Free Stuff!!!

By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://lmarshallworld.blogspot.com

I'm no moocher, but-- oh wait, I totally am. :) But the reality is that I have eight months of travel ahead and limited savings. Now, thanks to the amazing kindness of old and new friends along my first month's path, I have been able to save loads of loot. Every day in Thailand so far I've spent about $30: $12 for housing, $14 for food and water, and $4 for transport and entertainment. On top of this, however, I've gotten about $5-$20 of free stuff each day-- usually food, entertainment, and transportation. Huh? How??? Here are some tips.
1. Be a guide.
I mopily trudged through the hideous, far port town where my cab driver had kicked me out, screaming: "beach you want is too far! Cost $300 Baht ($10) more!" Suddenly I heard two Scottish brogues musing, "I think we're in Haad Rin now, and if we just drive over here we'll get to--" "You're not in Haad Rin!" I laughed, joining the gentlemen at their unwieldy green map, "You're 11 kilometers away in the port town of Thong Sala!"

The three of us had a lovely (geographically orienting) chat, and turned out the fellows were going to the same beach as I originally desired, and then were driving across the island right back to near my hotel. Yes! We bopped fantastically all over Ko Phan gan for the next six hours, then I helped them find a great hotel, and introduced them to a fresh clan of buddies.
In exchange, I won $20 worth of transportation (and a hilarious free trip to a bone-dry waterfall), a fully paid-for shrimp curry dinner (I protested but they insisted on treating), and two awesome new buddies. Hip hop hooray! :)
2. Befriend short-term travelers.
Unlike eight-month voyagers (woot woot!) who have to seriously long-term scrimp and save, short term vacationers have allotted gobs of money for two weeks of pure enjoyment. If you help them make those two weeks a rollicking good time, they will help you stretch your budget.
3. Be a matchmaker.

What helps travellers have a rollicking good time? Love! If you befriend a mix of both genders, then each will deeply appreciate you merging the two. Free food will fly fast and furious as you introduce the English women to the German men :)
4. . Be a therapist.

T'was overheard today: "Everyone traveling is running away from something, or towards something." Listen: at first they don't want to talk about it, but then they do. One of my favorite things about this trip so far has been listening to the amazing and often shocking stories of the folks I've met. I hope hope hope that I've been able to dole out enough heart, support, and advice to merit the way folks have opened up.
5. Be a woman.
In general, American men aren't very macho/chivalrous, but most Earth is. Fight it all you want, but there is something awfully sweet about getting a little princess treatment with your fellow females, simply cause we are ladies!

Now for a Major Disclaimer: I am a huge moocher, so true, but it is NEVER my intention to be an evil gold-digging "let me take advantage of this person" beast. It is also not my intention to encourage travellers (specifically female types) to put themselves in bad or victimized positions. Rather, I wrote this article to point out the ways that travellers can happily and respectfully enact exchanges. It's a good thing! It's a nice thing! It happens! Embrace it! :)

How Not to Fly with Children

By Emily
Children can be wonderful. They have unique perspectives and personalities, they're the sweetest creatures on Earth when they want to be, and Heaven knows they say the darnedest things. But after several years of flying between my home in New Hampshire and my student life in Utah, I have learned to avoid the pesky little buggers like the plague. On flights, that is. If you are flying with your own children, boy does my heart go out to you! But if you don't have any children of your own, you'd be wise to stay as far away from them on airplanes as you possibly can. This may seem a bit harsh. "Why on Earth would I avoid such charming creatures!" you may be asking. And even if you share my children-on-plane-o-phobia, you're probably wondering how you can even attempt to avoid them. Either way, you're in luck, because I am about to answer those very questions.

The Problem with Kids:

As delightful as kids can be, there are two main problems I've encountered when children are nearby on my plane flights. The first (and probably the most obvious) is that they can be unbearably loud, especially infants. Many parents bring infants and small children on overnight flights, assuming their children will sleep through the flight and save everyone a lot of trouble. The problem is, in my experience kids are even less likely to fall asleep on an airplane at night. The flight takes off, their ears pop, they start crying, and next thing you know the poor things are too tired and cranky to fall asleep. The problem only gets worse when you sit in a section where there are lots of babies. When one starts crying, the others usually follow, and if you have sensitive hearing you're likely to spend the entire flight with a splitting headache, desperately wishing you'd had the luck to sit elsewhere.

The other major problem I've encountered is that kids are just too gosh darn cute to say no to, and their parents often expect fellow passengers to accommodate their children's whims. In fact, I have never once sat in the same row as a kid, without his or her parent rushing to get onto the plane first, plopping the kid in my seat, and then asking with a sweet voice "you don't mind letting a little kid take the window seat, do you?" And as mean I'm trying to sound in this post, even I can't say no to that. So even though I always specifically request a window seat, I usually end up caving in.

Maybe this doesn't sound so bad to you,and I realize I may sound a little heartless by encouraging you to avoid children with so much zeal, but let me tell you how children and their parents destroyed a five-hour red-eye flight for me. On this flight I had to change my seat twice because of children. First I got to my window seat and found a little girl sitting in it. Her mother used loaded terms like "cute little girl," when she asked me to give up the seat, and the way she phrased it was more a rhetorical question than anything else. First she asked if I'd prefer an aisle seat, and when I said no, I'd prefer my window seat, she said, "oh, well you wouldn't mind trading seats with a cute little girl, would you? She really wants to look out the window. You wouldn't mind, would you?" And, come on, who could say no to that?

Unfortunately, in the very row across from us there was a young family. The parents had two babies and a little boy. They had paid for only three seats, since the babies were both sitting in their laps. Unfortunately, though, each row only had four oxygen masks, making it unsafe for five people to sit in one row. The flight attendant insisted one of the parents would have to take one of the babies and sit elsewhere. They still wanted to sit near each other so they could help each other out of course, but everyone else sitting that region of the plane seemed to be sitting with a child of their own. Finally the flight attendant asked me if I could move. This time I wasn't just being nice - the plane could not take off until someone agreed to switch, and there was nowhere else for me to move since the flight was full.

