The Travel Adventures of Newman

Snapshots: Villa Escudero, Quezon Province, Philippines

2012-01-23T21:45:00.000-05:00

Memories of a childhood visit to Villa Escudero are a blur, but one thing I did remember taking a ride inside the grounds on a carabao-driven carriage. On this subsequent visit over twenty years later, I was glad to see that I wasn't hallucinating and the carabaos were still around.

"Maganda" ("Beautiful")

These beasts of burden lead carriages used to transport guests from the entrance of this sprawling estate to the waterfalls, at the foot of which is laid out a splendid Filipino buffet lunch. Nothing is quite as refreshing after the two hour drive from Manila as the cool running water gently massaging your feet while you dine.

Working off that heavy lunch isn't a problem. Piloting these bamboo rafts on peaceful Lake Labasin is a must, or jump into one of the swimming pools. Alas, I forgot to bring swimwear. Perhaps on my next visit to Villa Escudero. Hopefully much sooner than in another twenty years.

Taroko Gorge - We Came. We Saw. We Took Photos

2012-01-21T20:15:00.003-05:00

Eternal Springs shrine

Though not averse to guided bus tours, the 6am scheduled pickup at our hotel seemed daunting, as well as the whole day itinerary that would see us arriving back in Taipei around dinner time.

However, we were pressed for time, and thus decided to join Edison Tours' "Taroko Gorge 1 Day Tour" in an attempt to see Taiwan's most popular tourist attraction and at the same time inject a dash of nature into our trip, which up to this point involved copious amounts of eating and shopping in Taipei.

The above-mentioned airport pick-up and a forty-five minute flight later, our group of thirty nine people piled into a waiting bus at Hualien airport, led by our talkative female guide who provided maps and talked incessantly about Taroko National Park.

Our early start meant that we got there before 9am, so I figured we'd have full day of sightseeing around the various sights on the Gorge, and maybe even do some hiking to further appreciate the scenery. Little did I know this was not to be the case.

The first few stops at various attractions (i.e. the bridge to the right, the spring) were nice enough, and we were allotted fifteen minutes or so for photo taking.

However, they also pretty much laid out the pattern for our visit to Taroko - the bus makes a stop, thirty nine people get off to take photos, the tour guide hectors us to get back on the bus - repeat until lunch time.

The nearest we got to actually doing something was when we had to don helmets for a short walk on the road (not even off-road) to appreciate the marvelous marble and limestone rock formations. Although not in the least bit strenuous, this was followed by a quick coffee break, and off we were to zigzag through the Tunnel of Nine Turns.

Lunch time was fast approaching, yet inexplicably it was time for another food break. While we sipped our coffees and endured the unseasonably low temperatures, the guide took delight in pointing out rock formations that looked like an American Indian chief, an alligator, a bear - in her rather vivid imagination, at least.

"Do you see that?!", she'd exclaim, while pointing. "Looks like an alligator, doesn't it? Use your imagination!"

She had been this all morning, much to my amusement, and pointing out such phenomena in English, Mandarin, Taiwanese, and even Nihongo to accommodate every passenger. A hard working woman indeed, who rarely took holidays (she confided in us).

Cimu Bridge

Finally, lunch was served at noon. This one turned out to be a pleasant surprise in the form of a non-rushed multi-course banquet inside a fancy hotel (yes, it was included in the tour price). Food was quite decent in quality too. Unfortunately, the rest of the afternoon went in one direction - downhill.

We still had over three hours to kill before taking the 440pm train back to Taipei, and instead of exploring more of the national park, the bus took us to visit a jade factory and its showroom, a food store selling local delicacies handing out free tastes (admittedly not such a bad stop), and even to a local beach for some relaxation.

Really wished we could have done more at Taroko Gorge instead of all that unproductive time. Perhaps even a short hike on one of the numerous trails. But rather, we just did about eight or nine stops for photo ops, that's about all we got out of our all-day trip. Makes me wonder why we had to rush out there so early in the first place.

Cheapskate Chronicles: Free Walking Tours in Europe

2011-11-09T00:26:00.000-05:00

Imagine arriving at the latest European city on your itinerary, checking into your hotel or hostel, and feeling somewhat disoriented by your new surroundings. How then to regain your bearings? Speaking from my personal experience traveling for 5 1/2 months all over the Continent, here's a simple recommendation: Join a walking tour.

I've found that joining a walking tour gives me the confidence in navigating my new city (or at least lets me know which way is north or south), provides an overview of the city's attractions, and is a fun way to meet other travelers. All this in the couple of hours it normally takes.

For those carefully counting their pennies, you'll be glad to know that a revolution has swept all over Europe that has proved to be a boon to budget travelers - the concept of the FREE walking tour. Yes, that is correct, sir - young, motivated entrepreneurs in a vast number of European cities have decided to show you the highlights of their home town for the grand sum of zero. I took 15 such free walking tours in 11 different cities (spread over 7 countries) and can attest to the knowledge of the tour guides, and they make it FUN instead of simply overloading your brain with historical facts.

I know you're thinking - "What's the catch? They can't give free tours for nothing?!". That is true, to a certain extent. The guides tell you upfront that they are working for tips (which makes them pull out all the stops), thus if you enjoyed yourself a gratuity at the end is much appreciated.

Some tour companies (especially in Spain and Germany) also offer more specialized walking tours for which they charge money. Thus, by getting you to join their free offering, they hope that you will become aware of their company and be enticed to sample their other tours. For example, in Berlin Sandemans offers a bewildering array of tours: Third Reich Berlin, Sachsenhausen Memorial, Red Berlin, and even a day trip to Potsdam.

Without further ado, below are the 15 such free walking tours in 11 different cities that I went on, and my general opinion. I'm sure there are even more free walking tours in other European cities that were not part of my itinerary (Paris, Amsterdam, London, Prague come to mind), so feel free to mention them in the comments section.

Spain

Madrid - I wrote a blog post about Sandeman's free walking tour which leaves from Plaza Mayor every day, and is offered in English and Spanish. (I took the Spanish tour). The Tapas Experience is also worthwhile for sampling Spain's culinary delicacies at four different places.

Seville - Pancho Tours offers two free walking tours that cover different parts of this magnificent Andalusian city. Most of the guides are young Europeans from other countries who have lived here for years. Bring lots of water - it can get really, really hot in Seville

Barcelona - Ah, everyone's favorite city in Spain, so it seems. Competition is intense in the free walking tour business here, but I was pleased with Runner Bean's Gaudi tour (which every fan of the famous architect should go on).

The Old City walk covers a lot of ground, including the Gothic Quarter. My tour took almost 3 whole hours since the guide just loved to share information about the sights.

Lisbon, Portugal

In Lisbon, Uwe (a transplant from Austria) gives an offbeat, entertaining, and sometimes sarcastic view into Portugal's sprawling capital city on his dramatically named "See Lisbon Or Die" project. The tour takes you through the Chiado, Baixa and Alfama neighborhoods, and he will even ride with you on the famous No. 28 tram and advise you how to avoid getting pickpocketed.

Budapest, Hungary

Confusingly, there are two competitors with similar names in Budapest - Free Budapest Tours and Free Budapest Walking Tours, in the mornings and afternoons with meeting points near each other in central Budapest. The guides speak excellent English, and will recommend restaurants serving authentic Hungarian goulash and fashionable nightspots.

In addition to the standard city overview walk, they also offer specialty-themed tours (also for free) like the Communist Walk. Led by locals who suffered under the oppressive Soviet regime, this tour was quite informative and would interest anyone who wanted to learn more about this part of Hungary's history.

Belgrade, Serbia

In my book, Belgrade doesn't offer much in terms of sightseeing, but that's no excuse to miss out on the 2-hour free walking tour offered five days a week, meeting at Republic Square (by the statue in front of the perennially closed National Museum).

My tour was led by a lovely female student who spoke great English, and included a walk up to the old fortress. But what made the tour memorable was the huge downpour that made us all scramble for shelter underneath a pavilion inside the park, trying to huddle together while shivering from the cold rain. The thunderstorm passed and we went on with the tour without skipping a beat.

Berlin, Germany

If you needed solid evidence that Berlin has become Europe's third-most visited city, then witness the crowds that show up for Sandeman's free Berlin walking tour at 11am. In all the other cities that I've joined a free tour, the participants numbered anywhere between ten and forty people, but when I strolled towards the Starbucks near the Branderburg Gate and saw the hordes of humanity, it was quite astounding. Over a hundred people were there, and were subsequently divided into three smaller manageable groups led by a different guide. The 3 1/2 hour tour covers Berlin's highlights, including the Jewish War Memorial (pictured above), Hitler's bunker, and of course, the Wall.

For a peek inside the funky Berlin underground scene, Alternative Berlin offers their free tour twice a day, at 11am and 1pm. Be prepared to experience a lot of graffiti on this walk which does involve quite a bit of walking. Tour ends at a nice beach bar near the East Side Gallery where cheap drinks are available. To get my nightlife fix, I also took Alternative Berlin's "Anti-Pub Crawl" which went to a few "interesting" local hangouts which make Berlin the cool spot that it is.

Romania

Brasov - One of the nicest cities in Transylvania (in fact, the city's slogan is "Probably the best city in the world") can easily be covered in a day, although you'd probably want to linger for at least a couple of days. The guided tour goes outside the medieval city walls for a climb up the Black Tower (which isn't black) to get an amazing bird's eye view of the city. Another worthwhile activity is to hike up to the Hollywood-style "Brasov" sign on top of the hill.

Bucharest - It's one big concrete jungle, teaming with stray dogs to boot, but maybe the free Bucharest tour will make you appreciate this rather charmless city. Unfortunately, our local guide was lacking in charm as well, and merely recited facts about Bucharest in a straightforward manner. Yawn.

Rome, Italy

Ah, the Eternal City. Either you love it or you hate it. Crowds, noise, pollution - they're all present. You can spend days walking on your own, seeing the sights, but why do so when there are two companies offering a free walk.

Rome Free Tour offers three different walks - Vatican, Colosseum and City Center. I took the Vatican Walk which met at the Spanish Steps and crossed the Tiber to the Vatican City. The guide (a man) was somewhat dull, and we lost a few people along the way.

In contrast, New Rome Free Tour offers only one free walking tour which concentrates on ancient Rome. I loved this tour, especially since we visited a few lesser-known churches (S. Andrea delle Fratte, anyone?) and the guide pointed out their unique features (e.g. painted-on ceiling). Not only that, after a look inside the Pantheon, he organized a coffee break at La Casa del Caffe, one of Rome's highly-rated cafes, and treated all tour participants to either an espresso or cappuccino. How I wish all free walking tours worked like this!

On the Seventh Day, there was Karaoke

2011-09-23T00:30:00.000-04:00

The guy pictured on the right lacked the vocal range and any ability to sing on-key, but the Sunday afternoon crowd at Bearpit Karaoke in Berlin's Mauerpark vociferously cheered him nonetheless, if only for his bravado.

Our hapless entertainer performed Elton John's "Can You Feel the Love Tonight?" from the movie "The Lion King", outfitted in a garish full-body length lion costume (held in his right hand) no less. He stripped that off to reveal leopard print underwear, then removed that well. The tactic was effective in distracting the audience from his unfamiliarity with the song's lyrics, to say the least.

Started in 2009 by an Irish fellow named Joe Hatchiban, the Bearpit Karaoke now attracts over a thousand people every Sunday afternoon. They crowd around a small amphitheater to egg on brave souls who sing, dance, and otherwise let loose - in the hopes of becoming famous, perhaps?

I heard about this only-in-Berlin karaoke event the Boat Party, an expat gathering every Wednesday night at the coolest venue possible - a boat moored on the river. A Russian woman mentioned it to me in a conspiratorial tone as an "insider tip". Little did she know that the LP gives full details of not only the Bearpit Karaoke, but also the Boat Party.

Regardless, after six days of visiting fascinating historical sights and taking various walking tours, free or otherwise (quick kudos to Alternative Berlin and Berlin Walks), karaoke sounded like fun and a chance to rest my tired legs.

Although it's safe to say that you won't be hearing about most of the performers anytime soon, a few of them were actually decent and deserved a hearty round of applause. Quite a few are tourists or expats, thus most of the songs are in English. Some regulars, like Detlef (2nd photo), are quasi-celebrities, and his rendition of "My Way" (in German, of course) is nothing but inspiring.

Easily the day's best entertainment though, was an Aussie guy who brought the house down with his version of "Physical", Olivia Newton John's hit from thirty (!) years ago. Performing with much gusto, he even rolled on the stage to live up to the song's title. Perhaps he also heard somewhere that ONJ wasn't quite referring to a gym workout as she croons "Let's Get Physical", so he stripped down to his underwear later in the song. Alas, the short video I shot does not include this part, but check out the talent at Mauerpark below.

(Viewers of this post on the Lonely Planet website have to click here since the embedded video won't show up).

Vodka on the Balkan Express

2011-09-06T12:49:00.001-04:00

If your experience with European rail travel is confined to the superb grand vitesse trains in Germany, Switzerland, or France, then trying to do the same in Eastern Europe will come as a rude shock. In these parts, minimal investment has been made in the rail infrastructure by cash-strapped governments, thus being whisked to your destination in a flash is but a dream.

I first learned this the hard way on the train route from Budapest to Belgrade. The journey took seemingly forever (in reality, eight hours), with the train stopping at each tiny town on the countryside, and sometimes just mysteriously stopping, period. The lights and AC (which didn't work properly anyway) would suddenly go off, and everyone would patiently wait while fanning themselves with crumpled newspapers. Then the train would roar to life just as suddenly, and we'd be on our way - until the next time this happens.

However, the train fares were quite cheap, so despite the stuffy compartments, mysterious stoppages, and generally decrepit facilities I still wound up taking them. Not all of my memories are negative though; the trip between Belgrade (Serbia) and Timisoara (Romania) was particularly exciting in an unusual way.

I was joined in the compartment by three Aussies - Glenn, Matt, and Adrian, and a Russian woman traveling on her own, Elena. The three guys started on the bottles of vodka and Coke as soon as the train pulled out of Belgrade, while Elena and I abstained.

They were cool dudes though, and pretty soon we were swapping travel stories and laughing loudly in our cramped quarters. They told me that they were going all the way to Bucharest, a grueling 15 hour ride, scheduled to arrive at Romania's capital at 6am. Loco, I said to myself.

Our festivities were marred somewhat by the foul odors emanating from the toilet around the corner, especially when passengers who use it neglect to close the door firmly behind them. The putrid smells would waft over to our seats, thus after a while we resorted to yelling at the startled offending parties to go back and shut the damned door!

An hour before we were scheduled to stop at the Romanian border for immigration checks, the train came to a halt. Dozens of Serbianpolice came onto the train, and started prying open ceiling panels, flashing their torches into it, definitely looking for something. Wehad no idea what was happening, and were frustrated by the delay,especially the guys who had exhausted their vodka supply three hours into the journey.

Some of the officers walked off the train carrying armloads of cigarette boxes,no doubt smuggled by some of the locals. Come to think of it, two shady looking characters, onewith a big belly and the other wearing an unfashionable tracksuit, had been scurrying back and forth along the corridor all night, holding small duffelbags which seemed full going that way and then empty the other way.

After over an hour's delay, the train was back on track. Night was falling, air was getting chilly, the guys were getting antsy and were wondering how in the world they could make it to Bucharest without their Stoli. In the meantime, the two suspected smugglers still kept going back and forth even in the darkness.

The Romanian border was soon crossed, our passports checked, and the train sat stationary for half an hour. More smuggled smokes were discovered, this time by the Romanian police, making me wonder why the Serbian officers didn't find them. Ah, perhaps Mr. Big Belly and Mr. Track Suit were one step ahead of the authorities.

Finally, Timisoara station was reached, and I said my goodbyes to my wonderful companions. It was now nearly 11pm, a good two hours later than the scheduled arrival. And I had no idea how to get to my hostel. Adrian had other ideas though. He pulled me aside, handed me a twenty euro note, and asked if I could find a liquor store at the station that was still open and buy them some vodka and Coke. He was placing my trust in me, a virtual stranger, with no guarantee that I wouldn't walk off with his money. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

Tired, hungry, and unfamiliar with my surroundings, I agreed anyway and fortunately found one nearby. After some difficulty converting prices from Romanian lei to euros, the twenty was enough to buy a few bottles. I carried the stash, luggage and all, up the stairs to the platform where the train sat waiting. As I hurried up the final few steps, I could see Matt, Adrian, Glenn and other foreign passengers (no doubt eager to partake in the booze) hanging out of their compartments' windows, peering in the darkness and looking for any shadowy figure that resembled myself.

Cheers erupted when I became visible, and handshake and grateful hugs were exchanged as I handed over the liquid gold. The clapping and hooting was still in full force as I slowly retreated to make my way back to the station, still unsure how to find my hostel.

HARD bargaining at Istanbul's Grand Bazaar

2011-08-29T12:16:00.000-04:00

A notorious non-shopper on holidays, Istanbul's Grand Bazaar held no attraction for myself. I took a quick stroll inside yesterday, entering at Gate 1 (pictured), walked long the main passageway for ten minutes or so, reached Gate 7 at the other end and then exited into bright sunlight. Smiling smugly, I mentally ticked off one of Istanbul's major tourist attractions from the must-see list. Been there, done that.

However, this afternoon's clouds that darkened the sky and threatened rain at any moment forced me to duck inside the world's oldest and largest covered bazaar for a second time.

The stats are certainly impressive - built in the fifteen century, the Grand Bazaar has 21 gates, 66 streets, nearly 4,000 shops and almost 30,000 employees inside - and hosts millions of tourists looking for bargains on silver jewelry, fake Abercrombie and Polo apparel, and all other sorts of merchandise I had no interest in buying.

Strolling around the bazaar, I eventually grew weary of seeing the same goods displayed at multiple stalls, but did a double take upon seeing several figurines (look right) nestled on top of "Turkish Viagra" bottles, which left no doubt as to the potency of the product.

Curious, I asked the young lad manning the stall what Turkish Viagra was made of. He vaguely replied, "A combination of herbs and spices", then proceeded to offer me a small bottle for 15 lira ($8.50). I declined, thinking to myself, "Sounds like snail oil", yet amused by the verbiage on the bottle's label claiming that "you will be able to make love five times in one night".

"Well, how do you know that it really works?", I inquired. Even the lad, who couldn't be more than fifteen years old, chuckled at that one and shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't want to buy it. I just want a photo", I explained, obviously not the first person to do so.

"Sorry, mister, no photos", he replied, pointing to the sign above the smiling figures lined up side by side, as if waiting to launch their missiles.

Spotting assorted bars of olive oil soap stacked among his merchandise, with a sign indicating "4 bars - 10 lira" ($5.60), I tried a different bargaining tack.

"Well, if I buy four bars of soap, will you let me take a photo?". Surely he would be eager to make a sale and grant a small favor to this polite tourist.

He pondered the offer, and countered, "Okay. Three bars and a photo for ten lira".

It was my turn to consider. "Nah, this is stupid", I said to myself, "I'm not into strongly scented hand made soap anyway", and started to move away after waving him goodbye.

"Wait, wait", he called out, after I had taken a grand total of two steps. "Okay, four bars of soap and a photo for ten lira. Only for you, my friend". I smiled widely in response. I repeated his phrase in agreement, handed over the correct note, picked four colorful bars at random, and carefully sized up various angles before taking a lone photo.

Both sides had emerged victorious in the bargaining process. He had his money, while I had my photo, a memorable anecdote, and would surely be the freshest smelling tourist in Turkey (and Europe) for the next month. Shopping while on holiday wasn't quite so bad after all.

Chance Encounters of the Random Kind

2011-08-16T16:08:00.000-04:00

One of the great pleasures of traveling is meeting new people under unique circumstances. Since I've just crossed the three month milestone on this European mega-trip, it's time to reflect on the new friends I've made along the way, and our mostly fun shared experiences.

I recall a few occasions when I've met a person and subsequently bumped into them somewhere else, and laughed at the coincidence. What's more, all these instances involve friends I've made through the English language volunteer sessions in Spain and Germany (documented here, here and here) that I've participated in.

So, without further ado, some unexpected chance encounters that turned out to be quite fun.

No. 1. Sitting in the common room of the Posada de las Huertas hostel in Madrid, intently doing trip research on my laptop, I turned to the young woman sitting at the adjacent couch and made a remark about the erratic Wi-fi signal. She agreed, and we chatted briefly about our travels, past and future, around Spain.

The following day, I was hobnobbing with fellow volunteers at the tapas reception for the English language program, enjoying my fourth glass of sangria when I noticed an attractive latecomer entering through the door and joining our group. A familiar face, but from where...could it be?! All doubt was removed when she glanced in my direction and a similarly shocked expression registered on her face. Yes, the girl last night at the hostel.

