQSMFOq2ywYqyMpzNpp88pJvBgyZb1LYEUogsDJAOvRYFaI4WPG0mmL8sNe30rIKRJmg6ZGgyJDVEM1CXOyg/s320/IMG_3262.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtY8C-xNunWOyl1-imo5j7amT5GMUyM1rYQ9KQMxtLyLr9oUlo3uzhW0PDyWXMt9TaO0q2KOHlvCCIpo0E1RhmtajWOvIPZue1kYYwyhAgLEjDzNloVQ6LRoQoqKvqZNNm2j_ADjF4vnY/s1600/IMG_20161116_112452395.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifiiGaLtA1H6HhK8bseMHEK-bmWl-QXbu2Wj9ASojVGSTayRN_OdZbZmNaDIysCFKpG7N9VCSbpjqTObAHtGpsSWElnM-_Zc_NsGA3k42plztD7MPhnLpyeCuhOATFKIMeCJncygPBJf8/s1600/IMG_20161116_140205407.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU8IDbtvjv7PZBYnddndtmD0UcOKuFmAP0vWZ2-C2uztFPgC3e9yKxnhyphenhyphenV8nlL0iKS9uyfUu6TTl3gZBOHACQUw7huMSS5n1gqMCW4B-6zMI5f7BYy9ZcauhA6tyEVV585vBFEPq8OY9w/s1600/IMG_20161116_141254222.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Our first stop in Ayutthaya was, appropriately, a temple: Wat Chaiwatthanaram. Many of the best preserved ruins in the city are the ancient wats, of which there are 26 in the roughly twelve square miles of the old city center. The wats are striking -- my first impression was dominated by the sense of utterly exotic “otherness”. The tiered and spired </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prang_(architecture)" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">prangs</span></a><span style="color: black; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stupa" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">stupa</span></a><span style="color: black; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">s can’t be mistaken for any other culture; even if you don’t immediately recognize them as Buddhist, one glance is enough to know that we’re not in Kansas anymore. After the initial tableau sinks in, the next thing to notice are the Buddhas: 120 seated Buddhas ring the outmost wall, and every single one is missing its head. The signage at the site itself handwaves as much as is possible for a sign at a national historic landmark, something to the effect that the Buddhas once had heads, but now do not. Preston and I were both struck by the degree to which this seems to sweep a tremendously significant cultural event under the proverbial rug. The actual event was the sacking and razing of the entire city of Ayutthaya by the Burmese, </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Burmese%E2%80%93Siamese_War_(1765%E2%80%9367)" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">in 1767</span></a><span style="color: black; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. In addition to destroying the town, they desecrated the wats, making a particular effort to decapitate the Buddhas. In Thai and Buddhist culture, this is even a graver insult than it seems: the head is considered the most sacred and elevated part of the body so even touching someone’s head would be taken as deeply disrespectful (decapitation, of course, rather overshadows that).</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">In Krystal and my travels, we found that Europeans </span><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/krystal_w/16308255443/in/album-72157651101656497/" style="font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">don’t seem to miss a chance</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> to </span><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/krystal_w/16673320777/in/album-72157651304838326/" style="font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">point fingers</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> about who has been setting fire to their city. Whatever the exact reason for glossing over the history lesson, we agreed that its notable absence says something just as interesting about the culture as its presence would have said about history. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After Wat Chaiwatthanaram, our next stop was to check off one of the reasons we were here in the first place: elephants. The Ayutthaya Royal Elephant Kraal, once a place for capturing and taming elephants as working animals, now houses </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elephantstay" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">a conservation program called Elephantstay</span></a><span style="color: black; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. We’ve done the reading on elephant treatment and exploitation, as well as ethical managing of the animals. Some of the things I read suggested that elephants were innately not ridable and required </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elephant_crushing#Thailand" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">brutal treatments</span></a><span style="color: black; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> to break before being suitable for riders. However, a lengthy conversation with a young animal conservationist at Elephantstay suggests that the situation is much more nuanced. She mentioned that one of the major challenges of running a conservation effort in the modern age is fending off ill-informed critiques and hate campaigns from self-proclaimed animal rights activists. </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Working elephants continue to be culturally important, and their utility to jungle people creates incentive to maintain habitat and a viable population. Conservation and breeding programs also need captive elephants to be </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charismatic_megafauna" style="font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">visible and celebrated in order to create public awareness</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> needed to fund species-wide efforts. I didn’t have time in our brief conversation to raise the question of the crushing process, but it’s clear that the relationship between laboring animals and conservation is complex. If it’s any barometer, the passion from the Elephantstay folks combined with their success (including </span><a href="http://sci-hub.cc/10.1016/j.ygcen.2007.01.029" style="font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">scientific papers</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and </span><a href="http://www.elephantstay.com/index.php?lay=show&ac=article&Id=303659&Ntype=2" style="font-family: inherit; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">66 successful births</span></a><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">) suggests that their view is well worth listening to.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Our final stop of the afternoon was the floating market. Nothing historical, just fun and funky and a bit touristy, but aimed more at Thai tourists than internationals. Previously, our local contact had provided advice for </span></span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Farang">farang</a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> eating in Thailand; if the place has more than one table, it's probably a reasonably safe bet. A single table place, in his estimation, is the same kind of place that'll chill the fish on ice, and happily serve the same ice in your drink. With that as our working definition of a gringo-safe </span></span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">lunch spot we waded into the market. Eventually the smell of food and (unintelligible) shouts of a hawker drew us across a bridge and under a low canopy. Something grilling? Check. Noodles? Check. More than one table? Check. No other white folks? Er... check. We came for real Thai food, let's do this. As we sat down (shoes off, cross-legged on the floor, natch; in for a penny, in for a pound), a young woman showed up with menus. As we started to peruse, another young woman with another menu. Then a man, then a flurry of people and menus seemingly appearing from everywhere, and a shouting din as they all pressed for the merits of their various dishes. Our estimation had been wrong -- it wasn't a single </span></span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">restaurant but an all-out noodles-and-curry brawl from individual vendors. Our orders were met by counter-offers and one-upmanship (Why chicken? My shrimp better! No two rice, three!); I felt like I was one wrong hand gesture away from accidentally buying soybean futures or a hundred shares of a derivative swap. Eventually, orders placed, they all retired to their corners and within minutes dishes made their way from small stalls and even anchored boats to our table. Oh, and the woman with no menus at all and just a steady drumbeat of "LE-OH, LE-OH"? Yeah, turns out <a href="https://www.stickmanbangkok.com/teacher-tim/2012/04/everything-you-ever-wanted-to-know-about-thai-beer-but-were-too-drunk-to-ask/">LEO is beer</a>. Yes please. So -- a tableful of handmade dishes, enough rice to make it respectable, and beer for 5? That'll be 520 thai baht... or about $14.50 USD. Thailand, I think you and me are gonna get along just <i>fine</i>. </span></span></div>
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Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397716556327709665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-5989648898253046122016-11-16T18:57:00.002-08:002016-11-16T18:57:59.233-08:00House Special<br />
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One task that has proven surprisingly difficult is, perhaps unsurprisingly, the one that we've had in the works for the longest. Even before planning for this trip began, we've wanted to emulate the trick used to good effect by some of our widely traveled friends, who have on different occasions gotten their hands on a wallet card, lovingly handwritten and carefully folded, saying something to the effect of "house special". One was in Mandarin for a unicycling trip to China, which they presented to the waitress or chef at off-the beaten path restaurants as a conversation starter and invitation to authenticity, a way to break out of the assumptions that might be built up around a group of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laowai">laowai</a> appearing in a restaurant that doesn't get too many foreigners. Another such card is handwritten in Thai is presented by way of passport or shibboleth at any putative Thai restaurant in the States, for the amusement and possible the vetting of the chef. (I suspect his is less of a request and more in the manner of a doctor's note, to the effect of "The gringo can take it. Make it Thai hot.")<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An attempt was made, but this is *not* "the special of the house" </td></tr>
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There's lots to love about this idea, even apart from the unexpected menu items it might introduce us to. To our mind, it seems like a good way to break the ice and show respect for the culture and the establishment, and maybe learn something that passes by those relying on the "grunt and point" school. It seems like it should be a universal concept -- "Chef's special." "The special of the house." "The chef's favorite." What your restaurant is known for. As these increasing generalities are attempting to gesticulate at, we have never been to Thailand before, we want to see what they want to show us.<br />
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As it turns out, however, this little exercise started teaching us things about the culture even before we got to Thailand. Simply put: We still haven't managed to get one. I first inferred that we were swimming against the tide when the first puzzled reaction of a Thai-born friend was "How special?" Googling produced no clear answer, always an ominous sign that things are more complicated--indeed, usually a clue that you're asking the wrong question.<br />
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I also talked about the idea with a Thai flight attendant on the DC to Abu Dhabi leg of my flight. She was (perhaps stereotypically) enthusiastic about sharing her country and culture, but when I tried explaining our project, she was nonplussed. After some cajoling she eventually wrote down a phrase, but never seemed to click with the concept. When I had an opportunity to have the phrase translated by our expat host he explained, with a knowing laugh, that the result was "I want a plate of delicious food."<br />
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It has been instructive in that it caused me to re-think the basic project, from the perspective of the recipient. Perhaps, if I'm honest, the simple phrase "house special" is presumptuous, even brusque. It assumes a lot about the situation. As our expat host explains, the Bangkok dining scene is untroubled by market forces. It is perfectly possible, even likely, to see four noodle carts in a row, all selling the same dish. This would be unheard of in a culinary market where competitors attempt to distinguish themselves and restaurants and even individual chefs pride themselves on superior or even signature dishes. Instead, restaurants in Bangkok seem to exist primarily for the purpose of providing food to a notional hungry passerby. Although frustrating to our preconceived goal, this is actually a philosophy that I can appreciate.<br />
