07.23.10
Posted in Society, Travel at 3:54 by RjZ
The Life Ball in Wien, Austria, is Europe’s largest charity event and, from the looks of it, one hell of a party. I didn’t know it was happening until after I’d arrived and started seeing people painted gold and wearing little more than ivy leaves. The costume ball, this year ‘earth’ themed, is a charity event for AIDS treatment and research. In 2010, it is in association with the UN AIDS Conference and even former President Clinton was here to celebrate.
The beautiful people were out in force, looking to see and be seen, as they made their way toward the red carpet in front of thousands of on-lookers. Every costume, from fairies to centaurs, was carefully designed to avoid covering his or her washboard abs. Even if I had known, I would have had to work out for months just to feel comfortable looking half as good as the other guests, let alone dressing up in ram’s horns and a speedo.
As I wandered around the Viennese Rathaus Platz where the party was getting started, I noticed hand lettered signs stuck on bushes, or pinned to fences. The notes were scrawled on notebook paper, and written in at least French, German, and English. They said “HIV is not the cause of AIDS.” The revelers didn’t take notice of them. One soot painted pair of men whose costume consisted of torn swim bottoms and red AIDS ribbons picked up one of the notes to glance at it and then set it right back down. No angered crumpling, no sneered looks.
Since when, I thought, is HIV not the cause of AIDS? After dinner, I made my way back to my hotel room and the big event was being televised. Impassioned speakers thanked the guests for the money raised in search of a cure, and spoke of progress with retro-viral drugs—drugs which wouldn’t have had much effect if AIDS were not caused by a virus. Young groups of musicians from nations with high risk of AIDS such as Cambodia and South Africa, performed Beethoven’s Ode to Joy on mirimbas, gamelans and recorders even as rain showers began and drenched them.
While they were getting soaked, I discovered a new conspiracy. 9-11 was a government plot. Global Warming, a liberal elitist sham. The moon landing? Fake. HIV causes AIDS? No way. Who knew? I didn’t even realize there was a question and meanwhile, like the member of the herd that I am, I’d gone on believing that HIV is actually the cause of AIDS.
I’ve always been a skeptic, so I didn’t immediately believe the AIDS deniers. What could be their motivation? Anti-gay racists? The good news is, unlike Holocaust deniers who seem pretty clearly anti-semetic, AIDS deniers don’t have a clear agenda at all. Some of them believe that AIDS is a disease brought on, not by a virus, but by the sinfully delicious act of homosexuality (what’s so delicious about it, is as much a mystery to me, just as heterosexual sex is to many gays.) Others see it as a corporate plot by pharmaceutical manufacturers to sell expensive medication.
One thing is clear. The scientific establishment, with its thousands of researches on the government and drug company payrolls, is ignoring the views of a tiny minority of bonafide scientists, at least one or two of which actually studies in the field of biology. AIDS denialists can’t all be lumped together either. Some believe that HIV is a virus, although a harmless one, while others insist that that AIDS itself is only a disease of poor people and drug users weakened by their situations. (Of course, blacks are poor and gays use more drugs than everyone else!)
The rain and storm didn’t hold back the revelers from their party and hundreds of thousands of dollars were raised to feed the establishment’s hunger for money and AIDS research, even if they just can’t see through this scam that the whole HIV thing is just a blind alley. Seemed like a really great party to me.
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07.17.10
Posted in Travel at 15:32 by RjZ
Flyers in the budget hotel in Yogyakarta, Indonesia, had a variety of activities on offer. Among the charming outings was a sunrise hike up Gunung Merapi, the 3,000 meter volcano hanging in the mist above the city. The description read like an easy hike. I remember wondering if I should wear my sandals, but eventually, I wore hiking boots because I’d brought them this far; seemed a shame not to use them.
In order to make sunrise, the bus collected us from the hotel at around 10 the previous evening and brought us to a cabin at the base of the mountain for a short sleep before we were awoken at 1 am to begin the hike. Our large group joined several other large groups at the base of the mountain, each with a pair of guides, and we were handed dim flashlights to begin our hike.