Introductions dispensed with, Rebecca and I discovered we were part of the same group volunteering for a week in Valdelavilla, and became fast friends henceforth.

No. 2. Although we were staying at the same dormitory at the hostel in Sevilla, I only formally met Chelsea when we were seated next to each other at the flamenco show. Afterwards, the two of us went for a few drinks, and I suppose I extolled the virtues of Vaughan Town's language program a bit enthusiastically, so much so that she immediately filled out an application form online once we got back to the hostel.

The following day, I left Sevilla without having the opportunity to get her email address, and from time to time idly wondered if Chelsea was accepted as a volunteer, and if so, for which week and location.

Two weeks and three cities later, after a full day of sightseeing in Oporto, I was at the Rivoli Hostel's lounge uploading photos, trying somewhat unsuccessfully to block out the noise from a group of seven women talking and laughing loudly. After a few minutes, I realized that an Aussie-accented voice, the loudest among all, sounded a bit familiar, and took a closer look at the long-haired blonde that was the source of it, whose back was turned to me. Yes, it was indeed Chelsea, by coincidence staying at the Rivoli hostel as well.

Moreover, it turns out that despite her preference for a different venue and date, Vaughan assigned her to the same program that I was participating in (my second) due to a last minute cancellation by another volunteer, thus the fun times continued for an entire week.

No. 3. I noticed the Orthodox church in the main square of Brasov (Romania) due to its lovely architecture, and well, also because it was beside the unmissable KFC outlet. I decided to wander in for a look and compare the interiors with another Orthodox church I had seen in Timisoara a week prior.

After a couple minutes inside (worshipers are treated to the heavenly aroma of the Colonel's crispy chicken), I went out and was greeted by the sight of a familiar figure twenty feet away. It took a couple of seconds to recover from the shock, then I chuckled and said to myself, "Surely this is too good to be true...", before finally calling out, "Hey, HOLLY!!!".

Yes, for it was none other than Holly and her husband Terry, who were traipsing around Romania, and by sheer luck our paths crossed. Holly was a fellow volunteer at the inaugural English language program held in Germany's Black Forest area only a couple of weeks ago, and was quite prodigious in figuring out some of the nearby hiking trails and sharing with the rest of our group. After catching up a bit, we reconvened later in the evening to join the free walking tour around Brasov (being avid walkers, they had already covered most of the ground by themselves, but it was all new to lazy me), followed by a 3 hour Mexican dinner paired with the local wine.

Hard-luck Hungarians brew some lemonade

2011-07-21T11:21:00.002-04:00

Perched atop Gellert Hill in Budapest is the Liberty Statue, a bronzed figure of a woman holding a palm leaf with both hands. While this fetching image might seem to be a heart-warming symbol of freedom to the casual visitor, the reality is quite different.

Initially, it was constructed in 1947 to commemorate the liberation of Hungary from the Fascist Nazi regime by the Soviets in WWII. However, that was before they realized that their "rescuers" had no intentions of leaving anytime soon, and that they had to endure the Communist ideology that the new bosses imposed. Ah, the sad reality of being a perennial loser in armed conflicts. ("In the next war, make sure we're not on your side", a walking tour guide sarcastically commented, only half-jokingly).

There is a happy ending to this tale though. In 1991, the last Soviet troops left Hungary, bringing with it not only independence, a painful transition to a capitalist economy, but also a unique dilemma. What should be done to the countless Communist-era statues (including Lady Liberty) that towered over public squares and parks, their Big Brother-like presence a constant reminder of oppression?

The initial overwhelming sentiment was to destroy all these statues, as a means to erase the bad memories. But then someone argued, these statues are part of history, and wouldn't it be fun to put them all side-by-side in one place, as a reminder of the dark past? (And perhaps make some money off curious tourists).

This idea gained currency, and thus was born Memento Park (or Statue Park), situated about an hour's ride outside Budapest. The park operates a bus service that leaves from Deak Ferenc at 11am everyday, with optional guided tour which is well worth the extra cost.

The statues at Memento Park did evoke a sense of awe in me, both for their sheer size and notoriety of the people they depict. Although it was certainly no picnic under Communist rule, nowadays the locals feel free to laugh at the symbols that used to torment them.

The one to the left is officially the Republic of Councils monument. When first placed in City Park, its immense back side did not make it popular with families enjoying their Sunday afternoons.

However, here inside Statue Park, this is the most photographed monument, and has been nicknamed The Coatroom Attendant. With some imagination and from a certain angle, the gargantuan statue looks like a man running after someone, yelling "You forgot your scarf, sir!!".

Consider another memento that won't evoke any nostalgia - the so-called "people's car" , the Trabant. Owning one required a down payment of one-half of the sticker price, then twiddling your thumbs for 6 to 8 years before taking delivery. No word if choosing a specific color resulted in a longer delay.

Now the Trabant, with its mediocre performance and smoky engine, is considered a symbol of the failures of centralized planning. A popular joke goes like this:

"How do you double the value of a Trabant?"
"Easy, fill up the tank with gas".

How about our friend Lady Liberty? Why was she left on top of Gellert Hill and not made to suffer the same ignominious fate as her peers?

Perhaps the Hungarians thought it fitting to have an eye-catching symbol of freedom visible to everyone, so the inscription on the plaque was simply changed to something more apt.

It now reads, "To the memory of all of those who sacrificed their lives for the independence, freedom, and success of Hungary."

Amen to that, and to the further expansion of Memento Park. While the past can never be erased, it's time to adopt a capitalist mindset and pack in the crowds who are eager to gawk at the Communist era's relics - for a price.

Pick your Pintxos in Old Town San Sebastian

2011-07-15T20:24:00.003-04:00

"Choices, choices...", I sighed, as I surveyed the numerous plates laid neatly side-by-side on the bar at Tamboril, a restaurant just off the main square in old town San Sebastian. "So many pintxos to try", referring to the elaborately-prepared, colorful bite-sized creations that rested on each plate, "and only three meals a day".

Tamboril was the second stop on my lunch hour, preceded by a drink of txakoli (a cloudy white wine) and a taste of two dishes at another bar. Known as tapas in all of Spain, these appetizers were referred to as pintxos in San Sebastian, a charming seaside city located in the Basque country, a region in the northern part of Spain where the eponymous language rules.

In Basque country, there is a unique way of presenting and ordering pintxos. Instead of the dishes being enclosed inside a glass case, tradition dictates that they be laid out on the bar. Patrons are handed a plate and go from one end of the bar to the other to pick whatever pintxos appeal to their eyes and stomach, socializing along the way with other customers.

Once they have finalized their choices, depending on the bar, the attendant either adds up the bill based on the price of each dish (if prices are not the same), or waits until after the patron finishes eating and simply counts the number of pintxos consumed. The latter was more prevalent in the past, but since it wasn't quite fool proof (i.e. toothpicks stuffed inside pockets were not uncommon), thus I experienced it only once.

With all these dishes begging to be tasted, I decided that instead of eating sit-down meals at restaurants, a more ideal strategy would be to go on a pintxo crawl for every lunch and dinner during my visit to San Sebastian.

In addition to variety, the pick 'n choose method eliminated the guesswork involved in choosing food from a foreign language menu, and made for quicker meals - in just half an hour you're done and off to the next joint. For lunch and dinner I'd hit three different places, ordering a couple of pintxos in each one, along with a drink which was either the above-mentioned txakoli or low-alcohol cider.

Ah, the selecting part - that's where I was gripped by moments of indecision, especially if they all looked delectable. One personal guideline is to opt for the more elaborate creations (as the pics hopefully illustrate) instead of the more typical croquettes, Spanish omelet or jamon iberico straddling a piece of bread. Or sometimes I'd chose based on how colorful a particular pintxo looked, and hope for the best.

Newbies to the Basque pintxo culture could be forgiven for being squeamish at the thought of other people's errant fingers brushing against adjacent pieces of food, or wonder exactly how many hours the pintxos have been sitting around, but unlike other regions of Spain, tradition has overcome efforts to eliminate the practice here.

Another surprising part is that waste (napkins, toothpicks) are simply disposed of by chucking them on the floor. However, it is said that the quality of an establishment could be measured by how much detritus adorned its floors.

With the concentration of establishments in old town San Sebastian, It's quite hard to chose among them. There are a couple of ways around this - one can take a somewhat pricey two hour pintxo tasting tour with like-minded foodies that goes to five or six different bars and samples two or three dishes at each one.

A cheaper alternative would be to spend significant time, as I did, in between meals consulting the website Todopintxos which suggests various routes for pintxo discovery, and where voters rate individual dishes and places. The effort is very much worth it, this I can personally attest to, as I smile at the memories of the delicious pintxos and pat my stomach contentedly.

Click here for more posts from Spain.

Aveiro, the "Portuguese Venice"

2011-06-30T07:05:00.000-04:00

I know - those long boats and canals look familiar. At first glance, you could be forgiven for thinking those are gondolas on the Grand Canal in Venice. Nope. Although similar to gondolas, these are called moliceiros, and the locale is Aveiro in Portugal.

Not to worry if you hadn't heard of Aveiro, neither have most of the Spanish people I've met. Located just an hour outside of Porto, this small city is often dubbed the "Portuguese Venice" because of its similarities with that more illustrious Italian city.

Having visited three big cities in a row - Granada, Sevilla and Lisbon - I wanted a break from the crowds, and needed a place to simply relax and be free from the pressures of sightseeing.

There are lots of smaller towns that touted their features in glossy brochures, but Aveiro stood out because of the novelty factor. Like any tourist, I was curious about those canals and long boats, not having any plans of visiting touristy Venice anytime soon (I took the gondola ride there ten years ago), I figured the city and moliceiro ride would be a good substitute.

Clearly the forty-five minute jaunt on the canals was going to be the highlight of my stay here. After a short wait to gather the minimum six passengers (on a weekend!), we set sail and passed underneath numerous bridges (the most interesting is pictured above with Aveiro's emblem), saw the huge McDonald's logo pasted on the huge mall dominating the center of town, and a few other noteworthy buildings. The architecture along the banks doesn't exactly inspire comparisons with Bruges or Amsterdam, to be honest.

Moreover, sorry to disappoint romantics, but there is no hunky gondolier in striped shirt rowing the moliceiro and belting out opera arias as you sip expensive champagne. Commentary is provided by a staff person who struggled to be heard above the din of the motor as he alternated among Portuguese, French and English, with varying levels of proficiency in each.

That proved to be the only touristy thing I did in Aveiro, and two days passed by quickly spent just strolling around, visiting the upscale mall with all the name brands, and eating a lot of sweets. So, it wasn't quite like the real Venice, but then that was probably for the best.

Yellow Pastry tour of Portugal

2011-06-27T16:30:00.001-04:00

"So why is it called bolas de Berlim?", I asked Paula, a local Portuguese whom I met at the hostel in Porto. "It didn't come from Germany, did it?".

Paula laughed, then replied "No, of course not. Because it has two halves, with the thick cream in the middle. Sort of like East and West separated by the wall".

This bizarre explanation with outdated political reference notwithstanding, the bolas de Berlim is just one of many sweet treats in pastelarias' display cases that entice passers-by to ogle and stop for a quick snack.

While critics might harp that Portuguese cuisine doesn't rise to the same meteoric heights as their larger Iberian neighbor, in the sweets department it's definitely no slouch.

My personal favorite is the pasteis de nata, sweet custard tarts topped with burnt caramel and surrounded by a flaky crust. Four cafes lined the seven-minute walk from my hostel in Lisbon to the metro stop, so every day I would venture inside a different one, order two pasteis with cafe con leche, and devour them standing at the counter. Hard to beat that for a mid-morning snack.

In Aveiro, a traditional pastry called ovo mole still rules. Shaped in different forms such as shells, fish, and clams, these treats have a very thin wafer-like exterior, and a very sweet inside made of egg yolks and sugar.

I found the ovos moles quite addictive, and found an excuse to pop one into my mouth every few minutes, only to discover to my chagrin that my newly-purchased box of twelve is now empty. Oh well, time to go back to the store for more.

There are lots more Portuguese pastries that I haven't tasted, possibly for the better, health-wise. Just these three alone brought my sugar intake to stratospheric levels, and only lots of walking offset the calories (how many, I didn't want to know) that were consumed. Don't let anyone fool you into thinking Portuguese food isn't great, but cast your eyes towards the pastelarias.

Alhambra in Granada

2011-06-26T06:09:00.002-04:00

I wasn't that quite enamored with Granada, despite glowing feedback from other travelers I've met. Perhaps it was because I was coming off an emotional high from Valdelavilla, but more likely the intense heat that made walking around a miserable affair.

My hostel was situated in the Albayzin, an area with narrow, unmarked and uphill alleys filled with Moroccan tea houses and shops. In fact, it felt like being in Morocco at times, and fortunately it was only a few minutes hike up to the Mirador de San Nicolas, a popular hangout at sunset for the great views.

That big palace on the cliff is the Alhambra, the star attraction in this city. Perhaps the most well-preserved of all Moorish architecture in Spain, over three million tourists visit the expansive grounds and palace every year.

As you can imagine, it pays to buy your ticket online in advance. I logged in on a Saturday and the earliest availability was for Wednesday evening, which worked out just fine. Alternatively, people have reported success by showing up early (around 7am) to join the queue.

There's not really much else to say about the Alhambra that other people haven't already said. Even if you're not into palaces and architecture, the Alhambra is well worth spending a few hours in. It does live up to all the hype, and one can only marvel at the intricately carved and colorful patterns adorning the walls.

Don't Stand so Close to Me

2011-06-23T07:20:00.003-04:00

Watching a live bull fight for the first time is quite mystifying, especially if you're almost totally ignorant on the topic but have only heard heated arguments on the pros and cons of this spectacle.

Apparently, one of the trademarks of an excellent torero (or matador in English) is how close he is willing to stand near a specially-bred toro bravo, provoke it to rush at him, laughing in the face of physical injury or worse, death. Pure insanity, if you ask me, but part and parcel of this slice of Spanish culture.

Here's a short video to illustrate the artistry and skill of our torero, as he shows his mastery over the wounded bull. As you can see, my advice has fallen on deaf ears.

Click this link if embedded video doesn't show up.

These theatrics go on for a while until our protagonist has judged that the bull is ready to be put to death. He then takes out his sword (cleverly hidden behind the cape) to strike the final blow. Sometimes though, these proud and hardy bulls are tough to put away.

Below, the bull has the sword sticking out of his back, but is improbably still on his feet. The torero's assistants wave their capes furiously to make him even more dizzy and weak. After all, their boss has to get his applause from the crowd.

Click this link if embedded video doesn't show up.

On a slightly more gruesome note, after the inevitable has occurred, the clean-up crew comes to take the bull out of the ring, a final indignity suffered by the brave beast. Then it's on to the next round at La Maestranza.

Click this link if embedded video doesn't show up.

A Star is Born in Valdelavilla - Part III

2011-06-14T14:01:00.001-04:00

"I LOVE blondes!!!", screamed Greg, as he turned around after zipping across the room like a madman, his arms raised to the skies for dramatic effect. "Blondes with long hair and boots and short skirts and a big chest...". Then, using his normal voice, "That's how you should do it. You're being too normal".

I glared at him through the black-rimmed glasses straight out of Harry Potter that he made me wear ("it's funnier"), and wished this would all end soon, before physical and mental fatigue overcame me.

We were in the third hour of rehearsals for the Valdelavilla Players' most ambitious production yet, a fifteen-minute collage of scenes from Woody Allen's "Play It Again, Sam", with yours truly cast in the title role of Allan, a whiny neurotic whose wife recently left him. (Woody himself played the role in the movie, those were the days).

Showtime was but two hours away, and the cast hadn't gotten down their parts yet. As the lead star, I bore the brunt of Greg's criticism, and his caustic mood was made worse by an abscessed tooth. Every little mistake that David, Rebecca, Laura or myself made irritated him. Moreover, being a former professional theater director, Greg was used to working with real actors, not "normal" language volunteers who shirked from the spotlight - heck, I never even gave Powerpoint presentations at work, and now I was tasked to play a character who alternated among three different moods - neurosis, whining, and dream-like fantasy.

I admit that I was flattered when Greg approached me on the second day, and broached the idea of having me play Allan. "You can do it, I'm sure of it", were his exact words. He continued, "Besides, you're the only option I have - the only other male Anglo is too old to play a 29-year old character". I consented to do it, in the spirit of camaraderie with every volunteer and program participant in Valdelavilla, despite the absence of any acting experience whatsoever.

But now, as he barked at me to run onstage from the sofa to the chair at the corner, to give "MORE, MORE, MORE" in acting hyper, full of pent-up energy, I had second thoughts. However, it was too late to cancel now, and I would let everyone down, so I resisted the urge to scream back at him, told myself to calm down, and just soldiered on.

eagerly awaiting our production of "Play it Again, Sam"

So, we rehearsed, over and over. And got better, step by step. At some points I could even hear Greg laugh out loud as we ran through the scene. I made a few more boo-boos, mostly due to overeagerness (maybe I was turning into Allan!) in reciting my lines without waiting for my co-stars' prompts, but laughed them off.

Finally, we were ready for the big show. Or as ready as could be. I took the stage and sat on the right hand side of the sofa, agitated and fumbling nervously, waiting for my friends' knock on the door.

The rest was a blur - pacing around the stage, reciting my lines (which I had mostly memorized, though we were allowed to read from the script), screaming at the top of my voice to drown out Linda's phone conversation as she tried to set me up, trying to remember Greg's litany of advice (e.g. wait for laughter to stop before proceeding with next line, run from one spot to another WHILE saying your lines), and just acting like the crazed person my character was supposed to be, and then switching to the deflated whiner mode when reminded of my failures.At various key points, I heard Greg's distinctive laugh rising above the other audience members', and smiled a little in self-satisfaction.

Then just like that, it was over. The cast joined hands for the traditional bow to uproarious applause. At dinner time, the other participants took their turns to shake my hand and offer their congratulations. Clearly, my laid-back demeanor did not inspire much confidence in delivering an incredible performance. No, I repeated over and over, I had never acted before. "Get out of here", I responded to those who suggested that I should consider exploring community theater as a career option, "all that red wine must be clouding your judgement".

The kudos flowed even during the after-dinner scene. Several barflies, including B., a drama teacher, pronounced myself as having rendered the Best Performance in a Lead Role in a Musical/Comedy among the three nights of entertainment at Valdelavilla, and even my tormentor Greg took me aside, and said "We did it. I had my doubts after the first thirty minutes of rehearsal, but you improved so much. Now you're the talk of the (tiny) town".

Sadly, no video nor photographic evidence exists that documents this epic event. I still don't know how I pulled through without any nerves, staying as cool as a cucumber*, nor why I bothered to stay up till 2am memorizing the dialogue. Perhaps if career opportunities in the Informatics field dry up, a niche playing Woody Allen characters onstage might not be such a bad idea.

*"fresco como una lechuga" in Spanish, literally "cool as a lettuce", since cucumber is pepino. Not sure how this came about.

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A Day in the Life at Valdelavilla - Part II

2011-05-31T07:00:00.003-04:00

"Do you really have to talk for ten hours a day, to a non-native English speaker no less?" is probably the top FAQ when informed of my Vaughan Town week-long volunteer program at Valdelavilla, usually expressed in a tone of incredulity.

The answer is YES. Much more than ten hours, actually. The day starts with the 9am buffet breakfast (including churros), and then the next 4 hours are devoted to one-on-one conversation sessions with a Spaniard. So what do we talk about? For each hour, phrasal verbs (e.g. "to back up") or idioms (e.g. "to sleep on it") are assigned for discussion - these can be challenging and a bit nonsensical, I thought, so in some cases I preferred to let the conversation flow instead of talking about them.

Vaughan Town also recommends bringing some conversation starters or aids - playing cards, games, and the like. While I did print photos from previous travels, they were only used as a last resort. The key is to be creative and tailor the conversation around relevant topics given the person's background - for example, having heard Javier mention that he had been on business trips to Japan, I dug up photos of ryokans (traditional Japanese-style inns) and recounted my experience staying at a capsule hotel in Tokyo. Or if financial markets are your forte, then a lively discussion with Jose Luis (the most talkative Spaniard) to dissect Ben Bernanke, interest rates, the EU debt crisis and other weighty topics. And every chance I'd get, I'd talk about the Roger vs. Rafa rivalry, and the ongoing Roland Garros (French Open to you non-tennis enthusiasts) tournament. I bet none of the other Anglos went within a mile of these topics.

After these grueling sessions, the meals come as a welcome relief. I shouldn't complain, since given the imbalance in numbers we Anglos get a free hour now and then while the Spaniards don't. Meal times can be complicated as well, since the program director ensures that there is a mix of Anglos and Spaniards at each table, so that they resist the temptation to lapse back to forbidden Spanish.

