TravelStream™ news feed for member tompsblogs on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/tompsblogs en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Sat, 22 Nov 2008 09:29:59 -0500 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1216331220/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1216331220/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1216331220/tpod.html Sat, 22 Nov 2008 09:29:59 -0500 My Arabian Odyssey - learning Arabic, separating people from politics and dispelling myths in the heart of the Middle East

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Damascus, Syria

In some ways I feel the moment has passed to try to write a concluding entry to 'My Arabian Odyssey', and that anything I write will fail in any case to do justice to the region and its impact upon me. I failed miserably to conclude in words my Yemen adventure perhaps for this very reason. So the following I present as a conclusion to both blogs, which I see very much as one journey. This entry is dated the 19th July 2008, in accordance with my final departure from Syria, so as to provide continuity in the blog. It is now November, however, some five months since I left Damascus, and ten months since I felt inspired to add to my blog (despite a trip all around Jordan, which I still harbour ambitions of blogging about in retrospect). I have since left the Middle East, left the people and the language where I found them, and set on a new path that has begun here in Madrid from where I sit writing. Yet, whilst time has faded my memories somewhat, so too has it reinvigorated my passion and feeling for the region. &nbsp;&nbsp;In my final stint in Syria, I fell out of love with the people, with the culture, with the region. This was more by virtue of staying too long, allowing a lazy routine to drain all romance and intrigue from a world that had for so long captivated me. I can recall vividly now my feelings on that blisteringly hot day as I rode the bus to the airport in the sure knowledge I would not see these roads, these people, this bustling chaos again for a long time. It was a feeling of utter apathy proceeded quickly by sadness; sadness not of leaving it all behind, but of feeling so indifferent toward this enchanting world that had once so inspired me. &nbsp;Now, as I sit at my desk in an affluent neighbourhood of Madrid, and think about how easy and comfortable life is here - current language barrier and 'proper job' aside - I find myself once more missing the Middle East, and Yemen in particular - the daily disconnect between my English sensibilities and the world around me, the drawing of peculiar comfort from the <i>discomfort and uncertainty of an alien world. Now I yearn regularly for the sights, sounds and smells of Old Sana'a, the veiled faces of women and the swollen, qat-filled cheeks of men, the haunting cry of the call-to-prayer echoing inside the narrow streets of a perfect, walled city. I yearn too for the rich, hot sands of Yemen's Hadhramaut desert where I felt for a brief moment the utter contentment of life stripped bare. So too do I now miss Damascus - though with less intensity - its strange mix of Arab and Western cultures, of the ugly buildings of the new city and the endlessly charming houses of the old city; the vibrant streets abuzz with the chatter of locals and the clatter of backgammon boards, a haze of argileh smoke framing every scene, its floral aromas staining memories and clothes alike. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;It is only now that I fully appreciate the privilege I had of living among such cultures, receiving the unbounded hospitality of their people, incorporating as much of it as possible into my daily life and, in the case of Yemen, being given the opportunity to view life through a prism untainted by material wealth, by Western influence, or oil-rich greed. I do not wish to romanticise the region, however, and there are many attitudes, bound by fervent, unyielding and, in my mind, anachronistic religious beliefs, that I found irreconcilable. And though such views are by no means shared by all in the region, they do prevail over many of its societies and show little sign of dissipating. Yet, from this same source come the kindness, warmth and generosity to all strangers that&nbsp;personify the culture.&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;After a period stretching almost three years, I regrettably left the region with a feeling of apathy, but so too did I leave having dismantled and reassembled all preconceptions and misconceptions of a misunderstood region, and having enriched myself, my views, knowledge and outlook. And now, looking back, I am forever indebted to the people, cultures and places I visited and lived among during my time in the Arab world. &nbsp;If in the course of retelling my travels I have provided&nbsp;even a little&nbsp;entertainment, insight, or vicarious pleasure/suffering, I consider that a tremendous fillip, as it has been a pleasure to write about my experiences. And if anyone is inspired enough to visit any of the places they have read about, that would be the greatest gift by which to repay my gratitude to the people and places I visited. Thank you for reading.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1201496220/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1201496220/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1201496220/tpod.html Sat, 29 Mar 2008 15:30:19 -0400 My Arabian Odyssey - learning Arabic, separating people from politics and dispelling myths in the heart of the Middle East

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Istanbul, Turkey

Sure enough, my compartment on the train was far from what I would describe as first class, but the prospect of some smoke-free solitude was worth the extra money, and it wasn´t that bad. I slouched on my bed with my feet up for the couple of hours that remained of the evening and drank my beers. As I sat and enjoyed my own company that night, I realised that solitude had been my only consistent companion on this little trip through Europe. It had been a fickle&nbsp;one though, at times (like on that Balkan Express to Istanbul) my saving grace from disagreeable surroundings; at other times (like Budapest) my tormentor when all I craved was the company of others. But, for better and for worse, it&nbsp;followed me loyally all the way back to Damascus.&nbsp;At 4.30am I was abruptly awoken from my fragile slumber by the attendant who ordered me off the train to complete my Turkish visa formalities at the border. When I awoke again the next morning, the Bosphorus was so close outside my window that its cold waters were almost lapping up against the train. Istanbul was close, I could almost smell it. &nbsp;From the train I went straight to the ticket office at the station to buy my onward ticket on the daily sleeper train down to Adana in the south of Turkey. From there I would have to take a bus to Antakya, then another bus across the border to Aleppo where I would pick up the train once more to Damascus. This trip, the whole itinerary, had been well planned out over the Christmas break, and until my arrival here in Istanbul I´d managed to stick to it pretty faithfully. "Train full to Adana. Three days you wait", announced the teller unapologetically. My face and my heart sank in an instant. I stood and assessed my options for a moment then turned back to the lady to make some more enquiries. She pointed disinterestedly at the man in the next booth. He was much more sympathetic, though he gave me the same gloomy news. I enquired about trains to Ankara and then on to various southern destinations from there, but they were all full too. Seeing my face of despair, the man ushered me into the warmth of the office to continue our discussion over a glass of tea while he took a cigarette break. &nbsp;His boss, the main man, was there at his desk, and the teller explained to him my predicament. Again, he gave me the same gloomy outlook for my train travel prospects and explained that it was a&nbsp;major national holiday in Turkey and almost everyone was travelling somewhere. He was an odd character, with a short stoutness and slimy visage that bore him a resemblance to Jabba the Hut. His clothes were a mismatch, with his tweed jacket and striped braces giving him the look of an eccentric professor. Yet he was immensely friendly, and was interested in my trip and why I´d chosen to go so far by train. Then, upon finding out I was English, he announced that the inventor of the locomotive had been an Englishman. He asked me if I knew his name. I said I didn´t. "Let´s look it up on the internet", he announced, ushering his colleague closer for this exciting task. His colleague, the teller, gave me an embarrassed look as if to say "yeah, he does this sort of thing all the time, he´s rather eccentric". "Steep-han-son!" he announced victoriously. "Stephanson?" I responded. "Yes, Steep-han-son, inventor of locomotive". Let´s find some other English inventors", he said, rubbing his hands together gleefully. &nbsp;And so it went on for quite a while until I made my excuses and headed out of the station to investigate other transport possibilities down to the south. In the central district of Sultanahmet I passed by row upon row of closed travel agents and it suddenly occurred to me that it was Sunday. I headed for the main hostel strip, remembering from last year several travel agents that would surely be open for backpackers like me. Indeed there were, and eleven months on from my previous failure to catch a Turkish train south, I walked into the same agent and enquired about getting to the Syrian border. "We have cheap flights to Gaziantep and Adana. Gaziantep good for you, closer to Syrian border", he announced. "Adana, Adana, definitely Adana", I said emphatically as visions of last year´s border crossing ordeal in Gaziantep came flooding back like a waking nightmare. My rail odyssey now in tatters, I consigned it to fate and purchased my flight to Adana for early the following morning. It was Sunday, there was FA cup football on back home, so I figured I´d spend my afternoon/evening in the same pub&nbsp;in which&nbsp;last year I´d spent a memorable day watching Six Nations rugby with an old Irish Canadian man named Eugene. I strolled into the pub as if it were my local, propped myself in the same bar-side seat as last year, and prepared for an evening of football. Alas, this time without the excellent company of Eugene.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1201572720/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1201572720/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1201572720/tpod.html Sat, 29 Mar 2008 12:30:59 -0400 My Arabian Odyssey - learning Arabic, separating people from politics and dispelling myths in the heart of the Middle East

