TravelStream™ news feed for member fezmonkey on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/fezmonkey en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Mon, 12 Mar 2007 15:28:16 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1161940200/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1161940200/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1161940200/tpod.html Mon, 12 Mar 2007 15:28:16 -0400 Fez Monkey's Trip Around the World

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Cinque Terre, Italy

Completely touristed-out from Venice and Florence we boarded the train for Cinque Terre. Cinque Terre is more accurately a region rather than a town. In all approximately five small towns are linked by a high cliff walkway that overlooks the ocean. This walkway varies from 20 ft to about 150 ft above the sea. Each town had its own characteristics and atmosphere. We picked Riomaggiore, the first one, for no better reason than it was the first one. In Riomaggiore, a rocky narrow ravine leads from the mountain range to end abruptly at the rocky shore. Three to four-story buildings built onto each other in a chaotic mess along this ravine spill into the tiny harbor. The trademark of Cinque Terre is that each building is painted in bright colors including greens, oranges, and reds. The towns looked like arteries with a main branch and little random smaller branches off of it Our apartment was on the second floor with a stairwell so steep and narrow it resembled a stone ladder, and Collette was afraid to walk down it on her own. A shuttered window looked at the building across the way so we could see people having breakfast on small balconies and laundry billowing in the wind. Collette waved to an old woman who was ironing. She smiled and waved back. Due to the steepness of the cliffs this side of the apartment was more than three stories high. If one leaned out the window they were rewarded with a view of the harbor squeezed between two rock jetties and a few brightly painted boats. If you walked anywhere inland you immediately started to go uphill either by a road or stairwell. It was like living in an Escher drawing. The first day we walked along the sea cliff walkway and it constantly reminded us of Big Sur. There were huge barren rocky cliffs that become steeper as they got closer to the sea and eventually become a sheer cliff that is anywhere from 70 ft to 200 ft. The next town up, Manarola, was much the same as our town, Riomaggiore. Steep, narrow, beautiful, and exotic. After changing an especially stinky diaper while crouching behind a few dry-docked fishing boats we decided to take the train to the fourth town Vernazza. The train ran above the walkway and we could often hear it rushing past to Collette's delight. The towns were so rocky and steep that the train line was riddled with tunnels leaving very little room to place the stations. When the train stopped, half of it would be in a tunnel and we frequently had to get off the train in semi-darkness and then walk down the cool tunnel to the station. This caused anxiety because it made it difficult to identify your stop deep in the tunnel's recess so we always tried to get a car in the front of the train to read the station signs. After awhile we gave this up because we could just count the stops and related it to the corresponding town. Riomaggiore 1, Manarola 2, and so on. Town 4 (Vernazza) was bigger and had a wider harbor that even included a small beach. This town was the most popular and this was evident by the masses of tourists walking up and down the main street eating ice cream, taking pictures, and asking locals the touristy questions. We enquired about a room but any thoughts of staying here were dismissed about two seconds after hearing the price. We were plagued with this dilemma. Each time we saw a new Cinque Terre town we wanted to stay in that one, Ohh look at that beach, this one has more stores, that's a nice café, and so on. In the end we stayed the whole time in Riomaggiore not because it was the best but because we were there, had a cheap apartment, and at one point you have to accept some things or you would never be content. I called Riomaggiore Morder because its high buildings and narrow lanes gave it less sunlight than the other towns. The mornings were especially cool with a steady wind blowing off of the mountains and through the main road. On our way to our favorite café for delicious pastries and croissants we would wear our jackets but discard them as the day heated up. However, this name was born from affection and not dissent because it was a beautiful place and quite welcoming.On the third day we had big plans, get up early, get a quick train to the central station, two trains and then a bus. We had not seen all of Cinque Terre but felt compelled to see more of Italy and to see a town that was less touristy and representative of the "real" Italy. Even though we were still tired and burned out we were going to stick to the plan of heading towards a small town near Siena.That evening we went to a café to watch the sunset. The outside café was perched at least a hundred feet above the sea on a rock that jutted out over the cliff like the bow of a ship. We were not as brilliant or unique in picking our sunset watching location because the café suddenly got crowded. One table next to us contained someone we couldn't fail to recognize. The man dressed and looked like a garden gnome. He had tan puffy pants with suspenders, white shirt, a full beard, and a bald head topped with a hat that was more appropriate for the Italian Alps than the café (as evidenced by the feather sticking up out of it). We had seen him on the train in Florence and were ripe to figure out his "scene". He eagerly (a little too eagerly) filled us in on his background. He was friendly and interesting, and his wife revealed the details of Siena. She told us like a witness testifying at a trial that is was nice but hot and very touristy, and then she added that she liked it better here by the coast. Her demeanor changed as if she didn't want to have the weight and responsibility of us changing our travel plans purely on her whims. She quickly added, Well that's how I felt." Troubled by this new information and seriously considering changing our plans on her word we bought our first train tickets. Sporadically discussing our travel plans we bought some pizza and gobbled it down in the hotel room where we could better control Collette. After unwrapping our pizza slices like greasy Christmas presents Collette ate exceptionally well. Late in the night some instinct or small noise brought me awake and I could see Collette sitting upright in her bed. I went to her and sensed that something was not right because she kept looking down and made barely audible grunting noises. Then it came, or more precisely, then it came out. Collette started burping out streams of hot vomit. As any parent knows, vomit makes your reflexes faster and I picked her up over the sink to spew at will. As I held her heaving little body I could feel the convulsions moving up her spine. This was the first time I seriously started to question our ambitious travel plans to Siena. She threw up two more times that night so the whole room smelled like half digested warm olives and I knew that there was no way we were going anywhere. Vomit is like an archeological dig and in its contents the last 48 hours were laid out in a variety of forms and colors like 3-d spin art. Ohh that's right I remember that café, it was chilly in the morning but those croissants were warm.Collette was in fine healthy spirits the next day showing no sign of last night's illness. Toddlers appear to be able to throw up at will and suffer no repercussions. The sun was out and we took the train to town 5, Monterossa. Being less hilly than the other towns gave several advantages. The sun was more accessible and the streets were easier to walk. It contained more restaurants and shops than Riomaggiore and once again the old feeling that I wished we had stayed in another town remerged. This was tempered by my general happiness and relief that we were not having a hard long-range travel day and this buoyed my spirits for the rest of the day. Monterossa had the most extensive sandy beaches and we had a nice lounging day in the sand while Collette played with an kid from Denmark until we overstayed our welcome. Before heading back we had a relaxing lunch on the road that overlooked the beach, and then Collette got to play with a whole group of rampaging kids terrorizing a few paddle boats and fishing boats that were spread out on the sand. With more hot tears on her cheeks we pulled her away to catch the train. Collette's knees and legs looked like the bottom a ship covered in barnacles and scrapes from the mosquito bites, constant falling, and crashing through plants. She now refuses to go into the ocean, not because she doesn't enjoy it but because the salt water causes her owies to sting. She will sit and cry until the effect wears off and then she will be wary of the water and prefer to play in the sand.It was about this time in the trip that Collette began to be less intimidated by strangers and started giving her patented tourists response. If someone prompts her for her name she proclaims," I am Collette" Followed by "I'm three" and finally," Santa Cruz". It is often up to the listener to decipher these cryptic, poorly pronounced, and random remarks.Now we had to do town 3, Carniglia, the only one not yet explored. This town is the only one that is not right on the beach. Instead it resides about six hundred feet above the sea with houses and buildings wedged into small ravines and openings in the rocky face. We took the train to the station and then instead of taking the 489 switch back stairs that took you from the station to the town we waited for the little tourist "special bus". I was strongly opposed to this and when I saw the crowd of old German people, hunched Italian ladies with grocers and a mix of tourist chronic smokers my dissent bubbled over to anger. We waited for the driver long enough for my frown to become fixed and when he finally opened the doors Christy and I flung some unpleasant words at each other. This lasted just long enough for the whole crowd to shove their way in front of us and we boarded close to last. Completely humiliated and dejected I rode standing up (those ladies never give up their seats) with a sweaty Collette smashed to my body. My protests were purely rational because I don't like crowded spaces and I didn't want to ride in a bus with a bunch of lazy losers who couldn't climb a few stairs. I was the last to depart the bus because it was difficult to move Collette and myself in the bus and as a passive aggressive gesture to show that I was resolved and dedicated to my displeasure. The town had one narrow sunless alleyway winding up and down its center with hordes of tourists looking at nothing I could discern. After swapping a few, "I don't care what do you want to do for lunch" we decided to buy some food at a small market. It was crowded and Christy came back from the market looking dejected explaining that the market clerk had completely ignored her. Flustered and drained of energy she asked me to take over. This problem flared up every so often. I don't know if they ignore us because we are tourists or because they would rather chat with their friends than work. Some of my resolve waned and I bought the bread, salami, and cheese in better spirits even though I remembered to give an occasional frown from time to time. We ate lunch in a small concrete courtyard overlooking the mountains and the coastline as it stretched out several hundred feet below. Now in complete agreement we did decide to leave this most unpleasant place and walk the two hours back to Riomaggiore. A long scenic walk away from the bustling hordes would improve my mood, and after perching Collette on my head, we happily headed out.Two related things of no consequence happened to us on the way back. We saw a group of three college young men with beers in their hands slowly doing the frat boy swagger. I noticed one had a Crow's Nest t-shirt but the other two had English accents. They looked out of place and aloof of their surroundings. We asked the t-shirt owner if he was from Santa Cruz and he said, "yes." Apparently the Crow's Nest not only provided him his employment but his wardrobe as well. After some superficial talk of Santa Cruz the English one broadcast, "I'm not from there." Brilliant. The conversation ended awkwardly because they weren't articulate or good conversationalists (I'm being more than generous). Later in the walk we ran into a girl wearing a Pizza My Heart t-shirt and we asked her the same questions. Yes she was from Santa Cruz but we didn't find out if she worked there. Strange.Christy was feeling slightly ill the last day so I suggested a hike to the top of the mountain looming over the town. Leaning ridiculously forward I pushed the stroller up the incline until the road ended at a rocky path. We hiked about ten feet and then Collette demanded that I pick her up by stretching out her arms and making small grunts. I put her on my head and started climbing and sweating while Collette talked and sang happily. "Look at that butterfly daddy, he can fly fast". The trail followed a narrow rocky ravine that was cut out by a stream. A few sparse houses dotted the mountainside. It was rocky enough that I had to bow my head to watch were I put my feet and my neck ached from the 15.2 kilograms of extra weight. I know Collette weighs this because I put her on the luggage scale while Christy was checking us in. After passing a few mountain vineyards we were rewarded with a beautiful view and silky hot chocolate. The road terminated at an almost empty hotel and café that had a demanding view of the coastline in both directions. In the distant haze town 5 could be seen where the sea cliff made a hook. Again I was struck with the similarities between this coastline and Big Sur. After letting the sweat dry on my shirt we took a new path of mostly stairs to Riomaggiore laid out far below us like a model train set.While browsing e-mail for financial disasters we were informed of another more personal piece of bad news. My father was in a severe bike accident and had broken his hip and shattered his arm. To those of you who know my father his physical prowess is not something that he just takes pride in-- it is part of his being and his soul. To hear that his body had been broken and that he would be immobile for an extended period of time shook me to my core and brought out deep feelings for him that are difficult to express. I have a strong sense of sympathy for him but know that his mind is stronger than his body and he has an unlimited capacity to take on physical hardships and overcome them. Others and I admire him for this. Being so far away I felt helpless. So, with an umbrella over my head I used the phone card purchased in the local bar to call home. My dad sounded distant and weak. Obviously he was still freshly injured and had the slow speech belonging to pain medication. I know he is a strong and marvelous man and no accident can take away his vitality and resolve for life. I wish him the best.We left Cinque Terre feeling refreshed and Collette perhaps a little bit lighter. It was an interesting place with a complex blend of extraordinary features. The Italian culture, the dramatic landscape and the haphazard and beautiful architecture worked together to form something completely unique. We were happy that we had taken the time to feel the rhythm of the place and to explore of all the towns. So we launched ourselves from the relaxing slow pace of the village life of Cinque Terre and into the chaotic hectic nest of Rome.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1165634280/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1165634280/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1165634280/tpod.html Wed, 21 Feb 2007 18:59:43 -0500 Fez Monkey's Trip Around the World

