Border Victory!

Normally I'm not in the habit of posting twice in one day, but I have some time and want to share the huge sense of relief I'm feeling right now. I have indeed made it across the Syrian border, and am coming to you live and direct from Aleppo!! I'm not gonna lie, for the last couple of days I've been really, really, REALLY stressing about getting into Syria, seeing as I didn't have a prearranged entry-visa. For those of you who aren't up to date on your travel protocol for getting into Syria, all travellers need a visa to enter the country, and officially, if there is Syrian representation in your home country (i.e. an embassy), you MUST apply for your visa there. Being Canadian, I should have applied for a visa at the embassy in Ottawa, but seeing as I've been living overseas for the past year, and visas must be presented at the border within three months of receipt, it was clearly not a possibility to apply for one at home...Anyhow, I had planned on applying for one at the Syrian consulate in Istanbul, but unfortunately, my stay in Istanbul coincided with the end of Ramadan, and the consulate was closed for ten days. I had wanted to avoid waiting until the border to apply because I had read that border applications are often turned down for no apparent reason, the wait can sometimes take up to eight hours, and the price of the visa could depend on the mood of the particular guard on duty that day. I am pleased to report that my experience at the border was a relatively short and painless experience; 30 minutes and 56 USD is all it took to get permission to enter the country! The only tense moment came when the Syrian border guard looked deeply troubled by a Honduran stamp in my passport...for about thirty second my heart sank, and I panicked...I knew that anyone who had an Israeli stamp in their passport would be denied entry, but a Honduran stamp???? I was convinced that he was going to deny my request and send me back to shitsville Antakya, which would have REALLY sucked. It turns out that he simply couldn't tell where the stamp was from, but once I explained that it was from Honduras and not the national enemy to the South (i.e. Israel), he cracked a smile, told me to relax and placed a stamp of approval in my passport.

I'm now in Aleppo, set up in a tiny, closet-sized room in a hole in the wall hostel, but I don't care....I'm in Syria, baby!!!! The tone of my writing may not convey how absolutely relieved and thrilled I am right now, but let it be known that in my heart, I'm jumping up and down, pumping my fists, and doing an obnoxious victory dance! This is the part of my trip that I've been looking forward to the most, and also been the most nervous about. Up until now, everywhere I've gone has been well set up for tourists, but Syria is...well, it's Syria...there aren't so many tourists here (though there are a surprising number of Japanese people around), and so I wasn't sure what to expect. In the hours since I've arrived, I've been greeted with a lot of smiles, curious stares, and the occasional 'ni hao' (at least they're getting the language right). Welcome back to the Arab world! I spent the afternoon wandering around town, searching for an ABM that would accept my bank card from home (damn PC Financial...I hate you!), and trying to avoid breathing too deeply (completely futile, I know), as the air is thick with dust, smoke and car exhaust. At the moment, I'm sitting in a very modern Syrian cafe, where it appears they have Celine Dion's greatest hits album on repeat rotation, and am filling out job applications for when I get home. The plan for the next fifteen days (the length of time that my visa is good for, and also the time when I want to get to Jerusalem) is...okay, at the moment there really is no plan. I'm still unsure about Lebanon, and I don't know what I'm going to do here in Syria or what my exit strategy is, but I don't care....I'M IN SYRIA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Tales From the Coach

Normally, I'm not a big fan of long distance coach travel. To be honest, I hate city buses, and most other modes of public transit, but there's something about long distance bus travel that really kills me...unlike on trains, I can't read because I'll get dizzy, I can't get up and walk around, and I can't really stretch my legs. It doesn't help that some of my least favourite travel memories involve long distance bus trips: getting puked on in China...having a prepubescent Moroccan youth attempt to feel me up...sitting next to snoring/drooling/smelly/generally unpleasant people at various times...Anyhow, all that being said, long distance coach trips in Turkey have been surprisingly bearable; they tend to be very clean and well maintained vehicles that depart and arrive on time, make a reasonable number of pit stops, they tend to be quite quiet (apparently there are rules against cellphone use when the coach is in motion), and there's always an attendant wearing an impeccably ironed white shirt and tie, who walks up and down the aisle handing out free cookies, beverages, hand sanitizer and wet naps, and occasionally sprays an aerosol air freshener in strategic spots, in case there are any seriously stinky passengers on board. All that being said, I am definitely not itching to take any more 10+ hour bus rides any time soon, whether they be in Turkey or elsewhere; in five days I've taken two overnight buses, and am feeling a little worse for wear.

A couple of anecdotes from my bus trip from Goreme to Antakya:

I think I must have shared a bus with some local Cappadocian celebrity last night, because when I got to the bus station at midnight, there was a crowd of at least a couple dozen young Turkish guys and older villagers who had come out to send off what appeared to be a normal looking guy, around 20-years-old, pretty skinny, in a red sweater and blue baseball cap, and slightly pimply. In the span of the ten minutes between when I arrived at the bus stop and when it departed, the little guy was tossed onto his friends' shoulders and into the air multiple times, the object of extended cheers and applause, and exchanged kisses and handshakes with every person present at least twice. When the bus began to pull away, the crowd went nuts...there were tears, cheers, one guy pulled out a giant Turkish flag, seemingly out of no where, and started to wave it like a maniac, and a handful of especially energetic young men decided to run along side the bus. It was an impressive scene, to say the least. This all leads me to ask, who the hell was the young man at the centre of this massive showing of love and support? Since it was a long bus ride, I had some time to come up with a few hypotheses: 1. He's heading off to start his mandatory military service; 2. He's a genius and is moving to the big city or overseas to study; 3. He was on his way to propose marriage to some lucky lady (If that's the send off he gets for just getting on a bus, can you imagine what that bachelor/stag party would be like??); 4. He's the town pest, and they're just happy to be done with him...okay, none of these hypotheses are particularly satisfying, especially since they don't really explain the Turkish flag business, but I'm working with limited information. I have a fifth theory that he's an athletic phenom on his way to a major competition, but given his very small build, I'm doubtful.