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Damascus, Syria

Arriving in Adana the following morning, I hopped in a taxi for the short ride to the bus station, got on a bus to Antakya with no trouble, and left within minutes. Three hours later I arrived at the bus station in Antakya where I was whisked into another bus bound for Aleppo, which left within minutes. An hour later we were at the border crossing, the formalities taking little over an hour to complete for a bus load of people. It was so easy and straightforward I felt almost disappointed - the nightmare of last year´s border crossing was a horrible experience, but it had made for a good story afterwards. On the Syrian side, I began to study my watch and was rather concerned I was now probably going to miss the final daytime train from Aleppo to Damascus. Then, as if by fate, the driver and his cohorts announced in a barely comprehensible mix of Turkish and Arabic that the bus was in fact bound for Damascus, and that anybody that wished to go to Aleppo should get off and get a minibus. The pissing rain and cold, together with the disappearing time convinced me to stay on the bus and head straight for Damascus and home. &nbsp;My 18 day journey drew to a close that Monday evening as the bus pulled into the station in Damascus. It had been rather an anticlimactic end to my journey to have travelled all the way from Istanbul to Damascus by plane and bus in the space of 13 hours, but as I alighted from the bus into a crowd of rapacious Damascene taxi drivers I knew I was home and a sense of relief washed over me as the familiar began to take hold. The language, the sights, the smells and the people - it was a comforting embrace after a suspended feeling of disorientation.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;*&nbsp;Looking back some two months later, if this short trip of mine, this microcosm of the life of a backpacker taught me anything of myself, it is that it is a form of travelling that I would not enjoy for a sustained period. I had enjoyed the trip, the places I visited, the people I met, the experiences I had. And even the low points and the lonely moments I was able to savour and catalogue as worthwhile experiences. But I never once felt like I got to know any of the places, the people and the feelings beyond a superficial level, as time did not allow deeper understanding. And, as such, I found it a lot less satisfying than my extended travels in Yemen and in Syria and in America. But it is a journey I shall look back on with fond memories and, though its shortness left me hungry to sample more of each city, I shall for now sate my appetite on the stories each place provided me.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1201409460/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1201409460/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1201409460/tpod.html Sat, 29 Mar 2008 09:49:12 -0400 My Arabian Odyssey - learning Arabic, separating people from politics and dispelling myths in the heart of the Middle East

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Sofia, Bulgaria

I arrived in Sofia two hours late and, having forgotten about the extra hour lost for the time-zone change, it was already a dark and cold evening by the time I left the station. I headed in search of the hostel I´d picked out and, despite Cyrillic sign posts that were infinitely more indecipherable than those of Belgrade, I found the road of the hostel with surprising ease. The hostel, however, was nowhere to be seen. I wandered around for what seemed an age, circling the same few blocks at first then gradually widening my search. I was getting increasingly flustered and frustrated, as the night was drawing in, I could not read the street signs, and I was unable to call the hostel because my mobile wouldn´t work. A couple of times I asked passing locals if they knew my hostel and asked if I could use their phone to call it. I was struggling to make myself understood, however, and things were further complicated by the fact that - much to my initial bemusement - Bulgarians nod their heads for `no´ and shake their heads for `yes´. I felt like I was living inside some Monty Python sketch and, had I not been so jaded, I could almost have laughed. A little further along I saw a sign for another hostel nearby and went there in order to ask to use the phone to call the hostel I wished to stay at. On the phone, the hostel owner announced he was full and also added that the reason I´d not found it was because the Lonely Planet has the wrong address written down. I asked him if he could recommend another hostel and he gave a couple, also advising me to steer clear of the one from which I was phoning.&nbsp;As it was getting late and I didn´t want to head further afield in a city with unrecognizable street names, I decided, against advice, to stay at the crap hostel and arranged to stay in the dorm. I heaved myself up the smelly, stained carpet stairwell to the dorm room and, upon entering, encountered a wall of cigarette smoke. Through the haze I could just make out a hippy looking fellow sedately puffing away his long term health with great content. I headed sheepishly to the bed, already thinking of ways to get out of this scenario. I had just endured two indescribably smoky hours with Pat and Dot on the train, and my lungs could not now take a whole night in this smoke-filled dorm. After five minutes of the usual introductory speeches - during which time I had developed a petty intolerance for the hippy´s very Gallic mannerism of letting out a plop and shrug at the beginning of each sentence - I made my excuses and headed back down to the front desk. &nbsp;The hostel that I´d picked out and emailed in advance from Belgrade had sounded so promising; just the place to end my run of empty lounges, to break free from solitude, and to find a group of like-minded travellers with whom to share an evening in a new city. Yet fate had conspired to land me in this flee-hole with the evening already over, and with my only option of company a chimney-lunged Belgian hippy. And so, standing before the receptionist once more, my spirit was broken, the long and torrid journey from Belgrade now drowning in a fierce wave of melancholy. I paid an extra 10 euros for a single room which made it easily the most expensive accommodation of my trip (19 euros), but the room did at least have a TV on which I managed to find the last quarter of a Premiership football match followed by highlights of Federer´s semi-final defeat. It was a sorry turn of events from the hopes I had held, yet in that moment it brought me the comfort of familiarity, and seemed a painless way to write off a forgettable day.&nbsp;&nbsp; The next morning, one look out of my hotel window drew me from my melancholic state. From a sky of vivid blue, the winter sun was rising over a nearby snowy mountain, lazily thawing the city from a winter frost; only the escaping steam of the roof-tops betraying the crispness in the winter air. Outside, piles of snows-past lined the streets, and breath clouds built up around the craggy features of the winter-clad locals, their shoulders hunched and taut in a permanent shudder. Across the street I found tens of locals busily filling their bottles from the natural hot springs incongruously located in a busy city square. It was a rather surreal sight, but I joined in this daily ritual and filled a bottle of my own. &nbsp;Soon enough, however, the sun grew higher, robbing the air of its morning crispness, disguising the mountain in a selfish haze, and consigning this perfectly imagined winter morning scene to memory. All that remained was a fairly uninspiring cityscape, of the kind of bland Soviet-era uniformity that had so underwhelmed me in Belgrade. Away from the commercial city centre things improved considerably, the office blocks and shops replaced by grand municipal buildings and churches and parks. Along the way I went inside a small but interesting looking Russian church, where I found some sort of service taking place, most likely a wedding. I stayed for a while watching the strange rituals unfold and feeling somewhat sorry for the happy couple having to do things under the glaring eye of nosey tourists such as me. At one point they both had to don ornate but ultimately cheap looking crowns, and it made me think of Christmas dinner and the accompanying obligation to wear the paper crown one reluctantly finds in their M&amp;S Christmas cracker. Suddenly I felt hungry. I left them to it and headed further down what was a promising road for pleasing sights.&nbsp;&nbsp; Further down it I encountered the huge, gold-domed Aleksander Nevski Church that dominates the centre of Sofia. It was as impressive as it was beautiful, looking almost more like a mosque than a church (minus the minarets). Inside, it was dressed head-to-toe with aged frescoes and the winter sun poured in through the stained glass windows and tinged them orange. Further down the way I came across a large park that still lay entirely under snow. Sofia was perhaps the coldest place on my trip, but it was wonderfully sunny for my day there. The sight of such unadulterated snow, however, was a real pleasure and as I strolled through the park I made a point of avoiding the cleared paths and instead trudged through the snow with all the delight of the modern Englishman deprived of proper snow in his own mild but miserable climate. As I did so, I couldn´t help but notice the locals shooting me bemused looks, the kind of stock expression one reserves for the crazy people they encounter in parks. And of course, they would nod rather than shake their head - now who´s crazy?&nbsp; So serene were my surroundings that I decided I´d sit down and read my Theroux for a while, but gave up after one chapter on account of there being no feeling left in my hands to be able to turn the page (I´d left my gloves at the hostel in Belgrade).&nbsp;Later on, in preparation for my long train journey to Istanbul, I headed to the Tsentralni Khali, a famous covered market that reminded me of the Great Market in Budapest. There I walked around amid the buzz of shoppers, ate some cheap pizza slices, before spending my remaining Bulgarian currency on beers, bread, crisps, sausages and burek. It was enough to feed an army, but I preferred to have too much than to find myself with hunger pangs aboard my old friend, the Balkan Express!&nbsp;&nbsp; Earlier in the day I´d booked my train ticket on to Istanbul at the station, and the wire-haired lady in the office had advised me that the train was always late. Having seen all I wanted to see of Sofia, however, and with the restrictive addition of my big bag, I decided to head to the station anyway and just sit and read. The train I was to catch was the same one I had caught the day before from Belgrade (only they add sleeper carriages to it for the Istanbul leg), and so I was fairly pessimistic about how clean and comfortable (not to mention how slow) it would be. I´d decided, in light of the smokiness of the previous leg from Belgrade, to pay extra for a first class single person sleeper compartment, so as to avoid the possibility of sharing my cabin with some black-lunged Slav. Sure enough the train arrived 3 hours late, during which time I had had to sit among the sorry outcasts of Bulgarian society who evidently congregated each evening in the station. The station itself was a truly horrific throwback to the Soviet era, vast and cavernous and freezing cold, and with uncomfortable wooden benches which had even the outcasts grimacing. Among them was an impish young man in battered clothes who entertained himself by throwing peanuts at a rough-looking bag lady as she attempted to find a comfortable sleeping posture on the unforgiving benches. Each time she flinched he would let out a high-pitched howl and jump up and down like some infantile chimp. Then he would look over to me to see if I was equally amused, and I would sheepishly bury my head in my book and wish his antics and his odour away. Completing the sorry parade were two lame dogs that limped from bench to bench looking for food and attention, but finding instead only the harsh boot of the restless locals. The whole scene depressed me deeply and the penetrating cold broke my spirits further. It was a hellish wait for that train, during which time I had felt constantly on edge on account of there being no English announcement board, which left me with the nagging feeling that my train had been and gone.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I had plenty of time to reflect on my brief stay in Sofia, however, and in doing so struggled to find positives from my experience. That said my impressions of Sofia were perhaps unfairly tarred by the unpleasant beginning and end of my brief stay there. It had some interesting sights and, had it not been for the haze of the sun, the mountainous backdrop just beyond the capital would have I´m sure warmed my view. But ultimately I left with the impression that Bulgaria´s treasures lie elsewhere in its Black Sea beaches and its many beautiful mountains, some just a stone´s throw away from Sofia.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1201321680/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1201321680/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1201321680/tpod.html Sat, 29 Mar 2008 06:32:13 -0400 My Arabian Odyssey - learning Arabic, separating people from politics and dispelling myths in the heart of the Middle East

