I have been

I had an entire vacation with no blog last year. I know....I am terrible. Here are some photos with diverting captions to make up for it!

The first stop was Munich. In the schneider weisse bierhaus, I stumbled upon this light fixture. After a red-eye flight and a litre of beer....I had to take a second look. My people are wierdos.

This bathroom at a bus stop in Bosnia gave rise to a whole new classification system. This is a stage two adventure toilet.

Rooftops of Dubrovnik

Swimming in the Mediterranean. There is a tiny door in the Dubrovnik wall that leads to this paradise.

Split, Croatia

Bosnian Moonshine: savored throughout Bosnia and Croatia. I tend to recommend staying away from the local hooch. Do as I say, not as I do

Panorama Pyramid

Stuffed Pigeon. Take one pigeon, kill it, pluck and decapitate it, stuff it with mashi, roast and enjoy with raisins

Egyptian museum.

If someone tells you it is fun to take a ferry to Honduras, she is lying.

In my infinite wisdom, I decided it would be best to take the ferry from Belize to Honduras instead of going overland by bus.  Who doesn't love a boat ride? 

Sara and I caught the ferry from Placiencia at 9:30 am.  The Gods of travel must have been bored that day, and decided to play with we mere mortals. It began simply enough: the travel office didn't tell any of the operators we had bought online tickets. It took some convincing and an iPad, but eventually we worked it out easily.  We were on our way for a fun filled boat adventure! Or so I thought.  

After just a few minutes we stopped at Mango Creek for immigration (Belize has notably honest border guards) and to pick up a few passengers.  All of the tourists left from Placiencia and all the Belizians/Hondurans left from Mango Creek. You would think this stop would only take 45 minutes.  You would be wrong.  You would assume the tourists would have more luggage.  You would be wrong again. I watched them load a mountain of luggage that morning into places I didn't realize existed on a boat.  It included a bicycle, and my personal favorite, a 32" television in a very large plastic Disney bag that featured Eore in a magenta color palette. 

As piles of luggage kept coming into the boat, I met the celebrity of this trip. Sara and I would refer to her as Honduran Grandma.  She was very concerned that her assorted boxes and bobbles would not be loaded into the boat, and stood in the middle of the aisle to get her things in through the window.  This bothered the porter/ second mate, who asked her very nicely to sit down and let him handle the luggage.  Honduran grandma gave zero fucks. They exchanged words, and eventually the porter gave up.  

Around noon, we finally left the port.  I thought at this point, I paid the travel gods all the tribute they would require that day.  I should have known better when the second mate went around dispensing Dramamine. I was told the rest of the journey takes just under two hours. Not today, friends.  

The sea was very, very rough.  The boat tossed and turned.  The Captain had to drive at half speed. Honduran Grandma clearly thought the boat was going down and took the necessary measures: 

She was the only one in a life jacket.  

In this photo you can also see a mother, her daughter to the right of her and a baby.  Honduran grandma's daughter is in the middle and already suffering at this point.    Shortly after this photo was taken, the boat ride gets much worse.  The little girl furthest right in the photo starts puking.  She pukes in the loudest, most violent manner you could possibly imagine. At the same time, she seemed to be surprised that vomit was issuing forth from her mouth, and paused briefly to look about with the expression of a confused puppy (head tilt and all).  The second mate rushed to get her a bag, but the damage was done. 

A chorus of pukes followed.  Ever hear puking in hi-fi stereo? Sara and I have.  

The mom in the photo tried to clean up her little girl and hold her baby simultaneously, the woman to her left (Honduran grandma's daughter) took the baby, but was in a bad way herself. Soon the baby was passed down the line to Honduran grandma.  Since Honduran grandma gave zero fucks, she was also unaffected by rough seas.   But soon, her daughter was barely staying conscious.  As next in line, I took the baby.  That is how I came to hold a Belizian baby for a few hours in international waters.     

As the ride continued, there were maybe only 5% who didn't puke.  The second mate did an admirable job dispensing bags and paper towels to folks.  He was also attentive to the two women who lost consciousness.  

