Rerouted

A "Flash Packer's" Guide to Cambodia, Pt. 1

2012-04-24T10:45:00.001+01:00

I'm back in Shanghai after a crazy 2 weeks traveling around Cambodia with my high school friend, Alena. There's a lot to say about what we did and saw out there, so we've decided to break it up into three parts, beginning with our journey from Phnom Penh to Siem Reap.

But first I feel like I should start this off by putting all of my cards on the table... Alena and I are not backpackers. Surprised? So were we. Nonetheless, we spent the majority of our time in Cambodia trying to convince ourselves the contrary... but we failed... rather miserably. Instead, we were later dubbed "Flash Packers" by our travel writer friend, Greg. A flash packer, evidently, is a sort of mutation of a backpacker... we do actually own backpacks and we do actually "backpack" around, but we also are willing to spend slightly more money than backpackers on certain "luxuries". For your typical flash packer, luxuries apparently include amenities such as not having to sleep in sheets stained with someone else's bodily fluids or not having to share a bathroom with Cambodian prostitutes and probable sex offenders (story to come). For your typical flash packer, however, (aka us) these small "luxuries" are maintained as our standard. Anyways, as you'll begin to see, this is story of the adventures of two flash packers.

Our first night/day in Phnom Penh was pretty uneventful... pretty much marked by our attempts to master the art of negotiating with the tuk tuk drivers for a better price so they could take us on a five minute ride (don't judge, our backpacks were heavy) to various palaces and pho noodle joints. So, we headed off to Siem Reap pretty early in the day in order to make it there at a reasonable hour. It's a 5+hour "bus" ride to Siem Reap, and (we learned this the very, very hard way) said busses were not equipped with bathrooms. Deciding to purchase and chug fresh coconut water before squeezing into a small bus with a bunch of Cambodians for a bumpy ride across the country was probably our first Flashpacker fail. Lucky for us, one of our fellow passengers happened to speak English and she soothed us with her soft words of "twenty more minutes until we stop for bathroom" as we suffered onwards in the back of our bouncing "bus". The local Cambodians made no effort to suppress their stares and chuckles as two Western girls (the only ones for miles, I might add) with empty coconut shells ran from the bus and through a little local restaurant to the bathrooms. Thankfully, we barely survived, both almost suffering from renal failure. This experience became Flash Packer Tip #1: think before intaking fluids and expecting a readily available bathroom when needed. And DO NOT, under any circumstances, buy and chug a coconut before getting on a bus for five hours.

The coconut culprit

We finally got to Siem Reap, bladders traumatised, but nonetheless with a great picture of what the unbelievable Cambodian countryside was like (houses on stilts, rice fields, villages, Buddhist temples, etc). We spent an awful first night in Siem Reap; imagine sheets and walls beautifully splattered and stained with unidentified bodily fluids in a stuffy airless room. Our first morning was rather interesting as well. Breakfast included rubber eggs and stale rolls filled with ants (ant-free bread wasn't too much to ask, right?). And after getting our bodies massacred by mosquitos while doing a spot of open-air yoga (note, all yoga in Cambodia was unintentionally Bikram yoga), we finally threw up our white flags and decided to switch to a different guesthouse. We're-not-fussy-at-all-we-just-want-clean-sheets-and-air-conditioning seemed to scream "Flash Packer" to everyone but us. Lucky for us, (again the Flash Packing gods seemed to be with us) we found a great place for the same price. The sheets were significantly less-stained (to the point where we didn't have to mummify ourselves in sarongs to sleep), the owners incredibly friendly and helpful, and the room was cool and airy. So in the end, we were happy and comfortable.

Beautiful monks

After spending an exhausting second day visiting the famous and stunning temples of Cambodia at Angkor Wat and hanging out with Buddhist monks (we're trying to reach enlightenment, duh), we finally plopped down for dinner at a local Khmer restaurant to replenish our worn-down bodies and minds. We felt totally at peace and down to earth from our productive day, (nothing could have ruffled our feathers, not even stained sheets).... but we found ourselves unable to focus on the relaxation at hand, as we were being given an interesting show by two young female travellers, such as ourselves, from an unnamed Western European country.

A sample of some of their dialogue: "Eh excuse me, zees salad eez not fresh. Eet tastes like eet was made yesterday. We ate 'ere yesterday, zees eez ridiculous." "Eh excuse me. We order our food before zey [us] did.. we are een a 'urry" (they stayed for 2 hours)... We were rather shocked and embarrassed by these rude young ladies ("young ladies" was not my original description of choice, by the way). Once again, we were in a Cambodian restaurant where the only way to even order was to point to the pictures of the food we wanted... What did they expect? And for the record, we ordered the same delicious mango salad and it was awesome.

I mention this story as a reference to what we are NOT... we're lovers of clean sheets, maybe... but we're certainly not snobs. Despite our desires for certain "luxuries", we still were completely aware and sensitive to the fact that we were in a developing country. Unlike Thailand, Cambodia is incredibly raw and barely even has a hospitality industry. For us as travellers, that was all a huge part of the charm. But we learned from this instance and several others that many tourists who come here really do like to naively believe they can expect the same comforts from home in Cambodia (our question was, why come to Cambodia if you're coming with these western expectations, i.e. nightclubs with house music and happy hour and Khmer restaurants with five star service). No wonder western travellers get such an unfortunate reputation out here in the east. As mentioned, it was indeed embarrassing for us. The waitresses were obviously startled and we could tell that for the rest of our meal their disposition towards us had totally changed as well. Anyway, these two lovely girls were nowhere near as bad as the American teenaged girls humping each other on our boat ride the following week, but there's more to come on that. This brings us to Flash Packer Tip #2: keep an open mind when travelling in a developing country... and don't be a dumb asshole about stupid things. It wont get you anywhere.

The stunning Angkor Wat

Originally we had planned to stay in Siem Reap only for 2 or 3 nights, but we found ourselves there during the Khmer New Year holiday. We really appreciated all the blessings and colourful bracelets we were given, but unfortunately this also rendered it quite difficult to get around the country that week. In the end, we were fortuitous to get out of Siem Reap without having to take the 12-hour overnight bus down south. I'd rather spare everyone of the details, but our journey back to Phnom Penh ended with us being chauffeured around the city in probably the only BMW to exist in Cambodia. (Side note: we are "Flash Packers" not millionaires. We were helped out by some nice friends). Funnily enough, the entire time in the car Alena and I kept laughing to each other about how we missed the tuk tuks and smog. We were still clearly at the point in our trip where we were pretending to be backpackers, despite the flight and beamer. We are very good at kidding ourselves, but, as they say, if it quacks like a duck, it probably is a duck... I suppose what we got from this experience was what I'll call Flash Packer Tip #3: there is no sense of urgency in the developing world, so when planning your domestic transportation, take that into consideration and either chill out or rearrange accordingly. Who knew that neither buses nor taxis would be available around the Khmer New Year? Not us.

We spent another night in Phnom Penh (getting to know the city from a resident expat's point of view) before bussing it down south to the underworld that is Sihanoukville and the heaven that is the island of Koh Rong... this time without any coconut-related incidents, thank the kidney gods.

Our experiences down south will be posts of their own, as we have a lot of commentary about them... but let's just say that within one week we ended up in both the worst and the best places I've ever seen in my life. So, until our next post (which will be written when Alena makes her way out to Shanghai next week), I'll leave you all with Flash Packer Tip #4: don't trust a traveller wearing ankle bracelets. Ever.

More to come on that soon.......

Springtime and Proposals

2012-03-27T09:06:00.003+01:00

I realise it's been a while since my last post... I suppose that comes with the territory of living in such a fast-paced city. Going on the theme of things that seem to happen only in China, I'm going to focus on something that's (no surprise) only happened to me here.

Yesterday (Monday) seems to have marked the beginning of spring out here... well that, and the way I tend to sweat profusely every time I step outside now. But I can't complain about bidding adieu to the Shanghai winter. Everyone out here seems to be feeling the spring-inspired happiness (and influx of vitamin D we've been so horrifically deprived of), and you know what they say, spring is the season of love.