As advertised, the staff prepares a sumptuous three-course meal (appetizer, main course, and dessert) accompanied by wine, and the food was generally excellent and plentiful. (A very minor quibble: Perhaps the organizers might look into offering a rotating selection of riojas and ribera del Dueros instead of the same red all week long). However, the conversation never stops during meals, and after a few days some Anglos would exchange knowing grins upon overhearing this volunteer go on about her cruise ship experiences yet again, or avoid being stuck at the same table with this loud, whiskey-swilling woman from Manchester.

Ample time is given (1.5 hours) to recover, both from the heavy meals and conversation fatigue, during the siesta. I tended to sit in my room reading or taking a nap, especially after the "grind" got to me. We then reconvened at 5pm for a group activity, typically games or dance lessons, which are followed by more one-on-one sessions and/or mock teleconferences.

At 8pm, a nightly entertainment show is put on by the Valdelavilla Players, which consists of - who else? - the volunteers. Don't be surprised if Greg, a professional theater director who moonlights as the master of ceremonies for these sessions, pulls you aside during the day, explains the role he wants you to play, and before you know it you've committed to rehearsals, enduring his constant caustic remarks and endless quest for perfection. Whatever notions of having a relaxing week should have disappeared by now.

Dinner follows at 9pm, another three courses and much more wine (now we REALLY need it). Although entirely optional, people whose energy levels show no signs of flagging hang out at the bar (there is only one in Valdelavilla), talking, talking, talking...until the clock strikes midnight when the staff kicks out everyone.

After the first day or two, the Spaniards start warming up to the Anglos, and more importantly, start understanding their accents, and become more comfortable expressing themselves in English. Though most were sent by their respective companies to attend this rigorous eighty-hour session, a few paid the hefty fees out of their own pockets (I also heard some got a last minute fifty percent discount), for which I admire and salute them. With the wheels eased by alcohol, the conversations become more animated whereas during the initial stages, they'd just nod and pretend to understand. Whether or not they're even remotely interested in cruises or politics or tennis is a different story though.

If you've been keeping count, that's a total of roughly 12 hours of continuously speaking English every day (not counting siesta time). Not sure what guarantees Vaughn Town gives to the Spanish participants as far as attaining conversational fluency in English, but gaining five pounds seems to be a sure-fire thing.

Click here for more posts from Valdelavilla.

On the tapas trail in Madrid

2011-05-29T12:24:00.003-04:00

After a hectic English language volunteer week in Valdelavilla, I came back to Madrid with my new friends, both Anglos and Spaniards. Yup, that's what being together for six entire days will do to people - we'll always look back at the fun times in that tiny village in Soria province.

But first, plans were made to hang out over the weekend and do what everyone loves best: going for tapas in Spain, hitting a few places in one night. First up on Saturday night was MJ, who along with her boyfriend brought Rebecca, Joanne, Aileen and myself on a walk around the main sights in Madrid (whose details I won't bore you with). The food fest started at Taberna Almendro 13 in La Latina for some huevos rotos (broken eggs), pictured on the right, a concoction of sunny side-up eggs, jamon bits and potato chips. We also had roscas de jamon, a round ham sandwich which everyone shared, washed down by vino or cerveza, of course.

David, another Spaniard on the program, met up with us at Plaza. Sta. Ana, and together we headed to another one of MJ's (and apparently, lots of other locals') favorites, Las Bravas - a casual joint specializing in Spanish fast food. The wait for a table did not deter us, and soon we were gorging on orejas (pig's ears) and patatas bravas (potatoes with spicy sauce).

At first MJ wouldn't tell everyone about the pig's ears, preferring to keep it a mystery, but since I spoke Spanish I knew what she ordered. Any trip of mine wouldn't be complete without eating some weird animal parts, so I was quite eager to taste them. The pig's ears were pretty tasty actually, but some Anglos didn't like biting into the cartilage, so I ate more than my fair share of the dish.

Last stop for the night was nearby Villa Rosa for some drinks and dramatic touristy flamenco. We didn't have anything to eat anymore; sometimes it's amazing how these little bites fill you up without noticing it.

Same meeting place and same time on Sunday, but with different Spaniards - Ignacio, Antonio and Jose Luis, three of the most popular participants in the program.

After some sightseeing we headed over to a hole-in-the-wall joint off Plaza Mayor for some bocadillos - sandwiches stuffed with meat or seafood. JL recommended the bocadillos de calamares (fried shrimp stuffed inside a roll) plus more carbs in the form of patatas bravas, which were less spicy than last night's.

Once again, the cramped space was packed to the gills, and you can quickly become good friends with diners at adjacent tables given the close quarters. Everyone seemed intent on wolfing down their huge sandwiches in the least amount of time. .

The tour went on to the next place specializing in mushrooms which seemed a bit hokey, with the cave-like atmosphere, but the chatty piano player who played contemporary Beatles and Pink Floyd hits ("Original Spanish music is really nice to listen to", Antonio quipped wryly), and the mushrooms made up for it.

I forgot what exactly these were called, but our group was full at this point, and the Anglos were just clamoring for more wine, so off we went to La Latina in search of good vino. Last stop was Taberna Tempranillo on the street Cava Baja, a wine bar with an unparalleled collection of bottles and a perfect place to sip, relax and talk.

Part of me didn't want these nights to end - it was great to discover these places and dishes that I normally wouldn't have found nor sampled on my own (given the infinite number of establishments in Madrid), but more so the pleasure of new friends' company. Here's to fun times, lasting friendships, and more English conversations. Salut!

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Nonstop chitchat at Valdelavilla - Part I

2011-05-26T11:05:00.002-04:00

I don't fancy myself as much of a talker; in fact I find most small talk exhausting and inane. Certainly not someone who has the inclination nor patience to engage in conversation for twelve hours a day, to non-native English speakers no less.

Yet Sunday afternoon found myself and fourteen other "Anglos" in the tiny town of Valdelavilla in Soria province, which even most Spaniards have never heard of, after a three hour bus ride from Madrid. With us were eleven local Spanish people who had signed up for an intensive six-day course during which they will listen to the Anglos speak, try to figure out what in the world they are saying behind those indecipherable thick accents (yes, I'm referring to you Scots), and then respond in their best broken English. Repeat process until brain melts. Always having a drink in hand helps.

For the privilege of undergoing this torture, the Spaniards have shelled out megabucks (or their employers were snookered into doing so), while us Anglos were not exempt from being loco - we were here in Valdelavilla on a volunteer basis, and had paid for airfare and accommodations in Madrid out of our own pockets, and instead of spending precious vacation time laying on the peach sipping mojitos, giving our best efforts in explaining the intricacies of Shakespeare's language to the locals through one-on-one conversations, improvised conference calls, games, dance lessons, theater performances, and the like.

Obviously, non-stop talkers are preferred, especially altruistic ones. Doesn't quite sound like yours truly? Yes, I did think long and hard about joining the program offered by Vaughan Town, the leading player in the English language educational market in Spain, and wondered if I might become a misfit. However, the lure of free lodging and three-course meals with red wine (or white, if you insist) was irresistible, and I laughed off the fears and got onboard that bus pronto.

Valdelavilla was abandoned in the 1960s, and lay in ruins until its rehabilitation in the 1990s and is now a rural tourism complex. The town consists of about ten buildings similar to the one in the photo on the right, and it takes roughly five minutes to walk around Valdelavilla. This is about as small and idyllic a town in the entire country could be. Another claim to fame is that Valdelavilla has declared its official language as English, perhaps the only town in Spain to do so. Of course, it helps that no one actually lives here, and that most of their clientele are the busloads that Vaughn Town sends over for the English program.

It simply is quite a lovely town, the perfect escape from the hustle and bustle of Madrid, and a great place to talk non-stop for twelve hours a day, interrupted only by delicious meals and a siesta. If this sounds like your cup of tea (idiom alert!), or you're dying to recount the minutiae of your latest cruise, or you were born to explain phrases like "to put two and two together" and "to get a word in edgewise" to befuddled and bemused Spaniards, then joining the volunteer program is a no-brainer (¿qué? - Ignacio).

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Finding Cheap, Good Food in Madrid

2011-05-23T07:36:00.002-04:00

Eating out in Spain can be an expensive proposition. With tons of restaurants in the major tourist zones in Madrid (Plaza Mayor, Puerta del Sol, etc), if one isn't careful then it is easy to spend lots of money.

Luckily, your cheapskate traveler has done some legwork in figuring out how to eat good food in Madrid for less euros. Here are a few strategies.

Go for the menu del dia. Most restaurants offer a fixed-price daily menu during lunch time. This typically costs 9 or 10 euros, and includes two courses, bread, a drink (wine, beer or water), and coffee or dessert. If this sounds like a lot of food, well that's the idea. The dishes below aren't too shabby for the price, eh? Now you know why the Spaniards need a siesta after lunch.

Get free food. Yes, sometimes there are free things in life. At most tapas bars, ordering a drink comes with a plate of tapas, usually olives, or potato chips.

Although not quite filling enough for a meal, this small snack can tide you over until the late dinner time - 9pm at the earliest, and even then you might have the restaurant all to yourself.

Just don't load up on the booze at one place, or the free tapas might wind up costing you. Moreover, it is customary for the Spanish to eat a couple of small plates at one place, move on to the next to sample their specialty, and so on. Remember, when in Madrid, do as the Madrilenos do. (Or something like that).

Skip the restaurants and tapas bars. There are a lot of small cervecerias offering bocadillos, or snacks. Usually these are sandwiches stuffed with calamari, sausages or ham, and cost as little as 2.70 euros ($4).

Or you can go to a market like Mercado San Miguel and choose among the freshly prepared products from the different counters. At left are jamon iberico sandwiches (2.50 - 3.50 euros or $3-5) which are quite filling.

So, as you can see, these are just a few strategies to reduce the cost of meals in Madrid. In addition, just follow common sense advice like checking a restaurant's menu before sitting down, and avoiding tourist traps.

Be sure you're not among the hapless tourists who got snookered at this restaurant. Check out these prices - 11.50 euros for a mixed salad! And the place was packed to boot. I do get a kick out of other people getting fleeced, as well as a pang of pity. Allow me my moment of schadenfreude as I munch on sumptuous jamon iberico washed down with vino, knowing I paid much less than for a bunch of leafy veggies.

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Cheapskate Chronicles Madrid - A Free Walking Tour

2011-05-21T08:16:00.001-04:00

There is an adage in life, "There is no such thing as a free lunch". Tell that to Sandeman's New Madrid Tours, which promises an exciting 3.5 hour walking tour in Madrid led by enthusiastic guides for the grand price of zero. However, the guides do work for tips, so patrons should feel free to give them a gratuity, depending on how happy or annoyed they are at the end of the tour.

Since it seemed like a no-lose proposition, and eager to get some exercise, I found myself at Madrid's largest square, Plaza Mayor, and was given the choice between the English and Spanish tours - with no hesitation, I opted for the latter. Truth to tell, it wasn't a hard decision to make at all.

So...let me lead you on an orientation of Madrid, with some interesting and strange facts to be dished out. But first, a caveat: accuracy of translation is not guaranteed.

Plaza Mayor used to be called Plaza Real, then Plaza Constitution, and switched back and forth among these names. Currently, Madrilenos simply refer to it as the Plaza, to hedge their bets on any future name change.

In the middle of the square is a statue of King Felipe II mounted on a horse (above). Originally, the horse's mouth was wide open, but pigeons kept getting stuck inside. Thus in one of the remodeling efforts they decided to keep it shut.

Next, we moved on to Botin, the world's oldest restaurant, as attested to by the Guinness World Records certificate inside the glass window. I'm sure the food is pricey here due the novelty, so most tourists are content to just snap a pic. The renowned Spanish painter Goya allegedly worked as a dishwasher at Botin before he moved on to better things.

Madrid was transformed from a sleepy town into Spain's capital by the Moors, and for a long time they did not have a proper city hall. The present one at Plaza de la Villa (left) looks nice, but took all of a hundred fifty years to build - in the meantime, I imagine they simply held their meetings in each official's living room, rotating every week or so.

Why the delay? Who knows, perhaps the usual suspects - infighting and bureaucracy, plus it is simply too tempting to sit back and enjoy the nice weather and knock back another glass of sangria in this land of mañana. If you think this is scandalous (perhaps you're an American who's used to getting things done quickly), consider the Cathedral de la Almudena (middle) which took almost four hundred years, went through ten architects before completion. Now it is a mish-mash of styles of three architectural styles: Baroque, Gothic and "pop-art", based on each architect's whims.

The photo on the far right is the Palacio Real, used for official functions held for visiting foreign heads of state. The royals no longer live here, but have downsized to a smaller palace across town by the Parque del Retiro. Tough economic times in Spain, including almost twenty percent unemployment, means cutting back for everyone. The walking tour obviously didn't allow for time to go inside the palace, but I was happy to snap a photo and move on, feeling a bit sorry for the sun-drenched tourists queuing up at the ticket office.

Finally, our motley crew of thirteen Spanish speaking tourists, led by the guide Mirelur, reached the spiritual but not geographical heart of Madrid, the Puerta del Sol. Despite it's name, there is no door to Sol, but it's simply a huge plaza where metro lines intersect, possibly the closest thing they have to Times Square (minus the electronic billboards, stock market ticker symbols and steaming Cup Noodles).

Nowadays Puerta del Sol is used primarily for gatherings like strikes (I actually witnessed one the following day) and the New Year's Eve countdown. (A piece of trivia: Spaniards are supposed to down twelve grapes before the clock strikes for good luck).

Puerta del Sol is also home to probably the most photographed curiosity in Madrid - the city's proud symbol, a twenty ton bear kissing what looks like a giant stem of broccoli but is actually a madroño (madrone tree), whatever that is. Not sure why a bear and non-native plant are considered Madrid's symbol, nor how long it took to build this statue - after over three hours of being intensely focused on listening, understanding and internally translating Mirelur's words, my mind went on a much-needed tapas and vino break.

Overall, it was a fun introduction to Madrid - I got not only my daily dose of physical exercise, but about a month's worth of intellectual exercise to boot. Now for that afternoon siesta.

Yes, I could rationalize and mention the smaller group size for the Spanish tour (the Anglo speakers outnumbered us two-to-one), the opportunity to practice listening to the lisping accent in España, but in the end the deciding factor in choosing the Spanish tour can be seen on the left of this text.

Mirelur is originally from Bilbao but has lived in Madrid for a few years. Our group was only her second tour ever, but she was enthusiastic, knowledgeable, loads of fun, and most importantly, spoke clearly and not too rapidly for me.

Granted, I could have had an easier time with the English tour, but why would I choose some guy from Philly over this winsome lass?

Sandeman's New Madrid walking tour might be free, but this cheapskate was quite pleased, and forked out a generous tip. So there is really no such thing as a free lunch.

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Food Finds: Make mine a Fat One at Chocolateria San Gines

2011-05-13T08:39:00.004-04:00

The whole world calls them "churros", these deep-fried strips of dough that are eaten for breakfast or a snack, preferably dunked in hot chocolate. However, in Spain, these fat greasy long fingers are called "porras". And the place to be in Madrid to try these is Chocolateria San Gines, tucked behind an alley just off Calle Arenal.

follow the sign to Chocolateria San Gines

Open since 1894, Chocolateria de San Gines is open round the clock, just in case you feel like a midnight snack. Immensely popular among locals and tourists, there is plenty of outdoor seating but like those in a hurry, I stood at the long, marble counter inside and ordered a "chocolate con porras" (3.50 euros, two strips) for a late breakfast.

The cup of hot chocolate was just to my liking, not cloyingly sweet at all. (A local I met at a tapas bar mentioned a preference for a competing chocolateria, due to its sweeter chocolate, but the name of the establishment esapes me).

While busy dunking my porras and biting into it, I could peek inside the kitchen where their skinnier counterparts, called churros (this is getting confusing), were being dunked in a huge fryer in long strips, then cut into shorter straws as they came out. These thinner strips came four to an order, and below is a visual (taken at Mercado San Miguel), to illustrate the difference.

If hot chocolate doesn't tickle your fancy, most locals simply dunk their fat or skinny greasy fix into their cafe con leche, and that seems to work splendidly as well. Perhaps I will find out for myself tomorrow. Or tonight.

Who writes Love Letters anymore?

2011-02-04T00:33:00.001-05:00

Some would say that February rolled around just in time after a messy, snow-laden January that put everyone in a foul mood, bringing with it the hope that the worst winter weather had passed.

However, February also ushers in the annual rite of the commercialized Valentine's Day holiday, bringing to bear immense pressure on coupled folks to shower their significant other (S.O.) with the requisite gifts, flowers, and expensive dinners.

I had an epiphany on my first visit to Philadelphia in five years, fittingly enough while taking photos of the murals on the "Love Letter" train tour conducted by the city's Mural Arts Society. Consisting of a series of fifty rooftop murals along the Market Street corridor in West Philadelphia (a stone's throw away from Center City), Love Letter collectively express a love letter from a guy to a girl, alternating between humorous and touching lines as their relationship goes through different phases.

Created by the renowned artist Steve Powers, the bright, huge murals are best viewed from the station platforms on the elevated Market-Frankford rail line. You'll see some of them whiz past as the train rolls along, making it hard to take pictures, but quite a number are viewable at each stop.

The epiphany went like this - instead of buying the cliched roses and chocolates, and lining the pockets of restaurants who've jacked up their prices for the manufactured holiday, writing a sincere love letter to your S.O. seems like a great, if somewhat quaint, idea. I know, who writes love letters anymore when it's easy to use Facebook or Twitter to shout-out some sentiment like "XXX, you're the only one for me!".

on top of a Jamaican restaurant which explains the beef patties

Personally, the traditionalist in me has found the use of social media for these purposes to be somewhat...umm, distasteful. Although I derive many hours of amusement from reading such pronouncements, I also see my reflection on the computer monitor, cringing. Just sayin'. While your views on this topic might not be in agreement with mine, I'm sure you'll agree that the murals are both entertaining, inspiring and instructive - the lines on them are simply waiting to be copied and pasted into the love letter you'll be writing.

For more ideas, check out the pictures below.

The Tall, Bronze, and Laughing Madmen of English Bay

2011-01-07T17:56:00.002-05:00

I did not expect to be back in Vancouver so soon, a mere 3.5 years since our week-long Alaska cruise (chronicled here) that sailed from Canada Place. Of course, I loved Vancouver on my first visit - the walkable downtown, hip Yaletown, the dramatic setting (island surrounded by mountain ranges and water), the greenish modern condo buildings with floor-to-ceiling windows - the list goes on and on.

Remarkably, the Winter Olympics didn't really whet my appetite for a return visit. That's because while I find most fast-paced winter sports exciting and envy the graceful athletes going about their business, I'm totally inept at them, and would rather skip the slopes and head straight to the lodge for some apres-ski (or "no ski") hot chocolate.

View of downtown Vancouver from Granville Island

Anyway, I did make it back to Vancouver, since O. and I thought it'd make a great city pairing with Seattle on our Pacific Northwest road trip. In addition to its own merits, O. wanted to cross the border into Canada to garner the first immigration stamp on his heretofore unblemished machine-readable, chip-embedded passport, a plan that failed miserably as the border agent waived us to continue onwards after only perfunctory inquiries and nary a glance at our blue-covered documents.

Cod, salmon and flounder lunch at Tony's on Granville Island

We decided to take the "hop on, hop off" trolley for a couple days sightseeing, hitting such classic, not-to-be-missed attractions as Granville Island, Stanley Park, and Chinatown. Ok, the latter is somewhat missable, but the first two definitely are not. I loved Granville Island the first time around, and more so this time. The food at the public market and restaurants is fresh (if somewhat pricey), the views of downtown are amazing, and the general vibe is that of relaxed enjoyment.

In the mood for some exercise, the next day I walked along the seawall from the hotel to Stanley Park. It took me a bit longer than expected, what with all the stops for photos of Granville Island, the beaches on English Bay, and surrounding scenery. As I went away from the seawall towards Robson St. for lunch, I stumbled upon a small park where a group of fourteen tall, bronze statues were huddled together in a circle, with their faces contorted in different states of hysterical laughter.

Ecstatic, playful, overjoyed. Megamillions jackpot winner. Those adjectives came to mind as I scanned each bronze face, and I wondered, what do these statues represent? A small plaque provided the answers: The sculptures were part of the Vancouver Biennale public art exhibition with assorted artworks placed strategically in outdoor spaces all over town.

The laughing madmen, as I took to calling them, are officially called "A-maze-ing Laughter", by the Chinese artist Yue Minjun, and depicts his own iconic laughing image, with gaping grins and closed eyes in a state of hysterical laughter". And if you cynical types thought they looked TOO happy to be true, the plaque continues on to say, "The laughter appears to be convulsive, intense, and manic, but also insincere and forced".

