tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40380409534633960182024-03-05T04:44:10.364-05:00the grand adventurea travel blog that aims to provide some measure of relief to those concerned about my goings on as I circumnavigate the globePatrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.comBlogger77125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-54050481822336565212013-05-23T20:44:00.004-04:002013-05-23T20:51:00.709-04:00a forest of stone<br />
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Our second day in Kunming began with a breakfast comprised of the various pre-packaged baked goods my father and I had gathered during our travels. Breakfast eaten, we packed up and checked out of our room. Today we were heading for YuNan's famous Stone Forest. A major tourist destination, the stone forest is yet another wonderful natural consequence of exposed limestone and rainwater. However, unlike the sloping hills along the Li River, the Stone Forest offers visitors a maze of limestone columns, interspersed with tiny caves and vernal pools. </div>
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Getting there would take some doing. After making contact with the Western World, we secured our baggage at our hotel and set about hailing a taxi to the train station. This took some doing. After a few minutes of unsuccessfully attempting to hail taxis using crude drawings of a train station, our "English-speaking" concierge attempted to help. Flagging down a cab, he chatted with the driver for a whole, then bid us to get in. The train station was on the same road as out hotel, so I was somewhat alarmed when our cab driver took a right, and began speeding down a side road. </div>
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Breaking out our sketch pad once again, we began an elaborate game of pictionary, which eventually communicated our message. Happily, the cab driver pulled a u-turn, and was soon speeding toward the train station. When he let us off, I immediately took a photograph of the train station, in the hopes that showing the picture to a future driver might ease our transit. We then set about looking for a bus. </div>
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the little drawing that could</div>
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My guidebook suggested that a bus to the stone forest departed from the train station, but there was no clear indication where this bus was. Finding a poster depicting the stone forest, I took a picture with my camera, and began showing the picture to official-looking types. This netted us some instructions, written in Chinese, which we were able to show to other official-looking types until we found ourselves waiting for bus 706. When the bus arrived, we were alarmed to see that it was a city-style bus. The stone forest was 70 km. out of town, and the prospect of riding on hard seats with a standing crowd packed around us was less than appealing. Nevertheless, we were soon speeding along a highway, toward God-knows where.</div>
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God, it turned out, knew that our destination was the Kunming Bus Station, and when the bus mercifully stopped, we took our cue from the crowd and piled out. A little wandering, and we were soon buying tickets to the stone forest on a proper long-haul bus. A short wait, a two-hour bus ride, and we were standing on the grounds of Stone Forest National Park. Discretely following a Chinese-speaking Westerner (who I presumed knew what he was doing) we soon plunked down ¥150 each for tickets to the stone forest. Without the benefit of a map, we asked directions to the entrance. A man, who I would later curse under my breath, directed us down a road, and blissfully ignorant, we began our merry jaunt. </div>
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Coming to a fork in the road, we turned left, and decided that the road led out of the park. Staring down the right-fork, we watched as electric trolleys ferried tourist-looking types down a long road that disappeared into the distance. We would soon learn that we were 3 km. from the entrance, 3 km. that - in the heat of the day - would probably have killed us. So we hiked back to where the trolleys were departing, only to find that we needed to buy a separate trolley ticket. Exasperated, we returned to the ticket office, bought the appropriate tickets, and at last found ourselves speeding toward the park.</div>
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One misguided cab ride, a packed bus to an unknown destination, a long-haul bus through the countryside, and an almost-unexploited electric trolley later, we were stepping into the stone forest. It was worth it.</div>
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At first, the area was crowed with tour groups, their coordinated hats and flag-waiving guides loudly moving through the park. But soon, we had put some distance between ourselves and our noisy fellow park users. We explored deeper and deeper into the maze of twisting limestone. Then we climbed high up to the stone-tree line, and gazed over the extraordinary expanse of rain-carved rock.</div>
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my father, down in the valley</div>
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following a cement bridge across the water</div>
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an elephant!</div>
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looking down on a forest of stone</div>