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The idea may not be a complete bust, however, because further discussion with our host lead to a more culturally meaningful area where such pride of place will come to the fore. In Chiang Mai and Krabi, respectively, Northern and Southern traditional cuisine will be on display. Chiang Mai is famed for complex, milder dishes that blend sweet with savory, whereas Krabi exemplifies the southern cuisine where spice is life and your safety is not guaranteed. So in Bangkok, perhaps the best you can do is ask for (and almost certainly receive) a plate of delicious food, but it seems that asking for "good northern cooking" or "good southern cooking" may evoke the right spirit.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fried green chiles with chicken; Ayutthaya floating market <br />(Photo: Brittany Morton)</td></tr>
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Finally, a discussion of Thai cuisine would not be complete without talking about <i>rice.</i> While we in the West think of Thai food as spicy, flavorful dishes of meat and vegetables and curry, over here it has repeatedly been made clear that the real place to start is with the rice. It is the staple grain crop, and the implicit, assumed background for every dish. The "entrees" that we're familiar with in an American Thai restaurant would be more properly thought of as flavoring for the rice in a Thai household. Want to eat authentic Thai? Order a lot of rice, and just one entree for your table. In fact, rice is even in the colloquial language: a standard idiomatic greeting, similar to the American "what's up?" is "<a href="http://storiesfromtheeast.blogspot.com/2012/06/have-you-eaten-rice-yet.html">gin khao reu yung</a>?". The literal translation is "Have you eaten [rice] yet?" (the "rice" is implicit in the question). As <a href="http://instantwatcher.com/title/80018861">Anthony Bourdain observed</a>, if you have eaten today, how bad could things possibly be? And if you have eaten, of course you ate rice.<br />
<br />PNThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07941960861931140648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-80315174685646327192016-11-16T01:41:00.000-08:002016-11-28T07:34:20.106-08:00On Vegetarian Meals<i>"Nothing bad ever happens to a writer. It's all material." ~ Garrison Keillor</i><br />
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>Etihad Airways, in-flight somewhere between DC and Abu Dhabi.<br />
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Perhaps it's pure pragmatism that they give the vegetarian entree as a default to anyone who is asleep when the cart comes around. Part of me wonders if it's also because sleeping people don't object.<br />
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After surfacing from a fitful half sleep, I'm pleased to notice that a tray has appeared in front of me. I am less pleased to gradually realize that the questionable smell troubling the cabin (and my dreams) is emanating in part from my tray. Nonetheless, spurred on by a nagging hollow in my stomach and Mr. Hooten's admonition that "food is fuel", I peel back the foil to find...trouble. Breakfast appears to consist of okra and malice, with henchmen of shredded vegetables that seem to have been "cooked" without specifying a particular mode of cooking.<br />
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Blinking back bleariness, I conclude that this is probably not actually intended as breakfast (time zones being what they are), but then, I've never asked myself what breakfast is in the UAE. Still, I assume the mini Hershey bar accompaniment is not part of a balanced breakfast in any country.<br />
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I don't consider myself a picky eater, but running a serious sleep deficit and with a case of cotton mouth, this was rough sledding. After extracting the white rice and making a game stab at the vegetables, I declared defeat and looked for an exit strategy. I suspected I was in good company when I noticed that my seat mate had set his aside after opening each of the dishes but doing little more than pushing them around. This impression was confirmed as I pantomimed to ask if I could set my plate on his in the unused the middle seat. He reacted initially with a look of alarm when he thought I was offering him mine, which turned to bewilderment when he thought I was asking if I could have his uneaten portion.<br />
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We piled the dishes in the middle and shared a world weary shrug that made me wonder if every language has a phrase for "Eh, can't win 'em all".<br />
<br />PNThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07941960861931140648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-89777037726549472652016-11-16T01:37:00.005-08:002016-11-16T05:22:43.633-08:00You had me at S̄wạs̄dī<div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">
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We're blowing the dust off our little corner of the web here: Rambling Rovers has been in hibernation since our shared ramble in Europe nine years ago. We've both had trips individually, but the process of bouncing ideas off each other is what really makes the fodder for this blog.<br />
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For this trip, we’re headed East. Our friend Brittany has family who are expats living in Thailand and we've been talking for years about going to visit them and explore the country. In the way of many plans, it stayed as a “maybe some day” thing, until they mentioned they might be returning to the States soon. With a deadline staring at us, schedules for our traveling companions suddenly cleared up: funny how that seems to work.<br />
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As travelers (and observers) from a Western background, we've long wanted to get to Asia. I subscribe to the parallax theory of understanding a thing: multiple perspectives help you comprehend it better, and the more and further apart the better. For an American, Europe is a substantial dose of new perspective, but Asia is, well, half again a world away.<br />
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As a first Asian destination, Thailand has some special character. Being smaller than China and India, Thai culture is less exported in the west: other than pad thai or The King and I, many Americans have less sense of what to expect of it. Similarly, because it has never been colonized (a fact that Thais are fiercely proud of), the culture is both unique and ancient. We don’t know exactly what to expect, and that’s part of the fun.<br />
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So, Thailand, here we come.Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397716556327709665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-84666204416737705052007-08-06T17:58:00.001-07:002008-03-03T23:14:45.748-08:00Rennes Without Reservations and the Mountain Monkery<i>For best results, kindly begin reading at the post immediately previous to this one, just below this one. That'll get you from Amsterdam to...well, just plain "Damn!", to "Damn fine, thank you." Er, that'll all make sense once you read it. I promise...~ed.</i><br /><br /><b>Rennes without Reservations</b><i>(cont.)</i><br />...access by unknown and conceivably unfriendly strangers. We had our McGuyver moment when we took a length of black string and ran it between the necks of two empty water bottles which we cached in the shadows flanking the bottom of the escalator. Balancing a few coins on the cap of each bottle we ensured ourselves a bit of warning and an unpleasant surprise for anyone approaching unheralded.<br /><br />We were roused early by a sudden grinding that marked the furling of the security grate that was our back door all night. Teeth chattering and more than a little grumpy from a night of only snatches of sleep on a hard, cold tile floor, we broke camp, dismantled the alarm system, climbed aboard the train and soaked in the magnificent luxury of a heated, upholstered train car. The sudden improvement in circumstances combined with the certainty that we were finally on our<br />way--and the brilliant sunrise over the French countryside--combined to lift our spirits dramatically. We arrived in St. Malo and decided that we were tired of public transportation; since we'd already slept on the ground and gone through the ritual of breaking camp we figured we'd just stay in backpacking mode and walk the 3 kilometers to the hostel. The walk helped not only to unwind knotted muscles but also gave us a wonderful view of St. Malo as it, too, roused itself for the morning. We passed a <i>boulangerie</i> just as its pretty young <i>boulangere</i> was opening the doors and grabbed the first baguette we saw, munching it contemplatively as we walked.<p>Once at the hostel we found that the room was not ready, as we'd hoped. Instead, something better: we hadn't been charged for it! Of course, this meant that we didn't have a place to crash and catch up on that sleep of which we'd been so cruelly deprived. It took only a minute of pondering, however, to realize that we were nearly standing on miles of nice warm bed; after all, St. Malo is known througout France for its wonderful beaches. We ditched the receptionist and our traveling clothes with an alacrity that bordered on insulting and fled for the sunny sand where we showed our appreciation for the scenery by prompltly passing out cold. Cold tiles and a dark train station were nothing but a fading memory and our time in St. Malo was of to a decidedly agreeable start (only slightly marred by the matching pair of brilliant red, totally lopsided sunburns we awoke to).<br /><br /><b>Monkery on the Mountain</b><br />Mont St. Michel was one of the places I'd been to before but I wanted to take Patrick there and visit it again for myself. It's probably Normandy's best known feature and, as far as I'm concerned, one of the jewels of France. The whole of the town is as fantastic as it is<br />improbable. The mountain rises out of the ocean itself, a steep jutting peak contrasting with a landscape of rolling hills. The massive tide fluxations of the Normandy coast mean that at times the ocean moat becomes instead a surreal expanse of tidal plains; a strange, reflective desert of shifting, sucking mud stretching for miles from the base of the mountain. Add to this strange scene the massive gothic abbey perched at the apex of the mountain, courtyards and chapel appearing to hang in space supported by no natural formation. Even from afar you can make out the golden figure of the Archangel Michael rising high above the tallest spire. The whole<br />structure appears to be straining heavenward. It has to be experienced to be understood and I was looking forward to being there again and sharing it with Patrick.</p><p>We caught the bus out of town, sharing it with all the other tourists and just following the crowd to make the correspondence in Pontorson, just a few miles from St. Michel. When the bus disgorged its scuttling mass of human cargo we vaguely remembered that there was a secondary, less-used entrance to the town but we demurred and decided to again follow the crowd. And what a crowd it was. St. Michel is a huge tourist spot, and so linearly designed that every inch of the switchbacking main street is peopled like a metro station at commute<br />time. It's a shame that so many people see it this way; I sense that in the silence of the early morning and late night the city reveals much more of its dignified and storied thousand year history.<br /><br />Being in a crowd of tourists is always a bit of an affront to the sensibilities and we soon found a narrow, unmarked stairway rising steeply of the street level that caught our interest. It was heading up, which was approximately the right direction, and it was being used by exactly no one. These were all the selling points it needed; we took it. As we practically licked the stairs in front of us we gained ground enough to put us even with the rooftops along the street and wondered, as we wound through narrow alleys and MC Escher-like passages, if the joke was on us and we'd end up having to backtrack down to the madding crowd with our heads hung low. Just around the next corner, however, the stairs deposited us onto the cobblestone main street...right below the entrance to the abbey! We rejoined the crowd, having essentially cut in line ahead of 500 people, and wended our way up to get tickets, all the while joking in polyglot with our fellow line-standers that we might be smarter to gang up and call ourselves a "group" for the privelege of using the fast lane. We took our lunch on the vast terrasse of the abbey while we enjoyed the expansive view of French countryside and tidal plains from a sheer 100 meters above sea level.