TravelStream™ news feed for member jmckerricher on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/jmckerricher en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Wed, 23 Dec 2009 13:19:27 -0500 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1261566274/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1261566274/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1261566274/tpod.html Wed, 23 Dec 2009 13:19:27 -0500 The Nomadic Omnivore

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Podgorica, Serbia and Montenegro

My peaceful sleep was disturbed at 1am by some guy checking in. He opened the door to my room, dropped his bag on the floor with a thunk, and without bothering to close the door, proceeded to the check-in desk. His voice echoed down the hall as he paid for his bed. He then came back into my room, which I was previously enjoying alone, got into his bed, and didn't even bother to close the door again. I got up, closed the door, and by the time I was in bed he was snoring. "You've gotta be f@$king kidding me" I said out loud.

I tried to sleep through the snoring, but this guy was a champion. He continued to snore even after he had rolled over, the cacophony reverberating off the walls. I flicked on the light and yelled at him, but he hardly even flinched. Defeated I went to bed and read my book by the light of a headlamp; visions of me strangling him in his sleep becoming increasingly vivid in my minds eye.

In this state of mind I came across a brilliant idea. Hostels should be broken into snoring sections, much like a smoking section. It would be a relatively easy process to become a certified non-snorer, and those without the certification would be bunched together in the same room or, better yet, denied entry altogether.

Eventually I managed to drift off to sleep, the snoring dampened slightly by the toilet paper stuffed in my ears.

In the morning I woke late. Still grumpy from last night's rude disturbance. I spotted his bag, covered in thirty or so flags from the countries he had visited. I guess this is meant to be a proud statement of the world he has traveled. I've never really understood this mentality, but to each his own. In light of this man's remarkable abilities to snore, the flags took on a different meaning for me. Much in the same way that some inmates get tear drop tattoos to indicate the people they've killed behind bars. I've disturbed sleep in hostels around the world- the flags sneered at me.

The rain came down heavily outside. I'm glad we went out and played yesterday. My Aussie friends have moved on. The only ones that remain are my Italian room mate who's name I haven't bothered to ask; I just call him 'the one who snores', and a quiet Irish fellow who I've taken to calling 'the one who doesn't speak'. I spent the day in the hostel, studying Japanese, and researching the food of Ethiopia. My increasingly bored and depressed hostel mates stare at the walls, and thumb through travel brochures, waiting for the rain to stop. If there was some paint drying somewhere I'm sure they would have watched it.

Here's a Top Travel Tip: If you're traveling in the off season, you should come prepared for a little rain. Bring a book, or have a project that you're working on. Sitting around a getting depressed because it's raining in December is a little bit ridiculous. The weather gods don't really care that you are on vacation.

I went out to get some pizza in the afternoon. The hostel is located within the walls of the old city. The buildings are jammed shoulder to shoulder to make the most of the limited space. A completely walled in city may seem like a great way to keep intruders out, but it also does a fabulous job of keeping rain water in. Thick puddles ran in streams constricted by the narrow walkways. After eating a delicious pizza sandwich, which is indeed as glorious as it sounds, I tip-toed back through the puddles to my hostel.

I confirm arrangements with my couch surfing host, Miladin, in Podgorica, and later that evening take a two hour bus ride to the capital city. Miladin, or Milo, had told me that he would be easy to spot due to his height (6'6''). That might have been a helpful tip back home, but the people of Montenegro are reportedly the tallest in Europe, and he spotted me well before I spotted him. He greeted me with a friendly smile and a handshake, his English retaining little of his Balkan accent.

On the short drive back to his apartment we find a common interest in languages and quickly find ourselves talking about a subject for which we both have passion. He has a degree in International Relations with a Masters in Foreign Affairs, and has traveled a lot with his work and school, including a lengthy stint in Maine, which would explain his perfect English.

Back at his house we look at a map of the world, and share our experiences from around the globe. He is an absolute wealth of knowledge; able to quote, with astonishing accuracy the most minute details of not only Montenegro, but of many Balkan countries. From religious breakdown by percentage, to latest voter turnouts; he's like a passionate encyclopedia and It is through his anecdotes, and jokes that I am able to gain an insiders perspective on the story of this land and its people.