With the season of love, however, comes a barrage of questions from locals here about my personal life.. Remember how a while ago I mentioned that their idea of personal space differed greatly from mine? Well, it seems to extend beyond the physical, as well. I've had the pleasure of being "proposed" to twice in the past two days, both by cab drivers taking me to work in the morning... nothing like the affection of a 50/60/70-year old man with an incomplete set of teeth to start my day with a kick. I made the mistake yesterday morning of telling the cab driver that I didn't have a boyfriend (yes, a very, very common question out here from anyone and everyone who gets the chance to talk to a girl.. in fact, the most common question I'm asked when I'm with a male friend is "is he your boyfriend?" to which I normally laugh awkwardly, because the answer is usually no..) Anyway, so once my suitor-in-question learned of my relationship status, things got awkward.

Let me elucidate: after asking me about my age/birthday/origin/job/pretty much everything about me except for my favourite type of food (oh wait, he actually did that too), Mr Cab Driver finally got down to business. The word "to get married" is new to me in Chinese, so it was only after a few minutes of awkward hand movements (perhaps meant to signify one's marriage night) that I realised what exactly he was trying to suggest to me. That, and he kept pointing to himself and to me... yeah... I don't need to say more... in the end it was kind of endearing though.. if you can consider a sexual proposal from a toothless man endearing.. but such is life I suppose. Love is in the air.

Then, today, funnily enough, I had another similar experience. This time, however, I learned to answer the boyfriend question with a "yes" (you'd think after 5 months I'd know where the question normally leads). However, rather than barrage me with marriage proposals of his own, the driver then started asking me when I was going to get married, why I wasn't married yet, that I should (yet again) get married in 4 years, is he good looking? what does he do?, etc. I decided rather than go down the route of making up a fake boyfriend (or going into fake details about him), I would try to avert the conversation topic... but not after hearing about his son who I should consider meeting...

Once again I started laughing and saying "no, no too young, too young" (to get married) to which the driver replied "ohhhh sallee sallee!! (sorry)". It was cute.. and then he quickly changed the subject and started teaching me some Chinese words (marriage and u-turn.. how appropriate, no?)

I guess the point of these flattering anecdotes is that I've found out here people tend to really put a big emphasis on the relationship status of females.. I have been asked "is he your boyfriend" or "do you have a boyfriend" more times combined than "what's your name" and "how old are you"... I suppose priorities just differ from place to place.. but as much as I'd love to marry a man 4 times my age, I think I'll stick to my guns (and age-range) for the sake of my sanity.. or his...

Then again, age is just a number (as they say), and I'd likely drive anyone to insanity... perhaps the benefits of taking on a husband 4 times my senior would be his probable lack of hearing... I wonder what the Chinese think of May-December unions?

"Good impregnated boy"

2012-01-24T09:02:00.001Z

I still can't conjure up the right words to describe how I feel about the below observation:

On my way home from work one night this week, I stopped by one of the thousands of (pirated) DVD street stands to pick up 5 movies (as one does out here). In China, (pirated) DVDs cost around 5 yuan each.. or 50 pence/75 US cents. It's impossible to resist. Most of the time, the DVDs are actually great quality, as they're taken from good sources.. and all of these movies come ready-made with English subtitles. Good, right? Not so much. I'm not really going to go into my personal theory about who in the world has the wonderfully amusing job of writing pirated Chinese DVD subtitles... but I'll let you form your own opinion based on samples from The Adventures of Tin Tin (don't judge, it was my favourite childhood book... and not as R-rated as the subtitles may suggest). I think these speak for themselves:

Movie: Tell me what you paid, and I'll give you double.
Subtitle: How much did you pay your penis? Hepatica double the price.

(WHAT????)

Movie: Then let me appeal to your better nature.
Subtitle: Let us then invoke a build environment.

Movie: Look what you did.
Subtitle: See you made a measurement.

(I seriously need to find a way to break into this market. Suggestions welcome.)

Movie: That depends what you're looking for.
Subtitle: Depends on the penis measurements were looking for.

Movie: Goodnight, sir.
Subtitle: Good employee, sir.

Movie: Well done, my boy
Subtitle: Good impregnated boy.

So, on the plus side, we're paying basically nothing for DVDs out here... but the downside is that I, personally, never get around to actually seeing the movies I try to buy... I'm glued to the subtitles. Only in China, I suppose... yet again.

Another hellish journey to another paradise

2012-01-19T11:51:00.003Z

My friend Chris and I decided to take a small vacation and hop on down to Thailand for a week to escape the Shanghai winter. After a splendid night and day in Bangkok, it was time to start the journey to get down to Koh Phangnan island in time for the famous Half Moon Jungle party... and our trip was nothing short of a test of our wills to survive.

In Thailand, even Ronald McDonald is zen

We were on a budget, so we decided to book an overnight train, followed by a ferry to the island. Once we were on the sleeper, exhausted from a day of sight-seeing and desperate to rejuvenate ourselves before arriving on the island, we decided it would be cool to make friends with our train-mates, if you will, as we'd be spending the next 12 hours next to them. Sadly, however, it took all of about 5 minutes for us to realise that this was a bad idea. Our neighbours, a couple of Australian students on vacation, didn't seem to understand the following words: quiet, calm, subtle, peace, and once again, quiet.

Much desired peace and quiet found in the gardens of a Buddhist school

I won't go into the details about how I had the pleasure of listening to them hit on 2 Hungarian girls for 6, yes 6, straight hours. Nor will I go into specifics about how they complained about the weather in Thailand for 2 straight hours before distracting themselves with their female companions. But my personal favourite, coming from the Peace and Justice Studies student circa 12.30am (when everyone on the train was asleep save our friends), was this "cute" attempt to make one of the Hungarians laugh:

"That girl in that bed is Palestinian", he attempted to croon, to which she replied (with a horrible attempt at a flirtatious giggle): "Oh, so what if someone is Jewish?" "She'll shoot them."

Well, if I'd had a gun at this specific moment in time, I certainly would have shot it. Directly at the "Peace and Justice Studies" student who, hours before, pretended to take great interest in my background.. Well, I admit that I can sympathise with an awkward boy trying to impress a girl... but this would have been one of the worst attempts of hitting on someone that I've ever witnessed if it weren't for one small detail. The damn Hungarian actually laughed at the "joke". So loudly, in fact, that it woke up half of the train. So, one poor attempt at making the girl laugh was actually received well by the girl... too bad my imaginary gun didn't have two bullets in it... I'd have named them "peace" and "justice".

It was finally 1am when our friends decided to retire for the evening, giving the rest of us 5 uninterrupted hours of sleep before the sun came up. How thoughtful, really.

Buddha was protecting our Ozzie "mates"

Anyway, once we did finally wake up, we were in the middle of the Thai bush, supposedly minutes away from Surat Thani (our destination). I was a little nervous, as I had no idea where we were, and I kept imagining my parents freaking out at the prospect of me hiking through the jungle without the smallest clue as to what I was doing... nothing out of character for me, but let's be real, one tends to be rather selective when telling their parents about the less than thought out things they do.

But as the sun started rising, all of my fears, rather my parents' imaginary fears, drifted away. I'd found another paradise. It's hard to imagine that a place like the Thai jungle (and especially Koh Phangnan island) is even on the same earth as Shanghai, which lacks any and all nature... save the plant in my living room (and keeping that alive is a struggle enough). But, damn, it was good to know that it still existed.

Sunrise in the Thai jungle

And we skipped off the train happily (rather ecstatically knowing that we were finally rid of the Ozzies), expecting to be at hour hotel in a matter of hours. Granted, the lady at the tourism agency assured us that once we got off the train, it would be a 15-minute shuttle bus and 1 and a half hour ferry to the island. Wrong. It was a 2 and a half hour bus ride followed by a 2 and a half hour ferry (where we were sadly forced to sit near our Hungarian companions)... not as horrible of a journey as one might expect; however, it would have been lovely to be mentally prepared. As the minutes passed, and we had no idea how long it would actually be until we reached destination, we grew more and more anxious about what exactly it was that we'd gotten ourselves into. But finally the moment came. The ferry docked on the wonderful island, and we were free to roam as we pleased.

So, after more than 18 hours of travelling, we finally made it to the real paradise. (I use the term loosely here... we were shuttled in the back of an old pick-up truck to our shanty-town bungalow hotel/construction site... a rather off-putting end to our journey until we actually reached the beach and saw that we were in good hands).

