TravelStream™ news feed for member salsafreak82 on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/salsafreak82 en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Fri, 26 Dec 2008 04:27:53 -0500 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/salsafreak82/4/1229374920/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/salsafreak82/4/1229374920/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/salsafreak82/4/1229374920/tpod.html Fri, 26 Dec 2008 04:27:53 -0500 Jungle book - a trip to India

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Goa, Goa, India

To be completely honest, I had had so many reservations about going to India before this trip I really didn't think I would bring myself to go one day. I was much more interested in other destinations, and activities such as surfing in Latin America or farming in Australia or even animal care volunteering in South Africa sounded much more appealing. I got invited accidentally by a friend who lives there in Goa and since no one was available to keep me company, decided to take up the opportunity to do smth very wild for a change and travel on my own.
The trip was arranged in such a way so as to cover as many places as possible, as I wasn't sure I would want to go back afterwards ))) and the more I planned it the more I started to look forward to it. I reckoned the fact that I was going alone wouldn't be a problem as I would easily and very soon hook up with a cute English guy on a train (like they always do in American movies), who would also be traveling alone, who would have a hair crest (the way I like them), who would turn out to be a biker, we would hit it off immediately and proceed to appreciate the art of kamasutra on the Khajuraho temples together.

Agra was first on the agenda. It took 5 hours to get there from Delhi by car, the time I tried to use to get some sleep after the flight, but failed rather naturally thanks to the multiple bumps in the road which could really leave one toothless unless you hold onto your seat very tight. We got there very early in the morning, and there were hardly any tourists. I felt like Princess Diana sitting on my own looking lonely in front of the Taj Mahal. I now have one more thing in common with her, apart from my future title of Princess of Wales! There were locals who wanted to take pictures with me and being kind as I always am (in all modesty:) ) I never turned down anyone and posed in all directions, spreading the joy like Madre Theresa :) If you think about it I actually do resemble Lady D a lot: this was sort of a charitable contribution to help the poor. After I get married to Pr William, those guys will be able to sell the pictures for a whopping price of $1000 each to the "Hello" magazine, or any other tabloid edition which will solve their financial difficulties once and for all. I will help save at least half India from poverty (judging by the number of Indians who now have my photos)!

Had time to visit one more place that day, Fatehpur Sikri, where I had to take off my shoes and walk around barefoot on the open air square with the other natives. Can't say I was completely comfortable with the situation... desperately trying to follow the excursion while at the same time pushing away the slight suspicion that bird excrement might not be the worst thing I was stepping in.

As I got on the train to Katni I was pleasantly surprised. Not at all stinky, as one might expect. A kind of Indian style Orient Express, in my opinion, or maybe I had been just too much prejudiced before. No English guy in sight. Such a shame! It wasn't a complete waste of time, though. As I woke up at 5 in the morning and was frantically running up and down the aisle to find someone awake in the mass of snoring bodies to ask where we were (the thing is that they don't announce the stops on those trains, so there's no way you can figure out your whereabouts unless you ask someone who knows), I was relieved to find an old sikh in the toilet room wrapping up his turban in complete and solemn silence. He did ignore me, of course, while he was at it... doing his business, but at least I knew he would help afterwards. Given the fact that I had already seen how European guys put gel on their crests, but had never imagined what effort goes into arranging this thing I thought it was probably for the best that he was there instead of the cute Englishman in the end. At least I got to see smth new :)

I got off at Katni station, in the middle of nowhere, thankfully the driver was already waiting for me. After a 2 hour drive in what can only be described as a mortuary car - it was so frigging cold, you could really transport dead bodies in it - we got into the jungle for a tiger safari. I got to freeze for another hour and a half, and just when I thought it was gonna end up nowhere, the king of the jungle suddenly appeared. He didn't exactly do the most royal thing - peed on a tree marking the territory - but it still excited all the observers who gathered to watch ))).


My next target was Khajuraho. Got there at dusk and was late for the temples that day, thanks to the retarded driver, who stopped every 2 hours to drink... then wee... then ask for directions (after he lost his way) and what not! And who spoke no word of English to my utter disappointment! No, sorry, one word he knew - "yes". Which he used to answer ALL questions, including the open ended ones. (I really don't understand what it is with the Indians and the constant agreeing to everything, they always say 'yes'! ) Despite my innate and natural kindness, as mentioned above :)) this time I really felt...let's say... upset.

The guy who was meeting me up there was a friend of a friend of a friend... a very rich boy from a respectable Indian family. A sort of local celebrity :)) He came dressed like a glamorous glitterati boy and smelling like expensive perfume, which was nice for a change. I must admit that in general smells are not India's best attraction. I understand his primary task (according to the instructions he received from my friend from Goa) was to keep an eye on me, so that I didn't get myself in trouble, which he interpreted quite freely: an hour and a half after we shook hands, he was already involved in a street fight, which apparently caused a much undesirable stir in all Khajuraho, so to get away from the mess, he then later bought a joint and a bottle of finest Indian wine and drove 30 minutes away from the village to a wild camp, where we sat on a terrace up on a tree (kind of a proper tarzan house) and with a view over a crocodile river, crocos being fast asleep by that time though, to enjoy the night. A couple of people joined us there to share a romantic drink and an exotic smoke. In short, that experience was everything parents, in their worst nightmares, usually fear would happen to their child, and everything the above mentioned child dreams, prays and hopes for when she leaves home for an adventure :)))
And I finally met a biker! Even two! Two Australians traveling all over India on their motorbikes... very "Motorcycle diaries". Very interesting and with lots of stories to fascinate a stupid little girl like me! Only difference they made from my initial fantasy - they were 50 years old, each of them ;)