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After three or four hours, still very foot-sore from yesterday's walking spree, we emerged in the hopes of finding a reviving pub or restaurant. While the guidebook and other travel sites I read suggested that such amenities, I can only imagine that they once existed in the now closed-down buildings near the entrance. Surrounded by untended gardens, and somewhat overgrown with vines, the complex of buildings reminded me of what Jurassic Park would look like a year after the dinosaurs got loose. </div>
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Not spotting any triceratops, we decided to board an electric trolley that was heading to some other part of the park. Hoping onto the back, we cruised past well-manicured grounds at the periphery of the park. The close-cut grass and attractive flower arrangements brought out a very pleasant perspective on the limestone formations. When the trolley finally stopped, we hopped off, and headed toward a complex of buildings that we hoped might include a restaurant. Turning a corner, we were shocked to discover that we were back where we had come from. Walking by the same Jurassic Park-esque edifices, we decided to call it a day. Finding the exit, we made it back to the hotel where the Kunming-bound bus would pick us up.</div>
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the well-kept grounds of the "mushroom forest"</div>
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I had strategically positioned myself to be the first person to spot the bus. I didn't think that it was terribly important, but this minimal fore-knowledge gave me some sense of satisfaction. I had no idea how practical it would become. When I did spot the bus, I alerted my father, and we began walking out to the boarding area. Our movement attracted the attention of other passengers, and they soon began rushing toward me. Unmoved by my naive assumptions of entitlement at being the first to see the bus, I was elbowed and prodded away from the entrance. These people really wanted to get on the bus. </div>
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Retaining some sense of propriety, I used my commanding wingspan to allow some women and children onto the bus, then blocked others to let my father sneak on with me behind him. It turned out that the mania may have been due to the shortage of available seats. Despite tickets sold on a hourly basis, not everyone made it onto the bus. I was therefore pleased that I had been vigilant, and we were soon motoring back to Kunming Bus Station. Catching a cab from the bus station in an attempt to cut one form of transportation out of the equation, we were soon outside our hotel. By now it was 6:00 in the evening, and having not eaten anything since breakfast, we looked around the area for food. We found a series of colorful markets, and a large indoor farmers market, featuring an array of food items (living and otherwise). Fresh vegetables spilled over counters, stacks of eggs balanced precariously atop tables, butchers chopped away at cuts of meat, and merchants offered various cuts of cheese. Fish, frogs, and eels swam, sat, and slithered in buckets, awaiting the tastes of connoisseurs who insist on freshness.</div>
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a colorful array of lentils </div>
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While many things looked delicious (less so the frogs) our wimpy Western stomaches directed us elsewhere. Eventually we found a sit-down restaurant, where I enjoyed a dinner of eel and rice. Our hunger thus staved, we collected our luggage and hailed a cab to the train station. Availing myself of my prepared photograph, I was able to accomplish in ten minutes what had earlier taken over a half hour. </div>
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With plenty of time before our train boarded, I caught up on some homework that had not been transmitted before I left, and played backgammon with my father. When our train did arrive, it was flashy and new-looking. My initial impressions were good: the washroom was clean and had only the faintest hint of the lavatory smell so pervasive on Chinese trains. These trains had two stories, a further sign of modern luxury and connivence. Unfortunately, our compartment soured my impressions. The double-decker train layout meant that the cabin was ludicrously compressed. Even "normal" sided people sitting on the bottom bunk would have to crouch to avoid hitting their heads on the upper bunk. The space was further constricted due to the lack of available space for luggage. Exploiting ever nook and cranny we could find, the remaining space was so claustrophobically constrictive, that I immediately jumped into my bunk to sleep. Contorting myself around some of my luggage, I caught what sleep I could. </div>
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It's now morning, and I'm anxious to get off this train and and explore Lijiang. We've left the cities behind us, and the next few days promise fresh air and open country. After this train ride, I can't wait.</div>
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Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-62628241399806103692013-05-23T20:44:00.002-04:002013-05-23T20:44:20.111-04:00kunmingling<br />
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We both went to sleep fairly early that night. Having the compartment to ourselves, we were able to take the bottom two bunks. Then at 11:00 at night, the train stopped, and there was a knock at our door. It turns out that we had guests after all. My father shot out of our commandeered bed and sprang, with amazing agility, up to the top bunk. The couple that joined us had a baby in tow, and I could be forgiven for being concerned that I wouldn't be sleeping much. My fears were unjustified, as the tiny tot was a perfect gentleman the whole trip, and we waived goodbye to our guests who departed around 7:00 in the morning.</div>
