30th Year Project

Epilogue

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Wed, 15 Apr 2015 19:00:00 +0000

284 day of the project,
San Francisco, California

"We shall not cease from our exploration
and at the end of all our exploring
will be to arrive where we started
and to know the place for the first time.”

- T.S. Eliot

I have always loved this passage from "Little Giddings.” It alludes to the resolution of an expedition, whether it is a literal or metaphoric journey. The resolution of the 30th Year Project gave new meaning to those words. Indeed, I see my community—global, local, familial and by extension, myself--through new eyes. On the eve of my 31st birthday, I am reflecting on the experiences that will influence me for the rest of my life.

The impact of globalization cannot be underestimated, but it does not fully define us. It has certainly been studied and sensationalized over the last few decades. However, it is one thing to rely on the academic analysis. It is quite another to feel the full force of humanity’s smallness and interconnections. There is something oddly comforting in the discovery of banal similarities across borders. Yet this notion is also an oversimplification. First, this "truth" is based on experiences with my socioeconomic peers. It ignores the growing inequity between the "haves" and "have nots" around the world. Second, it assumes identical beliefs and values, which couldn't be further from reality. Finally, it underestimates human creativity and ingenuity as a result of our different experiences. This dissonance is hard to reconcile; frankly, even after six months of travel, I am still trying to articulate the balance.

In turn, my experience of global connectivity has changed my definition of and the emphasis I place on community. It transforms a medium-sized city in California into a small town. Our relationships, triumphs and problems are magnified. And when one feels a sense of responsibility for a place and its people, you know you have found your tribe. I want to celebrate what is amazing and work to change what isn’t in San Francisco. This challenge won’t be solved in a day and will evolve over time, but I am excited to give back.

My personal community is not confined to borders but is dictated by shared experiences and values. I felt the unwavering support of friends—new and old—throughout the re-entry process. This sentiment was confirmed on a recent trip to Colombia, where new bonds were formed and older ones were nourished. My relationship with my family deepened through our shared travel experiences. It has opened the door to future adventures together….something I would have never imagined possible a year ago.

The change in worldview reflects changes in me. Solo travel instills a very clear sense of self. My material needs have been reduced, as I know there is true happiness in living out of a 50-liter backpack. My sense of personal space has changed, as six months in shared accommodations means I am far less irritated on a rush-hour Muni bus. My empathy, patience and respect for human diversity has deepened; simultaneously, I am less tolerant of shallow relationships and place more emphasis on those with candor and depth.

In short, I know myself for the first time.

Full circle with gratitude

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Sun, 04 Jan 2015 23:06:00 +0000

Day 183 of the project,
en route from Los Angeles to Dallas

"Welcome to the United States. The local time in Los Angeles is 7:15am on Sunday, January 4..." The greeting from the Australian-accented flight attendant sounded more like exotic destination than my native soil. I braced myself for re-entry. The holidays in the U.S. wreak havoc upon airports; the combination of so many travelers, weather delays and chronic overbooking creates a unique chaos and can bring out the worst of our national traits. Maybe not warmest embrace from American society.

It is surreal, being surrounded by Americans instead of being a foreigner. To sail through passport control with no questions or extra paperwork. To know the shortcuts that enable a tight connection. To savor the simultaneous familiarity and strangeness of little Americanisms, like university (American) football jerseys, stuffed overhead storage bins and thick Southern accents. No cowboy hats yet, but I have faith in my countrymen to deliver results in Dallas.

Courtesy of crossing the international dateline, I am experiencing the last day of the project twice. Perhaps it is fitting this way. One to close this chapter of my story and one to begin the next. A friend pointed out that I have a blank page ahead of me...a rare and unique gift in life. A chance to use the experiences, reflections and ideas collected over the past six months to craft the next installment. There is a touch of fear in the unscripted future, but I am ready for a little carpe diem action.

In the meantime, I cannot begin to fully express my gratitude to the countless people who helped bring the project to life. To my family, for embracing this crazy idea and joining me overseas (not to mention schlepping wardrobe reinforcements). To my friends in the States, for encouraging me when I needed it most. To my new friends from the road, for bringing color and richness to the journey. To the strangers along the way, for your kindness and assistance to a solo traveler. To my armchair travelers (Google Analytics says you exist!), for faithfully reading my long-winded stories. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Holiday laughs in Oz

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Thu, 25 Dec 2014 21:54:00 +0000

Day 174 of the project,
Christmas Day in Apollo Bay, Australia

"You're sitting like you're a baller at some fancy hotel. Like this is the Ritz Carlton of Apollo Bay instead of the YHA and you are drinking a vintage champagne instead of quadruple X lager."

Her eyebrow arched and pinky shot out from the gaudy yellow can, posing for a ridiculous Instagram post. It was contagious and within seconds, we were both giggling uncontrollably. Not quite our signature silent hyena laugh, but enough to make my eyes tear up a little. It was a good release after a long meandering day on Australia's Great Ocean Road.

The summer before our parents divorced, my sister and I took a road trip with our mother across the southwestern United States. We saw the major national parks, the desert cities that rise up as oases and the extended family. It was a forced bonding excursion with two awkward teens: excruciating stretches of empty roads punctuated by exciting and interesting stops, all crammed into three weeks. It was our last real travel experience together, endured at the painful adolescent ages of sixteen and fourteen, respectively.

I moved to Austin two years later for university. My sister and I saw each other for a few days at Christmas and the occasional family-centric events. We didn't talk much....an email here, a phone call there, sporadic text messages, usually dealing with our parents. Even after we both landed on the west coast (me in San Francisco, her in Santa Barbara), our visits were irregular and dictated by work schedules (me spending a weekend in Los Angeles, her attending a conference in the city).

She moved to San Francisco for her job in January. I had no idea of what to expect from us. Our relationship was certainly good, but it lacked the depth one might imagine of two sisters in their late twenties. We are so different... a scientist and a marketer, a petite blond and an athletic brunette, a fashionista and a tomboy. How could we possibly have common ground?

Nearly a year later, our similarities still surprise me. The intonation of our voices, our quirky humor, our mannerisms, our realist views. I am unbelievably grateful for the chance to build a real friendship rooted in sisterhood. To squeeze the last few drops of time before careers, husbands and babies render carefree adulthood obsolete. Needless to say, I was thrilled when my sister promised to join me for the holidays. She creatively dubbed it #GbursAustraliaExtravaganza....a fitting end to the project.

Five days have raced by on the Great Ocean Road bringing many memories. A day in Melbourne, a few days in Torquay and now Apollo Bay. Each place has brought us closer as we share something new, from surf lessons to an international Uno game to a tasty Christmas dinner. Not to mention great conversation in the car, more inside-joke hashtags and many good laughs. So this Christmas Day, I thank fate for giving me the best sister on the planet.

Dreaming in Green

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Wed, 10 Dec 2014 22:02:00 +0000

Day 159 of the project,
Auckland, New Zealand

"One....two...three...AHHH!" After wading waist-deep into the glacier fed lake, I finally worked up enough courage to plunge underwater. My fellow walker, a lovely woman from Toulouse, France, had bravely gone first and pronounced it "refreshing." I don't know that I stayed in long enough to describe it as anything but "frigid."

New Zealand is famous for its stunning and diverse landscapes. Fans of The Lord of the Rings movie trilogy know it well (and often travel to tour the Hobbit homes). It is also famous for its series of nine Great Walks scattered throughout the numerous national parks. The Milford Track is one of the most famous of those walks. It is difficult to get a permit, as access is restricted to 40 people per day during high season. Trampers (Kiwi terminology for hikers) walk 33.5 miles over four days, tracing the river from Lake Te Anau through Mackennon Pass, past New Zealand's highest waterfall, Sutherland Falls and ending at Milford Sound.

There are not enough superlatives to describe it. Temperature aside, the water was spectacular in every way--a deep green color courtesy of the rocks, which could be seen at the bottom even when it was several meters deep. It seeped from the rocks and flowed down the granite peaks. Massive waterfalls propelled millions of liters in mere minutes. Lush plant life paints everything in dazzling shades of green; trees and ferns protrude from every inch of dirt and thick carpets of mosses coat everything. This place sears into the mind and snares the heart with no promise of release.

And pristine is an understatement. The forests that have never been harvested on industrial scale. The granite mountains have never been quarried. The river is not dammed. It also begs the question: what did other wild places look like before people began their handiwork? I spent several hours contemplating what California must have looked like before 1849. Not that the Fjiordlands are immune to man's influence. The native bird populations have been decimated or driven to extinction due to exotic species introduction. Locals also mentioned the ever-present threat of nitrate pollution from the expanding dairy industry. But by and large, the hard work of many Kiwis has ensured (for now) the park areas remain virtually untouched.