And yet another train. To Jaipur. I climbed up on my berth. Looked around. I was completely alone. No living creature, not even a rat, in the whole car. After I texted everyone I knew, checked out my photos in the camera until the battery went low and violated my mp3 player, I got bored. The only thing left was to sleep, which I successfully did, but woke up in an hour or so, because I was still afraid to miss my stop after the scary Katni experience. (They really need to work on the "no announcement" part. The names of the stations marked in hindi are soo not helpful!) I opened my eyes, blinked, closed and opened them again... then stared in disbelief... there he was - my English guy! Right in front of me ))) No crest unfortunately (but I think I had a few, not having brushed my hair for the last three days). I was really chuffed! Just because so many people didn't believe I would meet him, and I did! He turned out to be very nice, very typical, very gentleman, just the way I thought he would be :) We got off in Jaipur together and he helped me find my car. After that he rushed off into the dark, down the unlit streets and in search of a budget hotel for Rs200 (!!!) to spend the night. Like I said, he really was a typical Englishman after all:)

The next morning I only had a couple of hours in Jaipur which were enough to visit Amber palace only. And as we got there very early (as usual) no transportation was available to get up the hill so I had to resort to the good old method of climbing the stairs myself. To say I got tired would be an understatement. There was a point I thought I would die on those steps, but never mind. The moment you get there, knees trembling and tongue hanging out, in a desperate need to take one deep breath using the full capacity of your lungs to restore your breath- the air up there starts smelling like elephant shit... And you breath in )))
But other than the smell, the place was very nice and very picturesque. Good photos. Very Indian.

And just when I got tired of traveling alone, away from civilization - I was finally going to Goa. Was so happy to be with someone and get their undivided attention all to myself! And the most exciting of all was the fact that I was finally in a hotel! Like a white person!
Apart from the fact that the friend was almost a native there, knew all the places in and out, knew all the right people (like jewelry shop owners, travel agents, etc) and spoke Hindi, which made me one notch more privileged than other tourists :), I felt very important at the hotel which she runs, because the staff knew me and whatever I needed or wanted, a short assamese guy was immediately available at my disposal, ready to serve.
I spent 4.5 days there, which I think I liked the best (one of the reasons being the fact that I did enjoy feeling privileged and important of course:)))... and it's not sick! It's people's nature!), but also because of the entertainment the place can offer. As an example I had my first ever experience of an elephant ride. Or of a swim under the 2nd highest waterfall in India (google will help find where the first highest is, I haven't looked up yet). And the coolest one - a ride on a scooter along the beach line. Who needs a biker when you have a bike?!
Goa is also well known for its people. The freaks on the Arambol beach smoking pot, fans of aggressively cheerful music which one can only listen under the effects of proper ecstasy, and the Russian tourists, which are a separate race. I went to a pop disco once. Guys were freak dancing in front of a mirror, watching their own reflection with their backs to the dance floor and they didn't even need to drink much to get to that state! Good grass apparently... and a good laugh :). We left for another disco, Paradise, where they play trance music. Do I need to mention that trance equals more freaks? No comment...
A girl I know once said that the best thing about Goa is that you can relax and show all your inadequacy, not caring that others will judge, because everyone else is even worse )))
And the BEACH! Having heard a lot about animals walking in the streets causing traffic jams in India, I was really happy to see them live, fitting in so well into the scenery, but an oxe at the beach was a real treat!:)) And a rare time in my life, I wasn't feeling the only cow on the beach, finally there were two of us!

As a general observation about India - people are really friendly. Regardless of the caste. The little denizens of the carton villages were extremely helpful. Wherever you get off, there will always be a crowd of admittedly younger guys who will follow you like a pack of loyal dogs and respectfully answer whatever question you have. It is of course more fun to hang out with the more influential local guys as they can arrange everything, take you anywhere and show you stuff.. and the impression of the country you get from that angle is much more powerful.
Flattering was also the fact that I seemed to be very popular with the opposite sex in that country (regretfully, with the wrong representatives, but that's a different question).
Got invited to the movies once (a Bolywood film). By a guy who 2 hours earlier was showing me a statue of Krishna and explaining that he is the right person to pray to for a good boyfriend. Didn't get the hint at first, only after he invited to pay a visit to his sister after the movies :)
Another weirdo was supposed to meet me at the airport to give me back my bag that I left with him at the beginning of the trip in Delhi, and which I was to pick up on my way back from Goa as I was flying through Delhi again. I came out of the arrival hall, watching closely all the faces, desperately trying to remember how he looked like. Need not have bothered. The guy was standing at the end of the line... with flowers! No comment!
A little shy girl in me was touched. But of course the cynical bitch in me could not NOT be amused ;-)

Can't say much about local cuisine. I really didn't eat at all before I got to Goa, because the rotten stuff they sold off the stalls on the sides of the road looked too dodgy even for a glutton like me. Indian tea with milk and sugar in my opinion tasted like water squeezed from a mop. And the tortilla I was offered on the train with the vomit they put on it looked really unappetizing. But I did make up for all that destitution afterwards. And comforting myself with the usual excuse that I can stop when I'm back in Moscow, but there I should really taste the specialities - I ate, and ate and ate a lot (and not just specialities but everything that was at hand). Why do I always think I will slim down when I get back home? I never do! What convinces me that that particular time will be any different? Unbelievable!