We arrived in Puerto Cortes at 4:30.  The plan had been to take a bus to San Pedro de La Sula, and hop a second bus to la Cieba that day.   No possible way we would make our bus from San Pedro Sula to La Cieba.  Since San Pedro Sula has the highest per capita murder rate of any city in the world, I had no interest in overnighting there and wasting a day of travel.  So I negotiated a direct cab to la cieba. Smartest travel decision I have made on this trip.  

A few hours later, the driver was stopped by police just outside of la cieba.  He got a ticket rather than paying the police off.  It bothered him deeply.  We arrived in la cieba at 9:30.  Our driver had no idea where anything was located, and had to stop two other cabbies for directions.   We crashed in the city just because we couldn't imagine going any further that day.  

 

San ignacio

We left Caye Caulker and traveled to San Ignacio to get a taste of inland life.  Transportation is entirely by repainted old school busses, and they are about as comfortable as you would imagine. 

We stayed in a Bella's hostel, and continued to make colorful friends.  Amidore was a local Maya who hung around the hostel and close friends with the manager.  He fell madly in love with Sara, and would stare at her for uncomfortable periods of time.  I decided to use this opportunity to learn a bit about local libations. His drink of choice was tropical brandy and milk.  Tropical brandy is actually a rum according to him, but grapes are used to make it.  He referred to it as the "grape that scrapes".

Amidore overserved himself that evening, but I had to admit that the "grape that scrapes" was delicious with milk.  

The next morning we did a tour of Actun Tunichil Muknal.  The cave was a sacred sight of the Mayan.  We swam through the entrance and various sections and scrambled up boulders. If there are any international caving rules on safety, I am quite sure we broke them. But it was absolutely beautiful.  Unfortunately cameras are not allowed in the cave because a tourist dropped his camera through an ancient skull in 2012.  

The folowing morning we spent some time at a local swimming hole.  It happened to have all the waterfalls. 

Cancun and Caye Caulker: a long, strange few

I flew into Cancun on Saturday and was strolling about Caye Caulker less than 24 hours later.  Even those first 24 hours presented adventures, the first of which was a food adventure that began as I wandered through downtown Cancun and saw this store front: 

How could I pass up a resturant whose "secret is in the cheese"?   I couldn't.  But, I realized I needed to make some wise choices  since I was about to embark on a 10 hour overnight Mexican bus ride. In this situation there are certain dietary rules that should be observed for the health and saftey of everyone on the bus:

1. Don't drink anything refilled from a used plastic bottle that is organized according to a magic marker letter on the lid. 

2. Avoid fried food. 

3. Don't eat any cheese that has been sitting out in the oppressive Mexican heat.

4. Under no circumstances should your lunch include mystery seafood empanadas. 

It is probably clear to you, gentle reader, that I broke all of the rules.  While #4 may not be immediately apparent, I assure you it was broken.  For a moment I was a little concerned that I was going to spill all the secrets of this resturant on the Mexican night bus.  Happily I did not.  

Adventure number 2:  There was a strung out elderly man who was unable to remove himself from the bathroom on the bus.  I had to come to his rescue.  That is all I have to say about that.  

By 8am I had arrived in Belice and hopped on the water taxi to Caye Caulker.  This sailboat greeted me as I stepped off the taxi.

Found the hostel a few blocks away, and Sara informed me that we were going on a boat ride...in ten minutes. A member of our group had negotiated a snorkling, spear fishing and line fishing adventure for $20 usd with a local named Benedict, who asked me to be his twelveteenth concurrent girlfriend.  I responded in the only way I knew how: I sang Nelly Furtado's "I'm like a Bird" and walked away.  I took this photo of him a bit later. 

He introduced the group to Captian Phillip. He lead the expedition.  At 65, he had a rippling six pack, leather skin, a half dozen teeth and a creole-Spanish accent so thick that I couldn't understand a word he was saying.  He didn't bother much with words anyhow.  