By 1am I'm ready for bed; I'm thankful to have a room to myself. Comforted by the fact that the only one possibly snoring here is me.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1261417291/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1261417291/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1261417291/tpod.html Tue, 22 Dec 2009 07:56:44 -0500 The Nomadic Omnivore

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Kotor, Serbia and Montenegro

I walk to the station at 6am. I jam my fists in my pockets, but the cold still bites at my wrists. While I sometimes find the travel beard to be a bit of a nuisance; I am singing its praises this morning. I almost wish it covered my whole body right now.

At the station I meet up with Louise and Andrew, a couple from Brisbane. We hit it off right away, and share travel stories as our bus winds through the increasingly beautiful terrain, on our way to Dubrovnik.

If I could kick myself in the ass I would. Instead I find banging my head against the window helps ease my pain. Why, oh why, am I rushing through the Balkans? The coast of Croatia never fails to impress; Dubrovnik looks absolutely stunning. We wait at the station for a five minute tease, then, noses pressed against the windows, watch the city fade into the distance.

Up into the mountains we go; Autumn colours dot the landscape, and snowy peaks rise from the distance. I feel as if we're entering a land of fairy tales. I try in vain to capture some essence of this with my camera. After about a dozen hopeless attempts, the battery dies. A blessing in disguise, really. None of the shots would have worked out anyways. Now is the time to experience this place through my eyes, not the lens.

Five hours later we're getting off the bus in Kotor. Again the travel gods are smiling at me. While I had just assumed that there was a hostel in town; Louise and Andrew actually know where it is. So I tag along. It would have taken some serious wandering for me to find it myself. We're greeted by the unbelievably friendly staff at Montenegro Hostel. We check in, and head out to explore the town.

It's easy to spot the new tourists in this town. They're the ones staring, with open jaws, up into the hills. From every angle this city is beautiful.

"So do we start taking photos now, or just wait a bit?" Andrew asks

It sounds ridiculous, but it's a fair question. I find myself swept up in this amazing energy because of the unbelievable beauty of the area. It quickens the pulse. I try to calm myself, but from every angle this place simply astounds the senses. Lofty peaks tumble into the sea, ancient fortifications climb mountainous spines.

We decide to walk the mountain to one of the nearby fortifications. It's not a long walk, but photo opportunities slow our progress significantly. The beauty of the area entrances and energizes me; I transform into a giddy child hopping from one stone to another, giggling to myself.

Back at the hostel Louise and Andrew make up a feast from some meat and veggies that we purchased in the market. The whole meal, including beer, costs five Euro. As if the day could get any better. Shortly after 8pm I feel like it's time to put a deposit in the sleep bank account. I feel lucky to have a room to myself, and quickly fall into a deep sleep.

Sometime tomorrow my goosebumps might subside...maybe
My Facebook photo album is going to have to be titled 'Kotor, and Mediterranean Europe'


]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1261338203/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1261338203/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1261338203/tpod.html Mon, 21 Dec 2009 14:39:01 -0500 The Nomadic Omnivore

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Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina

I awoke yesterday to find a layer of slush and snow covering the ground. A bit of an unusual occurrence in these parts I'm told. But it sounds like most of Europe and the Eastern US has been caught by surprise. I didn't really feel like walking around in the slush all day so I did as the locals do (I assume). I stayed home, ate figs, and drank Rakija. It could have been worse.

I read news today that 2000 people had to be evacuated from the tunnel below the English channel, when sub-zero temperatures disrupted Eurostar's train service. They had dwindling supplies of food and water, and no electricity. The report didn't mention whether they had Rakija and figs, but I doubt it.

This morning I was a little more determined to see the city. I haven't even seen it in daylight yet! Milos treated me to a Balkan breakfast (a Turkish coffee, and a pack of cigarettes). I passed on the cigarettes, but the coffee gave me more than enough energy to get outside and do something.

A crisp day awaited me outside the house, the lingering slush completely frozen over. Happy children slide down little hills on whatever is available, car tires spin hopelessly as people try to get out of their driveways, and pedestrians take cautious steps. I'm transported back in time as I cross over the old bridge, the monument of the city, and into the old town. It is a delightful little area; store owners smile at me as they chip away at the ice covering the cobblestone streets.