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Sydney, Australia

Emerald BayThe campsite bordered a forested area and then the beach. I decided to take the blocked off road directly behind the campervan to the beach for a surf check. As I walked down the road I was overcome by a creepy feeling, like eyes were watching me, hungry angry eyes, the eyes of nature gone wild. Every fourth step was accompanied by a slithering noise of some unknown animal or reptile pushing its way through the grass. To me or away from me I could not tell in my paranoid state. Visits to the zoo came vividly rushing back, looking through thick glass at any animal from Australia whether it was a lizard, wombat, or insect and seeing the red dot that signified poisonous. After the dot was a clear and concise description of the poison. "Causes blindness and then death by suffocation" or "Brings on paralysis followed by loss of consciousness and then death". They all had the same ending except for the ones that resulted in, "permanent and deep skin lesions." Leaping spiders and small green deadly snakes. At one point a tree rustled and several large black parrots flew by my upturned head. I kept getting caught in horrifically large spider webs and spastically had to clear them from my body. I don't know what prompted my state but Australia was teeming with peculiar and unusual wildlife that seemed to be within an arms distance away. Later at the same campsite I saw a five foot green snake that weighed at least fifteen pounds take an excruciating long time to cross the path. I waited until an Aussie told me it was a tree snake and completely harmless and then I waited some more. I liked the harmless part but didn't approve of the tree part. The insects don't help. There are flies the size of cherries and many things are fuzzy, have large eyes or have some other peculiarity about them. The mozzies and the sand fleas have already made our legs look like a map of volcanoes. Red and mountainous. I know my fears are unwarranted and a local Ozzie would dismiss them as completely incomprehensible. None-the-less they are still buzzing around my head like the slow flies that try to crawl up my nose or in my ear like I am a sullen cow resigned to a field on a hot summer day.Not all of the wildlife was threatening because in the mornings and especially in the evenings Kangaroos would casually hop between the trailers and motor homes to graze on the grass. Collette was more than excited and one time Christy had to actually restrain her from running after them. As dusk would descend we would take Collette for a walk and sit happily watching the silhouettes of the large animals as they contentedly and completely oblivious to us chewed the grass and hoped around. Collette would point and chatter the whole time discussing how kangaroos hop, what they eat, or any unusual behavior they exhibit. "Kangaroos eat grass. Ohh look at that one he is moving away. He is going to his friend over there. That one is big, that's a big kangaroo" ....and on and on. Later on Collette didn't want to go into her bed, " dada," "yes" "I don't want to go into my bed" "Why not?" "My bed has kangaroo poo in it" "Kangaroo poo? I don't think so." "I think so dada."Here we were introduced to the jumping pillow: A huge air bag covered in a thick rubbery membrane. It resembled a thirty-foot water balloon. Collette spent hours on it hopping alone, hopping with other kids and wanting to hop. There were plenty of other families and Collette invaded their campsites with complete aplomb looking for toys or playmates. At the communal kitchen a large group of families had gathered for their annual get together. As they sat down on large wooden benches for dinner with a nice view of the jumping pillow Collette sat at the end of the table and waited for her plate. They served her and she ate her sausages. At the point she started gnawing on some corn on the cob I decided to intervene and asked if it was Ok that our daughter sit at their table, eat their food, and grab whatever caught her fancy. I got the same response that I frequently heard, " No worries mate, she's fine." I was constantly surprised at how nice and generous people were.As I drove by the entrance to the caravan park a sign caught my eye that read "happy hour". We parked the van I waited patiently for 6:00. Not able to contain my excitement we headed for the local barbeque area at 5:30. Randomly sprawled out on the tables were plates with pyramid piles of cheese cubes and accompanying crackers. Our host met us and poured us some free wine and we sat down on the benches to munch and soak in the afternoon. Soon more patient campers joined us and we struck up conversations about where we had been and other topics that were not inflammatory or offensive but quite entertaining. The conversation flowed in correlation to the wine. It was a nice occasion and a great chance to meet your fellow trailer parkies. In the US this is often a dubious if not down right dangerous pursuit but not in Australia. Usually in the US I don't want to meet the people in the campsites, especially when alcohol is involved. I thought how thoughtful that the owners of the park put this together just for the sake of the campers getting to know each other better and thus making their vacation more pleasant. The next day at about 5:00 I told Christy that I was going to spruce up for this evening's happy hour and I was even considering changing my shirt a few days early. She said that the happy hour is only on Friday. The muscles in my face went slack with disappointment and I mopped around for at least an hour muttering phrases such as, " What does it matter?" "Whatever" and "If that is what you want." The dusk kangaroos cheered Collette and I couldn't resist her charms. I didn't get any surf (I went out one day but don't count it) in Emerald bay but a happy hour buddy told me it did get good and that the beach directly off the end of the park had a nice uncrowded left. I didn't see it but I did see the potential under the two-foot swell that the strong north easterlies had made to look like a frothy café latte. Excited about Australia we packed up the van and headed south.Port Macquarie-Under brooding skies we drove around Port Macquarie with no idea where we were going. After several u-turns and circles in roundabouts the rain started to sprinkle the windshield and we finally found a car park. After trying to establish blame for any driving mistakes we set up camp and watched the unsettled weather pass through. After consulting my very good Australian surfing guide we retraced our steps and ended up on the other side of town. The sun had come out to cheer up the day and as we came around a bend we saw a beach break sprinkled with surfers. I quickly suited up and surfed a nice glassy right. Afterwards I couldn't find Christy so I sat by the van shivering. A car pulled up to me and asked, "Is it still freezing mate?" At first I couldn't decipher the thick accent but then it dawned on me and I gave an enthusiastic, "Yes". This part of the coastline was being hit by an uncharacteristically cold spell. At this point I also seriously considered buying a spring suit. After the surf we spotted a new caravan park closer to the break and town. At the check in office we noticed that it was full of twenty something Aussies. In fact it was our second introduction to the schoolies. The caravan park boarded a walkway that was lined with colorful spray-painted rocks left over from tourists. Most of them commented on the strength of their relationship by proclaiming "forever" or they had the simpler message documenting who and when they were there. These rocks made up a break wall that lined the harbor. Follow the path along the break wall, turn right, and you are at the beach and the surf break. The actual car park was a large lawn that didn't offer much privacy. However this did not distract from the advantages or beauty of its location. We could walk to town browse the coffee shops, gorge on fish and chips, watch the Aussies and more importantly to me, I could scourge the surf shops in search for a spring suit. I found one and surfed the next day under a little worse conditions but still fun. The first evening that we settled in I made dinner in our little camper van. A dexterous pursuit in such a cramped surroundings. As Christy watched me in complete comfort we noticed that the schoolies were starting to head at to the beach. Like migrating birds they headed along the walkway with their numbers increasing as the evening progressed. While their numbers increased their behavior decreased. We could hear them yelling, singing, and getting into fights over girlfriends or ruffled prides. The other Aussie's in the car park took it in stride and said, "They're just blowing off a little steam they are." As the dawn crept in dissolving the shadows I left the comfort of the van to pee at the communal bathroom. I noticed that two schoolies had a motorized scooter that sounded between a chain saw and a motorcycle out of tune. Emitting this piercing loud noise they raced up and down the little lanes obviously still drunk. I returned to the van to an extremely agitated Christy. "What the hell are they doing," she indignantly proclaimed with puffy eyes. They would stall out the scooter when they crashed and yell and swear at each other until they got it running again. We had had enough and Christy reminded them of the time and the amount of noise they were making. At first he seemed to be humbled but then raised his voice, "I just finished twelve years of school what do you think of that?" Well I think the Australian school system is in a sorry state if you are their product. By the afternoon everybody knew who they were and that they had been kicked out of the park. We never found out what he did with his degree.After browsing the town we walked past the cabins that housed the schoolies about two in the afternoon. A large group of them had congregated at one of the cabins and between the ranting of an extremely loud girl with a shriek that only comes from heavy drinking we heard them chanting, "CHUG, CHUG, CHUG." I did a quick mental calculation on the time and the amount of alcohol and gave them another five hours of consciousness. They didn't make it to ten and we had a peaceful evening. Port Macquarie was a nice treat to us. It was beautiful and gave us the ability to walk to surf and to town, a unique pleasure. This bypassed the lengthy procedure of transitioning the van from sleeping mode to driving mode. A lengthy and labor-intensive procedure that was sure to shorten tempers. Eager to look for more isolated locations we headed to ominously named TREACHERY BAY. With a name like that it had to be isolated and full of adventure. Treachery Bay-I don't exactly trust my navigator. Previous experiences had made me skeptical if not downright cantankerous. So when the road turned to dirt and the last farmhouse disappeared in flurry of camper van dust I was on edge. We passed another caravan park that bordered a large bay with white sand beaches. I knew we had to be on the other side of the point so we drove on. At what appeared to be the end of the road we found another smaller dirt road and now I was worried but my fears were unfounded. We arrived at Treachery Camp. You drove down through they heavily wooded area that bordered on jungle to the campsites. There were no designated sites so you could park anywhere. We had to plug the van in so the camp host drove to meet us on a Quad bike and helped us plug into the barbeque-kitchen area. After settling in we walked around absorbing the lush surroundings and the wide variety of wild life. Christy was taken with the peculiar assortment of birds that squawked from branches ten feet from our van or hopped through the underbrush. The far end of the campground had a thirty-foot sand dune bordered on both sides by vegetation. A small path lead through the bushes and trees to the top of the dune which gave you an unobstructed view of the huge white beach sprawled out below. The hike down off the dune was about ten minutes to the water but the return trip was made difficult by the soft sand, especially when one is, lets just say for example carrying a surfboard and a thirty pound chatty passenger on his head. The beach stretched for about two miles with cliffs forming the boundaries on both sides. The surf was almost flat but that didn't stop about five guys who were bobbing in the water. The water looked inviting since it was a deep turquoise so clear you could see the sand bars underneath. I couldn't resist and went out anyway.In the afternoon we took a walk underneath a canopy of trees while the insects buzzed and chirped to fill the air. The vegetation was lush and exotic, bordering on being a jungle. Christy jubilantly pointed at the birds and gave me their names which I quickly discarded. I am on vacation and refuse to learn anything. Later on we passed a campground with two little kids in it. Collette attacked their site with relish and began looking for toys like a Viking hitting the shore of a defenseless village. I made small chat and we did the usual exchange of kids names and their ages. This is followed by a description of things each of tour kids do wrong and their most outlandish behavior. This being accomplished the young couple asked me to sit down, then if I wanted some wine, then if I was comfortable. I was once again floored by the hospitality of these strangers and hoped that some of it would be absorbed into my psyche and I would be transformed into a better person. As I sat there sipping a nice red Collette was in their car with her new friend pushing every button and grabbing every lever. The father leaped out of his canvas chair and scolding, herded the kids into more constructive behavior. It was relaxing to watch someone else cracking the parent whip and I once again pretended I was autistic and completely oblivious to the world and certainly not responsible for my daughter's behavior. The wine was good. We had a wonderful chat and I felt rejuvenated and happy walking through the strange trees and the noise of the wildlife on the way back to the camper. We had to leave too soon in order to find an Internet site to complete some banking. Determined to surf I walked through the overgrown trail, over the big dune and to the waters edge. It was small but I was left to myself and had a wonderful surf. Hitting a few nice turns as the clear waves pushed over the sand and wound down the beach. I returned to the camper van to an excited reception. In my absence a monitor lizard had wandered through camp. Collette had been the first one to see it and her index finger was still rigid from pointing. Christy showed me the pictures and Collette blabbed away, now an expert on lizards.I didn't want to leave Treachery and it was one of the most exotic and relaxing spots I have ever been. So with dust billowing behind the camper van we headed for the next town.Munmorah State Recreation Area-With my constant driving mantra of stay to the left, stay to the left we got lost in the city of Newcastle. Weary from driving and worn thin from the heated exchanges between driver and navigator we stumbled upon a café and through it access to the well of bad news called the Internet. Collette and I sat at an outside table with our roles clearly defined. I was determined to eat my muffin and she was intent on grabbing the silverware and throwing napkins. Leaving the café we were again driving as randomly as bees swarm around a hive. Just as my irritation began to burst due to the constant u-turns I saw Mark Richard's surf shop. For those of you who are ignorant, Mark Richards was the four-time world surfing champion and dominated my high school surfing days. I had to stop. Deciding on which overpriced t-shirt to buy took some considerable amount of time and foundling the boards took up the rest. There was an older lady who ran the shop and I think she might have been his Godmother. I don't know why I thought it was his Godmother but I have a hazy recollection about reading about it somewhere. After we left I thought I should have asked her and tried to get her to autograph something with a bunch of smart remarks such as, " I always thought you had a better cutback than Mark" or "Mark should have given you more credit for developing the twin fin". We made it to our destination with our marriage damaged but intact. Passing through a gate we entered the Munmorah State Recreation Area. The road passed over and around small hills covered with stunted trees that burst out from the dense undergrowth. Our van dipped into the valleys and over the ridges until we emerged on the coast and the blue waters of Australia. After looking at four small tent sites we decided not to stay at this campsite but in the meantime I had to surf. It was pretty bad, windy, choppy, with fast walls that quickly morphed into a mushy shoulder. It was still fun and cleansed me of the road that not only clings to your clothes but to the psyche. My mantra of "left" "left" stay to the "left" could quietly fade. Afterwards I talked to some of the locals to pick their brains and learn the inside scoop on the surf conditions. They answered my questions with a frankness and friendliness that appalled and startled me. Returning to the meandering road we drove through the wilderness reserve until parking at a campsite. The road outlined the campsite into the shape of a circle with a few campsites on the inner perimeter and the majority on the outer perimeter. The center was filled with a communal barbeque area and a bathroom. We came to roost on the inner side next to a three other camper vans. I noticed the other vans because one evening one of one vans had invited another couple to dinner. Over wine the gentlemen went into great detail and to an outlandish length to explain and highlight the features of his van while his wife nodded in agreement. I liked his van, and was acutely jealous, but didn't want the details spread out over an hour and a half of droning and was glad to be in the refuge of our van where only Collette's constant ramblings distracted me. In a small campsite you tend to spend a great deal of time casually spying on the neighbors. It's quite fun.
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Uluwatu, Indonesia