His wife came along.  She was a bit of a drunk who took more than a few swigs of Belizian rum through our journey.  At one point she waved a fish in the air trying to feed a sea bird that was uninterested at best.  The thing was that the two of the were madly, beautifully in love after many years of marriage.  It was the beginning of many contrasts to come throughout Beliez. 

We did see some very cool things that morning, and Sara caught enough fish for dinner that night.  

 

11 countries 8 weeks.

Well, I supposed something was bound to be put aside traveling to 11 countries in 8 weeks. It was, of course, this blog. My time in the UK was damp and lovely. I was lucky beyond belief that Rachel was there to show me how to do everything exactly right.

I spent my birthday camping in the desert of Bahrain, Christmas in Dubai, and New Years in Rome.   That is one way to do it.  

Dodgy Al: the story of Liz and her Manchester United Game

I still owe for an Edinburgh and London post, but I wanted to be sure to get this down before I forgot all the details.

Within an hour of meeting Saul in Manchester, I asked him if he would be interested going to a United game the next day. I had seen some tickets available online for 25 pounds----not great seats, but seats. Within seconds Saul whips out his cell phone, makes a brief call and confirms that we can get tickets through his “connection”. His connection is Al. Al is a professional gambler who also supports himself selling tickets on the side. It becomes obvious that the next day we will acquire entrance to the game in a way that may not be 100% legal. This is underscored when Saul tells me we need to be at the game around 7:20 to pick up our tickets from the “meeting point” at the rear of the stadium. At this point, I ask the obvious question.

Me: “Should I bring a knife?”
Saul: “Nah”
Me: “We are picking up tickets at the “meeting spot” from a professional gambler named Al. I am picturing a back alley and a dude with a knife scar down his face who looks like he has killed a few men “
Saul: “Yes, Dodgy Al… and we are meeting by the stadium, not in an alley”
Saul: “I just made up that name. I wouldn’t call him that”

At this point, the idea of going to a soccer game got way more intense. I absolutely spend the hours leading up to the game commenting as much as possible on Dodgy Al and the “meeting point”. Saul’s roommate is also going to the game. On the bus over, Saul practices his French with her—in a great moment of cultural exchange I taught her and her friend the term, “balls to the wall.” Bringing a bit of ‘Merica wherever I go.

We arrive at the stadium and head towards the meeting point. Saul thinks we should get pretty good tickets. We wait in a crowd of people. “There’s Al,” he nods towards a man who looks like an investment banker. Surely this isn’t Dodgy Al—he just shook my hand and made small talk about soccer. No mention of breaking knee caps, no obvious knife wounds—he looks more likely to talk about hedge funds.

My disappointment that “Dodgy Al” seemed more like “Analyst Al” quickly subsided when I saw the seats. We sat two seats from the pitch---perfect view of the corner. I could see individual blades of grass. The only draw back is that you can't have a beer at your seat. I have never been to a sporting event in the West where you couldn't have a beer at your seat. Saul tells me that while they trust folks in America to keep their good sense after a beer in the US that trust does not extend to football matches in the UK. Looking around; you don't see many families or women... probably for the best.

I learned three cheers that day (all involve cursing) and we got some great photos. Enjoy.

Midwesterners of the North

Turns out that Scots are Midwesterners. With their self-deprecating humor, working class pragmatism, and a love of watery lager I felt comfortable immediately in Scotland. Rachel met me in Glasgow for a few nights of fun. Saw lots of great Mackintosh design work and made some friends at Tennent’s Pub. Glasgow was fun and interesting. I hope the photos below explain why Rachel and I did Scotland right.



Glasgow
A jaunty statue looks at the University

Rachel makes friends

This is a church turned to bar...enjoyed a few pints there

Mackintosh Detail

Awful things to drink in Scotland

Little known fact; coke is the number one soft drink in nearly every country of the world with the exception of the Scotland. There IRN BRU is king. With the slogan, "feel phenomenal" how could I pass up the opportunity to take part in the beverage heritage of someone else's Scottish forefathers? Despite the Rifampin orange urine color, I took a big drink. It has the awful flavor of Red Bull, you know the taste of sugarcoated cancer...but it is less crisp, and somehow even less appealing than Red Bull. People in Scotland love it.