The 9 days were soon over. Too soon, I would say.
And the only thing which can now help survive the harsh reality of life at work is the expectation of my next vacation!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/salsafreak82/1/1214840100/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/salsafreak82/1/1214840100/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/salsafreak82/1/1214840100/tpod.html Sun, 09 Nov 2008 03:39:50 -0500 Surfing the blue waters of the Carribean

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Cabarete, Dominican Republic

I first tried surf in Hawaii, which I think was the best place for a complete beginner because they did everything for you: took you to the right place, pushed you through the waves and practically put you up on the board, just so you could stand up there, stretch your hands out, and watch how the beach line is coming closer and closer, and it felt great.
This time, I decided a couple of introductory lessons won't do and that I was ready for a real adult stuff, i.e. sign up for a real surfing adventure. We went for a surf camp.

The place is called Cabarete and it is far from the perfect bounty-like island which is where all Russians go, but it is a place for surfers (all kinds of them, really, wind, kite and just wave surfers). Everything is for the unpretentious taste of sport addicts. On the other hand this means it is no place for family vacation and people around you are young, adventurous, pleasure driven and just fun. One of the things I noticed about surfing, which attracted a single gal like me from the outset, is the number of tanned, fit and perfectly built athletic men who tend to practice it. Surfers are a dead handsome race, I must say. And to prove that, our instructor turned out to be the most gorgeous, greek goddingly handsome guy I happened to meet in my life. Of course he later went and did the exact same thing all men do no matter how much you admire them at the beginning, and that is to prove a complete disappointment. A particular feature about the sex I guess, they do everything to destroy the good feeling.

But back to surf first. This time I was traveling with 2 friends. For the purposes of this narrative I will call them "my friend" and "my little friend" ;-) People who know them will know exactly who I'm referring to with each of the nicks. For those who don't, well, doesn't really matter. One is just smaller.

I dragged them both against their will under the promise that everyone will be free to do whatever they want, the underlying idea was however that once they'd get into the whole atmosphere they wouldn't be able to resist and would take up to surfing like I did. They did indeed feel obliged to participate once we got to the place, no one asked them if they wanted to, really, but it was sort of assumed by default that they came to a surf camp not for eco tourism anyway.. Every day at 6 o'clock a truck came to pick us all up and drive to el Encuentro, which is supposed to be the perfect place for surfing in Dominican. It was, actually, but for one minor thing - strong waves and rocky bottom, not really suitable for unsporty beginners like us.

As I said, I was pretty confident I would be able to learn in no time, since I already had a wealth of experience compared to my friends (I'd already stood on the board 3 times by then!!!). The reality proved much harder: first, the waves turned out to be a little faster than in the Pacific, so my old-lady technique of "getting on the knees, and then putting one foot out after another and then straightening up" didn't really work, as I was still struggling to arrange my knees in the right order and the wave was far gone by then. Second, it took a lot of water swallowing, paddling and push-ups to get back through the waves to the point where they start breaking, so that by the end of the track, I barely had strength to hold on to my board lying face down breathless and practically pulseless, let alone jump and stand on it.

As I watched my little friend surf the waves with the greatest of ease (or at least this is what it looked like for an independent observer) after only 3 lessons, her 42 kilos planted confidently on the board (and I was still struggling with the jumping on the board phase), I realized I really have about as much talent in sport as a skunk. On the other hand although she succeeded much earlier, she did have her share of water swallowing and elbow bruising to go through at first, and she seemed much more afraid of the ocean when we first came... so I guess it just takes longer for someone clumsier but the result will be there sooner or later. On the bright side, if a skunk like me can learn it, anyone can.

The best part however was at the end. The part when I did manage to get up on the board in time and for a couple of seconds just relax and look straight ahead. Really sensational! You can't relax for long though, because you'll be soon hitting the rocks a constant reminder of the geological conditions you got yourself into. But those few seconds are really worth it! The last day, I really managed to get it. Even learned how to turn the board. To the right only. Fantastic!

We also tried one excursion, the only one during our 1 week stay there. The itinerary was really trivial and Antonio had signed us up for it already so we couldn't really say no... No self respecting girl can resist his charming Italian / Greek eyes. Ohhh... Mother nature really crafts outstandingly well sometimes... Never mind.
We drove to what was called Playa Preciosa, a small wild place which had that paradise thing going on. He then told us to take our boards and prepare to go to another bay, perfect for surfing he promised. I already imagined how it would be sandy and calm and how great I would look riding the board effortlessly, towards that yellow beach and how I would come out of the wave, very James Bond's girlfriend (I pictured myself a little thinner than I actually am to fit into the idyll). Two things are worth mentioning here. First, the only way to get to that bay was by water, which inevitably entailed paddling on your board, because there was no one to carry the stupid thing for you. Now, a Bond's girlfriend can certainly afford to look a little beaten up, because everyone will still think she's cool, but she is definitely not supposed to have saliva dripping off her mouth, eyes popping out of her eye sockets and throbbing veins on her forehead, all evidence of the inhumane effort it takes to paddle 25 minutes in a row. Second, when we did get there I recognized the same familiar dark colour of the rocky cliffs along the beach line, which only meant one thing - that we paid $20 bucks to paddle like crazy to another el Encuentro (cos it didn't really differ at all, apart from the scenery) and risk our lives there. Having spent 30 more minutes restoring my breath I only had enough time for 2 runs (one of which I thought would be my last ever, I got so near the cliffs). We then had to make our way back. And yet again - the damn paddling! Two natives went behind us, pushing my board and my little friend's board now and then, because we wouldn't have made it on our own obviously.