After three incredible (and lucky) mostly dry days, the notorious rain started just before I reached the Sound. On the boat back to civilization, I reveled in the post-hike glow that drives so many people into the wild. And like so many New Zealand visitors, a small piece of my heart lingers at the swimming hole near Clinton's Hut.

Foodie report #5: Southeast Asia

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Fri, 05 Dec 2014 08:20:00 +0000

Day 153 of the project,
Te Anua, New Zealand

Gastronomically speaking, I had high expectations for my month in Southeast Asia. The region is famous for its diversity and flavor combinations. San Francisco offers solid access to Asian cuisine (especially Chinese).Yet there are certain things that simply do not cross oceans and can only be experienced in the native environment. I was stoked to see what arrived on my plate.

This post could go on forever, so for the sake of brevity, I have clustered experiences into four categories: fruit, spicy, savory and exotic. Consider yourself warned...do not read this when hungry.

Fruit
After a month of intense meat overload in Southern Africa, I was craving fruit and produce. Thailand over-delivered. Fresh fruit, fruit shakes, fruit smoothies, fruit in fried noodles, fruit in curries. Endless fruits. The pineapple was perfectly ripe and unbelievably sweet; the papaya came in green (for spicy salads), standard yellow and a new (to me) red; bananas were served fresh or fried; guava melted in your mouth; mangos the size of American footballs. And while the cooked dishes and shakes were delicious, it was the stalls selling freshly peeled and sliced fruit that won my heart.

The verdict = five plus stars

Spicy
Once again, the choices of spicy options were nearly endless. But my two favorites were the Thai spicy papaya salad and the Khmer red curry. Spicy papaya salad became a recurring lunch theme while traveling through the islands. It was light enough to eat outdoors, slightly sweet with a searing punch at the finish. Perfect when consumed with a coconut shake. In contrast, the Khmer red curry made a fiery, filling dinner in Cambodia. I preferred it with either chicken or fish, but the shrimp and pork were available as well. The spice was a slower burn across each bite (versus the more staccato finish of the salad). Rice was optional depending on my hunger level and almost always consumed with a simple lager.

The verdict = four and a half stars

Savory
Again, many options of fried rices and noodles fall into this category. But the clear winner was the white pepper crab at No Signboard in Singapore. Melt-in-your-mouth meat paired with the salty oiliness from the cooking process and coated with caramelized onions. It was messy and time consuming to peel, but so worth it.

The verdict = five plus stars

Exotic
One might expect to read about weird things in the category, like frog or chicken feet or crickets. All were available options, but I don't really consider these items unusual...a quick stroll through Chinatown in San Francisco has allowed me to sample them. In this category, the clear winner was a La Monita mexican food restaurant in Bangkok. My expat friend, Matt, spent nearly a year in search of a California-style burrito. His hard work paid off, as I had some of the best tacos, rice and beans and the only guacamole in the last five months. Delicious and by Thai standards, an exotic food. The runner up was the American style Pale Ale from Brewerkz in Singapore. It falls into the exotic category due to its rare nature (there aren't many microbreweries in a country where drinking is an expensive and restricted luxury).

The verdict = four stars

Overall verdict = five stars

Surface tension

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Thu, 04 Dec 2014 09:31:00 +0000

Day 152 of the project,
Christchurch, NZ

"Why are you going to Singapore?" asked my Thai interviewer, with a touch of disdain in his voice. It was a common question, asked by many who dismiss it as a superficial shopping mall in the heart of rambunctious, gritty Southeast Asia. Singapore lacks fiscal accessibility and offers no real claim to fame to justify the expense. In the mind of most backpackers, it is no more than a stopover.

Yet my curiosity was piqued by this tiny nation and I purposefully added it to my itinerary. Originally a British colony that gained independence in 1965, Singapore is a microcosm of Asia. Ethnic Chinese are the majority, followed by Malay, Indian, Indonesian and Japanese. Not to mention the pinches of Thai, Cambodian and white expats in various corners. To borrow from Americana, it is a "salad bowl" of diversity.

The effect is pronounced. From the various ethnic enclaves of specificity to the designer fusions on top of elegant hotels, the impact is almost overwhelming. I spent the first day silently marveling at the rainbow of faces on the metro. So many languages, smells and sounds. The rich tapestry of human variety provides cultural depth with little conflict.

But day three is when cracks began to emerge from the nearly flawless patina. Singapore maintains a delicate equilibrium between peace and chaos; its maintenance is directly connected to strict control. The country is famous for the no chewing gum ordinances and death penalties for drug convictions. Sexual assault is punishable by caning. The metro propaganda/signage is saccharine. The last riots occurred in Little India last year and a crackdown on public alcohol consumption followed shortly thereafter. The message is clear: stability among diversity comes with a heavy hand from the government.

Is the Singaporean approach to managing ethnic diversity right or wrong? Culturally, I am in no position to judge. Privileged, white American society (myself included) likes to pretend racism and xenophobia are problems of the past. At least until a fissure develops in the thin veneer and eruptions like the Ferguson fiasco make global headlines. This problem is not unique to the United States...I'm looking at you, white Europe-Africa-Australia.

In our ever-globalized, transient world, what is the appropriate solution for maintaining peace? Can a heterogeneous society work out its racial and ethnic issues without heavy government control? Or is restriction better than clashes? The jury is still out as the spectrum of experiments continue around the globe. One thing is for certain--as globalization continues to mix people, it will be fascinating to watch the results unfold.

Hanging by a thread

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Sat, 22 Nov 2014 14:15:00 +0000

Day 140 of the project,
Koh Lanta, Thailand

"More on your right foot. No, your other right. Now push and REACH for it! Good! Now move your left hand into the hole."

"What hole? There is no....oh wait, there it is."

After two days of sweat, swearing, scrapes and bruises, I was finally getting the hang of it. No pun intended.

One of the goals for the 30th Year Project was to get outside of my comfort zone. Sand boarding and high-altitude hiking aside, I had not really challenged myself physically. With only seven weeks to go, I decided the rock climbing mecca of Railay would be the perfect place to test my limits.

Rock climbing has always held a certain appeal, though I have never gone for it. There has been no shortage of opportunities. One of my best friends in high school was an active climber and there are many good places in Northwest Arkansas. I skipped the elective credit class in university. I have still not used my Christmas gift card for Mission Rocks (sorry Mom). My sister actively climbed when she lived in Santa Barbara.

My inaction stems from fear. I'm not afraid of heights and I trust my physical strength and body, in spite of my well-documented hand-eye-foot coordination issues. My hesitation has always centered around the rope. It goes against our gut survival instinct to trust a string the circumference of a pinky finger and connected to our bodies with a series of metal clips and rings. Especially when it is clumsy me tying it.

The first day of climbing school was excruciating. Like so many beginners, I relied almost solely on my arms. I completed four of seven climbs, sweated through three liters of water and acquired a generous collection of bruises on my knees and shins. My relationship with the rope improved, as I learned the basic figure eight knot and trusted it enough to let go during descent.

Day two started out quietly. After completing five climbs, the instructor decided it was time to expand my skill set. The first skill was lead climbing....and I was terrified. The lead climber sets up the belay rope on the wall for the rest of the climbers. It means there is no safety rope until you reach the first bolt on the wall and attach it. After several rounds of practice tying various knots and using a series of clips on the ground, I was deemed ready to go.

The first bolt was only about five meters off the ground, but it might as well have been fifty. Palms sweating and knees shaking, I made it to the first bolt and clipped in. I continued onward until I reached the top anchor. Using a thin safety sling rope and locking carabiener for support, one must untie oneself from the main rope in order to complete the set up. The waves of adrenaline washed over me, but I did it.

Day three marked the "advanced" skills. Abseiling or rappelling was quickly absorbed and completed. Now I faced the final "basic" skill; multi-level climbing. This occurs when the top of a course cannot be reached with one rope alone. So both climbers go up, with the lead climber setting the course and then supporting the second climber until she reaches the first tier. Rinse, wash and repeat until both climbers reach the top.

I wouldn't say that I failed this one; we both made it to the first tier. I simply found my current trust limits with the rope. Though I suspect my instructor was disappointed, I was beyond satisfied that I had at least attempted it.

At the end of three days, I completed 17 of 21 attempted climbs, learned four different ways to tie a knot, set up climbs and gotten down on my own steam. I have too many bruises to count and limp pad thai noodles for arms and legs. Above all, I tested myself and pushed well beyond my limits. The view from the top was pretty amazing too.