Regardless, the laughing statues' hilarity proved infectious, and lifted my mood throughout the day. Made me doubly glad I was back in Vancouver.

One Cheapskate's Favorite Free Attractions in Seattle

2010-12-30T04:31:00.003-05:00

Pondering the sweeping view from the Space Needle. Cruising Seattle's harbor and Lake Union. Poking a star fish at the Seattle Aquarium, albeit gently and with only one finger. Just some of the fun stuff in Seattle that we did and paid an admission fee to enjoy.

Looking back at the 4 days we spent in the Emerald City, here are some FREE attractions in Seattle that I equally enjoyed, and not just because of their non-existent price tag.

Waterfall Garden Park in Pioneer Square

The Seattle Post-Intelligencer puts it best, "The landscaped oasis features a 22-foot waterfall that cascades over granite boulders into a beautiful Japanese pool. The corner park can refresh the weariest of city souls". I didn't care for much of the neighborhood (well, except for Zeitgeist Coffee), but the waterfalls were a pleasant surprise.

Also, something to file away in your brain for the next trivia night: The waterfall park is dedicated to employees of United Parcel Service (aka Brown), which was started on this site.

Garden Memorial Park @ Pioneer Square

Seattle Public Library by Rem Koolhaas

The Central Library building does look strange at first glance, but I soon grew to love the oddly-angled sharp edges, diagonal steel beams and glass exterior. I wish all libraries looked as amazing as this building. There's more to love inside - yes, there's musty shelves groaning with thick volumes, but also tons of computers and power outlets if you bring your own.

Central library in Seattle

Tired from all that sightseeing and weary of the constant drizzle, I plopped down into a chair and spent a couple of hours reading magazines, the Journal, checking email on my phone (blazing fast free wi-fi), and observing everyone else around me doing the same. Plus, the bright neon green escalator handrails make this library quite a "cool house".

View from the 10th floor

Olympic Sculpture Park

I saved the best for last. Ever since I saw Serena Williams' "twin" at the Hakone Open Air Museum in Japan, outdoor sculpture parks have fascinated me. So, when I heard about the newish Olympic Sculpture Park by the Seattle waterfront, I insisted on walking down to the industrial site turned Seattle Art Museum outpost one early morning.

There are a number of installations, both permanent and temporary, spread throughout the 9-acre park, but I particularly liked the offbeat ones pictured below.

The first one is called "Typewriter Eraser, Scale X". Initially it appeared to be a pizza slicer, but then I realized I was looking at it upside down - after I refocused the bristles containing Liquid Paper correction fluid that are carefully applied to an errant letter became quite obvious. A remnant of a bygone era.

Typewriter Eraser, Scale X

The second one, "Love and Loss", is a bit harder to visualize (took me a few minutes to "get" it), so four pictures are necessary to do so. Going clockwise: (top left), note the white-colored outlines on the benches that spell out "l-o-v-e"; (top right), the letter "e" on the table top, which is hard to see in the previous pic; (bottom left), the retro red neon sign of a big ampersand, and (bottom right), the white-colored outlines spelling "l-o-s-s". Quite nifty, really.

Hopefully each visitor to Seattle enjoys these free destinations as much as I did. Lastly, grab those coupon books at your hotel to shave a few bucks off sightseeing costs. Even availed of a "buy 1, get 1 free admission" deal at the Seattle Aquarium, which explains the star fish poking.

Click here for more posts from Seattle.

A Funny Thing happened on the Gourmet Seattle Tour

2010-12-27T00:17:00.004-05:00

After yesterday's mild weather, today's howling winds that knocked over newspaper bins and made pedestrians clutch their coats tighter made me think, "Ah, so this is what Seattle's weather is really like." My fellow participants and myself on the Gourmet Seattle Tour were not to be deterred by such trifling things as rain, wind, and if present, snow, and pressed on with the tough task of sampling some of Seattle's best food on our 3-hour downtown gastronomic adventure.

One of the stops was Serious Pie, a renowned pizzeria owned by the acclaimed local chef and restaurateur Tom Douglas, where we would sample two varieties of artisanal pizzas. Although it was mid-afternoon, the place was packed with not a table available. So, the twelve of us formed a line against the wall while our tour guide Ezra went inside to grab hot slices of freshly-baked margherita pizza (buffalo mozzarella and San Marzano tomatoes) from the coal-fired oven.

Ezra soon came out with the pizza, and not a moment too soon. The elements were not the only thing we had to endure. But add the pitying glances from passers-by as they see us patiently waiting outside Serious Pie, with some even shaking their heads, perhaps thinking how crazy we were.

As Ezra went down the line handing a slice to each person, a passer-by tried to partake of some of the goodies. Informed that the pizza was only for the paying customers of the Gourmet Seattle tour, the woman said she mistakenly thought free tastings were offered to entice patrons to come inside the restaurant. As if Serious Pie needed or had space for any more. We all got a laugh out of this incident, and momentarily forgot our rapidly freezing extremities.

A bite into the pizza moments later, and everything was okay in the world once more. A second variety was brought out, topped with yellow foot chanterelle mushrooms and truffle cheese, that further buoyed our spirits and satisfied our stomachs. So, we shuffled off to the next stop on the gourmet food tour, hoping to get indoors this time.

Click here for more posts from Seattle.

Space Needle, Seattle - Christmas in the Emerald City

2010-12-26T00:08:00.004-05:00

The Space Needle was about a ten minute walk from the hotel, and despite my general skepticism about taking the high-speed elevator to yet another skyscraper for sweeping views of yet another city, we decided to do it anyway. Partly because it was Christmas Day, with not much else going on. Oh, and the coupon that knocked $2 off the fairly larcenous $18 admission fee definitely helped.

Space Needle

On a clear day like this (which is rare in these parts, or so I heard), the views are amazing. We went outside to the open area for some photos and to marvel at Puget Sound, Lake Union, and the downtown skyline, and to enjoy the cool weather. A concession stand was selling local beers and wines, so a Scuttlebutt Amber ale made lingering more enjoyable.

downtown skyline

Despite my initial skepticism, I had to admit going up the Space Needle was a great idea, and even the rapid 40-second elevator ride in the glass elevator didn't faze me. The trip to the Emerald City is off to a good start, hopefully the same will be true for the next couple of days.

Lake Union

Bonus pic below of the Space Needle as seen from our hotel room window. Lucked out on this one - we could have been looking out into the highway. Notice the Christmas Tree on top - pretty neat.

Click here for more posts from Seattle.

Can't afford Europe? Quebec City is a hop, skip and jump away

2010-12-22T15:02:00.000-05:00

If you're bemoaning the weakness of the US dollar vis-a-vis the Euro, unwilling to endure the enhanced TSA "pat down" molestation, or your inner Francophile is itching to parler Francais, then consider a quick getaway to the walled, UNESCO World Heritage site of Quebec City.

The cradle of French civilization in the New World (i.e. North America), Quebec City's center is compact, easily walkable, quite photogenic, and full of nice little shops and restaurants. And yes, the language. Most Quebecois' first language is French (though most speak decent English as well), so first-time visitors could be forgiven if they think they've actually crossed the Atlantic.

Let it snow, let it snow...

My first trip to Quebec City was five years ago on a day-trip from Montreal. Who can forget the towering Chateau de Frontenac, walking along the Terrasse Dufferin promenade, and browsing the shops at Quartier Petit Champlain? Alas, an afternoon was too short to fully appreciate the charms of Quebec City, so I vowed to make it back someday.

That someday turned out to be the 4-day long Thanksgiving weekend here in the US. As you can see from the snow, perhaps it wasn't quite the most ideal time to visit, but with familiar sights like the majestic Chateau Frontenac perched on top of the cliff overlooking the St. Lawrence river, and the huge colorful mural depicting Quebec City's history, it felt like visiting an old friend's home.

Chateau de Frontenac

Exploring the Quartier Petit Champlain area in the Lower Town is always a pleasure, especially with all the holiday lights on display. Some new experiences for this repeat visitor include taking the ten-minute ride by ferry to Levis, situated on the other side of the St. Lawrence River, for a few drinks at the Corsaire microbrewery, and venturing outside the walls of Vieux Quebec to explore the food shops and restaurants in the St. Jean Baptiste neighborhood. One particularly great find was Le Billig, a creperie-bistro serving Breton cuisine where I had a sumptuous lunch.

Mural depicting Quebec City's history

If you're worried about the language barrier, suffice it to say that all the Quebecois locals and service industry staff whom I encountered spoke English well, suffered through my valiant attempts (somewhat successfully, I hope) to render basic greetings and phrases in their native tongue, and displayed none of the snobbery towards non-French speakers that I had been advised about.

festive Quartier Petit Champlain

Overall, I was quite pleased with my quick getaway to Quebec City, despite the frigid temps and occasional snow, and extremely delighted at my choice of accommodations, the Hosteling International Quebec City hostel (aka Auberge Internationale Quebec City). Not only was the hostel's location central, but it was kept quite clean (a must!) at all times, and offered activities that provided travelers opportunities to mingle. Surely a traipse across the pond could not have proved equally memorable.

Batad Rice Terraces, so we meet again

2010-10-27T00:01:00.009-04:00

Two weeks ago, while waiting for the Arthur Frommer talk to commence at the Adventure Travel Expo, I mindlessly flipped through the free official magazine while chatting with J. The magazine's contents weren't all that interesting, essentially a bunch of listings and ads that might come in handy in the future. Assuming the magazine doesn't meet its end first inside a recycling bin.

The Adventures in Travel Expo (that's what the event is officially called, though I always say "Adventure Travel Expo", as I suspect most people do) was held at the Meadowlands Convention Center, an easy drive for both us. In previous years it had been held in New York City's Javits Center, but due to the number of exhibitors dwindling, or perhaps a lack of interest in adventure travel among consumers, this year's scaled-down event moved across the Hudson River to New Jersey. Hooray.

As Mr. Frommer came into the room, I put aside the magazine on the vacant chair beside me. As it lay there, my eyes fell on the cover, and I straightened up, as if struck by a bolt of lightning. Excitedly, I turned to J.

Batad Rice Terraces, Banaue, Philippines

"Doesn't this cover pic look familiar to you?!", I demanded.

"I can't remember". J. furrowed her brow trying frantically to do so.

"Remember? I took a similar photo of these rice terraces on my trip to the Philippines, which was included in the Facebook photo album I created", I reminded her. "You even made a comment on it".

"Oh yes! Now I remember", J. exclaimed, continuing, "What's it called again?!"

The picture in question was of the Batad Rice Terraces, the amphitheater-style terraces that is considered one of the world's most beautiful. Below is the shot I took after we trekked up for over an hour to view the spectacular terraces. Somehow I never got around to blogging about this experience from a few months ago, but seeing the rice terraces on the magazine cover rekindled fond memories.

Village of Batad

In contrast to its more famous cousin, the Banaue Rice Terraces, getting to the Batad Rice Terraces is no picnic. You can drive up to the viewpoint overlooking the former, spend fifteen minutes admiring them, and then leave. The stuff of fly-by tourism. In contrast, to get to Batad, our group hired a private van to navigate the bumpy ride on the narrow dirt road leading up to the peak.

After taking a few minutes to compose ourselves after that jarring ride, we were ready for the next step. The 40-min hike (according to Lonely Planet) along the winding cliff side path to the viewing point, and further onwards to the Batad water falls. With our female local guide in tow (who disconcertingly wore simple flip-flops), we set off.

Now, neither myself nor the other members of my party are what you'd call avid hikers, nor could we be described as being "in shape". Thus, we took every opportunity for a short break, stopping along the way at the small rest stations for any pretext - like a bathroom break at the "comfort rooms". From time to time, we'd meet locals coming from Batad on their way to town, but otherwise we shared the trail only with the various insects and snakes that made their home there.

Finally!

Finally, after an hour and a half (twice the estimated hiking time by LP!), this welcome sign came into view and brought smiles to our tired faces, and soothed our growling stomachs. Despite the aching joints, we quickened our steps, excited at the impending view of the Batad Rice Terraces.

And what a spectacular view it was! Even breath-taking, if you're prone to superlatives. Unfortunately, we were too pooped to make the additional 45 minute hike to the Batad water falls. Besides, it was just about lunch time, so what better reward than to kick back, relax, enjoy a meal, grab a beer, and savor the view of the Batad Rice Terraces - anything to delay the inevitable - the tough uphill hike back.

Where Smelly People, Commies, and Godfathers are free to roam

2010-10-26T11:08:00.015-04:00

Just because I'm not traveling at the moment doesn't mean I don't spend every waking moment thinking, dreaming, and reading about travel ;-)

And where am I thinking of exploring in 2011? After a Europe-free 2010, the time is right to visit the Continent once more. At this point, the itinerary, timing and duration of the trip are still TBD, but it's more likely to include bleak Bucharest rather than posh Paris.

Anyway, a friend sent me a link to this rather amusing website called Mapping Stereotypes, where you can 'unleash your bigotry and become an idiot!'. (Anyone need more encouragement?).

According to Yanko, this is Europe according to the USA.

Surely this hysterical map will give the French yet more reason to whine. But heck - will all that blue cheese, they have it coming to them ;-) Well, at least one stereotype is apt - you certainly do need a lot of "CASH" to travel in Switzerland. And oh yeah, in case you failed European geography in high school, Bucharest is located within the borders of "Dracula".

Another personal favorite is the map below of Italy according to Posh Italians. Although my trip planning is focused on more mundane stuff, you know, like where the best gelato and cannoli places are, I'm also not eager to come face-to-face with Sonny Corleone's next of kin.

Check out the full list of stereotype maps by clicking on the image below.

Feel free to email me at hellonewman (at) gmail (dot) com.

A Free Luncheon on the River Seine after all

2010-09-09T11:12:00.003-04:00

Most visitors to Washington DC make a beeline for the city's famous museums and memorials, which are quite excellent, interesting, and above all, FREE. Unlike most cities where museum visits can cost nearly $20, this is quite an amazing bargain for budget travelers who can easily spend days without shelling out a single penny.

Unfortunately for me, who was in DC on a quick Labor Day getaway, the one art I was intent on seeing was housed in the Phillips Collection, a private museum nestled in tony Dupont Circle just by Embassy Row. Being private, the museum was an exception to the rule and does charge admission to view the collection.

Not that it mattered to me. My main objective was to see Renoir's masterpiece, "Luncheon of the Boating Party", in its full glory. A full decade after developing an interest in French impressionist painters, and having viewed master pieces by Monet, Manet, Degas, among others, in the USA and Europe, this one painting was the only one left unchecked on my "must-see" list.

Upon arrival at the Phillips Collection, it turned out that due to a small fire a few days prior, the museum was only partially open. A bit alarmed, I asked hopefully, "Can I still see the Renoir?". Fortunately, the Luncheon of the Boating Party was housed in the building that wasn't affected by the fire, and yes, I could see it. Oh, and by the way, due to the incident admission was being waved. Hooray!

Although pleased at this good news, I was also concerned enough to inquire about the impact on the museum's collection. The staff quickly assured me that none of their works had been damaged, but some offices were. Whew!

It was a slow Saturday at the museum, so I had the painting to myself for a few minutes. The Luncheon of the Boating Party depicts thirteen of Renoir's Parisian circle, all of whom appear exceedingly young, attractive, and carefree, having lunch at a restaurant on the banks of the river Seine. They had just spent a day boating on the river on a nice summer day, as evidenced by some of the men still wearing their boating attire.

The vibrant colors, from the orange striped awning, the yellow straw hats, the rich blue tones of the dresses, the black top hats, and the almost-empty wine glasses make this a visibly arresting snapshot of Parisian leisure. At the same time, the eyes are drawn to the five women in the painting, who are vastly outnumbered and yet around whom the action revolves - from playing with a dog, staring seductively and engaging in conversation with attentive males.

Click on the thumbnails above to see the large versions, especially the top left one if you wish to see how Renoir has managed to insert his portrait into his master piece. So, in reality there are fourteen people in the painting, and not thirteen, if the artist is included.

Even cooler, instead of renting one of those museum guides to listen to commentary, the Phillips Collection lets you do the same with your cell phone. Just call the number listed and follow the instructions, and you will be transported to 19th century Parisian high society. Even from the comfort of your tiny cubicle, as I can personally attest to.

P.S. For more about Luncheon of the Boating Party, download this PDF. And if these Impressionist brush strokes seem oddly familiar, chances are you came across the painting in the French film "Amelie", where it played a prominent role.

Feel free to contact me at hellonewman (at) gmail (dot) com

Strokkur erupts with a Geysir

2010-08-02T21:31:00.001-04:00

Update July 2010: An excerpt from this blog post appeared in the "Iceland Highlights" color photo section of the Lonely Planet Iceland guide (7th edition). Hooray for me.

Moving on with Go Travel Iceland's Golden Circle tour led by Gummi, we eventually reached one of Iceland's most famous tourist attractions and the day trip's highlight - the geothermal fields in the Haukadalur valley to watch ol' faithful Geysir strut its stuff - shoot water and steam high up into the air in front of an appreciative crowd.

However, as it turns out, the much-typed star attraction Geysir (the mother of all geysers), once capable of erupting over 200 feet, is currently past its prime and now lies largely dormant. Reports say it had become clogged with rocks in attempts to induce eruptions.

Eyeing a couple of eager tourists traipsing about carelessly, Gummi cautioned us from ignoring the posted signs and ankle-high ropes cordoning off these hot springs - the prospect of a boiling hot shower isn't particularly appealing in case Geysir comes roaring to life to reclaim its former glory.

Happily, seizing the starring role in its place, the underrated-yet-oddly reliable Strokkur lay nearby to ensure visitors would not be disappointed. (In a way, the atmosphere was a bit like Disneyland).

That day there was quite a turnout - despite the freezing cold, tourists from big and small buses alike plying the Golden Circle route were on hand, cameras, video recorders, and IPhones held aloft, fingers poised to capture the perfect Kodak moment. Yes, staring at a huge hole in the ground CAN be an exciting experience.

I stood at the edge of the roped-off area counting down the five-minute interval between Strokkur's eruptions. (That IS quite prolific - imagine all the pressure, below and above the ground, to perform). To better operate my camera, I removed my gloves despite the bitter cold (ouch!) and kept my grip steady while intently observing the water slosh about Strokkur's hole, watching it swell just a tiny bit more each time, gathering momentum and inching closer to the inevitable gigantic climax.

And then - boom! It startled me - just like that, a huge pent-up release of water shot out of the ground, carried by the wind towards where I stood, dangerously close to drenching me with 100 degree celcius bath water. Somehow in the split-second that all this occurred I managed to press the shutter button that captured the gusher (pic above). In the end, regardless if Geysir or Strokkur played the lead role, I went back to the bus happy with the performance.

In case the embedded video below doesn't appear, check it out via this Youtube link. You can also check out more Iceland trip posts here.

A Capsule fit for a Gaijin

2010-08-02T18:39:00.005-04:00

Update Aug 2010: An expanded report on my capsule hotel experience was published on the Asia Society website, and is currently the Most Popular article there. Hooray. The slide show is also accessible via the "View more pictures..." link within the article.

Taking the early morning Narita Express from Shinjuku to the airport wasn't a problem. The problem was finding affordable accommodations near the train station in Shinjuku, one of Tokyo's busiest and most expensive areas. The budget traveller inside me, desperate for any means to control costs, began to consider one previously unthinkable option: capsule hotels.

Capsule hotels are basically hotels where you stay in tiny, coffin-like capsules, aka a "room". The capsules are stacked on top of each other, much like the dryers in your local laundromat, and look eerily similar to those, or if you spend more time in the kitchen, an oven. Height and width-wise, they're roughly the same size as those appliances, except for the length (slightly more than 6 feet). I know, probably not everyone's cup of tea, but at 3,500 yen ($40) a night, the price was just right.

Besides, in this age of convenient air travel that allows tourists to zip to faraway corners of the globe and seemingly overwhelm every destination, staying at a capsule hotel seemed like a quintessentially Japanese experience. In fact, capsule hotels are targeted towards Japanese businessmen, who are known to have a drink or two after work with their boss (shudder) and belt out their best Sinatra tunes for hours. After the festivities, once they realize that the last train back to the 'burbs had left the building, oh, about two hours ago, guess where the cheapest option is to rest your aching head for the night?

Capsule Hotel photo slide show

My web search led to the the Green Plaza Shinjuku capsule hotel, located just a few minutes walk from Shinjuku station. (Make sure you take the East exit, or you'll never find it). The Green Plaza is on the edge of one of Tokyo's red-light districts, Kabuki-cho, home to entertainment clubs, massage parlors, and bars. It's far from being seedy though, with mainstream restaurants and shops co-existing happily with the prurient offerings, and with hordes of tourists walking around seemingly at all hours intently ignoring the touts enticing you to step inside their establishment.