To top it off, as I was close to the shore looking forward to throw my board away and finish the adventure a huge wave covered me so I fell off and got rolled to the beach.
Unfortunately for me there was a settlement of sea urchins where I landed. Well, unfortunately for them as well, cuz the poor creatures suffered an attack they weren't probably prepared for. Judging by the number of spikes in my hands, feet and bum after I came out of the water, they must have been left naked, if they'd even survived, which I'm not sure about, poor things. Perhaps the only specimens in the Dominican, and I really made it my business to destroy the whole population by standing up, sitting on them and then standing up again. I sat on the whole family with my enormous arse, and trust me it is massive enough to cover a very extensive surface, they didn't have a slightest chance to escape.

I blame it on the instructor. He should have told us to come out in a different place. Swore off all handsome men, not that I have too many of them in my life, but I convinced myself that the good looks crossed out any hope for a brain or a manly behavior, as a trade off. The above mentioned couple of natives helped me take out some of the spikes in places I couldn't reach (and that perhaps were more interesting for them to explore). After which I stormed off with a proud "I will survive" look in my eyes and an unnaturally straight back, slightly swaggering though (it is difficult to pull off Barbara Streisand when one has to walk on just one foot) and desperately trying to put behind the fact that we had just got a bit too intimate, after one of them had spent a quarter of an hour squeezing my bottom to get the spikes out.

Although I had to go to the local doctor to have my feet healed so I could stop waddling like a duck and start walking like a normal human being, I was relieved this time it was about butt and feet only. After the story that happened to my friend two days before we did have some reservations about surf in general (the paddling excursion didn't help either). It actually happened on the first day when she was just learning to jump on the board. Before she knew it she was off the board and under the water. The board naturally hit her on the head, the fact which didn't surprise me per se, cos with our luck, an accident that calls for a visit to a pharmacy is a norm. But in her case it was a bit more serious than we were planning. Not sure how she achieved that exactly, but she cut open her crown and the wound on her head was bleeding and looked terrifying. Even more so combined with a complete calm and serene behariour. I guess she figured panicking would result in a proper hysterical scene as there were enough of us to join, which she wanted to avoid, or she just didn't see how bad it looked. Anyways, seven stitches and thankfully no other damage to her looks, hair safe and no bandages over the head she was told she was lucky it didn't end worse.

We were a right trio. A cracked skull, spikes in the butt and a bruised 42 kilo body.

The rest of the days were just standard. The daily schedule included 6 o'clock surf, a nap on the terrace, sleeping on the beach (not always successful because of some unwanted and very persistent attention from the natives, but all manageable). Actually the pestering natives trying to sell their stuff turned to be a bit more annoying than usual. It is even more exhausting when you have to always be on the alert struggling to protect your little friend who has a shopping abuse problem in general and an addiction to shiny useless rubbish in particular and you see her eyes sparkle every time a dirty handed Dominican boy lays out his cheap merchandise in front of her. And the more unnecessary and useless the trinket is the more she needs it. So the way to go about it is to firstly convince her she doesn't want the thing and, secondly, fight off the guy as they are also not prepared to let go of such easy pray easily.

I must admit even I found it difficult to resist at certain points. Especially when it came to salsa music. After having spent half an hour picking out the CDs that we liked, aka listening to the ones the guy played and moving them to the "to buy" pile, we settled for 8 compilations of reggaeton, salsa and bachata. He wanted 2500 pesos. Not that my friend is fond of haggling or anything, but with a wuss like me willing and ready to pay for anything just to avoid arguing, and a shopping freak like my little friend, she was the only sober minded person to protect our finances. She determinately said 500. A serious bargaining ensued. He went into the whole trouble of explaining how much the empty CD costs, and what margin he pays to his firm and that he also needs to get smth for his work. I really wanted to pay and get it over with. She was adamant we won't pay more than 1000 cos that is how much those discs would be worth in the Moscow subway. The complication was in the fact that she didn't speak Spanish, so we had to translate her angry arguments, which I can't say I was comfortable with, because the tone was much stricter than I usually use voicing my own thoughts. Half an hour later and nowhere closer to an agreement he was gathering his stuff prepared to leave, the disc pile on the table sadly looking at us. 1200 was his last offer. She took out a thousand note and put it on the table...

He gave up. And with the words "buena negociadora" he stretched out his hand with respect and in the recognition of the fact that it was indeed a pleasure to deal with an equal, she smiled and shook it...

We met him a couple of times later that week. He always recognized us and looked very happy to see us again, like we were sort of mates, he even once turned out to be very helpful, having got my little friend into the front row of a crowd who was there to witness hatching of the little turtles (apparently something that only happens once in 20 years, so we were told). She got the best pictures from that angle. Nice dude.


And the nights out in town or at the camp. Cabarete is the only place on the island where bars are allowed to stay open until 4-5am, hence the partying. Not that there are too many places to go out to, but they are ok. I would just mention "Lax", "Ola" and "Bamboo" - this is where most people hang out, and they are so close from one another you can easily migrate back and forth.

I actually preferred the nights we stayed in, just hanging out with people from the camp. A Canadian girl talking about wake surf (which is different from wake board) and a freak show somewhere in the desert in Nevada, an Irish girl who said they used to sing Irish anthem in bars after midnight, and with a story about her cousin who got asked out on a date by Jack Nicholson and then stood him up, a South African who met Prince William in person and who introduced me to the wonderful language of Xhosa. I was fascinated and it was the first interesting conversation I had with people I barely know. This is what they mean when they say" traveling expands your horizons".