Also happening on my latest bus ride was my encounter with My Moroccan Grand-Daddy, part two, a senior-aged Turkish man. As many of you already know, one of my more cringe-worthy stories from my year in Paris involved an elderly Moroccan gentleman who I met in Morocco, and his failure to seduce me when he later made a trip to Paris...anyhow, on the bus down to Antakya, I wound up sitting next to the aforementioned Turkish grand-daddy, and for the most part it was very pleasant. He didn't speak much English, and I clearly don't speak any Turkish beyond the most basic phrases (hello, good bye, thank you, how much is that watermelon?), so after exchanging a few smiles, and formal greetings, it's not like we had a whole lot to chat about. That being said, our inability to verbally communicate with one another didn't stop Turkish Grand-Daddy from repeatedly poking me in the dimple on my left cheek, patting me on the knee, and chuckling to himself. At first I thought it was kind of amusing, but after the sixth or seventh time, it became decidedly less cute.

I arrived in Antakya (also known as Hatay or Antioch) yesterday morning, and in a couple of hours I'll be making my way down to the Syrian border. I'm a little nervous about the border situation, since I don't have an entry-visa in my passport yet, and I've heard that it can be a bit of a hassle trying to arrange it at the border. Moreover, I really don't want to be rejected at the border if it means having to come back to Antakya...there's no way to sugar coat this, Antakya is kind of a crappy little town; in the twenty-four hours that I've been here, there's been little to do except buy baklava and a really 'special' cheese-based dessert that I wouldn't recommend. In any case, with a little luck and a lot of charm, the next time I write, I'll be coming to you from Aleppo!!

A Question of Paternity

Sometimes I swear my father wasn't my biological father...if I didn't look exactly like him, share his general temperament, and inherit the same habit of hoarding old newspapers, I could easily be convinced that I am the progeny of a Korean-Chinese union. Why, you might ask? Aside from my intense love of Korean food (the spicier the better!), it seems that most people I meet are convinced that I'm Korean. A few years ago when I was travelling in China, people often asked me "ni shi hanguo ren, ma?" ('are you Korean?'), but I assume that it was because they were looking for a reason to excuse my exceptionally poor Mandarin; however, here in Turkey, I've met an amazing number of Korean travellers who bypass English completely, and greet me with "an nyoung ha seh yo" (Korean for 'hello'), which inevitably leads to an awkward moment when the well-intentioned Korean is embarrassed, and I have to explain and convince that no I'm not Korean, that neither of my parents are Korean, and yes, I'm sure. In any case, there must be some sort of special relationship between Turkey and Korea because there is an astonishing number of Koreans running around the country.

After having spent the last week or so in the company of other travellers who I've met on the road, today is the first alone day that I've had in awhile. It's been a day of solo hiking in some of the amazing valleys surrounding Goreme, and checking out the cave churches at the UNESCO World Heritage-sponsored Goreme Open Air Museum. Honestly, I'm glad to have spent the day alone; don't get me wrong, the people I've been hanging out with have all been awesome travel buddies and I'm so glad to have spent time with them, but I've had a lot on my mind over the last few days, and so it's nice to have time to sort through my thoughts without feeling like I'm being anti-social, or zoning out of whatever conversation I'm meant to be participating in. Anyhow, after spending the better part of the morning and afternoon hiking through the mostly deserted 'love valley' (apparently 'love' is a euphemism for the giant phallus-shaped rock formations that dot the landscape), and 'rose valley', I'm not sure if I've achieved much in the way of clarity of mind, but regardless, it was a great way to spend the day, as the landscape is unbelievably beautiful (with or without the stone genitalia).

Fairy Chimneys off in the distance, en route to Love Valley (Goreme, Cappadocia, Turkey)

Lastly, this really makes me laugh...

Ugh...it is too early in the morning to be blogging, but after a 10 hour bus ride from Antalya to Goreme (Cappadocia), I am too hopped up to go to bed, but too tired to go do any exploring. I'm coming to accept that I'm just not one of those people who can sleep on the road...at least not in cars, buses, trains or planes. Anyhow, since I have a bit of time now, I figure I may as well write about my harrowing experience yesterday.

Ohlala...where to begin? Yesterday, being my only day in Antalya, I decided to pass on hanging around town and enjoying the beach and waterfront promenade, and instead made a day trip to Thermossos, an impressive ruined city left behind by the Greeks. In the company of R., a very cool Australian I had met the night before at the hostel in town, we spent the better part of the day making our way out to the ruins, which are situated high up on a mountain 34KM inland from Antalya, exploring the site, and walking the 9KM back down to the base of the mountain to catch a dolmus back into town. For the most part, it was a great day, the weather was agreeable, the site was nearly deserted and superbly preserved, and R. was excellent company. The only unfortunate thing is that I had given almost all of my clothes to a laundry service the night before, and so I was stuck wandering around the ruins and down the side of a mountain in a dress and flip flops, not exactly ideal for scrambling over the ruins of temples, and navigating through bushes. That being said, all was going so well until about halfway through the 9KM descent, when the single most TERRIFYING moment of my trip occurred: I crossed paths with a snake!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! R. and I were in the process of making our way down the paved road, talking about Muammar Gaddafi and other fun stuff, when suddenly a teeny tiny snake darted across the pavement, passing within less than two feet from me. This may not strike most of you as being a big deal, but as many of you are very well aware, I am an absolute ophidiophobe...in layman speak, I am terrified of snakes (blame it on the Catholic upbringing). When we were walking around the overgrown ruins, it had occurred to me that it could be a real possibility that snakes might be lurking around in the grass and under rocks, and had mentioned to R. that in the eventuality that a snake should reveal itself, he would probably have to carry my lifeless body back down to the base of the mountain because I would surely have died of a heart attack, so to his credit, he managed to convince me that it would be better to keep walking rather than keel over and die. In any case, the cold sweat and wild heart palpitations eventually subsided, but I tell you now, I don't know if my poor little heart can handle another run in of this nature. I feel that for a girl who is as scared of snakes as I am, I've had an unusually high number of encounters with them in nature...


I'm sitting in a cafe, having a coffee and baklava, with the world's cutest dog lying at my feet, and a view of the fairy chimneys in the background...after a long travel day, it doesn't get much better than this. I think that today is going to be a bit of a write off, in terms of doing any real exploring of the sites, so I think I'll be happy to spend the day catching up on some reading, maybe start planning the next phase of my trip (after much contemplation, I think that this is going to be the last major stop in my tour of Turkey; I'm going to make a go at the Syrian border probably within the next three or four days), and resting up for the next couple of days of hiking...God help me should I have another run in with a snake.