Other beverages available include barley water, which must have been a remnant from the Dark Ages. No doubt it was probably intended to soothe the aliments of the merchant class and ward away the evil eye. That is the only possible explanation for it's existence.

If you are interested in another beverage that must have originated as a dark magic Pagan potion, I can recommend a brew of Dandelion and Burdock. Rachael, my UK travel buddy, decided to buy a bottle, despite the fact that we already know that there is nothing good to drink in the Scotland.

While it doesn't look awful---I assure you that it tastes of candied mothballs and old people clothes that are ground into a fine powder and reconstituted into what you see above.

Moral of the story---don't drink anything that isn't water or alcohol in Scotland.

"Irish men are either grumpy or pervy"

"Irish men are either grumpy or pervy" a young, 18 year old Irish girl told me.

For some reason, a rather foul natured Irish man decided to adopt me on the bus ride from the airport to my hostel. I asked the bus driver to let me know when we reached O'Connell Street. My new grumpy old man friend spoke up and let me know he was headed that direction. I thanked him and took my seat. After cantankerously informing me that we were at our stop, he proceeded to ask me the address of my hostel. He walked ahead and simply said "follow me". On the brisk walk he grumbled about how tourists like me were the reason that pints of Guinness were now 6 euro in the Temple Bar district. At the Millennium Spire his surliness became directed at the government for erecting an ugly poll in the middle of O'Connell Street. When I reached my street, I thanked him for the help.

"well you aren't there yet." He continued along with me going out of his way to help me find my hostel. I felt like an imposition, but maybe I had earned a soft place in his heart; he seemed a worried for my safety. "Don't go north of the spire after dark," and with that he left.

Once at the front desk, I was informed that a free walking tour of the city was about to start. The first rule of defeating jet-leg is to stay busy; so I happily joined. It was really well done and strongly centered on Irish History.

The moral of the tour seemed to be that the British Government was awful and that it kinda sucks to be Irish.

Our first stop on the tour (and by far the most interesting stop) was Dublin Castle. Dublin Castle had been the seat of British rule until 1922, when Ireland became a free state. It is on a site that was formerly a Viking settlement, which was invaded by Normans who built a castle around 1200 AD. Only one tower remains, which was used as a prison for some time.

In the 1700s the British renovated and rebuilt the castle. They included a front gate with a statue of justice, which faced into the castle courtyard. (it is on the opposite side of the photo above) According to my guide, Emer," Many call this a perfect representation of justice under British rule. The lady is not blind and she has her back to the Irish people."

We also dropped by Trinity College, Christ Church Cathedral, and wandered through Temple Bar. When I told Emer about the girl who claimed that all Irish men were grumpy or pervy, she responded that they were "actually grumpy, pervy, drunk or some combination thereof."

During the tour I became friends with a few Aussies and a guy from Chicago. We discussed our shared love of bagged wine, which the Aussies call, Goon. Turns out they have a game that involves pinning the goon to a rotary close line and spinning it. If it stops in front of you, it is required that you take a sip. They call it Goon of Fortune. Amazing.

We all went out that night along with a huge group of Spaniards. My Spanish has gotten woeful, but we had a great time. Of course, the Spaniards kept me up late dancing.

By the end of the night I had drank lots of Guinness, met some locals, and got kissed by a red-headed Irish boy in a pub. My guess is that he was some combination of grumpy, pervy, and drunk.

Yup, I did Dublin exactly right.

Travel, two years later

There is comfort in travel. I can't exactly explain it, but there is a peace which accompanies wandering in a foreign country with no idea what the following moments will bring. The next several posts of this blog are dedicated to places outside the US, but I would have failed the spirit of this blog if I did not say a few words about Kansas City.