Finally, I found the capsule hotel and checked-in. They assigned me to a capsule (taking care to ask if I preferred a "top" or a "bottom"), a locker to put my things in, and handed me a pair of pajamas for padding around the hotel which was spread over six floors (!). The capsules themselves occupied only three floors, each of which had their own spotless (what else did you expect?) toilet facilities, but the communal shower and bath are on the 6th floor bathing naked in front of fifty mainly middle-aged Japanese men is an experience in itself), and there was also a spa on the 5th floor offering body and foot massages.

"Isn't it somewhat claustrophobic?", was the number one FAQ among my friends, once I mentioned my capsule hotel experience. Not really, the capsule was more spacious than expected - you can actually roll over on both sides while lying down on the bed, and it even allows for sitting upright to read. Each capsule is also equipped with a tiny TV (8 pay-per-view channels) and an alarm clock/radio. The instructions were only in Japanese though, so I never figured out how to operate the gadgets.

Luckily, it was a Sunday night when I stayed at the Green Plaza capsule hotel, so most of the capsules were unoccupied. I imagine the case would be much different on a week night, with all those inebriated clients making so much more noise. I slept peacefully (after pulling down the wooden curtain that serves as the "door", and managed to catch my train to Narita airport the following morning without incident.

Looking back on my trip, the memories from the capsule hotel always makes me smile, and it's one of many unique experiences in Japan that I will never forget. As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words - so check out the slide show below to see more from the capsule hotel.

Capsule Hotel photo slide show

For more of my Japan trip blog posts, click here.

Feel free to contact me at hellonewman (at) gmail (dot) com

Nozomi Shinkansen "flight" from Kyoto to Tokyo

2010-07-26T23:01:00.000-04:00

There's my bullet train ride shown on the board - Nozomi 222 bound for Tokyo at 10:02 am. Being a fan of rail travel (as opposed to air and bus travel), I was psyched to experience one of the world's fastest bullet trains, the Shinkansen, and was waiting on the platform a Kyoto station for the 2.5 hour "rapid express" ride.

I hadn't really known about the distinctions between the different classes. But when buying my ticket, the counter lady gave a brief explanation, and I figured that logically the less stops, the better.

Thus I chose the Nozomi, which as you can see, makes fewer stops along the Kyoto to Tokyo route than its Hikari "express" counterpart. The time savings probably aren't all that great, perhaps half an hour, since the Shinkansen does speed through the countryside at a top rate of 300 kilometers per hour.

Regardless of the class - rapid express or express (I love how the local trains are called "semi-express"), in truth, I was just happy to be in a country with a great rail travel system like Japan,
given the paucity of good rail travel options in the USA.

In fact, one of my fondest memories of my trips in Switzerland was taking the intercity trains between the different cities, always amazed by their punctuality and efficiency. (Which probably explains why I wear a Swiss Railways watch to this day).

Other than the Amtrak Acela Express service on the Northeast corridor between Boston and Washington DC, travelling by train seems to have gone out of style at home, with no foreseeable revival given the massive costs of upgrading the infrastructure.

Even the much-touted Acela Express reaches top speeds of only 150 mph (210 km/hr), and only on certain sections of the route. Something to do with the tracks, I believe.

So, there I was eagerly waiting for "my" Nozomi train to arrive, and to while away the time, I watched other Shinkansen trains zoom past the Kyoto station platform.

You could easily tell they were coming - the train would appear in the distance - still seemingly far - but this can be quite deceiving. You only have a few precious seconds to set the perfect angle on your camera's view finder, and remember to brace yourself for the strong gust of cool air that the Shinkansen brings with it to avoid being knocked over.

In a few seconds, the show is all over and you're left to replay the video you've shot, shake your head in disappointment, and then stake out your position on the platform's edge waiting for the next one. Repeat as many times as necessary.

Here is the link to video of the Shinkansen speeding through Kyoto station (if the embedded video below doesn't appear).

Finally, the Nozomi train came and I took my designated seat inside the designated car. The Shinkansen was very comfortable and had ample legroom.

For people like me who are normally stuck in the middle seat in economy class, this was quite a relief. The smoothness of the ride struck me. In fact, you'd only notice you are traveling at such high speeds when you look out the window at the countryside and everything whizzes by in an instant.

Overall, the Shinkansen is a great way to experience the outstanding Japan rail system (those Swiss better watch out), although it comes at a steep price. My one-way trip between Kyoto and Tokyo came to around 13,520 yen or roughly US$150. (No one said traveling in style would be cheap, I rationalized). A JR pass can be used on the Hikari trains, but not the "rapid express" Nozomi.

Check out this Lonely Planet article to learn more about Japan's amazing bullet trains.

For more of my Japan trip blog posts, click here.

I saw Serena William's twin at the Hakone Open Air Museum in Japan

2010-07-15T20:44:00.000-04:00

"Holy cow, that looks just like Serena Williams", was my initial reaction when I spotted this colorful, eye-catching sculpture standing by its lonesome at the Hakone Open Air Museum, squinting into the distance. Don't laugh, instead look at the bulging muscles on that thick yet curvaceous frame, the gaudily post-modern attire, accessorized with a bright polka-dotted bag, and tell me you don't see the resemblance between this sculpture's and the best female tennis player's physiques.

For non-followers of women's professional tennis, Serena Williams is the current no. 1 player in the world, a 13-time Grand Slam tournament winner (most recently Wimbledon 2010), and a fashionista all rolled into one. She has dominated the tour for the better part of this decade, and her opponents whom she spanks regularly on the tennis court will agree that she is a tough competitor, both physically and mentally.

Obviously, this giant-sized life-like outdoor sculpture, one of about 120 such sculptures scattered all over the grounds of the Hakone Open Air Museum in Hakone, Japan (the country's first ever open air art museum), wasn't really modeled after Venus William's more accomplished little sister, but nonetheless it emerged as one of my favorites during an afternoon exploring at the open air museum, and thus the nickname stuck in my mind. (Besides, the similarity really IS striking).

Below are more images of my favorite sculptures from the Hakone Open Air Museum (click to enlarge). In the event you need a break from strolling the grounds, there's a relaxing foot bath with water coming from the area's abundant hot springs, five indoor exhibition spaces (most notably the Picasso Pavilion), and the requisite cafes and restaurants (and gift shop, of course!)

Much like on the tennis court, "Serena Williams" at the Hakone Open Air Museum emerged as the most memorable, colorful and stylish among all the protagonists, regardless if you love it or hate it.

For more Japan posts, click here.

Wherefore Art Thou, Mt. Fuji?

2010-07-12T14:14:00.016-04:00

Most tourists visit the Hakone area west of Tokyo in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the symmetrical cone of Japan's highest peak, Mt. Fuji. Unfortunately, there is one big problem - Mt. Fuji is an exceptionally shy volcano who prefers to stay hidden behind the clouds, much like introverted people who have to be cajoled into attending parties. Thus, Mt. Fuji sightings can be a hit-and-miss affair. (If this were Disneyland, the skies would clear and the volcano would belch on the hour).

In fact, Hakone Area Map that came with my Hakone Free Pass (which entitles the bearer to round-trip train transport between Shinjuku Station in Tokyo and Hakone-Yumoto Station, as well as boarding privileges on an assortment of transport - cable cars, gondolas, buses, sightseeing ships - in Hakone) enumerates two Mt. Fuji viewpoints: the first one is from high up on the Hakone Ropeway, and the second from the Hakone Sightseeing Cruise on Lake Ashi (as pictured below).

I had the fortune of taking the two above-mentioned modes of transport in Hakone (arigato gozaimasu, Hakone Free Pass!), and not for a single moment did Mt. Fuji even peek from behind the curtain. The visit to Hakone wasn't a total loss though, since I had absolutely zero expectations (and hope) of a sighting in the first place, and there were lots of other cool stuff to do in Hakone.

Most memorable was taking the Hakone Tozan Cablecar, a short ten minute ride up the mountains, then switching to the Hakone Ropeway for the ride overlooking the Owakudani valley, formed by volcanic explosions a very long time ago. A stop at Owakudani was made to taste the special "black eggs" (hard boiled eggs dipped in steaming hot springs). The taste wasn't so special though, since they tasted just like normal hard boiled eggs.

We were careful not to get too close to the pools of hot springs spewing dangerous volcanic gases from below the surface, plus the putrid rotten-egg smell of sulfur became a bit overwhelming. Lots of student tour groups were around to enjoy this unique attraction though.

Another ride on the Hakone Ropeway brought us to Togendai-ko, the departure point for the pirate-ship sightseeing cruise on Lake Ashi that brings us to the town on the other side, Hakonemachi.

The cruise itself was quite uneventful; one can simply appreciate the scenery as the ship slowly makes its way across the lake, or go nuts frantically looking around and squinting at the sun for a hint of the majestic volcano showing its face. I opted for the former, and also diverted myself by observing other ship passengers posing for pictures with a costumed pirate making the rounds of the deck.

The morning's sightseeing on various modes of transport came to an close, with the last leg the Hakone Tozan bus back to Gora station, where postcards of bashful Mt. Fuji are available for purchase. Sometimes these picture-perfect images are a good (and only) substitute to seeing the real thing.

P.S. I also wrote an article about the Hakone Open Air Museum.

For more Japan posts, click here.

Kegon Falls & Lake Chuzenji, Nikko

2010-07-08T13:21:00.022-04:00

After a morning spent on a whirlwind tour of Nikko's World Heritage sites - Toshugu Shrine, Rinnoji Temple, Futarasan Shrine - and taking my shoes off countless (well, about five) times, I was ready to experience some of the surrounding area's natural beauty.

We decided to take the bus from central Nikko all the way on winding roads up the mountains to Tobu Nikko station (about a 45 minute ride) to view the Kegon Falls and Lake Chuzenji. But upon arrival at Tobu Nikko, the first order of the day was - lunch! Numerous restaurants and shops lined the main road, so we just picked one at random (based on their "fake food" display).

Lunch took a bit longer than expected due to there being only one cook (the right-most picture above proved prescient), but pretty soon we were walking towards Kegon Falls, the most famous among Nikko's waterfalls. Kegon falls is quite lovely, with the water cascading down from a height of 97 meters, and apparently popular among lonely Japanese youth for suicide attempts. I've seen more exciting waterfalls, especially in Iceland, but it was nice nonetheless.

After a few minutes viewing the Kegon Falls, it was a short walk in the other direction to placid Lake Chuzenji, the highest natural lake in all of Japan formed with the eruption of Mt. Nantai twenty thousand years ago. It was a quiet weekday, the paddle boats were all idle, and except for a lone fisherman there was not a soul to be seen.

The fisherman stood knee-deep on the edge of the lake, his full concentration devoted to the task at hand. From time to time he would cast his fishing line, whipping it through the air in a swift motion, enticing the fish to bite. I never did see him catch any, and eventually left him to his own devices to catch the bus back to Nikko.

Check out more Japan posts here.

Early Morning Visit to Tsukiji Fish Market

2010-07-07T13:55:00.018-04:00

Waking up early while on vacation is something I particularly dislike. Count me in among those firmly entrenched in the camp that likes to sleep in. So, having said all that, why exactly was I waiting on the platform of the Hibiya metro line at 5am, along with countless Japanese salary men and school girls, on a Monday morning?

Well...because a bunch of us decided it would be fun to visit the fish market. What?! Like most people, I prefer to skip the sights and smells of a wet market and just want to devour sliced pieces of sushi on my dinner plate, but this wasn't just your ordinary fish market, but the famed Tsukiji fish market in central Tokyo.

The Tsukiji market, formally known as the Tokyo Metropolitan Central Wholesale Market, is the biggest wholesale fish and seafood market in the world, and pretty much handles most fish that passes through Tokyo. Crack open any Lonely Planet guidebook, and Tsukiji Market is always in the list of "Japan Essentials". Thus, it has become a popular stop among tourists and foodies who want to witness the early morning tuna auctions, which explains our presence there at such an ungodly hour.

Unfortunately, it has become TOO popular, and tourists have proved to be a nuisance and hazard to the market's fish-cutters and deliverymen going about their daily business. Thus, new security measures have been put in place. Only 140 slots per day are issued to tourists on a first-come, first-served basis, and despite our early arrival, a stern uniformed security guard informed us that we were about a couple of hours too late - all the day's slots had been accounted for.

Tsukiji Market tuna auction video

We had been hanging around just outside the auction area, peeking in at the huge slabs of tuna piled atop a wooden crate on the cold cement floor, while men in identical vests walked around inspecting them and mumbling at each other. Not exactly riveting stuff, but at least SOMETHING was happening, or about to happen. However, the security guard was politely but firmly telling us to get out of there, much to our dismay. (I managed a couple of pictures and a short grainy video though).

Dejected, we trudged back to the outer market which consists primarily of stalls that sell restaurant supplies, groceries, and dried seafood, and of course, small unpretentious restaurants offering sushi over bowls of rice. Since it was breakfast time, and we were at the one place in Tokyo where the freshest sushi is available, T. and I took the opportunity to order a kaisendon (sashimi rice bowl, pictured) at one of the restaurants.

The others, who preferred lighter fare, wound up at a French bakery (a decision that still puzzles me to this day). Definitely one of the most satisfying breakfasts I had in Japan, and at least the meal ensured that all our troubles weren't for naught.

Check out more Japan posts here.

Konnichiwa, (fake) sushi lover

2010-07-05T15:00:00.004-04:00

Though still groggy from my 14-hour nonstop flight from JFK to Narita airport, I managed to somehow navigate Tokyo’s subway system (no easy task, check out the image map) and found the ryokan (Japanese style inn) that I was staying in, albeit after inflicting my rudimentary Japanese on helpful locals who pointed me the right way.

Determined to eat as much as humanly possible during my vacation in Japan, I went for a stroll around the Asakusa neighborhood (where the ryokan was situated) to check out the restaurants and grab a quick meal (The in-flight meals proved inadequate in filling up the big belly).

Stumbled upon Koppabashi, which is the kitchenware district (a perfect analogy is the Bowery's lighting district) of Tokyo where all merchandise related to operating a restaurant are sold.

The item of interest that caught my eye were the "fake sushi", almost life-like pieces of fish that are used by a typical Japanese restaurant for displaying their offerings in a glass window display case outside their establishment. If I was just a little bit more famished, I would've popped the fake sushi into my mouth, plastic wrapping and all.

(Clicking on the image above brings you to the food replicas slide show).

Check out more Japan posts here.

Gods Hidden in Plain Sight

2010-07-01T14:07:00.000-04:00

Weary after a long day of sightseeing in Nikko, a city known for its scenic beauty and boasting of four UNESCO World Heritage Sites, I was eager to get back to the Turtle Inn for a quick nap before dinnertime. However, as the ryokan crept into view, my eagerness to cram in one last stop in my itinerary won out, and I turned around to follow the path alongside the Daiya River that led to the row of jizo bosatsu (seated jizo).

Other than the powerful roar of the water that fed a hydroelectric dam nearby, silence prevailed all around. Not much excitement in this mainly residential part of Nikko. Unused to the absence of human activity, I wondered if I had taken a wrong turn somewhere, and consulted my map once more. Convinced that I hadn't, I continued on, passing by the newer Turtle Bay Inn annex on the right, and after the fifteen minute stroll eventually reached the moss-covered stone figures.

One of the most loved among divinities, jizo statues are considered the guardian deities of children and travelers. This set is called Bakejizo (Deceiving Jizo), based on the myth that no matter how often one counts, the number of jizos always seems to change. (My efforts to keep count went haywire once I started taking photos).

The Bakejizo come in different shapes and sizes ranging from tiny to life-size, perhaps to represent the spirits of both babies and adults. Unfortunately, some statues have been totally destroyed, with only stones or red caps marking their spot.

Even from afar, the red-capped statues make for a pretty sight; my initial impression was that they were either deep in meditation, or were patiently waiting for their meal to be served, red bibs flapping and all. Though most look pretty solemn, bored or asleep, a few had traces of a smile on their faces, as if recalling a fond memory or an inside joke.

I pretty much had the jizo all to myself - the tranquility of the surroundings was calming, yet at the same time scary. I half-expected to be startled by the sound of cracking twigs, human voices, or one of the statues suddenly springing to life at any moment. None of these scenarios came to fruition though. Quite a sharp contrast to the crowds at the temples and shrines I had visited the same morning.

Later, as I consulted assorted travel literature, the Bakejizo were scarcely mentioned at all, and only appear in one map - the same one I had in my pocket, by coincidence. One suspects the jizo, with the sounds emanating from the river their sole accompaniment, prefer it that way.

Check out more Japan posts here.

All aboard the Sushi Train!

2010-06-25T09:17:00.003-04:00

Japanese food is one of my favorite cuisines, if not my most favorite. Although New York City has tons of Japanese restaurants offering sushi, yakitori, ramen, and even curry, I haven't really found one that offers conveyor belt sushi.

There are probably a few places out there that I'm not aware of, but they're far from being ubiquitous, unlike in say, Australia, where the conveyor belt sushi ("Oh, the sushi trains!", exclaimed my Aussie friend) places are everywhere, usually operated by proprietors of Japanese descent. Great for them, but why not NYC? Isn't that strange?

Sushi Train video

If you've never heard of conveyor belt sushi, that's exactly what it is. The sushi plates are placed on a rotating belt that moves around the sushi bar, with prices varying according to the color of the plate. As the plate that catches your fancy passes by, simply reach out and grab it from the belt. Your bill will be tallied up after wards according to the number and color of plates you have consumed.

Fortunately, my vacation in Japan gave me a couple of opportunities to hop aboard the sushi trains, so to speak. Not that I made it a point to do any research on kaiten sushi places, but rather stumbled upon them while sightseeing - one in Shinjuku, Tokyo, and the other in downtown Kyoto.

During my initial conveyor belt sushi experience, it took me a few moments after sitting down at the counter to figure things out, like where the tea cups were and how to get water from the nearby spigot. Everything is truly self-service, although the staff is happy to assist if you wish to ask the chef for a custom order.

Watching the sushi rolling merrily along the train tracks proved quite entertaining, though the signs puzzled me since I don't speak any Japanese. Sushi plate prices are clearly indicated on a chart and start at around $1.50 for two pieces of fish (e.g. tuna, salmon), and increase for more special items (e.g. eel).

Sushi Train video

I found the conveyor belt sushi dishes to be quite fresh and delicious, contrary to some people's dismissive attitude towards kaiten sushi places as being "fast food sushi". Since they're part and parcel of Japanese culture, some of the world's most meticulous consumers, I wasn't surprised about the high quality standards though.

On each occasion, empty plates 8 or 9 deep were stacked up in front of me at the end of the meal. The self-service aspect also meant lunch took less than half an hour, leaving more time for on-a-full-stomach post-meal contemplation: why aren't conveyor belt sushi restaurants more common in New York City (or the USA in general)?

A Photo Walking Tour of Boston's Back Bay

2010-01-27T20:53:00.025-05:00

As we crossed the street into Boston's Copley Place, I spotted Saba, proprietress and tour leader for Boston's PhotoWalks, standing beside Science along with two other participants in today's photo walking tour of the Back Bay neighborhood.

Such was our delight at the historical facts and better photography tips we learned during yesterday's Beacon Hill walking tour that we mustered the enthusiasm to embark on another photo walk, despite today's frigid temps and howling winds. Disconcertingly enough, the staff at our hotel shrugged off the abysmal weather as being "normal" for this time of year. Oh well, we decided to just pile on the layers and soldier on.

After exchanging introductions with the two women who braved the conditions, Saba started off the photo walking tour by telling us about the two statues guarding the entrance to Boston's public library - Science (the appointed meeting spot) and Art. Again, she demonstrated various creative ways of composing our photos and suggested different angles to shoot them from. One of my favorite pics is the one above - taken behind the statue of Science facing out to Copley Square, with the John Hancock tower in the background.

We crossed over to Copley Square for photos of John Copley's statue, Trinity Church's reflection on the John Hancock tower, and a few from inside the church which provided a brief refuge from the cold. Afterwards, though a bit reluctant to leave the warm surroundings, it was time for more photos!

A short walk led us to the heart of the Back Bay neighborhood, Commonwealth Avenue, with its numerous statues situated on the grassy mall bisecting the wide boulevard. I couldn't help but notice the contrast between the two neighborhoods that we took photo walking tours in - the narrow, cobblestone, gas-lit bucolic alleys of Beacon Hill versus the wide streets of Back Bay lined with numerous upscale restaurants and shops - a rough comparison in New York City would be the West Village vs. the Upper East Side, I thought.

Easily my favorite set of statues were the bronze trio which composed the Boston Women's Memorial, all of whom were known for their writing (among other things, of course). They provided excellent opportunities for some extreme close up pictures (including a quill pen and hair bun) that Saba suggested which turned out quite well and are included in the complete set of photos here.

