That's it, for now...

Cuzco to Arequipa was on the fantastically named Cruz del Sur bus.  This one checked ID’s, went through bags with a metal detector, took photographs of all passengers, and only stopped once in 10 hours! 

Arequipa, Peru’s second city, boasted singular geography – it lay at the feet of three volcanoes: Chachani, El Misti, and Pichu Pichu.  The Plaza de Armas had an arresting background of the snow-capped Chachani, and for the most part felt much less touristy than the previous few stops.  How refreshing to walk around without anyone trying to sell you something.  And plenty of places to grab a daily special of a starter, entrée, and a drink for less than $3.

Many of the buildings were constructed from whitish volcanic rock quarried nearby.  The Monastery of Santa Catalina seemed a city within a city, offering a glimpse at the lives walled off for several centuries.  We saw  “Juanita, the ice princess,” a young girl, among others, sacrificed by the Incas to appease the mountain Gods nearly 500 years ago.  Her intact frozen body was discovered in the 90’s, on a peak not far from here, and is displayed in a fascinating museum.  Arequipa is also the Alpaca capitol, so there was plenty of fancy clothing on sale.  Nice, but not tempting enough.

From Arequipa to Lima required just one more overnight bus.  Luckily, we had sprung for the super-deluxe bus, akin to business class air travel with reclining leather chairs, movies, and a steward, because it was 17 hours, including one more roadside breakdown. 

Lima turned out to be nothing to write home about.  The sun never quite broke through the haze, and aside from a few historic buildings near the Plaza de Armas, we found little of interest.  We also got to see all the non-salubrious neighborhoods on the very long walk from the center to the bus terminal where we had left our bags. 

The following week and half take us to Boston, New Hampshire, and New York.  And so, the international part of this trip has concluded with a whimper.  For Steph it’s been nine months away, and for me, over 18 months.  Has the wanderlust been tempered?  There remain so many experiences ahead, places to see, and foods to try, but maybe they’re better left for another time, another beginning.

Someone once sang -- Every beginning is another beginning’s end…

Ollantaytambo

Halfway back from Machu Picchu, this was another definite stop in the Sacred Valley, and with good reason.  Not only because the train ride in the “backpacker” service was unbearable – way too little room and not enough fresh air to overcome the nasty smell of socks from the woman in front of me…

The moonless night was pitch dark, but the sky was alive with a sea of brilliant lights.  We grabbed the first decent room by the river and conked out almost immediately after getting back from dinner at KB Tambo’s (which never tasted so great after Aguas Calientes).

Ollantaytambo seemed authentic, quaint, relaxed, and easily could have deserved a longer stay. Breath taking vistas could be had in all directions and the Inca ruins were literally minutes up the hill (the previous day’s accident having done nothing to improve my fear of heights…).  How did they manage to build so high?  The water rushed by with a roar, the sun shone warmly, and did I mention that the food was good?

In the afternoon, we hopped into a taxi for the return to Cuzco.  The road through this part of the Peruvian Andes took us through beautiful mountain passes, high plains and lakes, and a jaw-droppingly beautiful skyline of glaciers and clouds.   The fare was well worth it. 

Machu Picchu

We had come to see this --

There aren’t enough superlatives to describe the view.  Machu Picchu was amazing, but the experience wasn’t.

For the 72 km train ride from Cuzco, good fortune smiled upon us as we had been given seats on the “Hiram Bingham” service, a fancy train car reminiscent of the Orient Express, complete with tablecloth breakfast service (fantastic, though I’m unsure why anyone would pay the $500 roundtrip).

To make it up to Machu Picchu early in the morning, we spent the night in Aguas Calientes.  Set along the river and below tall lush green mountains, the hilly town itself was an ugly pit of random construction, a lot of it half-finished.  Aside from shameless rip-off prices for everything, the food was terrible (running a close second to Sunauli, a Nepali-Indian border town, where at least it was cheap).  I had a burger with so little meat the patty was see-through and fell apart into bits, which was then topped off with a 10% service charge…

At 5 AM, already hundreds of people were in queue for the first busses up ($7 each way, after the $40 per person entrance fee).  At the gate, another line, where surly attendants randomly decided which packs were “too large” and had to be left in storage.  Then, a high-altitude dash to the far side of the ruins to secure limited access to the Wayna Picchu hike.  By 7:15, all 400 tickets were distributed.