I often wonder why I do this to myself... endure these crazy measures to get to places that I've only heard about in movies (and failed to research before heading there). But I guess nothing that spectacular comes easily. Well, actually, had we flown down, the journey would not have been quite so arduous, but it was certainly worth it to get to see the Thai countryside... once. (Admittedly, I flew home due solely to the petrifying thought that I might encounter the Australians again and prove their shooting prophecy true). But all in all, the trip was worth every second.

Sunset on the Thai beach

I'd like to go into more details about our adventures on the island, but we made a pact that what happened in Thailand stays in Thailand (insert collective rolling of the eyes here)... not to worry though, we wrote the best of the stories down so that they can be revealed on the timely occasion of one of our weddings. So, whoever gets married first will be lucky enough to have our antics told to all their friends and family, who will all hopefully be too drunk to remember anyway. But for now, I'm going to close the vault on Thailand until the time is right, and continue telling my Shanghai story for those of you who remain interested. Until next time...

The world's worst pickpocket

2012-01-09T11:56:00.001Z

This is a story about perhaps one of the weirder attempts to break the law that I've ever witnessed..

I decided to walk home from work tonight, physical activity being rarity for me out here because I'm too unmotivated to join a gym and the pollution makes it bad to run outside... (ok fine, I just don't like exercising). Anyway, so I was walking down a pretty crowded street with nice malls sprinkled around at every other block (welcome to China), and I turned onto a smaller street and felt the presence of someone rather close behind me. Granted, out here, the laws of what is socially acceptable as appropriate physical proximity differ greatly from those in the west.. so I didn't think too much about it.

So, I'm walking around with my headphones in tucked neatly behind my huge earmuffs (which also happen to slightly block my peripheral view), and a great song comes on my iphone, so I start moving my head back and forth and thinking about how in 72 hours, I'll be hanging up my winter jacket for the week and heading south for a vacation (head in the clouds, as always). As a result of my awkward movement down the street, I assumed that the creeper behind me was just trying to get past me so he/she/it could walk faster along the street and away from the crazy, bouncing westerner that was me. But then, the unthinkable happened. My music stopped... mid-song; mid-thoughts of white sandy beaches and warm sun. Being so abruptly forced to return to back to the freezing reality of Shanghai is really just not ok.

I turned around and saw the shadow that was once behind me now directly to my left, and I looked at him, raised my eyebrows like a mother who just caught her horribly unsubtle child elbows-deep in the cookie jar (we've all been that kid), and to my disbelief, the guy smiled at me, returned my phone to me, winked at me, and walked away. I started laughing at him as he walked away, and he kept looking back at me sheepishly, somewhat smiling, somewhat panicked about what I might do... and I kept looking back at him laughing. Granted, it was pure luck that I had that awkward and accusatory expression on my face when I turned to him (maybe I have permanent skink-eye, who knows), but his reaction slash attempt to wink his way out of it was even funnier.

I'm not sure what to make of the situation... except that I definitely got lucky that he returned my phone to me. Maybe it was the gaping crack on the back of my phone, or maybe it was pity as he saw me snap back into sad reality, but either way, I don't care.. except now I have to spend the evening backing up every little detail of my phone in case it happens again. I hate the thought of losing the "notepad" on my phone... filled with the random thoughts that pop into my head every day (trust me, I need the phone to keep track of them, because people certainly don't want or need to hear them).

Moral of the story? I would say don't listen to music while walking because that's what pickpockets target.. but that's exactly how I realised that my phone went missing. From now on though, I'm definitely going to practice giving out dirty (and pathetic) looks in the mirror.. I'm convinced that's what got my phone back. Only in China...

Another Shanghai moment

2011-12-12T07:48:00.005Z

I had an interesting weekend this weekend, but before I begin, let me set the scene a little bit: my friend Sanaaz and I have been unsuccessfully hunting for apartments for weeks. Finally, we found a great place (picture the awkward love child of a 70's shag rug and a Chinese karaoke fanatic), and we were all set to move in... until both of us lost our debit cards within 2 days of each other, and couldn't pay our landlords on time. Trust me, after weeks of the stress and tedium that comes with seeing new places, we were beginning to believe that it would never end. It took us a few days to negotiate our way back into the apartment (with the help of our awesome realtor, Frank the Tank), and when we finally did, it was like Christmas morning on the day we moved in.

Well, if there's one thing I've learned out here, it's never to take anything for granted.. and to expect the absolute unexpected.. For example, I would never have expected to be locked out of my home on my first night of living there. Yup. That was an awesome discovery we made at about 3 in the morning (an hour normally marked by a certain "lack of sobriety"), literally hours after moving in. Somehow, between the two of us, we managed to break one key and lose the second... I'm still recovering from the trauma of our collective insanity, so I won't get into the process of solving our problem.

It was pretty late before I finally made it home the next day from our friends' house (I also wanted to give Sanaaz some time to figure the key debacle out so I wouldn't be homeless in the cold), and I was still feeling the pain of last night's debauchery. I had about 3 hours to kill before having to tutor that evening and the only thing we could think about was buying stuff for the new place. So, we made the decision to go to Carrefour to buy supplies for the house-warming party that we were throwing that night.

Now, keep in mind that Sanaaz and I had the equivalent of $150 on us (due to our lack of credit cards) that was not only supposed to last the two of us through the weekend, but it was also supposed to pay for food, cleaning supplies, bedding, and all the other amenities that people need when moving into a new home. Surprisingly, that amount of money goes a long way here... long enough for 2 girls to be able to survive for four or five days, but not long enough for what we needed for the house. Needless to say, it was an extremely traumatising two hours in Carrefour, marked by shrieking Chinese people trying to sell their food products to us (alive or not), as well as us getting yelled at and laughed at for failing to weigh our garlic before buying it, and having to pick between "ugly" and "uglier" for our bedding while being harassed by the 13 attendants of the bedding section who couldn't seem to grasp that no, we did not want the hot pint Hello Kitty sheets.

After we finally scraped our way out of the tragic supermarket (rather, we were the tragic ones in this situation), we realised that we were going to have to walk the 20 minute walk home carrying all of our new kitchen supplies in the freezing cold... unless we crossed the highway-like street to get a cab.

So we scrappily scurried around the streets for 10 minutes, trying to elicit some form of sympathy, any sympathy, from any of the passing cab drivers, most of whom refused to acknowledge the pathetic homeless looking (once again) white girls crawling around Shanghai nearly in tears. It probably didn't help that I was wearing a Russian communist army hat that had been given to me earlier this week.

And then... it happened. Sanaaz didn't even see it coming. Neither of us did, really. As we were hobbling along, struggling pathetically with our bags, Sanaaz felt a weird liquid creep slowly down her leg. She looked to see what it could possibly be, and there it was: spilled chicken juice. All over her. From chicken that she didn't even want to buy, except I had insisted on it.

So, after not spending our first night in our apartment actually in the apartment and not having any money to buy anything for said apartment, here we were, exhausted and freezing in the middle of a highway in Shanghai... with one of us covered from the waist down in chicken juice, and both of us lacking any iota of dignity that we might have once started the day out with. At this point, I honestly couldn't help but laugh, especially because I could no longer feel my feet, and my pride had long since "jumped out the grocery bag" along with the chicken juice. But I have to say, those traumatising 24-hours have made the subsequent days in our apartment much more enjoyable. I finally have my own home in Shanghai, and now that I got my credit card back, I'm excited about the prospect of upgrading from the "uglier" bed sheets to just the "ugly" ones. It's the little things in life that count, right?

Only in China, Part 2

2011-11-28T04:17:00.000Z

Ok, I decided to take my previous post down until further notice... in the meantime, here are some more videos and pictures that I think you'll find amusing.

Only in China can an 8-year old get away with this morning delight, but you have to be 18 to go into an internet cafe (apparently there is a big problem with video-gaming here):

Credit for this gem goes to Shepard Hallberg

Only in China, does a party at a roller-skating disco club end with this entertainment:

I came across this dance party near my house last weekend... why can't we all be this young and free?

This one is a last-minute addition... I didn't notice that there was anything weird about the placement of this fish tank in my metro station because I see it every day.. but then I realised that a fish tank in a metro station is perhaps not the definition of "normal".

Yea... life is anything but normal...

Another interesting cultural experience

2011-11-12T04:22:00.000Z

I had an interesting night last night. For the first time since I've been out here, I found myself to be the victim (if you will) of some very interesting harassment.. and dare I go so far as to say discrimination. My friends and I went out to a Chinese club to partake in the "Singles Day" festivities that go on here every 11th of November (it's a big deal here, don't ask me why). And we've been to a lot of Chinese clubs.. actually most of the places we go are almost exclusively Chinese, and it's always a really fun, crazy time. Last night, however, was a different story.