Most religions have their shrines scattered around the globe. For surfers one of these shrines is Uluwatu, Bali. The cave where you paddle out from became famous after the seventies movie "Bali High." From then on it was a mainstay of magazines and movies. Every grom in middle school draws waves on their notebooks that represent, at least in our imagination, tropical reef breaks. Our driver took us from Ubud for a very reasonable price. Of course he had to ask for directions a few times and I helped him with street signs. This is par for the course and taking it for granted that the driver knows where he is going is like assuming your students are listening to your lecture. We tried to bargain at the Uluwatu Resort but they were inflexible so we had the driver wait for us until we found cheap accommodations with AC. Christy demands this as the hot days are wearing on her and by her, me. The hotel, Sandat Mas, was more of a compound with five small rooms linked in a line terminating at a small villa, a central building with a kitchen and a small eating area. Our room was attached to the dining area and used to be part of the old kitchen which explained the little random room with big sinks which turned out to be an excellent place to keep my surf gear. One morning I had coaxed the Swiss guy staying next to us to get up very early and surf with me. We had met him earlier in Mendewi under stressful circumstances. I was trying to take off on a wave and the bump caught me as he paddled below me. When the collision was unavoidable I jumped off my board and plunged for deep water. I came up to see our tangled boards but luckily neither the boards nor us were damaged. That's how we met but now we were comrades ready to tackle a new break. It was small and as we were paddling around I kept feeling a stinging sensation like a stinging needle on my arms and legs. Looking around I saw floating on the water hundreds of jellyfish the size of a toddler's fist. Taking a stroke forward I could feel their gelatinous mass hitting my wrist and back of my calves and then a stinging itchy sensation. It was impossible to avoid the masses so we paddled further down the reef. In a thick Swiss accent my friend hollered in an incredulous voice," It looks they are swimming toward me. Why do these f$%^ing things want to sting me?" every time someone new would paddle out I could see them all happy and then they suddenly would stop paddling and start to look at heir arms. Stubbornly we stayed out and were stung repeatedly. I took a wave in, and in the still pockets of water on the reef the jellyfish had congregated in masses. As I walked toward the safety of the shore, I used my board to shield my legs from the vengeful and spiteful jellyfish. From the shore I could see my friend trying to get in. When he reached the shallow shoals I saw the look on his face when he recognized the pools of jellyfish, then his jerking arms and then his mad dash for shore.Afterwards I showed Christy the patches on my skin as testimony to our intelligence by staying out in small poor surf. But I did get a tube ride that the Swiss guy saw so I could claim it and also tell Christy. She looked as interested as my students but perked up at the sight of my blotchy red skin. Later on as we sat on the beach I saw a French guy who also was out in the early morning. I asked him if the jellyfish were gone. He said "yes, but so are the waves." I nodded because I didn't know what else to say to keep the conversation going. He then asked me," How do you say, Jelly-fish." Yes, jellyfish", I enthusiastically repeated. Common English words were something I knew and could talk about. He repeated several times to himself, "jellyfish." Then he said the French word for jellyfish. I nodded and repeated it. He then said," jellyfish". "Yes," I said, "jelly, you know gelatinous and fish, it makes sense." He grinned at me," Jellyfish," then shook my hand and said, "Thank you, goodbye." It was a strange conversation but knowing what a jellyfish is called is pretty important when they are stinging the hell out of you just for the sake of stinging. Before you descend down cement stairs that lead to the ravine, which in turn ends at the beach cave, there is a little hut. This hut is a wood platform with a mat and a wood roof. On the mats sit and lay several ladies that are like the gatekeepers and sirens of folklore that try to coax you in. Instead of luring ships to their ruin these ladies want you to buy t-shirts. We see them so often we know their names and take their badgering in good spirits. If I say I want to buy a t-shirt with someone else their tanned faces crinkle up and show an incredulous look of disbelief as they swiftly and angrily exchange a few words in Indonesian with each other. I told them I wanted to buy shirts from Laura our hotel host. They retorted," she has hotel, she has shirts, she gets everything. You say you buy shirt from me. You want to look now?" "Sorry Nancy maybe tomorrow." The sad thing is I like the t-shirts but now whom I buy it from will likely bring discord between fellow hawkers. It is like pre WW1 Europe and I need to know where my loyalties are. Along with the haggling, I need a day to rest up for the whole process. The wildlife here is a constant reminder that we are in a distant land. I get up near dawn to avoid the crowds and as I descend the cement staircase when the shadows are long and blurry it is not uncommon to see whole families of monkeys hanging out, fighting, or sitting in quiet repose. As I pass them their brown eyes follow me and I clutch my wetsuit vest more tightly in case they take a violent and sudden interest in it. I cannot stress enough that there is a significant difference in seeing a wild animal in a cage and seeing it within leaping distance. As we know, little hands like to grab. After a surf session, I was making my way through the cave and looking down to make sure my already battered feet did not hit more coral when I heard something scurrying and scratching. Started I looked up in time to see a lizard the size of my leg rambling away. Luckily we were equally scared and he sought sanctuary in a nook of rock. I could imagine the bacteria growing in its mouth like a middle school science project.The water is startling clear, and the reef and the multi-colored fish passing over it can be seen underneath my feet as I sit on my board. Many of the fish are as large as my thigh, sleek, lithe, and muscular. Frequent large splashes occur from large fish jumping out of the water, and circles of rippling water are from schools of small fish. We are now mentally stuck in Uluwatu. The room is air-conditioned, the surf is good, we have made some friends, and we can't think of a single reason to go anywhere else. Most of the time we don't know what day it is and it is hard to keep track of where our time goes, if it goes at all. Our routine is now firmly planted. I pass the monkeys and surf from 6:30 to I get tired. We eat breakfast at the hotel (banana pancakes and fruit. Then we lounge around away from the heat. Lunchtime we pass the t-shirt ladies at the top of the hill who always give rousing hellos and often look like basking seals lying on their mats. However the loud barks are replaced by croaks of "Want to buy a t-shirt" or "You buy something from me today". There is a long cement path full of tables and chairs that clings to the contour of the cliff overlooking the surf. Along this is a long line of wurongs. A wurong consists of a small kitchen nestled in the back, then a glass counter with a variety of items for sale like t-shirts and surfing wax, and a big platform covered by a mat. The fronts are all open and they are nestled so closely together it is hard to distinguish one from the other. We always go to the same wurong for lunch. Before, during, and after lunch we haggle for stuff. We buy DVDs from Danny, ice cream from the guy who wears a jacket in the blazing heat, jewelry and t-shirts from a bunch of ladies, and surf pictures from the cool local surfers who smoke and wear contemporary sunglasses. It's not uncommon for our table to be piled high with wares like a camel bringing goods to a foreign market. Sometimes I can't handle it and walk away to watch the surf or pretend I'm autistic and stare at nothing. Collette takes this time to take her shoes off and crawl up on the restaurant mat. She knows they keep a toy car there and the ladies like her. She also knows that there are kids in another building and she frequently disappears to visit them. When she is not getting her hair fondled or her cheeks grabbed she is happy and independent here and it gives us a break. She even leaned over and gave the owner of the wurong a big hug and kiss and said she loves her. Where this outpouring of affection came from I do not know but I do know it is rarely directed at me.After the about the second day, I had lost all sense of time so this is an estimation, we meet the couple who owned the small villa attached to the hotel. He was from North Carolina and had a slight Southern drawl and a wicked cutback (Ashley); she was from Taiwan and four months pregnant (Johanna). To say they were nice and generous to us is an understatement. For the next two weeks they drove us around, gave us advice, let us use their swimming pool and kept us entertained. Any time there was a pause in the conversation Ashley would whip out another story of his brother like someone putting another log on the fire to stay warm. "My dad says he could mess up a free lunch" and from the stories he told I would agree. He talked of his brother crashing or destroying motorcycles, parts of his house and a boat. The latter sank in front of his house, "practically in his front yard". We became more acquainted with Ashley and Johanna when we had decided to go to the restaurant down the road. Having received a ride there we had brought the stroller to walk past the dry hot landscape back to our room. Across the street from the restaurant situated on the corner rested a raised wooden platform covered by a bamboo mat. It was open on one side facing the street and had a corrugated metal roof. Spray painted on the side in fat letters was "the Uluwatu Street Boyz". A group of three to eight guys hang out here drinking beer, hooting at friends passing by, and doing absolutely nothing productive. The throb of techno music and very bad pop music could be felt and heard at our table across the street. After our meal they asked us if we needed a ride. Greatly underestimating the distance home we declined. On the way back we had passed several stores that were really part of people's houses that displayed and sold a random assortment of goods. They looked like open garages with a glass counters and a few shelves. We randomly picked one and an old topless lady came out to greet us. In the beginning she modestly covered herself with her arms like a Josephine Baker show but then she became more comfortable and we became less comfortable. Her son came out and they were all smiles and made play with Collette. It was a surreal experience because the Balinese are prone to modesty. Christy and I both pretended there was nothing unusual going on at the time and that there wasn't a topless Balinese woman trying to help us pick out soda pop and crackers for Collette. When we returned to the road we started to chat about what a strange experience it was. About three quarters of the way home Ashley and Johanna, sitting comfortably in their air-conditioned van, passed us. They turned around and picked us up and were surprised to learn where we were walking back from. Later, he measured the distance to make sure we had a specific number to attach to our folly and to chuckle. I still think compared to the vast distances we had covered in Europe it wasn't too bad.We asked Ashley about the offerings (see Ubud) and he explained that a lot of them were dedicated to things that are mischievous or that can cause grief. For instance there is a rock jutting out above the cement stairway leading down to the cave that is exactly at head level. This dangerous promontory often gets an offering (small yellow box) with flowers and fruit, swallowed in a cloud of incense. Ashley went into a long and detailed description of their own holy rock. In the middle of the hotel lawn is a cement hole that outlines and preserves this holy rock. When they were building their house they staked out a protective barrier around the rock until they could later preserve it in cement. Along one of the main roads there was another rock that jutted out into the street causing a slight traffic hazard. This was also declared a holy rock and was often sprinkled with offerings like ornaments on a Christmas tree. I can't separate the memory of Bali from the smell of incense and these offerings.As time went by Collette became infatuated with Johanna and we started to use her name like we use ice cream. Collette if you come here right now you can see Johanna (have ice cream), Collette if you change your clothes then we can see Johanna (have ice cream). We even went as far as saying, "do you think Johanna would like that?" Even now Collette asks in a sad voice, "Dada where is Johanna? She's far away right?"The surf at Uluwatu was good but never great like the visions of tropical reefs I think about during teaching seminars. It was difficult to predict what the wave was going to do and a slight variation in direction would quickly and efficiently determine the quality of the wave. A small wave that hit the reef in the right direction would grow in size and wheel down the line, and one that looked good but hit the reef too directly would quickly section in an explosion of white water. I surfed every day for two weeks and still did not have a comfortable working knowledge of the break. I did catch an excellent tube ride way inside at Race Tracks. It was a small day and the wave started as nothing but suddenly developed into a pitching lip and I was inside the green room. I felt my surfing was sub par and blamed it on my board, lack of understanding the break and general lack of surfing skill. However it's truly a legendary place and I found no fault in the exciting and beautiful waves. The only other place I surfed was a right-hander that Ashley drove me to. It was fairly close to shore and hollow. Six to eight local guys sat on the peak exploiting all of their local knowledge at my expense. I distinctly remember watching one of them drive to the bottom on a pitching wave as it drove across the reef and his buddy saying, "Do something." What I would be doing is just trying to make it. I was downgraded to left-overs but it was great to see a classical reef break doing what the surf movies and magazines always depict.In the end we were sad to leave Bali. My feet looked like Frankenstein's face from the reef but we developed a deep appreciation for Bali and its people. The people of Bali were some of the most friendly and non-imposing people I had ever met. It made me question and revaluate our lifestyle and perceptions in the US. I felt ashamed of my behavior in contrast to their constant waving, smiles, and acceptance of us. The only thing I noticed was that being nice was exhausting. So we said good-bye to Ashley, and Collette in particular said a very reluctant good-bye to Johanna (yes they drove us to the airport too) and we headed to Australia. A heartfelt thanks to the people of Bali for being so generous and kind to us. Thank you.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1164956460/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1164956460/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1164956460/tpod.html Wed, 27 Dec 2006 23:22:14 -0500 Fez Monkey's Trip Around the World