Wayna Picchu is that steep narrow mountain seen in the background of all Machu Picchu photographs.  The narrow path wound around, and in several sections was quite uneven and steep, requiring handrails and a little nerve.  I paused at one of the Inca terraces close to the top.  The view very far below was making me uneasy, and looking up was nauseating.  The last 10 meters were precarious, at nearly 70˚ and up 30cm-wide ancient steps with barely enough room for the feet. 

As we stood there, looking out, we heard the sickening sound of someone slipping and tumbling from above for several interminable seconds.  There were horrified screams and we thought instantly that he would be down the mountain and dead. On the opposite terrace he lay, bloody with head injury and an obvious lower leg tib-fib fracture, and maybe more.  Of course there was no question of a helicopter.  We were completely inaccessible, except from below.

The older gentleman was conscious, but grew ash-grey, cold, and clammy.  His pulse was thready.  I had to get him out of his sweaty clothes and grabbed something dry to cover him up (gratitude to the Samaritan parting with his really nice jacket).  A lot of people offered help (and was that a guy doing reiki in the lotus position right above me?), but we really just needed to get him down to a medical facility.  It took at least an hour for several guys to climb up with a stretcher.

We fashioned a splint with branches and cloth and then strapped him down.  Then the most incredible feat followed.  Two men at a time hoisted the stretcher on their shoulders and literally carried it down the same treacherous steps.  Two little guys carrying 100 kg for 1½ hours!  At the bottom, we administered some initial treatments, and then put him on the waiting train for the three hours to Cuzco.  Good fortune had smiled upon him too.

Wanna Strike?

The previous nine months, we´ve experienced a week-long airport shutdown, car breakdown, bus breakdown, and missed train. Four days in Cuzco (and taking all emotion out of it): railroad strike, bus strike, roads blocked off.  All packed and nowhere to go. ¿Perhaps mañana?

Yesterday, we walked up the steep hill behind Cuzco to visit Saqsaywaman (or "sexy woman" for some). 360-degree hilltop views rewarded the pulmonary effort exerted. There, the Inca had built an enormous fort with zig-zagging walls, consisting of stones as heavy as 300 tons. Not a terrible place to spend an idle day...

Pisac

On Sunday, we boarded the Pisac bound local bus to check out the weekly Sunday market and Inca ruins. The bus careened around a bunch of high altitude bends, stopping frequently to drop off and let on Quechua speaking old ladies carrying colorful bundles on their backs.  

Pisac lay at the bottom of an adjacent valley, and the first glimpse of the terraced mountaintops was impressive. The market also proved to be quite the spectacle. Color abounded, from the blue, yellow, red, and mottled corn, the variety of potatoes, the fruit, vegetables, and the traditional outfits that people had on! They were just going about their routines, but what a feast for our eyes. Lots of pictures were taken, and even a few Soles were doled for those unmissable shots.  The requisite rows and rows of souvenir stalls weren’t far off, and worth a look.
We wisely chose to take a taxi up the 7.5km to the Inca ruins. What we saw from afar, was incredible in its midst. Several temples and building complexes stood perched on peaks surrounding a semi-circular terraced mountainside, with views all around. We needed several hours, just to hike up and down the paths, and the steep descent to Pisac itself was murder on the knees. With the intense sun, I was glad not to have hiked it up.

The Inca Capitol

At over 10,000 ft elevation, the capitol of the Inca resembled a brown jumble of settlement sprawling up the mountainsides.  The city was originally designed to resemble the shape of a puma, but this was no longer discernible.  From the airport to our steep hillside hostel, cost 5 soles (almost $2).