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The rest of our morning involved a dramatic change of scenery. We were now properly in the mountains. Kunming is 2,000 meters above sea level. That's more than a mile. As our train climbed ever higher, we gazed out at the incredible engineering that made our journey possible. Through countless tunnels cut into the mountain side, and endless platforms raised up hundreds of feet from the valleys below, we rose ever higher out of the rain-soaked rice fields and into the arid highlands.</div>
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a blurry picture through a dirty window, but you can see the tracks winding through mountain.</div>
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We arrived in Kunming at 11:00, quickly joining the teeming masses leaving the station. Securing a cab, we sped toward a hotel where we would only be spending one night before resuming our sleeper train schedule. Kunming is a city under construction. The honorific can be applied to most Chinese cities, but the level of construction going on in Kunming distinguishes this capital of the Yunnan Province. The city is in the process of building a metro system, and in doing so, they have torn up most of the major roads in town. More on this later.</div>
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Arriving out our hotel, we were able to check in by 11:30, and by half-past noon, we were showered and ready to hit the town. The first order of business was to mail some post cards. I had a map of central Kunming in my guidebook, and it's (criminally negligent) scale suggested that the post office was right up the road. Thus began our principle activity in Kunming: walking. </div>
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Walking down the sidewalk toward the post office was complicated by the fact that more often than not, there was no sidewalk. Metro-related construction meant that where once there was a perfectly good (and safe) place for pedestrians to stroll along, now there was a 60 foot hole in the ground. So we were directed to walk in the street. </div>
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walking (not dancing) in the street</div>
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I have probably not devoted enough of this blog to explaining the synchronized chaos that is Chinese driving. Lanes - indeed direction of travel - are more suggestions than enforced rules. You can always, always pass someone, even if that means veering into oncoming traffic or into pedestrian ways. To stop for a pedestrian must be considered a great dishonor, I've never seen it done. And of course, there's millions of mopeds, scooters, trikes, and bicycles swarming in and out of the gaps left by cars. </div>
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It was into this maelstrom that my father and I strode. Every once in a while, a choice piece of sidewalk was made available, and we hurriedly scampered over to it. But for the most part, our walk consisted of a very consorted effort to not become a Chinese traffic statistic. We walked for about four blocks, then walked for about two more blocks, then consulted the map, then walked for another two blocks, then stood and waited to cross the street, then walked for a few blocks more. By the time I spotted the sign for the post office, my father and I had all but given up hope. We deposited our postcards, bought a few Chinese lottery scratch tickets, and began to head back the way we came.</div>
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We retraced about four blocks, before deciding that it was prudent to seek out some lunch. Buying some nuts and dried bananas from a vendor, we continued our search for real food. Hungry and footsore, we decided on a very small, very local joint that helpfully had pictures of the food. Using my camera to take pictures of each of the courses we wanted, I then showed the chef - who had a window from the kitchen to the dining room - and he quickly set about preparing our meal. The food was terrific. My father attests that it's the best he's had in China. The final bill for the two meals - plus a coupe of cokes - came to ¥27. About $2 a piece. Excellent.</div>
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cooking up our orders</div>
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We didn't know it then, but that would be the highlight of our day. Walking became something of an art form who's medium my father and I practiced over the next five hours. We walked to a central squire. Then walked through markets. Then walked to a shopping district. Then just walked. Outside of a few museums that closed early, Kunming didn't have much to offer. My guidebook steered us this way and that until finally I decided that we should take a cab out to Kunming University, which was reported to have wonderful little cafes.</div>
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The problem was, no cab driver would take us there. I managed to get within a few kilometers of the university, on damn road that led there, less than a 10 minute drive, and the cab drivers kept turning me down. I went from annoyed, to frustrated, to incensed. Eventually (after dabbling in some more walking) by father and I hoped on a #5 bus that may or may not be heading to the university. For ¥1, we hadn't made a major investment. The bus took us most of the way toward the university, before veering left onto a street that, for all I knew, led to our doom. We quickly exited the bus and (surprise!) walked the rest of the way to the university. We managed to circle 3/4 of the university before finding a way into the grounds, and enjoyed a break in a little grocery store-cum-cafe. I'd hoped to find an English Language Bookstore that had been advertised, but after walking two or three blocks fruitlessly, we gave up. Boarding a mystery bus (I had sworn off taxis for the day) we managed to get back to the shopping district, and walked the seven or eight blocks back to our hotel.</div>