A walk through the new town provides a sharp contrast to the quaint old town. The skeletal remains of blown out buildings, and piles of rubble are visible everywhere. Graffiti walls are pock marked, and metal doors are reminiscent of swiss cheese. I stop and examine a rusted out hand-rail that has been all but destroyed by machine gun fire. I can only imagine the horror.

And yet, somehow, life goes on. Shrubs poke up from the rubble, I even spot a tree growing on the second floor of a burned out building. One building in particular catches my eye; the first floor balcony is fully caged in, like a prison, no sign of habitation. The second floor is completely burned out, and the windows long gone. On the third floor a line of freshly laundered clothes hang on the deck. Never underestimate the human determination to live.

Mostar is a city of many faces. Through the day it seems to shift energies, revealing its many personalities. If it weren't so darn cold, I would be tempted to just sit and watch the city change through the day. From the way the first morning light catches the nearby hills, to the lights of illuminated storefronts and mosques twinkling in the numerous creeks cutting through the city. It would be something different altogether to watch it change through the seasons.

For the first time this trip I see mosques. I find comfort in this. I am getting close, and something feels good about that. As Milos and I are chilling out at his house listening to Led Zeppelin this evening, I catch the eerie call to prayer. We pause in the middle of "Dazed and Confused", and listen. This whole trip I have felt the East calling me. For the first time I can actually hear it.

Again I have been the recipient of unbelievable hospitality. In three quick days Milos and I were talking like old friends. I am sad to leave. Tomorrow I'll be off to Montenegro. I hate to rush through this part of the trip, but it is just the way things have worked out. Somehow I know I'll be back.

]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1261140646/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1261140646/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1261140646/tpod.html Sun, 20 Dec 2009 13:23:09 -0500 The Nomadic Omnivore

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Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina

If Split had a Trevi Fountain, I'd be chucking the change in, over my shoulder, by the handful.
I can't figure what it is, but I love this place. I haven't even done anything all that special, just wandered the streets, same as any place. The market of course is a big draw for me. It feels like the vendors are the same people who were digging in the dirt pulling up carrots this morning, but I don't know. It just feels real.

I found the fish market today, and took a quick peruse. It wasn't anything special. Lots of perch and small sardine type fish, a few tuna, and some octopus and monk fish. I walked up and down the stalls, asking the occasional vendor permission to take a photo. Nobody really seemed to mind.

Then, there she was. She was maybe fifty, built like a piece of beef jerky, with rusty hair, and a cigarette hanging from her crooked jaw. It looked as if she lived off of nicotine and salty air. Her blood stained counter held a few sardines and an octopus. A small old fashioned scale with weights sat in the corner. I had to have a photo. I pointed to my camera and asked if it was OK. Her reaction was as if I had asked to urinate on her counter top, and she raised her hand like she was chasing away a stray cat. The woman in the stall next to her laughed as I scampered away with my tail between my legs. Needles to say, I didn't get the shot.

I know what it is. It's the figs. The dried figs here are out of this world. They're so good they make your knees weak when you eat them. Figs have long been my favourite fruit. Fresh figs that is; as I've found that dried figs are too tough; a pale reconstruction of their previous fresh glory. Not so, here in Croatia. The thick jammy innards taste faintly of molasses, and are barely concealed by a thin membrane that puts up only a mild resistance to the teeth.

Yesterday I was making plans for onward travels. Couch surfing had given me no love, so I was debating my next destination.

"I have a friend in Mostar" Pascal informs me, "I bet he will put you up".

I sent Milos a message, and got a positive response. Decision made. Like a tumbleweed caught in a sudden gust, I'm getting on a bus to Mostar.

The drive takes us along the dramatic coast of Croatia, and then abruptly into the mountains. A slight change in elevation causing a significant difference in snow accumulation. Four hours later, we're pulling into Mostar. With each stop a couple passengers get off, until I am one of only two remaining. The bus driver keeps looking back, as if to say "you're still here?"

Finally we cross the bridge and arrive at the depot. I shoulder my pack, and look for a quiet corner to relieve myself. It has been a long ride. This tumbleweed should have checked the weather forecast. It's freezing, literally. While Croatia was whimpering over a little cold rain, Mostar is covered in a layer of ice. To top it off, my feet are already frozen due to the very drafty bus ride.