I'm coming up to the halfway point in my trip in the next couple of days, and predictably, I am sick of most of the music on my iPod, and want to burn most of the clothes in my backpack. More problematic is the fact that I have the exact same number of books in my bag now, as when I left Paris. When I started out five weeks ago, my bag was stupidly heavy because I was bringing along a dozen or so books that I had with me in Paris but hadn't had a chance to read yet, and couldn't bear to leave behind. For those of you who have been chez moi, you know that I have a SERIOUS problem when it comes to books, and owning them.

One of the bookcases at my old T.O. haunts.

The plan for the books in my bag was to read them, and leave them...so far this plan hasn't been terribly successful. While I've managed to unload copies of "The Outliers" (bequeathed to my cs host in Cologne), "The Satanic Verses" (a parting gift to My Radical Leftist in Berlin), and "The Emperor's Children" (left behind on the book exchange shelf at the hostel in Budapest), I've acquired copies of "The Communist Manifesto and Other Revolutionary Writing" (a gift from MRL), "Report to Greco" (picked up on the recommendation of G. in Crete), and a book of Greek poetry (a gift from G.)... Aside from the fact that I'm picking up titles as I go, the other problem I'm encountering is the fact that I'm not finding a lot of time to read, and that I've been rather stumped by my current read, "My Name is Red" by Orhan Pamuk. It's a 500 page novel (not short, but not overwhelmingly long) that apparently made Pamuk an international literary star, but I'm really not feeling it at all. I started reading it back in Greece, but two weeks later I've only just cracked the first 150 pages. I'm contemplating shelving it for awhile, and quickly plowing through some of the other books I have in my bag, just so I can lighten my load a bit, but I have a feeling if I stop reading it now, I won't pick it up again. I suppose it wouldn't be a tragedy if I wind up bringing it home with me...it's not as though I have an aversion to having books around the house.

I'm now in Antalya. In the end, I took a pass on diving in Kas. I was originally pretty pumped up to get into the water, but once I arrived in Kas, my enthusiasm quickly dwindled...as much as I enjoy diving, it's not something that I'm super passionate about, and I decided that it wasn't worth the time and energy it takes to go for just one dive. I normally need at least one dive to remember how to move in the water and how to remain buoyant, before diving becomes enjoyable. Also, the more I read about diving in the Mediterranean, the less convinced I became that I would come away from the experience feeling fully satisfied...the Med isn't known so much for its marine life as much as it's a great place to go wreck diving and caving; I need diving to be a little like visiting Disneyland...colourful, full of Nemos, etc...Though it's probably not likely, I figure that if I really want to go diving before going home, I might try to swing down to the Sinai for a couple of days before heading back to Munich. In any case, although I only spent 24 hours in Kas, I really enjoyed my time there. I made the journey down to Kas with an Australian I met at the hostel in Fethiye (we bonded over stories of food poisoning, and bitching about our sleepless night), and we wound up exploring the town together. Kas is pretty quiet, with no real sites, but it's an ideal place to spend an afternoon/evening in a cafe on the water's edge, kick back with a couple of pints Efes (Turkey's national beer), a nargileh pipe, and just talk the night away.

The plan for the next couple of days is to hang around Antalya until tomorrow afternoon (I only stopped here in order to break up what would otherwise be a 16 hour bus ride), and then hop on an overnight bus to Cappadocia. Depending on how much time I wind up spending exploring the underground cities and fairy chimneys in Cappadocia, I'll either try to squeeze in a quick trip to Mt. Nemrut (further in the east), or will head straight for the Syrian border. I wish I had more time to spend in Turkey, as there are a bazillion places in the east that I'd love to visit, but I'm really beginning to feel the crunch of time, as I only have 28 days left to go through Syria, Lebanon and the Holy Land.

Alright, it's rather late here, and I'm feeling a little lazy right now (two beers with dinner has that effect on me), but I wanted to post this note now, before I forget about it later.

My time in Fethiye was extremely pleasant, full of beautiful vistas and lazy days on the beach. That being said, some views are nicer than others.

For example, for three of the four nights that I spent in Fethiye, this was the view from my dorm window, literally two feet away from my bed:

Fethiye, Turkey.

On my remaining night in Fethiye, I spent the night on an out-of-the-way beach that is accessible only by boat. Again, the view was beautiful, and sleeping on the beach under a very starry night was an idyllic way to spend an evening.

Butterfly Valley, Turkey.

Butterfly Valley, Turkey.

 Perhaps the most impressive view of the region came from 2000+ metres in the sky, when I tried paragliding for the first time. I wasn't particularly keen to try paragliding, but I figured, when in Turkey, why the hell not? Don't let the mediocre photo quality fool you, the view was pretty amazing.

View over Oleduniz, Turkey.

However, despite all these fantastic views, this is the one that I woke up to every morning, and to be honest, it left me feeling a little cold:

Writing on the underside of the bunk on top of mine.

Anyhow, after four days in Fethiye, I've made it two and a half hours down the coast to a sleepy town called Kas (pronounced 'cash'), which is known for some pretty good scuba diving. Back in August, at the time around my birthday, I had debated on whether to gift myself a Longchamp bag or a couple of dive sessions in Turkey. In the end, I passed on the bag, with all the intention of coming to Kas to dive, but now that I'm here, I'm feeling a little uninspired to go diving. Maybe it's the fatigue talking, because I did not get much sleep last night, thanks to the symphonic snoring quartet who were my roommates for the night...one little Korean man in particular was truly impressive in how much noise he could produce...as my Aussie travel companion of the last couple of days put it, "it's like he's fuckin' trying to suck the paint off the walls!" For this reason, I woke up feeling a little grumpy, and it may be colouring my desire to do anything that requires much energy. In any case, I have until tomorrow morning to decide how badly I want to try diving in the Mediterranean; I'll probably leave for Antalya tomorrow afternoon, so if I'm going to dive, tomorrow morning will be the only chance to do it.