Don't get me wrong - I had done a good thing, and if I were faced with that choice again, I'd again trade seats. But I spent the entire red-eye flight in an aisle seat, in the very back row of the plane. A young father, a baby, and a little boy sat on one side of me. Right across from me in the other aisle, the mother and the baby sat. She and her husband handed bags, snacks, diapers and coloring books back and forth across me all evening. I tried to look on the bright side by reminding myself I'd have an easier time getting out of my seat to use the restroom. Instead, we were so far back in the plane that someone brushed against me every time they tried to use the restroom, so I couldn't sleep. When I did need to use the restroom, the line was so long and the aisle so narrow that it was impossible for me to get out of my seat and walk to the back of the line. Honestly, it was a night from Hell.

Convinced? If not, go ahead and sit next to the next little demon in pigtails you see. Be fooled by the crayons, the missing tooth, and the giggles. But if you're starting to see the light, here's my advice:

1. DO NOT SIT IN THE BACK OF THE PLANE. Seriously - parents usually sit there so they can be near the restroom, so you're choosing the noisiest section.

2. Get to your seat as soon as possible, especially if you're stuck sitting in the back. That can help you avoid the awkward dilemma of either giving up your seat or asking a child to move when she's already sat down with her coloring book and markers. Trust me, you don't want to wind up in that position.

3. Get as early a boarding group as you can if you're on a flight that doesn't do reservations, like Southwest. With Southwest, you usually get an excellent boarding position by checking in online 24 hours in advance. And then, if after half the flight has already boarded you discover that you're sitting in baby zone even though you did your best to avoid it, don't be afraid to take advantage of the unassigned seats and get up and move. It will be a slight inconvenience, and it may look rude, but if it saves you from hours of painful headaches, it's worth it.

4. Be prepared - sometimes you're stuck with noisy neighbors and can't do anything but adjust. Have earplugs, headphones, aspirin, and anything else that will help.

5. Say no to cuteness. It's ok and even admirable to be flexible in order to help someone else out, but if the parents of the child are really just using underhanded tricks to try to get you to give up your seat, it's probably ok to stand firm and say "sorry, but I really do need that seat." Even if the little girl or little boy is the most adorable thing since the Gerber baby.

Ignore my advice if you must, but be prepared for the noise and the cuteness. Both will happen, you can be sure of that.

Caution: Live Animal!

10.19.09

Dear Diary,

Since I wrote last, I've finally found some answers. No, not the be-all-and-end-all answers to the Great Question of life, the universe, and everything, but the answers about how to travel with a pet. Finally, the internet gods (or at least Google) have rewarded my quest for information! Here are some things to know, to all those ladies in the audience who plan to cart their hapless pets with them in their adventures around the world.

Before we begin, be aware! Your pet will most likely need to be at least three months old before you can travel with her, unless you're able to get special permission from the government at your destination.

So here's my scrapped-together checklist.

First: at bare minimum, your pet will need to have had its basic vaccines a minimum of 30 days before you leave. For cats and dogs this means rabies vaccinations, and for all other animals, it means...whatever your other small animal normally gets at a regular vet visit. Animals that qualify as livestock, such as horses, are completely off my radar and therefore I can't help you.

Second: "bare minimum" only suffices for certain travel. Assuming that you're coming from the US, you'll probably need to do more than the bare minimum if your travels will take you beyond Canada. Many countries are concerned about fleas or ticks, distemper in cats and heart worms in dogs, and pet identification. Since some of these treatments take time, be ready to start treatment a few months before you leave.

It ain't always in English, of course.

If you're traveling to any country in the European Union, you'll be filling out one of two forms: Form EU 998, or a Blue Passport. The Passport is primarily for animals whose owners live in the EU or who will be traveling between EU countries; Form 998 is for those who are coming from non-EU "Third Countries" and who have one destination for their pets. As long as these forms are properly filled out and accompany you and your pet through customs, you shouldn't need to quarantine your pet unless that's a requirement for your specific country (i.e. the United Kingdom).
Here's a note: I recommend checking that list of Third Countries before you do your paperwork, because the hoops you must jump through are partially determined by which Third Country you're coming from!

So now let's say you've picked a country to travel to. For the sake of example, I'll pick Germany, because that's where I'm actually going. Your next step is to call the Vet-in-Charge in your state and harass the hell out of them until they give you what you want: paperwork. For me, it took four phone calls to the Harrisburg office before the administrative assistant, in a fit of pity, emailed me a ten-page packet of documentation and sample forms and a checklist. All of that work, the stress and the calls, amounted to three sheets of paper that I actually needed to fill out, and seven that I barely needed to glance at.

As it turns out, a cat traveling to Germany needs only a record of recent rabies vaccinations, a special rabies test, and a microchip or tattoo.

I have to admit, this is a lot less complicated than I expected. All that needed to be done was to bring the cat to the vet and have her blood drawn (which absolutely thrilled her, I can assure you), and show them the forms to be filled out. They, in turn, send her blood to Kansas State University to do the special rabies test, and fill out most of the paperwork in the meantime. When the test comes back from KSU, the paperwork gets mailed to the Vet-in-Charge for the state, who signs and seals it and mails it back. Ta-da!

To summarize thus far: when traveling with a pet, be ready for vaccinations and special blood tests and paperwork. Call the Vet-in-Charge to get the paperwork, and read through everything at Europa to find out what requirements are in place for US-to-EU pet transfers.
Take a deep breath- you're almost done with the hard part! Now let's talk the actual travel experience.

*GROAN*

Getting your pet from Point A to Point B is going to be difficult, no matter what you do. Carrier size and quality and type, ground temperatures, water and food, accidents, and of course pet stress are all challenges to be ready to meet. I'll offer my disclaimer now: I haven't actually brought my cat from Philadelphia to Kaiserslautern yet, so I don't know how well the theory will apply in practice! But here's my checklist for day-of travel anyway.

First, your pet needs to be in a carrier in which it can stand up, lie down, and turn around with relative ease. There must also be sufficient ventilation space on at least three of the sides so the carrier can be packed and not suffocate the animal. Traveler's Pet Corner has a great diagram for this, as well as links to the USDA requirements for pet carriers. As a precaution, make extra copies of your travel documents and attach them to your carrier, and write your contact information (and the contact information for your destination) in permanent marker on the carrier.

Kitty doesn't go in here.