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Belgrade, Serbia and Montenegro

As I boarded the rusting, decrepit excuse for a train that was the Balkan Express, the wry smiles and sniggers of the previous day´s ticket lady came flooding into focus like a slap in the face. My first priority was to escape the clouds of cigarette smoke that filled the first few carriages, so I fought my way to a rear carriage with fewer smokers. The carriages were sectioned off into six-seat compartments, and I managed to find one empty. Ordinarily I much prefer the standard open-plan seating arrangement, but amid this rabble of chain-smokers, perhaps the compartment arrangement was a blessing in disguise. The compartment itself - the cleanest one I could find - was cold, dirty and uninviting. The floors were sticky from spilt drinks and littered with cigarette butts; the seats were lined in sickly green upholstery, and stains of god-knows-what were worn into them like a tapestry; and a nagging odour of stale cigarettes lingered in the frigid air. I slumped despondently into a window seat and watched my breath cloud up in front of me. It would be eleven hours until I finally arrived late in Sofia, and two hours until the compartment warmed up enough to remove my coat. &nbsp;Once the journey was underway, my attention turned from my compartment to the view out of the window. It was not so much the landscape itself that intrigued me, but the speed at which it was passing by. Even at full tilt the train could not have been doing more than 40 mph, and for hours at a time it would amble along at a pace that I could have literally outrun. At one point, as we raced along at a rocket-like 40mph, the train was humiliatingly overtaken on the adjacent road by a rickety old pick-up van full of chickens, and I could have sworn a chicken actually bent its beak into a smirk as if to say "I can´t believe you actually paid to ride the Balkan Express". Perhaps they were headed for slaughter, but at least they´d arrive in a timely manner - how dare this train have the audacity to be called the Balkan `Express´!&nbsp;Back inside the train, meanwhile, my attention was drawn to a suspicious man who kept walking past my compartment, eyeing me with the malevolent look of a clichéd TV serial killer, and twiddling adroitly between his fingers a flick knife. How reassuring, I thought, to be alone in my compartment in this empty rear carriage, with no one to hear my screams except the smug-faced poultry overtaking us on the road. At one point, the train passed through a long tunnel cut into the mountainside and the carriage was thrown into perfect pitch darkness. I had never before experienced that kind of prolonged and total darkness, and my mind began to play tricks on me. Momentarily, I thought I heard my door open, and I had visions of the scary man coming in and drugging me, then waking up in an ice bath minus a kidney. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And so the journey was long, painfully slow, and at times slightly worrisome, but at least I had managed to avoid sharing my compartment with the chain smokers. That is, until the last few hours. Then, at the border crossing, Bulgaria´s very own Pat Butcher and Dot Cotton swung open my compartment door, each carrying under her arm a shopping bag full of duty-free cigarettes. Perfect, I thought, as they flashed me their nicotine smiles. In return I gave them a rather pathetic smile with which I hoped to communicate across the language divide my `have mercy, I value my lungs´ message. We were stuck at the border for what seemed like hours during which time Pat and Dot wrapped and rewrapped their cigarettes like a military operation before finally unleashing them upon me.&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;By the time the train limped pathetically into Sofia, I could barely see my way through the smoke to reach the compartment door. As I got off the train, my relief was palpable, yet I was painfully aware that in 24 hours I would be boarding the same Balkan Express once more for my even longer passage to Istanbul. Oh the humanity.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1201270200/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1201270200/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1201270200/tpod.html Fri, 28 Mar 2008 12:00:54 -0400 My Arabian Odyssey - learning Arabic, separating people from politics and dispelling myths in the heart of the Middle East

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Belgrade, Serbia and Montenegro

