TravelStream™ news feed for member mishaley on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/mishaley en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Fri, 10 Aug 2007 18:48:22 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1150995600/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1150995600/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1150995600/tpod.html Fri, 10 Aug 2007 18:48:22 -0400 Everyone, look how GOOD we travel: Eastravaganza 2006

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Rome, Italy

We had a full day of travel before us to make it across the sea and overland from Dubrovnik, Croatia to Rome, Italy, and despite the monotony of lengthy bits of transit, found plenty to keep occupied. The ferry over to the Italian eastern coast was lively, with the main galley occupied with the singing Italian priest and the aft deck filled with good conversation with the Aussie and Belgian men. Nothing makes dudes open up like open water. I sunned, wrote, and chatted all day, could get used to that sorta thing. As Ryan finished The Elegant Universe, curious dolphins pulled up alongside our vessel and treated us to an acrobatic show seemingly as much for their pleasure as ours.
We were pleasantly surprised upon arrival in Bari to find it not nearly the seedy port town that we'd heard it would be, but rather quite modern and comfortable. After the easiest immigration ever ("Are you allowed to come into this country" "Uh, yes" "OK, go ahead then") we strolled about town as we had several hours to fill until our overnight train to Rome. On the way to the train station we saw a filming of the MTVTRL (Total Request Live) Live Tour. I looked for Carson Daly but was informed that I'm a tool and that was sooo 2002. Later, aboard the train, we again lucked out to find our own cabin, labeled "Reserved" for little apparent reason, and allowed us to not have to sleep next to another shifty-looking, feet-smelling dude who looked at us as we walked into his cabin initially as a starving man might take in a pizza pie.
We woke up 45 minutes after the train had already arrived in Rome, when the cleaning crew not so subtly told us to beat it. We had a plan once in town, but not a great one, so we retreated to McDonald's to dine and regroup. First I had to exercise my big brotherly duty, and was quite proud as I strolled up to payphone that I had remembered and arranged to call my sister right as she was turning 21 back in California. Not altogether pleased at how clearly gone she already was, not to mention that she'd hung up on me (presumably because something shiny had caught her attention), I was just happy that she was having a good time, and among good friends, and especially not talking to any boys because I know how they can be because I am one. We stashed our bags at Termini station, as Ryan's sister who we'd be staying with was not able to meet us until after work, and reignited my love affair with real Italian-style pizza. You can tell them how big a piece to cut and it's not that expensive, both things that are very dangerous to a man with an appetite and little common sense for vacation calorie consumption.
Feeling happy and full of mozzarella, we embarked on our most serious attempt to date to find Rama Revealed, the concluding novel of this silly science fiction series that I'd become obsessed with since consuming the first tome in a Thai bungalow because it was the only book in English that I could find. The second book I found in Kathmandu as the sole lonely science fiction representative in a used hole-in-the-wall book shop, and I should have known that I'd not find the last book in as obvious a place as any of the English bookstores in Rome. I didn't know that, however, and that afternoon we tracked down 5 of the 6 English bookstores in Rome. No dice. We did keep ourselves occupied with parallelphotodiaries of the quest: one of my Don Quixote running at windmills looking for this book and one tribute to Dan Brown's DaVinci Code Tour of Rome, Based on Angels and Demons, which we would add to during the next few days. The Citibank compound, and I do use that word rather than bank for good reason, again provided me an example of the strangeness when gigantic corporations, who must be doing something right in order to keep existing at their size and influence, are often incapable of following the simplest directions.
Soon it was time to head back to Termini to collect our bags and head to Megan's. We did run into a slight problem as my main bag was misplaced and took 45 minutes in an underground lair to recover it behind a bin. I wouldn't have been too freaked out if I lost it, and it's a wonder that I didn't throughout the entire trip, as I did generally carry mydaypack with my passport, camera, memory cards, and journals, and like usual was wearing my favorite tshirt (1 of 3), magic boxer briefs (1 of 2), and jeans (1 of 1 that hadn't been destroyed).
Property back in hand and on back, we continued to Megan's and were met there by Colin, the boyfriend of Megan's roommate Heather, who worked as a video game designer. We took a breather until Megan returned from work, had the brief brother-sister reunion pat-on-the-shoulder, and headed out proper for drinks and dinner. The place where we went knew its food, and they refused on principle to satisfy my craving of meltedgorgonzola on penne pasta with arrabiata sauce. Ah, European customer service, how I did miss thee! William, Megan's boyfriend, sauntered up to join us at "7pm in the afternoon", and we all together went to celebrate the next-to-last game of the World Cup, this one to determine 3rd place. Germany won, which I believe made me happy as it evened out my bracket a little better. I never thought I'd find myself cheering for Germany, but C.Ronaldo of Portugal is a little punk. Especially beautiful was his triple jackknife dive in the penalty box with nary a German defender within 10 feet of him. I love watching soccer players try to take these dives, as a form of guilty amusement. It's terrible sportsmanship and disgraceful to try to beat your opponent in such a dishonorable fashion, but the acting is superb as they take a massive spill, always grab their shin no matter what part they're trying to say was hurt, grimace for a few seconds, look around to see if the refs are watching, and it not then just spring right back up and keep playing. Especially C.Ronaldo. He's a prettyboy, but he's a punk.
*Warning: this next bit may contain spoilers regarding amalgamations of Dan Brown's exceedingly similar pieces of fiction*
We woke up the next morning to William's fantastic culinary skills and a prepared succulent salmon pasta. Not only shall I giveBillyboy massive credit on a dish well prepared, but also Ryan continued to impress with his even further broadening eating range. Fish before was likeKrypronite to my boy, but, well ... When in Rome, huh? Oh haha, I far misused that joke while we were there.
It was all so lovely and idyllic that we had a late start on our SanGReal hunt. I'm not going to go into the full background, but suffice it to say that we loved discussing creepy Dan Brown passages nearly as much as we loved arguing about soccer, and further, I can't read or remember in which cities entire books are set. Though we did go out of order (to confuse the Illuminati Hassassin trailing us), we managed to kill my Oski bobble head doll as many times as we needed to make an amusing photo slideshow. We began at the Pantheon ... but it was the wrong Demon's Hole! Ryan was not impressed by the done. But gets weepy for a 6-piece ChickenMcNuggets. To each their own. Then onto Piazza Navonna and Bernini's fountain of 4 rivers for WATERetaw. Colin and Big Willy Style quit the grand quest to go look for facepaint. We soldiered on, they were probably Council of Shadow moles anyhow. St. Maria della Vittoria for FIRErif. Ryan got mad at me for flicking my small lighter on in a church. I say, how else did they light that incense, hmmm ? We needed a break. Went to the Spanish Steps to meet Big Daddy Tuck Coop, my boss from the Lair, and his wife Nancy! It was so cool getting to kick it with that bigol' teddy bear, I could talk with him for hours and hours. Especially was awesome was us together spilling Chianti all over Ryan. The quest was abandoned for the day as it was World Cup Final time. Ryan, Megan, and the Hallahan party train went to a local bar to scope the scene. I headed over towards the Coliseum to meet my IHS track buddy Mario Bassani!
Though difficult to find each other in the massive crown headed for the massive sunken oval that is Circo Massimo to catch the game on one of the three truly massive screens they'd erected, we found each other and his other friends and joined literally half a million people in this one place to watch Italy try to rise back to the top of the football world. I was wearing myItalia shirt, and despite myself, was swept up in the festivity of the situation and was cheering right along with the crowd. It helped that Button wasn't so cute anymore, the coolest thing Henry did was flash ashakabra, and Zidane did something or the other, I can't quite remember what. In short, the French out-Italianed the Italians.
The game was exciting, made more so by the half-man half-demon that was standing near us and felt the urge to scream painfully whenever there was any French player on the screen. This happened often enough. I wanted to scream and cry and was mesmerized at the same time by theTotti-stache, which was as thin and molester-like as ever. Though, in the espirit of the corps, I did learn to love ... even Totti. Zidane did his head butt. While badass, it was quite clearly poor sportsmanship and I did not begrudge the enraged crowd their cuckold hand signals and their vafanculos. I took a note of pride that, when Italy won, the United States of America was confirmed as the only team in the tournament not to lose to them. That makes us second-best in the world. After all, France couldn't even tie them! Had to hand it to the Italians, I was waiting for one of their guys to Baggio the penalty kicks, but they all struck true.
The town went nuts, as might be expected after a 24-year World Cup champion drought. The crowds were teeming, the liquor was flowing, each voice was chanting something, whether in unison or not. The city became a playground for the soccer-loving, with the denizens climbing over and on top of buses and swimming in the fountains with gargled strains of The White Stripes' Seven Nation Army (sung to the words of Duh-Duh-Duh-Duh) escaping as glorious aural bubbles to the surface. Piazza Venetia was packed near beyond the ability to move, though wedged in the swaying throngs of jubilant humanity, where else would you want to be? Well, probably not by the French embassy anyhow, there was a special med tent set up outside in anticipation of some anti-Franco sentiment that never truly exploded. Perhaps a few Jacques were treated for Giovanni-shaped head bruises to the chest, but nothing serious so far as I could see. We played a game with the hooligans were you toss a ball in the air and whoever catches it gets tackled. Everybody wins. Scooters streamed by waving flags and honking horns, or in other words simply acting as though they were in Hanoi on any given day. Out till 4, and only returned because I was about to be locked out. GoAzzuri.
The next day was a glorious day in Rome, the weather truly mirroring the feeling of the people there. In part II of our quest, we first stormed Citibank who, wouldn't you know it, got it right this time and blessed me with a debit card for the first time in two months. Without Ryan's card and record-keeping, I don't know what I would have done. Then to St. Maria d.Poppolo for EARTHtrae . Please note and pay close attention to these anagrams ... even the most advanced computers of the day cannot replicate them, unless you'reDGB's college roommate.
I kept up my tradition of buying knockoff aviators outside the Vatican, and we blustered inside to be somewhat less impressed byWINDniw. Inside St. Peter's, however, was lovely as always. We wandered up to the roof, and also found passeto il pietro bones. We were atop the world after scaling the dome, with just the most killer view of gorgeous Roma. We saw St. Angelo, and I got a feeling like the Hassassin was watching.
The last bookstore on the Rama quest also struck out, though the fella did let us know about the Italy World Cup celebration that night. We went back to the apartment to collect Megan, and headed back (along with 500,000 others) toCirco Massimo for the biggest party that day on the planet. We were impressed that they were able to put something together so quickly. Megan assured us that nothing in Italy works that fast, this was a special case. It was meant to start at 7:30pm, we got there at 8:30pm, and got to listen to Brian Adams and watch the same replays again and again on those massive screens until 11pm when the team arrived. To be fair, their bus winding its way through the city had to very very slowly work through absolutelyjampacked streets of well-wishers and presumably stop for gelato or something several hundred times. Ryan and Megan, just slightly more tired than I was of trying to keep up with the renewed Italian excitement the 37th and 38th time they showed the replay of the PKs, said that they were out at 11pm. The players arrived just one minute prior. Thank you Totti. More and more flares shot out of the crowd as we all craned to see the heroes through the smoke and flag filled sky. We saw the World Cup itself from maybe 50 feet away and to be honest it is glorious, even if you didn't know what it represented. Totti is dumb as a stump, and his interview was quite funny. To his credit, he plays along with the public perception of his denseness and they released a book called Interview With Franceso Totti to raise money for charity. Here's how it begins:
Name: Franceso
Last name: Totti
Born: Yes
The next day I got up early to meet Nina the Touring Scot at the airport. The nicest Nigerian man from the bus helped me figure out how to get there and even had me on his calling card to straighten it all out. She was only in and out for a day, so we made the most of it, walking all about the city and even semi-randomly running into her uncle right outside his place for a few glasses of wine upstairs. We proved that the columns at the Vatican really do resolve into a single column at thefoci of the ellipse, searched for the elusive best cinnamon gelato on earth, went for coffee in Jenny's old neighborhood, and just relaxed all day, full of my favorite gnocchi covered in gorgonzola, walnut, and pear.
It was goodbyes all around the following morning, and we left a mess behind to get to the cheaper airport, Ciampino, waaay outta town. I took the subway-bus to save a few euro while Ryan took the tourist bus. That is not a hugely relevant detail except to illustrate that, even though Ryan is one of my best friends in the world and I love him to pieces, it can be hard spending 24/7 with someone for half a year. More and more often there had been little flareups of disagreement, which is perfectly normal and healthy between two grown up and confident men who are good friends, and more and more often the disagreements in strategy would actually lead to different actions taken. I couldn't have asked for any better a travel companion than Ryan. We were the right blend of sensible/crazy/introspective/fun/adventurous to have oneheckuva wild time without anyone getting killed. As our time together wound to a close (he'd be going home after our next destination to satisfy his grad school advisor while I'd be on the road for two more weeks), those little differences did pop up but I'm so blessed to have a friend like Ryan at a time when we were both mature enough to deal with the challenges of getting along with anybody for that long in that intense an environment.
Thanks buddy.
Soon we'd be running with the bulls.