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a sea of mopeds near the university</div>
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Once there, we purchased two Budweisers, which came in early-70's era pull-top cans. Exhausted from our urban marathon, we gorged on the nuts we had procured earlier, then went to sleep without any supper. I had hopes that Kunming would not be a total wash, but those hopes would have to be realized the next day... </div>
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Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-28839911000719107922013-05-18T22:48:00.001-04:002013-05-18T23:06:20.213-04:00a royal city palace<br />
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I woke up to our last day in Guilin with somewhat of a stomach ache. Sickness and injury are the ultimate bane of travel, and I skipped a traditional breakfast, hoping to avoid exacerbating a stomach bug. Instead, I availed myself of our hotel's famous cappuccino, and found myself feeling much better by the time I had finished.</div>
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My father and I then went out pastry shopping. We had passed a number of bakeries in Guilin, and my father was hoping to find some tasty baked good for breakfast. We walked the entire length of a pedestrian walk (passed a number of other bakeries) to get to one I remembered as seeming nice. Everything seemed okay until we turned over the packaging and found the prices. Many of these simple little breads cost ¥120 and up! Uninterested in shelling out US$20, we backtracked to the other bakeries, bouncing in and out of a few before finally settling one a shop that had a good variety and fair prices.</div>
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Breakfast complete, I directed us to the Guilin City Palace. Styled in much the same way as the larger and more famous Forbidden City in Beijing, the Guilin City Palace actually predates the Forbidden City by around 40 years. Paying for a ticket, we were shown around by a very respectful and interesting guide. We were given the history of the city and brought into the throne room. Twice burnt to the ground (most recently in the 1800s) the throne room as been rebuilt to showcase the history of the palace grounds. We were treated to our far share of gimmicks: two "guards" opened the door to a "throne room" that was actually an image projected on a screen; and two dancers preformed 2 minutes worth of a three-hour traditional dace. Cheesy, perhaps, but I found myself enjoying it.</div>
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The entrance to the city palace.</div>
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We were then brought into a Confucian cave carved into the single limestone peak that towers over the palace. Inside, carved images of figures representing each year of birth greeted the devout and the visitors alike. When I was taken to the figure representing 1986, our guide stopped short. With an uneasy tone, he informed me that my year had "warning symbols" associated with it. Every ten years or so, a figure is given a "warning symbol" represented by a single red Chinese character beneath the figure. 1986 has two symbols, one of only two years with this usual designation. Our guide explained that the devout would interpret these symbols to mean that they should "beware in their job" and "beware of traffic." Which means all my aspirations as a crossing guard just went out the window.</div>
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Leaving the cave, we were treated to a demonstration of the Pubic Official's test. In ancient China, subjects of the Emperor could rise through a total of seven ranks by taking a series of standardized tests. After a brief explanation (in Chinese) we were directed to a cubby hole, where we were given an exam (also in Chinese), a calligraphy brush, and ink. I began attempting to imitate reasonably simple Chinese characters - to the amusement of many passers-by - but had the exam snatched away from me before I had completed my second character. It turns out that I all but flunked the test, which meant that I had to watch on as the two brightest students were hastily draped in costume robes and presented before us. </div>
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Leaving the Academy, and bidding our guide farewell, my father and I then began the 291 step accent of the "Solitary Beauty Peak." The same peak beneath which the Confucian cave is carved, the number of steps beguiles the true rigors of the climb. For one: these were massive steps. I'm tall, and I like large steps. Heck, I'll often take 'em two at a time. Not these steps; no way. Secondly: while steep, they were not very wide. Certainly not meant for size 10 boots. And last, we were negotiating this climb admits a sea of other visitors. </div>
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Climbing down.</div>
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Somewhat out of breath, my father and I both eventually made it to the top of the peak, and the views of Guilin were splendid. We made sure to stay up there long enough to justify the physical exertion, and then slowly made our way down. Having free reign of the palace grounds, we explored some of the roads less travels, arriving at a library and the grounds of a university. We also made it to a wonderful little Zen Island, though we did not linger as the sky threatened rain.</div>
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A view of the Solitary Beauty Peak from Zen Island.</div>