Ghosts of the past

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Thu, 20 Nov 2014 13:00:00 +0000

Day 138 of the project,
Krabi, Thailand

When someone brings up Cambodia, the first image that comes to mind is of the Angkor ruins. And rightfully so, as the sites in Angkor National Park are some of the most stunning in the ancient world. Angkor Wat is the most famous, but each site is distinct. My personal favorite was Banteay Srey. Translated to the Citadel of Women, the intricate carvings and pinkish-brown sandstone are absolutely sublime in the late afternoon sunlight.

However, Cambodia's more recent history is darker; its second claim to fame is genocide. Pol Pot came to power in 1975 with the aim of creating a perfect agrarian society. The Khmer Rouge drove everyone into extreme farming labor. Any intellectual--defined as anything from being a professional to wearing glasses--or opponent was arrested, tortured and killed. His regime was eventually pushed out in 1979 after war with the newly established Socialist Republic of Vietnam. It is worth mentioning the US government (along with the UN) recognized and supported the Khmer Rouge because of its opposition to the Vietnamese.

This darkness is clear in present-day Cambodia. There are over 300 sites of torture or mass graves in the country. In Phnom Penh, the most famous is known as the killing fields. No detail is left out in the audio guide. At the end, a memorial with glass walls reveals the bones of 8,000 people executed on site. The collection grows each year after the annual floods unearth new fragments. The experience is graphic, nauseating, enraging and heart-breaking. It must be seen and heard, though comprehension is virtually impossible.

Aside from the monuments, there are subtle yet visible scars on the Khmer society. The population over the age of 40 is noticeably and unnaturally smaller. Cities feel more chaotic than in neighboring Thailand and the infrastructure is straining to keep up with population growth. Land mines in rural areas are a very real and present danger. The riel is so inflated that most people deal in US dollars. There is a perceptible melancholy that seems to be mixed with the urban smog.

It is not all doom and gloom. There is a spark within the generation just coming of age. In recent elections, the early twenty-somethings delivered a bit of a shock by voting in a sizable minority party for the first time in decades. Entrepreneurial Cambodians are finding creative ways to entertain tourists and build businesses. International NGOs are present in large numbers and actively work with locals to improve the quality of life.

While these slivers of hope exist, the jury is still out on Cambodia. Will the country come together and thrive in its expanding tourism industry? Will the newly elected reduce the corruption that hampers growth? It will come down to the people and whether they can rise above their past to build a future.

Foodie report #4 - Southern Africa

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Tue, 04 Nov 2014 11:20:00 +0000

Day 120 of the project,
Heathrow airport, England

Aside from bunny chow and pinotage, I had little knowledge about and no expectations for cuisine in Southern Africa. I was not surprised by the high meat consumption but by the obsession of dried meats and jerky. South Africa's colonial legacy and physical location on the Indian trade route could be tasted in the various curries. In contrast, the German influence did not extend as far as anticipated in the Namibian beers. In short, meals were generally high protein and fat and washed down with mediocre light beers. There were some highlights:

South Africa

Ostrich kebobs, Kruger National Park - while I have had ostrich in the US, the kebobs at the Berg-en-daal camp restaurant were outstanding. Gamey, perfectly grilled chunks of meat along with roasted vegetables. Delicious.

Lamb and chicken bunny chow, Eastern Food Bazaar, Cape Town - a row of southeast Asian food stalls crammed into a narrow corridor, the EMB offers some of the best (and cheapest) Afro-Indian-Cape Malay dishes in Cape Town. And while the city is not as famous as Durban for bunny chow, the dish was excellent. Spicy, rich and a good balance of meat and veggies/potatoes. The bread bowls were enormous and better to be shared.

Highlanders' Chenin Blanc and Shiraz, Klawer region (Cederberg Mountains) - one of the stops on the drive from Namibia to Cape Town included a wine tasting in the northern Klawer region. The Chenin Blanc was crisp and acidic with hints of lemongrass and pears. It was perfect to drink while waiting for dinner. From the reds, the pinotage was okay, but the shiraz was outstanding. Deep, inky red with notes of blackberry and strong tannins to stand up with the enormous South African steaks.

The verdict on South Africa = 4 stars

Namibia

Peanut butter curry - I was skeptical of this dish on the vegetarian menu in Windhoek, but the waitress assured me it was delicious. She was right. A spicy, nutty glaze made from curry seasonings and peanut butter is added into sauted spring vegetables and served over fluffy couscous. It went well with the somewhat weak national beer, Windhoek Lager.

Camelthorn weisbier - Swakopmund was my best opportunity for solid German style beers and the old stalwart, the Swakopmund Bierhaus, did not disappoint. I tried the Camelthorn weisbier, which was a welcome wheat jolt to my over-lagered tastebuds. Deliciously unfiltered with hints of clove and pepper, it was a great way to pass a quiet afternoon.

The verdict on Namibia = 3.5 stars

Overall verdict = 3.75 stars

Descending the dunes

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Fri, 31 Oct 2014 20:34:00 +0000

Day 116 of the project,
slightly south of the Namibian border, South Africa

Of all the countries on my itinerary, few people knew much about the Republic of Namibia. The country became an independent nation in 1994. It has one of the world's lowest population densities with only 2.1 million people in its vast borders. The economy is heavily dependent on mining, but growth in tourism has prompted the creation of national parks. Namibia has the raw, uncharted ruggedness that appeals to the desert enthusiasts and adventure-seekers and discourages those looking for pampered luxury. In short, this is the sweet spot in time to visit.

My desert adventure began in Swakopmund. A former German colonial town, it straddles the mountains and the coastal sand dunes. The architecture is a mishmash of German chateaus and ugly modern concrete blocks. Several high quality brauhauses lubricate tourists and locals alike. It is a growing mecca for adventure sports ranging from kiteboarding to sand boarding to sky diving. There is little shopping and the main "cultural" activity is a tour of the uranium mine. Everything closes by 4pm with no clear reason why. It is by far one of the oddest places I have been...in the world.

In keeping with weird vibe, I did something out of character: I signed up for a day of sand boarding. It is not that I am out of shape or lazy; climbing the dunes is perfectly fine. But my well-documented lack of coordination and inclination for self-preservation has generally kept me from extreme sports. There was a good chance of injury and a guarantee of humiliation. Yet for some reason (maybe the beer?), I found myself calling Alter Action and signing up for the next morning session.

The drive to the dunes was spectacular. Red-orange mountains of sand loomed from the edge of town and into the ocean. A layer of gray fog hung heavily across the skies, keeping the air cool. I chatted with the owner/instructor/guide, who is originally from Marin county, about the Bay Area and Namibia.

Once we arrived at the chosen dune, the assistants fitted us with boots and boards and then we headed up the mountain of sand. General instruction was given and we watched the few with snowboarding experience take a turn down the dune. Then we were up.

My first ride down was smoother than anticipated. No wipeouts or mangled limbs. Of course, no crazy speeds and I certainly ate sand during my few falls. The motion was completely counterintuitive to surfing or SUPing or any other board sport previously attempted. But the sensation was addictive and by the time I reached the bottom of the dune, I was ready to go again. The morning flew by as our group went up and down the sand. Each run was progressively better; my movements evened out and my speed increased. I was even able to squeeze in a turn.

At the end of the session, I left the dunes exhausted, invigorated and happy. Sand boarding set the tone for the rest of my travels here: hiking the 200-meter high dunes, hiking around the Fish River canyon rim trail and kayaking the Orange River. More importantly, it was a great reminder to set aside reservations and go for the unconventional sometimes.

In the food chain

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Fri, 24 Oct 2014 17:39:00 +0000

Day 109 of the project,
Swakopmund, Namibia

It is the amazing the amount of information that can be gathered from a pile of rhinoceros shit. Obviously, you can learn about their diet and digestive process. Rhinos only have one stomach (unlike other large herbivores) and cannot fully process their roughage...meaning the pile of poop actually looks like an explosion of half chewed twigs. Less obvious is that a dominant male will drop in his territory; other males will pass by and drop on the perimeter of his poop, which alerts him about guests in his area. It is like a message board for the rhino community. However, when a female rhino wants to get the male's attention, she will poop directly on top of his pile. Initially this will piss him off, until he realizes who left the message.

However, the most important thing you can learn from the dung is proximity to the animal. So when the pile belongs to the less social and more aggressive black rhino and is relatively fresh, your park rangers on the guided morning walk tend to get a little nervous. A bad encounter between the locals and foreign tourists is not exactly great PR.

In my normal life, I have never taken any interest in rhino shit. These creatures were an abstraction--something seen from the comfort of my living room on National Geographic. I never dreamed I would be in such close physical proximity.

Do not mistake me. These majestic animals are beyond incredible. Words don't really seem to do them justice...the sense of awe and wonderment at the sheer size, grace and beauty of the "Big Five" or the elephants, rhinos, lions, leopards and buffalo. Hippos and crocodiles and the many species of antelope are impressive. The smaller creatures are just as amazing; the numerous birds with flashy colors and interesting lifestyles (the ones that live on the backs of other animals consuming bugs are fascinating). And the slight strangeness of human features on monkeys and baboons.

