TravelStream™ news feed for member danblank on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/danblank en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Thu, 10 Sep 2009 13:32:36 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1252598349/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1252598349/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1252598349/tpod.html Thu, 10 Sep 2009 13:32:36 -0400 The Year of the Endless Summer

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Lark Hill, England, United Kingdom

Sometimes on the road we'd joke that we needed a vacation from our vacation. And when that vacation just happens to be a year-long journey, a day or two off to do absolutely nothing isn't only inevitable, it's essential. But I wasn't on my pace, I was on my parents', and between the fact that they had more limited time (and hadn't been doing this for 11 months), the rental and paying all the bills, I wasn't in a position to be calling the shots. I say all this because after frantically driving around Ireland and taking a midnight ferry back to the UK I was all in favor of a nice sleep-in and a day of doing absolutely nothing.

Thing is, St. Clare, Wales -- and more to the point, a pull-out couch in a Travelodge in St. Clare, Wales -- isn't exactly the ideal spot for either. So I had to suck it up for a couple more days until we were in London, the one place I'd be spending more time after my parents had left and I could pace myself a little more calmly.

Our one day in Wales was a testament to the wealth of knowledge my Dad's friend Jon (referenced earlier) had at his fingertips. How he discovered some of the places he'd lead us to is beyond us, but now it was benefiting us -- and by us I mean my Dad in particular. We drove through the green, hilly Welsh countryside to the tiny of Hay-on-Wye. If ever the Twilight Zone scenario would play out in which there was a nuclear war and my Dad was the only survivor on Earth, then Hay-on-Wye would probably be the place he'd wish to be at the time of launch. Hay-on-Wye is basically a shrine to books. Seemingly every other establishment in the town was a book store, and that doesn't include the book fairs being held in public areas. This was something like liquor stores in Cervantes or pubs in Dingle, just an absurd ratio of one small service compared to the populace that it ranged from overkill to flat-out unnecessary.

To leave Hay-on-Wye required taking this tiny mountain pass that seemed to not even be a lane wide. Again, how Jon ever discovered these places is a mystery. All the going was slow, the scenery was spectacular. And there were so many sheep around (the reason the English make the same jokes about the Welsh that Aussies make about Kiwis) that the day had now been rendered a success by my Mom. Our last bit of business in Wales before crossing into England (my real official last country shift, if you want to get into the semantics of the United Kingdom, if FIFA considers England, Northern Ireland, Wales and Scotland all different countries, then so can I) was at Tintern Abby so my Dad could finish his literary kick for the day.

Our stop for the night was in Bath. Normally I would've been a little more keen to be in a place with one of the largest unis in the country, but shortly after checking into Hollyvill B&B (more on that in a second) I learned that Jimmy and Lloyd (the Aussie twins from Ios) had a party planned in London the next day, making we want to keep this night quiet and the next, frantic day go as quickly as possible.

Now, normally I'm not in the business of breaking down B&B's, but this one was special, but in a short bus kind of way. The owner of the establishment has something beyond hyper OCD. She demonstrated the proper way to hit the 'On' button to turn on the shower. She informed us that breakfast would be at 8:30. Not 8. Not 9. Eat at 8:30, or you don't eat at all. I nearly started a riot when I had the audacity to place my backpack on my bed. Every so often, not booking ahead can come back to hurt.

Our long, chaotic journey from Bath to London the next morning started promptly at 8:30 with breakfast and then a tour of the famous Roman baths. The site itself was pretty cool, but the whole thing is on an audio guide. This means two things. First: while there might be some interesting facts to be taken away, you must weed through the lame and boring. And chances are, you miss the interesting stuff while zoning out the lame and boring. Second: since my parents are slavish devotees to audio tours, I was going to be done perusing the grounds at least an hour before.

With Bath done, we made a quick stop at Wells and its massive cathedral before getting to the main attraction: Stonehenge. Put something like Stonehenge in the States, and we'd certainly do a good job of tackying it up big, with a whole tourist town set up around it, complete with Stonehenge-themed restaurants, an amusement park and the like. But in England, it's in a nondescript, not-so-easy-to-locate area. In fact, it's not even located in a town. As we walked in, a group of American teenagers rushed by, far too giddy and excited for having just looked at a bunch of stones. I thought I overheard them say something about Matt Damon. Curious. In any case, we paid for our admission got our audio guides (refer to thoughts above) and walked on to the grounds. The first thing to grab you about Stonehenge is the pure size. Pictures you see from a distance (you're no longer allowed within throwing distance) really don't capture the scale and size of the stones. Standing there really throws into focus the mystery and wonder of just how this thing was built, let alone why. On audio guide time, I was close to completing my lap far quicker than my parents and started talking to a young English couple after they too had mentioned Matt Damon. I decided to backtrack and do a little research, and sure enough, there was Matt Damon. At Stonehenge. A summer of getting a Team America viewing (at least) once a week had wrecked the moment a bit, but so be it. I ever so discreetly pointed out the celebrity sighting to my parents. My Dad, ever so not discreetly walked right up to Matt, told him he was a big fan and then got Matt Damon to pose in front of Stonehenge with my Mom.

With Stonehenge done, and uniquely so, we stopped in Salisbury long enough to take a few happy snaps of the cathedral before pressing on to London. I barely bothered to pitch my bags down in the hotel room before setting out to meet up with Jimmy and Lloyd. The walk from the hotel to the Tube took me along the Thames with the parliament and Big Ben all lit up. A nice way to start London (and reconfirming what I said about Krakow -- the best way to see a city for the first time is at night). The party was a like a scaled down Ios reunion, as it was being hosted by Xevi and Glenn (Phone Booth and Spoiler), and many of the Aussies had since migrated back to London to work and rebuild their beer money. It was good drunken debauchery and just what I needed (especially with the ability to sleep in laying ahead). After convincing half the party that I was Jimmy and Lloyd's American cousin and then a couple Kiwis that I was in fact from the next town over from there's (you don't need an accent as long as you have knowledge of a few street/restaurant names and a straight face). After a hair-raising bus ride home sitting in the first row of a double-decker, I was stumbling back into the hotel at 5. All in a day's work.

]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1161925740/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1161925740/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1161925740/tpod.html Fri, 17 Apr 2009 14:32:50 -0400 The Year of the Endless Summer

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Windermere, United Kingdom

The near-11 months that passed between when I shook my father's hand outside of JFK and when I greeted my parents at Heathrow represented the longest time span I'd gone without seeing them at least once. It seemed, though, that England was going to do everything in its power to prevent this inevitable meeting. The adventure that never should have been one started in Leeds the day before when I cut way too close catching the bus from Elle's dorm to the bus station. Of course, there were two problems -- first, Megabus changed the time without ever alerting me and second, it never mentioned that buses don't leave from the bus station from the train station (you get what you pay for when you book with a company that allows
you to travel from Edinburgh-London for as little as 1p, plus a 1-quid
booking fee). So out of breath I sprinted to find my bus to learn that it had never been there to begin with. I hopped on a bus to the train station to find out when the next bus was leaving and all the times were terrible so I was forced to take a regular Intercity bus and had now purchased two tickets for one bus ride (doubly bad on the heinous British pound).

After only a little delay and a lot of drama I was on the bus to London where I was set to stay with Kevin, my friend from my East Coast swing in Australia. When I'd last seen Kevin he was having a miserable time getting over a girlfriend that had dumped him because he left to travel. I bore witness to his spiral as he went from merely sulking poolside while listening to cheesy songs like Nelly's 'Dilemma' (he was in a bad way, what can I say) in Coffs Harbour to talking non-stop about Kelly in Byron Bay. By chance I would have seen him again in Brisbane, but Sam (his traveling mate, in case you havne't been keeping up) had told me Kevin had a bit of a freak out, storming out of an internet cafe and getting on a plane to the Whitsundays the next day. Fortunately I found Kevin in much higher spirits once I finally arrived in London. Since I had to be up early the next morning to go to the airport we had a quiet night at his local, throwing back a few pints while catching up on old times (including his side of the freakout story).