I was living in Holland at the time, so my acclimatization to altitude was sketchy at best. Another Hollander was in our group, but he lived with his buddy in Switzerland and both regularly climbed mountains. I don’t remember anyone else in the group because we kept dropping them on the rush up the mountain. At around halfway, the groups had trailed out and near the top, very few were even following us. How my traveling partner and I got this far this fast could only be explained by the draw of “see a live volcano at sunrise” written on that flyer back in the hotel.
The last 300 meters to the top were steep, rocky and sharp. The volcanic rocks were just like those in the gas fireplace of my old 70s style rental back in the United States. Dark red to black with little bubbles in them and sharp like glass. The path was so steep, we were forced to use our hands and, while I was suddenly glad to have the boots on, I noticed that our guides were managing with old torn shoes and a pair of flip-flops. The sky was brightening and I was straining to summit before sunrise.
I got very sweaty, racing to the top, and by the time we arrived, my shirt soaked through, I suddenly realized how cold it was. Indonesia is hot. Humid, tropical hot, but a high mountain is chilly and with a wind blowing my damp shirt next to me my core temperature began to drop rapidly. My teeth were chattering as I looked over the lip of the crater to the faint glowing of lava below. My body was shivering frantically while I tried to enjoy the sunrise over the edge of the mountain. I tried to warm my quaking body in steam vents puffing from the sides of the volcano but they only made me wetter and I was driven off by the sulfur. Nothing could warm me and finally, our new Swiss friend, more experienced and more prepared than I, noticed my uncontrollably chattering teeth and offered a dry t-shirt. I changed and was able to avoid hypothermia.
The sun had risen and lava was invisible now in the dawn. Little left to do at the top, we began our descent. This is where the miracle happened. It may not sound like much to you, but it represents the only supernatural experience I’ve really had. More important things happened during this trip, (like not dying of hypothermia in a tropical climate) but this is the only one not explainable by coincidence. Neither I nor my traveling partner can explain it. It may not sound like much to you, but its utter inexplicability is what makes it a wonder to me.
The return was a steeper slope than the way up, and the same rocky sharp fireplace rocks were scattered as obstacles for the first 3 – 500 meters. There was no trail to speak of and we gingerly tried to rock hop our way down, now, with only one guide as the other had to stay back with the rest of our group who hadn’t made it up in time for sunrise. My partner is afraid of heights and, while she could certainly manage getting down on her own, it wasn’t going fast enough for our guides taste. She had taken 10 minutes to move only about 20 or 30 meters and we had a long way to go.
He took her hand and started running down the slope. Running down. Pulling her by one arm, her legs floating over the rocks barely touching the ground once every couple of meters. Everything I saw as she flitted past us, and even her personal description confirms the miracle. She floated down the mountain, defying the laws of physics for impact and held outside of the gravity by the magic flowing through the guide’s hands and into her. She later described feeling no impact; that somehow his arm pulled her lightly and she found herself moving down the mountain, wondering how she neither tripped, nor fell. My new boots were worn and scratched by the time we made it down but she danced down the mountain like a ballerina, not a scratch anywhere.
We sped down the mountain passing by old women gathering wood for their villages (they looked old, but given their daily regimen, they might have been only thirty) and arrived back at the bus in record time, never meeting the rest of our group again. I returned the t-shirt to our kind fellow hiker and we shuttled back to the hotel.
Five days later we were on the next island of Bali riding a moped through the only rain we experienced during the so-called rainy season. At one of our stops I saw man reading a paper, the front page showed a photo of smoke, a mountain and what looked like evacuees. The headline read Gunung Merapi blah, blah blah Indonesian. We asked for a translation. Apparently the safe little hike up a live volcano also includes the small chance that the thing can explode and cause whole villages to be evacuated and at least a few injured hikers. It didn’t say mention like that on the flyer.
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06.13.10
Posted in Travel at 4:15 by RjZ
Wikipedia describes “threats” to Lijiang old town like this:
“The influx of tourists that followed the inscription of the Ancient town of Lijiang onto UNESCO’s World Heritage list has had dramatic effects. Many of the former inhabitants of the ancient city have had to move away due to rising costs of housing and food items, only to be replaced by tourist establishments. The growth of these tourism businesses is largely uncontrolled.”