Moral of the Story: Totti is as dumb as Ryan is as cool is pizza is as delicious as the Italians are as lucky that the US wasn't with them in the final cuz we'd have cheered our boys to victory!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1150304400/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1150304400/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1150304400/tpod.html Wed, 08 Aug 2007 09:15:17 -0400 Everyone, look how GOOD we travel: Eastravaganza 2006

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Dubrovnik, Croatia

We were enthralled in enjoying the breathtaking views that awaited us as we rolled towards Dubrovnik, one of the jewels of the Croatia and the whole seaboard. Though heavily shelled during the Balkan conflicts, the local authorities wasted no time putting their city back together to its gleaming former glory. It was quite the contrast with other places we only got to glimpse while steaming through the Balkans, but that to be sure were afforded no such TLC in their rehabilitation. Dubrovnik overall wasn't quite the sleepy, untouched, dirt-cheap beach town that we'd read about in outdated travel literature (the same stuff that had me prematurely envisioning Bangkok as a salty 19th-century trading port), but it offered its own charm and beauty.
Not that Ryan and I aren't generally treated as rock stars wherever we happen to go, but this was a new level as we strutted off of the bus. Everyone there just wanted to meet us, to shake our hands ... OK, and maybe to sell us a place to stay as well. First, we confirmed on the phone that Hosteling International is in fact the worst value and service ever: most new travelers pony up the money for this card, which serves as a piece of security at first as you assume before you leave home that this gets you set with lodging for your whole trip. However, we found very early on that the HI hostels were not only poorer quality, and further out of town in general, but not even cheaper (even with the membership card) than the numerous other options in each city. Back to the ecstatic throngs of touts, we naturally got convinced by the most attractive girl there (funny how that always seems to work) and were whisked away to the spare room of a sweet elderly couple. It was about a 15 minute ride out of town, but we were right on the bus line, and we stormed into Dubrovnik to not only eat and watch the World Cup, but to properly represent our nation and celebrate the 4th of July in style.
Ryan was to take no chances and we straightaway stopped in at Godfather's Pizzeria in Stari Grad (Old Town). Like we had done many times, we were discussing the tournament and the forthcoming matches, though after a few "I hate Italy"s from me, Ryan stopped to help me contemplate that sometimes sentiments are better kept inside while dining in Mafia pizzerias. Full and happy on my Don Corleone pie and Ryan's Mafioso, we meandered to the most hoppin expat bar with big screen TV to watch Italy vs Germany. We made friends with the South African Brady Bunch, 2 brothers and 2 sisters all traveling together, and all commiserated when Italy prevailed at the very end of overtime. Sad, and even sadder because I was not an Azzuri fan at the time (still bitter at the disgraceful show they put on against the US) but I'd have to root for them as the final would take place as we were scheduled to be in Rome!
With the South Africans and 3 random British lads in tow, we found a club called Fuego and toasted early and often to America and its 230th birthday. South African Greg Brady got very sloppy and very weepy, as in his slop he damaged the sparkly shirt he was wearing, which we were to find out between blubbers was a gift from his ex-love-of-his-life. Later on in the evening, Ryan was discussing the situation with Brit Ed the Red, and after saying something like "yeah man, it's tough when you lose a really special girl" he noticed that Ed was looking at him funny. When Ryan pressed as to why, Ed confusedly and hesitantly asked "wait, so ... you ... and Misha ... aren't ... ?" Ryan: "What?" Ed: "You know, you and Misha ... you aren't ... together?" Ryan: "What?! No! ... NO!!!" Made the funnier because Ed claimed that he only thought so because Peter Brady told him so, who I had earlier looked at quite skeptically when he insisted that he was dating a "woman" at home. Now I've never found stereotypes to be very useful or true, but this mix-up was made even the more odd by the general media portrayal of a gay man as more effeminate, well dressed, and well put together than his straight brothers. Ryan and I (feels odd typing that now, hmmm, how about "Ryan ... and also I") were among the gnarliest we'd been on this trip so far, with ragged and ripped shirt and pants framing the matted and patchy beards and the greasy and dirty hair just ever-so filled with various debris. Goes to show, you never know, huh!
At another club we both made sure to reclaim our stereotypical heterosexuality, with me chatting up a group of girls from Oregon and Ryan almost getting into a fight with a big Croat who thought that the 2 glasses of water that Blubbery McSadpants spilled on Ryan and subsequently splashed on near bystanders in the crowded bar were in fact Ryan trying to provoke this ex-military man's rage by getting him slightly wet. The Croat threw water back. Blubbery cried some more. Ed the Red, Tom Green, and Dick Black laughed. It was a fun night.
The nice thing about being in places like Dubrovnik, which is where Europeans go for their summer beach holidays, is that you're not really expected or plan to do much of anything besides chill. The next day was a late starter, with sandwiches, pizza, and beer mixed in with internet and beach time. The beach isn't so much a beach as you'd expect with things like sand, but rather was the rocky border of the town jutting right into the refreshing water. We walked around the edge of the city wall and found a place to lounge, sun, drink, and play water polo with Croats, all of whom didn't mind the fact that they were wet. We watched France vs Portugal and I was glad to see prettyboy cheater C. Ronaldo get his and cry, Ryan pooped everywhere, and France's coach is just as cute as a button!
In preparation for our exit to Italy a day later, we procured our tickets in hilarious fashion, and made our way back to the beach. This one had very small rocks rather than large ones. Sandals were a boon. We swam, saw sea urchins, Ryan read The Elegant Universe and got his hair dyed orange in the sun, and I went on a little adventure. It's always a thrill setting off by oneself in a new and exciting place, unburdened by maps or plans, and with a camera and curious nature on hand to capture whatever there is to see. I came across the Hotel Libertas, heavily bombed during the way, subsequently abandoned and sea-logged, now under massive construction in anticipation of its rebirth as a superresort. Swimming through the construction site unnoticed, I could still spy and touch pieces of rubble and even found an old abandoned used shell beneath a pile. Onward. Maria Church had the diapers of Jesus. Also on display were St. Blaise's leg, hand, and head. It's the way he would have wanted to go.
After walking the length of the town twice, the second time in hunt of the fabled outdoor movie theater we'd heard so much about but not come across, Ryan and I met again for a delicious fresh seafood dinner and got our tickets for Omen, the Liev Schrieber and Julia Stiles remake of the horror movie about the Antichrist as a child raised in the family of an American diplomat. I'd normally not discuss seeing a movie here, but I felt compelled to do so to discuss a) the power of advertising, and b) how much of a giant, overimaginative wussy I can be at my yearly horror movie. Though this was not a flick that either Ryan or I would pay to see first run, just another horror film with cheap thrills and semipredictable ending, this film was SO well advertised literally everywhere in the world leading up to its release that it did slowly seep into our consciousness and finally we had to succumb to our curiosity. Plus, it was the only one playing, but seriously, good job on the advertising, y'all. It really was the perfect night to see a horror movie, with the spooky, dark, barely filled outdoor theater projecting the film to the background of ominous clouds and nearby thunderclaps threatening a downpour at any time. The light fog coming on isolated one from one's own sense of reality and disconnection from the story, especially if that one thinks about things waaay too much. Ryan, tragically, was born with his vivid imagination missing, and was unphased by the spooky story unfolding. We almost did resemble the couple that the Fuego boys thought we were, except whenever there was a particularly startling moment, rather than curling up in his big strong arms, I would punch him hard in the shoulder and with wide eyes yell "Did you SEE that?!?!" For whatever reason, we walked back home with me truly believing that the Antichrist was well on his way to world domination (c'mon, Treaty of Rome, people!), and Ryan was under strict orders to not mess with me in any way that night as a joke as I would quite likely attack him in self-defense. No observations, strange looks, voices, cats, large black dogs, photos, and yes, a nightlight.
The next morning I was sufficiently unspooked and Ryan let loose with making fun of what a giant little girl I am. I had little ground to argue. We were slowed on our trek to the ferry by an argument with the old couple who owned the place over a never-mentioned and superfluous charge. This was a common occurence in Dubrovnik, though I must say not one of my prouder moments when I reflected afterwards at the smallness of the discrepancy and the frailness of the couple who I could tell did not need any more stress or argument in their lives. As a last tribute to our rockstardom, we were interviewed for Croatian TV right as we boarded the vessel, and away we sailed for Bari, Italy!