First, the BBQ-
Honestly, I was fairly unimpressed by most of the BBQ in Kansas City. I am a St. Louis girl, and I believe there is such thing as St. Louis BBQ and it will always and forever be my favorite. But there was one great BBQ place; one place better than anything in St. Louis--Oklahoma Joes. It is in a gas station.

On a slightly more serious note, moving to Kansas City ten months ago marked a significant change in my life. I regained a control of my life once lost and began cultivating a career again. Kansas City surrounded me with thoughtful people who challenged me constantly. It is a vibrant, diverse community with all the convenience of a large city while it maintains all the sensibilities of a small town. It is a place to be a young professional, to raise kids, to grow old and do wonderful things.

I enjoyed most every moment of living in Midtown--close to Westport. It was walking distance to the art museum, maintained a pulsing night life (that offered plenty for beer enthusiasts), and presented a diverse cross section of people. It was a beautiful city that is so easily under appreciated.

While there, I could not have known how much I would learn on a Missouri Secretary of State's race, and I owe my co-workers so much. It was a good job---surrounded by good people.

I left Kansas City in a blur of giggles, balloons, and victory. We won.

Fire in the Sky

Sunrise may be more beautiful 30,000 feet above the earth.

Maybe I should have been updating all along...

After several months spent meaning to update this blog I may have just succeeded. Awhile back the realization struck that I am still very much traveling. I may now have a mediocre full time job, monthly rent higher than the most morgage payments in the midwest, and a Cold War arsenal of kitchen gadgets...but I am still traveling, exploring, and learning.

Aside from mutually assured destructing in the kitchen, Jordan and I have fallen into a routine of sorts. As a result, it has been fairly easy to dismiss the past few months as a return to routine and normalcy. But hold everything... I learned how to do this

dang....I look cool.

For those that were with me for my first day on the mountain this year I thank you for your kindness and patience. On a related note, I have discovered that most people don't remember how hard it was to "use the potty" for the first time. Much in the same way, most snowboarders don't remember how hard it is to strap yourself to a glorified piece of plywood and throw yourself down a mountain using only moon boots to control your frantic, desperate movements. To them it is as natural as using the potty.

For the rest of us, that first day down the mountain is a little different. First of all, it is scary. It is, "forget the potty, find me a diaper" scary. Real snowboarders don't understand this, to them it is a sense of freedom and singular joy flying across snow. Thankfully, my first day on the mountain Ali accompanied me. Having someone who also understands snowboarding as the "plywood + moon boots = punishment for sins in a past life" equation keeps spirits much higher. The other kind of spirits that Ali brought with her also helped quite a bit.

It took us four, awful hours to get down the mountain that day. That same route takes maybe 25 minutes for me now, and probably 15 minutes for someone that is good. When we finally reached the bottom, neither Ali or I were entirely sure that we would be able to walk. "I feel like I have cerebral palsy" Ali giggled at me. That really is the only way to describe the feeling, regardless of how politically incorrect it may be. Nothing moves except to shake. All you want is a glass of water and a horse tranquilizer, hoping that you sleep through the next several days of sore muscles.

Learning to snowboard may be my first big accomplishment since I have been stateside. But I still have more stories, and more travel.

Nice to see you again, blog...I have so much to tell you.

Istanbul...its cool, it only happened about three months ago

I would be completely remiss if I didn't devote a proper blog to Istanbul. Istanbul was the one big city that actually managed to capture my heart. It captured it in the same way that my college friend turned Istanbul resident, Jenn had several years ago; through copious amounts of anise flavored alcohol.

...well, there was much more to the city than raki, just as Jenn is much more than my favorite sassy lil' sot.

I reached Istanbul via bus from Izmir. Thankfully, there was none of this passport loosing which I am prone to. Izmir was lovely, and I was able to stay with the Durmaz family there, who were so incredibly kind. The mother and father did not speak a word of English, but we figured each other out. It was also just nice to be in a family unit after several months of travel. I owe Nalan (and Eray for introducing us) more than I could ever repay.