One of the reasons I wanted to come down to Fethiye is because it is a good base for going to visit the Saklikent Gorge, an awesome 18KM-long crack in a mountain that is so incredibly narrow that almost no sunlight manages to penetrate through. Outside of the Gorge entrance, there's a sign posted in both Turkish and English; the English version says something to the effect of "please make sure your shoes are water submersible because there are sections of the gorge where you will be walking through water and/or mud." I'm wondering if there was a problem when it came to the language translation because I'm thinking that the English wording needs some tinkering, and should say something along the lines of "BEWARE! Any person who attempts to walk this gorge without proper footgear is a damn fool, and is surely asking to die an early death." Anyone who is thinking of paying a visit should know that most of the hike is through freezing cold water that ranges from ankle to almost waist deep (at least on me...for those of you with freakishly long legs, the water might never reach past your knees), and involves walking through/under waterfalls (wear a bathing costume, and be prepared to get soaked from head to toe), and scrambling over many slippery boulders. The walk is made all the more challenging because the water is rather cloudy, making it impossible to see where you're putting your feet. Most people pay the nominal entrance fee just to walk the first 50 metres to see where the gorge opens up, take a few photos at the first water crossing, point and laugh at the tourists who are silly enough to actually wade across to the other side, and turn around without subjecting their feet to the frigid water. For those who continue on, a good number of them come back barefoot when they lose a flip-flop (thong sandal) to the surprisingly strong and fast current. As for me, while I didn't lose a shoe, I did manage to drop my chap stick in the water, and watched in horror as it sped away downstream...this may not sound like a big deal, but if you know me, you know that I go through chap stick like there's no tomorrow. I walked the gorge in the company of a couple of very cool Poles I met on the dolmus (minibus) ride from Fethiye to the gorge. I'm so happy that they were there, because not only were they excellent company, but I definitely needed someone there for moral support, to hang onto at certain water crossings, and to lend a steadying hand when hoping from rock to rock. We walked for just over two hours before turning back, as we were definitely not properly equipped to make it safely to the end. In any case, the Saklikent Gorge is pretty spectacular and I would really recommend it for those of you who aren't water shy, and know how to rock the drowned cat look.

Where the adventure seekers are separated from the pansy ass tour groups

How awesome is that??????

Bathing, Turkish-style

Despite my previous grumblings about public nudity, if there is one place where it doesn't bother me, it would be at the public bathhouse. I'm not a huge bathhouse enthusiast, but I do enjoy it every now and again, and over the years I've had the pleasure of experiencing public bathing at the onsens in Japan, the baths in China and Hungary, and the hamams in Morocco and Egypt. On my last night in Istanbul, after yet another long day of running about town, I decided that a visit to a Turkish bath was in order. Normally, you have the option between do-it-yourself bathing, or paying a little extra to have an attendant pamper you with a proper scrub down and massage. Having opted for the scrub down service, I found myself quite literally in the hands of...er...oh jeez, how can I say this politely? Hmmm....let's just say that I was placed in the care of she who shall be known only as "Turkish Bath Lady", a rather round and buxom older lady with an impressive range of severe facial expressions. With the exception of her masterful command of the phrase "lady, turn!", which means "foreigner, turn over NOW", TBL spoke no English, and was all business, not a cracking a single smile throughout our thirty minute interaction. The process involved lying down on a slab of marble, surrounded by a dozen or so other bathing ladies and their attendants, having several buckets of water dumped on me, followed by an 'energetic' full body exfoliation scrub (TBL removed a couple too many layers of skin, and most of my tan), and finished up with being covered with an enormous cloud of suds, before being marched over to another bathing station where TBL proceeded to wash my hair with what I suspect may have been apple-scented dishwashing detergent. This may not sound particularly pleasant or relaxing, but I left the bathhouse two hours later feeling smooth as a baby's derrière, and fairly satisfied.

In the end, I only spent three nights and two full days in Istanbul. I wish that I had spent more time there, but I wasn't kidding when I said earlier that I needed to pick up the pace. It was two days of touring at a breakneck pace, and there's so much of the city that I didn't get a chance to see, but I feel like Istanbul is a city that I can see myself returning to in the future. Some highlights of my time in the city include, in no particular order: walking past the Blue Mosque at the exact moment when the 7PM call to prayer began, and seeing the entire mosque light up (this could be something that happens only at Ramadan, but I'm not sure); my three hour adventure on the city bus, trying to find my way to and from an out of the way church/museum, and the little old man who didn't speak a word of English but still managed to tell me exactly where to get off the bus; and an afternoon encounter in a cafe with a couple of young Turks who were eager to discuss Turkish politics and all things Armenian over multiple cups of coffee and nargileh.

At 6AM on Friday morning I left Istanbul with the intention of making my way to Selcuk, in the South Aegean region. It is now 6AM on Saturday morning, and I have bypassed Selcuk entirely and have instead landed in Fethiye, a town on the Mediterranean coast of Turkey. You might be asking, why the change of plans? Why the hell did I go six hours beyond my intended destination? Ugh...I wish that I had a crazy tale to tell, but the truth is that I had some bad luck with the public transit system in Istanbul, and missed the 7AM ferry from Istanbul to Bandirma by less than three minutes. This in itself wouldn't be terribly consequential, except that it meant that instead of catching the 9:45AM train from Bandirma to Izmir, I wound up hanging around Bandirma, an depressingly non-descript town, until 4PM, waiting for the afternoon train. Once again, you might think that this wouldn't be such a problem, EXCEPT that the afternoon train from Bandirma arrives in Izmir at 9:31PM at night, while the last train and bus to Selcuk leave Izmir at 9:29PM. Are you following where this story is going? Sigh...clearly this was not my day for getting anywhere quickly. When faced with the options of either squatting at the Izmir otogar (bus station) overnight and catching an early morning bus to Selcuk, or catching a midnight bus to Fethiye, my next intended destination, I opted for the latter. My dear reaers, I tell you now, it has been a very long twenty-four hours of slow travel. That being said, it wasn't a terrible way to spend a day; I enjoy long travel days every now and again (at least when I have the luxury of time), mostly because they tend to be good days for doing lots of reading, journaling, thinking and revisiting some of the hidden gems on my iPod (Mats Kearney, old stuff by U2, and Nick Drake have been in heavy rotation lately). I'm a little bummed that I skipped Selcuk, as I was going there specifically to visit the ruins of Ephesus, Turkey's answer to Petra in Jordan; however, I'm happy to be in Fethiye (from the short glimpses I've had of it, it's a pretty sweet town), and feel like I've shaved a couple of days off of my original Turkey travel plan, and have a little more wiggle room for getting through the next ten days or so. In any case, I am now sitting in the lobby area of my hostel, hoping that the next hour will go by relatively quickly so I can check in and go get a few hours of sleep. I have some more stories to relate about my time in Istanbul, but they'll be better told once I've showered, brushed and flossed my teeth, slept a little and had a hot meal, all things tha I haven't done in twenty-four hours.