Moral of the Story: Are you sure there are no birthmarks ... anywhere?!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1151953200/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1151953200/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1151953200/tpod.html Tue, 07 Aug 2007 11:51:07 -0400 Everyone, look how GOOD we travel: Eastravaganza 2006

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Budva, Serbia and Montenegro

This post could really have been placed anywhere between Istanbul and Dubrovnik, but I chose to list it here because Montenegro was the only Balkan country in which we actually spent the night in a real bed, not on a train. I was tickled by the fact that Montenegro is in fact now its own country (that 6-0 thrashing by Argentina in the World Cup first round must've been the last straw leading to Serbia and Montenegro's breakup) and also that we met a guy there from Cal, who runs a hostel in Budva , which is in Montenegro, which I might mention is its own country now.
Please also forgive this not being the most coherent post, as it was a pretty blurry two-day crossing overland from Istanbul, Turkey to Dubrovnik, Croatia. First of all, despite the wonderful power of the internets and the google, we believed it could be done overland but found no conclusive or instructions how. The first step, we reckoned, was to get to Nis , Serbia via Sofia, Bulgaria, where I was able to use one last bit of Russian to buy potato chips during the brief stopover. Arriving in Nis , 3 hours late due to delays in Turkish, Bulgarian, and Serbian/Montenegren customs, we continued to raise the bar on our record for most bass-ackwards lucky travelers ever, arriving in town just a few hours before a train that is not even supposed to exist was to leave for Bar, Montenegro. With a little time to kill and needing local cash to score the tickets, we headed into town where Ryan, true to his duty, got a pizza in him (Bulgaria didn't count on his quest because he never left the train). We walked back in a hurry beneath the light rain to catch the train that doesn't exist to Bar on an imaginary rail like that is made of moonbeams and powered by unicorns. Scheduled for 8:50pm, it predictably didn't leave until 11:00, probably because they were still building the tracks.
Striking gold with an empty reserved cab that allowed us to avoid sleeping next to the shady guy who smelled like feet, we had a rest and woke up in Montenegro which, as it turns out, had been de facto separated from Serbia for many years to that point but just voted it in officially 4 months or so prior, and even were to shortly have their own UN representative.
We got to Bar at 1pm, walked to the nearby bus station, and I broke one of my personal rules of travel, which is "never get hurried or quickly hustled into anything: if it's legit you'll be allowed to take your time." Nevertheless, we were urgently waved onto the bus by the young woman with cracked yellow teeth and told it was was the "only to Dubrovnik" that day. Fair enough, but when we ended in Budva instead and were told again that another bus was the "only to Dubrovnik" that day, I was not about to get snookered and we firmly stepped off to the side to plan our next move. The first part of our new plan was to realize 3 minutes later that, in fact, the bus that we just watched roll away was the "only to Dubrovnik" that day.
After a brief flirtation with the notion of hitchhiking to Croatia with Frankie the vagabond Scot who had only 25 euro, 50 unexchangeable bits of Romanian currency, and 2 weeks to get to and survive in Budapest, we had a good and needed chat to clear the air, settle on a plan, and set on a quest for Hippo Hostel, the only in Budva , in the middle of a freak rainstorm.
While settling at Hippo's I caught a glimpse of both Oski and matrushka dolls as it turned out that Dave and his Slavic bride Nadia who together ran the joint represented two of my favorite sets of folks: Cal alumni and people who laugh when I speak Russian. A what are the chances moment: we were the 3rd and 4th Cal alums to come by Hippo's in the past several months since the place had opened, all of being Engineering Physics majors. To complete the randomness of sleeping at a place run by a Cal guy who attracts EPers in a city I'd never heard of in a country I didn't realize existed, we played 8-bit Nintendo baseball, watched Anchorman, and tool the international crew out to a Eastern European dance club right out of Eurotrip , with a full 2L of something strong for only a euro and a half!
Late the next morning I had a walk into town on the beat of my iPod to exchange our thousands of Serbian dinars for about 20 bucks. The fact that no one in Montenegro gave two rats asses about my wad of dinars further clued me into the fact that Montenegro is, in fact, its own country. We went for a bite and Ryan somehow managed to keep his pizza streak alive. Well, in the interest of full disclosure, he failed in Ukraine but I contend that we ate so much
Sbarro's in Russia every time that Lenin ne rabotayet that the mozzarella couldn't have possibly managed to completely leave his system by the time our time in Ukraine were up, especially as I believe he was back on his Imodium regiment at the time. Plus, as Ryan was convinced, the place was the "same as Russian anyway."
Same or not, soon thereafter we were on our way on the actual "only to Dubrovnik" that day with the older woman in back batting her eyes at us much to the anger of her bus driver husband. From what I gathered, she does this a lot.