<br /><br />A French docent warned us in conspiritorial tones that the English guided tours were hell at this time of the summer (and that, despite our clever plan, the French tours were "double hell") and so we opted for audioguides and our own pace to experience the abbey. I say "experience" because "see" does not encompass the feeling of grandeur, history, and spirituality of the place.<br /><br />I was happy to hear confirmed my understanding of the legend of the founding of the abbey. In the late 10th century a local bishop had a dream in which St. Michael the archangel, commander of the armies of heaven, appeared to him and commanded him to build a monastery on the spot. This bishop, being a reasonable and prudent man, did pretty much nothing. After all, he knew that the devil could speak in dreams as well as the angels, and the point of a mountain seemed a dodgy place to build anything. Soon enough, though, the dream was repeated, with St. Michael appearing in heavenly glory to issue his command. The bishop was shaken but still sat tight, unwilling to stake his reputation or perhaps even his mortal soul on some nocturnal smoke and mirrors. This probably would have been the end of discussion, but, as the story goes, St. Michael wouldn't take no for an answer. Returning a 3rd time to the sleeping bishop, the archangel extended a flaming finger and punched a hole in the bishop's forhead. This was apparently all the proof that the bishop needed, for he jumped to work on the abbey immediately and personally supervised a great deal of the construction of what became one of the holiest pilgramage sites in France. (Amusing side note: the stained glass window that commerates this event takes slight liberties with the story, depicting the archangel merely laying his finger upon the bishop's head, as if by way of blessing. Apparently cranial puncture by angelic digit is not appropriate material for church windows.)<br /><br />We finished our tour with still time left before the busses arrived and wandered what to do. We tried the <i>boisson regional</i>, a refreshing but filling apple cider that the Norman farmers produce with as much care and fierce dedication as any french vinter. Wandering down to the alternate entrance from earlier in the morning we confirmed that we could have dodged the crowd even better by entering through the gate ominously marked "<i>Police Nationale</i>". Apparently that's mostly to scare away the tourists. It apparently works. We chatted with several groups of French scouts in their very rugged and European-style uniforms; we were wearing the neckerchiefs we'd bought at Kandersteg in hopes of striking up conversations with other scouts on this 100th anniversary of the Baden Powell's founding of the scouting movement.<br /><br />Finally we descended to the very base of the rocky mountain, where it disappears into the muddy tidal flats. Last time I was here, with a tour group and a chartered bus, there was no way I could have gotten all the way back into this out of the way spot, and I certainly wouldn't have had time to go OUT there. This time, however, we were on our own time and our own dime, lending a wonderful freedom. It looked like fun. It looked like a mostly good idea. It looked...amazingly muddy. Stripping down to pants only, we left everything of value just around the bend, safely out of sight and safely out of the morass. Tentatively we squished barefoot out onto the flats, sliding in the gooey mud as it alternatey slid out from under us or squirted between our toes. With an ungainly shuffle/skate we moved out past the dangerous rocks and found a ford across the delta the separated the "beach" from the plain proper. Once out there it was simply incredible. To be at eye level with the tidal plain allowed you to realize how vast it was, and walking out from the base of the mont we realized that we had a priveleged view that few tourists can ever get. No cars, no busses, no throngs of people...this is probably as close to what it really looked like in its heyday as you can see. We certainly took photos and gamboled around on the surreal landscape, sometimes sliding around, sometimes singing to an ankle, knee, or further.<br /><br /><i>That ought to get us up to speed. There are still 2 more days of St. Malo and 3 more days of Paris to share, but I'll do those once we're stateside.</i></p>PNThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07941960861931140648noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-6525497544664485062007-08-05T10:18:00.000-07:002008-03-03T23:05:02.328-08:00Where am I going and why am I in this handbasket?Yes, we're alive! I feel compelled to apologize for the dearth of updates (I'm sorry!) but I shan't dwell explaining it and instead I'll do my best to rectify it. At the very lest I'll provide some thumbnail sketches that you can ask for stories about later.<br /><br />Last we spoke we were leaving Amsterdam via a day train, with no reservations. This fairly casual, off the cuff style had served us quite well to this point. Crowded Cinque Terre made room for us at Mama's pensione, Nicole and Olivier opened their arms to strangers in Fribourg, and Hili appeared as if divinely summoned to welcome us to Klosterneuberg. Even Budapest somehow guided us to the right place through a series of happy chances. We did well and perhaps were even a bit spoiled. So much the better. All the while we knew we were trading certainty for freedom and as we worked our way back west we started trading the other way. You want on the train, you reserve ahead of time and pay for the privelege. Same for hostels in the big tourist cities.<br /><br />{<i>They know the backstory, cut to the chase.</i> Yessir!}<br /><br />Let this diagram represent our intended route:<br />A) Amsterdam-->Paris-->St. Malo<br /><br />Let this dog turd represent our actual route:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.magicalrabbit.com/ebay/Dog_Doo_a.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://www.magicalrabbit.com/ebay/Dog_Doo_a.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />B) Amsterdam-->Brussels Nord-->Brussels Midi-->Brussels Centraal-->Paris Nort-->Paris Montparnasse-->Rennes--> NIGHT -->St. Malo.<br /><br />Yup, thats right; after more than 11 hours of traveling we arrived 60km short of our goal and missed the last train by 30 minutes. Ouch. And we thought we had already paid for the hostel in St. Malo, so we didn't relish finding and paying for yet another room, in Rennes, at 10:00 at night. We elected to stay the night in the station and catch the first train in the morning. Whereupon the local yokels informed us that the station closes at night. I had some choice words, but we had no choice. It's really quite perspective-broadening to be put face to face with how little circumstances care if you are pissed at them; pretty soon I had to just let it go as getting mad was utterly not going to accomplish anything. Instead we turned our attention to something that I had never considered before: where's a good spot to sleep outside in an urban area? Alongside my newfound respect for homeless of all stripes I also recalled all my camping experience. Where's a good spot to sleep ANYWHERE? Well, I thought as we surveyed our concrete landscape, might as well start with the 5 W's of any survival campside: Weather, Wood, Water, Wigglies, and Widowmakers. Wood and water weren't a concern as we weren't planning on building a fire and boy scouts always bring extra water, but we still wanted a place out of the weather, away from any wigglies, and clear of any dangers that might make for unpleasant rousings, in this case other indigents, trains, and cops, in about that order. Fortunately, in a "you can only get better from here" turn of events, we found the escalator down to the entrance of the closed metro station. Stopped for the night, the escalator formed a narrow staircase down to a cave-like burrow that ended at the drawn security door that led to the station. Out of sight, out of the weather, and with a natural choke point to limit...<br /><br /><i>Continued in next post for reasons of readability and because this box in the Heathrow airport is crippled by the protective features they've installed on it.</i>PNThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07941960861931140648noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-28984852504350508672007-07-29T09:36:00.001-07:002007-07-29T17:50:06.825-07:00Putting the Blue Clouds and Green Fairy behind usAmsterdam has been another surprise of the trip. It truly is a beautiful city; a sort of Prague dropped on top of Venice, with Seattle and Boston influence (although, strictly speaking, the influence of course goes the other direction).<br /><br />As is our habit we caught a bike tour first thing in the morning. Fortunately, the reigning champion of bike tours, Mike's Bikes, operates an Amsterdam branch. We made haste to join them and partook of the sheer joy that is biking in Amsterdam. The old city has just over 300,000 people and even more bikes. Many people don't own cars and many more haven't bought petrol in so long they don't know the price of it. The effect on the interior of the city is dramatic. Many roads are de-facto pedestrian routes that grudgingly part to allow cars through. Bike lanes abound and the canals make cars routes maddeningly circuitous while bikes can sail across old town in minutes. We soaked up, as always, a great deal of the history of the country, and learned a lot about how its past makes it the way it is today: The historically religiously open country that was rolled over by inquisitive Spanish Catholics, kicked them out and swung back to social liberalism, got rich on trade while the rest of the world squabbled over religous wars and imperialism, got rolled by fascists in the Second World war and responded with a defiant swell of tolerance and progressive social ideas once the Nazis were routed. Most of the famous (or infamous) social policies of the Netherlands amount to a constructive "piss-off" to the departing Nazi ideals. (Not just the well-known legalized cannabis and prostitution, but also women's suffarage, gay rights, and broad social support systems like a universal guarantee of housing.) <br /><br />In our short stay here we had to brutally prioritize our sightseeing agenda, and after the bike tour the Anne Frank house was the natural next stop. It's kind of a pity that so much of European history is overshadowed by the relatively brief but recent events of the second world war. On the other hand, the wealth of records and the unimaginable horror at the heart of the war make it a very accessible, very compelling cautionary tale. The Anne Frank house and attached museum did their best to tap into this, though in a somewhat more storybook way (take the kids here when they're 10, wait till they're at least 13 for a concentration camp.). To me, the part that was the most truly interesting was an interactive exhibit set up near the exit of the museum. Called "Free2Choose" it showcased situations that called for a personal value judgement as to the limits of free speech, tolerance, liberties, and laws. It presented brief synopses of real-world events or controversies (like flag burning, head scarves for French school girls, holocaust denial, etc.) and asked the audience to vote using buttons placed around the room. It was quite interesting to see the groups reaction rendered in real time and compared to the average of all previous groups who had seen the presentation. The underlying theme of the exhibit was clearly emphasizing that tolerance and knowledge are the only true security against terror and tyranny; a good lesson for any age.<br /><br />After paying our respects to Anne and her family we headed back to Zeedijk street, the main drag in the old part of town. Zeedijk is known for many things, including its ubiquitous roving bands of young anglo males, part of the rising tradition of holding stag party weekends in Amsterdam for British bachelors. It's also home to a confusion of Asian restaurants, Chinese, Japanse, Thai, the aromas of which mercifully cover the everpresent BO smell of pot smoke. We found a Thai restaurant (The Thai Bird) and had a pretty decent, if slightly overpriced meal. And no Thai Iced Tea, darn it!