But perhaps the most incredible feeling is the awareness of being part of the food chain. It is a strange and visceral vulnerability...knowing that there is another living non-human creature that can easily kill you. And a few that would actively hunt you as prey. It is a deep-seated and primal fear, something left over from our days in the caves.

It is not often that the average San Franciscan is hunted by anything other than a MUNI bus. Sure, there are bears in California, but most are interested in the contents of your cooler or bear canister...not in eating you. But this is Africa. This potential danger is the reason there are steep fines for any idiot who leaves the car outside of designated areas. Lions are an obvious concern, but the large herbivores can be dangerous too. An adult elephant that feels threatened can stampede. In our case, the very shy black rhinos will charge if confronted and leave your carcass in his wake for the scavengers.

Our planned route was quickly modified. We did not see any other large creatures until we returned to the Jeep. A family of elephants decided to shade themselves in the trees next to our vehicle. Once again, the route changed as one guide loaded his very large gauge shotgun and the other made a wide, quiet circle around the car. He managed to slip in without notice and collected our group.

After returning safely to camp, it was time to leave for more urbanized adventures along the Garden Route. However, feelings from our walk on the wild side will linger for a lifetime.

Cheers to the solo ladies

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Wed, 15 Oct 2014 16:18:00 +0000

Day 100 of the project,
somewhere outside Port Elizabeth, South Africa

There can be many challenges in being a single female traveler. Security and acceptance of your solo status are obvious. Other issues are less obvious--when is the last time you had to figure out the word "tampon" in Hungarian? Or tried to explain the necessity of a 15-euro pedicure to a bewildered male bunk mate?

In spite of the nuisances, being a solo female traveler strengthens you beyond measure and opens your heart in a way you never thought possible. And perhaps the best reflection of that openness can be found in the relationships with other women.

I booked the female dorm for my first three nights in Cape Town. I rarely splurge for single gender accommodations, but I was lazy and didn't want to change beds halfway through my stay. By the stroke of fate, the ladies in my 8-bed room were mostly in their late 20s and early 30s. They asked me to join them and several guys from another room for drinks. Our eclectic group from eight countries bonded immediately. Being geriatrics with interests other than getting drunk, we did not hit the Long Street discos. Instead, we talked about everyday things and travel over casual beers and teas in the hostel kitchen.

After two evenings of mixed company, three women (Swiss, Canadian and American) decided to go to a bar for a night cap. The quick drink turned into a full-fledged ladies' night. For the uninitiated Y-chromosome set, camaraderie is the name of the game. Stories about men, careers, adventures and experiences are shared. Wine flows. Breasts rest on the table when leaning in for the juicy bits. Peals of laughter erupt at regular intervals. An occasional pause for reflection.

From the outsiders' perspective, we probably looked like old friends on a regular date. It is a nearly universal scene carried out around the globe at any given bar in any given language. And perhaps as solo women travelers, we are kindred spirits. It certainly requires a specific personality. If nothing else, it removes the superficial filters applied to friendship selection at home and places the focus on similarities instead of differences. Which is how it should be.

I am unbelievably grateful for the women (at home and abroad) who I have met and will meet. For your companionship, advice, ideas and jokes. It is for you that I raise a glass and toast--until our paths cross again, safe travels, amazing adventures and much laughter.

Global is the new local

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Fri, 03 Oct 2014 15:45:00 +0000

Day 88 of the project,
Tesvikiye neighborhood of Istanbul, Turkey

In the digital age of constant global connectivity, most travelers (myself included) are seeking the "authentic" cultural experience. We want the full sensory overload: the sights (the architecture, shops and museums); the tastes (spicy, sweet, salty, savory, boozy); the heart and soul (language, religion and customs). We want this to be untainted with any of the familiarity of home. And above all, we want to engage with the locals.

In this cosmopolitan place where Europe meets Asia, secular meets religious and old meets new, I expected to easily escape the tourist traps in Istanbul. That is not to say I didn't enjoy the tourist circuit. I spent hours roaming the Istanbul Modern and Pera Museum and staring at the gorgeous tiles and calligraphy inside the mosques. I tried my hand at negotiations inside the bazaars. My stomach certainly engaged with the local cuisine. And my caffeine levels are at an all time high from the copious consumption of Turkish coffee and tea.

Though after three and a half days, I needed a break from the bustling crowds and a non-smoking coffee shop for South Africa research. A Google search recommended the Ministry of Coffee in an upscale neighborhood about 30 minutes from my hostel. It was perfect...I plotted my escape from the tourist masses in favor of a local haunt. Upon arrival I was initially disappointed. MOC is a hipster mecca; the coffee is cold-brewed and fair trade, the attire is skinny jeans and thick-rimmed glasses. If you hit the mute button on the Turkish language, I could be in Brooklyn. I wanted my projection of authentic Istanbul.

But perhaps that is the irony; this is the real Turkey. MOC is packed with locals talking over coffee and working on their laptops. It is the first place in Istanbul where the waitstaff spoke so little English that I had to gesture for my order. The globalization of aesthetics means that the authentic local experience looks and tastes much more like home than anticipated. It is true in Istanbul and has been true every other modern city in South America and Europe. I suspect it will be much the same on other continents.

So do I have a right to be disappointed in the hipsterized "local" experience? Should I accept that my projections of authenticity can be and often are a caricature? Is the globalization that allows me to find these local places bringing an end to individuality?

I'm not sure there is a simple answer to these questions. And I am certainly not accounting for the impact of religion and socioeconomic status (designer handbags are favored over hijabs in this part of the city). Our common tastes makes it easier to connect, understand and break down negative stereotypes. Sure it means the world is getting smaller. But I believe it increases our chances for peaceful living. And if nothing else, the globalized authentic experience means I can ask the Turkish girl next to me about her adorable sweater (Zara, of course) while sipping a delicious organic Ethiopian blend.

Native tongue

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Tue, 23 Sep 2014 17:08:00 +0000

Day 78 of the project,
on the ferry to Dubrovnik, Croatia

An American, an Englishman and an Australian sit in a hostel bar in Vienna, steins of beer in hand. Conversation ranges from travel to music to politics. Especially politics. There is nothing more entertaining than testing an American on his or her knowledge of world affairs. Gentle ribbing aside, their native language allowed the three drinkers to easily exchange and debate ideas well into the early morning hours.

Language is also a reflection of a person's worldview. As with most native English speakers, I enjoy orderly queues, on-time departures, formal education and relative privilege within the globalized 21st century world. Yet my American perspective is often as clear as my accent. It is as simple as wearing pants (not trousers), taking the elevator (not the lift), attending college (not uni or university) and having friends (not mates). It is as complex as not having a current attachment to monarchy or officially sharing a currency with other independent nations.

It is no different in the Arabic- or Chinese- or Spanish- or Portuguese-speaking worlds. In another bar in another city, native speakers from six countries laughed about their favorite lost-in-translation moments. For a good chuckle, ask the Columbians about trying to catch busetas in any other South American country or the Spaniards using the verb coger in Mexico. And those accents are important cultural markers as well...most Parisians have an opinion about tourists from Montreal (frankly, about any non-Parisian French speakers, though the Canadians seem to receive the most contempt).

Yet those language-nuanced views need a common platform for exchange. And it typically comes down to English for translation. In most major vacation destinations, at least a cursory amount is spoken by workers who interact with tourists. It is the international language of corporate and political worlds, a requirement to participate on the global stage. It is the most widely published language, both in print and on the Internet. I am extremely lucky it is my native language...that I do not have to mentally translate before speaking.

Not that it is always the best translation, even with a technically sound transcription. Reading Pablo Nerudo's poems in Spanish provides a depth and dimension that simply evaporates in English. The smooth, melodic sound becomes rough and uneven, jerking the reader out of the romance and into an overly flowery, teenager-ish confession. Or what occasionally sounds like a weird obsession with ordinary objects.

In other instances, English simply fails to provide an accurate word for the speaker/writer's worldview. The German word fernweh (thanks to Jenny from Hamburg for this one) translates to an aching feeling or desire to leave familiar surroundings and discover new places. The closest approximation we use in English is wanderlust, which is actually borrowed and modified from German origin (a love of hiking). Further research shows other languages have better translations. The Swedish call it resfeber, which is the restlessness in a traveler's heart before a journey begins, a travel fever. The French noun derive (not the English verb) is a spontaneous journey where a traveler leaves their life behind for a time in order to let new places attract and inspire her. Or perhaps the missing noun goes back to worldview. In English, we use homesickness, which directly translates to heimweh. Maybe a reflection of the American (and occasional British) isolationist tendencies?