I'm not really going to go into all of the details, but here are some highlights:

My friend Thomas (a fellow European... this is relevant) and I were desperate to put our coats down, so we walked around for a while trying to find the coat-check room, and after finding one abandoned coat-check room, we were starting to get rather antsy and finally starting asking people for directions. We eventually found one, in a hallway saturated with people trying to retrieve their things in a very disorderly manner. So, after waiting for half an hour in that line, we decided to give up and try to stash our coats elsewhere. We were then directed by someone to a coat check upstairs in a quieter part of the club. We went and waited for 10 more minutes, and finally, as we could start to taste the freedom of our unweighed-down hands, we started being yelled at by the attendant that she was no longer accepting anything in the coat check because it was "full". I believe that the word "full" is up for interpretation here... some free hangers and cubby holes in the room attest to that. So, of course, in full form, Thomas, Nikolaus (another European we were with), and I start yelling at the lady about how ridiculous she's being/there's clearly still room/we'll pay her to just shove our stuff on the floor... and she aggressively shrieked back at us some stupid answer in Chinese. We all calmly walked away, cursing at her in our respective languages (as it were, the combination of French, German, and Arabic sounded pretty awesome). We later found out that the club was purposely not accepting coats from Europeans (or probably anyone else who wasn't Chinese)... and it still doesn't really end there.

This is my favourite part: later, after cooling off and having a drink, the 3 of us were dancing on stage, so I put my jacket and hoodie down between my feet so I could use my full range of motion for fist-pumping (as one does), and after a few minutes, a bouncer shined a flashlight on them and asked me to pick them up. So, I obliged, only to then find another bouncer in front of me yelling at me in Chinese about what was "evidently" the outerwear I had stolen from the floor from between MY feet. And how did I prove that the jacket and hoodie were mine? I showed him the labels... a woman's extra small and a men's large (I repeat: men's large), and that was sufficient for the man to confirm my ownership of the clothes that I had been forced to clutch protectively all night anyway. Cute.

Well, as my friend Rob said, Shanghai has it's highs and lows, and it's important just to ride it all out and take them for what they're worth... so even though I ended up walking 45 minutes in the cold to get home from my office yesterday (I was rejected by 4 cabbies), and even though I was the innocent victim of random harassment what felt like 80 times last night, I still love this city.. where else can we order McDonald's delivery at 4 in the morning to ease the pain of what had happened to us that night? (yes, it's true, and I'm not proud of it). And where else, dare I ask, does one have a realtor that goes by the name of Celery? Find me the answer, and perhaps I'll concede that Shanghai isn't the best city in the world.. but I doubt that will happen.

Only in China...

2011-11-08T05:33:00.004Z

...do these unidentified creatures show up at clubs and dance with the crowd

But seriously... what is this?

...do they serve fruit at clubs

A good way to counter-balance the effects of alcohol?

...do dancers dance under a shower head on a platform for all to see

"It's raining men" or it's raining on men?

Well I don't even know what to say about this...

What?

...or this...

But seriously... what?

That's all for now... I realise that most of my pictures suggest that all I do out here is party, but I'm actually updating this from my office right now, so there's some proof for you that I work, too...

Some social commentary...

2011-11-05T10:27:00.003Z

I've been here just over a week now, and it still hasn't particularly "hit me" that I'm living in Shanghai... but I know I'm not in Kansas anymore, as they say. Every day here is just one crazy experience after another, each of which is slowly helping realise that, yes, I am here. Perhaps I'll start with the people:

I've had (and heard of) a few interesting experiences that are starting to define my time here. The first of which happened to my friend Chris a few weeks ago. I need to preface this with a brief explanation of Chris: he is a contagiously happy person, always with a huge smile on his face.. to me, Chris literally exemplifies the term "bright eyed", and everyone who knows him would agree. Now one day, Chris was late to go tutor a student who lives a bit farther out of the city. (In general, it's pretty easy to take cabs out here if you can figure out how to pronounce the street names (a skill I still struggle with), and the occasional cabbie will, unfortunately, turn you down if he feels like it.) Well, on this particular day, Chris was having trouble communicating to the driver where he wanted to go, and panicked and in a hurry, he found himself in the middle of a heated "discussion" with a driver who wouldn't take him where he needed to go. And just as the wonderfully positive Chris was beginning to lose faith in the people of this city, in swooped (almost literally) his very own version of a one-manned A-team... riding a vespa. The man couldn't help but notice that Chris was dismayed, and after reading the address of his far-away destination, the man motioned to the back of his vespa and insisted that Chris hop on for a ride. Perhaps if this had happened to Chris in another country, he might have been weary of this potentially creepy stranger's random kindness, but in Shanghai, anything goes, so he hopped on and hoped for the best. It was a long ride to the student's house, and our vespa hero professionally navigated the bumpy streets (and sidewalks) of Shanghai to get Chris to his meeting on time.. and even refused to take money for it. So, Chris's faith (and smile) were restored, and he now happily wanders the streets of the city with a new perception of the people around him.

I had a similarly positive experience with some Shanghainese citizens the other day, though not to the extent that Chris did. It was pouring with rain (I, of course, don't own an umbrella and refuse to buy one until I can masterfully negotiate prices in Mandarin.. I'm Arab; I can't help it), and I was apartment hunting around the city. After I left an apartment, I stood under an awning waiting for the rain to ease up when an old man turned to me and motioned to join him under his umbrella. So I obliged, and he tightly linked arms with me and enthusiastically walked me through the long driveway, where we were met with whoops of happiness from the building's security guard. Thankfully, I was able to communicate to him where I was going... and he refused to let go of me until I was safely under another dry awning (actually, he got behind me and pushed me into the awning at this point, but it was still really cute). We said goodbye and parted ways. Then, a few hours later, I was waiting to cross the street, soaking wet, and another old man joined me with his umbrella. He again asked me where I was going, and even though our destinations differed, he walked me as far as he could and then told me the word for umbrella (which I now forget) and told me where I could buy one. Now, I know people in this city are supposed to be "tough", but in years of living in London and the states, no one has ever done this for me. Even if this is a rare occurrence, it was still a great way to be welcomed into the rainy weather of the city. I still don't own an umbrella... let's see how long I can keep this going for.

My third little story is less about heros and more an observation about my uselessness as a person... I was at a classical music concert this weekend, and the performance hall also happened to be home to about 30 grand pianos being displayed around the building. During the intermission, I noticed that each piano was being occupied by a child from the audience, and that each child was playing (absolutely beautifully) some really advanced music. Emphasis on "child" and emphasis on "advanced". And while these children were playing, their parents stood over them (proudly, I hope) watching critically. It was fascinating. I can't get anyone to so much as glance my way when I sit in front of a piano, and here I was watching about 30 mini concertos all being performed by children less than half of my age... no wonder the Beijing opening ceremonies were so brilliant... no wonder I think I'm useless.

Anyway, as I said, each day here is filled with new eye-opening experiences, and I can never get enough. Maybe when I do, I'll finally decide to leave.. but I don't see that happening any time soon.

Is this real?

2011-11-01T10:07:00.002Z

So, I realise I’ve been completely lacking on the updates… needless to say, life has been very eventful since I finally made it out East. Here are some of the things I've been up to:

I learned what my name looks like in Chinese (notice: I did not even attempt to learn how to write it, rather I just know what it looks like):

I learned that they do, in fact, celebrate Halloween here... and very well I might add.

Club 88, Shanghai

(However, I was STILL asked to pose for many pictures with locals, and many of whom were dressed up quite well, too! Must have been the mohawk I was sporting...) The plus side is I'm perfecting the art of posing with a peace sign; it's a great skill to have out here.

Oh, and I watched my friends film an amazing music video for a song they wrote... and attract a crowd of well over 100 people while doing it. (Someone even offered to pay Zach to keep rapping for the crowd).

W. Nanjing Rd.

On another note, Shanghai is one of the most inspiring places I've ever been to.. I don't even know how to begin describing the feelings this marvellous city evokes in me. If these first few days are any indication of what my time here is going to be like, China might have a big, big problem getting rid of this expat. I'll update again soon, perhaps with a longer narrative (once I finally figure out how to begin this epic tale I'm finding myself a part of). Until next time...