This early, the cobblestoned streets and colonial edifices of the historic center were empty.  The morning haze yielded to the intense sun, revealing clear blue skies.  Mugs of coca leaf tea awaited us; this to help ward off the effects of altitude.  The hotel staff alerted us of a “scheduled” railroad strike, on the very days we had train tickets to Machu Picchu.  Plans for sleep would be dashed, as we spent the rest of the morning sorting out alternatives.

Life emerged along the old Inca walls and beautifully antique colonial buildings.  This city must have been amazing before the arrival of Pizarro.  Women in bowler hats and colorful alpaca wool throws could be discerned, somewhere amidst the souvenir hawkers and restaurant, travel agency, and massage touts.  Cuy (roasted guinea pig) was a Peruvian specialty, but apparently massage too…  Cuzco is uber-touristy, with nearly every building along the Plaza de Armas converted to a shop, restaurant, or trekking agency.  There’s even a gringo alley, for obvious reasons.  Along some blocks on Avenida del Sol, moneychangers easily carried more cash than the passersby.

I found the fees for most sights unreasonably high, so the best thing was to simply stroll around and dodge the sellers of this and that.  Nonetheless, Cuzco was justifiably popular; a convenient base to explore the rest of the Sacred Valley.  By night, the stars made their appearance and the city faded to serene ripples of yellow light. 

Zipping Across

6:30 AM as we walked to the Paris Nord station from our hotel in Montmartre.  “Bon jour, bon jour!” someone shouted from the packed car with thumping music  (and a “bon” hangover surely awaited her).  “Bon Journee!!!” as the car sped off.  She was half-right about getting to Peru.

The day before, we made the embarrassing amateur move of getting off at the wrong station in Brussels.  It would have been more humorous, had our train not been delayed, leaving little time to catch the next to Paris.  We did make it, but only for that clichéd scene of hustling up to the platform as the train slowly moved away. The new ticket for the next train really hurt…

In Paris, it was one more baguette with pate, one more pain au chocolat, and one more evening with friends from the High School days.

From Paris Nord, the terminal stop was Charles de Gaulle Airport.  We flew seven hours to a layover in Toronto, where border agents met the plane for passport checks, at the gate.  Reminded me of Egypt, except they seemed friendlier there.  The customs agent felt that this wasn’t the most direct route to Peru.  I agreed with her.  The next 7½ hours to Lima felt at least twice as long.

The flight to Cuzco would be at 5:40 in the morning, so upon arrival at 9pm, we were in for a long night at the airport.  We took turns napping and watching the cleaning crew at the 24-hour food court. 

Three separate flights by three companies crowded the same gate at the same time.  Luckily the flight was a mere hour, but spectacular, with day breaking over the soft blanket of white cotton candy, pierced by jagged icy ridges of the Andes.  The plane then dropped through the clouds into the Cuzco Valley.

Rotterdam Revisited

High time to hightail it back to my refuge in Rotterdam.  I’m getting road weary.  Five weeks since we had last been there, and with the recent blur of Morocco, Spain, Paris, Czech Republic, and Austria, nothing could be better than dropping by my cousin Joanne’s for a few days of not going anywhere.

In the end, it was memorable and all too short again.  Cooker’s did a great croquets and frites, but Karin’s cooking was awesome, as were the meals at home (though we missed out on the white asparagus…)  Precious time with my brother and some old friends who never fail to impress me with how great they are at being friends.  Not to mention the lingering soreness from just a few minutes boxing on the Wii.

Vienna and the Not So Blue Danube

Our hotel was only minutes from the Westbahnhof.  Just around the block was Schitzelwirt, where you could find grannies seated behind a big mug of beer and enough food for a week.  They served frighteningly gigantic plates of schnitzel and just one would have been enough to feed both of us, including dinner.  Naturally, they downed all the beer, but wrapped half their portions to take home (complimentary wax paper and plastic bags on the wall).