<br /><br />No visit to Amsterdam would be complete without a stroll down Oudezjids Achterburgwal, a street that needs no introduction nor, in fact, any city-installed lighting. Paris has its Eiffel Tower, a monument to innovation and human ingenuity, Luzern has its wounded lion, a reminder of sacrifice and resistance to tyranny. And Amsterdam has Oudezjids Achterburgwal, the red light district, a testament to the spirit of live-and-let-live tolerance that has helped the Netherlands endure and thrive over the centuries despite the turmoil that engulfed the rest of Europe. Legalized since the 1980's, prostitution in Amsterdam is a strange blend of the profane and the mundane. Prostitues rent window space (and the accompanying rooms) for a set rate, and accept clients as they wish. Their "offices" have to meet hygiene standards, likewise themselves. The whole thing is legislated, regulated, inspected, and, naturally, taxed. Unlike the seedy image one pictures when thinking of the sterotypical red light district, Oudezjids Achterburgwal is surprisingly family-friendly. The window displays are, for the most part, nothing you wouldn't see in a Victoria's Secret store window (except the mannequins may wink suggestively at you) and the sidewalk traffic doesn't look too different from the average crowd emerging from a PG-13 movie. A large portion of the passers-by are, predictably, 25-40 something males, but women, teens, and grey-haired couples round out the mix. Life goes on, unfazed, on the streets on both sides of the district and the Dutch are happy to let tourist dollars come flowing in long after the novelty has worn off. <br /><br />Leaving Oudezjids Achterburgwal bound for home we also decided to poke our heads into one of the many coffeeshops that abound in the area. They're pretty informal joints (no pun intended), most of them nothing more than a small, low room with comfortable chairs, dim lighting, and a bartender more likely to philosophically explain the paradox of a "victimless crime" than to separate drunken brawlers. More than a little self-conscious (I'll admit!) I strolled among the tables, just taking in the atmosphere (once again, no pun intended) and seeing what the culture was. It was, surprisingly, a little more akward going into the coffeehouse than it was walking down the street of the redlight district. Perhaps it's that going inside is an deliberate act, with less psychological deniabilty. I borrowed a menu from a serene girl in the corner and browsed the neatly laminated sheet which looked for all the world like the inventory of a drug bust. I figured since I was there, and feeling akward already, I might as well ask the girl at the bar to explain to me what I was looking at. The menu was divided up into different styles and strenghts of cannabis, and she explained why some patrons would prefer one versus another. Listening to her I began to see why the Dutch believe they have achieved civilization while much of the rest of the world are still locked into the self-imposed contortortions of moral and legal paradoxes.<br /><br />Amsterdam has truly been one of the surprises of the trip. While the depth of history and culture alone are enough to keep you fascinated, the city is quaint and beautiful to boot. As much as we'd like to stay longer the end of our journey is rapidly approaching and we have, as they say, miles to go before we sleep. After touring the Van Gogh museum tomorrow morning we'll be making our way to <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&hl=en&geocode=&q=37,+avenue+du+R%C3%A9v%C3%A9rend+p%C3%A8re,+Saint-malo,+France&sll=48.555705,-1.978912&sspn=0.624457,1.268921&ie=UTF8&ll=48.655962,-1.999083&spn=0.019476,0.039654&z=15&iwloc=cent&om=1">Saint Malo</a> tomorrow afternoon. Saint Malo (say it like the French; /San Mal-oh/) is a lovely ancient village on the rocky coast North coast of France, the historical home of fisherman and the secret base of the dashing French corsairs. The weather report for St. Malo is high of 68, low of 48, partly cloudy with showers--just like our Northern California coast. From St. Malo there we'll be daytripping to Mont St. Michel, that amazing monkery in an island castle you've no doubt seen in pictures. With only 6 days remaining of our trip we're both realizing that it has come to pass exactly as we knew it would: this trip has flown by. Much as both of us would gladly head back out if some eccentric millionaire offered us the means, at this point we're both warming to the idea of trading our worn backpacks for familiar beds and seeing old friends and family again.Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397716556327709665noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-44069956811789815462007-07-28T06:06:00.000-07:002007-07-28T06:16:18.517-07:00Yeah, it smells just like you might expectWe've arrived in <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&hl=en&geocode=&q=Plantage+Kerklaan+19,+Amsterdam+1018+Amsterdam,+North+Holland,+Netherlands&sll=52.373811,4.890951&sspn=0.291344,0.6427&ie=UTF8&cd=1&mpnum=0&z=16&iwloc=addr&om=1">Amsterdam</a>! Which is in the Netherlands. Or is it Noord Holland? And they speak Dutch. Yeah, I'm still haven't figured it all out yet, either. Of course, that's what this whole excursion is for, anyway.<br /><br />This third night train, from Prague, was by far the most interesting yet, the telling of which I will leave to Patrick to fill in since it's really his story.<br /><br />More commentary on the city and the production that we're going to when we get back this evening.<br /><br /><!-- The city just LOOKS cool, and we haven't even<br />done anything yet. Defintely a contender for "best view from the steps<br />of the train station" (though Kandersteg has its mountains, so that's<br />hard to top.) As an example of "Stuff I should have known but<br />didn't"...i didn't realize that downtown Amsterdam is as criss-crossed<br />with canals as Venice! It's really cool; it seems like it can't decide<br />whether it's a city build on water with a lot of islands or a city<br />build on land with a lot of canals.<br /><br />On the train last night we thought we were gonna have this freaking<br />wierdo old Czech guy in our cabin. I was a little unhappy about it but<br />Patrick was more charitable than I so I excused myself. When I came<br />back I heard shouting from the cabin and ran up to see what it was.<br />Patrick and the guy (Stanya, short for Stanislav) were exchanging<br />English lessons for Czech lessons. He was HILARIOUS, I tell you.<br />Everything he said he said with EMPHASIS! Counting to ten was a battle<br />cry, when we asked what "Hi" was he waved at an imaginary person and<br />shouted "AHOJ"! I made the mistake of asking what "cheers" was,<br />pantomining hoisting a glass. Patrick (who had obviously been here<br />already) slapped his forehead and Stanya dug through his bag coming<br />out with a juice bottle which he raised and roared "Naz-DRA-vi!" while<br />handing it to me. It wasn't juice in that bottle...I found out later<br />it was cognac! Props to Patrick; that's what this trip is about,<br />turning "too bad's" into "couldn't be betters". -->PNThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07941960861931140648noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-32775668696303407812007-07-26T04:41:00.000-07:002007-07-26T12:57:05.938-07:00Go West, young man!Yesterday's first <a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?f=d&hl=en&geocode=&saddr=Budapest,+Hungary&daddr=Krakow,+Poland+to:Praha,+Czech+Republic&mrcr=1&sll=49.289306,16.907959&sspn=3.31765,7.404785&ie=UTF8&ll=49.145784,16.907959&spn=3.327293,7.404785&z=7&om=1">westward train journey</a> marks the official beginning of our return trip!<br /><br />Our accomadations on this trip weren't quite as idyllic as our previous night train. Though the company was just as good, there was quite a bit more of it; our six bed couchette was packed to the gills with two girls from Yorkshire, us, and a couple from DC traveling to Poland to introduce him to her parents. Patrick managed to find us and a fellow traveller sub sandwiches by way of a late dinner, but the compartment crowded with sleepers and the tiny hallway gave us no place to sit and enjoy them. Eventually the hallway traffic thinned out and we decided just to plunk down in the narrow hall, hoping it wasn't <i>verboten</i>. We had just begun our furtive supper when the conductor poked his head from his compartment and said something in Czech. Summoning my hard won international communication skills I raised my sandwich and gestured to the seated group, "Ist OK?" He nodded dismissively then repeated his question; it ended in "...bier?" Wait...did he say beer? To emphasive, he pantomimed the approximate dimensions of a generous bottle and said "Czech bier, ein Euro." We wasted no time in rewarding our man's entrepreneurial spirit and settled down again to enjoy what was shaping up to be an enjoyable evening. The night was, as always, punctuated by jarring station stops and passport controls, but we managed some sleep and arrived in Prague to sunrise and, once again, few tourists.<br /><br />Now that we've been here for a day, I can confirm: Prague is as they say. Miles and miles of narrow, cobbled streets wind through the old town. No mere exhibit or token, like many of the <i>vielles villes</i> in European capitals, Prague's old town is large enough to pass for a city in its own right. Even after having seen so many quaint old streets thus far we had to marvel at the sheer scale. It just keeps going! Here there isn't the underlying worry of taking a wrong turn and stumbling out of Disneyland into mundane modernity waiting just beyond.<br /><br />As is our habit we hooked up with a bike tour to orient ourselves. The bikes they provided were no granny-style fat tire cruisers. They were well maintained middle of the line mountain bikes with thick treads and better shocks. We found out soon enough why: the cobblestones nearly rattled our teeth loose. Among the notable sites on the tour, the tallest structure in Pague particularly amused me. This TV tower, built in the late 80's as a last gasp of Eastern European communism, only ever carried 3 stations: It was built primarly to <i>block</i> Western transmissions. After a helpful but somewhat uninspiring tour we crossed joined the crush of tourists and followed Karlova Street to the famous Charles Bridge. By the time we arrived at the gates of Prague Castle the combined effects of a short night, long day, hot sun, and surfeit of tourists combined to leave us uninterested in further culture for the day. Instead we found a grassy patch on the hill and napped for a few hours, finally waking to 6:00 tolling from the nearby church, which we took for our dinner bell.<br /><br />Edit: Patrick notes that we are now carrying 7 currencies. They are, in order<br /><ul><br /><li>US Dollars<br /><li>British Pounds<br /><li>European Union Euros<br /><li>Swiss Suissefrancs<br /><li>Hungarian Forints<br /><li>Polish Zloty (/zwah-tee/)<br /><li>Czech Koruna </ul><br />and the bonus round, the piece-de-la-resistance...<br /><ul><br /><li>Austrian Schillings (discontinued in 1993, found in the gutter!)</ul><br /><br /><i>Edit: I just viewed the blog using Internet Explorer and I note that the pictures seem to load strangely or not at all. Probably the legacy of my amateur html skills. If you're using IE (and oh God why?) you might have better luck with something else. </i>PNThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07941960861931140648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-6268393712357710142007-07-23T14:03:00.000-07:002016-11-29T14:50:43.381-08:00If the left don't get ya then the right one will...Poor Poland. It's whole history it's been battered about, perpetually caught between expansionist and warlike neighbors, most notably Prussia/Germany on the left and Russia on the right. If it weren't for the language (and what a language!) and the unshakable Catholicism Poland would be undefinable as a country, so many times has it been annexed, taken over, carved up, and generally abused by its neighbors. Fortunately, this willingness to ride out the bad times with stoic dignity has paid dividends for Poland in at least one way: architectural heritage.<br />
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Many of the other major cities of Europe display a subtle charade to tourists, which our Munich guide Adam referred to as the "Bombed Style" of architecture. In short, many MANY of these old buildings in the center of town simply *aren't* old. They're cleverly crafted copies done in the style of the demolished original. So great was the destruction in some places that cities like Frankfurt and Munich held town votes to decide how to go about rebuilding the city; bulldoze and start over or rebuild it like it was (We have the technology...). In Frankfurt they decided that the Etch-a-Sketch had been shaken beyond saving; they literally redrew the city map and filled in with whole new buildings. Munich, by a close vote, went the other way, opting to preserve their historic feel and rebuild the city to look like it did ante-bellum (before it got it's bell rung). This gave birth, somewhat unceremoniously, to the "Neo-" style of architecture. You had a Gothic city hall that got asploded? The replacement is the "Neo-Gothic" Rathaus. Lost your government building dating back to the Renaissance? How about a good-as-old "Neo-Renaissance" copy on the same spot? (Plus a nice little modernist touch: Large glass and steel sides on the office, facing the public park so that the citizens can look in and watch their government at work. Methinks the architect was making a statement...)<br />