The next morning I woke up to a glorious London morning. It was pissing down rain like nothing else. I also found out the Tube line I needed was shut for the weekend so I had to go through a whole song and dance to get to the airport. I got there late, but my parents were later, and again with some drama but not much delay we had our happy reunion.

My parents were coming out to see me and travel a bit of England and Ireland. This meant for the next couple weeks I wouldn't have to fend for myself nearly as much -- no more hostels (although my days of staying in hostels were dwindling thanks to the numerous friends I had spread around England), just hotels and B&Bs and restaurant meals. No more worrying about where to be or when, just sitting in the backseat of our tiny Holden and going along for the ride. And we'd be eschewing most of the more touristy places for spots that many English people have probably never heard of. This is because we had at our disposal my Dad's college buddy, Jon. Jon is pretty incredible in that he's probably driven every side street and country road in the United States and Europe and also remembers where everything is. Whenever we're getting ready for a Blank Family vacation Jon is always consulted. What we get in return is a multi-page itinerary filled with nuggets that most tourists never discover. It makes for fairly non-traditional holidays but it can also lead to some very pleasant surprises.

The parental leg of the trip started with a short drive to Oxford as my Dad fought jetlag and driving on the left side and I rested my head and hoped I wouldn't have any flashbacks to Heather's driving. Oxford, as you all well know, is a very old university town. It's very pretty and all with the river snaking through it and the spires of the buildings and cathedrals piercing the sky. But it's not very big and can be thoroughly walked in a few hours. So let me add this. Over the course of this trip and meeting so many English, I've developed a pretty decent ear for locating different English accents, from the London cockney (as in, would you like some bu--uh for your bread, bruvuh), to the ugly Midlands drawl and the awesome dirty accents of the Northern Moonkays in Manchester and beyond. But Oxford is home to that very stereotypical English accent that you get on BBC programs in America that sounds snoody and pretentious. And I mention this because, as much as I like most English accents (give me a good Scouser accent any day of the week) and enjoy the diversity, the one thing I absolutely can't stand is that Oxford-type accent on little kids. You hear little kids talking in it and they just come off sounding like some snoody, pretentious, pipe-smoking Oxford-educated, I'm-better-than-you asshole, except trapped in a 5-year-olds body. Man, I can't stand those kids.

The next day turned sour as we set off to the 'charming village' section of our journey. I knew what this meant. We weren't just oohing and ahing cute little houses and lovely countryside. It meant I would have to endure the evil 'A' word when traveling with the parents. Antiquing. We spent the day hopping from one tiny town in the Cotswalds to the next. And since in short order I found this relatively boring, I will describe this day in painstaking detail so you can completely share the experience. Of course, I'm not serious, I would never do that to you. After a day of towns like Stow-on-the-Wold and Boreton-on-the-Water we turned north to start seeing castles and Shakespeare's birthplace. But not before spending the morning checking out a few more 'charming villages.' I was all charming villaged out and they were all starting to look the same.

Partly because we spent too much time being charmed and partly because it looked terrifyingly toursity, we gave Statford-upon-Avon a miss and went directly to Warwick, home to one of England's largest and most famous castles. We heard impressive things about the castle and for the 11-pound 50 they extort from you (and that's with the student discount) we were expecting greatness. What we got was overrated, over-commercialized junk. The grounds are expansive and there are some nice views of the complex and the river that winds behind from the turrets, plus an enjoyable torture room and a working catapult. Otherwise, it's just boring stately rooms with wax figures of royalty doing things royalty does. Yawn. Plus there's the commercialization. Everywhere are stupid gimmicks, like the people who dress up like plague victims and sing for the little kids. Not only does this mean there are obnoxious amounts of little kids (I've stated my opinion on that subject already) but you have dopey 'plague victims' displaying the lighter side of the plague and encouraging kids to come up and hug them and join along. Because if anybody needs a hug, it's a plague victim, right?

That night we had our best B&B and best restaurant experience. It was in a place we nearly never found off narrow country roads where the grass and crops grow so high you can't see above them. It's like getting trapped in a maze. Fun during the daytime, annoying when it's dark and you're lost and hungry. Howard and Sue took us in and offered us a drink and then sent us to the Three Horseshoes for a spectacular dinner. Not only was the food spectacular, the dessert delicious (dessert? am I turning into a flashpacker?) but the hospitality was fantastic. We talked to the owners well past closing time and they even brought out their son who as it turned out was in New Zealand and Australia at roughly the same time as me. The best part of the B&B, though, was I had my own room and my own TV so I didn't bother anybody when I turned on Monday Night Football (mind you kickoff is roughly 2 a.m. local time) to watch the Giants kick Dallas' ass.

The next day saw a brief return of the 'charming village' theme, but this time it was unanimously agreed that the villages we visited were boring and uninspiring. The highlight of the day though was in Ludlow, which also had a castle, but much better and reasonably priced than Warwick. It was more ruined and had more opportunities for exploration, plus the weather was far better so the views were much more worthwhile. All in all, a much better spot than Warwick. We spent the night just outside the walls of Chester. It was the first decently sized town we'd stayed in and my parents were sensing that I was starting to suffer from a bit of nocturnal boredom. But our B&B was too far from the downtown (which seemed like it might in theory have a decent nightlife) and I instead decided to bide my time until Dublin.

Another great thing to come of staying at B&B's -- the full English breakfast. While my parents, who were trying not to over-indulge and try to somewhat adhere to sensible diets didn't enjoy them as much, I (not really accustomed to eating so nice, most breakfasts were at best toast and jam) was loving it. For those not familiar with English breakfasts, you get bacon, sausage, eggs, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, fried toast, you name it -- basically enough to feed a small nation. Properly stuffed for the day, we ducked the raindrops and checked out Chester for a bit, walking along the city walls, checking out the clock tower and the overrated Roman ampitheater. The weather chased us from Chester quickly so we drove north to the Lakes District, which has been the absolute highlight of the parental leg of the trip.

We only had a couple hours in the area our first day, so we could only tread so deep into the area's narrow, winding roads before having to turn around before it got dark. Sadly, my uncanny ability to fall asleep in cars struck and I missed out on some of the natural beauty around me. It wasn't a total loss since it was raining so hard there wasn't much to see and we didn't cover that much ground. The next day was much better though. The rain was gone, but in it's place was a bitter cold. We started the tour of the area by going to Aira Force Falls for a nice little hike along a river up to the impressive falls. A worthwhile stop, even if I couldn't feel my fingers. We then went to Keswick for the Standing Stones, kind of like Stonehenge on a much smaller scale. It would've been much more enjoyable if the wind hadn't picked up to gail-like speeds, to the point that you had to focus to not get blown over. Since we decided to blow off going to Hadrian's Wall, which was built by the Romans and used to mark the border with Scotland, we took a drive over to peak at the ocean and through the delightfully named town, Cockermouth. And that was the end of the Lakes District. Another characteristic of family vacations, whirlwinding from place-to-place at ungodly speeds. We spent the night in a small Welsh town, Abergele, a short drive to the port town of Holyhead. From there it would be on to the ferry and across the sound to Ireland.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1156190940/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1156190940/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1156190940/tpod.html Thu, 17 Apr 2008 15:35:03 -0400 The Year of the Endless Summer

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Belgrade, Serbia and Montenegro

Back in March when I was having dramas with my flight home, trying to change the dates, I was asked by STA Travel to fill out an online form with new dates for when I'd like to use the flight. Back at that point I wasn't sure how Greece would pan out so I put dates down assuming I wouldn't work there. Of the three days I put down, one was August 9 -- the day I spent at Sziget -- and another was August 10, the day Heathrow was at a standstill with the liquid bomb scare. Just another reason to be appreciative of my time in Ios and how it can be good to not stick to plans (working in Greece had never occurred to me until halfway through the trip).