Vienna was another impressive city.  The Hapsburgs commissioned their palaces, churches, and monuments on a grand scale.  The Opera House, Spanish Riding School, the museums, the cobblestoned streets, the horse carriages, and the classical music – they all lent an air of sophistication to the historic center.

Men dressed in period costumes hawked tickets for nightly concerts, but where were the cocktail sausages from those little cans?

There was enough time for a day trip out to some nearby towns along the Danube.  By train we arrived in Melk to see the Benedictine Abbey on top of the hill and it was warm enough to sit outside and have a beer.  Then we joined the downstream cruise on the muddy green waters, past some very scenic towns and castles.  Not exactly an adventure, but the lush green hillsides and medieval towns were not to be missed.  There were Frankfurters, but still no Vienna sausages...  

Salzburg

In the shadow of the Alps, close to the border with Bavarian Germany, the fast-flowing Salzach River bisected the city, with the center wedged between the Kapuziner and Monschbergs.  Within maybe a square kilometer, all the historic sights lay crammed together – gardens, churches, cloisters, squares, and cemeteries.  Above all this towered the large city castle.

Salzburg was the birthplace of Mozart; so naturally, his likeness graced everything, from chocolates, t-shirts, perfumes, and whatever else could be thought of.  “Sound of Music” tours were readily available, but most Austrians have either never heard of it or hate it…

Despite the blight of scaffolding and restorations on the Salzburg Dom facade, the inside was Baroque splendor, especially impressive after the ruination caused by WW II damage.  A visit to some of the other churches offered peace and silence, but occasionally the wondrous music of organ pipes or chorals filled the dim halls. 

Several of the churchyards served as cemeteries and many of the 17^th-19^th century graves were marked with ornate wrought iron.  You could visit the graves of Leopold and Constantia, but Mozart himself was buried unceremoniously somewhere in Vienna.

A hike up and around Monschberg offered killer views.  A few fortifications still existed, and made for an especially atmospheric setting to admire the further than expected crisp white mountains.  Down below, cafés offered specialty coffees and Sacher Tort at equally lofty prices, but otherwise the affordable food scene was fairly dire.  So we stuck to the supermarket deli counter and Turkish Doner Kebabs.    

Bohemian Rhapsody

I watched a woman receive an on-the-spot fine for smoking in the outdoor bus terminal. After admiring all the modern, and some even wi-fi equipped coaches, that same rickety bus from the other day pulled in. This would be the bus to Cesky Krumlov.

Set in a small valley, along several snake-like bends of the Vltava, the Southern Bohemian town was achingly beautiful at first sight. Green hills, blue skies, and fresh air left little else to ask for. Michael, the friendly owner of Penzion Svet, greeted us at the bus station and drove us the short distance up the hill. Within minutes, we were ready to explore the little town.

Cobblestoned lanes led through town, past centuries-old restored buildings, colorful facades, red tile roofs, a tall church steeple, and even a castle tower. The low river, crossed by several footbridges, was lined with tables of beer swilling and pork and kraut eating holidaymakers. Germany at half the price…
One of the shops sold Pinot Noir from a barrel, for 50 Korunas per liter (about $2.50). Grape juice out of a plastic bottle? Okay!

The next day brought a torrent of rain. Glad we hadn’t signed up for that canoe trip, I also lamented the missed opportunity to explore the countryside by horseback or cast a line towards the many trout below. The town was nearly deserted, but by dusk, life emerged under the dry, but cold and moody skies.

One fascinating aspect of this trip has been experiencing places stuck in time, many in transition, and others completely transformed. With morning mist rising from the mountainsides, our shared van whizzed by forested hills, quaint villages, and horses grazing. Like Prague, Asian immigrants now ran most of the little shops and you could find Chinese food almost as easily goulash. We had stayed in an 18th century house, and only after passing a raised boom and deserted post into Austria, did I wonder about this symbolism. I wanted to ask Michael about life in Cesky Krumlov before the Velvet Revolution in 1989 (our junior year in high school), before the borders went down, before Westerners and Easterners filled the town on daytrips.