Istanbul: Initial Impressions

I've done a fair amount of flying in my time, and there aren't many places that I feel are worth the effort of requesting a window seat when it comes to arriving by air. In my experience, most airports are located in suburban areas, and so the view out the window is pretty unimpressive; depending on where you are in the world, airports tend to be surrounded by farmland, strip malls and suburban housing, or not particularly attractive industrial zones. However, there are a few cities that I love to fly into because of the view upon aerial descent. For example, the approach to the Vancouver airport is absolutely beautiful because you get an amazing view of the city, the mountains and the Pacific Ocean. Likewise, Hong Kong is great, especially if you're lucky enough to be landing at sunset, because you fly over gorgeous green islands, and the South China Sea is pink and sparkling. Elsewhere, Ulaanbaatar is a great city to fly because it seems to appear out of the middle of nowhere, and is the perfect example of how to not plan a city. Having arrived in Istanbul by air yesterday afternoon, I would like to add Istanbul to my shortlist of great cities to fly into. The approach to Ataturk Airport is impressive not so much for the view of the Bosphorus, or the beauty of the cityscape, per se; what makes Istanbul a great place to approach by air is the sight of the city's skyline that is marked not by skyscrapers, but by dozens of minarets that stand outside of the mosques across the city.

It's been a busy day of touring and wandering around Sultanahmet, the main area of Old Istanbul where most of the major tourist sites are located, so I'm happy to be chilling out on the rooftop of my hostel, cooling my heels and sorting through my photos from the day. After a year of enjoying the many benefits of being a student in Europe (free or deeply reduced admission fees to major sites and museums in several countries), sightseeing in Istanbul is proving to be a bit of a budget busting activity. My heart wallet wails a little every time I part with a banknote to enter a museum or monument. That being said, it was absolutely worth the 20 Turkish Lira admission fee to enter Aya Sofia; as expected, it was crawling with tourists, and sadly, much of the interior is covered in scaffolding (apparently there's been a big push on restoration work to get the place in tip top shape leading up to 2010, when Istanbul will officially be a European Capital of Culture for the year), but regardless, it is an impressive site to visit, and has definitely earned its status as one of the great buildings of the world.

Paparazzi, the Superstar, the stage mom, and the opening act (Deesis mosaic, Aya Sofia, Istanbul; from left, the Virgin Mary, Jesus Christ, John the Baptist).

 

Although I feel like I'm a little behind schedule and want to pick up the pace my travels, it's a little fortuitous that I only arrived in Istanbul yesterday. This is the last week of Ramadan, and for the most part, Istanbul is running business as usual; however, I've read that outside of the major cities in Turkey, and elsewhere in the Middle East, life comes to a bit of a grinding halt during the this period, which could make travelling a little more difficult and frustrating.

I swear this is the last time I'm going to bitch about my new hair, but I'm pretty sure that this is how some of you will react when you see me live and in the flesh. It's the face I've been seeing small children make when they spot me walking on the street....

 

Theatrical mask related to the cult of Dionysus (National Archaeologist Museum, Athens, Greece)

Since I first learned about ancient Greek civilization in a high school history class, I've had a picture of modern day Greece as being the homeland of the descendants of Pericles, Pythagoras, and Plato. If ever there were a city where the past is always present, it would be Athens. Walking around town, there are reminders of Greece's glorious history everywhere, whether it's the Parthenon overlooking the city, the statues of the Olympian gods that adorn public buildings, or the streets that are named in honour of various Greek heroes (real or mythological). To my surprise, the Greeks who I've met in the last ten days do not associate themselves with the architectural achievements or intellectual inheritance of their forefathers; instead of dwelling on the past, they tend to lament about the current state of Greek affairs. To paraphrase the thoughts of several individuals, they feel that the civilization that developed in Greece 2500 years ago doesn't belong to the people of Greece, but to the world, and that they have no personal claim to it. As my hair butcher stylist says, "Greeks have had more than two thousand years to come up with the next best thing since democracy..." This attitude contrasts pretty starkly with the way the French view their national history (the French Revolution, the Enlightenment, blah, blah, blah...), or even how Germans deal with their collective 'culpability' regarding events in the 20th century. In many ways this seems like an incredibly healthy relationship with history, as the Greeks I've encountered have a surprisingly deflated sense of national pride, but at the same time it's almost a little sad if they feel they can't celebrate the great moments of their history, no matter how far in the distant past they may be.

 

 According to my 11th grade history teacher (and UNESCO), this is THE symbol of western civilization.

  

 I imagine it could be crippling to toil in his intellectual shadow. (Socrates statue outside the Academy of Athens)

My last couple of days in Athens have been intense touristy days. The sun has reappeared, and so I've been spending my days running from site to site, and hanging out with K., a very cool Greek girl I befriended at Scipo. It's been a great month in Europe, but I'm really pumped up to get to Istanbul tomorrow. I'm especially excited to leave Athens because my roommate for the last couple of nights has been a British guy with some SERIOUSLY questionable standards for personal hygiene... Although I hadn't really planned anything beyond my arrival in Crete last weekend, I am feeling a little behind schedule in terms of where I expected to be at this point in my travels, so I'm going to have to pick up the pace, and start making some decisions as to places that I may not be able to visit this time around. 

And on a final, and totally unrelated note, I'd like to draw your attention to an article that I think should be essential reading for all those French people who mock North American students and their seeming obsession with finding peanut butter when studying in France.