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Krakow, by contrast, doesn't have this. In fact, compared to the others, Krakow is at times a bewildering architectural kaleidescope. With no B-17s to simplify matters the city has retained its natural strata of styles from the different fits and spurts of building throughout its history. Nowhere is this more apparent than the almost comically embellished Wawel Cathedral. If you think it looks like a half-dozen or more rulers all tacked on their pet project using the current fashion in architecture, then you're right. My friend Rick tells me that the tote board here reflects 14th-century Gothic, 12th-century Romanesque, 17th-century Baroque, 16th-century Renaissance, and 18th- and 19th-century Neoclassical (In the sense of based-on-classical, not based-on-a-bombed-original-that-was-based-on-classical).<br />
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Prague made its tourist reputation on its similar fortune of not having been rubbled during the war, and I hear that, as much as Krakow touts itself as "the next Prague", the real thing is still king. All in all, Krakow has had its charms but for me it will remain firmly in Budapest's shadow. I'm ready for the train; old Praha has promised a lot and I really want to see it deliver.<br />
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<u><b>Bonus feature: Scavenger Hunt!</b></u><br />
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We all want to be Sherlock Holmes, Indiana Jones, and Gil Grissom, to look at the elements everyone else sees and put them together in a new way. We like the challenge, and we like the hunt for its own sake. Walking along an outdoor display of reproductions from Krakow artist Stanislaw Wyspianski we noticed one that was clearly a scene painted from within the city itself. If you can recognize one church anywhere in the world by its towers alone, it's gonna be St. Mary's and its famous mismatched pair. Well, we got to thinking, in a very grassy-knoll, Raiders-of-the-Lost-Ark kind of way, that it should be a simple matter to figure out where this guy's perch was. <br />
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<img alt="To this day some people maintain that there were in fact TWO painters atop the Cloth Hall" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ramblingrovers/878861436/" img="" src="https://farm2.static.flickr.com/1029/878861436_aec06bbf3e_m.jpg" style="border: solid 2px #000000;"></img> <br />
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Patrick took a picture of it for reference and, after Chinese for dinner (no sushi yet, Patrick insists, we're still 400 miles from the ocean) we headed back into town to get to the bottom of this. Naturally we stuck out like sore thumbs wandering around the main square alternately looking from the cathedral to our camera to the surrounding buildings. With some good inferences and a sharp eye we spotted the dome in the mid-foreground of the photo. A few moments later it all fell into place: The Princess-Leia ionic columns, the bronze ball, the low wall...He had to have been atop the Cloth Hall! Here, see for yourself!PNThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07941960861931140648noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-13512394619572504482007-07-22T14:01:00.000-07:002007-07-24T11:59:08.937-07:00Can't go wrong with Mama<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ramblingrovers/886967927/"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1207/886967927_05c5a8a4f1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>As we travel we make a conscious effort to stay close to the ground; hostels instead of hotels, small locally-owned eateries off the beaten path, and word of mouth recommendations as much as possible. This tends to give us a more colorful, cultural and local experience. The hostel guests and proprietors are more talkative and interesting and the guy behind the counter at the restaurant seems a little less burned out on tourists. This general policy however, has led us to an even more specific traveler's axiom: you can't go wrong with Mama.<br /><br /><br />In Corniglia, you remember that our under-the-table pensione (/pen-see-ohn-ay/) was secured by the Godfather-channeling "Mama" Angela. In Budapest, we found our authentic local Hungarian at Zsoka Mama's, a 6 table restaurant wedged into a small storefront a couple blocks off the main drag. Finally, tonight and last night we stuffed ourselves to bursting on rich, earthy polish food at an eatery that feels like you've walked into a Polish granny's living room -- for about $5 (US) per person. The place is "Kuchnia U Babci Maliny", and if you guessed that the translation includes "Grandma's" you win the prize. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ramblingrovers/886968295/"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px;" src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1292/886968295_d8431f99d8.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />The prototypical "Mama's" isn't ritzy or flashy; in fact, it's usually humble and often downright hard to find. Mama isn't trying to impress you, and you certainly can't impress mama; she's been at this since you were in diapers. Mama hasn't changed with the times or the tourists either; she's still using <i>her</i> mama's recipe. <br /><br />Mama has seen us through so far and you can bet your bottom zloty that we'll keep coming back to her, wherever we find her.Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397716556327709665noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-54148553842064091962007-07-21T15:18:00.000-07:002007-07-21T17:00:06.138-07:00The pictures, they MOVE!Yes indeed, we have another special treat for you. Grab yourself a beverage and enjoy the third production of Rambling Rovers Motion Picture Studios, "<a href="http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=7632137840426099371&hl=en">Tunnel Vision</a>"<br /><br />Also, (as Krystal so perceptively pointed out) we have new photos up on the <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ramblingrovers">flickr site</a>, from the end of Budapest through today. In lieu of a blog post today I have gone through and added my two zlotkys worth to the captions.PNThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07941960861931140648noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-7847844314197805222007-07-21T00:25:00.000-07:002016-11-12T16:30:48.989-08:00Whatchu gonna do when they come for you?We caught our first night train last night, leaving Budapest behind just as the clouds began to gather. As a send-off the city even managed to muster 20 minutes of sprinkling rain, almost as if in apology for the record-breaking heat wave.<br />
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We settled into our couchette and awaited the bad news...who were we going to have for roommates? Afterall, there are 6 bunks in the 8x8x8 2nd class couchettes and they don't see anything inhumane about allowing snorers and stinkers and amorous couples onto these trains. Much to our relief, we instead got Miwa, come all the way from Japan on a solitary jaunt around eastern Europe. She was doing Croatia, Slovenia, Bosnia, Herzegovina, as well as Hungary and Poland. As I mentioned in the last post, 3 weeks ago I really wouldn't have considered those to be tourist destinations; I've heard too much about them in the news and not enough in the travel guides. Well, now I know better. I don't speak Croatian any better than I speak Hungarian, but you can't get any worse than totally illiterate, and yet I managed fine in Hungary. It's all the same, really, once you know how to play the game. (This doesn't mean I'm planning a trip to, say, Iraq anytime soon. I prefer to see AK-47s on TV.)<br />
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The night train looks to be as good an idea as the 3 day mercy rule. Traveling at night turns a 3 night stay into 4 useful days instead of 2 and 2 halves. Only problem are the border crossings and the ensuing passport checks. Stamp out at the Hungarian border. Then for entering Slovenia. Then for <i>leaving</i> Slovenia. Then for entering Poland. I just don't think I'll ever get used to being rousted out of a sound sleep by stern looking officers armed with guns and scowls, speaking brusquely in a language I <i>utterly</i> don't comprehend. I've watched enough COPS to know that talking to police while barechested and bleary eyed requires deliberate dignity and slow, obvious movements. While I could do without the hourly passport parade at least I now know how to thank them for their troubles. In Hungary <i>kursunum</i> did the job, and for the Polish cop my mind was somehow able to dredge up <i>dziekuje</i> in a close enough approximation that he responded with what I can only assume to be the Polish equivalent of "you're welcome."<br />
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We arrived in Krakow at 5:30am, probably our earliest morning so far. We hooked through the old town on the way to our hostel and entered through the Florian Gate, the best preserved remains of the old city wall. We made our way to the main market square just as the sun rose over Saint Mary's cathedral, enjoying the empty plaza populated by many pigeons but few tourists. We even managed to arrive right on the hour to hear the bugler play his hourly call from the watchtower attached to Saint Mary's. The bugler is always a fireman, part of the city's best loved tradition that evokes the legend of a town watchman in the tower that spotted a Tartar army approaching and sounded the alarm. Before he could finish his tune an arrow pierced his throat, cutting him short. To this day the call stops short of the end of the song.<br />
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We're now at the Deco Hostel, having managed a much delayed and much needed shower after the sauna like heat of the city and the cramped train car. We're going to head back out on the town, probably catch a bike tour by way of orientation, then, hopefully, return to the hostel later tonight and upload some photos which we kinda owe you all for all the wordy posts. <i>Na zdrowie</i> and <i>czesc,</i>*!<br />
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(*Cheers and goodbye, naturally!)PNThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07941960861931140648noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-81960546143329485572007-07-18T10:05:00.000-07:002008-04-30T20:53:13.377-07:00Here there be Dragons!Well, I'll be honest. I was a little hinkey about Budapest when we first added it to the itinerary. It seemed like it was on the other side of some imaginary line that divided the world into "within" my comfort zone and "Here there be Dragons". Of course one of the primary purposes of this trip was to expand my horizons and see places I hadn't seen, but lets be REASONABLE, right? Well, I need not have feared. Budapest will love you whether you know a thing about it or not, and you will love Budapest.<br /><br />First order of business was to get money, since Hungary hasn't quite got up the economic speed to hop aboard the Euro train. The hassle of needing a different type of curreny is somewhat offset by the novelty of a very advantageous exchange rate: about 200 Hungarian Forints to the dollar. So....I withdrew 25,000 in cash. Yeah, it feels just as swell as it sounds. Add to that the fact that I am now carrying 4 different currencies and you'd feel pretty spry, too. How to celebrate that "citizen of the world" feeling and fight the broiling Budapest summer at the same time? The baths, of course!<br /><br />Budapest is famous for its geothermal baths and has a long tradition going back to the Roman days when they found that this whole area (the "Carpathian Basin", thanks Rick!) is basically a big kettle of hot water with a little dirt on top. The Roman settlement at the site of present day Budapest was even called <i>"Aquincum"</i>, or Abundant Waters. Many years later the conquering Ottomans say that the Romans had a good thing going and just expanded on it (hence all the rounded domes and yellow paint).<br /><br />We hooked up with Shira and Jenna who knew what they were doing and headed for the Szechenyi Baths in the middle of Pest. While others have their claim to fame, Szechenyi is the acknowledged best. A little unsure of what to expect I paid my 2400 forint, changed into a suit (this would be one of the progressive yes-to-bathing-suits-and-women bathhouses) and stepped into the tile-floored baths. Fortunately, as cultural experiences go, this one was no more difficult than a trip to the waterpark, but with all the payoff. We got the full frigidarium (64 degrees!!!), tepidarium, caldarium sequence, plus saunas, large outdoor pools with fountains and jets, even a pool with concentric rings, one for bobbing, one with a circular current, and one giant spa/whirlpool in the middle.<br /><br />We saw many dignified old Hungarian men bobbing in the warm water contemplating chess moves across a board propped on the intervening wall, and many examples of the fearsome Inverse Speedo Law: The bigger the belly, the smaller the Speedo. As Patrick noted, though, the ratio of attractive bathers to look-the-other-ways was significantly higher here than on either the beaches of Nice or Cinque Terre.