My 5 favourite things about Shanghai

2011-10-30T12:17:00.001Z

I've been here for 3 days now, and I am already absolutely in love with this city. Here are a few pictures of my favourite things about Shanghai so far: (much, much more to come soon)

The food (obviously)

my first noodle meal

Shanghai fashion is amazing and the girls are so cool!

Shirley, West Nanjing Road

Drinking in the street is very socially acceptable here (sorry, mum)

Chinese people are fascinated with Westerners... they always take pictures

My friend Eoin being asked to pose for a picture with some locals

It's one of the most insanely futuristic and beautiful cities I've ever seen (especially at night). I was speechless when I saw this today (and even more so when I went there at night), which is rare for me.

View of Pudong from the Bund

I'll post again in a day or two with a proper recap of the my weekend here... there is just too much to write right now.

Ni Hao!

2011-10-27T11:17:00.001+01:00

Well, I surprisingly made it to Shanghai. I can't really believe it myself yet... and I probably won't believe it until I get hit by one of the billion people riding around on a vespa in the middle of the road. This is a really cool city, though I know I'm going to struggle with the major language barrier...

The first two words my dad's friend taught me today (and the ones he thought most important I learn):

xie xie (thank you)
la dudz (literal translation: spicy stomach... you do the math)

...how exciting.

Though, I KNOW I'm in the right country because they just automatically gave us tabasco sauce at the pizza place we went to for lunch. (Yes, how sad, my first meal in Shanghai was pizza... every other Chinese place near my apartment was either crowded or exclusively served bullfrog-centred meals... we deemed it was probably a bit too soon for me to try bullfrog). Apparently, I need to slowly acclimatise my stomach to the food here. I think I countered-balanced my western first meal, though, because my last meal at the airport in London may or may not have been Chinese food.... what is wrong with me!!

But seriously, what's wrong with me?

Oh, and at least they still have David Beckham here!! I feel right at home..

Like I never left ...

Many, many pictures to come soon, and hopefully many stories.

Wish me luck!!!

In preparation for the trip out east...

2011-10-23T21:07:00.004+01:00

So, 3 days to go til my flight to Shanghai, and I just started making my "to do" preparation list:

1) Pack a year's worth of clothing into 2 suitcases
2) Start to consider unpacking some of the boxes I shipped home after graduating in May
3) learn how to say more than just "hello handsome man" in Chinese

yeah... good luck to me.

Also- I want to start updating this blog on a semi-regular basis, so I've been thinking of ways to do that and I came up with something that I think is pretty cool: I was out with some old high school friends the other night, and at some point in the middle of the Camden mayhem, one of them took my journal out of my bag and started writing in it. He then passed it on to another friend who also wrote me a little "good luck" poem. Then, a random girl came and sat with us outside, and after 20 minutes of talking, she asked if she too could write something to me. So, the next day, as I wondered why the hell there was a poem about egg fried rice written in my private journal, the idea came to me to start asking people to write things in my notebook so I can keep a sort of "record" of the interesting and inspiring people I meet in my life, wherever it may find them, and the things they felt like writing to me in the moment of time that I met them (be it a quote, a poem, a picture, etc). I'm going to start updating the blog with images of the things that are written, hopefully some of them will be fun and inspiring, and I'll also use that as a way to keep people posted about what I've been doing on a semi-daily basis. I've already started doing this, and I'll start posting it all on my blog soon, once my success rate has improved. (Last night, I wanted to ask the dj at the bar in Shoreditch that I was at to do it, but he was too busy entertaining the crowd wearing only a pleather apron.. so I asked a cool bartender I had been talking to and the outcome was pretty funny, but I want to accumulate a few more before I start posting them). I'm interested to see where this takes me and if I'll be able to keep this up once I'm out East...and I'll also keep writing the longer narratives when the inspiration comes my way.

So start checking in more often- I'll be posting more frequently... starting tomorrow or the day after maybe.

My travel journal (a great gift from my sister)

Oh, and here's some footage from the Cracki party I went to in Paris last month.

Next long post will be from Shanghai.. I hope you're all as excited for me as I am for myself!!!

36 hours in Paris: Cracki party, Sept 2011

2011-09-26T16:30:00.020+01:00

I think my sense of adventure is starting to get the better of me, and probably not in a way that I’ll be happy about in 30 years’ time. I went to Paris last weekend to see a DJ friend of mine from school, Paulo [Airdrop Records], mix at two events on Saturday night, and it was one of the coolest experiences I’ve ever had. Maybe I was still riding the wave of the aftereffects that Creamfields left me with: a love (rather an obsession) for electronic music, but whatever it was, it was worth absolutely every second of the eardrum bursting, sleep depriving experience I had that night.

The first of Paulo’s two gigs was at the Social Club in Montmartre, which is your typical small electronic club that houses great DJs every night. Before I go on, I should just say that I am in no way a music expert… but judging the energy of the crowd around me that night, it would take a blind (rather, deaf) person not to see how amazing Paulo’s first set was. And it was just warm-up for the gig to come… a huge warehouse party put on by Cracki (a French record label) on the outskirts of the city.

Paulo at Social Club

After Paulo’s gig at Social, (and then after negotiating our ways into cabs and then around to the outskirts) we finally arrived at the warehouse, which had been turned into a sort of wonderland for electronic lovers. And if that warehouse was Wonderland, then Paulo, Larcier and Marcelus (the DJs who mixed before and after Paulo did), were the mad-hatter orchestrators of the mind-blowing musical adventure that Alice (the audience) found herself lost in. And no, that’s not an allusion to drug use… the music itself was incredible enough to keep anyone going strong until the late hours of the next morning… They all played amazing sets. At one point during the night, one of Paulo’s friends turned to me and said something that beautifully summed up the way the evening/night/morning/early afternoon went: “Dude, it’s like being obsessed with Christmas and then finding out your best friend IS Father Christmas.” It was unreal and everyone in the crowd was having the time of their lives as Paulo, and the other DJs, mixed.

Cracki party venue

Paulo was followed by Marcelus [Deeply Rooted House], and I swear the combination of those two DJs makes me wonder how it was possible that I’d never gotten into detroit techno/jacking house music before. Sure I’d been to a few shows here and there around London and Madrid, but nothing as unbelievable as the Cracki party that night.

Towards the end of the night, I was introduced to one of the guys who planned the event who, from what I could hear above Marcelus’ ridiculous mixing, told me that the event we were at reminded him of Berlin circa 1990. Granted I was still in diapers and scaring nannies off at that point in my life, but I nodded and told him I agreed anyway, while noting to myself that I was totally born in the wrong place and time. Well, at least in this time and age where I’m not doing this every night, my hearing has the iota of opportunity to last me 'til I’m 50. Yea, I was the recipient of quite a few looks and comments that night about my less than trendy ear plugs… (it's ok, I realise I’m not that cool). Anyway, my point is, how I haven't yet been to Berlin, I don't understand.

Paulo at Cracki

To say the least, Cracki put on a great event that night… and I’d say that this one tops the list of the warehouse parties I’ve been to… mostly because of the amazing music that I heard that night, but also because it was an all-around really well-planned event. (My friends and I were personal fans of the room with walls covered in Nutella…) I will definitely go back to Paris for another Cracki event ANY time… provided, of course, that I can even get a ticket. This one sold 1500 in less than a week... and there were people desperately searching for tickets up until right before it started.

So, to everyone's absolute dismay, the party came to an end around 7.30, and we all dejectedly creeped out of our Wonderland rabbit hole and back into the Parisian sun... and for us, personally, it was a hard stab of reality, as we realised that we had no way to get back to Paris.

I won't go into details about how we miraculously made it back to the city that morning, but around 9 am as Paulo and I deafly wandered towards his apartment (walking past and feeling sorry for countless people who were about to start running the marathon that morning), I looked up and saw the sun rising above the Eiffel tower (which thankfully distracted me from of the looks of bewilderment falling upon Paulo and me...) And though my legs were killing me from 12 straight hours of bouncing up and down, my vision still blurred from the smokiness of the venues, and I couldn't hear anything quieter than a large truck engine, I realised that it was a beautiful end to the perfect adventure... and that I, once again, found myself looking half homeless. Perhaps this is becoming too much of a trend.

the walk home

Anyway, as I am left now with ruined clothes and only the memory of the amazing Cracki party, I can only hope that I'll stop limping soon and that the still un-waning ringing in my ears is indicative of something other than permanent hearing loss… but something tells me otherwise… My next goal in life now is to see one of these parties put on in Shanghai. But I suppose I'll have to get there first.