And it was because I derailed my plans that I wound up in Serbia at all. The plan all along had been, once I was done with Budapest, to get a train to Ljubjana in Slovenia and then work my way down the Croatian coast before ferrying to Italy. I never imagined going to Serbia, even laughing at my friend Andy from Ios and wondering why we was so excited to get his trip extended by a couple weeks so he could spend some time there. Then I started hearing rave reviews from people who had been there, including a buddy Lloyd, also from Ios, who was doing Serbia with Andy and his brother Jimmy. Aside from adding some new and different places to the trip, it actually made more sense. The train trip to Belgrade is a lot smoother than the one to Slovenia, and it's also a lot easier to go to Italy from Slovenia -- a short train trip -- than from Dubrovnik in Croatia, which would've required a long ferry and then another train ride to get anywhere worthwhile.

I had my impressions of Serbia, based on vague memories as a child hearing about the wars going on there, but wasn't entirely sure what to expect now that it's democratic and Milosovic is dead and gone. What I found immediately -- aside from the bombed out buildings, which they put guards on so you can't photograph, until you find the blind spots anyway -- was that the Serbs were the nicest people, with the best command of English that I had met in any Eastern European country. This I discovered as I got brutally lost trying to find my hostel from the train station late at night. The fact that they are so helpful was a blessing for three reasons. One, I had no map and would've been totally hopeless without the kindness of strangers. Two, even if I had that map it would've been about as helpful as a car in the middle of the ocean. See, everything, including the street signs, in Serbia is in Cyrillic. And for those who don't know much about me, I can't read Cyrillic. In Asia, every street sign written in the regional alphabet also had the names in Latin. Even in Greece I had enough knowledge of their alphabet that I could fudge things. Three, even if I had a map and a working knowledge of Cyrillic it wouldn't have helped any because Serbia apparently doesn't believe in street signs. Everybody I asked for directions was helpful, with some recruiting the help of others and a kindly older couple who had been recruited and spoke not a lick of English even walked me up to the hostel door.

I had one full day in Belgrade, which was enough to see just about everything, but of course not nearly enough to feel a bond with it or the people. I started by walking up to the Citadel, which hugs a bend in the river that runs through the heart of the city. It's an all right sight, nothing too amazing, just something to walk amongst for an hour or two with a shady park to relax in with an ice cream. What I did find a little disarming, so to speak, was the massive collection of tanks and rocket launchers and what not they had on the grounds for people to take pictures of and even climb on if nobody was looking. From the citadel I walked through the pedestrian malls of the city, lined with flashy shops and chic cafes where you can waste away the day people-watching (and I do have to say, as far as the quality of people to watch, Serbia might rate the best, and that's quite an accomplishment in Eastern Europe). I went through town down to St Siva Temple, an enormous, multi-domed church right smack in the middle of about three main streets and can be seen from most parts of the city. As beautiful as the outside was, the inside was, like much of Europe, totally under construction and offered noting to see. To close the day, I tried to find Tito's Mausoleum, so I could add a second to the list after catching Ho Chi Minh's in Hanoi. I ended up finding the building five minutes before close, so just enough time to convince the guy at the gate I'd be quick, run inside, look at his tomb -- just a slab of marble really -- get yelled at for stepping off the path and on to some pebbles and then run back out.

That night I got a glimpse of the Belgradian nightlife, which I had heard particularly a lot about from Lloyd. Belgrade's main nightlife is centered on the river, with all the best clubs on barges docked on the side. Shortly after arriving I got separated from the other six people I'd gone out with, but still had myself a good night, talking to a group of Serbian girls I had met on the bathroom line. Talking to them I realized that Serbia is still new enough to this whole tourism thing that the locals are just as excited to meet you as you are to meet them. They also found it exciting -- and important that I told everyone else -- how I felt about the people I was meeting. So here you go Olga, the Serbs are still the nicest and best English-speaking I've met. And for what it's worth, a few days after leaving the country I started identifying with the Serbs more. For obvious reasons Bosnians and Croats, even people of Bosnian and Croat descent, who never lived in the countries, harbor a certain hostility toward Serbia. I was hanging out with a Croatian-Canadian in Dubrovnik (two actually) and he would cringe when I mentioned how I felt about the Serbs. And why I can identify with them now is because I've seen the cringes on other people's faces when I say I'm American. It's hard -- and not always pleasant -- being from a country where people sometimes blame the population for the actions of its government. I didn't vote for Bush and certainly don't support his policies, yet I still get looked at as another 'bloody American' by a fair few people. By the same token, I'm sure all those Serbs I've talked to didn't support Milosovic (it wasn't an issue of voting) and didn't commit any war crimes. And maybe, retroactively, that's why I was as glad to visit Serbia as I am.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1144982520/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1144982520/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1144982520/tpod.html Tue, 05 Feb 2008 11:41:20 -0500 The Year of the Endless Summer

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Phnom Penh, Cambodia

My first full day in Cambodia was one of the hardest I've had since traveling. It wasn't that I was thrown curveballs by Southeast Asia or ate something dodgy from a food stall, but it was the day that I went to Tuol Sleng, the Khmer Rouge's most infamous torture prison and then the killing fields where 20,000 Cambodians were slaughtered in the late 70s. I went with three English girls, Helen and Kate from Devon and Hannah from outside London. Hannah was my traveling partner in Cambodia up until today -- we had the same schedule for Phnom Penh and Siem Reap and things are half price when you can double up and share rooms. We arrived at the prison, which was a school until the Khmer Rouge took over. It starts with a tranquil green courtyard with blooming trees that understates the horrors that occurred there for nearly four years. Of the 20,000 prisoners who went through there between 1975 and 79, 7 survived. After seeing what sort of horrors the prisoners had to go through on a daily basis, we started to wonder if you'd even want to be one of those seven. There's one section of the museum where they show the picture of every prisoner who was in S-21 (the official code name). What I was impressed about was that in one out of every couple hundred, you could see the resilience in the person's face, as if they looked in the camera and was thinking, "I know I'm going to die, but I'm not scared of you." You then move through where they have skulls on display and then a room filled with paintings of the torture, the most haunting of which depicted soldiers throwing babies in the air and shooting them.

From that building, you're guided to the building where they actually housed most of the prisoners. The face is sheeted with barbed wire so that the prisoners couldn't commit suicide. The cells they were kept in were barely long enough for me to lie down and had the width of maybe double my body. Upstairs they had short testimonials from family members of prisoners. Many were confusing to follow, but the troubling thing about most of them was that most of the family members can only assume their relative is dead, there is no official way of knowing. Next is a room where they have people who worked in the prison talking -- often apologizing -- about what it was like to do that. It must've been awful to decide between having to torture your countrymen and sometimes relatives or be killed for not following orders. No Khmer Rouge officials have been punished for the atrocities, but some of the workers have. It reminded me in a way of Abu Ghraib. There was also a room in which they had pictures of the main Khmer Rouge leaders. The pictures had Khmer writing all over them, we only had to assume they weren't pleasant words. Pol Pot's picture was missing altogether, leaving us to figure that it had been so badly vandalized that they couldn't even keep it up anymore.