<br /><br />We were actually in the water by 10am, which sounds early until you realize that it was almost 94 degrees by then, humidity about 70%. Though we didn't know it until we got back this evening, today was actually a record breaking high temperature.<br /><br />After the baths we went to the grand market hunting lunch. The Hungarians don't exaggerate; it's like a train station (it might even have been, considering the turn of the century chic, I-beam and decorative wrought iron architecture) but instead of trains it has dozens upon dozens of food vendors. Produce grocers, butchers, fishmongers with great tanks of live fish ("I want that one. No, not, the other one. The one that's swimming in circles...") and a whole mess of hot food stands are stacked 3 levels high in the cavernous hall. We browsed for awhile, following rumors of Chinese food (lies, LIES!) and eventually settled upon a Hungarian stand offering...*nothing* we recognized. We led with our noses and what looked good, literally just pointing and indicating relative portions ("YES! Gimme more of that. Um..can I try ,I <i>just</i> a smidge of that?) I also managed to order a Coke when I thought I was asking for a fork. With gusto and no small amount of curiosity we dug in. Patrick got what can best be described as a pseudo chile relleno. It was a delightfully spicy stuffed pepper (though "Stuffed with what" is still a matter of conjecture) I made off with an herb crusted chicken leg (Hungarian chickens have MASSIVE legs) that had some sort of ultra-dense bread/pastry stuffing on the INSIDE. The Coke was tasty, too.<br /><br />Thus sated and also filled up on water we set out to cross the Danube west from flat, business-like Pest to hilly, historical Buda. We climbed Gellert Hill (named in honor of Bishop Gellert, the patron saint of the city, who was offed by his political opponents by being nailed into a beer keg and unceremoniously booted down said hill. End effect: Martyrdom by barrelroll and a new patron saint.) Gellert Hill is topped by the Citidel and a massive statue of Peace personified as a woman (ostensibly) holding a palm branch. The locals call her "The woman with the fish" but to us she will always be "Our Lady of Perpetual Ascent" because DAMN that hill is tall. Getting off the hill and out of the sun we poked around Castle Hill which doesn't quite seem to live up to its exciting name. Fortunately, our penchant for seeking our perches and ditches steered us right once again. We found the Castle Hill Caves and Labyrinth.<br /><br />No museum, this; it's its just what it sounds like. An a la carte cave and labyrinth experience for those of us who still play Dungeons and Dragons in our head while we tour medieval castles. Climbing down three stories into the rock and foundation of Castle Hill we left the sun and the oppressive heat (106 degrees at 3:45pm) behind, trading it for darkened passages, dripping ceilings, and frosty breath. The cave system was wonderful; no point, just caves, and every BIT as cool as it sounds. They even worked in various themes. At the entrance stood a carved Theseus, stoically peering into the darkness with a ball of yarn in his cupped hand. Elsewhere you stumbled upon him crouched in the shadows while you heard strange, hoofbeat like rhythms. Very environmental, very creepy, VERY cool. Another part featured stacked stone pillars with capstones positioned to give them a clear head and shoulders. Spears leaning against them or thrust in the ground in front of them completed the uncanny impression of soldiers guarding a passageway in the flickering torchlight. For anyone who ever wanted to try to sneak into a castle in a daring nighttime raid, this is the place. The strangest room of the labyrinth was actually the most well lit. Coming around a corner Patrick and I heard cheerful but still oddly minor key *music* echoing from a bright cave up ahead. A few steps further and we both stopped in our tracks at the pungent odor of...blood? Ammonia? No, vinegar! Entering the cave we met a very strange sight indeed. A square pillar of rock in the middle of the room, reaching to the ceiling, covered in bright green ivy growing thick and lively even despite the gloom and total absence of sunlight. Protruding from the rock were 4 bronze fountains, rusted to a turquoise patina, forming mouths spouting down into basins. And from the mouths poured a constant, blood-red stream of vinegar. It was fascinating, utterly mysterious, and vaguely unsettling for reasons I still can't quite put my finger on.<br /><br />Leaving the caves was sad, and returning to the heat was unpleasant, but it did dry our clothes from the dank subterranean air. Hustling over to the train station before it closed I pictographically reserved us two couchettes (sleeper car berths) on the night train to Krakow in two days. I drew it up ahead of time for maximum comprehensibility and total coverage. The date for the tickets hung over 2 stick figures standing on the word Budapest, which was connected with an arrow to Krakow. Rising over the arrow was a crescent moon and sleeping soundly beneath the arrow were our two travellers, each in a bunk. I was more than a little nervous about what reception my little masterpiece would receive. The last think I want to do is insult and upset the poor woman. I might wake up Friday morning in Siberia! Fortunately, she loved it, gibbering excitedly in Hungarian before declaring "You make so easy!" Don't think I didn't double check the tickets even so, but all is in order, much to my relief.<br /><br />We finished the night by grabbing dinner at a local Hungarian hole in the wall. I practiced "Thank You" on the waitress ("Kursunum", with umlauts over all the vowels. And it's basically not pronounced one bit the way it looks.) I also had a chance to finally take a crack at "cheers" in Hungarian (phonetically "eh-gesh-eh-ge-druh", still working out where the emPHAsis goes. Easy pneumonic for remembering it, though: "Eggs should get drunk".) I had a bacon wrapped chicken in a white (perhaps cheese-based?) cream sauce, Patrick had the fried pork chops. Annn, NOW I see why those great old Hungarian men are overhanging their Speedos. If that's the price for eating Hungarian cooking I'll gladly pay it.<br /><br />So Budapest is my buddy now. Tomorrow Patrick and I are planning on catching the bicycle tour tomorrow morning and then heading to Statue Park (1980's, Budapest: OY! Loads of Communist era statues, no longer communist. Historical value. Can't just cleverly <a href="http://ramblingrovers.blogspot.com/2007/07/laptops-and-leiderhosen.html">paint over them</a> Ooh, eeh, um, what to do? I know! Statue park <span style="font-style: italic;">outside<span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span> the city!) or maybe trying our another of the bathhouses. Maybe see if we can bait some crotchety Hungarian guy into whooping us at chess.<br /><br />(Ps: I apologize if all the talk of food is making you Hungary. ...er, sorry. I ought to get the country name puns in Czech before I drive my brother to distraction.)<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">[EDIT: Holy CRAP that was a long post. Er...sorry? Can someone or some several of you nominate yourselves vox populi and tell me if the long ones like the above are too long and should be kept somewhat more bite size? This ok? Crickets?]</span>PNThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07941960861931140648noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-85498850149455788592007-07-17T22:36:00.000-07:002007-07-17T22:54:56.411-07:00Locals say "Pescht"We have arrived in Hungary, more or less intact. Before leaving Austria and Klosterneuburg, we decided that we had to actually <i>visit</i> the Cloister and the Neu Burg (new castle), a stunning baroque church strapped to a royal palace, sitting on top of a roman fort. The tour was mostly in German but our granmotherly tour guide threw in as many tidbits in English as she could, all the while complaining that her "English as not so good" (a standard line for many modest Germans and Austrians, who generally have excellent English). <br /><br />Arriving in Budapest (with a Hungarian "s".. /buda-pescht/) at 8 last night (several hours after we intended, a long story for another time), we found that every hostel we knew about was full and all the Tourist Infos were closed. Bummer dude. So, what did we do? Start talking to people of course! A fellow on the train mentioned a hostel, so we got directions to his hostel, but they were full. However, the guy at that front desk said he was online with a friend of his who worked at another hostel across town. They chatted it up, and he turned back to us and said, "she's got two beds for you. Here's the address." Schwing! We hiked over there, and behind a ratty door, up a rickety flight of stairs we find a great little hostel that's two parts college dorm, 1 part slumber party and a pinch of Anne Frank. Great place, nice people, and we met some folks who want to go to the Baths tomorrow (Budapest hot springs are world famous), so we're going to go with. Good travelers make their own luck.Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397716556327709665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-38959948606337814632007-07-16T15:11:00.000-07:002007-07-16T15:17:25.528-07:00Flickr DifficultiesSome have metioned to us that they are having trouble viewing pictures on Flickr that we link to from the blog. I haven't been able to pin down the exact issue, but in the interest mitigating it, you can always access our photos directly from our Flickr home page: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ramblingrovers/">http://www.flickr.com/photos/ramblingrovers/</a>. So, if you've tried to access photos in the past and not been able to get in, there's your best bet. You don't need an account to view them, but if you feel like commenting, it's a simple process to get one.Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397716556327709665noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-52436213192824598142007-07-14T08:42:00.000-07:002007-07-14T09:46:21.867-07:00Wait, I thought *you* were driving...Leaving München for Wien this morning we turned our eye to a much neglected part of our trip, namely, our itinerary. Today, Saturday, marks the conclusion of the 3rd week of our journey and our halfway point, at least in time. Because of our extension in Kandersteg and our good fortune in Fribourg we stayed longer in Switzerland than we had originally planned and so are now about 3 days behind "schedule." The schedule itself isn´t really a concern; afterall, we are our own tour guides and we have´t any reservations (Yeah, yeah, "But I´m having SERIOUS reservations..." Shush, you.) but the schedule is a reasonable division of our time and to fall behind it means that we have to rethink our ports of call somewhat to ensure that we get in those places that are important to us and still end up in Paris on the right date. Fortunately, we´re a lot better at planning Europe trips now (funny how that works) so I place a little bit more trust in our ability to create a maintainable itinerary for the balance of the trip.<br /><br />One principle that we´ve adopted is the 3-nights-in-one-place mercy rule (Also known as 3 Day's Grace). As Gepat, one of the Austrian scoutmasters, explained to me, you can see train stations anywhere in the world and they look the same anywhere in the world. I agree him wholeheartedly, getting there is actually only about 6.25% of the fun. Travel less, experience more and keep your sanity in the bargain. We realized that only two nights in a city left but a single day to explore and a single day off the train. Much better to treat the tour as a series of weekends in which you arrive "Friday" evening, get oriented and settled in, see the sights on "Saturday and Sunday", and leave early "Monday" morning....of course with the benefit that "Monday" morning leads right into "Friday" night!<br /><br />Another problem we revisted was the state of rail in Eastern Europe. While Austria is still a part of Eurail, and even Hungary beyond that, the Czech Republic, Slovakia (which we may travel through en route), and Poland are not. This means that our magic go-anywhere-do-anything Eurail Passes won´t work and we´ll have to buy tickets for those legs separately. Though we knew this was going to be a bit of a sticky spot when we were planning the trip we figured we´d just deal with it when we got there. Here. Er, now. The nice thing is that we´re working on solutions now so that we still have almost a week before we´ll be needing those tickets.<br /><br />Our evolving solution for the next two weeks, at least til we´re back in western Europe,looks something like this: (Details, as always, still being worked out.)<br /><br />July City<br />14 Wien<br />15 Wien<br />16 Wien <br />17 Budapest<br />18 Budapest<br />19 Budapest (Night train)<br />20 Krakow<br />21 Krakow<br />22 Krakow (Night train)<br />23 Praha<br />24 Praha<br />25 Praha (Night train)<br />26 Amsterdam<br />27 Amsterdam/Helmond(?)<br />28 Amsterdam/Helmond(?)