Moral of the Story: Sometimes the best plans are none at all.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1151686801/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1151686801/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1151686801/tpod.html Fri, 03 Aug 2007 07:00:26 -0400 Everyone, look how GOOD we travel: Eastravaganza 2006

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Edirne, Turkey

The Istanbul train stop was worthless, the bus stop better, and soon we were rolling to Edirne . "Edirne ?" you ask, "Why I do declare, I have in my living days only heard of Istanbul, Ankara, and perhaps Izmir, as far as cities in Turkey go ... why in tarnation would you head there?!"
"Well, strange southern belle/Yosemite Sam hybrid," I might answer, "In one word: Kirkpinar ."
While scouting a possible itinerary for this trip while still back at home in the winter, I kept my eyes peeled for any local festivals we might chance upon, as those are some of the more fun experiences to me. They offer a chance to really cut loose not just with tourists, with the locals playing their roles to cater to any way we will spend the almighty dollar, but also with the locals themselves, who really come out to party and celebrate. One of the most bizarre festivals that I found, coinciding nearly perfectly with our time in Turkey, was Kirkpinar , the 624-year-old Turkish oil wrestling festival held annually in Edirne , a small town near the Bulgarian and Greek borders. I had resolved early on that this is one festival we were not going to miss.
Arriving a bit too late in the day, with Nina the Scot in tow, to arrange both our transit out and see any meaningful part of the tournament, we contented to try the bus and train stations again, having marginal success until the Turkish English teacher we ran into informed me through translation that, while exceedingly polite, the train station personnel could not actually sell me a ticket. No problem, tomorrow's another day, today we do need a place though and damn all the hotels are booked. Though we saw virtually no other foreigners, the loads of Turkish wrestlers from all about the country and their posses in town forced us to the only rooms left in Edirne , at the 6th place we tried. Exploring a bit later, we quested and found a place to catch both Germany-Argentina (settled in PKs , though everyone outside the US looks confused unless you refer to them as "penalties") and Italy-Ukraine (which I wish could have been settled less embarrassingly than 3-0).
In an impressive show of self-discipline, we tried to take care of tickets out the next morning before dashing off to the festival. Unfortunately, instead of tickets, all I got was unwilling tea with a troupe of police officers at the railway station, but we decided don't worry chicken curry and off to the races we went!
The central plan leading up to the festival was for me to find a way to participate. After all, there are about 1600 entries total, what's one more. Trying to grease the wheels a little in advance, I'd emailed the event organizers and had an enthusiastic invitation to come participate in a special exhibition match in my capacity as an ambassador by virtue of my successful career as a professional wrestler in America (hmmm ... I have no idea how they came to that conclusion!). In order to look the part, back in Istanbul, I'd carved out a special oil wrestling beard. Some of the pictures do it much better justice than a description, but imagine rakily angled sideburns cutting across my face to connect to my pencil-thin creepystache , a soul patch in circular form, and two symmetrically facing Nike swooshes on my chin, with a finger's width inbetween to form a hollow heart. I looked goood . And certainly authentic. I knew I'd certainly get worked in competition to a degree of pain I could scarcely imagine, but what a crazy ride huh!
I might mention here that the tournament does have a few rules, but really, only a few of them. Largely no-holds-barred, eye gouging and testicle twisting are commonplace and encouraged ... the only move I could see that was disallowed was touching the fair. We were in Turkish Anchorman street fight. Knowing this intellectually ahead of time, but not seeing these practices in action until we arrived, I was not altogether disappointed to find out that we'd arrived a day late and the exhibition match needed to happen yesterday, now we were too deep into the tournament. Pity. But as they say, if you can't falsely pose as one professional, pose as another, and as a proud, cheap-digital-camera-carrying professional journalist ("my nice camera is in the shop so this'll have to do to meet my deadline, my editor is a real hardass ), reporting on behalf of the "Berkeley Daily Times", I acquired my press pass and photographers' jersey and got down onto the field where the real action was.
I say action, and mean action: it was quite athletic, but this wasn't your average high school wrestling meet, unless perhaps you went to high school in the ancient Ottoman Empire. These guys (huge, hairy, covered head to toe and inside out of their clothes in olive oil, and clad only in customized, tight, studded leather capris with their last name embroidered on the rear), would start by marching up and down the field to the beat and tune of the flutes and drums off to the side, arms and legs swinging all akimbo, and somehow pair up with one another and a referee so that there were over a dozen matches at once on the slick grassy field. They would begin by shaking hands and, either by custom, regulation, or strategy, forming a standing arc shape with each's hands on the other's shoulders and both leaning forward into it. The match would begin and they would push and turn against each other until one would slip or tire and fall to all fours, with the other landing just behind and eager to exploit his advantage. The second fella would, lightning quick, mount the first, shove one arm elbow-deep down the back of the bottom's pants, the other down the front, and root around until he found something to hang onto and leverage. Are you seeing the reasons for all the oil?
While it is not difficult to drop your competitor to his knees from the starting position, or even get him down on his belly, it is considerably more of a challenge (especially while oiled up) to get him on his back to signify the end of the match. To speed this along, the one with the upper hand would follow that "Stop, Drop, and Roll" pattern that I would remember as "Mount, Dig, and Squeeze". With the top's hands full of, erm , "leverage", it's simple physics and anatomy to subdue his opponent. Eventually, one of the wrestlers (usually the fondlee , though I did see some miraculous escapes and turnarounds as well as the exceptions to the rule) would end up on his back and lose within a few minutes. Some were even shorter, and the most painful to watch were the stray 45-minute evenly-matched testesachel -squeezing sessions. Needless to say, I got great photos with my full access pass, though I had just cleared out my camera memory card and mused that if I lost my camera and someone picked it up they'd form a quick impression of my preferences, with an entire camera just chock full of sweaty, oily, half naked men wrestling, and nothing else.
At the end of the day I was quite satisfied that fate had seen it fit to pose me as a roving reporter rather than as a wild wrestler with leather pants, ready to be molested by other Turkish wrestlers. We made like a rubber ball and bounced, and had just enough time to catch the two games at our adopted bar-restaurant (England and Brazil both lost, meaning that in any case forward Ryan had beaten me by the slimmest of margins in our World Cup pool, his predictatory performance only slightly less pathetic than my own) before catching a taxi to the border town of Kapikule , sleeping like the BOMZh we truly had become in the train station for a bit. We were told we couldn't buy tickets until 3am even though the train was due in at 2:30, finally capturing the enormous drunk train man asleep in his office and making him mightily struggle to write us out a pair of tickets, just in time for the slowest emigration process ever because the Turkish guards who needed to do the passport stamping simply stood there looking at us for two hours. In a slow but sure way, we were finally off at 5:30am for a journey into the unknown: crossing the Balkans overland, without a clue beforehand how to pull this off.

Moral of the Story: I've known Turkish Delight. I enjoy Turkish Delight. Kirkpinar , Sir, is a really strange type ... of Turkish Delight. More like Turkish Deli-riouslyHilarious .
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1150131600/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1150131600/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1150131600/tpod.html Thu, 02 Aug 2007 07:30:04 -0400 Everyone, look how GOOD we travel: Eastravaganza 2006