Yup. That about covers it. The Ancient town is the name for the tourist center of Lijiang. It is gorgeous. The 800 year old town has been restored to a fairy tale chinese village. Narrow cobblestone streets lead to dozens of bridges arching over streams from the nearby river rerouted through the town. Locals still use the little streams for washing (although, fortunately no longer for sanitation.) Buy a map upon entry to the town, but it won’t do any good. Streets wind and criss-cross everywhere. The only way to navigate is to wander. And absolutely every turn is worth a photograph.
It’s one of those places that just can’t be missed and it really is a pleasant place to stay for a few days in spite of the pressing tourism, but let’s face it, if you’ve been reading this blog for even a little while, you know I am no Paul-Theroux-adventure-traveller—I really am just a tourist, even going to lengths to defend the tourist’s plight—but today’s Lijiang may be going too far.
The town owes its success to being on the cross roads of the tea trade known as the tea horse road. Today, identical looking tea shops make up nearly every fourth store front in town. In between them are other tourist shops, clothing, souvenirs, and restaurants, most of which equally similar. Whatever you do, don’t use a tea shop, or souvenir bell store, as a landmark to guide yourself around town. The architecture and layout of the town make it a jewel, but it just as easily could all have been made by a talented set designer. Entrepreneurial Chinese have pushed out every other authenticity to make way for their tea shops and the narrow streets are no match of the throngs of tour groups disgorged by the constant flow of busses outside the pedestrian-only center.
Walking through town is a shoulder to shoulder affair and even early morning can be tough as the Chinese, and their expensive cameras and tripods, take shots of other photographers all trying to get the best morning light.
I could never really decide if I liked Lijiang. It is beautiful. It is easy–with nearby sights, simple tourist infrastructure, and plentiful restaurants. I definitely enjoyed renting a bicycle again and riding around the high plain on the edge of the mountainous Yunnan provence. Still, reading that towns such as as Dali and Zhongdian (re-named Shangr-la by the Chinese authorities….) could possibly be worse, made it very easy to relax and enjoy the nearby scenery and not bother to press on further. “I get it,” I thought, “I definitely don’t have to rush off to another movie set.” Those cities are probably equally gorgeous but, after listening to the reports of other tourists, equally fake and ridiculous too. China is full of contradictions. Lijiang is just one of the prettier ones.
At the airport: Yoghurt, 5 RMB, cookies 4 RMB, crackers 3 RMB
Taxi from train to Kunming airport, 10 RMB
Bus to Lijiang, 15 RMB
Map of Lijiang, 6 RMB
Nice dinner, 52 RMB
Hotel, 100 RMB/night
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06.12.10
Posted in Travel at 3:13 by RjZ
It’s a little silly, but almost every time I want to refer to my fellow citizens, or the country of the United States of America in this blog, I use something like “U.S. Americans,” or “the States.” What I rarely do is just say “Americans.” America is a continent, two of them, actually, and in spite of the, now fairly accepted slang for the States as “America,” I’ve heard now and again that other Americans, like Mexicans and Canadians find that annoying. If you’ve been reading for a while, you’ve probably not even noticed and I am probably just wasting my time and having my writing come out even more awkward.
Americans, ahem, U.S. Americans, often have a similar question mark in their brains when they see the, sometimes large Canadian flags on the backpacks of fellow North American travelers. No one that I know has any grudge against our friendly neighbor to the north, but what’s with the giant maple leaf?
We met our new traveling companions in our train compartment on our way to Kunming. Their backpacks were already stowed, so only after we asked each other where everyone was from did we learn that these two very charming ladies were Canadian. It was a wonderful conversation for hours and hours. They shared food and alcohol with us (remember we came empty handed) and we all shared stories of what we’d already seen in China and what our thoughts were so far.
One of the best things about traveling isn’t the locals that you meet, it’s the fellow tourists. Nearly always, if you meet a couple of folks with backpacks staying in the same cheap hotels as you are, you have something in common. We’re all people who value seeing the world even though we may barely have enough money to afford it (otherwise, wouldn’t we be traveling a bit more luxuriously?) We’re all people who don’t mind a little hardship and getting a bit dirty, but let’s face it, we’re also well educated enough and rich enough to have even this much time on our hands.