After the walking tour finished, we strolled over to the nearby Christian Science center to view its massive reflecting pool. Unfortunately, the pool turned out to be emptied of its contents during the winter months, so instead we just took photos of the surrounding Prudential Tower complex. As we passed a nearby solar powered garbage compactor, I noticed the solar panels atop the brown receptacle and my newly-developed instinct for sniffing out unique photo angles kicked in and voila! - a magnificent shot of the towers' reflection, wouldn't you say?

Check out the complete photo album from the Back Bay photo walk.

More posts from Boston here.

A Walking tour of Boston's Beacon Hill with PhotoWalks

2010-01-18T14:16:00.003-05:00

Stamping my foot on the ground as if that would somehow comfort my frozen toes, I wondered if taking this photo walking tour of Boston's charming Beacon Hill neighborhood would be worth enduring the shivering cold for.

I was standing at the appointed meeting spot in front of the Robert Gould Shaw memorial, staring at the golden dome of the Massachusetts state house across the street, fiddling with my camera settings while waiting for the Photowalks tour guide to show up. A typical tourist activity, yes. But not quite so typical on a January weekend in New England, which explained why only myself and my brother signed up for today's walk around Beacon Hill.

What had possessed me to suggest taking this tour in such appalling weather anyway? My fascination in exploring historic, charming neighborhoods in Boston, for one, but a "regular" walking tour would suffice for that. What caught my eye on the PhotoWalks website was their emphasis not only on history, but also on providing tips on taking better, more creative pictures. Being an avid traveller who loves to document my trips, in both prose and photos, but being quite unsavvy in the latter as far as photo composition techniques and eschewing fancy camera equipment in favor of an easy-to-use point-and-shoot, a photo walking tour seemed tailor-made for me. In short, I really just wanted to stop tormenting my friends and blog readers with lousy vacation pictures.

Pretty soon, Saba Alhadi, founder of Boston PhotoWalks and our guide for today, arrived and the tour was on! Since we were already conveniently standing in front of it, Saba directed our attention to the Shaw memorial.
After a brief explanation of the main protagonists Captain Robert Shaw and his regiment, the first ever African-American soldiers who saw battle in the civil War, she instructed me where to stand to block out the sunlight, and demonstrating with her own camera (point 'n shoot!), Saba showed a few creative close-up shots that we could take highlighting different parts of the soldiers' and horse's anatomy.

The goal was that instead of taking a standard, boring, flat photo of the entire memorial, our pictures would capture the figures' action and dynamism. Most of the time, this involved finding the correct angle to take the photo from, and remembering standard advice (which she dispensed to amateur me) such as moving in physically closer to the object being photographed instead of using your camera's zoom feature, and foregoing the use of flash in conditions where lighting is sufficient. We repeated this creative photo-taking exercise with the Massachusetts state house, and I was quite pleased with the result (photo at top of article).

We moved on into the Beacon Hill neighborhood proper, with its trademark gas lamps lining the small, narrow streets. The quiet elegance and tranquility of Beacon Hill appealed to me, and I made a mental note to consider the neighborhood if ever I moved to Beantown in the future, quite conveniently ignoring the concept of affordability. Back to Photowalks mode, Beacon Hill is a minefield of photo opportunities, as every salivating tourist knows. Seeing me starting to take a picture of a gas lamp decorated with holiday wreaths, Saba gently suggested slightly tilting the camera to one side for a more creative take on the photo (the left-most among the three small pictures above). Hmmm...why hadn't I thought of that before?

In addition to historical facts about Beacon Hill and Saba's anecdotes about famous writers and residents, what I found most incredibly useful after 1.5 hours of the photo walk (with stops in St. Louisburg Square and the most photographed street in Boston, Acorn St.) were Saba's ideas for photo opportunities that I simply did not notice, such as windows with beautiful reflections of the buildings opposite, door knockers, houses with lovely arched doorways and other unique architectural details, ice particles that had formed, and so on.

Embarrassing to admit, but if I were exploring on my own, most of these details would have escaped me, and my pictures would be much lamer. And I suppose that is what seasoned photographers have that an inept newbie needs to develop - an eye for noticing and appreciating the beauty in mundane objects, then capturing them in images that make them transcend their ordinariness. Quite a mouthful, I know, but that's one of the lessons I learned from this fun and interesting experience, which I wholeheartedly recommend to anyone. Yes, even in the dead cold of a New England winter.

Click here to view the complete album from the Beacon Hill photo walking tour.

Top 10 Travel Destinations in 2010

2010-01-01T14:48:00.007-05:00

2010 marks the start of a new decade. As always, avid travelers like to ring in the New Year with high hopes for opportunities to visit more exotic destinations and experience cultures totally the opposite from one's own. With so many choices, the problem really is deciding where to go

Fortunately, there is no shortage of publications and websites eager to help you decide, thus the proliferation of "Top 10 Destinations for 2010", or something similarly named. I personally like to scan these lists for fun but don't put much stock in their opinion - after all, everyone travels for different purposes and appreciates different things.

However, if you''re the sort who loves Top 10 lists or are in severe need of travel destination ideas, they might prove helpful in that regard. Here are a couple of Top 10 Travel Destinations lists that I've found online.

Lonely Planet - Top 10 Hottest Countries for 2010

The leading purveyor of travel guidebooks has published their list of the "hottest countries" (somehow I know they're not referring to celcius) for 2010 in this article. I've made it easy and listed the countries below:

1> El Salvador
2> Germany
3> Greece
4> Malaysia
5> Morocco
6> Nepal
7> New Zealand
8> Portugal
9> Suriname
10> USA

Quite an eclectic list, I must say. The article outlines the rationale for each Top 10 Country selection, in case you're interested. I'm pleased to see El Salvador, long an underappreciated country in Central America bypassed by travelers in favor of Guatemala or Costa Rica, make the cut and have fond memories of my trip there a year ago. This makes a nice segue into a shameless plug for "Five Reasons to visit El Salvador", which I wrote afterwards.

Lonely Planet - Top 10 Best Value Destinations for 2010

Confusingly, LP also has a separate list for cheapskates, er...travelers on a tight budget. Below are the ten destinations that made the cut:

1> Iceland
2> Thailand
3> London
4> South Africa
5> Malaysia
6> Mexico
7> India
8> Bulgaria
9> Kenya
10> Las Vegas

A pretty eclectic mix, I thought, with mainstays Thailand, India, and Mexico joined by somewhat unconventional choices Iceland and London. It's takes some suspension of disbelief to consider these two places as value destinations, but I suppose each global economic crisis has a silver lining. On a recent visit, I did find that prices in Iceland are still on the high side, though not outrageously so, as the case was before that country's economy went down the drain.

Budget Travel - Top Budget Travel Destinations for 2010

This highly respected website, magazine and guidebook publisher founded by the legendary Arthur Frommer has a Top 10 list that focuses on the "new best- value destinations", as befits its mission to promote "Real vacations for real people". Suitable indeed for the rest of us who neither stay in fancy five-star hotels nor dine in Michelin-rated restaurants yet are unwilling to endure another lame "staycation".

1> Portland, Oregon
2> Las Vegas
3> Glacier National park, Montana
4> Baja California, Mexico
5> Samana Peninsula, Dominican Republic
6> Rio de Janeiro
7> Buenos Aires
8> Vienna
9> Sydney
10> Hanoi, Vietnam

Some appealing options, really. I've always wanted to experience Carnival in Rio and have heard lots about the cheap cuts of steak waiting to be devoured in Buenos Aires. Oh wait, I forgot I'm on a diet. LOL.

I'm sure a simple Google search will uncover about a million different Top 10 travel destinations for 2010 lists. Hopefully the ones enumerated above got you thinking about your own travel plans.

Sólhei-what? Frolicking on an Icelandic glacier

2009-12-22T13:13:00.018-05:00

Yesterday's Golden Circle adventure had whetted R. and my appetite to see more of Iceland's magnificent natural wonders, so today we decided to go to the South Shore. The weather wasn't cooperating though - snow was falling fast outside and showed no signs of letting up.

A few minutes before the appointed pickup time, the tour operator called up the Fosshotel Lind reception and asked to talk to us. Uh oh, Houston - it seems like we have a problem. True enough, the South Shore tour was cancelled for the day, much to our dismay.

Luckily, Perla, who was on duty behind the reception desk, sensed our plight and swung into action. She suggested calling Reykjavik Excursions to inquire if their tour was pushing through or not. Within a matter of minutes, Perla had spoken to their representative and arranged the hotel pickup, just in the nick of time and thus saving the day. Takk!

While the day's adventure visited a number of memorable destinations including the waterfalls Skogafoss (short and stocky) and Seljalandsfoss (tall and skinny), as well as the black sand beach (abeit covered with snow) at the village Vik, easily the highlight was the visit to the protruding glacier tongue of Sólheimajökull. Typical of long Icelandic names, I was fearful of causing offense by mangling its name, so I declare this tongue-twister unpronounceable.

Not sure if I contributed to the glacier receding, but it was impossible to resist lying on its surface and taking small pieces of the ice which according to the guide could be eaten, slight brownish coat of dirt notwithstanding. "Really?", I was incredulous but did it anyway. Other than that R. and I busied ourselves taking pics posing inside Sólhei-what's various crevices.

A group of active-looking types arrived at roughly the same time wearing proper clothing and carrying the right equipment for hiking atop Sólhei-what. I later discovered that this is quite a popular pastime, and an easy way to do so would be to join a tour led by outfitters such as Icelandic Mountain Guides, who offers all sorts of outdoor activities ranging from ice climbing to horseback riding. Their Sólhei-what glacier walk was recently featured in the Reykjavik Grapevine, the best source for everything happening in Iceland.

Oh well, I looked wistfully - maybe next time, on another longer visit to Iceland. Just don't ask me to pronounce Sólheimajökull.

Check out more Iceland posts here.

The Golden Arches Packed Up Their Knives and Left, no Padma needed

2009-12-19T18:37:00.022-05:00

I didn't quite know what to make of this cartoon that recently appeared on the front page of the Reykjavik Grapevine, a weekly paper that chronicles all things happening in the capital city of Iceland. A brief backgrounder: In late October 2009, the global fast food chain McDonald's announced that they were closing all three outlets in Iceland due to high operating costs brought about by the worldwide financial crisis. Importing all those buns, beef, and ketchup became too expensive.

Hence, the Reykjavik Grapevine decided to come up with "Three Reasons why Icelanders will miss McDonald's". At first glance, and keeping in mind my brief introduction to Icelandic humor (chronicled here), I burst out laughing and marvelled at the sarcasm of the creators. Freaking brilliant, I thought.

Later on, the more I obsessed about it, doubts crept into my mind. Was it satire, or was there a grain of truth buried somewhere? Imagine your neighborhood McDonald's closing down - would you say, "Oh well, such is life" and move on, or would you be urging your congressman to give them a bailout? Maybe the Icelanders were sad about losing the Golden Arches.

So I went back and forth, back and forth - don't McDonald's burgers contain real beef? Or were they lying all this time and it was really some synthetic stuff like those healthy veggie burgers that I switched to that taste like cardboard? (Counter argument: Maybe Icelanders simply don't like beef. They do eat a lot of seafood). And I conscientiously drop loose change into those collection bins for the Ronald McDonald House, was that a scam too? (Rebuttal: Maybe Icelanders don't like giving to charity and expect their government to take care of everyone's welfare).

Finally I came to "McDonald's employees are happy". Really? Since when? Unless the counter people in Reykjavik had drastically different demeanors from the ones in New York, "happy" isn't the word I'd use to describe them. Unmotivated and unhurried are more like it. No counter argument will convince me otherwise.

So, after all this analysis, I have to go with my initial impression. It is satire. I think. Whatever. Here's a Reuters article (with video) chronicling Icelanders lining up for their last Big Mac.

P.S. That is one mighty scary looking Ronald McDonald who does look like he loves ~~to eat~~ children.

Check out more Iceland posts here.

Welcome aboard Icelandair - Langloka: $5; Dry Icelandic Humor: Priceless

2009-12-16T21:37:00.049-05:00

"So why on earth are you going to Iceland this time of year?", numerous baffled friends inquired when apprised of my plans. They had a point - checking the weather online for Reykjavik confirmed my suspicion that it would be freezing cold, snowing, and with about five hours of daylight (sunrise @11am, anyone?).

I couldn't really pinpoint a specific reason, though I've always had this notion of Iceland as an exotic destination (not because of Bjork, mind you) with its numerous waterfalls, glaciers, and landscape. Moreover, I've read and heard about the famously hedonistic nightlife scene ("the best in all of Europe"), the abundance of tall, blonde Icelandic women who won't look out of place at a fashion shoot (or Miss World contest), and of course, the Blue Lagoon.

But the real reason was far more practical - great deals that Icelandair was offering on their air/hotel packages made travelling to Iceland at least a bit affordable. (The ads were ubiquitous, a few friends mentioned seeing them inside NYC subway cars). Coupled with the US dollar's doubling in value vis-a-vis the Icelandic krona, and the fact that I didn't want to sit at home for 4 days during the Thanksgiving holiday, the timing felt right. Plus, by coincidence R. was thinking of going to Iceland as well, so we booked the Icelandair package online.

So, never having been on an Icelandair flight, I didn't know what to expect. The flight from JFK to Reykjavik took only 5 hours non-stop, so I figured an Icelandic dinner would be served (whatever that is), followed by a short nap, and voila - welcome to Reykjavik! As it turned out, food on board Icelandair wasn't free and choice was somewhat limited - the veggie wrap and Langloka (ham and cheese baguette, pictured above) were both 4 euros*, and some sort of chicken salad was selling for 9 euros. Drinks other than cola, juice, and water also wasn't free. (That did not stop the Ukrainian woman beside me from downing a few shots of vodka though).

Luckily, we were seated in the back of the plane and got served first, because the buying process was excruciatingly long. The flight attendants carried these handheld devices for swiping your credit card, which was pretty nifty, but still I wouldn't want to be seated in row 5. By the time I had finished devouring the Langloka (amazingly good for airline food), the attendant had advanced all of three rows. Instead of the nap I intended to take, I spent the rest of the flight being entertained by the funny Icelandic history and cultural tidbits printed on the napkins, food cartons, and seat backs. Dare I say I even found them educational. Who knew Icelanders had a great sense of humor?

*4 euros = $6 at current exchange rates. I only got charged $5 though. Go figure. Attention Icelandair accounting department!!!

Check out more Iceland posts here.

Meet the Fosses*

2009-12-09T14:03:00.019-05:00

*Foss = waterfall. As I'm sure the legions of Icelanders reading this blog will say, "Fosses" is NOT the plural of foss. I was going for a (hopefully) clever reference to a Ben Stiller movie which I have not actually seen.

(Photo: Gullfoss, Iceland). Walking behind the Niagara Falls was a truly unique and unforgettable experience. It makes one appreciate how powerful the falls are, since this is as up-close-and-personal as you can ever get. Donning that flimsy yellow poncho and trying not to cringe at the thought of 8,529 people who had previously worn my rented shoes, I said to myself, "THIS made the 8-hour drive truly worthwhile".
Heck, getting spitzed by the water (don't get those cameras wet!) was so much fun that we decided to go around twice - I'm sure the group photos are on someone's hard drive somewhere, since that was over a decade ago and I've lost touch with everyone.

Don't shed any tears though. The Niagara Falls were probably the first ones I ever saw, and attracted by their beauty (especially the horseshoe-shaped one on the Canada side) and the force of the cascades threatening to obliterate anything in its path made me seek out waterfalls on trips since then. Let's see - memorable ones include those along the Route of the Waterfalls in Banos (Ecuador), Los Chorros in Juayua (El Salvador) with its bathing pool (pictured), and the puny ones on the Loboc River in Bohol (Philippines). While none of these were as gigantic and powerful as Niagara, it's quite interesting to see the different shapes and sizes they come in.

Gullfoss is perhaps Iceland's most famous waterfall, owing to it being part of the famous Golden Circle. Every tourist in Iceland at some point must have visited Gullfoss. These falls aren't that tall (only 32 meters), but the split-level shape (or double cascade) is quite unique. The water then plunges into a narrow crevice that is at a right angle to the flow of the water. I find it extremely beautiful covered in snow.

Gullfoss Youtube video

This one below, Oxararfoss, is inside another famous historical attraction, the Thingvellir National Park, more known for being the site of the world's first-ever parliament (outdoors, to boot!!). If you're wondering how they coped with the cold weather, I am too. Oxararfoss empties out into - hold your breath - the Drekkingarhylur (these Icelandic names are simply unpronounceable!), aka "Drowning pool". That was how capital punishment was meted out in the old days. Guilty people were put in sacks and drowned in Drekk. Isn't Oxararfoss lovely frozen over? (shivering)

Oxararfoss Youtube video

Now we come to the one which was the most fun, Skogafoss. This waterfall (62 meters tall, 25 meters wide) topples over a cliff with great force producing lots of mist. It's relatively simple to walk all the way up to the foot of the falls to feel the intensity. However, unluckily enough the path has frozen over, so it's akin to walking on a carpet made of ice cubes. Despite the obvious danger involved, I continued walking towards Skogafoss, focusing simultaneously on shooting the video and trying not to fall on my butt. (The length bloggers go to for their audience's pleasure). Notice the guy in the video walking in my direction. Initially he appears headless but then emerges whole. Initially I thought that was due to the mist, but more likely a smudge in the camera lens. Nevertheless, got a big kick out of that one (as I normally do).

Skogafoss Youtube video

Check out more Iceland posts here.

Saegreifinn's World-Famous Lobster Soup (plus some Mink Whale)

2009-12-03T23:08:00.010-05:00

I knew vaguely that Mark Bittman was a food writer for the New York Times, though I never really followed his blog posts. And then I saw a couple of episodes of the TV show "Spain: On the Road Again", where he and three cohorts (including the actress Gywneth Paltrow and famous chef Mario Batali) savor culinary delights all throughout Spain. Oh, so that's him...then I promptly forgot what he looked like. Honestly, what male would take their eyes off the lovely Claudia Bassols for one second to look at some guy?!

My opinion turned in his favor though, when R. sent me his review of the seafood restaurant Saegreifinn. Bittman raved about the lobster soup at this rustic shack situated right by the harbor in downtown Reykjavik. My appetite was whetted further after reading yet more press about Saegreifinn - see owner Kjartan joking around with a journalist in this Three Sheets Iceland video, as well as a Amateur Traveller podcast mentioning Saegreifinn and yes, the lobster soup.

Scanning the assortment of fish skewers on display, the mink whale caught me eye - I asked the lady manning the counter what it tasted like. She replied, "Somewhere between beef and liver". Though not especially fond of liver, my adventurous instinct was unable to resist such a novelty, thus I decided that mink whale it would be. You know, in the spirit of "When in Reykjavik...". And of course, a steaming bowl of lobster soup each for R. and I, shivering as we were from the freezing temps.

(Note: Before you hate me, mink whales are not endangered, and it is legal to eat them).

The much-hyped, world-famous lobster soup lived up to its billing. Slightly sweet, filled with chunks of local lobster (see pic). The mink whale? Well, the waitress' description was right on target - it looked like beef and tasted like liver. Neither great nor bad, though we both agreed that R.'s grilled cod was the tastier dish between the two, and that Saegreifinn's reasonably-priced seafood is a welcome departure from most of Reykjavik's dining scene where sticker shock is the norm.

On the way out, guess what I spotted tacked on the wall by the door - a yellowed newspaper clipping of Mark Bittman's review, no less. Well done, MB. Maybe now I'll pay closer attention to "Bitten". Just maybe.

Check out more Iceland posts here.

Hi, I'm Vatnsleysufoss...please call me Faxi

2009-12-02T21:26:00.004-05:00

Quite a number of tour operators in Reykjavik offer the day-long excursion to the "Golden Circle" (the Icelandic tourist board's brilliant marketing term) - the trifecta of south Iceland's most popular historical sights consisting of the Geysir (hot water shooting up into the air), Gullfoss (thundering two-level waterfalls), and Thingvellir national park (site of the world's first-ever parliament, outdoors to boot).

So, for the traveller spending only a few days in Iceland, this tour is one of the must-dos. The only decision really is which mode of transport to take. The biggest company, Reykjavik Excursions, operates huge tourist buses that accommodate about fifty people, while a host of smaller companies like Go Travel Iceland use more intimate mini-buses that can seat roughly twenty or so. Thus, it was a no-brainer for R. and I - we decided to book the Go Travel Iceland tour for the next day. Our driver/guide was Gummi, an affable man full of information about Iceland, its history, and sights - all told with dry humor that kept it fun for the passengers.