Second, consider your pet's size, weight, and type, and start researching airline companies. If you want to bring your pet in the cabin with you, s/he and the carrier combined can't weigh more than 18 pounds, and most airlines prohibit carriers larger than 55 x 40 x 20 cm. Basically, your pet needs to be able to fit comfortably under the seat in front of you and not in the overhead compartment. Also, bear in mind that many US-based airline companies (including United and American Airlines) won't allow you to bring a pet in the cabin on any overseas flights. I'm flying with Lufthansa, which is a German airline and doesn't care.

A heads up: most airlines limit the number of pets allowed on their flight to seven, and most airlines charge your pet as "excess baggage" if checked or a special pet fee if brought into the cabin. To bring my cat to Germany, I have to pay an extra $200 on my ticket (owch!) and reserve her spot at least six weeks in advance.

Third: if your pet can't be carried in the cabin with you, temperature will affect whether your pet can come on the trip at all! Federal regulations prohibit checking pets into the plane's cargo hold if the ground temperature at any stop on your itinerary will be below 45 F (7.2 C). They make exceptions for pets that are accompanied by veterinary documents saying that the pet is used to cold temperatures (all Alaskan Husky owners rejoice!), but 25 F (-3.9 C) is the absolute cutoff. If you're hoping to travel North in the dead of winter, make other arrangements for Fluffy.

Fourth: for accidents, stress, and eating, your best bet is to get your pet as used to her/his carrier as possible. Airlines are highly discouraged from flying animals that have been sedated, because of the effects of cabin pressure on sedated brains, so you can't have that as a fallback. My vet recommended that I start carrying the cat in her carrier with me everywhere I go, just to get her used to spending time in it. So far, I'm the laughingstock of my township, and the cat's taken to sprinting whenever she needs to pass the carrier, just in case I get the idea of shoving her in it and dragging her around with me.
If stress isn't your concern but accidents are, many pet supply stores sell absorbent liners that are designed to be soft, comfy, and disposable when your pet inevitably lets loose. Some soft carriers, for pets that are going in the plane cabin, actually have special pouches for you to carry extra liners in. Be forewarned, though, that pets can't be let out of their carriers at any point in time when they're in the airport or on the plane, so get used to changing the liner with the carrier door mostly shut.

Finally, for food and water, most websites recommend freezing some water in a dish for your pet and putting it in the carrier with them, and giving them a dish of dry food before you check them (or before you get on the plane) if you feel you have to feed them. I have no idea how the frozen water trick interacts with TSA's three ounce rule, so I'll have to let you know if that applies to cabin-bound pets as well as those who are checked.

To summarize yet again: pets need to go in secure containers with enough room to move around and plenty of ventilation. They can't fly when it's too cold at any point on your itinerary, unless they're small enough to go in the cabin with you, and if you're flying overseas, call your airline and ask them about their arrangements for pets. Make sure your carrier has extra copies of documents and contact information on it, so airline personnel can be in touch with you easily. Get your pet used to the carrier before they travel, since they can't be sedated for the trip, and check your local supply store for liners, travel dishes, and any other accoutrements you think may be necessary to keep your pet fed, watered, and dry for the journey.

Phew. That's a lot. Not nearly as much as it seemed when I was first checking it out, but still...a lot! If you're not going to Europe, and/or you have questions that I didn't answer, go to Pet Travel and see what information and links they can provide. And, of course, nothing beats the Feds- APHIS, part of the Department of Agriculture, will give you the nitty-gritty in incomprehensible and complex language.

Next tasks: learn German overnight (subliminal messaging, anyone?), get licensed (oh, the bureaucracy!), and learn about destination (the Autobahn isn't just a road in Germany...or is it?).

-Erica

Nothing and Everything

By Lisa
Some days, nothing much happens.
August 26, 2004.  I woke from strange dreams involving campgrounds and serial killers when my mother poked her head in the door of my old bedroom and asked, “What time do you need me to wake you up?”
It was a big day.  I was leaving on my adventure: a solo road trip around the United States.  The fact that I was doing this on my own, for the next six weeks, with a sketchy route plan, amazed everyone – especially me.  I had always pretended to enjoy spontaneous adventure, but not-so-secretly I liked schedules and lots of planning.  I had always talked about wanting to see the world on my own, but somehow, something always came up to get me out of actually doing it.  You know the refrain: “I would love to do it, I just can’t,” followed by a shake of the head, apparent regret masking relief.
This time the excuses had evaporated.  I had a couple of months of absolute freedom between taking the bar exam and starting my law firm job.  I had a good car, a little money saved and a great job lined up.  There was a nagging voice (an ex-boyfriend) asking me, “When are you ever going to have this chance again?”
I had to do it.  My reputation as a fun-loving, independent woman who made her own life happen – the reputation that fooled even me sometimes – was on the line.
To drown out my internal dialogue about whether I was capable of spending six weeks by myself, pitching a tent, and dealing with car trouble, I planned.  I researched cities, National Parks, driving times.  I called friends all over the country to see if they’d be around when I thought I might drive through.  In the end, I had a rough plan that would get me from Rhode Island to parts previously unknown and back again.
After breakfast, it was time to go.  I was an hour later than I had “planned,” due to lingering over coffee. I was delaying departure.  I was nervous.  It didn’t matter, I rationalized, because I didn’t have anywhere to be.  My first destination was Chicago, which I would reach on the second day.
I said goodbye to my parents.  “Call when you get there,” my mom shouted, waving, as I got into the car.  “Where is there?” I asked.  She shrugged, and waved again.  “Wherever you get.”
Around the corner, I stopped for gas.  A full tank of gas is important, I told myself, as I pumped perhaps a gallon into the recently filled tank.  I wandered into the station store, poked around at the snack foods.  When the cashier started watching me with suspicion, I got back into my car.  I turned the key in the ignition.  I didn’t have to go, I told myself.
I shushed my doubtful internal voice with some self-taunting (“what, are you scared?”) and took Rte. 95 out of Rhode Island and across Connecticut.  This part of the journey was easy; I had traveled it many times to and from New York.  I cut around New York City, buzzed through New Jersey, and sailed into Pennsylvania.  I listened to George Carlin and U2 at top volume.  I got stuck in horrendous standstill traffic on Rte. 80 in Pennsylvania.  I ate the lunch I had packed, and munched on goldfish crackers.  And as the miles – and hours – ticked by, the temptation to turn around and head to the safety of home slowly seeped away.
Thirteen hours later, when I pulled into a Comfort Inn (that I hadn’t known existed until I saw it from the highway) in Youngstown, Ohio (a town I had never heard of), nothing much had happened.  I hadn’t seen anything exciting or met any interesting characters.
And yet…even with all that hadn’t happened, what I felt that night in Ohio was not bored, or lonely, or anxious, or doubtful.  I felt energized, excited.
Free.
I think it’s because I sensed what was around the corner.  The day nothing much happened was a preamble to many days of wonder and discovery.  On that day, I didn’t just drive 600 miles; I also took a crucial first step.  Now, five years later, I can’t imagine my life without regular solo travel, and letting the winds take me where they will.
Some days, nothing much happens…and everything changes.