In Austria, the mountain cabins were twice the size, highways broader, and traffic more congested, but Salzburg awaited.

Mountains of Hot Dogs and Bones

At breakfast yesterday, a woman piled nearly 10 hot dogs on her plate.  Following that incredible spectacle, it was time for other sights.  First, we had to metro across town to another hotel room, as May 1^st signaled the abrupt weather shift from low season to “top” season (staying in the very nice room would have cost more than double our initial rate).

The train left the gritty Prague outskirts for idyllic Central Bohemia, a place of soothing green meadows, low rolling hills, and immense fields of bright yellow mustards.  Families on mountain bikes cruised by the many farmhouses, while swans and little fishing boats populated the meandering river.

Like many of the small towns along the way, Karlstejn was quiet and charming.  The well-preserved castle occupied a hilltop about 2km inland from the train station.  Castles are better admired from the outside, so we skipped the compulsory tour.  Instead, the money was spent on a dish of smoked pork with sauerkraut and potato pancakes, and a mug of cold beer.  A short hike up an adjacent hill led to a beautiful open meadow, a quiet and unobstructed spot to gaze at the fairy tale tower and ramparts.  Below there were lots of people on bikes, others walking their dogs, and even two stripping down to their underwear to jump into the river.

Next morning, we visited another nearby town, Kutna Hora.  Although the former silver vein itself wasn’t mind blowing, the old center was an uncrowded and the cathedral worthwhile.  The most remarkable feature, though, was the ossuary (yes, a place where bones were kept).  People from far and wide used to be buried here, and during the Plague, over 40,000 were brought to a place not much larger than a small park.  The mountain of bones was eventually transformed into a ghoulish display meant to commemorate the transcendence of the remains.

Most of the trams and trains were new, but occasionally something from a different era snuck in.  For the return to Prague, we sat on a rickety bus, perhaps a reminder of the way things were before they got better.  The bus station lay in the seedier part of town where mullets and beer breath were still de rigueur.  At 7 pm it smelled of stale cigarettes and more budweiser, albeit the genuine article from Budvar.  Every saturday afternoon is a party.

Tomorrow -- off to St.Elsewhere...  

Czech This Out

Prague seemed bleak when dark skies closed in, silhouetting the Gothic spires of its iconic castle, and raining down heavy droplets on the cobblestoned pavements.  But on a sunny spring day, this former seat of the Holy Roman Empire, and later the Hapsburg Dynasty, absolutely shined.  The historic center looked like a Baroque dream, with sprinkles of the Gothic and Renaissance.  Amadeus and The Bourne Identity were filmed here.  Franz Kafka lived on everywhere, but nary a mention of Ivan Lendl or Martina Navratilova… 

We tried to see the great city all in one day, and again when the skies were blue.  Despite the kookiness of the Astronomical Clock, the main square offered great people watching.  The Charles Bridge was especially atmospheric and a beautiful place from which to take in both banks of the Vltava.  When the renovations are done, it should be even better.

 

From the ramparts of the Prague Castle, the view below was a puzzle of red-tiled rooftops interrupted by the patina of spires and domes.  Distantly, rehearsals for the night’s organ recital or aria could be heard.  The churches and their organs dripped convoluted history, but many of the narrow streets could be perfect film sets, with stately pink, powder blue, and pastel green facades crammed together.

 Despite being over-run with tourists and tour groups, there was enough Pilsner Urquell on tap (and the cheapest beverage at about $1.50 for ½ liter).  A lot of pork and sauerkraut was consumed, and I’ve seen more hot dog shacks than in Mid-town Manhattan.  Maybe I’ll try the fried cheese sandwich.  Otherwise, typical Czech was goulash and bread dumplings, and more beer.  A disturbing amount of souvenir shops retailed the “Praha drinking team” t-shirt.

Prague wasn’t the Eastern Europe I had imagined from childhood, and for that I was glad.  Enough English was spoken – otherwise we’d have no chance in Czech…

Je voudrais un baguette...