At one point in our long meandering conversations I asked about the whole maple leafs-everywhere thing. My operating theory: are you so concerned that people might think you’re a U.S. American from your accent that you want to nip that in the bud? I never got a very straight answer. They smiled and laughed and said that really it is something older people did more than younger ones. It’s not that they’re opposed to the U.S. but rather proud of being Canadians and want people to know (which, is a nice way of saying exactly what I said.) “I don’t do that!” they both explained quickly. One laughed at her older brother and his backpack flag. The other was living in Taiwan and just didn’t feel so patriotic regardless.
They accused U.S. Americans of being equally patriotic, but I insisted that I had just about never seen a U.S. flag on someone’s back pack (I ought to get one!) and that sure, there are those who bleed red, white, and blue, have red-neck accents and well, basically stay home. I personally know a few of these–they see no reason to leave their great country in the first place. Fact is, though, everywhere I’ve ever been I’ve met these people–in their own country!
All very fascinating but eventually we had to get some sleep if we were going to be fresh and make it to our flight to LiJiang the next morning after arriving in Kunming. We were flying Deer Airlines. It was an easy choice, as one of the airlines was called “Lucky Airlines” which probably sounds great in Chinese, but gives me pause.
The next morning we were packing our things as we were getting to read to leave the train. Across from me, one of our new Canadian friends bent over at the waist to retrieve her pack from underneath the seat. There was no flag on her pack; it’s true. As she bent down though, her shirt rode up a bit and revealed a sexy tattoo just below her waistline in the small of her back. A red Canadian maple leaf. Yeah, younger Canadians don’t do the patch on the backpack anymore…
Train Ticket, Guilin to Kunming over night, “soft sleeper”: 433 RMB
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06.11.10
Posted in Travel at 4:49 by RjZ
When we purchased our trip to from Guilin to Yangshuo it included a return. We just needed to contact the agent whom we were last passed off to and arrange it. In practice, we don’t have a phone and even with the kind help of the hotel in which we were staying, actually getting in touch with her is another challenge, unless you plan on lounging around the hostel lobby all day. They charter a bus which leaves when enough tourists can fill it. We eventually just found and took the regular bus. Cheap–about 30 RMB.
Something I ate in Yangshuo was certainly catching up with me by the time we arrived in Guilin. Alright, something was half a plate of river snails, probably dug out of one of the muddier shores of the river. My temperature was rising and my stomach was in knots. I stayed in for the night and hoped not to ruin much of the trip as I had almost done the last trip to China. “I rarely get sick from travel” is becoming more of a memory for me than a reality.
The Guilin Backstreet International Youth Hostel is great. They offer a shuttle (actually, your own personal taxi) to take you around to multiple sites all included in the already cheap price of the room. So, tomorrow morning, after our breakfast of toast and juice, we prepared to catch all the obvious sites of Guilin. I was, remarkably, almost better, but it was still going to be a slow day filled with way too much to do.
First stop: Solitary Mountain. This fortress and mountainous lump in the middle of the city offers history (if you speak Chinese) and views (if the weather is clear in this small town of well over a million people.) We looked at the lovely old buildings like the museum which was devoid of English although the Chinese seemed very impressed by the exhibits. We hiked to the top of the little mountain for the views. Chinese tourists tied blue bows on the chain leading up to the peak and touched a statue of a turtle like they were consumed with obsessive-compulsive disorder, presumably for good luck.
Next, Reed Caves. The Guilin region is decorated with limestone cliffs and where there is limestone there are often dramatic caves. The Reed Caves were discovered near a patch of reeds, and are just on the outskirts of town. Dignitaries from around the world visit the caves and the tourists were packed in like a ride at Disneyland.
Caves everywhere have such fantastic shapes and formations in them that they conjure all sorts of creative names. The Chinese, already famous for seeing dragons and fairies, horses and rabbits, princess as princesses in every odd shape, are in heaven in a cave. The dripping stalactites and mighty stalagmites are a bountiful cornucopia of silly names. That’s not enough though. Instead the caves are lit with gelled lights in every saturated color and even sometimes accented with extra water pools or lasers. Disneyland is more apt here than I realized. Perhaps it’s a little sad, considering these were, at least once long ago, organic caves, beautiful by nature, and without the unneeded clown makeup.