The journey to Belgrade was to be my first experience of the overnight sleeper carriage and, as I sat there on the&nbsp;cold platform in Budapest and watched the ancient-looking Beograd Express creak into view, a momentary wave of dread passed over me. Yet despite its inauspicious arrival, it was with great anticipation and excitement that I boarded the train, and as the attendant escorted me to my compartment he informed me I'd have the two-bed birth to myself. Though I'd been starved of company in Budapest, I was not unduly concerned by the continued solitude, as it was already approaching midnight and any potential conversation would quickly have been curtailed by the desire to sleep. The compact compartment had a cosy feel to it, with a bed that would be unsuitable for anyone taller than my 5'10 frame, a table and chair in one corner and a cleverly concealed sink in the other. It was also impeccably clean, and a goody bag of soaps, towels and refreshments had been left lovingly on the table. I collapsed into the chair and smiled contentedly - my previous train journeys had been fleeting affairs, but this was the romance of rail travel I had come in search of.&nbsp;Though I was tired, I stayed up for a while in order to savour the experience; when I did finally retire to bed, the romance began to unravel. Under the hushed darkness of my bed-sheets, the carriage became like a furnace, and the hot air could neither be cooled nor turned off. I tried opening the window, but this only seemed to let in light and noise. My recumbent posture, meanwhile, seemed to absorb every twist and turn and brake of the train, yanking me unsubtly one way then the other like a favourite toy in the hands of an excitable child. After a restless few hours, a knock at my door drew me from my faux-slumber and signalled passport control. For a moment, as the imposingly-dressed Serbian border guard leafed suspiciously through my passport, I thought he was going to take issue with all my Arab visas. But, with a warm smile, he said simply "Welcome to Serbia", before disappearing to the next compartment. By the time the train arrived in Belgrade that morning, I had managed no more than a couple of hours sleep. Yet, the romance of the sleeper carriage would just about live on for now.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;*&nbsp; The walk to the hostel was a confusing one, as I was unable to match the street names that I'd scribbled down in my directions with the Cyrillic street names around me, and I owed my timely arrival to blind chance. Along the way, I passed by two bombed-out buildings, which lay like rotting carcasses of the war-ravaged Balkans of the 90s, and leant intrigue to an otherwise monochrome landscape of soulless office blocks and apartments. The hostel lay in the courtyard of just such an apartment block, and was similarly uninspiring. Inside, I found the receptionist asleep on the couch, strewn prostrate in the kind of drunken pose from which one rises with the surety of a hangover, his out-stretched arm suspended in rigour as if his last drunken action of reaching for the nearby ashtray had been frozen in time. Oh no, I thought, another bad hostel. Elsewhere there were no other signs of life, and I prepared myself for the probability of solitude in another capital.&nbsp;&nbsp; My exploration of the city that day was as frustrating as it was interesting, the Cyrillic signage perplexing me at every turn, yet punctuating my blind wanderings with serendipitous discovery. After several wrong turns I finally found myself in Republic Square, the focal point of Belgrade's pedestrianised city centre. As with much of the city, it seemed bereft of attractive architecture, the bland uniformity of the Communist era facades still clogging the cityscape like a dull sky on a drizzly day. Yet the streets were abuzz with local shoppers, vendors and eaters, and I could barely believe it was just a normal weekday morning, so vibrant was the scene. And the insipidity of the buildings, meanwhile, was more than compensated by the exotic beauty of Belgrade's women who flanked the sidewalks in improbable numbers, their dark, ethnically-mixed features launching me into involuntary bouts of lechery throughout the day. &nbsp;Further along, I came to Kalemegdan Citadel, the city's Celtic fortress. The grounds of the citadel revealed a delightful expanse of lawns, trees and walkways perched peacefully above the suburbs, but incongruously interspersed with scaled-down military memorabilia; and below lay a sweeping panorama of wintered forest through which the Sava and Danube rivers cut lazy zigzags before converging at the foot of the fortress. It was an unexpectedly bucolic scene, and for a while I sat contently amidst it, charmed by its easy silence, and spurred by the crispness in the air. &nbsp;Back in the city, I found myself at a sports cafe where I harboured hopes of catching any of the Australian Open tennis semi-finals (three of the four involved Serbian players). I figured I'd grab a bite to eat, rest my limbs from the ludicrously hilly street-walking, and absorb some fervent, sporting patriotism all at once. Upon enquiring as to whether they might be showing such a match, the waiter replied simply, "I not know much of sport. I know only of women and money, my friend". How helpful, I thought, as I gazed around the sport-filled room to make sure I'd not stumbled into a brothel by mistake. I gave him the kind of laddish smile and pat on the back that such a comment craves then headed out for some street food instead. &nbsp;Re-energised by pizza and burek, I headed down to the train station to buy my onward ticket for the next morning. Upon announcing my desire to travel on the Balkan Express to Sofia, the ticket lady gave me a rather disconcerting "are you sure?" look, but I persisted nonetheless. She quoted me a price and, realising how cheap the fare was going to be, I enquired as to whether there was a first class carriage. This time she shot me a wry smile that said "you'll be lucky if your carriage has wheels" before announcing in an embarrassed tone that there was no first class. While she processed my ticket, I enquired as to whether there was a dining car on the train, though by this stage I could have guessed the answer. Her wry smile had progressed to a barely contained snigger in response to the food question, and I felt it did not bode well for tomorrow's trip that the lady had found the concept of food or comfort so laughably at odds with whatever lay in stall for me on the Balkan Express.&nbsp;&nbsp;Back amid my blind wanderings, I took in a couple of churches and the parliament building before stumbling upon the Nicola Tesla museum. Now, my knowledge of Tesla (the real inventor of the radio who discovered, among other things, alternating current) had been shamefully minimal given the importance of his discoveries, and in fact derived almost exclusively from having watched the film 'The Prestige' in which Tesla is portrayed by a certain David Bowie (no really). The museum turned out to be an unexpected highlight, as it offered an interesting short biopic of Tesla, and an interactive array of his inventions made into simplified models for laymen like me. At the end of the tour, the guide gave each of the group an unattached fluorescent tube light and told us to hold it up in our hands while he switched on the Tesla machine (made famous in 'The Prestige'). Suddenly, crackling beams of electric lightening spewed forth from the top of the machine, like something from a sci-fi movie (or the opening credits of 'Quantum Leap'); then the bulbs in our hands began to glow by the power of our own bodies. It was all rather cool and, as I stood there waving my glowing fluorescent tube light in the air, I realised this was as close to a Star Wars light sabre fight as I was ever going to get.&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;Back at the hostel that evening there were still no signs of backpacker life and, having spent my remaining local currency on food supplies for the train journey, I reluctantly decided to call it a night. As I reflected on my all-too-brief visit to Belgrade, I realised I would leave with mixed impressions. On the one hand, my appetite for grand old buildings had somewhat reached saturation, and so the city's fairly uninspiring and bleak architecture seemed insignificant in my overall assessment. What I had found most intriguing about Belgrade, though, was its vibrancy. Its streets - grey and lifeless at first glance - were in fact awash with people of all ages all out enjoying their city. It had had a carnival feel, yet I'd merely sampled a mid-winter's weekday like any other. And therein lay the frustration of my visit. Such vibrancy had hinted at the party atmosphere and nightlife scene for which Belgrade has become famous, but in my solitude I had failed to embrace it, and it too had failed to reach out to me. And so I would leave Serbia with tepid memories, but equally with the feeling that on another day I might just have had the craziest fun night of my trip. And that's enough to make me pencil into my imaginary diary a separate trip to the Balkans in the future.&nbsp;
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1201150020/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1201150020/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1201150020/tpod.html Fri, 28 Mar 2008 11:33:20 -0400 My Arabian Odyssey - learning Arabic, separating people from politics and dispelling myths in the heart of the Middle East