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Leaving the City Palace, we stocked up on some provisions for our train ride, and returned to our hotel to kill some time. Ordering a simple lunch, my father and I spent an hour or so talking with the girl who was working at the cafe. A student at the university, she worked at our hotel 2 days a week for ¥5 an hour. If I've ever complained that Work-Study doesn't pay enough, I take it all back, because ¥5 doesn't even break US$1.</div>
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Finally, we caught a taxi to the train station, where we waited for the (unsurprisingly) delayed train. To kill the time, I introduced my father to Backgammon, which I had downloaded on the iPad. Playing a few games, we then became the pre-train entertainment for a young Chinese boy. Cautiously curious, he starred us down for quite some time. Urged my his mother, the young boy then came to shake both my father's hand and mine. We exchanged a few simple pleasantries, and I rooted through my bag to find a US Quarter. When my father handed the US quarter to the child, half a dozen uncles and grandparents gathered around him to see the token. It made me wish I had packed more change.</div>
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Now we're speeding along toward Kunming. It seems we've been lucky enough to secure a sleeping compartment to ourselves. This is terrific because it's allowed us to spread out a bit, and while my father naps on the bed next to me, I'm not going to catch up on a little reading as the Guilin countryside whizzes by.</div>
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Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-17150816978058107872013-05-18T22:47:00.002-04:002013-05-18T22:47:42.063-04:00river life<br />
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After a quick American-style breakfast - which included the best coffee I expect to find in the Orient - my father and I were met by our guide. The night before I had booked a ferry through the most scenic regions of the countryside, and "Harry" as our guide styled himself, was going to show us to the docks.</div>
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Picking up a few others along the way, we were soon at the Guilin Docks. I was somewhat unnerved by the sheep-like behavior I began exhibiting in response to my surroundings: slowly herding onto a ferry with the rest of our group. Among those traveling down the river with us included five Swiss folks, with whom we carried on the longest English-language conversation we had since leaving the States. By 10:30 the ferry was underway and we hurried up to the observation deck. Our boat was steaming ahead of the other river traffic, and we had soon put some distance between ourselves and the other boats.</div>
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The flotilla departing Guilin harbor. </div>
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We were floating past massive pillars of limestone, thick with vegetation. Trees and vines hung to all but the most parlously vertical cliffs. A misty haze floated through the peaks, painting the far-off hills in increasingly lighter shades of blue.</div>
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The hills.</div>
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The views were magnificent, and the ferry was moving just quickly enough to keep a light breeze blowing. We watched as our captain deftly drifted his keel-less boat by sheer limestone faces and around scrappy grass-covered islands. Here and there, a waterfall would appear where a stream carved its way through the limestone to find the river. Small villages occasionally lined the shore, their harbors filled with little fleets of bamboo boats. It was a peaceful way to spend the morning.</div>
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Cooks hard at work.</div>
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There was a small buffet lunch around noon, featuring meats of questionable origin. My father seemed to enjoy what I am almost certain were chicken feet, though I found the over-abundance of bones to be irritating (past readers may recall that when I choose to dine on whole-bird, I prefer that it be boiled before its fried, that the bones might be easier to chew). </div>
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Eventually, our ferry terminated in Yangshuo. Yangshuo is a beautiful mountain town beset by a commercialism that both suffocates the space, yet strangely keeps it alive. Without the commercial potential of tourism: it would go the way of so many other towns: industrialized and without character. Yet by exploiting that potential to the fullest, the town has leached out much of its authenticity. Nevertheless, if you could see past the souvenir stands and the occasional western fast food chain (the Colonel's ongoing campaign in China has left few towns without a KFC) Yangshuo can be pleasantly charming.</div>
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Along that market in Yangshuo.</div>
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We walked around for about an hour, during which I took one of my signature detours down an abandoned road. This led us to a complex that was likely once a thriving resort. Sitting on a prime piece of real estate beside the town pond, the resorts Zen Garden was now untended and overgrown. Exploring the space made for an interesting diversion, and the whole adventure would have been worth it just to see the look of incredulous confusion on the face of a Chinese guard watching us leave.</div>