We also went to watch Eurocup and witness our sad team lose to Spaniards in semi finals. What did we expect, really? A bunch of talentless bastards who can't even stay up on their feet, they have to fall so often. Anyways.

Food, well, not much to comment, really. We usually bought us something in the supermarket next to our camp. Had a kitchen to cook, but we didn't. Except for one occasion when I decided to surprise them with an octopus. I let it boil for a while and brought in solemnly on a plate. My friend took a piece and asked if I was sure it was ready. When faced with a question like that I doubt anyone can be sure what their name is, but from what I could tell it was perfectly edible. A little difficult to chew, I admit, but what was the problem? I wasn't cooking for her 80 year old grandma after all. They clearly didn't share the same views when it came to my cooking and I truthfully don't think they relaxed for a second while I was cutting it. I was a bit hurt by the lack of trust and demanded they eat the whole thing. They didn't. So much for my influencing and persuasion skills. We went down for a proper dinner at the restaurant. Now, I can't deny the local specialty, churrasco (which is a piece of grilled meat, beef, I suppose), was better than my octopus. But, hey, it was better than any other meat I've ever tried before. Next to the Florentine steak (I wouldn't compete with that anyway). The second time in my life I really appreciated how good the cuisine was. I usually just eat and not even notice. Well, the rest was standard.

In 7 days it was over. Not too short, not too long. Just before we got bored, and right when we started planning our next surfing vacation.
We'll see where that takes us.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/salsafreak82/2/1219826520/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/salsafreak82/2/1219826520/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/salsafreak82/2/1219826520/tpod.html Sun, 07 Sep 2008 09:36:33 -0400 And for the 50th time... yet another visit to Spain

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Bunol, Valencian Country, Spain and Canary Islands

To say that I'm a big fan of Spain would be an understatement. Fans don't pee in their pants listening to people speak their language and enjoying the typical Spanish accent.

Since I first attended the course in Spanish culture and traditions I had this idea that I needed to see all the most important Spanish fiestas in person to be able to merge into the Spanish folklore and be closer to their day to day life. I already went to see las Fallas in Valencia, Semana Santa in Sevilla, Noche de San Juan in Galicia and of course the New Year and Reyes Magos in Madrid.

This trip was dedicated to another remarkable holiday which foreigners have most likely heard about but not everyone has lived for themselves, La Tomatina.
We went in a group of 4 gals.

The itinerary was trivial at first but we went on complicating it and adding more things on the agenda so that in the end it became a plan to visit 8 places in 5 days.
Madrid was on the list, in my own understanding only for the purpose of visiting one disco that I love so much, Palacio de Gaviria. I must mention the circumstances in which the travel began. Number one, earlier that day I had engaged in an embarrassing and shameful correspondence to lure someone into reading good and flattering stuff about myself (why? - to get them to like me, obviously) which went completely wrong after one of us copied the guy in question to another chain of emails which was commenting and discussing the plot. At least now there's no ungrounded hope or confusion about him liking me any more. I felt like shit. As we got to the airport the check-in lady gave us 3 seats together (as requested) ... in the 25th row.... i.e. together with the toilet. As one might imagine that wasn't exactly a mood lifter. I felt like shit. Now, the above mentioned disco, which I specifically wanted to visit that night, and which was the only thing capable of improving my spirits, happened to be closed for reconstruction. The girl at the entrance informed us that for the time being they had moved to Atocha, the railway station, and more precisely had re-arranged a WC common room into a dancing floor where they played my favorite music. Needless to repeat how I felt ... ;-)

We still went there. Most people admit that they sometimes sing in a shower, but it's not every time you get an opportunity to dance in the toilet, after all. Plus we had the flyers to get in for free.

Another interesting feature about this trip, which we only noticed later on, was the number of old farts who followed us throughout the whole adventure. And a 70 year old geezer in a sailor's cap and with sun glasses at that disco was a perfect start. I do have to admit that his generation is much more prepared to cruise girls than the drunken blokes our age who are all about sex and booze. The guy actually prepared and printed out a bunch of poems (of his own production I suspect) that he was handing out to girls who danced with him. Very romantic.

El amor traspasa las fronteras del Deseo
Retiene al corazon en tension desenfrenada
Si llegas a comprender, la vida no vale nada

If he was 40 years younger I might have even liked him ;-) Although, come to think about it, I probably would have thought that he was a freak anyway...

Thankfully, he wasn't the only guy I got to dance with that night. A rueda with 3 amazing latinos, all to my disposal, perfect dancers passing me on from one to another till I was sweaty and dizzy and weak in the knees, that was a real treat.