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Budapest, Hungary

Getting off the train in Budapest I felt instantly on my guard, as a plethora of sellers gathered quickly around me like vultures over carrion. Old women barked at me and tried to sell rooms, taxi drivers hawked the scene and tried to sell rides, all before I'd reached the end of the platform. I made my escape and headed for the hostel. Arriving there a half hour later to find it deserted, I was informed by the (Cockney) shop owner next door that it was shut for renovations. He gave me a city map and circled another hostel around the touristy Vaci utca down by the Danube that he had heard was good. With no plan B in mind, I thanked him and headed off in search of it. I arrived there after a twenty minute walk and, after initially failing to spot it, I realised to my dismay that it was inside a dilapidated building right in front of me. I looked around and saw no signs of life and, unimpressed by the wrecked facade of this town house and unconvinced the hostel was even open, I decided I'd take my chances elsewhere. I picked out a couple of alternatives from the guide and headed off toward their general vicinity. My efforts eventually brought me towards the city's other train station, a built-up and commercial area that seemed less well-located than the previous areas. After another frustrating hour of searching, and with the light now fading, I found a hostel. It was as obscurely located as the previous one, similarly occupying a single floor of an old town house. As I made my way up the dank stairwell, it dawned on me that this town house style of hostel was very much the norm for Budapest, and I regretted having not just stayed at the first one and saved myself two hours of sweaty anxiety and frustration.&nbsp;Inside, the hostel itself was very homely and clean. Too much so in fact, as it felt rather like I was intruding in someone's own living space and it was all rather too quiet. I dumped my bags in the dorm and, as I looked out the window into the cold evening darkness, I let out a long sigh of relief that I had a roof over my head at last. I took a long shower to wash away my little ordeal, and found upon my return to the dorm a room mate. I offered him an enthusiastic hello, but received in return only a cold silence and a look that said "don't you know this a hostel for people with absolutely no social skills?" I sat on my bed and observed the implied silence. Outside, a chilly wind was stirring, and I wondered if it might offer me more warmth than this unfriendly dorm. After an unproductive little wander around the city that first evening, I returned to the hostel and retired early to bed with my Theroux. It was a lonely existence, and would come to characterise my time in Budapest and much of the rest of my trip.&nbsp;&nbsp; I awoke the next morning to a sterile winter sky, but was determined to make this my day of sight-seeing. Of all the cities I visited on the trip, Budapest's sights seemed farthest and widest spread. And while I had grown fond of aimless wanderings, so too had nine days of endless walking taken their toll on my limbs. I still covered fair distances by foot in my two and a half days, but I also indulged heavily in the city's superb public transport system, which I found to be a delight of convenience and reliability. Such wanderings that first morning brought me to the Great Synagogue. Despite its inauspicious surroundings next to a large and busy traffic junction, inside it maintained a silent elegance, while the adjoining museum housed a harrowing photographic account of the Holocaust. I felt rather like an imposter, though, having been instructed to wear a skullcap inside the synagogue. &nbsp;For lunch I headed to the Great Market, which a Hungarian friend back home had recommended as a good place to get a cheap and authentic meal. This grand indoor market lacked the elegance and labyrinthine intrigue of the bazaars and souqs of the Middle East (to which I have become so accustomed), but it captured within its harsh metallic shell the sounds, smells and routines of local life, and I floated gratefully within it. As I sat enthusiastically slurping my goulash, I noticed too that I seemed to be the only tourist in the market, which in that moment was a welcome change. &nbsp;In the afternoon I headed across the Danube to Buda, the picturesque half of the city. There, in spite of a sterile sky as its canvass, the city seduced me for the first time. The beeping sounds of city traffic and the nagging pollution it brings were replaced by the serenity of the Old Town, its narrow roads spared of cars and people, its monuments and palaces stood in perfect stillness and its air as clean and crisp as the lush mountainside on which it stood. Even commercial Pest, from Buda's towering eyes, inspired a prolonged gaze; the city's many landmarks rising like grand reflections from the Danube. The Chain Bridge, elegant and historic, joined the city as one, and beyond it rose the great dome of St Stephen's Basilica; further along the river bank stood the Houses of Parliament, their neo-gothic turrets strangely reminiscent of Westminster; and perched in the depths of the Danube was Margaret Island, wintered but inviting, literally half-way between the old and the new, between history and modernity. &nbsp;I spent the remaining daylight in an aimless ramble around Margaret Island. My feet were shot by this stage, but the sheer enjoyment of feeling so far from the big city (yet only five minutes from it) spurred me on through its considerable depths. My only regret was that I was not there in spring when the park would regain its life and colour and I could have lay down amid its vast spread. But I contented myself in the contentment of others; kids playing football, hand-clasped couples in their own worlds, winter-clad pensioners wiling away the hours with chatter. It was a beautiful scene. &nbsp;Later on I headed to the Terror House, a kind of interactive museum documenting Hungary's fraught past under occupation. My general policy at museums in the past has been to take the cheap option and avoid audio-guides. Yet, I found myself convinced by the ticket-man into paying extra for such an audio guide on this occasion, a decision I would come to bitterly regret. I found the whole experience of the museum deeply frustrating. On the one hand, it was highly innovative, interesting and informative, and each room of the museum documented the various stages of Nazi and Soviet occupation, and offered succinct worksheets to read as supplements (which off-set the need for the audio-guide). On the other hand, the 'interactive' elements of the museum, the noises, video footage and archive tapes, simply gave me a headache when combined with the audio-guide I'd been duped into purchasing. It just turned into an assault on my senses. If I could go again, I would steer clear of the audio-guide, read the worksheets instead and fully appreciate the aural and visual accompaniment of the museum. &nbsp;Back at the hostel that evening, I hoped to find more stimulating company than the loser of the previous night, but none was forthcoming. I dined alone again and, after taking some notes for my blog, I retired to bed once again with my Theroux and, as I read, found myself enviously wondering how it was he always found himself in stimulating company. The complete lack of companionship was the bitter disappointment of my time in Budapest, as it is a city known for its nightlife; yet without initial company from the hostel, I never felt confident to go out and sample such a scene.&nbsp;&nbsp; The next day, awaking to a perfect blue sky, I had only one firm priority: to sooth my aching body at a thermal spa. First, though, I headed to St Stephen's Basilica to see it from the inside, having seen its beauty from distant Buda the previous afternoon. Afterwards, I headed back down to the Great Market for another generous portion of Goulash. As I sat with my head buried like a cave man in my bucket of goulash, I heard the broad Canadian tones of Saskatchewan. I looked up with pleasure to find both him and CSI-bashing Brummie Mike (whom I had last seen at a wine bar in Vienna) standing over me. It was such a welcome relief to see some familiar faces from my travels. I had known that Saskatchewan was in town, as he was following me to Budapest after an extra day in Bratislava, but Mike's presence was unexpected. My pleasure at seeing them, though, was tempered by my disappointment that I only met them on my final day - had the original hostel (which we'd made tentative plans to meet at) been open, I would have had Saskatchewan's company sooner, and could perhaps have enjoyed a real night out in Budapest. We sat and talked a while, and it transpired that they'd bumped into each other at a different hostel and had arranged this day to go on a caving expedition. My disappointment deepened, as I knew I couldn't realistically go on this trip and be back in time for my train. We said our good-byes for the final time, and I headed off to Heroes Square and to City Park beyond it where lay waiting the thermal spa.&nbsp; Heroes Square, with its arched monument and grand museums, was a picture. Later, when I passed back through it after the spa, I found the sun setting in the distance, and the square basked in the unmistakable amber-purple of a dying winter sun. City Park too was inspiring, housing at its centre the kind of castle conceived of a child's imagination. And from a distance, vast puddles of melted snow drew perfect reflections of the castle, and added to its fairy tale mystique. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Within the park lay the thermal spa I had picked out. It was one of the more expensive options in a city replete with spas, but I had taken one look at it in a brochure and vowed to go. It did not disappoint. And, for once on this Euro trip, the winter setting seemed to add rather than detract from its beauty, as outside the harsh air created clouds of steam from the hot pools, while the low sun bounced effortlessly off the yellow facade of this grand building. As I crouched in the warm water and watched the steam build around me, I was awash with childhood memories of trips to Centre Parcs. They seemed apt recollections, as those trips had always been shared with my closest and oldest friends, who are themselves of Hungarian dissent. I spent several hours soothing myself back to health in the 15 or so pools, as well as the steam rooms and saunas. It really could not have come at a better time, as I was truly exhausted physically from my trek thus far through Europe and the ten-plus days of continual walking. &nbsp;Both the spa and its idyllic setting were a perfect end to my time in Budapest, but in truth I did not enjoy my time in the city as much as I had hoped. Perhaps beyond all other destinations on my itinerary, I had most been looking forward to Budapest; but it left me feeling slightly disappointed and underwhelmed. However, I would attribute my disappointment more to my lack of companionship than to the city itself, though the entirely incomprehensible language added to my sense of isolation. In terms of the city itself, I felt most content when in the higher reaches of Buda away from the bustle and the throng, rather than the noisy, often-unattractive streets of Pest. But, should I go back (and I would love to do so again with friends), it is the noisier aspect of it, and Pest's social scene, that I would wish to sample next time around.&nbsp;
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1200934800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1200934800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1200934800/tpod.html Thu, 07 Feb 2008 07:18:47 -0500 My Arabian Odyssey - learning Arabic, separating people from politics and dispelling myths in the heart of the Middle East