As we left the museum grounds I was forced to endure one of the most haunting sights I've ever seen. There was a man waiting outside begging us for money that had almost his entire face burned off. He only had one eye left, and even that seemed tenuous. I tried my best to avoid looking at him, and it was only made tougher by the fact that he had latched onto my arm as I walked to my tuk-tuk. We finally all got in and I begged our driver Andy to get going as quickly as possible. From there, it was an 18-km drive over mostly unpaved road to the killing fields. The first thing you see is a large monument that was built to honor the memories of the 20,000 killed at the site. The large tower is filled with the 9,000 skulls that have been exhumed from the grounds. They will remain there until after the tribunal on the Khmer Rouge is over. Afterward they will decide what to do with them -- many have teeth remaining and an identity could presumably be traced. The only skulls that have been removed are of the eight foreigners -- mostly journalists -- who were killed. We then walked among the 88 grave sites the soldiers used -- many holding hundreds of bodies. The trees around the area, we were told, were used by the soldiers to throw children against to kill them. Most of the prisoners weren't shot -- the Khmer Rouge didn't want to waste money on bullets. The thing is though, there are still 44 sites in and around the lake that still have about 10,000 bodies that have yet to be unburied. And children swim in that lake. When it was all done, the four of us agreed that the first order of business was to get back to the guesthouse and find a comedy to try to cheer us up, the whole day has been too depressing. We picked Wedding Crashers, which was almost laughable because it was an awful bootleg that was grainy and shaky, nearly impossible to understand, the subtitles weren't even close and you could hear people laughing in the background.

I'm glad I saw the museums, but there are so many images that I won't be able to shake for a long time, if ever. And maybe that's the point.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1162492560/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1162492560/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1162492560/tpod.html Tue, 05 Feb 2008 03:57:22 -0500 The Year of the Endless Summer

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Dingle, Ireland

We awoke in Wales to steady rains and stiff wind, the exact sort of weather you could only dream to have if you were about to get on a long ferry ride. But for as miserable as the weather was in Holyhead, we arrived on the other side in Dublin to find the Irish skies a shinin'. I had already seen Dublin fairly extensively so my main interests in being back in the city were social. Not to sound like a total lush (and while readers of this blog might very easily reach that conclusion, I prefer to think of it as merely being a backpacker) but I hadn't experience any sort of nightlife in the near week my parents had been out and I was starting to get a bit stir-crazy. Fortunately I already had plans to get back on the piss with CJ, who would also be joining us for dinner, giving my parents an opportunity to actually meet and talk to one of my good travel friends, instead of merely going on my word for everybody I'd met. We only had a couple hours to kill before dinner (courtesy of the ferry being late with all the weather issues on the British side) but managed to chew up a fair bit of the city -- a stroll through Trinity College, where we skipped paying the 7euro entrance fee to view the Book of Kells in which you actually only get to view a Page of Kells and from a healthy distance as well, past Christ Church and along the river through Dublin Castle and on to St. Patrick's. The weather was fantastic for late October so the walking was easy and I was surprised that I actually remembered how to get around the city.

Getting back out with CJ was a welcome change. As I previously mentioned, my social life had taken a bit of a dip in the past week. It wasn't merely a matter of getting out and drinking, it was more that my parents were basically the only people I'd interacted with in all that time. It's not quite as terrible as it sounded, but it was good to be back with a relatable friend. After dinner CJ and I parted ways with the parents and it was obvious from the start that CJ was intent on making my only night back in Dublin memorable while making up for his previous poor performance (check back a couple weeks). We started bar-hopping around Temple Bar -- the district -- before ending up at the Temple Bar. As you'd probably imagine, Temple Bar is a bit of an institution, it's world famous, it's put on postcards, all that jazz. So with it comes a certain level of obnoxiousness inherent in such places. Mainly you go there and it's expected that you're going to have to deal with loads of English stag and hen parties and the sort of other corny stuff that can either make a place great or annoying. And it was there that the night, ummm, took a turn. I had talked my parents into finding a hotel downtown because I knew I'd be going out with CJ, and presumably in Temple Bar, so we found something that was not only a reasonable stumble back, but also a stumble I knew I could make no matter the influences. But then CJ decided we were taking the show to a non-Temple Bar bar. This was a certain recipe for disaster since I noticed that at the pace we had set for ourselves I'd quickly be liberated of all the euros I had in my possession. CJ said he'd have no problem paying for a taxi but he also had a reputation for being a bit flighty. Sure enough... At some indeterminate point the silly bastard just wandered off and I was on my own. This was good and bad news. The good news was, in my naivete I assumed he would reappear at some point so I hung out by the bar and quickly struck up a conversation with Angie, a local girl who'd also recently come back from Australia. Not only did we hit it off but she was going to be in London the same time as me. As for the bad news, well, you can figure that out. It's an interesting note that Dublin taxis can't be paid for in sob stories, so I had quite a trek ahead of me, not to mention the tricky situation of sneaking into the hotel room and into bed without stirring the parents.

Fortunately the next morning was a rare occurrence on one of our vacation where I was allowed to sleep in. I woke up to a buzzing phone, going nuts with nonsensically entertaining voicemails from CJ and a call from Angie reciting her number in her lovely lilting Irish accent (so lilting and quick though that I had to go about deciphering the digits like I was a code breaker) so there were at least a few things to feel good about in spite of the heinous hangover. The plan for the day was to drive across the island to Galway where I could spend a Saturday night in the culture capital, but we learned before we left that the city was completely booked out since had about seven festivals, a hurling championship and the annual Irish-Australian Gaelic Rules Football game were all taking place in the city. I wanted more than anything to see the hurling (particularly in person, at the very least on television) because as far as I can tell it's the most insane sport in the world played by people that would HAVE to be insane to play it. But as I mentioned during my road trip entries, it can be very slow-going on Irish highways, particularly on a Saturday and particularly on a Saturday when Galway is in such high demand. What's normally about a two-to-three hour drive took five and we had to settle for a B&B in a tiny town outside of Galway which had one restaurant for dinner and one pub for a pint and a TV to watch the Gaelic game (a combination of Gaelic soccer and Aussie Rules football, total chaos, lots of mayhem, and occasionally fluid play).

The next day we spent on Joyce's Country, which I assumed I could could just gloss over since I'd already seen it once and described it a few entries back. But since nothing comes easy, we had a joyful experience with a flat tire, all the more fun since we were in the middle of absolute nowhere. What the flat tire meant, more than anything, was that the next day would be even more of a nightmare since we no longer had a spare and there was a little bit of damage to the car, which we had been hoping to upgrade anyway. Once all the car dramas were done (and completely unresolved) we set out for the one place in Ireland I wanted to see that we didn't hit on my road trip -- the Cliffs of Moher.They're as spectacular as the tour books make it out to be. The more you walk, the more the angles change and the more you find something new to photograph, even if at the end of the day most of those pictures come out exactly the same. The only problem was the weather had turned absolutely foul and the wind was brutal -- bad enough that you didn't want to get too close to the cliff edge for risk of getting blown into the view. As we walked farther along we found a place that wasn't necessarily supposed to be accessible, but it seemed lots of people were hopping the fence and going along anyway, so my dad and I decided to give it a go. Really all this accomplished though was completely muddying up my pants and shoes (neither of which were really built for this weather and both of which were my only pair respectively -- the joys of backpacking) while focusing more on not stepping in the bullshit than enjoying the view.