<br /><br />Notice the use of night trains to help pick up a few days and do something productive over those long hauls. Also note that Berlin found its way to the chopping block. As <a href="http://www.findlyrics.com/frank_sinatra/somethings_gotta_give">Frankie</a> put it, "Somethin´s Gotta Give."PNThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07941960861931140648noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-6577440630225092442007-07-13T09:23:00.001-07:002007-07-13T09:31:45.605-07:00Photos are SO last yearYou all have responded with such <i>vigor</i>, such <i>enthusiasm</i>, to our posts that we want to go just that one step further. We present, in association with RamblingRovers Pictures, a RamblingRovers Studio Production... <u>RamblingRovers in Europe</u>. <br /><ul><br /><li>The Attack of the <a href="http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-165971743028894895&hl=en">Swiss Cows</a><br /><li>Pilatus <a href="http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-2864619106476674035&hl=en">Ninja Attack</a><br /></ul>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397716556327709665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-58299582814570679282007-07-12T15:07:00.000-07:002008-04-30T20:39:21.071-07:00Laptops and LeiderhosenAnd we´re in München! Munich is referred to by cheeky bilingual natives as "the land of laptops and leiderhosen" because it is at once a very forward-looking center of technology and industry and a stubbornly traditional area steeped in the old ways. Fortunately for us travelers, we´re equally delighted by local beer and oompah as by cutting edge engineering and technology.<br /><br />We arrived late last night to crash at the A&O Hostel, which was approximately a cross between a dorm and a tenement. (It´s sole redeeming feature was a wistful view of the distinctive Mercedes HQ above the skyline.) Would that we had actually bothered to read our guidebook for ideas before booking, apparently there is a Wombat Hostel in Munich; somehow I think that´s the place for me. Fortunately we´re booked into a much better one for tonight and tomorrow, the EasyPalace hostel.<br /><br />Today was given over to tours, both vehicular and autolocomotive. We caught a quick doubledecker bus tour as orientation, then had time for a VERY brief "South Americanische" lunch (that´s what it said on the door). Though it was tasty, if over priced, we got endless kicks out of the liberties taken with the menu. Instead of chips and salsa they served bread with yogurt with chives. The salsa evoked hazy recollections of some similar sauce, and the fajitas were also accompanied with something that I was delighted to recognize as islandless thousand island. Seeing "Steaksausse" on the table I took a whiff, and handed it to Patrick with a quiz: " If you didn´t know this was steak sauce, what would you say it was?" He agreed with me; shrimp cocktail sauce.<br /><br />The Mike´s Bikes tour was, predictably, fantastic. They screen their guides for enthusiasm and charisma so you can´t help but enjoying yourself. Patrick noted that he wished he could send his Engineering Ambassadors on one so they could see how it CAN be done, and we both agreed that we´d love to do something like this some time....whenever THAT would be. Adam, our guide, was an exuberent South African with a 100 mph (161 kph) delivery and wide-eyed excitement you just couldn´t help but love. The accent never hurts, of course. Among the interesting bits he related was that München´s famous Hofbraü Hauss beer hall was the site of one of Hitler´s first public speeches. During the period of Nazi ascendency swasticas were painted on the ceiling in honor of this occasion; years later the proprietors had a difficult decision to make. Swasticas were emphatically out of fashion, but the paintings had historical value. Solution? They worked the Bavarian flag into the swastica design, so enfolding it that its no longer visible if you weren´t looking for it, which we most certianly were. The bike tour paused for a good hour in München´s most famous beer garden, the Chinese Tower Garden, while we sampled some of the famous local product. München is where I first found a liking for beer so it was only fitting that I revisit this revelation in style. Plus, some of you remember that I owe Patrick a beer from Fribourg (when he declined it due to being under the weather). I paid in full, believe me. In the Hofbrau beer garden they sell beer <i>BY THE LITER.</i> If you wonder how much a liter stein is, make a circle with the thumb and middle fingers of your two hands and hold it nine inches off the table. (And then we got back on the bikes after that...) Speaking of hands and fingers, a note on tecnique: steins are very large, often glass, sometimes metal drinking vessels. For beer. Not for other liquids. They had large, manly handles on them. For drinking beer. Not for other liquids. Therefore they must be held appropriately. The "handle," as it was explained, it not for fingers, like you might think. No wrapping your fingers around it like a teacup. NO! Shove your whole meaty, manly hand into it and let the STEIN hold on to YOU! NOW you may swing it, pound it, and chug with impunity! PROST!<br /><br />Tomorrow we´re headed to the Deutsche Museum, Germany´s answer to the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum, the National Science and Technology Museum, and the Exploratorium all in one place. Legend has it that there are 10 miles of exhibits criss-crossing the campus, and that if you spend 1 minute at each exhibit youd be there 10 days. I certainly intend to give it a run for its money. Guten nacht and love to all!'<br /><br /><i>Edit:(And yes, to anyone who was wondering about my taking FULL advantage of a keyboard that has a an umlaüt "u" ("ü") on it. Power corrupts, what can I say?)</i>PNThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07941960861931140648noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-46670530340548460812007-07-11T08:34:00.000-07:002007-07-11T08:45:54.563-07:00Up is a destination, not a directionScore another one for Patrick's preternatural sense of opportunity. Most tourists only see the seilpark as a point of interest on the gondola ride to the top. We were doubly lucky today because the clouds menaced off a good many potential climbers. The place is basically and Ewok village straight off of Endor, it's the treehouse you would build if you had miles of high tension cable and cranes instead of scavenged two-by-fours and a few nails.<br /><br />We had lunch on the train to Zurich, leftover spaghetti from last night. Yes, we put it in a bag last night and we took it with us on the train. It seemed like a good idea at the time... No one is sick yet, and the look from the conductor as we squeezed spaghetti and meat sauce from a ziplock bag was priceless. (Also, cooking last night did more than just give us lunch tody. A Swiss kid observing our culinary escapades asked with great interest if we were Americans, because he heard people didn't cook in the United States. I assured him they did, even if he only ever saw them eating in restaurants over here. I also assured him that most americans agreed that McDonald's only met the loosest definition of "food")PNThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07941960861931140648noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-19284369220015779012007-07-11T08:26:00.000-07:002007-07-11T08:34:28.452-07:00Leaving LuzerneWe rose early this morning and made our way to the base of Mount Pilatus, the local mystic mountain and tourist attraction. Most visitors ride the gondola all the way up to the summit and soak in the view (of dubious quality given the low-hanging clouds), but we had a lead on a much more interesting option: Seilpark. The Seilpark is an alpine ropes course hanging off the side of Pilatus. Those of you who know us know *exactly* the odds of us bypassing a network of tightwires, rickety rope bridges, and zip lines hung high in the trees. After two hours of scrabling around (with a few spills, caught by the omnipresent safety line) we relaxed into a final cup of Swiss cappuccino and a nutty <i>Haselnussstang</i>, pastry which we know nothing about except for the waitress's cheery "has nuts", and watched a rainstorm roll in against the alps. Fantastic. Now, off to Munich!Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397716556327709665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-83385267312995278942007-07-10T12:24:00.000-07:002007-07-10T12:32:25.723-07:00And on the 16th day they restedWanting to take full advamtage of Nicole and Olivier's knowledge and excellent hospitality we packed as much as we couild into our 4 days in Fribourg. Today? We did nothing. Blessed noting. Emerging from my room barechested, yawning, stretching at 2:30 in the afternoon I even felt compelled to explain myself to a Seattle family that I passed in the hall. Of yesterday there isn't much to tell except for trains and rains, which been the unofficial theme of Switzerland so far. The two notable items were the mildly interesting revelation that we had in fact been here before; 5 years ago with our whole family. Though I recognized some of the sights (particularly Luzerns famous covered wooden bridge) it was all very delayed and very vague, as if from a dream or from pictures of someone elses trip. Not surprising, really, considering how dead tired we were on the "EF 1000MPH European Sampler Whirlwind." A perfect reason to start with a guided tour to find out what you like, then come back and fire for effect.<br /><br />Lastly, after being in Europe for more than two weeks, our impulse to "eat local" entered a waning phase, replaced by an urgent need for...Thai! Now some of you are probably asking yourselves "Where the heck are you going to find a Thai restaurant in Luzern, Switzerland?" And after nearly an hour chasing geese around old town Luzern, we were asking ourselves the same question. Eventually we stumbled onto (into) a Korean restaurant (Korean Town, naturally) that was warm, dry, smelled delectable and appeared to be patronized astoundingly (and encouragingly!) primarily by Koreans. The menu was mercifully subtitled in English so we helped courselves to hot green team, dumplings, a beef and glassnoodles house special, and a spicy chicken dish. We declined the waitresses offer of forks or even wooden chopsticks, instead opting to try the traditional Korean chopsticks: flat and metal. Despite some hand cramps we had an excellent meal and were mostly dry by the time we headed back out into the storm.<br /><br />Tonight we cooked here at "home" (the Luzern Backpackers Hotel) and plan to turn in early, post-prandial cappucinos notwithstanding. Depending on whether we hear from Veit and Hilly (two of the Austrian scout leaders) we'll either head for Vienna or Munich on the morrow.<br /><br /><i>[Editor's note: What do tech savvy budet travelers to do to get around extortionate net fees and still make lengthy blog posts? Why, they type the whole blog post into the URL bar of the kiosks browser windows, 400 characters at a time, in 5 separate windows, then pay the money and past the whole thing together in 20 seconds. (Then they spend another 2 minutes being smug about it...)</i>PNThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07941960861931140648noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-63159515810548862232007-07-08T10:58:00.001-07:002007-07-08T14:49:25.936-07:00The view from cloud nineMy back-of-the-envelope figuring puts travel at about 20% planning, 70% going with the flow, and 10% luck. (And sometimes I wonder about how much value there is in planning.) Yesterdays events are a perfect example of this. <div style="float: left; margin-right: 10px; margin-top: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ramblingrovers/752952743/" title=""><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1012/752952743_77e6d10c3b_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: 2px solid rgb(0, 0, 0);" /></a> <span style="font-size:0;"> <br /></span></div> Meeting up with Nicole and Olivier was a long shot that amazingly worked out (and how!) and things continued lining up frm there. After enjoying their hospitality in our amazing home away from home in Fribourg, Nicole's sister Caroline invited us on a flight around the countryside. Caroline trained as a pilot in the Swiss army (compulsory service for men, optional for women) and now has to fly occasionally to maintain her certs. She was kind enough to take us up in her Cessna for a splendid aerial tour of the canton of Fribourg. We were delighted to come along for the ride, cameras most certainly at hand. (Nice thing about a photo flight is that you can have your tourist moments in the privacy of your own Cessna.)