So how do we solve the age-old, lost-in-translation question? How do we experience complete clarity in a different worldview? I don't think the answer exists, at least not in the literal sense. Sure, I could try to become fluent in every major language (I have met a Belgian who is attempting this). However, I still struggle with grammar and spelling errors in my native tongue, not to mention my unsophisticated use of Spanish and my phonetical bastardization of German and French pronunciations. Instead, I believe the solution lies in acceptance of our diversity...in celebrating the beauty of similar but never completely aligned worldviews. In giving into our inner fernweh. Or at least providing the locals and fellow travelers with a good laugh.

White noise

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Sun, 21 Sep 2014 17:43:00 +0000

Day 76 of the project,
Vis, Croatia

"Your schedule has been very aggressive, Jenn. It makes me tired listening to it."

"It's not so bad. I see the highlights in every city. It is like the tapas version of Eastern Europe."

"You need to slow down."

Much as I hate to admit it, my German friend was right. For almost three full weeks, I had bounced from capital city to capital city without spending more than three full days in any given location. And while I had seen the major sights in six countries, it was starting to become white noise. The tipping point was when I purposefully avoided the art museum in Budapest...something I would never do in my ordinary traveling life. As a lovely Welsh acquaintance said so eloquently, "You need a vacation from your vacation."

So upon the advice from three different people hailing from three different countries, I chose the coastal delights of Croatia to slow down. I arrived in Split on an overnight train from Ljubljana, ready to fill the prescribed dose of tranquility. As the sun rose over the water, I leaned out the train window and allowed the salty air to fill my lungs. I was ready for some sunshine, bikinis, aquamarine water and beach bars. And unofficially, I was ready to face my new personal reality.

Split served as a launch point. I skipped the historic sights in favor of the fish and produce markets. I did a much needed load of laundry. I spent nearly three hours at a hillside bar overlooking the city, tucked into a book covering the Euro crisis (which, like most Americans, I am woefully uneducated about the politics behind it). It was incredibly indulgent. I loved it.

From there, I headed to the island of Hvar. Billed as a British holiday spot with good nightlife, I thought it would be a comfortable place to work on my tan without language impediments. I couldn't have been more wrong. My first mistake was booking a hostel with an age cap. It felt like I had landed in West Campus (the fraternity/sorority domain at the University of Texas)....which would have been fine ten years ago. Not fine for a 30-something looking to chill out. The second strike was at the Hula Hula Beach bar, where an Englishman old enough to be my father invited me to go back to his yacht. Naturally I declined. I was beginning to wonder if the ferry had delivered me to Florida by mistake.

My New York friend, Laura, recommended the more remote island of Vis. A little research revealed that the island had, until recently, been off-limits because of its military importance for the former Yugoslovia. Most people stopped in as day trip and an easy launch point for the blue caves. There are no hostels available, so I hopped on ferry and booked a studio apartment for about 5 euro more than I was paying for a crappy dorm bed in Hvar.

It was the perfect decision. The apartment is located about 3km from Vis Town and is nestled in between a small cove, vineyards and olive groves. My hosts offered me fresh table grapes from their property upon my arrival. I spent three days (in between rainstorms) exploring various rocky coves and enjoying the sound of water over pebbles as I stretched out on my towel. Even with the SPF70 sunscreen, my skin has a lovely golden glow (along with a constellation of mosquito bites).

Despite the foodie frenzy for the island's restaurants, I opted to hit the markets and cook in. I haggled for (rather gesticulated at) fresh sardines and squid. I bought fresh vegetables. Homemade olive oil was sold in old water bottles (fresh pressed a few days before) and rosemary grows like a weed along the roads. I must have sampled four or five different types of sheep's cheese before selecting one. The local white wine, simply labeled Posip, went perfectly with the meal. Perhaps the only imported food was the simple chocolate for dessert.

Stomach satisfied, my mind relaxed and absorbed the last six weeks. Privately, I have affectionately begun to call it the September to Remember. Even if it really began in August. Without the distractions of big new cities to occupy my attention, I am absorbing the enormity of my life's changes. I have lost my decade-long, four-legged family member. I am single for the first time in seven years. I am thousands of miles from my family and closest friends. I am unemployed with a fixed dollar amount in my bank account and unsure about my future prospects. I am too old to claim youthful ignorance yet not fully on the path of middle age. I am excited, thrilled, overstimulated and terrified.

At the beginning of my trip, I was at a precipice, a fork in life's journey. Today is rooted in the chosen tine in that fork. It is not a bad place to be. There are no regrets, merely reflections. Tomorrow promises something new. But I have to acknowledge that when I return to the United States, my reality will be radically different from where I left it. In my core, I know it is where I am meant to be, in spite of the highs and lows that are sure to come.

Foodie report #3 - Eastern European capitals

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Sun, 21 Sep 2014 15:45:00 +0000

Day 76 of the project,
Vis, Croatia

In the first two and a half weeks of September, I sprinted through five major cities in Central and Eastern Europe. Each city had its own distinct culture and history along with beautiful collections of castles, palaces, art, gardens and museums. It was simultaneously overwhelming and invigorating to absorb so much in such a short time. But rather than attempt to share every detail of each city (which I believe my Instagram feed does a far more effective job), I am choosing to share the gastronomical highlights.

City #1 - Prague, Czech Republic
There were two main highlights for me. First and foremost, the beer. After nearly a month of crappy Spanish beers (the Madrid microbrewery, FM, being the exception), Prague was a welcome respite. The first stop was Klasterni Pivovar Strahov, which was located on the grounds of Sv. Norbert. The dark beer was excellent and well worth the uphill walk. Brewery number two, Pivovarsky Dum, provided tasters of the various items on tap, which ranged from standard pilsner to a nettle and banana brew. The more exotic options were definitely an acquired taste, but the pilsner was decent.

The second best thing was the return of spice. Like beer, Spain is not known for spicy food. So the availability of hot sausage and spicy mustard was a perfect compliment to the richer beers. The best was from a random food cart not too far from the famous Charles Bridge. Simple, cheap and to the point. I left satisfied.

The verdict on Prague = 3.5 stars

City #2 - Vienna, Austria
Two words: Sacher Torte. Let me repeat, Sacher Torte. Forget Wiener Schnitzel...there are better ways to dedicate your daily caloric intake. Vienna is home to the mother of all chocolate cakes, made famous by the Sacher Cafe. A fudge coated exterior with fluffy chocolate cake on the inside. The whipped cream garnish was sort of wasted on me, but who am I to complain? In the name of gastronomy, I sampled from two places. The first was the original Sacher Cafe, which lived up to its well earned reputation for excellence. The second slice was from the cafe at MUMOK (modern art museum) in the Museum Quartier and...dare I say...it was even better than the original. Both versions were paired with a latte and required great willpower not to lick the plates.

The verdict on Vienna = 4 stars

City #3 - Bratislava, Slovakia
Slovakian desserts go back into childhood memories. Specifically, pastries filled poppyseed and honey or fruit jam brings back memories of breakfast time at Christmas. These specialties tend to be sweet but not as rich as more formal chocolate desserts.

In Bratislava, I opted for the poppyseed route twice. The first was a slice of the traditional roll. The pastry was flaky and buttery and the filling was sweet without being overly powerful. The second dessert took a more modern twist. The filling was the same mixture of honey, poppyseed and golden raisins, but it was pressed into an American style pie crust. To compensate for the relatively large dose of filling, the baker had used significantly less honey and relied on the fat from the baked crust to keep everything together. It worked beautifully and tasted amazing.

In addition to amazing desserts, I was surprised to find beer on par with the Czech. A pub with local microbrews and international favorites was recommended and I went with a collection of people from a free walking tour. The saison was incredibly good (I almost ordered a second half liter) and the unfiltered wheat was also solid.

The verdict on Bratislava = 4 stars

City #4 - Budapest, Hungary
It had been a while since I treated myself to a more decadent meal, and after doing a little research, I found just the place for adventurous eating. An American from the hostel joined me at Aranyszarvas Vendéglő, which was nestled at the base of the Buda Hills close to the Danube. The restaurant specialized in modern approaches to classic Hungarian cuisine. I opted for the soup starter paired with a decent rose and a venison entree paired with a red wine made from a native grape, which was outstanding.

The verdict on Budapest = 4.5 stars

City #5 - Ljubljana, Slovenia
Once again, my sweet tooth led the charge in the gorgeous, green Slovenian capital. While I did enjoy some good local bread and fresh herring, it was the chocolate cake that stood out. Unlike drier, fluffier Sacher Torte in Austria, the Ljubljana version was dense and rich and was best paired with a straight espresso....followed by a crane to lift one out of your riverside terrace seat.