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Bratislava, Slovakia

I'd been told at one point on my trip that Vienna and Bratislava were nearer to each other than any two other capital cities in the entire world. I had taken this trivia on board and written it off as one of those unverifiable facts. Yet, less than an hour after leaving Vienna, the train rolled into the Slovakian capital. I had viewed Bratislava more as a bonus leg, a convenient little stop-off en route to Budapest that would have been churlish to neglect. And, having planned out my schedule weeks ago back in England, I had anticipated the probability of spending my birthday night here, and so had been delighted to read in the Lonely Planet guide that Slovakia was 'most famous for ice hockey and beautiful women' - perhaps I might chance upon a night of passion with a local beauty on this my 27th birthday!&nbsp;&nbsp; The hostel, down the unwelcoming alleyway of a pizza take-out joint, was a significant step down from previous establishments. The door to the dorm room, for some inexplicable reason, was softly padded and missing its handle, giving one the impression they had just checked into a psychiatric ward. In the bathroom, the shower cubicles were so needlessly small and cramped that when you took a shower, you had to contort your body to wash yourself; and on both occasions I showered, my contortions somehow knocked the water tap to its hottest level, and I would find myself trapped in a scolding hot, faux-enamel prison cell, frantically pawing for the cold water lever. Downstairs in the lounge, meanwhile,&nbsp;the Wi-Fi didn't work, so I had to content myself with computers more akin to a 1980s Amstrad than a modern desktop PC. Oh well, it was only going to be a fleeting stay.&nbsp;&nbsp; On my walk around the city I was taken aback by the ludicrously mild weather, and before long I was walking around in a t-shirt and incurring the curious stares of warmly-wrapped locals. The centre of the city felt very small and intimate, and having walked endless miles in the bigger capitals I was glad and grateful for the compact surroundings. There was not much of note or outstanding beauty&nbsp;in the town, though the central square and surrounding streets maintained a kind of quaint charm, while the Sunday morning lull wrapped the scene in an eerie silence. The city's focal point was its castle, which stood at the top of a hill overlooking the land. The castle itself was rather ugly, and reminded me more of a Victorian prison or borstal than a castle, its angular turrets like guard-posts for prisoners within rather than watchtowers for advancing forces outside. The view from around the castle, though, was superb, and the panorama was a telling commentary on the city itself. To one side lay the traditional town centre, the terracotta roofs of its houses and churches lending it colour and warmth; to another side stood ugly factories and power plants like steel behemoths, their chimneys rising high like smoky minarets of some industrial religion; to another side lay a flat landscape of windmills that stretched almost to Vienna, and hinted at a cleaner, more modernised future; and to a final side, across the Danube, lay an endless landscape of Soviet high-rises, a sprawling suburb of bleak uniformity that could brake the hardiest spirit. &nbsp;Back at the hostel I was delighted to find the familiar face of Saskatchewan in my dorm room. We said our hellos and shared our underwhelmed impressions of Bratislava, and he wished me Happy Birthday. He'd arrived an hour before me and had been hoping to bump in to me and spend my birthday evening with me. Down in the lounge there were a few people sitting around chatting, but the atmosphere seemed somewhat subdued and I feared I'd be short of company for my intended night out. It transpired that, the night before, there had been a huge night-out in which everyone from the hostel as well as half the town had been involved. Consequently, today they were all nursing hangovers and dreaming of an early night. &nbsp;Eventually, a group of us went out in search of a meal and some beers. Of the six people in the group there were three new Canadians (also, as it happens, from Saskatchewan) who talked of little else but girls and sport. Despite the limits this brought, they were really funny and engaging guys and made for amusing company. There was only one girl in the group, a young American, who became an early casualty after the meal thanks to the continued conversations of girls and sport. The other guy was a young Australian who was literally falling over drunk after half a beer. In this sense, he did not fit the stereotype of the beer-swilling young Aussie, yet he seemed almost comically immature. During dinner, for instance, we had been discussing aspects of the Canadians' home province, and the city of Regina was mentioned. Suddenly a regurgitated spray of beer descended over our pierogis. We looked up disgustedly from our dishes to find the Aussie wiping his mouth in hysterics. "Ha, you just said vagina!" he yelped.The Canadians eyed him with collective disdain. "Uhh, no, it's called Regina. It's the capital of our province," one countered with embarrassed dismay. &nbsp;"Ha, that's awesome, mate. Man, I wish I lived in a town called Vagina. That'd be hilarious, mate!" He continued, oblivious to our growing contempt. "Hi, I'm from Vagina. Ha, that's hilarious!"&nbsp;Our other discussions at dinner&nbsp;had led us to talk about the NFL championship games taking place that night, and after dinner we went in search of a bar that might be showing them. It had not been what I'd had in mind for my birthday night out, but on this dead Sunday evening with not a Slovak seductress in sight, it was as good as it was going to get. Having had several drinks over dinner, the first of the games passed by in foggy haze of Pilsners, as Saskatchewan and I struggled to keep up with his purpose-built compatriots. If this was their idea of a hung-over quiet night, I could barely imagine what they must have been like the previous night. The bar closed after the first game, but we had all mainly come to see the second game. We staggered back to the hostel and somehow managed to find the game on a German cable channel. The Canadians disappeared briefly then returned with a pile of beers. I don't know how they could drink so much. My long day finally drew to a close at around 4.30am and I collapsed into my bed. &nbsp;My hangover in the morning prevented me from deep thought, but as I pondered my brief stay in Bratislava I realised it had left little impression on me. I had arrived there almost as a courtesy stop-off en route to Budapest, and ultimately this is how I would come to look back on it, more a footnote than a chapter, a fleeting afterthought amid sustained memories.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1200846600/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1200846600/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1200846600/tpod.html Thu, 07 Feb 2008 07:16:46 -0500 My Arabian Odyssey - learning Arabic, separating people from politics and dispelling myths in the heart of the Middle East