On Sunday we rented a car and went all the way down to South East, Cartagena to explore a bit more of authentic real Spain. As the drive was long all we had strength (and desire) for was to chill out at the beach when we got there.
I drifted away to sleep immediately as my head met the towel, which is what I always do at the beach, an annoying marmot habit which most people complain about because they would expect to have company while they are relaxing and not watch a motionless body sizzle in the sun. I woke up an hour later, opened my eyes and watched the sea. Nothing had changed in the scenery except for one thing, which I first thought was a fruit of my sleepy imagination or a delusion. A huge fat body (I couldn't even tell if it belonged to a woman or a man at first) was going into the water, topless, together with a friend of hers (it was a she after all) and an ancient ruin, supposedly a husband. Not that I haven't seen topless women at the beach before but they usually are either flat boards who have nothing at all either to show or hide for that matter, or young model like figures who are soo proud of their treasures they can't hold them in. For me this was certainly the first when a greasy 60+ caterpillar uncovered all her wobbly bits and went jumping over the waves, both her breasts scattering in every possible direction. The trio enjoyed themselves in the sea with the innocence of 5 year olds playing in a paddling pool. And then something delightful happened. The old codger who was accompanying the caterpillar suddenly took off his swimming pants and chucked them joyfully into the air in a gesture that imitated a very skillful strip tease action and should have been accompanied by a victorious "yahoo" shout. He was very proud of himself. Now, the emotion you feel seeing an 80 year old scrotum is twofold. Both shocking and fun. From the realization of the fact that you are witnessing smth which you won't probably (and hopefully) be seeing again any time soon. A good laugh though.

We traveled with the navigator all the time. A really helpful thing but for the times it brings you to some much unexpected places that I doubt a real native knows they exist. Yet somehow, if there are two places with the same name, like Plaza de la Cruz in Murcia (which is their main square, but, as we discovered to our own surprise, also a tiny crossroads in the middle of nowhere in the Murcian suburbs), well you know where you'll go first. My friend was ecstatic though. How on earth were we to find that place if it wasn't for the little gadget. We would have left Murcia without even knowing there was such a wonderful scary and dark crossroads. Bet no tourist has ever seen it. And we have! It should probably make us feel so special. The stupid GPS made her day that night)))

As we were eating churros with chocolate the next morning, one of the girls solemnly announced that from her experience, if breakfast was good so would the rest of the day be. Turns out, it is actually true. It did indeed turn out to be one of the most relaxing and nicest days of the whole trip.

To start with, we discovered that Cartagena is an amazingly nice little city with its own archaeological places of interest and colonial charm; we found a paradise looking beach in La Manga, at the Mediterranean coast later on, which brought me into the state of such childish excitement, I nearly got a stroke from jumping that much (that's why you are not supposed to get so excited after you are 25); we have bathed in another sea, Mar Menor, just across the road, two steps away from that ideal beach;

and to top it off that day Russia had finally come in 3d in the Olympics so we were ready to celebrate. We sat on the bench facing the old Carthaginian wall and with our backs to the main street to open a bottle of red wine and cheese. It was already dark. Police was right there across the avenue, and for one moment there I thought what it would be like if they'd arrested us for drinking in public places (It would have finally spoiled my impeccable reputation of mama's girl) but they decided not to mess with the Russians. As we sat into the car to drive back home two hours later, we decided to introduce some culture into the masses, and cracked up one of the few Russian songs I had recorded on a CD, Chernyi Bumer, aka the most ridiculous song of all times. We sang along at the top of our voices just to make sure no happy Carthaginian would miss it.

Next day we went to Elche, a city famous for three patrimonies, of which we actually just saw one. The most important and tourist friendly one, because it was the only shady and literally "coolest" place in town where one could hide from the boiling sun. I'm not very good with heat, that's no secret. A stroll through Palmeral, what is known to be the world's biggest palm grove, really saves lives, or at least one life. Mine.



And the next stop was again the beach, but this time the one in Costa Brava, closer to Valencia. From now on I will always remember Benidorm as a) a packed beach full of foreigners from all over the world and b) a place that hosts world's largest community of nudists, most members of it being old bags who just enjoy exhibiting their bare tits. Not a very cheerful sight, trust me. You would think one would try to hide those if they had any sense of esthetics, but no. There they were, a parade of ugliness displaying everything that in fact needs THOROUGH covering up, if you ask me.
The sea bottom is also rocky and the water was not too clean, which is normal for such a commercial and touristy spot, so we really didn't understand what it is people think when they pay money to spend two weeks in such a place. D'oh!

We reached Requena in the evening. We were late as it was for the dinner and were really keen to check in and leave asap, but the friendly receptionist girl was not prepared to let go so easily. Not sure what it was exactly that was driving her verbal frenzy, her Spanish blood or the fact that she runs the place with her mother (and is probably a bit bored from time to time), but she so eagerly jumped at the first opportunity to chat and explain us every detail of the house rules, I felt the conversation lasted half an hour (although it probably took less in reality).
On the other hand, this actually happened to be the best place of all we stayed at during this trip, so I'd really recommend it to anyone who goes. Called Hotel Patilla Ciudad de Requena (don't try to find it on the GPS map, complete waste of time, it's just not there... just follow the road in that direction (or make a few circles around it, that also helps) and the minute you'll get desperate that you can't find it and stop to ask someone, it will be right in front of you). Very Spanish, very cozy, hospitable and friendly. Everything you need. And late check out is not a problem



We went down to Bunol, because I promised them there would be paella cook offs around the main square and we would be able to have a good dinner there. The crowd of course was there and people were eating all over the place, but at a closer investigation all those people turned out to be just locals dining with their families in front of their houses, right there in the street, and surprising as it was no one was hassling to feed us.
Having lost every hope to taste paella that night we decided to sit wherever we would find and it happened to be a small yard in front of the living blocks where both locals and foreigners gathered to eat and drink before the big day. The waiter saw us immediately and was very quick to serve. I think we challenged his brain having changed our order 5 or 6 times in a row and with my friend checking out flirtingly every single plate he brought, he was enjoying us just as much as we did him. Food was good, weather was nice and the waiter was cute. We wend to sleep after 1am that night.