(Footage from a previous Cracki party)

The Art of the English Music Festival

2011-09-11T13:41:00.011+01:00

When one thinks of Britain, the words “dreary” and “rain” tend to be the first things to come to mind. For me, this was certainly reaffirmed as I started packing to go to Creamfields Music Festival in Cheshire… only about 30 minutes before I was due to leave. Not the brightest of ideas. Creamfields is a huge electronic music festival held annually, and it attracts over 50,000 people, many of whom camp there for the weekend. Insert “camping” into the “dreary” and “rain” equation. Then insert “50,000 people”. The final outcome? Mud. Lots and lots of mud. It’s a simple equation, really.

As I soon discovered, mastering a festival like Creamfields, and most of the other music festivals that take over Britain during the summer, is an art. Packing is the first medium upon which this art can be expressed, and it is perhaps the most important one, because how you pack for a music festival ultimately determines your level of enjoyment at said festival. For example, forgetting your Wellies is something that completely redefines the term “walk of shame”. Those few poor souls who did indeed neglect to pack their boots experienced that shame firsthand within seconds of arriving at the vast stretch of farmland that was to be their home for the following three days. But they were eventually spared from the patronizing smirks of their fellow festivalgoers. After roughly a kilometer of walking through mud (that had the consistency of quicksand, mind you), the festival gods forgave them for their senselessness by providing them with stands that sold Wellies. And so, they were saved.

English mud at its finest

The next item on the packing list would seem quite obvious to most, but it was effectively neglected by the useless few people who seemed to think that spending 48-plus hours in the rain and mud could be turned into a “sexy” experience. This item is, of course, warm clothing. The amount of exposed rear-ends I saw making their way around the festival took me right back to the basements of the steamy (disgusting) frat parties that I frequented way too much in college. And the fact that these rear-ends belonged to girls who were clearly freezing said rear-ends off… well, let’s just say it was pretty funny. I personally just don’t understand the point of trying to look like an uglier version of a Playboy bunny when you’re camping out in podunk England anyway. You’re living knee-deep in mud for three days. Sexy went out the window the second you bought your tent.

So, the art of packing for any festival can be concluded with one final item (besides the obvious camping gear): toilet paper. I won’t go into the specifics of why this item is essential for any festival. Take my word when I say it just is.

Next, we have the art of finding the perfect location and pitching your tent. My group and I were particularly lucky that we arrived as late as we did, because it was easy to find a low-traffic and less crowded area. Festivalgoers are noisy, drunk, and insensitive to the few foolish people who actually think it's possible to be able to sleep. The best solution to this unsolvable problem is to find a space in one of the less-congested camping zones and just hope for the best (I also recommend buying earplugs). As for pitching the tent… well, don’t do it unless you know how to. Again, this would seem like a fairly obvious statement, but as I’ve described, common sense seemed to be nowhere in sight all weekend. As we crawled into our newly pitched tent to avoid the intermittent rain and plan our stage hopping, we watched as three helpless, half-naked girls pitched, un-pitched, and re-pitched their tent over the span of an hour. We debated going to help them, but it was raining pretty hard, and we were busy enjoying the comfort of our tent that our hard work awarded us. Well, I have no problem saying that we successfully demonstrated how people are jerks and won’t help you pitch your tent in the rain… so you’d better know how to.

And finally, we have the art of etiquette, something the Brits are supposedly famous for. If there’s one thing I learned all weekend, it’s that etiquette joined common sense and sexy when they jumped out the window. While the contents of our tents remained safe, we discovered the hard way that Wellie-theft was not uncommon. And staying mud-free? Forget about it. There must be something about the mud and rain that invites people to want to smash their boots in it as much as possible, consequently showering the surrounding people with the thick slop beneath their feet. Which brings me back to my first point: pack well.

So, to you future festivalgoers, I implore you to heed my above advice. The creamy fields of Creamfields and the accompanying rain are not exclusive to Creamfields… they extend themselves to all English music festivals. Novices be warned: the festival gods spare no innocent soul, and while the line-ups of certain festivals are certainly worth it, you can expect to be haunted by the images of mud in all of its glorious and numerous consistencies for the rest of your lives.

Tiesto @ Creamfields 2011

Benvenuti a Roma

2011-08-20T22:21:00.010+01:00

Since there was no direct flight from Split to Nice, Christy and I "had" to stop through in Rome for a night... I suppose it goes without saying that our stay there was somewhat less eventful than our stay in Croatia, but we still had a great time... especially considering that we randomly booked our hotel from the airport computer in Split (4 hours before we checked-in), on a keyboard that was so complicated, I had to ask the people around me three times to identify specific keys for me. Yup... not something I recommend trying to do when you are exhausted and surrounded by irritated, rushed people in the middle of a Croatian airport.

Its Rome, I had to have a picture of pizza somewhere

That aside, the journey to Rome was easy and when we got off the plane, we walked (well, Christy walked and I limped) over to an information booth to ask about the best way to get to our hotel. "You are girls. You should take taxi; it is less work," suggested the man behind the counter... The gorgeous Italian man. I have to admit that comments like that normally annoy me, but to be quite honest, someone could tell me that I look like a miserable, fat gorilla, and if it is said with an Italian accent, I probably wont so much as even bat an eyelash. Well, I'd bat my eyelashes... but in a different way.

Anyway, we decided to heed the man's advice and we were at the hotel in no time. (One of the great things about Rome is that it is a flat rate to and from the airport by cab). We walked (and limped) into the hotel lobby where the concierge gave us the good old-fashioned once over. It was clear from his expression (let's be real, he didn't even try to hide it) that he, too, agreed with our previous assertion that we looked homeless (see: below post). To add the cherry to the homeless sundae, these two raggedy people (if you could even call us that at this point) had booked their room from a random Croatian IP address only hours before... but it obviously doesn't end there.

The street where the hotel was

I looked down, as I could not bare to face the concierge, and noticed in the meantime that my leg was bleeding. Well, that can't be good, I thought. Not only did the concierge have two homeless-looking foreigners walking into his hotel, but one of them was actually injured, bleeding and obviously unaware of it.

After checking in, we decided that we should spare no time in getting my leg examined, and after a few minutes of deliberating with the less than amused concierge, we wandered (limped) out of the hotel and into the nearest pharmacy to see what they could do for me... and we were met with looks of sheer bewilderment. The three elderly Italian pharmacists deliberated for some time, with Christy and I making pathetic attempts to communicate to them what exactly had happened to me (mind you, I fell flat on my face upon entering the pharmacy, so it wasn't that hard to figure out). I received a long lecture from one of the pharmacists in broken English about how I should have been responsible enough to go to the hospital to get stitches the previous day, while the other two sat behind her shaking their heads at me and occasionally interjecting in angry Italian... I'm sure they were interjections that I'd rather not have understood (and I'd probably have ignored them anyway). It was decided that Christy would have to mend my wound herself, as we barely had time to go to the hospital. And, more importantly, going to the hospital would leave us without time to do the one thing we came to Rome to do: carbo-load.

So, we returned to our hotel, carrying half of the contents of the pharmacy in our hands, and tended to my leg. Once that was done, and we upgraded our appearances from homeless-looking to "if I squint really hard, they might actually be cute girls", there was nothing left to do but eat. We found a good, local restaurant upon recommendation from our concierge, staffed by gorgeous Italian men, all of whom, Christy later found out, aspired to move to New York and become actors. How original. Benvenute a Roma.

Alive at last

Our would-be dinner was amazing: focaccia pizza bread, gnocchi with tomato sauce, spaghetti bolognese... The thought of it now makes my mouth water with a kind of depression that only accompanies the memory of a meal I never actually ate. True to my damaged form on this trip so far, I ended up really only being able to enjoy about half of the meal before having to go home. I was feeling sorry for myself after the traumatic experience of watching Christy tend to my wound, and had decided to pop back some of the painkillers begrudgingly given to me by the pharmacists... on an empty stomach. The after-shock was less than enjoyable. I went back to the hotel to rest up for the next day of touring Rome, and waited in bed for Christy, still feeling sorry for myself. Two hours later, she stumbled back into the room, teeth glowing red from the bottle of wine she was "forced" to consume by herself, due to my absence. Needless to say, the banter than ensued wasn't exactly PG-rated... Christy: tipsy, contentedly full, and in love with the six waiters who befriended her when I left; me: starving, miserable, and pain medicine pumping through my veins. So, I'll fast-forward to the next day... a happier day... for everyone's sake.