Which isn’t to say that crazy lit caves aren’t worth a look. Tourists are ushered from one room to the next on stone stairs and even walkways with barely enough time in each spot to take pictures, while they hear stories about the white rabbit or the wizard throwing coins into the ponds. Lights are turned off in one spot and on in the next to make sure nobody stays behind. The views are spectacular and full of shapes and colors that would make Hunter S. Thompson feel quite at home.
We made it to the Seven Star Scenic Park on the other side of town which is home to a rather large park and another cave. This cave is much like the first, better in some ways, (better rooms) worse in others (no lasers) but the park is a lovely place to spend an afternoon. Charming bridges crossing little creeks and shady, fragrant osmanthus trees from which the delicious local tea is made. There is much more there as well. Flower gardens, camel shaped rock formations, and even a couple more caves. We could have spent more time in any of todays sights, but, we have a train to catch to Kunming.
We strolled back to the hostel, enjoying a few last views of cormorant fisherman on bamboo rafts and a muddy angle on the Elephant Trunk Hill on the Li river. We thought we even had enough time to grab some lunch as we had been fighting off the taxi drivers earlier that morning. Not so fast. Weighed down with our packs we began looking for a cab to take us to the station. Nothing. We venture further to the main street. Nothing. An occasional cab speeds by. We wave. Nothing. Finally, a cab stops and we try to explain where we’re going but he shakes his head no and drives off. Getting frantic, we wave at more and more cabs and a few more slow, only to drive off without stopping. Others stop and don’t like where we’re going! I finally ask at a finer hotel if they can help me get a cab and with great effort a very kind hotel receptionist comes out on the street to get us a cab. He is, indeed, successful, but now the traffic is so bad we are beginning to have serious doubts we’ll make it.
Guilin is nice, you say, so what if we have to stay another day. Unfortunately–to save time–we’ve already booked a flight from un-touristy Kunming to Li Jiang and this little late-to-the-train fiasco could cost us some real money. The cab driver is confident even as we’re sweating, but, inching along through the traffic, he does, eventually, deliver us before the train departs. We run into the station hoping we can find our platform in time and finally arrive at our compartment, sweaty and empty handed with little water or food for our 12 hour train journey. Two friendly Canadians are already in our compartment waiting for us. We wonder if they put the Westerners together on purpose.
Guilin park 35 RMB
Reed Cave 60 RMB
Dinner 9.5 RMB
Taxi to train station 10 RMB
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06.10.10
Posted in Travel at 6:00 by RjZ
Keeping fit while traveling is only a problem if “fit” means a regular schedule of cycling, running, swimming, or whatever it is that you do to stay trim. Budget travelers don’t usually stay in hotels with fitness equipment, and I wouldn’t have enough space in my diminutive pack for an extra pair of running shoes, let alone any specialized gear for other activities. Diet, too, can be a bit of a challenge to maintain while backpacking across a foreign country. Eating is a big part of what I experience, but doing so, but even that often takes second place to sightseeing and experiencing what the destination has to show me.
None of this means that you’ll have to grow fat and lazy during travel to China. After yesterday’s ten or fifteen kilometers, of cycling on heavy, single speed lady bikes, we decided we were ready for greater distances and vaster views. Getting away from the cluster of tourist sites along the main road, we took our trusty lady bikes on a thirty or more kilometer tour and ended up having the best day of the whole trip, while seeing almost no “sights” to speak of.
We weaved along roads and through towns, somewhere between lost and found the whole ride. We stopped at a souvenir vendor’s stand outside of town and looked over hundreds of dusty fake antiques; easily able to resist buying more than a few because we had to carry everything in our small day packs. We made it through village traffic (remember, in China, even a village may not be small at all. Yangshuo itself is called a village and it’s home to over 300,000 people) and past rice patties and persimmon trees. Looking lost, or not, it doesn’t matter either way, we were approached by a few hawkers trying to guide us along the way or encourage us to board a bamboo raft for a quiet float down the river.
We joined some cattle as we crossed over the Golden Dragon bridge built over 1000 years ago, it is one of the oldest single arch stone bridges in Guangxi, but there was no sign and no busloads of tourists to let us know that this was it. Beautiful, but grown over with vines, it was little different than less distinguished bridges along the river. Coasting and bouncing along the narrow dirt farm roads we saw where the tour busses must drop off their Chinese tourists for a short cruise down the river. The floating traffic jam on one inconspicuous part of the river was a draw for locals and tourists alike.