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Brisbane, Australia

Where the hell are we? Wooloomoo or Dingelee? Sometimes I feel that we are no place or a place of non-existence. These places are airports, train stations, and bus depots. They are different yet the same and time holds still. So here we are, everywhere but nowhere. Tired from an overnight plane, sitting on plastic chairs outside one of those nondescript airport cafeterias, we spent the morning trying to figure out where to rent a campervan. This decision would have lasting negative repercussions that ended in us losing two days and many kilometers. We went the cheap route and decided to go with Wicked Vans. They rent vans that have been modified to become campers and have the unique distinction of being spray painted like a graffiti-splattered New York subway train. Christy especially liked the sexually explicit language in sloppy black lettering on the back of the door. We pulled into their local garage in Brisbane and sat in the lobby waiting our turn. We should have read the signs better because in the waiting room were Euros of whom nobody was over twenty-five. They sat in the beat up stuffed furniture talking like it was a coffee shop. They were of the age that prided themselves on how rough it was to save a few dollars and feel that the more comfort you have they less you really get to know a country. A theory I don't totally disagree with but seem to have outgrown. I like luxuries and have no moral ambiguity about enjoying them. So we rented our piece of crap that I could feel every gust of wind and the noise so loud conversation was reduced to an exchange of shouts. However the van did gain us a limited notoriety. We pulled into a supermarket to buy the necessities of life for living out of a car. As we were leaving two kids rode up to our van in complete awe. "Is that your van?" One asked. I responded, "No we rented it" The kids' imagination was further inflamed, "You can rent that? That's (some Australian slang I don't remember or couldn't understand)" He then thought for a moment, "where're you from mate" I borrowed Collette's patented response and said we were from Santa Cruz California. The excitement was palatable and he almost shouted," Do you know Pamela Anderson?" I nodded sadly, "No". Later I thought of a more appropriate response, "We hang out together sometimes but does anybody really know her?" My response was completely ignored because he said," She's hot". I nodded in acknowledgment and have exhausted our only topic in common we lapsed into silence and then drove off.Once in Byron Bay we walked out onto one of the major beaches bordering the main town to let Collette go to a playground. There right in front of us was our first encounter with a stereotypical Aussie. He had big boots on, wool socks pulled up as high as they could reach onto his thigh, a shirt with lots of pockets tucked into shorts with lots of pockets, and a big floppy bush hat. The whole ensemble was of brown earth tones. Every stitch had a purpose and the outfit was completely utilitarian with little concern for aesthetics. This was the antithesis of everything we saw in Rome where everything looked great but you couldn't run in it. He looked like the crocodile hunter. I didn't expect to see someone dressed exactly like a travel brochure but I was proved wrong time and time again. Later we got used to it and didn't think much of it except for the wide and unusual assortment of hats. To not wear a funny floppy broad brimmed hat marks you as unusual and an outsider. Even the school children wore big brimmed hats with their English looking uniforms. I know this because as we walked by a middle school on an ill-advised search for a play center I saw a girl crying into her hat. The brim was big enough to hide her face and most of her head as she suffered from some love affair gone afoul. As for woman's' fashion, it is good to know that Flash Dance never went out of style.Everybody raves about Byron Bay. We found it to be just so-so, 50%, just OK, and so on. It had some remnants of Santa Cruz such as a lot of crystal shops and new age bookstores and a place offering Aura Photography. We also noticed a peculiar observation that the majority of the town seemed to be under twenty. I started to ponder all the science fiction stories where they get rid off (Star Trek), eat (Solent Green) or generally kill (Logan's Run) the elderly. The answer to the riddle was not as elaborate as my imagination or that of the science fiction community. This was our introduction to schoolies. Schoolies are kids who have just graduated high school and are out to celebrate this high academic achievement by getting drunk and flirting. Huge tour busses would disgorge them in the middle of the town and then at night we would see them lined up outside the nightclub. The girls all decked out in pastel dresses & leggings from the eighties and the guys wearing a t-shirt and board shorts. They seemed reasonably well behaved compared to their US equivalents. I surfed a beach break on a choppy wind swell. It was fun but not great. The wind never ceased, not at night, not in the morning and certainly not as the day progressed. These were the north easterlies and they were the predominant and never ceasing winds of the Australian summer. Later that evening while in the caravan park we discovered that we couldn't open the back of the van. This was a serious problem because all of our food and camping gear were in the back. The van was mocking; we could see our bags of food and the gleam of cheap aluminum pans through the rear window. In addition the sleeping arrangement was not good. They advertised it could sleep three adults but there was only one large bed. All of us were sleeping on a large foam pad like a hillbilly family and little miss Kicky McGee was making sure our sleep time limited. Ohh yeah, the dome lights didn't work. Isn't that why we had the industrial revolution? Looking for your toothbrush by starlight doesn't cut it. After talking with Wicked who said they could send a replacement van "the day after tomorrow" we made a command decision. Instead of spending the time we have in Australia dealing with the van we decided to drive back to Brisbane and go with another company. Crap, more driving, less surfing, and lost days. The camper van we finally rented was efficient and not of an ungainly size. It had a sink, a large bed, a bed for Collette, refrigerator, and a gas stove. Some of the warning stickers on it gave me pause and concern. My favorite was "Do not swerve to avoid Kangaroos". The large kangaroo guard on the front added an exclamation point. In less poetic terms the Wicked van sticker said," Do not swerve to avoid a kangaroo; if you do you are a dickhead and will roll four times." SandalwoodWe finally made it past Byron Bay to find a way out of the way caravan park named Sandalwood. It contained an odd assortment of permanent trailers, custom vans/mobile homes and hybrids of both. Resembling a farm more than a campsite it contained a barn, pens of cows and horses, a main farmhouse, and lots of green space. It was like visiting an uncle and within thirty minutes the owner knew our names and already told me how his wife was a marine biologists from Cairns. He had also taken Collette to see the newly born colt as it stood uncertainly on twig like angular legs. The horses name was Harry Trotter because of a white birthmark on its forehead on an otherwise brown body. Collette bubbled over with the news telling me she saw a horse and what the horse looked like, what the horse did, and if the horse ate. A sign of the coziness of the place was the bathrooms. They were spotless, had fresh picked flowers in them and even had bathtubs. Later as I pushed Collette in a swing and was incessantly eaten by sand flies and mozzies I chatted with one of the local residence as he pushed his daughter and swatted his extremities. The conversation was just chatting but it was peasant and gave Collette time to bond with her new friend. When it was time to leave we had to pull her away from the trailer and her new friend as she wailed like an Italian police car and hot tears streaked her face. Sandalwood was our first glimpse into what appeared to be the Australian countryside and it was a relaxing and awarding experience. YambaChristy highly approved of the next trailer park (called caravan park in Australian) that offered "ensuite" bathrooms. Our own little building next to our van. Collette also was excited for the play room, including little cars that the toddlers could get into traffic accidents and then fight (average time between tears was about five minutes), two playgrounds, and two swimming pools. The one pool had two water slides. Collette was dubious of them at first and kept her distance like a cat from a dog until we tried it once. As we started to pick up speed I could feel her little body tighten up on my lap. We hit the water and I searched for a reaction from her to see how she liked it and I was rewarded by laughter. After that the only word she said between giggles was "again!" As we were swimming the wind began to pick up until leaves stated skiting the water like water bugs and then pieces of branches and then the air was swarming with palm tree parts. The wind continued to climb in ferocity and the sound intensified like a giant animal moaning. Noticing we were the only ones left in the pool we scrambled out and sought the sanctuary of the van. The rest of the evening the van rocked to the wind and small whistles emanated from the cracks. The windstorm was exciting and created quite a stir. Every time there was a lull in a conversation I would mention what about the windstorm. "ohhh yeah mate quite the odd blow and I fancy doollow wooliky (and a bunch of other words I don't understand)" The next morning we went into town. A classical looking fifties town that had one main street, a surf shop, fish and chips, souvenir shop, a record store and a few other odd shops. After Byron Bay relaxation seemed to emanate from the town and we spent an afternoon exploring and trying to get Collette out of any store that had toys in it. In a very short period of time she had memorized which were good store toys and now we couldn't even pass by them without an outstretched finger toward her desired direction, then denial and then a thirty percent chance of tears. To my delight the surf shop was all tuff lights and I fondled every board in the shop like a long lost lover. Here I was given an example of the Aussie temperament. The surf shop owner would go in and out of the store on errands. In the meantime his wife and kid were manning the register. I asked her some questions about a trade-in. She went and got her husband and I asked him my questions (too complicated to go into here but I now had two boards) and my interest in the Weber board. He said, "Oh mate, I don't have the 6'6" but I got the 6'4", you can give her a go." I excitedly responded, "You mean I can rent the 6'4"? He looked at my incredulously with a look as if to say we don't operate that way here mate this is Australia and said, "No rent, you can just take it out." I vowed to myself I would do just that. The beach was the typical Aussie postcard: A long white beach that crunched under your feet like walking on bleached flower, clear blue water, and a rocky outcropping on one end. A few guys were out on the small odd angled beach break and I was just happy to be there and have a chance to surf. The next day brought in increase in swell but the dreaded winds were left over from the previous night so I couldn't borrow the board. We drove further south to Angourie. A famous right point break that had size but also was full of chop and unsettled conditions. I had a very difficult time figuring out the break as it broke close to the boulders and getting my footing. Everybody was in full suits and I had trunks and a vest and the water was unseasonable cold, a situation that plagued us most of the way. Later on I figured that the last shop sold me warm water wax and the next shop sold me cold water wax and some of my slipping was due to poor wax decisions. I was busy psychologically beating myself about my surfing when a big Aussie walked by carrying a larger gun hybrid walked by. I complained and he was all smiles and said that was the best surf they had gotten in four months and it was fun. The message to me was loud and clear, "get over it mate, have another go." I was happier, learned something and my pouting faded. Thanks mate.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1163378700/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1163378700/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1163378700/tpod.html Tue, 12 Dec 2006 01:10:30 -0500 Fez Monkey's Trip Around the World