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Before heading back to Guilin, we had arranged to stop by one of the minority villages to have a look around. Shuttled there in a goofy little air conditioned bus, we arrived outside the town center looking so much like a camera-strapping, fannypack-adjusting, doofy tour group that I unconsciously began putting physical distance between myself and the group. </div>
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Nevertheless, despite the absurdly contrived visit with the water buffalo, I was enjoying the village. We spent some time on "The Dragon Bridge" which, our tour guide informed us proudly, was not only the site of two major motion pictures (one American, one Chinese), but also the vantage point from which photographers from Microsoft captured a background image featured in Windows 7. Cheesy though it may be, I am looking forward to verifying this claim when I return home.</div>
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We then watched a local fisherman using commerant birds for fishing. With string tied around their necks to prevent the birds from swallowing their catch, the fisherman sends the commerants into the water. The two birds excel at pursuing fish underwater. When they catch one, the commerants rise to the surface and are scooped up by the fisherman. The fish is retrieved from the bird's mouth, and the commerant is rewarded with a bait fish. With fish stocks strained by an ever expanding population, this ancient tradition is preserved only for the entertainment of tourists.</div>
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Holding up the commerants.</div>
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There was a second part of the guided tour that my father and I opted out of. While waiting for the rest of the group to explore "Shangrela" we purchased a few provisions, and I went exploring in the countryside. It wasn't long before I found myself criss crossing rice patties, thoroughly enjoying myself. I came upon an intricate stone and clay aqueduct system, which so captivated me that I jogged back to find my father. Finding him smoking one of the Cuban cigars we purchased in the Toronto Airport, I guided him to my find, and he was suitably impressed both by the aqueduct and the countryside.</div>
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Finally returning to our bus, we were driven back to Guilin. We visited an excellent restaurant with absurdly large portions of fantastic Chinese food. Doing our best to not let too much go to waste, we both ate entirely too much, and walked off our meal on an evening stroll along the city river. Following a winding tourist path, sheltered by brightly-lit trees, we meandered back to our hotel. While my father relaxed at our hotel's bar, I went exploring in the market area. Without the trappings of a tourist, I enjoyed a stroll bereft of the interjections of pushy merchants and dubious touts. I was the only Westerner in site, and it was interesting to see young Chinese men and women assailed with the same methods that so frustrates our interactions with public spaces.</div>
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Pagodas lit up along the river.</div>
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I've now made it back to the hotel, and it's time to get some sleep. Tomorrow we catch a train to Kunming, and I have to say that I'll be sad to see Guilin go. This has been a wonderful little town, and I couldn't be happier with our quite little Lakeside Inn. Tomorrow we trade rivers for mountains; let's see how it goes.</div>
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Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-5497376931906882662013-05-18T22:37:00.002-04:002013-05-18T22:37:35.407-04:00snore-master<br />
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;">It's </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;">6:00</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;"> in the morning in Guilin, a small city in the south of China. The heat of the tropics has already begun to weave its way in between the concrete and tile edifices that line the lakefront. We're here to see a landscape that for over 2000 years has been been acclaimed as being the most beautiful in China. Eons ago, titanic forces thrust up a massive plateau of limestone above the countryside. Limestone - despite its strength - has the curious property of dissolving in rainwater. And so, for thousands of years, water following the path of least resistance dissolved away much of the plateau. Left behind are a stunning series of limestone columns, abutting the slow-flowing Li River. Immortalized in Classical Chinese paintings, these mountainous columns are China's greatest natural landmark.</span></div>
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Getting to this scene of natural splendor took some doing. First we had to find our train. This was accomplished with little to no effort, because our train was easily seven and a half miles long. Powered by electricity (quite possibly from an on-board nuclear reactor) the behemoth stretched on as far as the eye could see. This made finding our carriage somewhat tricky. It didn't help that we had no idea which carriage we were looking for (the carriage number being cleverly disguised amidst a sea of other numbers). The tactic my father employed was equally brilliant and repetitive: we handed our tickets to one of the conductor, and she directed us farther down the train. Reaching the next conductor, we were again directed farther down. A third conductor, a fourth, farther down, farther down. We repeated this procedure at least a dozen times before my father finally got fed up and skipped a conductor. Reaching the next conductor, we were - of course - comically pointed back the way we came. The only carriage we skipped was our own.</div>
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At our carriage at last.</div>