Since these three main attractions are located relatively not far from Iceland's capital Reykjavik, and somewhat close to each other, it makes you wonder why the bus tours take 8 hours. If you bother to read the trip itinerary, buried in the fine print (if mentioned at all) are other stops along the way including the Kerið volcano crater (pretty cool, pun intended), Hveragerði greenhouse village (residents live above the hot springs, risking total destruction of their homes), Skálholt church (fascinating mosaic tile image of Christ, as pictured), and the Nesjavellir geothermal power plant (nice - if staring at heavy machinery turns you on).

For me though, the biggest pleasant surprise among all these "extras" was the Vantnsleysufoss (or Faxi, a widely-used name for horses), one of the lesser-known waterfalls even among Icelanders, as Gummi pointed out. (True enough, no mention of Vatnsleysufoss in either Lonely Planet or Rough Guides). Located just seconds off the main road, people drive past it all the time - oblivious to Faxi's beauty. Their loss, I say.

Note: Be sure not to miss the guy who climbed to the left hand side of the waterfalls (in the first few seconds).

Watch the Youtube video

Check out more Iceland posts here.

Going Dutch in the Philippines

2009-09-29T21:34:00.026-04:00

Check out Philippine slide show
(I'm too lazy to read)

Video: "Eating Mussels the Belgian Way"

I must have been so enamored of the sights, museums, peeing statues or comic strip murals, but my newly-found liking for Belgian beer was the main culprit in my inexcusable gastronomic oversight. The main focus was on trying a different Belgian beer at each meal, thus after an eternity - four whole days - in Belgium I still hadn't even partaken of their national dish - a pot of steaming mussels, marinated in the sauce of your choice. So, at dinnertime I casually mentioned it to Luc.

"Mussels? You want mussels?", he sounded incredulous.
"Of course I want mussels! I'm in Belgium, am I not?", said I.
"Now?!", Luc wanted to know.

Sensing my eagerness, he pondered this matter for a few minutes, then finally weighed in. "Well, we could go to any of the restaurants around here", waving his hand to indicate the establishments circling the market square in Ghent. "All of them are good, but if you can hold on for one more day I will take you to the best place for mussels in all of Belgium."

The best mussels in Belgium? Who could resist such an offer? Later, Luc elaborated a bit more on his plan, but did not give away most of the details. He only instructed me to wait at the hostel the following morning, and he'd drop by in his car since the place was roughly an hour away. At the sound of the word "car", my ears perked up. Roadtrip!!

It was a gorgeous late summer day. Luc showed up at the appointed hour in his open-top Mercedes, and minutes later we were on the highway. To where? "We're going to cross the border into the Netherlands and visit a small town known for their mussels".

Whoa?! I could scarcely believe his words. After days of extolling the virtues of Belgian cuisine and beer, lambasting Dutch food as "inedible", and joking (or maybe he wasn't) that "we use Heineken to wash dishes", now we're going to Dutch country to wolf down the national dish of Belgium? Excuse me, but my mathematical brain is screaming "This does not compute!".

"It's quite simple, really", Luc admitted, somewhat sheepishly, "Most of the mussels consumed in Belgium are actually grown in the Netherlands". So there. One of life's great ironies. He added, "And this part of Netherlands used to be part of Belgium, and even up to now they identify more closely with us". We quickly drove through the Belgian countryside into arch-rival territory (customs control paid no heed), turned off the main highway into a narrow two-lane road, and soon Luc was giving me a lesson on license plate design. "See that car in front of us? The red and white plate? That's registered in Belgium. I bet he's going to the same place as we are". Considering that the area consisted solely of corn fields and small towns of the "don't blink or you'll miss it" variety, that seemed like a safe bet.

Yet another surprise was in store for me. As we neared Musseltown, I strained my eyes to read the welcome sign and burst out laughing. "Welcome to Philippine". So, this was where everyone flocked for jumbo mussels - a tiny town named after Spain's King Philip II (factoid of the day: the Spanish ruled the Netherlands in the 1500s) consisting of eight restaurants specializing in mussels served in huge pots.

Our restaurant, smack right in front of the town's giant Mussel monument (picture somewhere in the slide show), served them "all-you-can-eat" style for about EUR 26. Salivating at the thought of going hog wild and with the drive making us hungry, Luc and I worked on the initial pot with great enthusiasm. Amused at my efforts to separate the mussels from their shells, he did take time out to demonstrate the "Belgian way" of eating mussels, elegant in its efficiency.

Much to our dismay, even our combined efforts were not enough to finish this one (and we tried to ignore the Belgian fries). I attributed our failure to the fact that the mussels were incredibly huge, "jumbo" seemed quite the understatement. Our waitress remarked sympathetically, "Yes, it is quite a lot of food - about 3.5 kilos", which caused my jaw to drop (and my head to spin from all that uric acid), before scurrying off to attend to the two busloads of senior citizen day trippers from Wallonia. I couldn't help but smile at the thought of Philippine as an unlikely foodie destination. The Dutch might have their culinary failings, but Belgian food here is first-rate.

P.S. This is the last post from the Belgium chronicles. Thanks for reading! If you've missed the previous posts or wish to be entertained by my fine writing yet again, here are all the Belgium posts. I'm off to plan the next adventure.

A Liberal Sprinkling of Foot Powder is in Order

2009-09-27T21:03:00.002-04:00

After an entire day of sightseeing, I greeted Luc's suggestion of a pre-dinner drink with great enthusiasm, eager as I was to sample yet another of Belgium's fine beers. We made our way to the Dulle Griet bar situated right by the market square in Ghent, which boasts a selection of over 250 beers. We plopped ourselves at one of the outdoor tables, and soon the waiter arrived.

Luc had suggested we try Kwak beer, partly due to its distinctive round bottomed glass, held in place by a wooden stand. (This brought back unpleasant memories of Chemistry lab in college, a subject I passed solely based on my skill in picking lab partners). The waiter replied that since these Kwak beer glasses are among the most favored by fleet-footed, sticky-fingered customers, then we'd have to consume the beers inside. Reluctantly, we left the nice weather outside and found a table indoors. Although quite a popular local and tourist hangout, at the moment it was somewhat empty.

After confirming that we indeed wanted to drink Kwak, the waiter then made quite an unusual request. "Please give me one of your shoes". Confused, I glanced quizzically at Luc, in case something got lost in translation. He smiled and nodded, confirming that I had heard correctly. "What's he gonna do with our shoes?", I asked, wondering aloud more than expecting an answer from him. Turning to the waiter, I asked "Are you sure?!" Not that I doubted his grasp of English, but my question was more out of concern for his health, as I pictured his fingers handling one of the well-worn brown sandals which my bare feet had logged miles in during the trip, and which I imagined must surely be fermenting with various strains of bacteria, microbes, dust, dirt, and other undesirable elements visible only under a microscope in...where else? Chemistry lab! (Involuntary shiver).

His nonchalant demeanor indicated that he had made this request countless times, so Luc and I surrendered a shoe each. Our footwear was put inside a metal wire basket, then pulled up by rope to its place by the ceiling. Out of reach except to staff. Would-be snatchers of the Kwak glass surely would be fidgeting by now, especially if they wore their best Nike sneakers.

Luc and I had barely finished laughing over this episode, when another suprise greeted us. The beers were huge! Twice as tall as we had expected. How on earth were we gonna finish THAT?! Well, the answer is, quite obviously, to drink slowly. It's quite hard to gulp down all 1.2 liters of high alcohol beer in a matter of minutes. The brilliant design of the glass made that close to impossible anyway. As the level of beer drops lower, the more extra careful you have to be in tilting the glass at a proper angle to consume the remaining content (we demonstrate this technique superbly in the complete slide show). Tilt the glass a bit too much, and your shirt will be drenched with sweet-smelling Kwak.

Left with no alternative, Luc and I took our time in finishing our respective drinks,. Pretty soon, more patrons arrived at Dulle Griet including another Belgian local escorting three visitors from Spain. They sat at the adjoining table, and spying our unusual beer glasses, the Spaniards asked their host about our drink. The local, undoubtedly familar with the bar's patented anti-theft device, did his best to encourage them to order the same, while trying not to appear overly eager. Luc and I observed this little comedy with amusement, and were delighted that one of the guests fell neatly into the trap, and practically fall off her seat when faced with the shoe request. At that point, their Belgian host howled with laughter, as did we. She was a good sport though, and didn't hesitate in presenting an expensive looking boot. As the waiter operated the pulley to bring down the metal basket, I made my way to the rest room, gingerly walking with my right foot pressing against the cold cement floor, with my mind working overtime trying to figure out how to hide this monstrous glass inside my jacket pocket.

Check out the complete pictures from Dulle Griet bar here.

For more Belgium blog posts, click here.

NOT "In Bruges"

2009-09-25T21:58:00.001-04:00

In preparation for my trip to Belgium, I inquired among my friends if anyone had actually been there, and if so, which part(s). Unsurprisingly, a few had visited the lovely medieval town of Bruges, extolled its beauty, and wholeheartedly recommended a visit. Being the skeptical sort who becomes instinctively wary of popular and overly hyped destinations, I consulted my guidebooks and was swayed by both the Lonely Planet and Rough Guides, who were unanimous that Bruges was a "must see". Oh-kay.

Most Americans have heard of Bruges, either from the travel "expert" Rick Steves (whose endorsement is akin to a town hitting the Megamillions jackpot), or from the movie "In Bruges" starring Colin Farrell which came out in 2008. (Disclaimer: I borrowed the DVD from my library, renewed it for another week, and yet never got around to watching it). The movie was actually shot in Bruges too, and not in some Hollywood studio. Not that Bruges needed any help from Tinseltown, as its reputation for being the best-preserved medieval town in Belgium, its picturesque canals, and magnificent architecture all but ensure a year-round influx of tourists, and busloads of day trippers.

On my journey, I also spent a few days in the university city of Ghent, and couldn't resist the inevitable comparisons with Bruges. Both were charming, medieval towns, and offered those ubiquitous canal boat rides, with the one in Ghent by far the more enjoyable. I climbed up the narrow circular steps leading to the top of the each town's belfry tower and give the edge to Bruges' (higher, thus more strenuous exercise as well as better views). Food-wise, restaurants, bars, cafes, and tempting chocolate shops were bountiful everywhere. Additional points are scored by Bruges for having a Tintin shop, though Ghent one-ups them with a McDonald's outlet.

Yet, looking back, I realized that while both places were fun and interesting, I enjoyed myself more immensely in Ghent. WHY?! The decisive factor was most likely the liveliness of Ghent in contrast to Bruges, which kinda empties out at night after the daytrippers return to their respective travel bases. Moreover, Ghent had a more authentic, "un-touristy" feel (though of course there are quite a number of tourists) vis-a-vis the Disneyland atmosphere that prevails in Bruges.This is verified by my wholly unscientific Tourist Trap Indicator - the number of Japanese tour groups being led around like sheep by a umbrella-wielding guide. No wonder that while Bruges is the most popular destination in Belgium, survey after survey of Belgian natives invariably result in Ghent being voted the top destination they would like to visit in their own country. Can't argue with that. Now I'll go and rent that darned video again, and make sure to actually watch it this time.

For more photos of Ghent (20 or so), check out this slide show with hard-to-notice captions below each photo.

Check out more Belgium blog posts here.

Pictured above: (top pic) Ghent belfort tower, (bottom pic) Ghent's Gravensteen Castle (no castles in Bruges, ha!)

La Bande Dessinee is performing at a concert near you

2009-09-20T21:30:00.013-04:00

Check out Comic Strip Murals or Graffiti Walls

Bonus offer - More pics of Tintin and the Gang!

Ages ago, in an inspired attempt at self-improvement (and escape from boredom), I signed up for Beginner French language classes at the Alliance Francaise in Philadelphia after spotting their ad (avec la tour Eiffel, bien sûr!) in the free weekly paper. The class met for ten Tuesday nights at a convenient time; moreover, the school's building was a mere seven blocks from my own apartment building. "Parfait!", I exclaimed to myself, "I've always wanted to be a French-speaking snob!".

The day of the first session came. Seven of us sat around waiting for our instructor to arrive. Most had taken French language classes in high school and had promptly forgotten most of it due to either apathy or disuse, in contrast to myself who was starting from a clean slate. A bearded, heavy set man in his early 50s who bore a resemblance to Colonel Sanders sauntered into the room, and proceeded to write these phrases on the blackboard.

Je m'appelle ...
Tu t'appelles ...
Il/Elle s'appelle ...

He turned around to find seven faces staring at him in bewilderment. Pointing his hands towards his chest, he smiled and declared, "Bonsoir...je m'appelle Norman". And then, pointing straight at me, he demanded, "Monsieur, comment vous-appelez vous?".

I sat uncomprehendingly for about ten seconds, unsure how to reply. He sensed my hesitation and repeated his spiel. Sure, I got that his name was Norman, but what to say? Finally, he placed his finger beside the first line written on the board, and prompted me, "Je m'appelle...". Ah! "Je m'appelle Newman", I squeaked, which judging from the beam on his face, was right on the money.

The class continued in this manner. Norman would write stuff on the board, then ask the question while gesturing frantically with his hands to aid our brains in figuring out what information he was looking for. At times when it got too tedious and everyone frustrated, I thought "Well, if only he'd ask in English...". Turns out, I had unwittingly stumbled upon the Alliance Francaise's "immersion-style" methodology of teaching, which explicitly forbids the use of English! Merde!

Eventually we progressed to reading simple dialogues from the textbook. A particularly memorable snippet went as follows (rough English translations mine):

Renaud: Vous aimez la diva? (Do you like the diva? Referring to a opera star, perhaps)
Jean: Oui, j'aime beaucoup la diva (Yes, I'm a big fan).
Renaud: Vous aimez la bande dessinee aussi? (And something-called-the-bande-dessinee also?)

I must've spaced out in class, because I never did find out what "la bande dessinee" was and simply assumed it was some Gallic rock band popular among the youth. I was more intent on surviving the onslaught of new, unfamiliar words and conjugations, while trying to figure out how to drop out of the course with my dignity and French aspirations intact.

Fast forward to a decade later. In the midst of doing research about Brussels attractions, I reconnect with the same phrase and ponder...hmmm...Centre Belge de la Bande Dessinee, the Belgian comics strip center! So THAT's what it was. I had to laugh at myself for my mistaken assumption all these years, at the same time trying to contain my excitement at visiting the museum to view their exhibits of my favorite comics series, the Adventures of Tintin. (Captain Haddock is shown above, surprised at Tintin's unmasking).

Comic strips, also known as the Ninth Art, is part and parcel of Belgian culture. They are quite passionate about them! In addition to the world-famous journalist/boy detective Tintin, you've also probably heard of the Smurfs. These and other local comic strip heroes are immortalized in the various exhibits in this fine museum. You can also spend the better part of an afternoon walking along the comic strip route in Brussels trying to spot as many colorful murals adorning the sides of the buildings, some of which I captured in this slide show. If comics are not your thing, perhaps may I suggest another grittier art form - masterfully painted graffiti walls - but eye catching nonetheless.

P.S. For Tintin-holics, check out this video I recorded of "The Two Faces of Professor Calculus" (Professor Tournesol in French. Tournesol = sunflower. Now that's a head scratcher).

Halloween Costume Party in Sept?!

2009-09-18T21:59:00.013-04:00

Belgians can seem like a weird lot. Take for instance the capital of Brussels. Other than serving as the EU headquarters, most people regard it as boring and often it serves as a mere stopover on travelers’ itineraries making their way to vibrant Amsterdam or romantic Paris.

You’d think that having the world-renowned national symbol of Belgium here in Brussels would help,a few blocks away from the Grand Place. But what is the pride of this tiny nation? None other than the Manneken Pis (“Little Man Urinating”), a small bronze statue of a naked boy urinating into a fountain’s basin. (I’ll give you a few seconds to recover from the shock).

Manneken Pis new costume slide show

A veritable tourist trap flanked on all sides by chocolate shops, this much photographed landmark has several legends behind its origins which you can read here on Wikipedia (not that I’d put much stock in them), but my friend Luc told me that in reality, the statue was created in honor of the young boys in the 14th or 15th century who are hired to work in the leather tanning shops – their job is to piss on the leather hides contained inside the vats because this makes them softer – the secret to your Prada handbag, perhaps? Personally, I think Luc had a little too much Trappist brew at the Belgian Beer Fest.

Anyway, I figured that I might as well pop over to the Manneken Pis for a few photos, and then dash over to a pub. The tourist throngs were visible even from a distance, but as I neared the statue what caught my eye were ten or so masked revelers strutting around wearing colorful outfits more apt for a Venetian ball. Uniformed band members were resting nearby, tuning their instruments, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

While I jostled with other tourists for prime photo-taking territory and somewhat managed to sneak inside the cordoned off area for press and VIPs, Luc bumped into one of the festivity’s organizers who informed him that all this hullabaloo was due to the Manneken Pis being honored with yet another new costume – to add to his bulging closet containing 800-odd outfits! So you’re telling me this guy does not have to do laundry for 2 years. Who does he think he is – the Imelda Marcos of evening wear?

Without further ado, check out the photos (and captions) in this slide show. Let’s not even get started with Jeanneke Pis, the female counterpart of the Manneken Pis…another tale for another day.

For more Belgium blog posts, click here.

Let's Have "The Birds and the Beers" talk

2009-09-16T21:49:00.009-04:00

Beer is to Belgium as wine is to France. Beer drinking culture pervades this tiny country of 10.6 million people, with 150 breweries producing about 800 different types of specialty beer ranging from the world-renowned Trappist (brewed by monks inside monasteries), lambic (“wild” beers produced by spontaneous fermentation), and kriek (lambic beer mixed with cherries, a “ladies” beer), to mention a few.

In short, Belgians appreciate variety and high quality stuff, and despite the relatively high alcohol contents of their beers they rarely drink to excess nor get drunk.

One of the highlights of my week-long trip in Belgium was sampling a wide variety of their home brews with my friend Luc and his friend Carl, both of them beer connoisseurs whose houses are equipped with beer cellars. Their precious bottles reside there awaiting to be popped open on some unknown date for a special occasion.

Thanks to these two beer masters who served as drinking buddies and teachers, my beer adventures were loads of fun (as you shall see), and my crash course in Belgian Beer 101 ensures that I will never order a Bud Light again. Ever. Nor a Heineken ("80% Marketing, 20% Beer", sniffs Carl).

Follow our adventures in this beer slide show that I created. Note that each beer comes in its own distinctive glass with its own logo. Serving a Westmalle in a Chimay glass is guaranteed to incur the wrath of Belgian beer fans. Drinking from the bottle (as we do here) is an even bigger no-no. No plastic cups too, por favor.

For more Belgium blog posts, click here.

The New "Muscles from Brussels"

2009-09-14T20:32:00.009-04:00

Jean Claude van Damme ("JCVD") shot to Hollywood fame during the '90s and appeared as the protagonist in such hits as "Bloodsport", "Timecop", and my favorite, "Universal Solder", though it escapes me now if he was the perfect machine built to destroy mankind or if he saved all civilization from some misguided terrorist plot.

Due to his martial arts skills, muscular build, and Belgian heritage, the nickname "Muscles from Brussels" was coined - a perfect marketing slogan. In recent years though, his career and personal life have been in a free fall (including stints sleeping on the streets of LA), so now it's time to anoint a new hero to assume that title.

Watch the "Eating Mussels the Belgian Way" video

On a related note, mussels are considered Belgian's national dish, are usually served in big pots, and come in different flavors. They can be cooked in natural herbs, in white beer (usually Hoegaarden), provencale (tomatoes, onions), mariniere (white wine), or Thailandese/l'indienne (in curry). As with every dish, a side of Belgian "don't-call-them-French" fries serves as an accompaniment.

On my trip, I had mussels twice with my friend Luc, and after seeing him frown and shake his head at my ineptitude, Luc offered to demonstrate the "proper" Belgian technique for eating them. Even with no prior acting experience, he didn't appear nervous and performed his role confidently, needing only two takes. Take that, JCVD! A bright career is in store in La-la-land, I'm confident.

Although not keen on bulking up his physique like JCVD, Luc keeps fit by swimming, biking and running. Perfect profile to assume the mantle of the "NEW Muscles from Brussels"! Ok, if you think I'm delusional (or had too much Belgian beer) and it's a bit of a stretch, just watch the video right here ;-D

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Let's Go, El Salvador!

2009-02-16T22:40:00.014-05:00

Guess in which exotic locale I spent Christmas? No, not Paris nor Bora Bora nor the Maldives, but in Suchitoto, El Salvador. Suchi what? Yup, I admit to not knowing much about El Salvador myself, but that didn't stop me from going there on a three-country swing through Central America for the holidays - Guatemala, El Salvador, and Honduras.

Read below for 5 reasons why you should visit El Salvador, adapted from an article I wrote which can be accessed here.