Thankfully it is a short walk to our meeting place. I walk past a long wall of graffiti, and behind a house under construction to find Abrasevic. I open the door and walk in, a little uncertain that I'm in the right place. Three small tables each with four chairs take up the center of the room. A sunken couch in the corner looks like a popular spot. It is very smokey, and poorly lit, but has a youth center type vibe to it. It is still early so the place is mostly empty. I walk to the bar and order a tea to take off the chill.

I'm greeted by a tall brunette with attractive features and prominent cheekbones. Turns out that she's from Oregon which I find vaguely comforting. She's been here for two years, and seems as enamored with the place as she likely was when she first arrived. She gives me a quick rundown on the city; details on the location of the nearest kebab place, and that sort of thing. Then she turns her back on me and strikes up a conversation in Bosnian with the guy next to her. I take my tea and sit down at a table.

At ten o'clock I meet up with Milos, and walk back to his place. We pick up some beer and bread on the way. For a Euro fifty you can buy a two liter bottle of local beer. I like this place already.

Milos is soft spoken, but not quiet. He has no shortage of interesting thoughts, experiences and opinions. We quickly find ourselves delving into deep conversations about religion and nationalism, and the history of Mostar. After a hearty winter dinner we sit back and talk into the night sipping beer and home-made Rakija.

]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1260997796/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1260997796/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1260997796/tpod.html Thu, 17 Dec 2009 04:15:32 -0500 The Nomadic Omnivore

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Split, Croatia

"What are you going to make for dinner?" Emmanuel asks me
"Not sure yet, I'll have to go to the market and see what catches my eye"

I've been eating a lot of bread lately. Cheese too, but mostly bread. Cheap and filling have been the primary concerns. I been getting these strange cravings for bitter salads.

In the market I came across an old woman selling sauerkraut from a large blue barrel. I love sauerkraut. I once went through a phase where I ate sauerkraut and a sausage for breakfast everyday. Maybe that's why I love this place so much. Maybe my ancestors are actually Balkan. I approached the old woman and peered into the barrel. The salty goodness caught my nose and got me drooling. She said something, which of course I couldn't understand. Then I said something she couldn't understand. We had established that we didn't speak the same language.

I showed her with my hands how much sauerkraut I wanted, not having any idea how much it would cost. She reached into the barrel and loaded three good handfuls of sauerkraut into a bag. Five Kuna,(about a dollar) she indicates with an open hand. At that price you better get two, my gut tells me. I don't hesitate and order a second bag. She loads it up a little more generous than the first. I hand her ten Kuna and walk off.

I find a nice place to sit and enjoy my healthy snack. I can feel my guts squealing with joy as I send fork-full after fork-full down my gullet. This goes on for quite some time. My ability to eat large quantities of sauerkraut has always been a point of personal pride.
I hardly put a dent in the first bag.
OK, so it looks like we're having sauerkraut and something for dinner, I decide.

When I look at some sausages I often find myself wondering. I wonder if that sausage casing is made with real intestine. Perhaps this is a strange think to think; but I think it.

I came across a woman selling this massive sausage by the chunk to happy customers. This sausage was huge, and gnarled, big and fat, and twisting all over itself. This sausage was the exact opposite of any other sausage I have ever pondered. I stood there and stared at it, as the woman sold it, chunk by chunk. I found myself thinking; I wonder if that intestine is filled with meat. I mean it was so obviously an intestine casing, but what was it filled with? I had to have some.

With little time (or more specifically sausage) to spare, I pointed at the tail end of it, and indicated that I would like half. She cut it in half, and weighed it out. I gave her twelve Kuna, thanked her, and left a very happy man.

Back at home I set to make dinner. This is peasants food at its finest. I soak some white beans for a couple hours, then boil them until they're fat and tender. In a generous amount of olive oil I saute some garlic, then throw in the cubed sausage. It is really quite fatty, and most of it melts into the pan, but the bits that remain go nice and crispy. I toss in the white beans and let them sit in the hot pan soaking up the fat. For color I end up cooking beets and dressing them with a lemony yogurt sauce. Sauerkraut, of course, makes an appearance on the plate, and for a bit of fun I bake up a nice loaf of foccacia bread.I can't forget about dessert of course. A feeble attempt at an apple pie actually turns out not bad.

