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. 

The Other Alhambra...

Following two great days in Seville, we ventured further across the green Andaluz plains. Cordoba was 2 ½ hours away and we had come to see La Mezquita, the grandest and most beautiful mosque constructed by the Moors in Spain.  The backpacks were stuffed into lockers at the bus station, and a short walk through the touristy Jewish Quarter deposited us into the outside courtyard.

The belfry tower didn’t look particularly distinctive, but the first glimpse inside the cathedral was immensely exciting.  Over a thousand columns supported the ceiling, with tiers of beautiful red and white painted arches lacing the dimly lit former mosque.  It was exactly the image from those Spanish coffee table books.  Individually, the Arabic prayer niches and Christian altar could be jewels, but the wonder really lay with gazing up at the painted arches. 

Having deciding that nothing in Cordoba would surpass La Mezquita, we proceeded further East, another 2 ½ hours on the bus.  We hadn’t any idea what Granada might look like, but the Alhambra in LA County was the only one I’ve been to thus far, so we were compelled to see the other Alhambra.   The weather was cool and grey, a little rainy, and the snowy Sierra Nevada loomed just behind the Granada hills.  Dinner was Chinese tapas, small plates of quite tasty wings and noodles, free with the purchase of any beverage.

As the main attraction, tickets to the hilltop fortress weren’t easy to score.  The early morning walk up left us breathless, but with ample time to cool our heels in the hour-long ticket queue.  Only about 8000 tickets were sold daily (most snapped up in advance by tour operators), and I think we were in the last hundred, with a visit slot for later in the afternoon. There was the opportunity to wander around the Sacramonte and Albayzin barrios, the Gitano and old Moorish Quarters, respectively. And enough time to find another hotel and sit down for lunch, sometimes not a simple decision when faced with too many choices…

A few women made the rounds, offering sprigs of rosemary to passersby – either an interesting form of hospitality or maybe a variation of smilingly passing a flower and then demanding money?

The Alhambra complex, with a rich history of Moorish conquest and Spanish reconquest, was huge.  Several palaces and sculpted gardens, along with a lot of tour groups, filled its high walls.  The Alcazaba was the impenetrable fortress you'd picture, but the Palacios Nazaries was beyond imagination.  The courtyard and harem were fantastic, their walls, niches, and arches so sensually and painstakingly adorned with intricately carved patterns.  The place in LA county was nothing like this.  I regretted not having an adequate camera, as the Canon dSLR and both lenses bit the dust sometime around February in Egypt…  

Sevilla

The flamenco at the intimate Casa de la Memoria earlier this evening left me with a stiff jaw and dry mouth.  So raw, so visceral was the performance that I could not wait to get back and write about it.  The stunning rhythm, the flamboyance of the limbs and the force of the stomps, followed by Rioja at Cervezeria Giralda – what a night.

Leaving Fes had been yet another adventure.  The 2^nd class train compartments for were packed, so we stood between rail cars for 2 hours until some seats opened up.  Tangier is legendary for hustlers, so we made for the port immediately upon arrival, but of course, not before the obligatory bargaining session with cabbies. The masochist in me regrets not experiencing the sultry chaos on top of the hill.  The ferry crossing to Algeciras was so chaotic and delayed, it nearly approximated the awful Egypt to Jordan ferry.  We finally got there past midnight.  With neither guidebook nor clue, the blue neon “Hotel” sign several hundred meters outside of the port felt like the warmest welcome on Spanish soil.  Another bus ride would await us in the morning.

Sevilla was the setting of Don Juan, Carmen, and Figaro.  It’s Andalucia – sunshine, bullfights, and flamenco.  What a beautiful, evocative city…

We checked into the first “reasonably” priced pension in the old Jewish Quarter, and after a few twists and turns, La Catedral de Sevilla stood before us.  I’m envious of those living there, with windows facing the gothic marvel, day and night.

Breakfast was a plate of piping hot churros, dipped into a mug of thick, syrupy hot chocolate, too rich upon reaching the bottom.

Inside, the Cathedral was so opulent, so ostentatious, that I much preferred the smaller churches and chapels.  The Giralda Tower, with its Moorish design, was beautiful, but very crowded.  The Alcazar was huge.  The white, yellow, and red of the circular Plaza de Toros radiated perfectly in the warm sun. 