In the cloud of poor judgment that followed a sleepless night on the ferry from Crete to Athens, yesterday afternoon I decided it was time to get a haircut. I should preface this entry by saying that I hate getting my hair cut. Perhaps it's because I've never recovered from the traumatic experience of having my mom cut my hair when I was a kid, or it could be that I have Jo March-complex about my hair, but the bottom line is that I don't think I've ever been happy with a hair cut. Until yesterday it had been thirteen months since the last time I went under the scissors, and so it would be reasonable to think that if I'd gone 56 weeks without a trim, I could easily hold out another 8 weeks and wait until getting home to Toronto to go to my regular stylist. You would think, right? For some unknown reason, at approximately 4PM yesterday afternoon, I was wandering around the Acropolis Museum, when I felt an overwhelming and urgent desire to get a hair cut. On the recommendation of a woman working in the gelato shop where I stopped for a late afternoon sugar-fix, I soon found myself in the hands of a dark and handsome, thirty-something ex-soldier/ex-bartender/amateur cage fighter/father of one/stylist. On the bright side, he clearly knew what he was doing with his scissors, was an engaging conversationalist (a quality with which not all stylists are equally blessed), and was very gentle when combing out the knots in my hair. On the not-so-bright-side, I hate what he did to my hair. I can't think of another way to describe it except that I now have Brenda Walsh bangs (that would be a fringe, for those of you anglo saxons not hailing from North America), circa 1990. It has been confirmed by an honest friend from home (via skype and webcam) that my new haircut makes me look like a ten-year-old. I can only take comfort in the fact that I have two months for it to grow out before returning home, where I'll have to face people who actually know me...

 

Unimpressed.

As I've  mentioned previously, from here until the end of October, nothing has been planned in advance. This is proving to be a good thing, because this afternoon I made my way over to the central train station in Athens with the intention of purchasing a ticket to Istanbul (via Thessaloniki) for tomorrow night, only to be informed that due to excess rain and subsequent flooding, all trains to Istanbul have been canceled for the next month! Naturally, the first thought that went through my mind was "SSHIIIIITTT!!!!", however now that I've taken part of the evening to do some research, I've booked myself on an Aegean Air flight for Tuesday afternoon, at only a marginally higher price than what the train would have cost. I'm a little disappointed because I love long train rides, and was looking forward to some quality reading time on the 24 hour rail journey...in any case, it's at moments like this when I realize that having loads of time to be flexible and deal with these kinds of unexpected bumps in the road really is a luxury.

The weather in Athens has been pretty miserable since I arrived yesterday morning. It's been wet, grey and slippery, not ideal conditions for exploring the outdoor sites of ancient Greece. Regardless, come rain or shine, I've decided that tomorrow is going to be my day to visit the Acropolis, so I'm hoping that Helios will decide to make an appearance.

At the risk of sounding prematurely old, oh how my body aches! From the waist down, everything is feeling a little/lot tight today. And by tight, I don't mean firm (though that would be nice), I mean SORE. In my time I've done a fair amount of hiking/trekking/mountain climbing, and so I wasn't overly concerned with the possibility that the Samaria Gorge would present any kind of physical challenge, especially since I'd read that every year busloads of tourists (seniors included) make the 16KM walk, and live to tell the tale. In many ways, the gorge really is quite an easy walk, in the sense that there is no uphill walking, and so from a cardiovascular fitness perspective, is not particularly challenging. The difficulty of the walk lies in the first 6KM of the trail that starts at Omalos, a steep downhill trail of uneven steps and a slopping path of slippery rocks and pebbles. The Gorge itself is quite beautiful, but I must confess that I was so concentrated on putting one foot solidly in front of the other, and was not always focused on taking in the scenery around me. Some of the highlights of the day included the hour-long bus ride from Chania to Omalos, which passes through the mountains and takes in some beautiful vistas, seeing a kri-kri (a Cretan wild goat) hiding in the hills (apparently they are very shy and spotting one on the walk is rare), and taking off my hiking shoes to dip my sore feet in the Libyan Sea after the 5 hour trek.

 

Somewhere near the beginning of the Samaria Gorge, approximately 3KM in.

 

Near the 11KM mark, close to the end of the Samaria Gorge.

 
Even with good shoes and walking sticks, there were definitely more than a handful of people limping their way to the finish line, and onto the waiting boat. In the past, I've seen tourists walking up Huangshan (Yellow Mountain, Anhui, China) in high heels, and climb the inside of the Great Pyramid at Giza in a three-piece suit; in the case of the Samaria Gorge, fashion sense really needs to take a backseat to solid footwear, which is essential for making it down in one piece. That being said, the need for appropriate shoes does not excuse some of the egregious footwear offenses I witnessed yesterday! No matter where you are in the world, socks and sandals remain a fashion faux pas, and more importantly, they hardly qualify as appropriate hiking gear. And while Europeans have the good sense to have not fallen victim to the Crocs plague that has befallen North America, I'm mystified by their refusal to give up the sport sandal as a fashion statement.

Today I realized that there are only 43 days between now and when I'm meant to be going back to Munich, which is far less time than I thought. When I was originally planning this trip, I didn't intend to spend much time in Europe, but in the end it looks like it will take almost a full month for me to get from Paris to Istanbul, where the Middle Eastern phase of my trip will begin. I'm beginning to experience some nervousness about moving forward into the next part of my trip; I previously wrote about how user-friendly Europe is, and how I expect things to get more difficult once I get to Turkey and beyond. Of course, part of the experience of travelling (for me) is about the challenges that are presented by being so far removed from the familiarity of home, but I'd be lying if I said that sometimes those challenges aren't incredibly frustrating and exhausting. For example, in my experience of travelling as a solo female in Morocco and Egypt, there is something unbelievably tiring about the constant stares,  being followed by strange men, and the unending stream of people who call out "konnichiwa" and "ni hao". It may sound trivial, but after a few days, it becomes increasingly exhausting and difficult to ignore. Anyhow, this is all to say that I am hopeful that my experience in Turkey, Syria and (possibly) Lebanon will be different, but I'm mentally psyching myself up for the possibility that it could be a long 43 days, in terms of the more challenging aspects of travelling in the non-Western world.

Lastly, it's another sunny day in Chania, but seeing as walking/sitting/moving is a bit of a labour at this point, I'm not feeling compelled to do anything particularly taxing at the moment. I'm happy to spend my last day in town sitting in a cafe, reading my book ('My Name Is Red' by Orhan Pamuk), blogging, and doing some trip research and planning. I'm heading to Athens tonight by ferry boat, so the next time I write it'll be from the supposed birthplace of democracy!