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Ubud, Indonesia

We hooked up with Adam and packed ourselves into a modern air-conditioned minivan to the mountain town of Ubud. Once there we checked into a "hotel". Our amiable host, who always lingered around after doing any errand to chat in cryptic English, dropped off some tea. After ten minutes we deciphered that he was describing a local Balinese dance show scheduled for that night. We bought our tickets from him and showed the brochure to Collette, "Look Collette it has a horse and it's a fire dance". Some retro hippies had been doing a fire dance in the main square in Poland and this had made a large and lasting impression on her tiny mind. She would often twirl a sock in each hand and gleefully shout, "Fire dance!" The show consisted of about forty men in concentric circles who would recreate Gamelan music with their voices by a series of abrupt chants and songs. Their arms would shoot straight out and their outspread fingers would flutter while they chanted in short outbursts,"ticka ticka ticka" In the center of the circle a few dancers with wide staring eyes and jerky exact finger movements portrayed the classical Balinese dance. This part of the show ended with the bad monkey being defeated in an epic battle with the good king (Christy remembers it exactly opposite). Collette was not impressed. Next, some workers brought out some knee high metal barricades and unceremoniously lit a moderate pile of coconuts on fire. The choir continued to emit the combination of singing and noises while a man in bare feet holding a colorful and wildly adorned horse head began a horse dance. With the combination of fire and a horse Collette's posture improved significantly and her eyes were as big as mine while crossing the street in Rome. Suddenly, the horseman kicked the pile and sent streaming pieces of flaming coconut into the barrier with a metallic bang. Each coconut looked like a meteor leaving a tail of sparks and fire. After the pile was spread he would gallop through the embers until three sweepers reassembled the pile. Collette was thoroughly entertained. The horse man did it two more times and on the third try a coconut cleared the barrier and skidded to a stop with a burst of sparks in front of two young Japanese girls. They remained completely rigid until the sweepers got the coconut back into its pen. One of the girls then proceeded to cover her mouth with a tissue and gave a few feminine coughs. The horse fire dance gained another half tourist star just for that. The show was exotic and entertaining and it wasn't too hard to pick out my and Collette's favorite part. Monkey Forest Sanctuary. We had to take Collette to the Monkey Forest. How could we not? Walking up the road that lead into the Monkey Forest we could see a few of the Beagle-sized monkeys either running around or sprawled out on the road with their limbs spread out and occasionally yawning. It seemed like a good idea so we bought a bushel of bananas from a nice woman and her kid and proceeded to feed the monkeys. Suddenly monkeys started coming out of the jungle and from the trees. Big monkeys, fast monkeys, aggressive monkeys. There is major difference between seeing one or two wild animals in a cage to seeing twenty or thirty wild animals within grabbing distance. The bigger ones began to demand bananas and would drive off the little ones with a sound between a snarl and a cat hiss. The trickier ones would come up behind you and pull on your clothes so you would suddenly feel the pressure of a little hand on you and in self-defense would fling the banana hoping that it would run after it. At one point I hid the bushel behind my back. This was before reading the sign that explicit ably read," Do not hide the food. Monkeys will find it." My favorite part of the sign read, "if a monkey jumps on you drop your food and walk away slowly." Holy crap, I don't know what I would do if a monkey jumped on me but it wouldn't be slowly. We ran into an Australian woman by herself and she was starting to freak out. When she saw us feeding the monkeys she said in a cracking voice," You guys are brave." She tagged along with us for comfort and moral support. She even tried to get her boyfriend on her cell phone. When she saw the amount of attention the bananas was getting us she had a real dilemma. Stay with people but the people are bringing more monkeys, agitated monkeys. In the end she jittered off. Within five minutes our bushel was gone and Collette was very happy. As soon as she saw that the bananas were gone she started to demand more. Very similar to the simian behavior we had just witnessed. We trudged through the humid rain forest that made up the animal park and came upon a few "Indiana Jones" temples. One had statues of demon like creatures eating children with long cow like tongues. At the highest temple we bought more bananas. I did not hide them and they were gone in three minutes. Collette could not get enough of handing the monkeys the food and I am constantly reminded of her fanatical fascination with animals. At the center of the park was a small pool. The monkeys were swimming in it and jumping off of the overhanging braches to splash their friends and then play with them. When the monkeys jumped they would relax their limbs but not move them. Collette at this time is very into swimming and she had the exact same style of leaping into the pool. Once again I could see distinct and identical play and feeding patterns between the monkeys and our three year old. Monkey Forest. Had to do it. Great fun.It's hot. Bali is hot. Bali is hot and humid. Especially Ubud. The heat makes it difficult and irritating to walk around over the crumbled sidewalks in the middle of the day. It's not uncommon to walk into a store and not see the sales clerk. Once you start looking around at the carvings or t-shirts the sales clerk pops up and then depending on their personality launches into an aggressive or moderate sales pitch. Before this they were lying on the floor of the shop like dogs do on sweltering days. One lady arose to tell us "it's hot". She seemed a little subconscious and stammered it like it was an excuse for her midday nap. Announcing that it was hot was completely unnecessary. We knew very well it was hot and every person in the city knew it was hot. My damp shirt reminded me it was hot and Christy's erratic behavior and sluggish movements told me it was hot.Ubud is known for its paintings, woodcarving, and general arty souvenirs. The streets are lined with these stores and everybody is a part time artist. The taxi driver or the hotel clerk will go into great details about his prowess with a paintbrush. And then ask you if you would like to buy an original painting. We felt obligated to buy something so we bought a carving of an elephant, which we packed, with some of our clothes. If the many arms of the elephant gods are good to us it should show up in late January. There is an interesting ritual tied to buying things in Bali. First everything is associated with luck. "My friend if you buy this on Tuesday (fill in the blank with any day) it will bring good luck" or "If you buy this in the morning it will bring good luck". Then once the sale is complete the owner will take the handful of money and smack it on the surrounding merchandise like swatting flies. The baffled look on my face gave me away because he explained," This will bring good luck and more customers." That's funny because money has brought us nothing but bad luck; please don't smack me. After two days we discovered that the hotel right down the street had air conditioning, a larger room, a swimming pool, and the bathroom was moderately cockroach free. Against all intuition it was also less expensive. We packed up our bags and moved down the street to live in more comfort and Christy had a refuge from the infernal heat. I expected the mountain town of Ubud to be an idyllic hillside sanctuary, with open rice fields and thatched huts perched on bamboo stilts. What we found was a moderate sized town with streets and a fair amount of "excuse me sirs". It was fun to browse but the heat and the absence of the ocean made it less appealing. We packed and made plans to visit the holy sight of surfing, the spiritual center of soul surfing, the famed and mysterious break of Uluwatu.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1162686300/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1162686300/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1162686300/tpod.html Tue, 05 Dec 2006 19:15:20 -0500 Fez Monkey's Trip Around the World