The sun didn't go down until after nine, and many of the eateries didn't even fill up until after ten.  Nowhere at home would ordinary people be strolling around the city center after midnight.

There was a lot to take in, especially the varied and tasty tapas.  The heavily marbled Iberian ham was thinly sliced, right on the counter and right off the hock.  Stuffed pimientos, glazed duck breast, olive oil and tuna in tomato gazpacho.

"No Mo' Rockin"

We’ve been often asked whether all the traveling is tiring.  It's part of the deal, but on the 11-hour bus and train combo out of Essaouira it felt like a raw deal.  Nothing as romantic as luxury train travel, our 2^nd class compartment consisted of 2 rows of 4 narrowly squeezed people facing each other, lots of silence, and nary enough legroom, for 7 ½ hours…

This Easter weekend (like all others, I’m sure) all of Spain had crossed the Gibraltar Strait and descended upon Fes.  Immediately upon arrival, we knew it was going to be one of those nights.  The guidebook had listed a whopping 3 places for less than $25, and they considered any price less than $70 “budget.”  We criss-crossed the Ville Nouvelle, literally looking for hotel signs.  Everything was either full or above our budget.  And, for the occasion, prices were higher than the tariffs listed on the walls! 

Hotel Central had a room for $25, but the sheets must not have been changed for some time.  Clean sheets?  They didn’t have any…  So, it was back to walking around, until 2 students pointed out a small hotel we must have missed.  Clean sheets as much as the late hour convinced us that this was a winner.  The lack of hot water would be a minor detail. 

All the old cities had a walled center, but the Fes medina was the largest jumbled mess we had ventured into so far.  Guides did a brisk trade, leading around the trepid.  Many of the goods sold here were principally the same as in Marrakesh, but this medina boasted its own tannery area, where countless men earned a living immersing animal hides in putrid pits to attain just that wonderful color.  I hadn’t seen camel meat for sale before, until Steph spotted the camel head on a counter.  Makes me wonder what really was in my “couscous with meat.”  Why so mysterious?    

Content just to feast the eyes, we had not made any purchases.  Beheld one to many times, even the most brilliant lamps lost their luster.  Fragrant rose water and jasmine lay for sale, carts of pastel-colored nougat, as well as trays of soft, chewy almond cookies – those, we fortunately did try…

By the second night, we had chewed on Fes from several different angles.  With the desert and kasbahs far away, the medinas now less fascinating, Morocco began to feel a little laborious. Forget Meknes, forget Chefchaoun - Hello Tangier. 

Funky Cold Medina

Leaving Agadir was much more fun than getting there.  We slept through much of the early morning ride up the Atlantic coast.  As the bus approached the colorful, but faded buildings near the old city wall, the first glimpse of Essaouira was promising.  It was an old city and still looked that way, with its narrow alleys and rusty fishing fleet.  The central streets inside the medina, despite the density of shops and restaurants, retained a relaxed atmosphere.  The little side streets were absolutely still, except for the blustering winds  

We tried our luck at an old riad, with nice tile work and tons of atmosphere.  The price was 450 Dirham ($55) with breakfast.  That was too expensive.  “What is your budget?” she asked.  200 Dirham, I replied.  “Okay, I have a room for 200.”  I’ll take it.

With a reputation for being "the windy city," it was hardly a surprise to see many of the palm trees leaning leeward.  Flocks of gulls remained suspended in the sky without effort.  The wind howled across any area not walled off.  The top of the seaside rampart only amplified the force of the wind, as rough whitecaps transformed into heavy rollers that periodically smashed into the rocky shore, dissipating salty spray over its walls.  At times it took effort not to be blown back.  And it was impossible to sit at the beach.

There was a funky vibe with the many artists in residence.  The mounds of colorful spices were only mock-ups for tourists, it was revealed.  The real stuff was kept in jars inside; otherwise they would have been blown all over the place…

Much of the food was relatively expensive, catering mostly to French tourists and daytrippers from Marrakesh.  With the large fishing fleet, I thought the seafood might be better.  We tried it twice – one decent and the other plain bad.

There wasn't much else to do but stroll around, relax, and read, so that's what we did.

Ocean sunsets can have that nostalgic beauty, the ethereal yellow orange glow so often depicted in technicolor on vintage t-shirts, but this one was real, and windy.