We drove that night to the town of Dingle out on the Dingle Peninsula, which is meant to be just as nice as the Ring of Kerry (we were debating which one to do, and since I'd already done the Ring, I persuaded my parents to skip it and indulge me with something I hadn't seen). Dingle is a tiny town but is famous for being packed with 52 pubs -- quite a ratio for the size of the town and proof once again about where Ireland's priorities lie.The next morning the rain had passed and we had excellent weather again, and although I saw it in far superior weather, I have to say I rate Dingle much higher than the Ring of Kerry. The scenery is spectacular, rolling green mountains and a dramatic coastline, that's even better at the farther outreaches where the surf is stronger and the waves crash against the rocks more violently. There were excellent views everywhere, and the sheep were ubiquitous, so my mom got to indulge her unhealthy obsession. The plan for that night has originally been to stay in Kinsale -- a highly reputed town south and west of Cork. But Kinsale was not all it was cracked up to be, so I talked my parents into staying in Cork, where I could more effectively enjoy Halloween.

I ended up spending that night hanging out with my friend Tony, which really meant my trip had come full circle. Tony was pretty much the very first person I'd met on my trip. I was jet-lagged and hungry but we struck up a lengthy conversation in the hostel bathroom in Raglan, while I peed and he shaved. He shared his beer with me and still the best idea I've encountered for remembering the people you meet (I wrote about this in my first entry, instead of merely collecting email addresses, he hands his journal over to someone with a title on the top of a page, and you just have to fill up the whole page in stream of consciousness -- my story was 'The Next Best Thing to Sleep' -- and all in all it makes for a fantastic, hilarious, deranged keepsake). We swapped email addresses, probably never imagining that 11 months later I'd be calling him up and inviting him out for a beer. It seemed Tony was a bit of a local celebrity, as the first spot we went to had a live band that consisted of his brother, sister-in-law and cousin. But that place was dead, so we moved on to a bar that was celebrating Halloween with a little more earnest. We spent the night rehashing what we had done with the last 11 months and had numerous conversations on the endless virtues of traveling. One of those conversations centered on random meetings, and sure enough, as I was walking to the bathroom, I bumped into Megan, one of the slew of Irish girls from Ios. We both exchanged shocked 'What are you doing here?'s but of course her excuse was much better, since, ya know, she's Irish.

Our only goals for the next day were checking out Kilkenny and making it to Rosslare to get on the evening ferry back to Britain. And have I mentioned before that the traffic in this country is miserable? The opening leg of the drive really offered me nothing since I had done this leg exactly about two and a half weeks earlier. This time in Kilkenny, though, we'd be stopping to do the castle tour. The tour guide was entertaining and very witty to make the experience enjoyable, but the castle was more a chateau than a 'castle' so it didn't quite pack the excitement I was hoping for. Where's the torture room? We left Kilkenny and the traffic was even more of a nightmare. This time, though, it was risking throwing a serious wrinkle into our plans since we had to be at the ferry by a specific time since we'd already booked our ticket and a hotel on the other side of the strait. But we made it, and with enough time to get thoroughly lost and pick up some mediocre take-away Chinese. And at some ungodly hour, we were docked back in Britain. And I had made the final country change of my trip.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1161358260/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1161358260/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1161358260/tpod.html Thu, 31 Jan 2008 17:19:29 -0500 The Year of the Endless Summer

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Leeds, United Kingdom

I had two choices for how to kill the two free days I had before I needed to be in London to pick up my parents at Heathrow. I could either a) stay in Edinburgh where I would have to spend money in a hostel with a sub-standard common area and then have to spend a whole day stuffed in a bus going across the whole of England or b) go to Leeds where I could stay for free with a friend, hang out with said friend and break up the trip (therefore only spending most of a day on a bus going across most of England). I thought the choice was fairly obvious, so that's how I ended up in Leeds for my first foray into England that didn't involve sleeping on the floor and eating $16 bagel sandwiches in Heathrow.

England didn't exactly make the best first impression. Right as I stepped out of the train I was greeted by a nice big blast of cigarette smoke from some idiot who clearly thought I wanted to share his cancer. It was an even harsher reminder that I was back in England after spending a week in Scotland (the only nation in the United Kingdom to already enact smoking bans in public places). Once I cleared my lungs I got to learn how stupid the English train system is. I realize that I've used this space quite a bit to rail on public transportation (pun only semi-intended), but did you notice a peep out of me in New Zealand or Australia (where it's more or less efficient) or Southeast Asia (where you have to take the advice of Chris Rock when it comes to playing retarded kids in basketball)? When I boarded the train in Edinburgh, I had to show my ticket to get through the turnstiles and as the train moved south into England I showed my ticket at least three other times. What never occurred to me was that when they make the announcement before your stop to 'remember to collect all your personal belongings' your used ticket stub counts as a personal belonging. So after 15 minutes of haggling with the ticket security guard that I didn't know (OK, I'm a stupid American, but this system is stupider) and that would be fairly unlikely that I made it all the way from Edinburgh without a ticket, she begrudgingly set me free. Then it was just a matter of touching base with Elle -- who I met while staying in the VIP room of the Prima Hostel in Budapest -- to meet up with her at her dorm at Leeds University (it might shock some that there are universities in England beside Oxford and Cambridge). Easier said than done when my texts weren't going through and my phone's mic wasn't working so she couldn't hear what I said.

For the next two day I got to live the life of a college student that I sadly had to ditch a year and a half earlier. And this time I was getting all the perks (aside from having to sleep on the floor) without all the inconveniences of 'homework' and 'class.' It was two days of walking around campus, relaxing in the student union and eating less than nutritiously -- namely take-away Chinese. There was the pursuit of knowledge (including one spirited research project of figuring out -- after one of Elle's friends was reading about this in a biology book -- which species was more ummm, well-endowed relatively speaking between humans and blue whales and all the various tangents you might imagine sprouting from such an intellectually endeavor) and of course the uni bars. It was a good thing I was enjoying student discounts because, well, the pound is terrifying, especially compared to the crappy American dollar. But money was about to become less of an issue -- the parents were only 24 hours away.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1160342400/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1160342400/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1160342400/tpod.html Thu, 31 Jan 2008 13:40:14 -0500 The Year of the Endless Summer

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Dublin, Ireland

Within an hour of arriving in Ireland, I had a beer in my hand. Not only was this some sort of personal record, I could also rationalize it as getting acclimated to the culture. It was also exactly as I planned it. The rest of my time in Ireland, it seemed, wouldn't be.

I was set to spend a little under a week in Ireland before flying over to Glasgow. As I envisioned it, I would spend a few nights in Dublin with CJ, my three neighbors from Ios and the other random Irish I knew. I'd then take the train across the Emerald Isle to Galway, where I had a few friends and heard had the best nightlife and culture in Ireland, and then cross back to fly out. But I also knew Adrian (who had flown into Dublin a day earlier) would be exerting a lot of peer pressure for me to join him on a road trip.

I got into Dublin around 11:30 pm, checked into the hostel Adrian had reserved for me (good thing too, it was the last bed in the place) and headed to the Temple Bar district where CJ and Adrian were waiting for me -- and from the sound of it, had been waiting there a long time. Adrian was also with two friends from home -- Kate, his brother's girlfriend and Heather Obuch (as in oh fuck, Adrian's nickname of choice for her). Heather might be the victim of the worst 'reply all' mishap ever. I'll leave it at that to protect the less-than-innocent.

Within seconds of walking into St John's Gogarty I was reunited with Adrian and CJ and well on the way to catching up when CJ presented me with a pint of Guinness and shot of tequila (and for the record, everybody had been telling me the Guinness is better in Ireland, and it is, very smooth and very delicious -- and therefore very dangerous). Shortly thereafter Adrian pulled me aside and threw his arm around my shoulder to share with me a special secret. "I'm fucking horny," he shouted. Yes, it was good to be back.

Over the course of several more beers, Adrian set out convincing me to come along on his road trip with Kate and Heather, how it'll be so cheap, how we'll see the whole country, how much fun we'd have going out every night (it was so nice to have the crazy Adrian back, he was so boring when he was on his best behavior up until Oktoberfest). Maybe it was his powers of persuasion or maybe it was all the alcohol, but I finally succumbed and decided I'd be scrapping my plans -- once again.