<br /><br /><div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-top: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ramblingrovers/753807640/" title=""><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1105/753807640_bac3193b66_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"> <br /> </span></div>Taking off from <a href="http://www.aerodrome-ecuvillens.ch/">Ecuvilliens</a> a small airfield just outside Fribourg, we got a full tour around of the Kanton of Fribourg. Our hosts explained to us that Switzerland is divided into Kantons, administrative districts very similar to states, but much stronger and more self-directed. (Incidentally, Switzerland is properly called the Confederation Helvetique, which explains the .ch extension in Swiss web addresses, like www.ludivers.ch.) The city of Fribourg is the capitol of the Kanton in a "New York, New York" sort of way. The mountains are to the south of Fribourg, starting with the green "Pre-Alps" and proceding higher, colder, and snowier to the imposing Alps in the background.<br /><br /><br /><div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-top: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ramblingrovers/753818730/" title=""><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1012/753818730_8f3de37096_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"> <br /> </span></div>The Swiss military is, like most things Swiss, amazingly clever. In addition to having many citizen pilots they also maintain a host of small air bases scattered about. Many Swiss highways also have sections that can be converted into runways at a moment's notice. Interestingly, because Switzerland is such a multilingual country (3 to 5, depending on how you count) all military air traffic radio in Switzerland must be in English.<br /><br /><br /><div style="float: left; margin-right: 10px; margin-top: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ramblingrovers/753817360/" title=""><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1307/753817360_c8c31f25c6_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"> <br /> </span></div> In the above picture you can see the large lush summer pastures called, creatively, Alpage. It was these sorts of pastures that the cows in Patrick's photos were headed for. At left is the Lac Noir, the Black Lake that actually looks fairly greenish from the minerals that the water collects as it runs down through the sandstone like <i>molasse</i> rocks of the pre-Alps. The large Cathedral St. Nicholas in Fribourg is made mostly of this rock, except for the foundation, due to its tendancy to run down hill with the prevailing current.<br /><br /><br /><div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-top: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ramblingrovers/753824112/" title=""><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1424/753824112_1779a8e7fb_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"> <br /> </span></div> I made sure to include the plane in part of these shots so that it was clear that we are actually taking them and not just raiding google. Here you can see a good progression of the pre-Alps into the Alps. To orient you, and myelf, this is a view due south toward the border with Italian countryside, good seafood, and bad public transit beyond.<br /><br /><div style="float: left; margin-left: 10px; margin-top: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ramblingrovers/752984377/" title=""><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1109/752984377_6cd278a890_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"> <br /> </span></div> Finally, a portrait of Fribourg from the northwest. The city was first constructed as literally a <i>"frei burg"</i>, or a free city to ensure that area merchants could continue to trade regardless of political winds. The location was chosen with that goal in mind, in the photo you can clearly see that it's built on a river, as good medieval cities should be. Right there you've got your transportation and your defense. You can also see the Cathedral St. Nicholas, which Patrick and I climbed, with great relish, all 368 steps of.Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397716556327709665noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5892445332686419738.post-28917806650941278912007-07-06T10:06:00.000-07:002007-07-06T13:03:34.258-07:00In which Preston buys Patrick a drink, Olivier some sweets, and Nicole a begoniaWell, he did it. I'm amazed, but it worked. Patrick made a friend through some online bulletin boards and, several months ago, she invited Patrick to come stay with her and her husband should he ever be traveling through Switzerland. Well, 2 days ago he sent her an email saying essentially "We're here; is the offer still good?" and incredibly it was! More details on that at the end of this post. Let's get to Fribourg, first.<br /><br /><div style="float: left; margin-right: 10px; margin-top: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ramblingrovers/739186935/" title="You'd have stopped and stared, too"><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1246/739186935_57d2c7036d_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: 2px solid rgb(0, 0, 0);" /></a> <span style="font-size:0;"> <br /></span></div>Leaving Kandersteg was honestly a sad experience. We were forced to check out of the Scout Centere itself after only two nights because that's all we had requested, we thought we were just going to pass through but we met so many friends and felt so at home that we stayed two additional nights. It amused me greatly that we partied harder with the Scouts than with the college kids and hostel crowd; plus, we learned a great deal and truly had our eyes opened to the way other cultures do things. The BSA seem pretty uptight compared to scouting in the rest of the world. It's not evident until you bring them face to face, but once you see the way in which other scouting organizations are run you can see how out of touch BSA is on some of the larger principles of scouting. Some of them pity us (the Scots, for example) and many of them just hope its not coming their way. I'm also embarassed to admit that I'm still a little unclear on the Netherlands/Holland/Dutch heirarchy, but I'm relieved to NOT be the American tourist in the bar in Kandersteg who required 5 minutes of patient explanation to comprehend why the Austrian scouts didn't know much about kangaroos and boomerangs.<br /><br /><div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-top: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ramblingrovers/739187239/" title="Food is fuel. Eat hearty and K.Y.B.O."><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1076/739187239_6a974efb1d_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: 2px solid rgb(0, 0, 0);" /></a> <span style="font-size:0;"> <br /></span></div>After 4 nights in Kandersteg it was a bit of a haul to get back on the road again Thursday morning, but we're getting good at it. We stocked up on our usual traveling food--bread, cheese, sausage, fruit, chocolate--and caught the train north to Bern, completely unsure of where we were going to sleep that night. Though we're also getting used to the idea, it continues to be a source of discomfort for me to spend large parts of my day homeless-in-fact. Fortunately, with our packs light and portable and our food already bought we're pretty flexible. As a consequence of our somewhat cavalier approach to planning we find ourselves constantly stepping off trains into the middle of the cities with NO idea whats there. We're getting it down to a science: When's the next train, where's the tourist office, how can we get a map, whats a reasonable price for internet? Patrick and his nose for bandwidth save us a lot of time on this front. It was an interesting experience, as we moved north from Kandersteg to Bern, to hear the change in the language around us. Kandersteg is clearly in the German-speaking portion of the country, but Bern is both a large city and closer to the French section, so most signs and announcements are bilingual. It's a pretty cool feeling to be as delighted to hear French as English. Any port in a storm!<br /><br />Once in Bern and properly lunched we were confronted with the unappealing prospect of another night in an HI hostel which, as we'd learned in Genova, are clean, well maintained, predictable, and as depressing as a cafeteria lunch. Into this glum mood shown a single ray of light: Patrick's longshot friend in Fribourg. And believe it or not, she came through, inviting us to come join them that very night. We were overjoyed and, not forgetting our manners, asked if there was anything we could bring. She said no, it's not necessary (adding that in Switzerland, unlike in France, no actually means no) but we, being American and not Swiss, insisted. After some prodding she admitted that her husband was quite fond of <i>Läckerli</i> [leck-early, but you have to gargle the "ck"] a hard, dense ginger spice bread somewhere between ginger coffee cake and graham crackers. (That's a terrible description, but I can be forgiven, when *I* asked what it was the woman simply offered me a taste rather than trying to explain.) We found a whole bag <i>Läckerli</i> and a nice potted begonia and caught our train looking rather silly but proud of ourselves. It's hard to look manly holding a yellow begonia and a bag of sweets, particularly when you're standing next to a stocky Swiss soldier in fatigues.<br /><br />Stepping off the train we met Nicole (aka Midori) and caught the bus to the flat in the newer section of Fribourg that she shares with her husband Olivier. Nicole and Olivier are both lifelong Swiss citizens; Nicole speaks beautifully tinted English, mindblowingly rapid French, and <i>ein kleine deutsch</i>, probably much more than she lets on. Olivier speaks only French, with merciful enunciation and sympathetic pauses when I glaze over halfway through what he's telling me. Olivier is a masterful modelmaker and tabletop games enthusiast who works for the nationalized Swiss Telcom; Nicole is a student finishing her (equivalent) Master's in English Philology who also finds time to play what appears to be every console RPG ever published. Geeks in the best sense of the word, both of them, and it's a delight to benefit from their knowledge of local and Swiss culture, not to mention their cooking. We ended Thursday night in fine style with a hearty local meal of fondue and white wine, whereupon Patrick and I crashed, mindful of having run ourselves down in the rain and mud at Kandersteg. I'll leave off here and continue Friday in its own post.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">[Edit 1: In answer to Scott's question about </span><i style="font-style: italic;">petanque</i><span style="font-style: italic;">, it's the Southern France/Northern Italy game that is bocce's more sophisticated big brother. Each player has 3 solid steel </span><span style="font-style: italic;">bocce</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, which is merely Italian for ball. There is also a small, brightly painted cork ball about the size of a fishing bobber, called (at least in France) the </span><span style="font-style: italic;">bouchon</span><span style="font-style: italic;">. The </span><span style="font-style: italic;">bouchon</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> is thrown out some disance onto a flat, crushed aggregate court (in Italy this court was spiked with strategically placed rocks to make it more difficult.) The goal is to get as many as possible of your </span><span style="font-style: italic;">bocce</span> closer to the <span style="font-style: italic;">bouchon</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> than the closest of your opponent's </span><span style="font-style: italic;">bocce</span><span style="font-style: italic;">. </span><div style="float: left; margin-right: 10px; margin-top: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; font-style: italic;"> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/ramblingrovers/684867168/" title="It's like Don Corleone meets Mr. Rogers."><img src="http://farm2.static.flickr.com/1432/684867168_12573cc9bc_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: 2px solid rgb(0, 0, 0);" /></a> <span style="font-size:0;"> <br /></span></div><span style="font-style: italic;">Strategically, you can either </span><i style="font-style: italic;">pointe</i><span style="font-style: italic;"> or </span><i style="font-style: italic;">chute</i><span style="font-style: italic;">. To </span><i style="font-style: italic;">pointe</i><span style="font-style: italic;"> is to toss a gentle, high arc with a slight backspin, hoping to get it to land as close as possible to the bouchon. A riskier throw is to </span><i style="font-style: italic;">chute</i><span style="font-style: italic;">, a flat, low arc aimed at actually hitting the opponents ball in an aggressive play intended to blast the opposition's </span><i style="font-style: italic;">pointe ball(s) billiards style across the court. Though unpracticed American students (even former waiters instructed by a French chef) should stick to pointing, grey-haired Italian sharks can lob the <i style="font-style: italic;">bocce</i><span style="font-style: italic;"> with such pinpoint accuracy that you can see sparks on impact.....and kiss your winning </span><i style="font-style: italic;">pointe</i><span style="font-style: italic;"> goodbye.]</span></i>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15397716556327709665noreply@blogger.com1