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Kuta, Indonesia

Kuta beach is packed and frantic with everything. Taxis, scooters, tourists, and carts tied to hot, bored donkeys. And this is low season. Every few yards someone will ask you a question or try to sell you something. The taxi drivers are a little more lazy, they just slow down and honk. It's consumerism based on annoyance and I haven't been this hassled since Turkey and the Grand Bazzare. I never thought it would happen but now I dread the words, " hello sir." Do they really think that you forgot to get a taxi and now by honking you will suddenly remember that you need a taxi? I went for my first surf in three months to return to our rented umbrella to find Collette surrounded by no less than three Balinese women. Two were braiding her hair and one was doing her nails. She looked like a very high maintenance Egyptian princess and now had the nails to prove it. In the end she looked like the alien in the movie Predator. This is a difficult sentence because there is also the movie called Alien and at one point another movie was made where the Alien and the Predator fought each other (Alien vs. Predator). I don't know who won.Getting things done here has been difficult and the only analogue I could conjure up is to go into Circuit City and ask someone to help you with your calculus homework. In most European countries they know more English than they will reveal because they feel subconscious. In Bali they know less and will encourage you with head nods and words to keep explaining your plans until you realize the responses you are getting have nothing to do with your goal and that the conversation has wound its way to a place of nonsense. In the end both parties are confused but smiling politely. Our hotel was comfortable, had a swimming pool, outside restaurant (all of them contain no walls) and a spacious room. The only complaint was the dull thump and stray chords of the electric piano heard from downstairs as they belted out Indonesian and Western songs including such favorites as Paradise City and Desperado. They even dabbled in Karaoke and anybody could have a go at the mike, and they did too. The hotel acted as a sanctuary from the constant buzz and attention of street vendors. It's a difficult dilemma because the Balinese are incredibly generous and open people but you have to be stern with the vendors. Knowing the difference is an art form. For example, the lady who painted Collette's nails did it without Christy's permission and then demanded money. The guy who rented us an umbrella and a beach lounge carried Collette to the beach showers and cleaned the sand off of her like a dutiful father. We bought some of the Indonesian national dress, this is a "Bin Tang" t-shirts or tank tops. Bin Tang is huge and going five minutes without seeing its logo makes me feel like something is missing and thus fundamentally wrong. Like going into a church and not seeing a cross or a school with any pencils. Even as I write this I forgot how to spell Bin Tang. Luckily for me I was wearing the shirt and a quick glance down cleared up any spelling issues. Buying anything in Indo is a long and uncomfortable process. Any vendor, taxi driver, and some stores spend a good portion of their day engaged in haggling. They start about twice the price and go from there. Usually about a third of the way through this mysterious haggling process it dawns on you that to haggle the necessary fifteen more minutes might save you 72 cents. I value my time more than anything below a dollar and I throw in the towel. The exchange rate was 9000 rupiah to one dollar which made everything incredibly cheap but difficult to calculate exchange rates. Quickly, if something cost 175600 how many dollars is this? (hint go to 10,000 per dollar) I spent 2 percent of my time in Indo counting the number of zeros on the bills.I also bought my board after a long pondering sweaty walk down a couple dirty dusty streets. It is the JC 6'8" tuff light. Ironically it is the Peter Mel model, my good friend from Santa Cruz (he has seen me in his shop a couple of times). Of course our credit card did not work because we forgot to mention our one day stop over in Thailand.Some people spend their entire vacation in Kuta beach. Being sober this is a mystery to us. The long expansive black beach was a postcard but the heat, constant attention, haggling, and busy streets left us depleted of physical and mental energy. It was like a video game were we started out each day with a specific number of energy points. Each hit would deplete our reserve. A taxi driver honking his horn, -3 pts, crossing the street through the random currents of scooters and cars, -25 pts, a random excuse me sir, -10pts, and hearing karaoke past ten o'clock, -150 pts. Kuta, I was glad we saw it but I was ready to move on.Having said that we have since returned to Kuta a few times and each time stirs up a little nostalgia. Driving past we excitedly point at our old hotel and the vendors seem less intimidating and have been reduced to an annoying part of the landscape, like flies or sudden gusts of sand laden wind at the beach. Something to be tolerated but not feared. We are giving Kuta a mixed and diluted review but I still feel sorry for anybody who spends their entire vacation there.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1163032680/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1163032680/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1163032680/tpod.html Tue, 05 Dec 2006 19:09:53 -0500 Fez Monkey's Trip Around the World

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Medewi, Indonesia

As in some other places in the world I have visited Bali has a smoky smell and the air is blurred with a soft haze. The rampant trash and vegetation burning surrounds every town leaves them in a perpetual tan mist. Throughout the restaurants, buildings, and countryside the Indonesians leave out small offerings. These consist of a six-inch square box constructed of sturdy leaves that is filled with fruit, flowers, rice, incense, and an assortment of other things that I didn't pay attention to. The incense clouds and smell is all pervasive and I cannot separate Bali from the memory of the incense. Underneath the tables mosquito coils would smolder trying to dissuade the mozzies from feasting on our flesh. These odors and blurry landscape gave Bali a dream like quality. The border of reality smeared by the haze and heat like an exotic dream of palm trees and blue transparent ocean.We turned off the main road onto a smaller one and headed about a half mile to its termination at the sea. Facing the ocean and its rocky shore we checked out a hotel. Christy quickly vetoed it when her nose detected unknown and unwanted smells. I didn't tell her about the bucket for a sink. Across the road we noted a nice hotel that included a pool, air conditioning, breakfast, and an open bathroom. It is not uncommon to have half of a bathroom open to the elements. The rain waters the plants but the sink and showers are covered. This room cost us an extra five dollars a day and the other place did not include breakfast. The hotel was separated from the beach by a small fence. Directly in front were mostly rocks but as the coastline curved inland it turned to sand on which twenty or thirty colorful fishing boats rested. Past them the beach continued outlined in palm trees until the next point. The surfing break was directly in front of the hotel and I would press my face between the bars of the fence watching the surf while Collette rambled off to cause mischief completely fatherless. The break reminded me off Davenport with all of its benefits and its downfalls. It was a long left but picking the wrong wave would give one cutback and then a mushy shoulder. They looked beautiful coming in but did not always deliver on your expectations. To avoid the mushiness the local kids surfed the inside where the waves were shorter but provided more zip. High tide was the optimal time but I surfed early in the morning rising at 5:45 to beat the wind and my schedule did not always coincide with the best conditions. Low tide demanded reef booties and careful plodding steps over the barnacle infested boulders the size of cantelopes. I was happy to be surfing again, even though I was not surfing up to my expectations (self deprecation of my surfing skills is a hobby of mine). Being in the water felt good, catching waves great, and being part of the ocean washing and off the dirt of 3 months of land travel ecstatic. About my second surf I heard a PA system from the shore announcing prayer. This was a Muslim section of Bali and one of the Australians told me that during prayer time was a good time to surf because the locals were praying and the surf got less crowded. I never imagined a religion contributing to such a worthy cause and I might have to reconsider my opinion of organized religion. As I listened to the PA system the voice became more animated. It would die down and then suddenly get louder in obvious excitement. I thought this is the most vigorous call to prayer I have ever heard. This preacher (or Muslim equivalent) made a Baptist minister sound like a chemistry lecture. When I came in I walked past the field to discover that what I mistook as a sermon was actually a soccer match. The hotel was about at fifteen percent capacity so we got to know the inner workings and comings and goings of all of the travelers. It was like a small town where the business of others was your business and gossip and idle chatter was a past time. In the water of Santa Cruz I am a sullen surfer bent on catching what I have determined is my fare share of waves. In Mendewi I took a low-key approach and chatted in the line up like a TV game show host. More then half the travelers were from Europe and the line up resembled a Vienna café. I always thought that someone from San Jose lived an incredible distance from the ocean but these travelers were from countries that didn't even have a surfable coast. My eyes filled with pity but my arms seemed to show no remorse whatsoever as I tried to catch any waves that they faltered on. By the end of the third day I knew who was leaving when and were everybody was staying. Esco the German was staying the longest, his friend the quiet guy from Austria was leaving one day before us, and the Japanese traveling by himself doesn't speak much English, so I don't know what he is up to. Every evening we would walk up the road to eat at a better restaurant. There the French guy and his girlfriend stayed along with James, a nice bloke from England. Of course there were heaps of friendly outgoing Australians and one filled me in on where to go on the Gold Coast. Thanks mate. If the surf was small out front everyone would pile into Adams car and at six in the morning and he would take us to Balian. The local, never flat beach break. One evening as we were walking to the restaurant up the street a whole swarm of kids descended on us like moths around a light. Clad in white and with skullcaps they were on their way to a religious ceremony. They greeted Collette with smiles and reached out their hands to touch her. At first she would have nothing to do with it and then started grabbing their arms and hands. I couldn't tell if she did it out of affection or just for the sake of grabbing so later on I asked her if she liked all of the kids and she said, "Yeah, I liked them." The moment they swarmed around us it was an exotic experience that was completely alien to home. In search of the all-powerful ATM we boarded the local small bus that sputtered and rambled us into the next larger town, Nigera. The only reason I remember its name is because it sounds like sushi. The local buses are all privately owned so there is no fixed time of departure. You stand by the road and watch the waves of heat rise off of the black asphalt until the small bus pulls up. You jump on and sit amongst the other sullen and subdued passengers as it sounds and lurches like an unbalanced washing machine. The seats are patched and the windows are open to catch any available breeze. There are two people who operate the buses, a driver and a driver helper. The bus jockey's job is to silicate more customers; hang out the door and help passengers' board, and to collect money. He is also a wealth of information and easy to part with advice. On the way back we hopped on the bus. In the beginning we were worried because at every garage the driver would ask a bunch of questions in rapid fire Indonesian. Unsatisfied with the answers we would set out again at an appalling slow pace. My imagination ran rampant with possible impending mechanic failures. To have something to occupy our minds away from our progress we passed out some of Collette's popcorn to a fellow child traveler. Her mom promptly put her feet up and fell asleep to the uneven rocking. Unfortunately I was one row up from her and I kept feeling something in my front pocket. It turned out to be her toe. Worried she might have a nightmare or some other dream requiring rapid movement I would discreetly move away until it stopped invading my pocket and my sense of good hygiene. Stiff jointed we angled out of the bus and took in the town of Nigera. The main street was barely paved and was lined with an assortment of shops. We browsed trying not to stay in one place for too long or the heat would build up. We bought our quota of shirts and toys for Collette. The establishments whether clothing stores or restaurants have a ratio of about three to one workers to customers. A clothing shop with five customers might have ten sales clerks. If we get distracted and Collette wanders off we often find her by the front of the store being entertained by three to five giggling sales girls. The hotel restaurant has long periods of time when there are no customers so this time is consumed by watching TV. It's not uncommon to see the hotel guy behind the desk in a semi-conscious state with half closed lids and pupils the size of quarters (225 Rupia) staring at a place beyond the horizon. After trying the main street we took a small alleyway that wound its way into a partly covered market. The lanes were barely passable because of baskets containing spices and food and racks of cloths spilled into the walkways. A complex smell of spices, fish and hot humans covered the air. Collette made quite a stir and as we zigzagged through the lanes black haired heads turned and smiled. Many reached out to touch her white hair or give her should or arm a passing pinch. Collette was on so-so behavior and at one point I thought she made a swift kick at a lady blocking her progress. As mentioned the spread out cottages that made up the hotel were sparsely occupied. This gave the opportunity for the staff to get to know us. Well they got to know Collette and paid a passing interest in us. In the morning the staff of young women would call out to Collette in high-pitched singsong voices waving with smiles, "Collette, Collette". One morning Collette took time off from throwing things and grabbing the silverware to give one of them a hug and kiss. When it came to depart Mendewi I picked Collette up to give a final farewell and thanks to everybody at the hotel. The entire staff was in the front room of the restaurant watching TV. They rose at once and waved and said good-bye to Collette. Everybody was so friendly it made me feel good. The attention was overwhelming and Collette shrank into my arms.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1162440420/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1162440420/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1162440420/tpod.html Wed, 22 Nov 2006 23:10:43 -0500 Fez Monkey's Trip Around the World