With that settled and the girls gone back to the hostel, we were free to step up the night a notch (the one catch to Adrian's change of ummm, emotions, was he couldn't 'misbehave' with hometown friends finding out). On the advice of the taxi driver, we decided to check out the Viper Room, and paid our 10euro cover when the big, burly bouncers assured us it was good inside. And rest assured, it was awful. There was no one inside and within seconds we turned around to leave. We tried to get our money back, but the bouncer wouldn't have any of it, even though we tried all the excuses (we were 'meeting friends' who hadn't showed up, it sucked inside, we were in for 30 seconds, yada yada yada) and finally gave up when Adrian had the brilliant idea of calling the guy a cockhead. You can't go on a road trip if you're in a coma, so that's where I ended the night.

Or so I thought. I got back to my room pissed to find someone had nicked my Lonely Planet but happy to see that my two roommates were very cute. So I started talking to Aoife and Sam. And then all their friends started pouring in. Next thing I knew, there were nine crazy kids on holiday from Birmingham bouncing around the room, a bottle of vodka was involved and I was in Aoife's bed (drinking vodka...). It was a great time and it meant that Birmingham now had a spot on the England itinerary. It also meant the road trip would be getting off a to a rocky start.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1160240160/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1160240160/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1160240160/tpod.html Wed, 30 Jan 2008 14:34:57 -0500 The Year of the Endless Summer

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Frankfurt, Germany

There's something about Berlin that always made leaving so agonizing. It might've been the special bond I was developing with the city, but it probably also had something to do with the pub crawl and accompanying hangover. So it was with great pain and little sleep that I strapped on my bags and stumbled to the Hauptbahnhof to catch a train to Frankfurt, my final stop in continental Europe. This should've been a simple task, considering trains run hourly between the cities.

Not so fast. In one of the most foolish, inexplicable, obnoxious moves possible, Germany named two cities Frankfurt. One is a major international hub and one of the most important financial centers in Europe and the world. The other is a small village that nobody would have ever heard of or would ever be mentioned in a tour book if not for its name and the disclaimer 'don't make the mistake of boarding a train to Frankfurt (Oder).' I've got to think that there are enough German names and words and combination of names and words that there'd be no need to double up on town names -- or at least save the duplications for two towns that are equally anonymous. Fortunately, I had glanced at this part of the entry in Lonely Planet and had the sense to ask someone if I was headed to Frankfurt am Main as I had one foot in the train. I was informed that it was headed to the other Frankfurt (I'm making the blind, uneducated assumption that 'Oder' is German for other) and therefore avoided getting on a train that would take me in the complete opposite direction of where I needed to go.

Frankfurt had never really been on my itinerary. It's main role is as a financial center, so it's just a big, modern city with lots of corporate buildings and not a whole lot to offer backpackers. But when I was looking scattershot for the cheapest flight to Dublin (it's wonderful having a Eurail pass and no particular aversion to spending extra time on a train in exchange for saving a few euros), Frankfurt presented itself as the best option. As an added bonus, I had a friend in Frankfurt who I could crash with. For one night I'd be staying with my friend Corina, who I met way back in February at the Pickled Frog in Hobart (the amount of people I've stayed with from that hostel, the place has now practically paid for itself). We shared a room for one night back in Australia and hit it off well enough that we exchanged email addresses, partly because we were both going to Adelaide next and partly because she would be working at the World Cup and I thought that getting in touch with her might help me get tickets. Remember, back in February I was planning on being in Germany in June and home by now.

Finding Corina's house on the outskirts of the city turned out to be as much a challenge as finding the correct Frankfurt. For one thing, the system for buying tickets on the public train system is confusing and irrational, so much so that the woman who volunteered to help struggled to do so, even though she'd been commuting for years. Then it was a matter of finding Corina's street, and more to the point her house -- which was hidden from street view with no apparent way in. I paced her street back and forth, entered a children's hospital and accidentally walked into a loading dock. I could see the neighbors staring. I was waiting for one to call the police to report a suspicious character with a large backpack prowling their quiet streets.

I finally stumbled upon the place, where I was greeted by her parents. Unlike Mandy's parents their English was very limited so it was difficult to hold a polite conversation. But like Mandy's parents they were friendly and very curious, so we did the best we could while they rehydrated me and pumped me full of snacks. After a few minutes of not overly awkward conversation they informed me that I needed to leave if I wanted to catch the train back into the city so that I could sight-see and then meet up with Corina (who was at university in Worms, about an hour south). So her father escorted me to the station, paid my fare and I was on my way back to the city.

I was headed to Romer, the only part of the old city that survived the bombing raids during World War II. It was a nice spot, an open square surrounded by old German buildings with the triangular rooftops and tall cathedrals in the background. But it was also fairly small, so there wasn't a whole lot of material with which to kill six hours, especially with the museums closed for the day. I tried to explore every square inch of the place, past the church with a JFK memorial, through the pedestrian shopping center, over the bridge to a few other churches, and after all that I still had about five hours to go. Even after a nice casual dinner I still had more time than I knew what to do with, so I fell into the trap that I knew was coming, no matter how hard I tried to avoid it (I swear) -- I was out to find a bar where I could nurse along a few beers and maybe make some friends to pass the time until Corina's arrival.

I meandered the streets of Frankfurt in the general direction of the train station (her parents had also, thankfully, supplied me with a map) in search of a decent pub. But each bar I found was more depressing than the next, sparsely occupied by old men crumpled over beers with cigarettes drearily drooping from their mouths. The one lively spot I found wouldn't let me in without a collared shirt. Elitists. The next thing I knew I was across the street from the station and the only viable option was right in front of me, O'Reilly's.

Normally, I avoid Irish bars. For one thing they're everywhere. They generally don't offer much local flavor and are usually more expensive than the average pub, for whatever reason. Also, I was going to be in Ireland in 24 hours, so there'd be plenty of time for Irish pubs then. But my options were limited and it seemed fairly lively. O'Reilly's came with an added bonus. It had television. And not just television -- satellite television. And that day was the first day of the baseball playoffs! Now, I've seen more baseball games than most people do in a lifetime. This was the first season since I was about 5 where I didn't go to at least one Yankee game and had spent the summer before leaving interning with a baseball team. Yet the first live pitch I'd seen all season was going to be Boof Bonser serving up a home run to Eric Chavez in Game 1 of the ALDS. I killed the next few hours talking to Irish bartenders and scattered Americans, one expatriate and a couple guys who were on a layover after filming yogis in India for a Discovery Channel documentary (they hoped) until finally Corina arrived. We stayed until we had to leave for the last train, filling in the details from our travels (I had significantly more, she'd been home since May), catching up on old times and semi-successfully explaining how baseball works to her.

The next morning (and I stress morning) I got up, and after an excellent breakfast, went back to the city center with Corina, where she would have to get a connecting train back down to Worms. Now I had another six hours to kill in a city I'd already exhausted before heading to the airport. I set out for the English movie theater to kill a few hours. I only mention this because finding a theater in English is easier said than done. And, yes, I realize the irony in complaining about the lack of cinemas in a language that is not the official one of a country. But -- and this is not one of my crackpot theories, this is what I've learned from numerous Europeans -- this is the reason why Germans lag behind Scandinavians and Dutch in English proficiency. While the Germans dub their television and most movies, those other countries use subtitles, and many of my Swedish, Dutch, Norwegian friends cited the subtitles as the reason why they became so good at English.