All in all the meal works pretty well in my opinion. Pascal seems to like it, as he mops up the final juices on his plate with a chunk of bread. Oh, I'm not going to lie, it feels good to be cooking. I haven't really cooked since Spain. It has been too long.

What a perfect way to travel. I stay at someones home, they give me a place to sleep, and I cook dinner. Drop me a comment if you want me to swing by your neck of the woods. The only conditions are that you must have a funky authentic market nearby, and a workable kitchen. A comfortable bed helps too.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1260987895/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1260987895/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1260987895/tpod.html Thu, 17 Dec 2009 03:57:08 -0500 The Nomadic Omnivore

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Split, Croatia


I slept soundly on my comfy ferry sofa. During the night I woke to see someone attempting to sleep on one of the blue vinyl chairs. It didn't look very comfortable. In the morning he was sleeping on the floor near my sofa. I tried not to look too cheerful as I tiptoed past him to the window. I pressed my nose against the rain streaked window. We were just passing by a small island and would be arriving soon. The Dalmatian coast is a hot destination for sea kayaking. From my ferry vantage point I can only begin to understand why. The island ended abruptly in a small cliff. I wish I was in a kayak.

The ferry quite literally crunched into the dock. It wasn't pretty. Ropes were thrown from the top decks to men below, who fixed them to the dock. From way up here the tiny men looked like the miniature men who tie Gulliver down in Gulliver's travels; except the miniature men in Gulliver's travels knew what they were doing. We must have come in on 'trainee day'. The crowd grew impatient, but eventually they got the beast tied down, and we all filed off.

Even in the driving rain Split is beautiful. In the center of town newer store fronts climb up the ancient Diocletian palace walls. Tiled streets are lined with palm trees. Even in this weather, the turquoise water looks enticing.

I wander the streets for a bit, to get a sense of the place. There's no guessing where I head first. I quickly find myself caught up in the energy of a small but authentic market. Rows of open concrete counters hold mounds of fresh produce being sold by wrinkled old ladies in shawls. The variety of produce, would suggest it is all produced locally. I buy a couple carrots that confirm this suspicion. They have a crunch that fights back the way a carrot should, and a delicate sweetness that lingers on my tongue. Butchers have on display the nasty bits that every good butcher should have; one place even has a wall of heads. Bakers sell a nice assortment of breads next to stalls selling fresh cheese. Nuts and beans, eggs and figs. Everything that I could possibly want in a market is here. I find myself quite enamored with Split already.

after a cruise of the market I take some time to explore the palace walls, and the city within. The city is pretty from every angle. Narrow cobblestone streets wind through a tangle of homes and store fronts. But, with the weather as it is I eventually settle down in a dry spot to read my book.

I made arrangements with Pascal, my couch-surfing host, to meet at 6:30. At 6:29 his car pulls into the parking lot. We greet each other with a hand shake, and walk up to his apartment.
In his apartment I meet another couch surfer, Emmanuel. 85 days ago Emmanuel left his home in France, he's planning on going all the way to India. He's walking every step of the way. My hat goes off to him.

Pascal, who is also from France, has been living abroad for the last ten years. Before Croatia it was Serbia, before that it was Bulgaria, and before that he was in Africa
"Do you ever miss home?" I ask
"No" he shoots back "this is my home"
I have no reason not to believe him. He seems happy.

The apartment is spacious and immaculate. Everything is in its place. Everything is clean. There is no clutter. It's the kind of place that makes me want to sit down when I pee. I am suddenly aware of my cleanliness (or lack there of), so go to the bathroom to wash up. The bathroom is spotless as well. A jet tub in the corner looks like it has functions I could only dream of and the floor tiles are heated. This is five star couch surfing if I've ever experienced it!

Pascal offers up some local Brandy and some cheese; and after a quick bite we're off to catch some live music. In the car we listen to some Balkan music. I like it; it's fun, it's lively. For me food will always be the best way to experience a culture; but music is equally interesting, and can provide just as much information about the psyche of the people.