On most days of the week I like to consider myself as being a fairly evolved girl who doesn't get fazed by much, in terms of public behaviour that falls beyond my own standards of appropriateness. Public displays of affection? It's safe to say that a year in Paris has desensitized me to almost all acts of this nature (although I still draw the line at anything that borders on a public act of procreation). Public displays of drunkenness? Working as a bartender inevitably means being the constant witness of people at varying degrees of intoxication, and so there's not a lot of drunken behaviour that could surprise me. Public displays of emotion (be it crying, yelling, or generally making a scene)? I've bore witness to more tears and drama standing in line at the Monoprix on Avenue Secretan than an entire season of Jerry Springer could produce. However, if there is one thing that still manages to fluster me, it would be public nudity. I don't think I'm a particularly conservative person, but there are very few circumstances where I think that nudity amongst strangers is "normal".

In the first three weeks of this trip, I've seen more exposed flesh than I can remember ever seeing in my life (gym locker room and public bathhouses included!). It all started two weeks ago in Munich when I was out for a stroll with M.; it was a fairly hot and sunny day and we were wandering through a pleasant city park, when we came upon an area of the park where the nude sunbathers congregate. Apparently, for Europeans this was nothing exceptional (M. later confirmed that he hadn't even noticed the naked bodies in our midst), but my Canadian/Catholic-instilled prudishness came rushing to the surfac, and at that moment, all I could see were naked bodies (they were a minority among sunbathers, but a very visible minority; ha! perhaps my best/worst joke yet!), and the only thing that was going through my mind was "please please please put some clothes/sunscreen on!!!" Today, during a late afternoon walk on the beach, I spied several lobsters vacationing Europeans whose luggage must have been lost in transit, as they had not a stitch of clothing on them. Beyond my own squeamishness around public nudity, I can't help but to wonder what compels people to strip down in public places; I mean, seriously, is it so important to have a tanned penis? In any case, I take comfort in the idea that once I leave Greece, I probably won't be seeing any more nude sunbathers, or sunbathers in general...I suspect that sunbathing in the Middle East involves very little exposed skin.

I arrived in the land of Aristotle and Aphrodite on Saturday night, and was greeted at the airport in Heraklion by overwhelming humidity (good hair days are beyond the realm of all possibility at this point), and G., my couchsurfing host extraordinaire. After two days of eating (or more accurately, feasting, as G. is a fantastic cook), drinking (wine and raki, the Greek equivalent of grappa), and being merry very late into the night in Heraklion, I made my way to Chania last night, a very pretty town in Crete. Today has been a pretty uneventful day, mostly spent wandering around the old town and on the beach. I'm planning on taking a day trip to the Samaria Gorge tomorrow morning to attempt the 16KM hike, and then will probably head to Athens on Thursday or Friday. Up until this point in my trip, all of my travel days had been planned long in advance in order to get the best deal on tickets, but from here on in, nothing is booked until I fly back to Munich. As long as I make it to Ben Gurion airport in Tel Aviv for 3AM on October 23rd, the next six and a half weeks are pretty unplanned, and I figure I'll just go wherever the wind takes me, so to speak.

Lending a Hand, Foot, or Head

 

Can you figure out which one is St. Denis? (Notre Dame, Paris)

Some people lose their keys, others lose their pants, and yet others lose their minds. In the case of some Catholic saints, they lose body parts. St. Denis lost his head for his role in turning France into a nation of believers (he might not be so happy to find out that France has since declared itself a secular state). Poor St. Catherine of Siena left body parts all over Italy (her foot is in Venice, her head and toe are in Siena). As for St. Stephen of Hungary, he lost his right hand. Yesterday afternoon, a rather grey and drizzly day in Budapest, I paid a visit to St. Ishtvan's Basilica (Ishtvan is the Hungarian version of Stephen), the basilica named for Hungary's first king and patron saint, Stephen I. Stephen is credited with increasing Hungary's control over the Carpathian Basin and bringing Christianity to Hungary. Not too shabby, right? Most tyrants rulers would probably be satisfied to rest on their laurels and spend their afterlives enjoying some well deserved "me time"; however, Stephen turned out to be a bit of an overachiever, even in death. Instead of gracefully stepping out of the spotlight after his 37 year reign was up, Stephen was credited with miracles performed at the site of his tomb, and was canonized as a saint by the Catholic Church in 1083. No word on whether Stephen is still making miracles happen today, but that hasn't diminished his superstar status in Hungary. His birthday is a national holiday (August 20th), and his right hand is kept as a relic in his basilica, on permanent display for all who care to see what a thousand year old hand looks like. I'm not sure what I was expecting to see, but to quote the British grandpa who was standing next to me in the viewing chapel, "it's rather small, isn't it?".

 

St. Ishtvan's Basilica, Budapest.

It's Saturday afternoon in Budapest, and in a couple of hours I'm going to be heading for the airport to catch my flight to Heraklion, Crete (Greece). In total I spent seven nights in Budapest, which was honestly probably a little too long, but I enjoyed my time here. I had originally planned on taking a side trip outside of Budapest, but in the end I got lazy. In my week here, I met some interesting characters, had more than a couple of bowls of goulash (not as spicy as I was expecting), visited a local bath house (something I highly recommend, but let it be known that if you go in the middle of the day on a weekday, you will be surrounded by seniors and children under the age of 5), and spent countless hours just wandering around and sitting in cafes. At this point in my travels I'm not overly concerned with being a tourist on steroids; I figure that I'm conserving my energy for later on in the trip when things will inevitably get a little harder. Before this trip it had been six years since I had last backpacked through any part of Europe, and I'd forgotten how tourist-friendly Europe can be. In any case, Greece will be my last European stop before hitting the Middle East. I'm pumped up for a little fun in the sun, and hanging out with the sons and daughters of Plato for a few days. To everyone back home, have a great long weekend!

A Year Later

It's a beautiful hot day in Budapest, but this morning is getting off to a slow start. After spending the last four days wandering all around town, I'm stepping out of tourist mode for the day, and I'm planning on spending the next couple of hours in this cafe, hiding from the sun, catching up on the daily headlines and making good on my promise to update this blog more regularly. It occurred to me that I didn't really write too much about my departure from Paris, and so I figure I'll take some time now to say a few words to sum up my year in Paris.