Agadir

After visiting the kasbah used as a backdrop in Star Wars, we boarded a bus to Agadir, a large resort city along the Atlantic Coast.  Getting there was painful.  The ride was long and the bus broke down halfway.  It wouldn’t restart, so the driver got out to fiddle in different compartments.  Everyone disembarked to wait roadside.  Aided by telephone instructions, he proceeded to the rear battery compartment.  Sparks flew -- this was not promising.  Two too cool Westerners, attired in Touareg head coverings, sauntered off and tried to hitchhike.  They must have been Americans, as Canadians plaster their “Roots” gear with maple leafs and flag patches, just so there is no mistake.  I wished they had succeeded, but the driver worked a miracle as we eventually got going.    

The delayed arrival was in total darkness and we had difficulty orienting ourselves without streets signs or a proper map.  There were no taxis and speaking neither Arabic nor French didn’t help matters.  Parts of the center appeared slightly seedy, but it was after 10pm.  Eventually, we were pointed in the right direction, but the distances were improbably large.  After legging about an hour, we staggered up to our budget hotel, tired and hungry.  We understood the “budget” part, but the multiple big holes in the walls were disturbing, so we went down the street for double the price ($25).   

As it turned out, Agadir wasn’t worth the effort.  Visions of majestic waves dissipated in the windy beach and the piddly surf, so I had little interest in braving the 17˚ Celsius water.  After a large earthquake in the 60’s, most of the city was rebuilt, and retained nothing of its previous architecture.  I couldn’t quite understand the raison d’etre for all the gleaming resort hotels.  But at least, the sun was out and we were in shorts and flip-flops.

Desert Dreams

I’m reading Paul Theroux’s The Great Railway Bazaar.  He mused about travel being flight and pursuit in equal parts, and I think I know what he meant.  More concretely, our cave was already booked away and we would be in pursuit of the next destination, yet to be decided.  Over breakfast, the desert sounded better and better, so we’d make it happen.

First off, was the half hour walk to the bus station, for the hotel guy was vague and we had no clue what time the bus departed for Ouarzazate.  11:30 AM!  We had 45 minutes to gather our packs and make it back.  Without dallying, we hopped into a cab, which was only 7 Dirham, plus a few for tip.  Rushing through the Djemaa el-Fna, we stole last glimpses of signature Marrakesh and ponied up some coins for pictures of the snakes and charmers. 

Getting back to the bus terminal was typical of my experience with taxis.  The first guy seemed agreeable, but naturally was averse to using the meter and wanted 20 Dirham.  While he muttered something about 2 people and 2 luggages, we disagreed and got out.  The second guy was cast out of the same sad mold, but wanted 10 Dirham – fair enough, because it would be sans tip.  As I later handed him a twenty, he tried for the stale “it is 20 Dirham, 10 for each person” trick.  I’ve heard them all, and I knew the real price, so I took back the money and handed him 10.  No thanks…

The bus was late and full, but at least we had seats.  Evidenced by the green plains, the recent winter must have brought good rains.  The distant High Atlas Mountains were improbably snow-covered and hovered above the layer of haze.  The next 5 hours, we would traverse those same heights, swerving around the edge of dozens of sheer switchbacks, with slightly discomforting views of the green valleys far, far below.  A few people got sick, but I’m sure their discomfort dissipated as the bus descended smoothly to rocky desert and crumbling brick settlements.  Scattered flocks of sheep grazed the terrain.  Palms reappeared, as did visions of deserts and Kasbahs.

Soon after checking into the budget Hotel Royal, we made arrangements for a desert trip.  The two days and one night would surely inflict damage on our budget, but pursuits have a cost, and this would be a 480km 4x4 roundtrip journey close to the Algerian border.

Early next morning, we sped south, through an incredible mountain-flanked road, towards Agdz.  A quick off-road detour led to Les Cascades de Tizgui, a tiny, almost perpetual waterfall permanently palm-fringed.  Past Agdz, the route followed the Draa River in the similarly named Valley.  For about 100km, the Valley overflowed with lush palms and green crops, a testament to the wonder of water.  It could easily have been a mirage – flowing water, palms as far as the eyes could see, set below Grand Canyon-esque walls. 