After the movie and hours wasted walking pedestrian malls and markets, reading and unsuccessfully finding an Irish friend with whom I could crash I was back to the train station to pick up my bags and get on the shuttle out to Frankfurt-Hahn airport. Now here's the thing about Ryan Air. It seems amazing to be able to fly from Frankfurt to Dublin for a mere 18 euros, but Ryan Air comes with a catch. Flying Ryan basically means devoting a whole day to travel. Since they pay for their runway space, you must must must be on the plane 30-40 minutes before scheduled takeoff, which means you want to assure you're at the airport early. Also, they charge such a cheap rate because they use airfields out in the middle of nowhere. I could've practically walked from Corina's house to the major airport, but Hahn is so far outside of Frankfurt (about 2:30 hours) that it wasn't even mentioned in the going to/coming from section of the Lonely Planet. I actually spent more money going to and from the airports than I did flying from Germany to Ireland. Go figure. Fortunately Ryan is an Irish company and therefore uses the major airports there. So when I touched down in Dublin at nearly midnight it wouldn't be as much of an ordeal to get into the city where Adrian and CJ were waiting for me at the pub.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1160703060/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1160703060/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1160703060/tpod.html Wed, 30 Jan 2008 13:57:48 -0500 The Year of the Endless Summer

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Berlin, Germany

Every now and then a little dumb luck puts you in the right place at the right time. The day I had set aside to explore Bangkok happening to be the one day out of the year that sacred temples around the city would be open counts as a perfect example. My return to Berlin would be the other. How I got there in the first place was so totally unpredictable and unplanned that it would be a logical conclusion that fate was beckoning me back (or something like that). When I woke up Monday morning in Denmark I had no clue where I was going to go that day. The initial plan -- initial being a few weeks previous -- was to make Copenhagen just the beginning of a massive Scandinavian tour. But by the time I had to commit to flights to Ireland and other nuisances like that none of my Norwegian or Swedish friends had responded to my emails and there was no way I'd be able to survive those countries with a bank account in the black if I didn't have free accommodation. I would've even considered a few days in Stockholm in a hostel, but that would've required a ludicrously expensive flight and paying nearly the airfare twice over just to get to and from airports. So Stockholm and the whole of Norway was out. There was the possibility of dipping my toes in Sweden by going across the bridge to Malmo, but since my friends there didn't get my emails in time and the city was devoid of youth hostels, that was out as well. Once all those options had flopped I still had to figure out what I'd do with my two open days before needing to get to Frankfurt for a flight to Dublin. I could've spent those days remaining in Skaevinge but since my only two reasons for staying -- my friend Morten, and Martina, the Swedish girl from the party -- were both going to be tied down with work the only thing staying in Denmark would've accomplished would be giving me a case of acute boredom.

So as I boarded the commuter train to Copenhagen Central, I still had no idea where I'd be sleeping that night. My first train was destined for Hamburg, which would've been a suitable stop, but apparently every hostel in the city was booked out. On a Monday. In October. It appeared that Hamburg was the new Brussels. It also appeared that Hamburg was out of the running. At that point, then, Cologne was the frontrunner. I hadn't seen the city aside from a two-hour stopoff at the train station which allowed me to see little more than the cathedral and the inside of a Chinese restaurant. The city also reportedly had good nightlife, so I wouldn't be bored. So, Cologne it was. All up until the time my train was on a ferry crossing into Germany, when I had a brilliant, out-of-nowhere brainstorm. What about Berlin, I said to myself. I already knew it and liked it, so finding a good time wouldn't be an issue. Plus it was my favorite spot in all of Europe, and why not? It's jam-packed with history from all eras, it has beautiful buildings -- some even that pre-date WW II --, world-class museums, is dirt cheap especially by Western European standards, has an eclectic array of restaurants, is surprisingly walkable for such a sprawling place, offers good beer, great food and a fantastic nightlife (not to mention the continent's best pub crawl -- 10 euros for all you can drink, and more than you should). Plus the city has turned its traffic light guys into a major tourist industry and huge source of pride. How could you top that? I was legitimately torn, so I did the only fair thing -- flip for it. I go to the winner, no replays, no screw it I'm going the other way anyway tantrums. Best of seven, winner take all. And with little drama (and there's no point in spinning it otherwise, you already know who won), I was heading to Berlin after only six tosses.

I pulled into Berlin at roughly dinner time and hopped in the U toward the hostel I wanted to stay in (the advantage of already knowing the lay of the land). It was weird, as my train was rumbling through, I had the same glad-to-be-back excitement I had as my plane touched down in Sydney in December. Considering I had lived in Sydney for five months and had been gone for two and a half years, while it was not even three months removed from my three-day stint in Berlin, well, that should tell you how much I enjoyed my initial visit.

I wasn't sure where that first night would take me, I was just hoping that there'd be at least a few people around the hostel so the night wouldn't have to be spent sitting in my room twiddling my thumbs. I walked into the hostel bar and immediately a Canadian guy sitting over a beer asked if I had gotten my t-shirt in Asia. As a matter of fact, I had. And that's how I came to hang out with Chad and Clayton for the evening. And that's sometimes how easy it is to make new friends. Chad and Clayton were Canadians who'd been away from home for nearly two years -- a period of time they had spent traveling Europe and working in the UK. We immediately clicked. They were just the sort of guys that whenever they told one story it sparked one in me, and back and forth for a few hours and several beers.

We hatched a plan to go to one local bar, and if nothing was doing there, try to latch on to one of the passing pub crawls. The latter was what happened. Chad even had the brilliant idea to take a pen and draw a scribble on our wrists so it would look like the stamp that the crawlers had received to get free admission into a club at the end of the night. Pure genius. You have Da Vinci, Einstein...and Chad. While we were trailing the group, one of it's members, a girl with one of the most brutal New England accents you'll ever hear approached us for a light and we were officially in. Again, too easy. Through her I even made a friend I might see back in the States. Consider night one a success.

But the next day, October 3, was the main event. Chad and Clayton had alerted me earlier in the evening that the following day was some sort of public holiday in Germany. Not only was it some public holiday, it was the public holiday in Germany and Berlin was the place to be. October 3 I learned, was the anniversary of the reunification of Germany, and therefore Berlin as well. The day had a special feel to it, one that July 4, for example, can no longer possibly hope to offer. Americans celebrate July 4 and all it symbolizes, but there's nobody around who remembers what it was like living under a king or suffering under taxation without representation. But most every German has at least some memory -- if not most of a lifetime -- of what it was like living in a divided country.

To celebrate, Berliners throw a massive street party right outside of Brandenburg Gate, complete with live music, sausage stands everywhere and even more beer stalls. What would a German celebration be without beer? And isn't that another vast difference from America? Young, old, everything in between were coming together to celebrate freedom over a cold pint -- everyone having good, clean fun, so what's the big deal? For all that Americans go on and on about how wonderful freedom is and how free we are, we're one of the most prudish, inhibited, self-censoring countries in the Western World. Australian, English, Irish culture is almost defined (better or worse) by alcohol. Walk by any newsstand in Europe and there'll be ample magazines where you can spy liberated boobies. Turn on the television and there's nothing censoring naked bits or naughty naughty words. While we were flipping out over a quarter second of naked nipple during the Super Bowl a couple years ago, your average European would've been wondering why there wasn't a replay. And don't even get me started on the whole 21 drinking age thing.