We pedaled through fields of vegetables and rice and spied on harvesting farmers doing all the work without the help of tractors or really, any thing power beyond their own muscles. The weather was white and overcast, but these were still the views of limestone cliffs that sells this part of the world to tourists far and wide. Finally, we pedaled back to town, well over 30 km on our pink and blue bikes, we were proud of our efforts.
Unlike many seasoned travelers, I enjoy tours. I feel sure I’ve missed something important or fascinating when I tried to guide myself. I would have enjoyed hearing silly stories about the Ming dynasty nobles who built that bridge, or being actually introduced to one of the farmer families we spied working for 15 quiet minutes. (A friend who went on a packaged tour enjoyed just that in the same area.) And yet, this day, with all it’s effort and so little actually achieved, was the best day of the entire journey. Quiet, lonely, and beautiful, a part of China one expects before ever visiting and forgets it could even exist upon arrival; the farmland outside of Yangshuo is fruitful enough that poor farmers don’t seem so desperate, but still rural enough that busses and hawkers have failed to spoil it. This is why you’ve come to this part of the world. Get a bike and just go.
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06.08.10
Posted in Society, Travel at 23:01 by RjZ
I’m not raising any children so I don’t know what I am talking about.
It was chilly, but nice, for Moscow in March. My first time there, so there is no way I am going to miss the Kremlin complex. In an effort to protect the treasures of the land and perhaps to cling to their bureaucratic past, two Russian guards are taking their sweet time carefully inspecting every bag and every person before entry. I’ll find out later that backpacks, that is, bags with two straps, no matter how small, aren’t allowed, while bags with one strap, no matter how large, are, seemingly, permitted. I have to check my backpack/camera bag back at the garderobe, which, naturally, is mere 500 m back to the ticket office.
No matter, the line barely moved while I was gone. I’ve had a little exercise, but missed little. There is still plenty of time to watch the spring frost in the shadows of trees melting under the bright blue spring sky. There’s also the compare and contrast of tourists from around the world. This morning it’s mostly Dutch and Russians. There are some Italians and French, and a few Chinese, but I don’t notice any other Americans. The line is long and I am near the front; perhaps they simply woke up later this morning.
The Russians have brought their children to see the great wealth of their nation. Right in front of me is a young boy and young girl, probably seven and nine years old respectively. For a little while they play among the trees until their parents call them back to the line in anticipation of eventually entering the fortress. Now they are standing in line facing forward, talking quietly to one another. It’s almost bizarre. I don’t remember the last time I saw such well-behaved children.
My parents like to tell proud stories the family going out to dinner in a fine restaurant and other guests stopping on their way out to thank them. Apparently the romantic diners were terrified at the sight of two young boys in a fine restaurant and how surprised they were when the expected racket never materialized to ruin dinner. It’s not just a story, I have a faint memory of it actually happening. I also remember the bulging eyes my father would flash at me if I did act up. I almost her him him saying “we need to go to the bathroom!” “no, I don’t, thanks,” “Yes. You. Do.” eyes bulging. I got the picture.
Nowadays I find myself wishing I could thank parents for their well behaved children. My parents made it clear that, regardless of what is right, or wrong, or what I wanted, my behavior was embarrassing them. That was enough to get me to stop. Parents today more often seem to be so effective at patently ignoring their children they don’t have a chance to consider embarrassment. No matter how many times little Johnny kicks the seat, gets up to greet the entire restaurant with sticky hands, (isn’t he cute?) or stands on the chair whining about food, these amazing parents are unmoved.
Meanwhile, back in mother Russia children weren’t being dragged kicking and screaming through museums they were visiting this weekend. They weren’t grabbing chocolates off the shelves in candy stores. (Hundreds of sorts of chocolate in one store…I don’t know how I was able to resist.) I didn’t hear any begging or whining about being hungry or not wanting to eat. Perhaps they weren’t having as much fun. Maybe they aren’t free to discover their inner selves. Perhaps the poor children will grow up like I did, completely tortured by having to quietly entertain myself when the adults were talking. O, how surprised am I have been unable to suppress the memory, except I don’t remember any of it being that bad.