The ancient “Route of a thousand caravans” originated as far as Sudan and crossed through Saharan Africa to Marrakesh.  All along lay small villages, with crumbling watchtowers and walls.  Even the centuries-old Kasbahs, also built of compacted mud, straw, and stone, were not immune to erosion.  There was an equal mix of Berbers and dark-skinned people in mostly traditional garb, some hawking dates, others riding donkeys, and a few just standing around.  This was the Morocco of my imagination, or as presented by the film Babel…  (Incidentally shot in this very same area).

Lunch break was in Zagora, the last sizable town and location of a several luxurious Kasbah-styled riads.  Lodging there might be for another time, but we did enjoy a humongous plate of couscous (though rapidly losing enthusiasm for it).  From there, the terrain started to resemble the frontier it was, arid, monotonous, and underdeveloped.  The weekly market day featured commerce and communion amongst villagers and vendors from far and wide.  A bounty was up for offer, but some were selling dry legumes and spices from a tiny bag – it might have been more worthwhile to keep it at home for personal consumption.

Like the Gobi in China and the Namib in Namibia, the Erg Lihoudi Dunes amazed.  The seemingly lifeless environment was ever changing, shifting sands in the intense mid-day heat, the tranquility of the setting sun, with renewal in the coolness of the morning.  The camel ride was hard on the seated anatomy, so a couple of hours felt more than enough. We slept under the stars in a Berber camp, where bedding was understandably sandy, but the blankets were ample and warm.  The next evening we were back in Ouarzazate, grateful for a hot shower.

Lookin' to Rock the Kasbah

From the window of the Transavia plane, Marrakesh resembled a bunch of pale ochre blocks surrounded by a mat of cultivated greens and hilly browns.  On this rare occasion, we had actually phoned ahead that morning from Rotterdam to book a room and pick-up.  Inside the medina, the tall, slender, and pink Koutoubia Mosque announced the center like a beacon.  Hotel Belleville was just off the Djemaa el-Fna, but I doubt we would have easily found it without being led there.  The surrounding area was a dense maze of derbs (alleys) and souqs (market streets) spilling out sensory assaults – the smells of grilled meats and spices, together with the dizzying array of carpets, lamps, metal ware, clothing, and all else, up for offer by too many voices vying for your attention and wallet.

The approaching twilight featured fantastic hues of violet amidst wisps of orange, as the ancient Djemaa el-Fna square buzzed with activity.  Mostly locals were out in droves to admire the spectacle of tumblers, carnival games, drummers, and string musicians, while I gravitated towards the snake charmers directing hypnotic drones at the vipers and king cobras.  Chained monkeys were sadly pimped out for pictures and children were hawking cookies.  

There were too many side streets to peruse.  As the sun faded, the square remained aglow with dozens of dried fruit stalls, which lay adjacent to dozens of citrus juice stalls, which in turn, lay adjacent to several dozens of street food stalls.  It was lights, smoke, and murmurs all over the place.  Roasted goat heads and escargot  begged for a taste, but prudence was in favor of chicken and lamb shawarmas, followed a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice.  The first few hours in Marrakesh were good, and we called it a night.

The little riad (couryard house) only had 9 rooms.  Ours resembled a cave, barely large enough to squeeze in a bed.  Strong coffee, fresh juice, and warm pancakes greeted us after too short a night of sleep.  But the skies were blue and the warm day beckoned.

We didn’t rock the Kasbah, but we certainly ambled through a lot of it.  In one long day, we covered many of the sights, the more noteworthy being the fantastic Ali Ben Youssef Madrassa, Dair El Said, and the Bahia Palace.  Vividly colored geometric tiles, scalloped entranceways, and ornately carved wooden doors stood below the rich coffered ceilings.  The fountains were merely faucets, albeit historic ones, but the souqs were more numerous and interesting than in either Istanbul or Cairo; the hassles no more than anywhere else.  We paused for piping hot citron chicken and kabab tajines (a kind of clay pot stew), before continuing on.

Not much was left of the Badi Palace except for the ramparts, which offered a stork eye’s view over the old city.  Somehow, I had not imagined sightlines filled with improbably large stork nests and distracting satellite dishes.  We got a bit lost looking for the Saadian tombs and nearly called it quits when, amazingly, a sign for a carpet shop pointed the way, past piles of carpets and other trinkets, of course.  Even more amazing, the shopkeeper flicked on the lights, pointed the direction, and said nothing else!  We made it in, 15 minutes before closing.  The surrounding area was un-touristy and less frenetic.  