Two Cappuccinos, Hold the Catcalls

by Megan

Due cappuccini, per favore.

It may seem obvious, but a quiet train station in Turin, Italy at midnight is rather unsettling when all you know in Italian is, "Two cappuccinos, please," and a few choice curse words.  Not only that, but I was out of euros on my cellphone, waiting for a friend who was thirty minutes late, and surrounded by men who lived up to the catcalling stereotype of Italian men.  When she finally arrived with our two gracious hosts, one rather enamored with the idea of me, and the other, a pop-diva aficionado- both Turkish engineers- I couldn't help but laugh at the beauty of the situation.

Toto, we aren't in Venice any more

That morning, I'd left Venice for Trieste, a seaport city in northeastern Italy, famous for it's Austro-Hungarian past.  The first thing I noticed when stepping off the train was the city's stunningly different architecture contrasted against the confined canals of Venice I had walked away from earlier that morning.  There was a hush hum from people coming and going, child or brief case in hand.  On the advice of a well intending station manager who tried very hard to speak with me in Spanish (Italian eventually took over, and I held on to any word I understood like a two-year-old to her blanket), I took a walking tour of the city streets and plazas.
My lunch consisted of nuts, cookies and a gigantic bottle of fizzy water, after accidentally ordering a ham sandwich, of which I only ate the bread (I really tried to nibble of the meat, but I just couldn't do it).  Afterwards, I caught a bus leading out of the city, towards Miramare, to see the castle the station manager told me was a must see, or at least, that's what I thought he was trying to tell me.  The bus driver and I couldn't understand each other, so I eventually jumped off the bus where I thought the castle might be near.  By this point, I only had two hours to catch the last train from Trieste at 4pm, or I would leave my friend worrying in Turin, so I ran for the water.
Taking plenty of time to dip my feet into the ocean, and enjoying the awesome sight of the bluest water imaginable, I caught my breath.  You could see the bottom of the ocean way out in the deep and the station manager's famed castle gleamed in the warm sun as proud and bright as he described.  I ran three miles along the water, snapping photos as I went, to catch the 36 bus back to the station.  Thankful that my bag was very light, I took my seat on the train.

On the seven hour ride to Turin, a fellow rider drew a picture of me holding a rose and gave it to me before getting off in Milan.  I spent the last two hours scribbling lists, ideas and memories on every scrap of paper around.  In the end, the train station was unpleasant, but sharing my adventure with my travel buddy and hosts helped me forget the catcalls... or maybe it was my host's rendition of Mirah Carey...

Terrified of Portugal

By Beth
 
I am about to reveal one of my biggest secrets: I am absolutely terrified of Portugal.
It might be the end of me to share that. Of Portuguese and Italian heritage, I spent a year living in Portugal in college and learning the language. I've worked in a number of Portuguese establishments since developing my language ability. When I'm in the States, I love hitting up every Portuguese restaurant, pastry shop and everything else that might give me a taste of the homeland. But here I am, back in Portugal, and I am scared to death to even leave my hotel room.

I don't know why, really. I love speaking Spanish to anyone who will listen to me, and my Spanish is terrible. And despite my intense fear of Portugal, I keep coming back. I keep coming back, and then running away. As if someone is going to find me out and banish me from the country forever.

It's strange to have a secret identity. But sometimes when I am in Portugal, I do. I look Portuguese enough to be culturally ambiguous. And when I open my mouth, I am hyper-sensitive to the fact that the person will know exactly where I come from not by my appearance, but by my accent. And for this reason, I do everything I can to mask it. To not speak when I don't need to. To hide in the crowd of Portuguese faces. To walk along the streets knowing exactly where I'm going, taking furtive photographs only when no one is around, to memorize maps in my hotel room before leaving so that I don't even need to glance at them. To practice quick “good afternoon”s and “coffee, please”s so that I won't be taken by surprise. I am like a CIA Agent, a ninja, an investigative journalist that has studied an identity for long enough to be able to act it in energetic spurts.

But recently I have challenged myself with the question of why. Why is it that I can't seem to accept my own identity as a Portuguese-American? Why is it that I feel I must deceive others for as long as I can? Am I embarrassed to be an American? Or am I scared to disappoint people that I don't even know when they realize that I am not one of their own?

Today I ran away from the museum when someone outside asked me something in a thick Sao Miguel accent, and I had no idea what he was saying. I turned right around and went back to my room. I had just gotten outside and I had already had enough. But, God, it feels good to admit it.