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Istanbul, Turkey

We packed in a rush to get off the boat, which was a good thing because we almost missed the start ... of four extra hours sitting on our poop decks waiting for customs to show up for work. We took some of the time to stand in line for a Turkish visa for Ukrainian citizens, though they did not find it auspicious to give us one. Finally we were landlubbers again, stopping only to help (i.e. be pack mules for) the girls carry their 10,000 pound suitcases down the stairs. Normally I like doing the gentlemanly thing, but between the twin near-misses of massive hernia and almost losing the handle grip to lawn-bowl two young families down the stairs, next time I'm thinking twice, or at least calling for backup.
I write that of course, but it's not true. I literally believe that I am a superhero.
We take pride in being hearty and independent travelers, so to save 5 euro we walked what might charitably be labeled "incorrectly" around the perimeter of the peninsula. Not that we were entirely incompetent, but the tentative route was based on one picture of a mosque that I'd seen online and expected to spot en route, but if Istanbul is short one thing, it's certainly not mosques. Compounding the problem was the collective conscience of Istanbul's taxi drivers who, upon hearing our destination, indicated that they didn't want to rip us off for such a short walk, not understanding out mosque multivision and thus dooming us to more aimless wandering. Finally getting ourselves lost to such a intense geographical degree that a cabby found it appropriate to haul us back, we flagged one off the expressway and were soon at Bahaus Hostel.
With a base of operations (and quite a good one, coming highly recommended on hostelworld .com), we are, internetted , planned, and learned that Citibank was once again, surprisingly for the world's largest financial institution, incapable of executing simple instructions to deliver me a replacement card. We also called Bade, Imad's long-distance girlfriend, and made plans for a rendezvous that evening. On the way to Tahksim Square to catch the World Cup match prior, we met Angelo from Yale who was doing a banking internship there for the summer (no he was not responsible for Citibank losing my replacement card again), and brought him along for Italy-Australia.
The only reason I carried the Italia shirt that my sister had bought me during her study abroad on this trip (remember, I literally only had 3 t-shirts) was that I wanted to have a blue shirt on hand (they photograph and travel well), and my Nike one was getting near threadbare. The only reason I didn't send it home with my parents in St. Petersburg was that it looked as though Italy might have a chance at making it to the World Cup finals and we had a chance of being in Rome at that very time. And the only reason I wore it that evening was that it was laundry day and everything else was in the wash. Of course, none of those reasons were resoundingly accepted by the bar full of large drunk Aussies that we walked into, who all stopped to start and grunt at me. We weren't making any friends that way, but when I took it off to turn it inside-out, tried to order a Foster's, and rooted for the Socceroos (who in fact showed much more skill and class in that game than did the Azzuri ) with all my heart, all was well and chummy. Sadly, Australia lost in the last few seconds of injury time on a specious at best penalty kick call, so the Aussies drank more and we scampered off to drown our sorrows in Turkish cuisine.
Bade must have had quite the first impression of us, being treated in our initial encounter to a spirited and salty review of the game by two heavily bearded, unwashed Americans with passions still running high and not unfueled by a few brews just after we slipped in a "hey, how are ya." Fortunately she went to school in the States so we were not anything she'd not really seen before. Accepting that somehow her well-mannered and charming boyfriend had hooligan friends like this, we continued onto dinner with three more of her friends on a delightful rooftop overlooking all of Istanbul. All Turkish but college educated in America, they spoke better English than we, and we received a stimulating history lecture from one, a lesson on Turkish drinking from his little sister, and a large illustrated book on Turkey that Bade pulled from thin air. The meal was legendary, with course after course punctuated with laughter and Ryan's eardrum, which was nearly burst with near, pure clarinet sound from the roving Turkish klezmer troupe regaling us with "Dixie". Again, as in Pakistan, dinner ended up very sweet in a frustrating way when Bade & Co would not let us pay a cent, the hospitality ethic some places abroad is just unreal. While we contemplated ways to slip some liras into her purse, we told fortunes off the Turkish coffee rinds. Except for mine, I'd just previously accidentally eaten them.
On the way home, we caught the last bit of the Ukraine-Switzerland penalty shootout (go Blue and Gold!) and Bade's singer friend added hospitality to caring injury by sneakily buying us the Tutemas CD. To rub in how nice and amazing they were, they logically connived us into letting them even pay our cab fare home! We were unable to brood, however, over their infectious and much appreciated generosity as we landed not the only but apparently one of a score of crazy cab drivers in town who liked to play chicken with parked, unmanned dump trucks (he fortunately found it prudent to lose at the end) and stopped- at our pleading insistence- near enough home so we could stagger out to walk the rest of the way and regain our composure. Later, much later, that night, Ryan's high school friend Metzger flew into town with his college buddy Mike and got stuck at the low-rent airport on the Asia side (Istanbul actually straddles the two continents) so duly arrived at the hostel well into dusk.
In the morning I realized that, as random connections are wont to go, my college buddy's high school buddy's college buddy was a dude I already knew, having met and hiked with Mike the previous summer up at the Lair, meeting through the two Johns. Anyhow, we lunched again at our new fav cafe (in what Ryan decided was his favorite city so far) and went to go do the check list thang . First stop was the Hagia Sofia. I normally tire at seeing all but the most spectacular churches (i.e. Notre Dame, St. Peter's) once I've seen a bunch while traveling, but this one was so cool because it only was a spectacular church. Once the grandest structure in Christendom, it was later converted into a mosque and you can still see the layered symbols, with the Virgin Mary mosaic near the Islamic geometric artwork, and crosses visibly peeking through beneath newer Muslim imagery. Next was the the Blue Mosque which, while grand and neat in living up to its name, also might have been known as This Giant Carpet Smells Like Feet From All The Shoeless Visitors Mosque. How funny to have one sense engaged and enthralled with the sights while the other is repelled by the odor!
We wend our way to Tahksim again for the Spain-France game and, lo and behold, all the Aussies had changed into Spaniards. I was rooting for Spain as it figured better for my World Cup bracket, but was not super disappointed when France pulled it out, I think I was won over by Henry's constant bewilderment, Zidane's pointy baldness, and their coach who might I say was just as cute as a button. Heading home late at night, we stumbled upon a large, open-air lounge where the maître d' (who professed, as do most Turks we met at work, to be my best friend in the world) kept the hookah and nonalcoholic drinks coming and I taught the boys a little backgammon magic, which I had learned through the course of 2-way, 40-minute commuted over 4 months in the winter on my $10 cell phone, it being the only game I liked and the only thing to do to keep my sanity.
I awoke "early", just in time to meet Nina, the Scottish Greek tour guide for the same breakfast of tomato, cucumber, bread, feta, and tea, and when the boys woke up we changed rooms again (in fact, changed hostels this time as Bahaus had become overbooked) and grabbed Nina, Laurel from SF, and Xanthe the Aussie to hit the markets that Istanbul is known for. At the Grand Bazaar- less Aladdin and more Woolworths by now- Ryan replaced what is now helping a Ukrainian bladder-control-poor hobo keep on schedule, and we made it over to the even more interesting and delicious Egyptian Spice Bazaar. Nina and I ate a lot of Turkish Delight, they don't call it that for nuttin '. Completing the circuit with a romp around the peninsula palace and a roll on the floor to keep the Turkish rug sales pitch quite interesting, we came back home to book our Turkish baths.
Needing to experience what we'd missed in the onseh in Japan and banya in Russia, and honestly just quite needing a proper scrubdown anyhow, we were whisked by cab out to the lair and changed into our towels, boys and girl separated of course. It was a HOT sauna, though none of us wanted to be the first to admit that he was dying and needed to get out, and we were all relieved when we were shown out to the less hot but no shortage of steamy marble altar washroom. There, we waited and watched while Metzger was the first to get the rubdown from the very large and hairy Turkish washman in only a towel seemingly smaller than our stingy dishrags, and suppressed giggles which he was splashed, scratches, slapped, and scraped by his man. My wash was next and was actually quite nice, the cool water is a refreshing contrast to the hot room. I enjoyed the various forms of abuse, as rough traveling had not done any favors to my muscles and they needed a bit of a beating up to hang loose. Ryan's wash, however, was by far the funniest. As he and Mike were being washed at the same time (large Turkish man in a small towel #2 had come out to service Mike), the exfoliating stone and loofah thing made Mike squirm which made his guy start meowing in mockery. Ryan, finding it funny, chortled as he does best, which egged on his own fella to start ... mauling him, making Metzger and I crack up, only prompting him to really launch Ryan into a few new positions we had to name as they were executed: The Inverse Pirate Ship, Beard Puddle, Eye Scrubber, Human Lawnmower, Chocolate Preztel , Donkey Punch, Fuller Nelson, and Fullest Monty as the combination of small flappy towels and jerky movements exposed us to much more of Ryan's flapping sack than can even be legal.
We were dumped back into the blistering sauna, doused off in deliciously cold water again, changed towels, dried, each got a nice cool bottle of the best water I've ever tasted, and just chill dried/recovered with the girls back in the main room. Nice and limber and back to see our best buddy, it was time for more thick hookah, stimulating backgammon, and sticky baklava. As the group slowly dwindled as folks slipped off to bad, we wandered out much later again for a late nite photo shoot and were capturing some killer (or so I imagined, my broken camera screen kept the products in the dark until later) evening shots, and connecting with despite the madly barking dog straining at his chain but 30 feet away, when the Hagia Sofia security guard with little English to speak of and little to do bade us follow him into his pen for tea. Half an hour into learning Turkish and making visual jokes, we were running our of stock phrases and things to pantomime and were about to head out, when our new friends motioned us to follow him into the catacombs. Ducking under security tape and into the ruins being excavated and unopened yet to the public, we were stoked and surprised to find our gaze, directed by his torch light, finally rest upon a half-out-of-the-ground Byzantine mummy. Just discovered the week prior, we were among the first people to witness this one of our ancient brothers or sisters in hundreds of years. He led us down a catwalk suspended above the subterranean arena subchambers and, equally afeared of ghosts and bandits, but with a strong intuition that this was a once-in-a-lifetime experience and not to denigrate it with fear or suspicion, we were awed by the past given new life right before us. We emerged to the surface energized and stunned, and after a grateful farewell to our foreign friend, climbed to the roof of Bahaus to build a fort and watch the sun rise. Not a bad ending/start to a glorious day in Istanbul, not Constantinople.