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Vienna, Austria

I arrived at the hostel in Vienna during its happy hour. Having found no agreeable company in Prague, I was keen to meet some people, to stretch my social muscles and to have some fun in the company of others. I took a quick shower to rouse myself from a train-induced drowsiness then headed straight back down to the bar/lounge where a good number were gathered around their cut-price Austrian beers. It was an attractive lounge, warmly coloured and purpose-built for easy social interaction. On the walls hung a variety of instruments that were readily available to take down and play, while the furniture seemed arranged in such a way as to avoid cliques developing. &nbsp;As I sat there slightly awkwardly with my beer waiting for an 'in', one was thrown to me in the form of a fellow Brummie sitting among the main throng of revellers. After a couple of shouted sentences across our tables in which we ascertained our proximity to each other back in Birmingham, he ushered me over to join him. Within five minutes, I had spoken more words and befriended more people than I would have done in a week at the Prague hostel. The composition of the group that first night was refreshing too, with most hailing from Canada, a few from the US and just one from Australia (a gregarious fellow, who was older than the horde and whose words felt reassuringly laced with worldly experience).&nbsp;After happy hour, we headed out in a group ten-strong to Vienna's nightlife district in search of a wine bar that had been recommended to one of the girls. My immediate observation was how dead this 'social' district seemed on what was, after all, a Friday evening. Nevertheless, at our corner table in the wine bar (where all but two people drank beer) we created our own lively atmosphere. As night-outs go, it wasn't anything special, but I was just immensely glad of some good company and the stimulation it brought. The Brummie, Mike, turned out to be from nearby Stoke, but was a forensic scientist now living in Birmingham. Having already had Seth and Ryan ruin my image of The O.C. by describing its gang culture and poverty, Mike proceeded to do likewise with my unwavering belief in Grissom and his team of CSIs by pointing out the 'bullshit techniques and timelines employed by those CSI shows.' &nbsp;Other characters at the table included a comically brash American named Dax, from Wisconsin, who talked longingly of his husky dog back home, and showed us pictures of her on his mobile phone; a camp young Canadian named Cameron who was on his way to Turkey to work on a farm for few months before going to university; a more masculine Canadian hailing from Saskatchewan, whose name I never learned, and&nbsp;who shared my bemusement of modern art (he'd visited Vienna's modern art museum that day) - "what was all that aboot?" he'd say; and a tall, sultry American girl named Katherine, whose Bostonian twang seemed at war with her face. That night, despite the bar closing at an offensively civilised 11pm, our drunken search for food in the streets nearby meant we missed the underground train home. The walk home seemed to take hours, but I didn't mind, as I found myself in the engaging company of Katherine, who acted as my tour guide while we discussed all manner of subjects.&nbsp;&nbsp; I woke up the next morning with the familiar thumping of a hangover, but forced myself up and out of the hostel early in order to make the most of my one full day in the city. On the drunken walk home, Katherine had mentioned that she'd been to see Mozart's Don Giovanni a few days previous and had bought scalped tickets outside the concert hall a few hours before. I decided to make this my first port of call, as the Opera House was centrally located anyway and next to many of the city's sights. There was a variety of people selling tickets for all manner of classical performances for that night, many of them incongruously dressed in period costume, yet the next performance of Don Giovanni was to be after my departure. My disappointment didn't last long though, as advertised nearby was the Vienna Boys' Choir, which performs every Sunday inside the&nbsp;majestic Hofburg Palace complex. Tomorrow would be Sunday, and also my 27th birthday, so I thought it churlish not to indulge in such a historical Viennese experience.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I spent the rest of the morning walking all around the central ring of the city, taking in famous sights such as St Stephan's Cathedral,&nbsp; Rathaus Town Hall, the Hofburg Palace complex, Schonbrunn Palace, the Museumsquartier, and the State Opera House, as well as many little parks and squares. Despite the grey sky and strong winds, I found Vienna a truly wonderful city to explore by foot. It seemed you couldn't go two blocks without coming across some grand building or other. I would reach a point on this trip through Europe where my appreciation for grand old buildings became saturated, but Vienna was a highpoint, its historic facades and pretty parks, squares and walkways an effortless seduction of the senses.&nbsp;&nbsp; In the afternoon I headed out into the suburbs in search of the central cemetery, where lay buried the graves of many of Austria's composers. As soon as I left the train station, I noticed a strong ethnic minority element, and only then did it dawn on me how homogeneous Vienna's centre is; until this moment I had seen nothing but white, Germanic faces. The walk to the cemetery took forever, and I wished I had taken a tram. When I did finally arrive, I found no useful signs as to where the specific graves might be, so I chose a direction and marched on. I walked for the longest time and had made no headway in this endless abyss of a cemetery; neither had I found the graves of any composers. Dead on my feet and defeated, I headed back towards the entrance. I did not find the composers' graves that day, and the only conclusion I could draw from my two hours' ramble among the departed, was that there a great many dead Austrians named Pollack! &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Later that afternoon, I headed to the Reisenrad fairground in the hope of riding the Ferris wheel made famous by Orson Welles' improvised speech in The Third Man. I arrived there with the jazzy theme music of the film rolling around in my head, but was disappointed to find the fairground shut down. Indeed, the Ferris wheel looked as though it had lain dormant for many decades. It probably had - after all, the Third Man came out in 1949! I contented myself with a photograph and then, like Orson himself, disappeared into Vienna's subterranean maze. &nbsp;Happy hour that evening was a quieter affair, and all but the Saskatchewan-based Canadian - whose name I'd still not learned - seemed to have moved on. As we sat drinking our beers, I decided that instead of re-asking his name, I would just refer to him as 'buddy' or 'mate' or 'chief', and hope his name would just come up in conversation. It never did, and, by the time I met him a final occasion in Budapest, it was beyond shameful. Among the 'newbies' that night were a group of American college girls who were travelling around Europe as part of a university module entitled 'Churches and Cathedrals'. Their task during the month-long trip was to visit such establishments all across Europe and then deliver a paper on it upon their return to college. Saskatchewan and I, out of bemused fascination, quizzed them further, but one of them seemed to take offense, perhaps sensing an undertone of sarcasm in our voices. She was not helped by her friend, who admitted that the semester before she'd taken an embroidery module for which, to our utter disbelief, she had received a maths credit for the complexity of lines she had sewn into her pillow.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I woke early on the morning of my 27th birthday and set out to see the Vienna Boys' Choir. The smartly dressed attendant in the Gothic Imperial Chapel showed me my seat upon my arrival, and I was delighted to find myself in a box seat. Looking down from my excellent vantage point, I realised this 'concert' was not going to be quite what I'd had in mind. Indeed, as the bells rang and the priest and his holy retinue ambled in, I realised this was a Catholic Mass. In my childhood, my mother had almost had to bribe me to go to Mass, yet in some ironic twist of fate here I was some 15 years later having paid 30 euros to sit through one! Fear not, the Mass aspect was very much secondary to the Choir; and it was a sung Mass, which leant it a tolerable novelty. The Choir and the accompanying orchestra were outstanding, matched by the superb acoustics of the chapel. And from my box I was able to see them well in their perched position high in the rafters of this splendid chapel.&nbsp;&nbsp; Indeed, I was able to study well the seemingly obscene gestures of the conductor. To his left were the orchestra, whom he conducted in a standard manner; to his right were the Boys' Choir, for whom he had a more demonstrative selection of gestures. The first was a frantic, angry, cupping movement that screamed "I'm going to squeeze your pre-pubescent testicles until you hold that high note!" The second was an even more obscene inserting gesture, for which he used his baton, and would start low then shift it violently in a sharp upwards trajectory. I assume the sentiment was the same. At the end of the Mass, the Choir came down to the Alter for a bow to the audience and received a deservedly rapturous applause. It had been a moving experience for me - finding myself at Mass on my birthday had brought forth feelings and memories of childhood, of easier times, and of my late mother whom I missed at that moment more than any time I could think of. &nbsp;As I made my way to the train station, I thought about my impressions of Vienna. It had been a superb city to walk around, awash with&nbsp;majestic buildings, splendid cathedrals, pretty parks and historic monuments. Yet there was something grey and conservative about its beauty, the dull sky and lifeless trees of those winter days somehow an apt reflection of the city's demeanour. And behind the grand facades of this cityscape I sensed a sort of stagnant conservatism, as if the people themselves had become part of the architecture, content to rely on tradition and history rather than evolve culturally (as opposed, say, to Berlin... though Berlin had good reason to evolve). On the night out, the only young people I'd encountered were fellow backpackers, and the city's heart seemed homogeneously white. Yet, just outside the beautiful centre lay unattractive suburbs, and there I had seen the first signs of colour on the faces of minorities and the graffiti on the walls. Yet, looking back over the whole 18 day trip, Vienna would come be a highlight. Perhaps what I mean to convey is that Vienna is not a vibrant, young person's city... and I'm a middle-aged man at 27!&nbsp;
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1200682800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1200682800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/tompsblogs/syria-2007/1200682800/tpod.html Wed, 06 Feb 2008 16:54:11 -0500 My Arabian Odyssey - learning Arabic, separating people from politics and dispelling myths in the heart of the Middle East