48 Hours in Mysore - For Dasara

By Tory

Mysore at Dasara

After only 10 days in India, a weekend visit to Mysore for Dasara served as a bit of a crash course on life in India. It was the first time I was completely on my own, without the constant help and support of my gracious new coworkers and housemates. So, I thought I should write down what I saw.
Short on cash, and with hotels charging extra for the peak season, I decided to try out couch surfing – a site that connects travelers looking for a free place to stay with people who want to host them. Though I have been a member of the site for over a year, I had never “couch surfed” before. Unsure of what I was getting myself into, I reminded myself that at least it was free.
When I got to the Mysore Bus Station early Saturday afternoon, I called my soon-to-be host, Sharvan, a 23-year-old environmental engineer. Sharvan was clearly sleeping when I called, but he repeated that he would pick me up in “five to ten minutes, five to ten minutes”; I later recognized this as his default estimate of how long he would take, regardless of the situation. I wondered if India is like Brazil, where you can count on people drastically underestimating the time that they will take to meet you somewhere – if they meet you at all. Or, maybe Sharvan had just heard this phrase a lot in movies, and out of ease, repeated it. Regardless, it became endearing.
About an hour and a half later Sharvan showed up on his motorbike, and after a confusing fifteen minutes of misunderstandings over our mobile phones, we “converged” – Sharvan’s way of saying “meet up” – and motored off to his apartment in a residential area outside the city.
Along the way, Sharvan immediately proved himself to be an incredibly gracious and dedicated host. He was constantly pointing left and right and explaining the history of various places to me; in the meantime, I stared ahead, terrified of the oncoming traffic to which he seemed oblivious.
When we reached Sharvan’s apartment I took a moment to observe the living conditions and, seeing that there was no soap or water to be had, I realized I would have to get used to feeling dirty for a while.
After showing me some pictures from his “Motorcycle Diaries”-inspired bike trip to Leh, on the Chinese border, Sharvan, who currently seems to pass his days smoking, listening to Eddie Vedder and studying for the CAT (he nervously informed me that he needed to be in the top 99.9 percentile to gain admission), told me that he would call his best friends from his “gang,” and we would all go out. Then he began to hem. I wondered what was up. He said, “Well, these are friends but I am not very close to them,”  – but aren’t they from the “gang”? – “…So, I cannot tell them about couch surfing. So we will tell them we met at the beach some months ago.” He told me the beach name, but after asking him to repeat it ten times I gave up on remembering it. I had been wondering about how socially acceptable it would be here for a young man to host a hitherto unknown young woman in his home after getting in touch online. Sharvan’s beach story answered that question. Luckily, his friends did not interrogate me, so, I was spared the guaranteed awkwardness of attempting to repeat the name of the beach where we’d met many months ago and become fast friends.
I quickly realized how lucky I was to be with Sharvan and his gang, rather than in a hotel. They took me to a wonderful lunch “joint,” where in spite of my resolute insistence on paying, they treated me to a perfect lunch of idlies with sambar. “You are our guest,” they echoed. In India, I have realized that this seemingly limitless hospitality is common, at least in the South. I wonder if this is the same in the North, where I have heard the culture is quite different.
After lunch we scooted around the city, visiting the majestic (and they tell me affordable) Lalitha Mahal Palace Hotel, the kaleidoscopic musical fountain at Brindavan Gardens, and finally Chamundi Hill, where we got a beautiful view of the city all lit up for Dasara, and I watched the cows make a feast of the lavish floral arrangements on the cars in the parking lot.

Brindavan Gardens, and cows finishing up their dinner of Dasara wreaths on Chamundi Hill

My fellow visitors in all of these places were, in themselves, a delight to behold. Most families were quite done up; the colors of their outfits exquisitely complemented the colors of the fountains at Brindavan Gardens. To my surprise, some families asked to take pictures with me. My host explained that many people from rural south India only venture out of their tiny villages to celebrate Dasara in Mysore; the sight of a foreigner is therefore extremely rare for them.
Later, after a stop for a late night chicken-and-roti dinner at Café Biryani (a very good restaurant, with the fastest service I have had so far in India), Sharvan dropped me off at the room so that I could “take rest,” and he left to “booze with the gang.” I confirmed at this point that there was no water except some that was left over in a bucket. I gave a bucket bath my best effort, and slept.
The next morning Sharvan arrived around 9:30 AM. After he eagerly showed me a bit of “Into the Wild” – another inspirational movie, he said, except for the ending – he said we would “do one thing”: he would drop me off early at Mysore Palace, so that I could be a tourist and he could avoid the crowd. He informed me I would be the “perfect tourist, roaming around alone,” and therefore gave me a wonderful piece of advice: smile at everyone.
...To be continued next week!

Magical Hidden Beaches of Ko Phan gan

By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://lmarshallworld.blogspot.com

You are minding your business on the dirty town center beach, climbing jagged rock faces to try to get to the first of the pristine hidden beaches of Ko Phan gan which are tucked miles apart, wedged behind the rockin' town, accessible only by boat or jungle trek. You are getting extremely sweaty, dirty, and persecuted by weird dog packs.

Suddenly: "You want water taxi?" says the Thai man, holding up a map of the thirty hidden beaches.
"I'd love one," you say, "but I only brought a little money today."
"No problem," he smiles. "I find more girls, then I find men to pay for you."

Before I could say, "Wha--" I was suddenly in a gorgeous longtailed boat with two very nice British lasses, a French personal trainer, and a Spanish restaurant owner. Yes, we were a VERY good-looking boat. (Um, VERY.)

For the next six hours we explored so many gorgeous hidden beaches, I nearly cried with delight. AGHHHHHH!!!! Feast upon the pictures and feel the soft, warm green water and fluffy white sand!!! AGHHHH!!!!!!! Henceforth, if I feel stressed and need to go to a "happy place", these beaches will swirl to mind and hug me happy :) May they do the same for you!

(And, yes, I recognize the peril of women accepting free things simply because we are women, but in this particular case, my sketchball radar was in fine form and it worked out for me and my British lady friends a-ok fantastic. Traveling as a solo female has enough stresses; let's celebrate the boons!!)

The Five People You'll Meet in Barcelona

By Megan

As a high school junior, I  was lucky enough to go on a week long trip to France and Spain to soak up a bit of European culture.  I fell in love with Barcelona and immediately promised myself that I would find a way to live and learn there.  So, my junior year of college, I hopped on a plane and spent a glorious year studying at the Universitat de Barcelona and living in the city.  Granted, a year is only the first course of the city meal, but I got to know the town and people rather well.  Here is a list of the five people I promise that you will meet in Barcelona, even if you are only there for a week.

1. Tourists- Barcelona is fabled to be the number two tourist destination in Europe, after front runner Paris.  And it is plenty obvious when walking nearly everywhere in the city, especially if Gaudí, Picasso, or Mirò ever touched it.  Look for cameras and the shock on the faces of people whose belongings have recently been nabbed.

2. The Hair- Okay, well not exactly a person, it really deserves its own category.  Prime example: The Dread-Mullet.  That's right folks.  Everywhere you go, no matter where you are, I promise, it will find you.  Imagine an everyday 'business up front, party in the back' mullet, except in the back are dread locks, and the owner of the do appears to be completely sane.  It isn't just the dreaded mullet, but hair styles in general that make this city so unique.  Example, moi (see the near mullet encounter I had).  Walk into a 'perruqueria' (Catalan for hair salon) and you are in for quite the experience.  Never once did I leave unmarred by the intensity my hair, post-cut.  I don't think I will ever look at a bottle of hair spray the same way again.