The band we go to see is French, but with strong Eastern and Balkan influences. The upbeat dramatic tones, and complex rhythms begin to tell the story of this intriguing land. The crowd is small but lively. The vibe is friendly. I find myself falling for Croatia, and I've been here only one day.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1260955750/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1260955750/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1260955750/tpod.html Wed, 16 Dec 2009 04:03:32 -0500 The Nomadic Omnivore

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Ancona, Marche, Italy

I spend the day reading my new book. I'm not really sure what I would have done otherwise. The weather was poor all day. Dark clouds roll overhead and spit little drops at me as I walk to the terminal. The trees in the wind are the only thing waving me a farewell.

I get a puzzled look from the customs agent as he inspects my passport photo. "I was clean shaven when I left" I shrug "but look, I'm still wearing the same shirt". He doesn't speak English so it's lost on him. He stamps my passport and tosses it back at me.

I follow the signs to the check in desk on the boat. I am checked in by a grumpy pink haired woman who is built like a linebacker for the Pittsburgh Steelers. The smiling photo on her employee ID card bears as much semblance to her real self, as my clean shaven passport photo does of me.

I am greeted by a cheery woman at the reception who points me to the stairs leading to my deck. Sets of blue vinyl chairs, each with a small table, form a line in front of the windows on the right. On the opposite side three comfortable sofas, each with a large table, are set against the wall. I was half expecting a dorm style room, but quickly identified the sofa as the best bet. I pull off my damp hoodie, and pull out the contents of my bag to re-organize. I take off my shoes, to ensure that anyone doesn't feel tempted to share my space. Basically I set up camp.

In the bathroom a sign warns me that throwing things in the tolet (sic) is strictly forbidden.
"What about tossing?" I muse.

Here is a top traveler tip: A plastic serrated knife will never get confiscated, costs nothing, spreads jam better than any swiss army knife, can cut a tomato with ease, and weighs as much as a pair of ear plugs. It is as essential as flip flops, and should be on everyone's 'must bring' list.

I put a slice of tomato and some cheese between a chunk of bread, and enjoy a happy picnic dinner. One of the ships officers walks past and shoots me a dirty look. I'm not sure whether its my stinky feet, my hobo-esque base camp, or the fact that I'm eating outside of the dinning area that he has taken offense to. Either way I'm not going to do anything about it.

The ships engine roars to life and we slowly rock our way out past the breakwater. A couple of seagulls pursue us for a bit, then get bored and turn back. Next stop Croatia.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1260804116/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1260804116/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1260804116/tpod.html Mon, 14 Dec 2009 06:53:38 -0500 The Nomadic Omnivore

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Ancona, Marche, Italy

I have had a good few days in Pescara. Francesco has been a great host; introducing me to his friends, and showing me some of the best food in town. But all good things must come to an end, and I am on the road again. I take the train North to the small city of Ancona, where I will spend the night. Tomorrow I will take the ferry to Split, Croatia, where I have another host through couch surfing lined up. I am still looking for a host in Sarajevo, but if I do not manage to line one up I might just skip it. Time is of the essence.

I locate the ferry terminal and confirm that there are no departures today. A light drizzle falls on sleepy Ancona as I walk to the hostel to check in. I open the door, and walk into a lobby decorated in Christmas fashion, with red candles, fake flower bouquets, and miniature trees. The sickly scent of fake strawberries permeates the air. No noise save the constant hum of a coke machine, and the tick of an unseen clock.

I am greeted by a thin grey haired woman in a black overcoat, who acknowledges me with a stiff, tight lipped nod. The absolute minimum of words are exchanged: "passport, one night, seventeen Euro, room 103". Then she reveals a toothy grin, and in heavily accented English says "welcome" and points to my room.

I sit down with my Lonely Planet guide book and put together a rough plan. What a concept. Aside from setting two points (A) Lisbon and (B) Istanbul, I have not put any planning into this trip. Perhaps I have room to improve in this department, but I really do like leaving it to chance, and see where I end up. Sometimes that means I sleep in a pile of leaves, or wander outside of a train station waiting for a 5am departure. I guess that is the price you pay.

I drop my bag in my room. There are two bunks in the room, and aside from a red plastic waste basket, and an oddly placed end table, the room is otherwise empty. I am happy, though not surprised, to see that I have the room to myself. I get a drink of water, make my bed, and walk out into the damp evening air.