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Prague, Czech Republic

The train journey from Berlin to Prague (see 'My European sub-plot' entry) was a splendid introduction to my new means of travel. Inside, it had all the modern comfort one would expect from a piece of German engineering, while outside my window the passing landscape hinted at splendour through a wintery drizzle. My carriage was almost empty, yet I managed to attract to my vicinity a seemingly hard-of-hearing Goth and a rough-looking wino. The Goth sat himself down across from me and violated my silence with a tinny cacophony of death metal that his earphones failed to contain. The wino, meanwhile, sat a couple of rows down and filled the carriage with a noxious mixture of booze and stale cigarettes. Hearing him belch, I looked over and saw to my horror that he was laying into a bumper-sized bottle of beer - it was 11am. I observed too that he was in fact Graham Gooch's doppelganger... that is, had Gooch had a mullet and the haggard complexion of a man who habitually drinks on a train at 11 in the morning! Luckily both characters got off at Dresden, and I was able to savour the rest of the journey. Arriving in Prague in mid-afternoon the city already seemed cast in partial darkness and the murky drizzle gave it a bleak and uninviting feel. The hostel made for a more welcoming introduction, and both its compact boutique-like quarters and bathrooms more akin to a luxury apartment belied its budget prices. Its only drawback, as I would discover somewhat to my cost, was that it was rather far from the town centre. I dumped my bags in the dorm and headed out for an initial wander, heading vaguely in the direction of the Old Town square. With the city now under evening darkness I quickly became lost. I didn't mind, as I had no particular aim or plan and was happy to discover each sight by chance. Yet, for those initial few miles, all I seemed to discover was one sex shop after another interspersed only by cheap liquor stores. This was not the Prague I had come to see, nor what I had anticipated, and I found it all seedily reminiscent of Hamburg's Reeperbahn.&nbsp; Before long, however, I had reached the Old Town and the whole feel and atmosphere of the city changed. Gone were the sex shops and strip clubs (at least overtly), replaced instead by an endless spectacle of Baroque and Gothic structures which culminated in the unrivalled beauty and wonder of the Old Town square, whose churches and buildings stood with such timeless perfection and assured presence they seemed almost to reach out and embrace me. And in the murky gloom of this chilled winter night, a thin mist lay amongst them, rousing them, and conjuring up the most perfectly imagined Gothic scene. It was unforgettable. Back at the hostel dorm, I was acquainted for the first time with my two room-mates. One was a young American graduate of aeronautical engineering who was killing a few weeks post-graduation before his contract with Boeing started back in Seattle. He was a nice guy, polite and engaging, but in that instant I hated him for having such a perfectly planned out and financially lucrative future ahead of him. I could only dream of such clarity and security. The other guy was a young Aussie who seemed to encapsulate everything I had quickly grown to hate about the antipodean gap-year horde; his perspective so narrow as to fly 12,000 miles only to get shit-faced across a continent of countries and cultures, then fly back and claim some worldly insight. I had been explaining to the American about my trip and activities back in Syria, but had been distracted by the bemused look of the Australian. He was busy prettying himself up for their night of clubbing and was half-listening to my explanation with a look that said "uhh, why would you want to go to such a place or do such a thing?" They invited me out with them and their two girl-friends (also gap year Aussies). I politely declined, reasoning that I wanted to avoid a hangover and take full advantage of my one full day in Prague the next day. The Aussie interjected with a remedy, "no worries mate, I got just the thing. Chug a 'Raging Bull', mate". I gave him a puzzled look. "That's Absinth and Red Bull, mate. Wakes you up and gets you shit-faced at the same time. It's awesome, mate", he explained. I told him I'd give it a miss.&nbsp; &nbsp;Alone with a book that night, I pondered about where my youthful spirit had gone, and at what point I'd seemingly turned into such a pompous, middle-aged man. Were all these gap year Aussies really so awful? Surely they were just young and care-free? I tried unsuccessfully to think of a time I had been like that. How sad. And I felt a tinge of shame that I could be so conceited as to judge people on this trip by their reaction to my own plans and agenda; deeming them interesting and worthy if they were interested in what I did, or deeming them immature and narrow-minded if they weren't. Yet, there did seem to be a correlation. But more than anything I just felt old. Mentally, the idea of going out and clubbing until 6am didn't appeal to me in the slightest, and physically I knew I couldn't possibly handle it even if I did. At around 4am I was woken by drunken commotion. The dorm door slammed open and one of the Aussie girls, accompanied by the American, stumbled in and across to his bed. They were being very loud, and I assumed I was going to be subjected to some drunken frolicking from across the room. However, it quickly became apparent that something was wrong. I sat up to see what was going on and to see if there was anything I could do to help. The girl was hysterical and beneath her running mascara I could see she had a very nasty black eye. It transpired that she had somehow become separated from the group and by the time they found her she had been attacked. I didn't find out the extent of what actually happened to her, but I hope it was nothing worse than that punch in the face. I helped to try to calm her down while her friends went off to find various help. Before long she was taken off to hospital and her friends went with her.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; * I tried to put the events of the previous night out of mind as I set about my day of exploration. I headed for the Old Town square and joined yet another free walking tour. This time the guide was Czech, an actual inhabitant of Prague, and her slightly mispronounced English gave the tour the authentic feel that was missing from the Berlin and Potsdam tours. With a heavy accent she would talk about the 'fakad' of the 'baruk' style buildings, but do so with a passion that no foreigner could imitate. We covered all the main sights, walking all around the Old Town, where we stopped into a church in which a mummified hand hangs from the inner rafters (I've forgotten the story behind it), and also stopped to watch the rather silly but entertaining spectacle of the Astronomical Clock striking a new hour; then down to the Charles Bridge and across the Vltava River to the Lower Town, where the guide illustrated how much of it had been engulfed by the devastating floods of August 2002; then up the hill to the castle where the tour ended. The tipping process this time around was thankfully less uncomfortable, as she simply put her hat on the ground and left it for people to throw in their money as they wished.&nbsp; After stopping to watch the changing of the guard (another silly but entertaining spectacle), I headed back down to the Old Town for some lunch. I spent much of the afternoon visiting the Jewish Quarter, its houses and synagogues crammed tight into a small cluster of streets just away from the Old Town square. A highlight was the Jewish cemetery where, in a sparse building like a small farm house, the names of every Czech Holocaust victim were inscribed on the walls. Outside, the cemetery - set in a tiny plot of land - was packed so tight with gravestones it almost made my eyes hurt. The headstones were not grand or ornate; they were not aligned and equally spaced; they stuck up from the soil at odd angles, often colliding into each other; a jagged landscape that seemed to visually and viscerally represent the horrors of the Holocaust itself.&nbsp;&nbsp;At the Spanish Synagogue around the corner they were advertising a classical recital for that evening, and, having looked around its beautiful interior, I decided it would be a superb venue and would probably come back for the concert later. Back at the hostel, I was disappointed to find that there were no new people in my dorm, nor was there any social interaction down in the Wi-Fi lounge. It was a well-kept and elegant hostel, but its fair distance from the main tourist centre meant it was very quiet. This was a disappointment, as Prague is a city famed for its nightlife, yet the hostel had borne me no suitable social companions. I resigned myself to another evening alone, took a shower, and headed back down to the Spanish Synagogue for the classical recital. Inside, the synagogue looked splendid in its evening setting, the candlelight lending it subtle romance. The recital - an extravagant expense on my budget - was of a variety of composers with a predominance (as one might expect in Prague) of Dvorak, plus a couple of Jewish songs at the end. The acoustics matched the surroundings, with the three violins, two violas, the cello, double bass and harpsichord filling the compact aisles with the sweetest sounds. Despite having felt initially uncomfortable among the middle-aged, Hebrew-speaking folk that made up the intimate audience, I quickly found myself in an almost trance-like air of relaxation, and I didn't want the concert to end.&nbsp; That night, though I had no companionship, I searched resolutely for a place to eat and drink - after all, I had been in Prague for over a day and had yet to sample a Pilsner. I found a quiet place and savoured my Urquell contently. Yet, tomorrow afternoon I would leave this city, and, as I sat and considered my time there, I realised I had failed to really get under the skin of Prague, to sample its different dimensions, and to experience (as my generation should) a night out among peers. It would become a theme of my trip - my impression of, or at least my experience in, each city came to be shaped by the people I did or didn't meet; the social dimension shaping all others.&nbsp;In the morning, I awoke to a stark blue sky and decided I would head back down to the Old Town square and climb to the top of the Astronomical Clock tower and see Prague glisten for the first time under an unbroken sun. The views from up high were splendid, the iconic Gothic church across the square less obstructed, and the tourist groups below reduced to ant-sized insignificances. It was with this image that I left Prague behind. It was a fitting image, for it was the picture-perfect Prague I had come in search of, each of the city's timeless gems contained in one stunning panorama. Yet, so too had I discovered its seedy and disconcerting underbelly, its uglier streets awash with sex shops and strip clubs (an industry no doubt thriving off of drunken stag-parties from my own country). And, emanating from that seedy sub-culture, the girl in my hostel had been attacked on that first night, and that was an image and memory that will live along side the beauty and history of this wonderful city.
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