3. Catalan Nationalist- Usually wearing some sort of red or yellow; prefers to communicate only in Catalan; usually sports an above referenced hair-do, a baby dressed in Dior, and/or that certain Mediterranean glow.  They can be found sipping regional wine while engaged in intense political debate over the importance of the region's social, economic, and linguistic independence from Spain.  Catalan's are passionate, full of dreams and ready to talk, especially if you know a few steps of the sardana (the traditional folk dance of Catalunya).  Visca Catalunya Lliure!

4. Street Performer- If it is your first time visiting the city or your twentieth, you'll probably want to walk down las Ramblas.  If you walk down las Ramblas, you'll want to hold on to you purse.  While holding on to your purse, you'll probably see this guy (photo by Amy John) among the myriad of statue performers, holding still until some curious kid drops enough euro coins into his basket to cause a reaction.  If it isn't him, it will be the impossibly fat dancing lady, the golden angel, or the biking dude wearing a top hat with a skeleton companion riding along side.

5.Foreign Exchange Student- Another little bird told me that Barcelona was the favorite study abroad capital of Europe, and let's face it- the beach, famous nightlife, and international community sure do add a little something to the classroom experience. Furthermore, each group of students has specific, stereotypical identifiers: Example A- see the Italian students (photo by Amy John), in the photo to the left, with large sunglasses, dark tousled hair, and that 'get-me-a-coffee-asap!' vibe about them.  Germans are also easily spotted by their sheer height and joviality, and Americans look and sound like the crowd after a high school football game.  Beware, they travel in packs and can be spotted a mile a way.
Honestly, there are plenty other characters in Barcelona, but here are the five I promise you'll run into while visiting.  Any other honorable mentions?
Next Week:  We'll leave Catalunya and visit Italy

LUNCH

By Beth

It looked like the town was on fire.
That might have been what early settlers thought, as Furnas, a small town on the island of Sao Miguel, in the Azores, took a little bit longer than other places to build a community. My guess is that they second they landed, they turned right back. Not only did the town look like it was about to explode, but it smelled terrible too; sulfur covered you in whiffs that cascaded into your nostrils with every touch of the lighest breeze. It was unavoidable. You felt the sulphur in your clothes; your hair. It seemed a land of bad eggs- and what killed me was that the real estate is surprisingly costly here.
Furnas is a hot tourist attraction- and I don't mean that they way Paris Hilton uses it. Its ground, in many places, is about 180 degrees Fahrenheit and warmer. The whole area is nearly plagued with small volcanic holes, entrances into the earth's extremely hot eruptive source. Yet it's not as scary as you may think: the volcano it self has been inactive for years.

Water high in iron oxidizes the rock it touches

Though this may be something known regularly by Furnas' locals, to me it seemed like the earth would explode at any minute. Pools of hot water bubbled fervently. Holes that have been dried up for years still steam hot vapor, and deep below the earth's surface you can hear a low rumbling down underneath (the story goes that when settlers arrived, little devils were all over the area. Saint Michael threw them into these deep holes, and the low rumbling that you hear when you walk by the smoky wells is actually the little devils scratching and roaring to escape). The ground itself is a multitude of color- yellow sulfur, silver and bright reds and oranges from a high iron content turn the volcanic rock into a virtual rainbow.
Yet Furnas has made the most of what it has been offered. The town and its surrounding areas have been boasting hot baths, fresh water and, my favorite,

Old-style hot bath!

naturally heated swimming pools, for years. If you make the request a day ahead of time, local restaurants will happily serve you with their favorite- steamed meat, vegetables and potatoes. And they're steamed in nothing less than the Earth's mighty furnace itself. Large pots of food are covered and placed in the holes that are waterless yet steaming. They sit there for nearly seven hours, and at 12:30 each day, restaurant workers come to the area to remove, with very long hooks, the day's “catch”. It is a direct interaction between man and nature, and to watch it is beautiful (if not slightly posed- for pictures, of course).

After the food is fished out of the volcano, you can follow your own restaurant's truck to lunch. And there it is- seasoned, steamed, delicious piles of chourico, pork, chicken, cabbage, carrots, potatoes and the Azores' best yams.

My food's been to Hell and back. Has yours?

A Ko Samui Roller Coaster

By Lillie
Catch more of her adventures at http://lmarshallworld.blogspot.com

Let's call it like it is: I'm bopping around the crazy southern Thai Islands. I taught summer school all July, man-- this is my vacation time! And I like it.
So. Five hour bus from Phuket to Surat Thani Saturday, then two hour ferry to legendary Ko Samui: the heart of the Thai tourist islands. McDonalds! Starbucks! Pizza Hut! Cars, modpeds, people everywhere! T'is a big (some say tourist-destroyed) island, and all its running water smells like (and may be laced with) raw sewage. Trust me: I was in a foul mood that first rainy evening when, unthinking, I brushed my teeth from the tap water (which has been fine for me in all other third world countries) and promptly felt my entire mouth and throat go numb for the next three hours. I worked myself into a tizzy, convinced that typhoid would drag me into its feverish grip, but knock on wood I think it's all good. (Knock again for good measure.)

Anyhoo, foul weather, foul mood, traffic and fast food neon blazing, I trudged for two hours through the smog-choked streets with my giant backpack, following the tip the Australian woman at the first full hotel shouted: "You wanna be in the center of the action? Find The Ark!" I found it (a hip hotel) and it was full and prohibitively expensive anyway. It was late and it was dark. I opted instead for 400 Baht ($12) worth of mildewed dustiness next door. Ew. Seeing my horrified face, the hotel owner spat, "Don't stress. You just sleep here one night, not live here."
Sure enough I got "lucky" room 113, with the last "3" scratched out, clearly to assure tourists of its non-unlucky status. "My brother says 13 is lucky; my brother says 13 is lucky..." I repeated as a mantra while "showering" in the egg-smelling hand-held spray over the toilet.
I found an internet cafe and desperately chatted online with my dear, dear friend Marleny who had just gotten off ten bazillion hours of being on call at the hospital, saintly doctor that she is. Perspective, cyber love from afar, deep breaths, improvement.