Sunshine and renewal, flowers in bloom, and newfound allergies in this city of superlatives. The gardens were radiant, the buildings grand, and the monuments glorious.  Even the Notre Dame was her outstanding self.  It’s springtime in Paris and little else needs to be said.  Who would have thought it would be my third time here in 18 months?  This time with Steph and my cousins Miki and Michael.

Somewhere in the 13^th arrondissement we found a good room at a price we’ve gotten accustomed to.  By metro and lots of walking, we took in all of the Right Bank, from Place d’ Bastille all the way to the Trocadero.  A good view of the Eiffel Tower, day or night, never got old. 

A stroll along the banks of the River Seine offered the quintessential experience of gushing over the city, and watching its residents and visitors.  Another good spot to contemplate it all was from a reclining chair along one of the ponds in the Jardin Tulllieres.  The Louvre was amazing, but so vast it felt like an accomplishment just to get through…

Other than the courtyard of the Louvre Museum, the inside of any good patisserie or bakery topped my list of places to visit.  Luckily there was one of those around practically every corner.  The pain au chocolat here was inimitable, as was the simple pleasure of biting into the crust of a just-baked chewy baguette -- plain, buttered, or filled with goat cheese.  Around the block, the lady at the counter actually asked her younger colleague how to say, “eat here?” in English after I did not understand her in French.  Yes, it really did happen…

I had a 6 Euro Café Americano (or what we call coffee) at one of those ubiquitous outside tables, but it was along the Champs Elysees and afforded a few hours of hanging out with Raj, my old friend from the Stanford days.  3-4 Euros (about $4-5) for a soda was fairly normal in most restaurants, so we dined in a brasserie only once.  The rest of the time we stuck to other affordable Parisian classics such as Vietnamese Pho, Doner Kebab, and take-out Chinese.  McDonald’s almost happened.

Inevitably, the sun gave way to the cloud cover, brisk temperatures, and rain that characterize Paris the other half the time.  We spent a few great days hanging out with our friends Phillippa and Francois, being Americans and finding out about life here.

Paris is amazing, if just for the baguettes.  And 15% of the time, they might even reply in English, if you try in French first.  At least at the bakeries… 

Madrid and the Rest

Madrid marked the start of the more costly segment of our itinerary.  The budget requirements were now stratospheric, compared to how low we were able to pare down daily expenses in Asia and Africa. 

The sights and pursuits here were of the cosmopolitan variety, rambling through plazas, sitting for coffee, and literally chewing on several kinds of jamon, Serrano or Iberico…  Then there was my staple, the calamari sandwich, washed down with a small glass of beer. 

If you’re into Picasso, Dali, Miro, Goya or El Greco, then this was heaven.  In a dizzying 24-hour span we visited the Prado, the Thyssen-Bornemisza, and the Reina Sofia Museums.  The first was amazing, the second surprisingly good, and the latter maybe overkill, and a bit too abstract.  But at least I walked away understanding Picasso’s Guernica.

Nearby Toledo was that picturesque medieval city on top of the hill.  The entire walled portion could be an open-air museum, but the gothic Cathedral dominated the sights.  The shops all displayed swords, knives, chainmail, and other sorts of Crusader paraphernalia.  We skipped the museum of ancient torture devices.

Another overnight bus then took us to Barcelona, a former site of the Olympics.  My cousin Miki hooked us up with rooms at the very posh Hilton – very nice!  The iconic Sagrada Familia, under construction since 1909, provoked only one reaction: Wow!  Simply imposing and quite the sight, though very, very, very different.  Such was the case with most of Gaudi’s other organic architectural designs throughout the city.  Las Ramblas held the largest collection of crazy costumed street performers on any promenade.  The Palau de la Musica Catalana had a stunning ceiling, but the opera and flamenco fusion show was a bit odd.  Otherwise, much of Barcelona’s charm lay in its space and convenience, its modernism, and its thorough “modern-ness.”  We stayed away from the museums.