Fontana di Trevi

One of my favourite things about Rome is how small it is compared to London. Our hotel was in North Rome, not far from the famous Colosseum, so we decided to spend our morning touring the city on foot. We woke up and decided that the first thing we had to do was get some traditional Italian coffee from the nearby cafe. Once we were satisfyingly awake (read: bouncing off the walls), we started our journey to the Trevi Fountain, which was the only famous site in Rome I hadn't seen before. Now, Italian coffee is some of the strongest I've ever had, so our planned "stroll" around Rome was more of a jittered sprint... with my injured leg and all. Doctors should prescribe caffeine in lieu of pain-killers for every minor injury, in my opinion. It was the first time since getting to Rome that I wasn't sitting around feeling sorry for myself... in fact, I was running around feeling sorry for everyone else around me who hadn't enjoyed such a wonderful start to their day. I was no longer a tortured soul, and Rome was the perfect place to lift my sprits.
We walked (ran) to the Trevi Fountain, where we found it impossible to toss coins into the famed water... there were too many tourists obstructing the area. I thought that with patience and careful aim, I'd be able to avoid the heads towering over me and land my coin into the fountain... but Christy advised me not to try... Knowing my luck, I'd hit someone. (Plus, the coffee was giving me too much confidence.) So, we walked back towards the Colosseum, both pretending to be too cool to acknowledge the tourist traps waiting for us there in the form of dressed up Roman warriors. And a couple of hours and a few stunning cathedrals later, we were back at our hotel and ready to say goodbye to Rome after our adventurous morning.

Too many tourists at the fountain

Injury aside, those few hours in Rome were wonderful. It is a really beautiful city full of fascinating history, and one that I would recommend that everyone go see at least once in their life. The people are some of the nicest in the world, the food some of the most delicious, and the history some of the most interesting... to sum it up in a nutshell. I also remember this specific trip fondly, as it was the calmest 24 hours that Christy and I had during our entire vacation.... You see, after Rome, we went straight to the French Riviera.... and what we thought would be a relaxing week with my family ended up being quite the opposite... but more to come on that...

A casual sail through the Aegean Sea

2011-08-16T17:42:00.015+01:00

I've been debating for a while about how to write this next post about my time in Croatia. Its been a week since I've left, and too many things come to mind when I think about my time there... chief among them how beautiful the Aegean was; the number of sites I planned to see and did not; and probably most importantly, my ability to survive on three hours of sleep in three days... actually, just my ability to survive.

I guess I'll start at the beginning, with Hvar. Hvar is a mid-sized (I think?) island off the southern coast of mainland Croatia... the "easiest" way to get there is by ferry, as described in my previous post. It was difficult to appreciate the beauty of the place right when we arrived, as our door-to-door journey from London clocked in at about 12 hours (one plane ride, 2 bus rides and the classy old ferry), but in retrospect, I can say the length of the journey only heightened the sense that I had arrived in one of the more beautiful islands (and places) I've ever seen.

Upon receiving a detailed list of things to do in Hvar from our hotel, Christy and I had made a full itinerary of activities (not excluding observing the nightlife) that we wanted to do while we were there. We planned to hike up to the fortress and monastery, try our hand at kayaking (yeah, right) and maybe even enjoy a bike ride across the island. Well, suffice to say that the nightlife got the better of us and we did none of the above. We did, however, get kidnapped by a band of Asian investment bankers who had rented a yacht for the week. This activity was not exactly on the list provided by the hotel, but in retrospect, it certainly supersedes any old hike.

Back to our first night in Hvar. After a delicious dinner of what I assume is typical Croatian fare (green pasta with shrimp and cream, pizza with mushrooms and ham), and a chat with our overly friendly waiter (read: back massage to go with my after-dinner coffee), Christy and I decided to hit up Carpe Diem, one of the big clubs on the island. As we approached the harbor and I was still wiping my tears away (how else does one react to an unexpected massage with dinner?), a couple of dorky-looking guys (a far cry from the tall, dark, handsome, tanned Europeans we'd been dreaming of) literally bumped right into us and asked if we had a cigarette. "I'm fashionable Fred," the first one said to us, "who are you?" "This is crazy Christy and I'm loca Leila," I replied, proud of the fast wit that came after that bottle of wine we had with dinner. It was a beautiful bout of fate. Well actually, let's call a spade a spade: introducing himself to us was really just the worst decision of Fred's life. He couldn't get rid of us after that.

8 hours later, the sun was rising and we were celebrating the view (and our new friends) on the deck of Fred and his friends' boat (as one does) with Croatian pastries, bloody marys and plans to go hiking to the fortress/monastery with Fred that afternoon. "I need to go up there and pray for my liver," crooned Fred between bites of his heavenly, meat-filled pastry. Breakfast of champions. "I'll drink to that," I said, slurping down the last drops of my bloody mary, "I can't wait to go hiking today." Well, as it turns out, I spoke too soon. Before I could so much as finish that sentence, we felt the boat slowly lurch forward and away from the port. I looked at Christy; she looked at me. We tacitly agreed that there really was nothing to do but finish our drinks and pastries and find a way to casually ask the guys where we were going.

View of Hvar and the monastery from the boat

Bol. We were being taken to Bol, an island known to have one of the more beautiful beaches in Croatia. "Well, as long as we don't miss our flight on Thursday, I guess there's no problem with that," I laughed to the rest of Fred's friends sitting in front of me, all of whom had finally emerged hungover from their rooms, blackberries and ipads in hand. Once again, that sentence now seems rather ironic... "Dude... You two are the only girls we've met who are smart enough to figure out how to stay on the boat," added Daniel, a fellow Arab on board. (Little did he know, this was a total accident).

So we sailed on through the Aegean Sea to Bol, about a two-hour ride in total. Christy and I were too in awe of the beauty around us to worry about what we were getting ourselves into, and the guys were too busy typing on their ipads (and cringing about the state of the economy that morning) to try to reassure us. I then realised that while we may have been kidnapped, we were totally safe... these guys cared more about making sure we didn't slow down their internet with our phones than they did about anything else.

How did I end up here?

When we arrived in Bol, Marco, a crewman (and a Croatian God, we'd all decided), jumped out to announce that we could jump in and swim if we wanted to. Finally. One of the guys looked up from his phone, and I could see the thoughts of his hedge fund slowly slip away. Economy? Banking? The stress lifted from his face, and those horrible words disappeared from his mind as he finally saw where we were. Picture water so clear that you can see the bottom of the ocean from over 10 meters below. Picture bright green mountains that dropped off to a smooth white beach populated with beautiful Eastern European families (ok fine, there were screaming children, too). This was Bol, a perfect paradise. A few of us decided we had to swim out to the shore to see what it was like but doing so was a stupid idea, as I soon realised. Hungover, panting, and nearly having drowned (twice), I finally make it back to the boat 45 minutes later to find Marco smiling (laughing) up at me from above. "You guys look really cool in those goggles!" Thomas, the only non-Asian of the bunch, announced over to Christy and me. Damn it, why did Marco have to hear that.

No words can really do Marco justice. He was the epitome of a golden, beaming human.. not meant for our earth. Fred explained to me that Marco was 22, studying to become a boat captain and working as a crewman in the meantime. Apparently there is this entire hierarchy in the boating world that he was entering into, where one starts at the bottom as a crew member and works his way up into being a captain of a larger boat. Now, I don't know much about boating, but I can only imagine that putting up with a band of 7 intoxicated nerdy investment bankers for a week, and accompanied by their two ditzy girl tagalongs for a few, days probably constitutes one of the lower rungs of the boating hierarchy. Nevertheless, he took it in stride, and always with a big shining smile.

Our next two days were basically just what I described above: swimming in beautiful water, eating amazing seafood and of course, a spot of drinking. Christy (after bragging about her ice hockey days to all of the guys on the boat) tried to wakeboard and failed miserably, to her dismay and to my amusement. I ate so much I nearly burst, to my dismay and everyone else's amusement. But we were all in happy spirits.