Oh, blessed roller coaster of life, whenever we are feeling like a tub of sewage water, you clean us off and pull us up again! (If there's anything I learned from six years of teaching, it's this!) Walking, dazed, from the revolting hotel onto the beach, an angel sound of "Ahhhhhyayyy!!!" chimed bright. Get this: turns out people go to Chaweng Beach in Ko Samui to go to the beach, not the street!
From green and gold illuminated flower light poles, strings of rainbow fairy lights glowed. Like Roman Gods, happy people were reclining as far as the eye could see onto burgundy mats in front of low tables of steaming food. And, (oh blessed nature!) like the wings of the magical fairies surrounding the scene, the wide blue ocean fluttered lovingly along the sand. Yes!

I ate alone, reclining on the mat on the sand, so happy to watch each of the groups laughing and scarfing down freshly caught grilled fish.

Though there were hundreds of giant groups cozily strewn around the beach restaurants, I suddenly noticed that there WAS one other person on the beach eating alone. This woman had the same expression of placid delight and observation as me. Her dark, eyeliner-embraced eyes darted about in wonder, and the colored lights danced over her round face and short gold hair. After I paid, I walked towards her, fulfilling my promise to Marleny to not be an antisocial coward.

Best decision ever. It turned out her name was Sylvie, and she is an English teacher (!) from Germany. Fast, we were fast friends, and it made me so happy to eat meals with her and talk about teaching, traveling, and the people we saw. The next day we met more folks (Canadians, Israelis), and like a traveling tropical snowball, we got a great pack going. So it goes. So this is why I love travelling :)

The next few days in Chaweng Beach are a lovely haze of sun (amid the rain), sand (soft!), surf (warm and shallow and blessedly calmer than Phuket)... and taking Sylvie's advice to move to a much better hotel for the same price (pictured). The water still smelled like bad eggs, but by then I knew enough to import a big jug of clean H2O. Huzzah for making new friends and huzzah for learning!

Dear Diary

Musings by Erica
10.11.2009
Dear Diary,
My partner left last week to begin a contracting job of indeterminate duration with the US Army. The decision to contract was one we'd made several months ago, but it wasn't until last weekend that we knew where he was going and how long we had before he was expected to board a plane out of Philadelphia International Airport. When the word arrived on Friday afternoon, the answers were "Kaiserslautern, Germany" and "Monday morning."
Emotional trauma at the short notice and sudden physical absence of my partner aside, the whole affair marks the beginning of a strange period of transition and travel in my day-to-day life. Contracting jobs are interesting creatures: they have a minimum lifespan of one year, and are subject to renewal or cancellation at what often appears to be the whim of mysterious government forces. As such, Nick will be employed in Germany until the end of next September and, unless the mysterious forces change their minds, will continue to be so until the force is no longer with us. As I'm planning to finish my master's degrees in May, the plan is to pack up, send as many resumes as possible to the Kaiserslautern-area Air Force base sexual assault counseling team as possible, and move myself, my cat, and my giant pile of textbooks to Germany.
Here's the thing, diary. There's quite a bit of paperwork to be done between now and then, since not only do I need all kinds of permission slips and special licenses to move to Germany for any amount of time, but I need to learn the local language and customs. Oh, and I will be bringing a cat with me.

She prefers to travel by basket, or not at all.

That's right, a cat. A fuzzy, sweet little thing with sharp claws and a strong, well-verbalized dislike for her carrier, moving, and anything associated with removing her from her current home.
Travel, for me, is a force of habit. I didn't have to think twice when TSA started setting up security lanes that were intended to sort experienced from inexperienced travelers- I already knew I was an expert. It's instinctive for me to pack necessary items- clean underwear, contact lens fluid, toothbrush- in my carry-on bag, because at this point I'm way too familiar with the "lost baggage" phenomenon (ask me about my 30 hours in Atlanta sometime. Go on, I dare you). I can handle layovers, terminal transfers, customs, lugging bags around endlessly, and last-minute changes to departure gates.
But flying with a pet? This one's entirely new to me, and the fact that I'm flying her across the Atlantic Ocean and planning to leave her in a foreign country makes it all the more challenging to learn what I gotta do. So far I've called the embassy, two different airline companies, the vet-in-charge (of what? no idea) in Harrisburg, and the nearest Air Force base, and still no one has been able to give me a solid story. It sounds like there will be paperwork. And blood work. And much ado about ground air temperatures and microchips. And, if the airline companies are right, there will be no sedatives. For either of us.
So, diary, this is going to be one hell of an adventure. Already I can tell that the cat's needs will be the most challenging to meet, and will require the most preparation- nobody wants rabies, and they want to keep it out with extended-release rabies vaccines. Next time I write, I hope to be able to shed some light on what international pet travel will demand, just in case anyone else is ever crazy enough to try this. Eight months from now, I hope to be sitting in Kaiserslautern with Nick, drinking German beer, watching the cat relax in the window of our German apartment, and discussing the day's events in passable German parlance. At the very least, I hope to be in Germany with the cat, not lost and not starving. We'll see which of these goals I'm able to attain.
Let the preparations for international household moving begin!
-Erica

A Beautiful Series of Mistakes

By Megan

This is a tale of 'woe' that turned into 'awe':  We are still in Catalunya for now and we will begin at the notorious RENFE train station, early on a Saturday morning.  I was headed to Lleida with two friends on a day trip, and carried with me my camera, journal, and swimsuit (I have no idea why I carried that particular piece of clothing, but just wait and see how handy it comes in later).

Photo by Alejandro Gamboa

After all three of us had our tickets in hand, we ran for the train, but were confused as to which train was supposed to take us to our destination.  A near drunken, bear-hug attack by two rude men rushed me into hopping on the next train that came my way, carrying my two helpless male companions with me.
Thirty minutes later, we figure out that we were on the right line, but headed in the opposite direction, so we got off and took a coffee while waiting for the next through train to Lleida.  Okay, so now our day trip was getting longer than expected, but hey, noon instead of nine didn't feel too bad.  I thought we would have plenty of time to explore the city before heading back to Barcelona; no big deal.

Waiting at the train station- a common scene

But it just couldn't be that easy- Around 11.30, our train stopped in Manresa, and the conductor informed us that it was the end of the line, and that everyone had to get off and wait for the next train to Lleida, which was schedule for late that afternoon.  We laughed, although at this point each of us was secretly annoyed with the Spanish transit system.  A march up the hill into the charmingly sleepy city, lead us to the stunning St. Ignatius church, complete with stunning views of the valley below.