And finally the culmination. We got into Bunol at 10am an hour before the carnage was set to kick off, parked the car just outside the town and walked all the way down to the main square. As the crowds walk the couple of kilometers to the town there are stalls selling anything that this event could require - shirts, swimming goggles and of course beer. The streets around Plaza del Pueblo were already packed and people were chanting Ole ole ole as the locals threw water on us (by the bucket, hose and all that).

At 11am a banger was fired off and it all started. Well not immediately as it takes a while for the truck with tomatoes to get through the crowd. 6 guys in the truck throw tomatoes into the masses and then it's just tomato sludge you are hurling at the others. There is no opportunity at all to swerve them, as you cannot even move. So whatever flies into your face is basically yours.


The main rule is that you need to squash the tomatoes before you throw them. Well, tomatoes get squashed indeed, but so do people. I thought my poor feet didn't deserve to fall victim of the bungalow built enthusiasts around me who were bouncing and swaying in a dance as they waited for another truck to bring more, so I lifted up my feet every now and then, also in an attempt not to lose my flip floppers. Turns out you can perfectly trust the crowd to hold you (the only thing it's difficult to breathe when you hang in there, between them). My ribs gave that cracking sound from time to time and as it became more difficult to breathe I had to start pushing the bodies apart. My arms hurt for two days after the Tomatina because of all the exercise it took to stay alive. Physically very challenging I must say.
I looked back at the crowd and noticed my friend, already far away from me, sticking her neck out as far as she could to get some air, her eyes growing notably bigger when someone squeezed her more, it reminded me the face of that squirrel in the Ice Age when he got stuck between two glacier plates. She kept smiling all the time as did the rest of the freaks around her. It's interesting how the old principle "the worse, the better" works with some people ;-)
The one and probably only difference this makes from the Moscow tube situation is that it's a positively charged crowd. And it's fun to see. The moment you are there you don't realize it's risky, you just laugh.


We agreed to meet up back at the parking lot in case we got lost, so I ended up walking the 1 km back all by myself. Well, not entirely by myself, because I met another Spanish guy who was in the same kind of situation and decided to walk me to the car as a real gentleman. Funny that in normal circumstances dressed decently and smelling like Tiffany I'm not attractive enough to pull a guy in the street, but with tomato pulp all over my hair and face and stinking like proper ketchup, there we were...
The guy was cute and offered to buy me a coke (3 times!!!) which I really didn't expect from a non Russian. As the walk was long and up the hill, I did concede in the end. After all, I'm a girl, why not work it???
He also invited us all to the party they were gonna throw over at his place in Valencia, but it was already too late as we had to make our way back. Such a shame. As I said, the guy was cute... and he spoke Spanish ;-)

Still stinking like tomatoes gone bad, singing "baila morena" with Julio Iglesias and filling in the postcards we were planning to send from the airport just before we left, we set off back to Madrid.

It was then that I realized that in a short span of just 5 days we actually managed to:
- travel 1500 km by car
- dance in two discos, one of them being a toilet
- swim in two seas
- visit an archaeological dig and have a walk through a palm grove
- witness both men and women over 60 naked
- visit both an ideal and a hell place for beach holiday
- try most of Spanish food, including paella, churros, horchata, sangria, churrasco, tapas etc
- get a tomato in the face at one of the most popular food fights ever
- and just enjoy ourselves....
Not too shabby for a long weekend, is it?
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/salsafreak82/3/1220692200/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/salsafreak82/3/1220692200/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/salsafreak82/3/1220692200/tpod.html Sat, 06 Sep 2008 10:16:19 -0400 American dream - a travel to the other continent

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New York City, New York, United States


The first day we made it our business to wear out and completely destroy our feet walking across Manhattan from Times Square all the way down to Financial district and up to Brooklyn Bridge. Went across the bridge, felt exhausted and took a cab to get our tired old bodies back home.


Won't comment the taxi drivers. To say that I was terrified each time they accelerated to take over, would be an understatement, but we never had any accident and arguably haven't even seen an accident involving a taxi, so I guess those guys really know what they are doing.

To celebrate the fact that we were finally in New York we decided to splurge and go to one of the posh restaurants on Times Square - The view. The place is on the 49th floor and on a moving platform, so while you eat you get to see the whole panorama of the city at night. The bill of $400 for only 3 girls (with healthy appetite of course).

Another observation about NY, and also about America in general - their love for air conditioning. The more expensive the place the more they spend on air conditioning. I really don't understand what it is with their profuse sweating problem or their brain but the constant freezing is really annoying. And I am Russian. I know cold, for Christ's sake, I can deal with it. This was indeed intolerable. I was left wondering if a nation that advanced in inventing new technology just doesn't have enough time to read instructions on how to use the old one, and that they maybe are just not aware of the fact that there is usually a special knob on each machine, which allows to regulate the temperature. Has no one ever told them that there are other regimes than just on or off? Awful!

After the restaurant we were back in the street, and although it was raining, at least there was no immediate threat to catch pneumonia. Still, dressed up as we were, in open toe shoes and in heels we weren't particularly excited at the prospect of walking to the disco on foot and under the rain. And given that there were no free taxis at this time of the night we were really fucked up. Stood there, by the road for a couple of minutes hailing a cab (which was hopeless anyway). And then a wonderful thing happened - an Indian taxi bike guy offered his humble service. I had never pictured myself as a type of girl who'd be using such kind of transport, but there I was, with not much choice and the guy offering a quick solution. The roof of this luxury carriage was a transparent piece of plastic which rolled down and zipped around the seat so the rain didn't get through into our cozy and cold saloon. We did look extremely ridiculous trying to master as much dignity as we could after we had just got off this thing and shook the drops of rain from the top of our heads (the ones that got in through the hole in the plastic roof) by the entrance to the disco and to the applause of the bouncers.