I walk along the arcade with its collection of kebab joints, bars, laundromats, and internet cafes. Across the street is the railway, beyond that is the harbor. Gritty is the first word that comes to mind. I walk past the half lit neon facade of a Chinese restaurant and follow the arrow pointing to the centro.

The road takes me to a long tunnel which I walk through. On the other side I walk past some very funky, community supported graffiti art. It is a refreshing contrast to the crude uninspired rants that adorn so many spaces in Italy. I begin to get the sensation that I am in a different city; the nice side of the tracks. I follow the sound of teenage shrieks and pop music to a small open air ice rink. Inside is a crowd of children and teenagers stumbling around the perimeter in tight little circles to Madonna's "Material Girl". Not exactly what I expected to find. Everyone is wearing crappy rental skates. You know the safety scissors that young school children use? The plastic ones with dull blades that can barely cut through a folded piece of paper? If that same company made ice skates, this is what they would look like. I have to pause and watch this spectacle for a bit. I am not saying that Italians are not athletic; but ice skating is not really their thing.

I continue along and find the will power to walk past a stand selling Nutella and crepes. Despite a steady drizzle, on a cold night, the streets are packed. Multi-generational families walk together, couples hand in hand. The sharp smell of roasting chestnuts drifts through the air in thick strands. Open air markets line a wide pedestrian boulevard; funky book stores draw me in. A group of carolers perform to a gathering crowd, and for the first time this trip I am painfully aware of the impending holidays.

I end up splurging on a book, financially its a bit of a blow, and I really don't need the extra weight on my back, but I am getting a bit bored of studying languages. I've got lots of time to kill over the next couple weeks.

Eventually the rain gains in intensity, so I make my way back to the hostel. I read for a bit, take a shower for something to do, and fall asleep.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1260619553/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1260619553/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1260619553/tpod.html Mon, 14 Dec 2009 06:21:51 -0500 The Nomadic Omnivore

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Pescara, Abruzzo, Italy

They say that a lifetime isn't enough for Rome, and perhaps its true. If one were to spend a lifetime exploring the city, half that time would be spent in a queue or looking for parking. There just isn't enough Rome to go around; even now in December, the tourist horde is almost unbearable. I didn't see half of what there is to see, but I leave content. At the fountain of Trevi; a coin tossed over the shoulder is supposed to guarantee a return trip to Rome. If I wasn't on a shoestring budget I might have considered it.

What I learned more than anything is that visiting major tourist sites, in major tourist cities, isn't high on my list of priorities. If I'm in the area, its worth a visit; I'll certainly spend a couple days in Athens on my way through Greece. But top priority? Certainly not.

Its with thoughts like these that I prepare to get off the tourist radar, and see some less explored parts of the country. A two and a half hour bus ride from Rome, takes me through the breathtaking landscape of the Lazio and Abruzzo regions, and into Pescara; a town that I know nothing about, with the exception of its geographical location. I call Francesco, my couch surfing host, from the bus station, and he drives down to pick me up.

Pescara, a town of just over 100,000 is a completely new city I learn.
"It was completely leveled by air raids in the second world war. Everything here is new, so there isn't really anything to see" Francesco informs me.
"Most couch surfers are just passing through, or are looking for a quiet place to chill out for a bit"
My thoughts exactly.

It was a no-brainer for me to contact Francesco as a prospective host. His host profile really shows that he understands couch surfing. To take a quote from his profile:
"I adore CS and I really hope this community will grow maintaining the
same spirit. I have learned that this community is made of people to
share places, experiences, things, time. It is a club of people to have
fun with, to learn from and people to love."

I drop my bags in my room, we chat for a bit, then he has to go back to work, leaving me a few hours to explore the town. He's right, there isn't a lot to see here; but after the chaos of Rome, I'm just happy to have some elbow room. I wander past a strip of restaurants, and out onto the beach. What's the point of traveling along the Mediterranean, if you don't spend any time near the ocean?

Granted that it is December, and it was a windy evening; I'm still shocked to see that I have the beach to myself. I literally don't see anyone else.With soft brown sand underfoot, and crashing waves at my side, I am in paradise. The time passes, as I stand in silence, contemplating my trip, life, food, whatever.