In many ways Russia is still backwards. People are very traditional, fur is incredibly popular and the banking system has barely discovered credit cards. Their government hasn’t even figured out your supposed to hide corruption. Maybe they’ll catch up in raising children too. If what I saw really was representative though, let’s hope not.
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05.14.10
Posted in Society, Travel at 4:11 by RjZ
In relating the taxing efforts of a do-all government in Germany I noted in an earlier post that graffiti had become more rampant. I considered that this might actually just a difference in my experience in Frankfurt, compared to my earlier experience in law-and-order strong Bavaria. Germans with whom I spoke seemed to confirm this, but I’ve just returned from a short trip to Regensburg and München, both in Bavaria, and I can confirm plenty of the horrible stuff.
I am not always opposed to graffiti. I’ve frequently smiled at the art of Banksy and others and enjoyed many a mural that has decorated an otherwise dreary urban wall. Tagging, on the other hand, the annoying, egotistical ‘Kilroy was here’ scrawl that appears the same from language to language, country to country is just plain vandalism. The youthful self-importance of “Xteam” or “daboyz” repeated dozens of times on the inside of a Frankfurt metro is bad enough, but to see these same silly tags in the medieval old town of Regensburg, the whole town center is a recognized Unesco World Heritage site, is just outrageous.
Graffiti isn’t a new experience of course, and it’s always come with mixed emotions from the viewers, but I simply have a hard time seeing tagging as anything beyond ugly vandalism. I’ve seen ancient graffiti at historical sites from England to Egypt. Age alone isn’t enough to impress me. A name and date scrawled on a monument, no matter how artfully represented, ought to be seen as an embarrassingly self-centered disfiguring of property, likely compensating for a masculine lack somewhere else. I no more care that a hip-hop gangsta wannabe or a noble from 18th century England had the indecency to leave his mark. Both are like a dog, peeing on every bush and fire hydrant-except the dog’s mark isn’t nearly so obtrusive.
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05.12.10
Posted in Travel at 1:43 by RjZ
Generally, I’m a budget traveler. On business I scale up to ensure that the computer is safe in the hotel room, that I don’t waste time getting to a client meeting and that I can be clean and pretty when I arrive, but even then, I wince at high price hotels next to exhibition centers and figure out ways to avoid the $20 breakfast and $10 internet charges whenever I can.
So when I say I spent money on a recent trip to Prague, we understand, that it’s only relative. Prague is very expensive these days. I visited there twenty years ago, just before the Berlin Wall had fallen. It was a very different place. Quiet. I remember the very awkward feeling I got when a disheveled soldier, his sidearm holstered on his belt, sat slumped outside a bar on the main square and begged some money from me. I didn’t want to make the guy with a gun unhappy.
My traveling companions and I discovered too late how to order another beer, how easy they are to drink, and how friendly the locals can be. At a beer hall in downtown, guests sit together at long tables as is the custom in most of Germany as well. Two working class Czech men sat jovially next to us and, struck up a conversation of broken German (theirs and ours) and asked us where we were from. “America is O.K.” in unison, four thumbs up in the air, is the only English they could muster. We bought each other beers and kept getting new ones every time we finished the last. A tall glass of beer was $0.25 to $0.50 (!) The waiter would tick your coaster with a pencil when he set the glass down. Once drained, he’d take this as a sign to bring another without asking. I was barely conscience when I realized you can’t finish the last beer until you’ve paid to stop the flow.
Today, the waiters mark the coasters with pens and ask if you want another one before assuming you’re familiar with the local custom, but they look poised and ready to bring another one if you even hesitate. Beer is still relatively inexpensive at $2 – 4 depending on how touristy the location. Prague is still as beautiful as it ever was and there’s much more to do if you like dance-clubs and Irish pubs. It’s easier too. English is everywhere; it’s more clear what Bohemia has to offer (apparently, Russian nesting dolls and Bohemian crystal). There are tours meeting next to the old astronomical clock every couple of hours. Tourist choose them by choosing guides holding out distinctive umbrellas indicating where they take you. They’ll show you the castle, the ghosts, the underground, the communists. They take you around Prague and its sights in busses, antique cars, horse drawn carriages, or on foot. They’ll drive you to a church decorated in human bones or on a spelunking trip outside of the city, including traditional Bohemian lunch and a free beer.