Jenn and her Nietzsche-lovin', Anatolian boyfriend, who I absolutely adore in spite of myself, live in Beyoglu So the first day in Istanbul (8/23) was spent ambling down the Istiklal Caddesi. The giant pedestrian mall that continues down towards Galata Tower, eventually branching into a number of alley ways lined with music stores. I was followed home by some fellow that fancied himself a gentleman I believe.

I spent pretty much all of day two wandering the Grand Bazaar, which is an beautiful covered market of more than 330,0000 sq feet. There are several streets clearly for tourists, but as I continued to wander I noticed shops and restaurants with a few locals perusing goods. A man also sang an Usher song to me while trying to convince me not only to buy some fancy Turkish tile, but that fate had brought us together. Lets just say I didn't buy any tile....and I was followed home...again. Different fella' same idea.


The following day was spent at home, cooking with Jenn, chatting like little teze. It was nice to just catch up...chuckle and cook. I will stop now before I start sounding like the salty moose from Eat, Pray, Fuck myself. Since I didn't really leave the house, I was not followed home.

My fourth day I spent walking through the Mosques of Istanbul. I entered the Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sophia. Words can't describe how massive these buildings feel. Nor can they do justice to the amazing artistry inside. History will tell you the Mosques meld a variety of cultural and artistic traditions. All I know, is they were rad.





Since Jenn and Aras were off the next day, we did a tour of the Bosphorus, and dinner/ drinks to follow near a small fish market. In Turkey, they really really know how to do food. Sooo good. This is the view from our plastic lawn chair table, where I had some kind of whole fish served to me on a huge tray. Since we were with Aras, I was not, in fact, followed home that night.


My final day was spent at the Basilica Cistern and Sulthanamet Palace. The Basilica Cistern was my favorite site in Istanbul. The subterranean structure feels very....ethereal. I have no word to use properly here. I am sure there is one, but I don't have it. Think Moria from Lord of the Rings. The place feels massive and hushed, despite having a few hundred tourists in it at any one time.


I left Istanbul that night, but I will be back.

Neglectful

"So, what was it like?"
I get asked that question about travel more than anything else. Tonight Hamad gave me the answer. For everyone that wants to know what it is to hop from culture to culture this is the answer:



Over the past month I have been neglecting my journal. Mostly cause I figured with the fancy traveling around the world being over, I would have little to say. I thought a few follow up entries would suffice and this book would close.

Then I realized I am still traveling. I am, a month after returning to the United States, still a tourist. I am in Denver now, which presents itself with a whole new experience worth exploring for me.

I owe Istanbul about 12 entries...but after that, a peek into learning how to live a completely different life.

Turkey: Worst case scenario.

The travel gods had been nice to me. Too nice...I was within my budget, had accommodation arranged for all but three nights of the trip. Family cooked meals, amazing friends from around the world, great deals on souvenirs, and sick only once.

…I should have known disaster would hit.

Anyone who travels knows that worst case scenario aside from getting kidnapped and sold into the sex trade is the loss of a passport.
…and a wallet
…and your debit card
…on a bus
…that is going god knows where
…and you have no more phone credit
…and you have no idea where you are
…all you know is that you don’t speak more than three words of the language.
AWESOME

What do you do?

My answer was to walk towards the city center, until I found a travel agency (the travel gods do pity us mortals from time to time) A few calls later, Can Akdogan, (great name, huh?) the general manager of Apandana Travel Agency had located my wallet and offered the use of their transport vehicle for a reduced cost to pick it up.

At the bus station, we picked it up….with everything exactly where it was left. Amazing. That means I still have a debt to the travel gods. They will collect, but not today.

No Cairo Blog

...for the past several days I have tried to collect my thoughts on Cairo to form them into some type of prose half worth reading. Unfortunately, my heart was never belonged to the city. I stood in awe of the Pyramids, and was glad to stay on the island in the middle of the Nile (yes there is one)...but it never felt...right.
So I leave you with photos...