Additionally, the Slovenian wines--particularly the whites--were outstanding as well. I sampled several native types (none that I could pronounce, spell or find anywhere else) and enjoyed them immensely.

The verdict on Ljubljana = 3 stars

Overall verdict = 4 stars

Sound of music

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Sun, 14 Sep 2014 20:51:00 +0000

Day 68 of the project,
on the train somewhere between Budapest and Ljubljana

Vienna, or Wien, as it is actually called in German, brings many superlatives to a traveler's lips. Gorgeous Baroque and Rococo architecture that has been immaculately maintained. Stunning museums that showcase incredible volumes of significant artwork. Delicious foods (hello Wiener schnitzel and sacher tort) in adorable cafes. Beer and wine galore. Opera and choirs in every theater.

However, for this traveler, my memory of Austria is anchored in music. I am not a classical music connoisseur, but there is something magical about the symphony. My timing in Vienna could not have been better; the annual classical music festival at the Grafenegg was coming to a close. The finale was definitely a special performance. Not only was the world-renowned Vienna philharmonic orchestra performing, but the guest conductor was the very famous Venezuelan Gustav Dudamel (on loan from the Los Angeles philharmonic). And the Grafenegg itself was an amazing draw--a beautiful castle with a brand new, state-of-the-art outdoor amphitheater about 40 minutes outside of Vienna. I was shocked it was not sold out.

Philharmonic orchestra just before intermission. Photo courtesy of Cody Christopher

The event started perfectly. Prior to the main performance, a chamber orchestra gave a performance inside the castle courtyard. This alone was enough to make me absolutely giddy. After the prelude ended, I was able to taste local wines inside the tasting room and eat a snack from the cafe. Then I headed into the amphitheater and took my seat. Luckily, I was seated next to two Australians who were friendly and passionate about music. We talked amicably until the orchestra arrived on stage.

I was wholly unprepared for the experience. Even to my relatively novice ear, I could hear the difference between this performance and every other classical performance I have attended. Breathtakingly perfect with each artist hitting every note in perfect unison. The conductor, Dudamel, was masterful in his movements, teasing out the best of each note from each instrument. It felt as though time stopped. I did not move until the applause for the first piece.

The real beauty of music is that it transcends nationality, spoken language and culture. I was not alone in feeling the emotional power of the performance. I didn't need to understand German to see the euphoria shining in people's eyes. To see the broad smiles and animated laughter and gestures. It is the kind of experience that reminds me once again that we are truly more similar than we realize.

Unfortunately, time had not stopped and after two and a half incredible hours, the performance came to a close. Yet the concert has left its lasting impression. Even now as I close my eyes on the train, I can hear the notes and feel my spirits drift away to perfect moment in musical time.

Behind the name

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Wed, 10 Sep 2014 16:53:00 +0000

Day 65 of the project,
somewhere between Bratislava and Budapest

In the United States, Gbur is not a typical last name. Its unusual combination of consonants and lack of vowels trouble the tongues of most English speakers. There is usually the inevitable pause while someone decides how to vocalize those four letters. I am used to it...after all, I have had thirty years of corrections, spelling examples and references to Zsa Zsa and Ava.

But what is in a name? Language? Ethnicity? Geography? Social class? It can be some, all or none of these. Above all, a family name conveys a history. An artifact of those who came before you and the foundations of those who will come after you. Some people are well versed in the background of their names--ties back to castles, crests and pride. Other histories have been buried in the shadows of war, poverty and xenophobia.

In my case, the Slovakian Gbur is more of the latter. My great-grandparents arrived in the United States in the early part of the 20th century. My great-grandfather and his brother were army deserters fleeing the atrocities of war. They could only pay for their wives' passages, so they stowed away on the boats bound for America. When they arrived, Bubo and Zeda followed their fellow Slovaks to eastern Ohio. They were poor, working class people who felt it was better to let their story slide into the shadows of the past.

My grandparents spoke perfect Slovak and had a love for native pastries from the neighborhood bakeries. While the passion for sweets seems to be a genetic inevitability, my grandparents did not pass along their language. My father speaks only a few words. I speak none. Not that I didn't hear it. It was my grandmother's choice language when she chastised my grandfather. My artifacts from the past are immigration papers from Ellis Island and my name. Certainly not enough to search for distant relatives. But I wanted to see the place my family once called home.

Perhaps it was the lack of information that left me with no expectations of Bratislava. Most tourists skip this part of the Central/Eastern European tour, which contributes to its relative mystery.

What I found was a modest but delightfully quirky city with kind and dry-humored people. Bratislava is relatively small for a capital city--only 500,000 residents. When it was under Communist Czechoslovakia, the Soviets decided one city (Prague) should retain its architectural heritage. The other city should embody the modern socialist era (Bratislava). The majority of Old Town was razed and rebuilt in concrete squares. A city that hosted Hungarian coronations for hundreds of years was cosmetically remade in a few decades. To add insult to injury, the Slovaks are occasionally slighted in historical accuracy. For example, the Velvet Revolution is often credited as starting in Prague, but in fact protests began a few days before in Bratislava.

Despite this perceived inferiority, Slovaks have a fantastic sense of humor. If your tourist-drawing historical architecture has been demolished, why not commission a few tongue-in-cheek statues that garner a good laugh? Or invite your citizens to vote on a new bridge name, with the Chuck Norris Bridge emerging as the clear winner (80% of the vote)? Self-deprecation is a great salve sometimes. Its too bad the Austrians did not share the joke...it would have been great to invite the Texas Ranger for the bridge's opening celebrations.

Not that there isn't pride. The Slovaks are members of the EU and despite their lower income, are not contributing to the financial strife like larger and more famous countries. Bratislava is clean and safe, and the infrastructure is solid. History--recent and ancient--can easily be found. The food is amazing....I could become a very fat woman living in this city. The beers are on par with their sibling Czech Republic and the wines hold their own with the Austrian counterparts. And I am told the High Tatras are the mountains of National Geographic photography dreams.

I left Bratislava with no more specific details about the my family's past than when I arrived. Instead, I carried a healthy respect for a beautiful and proud small nation. An understanding of a long and storied history. Not to mention a belly stuffed full of poppyseed and nut pastries. Oh, and perhaps the only memory of not having to correct the pronunciation of my name.

Great expectations

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Thu, 04 Sep 2014 19:12:00 +0000

Day 59 of the project,
somewhere between Prague and Vienna

To my beautiful San Francisco,

It is me again, your beloved expatriate. On yet another continent, I have met your older brother! Sure, Lisbon is not your official "sibling city" as defined by UNESCO or some other organization. But there are so many similarities. Like you, Lisbon has steep hills with stairs to match and sublime views from various miradoras. The trams and light rail rattle through his streets much like yours. Not to mention a (shorter) version of your Golden Gate Bridge...gleaming in the low light of sunset.

But unlike Valparaiso, my heart was not swayed. Lisbon is like an older, dignified but slightly shabby gentleman with the melancholy of someone who has lost so much. You can hear it in the fado sung in the streets late a night. You can see it in the political graffiti. The streets exude the passion of an empire whose colonial glory days are a distant memory in the harsh limelight of current economic struggles.

To be fair, I came to Portugal with expectations of being seduced. And all of the cities in Portugal were warm and charming. The wines I tried in Porto--dry and sweet--were incredible. Great food--especially the bacaloao, sardines, fish pates and cheeses--was available at every turn. There is a strong creative streak, especially in Lisbon. The beaches were rocky and beautiful and offered world class waves for the surfing community. History was around every corner. Beautiful and intriguing architecture at every turn. Castles to climb. World class art museums to wander.

Though I listened for a week, the siren song never came from Lisbon. Perhaps I was not looking in the right places. Maybe my heart was looking for something more raw and unrefined. Or perhaps it simply stirred a longing for my city by the Bay.

So my fair city, rest assured my heart belongs tucked into your hills and your international orange bridge.

Until next time...

My way to St. James

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Wed, 03 Sep 2014 12:43:00 +0000

Day 58 of the project,
Prague, Czech Republic

Each person walks their own camino on the Way of St. James. Though there are definitely some distinct categories. A few dedicated Catholic souls walk the Camino for the original religious ritual. Some people simply want a holiday of walking the countryside. Others are looking for a fitness challenge. Many more are seeking spiritual (though not necessarily religious) guidance or insight. It can be all or none of these reasons.

My camino started as intrigue ten years ago during my study abroad in Alicante. A Spanish friend told me about an ancient pilgrimage route that Christians took to worship the remains of St. James. While it sounded like an adventure, my thoughts at the time were decidedly focused on Italy. Over the years, I've heard snippets from people and the media about the Camino de Santiago. Martin Sheen and Emilio Estevez even made a movie about the Way. But ultimately I decided to undertake the Camino as a way of reconnecting with myself during my six month adventure. So if one wishes to classify my pilgrimage, it was a spiritual journey. A good short summation.