And tonight's musical act...Electric Light Band. Remember Electric Light Orchestra? Sure ya do. Well, the Orchestra has been disbanded, and they're back as a geriatric, less cumbersome, 'band.' With ELB good things were guaranteed to happen, so I grabbed myself a pint and filtered into the crowd. At one point during the show ELB was singing 'Evil Woman' (you know, ee-EEEE-vil womannnn) and the thought occurred to me that during the 60s or 70s, whenever ELO was relevant (if such a time existed) they'd be standing before a sold-out audience barely able to hear themselves because the crowd would be drowning them out with the lyrics. Now they're standing in front of a couple hundred ambivalent, hands-in-their-pockets Germans. Halfway through the performance a friend I had met in Ljubljana walked past so now I had someone to share obnoxious comments with as well as someone who was going to push the pace of the day/night from casual sipping to a higher level of earnestness. After about an hour he had to leave to catch a train and I was back to my own devices. And then shortly after he left, it happened. One of those rare moments that validates a random obnoxious observation, that's so surreal that it couldn't be plotted better if it was in a Hollywood movie. One of those moments that work out just so ridiculously perfect and perfectly ridiculous that it gives you a warm and fuzzy feeling in your stomach (and without going into personal details, this was a day where I sorely needed one of those moments).

For their grand finale, ELB was playing 'Don't Bring me Down' (Brrrrrrruce) and it was getting down to the end where the drums break it down a bit and they repeat the chorus, 'I'll tell you once more before I get off the floor: don't bring me down' over and over again, when the lead singer announces, 'All right, it's your turn.' The drums continue, he points the mic to the crowd and...cue the crickets. So he tries it again and still nothing. Already by this point I'm practically wetting myself with laughter -- and it didn't even have anything to do with the growing amount of pints and distinct lack of public toilets. And one more time, either out of pure masochism or thinking the third time would be the charm, he tries again. And of course, there's still nothing. So he takes up the mic ans says without the slightest hint of irony, 'I know what the problem is. You don't know the words!' Well, i just lost it at that point. It was the perfect groundwork for a night out, courtesy of that 10 euro pub crawl. And I won't go into much detail of that, partly because this isn't necessarily the appropriate venue, and partly because some of those details are hazy even to myself.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1160584140/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1160584140/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/danblank/round_the_world/1160584140/tpod.html Wed, 30 Jan 2008 13:02:13 -0500 The Year of the Endless Summer

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Skævinge, Denmark

After four nights in Copenhagen followed a week and a half in Holland I was starting to fall in a real trap. Like the Dutch, the Danish (all Scandinavians really) speak exceptionally good English and it becomes really easy to be lulled into the expectation that everybody speaks English. This can be a real problem once you leave those places and English isn't as common. Fortunately I'm at the stage now where I'll finally be getting back into native English-speaking countries.

My time in Copenhagen was actually spent in the suburb of Skævinge, about 40 km away, with Morton, a Danish guy I had met at the Pickled Frog in Hobart back in February. I was forced to spend a week in Hobart then, and as I wrote at the time, that's easier said than done. Since then I've met plenty of Tasmanians who are astonished that I would spend a week there. The unbelievably friendly atmosphere at the Frog was the only reason I survived and the time I spent hanging out with Morten in particular filled many of those voids. Aside from being one of the guys I've gotten along with the best in these 10 months, he might be the most exceptional traveler I've met. The more we talked and swapped stories the more curious I became about his age because he looked fairly young but had done unbelievable amounts. Normally, I don't ask other travelers' age because I don't care. If you're 18 or 28 it doesn't matter, if you're cool, you're cool. But once everybody knows each other's ages things start subtly changing. As it turned out, Morten is 23 as well -- I just couldn't believe he had done so much in so little time.

My first full day in Denmark I didn't even go into Copenhagen until evening time. Instead I spent it in the suburb of Hillerød. It's a small place, an hour by train from Copenhagen so it's not exactly on most tourist paths. I felt pretty confident that when I was walking around that I was the only non-Danish person in the whole place. The reason to go to Hillerød is it's large castle on a lake. Since my unusually warm weather was continuing, it was an excellent way to kill a couple hours while Morten was at work. Wander around a Danish castle that few non-Danes see, hang out in the expansive Royal Gardens right next to it -- easy living. That night Morten gave me my introduction to the Copenhagen nightlife, and let me just say this -- I'm glad I had free accommodation in Denmark because it is as expensive (maybe moreso) as everybody makes it out to be. It was explained to me that prices are so high because taxes are so high (because of all the social benefits the government supplies) and therefore wages must be high. So because people are making more money and stores also must use more overhead to staff their places, every price gets jacked up. A tank of gas in a minivan, for example, is the equivalent of roughly €80. We spent that night sleeping in the kitchen of the university dormitory where Morten had some friends. Classy classy.

The next day the weather -- and our heads -- had taken a bit of a turn so we had every excuse to be lazy. We found a cozy restaurant that supplied backgammon boards when you buy drinks and sat around playing game after game of backgammon and nursing along a couple drinks while watching the world go past us. Part of the reason why I liked Morten so much back in Australia and why I was glad I was seeing his country through his eyes is that we see things similarly when it comes to traveling. He's also one of those people who thinks that one of the best ways to see a country is to not move at all, just sit around, have a drink or two and watch the country walk by. People watching is an excellent way to gauge a place. And I can say this much, Denmark has some of the best people to watch in the whole world. So it was a good day. By about 4 we were sick of backgammon and it had also occurred to us that I hadn't really seen the city, so we went for a quick walking tour. We passed all the main highlights, the government buildings, the palaces, all that good stuff. Since I was just going for a walk with a friend I didn't feel so much like a tourist so it felt a little awkward when I pulled out my camera, so I instituted the tourism in 5 seconds or less policy, not stopping to take pictures, just taking walk-bys and carrying on. The highlight of the city is its famous canal. The canal is lined with restaurants and cafes, all painted in different pastel colors. One of the homes used to belong to Hans Christian Andersen. Speaking of him, I did not go see the Little Mermaid. I realize it's the most recognizable symbol of Copenhagen but I heard it was entirely overrated. Basically it's just a small statue, the equivalent of the crap clock procession at Prague. Plus Morten didn't know where it was, so it wasn't a problem.

It so happened that night that one of Morten's good friends was throwing himself a housewarming party. Normally when I would go to a party with a friend in which I didn't know anybody I'd wind up attaching myself to that person's hip and following them around for the evening. But partly because the Danes are overall friendly people and partly because I was the only non-Dane in the place (that's not entirely true -- there was one girl from Stockholm, but she'd been working in Copenhagen for five years, so that doesn't count) I had the exotic factor working for me and actually didn't say a word to Morten the whole night aside from when I told him I was going off to a club with a few of the people I had just met. It was great, spending the whole night talking to Danes (who of course all spoke fluent English) who were just as interested in me as I was in them. Because it's more fun, I managed to help stir up some 'trouble,' like when a girl from Jutland (the mainland section of Denmark -- Copenhagen is on a separate island) started talking about how Jutlanders are the real Danes, with their broad backs from long days toiling in the fields as opposed to those pansy, white-collared, cosmopolitan weaklings from the big city. Then once I started talking to Martina, the Swedish girl, she naturally started in on how Swedes were better than Danes. Therefore I then starting going around proclaiming the superiority of the Swedes.

Since our only option (really) was to party until 7 before we could get a ride back to Morten's home with his brother, Sunday was a bit of a quiet day. In the evening we were watching a movie and occasionally I would try to pick up some Danish words that they wouldn't teach you in schools, thanks to the subtitles, and realized I would never be able to speak Danish. Dutch is a language that's impossible to comprehend because you read it and they string together letters that you never thought could possibly be put next to each other unless you were mashing the keyboard. With Danish, however, there's absolutely no connection between the spoken language and the written language. There are silent 'd''s and all sorts of other mind-boggling things going on. Morten had made the comment earlier that it was pretty sad he couldn't spell (he was grading tests at the time -- he's a teacher). I made fun of him up until the time I started watching that movie, reading the subtitles and trying to pronounce the words. Then I could understand.
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