I meet up with Francesco and its time for dinner. I'm happy to hand the "what's for dinner?" decision over to him. Like most Italians, he is passionate and knowledgeable about food from his region. He explains the different varieties of pastas; what works well with what. He goes on at length about the cheese of the region, and even shows me a cheese that is started with pig's milk. We're in the land of Pecorino, so we buy a chunk to start off the meal.

Dinner is a three course affair that hits all the right spots. A bowl of pasta with fava beans and bacon, which feels like a meal itself, follows our first course of cheese. Our main course of two types of sausage and a simple salad of raddicio, was a rich and satisfying finish. A shot of bitter Genziana gets the juices flowing, to aid digestion.

"You wanna go for a beer?"

I'm already pretty tired, and tempted to say no, but decide to go out anyways. It's a short walk to the night life district. We duck into a narrow bar on a corner, and Francesco is greeted by familiar faces. The beer of choice is Lupulus, and its my turn to buy. But Francesco's friend Christian, isn't having any of that, and buys our round.

After spending four days in Rome talking with Australians and Americans, its nice to talk to Italians. Being that I'm not a beautiful blonde with a nice rack; Roman men generally didn't show much interest in me. But here in small town Italy, everyone is keen to chat. I'm something of a novelty here, and everyone wants to know why I've come.

We finish our drinks, and I'm determined to pay for the next round. The bartender refuses to take my money as he pours our drinks. "On the house" he says. The evening becomes animated. With the social lubricant applied, the English abilities of many are revealed, and I'm never at a loss for someone to talk to.

Experience has taught me that when flaming shots are being poured, its time to call it a night. But I miss the cue. I end up paying five Euro for six flaming shots and four beers, the only drinks I've managed to pay for all night. Thoroughly impaired, I follow a girl who beckons to a tiny bar, where we both take a shot of Whiskey. I go to pay, but my money is waved away. Where in the world am I? It's time for bed.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1260617342/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1260617342/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/jmckerricher/2/1260617342/tpod.html Sun, 13 Dec 2009 04:34:38 -0500 The Nomadic Omnivore

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Rome, Lazio, Italy

After finally locating the Sudanese Embassy on a map, I made the venture out to attempt to obtain a visa. I printed the map off of Google, and away I went. I stumbled across the Spanish steps, and wandered through the Piazza del Popolo along the way. I elbowed my way through the final throngs of tourists trying to orient their maps, and, using the Tiber River as my guide, made my way North.

Up along the river I walked, for quite some time. After an hour, I stopped and asked for directions, as I figured I must be getting close; but instead found that I was still quite a ways off. I wasn't so aware of the scale of the map, but the walk was pleasant enough.

I eventually located the embassy and talked them into hearing me out. I sat down with the main man, who did all that was in his power to help me out, but it simply wasn't possible. I shook his hand and left defeated.

The Sudanese embassy was located in a busy little square with a small market, and a pizza shop doing a brisk business. I ducked into a funky panini shop and was greeted with a smile, by a woman who spoke English.

"What kind of Sandwich do you want?" she asked, rattling off an overwhelming list of options
I stare at the display of gooey cheeses and artisan meats.
"I'll tell you what; how 'bout you make me a sandwich the way you like it."
"you like mushrooms?" "you want it hot?" "OK, I'll make you a beautiful sandwich" she beamed

And beautiful it was. How could it not be? It was made with love. Thick slices of soft cheese, sharp prosciutto, and a creamy mushroom spread, all held together by a crisp yet soft bun. I washed it down with a beer, patted my stomach in approval, and walked to the market where I came across a man selling fresh deep fried artichokes. I pondered the day as I sat on a park bench, eating the salty crispy artichokes. This was well worth the walk.

On the way home I checked out St Peters Basilica on Brittany's recommendation. Simply unbelievable. The church itself (not the piazza) has a total area exceeding five acres. The highest point is 138m from the ground, and it has a capacity for over 60,000 people. It is regarded as "the greatest of all churches in Christendom". I don't even care to guess how much it cost to build. It really makes you question the motives of a religion that would put so many resources into building such a monument, as opposed to doing something useful. But that's just my opinion. Do I see a class on religious studies in my future?
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