Moral of the Story: Next time I'm wearing shaded goggles to match the towel, I need no more of that burned into my retinas.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1151254800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1151254800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1151254800/tpod.html Wed, 01 Aug 2007 07:58:22 -0400 Everyone, look how GOOD we travel: Eastravaganza 2006

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Black Sea, Ukraine

We met our two Turkish cabinmates first thing on the ship. We were excited of course to meet these two guys who would be sharing our tiny sleeping quarters, but overall nervous as the cruise we'd booked from Odessa to Istanbul down the Black Sea was the cheapest and fastest way down, though not the safest as these boats fairly regularly find the bottom of Davy Jones' locker. The first one's name was difficult to pronounce, but when we asked what he'd been going in Ukraine he answered "Vaycaaaaytion" with a lecherous grin and exaggerated hip thrust motion. We named him Humpy. The second one, despite being endowed with the greatest name in the world starts with an "M", ends with an "-isha"), was also the scariest-looking man in the world. I'm pretty sure just his nostrils could have bitten my face off. We named him Scary.
Not quite like hiking in Nepal, but still with two solid days on a cargo boat with almost no activities, the meals were almost guaranteed to be the highlights of the day. In terms of occupying a prominent place on the to-do list for the day, they performed admirably, though for quality of the less-than-memorable culinary experience, imagine Russian food, but 30 years old, and served on a 16th century pirate ship. A British one at that. All the same, our tablemates Aksana and Gnarla were great stilted-Russian conversation partners and we finished up in time to grab a few beers for the Argentina-Mexico match.
Other thing about being in a boar is there are no TV broadcast towers on buoyees in the middle of the sea, so we only got to catch the first half before the reception fuzzied out to nada, and Scary came around to play some cards. To our credit, we did not let him win on purpose. Not every time, anyhow. He did further bank on his scariness to make us Turkish dance to techno in the Discobar later that night. Humpy, after chatting up Ol' McGee all night, went predictably MIA. He came back in the morning with an even lecherous-er face on and slept all the next day.
My next day was not spent on pedestrian pursuits such as sleep, not when there was travelogue to write! I sunned, hung out, and covered Nepal through Moscow, all in a day's work. All work and no play make Jack a dull piece of cargo though, so that night the only Americans on board (us), Scary, and the Tablettes celebrated Aksana's bday in style, and by style I do mean their tiny cabin. We counted stars and were introduced to the Tutemas song three times, a very slow and sultry song that we thought was a love song but actually translates to something like "there's no one to hold me" and was the catalyst to a rush of love-struck teen suicides a few years back until the government had to step in, banning that song and presumably by widely releasing the infinitely more catchy and in a way less depressing "Who Let the Dogs Out". Ryan had a beard-and life-related epiphany before it was late to bed, late to rise, making these men healthy, wealthy, and in Turkey.

Moral of the Story: I'd love to see Scary and the guy from Red Dragon in a bite-through-steel-plate contest. And then Humpy vs Wilt, but not in basketball.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1149958800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1149958800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1149958800/tpod.html Tue, 31 Jul 2007 07:08:09 -0400 Everyone, look how GOOD we travel: Eastravaganza 2006

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Odessa, Ukraine

We were seen onto the train back in Kiev by Lida and Artem, bearing heaps of food from Tanya and Natasha who, once again, were philosophically opposed to the concept of no. Arriving a little early for our train (which was highly outside our regular custom), Lida and Artem waited patiently on the platform as I slowly ran out of amusing things to mime to them through the window (I don't know why they wait so long, I think it's a Russian thing) and the train mercifully shuddered to life and began its roll to the jewel of the south, Odessa.
It was one of the less comfortable train journeys that we'd taken thus far as the train lady would not buy our explanation that, as Ryan had gotten robbed and sprinkled by a hobo, we literally had no money with which to buy sheets. She was quite the yin to Tanya and Natasha's yang, and was very comfortable with "nyet", "ne mozjno", and "ya skazal NYET!", so we got to enjoy the metal bars of the train bench unencumbered by the small degree of cushioning the thin threadbare train mat might have provided us. We wouldn't have slept long anyhow though, as we were in Odessa bright and shiny in the morning, met by (another) Tanya and Alona. Alona was the three-time karate champion of Ukraine, fourth in Europe, and the friend of Tanya who is the daughter of the college friend of my aunt's who we'd be staying with. They were sweethearts to come collect us so early in the morning, and we chatted away for a while about football (is there anything else to discuss while the World Cup is on?!) before Aunt Gayla's friend Vera, her husband Vitaly, and their evil dog Lucifer rolled up to get us home. At the apartment, as seems to be the pattern, we ate but Vera said not enough as we again moved beyond eating to straight foodpacking as there is no way to ascribe a natural body process or nutritional value to putting that much extra food into one's stomach.
Over breakfast we did have a fun time swapping stories with the uncle visiting after moving three years ago to San Francisco to land a job in "security". I might add on a completely unrelated note that Odessa is known to be the most Mafia-ridden city in Eastern Europe. Just sayin'. Made me appreciate the comparatively benign badassness of my own uncle. Tanya then took us out on the town, the main things I can tell you are that there is a statue of Pushkin for every man, woman, and child in Odessa, they clearly don't quote the right figure for the number of stairs on Potemkin Steps as I counted three times and each time got a different result (none of which matched the official one), and we found the San Greal, or Sang Real if you will but you probably won't you Council of Shadows operative. SOFIA, it's so simple! We also walked through the wishing arc and over mother-in-law bridge, that legend has it was built by the city's governor who needed a quicker path to his mother-in-law's house so he could more easily lunch on her tasty borscht. I say myth because neither borscht nor, I'm told, mother-in-laws, are wonderful at all. Passed onto Alona, we toured the kids store where the girls work, cried because instead of a giant piano like in Big they instead had the scariest animatronic elf statue ever, and come back home to, what else but, eat.
Off to the beach next for a fun time in the cold and gross yet refreshing water and king of the mountain on the moss wall before I obliged like a sucker, for the promise of both chocolate and beer, to be buried, mainly so the gnats would have an easier time buzzing my face, making like I was an air traffic control tower and they were each Maverick. Then, back at home, we ate. And I played the piano. Until Vera made us eat again.
One of the coolest parts of traveling during the World Cup is the opportunity to watch games in several different countries, occasionally actually catching a game in a nation whose team is playing that day. As luck would have it, our first such experience was in Odessa while Ukraine took on Tunisia in its last group match, needing a solid result to have a chance to advance. Still reeling with disappointment after news of the US loss to Ghana to earn a trip home, I threw myself full-bore into adopting a second-favorite team, made even easier as their colors were (you guessed it) Blue and Gold (while Tunisian was a shade of Cardinal Red). We made our way to the center of town to catch the match on the giant screen set up and were swept up into the spirit as Ukraine went ahead on a penalty kick! Though not quite as thrilled by the burns that Ryan and I suffered on the neck and foot, respectively, from the celebratory firecrackers being lit in the middle of the crowd, that dampened our excitement none nor did it in any way dissuade the policy from breaking the party up as we all spilled away in one big happy soccer hooligan wave chanting "Hey Hey U-kra-ine!"
To keep the good times rolling, we (well, first we ate again) headed out to Arcadia, the bar and disco on the beach district. We caught a bit of France-Togo with the for sure Mafia guys in the corner who everyone coming in had to go pay respects to, boogied, and walked on the beach as a prelude to our late long walk home where, try as we might, we could not avoid setting the devil dog into another frothy frenzy powered by our mere presence and existence.
In a short comedy of errors, we went to the dock the following morning to buy our boat ticket out to Turkey: stand in line, find out there was a boat, get out of line, stand in line, is the boat today?, confer, stand in line, OK 2 tickets please, we need money right now?, get out of line, stand in line, get out of line once more for fun, stand in line, and pay. It took us two hours.
With some time to kill, we kicked it in a sweet sidewalk cafe with the girls until it was time to go home and eat. I meant to say (and actually did mean to) pack, but we had no choice in the matter. We bid farewell to Vera and good riddance to Beelzebub and were escorted by Tanya and Alona to the harbor where, even after saying goodbye at passport control before beginning our lengthy processing, and even though the boat departed an hour late, they kept waiting on the railing just brimming with anticipation for the moment they got to wave goodbye as the ship actually finally set sail. It's a Russian thing.

Moral of the Story: I just saw the movie Omen and I'm pretty sure that if I were to take scissors to that dog's coat I'd find that triple circle 6 birthmark. Stupid Dameon.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1149613200/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1149613200/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1149613200/tpod.html Mon, 30 Jul 2007 08:54:30 -0400 Everyone, look how GOOD we travel: Eastravaganza 2006