Prague is flashier too. In 1989 there were tourists; I remember Charles bridge was pretty packed even then; today the old town is nearly overrun. In some order of frequency: Russians, French, Italians, Germans, Americans, and Spanish. All of us in high tech travel clothing, or completely impractical high heel shoes. Together, quite a bustling scene. There are billboards and neon lights. The chic discos are advertised along with mobile phone and new cars. Radio stations have ads on the sides of trams rumbling along the streets.
With only a short visit planned we did some upgrading. Instead of the youth hostel for $5 a night, we graduated to the penthouse suite. Actually, it was a budget hotel by Prague standards at around $150 per night and the room, while large and with a bit of a view, was not much better than any business hotel I normally stay in. Instead of scrounging meals of bread and cheese from grocery stores and market stands, we ate where ever the mood and setting struck us. Beer at house breweries, coffee at Café Kafka, Bohemian specialties at Café Orient, tastefully, and historically decorated, above the Cubist museum.
I didn’t avoid pricey entrance fees, (and I didn’t back in 1989 either, I’d come all this way to see this stuff after all) but I did skip the tours. Informative signs in all the tourist languages were widely available. I didn’t buy any expensive souvenirs (and there were few cheap ones) but because they really weren’t worth what was being asked for them, regardless of whether they were bought at home or while traveling. In the end, the strange thing is how little difference it made to travel with money. It was more relaxing, obviously, to eat whenever and where ever I finally got hungry but prices in the tourist center don’t vary as much as expected from cheap eats to expensive ones. Lodging was much more money, of course, but for a short trip, tolerable. Above all, both Prague and how I chose to visit it have changed much since my last trip, and yet, its attraction remains constant. There’s a reason there are so many tourists there driving up the prices. No matter how you choose to visit it, it’s absolutely gorgeous.
Check out my flickr stream as I’ll be adding some selected pictures to prove it.
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04.30.10
Posted in Travel at 1:55 by RjZ
I’ve gotten a few new stamps in my passport lately. I can’t appreciate them though. Heck, I can barely even see them. Travelers have often enjoyed slowly filling their passports with exotic entry stamps and visas as little mementos from all the places they’ve been, but the latest revision of the U.S. passport takes all the fun out of it. The passport, released by the soviet propaganda style Department of Homeland Security, in 2007 even has a name “American Icon.” By now, many of you already have one of these coloring book civics lessons.
Entrance and exit stamps from the Ukraine float above a trout fishing Grizzly. Both the stamps and the bear are diminished by each others presence.
The booklet, an official travel document, is brimming over with bright, bold, full color images of eagles and U.S. flags, purple mountains and amber waves of grain. Each page has an inspiring patriotic quote too. The over the top patriotism of it all ends up being an embarrassment, and likely frustrates border patrols looking for a clear place to stamp it upon entry.
American stereotypes may be a bit exaggerated. We notice all the loud, baggy shorts and white tennis shoe wearing citizens who confirm our preconceived notions but we actually miss all the folks who don’t stand out and would actually prove that the stereotype isn’t so true after all. What do Americans look like? If we noticed all of them, it might be hard pin down this mutli-cultural country where the only thing they might have in common is a little self deprecating sense of humor–a willingness to laugh at themselves. Instead, with this flag waving coloring book in hand, my America-First, screw the rest, attitude precedes me even at the border of every country I visit long before I have a chance to show them otherwise.
Even if you like the look of our comic book cum travel document, you’ll be disappointed as soon as you start using it as various visas and stamps will blot out whole pages. My Russian visa forces me to miss a whole chapter in our story of conquest of the American West. The Chinese visa authorities chose to obliterate amber waves of grain.
We shouldn’t be surprised. The “American Icon” passport book is a product of an administration whose president barely traveled outside the United States. It’s a ham-handed attempt to force a civics lesson on border guards around the world while instilling pride in U.S. travelers who wind up more annoyed that they can no longer make out just when they traveled to China last year.
As some colleagues and I presented our passports for security identification recently, one of them saw the last page of mine and asked: “so, America owns the moon now too?” Thank you, Department of Homeland Security. What am I supposed to say to this guy? The new passport book as one advantage, it provides continued motivation to travel, just so I can get enough stamps to hide the silly pictures and make it look like the formal travel document it’s supposed to be.
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