Art of St. Ignatius- Photo by Alejandro Gamboa

The market was open and completely worth the inconvenience of the train:  The local cheese and dried goods were as authentic as it gets, and made this vegetarian so thrilled.  A few cheeses, a loaf of bread, and some dried fruit later, and we were enjoying our provisioned picnic while watching children chase pigeons, and each other, around a rather muslim influenced neighborhood.
After some more waiting in a sun-drenched, tree lined walk way, we finally caught the very slow train into Lleida.  Eight hours after we thought we would be there, we finally stepped foot into the city.  It was immediately decided that we would need to stay overnight, so we found a hostel downtown, rented a room for less than 20 euro a piece, and bought toothpaste and a bar of soap to split.

Plaza in Manresa

We explored the city and happened upon a celebration of sorts where I saw my first of many 'gigantes' (giant puppets manipulated by a person who hides underneath the figure's skirt)- later in the year, I ran a race in Barcelona where several teams took rotations running while wearing the gigante puppets, but I digress.

'Gigantes' of Lleida

An elevator took us up a tower that landed us in Lleida's famous Castillo de Gardeny, which boasts panoramic views of the city, and we got to thinking how we could best spend our next day.  One of my travel buds suggested a visit to the ever-so-seemingly-close national forest, and the enthusiastic information lady at the inauspicious RENFE station reinforced our decision saying the trip was a breeze.
Forgetting that it was Sunday- important because most everything closes down on Sunday in parts of Spain- we cheerily jumped on the several hour train ride.  With the boys sound asleep, the train rolled through a valley, maneuvering itself beside a system of stunningly clear blue lakes.  And it just kept getting more and more beautiful, and inspiring until finally I woke the boys and suggested we demand the train to stop and jump in the water.  Just a suggestion.
We arrived in the tiny town of Pobla Segur and realized that everything was closed- you couldn't even find a place to serve you coffee.  Where was that bus the information lady seemed so excited about?  How on earth were we going to get to the national forest?  A conversation with the amused police helped us realize that getting to the forest wasn't going to happen, but that we could catch a bus back to Barcelona later that afternoon.

The much anticipated swim

I finally had an excuse for the bathing suit; so I dragged the guys along with me, and hiked back towards the water, through plenty of grass and mud.  All would not be lost!  I threw off my dress (suit on underneath) and ran into the water.  The mud appreciated the gaps between my toes and I enjoyed the chillness of the scene.  And as I kept walking further and further in, I realized that the water didn't get much more deep than my thighs, even after I was several hundred feet from shore.  Swimming was a far off joke- more like walking in a giant puddle.

Clearly, this trip had it out for us from the start.  Train problems, faulty information, and now a lake that was more confusing than disappointing.

Reluctantly, the three of us trudged back to town through farm land and caught the bus.  Even though nothing had gone the was we thought, it had all been perfectly wondrous.  And yeah, I would do it again, maybe even on purpose this time.

Next Week:  The Five People You'll Meet in Barcelona

Até Logo, DC

By Beth
And we're off, about 30,000 feet in altitude, somewhere between DC and Boston. From Boston it's a week in the Azores, and then two months in Sao Tome, a small island off the west coast of Africa, near Gabon and the Ivory Coast.
Thank God for in-flight internet, right? Way to go AirTran (but then again, what's up with the $15 baggage check fee? I will not stand for this!).
I am sitting just one seat behind business class. There is no one next to me so I'm stretching out and I don't think I could cover all the legroom if I tried. My heart is heavy- today I am officially single again. I thought it too much to worry about a young relationship while abroad so I left my boyfriend behind and encouraged him to date other people.
It weighed on my guy. He's from Mexico and only recently moved here (don't ask me how we communicate. I dare suggest I speak some odd language remotely resembling Spanish). He isn't used to having his girlfriend up and leave on him, and particularly not to go and work in a poor country on the other side of the world. He didn't know what he was getting into when he started to date me- a gung-ho feminist, a proud Wellesley Woman, happy to be my own Mr. Fix-It and carry my own bags. For the most part, he's adjusted wonderfully. But on the other hand, he was always able to stay with me and make sure I was safe. The idea of taking a break due to distance is a new and scary thing to him. Being the one left behind in a relationship, in fact, is a new and scary thing for him.
There's a lot to be said as a woman traveling on her own. Leaving her world behind. I'm not sure what exactly, but I know that whatever there is, there's a lot of it. On one hand, no one is helping me with my bags. On the other, I know I wouldn't have gotten this kind of legroom without that guy giving me my ticket being sort of cute (and also happening to share my last name). Hm.
I am now en route to the city I know best. And from there, to cities I don't think I could have even dreamed of before.

When in Rome...

By Steph

 

EAT as the Romans do... that's how it goes, right? At least that's my approach to facing dilemmas of culinary indulgence.  Staying healthy is not something that has to be left behind at the airport when heading to your destination of choice. Its a matter of preparing yourself with the knowledge to make healthy choices without depriving yourself of what you enjoy. Besides, who wants to be on a 'diet' when strolling through bakery-lined streets?  The fun in getting away is the chance to fully immerse yourself in the culture all around you, and who am I to say how you chose to do so? Instead, here are some helpful tips to keep in mind while deciding how to wine and dine your way through town.

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Keep hydrated. Always ensure you have water with you during your travels. Save yourself from post-meal hunger pangs by cutting out the sugary sodas and snacks which cause insulin surges in your bloodstream causing your system to come crashing down. Hate the bland taste of water? Try the single serve Crystal Light or Lipton ice tea packets for a tastier beverage.

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Eat clean. If you can fairly decipher where each of the food groups on your plate originated from, then you're off to a good start. Ensure your day is filled with plenty of fresh fruit, vegetables, protein, nuts, seeds, and a reasonable amount of dairy. When deciding what to eat, think about what you would see around the perimeter of the grocery store. The fresh perishable food choices are always going to pack more energy and sustenance than a box of 10 year shelf- life doughnuts.

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Don't deprive yourself. Chances are you may never get another chance to be exactly where you are, so don't pass up the chance to indulge in the decadence. The key is to do so in moderation. Depriving yourself completely of anything results in nothing more than unnecessary disappointment and possibly a lifetime of regret. ;)

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