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Bangkok, Thailand

We have two words to carry with us from our memories of Bangkok: Thai Buffet. The thirteen hours from London was surprisingly less of a hurtle than we had braced for. In retrospect we had done many eighteen or more hour travel days. Sure, changing types of transports broke these up: Bus to train, ferry to golf cart, or my personal favorite; bus, ferry, ferry, bus. Before launching into one of these days I would squat down next to Collette and explain, "Collette, today we are going to go on a train, then a boat and than a car, OK?" She looks blankly ahead and says, "yeah." "You like trains don't you?" Same far away look, "yeah." Off we go. Landing in Bangkok's newly finished and massive airport we found our hotel driver. He was all smiles, talkative and had great ambitions for us. "Tomorrow you see Palace, beautiful place, must see, or perhaps see Elephants at Animal Park or see River Karu. Meet me at 7a.m. in the lobby." Wiped out from lack of sleep I mumbled something completely noncommittal and looked over at him with pupils the size of a drug addict's. Unfortunately we arrived at eight in the morning and had the whole day and night to overcome. Dizzy and confused with lack of sleep we walked into the hotel's dining area. There at various manned stations was every form of Thai cuisine. It was all you could eat and delicious. Eating more vegetables in one sitting than I did in all of Eastern Europe I was full and my mouth was tingling with the residue of hot spices. Collette and I tackled the roof top pool while Christy rested and I prepared for the evening buffet. Trying to stay awake we headed for the local mall, which was past some vendors and through some incredibly hot and sticky parking lots. At the door to one of the department stores was a greeter dressed like an admiral in all white. He saluted us as we sought shelter of their air conditioner. I didn't know what to do so I avoided eye contact and marched through the door. On the walk back a special thing happened. My thongs were separating and as we melted in the heat we passed a man repairing shoes in the street. Without a word being passed between us I showed him my thongs and he glued them together indicating that I should hold them closed for an extended period of time. Forty cents later my thongs were repaired and I was especially pleased with myself. Like I had planned this the whole time and it was through my cunning and intellect that I came upon the repairman. At the very least I thought special things happen to special people and I must be very special indeed to have been this lucky.Early the next morning the same cab driver poked his head into the hotel and we were whisked back to the airport. Earlier we had noticed that many of the people were wearing a yellow t-shirt with a complex symbol on the breast pocket and scrolly Thai writing on the sleeves. It seemed to be a national uniform much like Bing Tang t-shirts are the national uniform of Indonesia. At the admiral's mall we had bought Collette one of these mysterious t-shirts. I asked our driver about them and he explained that they were commemorating the fifty year (or 35?) anniversary of the king and that the yellow color signified Monday, the day of his birth. Each day of the week had a specific color assigned to it but the driver was a little hazy when we pressed him for the remaining colors. "I think Tuesday is purple, perhaps red." This homage to the king was consistent through out Bangkok and at each of the ramps leading to the airplanes written in stylized printing was "Long live the king."Our room overlooked the sprawling industrial landscape of Bangkok. High rises poked out of the haze and the whole was covered in a blanket of heat and smog. I couldn't imagine anybody visiting Bangkok without a specific reason, such as Thai buffets. Bye-bye Bangkok and hello Bali.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1162266720/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1162266720/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1162266720/tpod.html Wed, 22 Nov 2006 23:05:10 -0500 Fez Monkey's Trip Around the World

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London, United Kingdom

I must apologize to the queen. We didn't see much of her country or many of the sites. It was not for lacking of desire, but rather how England fitted into our travel plans. We saw London as a break, a way to recharge our batteries, and a place to take care of things neglected. I felt like we were on the Amazing Race and Phil was telling us," This is your first and only pit stop on your race around the world." If the Queen has a gripe then she should get off her fanny, tighten up her tarter knickers, and haul her toddler around the world. However, I am sure the Queen is comfortable with it, and so I will stick to my original apology: sorry your majesty. Leaving Rome was not too bad: a subway to a bus in the predawn still, a two-hour flight, a forty-five minute train ride, and finally a half hour ride on the tube. After seeing my cousin Colleen at the stop light she had to make a few passes until we could load our colossal luggage into her car and head for the house. The house was graceful with a subdued grandeur, and I must confess it was one of the few times on our trip where there was nothing weird about the place. The doors opened easily, the toilets were quiet and efficient, there were numerous trashcans, and the electricity didn't hum, blink, or go out. There were towels and I was amazed when I noticed that the bathroom floor was heated. We were deeply impressed. Colleen asked us what we wanted to do in England and I replied that we just wanted to rest up. She asked again so I had to come up with a few items:1) see the queen 2) see a punk rocker 3) eat fish and chips in a pub 4) drink beer in a pub with the name of the pub being two distinct words that can stand on their own, like the Broken Lance or the Haughty Blacksmith. 5) see some coolly dressed young people with really bad teeth. Colleen laughed and asked us what we wanted to do again. I narrowed it down to the pub and some fish and chips. It dawned on her that we had no grand ambitions to see the "big" sites such as Westminister Abbey or the London Bridge. Christy and I had both been to London before so we felt justified in our slothic schedule. Colleen and Eric have two kids: Calvin, who just turned 7, and Kennedy, who is about Collette's age (3). Kennedy had a bedroom and a playroom stuffed with bears, dolls, play kitchens and any other type of toy imaginable. Collette was impressed. Colleen and Eric also employed a nanny from Czech Republic named Camilla who was both friendly and competent. For the next three days Collette barely noticed us, and she spent her days dressed as a fairy playing and bugging their big farting dog, Monty. This dog was huge, smelly, and had a head with the bone structure of a Klingon. Through no encouragement on my behalf he took a liking to me and would rest his head on my lap when I was trying to eat. This was exactly what we were looking for and we were free to relax and plan our next phase of the trip. Colleen took us around to a local bangers and mash restaurant that we would have never found on our own. The food was simple but immensely pleasing and I got to listen in on some young people who were coolly dressed but their prominent teeth were jutting out at strange and obscure angels. I couldn't understand what they were saying because of the thick accents but I did get to cross a site off of my list. We also had the exciting new pleasure of being able to buy coffee in a portable cup and walk around. In Europe, for some unknown reason, this is frowned upon and is impossible to get. In the US it's taken for granted, like shoelaces. Sporting our warm cups we smugly ambled down the street looking at vendors, and I browsed a vinyl-only record store and thought of my friend Dan. Not very exciting, I agree, but the freedom without the blonde monkey was a rare and special commodity and we would feel relaxed doing almost anything. One evening Eric and Colleen took us to a local pub. It was crowded, dark, the ceiling was low, and it was full of rich dark wood tones. I loved it. We squeezed past a small doorway to sit outside and I finally enjoyed my fish and chips. Later they took us to a gaudy and trendy bar for some expensive and much needed cocktails. Cozily we sat next to the fire, people watched, and chatted. It was a very adult evening and contrasted greatly with the evenings we have had trying to grab forks and pepper shakers away from Collette. Thanks to Colleen and Eric's immense and seemingly endless hospitality we had a fantastic evening. Up until we arrived in England it had been difficult to have open and in depth conversations with other adults. We are constantly on the move and it's poor taste to unload your personnel problems onto strangers. Except in Santa Cruz where this behavior is widely accepted. It's not uncommon to have someone bag your groceries and tell you how their niece does not fit in at Thanksgiving and that's why they have been having these headaches. When we first arrived we unloaded on Colleen all of our personal concerns for our financial situation and our troubles at home. Christy becomes especially animated when she describes the aesthetics of our former tenant that stiffed us a substantial amount of money. "His teeth are like baked beans, and then you should see his toe nails, they're long and brown, he's disgusting" she holds up her hands like an exclamation mark. Our goal was not to burden Colleen with our problems but rather to alleviate our fears by talking to someone else. Colleen & Eric were not only patient listening to us but also supported us by paying for many of our joint activities. Sometimes I felt I was like a kid because our financial situation limited our freedom. However, if I was being generous to someone else and they could not accept it at face value I would think that they are petty and immature. We showed up with no gift (we never try to buy anything bigger than a fist) and no ability to pay them back except for our anemic thanks. It was a heartfelt thanks because their generosity and thoughtfulness gave us a relaxing and much needed rest in England. I cannot be more sincere in saying, thanks, Colleen and Eric. Also thanks to Camille for watching Collette. At this point we have built up a colossal karmic debt and we are afraid of being reincarnated as a newts. Collette would be exempt due to innocence and age. Rested and ready for more action, Eric again displayed his kindness by driving us to the airport. Waving goodbye we boarded the plane to start the surfing part of our trip. I didn't see the queen but we sure liked her country.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1162092420/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1162092420/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/fezmonkey/bigtrip-2006/1162092420/tpod.html Thu, 16 Nov 2006 00:14:13 -0500 Fez Monkey's Trip Around the World