I thought we could check out the modern palace, but the high walls obscured all but the Moroccan flag.  On the return, recycled tires lay transformed into picture frames, water vessels, and toys.  Pails filled with slimy snails awaited the hot butter on someone’s plate.  A large helping of fluffy couscous with vegetables and lamb sounded better.  

Holland

Pictures

We rushed away from Cappadocia’s hail and snow only to plunge into the Dutch weather.  Well, plunge isn’t so much the correct term, as we spent most of our week or so in Rotterdam indoors and unmotivated.  Maybe it was the accumulated fatigue of nearly 7 months on the road, of the “hard” traveling, or just maybe the perpetual greyness.  Nearly every foray outside was greeted with some combination of face-biting wind, cold wetness, hail, or the entire trifecta.  I’ve never wanted to not leave the house so much.

The whole point was wind down a little.  So, thanks to my cousin Joanne, we were well-fed and well-slept.  The bouts of hibernation were otherwise interrupted by exotic activities like internet surfing sessions and old-fashioned blocks of time in front of the television.  My parents were in town and I even got to see my brother a few times. 

A daytrip to Antwerp delivered the other trifecta – frites with mayo, real Belgian waffles, and croquettes, just the right amount of starch, sugar, and fat to insulate against the weather (yes, I’m still on the weather…)

We weren’t off to anywhere and the backpacks were off our backs.  Ample time was passed at my childhood friend Paul’s house, in attempts to decimate his wine collection.  We even squeezed in a card game and an evening of basketball. 

Every place so far, we’ve stuck with local foods, but Rotterdam does have a few very good Chinese restaurants.  We had been looking forward to a few good meals with friends and family, but not even I had thought it possible, between Tai Wu and De Lange Muur, to go there six times in a week… 

And of course there was the sticker shock.  The metro ride cost 4 euros – ‘nuff said. 

We’re in search of warmer climes.  With the recent airline fares, I was sorely tempted to hop on a flight back to Bali.  Marrakesh sounds good too.

Pictures

Fairy Chimneys

Another 10-hour overnight bus ride nearly behind us, the approach into Goreme from nearby Uchisar revealed a surreal pre-dawn landscape.  There was snow on the ground and bizarre shapes rose out of the Earth, giving new meaning to “winter wonderland.”  The thin “fairy chimneys” were a dream.  A rock castle was carved into the tall cone, and below, little openings of cave dwellings dotted the face.  You’d half expect hobbits or smurfs to emerge from them.

 It was 5 AM and at least -2 Celsius when we dismebarked at the small bus station in the center of town.  The hobbits were still sleeping, but a guy at the adjacent tour agency offered to have us sit inside, where it was warm, until life emerged.  He fixed up a nice cup of tea and we just waited.  The emerging sun bathed the snow covered hils in a gentle glow.  Cave houses and hotels were carved into much of the rock, and behind them, the air balloons rose up.  At about 8, we found a warm hotel to lay our heads down for a couple of hours.

 Then it was time to explore the neighboring valleys, which all bore evidence of the amazing effects of erosion onto soft volcanic tuft.  And many of them used to be inhabited, first by early Christians, and later, the Seljuk Turks.  You could scramble up rough steps into the multi-level chambers, with some even having served as simple churches.  Every bend or hill gave way to visual feast.  At the Goreme Open Air Museum, a cluster of 1000-year old cave Churches provided insight into the life of those same early Christians.  A few beautiful frescoes remained, but much of the insides appeared very rudimentary.    

Suffice to mention that it was absolutely freezing as soon as daylight dwindled.  I’d never used an electric blanket before, but it was oh-so-warm.  At least I could keep my Diet Coke chilled, simply by leaving it out on the outside window ledge. 

For the next day, we joined a tour to check out the distant Ihlara Valley, where the river had cut a deep canyon into the soft Earth.  The poplars were barren and the skies grey.  A few flakes of snow accompanied our short hike, as it was bone-chilling cold, cold, cold.  Over a hundred underground cities lay scattered throughout the region.  Early Christians occupied these fully functional colonies and, supposedly, secret tunnels connected them all.  We visited the vast Derinkuyu – an amazing 14 levels below the ground, where it was just as cold.

That was more or less the story for the remaining day.  Hail ,snow, and ample cups of Turkish tea.  Hope we don't get snowed in.  I'm actually looking forward to the bus ride to Istanbul tonight.