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Kiev, Ukraine

Kiev sports the best metro deal in the known world (half a hryvnia, or about 10 cents), and we boarded the underground to the end of the line at Akademmistechko, where Babushka lives. For those of you who haven't read about the first time I or my sister had met my grandmother, please see the Kiev entry in my EuroTrip 2005 travelogue. First stop was by the next-door children's hospital to find Tanya, the woman who helped Babushka (also named Tanya) out. All the nurses there were also named Tanya, so that didn't help, but one of the Tanyas got wise to who we were looking for and with the other lady continuing to intensely question us on our way out, we got on and off the little elevator that didn't work, backwards, and squoze through the narrow bars that ensure that if a child ever tries to run away he will be slightly inconvenienced and no adult will be able to slip through quickly enough to catch up.
Papa had warned us that we would probably scare the little old ladies who hang out in front of Babushka's apartment.
Check!
Whatever, we looked good. Mohawks were still poppin and contrasting nicely with the general state of disrepair of all our clothes and gear.
We made our way up the stairs, and for only the second time in my life, I nervously knocked on the padded leather door to meet my Mama's mama. Very strangely emotional to meet her again, the woman I didn't really know and couldn't really communicate with but is one-quarter, and more than that in spirit, responsible for me being on this planet. But first things first, we were whisked into the kitchen by Tanya to be fed until we couldn't move anymore.
Tanya and Natasha, the other woman who helps out, have no concept of "no" ("Do you want this?" "No." "OK, here you go.") and set before us a strange and fantastic feast of a bucket of strawberries, sour cream, 10,000 dumplings, 4 bananas, 2 tomatoes, and a plateful of sardines-but-giant.
I had known and had been trying to prepare myself for the difficulty and frustration of having Babushka physically there and wanting to ask a million questions but likely only getting 2 or 3 in, and simple ones at that. Ones that needed to be yelled into her ear and would receive likely only a stare back, especially without Mama and Papa around to help me get my thoughts across. It was sad and joyful all at once, the brilliance of being there with a living part of my past, but nearly impossible to break through her iconic status in my life and begin to know her as a person. She had not grown into better health since last I saw her. I had been warned by Mama and Lonya that chances were good that she'd not even know who I was. She didn't know her own son at Lonya's last visit.
Tanya later told me that, in anticipation of my visit, which she had learned about a few months prior, she had gone with Tanya through the photo album that Jenny had brought for her last time every single day to point at the faces and tell Tanya who they were. Over the months, more and more strangers appeared in those pages to Babushka's eyes, and it meant so much to me to find out that by the end I was the only one who she constantly recognized and doted over the visage of. I had adjusted my expectations in anticipation of my grandmother's weakened condition, and I believe we were both satisfied with our ultimate arrangement of me sitting beside her, stroking her thinning wispy white hair, holding her weathered hand, and just talking about our adventures even though she couldn't understand my words. She knew at least that my sister and I are where we are because of her and her struggles and difficult life in Moldova and Ukraine and the army, and I don't think we had to not be strangers in some senses in order to be so closely linked in another.
Babushka grew tired again, and we let her alone, resolving to be content and derive meaning from whatever was to happen my last time seeing her the next day.
Ryan hadn't yet seen Kiev and we were taken out on the town by Lida and Artem, the children of Tanya and Natasha, respectively. It was an unexpectedly great time, with the whimsical diversion of the evening helping to balance the intense emotional implications of this visit. Arten had aged six years in the less than one since I'd last seem him when I could have sworn he'd been 13, and we sightsaw, took pictures with just about all the statues in the park and seesaws in the playground, rode the trolley thing, caught the 2nd half of Netherlands-Argentina, and kept the night rolling at a discotheque in the middle of a carnival. Kiev also (who would have guessed it) does not run metros in the middle of the night, and we easily missed our last chance between the loud dancing, flock of Ukrainians dressed in all white, and vodka bottle service to the table. We resolved to hang out by the river until dawn, and spread out to get a little rest and reflection.
Stretching out a bit after sunrise to begin our walk back, Ryan looked a bit out of sorts. And wet. Ryan discovered that in the midst of his slumber (which can take place in any position for any amount of time under the duress of any distraction) he had been robbed by a conscientious hobo who had relieved himself on Ryan's back, by robbing the $70 worth of hryvnia bills and $7 plastic watch he had on his person, but kindly leaving exact fare for the subway home in his other, previously empty, pocket.
By the way, I do like to be subtle here, but in case you missed the innuendo, Ryan also got peed on. He will deny it, but that's to be expected when you're-in an embarrassing story.
One more day in Kiev, and we awoke late to have a legendary time and breakfast until Babushka felt rested enough for us to come back over from Natasha's place. Knowing this would likely be the last time I would ever see my last grandparent, I simply gave myself to the flow and energy of the situation. I sat there with my grandmother, who I don't know but love, and just let the experience be what it was. Few words were attempted or exchanged between us, but an understanding of the intersection of our lives and the blessings that we shared became clear. Then we knew it was time to go.

Moral of the Story: Family is still always a good place to be.

Postscript: Since I had written this post initially sometime later in the trip, Babushka passed on from this world on November 1, 2006. God bless her and thank you Babushka.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1150822800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1150822800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1150822800/tpod.html Mon, 30 Jul 2007 07:37:48 -0400 Everyone, look how GOOD we travel: Eastravaganza 2006

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Moscow, Russia

Our plan to see Lenin this time around was going to require more of that military precision we had so well displayed in India, and the train would have flunked out of boot camp for depositing us a half hour late into Moscow to initiate the engagement sequence. No matter, we got our tickets to Kiev for that night on the second try, stashed our bags at the station (claiming they were only worth $5 to save on extra charges, though that wasn't far from the truth by that point), I committed a grave technical error by guiding us onto the wrong subway line, and we arrived in the center of Moscow at 12:50 PM.
Lenin closes at 1 PM.
If he's open at all.
We run up, guard says (you guessed it), but, unwilling to take that for an answer yet again, I ran to the other side for a last-ditch effort. The guard predictably says "Lenin ne rabotayet", I say please, he says no, I launch into our sob story, say I'm from America, he asks if I'm from Texas, I say no I'm from California, he asks if I know Arnold Schwarzenegger, I say "Know him? Please! I just graduated from the University of California and Arnold personally signed my diploma!"
That got us in.
Like Papa said, Lenin was little and yellow and oh-so-anticlimactically-wonderful and we had then a little walk along the Kremlin wall, where important people have their ashes lain to rest in a very important fashion. I stopped to pay respects to Gagarin and to send nasty thoughts to Stalin for the things he did to my family and so many others, and, feeling lucky, we continued on to the Armory.
Armory ne rabotayet.
Ah well ,what did you expect. Final scores: 1/4 for Lenin, 0/3 for Armory. We stopped to pick up a few souvenirs for home (only a few, so just because you're reading this, doesn't mean you should expect one ;) and rolled into Sbarro's again, this time with our arms raised to the air in triumph. It was an allergy day, so I gave myself license to eat whatever I wanted, and I did.
Mission accomplished. Now to Kiev on the train with the older sisters and grumpy Nagg and Nell.

Moral of the Story: To paraphrase Margaret Mead, "Never doubt that a small, group of thoughtful, committed citizens can ... see Lenin in the Moscow on their 4th try over the span of a week and a half.
Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has."
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1149094800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1149094800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/mishaley/eastravaganza06/1149094800/tpod.html Sun, 29 Jul 2007 08:01:40 -0400 Everyone, look how GOOD we travel: Eastravaganza 2006