The disco (called Latin quarter) was that typical place filled with stupid girls like us who just come to enjoy dancing in a hope to spend a fun night and rich guys who come to watch them and in a hope to hook up with all those girls. The dancing floor was good, music was Latin, drinks were quality and people were well dressed and decent. I do like salsa, people know it. But as I regretfully discovered it's apparently already not enough to turn me on and I certainly admit that that was the kind of night when all was there... but for the spark. We left relatively early when the crowd became bigger and the DJ started playing the same tunes again (has run out of the commercial popular stuff, I guess).

Later that night, I couldn't help but wonder, in childhood a simple set of colored crayons or a stuffed monkey can bring you so much joy you'll run around happy the whole day. As we get older, a new hi tech model of a mobile phone or a night out that we were looking forward to fail to get us to the same level of excitement. Even a hobby, which salsa is for me, doesn't make you happy when you expect it to. As we age, are we really getting so cynical that we are no longer capable of feeling genuinely positive emotion?

Next morning we were supposed to meet the dawn in Central park. Were late for the dawn, of course, but still came to lie around there, on the grass and eat up the fat free food we had bought at Starbucks on the way there. We then idly gathered our belongings to proceed to the nearest cinema and watch Sex and the City. The trick was that it hadn't yet begun in Moscow, but was already running in American cinemas. It felt really New York to be doing all these things. Unlike wild Japanese tourists sprinting around the city in shorts and with their Sony cameras hanging over their shoulders, we were actually enjoying a typical day in the rhythm of the city.

We spent the rest of the day looking for that perfect dress I needed for my cousin's wedding, a task which is difficult enough under normal circumstances, but is even more so in my case, given my innate aversion to shopping and an allergy to seeing myself in a mirror.
It is somehow always a stress to find an elephant in a tutu in the fitting room mirror and then fight off the urge to hang yourself after that. Unfortunately my little friend decided to make up for the lack of excitement on my part and took to the task with an enviable zest.
I truthfully think she did bring the ugliest and most ridiculously looking prom dresses she could find. Not that I think I'm old or anything, but let's face it, I'm also not 16 any more to be able to get away with puffy sleeves and in Barbie pink skirts. And having those sexy sausage arms does not really help either. She continued frantically around the shop and no moaning of mine could discourage her. On the other hand, the fact that they were soo outrageously awful made it seem more like a joke, and as she insisted I try them all on I couldn't even seriously get upset about not fitting into them. I mean, thank god, I didn't! It would honestly be a disaster if smth that ugly fit me well. We had a good laugh though.
She also didn't care much for the sizes, although I explicitly asked not to bring anything small that would make me feel like a cow. She was just enjoying the process. Luckily there was another more result driven and less excited person among us. They both went whisking back and forth after every failed attempt while I was trying not to rip the previous dresses when taking them off. The thing that struck me most about shopping in NY is that it's indeed very diverse. One can find anything in any color. If they have enough time that is, cuz the challenge is really to find it. This is when it's important to have untiring friends like that who can be tolerant and supportive and basically do all that for you. It would have been a nightmare without them, but with their positive attitude and my despair we did find one that even I with my pickiness liked in the end. What I also realized afterwards was that it was the first time in my whole life when I actually enjoyed shopping. Thanks again to everyone who participated.


The next night I signed us up for a Latin boat party and we went, dressed up and all, for another night on town. The boat traveled around Manhattan from 6:30pm till 10:30pm and people were there to dance salsa. We managed to get a nice table by the side after I flirted a bit with the bouncer (who happened to be Russian), which was ideal because I could no longer worry for my friends (let's just say, not very huge fans of salsa) who would have otherwise very soon started suffering from the fact that they were stuck on a Latin boat with freaks like me, with no other entertainment than salsa and no opportunity to leave early, but now they could sit there sipping their drinks and enjoy the best views of the city from water - and that, I figured, would keep them distracted for a while.
Now, I can't say what exactly made it so outstandingly special that night. Perhaps that unique combination of several factors which all weaved into a perfect picture. Warm summer wind, picturesque sunset to the beat of familiar Latin rhythms and Lady Liberty on the horizon. I really couldn't wish for more.
Still, it was that rare perfect moment in life when you feel completely happy and realize that you are. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face the whole time and I can't even logically explain what it was that triggered such reaction.


Objectively seen, it was a boat full of short balding men from the third world countries, which no one would call a desirable or fun company (although they did dance well, most of them), it was definitely the last place to cruise guys and the ladies were as fat as dzudo fighters. But ultimately when the moment is right, all of this doesn't matter. It wasn't about them any more. And then I realized, when it stops being about them, about what is supposed to be right or fun, about what the society deems is appropriate, and starts being about you, this is when the real fun begins.
So may be we are becoming pickier and more difficult to please as we get older, it takes much more to surprise or excite us as we have experienced more things in life, but it's still good to realize deep inside we still have it, and there are moments that can get us so high the feeling lasts much longer than that childish joy from stupid crayons.

All in all, New York was great, as ever and I'm deffo coming back again.
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