A year ago today, I was hours away from getting into a taxi headed for Pearson International in Toronto, to catch my flight to Paris. In the last 365 days ( 290 of which were spent in the City of Lights/Love) I survived my experience in the French higher education system (and have PLENTY to say about it, but that rant will have to wait for another day, another blog), waded through a mountain of French paperwork and red tape, worked three different jobs, went Fashion Week stalking, consumed a copious amount of cheese and carrots, made a couple of truly good friends, learned how to function without coffee, forced myself to read two Salman Rushdie novels (neither of which I found particularly satisfying), failed to be seduced by a Moroccan grand-daddy (perhaps THE story of my year) and got over my fear of cats. I don't know if I can honestly say that the year was a transformative experience for me, but I will say that, on balance, it was a good year. I think that in my previous posts I'd alluded to the fact that I was ready to move on; that being said, the days leading up to my departure date (August 18th) were bittersweet ones. 

In a lot of ways the year was a little bit like living in a dream, like a pause from real life...almost a little bit like this. At the same time, there were often moments where I came crashing back down to reality, and the year was full of tedious and boring moments. There are some things that I definitely won't miss, including (but not limited to) my daily battles with the Paris metro (good riddance lignes 1 et 4!!), the frustratingly short business hours, the song playlist at the bar where I worked (I never again want to hear 'Human' by The Killers), and the pervasive scent of urine (apparently to some, Paris translates to 'giant outdoor toilet'). However, these less fantastic aspects of life in Paris were always counterbalanced with wonderful things, such as the possibility of looking up at any given moment and seeing Notre Dame or Sacre Coeur in the distance, the neverending list of events going on in the city (exhibitions, concerts, festivals, etc.), the daily fresh food markets, and the overall feeling of being surrounded by history.

I'll wrap this up with a couple of comments on the French people. In North America, and perhaps the world at large, the French have a bit of a reputation for being a rude, lazy, and self-important bunch; I'd be lying if I tried to say that I didn't come across individuals who fit this description, but then again, I've encountered plenty of Canadians/Americans/non-French who are equally rude, lazy and self-important (hello Yorkville!). One of the things that I've come to appreciate about French people (generally speaking) is that they can be really funny and ironic, can be quite self-deprecating and are unrepentantly honest. Some of my French coworkers, from both the bar and the coffee shop, really are among the funniest people I know. Anyhow, it's just to say that I feel that the French sometimes get a not entirely deserved bad rep back home.

Perhaps when I get home to Canada in a couple of months, once I've had some more distance from the experience, I'll have more thoughtful things to say, and will be able to put the year into better perspective. In the mean time, merci Paris, it's been a blast!

 

I see London, I see France....actually, I don't see London, but I do see Sacre Coeur, la tour St. Jacques, St Eustache, la Sainte Chapelle, and Notre Dame.

Buying Bananas in Budapest

One of my favourite things to do when I travel is visit the local grocery stores where people do their shopping, and just look at what locals eat. Since arriving in Budapest, I've gone to a grocery store just about every day to pick up stuff for lunch or dinner, and I've been struck by the relatively limited variety of fresh produce available. I had read that Hungarians aren't big on fresh salads, and I'm beginning to understand why, if the only vegetables that are available Hungarian peppers, tomatoes, and the occasional cucumber. Perhaps the poor selection of fresh fruits and vegetables available in grocery stores is a telling reminder that though Budapest is a pretty vibrant and cosmopolitan European capital, Hungary really only started the transition to a market economy less than twenty years ago. Case in point, my Budapest couchsurfing host told me that before 1989, it wasn't possible to buy bananas in Hungary, because they simply weren't available. In a similar vein, when I was in Berlin, someone told me a story about how the day after the Wall came down, it was just about impossible to find bananas in West Berlin because all of the East Berliners who had crossed over had exhausted the city's supply and taken them back to East Berlin! I think that next time I do my grocery shopping at home, I will have a new appreciation for the sheer abundance of bananas available for 39 cents/lb year round.

In somewhat related news, until July of this year there were certain regulations in place in the European Union that restricted the sale of imperfect fresh produce. Apparently, until eight weeks ago, it was rough going for fruits and vegetables that were slightly small/mildly blemished/oddly shaped; otherwise said, ugly and funny looking fruits and vegetables weren't making it to the market, and into the discerning stomachs of Europeans. That being said, recent trips to the supermarket in Hungary would indicate that Hungarians have really taken their new found right to knobby carrots and scrawny cauliflower to heart, because the produce sections have been awash with less-than-perfect looking fruits and vegetables. I suspect that Hungary, having only joined the EU in 2005, probably wasn't subject to the old regulations that made it illegal to sell cauliflower that was less than 11 cm in diameter, or overly curvy cucumbers. Compared to the picture-perfect produce sold at the markets in Paris, Budapest's fruits and vegetables are a little like the 98 pound weaklings who always get picked last for dodge ball.

Hmm, what was meant to be a fairly regularly updated travel blog has gotten off to a slow start. I've been travelling for two weeks now, and for one reason or another, up until now I haven't done any updating. In all fairness, when I was on the train from Berlin to Munich, I did write a longish entry in microsoft word, but when I tried to copy and paste it into blogger, it didn't work. If I were more patient or internet literate, perhaps I would make an effort to figure out how to post it, but I'm neither patient nor internet literate, so for the moment that entry is going remain unposted.

Anyhow, since my last entry, I've packed up my life in Paris, crossed three borders without ever showing my passport, seen four cities, and have surfed five couches. I spent twelve days in Germany, and for the most part, they were twelve awesome days. I won't bother going into a ton of detail about my time there, but I do have a few comments/observations to make:

1. Germans are a seriously wasp-fearing people! On multiple occasions I've been in the company of different Germans who have gone into complete panic over the presence of a wasp. Is it terrible of me to say that it's actually kind of funny to watch? I feel like I'm just inviting bad karma to flow my way now...

2. Although Germany has proven itself to not be the culinary wasteland that I was anticipating, I am not going to lie, I was left feeling a little cold over the oh so famous currywurst. Currywurst is apparently the iconic street food of Berlin, but honestly, it's just a sausage, covered in ketchup and curry powder. It tastes exactly as it sounds. I feel like this is the kind of food that I would have found delicious when I was 5-years-old.

3. Possibly my favourite thing about Germany (aside from the Germans I met through couchsurfing) is the abundance of good coffee that is available at a reasonable price! I suppose that just about anything will taste good compared to the coffee they serve in Paris, and will be a bargain to boot, but Germans are serious about their coffee! After having spent the last year kicking a multiple-cups-of-day habit that I developed in Toronto, twelve days in Germany was enough to become an addict again.

I'm now in Budapest, and will make it a point to update more frequently.