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St. Petersburg, Russia

The last legacy of Moscow was that our train ne rabotayet properly and we did wake up in the right city ... but at the wrong station. Not quite believing that my uncle had forgotten that we were coming and to come pick us up, I did manage to get ahold of him on his mobile and an earful of loud, harsh Russian (sounds angry but that's just the way that they talk), and they finally found us camping on top of our bags outside the station we had been redirected to. I told Dyadya (Uncle) Lonya and my aunt Natasha that Alexander Lvovich in Moscow had told my parents on the phone, when Papa called to see if we'd made it safely, that we were very nice but looked less like college students and more like BOMZh (Russian acronym for "bez opredelyonnogo mesta zhitelstva " which translates into "without a place" which is known as "bums" in English, look how much fun we can have with etymological coincidences!) ... and Lonya did not disagree.
Of course Natasha insisted that we were too skinny (a 2-week Everest battle and 2 further weeks of native Indian and Pakistani food meant for locals and all that then comes with it for foreigners will do that to a guy) and so we had some good ol ' KFC (right across from the McDonald's, but surprisingly no Starbucks) before heading out on a tour of the city. We gazed upon the beautiful golden dome of St. Isaac's, the ornamental facade of the Hermitage, gravity-defying statues and fountains scattered about the city in restful public parks, the frenetic artwork on the Church of the Bleeding Savior, and finally got our faces stuffed again with ice cream by Natasha. Walking back to the car, we ran into probably the 15th wedding party between Moscow and SPB that we'd seen in the past few days, out taking photos. There are 4 or 5 spots in every Russian city where, when you get married, you absolutely must capture the moment in front of. Don't ask why, just say "Cheese!" ... or, even better, start chanting "Goika !" which means "bitter" in Russian and requires the newlyweds to kiss on the spot to make it sweet again. We dropped off our big packs at Lonya's spare apartment in the city, where we'd be staying for most of our time there, and took just an overnight bag each out to his country house 20km out of town.
Lonya is Mama's only sibling, about 6 years older, and had only come to the US once, for Jenny's Bat Mitzvah , so I didn't know him well or much about him. During the few days I'd spent with him in Kiev in Fall 2005, however, I grew to really like his style and thought him quite the badass . We had had many a fun evening over a bottle of honey and red pepper vodka, not much understanding each other fully in language but completely in family love. In fact, owing to my imagination and propensity to amuse myself with exaggerated stories (except, of course, for this entire travelogue where, dear reader, you can be assured that everything is reported 100% faithfully as it happened, just don't ask Ryan to confirm or deny), I had developed a theory that Uncle Lonya was actually SPB 's premier mob boss, who owns a "construction firm" that never actually builds anything and only buys concrete for one purpose, and would have no qualms offing Ryan if he didn't like the borscht, after all Ryan is a dear friend but not part of the family. My illusions took a bit of a hit when he came to collect us at the train station looking more like Joe Suburb than Tony Soprano, with a fishing vest and polo shirt replacing the leather jacket and track pants that I had been expecting, and were thoroughly crushed when we packed into his economy station wagon and pulled into his quaint country spread. Don't get me wrong, Lonya has a sweet pad and a very large yard and garden with even a small cute fish pond on the grounds, and a big modern house, but I just didn't see where exactly were the bodies would be buried or where his gang of toughs would hold their "business meetings". Or was that the whole point of the ruse ... hmmm ...
Actually a larger shock than my uncle not actually being an an underworld crime Kingpin was, during our tour of his very un -Mafia-like herb garden, having Ryan and I try a piece of a green leafy vegetable called "schavel " ("sorrel" in English) and Ryan actually really liking it, to the point of craving! Though Ryan had made huge strides in his food diversification on this trip, and his plate could every now and again be seen voluntarily speckled with bits of red and green things that once grew beyond crushed red peppers or oregano on his pizza, he still was by no means a veggie-loving kinda guy. However, lo and behold, he began downing the first of what would be 3 generous bags of the stuff during our time there as we came in for dinner with Lonya , Natasha, Natasha's mama, and their crazy cat Sima , who we were not supposed to photograph for superstitious reasons. Wanting to contribute to show our appreciation for the lovely hospitality, and demonstrating once again that understanding new technology once over the age of 45 is a universal struggle (no offense of course to my elders, as I am fully aware that I'll need to enlist the help of my future children in order to just turn on my holographic quantum hyperhovercar ), we taught them how to free their pictures from the greedy grip of their digital camera that had "eaten them and wouldn't let go". We even started recording Natasha's audiotaped vocal performances into digital format before watching soccer until bed, apparently falling asleep in my clothes on the sheets "like a barbarian" which made Mama mad later until I started speculating that it must have just been the way I'd been brought up.
By lucky coincidence, Natasha was to be performing the next day in the city and invited us to watch. My aunt is a professional singer (apparently rather successfully and for a while, I saw a framed professional poster in their house advertising one of her shows and featuring a picture of her glorious 80s acid-washed jeans stage look back then) and was to be performing some traditional music this time with a folk troupe. The major problem was of course that the show would be falling at the exact time of the US's first World Cup match against the Czech Republic that we'd been discussing in depth for weeks. We tried unsuccessfully to set up a scheme to record it, but at the end of the day family is family (plus the still-lingering suspicion that Lonya might order up a hit on Ryan should we spurn the invitation) and Natasha's performance ended up being much more interesting and inspirational than the 0-3 stinker handed in by our boys anyhow. Despite the Chileans hoarding all the refreshments during intermission, Natasha's solo after the break made it all worthwhile and afterwards we were content to catch more soccer and another DVD copy of "Da Vinci Code" we'd found that, not being in Moscow, actually rabotayet .
When backpacking, you need to travel light, and thus each of my few shirts served multiple purposes. My brown Rolling Stones t-shirt, in addition to allowing me to be the biggest musical poseur ever in the way that I bought it, was going to be our ticket into the Stones concert scheduled to take place in SPB during the middle of our stay there. Of course, as ought to have been completely unexpected yet not at all surprising, Keith Richards had just a week earlier fallen out of a coconut tree in Fiji and his emergency brain surgery rendered our best-laid plans to sneak in posing as crew members null, void, and awry.
Deciding that in lieu we would spend the day getting to know some local Russians, I texted up on Ryan's Razr the Couchsurfing twins Masha and Dasha (oh cruel cruel parental naming scheme, as dad was Sasha and mom was Natasha, I think the dog's name might have been Kasha ) who actually ended up being born on the exact same day, year, and- if time zones are considered- at exactly the same time as me! We ended up with the interesting arrangement where, for each to practice the other's language, I'd speak Russian to them and they'd speak English back, though their second-language skills were far superior, having spent several summers working in the USA while they could (Russia becomes increasingly unwilling to send young women abroad as they approach marrying age, fearing they'll not return). Time flew and what seemed to be still yet early ended up being actually quite late due to the discombobulating effects of Belie Nochi , and we caught the very last Metro home. Belie Nochi , the famous "White Nights" of Russia is an apt description for that high summer time of year culminating in the solstice, where due to the city's very high latitude and tilt of the Earth, the sky never does turn black, affording only a few hours of twilight at the darkest period from 3-5 AM. This is great for staying up as your body is fooled into thinking it's mid-afternoon all the time, and great for having fun all the time, but can wreak quite the havoc on your body's usual way of perceiving the day and judging time, as we'd find out more. I just liked it because I could wear my cateye -scratched $5 swap meet aviators all the time.
I awoke quite excited the next morning for it was the day when my parents were due to arrive for a 2-day stay from the Scandinavian and Russian cruise they were taking to coincide with our time in SPB . I learned a lot about Mama's family during our Kiev visit together as Mama, from whom I take many of my own personality traits, is more than happy to make fun of you in a bitingly good-natured way but doesn't divulge as many stories about her past experiences. It was so wonderful to see Mama and Papa again after 3 months' time and we hung out in the apartment for a while catching up with her college friend whose last name means Freedom ("Mama, you went to college in SPB ? How did I not know that?!" "Meeesha , you do not leeesten ."). Papa and Lonya helped us book our train tickets for later back to Moscow (one day later than planned ... we were gonna give Lenin and the Armory one more crack) and we all piled in the car to get back to Lonya's for a great fun family dinner. Natasha graduates to being able to burn her own CDs and we played the Russian card game Kinga were Mama, as usual, lost by about a million points because the rest of us were "just lucky". The 'rents would be heading to Peterhof , Peter the Great's answer to Versailles, with their cruise group the next day and we decided to try to meet them there as well. Pissing the time away under Mama and Papa arrived there, we found them just outside the gates and, to play a little joke, handed Mama the 95 ruble ($3) bottle of champagne I'd bought, telling her it was an expensive present we'd gotten in honor or their arrival. Either touched or thirsty (Mama does love her vino), she stubbornly clung onto it while touring the inside of the palace as the guards kept trying to take it away as forcefully as was her insistence that they'd do no such thing.
Sadly, after a little while longer gawking at the amazing gilded fountains and strolling by the pond that inspired "Swan Lake", it was time to say ta for now to my parents as they were off to Helsinki, their next port of call. Wonderful to have spent time again with loving family even if my dorky little sister couldn't be there as well, it was a downer to have such a short span with them. At least it'd not be too much longer before seeing them again, at least almost certainly not enough time for them to change all the locks at home.
After a brisk walk out to the edge of the canal pier to see what I swear was Finland, we got back to town to meet the twins again and their friends to celebrate Ryan's birthday (he's a Libra). Pulling a major coup by getting into the club in my flip flops and Stones shirt, we then pulled a raucous all-nighter , as the metro closes at midnight, the bridges go up from 1-4 AM, and the White Nights keep you going as long as you need. We had an early go around the park and coffee shop before hopping on the second metro after opening time at 6 to get back just in time for a legend'ry McD's breakfast.
Passed out until later than day (though not too late, the perpetual sunshine assures that), we got back to town to catch the US-Italy game and cheered on the boys with 2 Russian pro squash players who took our side. I felt such a pride for the way that we played and such a disgust for the dirty and unsportsmanlike tactics of the Azzuri that day, and came away at least satisfied with the tie (that should've been a win!) and ready for another rockstar White Night. We met up this time with CSer Mariana (the twins couldn't handle 2 in a row) and missed the bridges and metro again but it was no problem because I got to see my first ever drullet (dreadlock mullet) and hung out with some very very drunk and friendly Russian military academy graduated on their celebration night. One of them wanted to meet up with Ryan the next day to exchange his military hat for Ryan's Cal cap (both of whom might have to be respectively court-martialed should the exchange have taken place) and the other treated us to an awkward picnic with no food until the metro opened.
Proving that SPB can hang with Moscow after the going-bad-sausage omelet that I whipped up, both the Hermitage and the Vodka Museum ne rabotayet the next day and all that was left to do was watch the games, say goodbye to the twins, meet up with Lonya to say our farewells, and get taken to the station (where, to my great glee, Lonya got down with his badass self and almost busted a guy in the cops who was annoying him to move his car). We caught some more pizza and soccer before our train back down to Moscow with the creepy military guy all sorts of inappropriate to finally soothe us to sleep.

Moral of the Story: OK, my uncle's probably not in the mob. But he could still totally beat up your uncle.
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