So, as our trip came to an end, the guys decided we'd go to "Hula Hula" for one last adventure (and so we could pick girls up for them). And an adventure we had. Hula Hula is your typical beach bar/club, complete with Euro house music and sexually ambiguous dancers. I remember looking out into the sunset, my hair nearly crusted over from being covered in champagne (no, crusty champagne hair is anything but glamorous) and thinking ok, I can die now and all will be ok. Well, YET again I spoke too soon. I looked down and there was blood gushing down my right leg... so much blood... to the point where I wasn't even sure I had a leg anymore. Christy recalls us all sitting around it and laughing. I recall thinking that it was a great excuse to talk to Marco. To this day, it remains a mystery, but perhaps the best injury I have ever sustained... and soon to be favourite scar.

Hula Hula sunset moment

Those few days in Croatia were some of the most fun I've ever had. I wish I could say more about the people in Hvar and the Croatians themselves, but Fred and his amazing crew of friends were the first people we met and the last we saw before we left (besides the paparazzi Italians from the ferry). As we boarded our ferry to Split after 3 straight days of not sleeping, Christy and I reminisced about what exactly had just happened to us... I looked down and noticed a mysterious band-aid covering half of my right leg and started to wonder if it was really worth trying to piece things together. Christy turned my iPod on and noticed the song "Loca People" by Sak Noel had been downloaded and played about 200 times over the previous 72 hours. We laid down on our opposite seats, muttered something in agreement about how homeless we looked, and both passed out, too exhausted to even try to process what we had just been through. It was only two days later, when the haze of the Hula Hula had worn off that I realised I needed stitches... but that's a story for next post in Rome.

Homeless

A secret Eastern European Heaven

2011-08-12T18:03:00.010+01:00

"You look hot, are you hot?" Christy sings when we step out of the airport in Split. "Yes, Christy, I'm very hot". As if the beads of sweat mercilessly accumulating around my shirt collar aren't indicative enough of the misery I'm going through right now. Its 9.30am. We've just gotten off of a 2 and a half hour flight. We did not go to sleep last night. Said beads of sweat reek of vodka, probably because the blood alcohol content in my system is more like the alcohol-alcohol content right now.

Why am I here? Oh yes, a sudden flashback to a certain drunken pact we made not to sleep before our 6am flight. Great idea.

Another flashback to the airport in London... Once we check in, Christy and I run to airport security and, as usual, I set off the metal detector. I'm led to the pat-down area. "This is the most action I've gotten all month," I laugh to the security woman who, needless to say, is less than amused. I then notice that my suitcase is set aside for what I assume to be a liquid or aerosol violation... Damn hairspray. I need that damned hairspray. Oh, but no... Once again, as usual, I am the subject of a "random security search". The attendant pulls out my bag of liquids and asks me to spread some of my toothpaste onto a sheet of paper. Lovely. Checking the Arab for explosives, yet again. How unoriginal, but at least I can keep my hairspray. Christy then hops over to me and yells "Crap! Did they find your hairspray Leila?" "NO Christy. Keep it down!" I yell between my teeth. Thankfully, the attendant didn't hear. When he asks for my surname (as if he didn't already know), I decide to place a dramatic emphasis on the AL- preceding the rest of my name.. you know, to emphasise the Arabness (and awkwardness of the entire situation). In retrospect, probably not such a good idea. But it was 4.30 am and I was grumpy.

Back to Split. We're off the plane and find an ATM to withdraw cash. "What's the exchange rate?" Christy asks me. As if I'd thought that far ahead. We take out 500 Croatian kuna each, not knowing if it would show up in our bank statements as $50 or $5000. Oh well.

The view from the death bus

A 20 minute bus ride later, we find a cafe to sit at in Split while we wait for our ferry to arrive to take us to Hvar. I feel like shit and I'm still sweating. 4 coffees, a packet of chocolate digestives and 2 bottles of water... the cloud of haze that has been circling my brain finally seems to have lifted now its time to board the ferry. "How long is the ride?" we speculate. We try to eavesdrop on the group of French tourists next to us who are arguing about whether its "20 minutes" or "2 hours" but we can't hear what they finally decide as they keep sticking their heads in their t-shirts to light their cigarettes in the wind. Then, I look up and realise there is a band, a hoard rather, of Italian men trying to "subtly" take our pictures. "Christy!" I say, "Those creeps are photographing us..." "Well what the fuck am I supposed to do about it?" she replies, as she pouts soulfully towards the camera. Welcome to Europe.

After the 2 hour ferry/photo shoot, we arrive at the Hvar port. We see a bus with "Hvar" written on the window and not knowing what else to do, we decide to hedge our bets and fight for a seat on it. We luckily grab the last two seats, but soon find that we are not the last two people on the bus. Oh no. I'm still sweating and sitting in the aisle seat. I turn to find myself face to face (rather, face to armpit) with the last 30 people that the bus attendants decided to squeeze onto our bus in the aisles. I hear Christy yell, "its ok. This will probably only take us a few minutes." Those few minutes turn into a 45 minute ride through Hvar... on a tiny road through the mountains. It was the most intense (scary) and scenic drive one could possibly imagine (think Robinson Crusoe meets Eastern European castles.. plus the armpits I was still surrounded by), we finally find ourselves in the middle of the Hvar town square with nothing more than a page of directions from the hotel. "From the bus stop, go through the square, take a left somewhere, then take the second street on the right," it reads. Street? What street? There are no streets here, only a labyrinth of restaurant back rooms with a few couches sprawled around. But alas, we find the hotel and soon realise that we are literally in the middle of paradise... or bumfuck heaven, as we dubbed it, considering that it took us well over 12 hours to get here.

The town of Hvar

Thus concludes my first day in Croatia. I am still sweating. We settled down in our hotel and make plans to find the beach and hike up to the fortress tomorrow. Looking back on it, we realise that our expectation of having a normal vacation now seems like somewhat of a joke...

Here I go

2011-08-01T13:28:00.008+01:00

OK so, I’m well aware that my attempt to write this blog about my travels lacks any and all originality… but I’m jumping on the bandwagon anyway... if you're not into it, then you should probably get off my blog. I figure that this is the best way to keep everyone updated about whatever it is that I’m trying "to do with myself" now and in the future. Plus, let’s be honest, we all know I love the sound of my own voice.

Basically, a few weeks ago, I decided to put off going to law school (see: never) and spend some time travelling, exploring the world, and mainly hoping that at some point, I can find some sort of inspiration for what I want to do in life. Yeah, yeah, this reeks of cliché, but if I don’t do it now, when will I? The decision wasn't that out of the blue for anyone that knows me well.. I've been dreading law school (aka sobbing hysterically any time anyone got more than two drinks in me) and I've been thinking about doing this for a few years. I have had this thirst.. this need to go live in an entirely different part of the world and I think I'll regret it for the rest of my life if I don't do it before I have a ball and chain attached to each of my limbs in the form of a job, familial obligations... and age (ugh).

I’m getting TESOL certified in September in London, and I’ll hopefully buy my one-way ticket to go to Shanghai in October. Been sending my resume out to every institution that so much as resembles a school… we’ll see how that works out. I'm going to try teaching English for a year and see how I like it and reassess after that. In any case, the certificate is a great, as it is basically an easy way to get a visa into any country these days.

I picked Shanghai because it is somewhere entirely new for me. I’ve never been farther east than Lebanon, and I so desperately want to see that part of the world. My dream was to go to India for a year or two to teach, but there's zero demand for English teachers, as 99% of the people speak it. So after India, I was considering Buenos Aires because I already speak Spanish, but again, I need to be somewhere entirely new... its still the "Western world" and I think I will learn more from being in China. Plus, learning Chinese would be sick and I think that if all else fails and I find myself in the exact same place (emotionally, mentally, etc) in two years, at least I’ll have some Chinese to add to the languages I know… something to help me when I’m searching for jobs. And if China actually does take over the world one day, then hey, it couldn’t hurt to know the language.

Anyway, the countdown is on… about 2 months til I’m going and a lot to do beforehand. I would really love and appreciate any comments or advice that anyone has for me... general words of inspiration.. or warning. This blog probably wont be exclusively about China… I just thought it would be a good overall theme. I’m half-idiot when it comes to these things and I am absolutely positive that I will find one way or another to offend someone with this and get it booted off-line. Here’s hoping that I don’t.