The longer story is that the Camino was more than I could have hoped for, despite its unintended brevity. My original plan was to begin in San Sebastián and walk the entire 800 kilometers (a little over 500 miles) to Santiago. And that is how it began...five near perfect days that took me from a gorgeous beach community to the slightly industrial but very beautiful Bilbao. I was meeting wonderful people from around the world. Trying (and getting slightly tipsy) on the different varieties of orujo. Eating dry bocadillos by day and pinxtos by night. Sleeping in enormous dorms filled with other smelly walkers. It was exactly as I imagined.

Days six through ten were spent recovering from the Achilles' injury in Madrid. In hindsight though, this setback was a gift. Unlike the hostels, I was isolated in my hotel room. I was able to grieve properly for Don Gato and to enjoy a short self-pity party for my leg. And then to deeply think, without the interruption of other walkers, the sights along the road, or anything else. The time was a luxury. I dug into myself and confronted emotions that are hard to address. I also made some decisions about the remaining six weeks in Europe. And researched continuing university courses through a free online program.

Once I was ready to return to the Camino, I knew I would not be able to pick up where I stopped. So I decided that the lovely city of Lugo....exactly 100 kilometers from Santiago...would be the perfect place to start again. If the pain started, I could slow down and alternate days of walking and resting.

It was the right decision. As fate would have it, I met a group of pilgrims in the Lugo. One of them asked me to join their group. The people were a great mix; I felt so lucky to be welcomed into the group and to have so many thoughtful conversations. And some crazy overcrowded stays in pilgrims' hostels (though I now hate the word "completo" after many fruitless attempts at finding housing).

My feelings upon arrival in Santiago de Compostela were mixed. My leg held up (though I could feel it on the last 40km slog) and my body and mind were not ready to stop walking. As I sat in front of the Cathedral, I waited for my heart to say something. But my heart had said everything it needed to say and I knew it.

In the end, there were many lessons coming out of my walk. Perhaps the biggest one was the reminder that the Camino--just like life--is about the journey, not the destination, and people we meet and treasure along the way.

#feminismo

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Mon, 18 Aug 2014 11:59:00 +0000

Dia 42 del proyecto,
Madrid, Espana

I noticed the first stencil yesterday. Given the visual depiction of a woman and a priest along with the verbal content, the church wall placement couldn't be more appropriate. This morning, I passed others plastered to the side of a park wall. A guerrilla conversation about a woman's right to choose in Spain.

Feminism in various formats has been a fairly constant topic for me. Lately, in addition to the abortion support stencils, there was an interesting article in British Vogue about Hillary Clinton and her anticipated presidential campaign. Jennifer Aniston's anti-botox stance has generated a big brouhaha in the tabloids. A fascinating Facebook thread has started on a (male) friend's page about men giving compliments to women. Not to mention the curiosity and questions that a solo women invokes among both genders.

Spain legalized limited emergency abortion in 1985 and finally legalized it fully in 2010. However, the current conservative political majority passed a bill earlier this year to revoke the 2010 law. Protests broke out and the bill is sitting in Parliament awaiting approval (or rejection). Timeline differences aside, it is eerily similar to the recent trajectory of abortion rights in the United States.

Reading about Hillary Clinton from a British perspective was interesting as well. England produced a female prime minister (from the Conservative party, oddly enough) eons before Clinton became a household name. Naturally the angle was a bit fluffy....what else would one expect from a high fashion magazine? High heel shoe addiction aside, the writer was quite serious in her articulation of Clinton's challenges as a woman in American politics. Specifically, it was fascinating to see Clinton praised for the political partnership she has with her husband; it is quite the contrast to the sharp criticism she receives from the American press.

In the Facebook feed, a Huffington Post article about Jennifer Aniston's response to Botox leap off the page. The author pointed out the "damned if you do, damned if you don't" treatment of women who use Botox. Society demands that women remain thin, youthful and attractive--without the assistance of diets, chemicals or artificial embellishments. When they invoke those magical tools, they are chastised for being shallow. Perhaps it is a show of the stronger machismo in Spain, but women are not criticized for using potions and products. More like encouraged to do so. It is more openly vain, but at least it is honest.

The other nugget from the daily Facebook digest was a thread unwittingly started by a friend, asking when it was appropriate for a man to give a woman a compliment and when it was simply creepy. The response was quite intense and opinions spanned the gamut. And it certainly deserved a better forum than a post, as the content was quite good.

Personally, the subject resonates with the reactions and questions I get about being a 30-year-old, unmarried solo traveler. Questions a man with similar credentials would never be asked. Most women I have met cheer me on, even if there is not a clear understanding. An unspoken female camaraderie. Those who have commented on my age and marital status were American women. I have received mixed reactions from men, which were influenced by nationality and profession. South American men saw me as a curiosity, as there are not as many solo female travelers. It is quite common in Europe, so there have been fewer questions. Predictably, university students, artists and professionals see my trip as less of an oddity.

Like all societal structures, the constant underlying theme is power. This is not a new revelation; it is rather tired academic conversation. Real change moves in a non-linear and very slow pace. And every time there seems to be forward momentum, the underlying tension flares. Just ask the residents of Ferguson, Missouri, about racial power structures in the United States.

For women, the power limitation is sometimes subtle. In the case of random compliments, it is not about whether the man is attractive or not; it is about a man's perceived right to say something about a woman's physical appearance. The compliment may be given in sincerity, but it is given whether the woman wants it or not. Most people don't see (or choose not to see) the structure and its constraints until we are the ones not in power.

In other instances, gender structures are more overt. This is certainly the case with reproductive rights, salary gaps and public judgment on personal matters. By and large, Hillary Clinton has been lambasted for everything from her fashion sense (horrible in the 90s) to her expression of the First Lady's role (an agenda of her own) to the way she addressed Bill's infidelities (privately and gracefully if not professionally). A male politician would have never been criticized in the same way. Reproductive rights are a uniquely bright spotlight on the gender power structure--insurance coverage for birth control can be denied by "religious" corporations and women are criticized for terminating unwanted pregnancies. Yet laws on child support are comparatively weak and women who seek government assistance for unplanned children are seen as abusing the system.

Yet we cannot solely blame men. Many women--including this one at times--are often complicit with the power structure. Many of the loudest voices criticizing Hillary Clinton, Jennifer Aniston and others chipping away at gender expectations are women themselves. Those who aren't clamoring in the press are engaging in more insidious ways, like slut shaming or deriding feminism as something only for "man-haters." To my female readers, how many women have you judged (even in your head) for wearing something you felt was too revealing or trashy?

The challenge of changing power structures is intense. After all, nobody wants to be less powerful. It goes against our survival instinct, as less power implies less access to resources. Yet change is possible, even if the process is imperfect and non-linear. I am not naive; I acknowledge there is no magic, overnight equalizer. I simply choose to believe the only way forward is through constant dialog and sustained action, small and big. Like graffiti in the streets and Facebook posts. Articles that focus on underlying issues rather than simply fanning flames. And bigger ideals, like the possibility of a female American president. Two steps forward and as few steps backward as possible.

Rest, regroup and resume

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Sun, 17 Aug 2014 18:55:00 +0000

Dia 41 del proyecto,

Madrid, Espana

It feels like it has been an eternity since last Wednesday and Thursday, or as I have come to remember them as "dos dias del disastres." In the midst of emotional and physical exhaustion, I decided to head to Madrid to recover. Bilbao was a charming city, but unfortunately its proximity to the beaches makes it a very expensive one at the height of Spain's holiday season. In contrast, Madrid is an absolute ghost town with rock bottom hotel deals. It seemed like a great place to hole up for a few days and make some decisions.

The decision was the right one. Maybe it is a byproduct of living in San Francisco for so long, but I feel more comfortable in large cities. Plus with half of Madrid shuttered and on holiday, the remaining people are less harried than normal. I checked into a hotel and began to decompress. I did laundry in an actual laundromat. Not just hand washing in the sink. I bought an ice pack for my Achilles sprain. I spent an evening on the patio of a cafe, drinking several glasses of rose and listening to the mixture of languages around me. My mind went blank for a bit, which was a welcome change.

A day later, it was time to pick up the pieces and explore my options. At a minimum, I was to stay in Madrid until Monday. If my sprained tendon felt better, I would resume my walk. However, if I picked up from Bilbao, I would only have about three weeks in Eastern Europe. It would be a nightmare trying to get to the tiny pueblo where I would have been without the injury. Not to mention it would be days before another large city in the event the injury reappeared.