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Rome, Italy

Sitting on the train across from a young Italian couple we watched the fields and crops wiz by our window in a colorful blur. Occasionally a hill would emerge in the distance crowned by a medieval city and an accompanying church or castle in various states of repair. Rain sporadically lashed at the window leaving long thin streaks due to the trains speed. Once we hit the coast I looked out to see something I was not expecting: surfers. There were about twenty of them stretched out along a rocky coastline, bobbing in the two to three foot sloppy wind swell. It made my heart race. I thought of upcoming Bali when I would return to the water and all of the emotions I tie to surfing came rushing back. It was like reading the forward on a book. In all I took it as a sign of good luck even though I have as of yet to see this luck manifest itself.The hotel had two contradictory qualities. It was expensive and had the least amount of information and help. Even when Dora was yelling at us in Korcula she would still tell us where to do laundry or where to get Internet access. This hotel took one day for the guy to tell us they had wireless, another day to tell us it only worked in the basement and give us part of the password, and a third day for a new lady to actually produce a booklet of directions. We asked them on how to get to the airport and the guy immediately picked up the phone, "I will call you a car." Surprised I jumped in, "How much?" He said,"45 euros." Startled I tried to use my psychokinetic powers to have him put down the phone. Using words we told him we would have to think about it which translates into there is no way we are going to do it. Later on we probed him on using the bus and train but he was vague and aloof. In the end we took the subway and a bus for six euros. In your face lobby dude.Finding a church in Rome is like finding a crying kid at a preschool. Even our hotel was within orange-throwing distance of a church that in most cities would be their cultural centerpiece, their claim to a rich and full heritage. Here in Rome it was another church on another street.Tired but dedicated to being efficient tourists we wanted to knock at least one major site of the long list of "things you must see in Rome (or any other place we have been)". I dread and will be angry to hear from somebody, "You went to Rome and you didn't see (fill in the blank)?" You haul your 15.2 kg toddler up and down those stairs and put her on bus 14 when she is crying because she couldn't pet some feral cat. Toddlers are the most impatient species known to man and are not conducive to long lines. Anyway, we try our best and the first site in the cross hairs was the Pantheon. Armed with a good map, which is of great importance, we rambled around the streets awe struck by the beautiful and majestic buildings. Like in Prague the closer we looked at a building the more details began to emerge, statues lining the roof, faces carved into the corner pillars, stone carved horses above the door. In the far past the Pantheon had the distinction of having the largest dome. Of course it was inspiring and huge. The dome had an open top and a few droplets of rain floated the several hundred feet to burst on the floor next to the special drains designed for this purpose. We spent some extra time in front, underneath the immense Roman pillars with a bunch of other wet tourists to wait the ceasing of the last rainsquall. Later on we read that this is where people met anytime it rains. We also had a chance to get acquainted with another famous Roman feature, the traffic. My analogy for crossing the street is like jumping off a rock to go surfing. Before you jump you have to look outside to see if there are any impending sets, this is like looking for the cars. Then you have to see the little waves in your immediate vicinity, this is like the scooters. If all looks well you jump and use your wits and dexterity to make it to the line up, or in this case across the street. It is always chaotic and like the ocean it is never the same and in constant flux. Day two, Rome. The big sites. We decided to be ambitious and see Saint Peter's and the Sistine Chapel in the same day. Deluded or ambitious I cannot say which. Walking from the hotel we neared the thick forty-foot high brick wall that separated Vatican City from the street. To our great dismay a line six people across and worthy of a rock concert hugged the base of the wall, ran down the entire street and around the corner. We had to do it so we took our place and prepared for the cutting and pushing. Maybe our luck did change because next to us was a nice (they always are) Canadian couple who also lacked any foresight and had their three year old girl with them. The two kids seemed to cancel each other's energy out, like matter and antimatter, and the time in line went by peacefully. At the front of the entrance Christy found a fifty euro note so we paid our admission as well as the Canadians. Vatican city was amazing and I direct you to any number of books with glossy photos of the statues and art contained there to appreciate them. The one item I will mention is that the long hallways including the ceilings where elaborately and colorfully painted and no patch of white was left without chubby angels cuddling or someone being impaled. The Sistene chapel is larger than it looks in any photos and the Creation of Man figures are larger than an average person. As a general rule of thumb,when you paint God, he should be big. Michelangelo's figures are interesting and unique because they do not look like the emaciated dark figures of Renaissance paintings that look equally hungry and depressed but are rather burly and look like athletes akin to rugby players or wrestlers. Clearly seen are the muscles and tendons and it gives the figures a gravity and presence. The Sistene Chapel was as crammed as a subway train during commute, and it was the job of one of the guards to issue a loud "Shhh" or "silenceo" when the rabble got noisy enough to offend God. The murmuring would die out and then gain momentum until it became as noisy as rapids. Then the system would repeat itself. I silently (because I didn't want to get in trouble) wondered to myself what it would be like to be a professional silencer and what would I put on my resume to ensure that I could do my job well and efficiently. Any job that reprimands the general public has always had a certain attraction and affection for me. While we admired the paintings Collette laid on the floor next to the sign that said," Do not lay on the floor."Off to Saint Peters, we passed through the metal detector but not before a priest cut in front of me. Collette cleared security and we entered the most immense church on Earth. I will borrow Rick Steve's comment when he said that to call Saint Peter's church big is like saying God is smart. Collette's behavior quickly deterriated and we looked upon the marble statues and the domineering pillars while constantly yelling "no Collette" and picking her up before she darted behind ropes, grabbed some tourist, or tried to poke us. Exhausted and with our patience reserves depleted we left the church to take some pictures in front and paint our visit in more tranquil terms. However, Saint Peters Cathedral is still awe-inspiring and the combination of its girth and splendor make it unequaled. At this time I had a chance to call my dad. He immediately started complaining about his rehab center in earnest and with great dictation so I knew that his health was improving and along with it, my spirits. Using the remaining minutes on my phone card I dialed the 20 or so digits to ring my friend who had just given birth to a baby girl. He didn't actually do the birthing but it was great to talk to him and his upbeat voice confirmed that he was on a baby high. I'm pretty certain that there is no toddler high. To get a feel of someplace there is nothing more effective than walking. In Rome we walked the length of it several times. One evening we decided to try to find a street that was closed to traffic, much more relaxing and less threatening. The tour book described it as "full of pedestrians and interesting shopping." We arrived on the street to be confronted by a huge boulevard filled with the frantic, chaotic mess that entails Roman traffic. To avoid the anxiety we went down a side street that was mostly limited to pedestrians. Street musicians played1 and packs of roaming and ambling shoppers filled the avenues. This was the most intense and exotic shopping we had ever witnessed. Hand bags propped up on pedestrians spotlighted with tract lighting, dresses that looked like wedding cakes, and shoes with arcs and curves that I associated more with high tech aircraft than with garments. Lots of alligator prints and diamonds. Christy gave me a passing lecture on the brands that were written in arrogant cursive above each boutique, Versace, Dior, DG, Prada (my favorite for the sleek lines), Perla and more. I was overwhelmed and in a different income bracket to consider the stores anything more than a spectacle. They made Macy's look like a chicken coop. We left this area only to find the main street closed to traffic. The tour book did not tell us that the street was closed after six but I am telling you now. You're welcome.Still with more sites to conquer I pondered over the map while we ate toast and delicious milk and coffee in the hotel basement. I mention the basement restaurant because our room was on the top floor, level 5. A mighty distance to carry 15.2 kg even though we frequently condensed ourselves into the rickety elevator. Having orientated myself with our goal, we folded out the stroller like an awakening insect and bumped over the cobblestones toward the coliseum. About a third of the way there we spotted a huge brick fortress, shaped in a circle with a moat the size of a four lane highway bordering its edges. Agreeing to see it the next day we looked at the hours. Closed on Mondays, now or never. As we prepared to go in we heard a marching band and glanced through billowing clouds of incense to see a religious parade. Nuns were walking backward swinging silver vessels belching smoke and gazing upward at a twelve-foot painting of a saint, which in turn was carried by eight grimacing men. The scene was surreal and we managed to capture the moment by taking several pictures of the swirling smoke and little else.The fortress turned out to be a series of fortress built on top of each other. According to the models in the museum it started out in Roman times as a giant tribute to some God(s). As the decades past it changed its shape and grew to accommodate archers and then cannons and then tourists. The place had an earthy sense to it and the lower levels had dark cave like passages with uneven stones and damp somber dirt colored bricks. The top half was more cheery and provided a view of Saint Peters and another half dozen cathedrals spread out over the city. Chance had made us see the fortress but its uniqueness and bizarre charm made us fond of it.The coliseum was what one could expect. It was bigger than pictures and postcards make you believe and the architectural details of how the stones were meshed together and the holes that once supported wooden rigging was fascinating. The exposed floor where the animals, gladiators, and ships were kept looked like an expansive maze. Four tourist stars. Leaving the coliseum we climbed to the top of the hill and ambled along the ruins of the emperor's private quarters. (Palatino Hill) They covered the whole hill and included a small private chariot-racing rink. I tried to listen in on an English-speaking guide so only got snippets of the information and pasted them together with my imagination. Walking off of the hill we entered into a valley filled with forty-foot pillars and ruins. This was the forum and the heart of the ancient village of Rome. A steep stone stair case lead out of the valley onto a boulevard. We were in luck; the boulevard was closed to traffic and they were having a street fair complete with stilt walkers and jugglers. One group had a wind machine that blew air into a flimsy hollow plastic tube that would weave and wobble thirty feet up in the air. The operator would change the tube's direction so it would smack distracted tourists in the face and tease a small group of children that would try to grab it. Collette quickly joined this frantic group of kids as the tube shot from one side of the street to the other trailed by the kids like a flock of birds. If a kid caught the tube another man with a bullhorn would run up and tell them to release it. These guys had obviously had done this before and knew that the only way they were going to get the kids attention was with a bullhorn. This went on for a time until a kid grabbed the tube and the operator cut the tube away from the wind machine. They then in a very generous and crowd-pleasing gesture would cut the tube up in small pieces and give it to the children. By the end of the day Collette had a plastic cape that she was quite pleased with. The last day we decided to make Collette's so we set out. The previous day we had spent the morning at a playground hidden in the moat of the fortress. We talked to the other ladies whose kids were playing. Simultaneously we tried to keep Collette from doing anything horrific and embarrassing to us. There were some Italians and ex-pats that told us of the glorious park on the other side of the city. So the park became our quest. After checking my map several times looking for landmarks such as famous fountains or squares we finally found the sprawling wooded park. Most of the park was not kid friendly and seemed to be deserted. We gave up hope until we found a carousal unabashedly named "Blonde Bimbo". It was open and Collette rode twelve times in a row. Rome was a fantastic city. The boulevards are wide and lined with trees. This was a drastic improvement over Florence where we felt claustrophic. The sites appear to be endless and a walk in any direction can bring you to a momentous fountain or richly ornate bridge. Most of the Romans outside of their cars were friendly and upbeat. And most of the people on the streets were Italian, unlike previous Italian cities we visited. I couldn't resist a fabric store where they made their own shirts. The people in it were friendly, and they had that special sense of style and optimistic exuberance that we came to admire. In most of the stores the workers gave too much candy to Colette so we had to try to restrain them. Every time they lowered the bowl Collette would seize her opportunity and grab a handful of candy and tuck it into her body like a football. The movement would be sudden and we would exclaim," Collette!" and the shop keepers would laugh and offer her more reassuring, "It's OK, It's OK." 1. A cop was taking a picture of a stand up bassist for what I surmised was for licensing and he kept asking the musician to spin his bass. He complied with vigor and a smile and the bass twirled several times.
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