Tourists, what tourists?

In contrast to the numerous tour buses disgorging passengers in Costa Rica or the expat communities that have sprouted in Guatemala, Westerners are still a rare sight in El Salvador. At times I felt like we were the only foreigners in town, until I spotted an elderly American couple browsing the market stalls in Juayua, and a group of Europeans in Suchitoto - hardly the avalanche one encounters elsewhere. So, if getting off the beaten path and escaping from hordes of guidebook-clutching tourists is your thing, El Salvador fits the bill.

Nice, friendly locals

For the most part, the only locals tourists interact with are those who work in the hotels, restaurants, and retail stores they frequent. Not so in El Salvador. If you speak even a tiny bit of Spanish, then chances are you will soon be chatting away with Salvadorans. Still unjaded by the
presence of foreigners, they are curious about your background and why you visited their country.
At the crowded food festival in Juayua, the matriach of the family seated at the adjoining table initiated a conversation with our group, and as the only one with Spanish language skills, I engaged in conversation with her for almost half an hour! The same thing happened in Suchitoto - I wandered into a modest hostel with gorgeous views of Lake Suchitlan, and shot the breeze with the husband and wife team who owned the place. Don't be surprised if Salvadorans mention a relative or two living somewhere in the United States, such is the size of their diaspora in our country.

Greenbacks rule

Annoyed at the hassles of lining up at the currency exchange window and tired of paying conversion fees? Here's a little-known fact. El Salvador has phased out the colon and now uses the US dollar as the official currency. It's just like being back home in the United States! So just bring your greenbacks, and with the relatively low cost of meals and items, you'll be pleasantly surprised at how far your dollars go in El Salvador.

Color, color everywhere

The town of La Palma, in particular, is a souvenir hunter's delight, with countless stores offering high quality hand-crafted and brightly-painted wooden souvenirs ranging from crosses to jewelry boxes to display figurines. Not to mention the traditional Mayan woven textiles that come in a virtual rainbow of colors.

However, not only are the souvenirs colorful, but the towns are too. Numerous murals depicting scenes from everyday life adorn walls and light posts in La Palma that are pleasing to the eyes and more importantly, convey the pride of Salvadorans in keeping their surroundings tidy as well as prevent these walls and light posts from being defaced with graffiti.

Juayua, in keeping with its status as one of the more attractive towns along the famed "Route of the Flowers", also has colorfully-drawn flowers and animals adorning its light posts. Only in El Salvador have I seen this.

It's all natural.

El Salvador offers a plethora of activities. Where to begin? For active types, how about a strenuous hike up the dirt road leading to El Pital (2730 meters), El Salvador's highest peak? For something truly once in a lifetime, how about a ride on one of those Vietnam War-era helicopters
that soars high above the volcanoes dotting the landscape, and gives a magnificent peek at the crater of Volcan Santa Ana? Don't worry, it's safe - the Air Force provides the helicopter! More laid back types can content themselves by taking a lancha on Lake Suchitlan and marvelling at the birds that inhabit the islands.

Or visit Los Chorros, a series of waterfalls about a half-hour ride outside Juayua, for a quick dip in the freezing, crystal clear water. Caffeine addicts will surely grab the chance to visit any one of El Salvador's coffee farms to learn the intricacies of how the coffee beans make their way to our local Starbucks. As you can see, the options are endless - and yes, I did all of these activities in one week!

Now that you're read this far, have these reasons to visit El Salvador convinced you yet?

Border Crossing into Cambodia

2008-08-06T14:32:00.016-04:00

I soon tired of the video entertainment on the bus bound for Phnom Penh and concentrated on trying to learn a few Khmer phrases which might come in handy for the next week. As we neared the border, the bus conductor (whom I will call Thuy) went around collecting everyone's passport, photo and $20 cash for the Cambodian visa. Although I already had my E-Visa (as told here) he still requested me to hand it over. A couple of hours later, Thuy went around trying to return the passports to their rightful owners. This basically involved flipping open each one, walking up and down the aisle searching for the matching mug, at times calling out the names when his facial scanning abilities proved inadequate. Now, repeat this process fifty times.
I casually opened mine and found a Cambodian entry card attached to my E-visa, all filled up by hand. People seated nearby also commented that Thuy had filled out their Cambodian visa application forms by hand. So apparently that's how a bus conductor occupies himself on this six hour intercity route - by painstakingly copying personal info from each passport onto the application forms and entry cards. As if getting yelled at by inconsiderate Irish girls wasn't bad enough. My seatmate Froso, who possessed a very striking Greek passport whose pages were replete with images from ancient times, complained that her application form was nowhere in sight. Thuy sheepishly admitted that he ran out of them, but would take care of the problem at the border. This process struck me as placing an unduly huge burden on the conductor. After all, providing the forms was itself an unexpected service - couldn't he have handed them around, with each traveller responsible for ensuring they were correctly filled out? Was Thuy part of some joint Khmer/Vietnamese government intelligence force responsible for first-line terrorist screening? Or perhaps the Benevolent Bus Conductors Association set up by the bus companies to ensure happy travels and minimal hassle to overland tourists? Alas, we probably shall never know.

The bus entered Cambodian territory, the passengers disembarked and collected their bags, and lined up at Vietnamese immigration to formally exit the country. Based on Thuy's instructions, we waited for him past the customs area and handed over our passports once more, which he meticulously stacks face up and delivers to one of the the immigration officers. At this point we were in a crowded, humid makeshift waiting area along with other tourists and passengers of countless other buses, all impatiently standing around and eager to enter Cambodia. Minutes passed, and as passports were processed by immigration, bus conductors yelled out their respective passengers' names and one by one those called filed out of the building. Given that the Vietnamese language has no less than six tones, some tourists could barely make out their own names and hesitated to come forward, leaving the bus conductor to resort to the more rudimentary facial recognition search pattern. Although I found this to be quite comical, unfortunately I was one of the last ones called, just when there were only 20 or so of us left in the once packed hall, thus the novelty had worn off and I was left cursing the heat, my hunger, and the damned inefficiency of the whole thing.

Outside, once Thuy had ascertained that each of the passengers had finished exiting Vietnam, we were back on the bus - for all of two minutes! The bus deposited us right outside the Cambodian border and told to disembark once more. As each of us walked past the border guard, we handed him our passports and walked on to - where? Not towards the Cambodian immigation hall, but rather, back on the bus!!! At this point, I'm thinking, "This is rather bizarre. Where are we driving to??". The bus continued on the main road, where the surreal sight of numerous casinos greeted us. Not quite as grandiose as Las Vegas, but still mystifying given that Cambodia is generally an impoverished country. Later my suspicions were confirmed that these casinos catered to Thai, Vietnamese, Chinese, Korean, and other visitors from nearby countries where gambling is not permitted. Quite perversely, Cambodians themselves are not allowed to gamble at these casinos which are present in most border towns. Quite worried about the fate of our passports and puzzled that no one else seemed to be, I turned to Bun and asked "Where exactly are we going?". He replied, "Going to have lunch, of course. No one knows how long it would take immigration to finish. Don't worry about it", his voice indicating vast experience with such matters.

That's it! Lunch, of course!! We had just spent hours on a bus, it was hot and way past noon, time for some chow. Our passports? Who cares that they were taken from us and their return somewhat nebulous?! So, the bus continued for a few kilometers past the casinos and parked outside one of the small roadside food stalls. The roadside cafeteria, though somewhat ramshackle and unispiring in appearance, offered seemingly tasty, hygienic and really cheap food, around $2 for an entree with rice, so pretty soon I was digging in and forgot the fact that I was travelling undocumented, but most tourists opted for "safe" American fare like cans of Pringles potato chips (no kidding!)...ummm, at least get some local brands of chips and snacks. My bottle of Angkor beer helped in beating the heat and made the wait somewhat more pleasant inside the fan-cooled cafeteria. After another hour or so of sitting around, all of us tourists were told to board the buses to continue on to Phnom Penh. Oh, and the passports - where exactly were they?! No one seemed to know, and our bus pulled out of the parking lot and idled on the roadside, waiting, waiting...for what?! For Godot? But this time, unlike in the play, Godot does arrive, in the form of Thuy, who had been conspicuously missing at the cafeteria and now scrambled onboard the bus carefully balancing a stack of fifty passports with both hands! Everyone cheered and applauded, and the first smile came from the perenially harassed Thuy's tired face that day. The bus' engine roared, and off we were! I entertained myself by musing about potential comedic situations that would occur in the event the wrong stack of passports was delivered to the wrong bus, but (un)fortunately no such thing happened.

Joyride in Ho Chi Minh City

2008-08-03T20:05:00.003-04:00

That is what is called in HCMC (aka Saigon) as a cyclo, a non-motorized form of transport that used to be popular but has now been supplanted by the four million motorbikes roaring throughout the city. Scores of cyclo drivers still hang around Ben Thanh market and try to get tourists to go on a leisurely tour around town. I had successfully resisted their overtures (as well as those of the dogged female merchants inside the market who constantly grabbed at my arm as I passed within shouting distance of their stalls), and thought I would leave Saigon without having experienced a cyclo ride. Little did I know that Bun had arranged for cyclos to ferry us to the bus terminal for the long bus ride to Phnom Penh, thus as I stepped out of the hotel to my surprise a horde of drivers rushed forward to grab my luggage and usher me to their cyclo.

So off we were on a joyride! Even though each cyclo only holds one person, given the excess weight both on my frame and the accompanying baggage, I was worried that my gaunt driver would run out of gas (bad intended pun) before we reached the bus terminal about ten minutes away. He didn't seem to mind though, and started pedalling our cyclo right smack into crazy Saigon traffic. So we drifted along the streets at a glacial pace, giving plenty of time to contemplate everyday life taking place before our eyes. My amazement at the lack of vehicles in front of us sometimes gave way to sympathy for the motorbike drivers impatiently waiting to overtake our cyclo on their way to urgent business in this rapidly developing commercial heart of Vietnam. There were panic-filled moments as well especially when our throwback means of transport would attempt a left hand turn (how does one signal?) despite an oncoming rush of far bigger mechanical beasts, and I would suddenly become conscious of the absence of any steel or aluminum protective barriers around my body. As would be expected, my driver remained stoic and his expression unchanging all throughout this somewhat exhilarating experience, and I have to admit, just as I was getting the hang of it and learning to suppress the urge to scream "Look out!", we had reached the bus terminal. Alas, the joyride proved to be all too brief.

Given that all my body parts remained intact, I felt compelled to give a small tip to Stoic Gaunt Driver for his deft maneuvering amidst all that chaotic traffic. I reached inside my pocket and blindly grabbed one of the remaining Vietnamese dong (US$=16,500 dong) currency bills in my possession. I took out the note, flashed my best smile and offered it to Stoic Gaunt Driver. He took one look at my hand, his expression turned into one of disgust, then he gave a hearty laugh, turned to the other drivers and made some comments to them while pointing to my outstretched palm. I looked down and was aghast to see that I was holding a 500 dong (US$0.03) note, pretty much close to worthless and worthy of derision even for cyclo drivers. (In fairness to me, they're pretty hard to tell apart - lame excuse). Chastened by the group of drivers laughing in my face, I simply retreated and went in search of the bus to Phnom Penh. Notwithstanding my major faux pas, I totally enjoyed the experience and Stoic Gaunt Driver proving not to be that stoic after all.

Mouse Loves Rice

2008-08-01T22:39:00.015-04:00

The seven hour early morning bus ride from Ho Chi Minh City to Phnom Penh got derailed as soon as it started. At one of the pickup points, four female backpackers in their 20s jumped in with their heavy packs, and one of them asked the driver, "Can we wait for my boyfriend? He's getting money at the bank". The driver of course didn't understand much English and gestured frantically to indicate that, "No, you stupid tourist, we can't wait for your boyfriend who is at the bank because we're on a busy road and have to keep moving or else the police will give me a ticket". Thus, the bus rolled along for about a mile or so, all the while the girls were screaming over and over, "Stop the bus! Stop the bus!", much to the amusement of passengers sitting in front (among them yours truly).

In truth, I was amused by their heavy accent whose origin was yet-to-be-determined more than anything else. Things got ugly though, as the girls starting hurling invectives at the poor driver - suffice it to say the English-speaking tourists onboard all cringed in horror and everyone speculated as to where exactly these stupid bitches were from. At last glimpses were caught of their passports and the word "Irish" became a dirty word for the rest of the bus ride. And yes, the (bleeping) Irish boyfriend eventually caught up to the bus.

Sitting near the front of the bus has its perks, watching the onboard entertainment being one of them. (Another is disembarking first. Can't think of anything else). Things didn't start out promising. A couple of songs from Disney movies - one from Mulan (ugh), the other from Lion King perhaps. Just when I was about to concentrate on my Khmer phrase book, the next song caught my attention - a cartoon video accompanied by a simple catchy ballad with lyrics of dubious grammatical accuracy, and the chorus led off by the immortal line, "I love you, loving you, even as the mouse loves the rice". I wasn't the only one who got a kick out of it, as the other passengers seated nearby roared in laughter. Isn't this the perfect pick up line?! ;-D Don't smirk, but the song is quite addictive - check out the Mandarin, Cantonese, Japanese, Khmer, Vietnamese, and Korean versions, and a huge hit in Asia. Most bizarre of all is the video of a family vacation in Utah with the song playing in the background, with the Dad singing in Lao no less!! And for the younger party-going set, a rousing club remix. Or for mellow types, enjoy this acoustic guitar rendition, and an "unplugged" set by an aspiring singer. Ah, these rice lovers!

Sadly, it all went down the drain after "Mouse Loves Rice". The rest of the videos were of a chubby Tina Turner look-alike singing Thai or Vietnamese pop songs accompanied by an ensemble of dancers, but it was gibberish to me. After a couple hours of this tortuous wailing, the passengers clamored for the TV to be turned off and the driver, sensing unrest brewing, had mercy on us and did so promptly.

Every Country should emulate the Cambodia E-Visa program

2008-06-24T16:35:00.003-04:00

Having solidified my plans of visiting both Vietnam and Cambodia, with some apprehension I turned my attention over to the matter of procuring visas for both countries (which in itself surprised me, as most countries don't require visas for US nationals). The memories of schlepping to the Honduran embassy twice only to be given the runaround by ignorant staff are still fresh in my mind, despite occurring a few years ago (here and here). Luckily, my travel agent informed me that she could handle the Vietnam visa bit, and sent me the appropriate application forms and requirements. The steep cost ($125) caught me by surprise - but looking on the bright side, I guess this means they have shed their Communist ways and become capitalist pigs as well.

Turning to Cambodia, I learned somehow of their innovative e-Visa program, where the application process is conducted entirely online. Initially skeptical of a small, impoverished country managing to offer such a convenience, curious how anti-terrorist background checks can be performed and incredulous as to how visas can be "bought" online as if it were a book on Amazon, I decided to give it a shot anyway.

After filling in the standard biographical information, the website requires the applicant to upload a passport-size photograph, and provides several hysterical illustrations of unacceptable pictures. Digital camera in hand, I commandeered Indra who sat in the next cubicle and off we went in search of the suitable white background demanded. Eventually we decided that the pillar beside the printer would suffice, and Indra by trial-and-error managed to snap a photo that showed just the right balance of face and shoulders. Not such an easy task, what with other employees picking up their printouts and shooting amused glances.

Picture having been uploaded, the final step was payment. Amazingly enough, Paypal was an option, so I selected that. Compared to Vietnam, price wasn't so bad, only $20 + $5 fee. (The same cost as procuring the visa on arrival in Cambodia). A confirmation email arrived in my Inbox indicating that approval notification would follow in three business days. I was thoroughly impressed up to this point, but was blown way further when the approval email arrived the next day and I was able to download my e-Visa in PDF format!!! Not quite the emotional sort, but tears of joy almost (almost!) came running down my cheeks. Convenient? Check. Hassle-free? Check. Has the Honduran embassy made plans to copy this innovative program yet?!

Note: At the time this blog post was written, the Cambodia e-Visa site had recently undergone an upgrade process and encountered "problems" (sigh, those IT guys). In short, the site is off-line and non-functioning, and has been so for almost a month (uh oh). However, as the site states, "the government official in-charge of the Cambodia e-Visa operation currently rectifying the problem in order to ease the operation to the normal operational function". Let's hope so.

The Man Who Could Walk Through Walls

2008-06-07T23:13:00.003-04:00

Sure, every tourist knows about Montmartre since the 2001 Academy Awards-nominated movie Amelie starring the irresistible Audrey Tautou and some bloke made this quaint Parisian neighborhood quite famous. Things have never been the same since - the Basilica of Sacre Couer is now on everyone's list of places to visit, and nearby Place du Tertre is constantly overrun with tourists quaffing overpriced drinks at the cafes and artists offering to draw your caricature for a hefty fee. In short, it has become a classic tourist trap.
We decided to visit Montmatre on a two hour walking tour by Paris Walks, as they promised to show not just the sights, but also the more quiet parts of the neighborhood where the artists Van Gogh and Renoir used to paint, as well as other lesser-known landmarks.

One such interesting sight is the statue of a man stuck inside a wall. The statue is based on the French writer Marcel Ayme's story, "The Man Who Could Walk Through Walls". The story tells of a chap named Dutilleul, who at age 42 discovered his ability to walk through walls. It didn't occur to Dutilleul to use this extraordinary power, until a year later when a new boss showed up at his office and instantly took a disliking to Dutilleul, insulting him at every opportunity. No longer able to bear the insults, one day Dutilleul decides to poke his head through the wall to his boss' office, at the same time declaring, "“Monsieur, you are a hoodlum, a boor, and a spoiled brat". He did this no less than twenty three times that day. After a couple of weeks of seeing this talking apparition, his boss was taken away to a sanitarium. (Slackers of the world, rejoice!).

For more on Dutilleul's exploits as a bank robber, his struggle to keep his powers a secret yet at the same time eager for recognition, his arrest and escape (duh) from prison, and his affair with a married woman that sealed his fate, here is a long, highly entertaining version of the story, about a 15 minute read. It is as riveting and enjoyable as it sounds.

All Roads lead to the Arc de Triomphe

2008-06-05T22:23:00.009-04:00

No kidding. Sitting on the Western end of the Champs Elysees, this magnificent triumphal arch commemorates soldiers who died fighting for France, and is at the intersection of no less than twelve different avenues. Damn, those must be some of the longest traffic stop lights ever! (Note that the pic is not of the Arc de Triomphe, but rather Washington Square arch in New York City, which was modeled after the Arc...but you get the idea). Again, it was my first time to go up to the observation deck, and it was a breeze - only 284 steps - compared to the Notre Dame Cathedral.

The observation desk afforded 360 degree views of the surroundings, with the Eiffel Tower seemingly close enough to touch. I especially liked looking down at the grand boulevards that led to the Arc and the greenery that lines them. Looking down the Champs Elysees reminded us of how far we had hoofed it - all the way from the Louvre museum! No wonder our feet ached, and our stomachs growled - a good excuse for a Berthillon ice cream stop ;-). On the upper right-hand corner of the photo on the left, the Sacre Couer is visible set on top of the hill in Montmartre.

The last two photos show, respectively, a view of La Defense, the Parisian business district; and the Louvre museum (the castle-like structure) in the distance just behind the Place de la Concorde. Everything looks so green, doesn't it?

Climbing up Notre Dame Cathedral

2008-06-02T21:27:00.007-04:00

On the two full days we had before Roland Garros started, we managed to get in quite a bit of sightseeing. Like most tourists we decided to visit the famous Notre Dame Cathedral, shown here from behind as shot from my vantage point on the Pont de la Tournelle. There's always a throng of people lining up to get inside the cathedral (it's free, after all), and since I had done that on a previous trip to Paris, I wasn't eager to brave the crowds.

As an alternative, my brother P., who did his research, suggested going up the cathedral's towers where we can see the various gargoyles and the huge bell. (Insert obligatory hunchback of Notre Dame reference here. Whatever). I hadn't known about this option so heartily agreed. Oh, a minor detail - this endeavor involved climbing up over 400 steps up the circular staircase all the way to the top! As the Notre Dame website happily advises, "It's best to be in good shape!". They should probably add, "Proof of medical insurance required". After a brief self-evaluation, I deemed myself fit and started the ascent.

The views from the top were simply magnificent and one could see for miles around, including landmarks such as the Eiffel tower and the various bridges connecting the opposing sides of the River Seine. In the picture, I believe the building in the foreground is the hotel de Ville (city hall). I loved the gargoyles with their different poses as well, like this one who looks like a typical Frenchman eating a ham and cheese baguette. Despite the daunting and strenuous climb, lots of camera-toting tourists made it up there, including some who dragged their 300 lb. frame up the stairs, one slow step at a time. The views were well worth the exercise (and potential heart attack), as I'm sure you'll agree.