If there was no improvement, I would need to find a local doctor to make sure it was not a serious injury and to receive treatment. And then head as quickly as possible into a less expensive part of Europe. Despite its economic issues, Spain's major cities are not cheap.

Finally, today, a decision. There is no more pain in my Achilles, which I put to the test this morning in El Rastro (Madrid's weekly flea market). I will leave Madrid on Tuesday morning and head to Lugo. This restarting point is a compromise: the city is easy to access via train, is slightly more than the required 100km minimum for official recognition and gives me enough time to finish without creeping into my other travel plans. It also gives me a small bonus--I will finish a week earlier than anticipated and will use that time to explore Portugal.

Emotionally, I still feel a bit raw and I am disappointed about not walking the entire route. But I am grateful for the physical recovery, for the unmatched kindness shown in Madrid and for the much needed tranquility over the last few days. My heart is ready to move forward again.

Looking for tomorrow's rainbow

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Thu, 14 Aug 2014 20:29:00 +0000

Dia 38 del proyecto,
Bilbao, Espana

It is true, that old expression, "when it rains, it pours." After just five amazing days on the Camino del Norte to Santiago de Compostela, my journey hit a bump. Actually, it was more like a massive wall. I'm still processing the full ramifications of it.

The way that yesterday started gave no indication of the misery ahead. It was a gorgeous walk from the tiny pueblo of Meakaur to the beautiful metropolis of Bilbao. I walked in the company of a delightful Englishman who has spent the last nine years living and working in Barcelona. A good pacer and great company, Gary and I reached the albergue before it opened and checked in. I decided to head into town to check email and see the famous Guggenheim museum.

However, after two days of no internet, I arrived to discover that my wonderful feline companion of the last ten years, Don Gato, had taken a turn for the worst. He has been struggling with illness off and on for the last few months. But I was not expecting the end to arrive so soon. Don Gato woke up on Wednesday morning blind, unable to smell and hard of hearing. Not wanting him to suffer further from the almost certain strokes and/or seizures, the agonizing decision was made to euthanize him.

It is hard to write now...the feelings are so raw and unpredictable. Yet there was no inkling of what was to come this morning. I left the pilgrims' hostel and headed down the hill into Bilbao, intent on taking the alternate route through the city so that I could be alone and have the privacy of a still-sleeping city to cry before heading into the suburbs. I made it about 10km (or 6.4 miles) down the road when it happened. Stepping off the curb, I felt a sharp sting in my left Achilles. After a quick stretch and attempting another 10 minutes of walking, it was clear the pain wasn't going away.

I hobbled the three kilometers back into the main suburb of Portugalete and sat for a while. The pain was not releasing its grip. Emotionally exhausted and now physically hurt, I caved and took the metro back into Bilbao. I took the first hotel available for less than 100 euro and fell apart. Several hours, many tears, a shower and a half bottle of cheap red wine later, I feel human again. Not that I am ready to face the world...as much fun as it would be to taste local pinxtos or see the inside of the Guggenheim, I'm not ready. Not to mention that I want to walk as little as possible.

The day is almost over. Even the worst monsoon cannot last forever...the sun eventually comes out. It is a cliche I suppose, but I have to believe tomorrow will be better. A few days of rest for the Achilles and for my heart will do me well. At the very least, sleep will take care of tomorrow's supermercado vino souvenir.

Volver

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Fri, 08 Aug 2014 22:51:00 +0000

Dia 33 del proyecto,
San Sebastián (Donostia), Espana

A lot happens in a decade. Especially when ten years constitutes a third of your life. Yet stepping off the plane at Bajaras felt like stepping into a time warp. Some things have changed. Madrid has given its international terminal a much needed facelift and Aerolineas Iberia was more responsible with my luggage. Yet for a moment I was instantly 20 years old again, transported to a time when my vision of the world was reshaped.

For the 30th year project, I was determined to focus on new places. Why would one go back to old ones when there are constantly new destinations to be explored? So I followed the rule. Except when my heart wouldn't let me skip Spain.

The vast majority of American university students do not study abroad. For some, it is a financial limitation; for others, it is simply a lack of interest or does not fit into their degree program. I certainly had the financial limitations, but was unwilling to let money stop me. So off I went with student loans, a gigantic suitcase, limited Spanish capabilities and no experience traveling solo outside the States.

Initially it was a disaster. My flight from Miami to Madrid was canceled and rescheduled, creating a day's delay. Which meant missing the American student who I was supposed to travel with from Madrid to Alicante. When I finally arrived, my suitcase did not. I also anticipated on arriving in the afternoon when the airport currency exchanges were open. I arrived to a ghost town at 6am and no access to euros. Fortunately, a Spanish university student on my flight took pity and exchanged some of my dollars for euros, helped me file a claim for my suitcase and put me in a taxi bound for the train station.

When I did reach my study group, I was almost immediately turned over to my host family. I still had no suitcase. It eventually arrived, soaked from the rain in Miami. Which meant no change of clothes before I met my senora for the first time. The frosting on the crappy cake was a bad case of strep throat the first week of class.

In spite of the initial struggles, I quickly fell in love with the country and its people. My senora had a great sense of humor and was infinitely patient with me. She loved to watch The Simpsons dubbed in Spanish and had a crush on Bruce Willis. I was her first student from Texas and she was extremely curious about my political views (it was the summer before Bush's re-election). Alicante was absolutely gorgeous...stunning beaches, hills to hike and phenomenal night life. It also served as a good launch point for visiting the rest of the country. I liked Valencia, adored Madrid and Granada, and went head over heels for Barcelona.

Spain also gave me the gift of another language and therefore (limited) access another culture. My senora spoke essentially no English and I was in language classes four hours every day. The immersion transformed my communication skills and gave me a glimpse at the world through another lens. The effect was profound. At once humbling and empowering, it gives one a clear and different perspective on the American lifestyle.

Ten years later, those memories are at the forefront of my mind. As the train pushes forward, I am again seeking life lessons from a country that has already taught me so much. I cannot wait to see what lies ahead over the next month.

Foodie report #2 - Chile

noreply@blogger.com (Jenn) — Fri, 08 Aug 2014 22:48:00 +0000

Dia 31 del proyecto
Entre de Madrid y San Sebastián

Unlike my sky-high expectations for Chilean wines, I had no clear picture of its cuisine. It's neighbors have their claims to gastronomical fame: Argentina has its steaks and Peru has its trendy Peruvian fusion foods. My best guess was that Chile would deliver something in between. I was sort of correct.

What I discovered was a lack of mid-range restaurants. There were plenty of mediocre sandwich and fast food chains at rock bottom prices. One could also find a decent meal at a food stall in the mercados centrales of the larger cities. However, to experience truly good food, one must be prepared to pay a staggering rate for international-style cuisine. Peruvian fusion is trendy, as is Japanese sushi. And despite the mountains of fresh produce in the mercados, it required an act of god to find a restaurant that would use vegetables in any significant quantity. In the end, I had two great meals worth mentioning.

Comida con musica

The first was in San Pedro de Atacama and came at the recommendation of the hostel receptionist. A tiny establishment appropriately named Barrito served good carmenere by the glass and gigantic pizzas with (gasp) vegetables for a great price. But perhaps the best part was the live local musicians who performed diligently each night on a cramped stage. The atmosphere was festive and transformed it from a meal to an experience.

The verdict on San Pedro de Atacama - 3 stars

Mariscos

Valparaiso was an improvement over the desert, as it offered access to fresh seafood. So I splurged on a local favorite perched precariously on the side of a hill. It was a gorgeous day for a patio lunch. It was a robust menu with a good selection of local specialties. I selected the Chupe de marisco--a seafood stew similar to San Francisco's cioppino. The stew was good and the sauvignon blanc was outstanding. It was a little on the expensive side, but for the the ocean view and departure from carbohydrates, it was definitely worth it.

The verdict on Valparaiso - 3 stars

Postres, pasteles y helados

My experience with the the sweeter side of Chile made up for the lack mind-blowing meals. The liberal use of manjar (Chilean version of dulce de leche) on just about every sort of pastry known to man was a great place to start. From there, I moved onto ice cream...specifically the helado de manjar y chocolate. Thick, creamy and yet not overly saccharine, the chocolate was bittersweet and evened out the sugars in the manjar. I did eventually try other flavors of ice cream...a raspberry mint sorbet that was incredibly good and a perfectly balanced chocolate orange. I also had the best chocolate cake in my life in Santiago. It was mostly thick ganache frosting sandwiched with manjar and a suggestion of cake.

The verdict on dessert - 4.5 stars

I cannot say I was disappointed with Chilean food. Though I suppose that makes sense when one has no real pre-determined idea of what might arrive on your plate.

The final verdict on Chile - 3.5 stars