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By the time we got on board the train was nearly ready to depart. We were staying in a "Soft Sleeper" compartment, distinguished from a "Hard Sleeper" compartment less by the comfortability of the beds as by the presence of doors. Hard Sleepers have 4, 6, or 8 bunks in a compartment, and no door. Soft Sleepers have four bunks, a door, and a fancy carpet lining the carriage hallway. Our compartment was already occupied by the two other people who would be riding with us: a man (I will refer to him as Snore-Master for reasons that will soon become obvious) and a women (who gets no nickname, as she rarely interacted with us). </div>
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Snore-Master spoke some English, and we would later learn that he was a retired Medical Teacher. The women was already up in the top bunk, where she would remain for most of the voyage. We exchanged pleasantries, and I began taking bad pictures out of the grimy windows. Less than an hour into the trip, and despite it being only 5:30 in the afternoon, Snore-Master and the women were already lying down to sleep. Within minutes, Snore-Master had earned his nickname. My father - a veteran of many fishing trips, scout camps, and other large congregations of men snoring - had never heard Snore-Master's equal. Over the next sixteen hours (sixteen!) we were treated to a symphony of respiratory excretions. Snore-Master preformed everything: the classic quite nostril murmuring that rises into a rumbling chortle; breathy inhales followed by exhaled whistles of "seew"; slurping sounds reminiscent of the rudest consumption of soup; and his piece de resistonce: a thunderous inhaled snort followed by a measured fluttering exhale that so perfectly channeled the Three Stooges as to defy belief. </div>
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Suffice to say: we did not sleep well. The women would chime in every once in a while, but she was a novice, a mere amateur compared with Snore-Master. Here efforts did little more than demonstrate how hopelessly outclassed she was by the prodigy in the bunk beneath her. My father and I finally gave up our hopeless dreams of sleep around 5:00 in the morning, and spent the pre-dawn hours in the hallway. When Snore-Master finally woke up at 9:30 in the morning, we were all expecting to arrive in Guilin shortly. The train was scheduled to arrive at 11:30, and Snore-Master went to check if we were on schedule. When he returned, he angrily announced that the train was late, and promptly returned to his natural state of noisy unconsciousness. </div>
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The countryside whizzing by.</div>
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While the countryside was interesting, by 12:30 we were anxious to depart, and by 2:30 we were seriously considering jumping off. Ultimately, the train arrived at Guilin at 3:30 in the afternoon, nearly 24 hours since we had first set off from Shanghai. Soon we were in a cab, speeding into town. Our driver quickly found our hotel, where we checked in, dropped our bags, and appreciated that for the first time 24 hours, we were not moving. </div>
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Showering and changing, I consulted the internet to find a place for dinner. We were directed to an Indian restaurant - the highest rated restaurant in Guilin, and only five minutes from our hotel. After a false start, we found the restaurant, ate a terrific meal, returned to our hotel, and - finally - got some sleep.</div>
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Now it's time to head off toward the storied limestone hills that brought us here. If nothing else, our experiences getting here will serve as a benchmark against which no other ordeal will soon compare. And I am confidant that this town and its landscapes will be more than worth the effort. Let's see...</div>
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Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-19290894450596583672013-05-16T10:33:00.002-04:002013-05-16T10:33:37.862-04:00shang-hai'll cya later<span style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;">We began our last morning in Shanghai by venturing out in search of breakfast. When all the immediate alternatives failed us, we resorted to the Western traveler's perennial haunt: McDonalds. Everything tasted eerily similar to what I remember of Egg McMuffins (it has been many years since I've partaken). </span><br />
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Returning to the room, we packed everything up, and left our luggage with the font desk. Our train wasn't leaving until <a href="about:blank" style="color: darkblue; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">16:18</a>, so we had plenty of time to make a final exploration of the city before jetting off to the train station. Deciding that we should pick up a few extra articles of clothing, we headed of for the No. 1 Shanghai Department Store. The prefix "Number One" is almost comically ubiquitous in Asian countries. If advertising is to be believed, I have already been by the #1 Tea Shop, the #1 One Jade Store, the #1 Great Fast Taxibus, the other #1 Jade Store, and so many #1 Silk & Shall vendors, that you'd think they were a chain.</div>
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In contrast, the No. 1 Shanghai Department Store to boast. It is the largest department store in Shanghai - and may be the largest in the country. While American and Europe have moved away from the department store model embraced at the turn of the last century, that model is alive and well in Shanghai. In eight floors and one basement, each arranged by the merchandise available on that floor, the No. 1 Shanghai Department Store presents a cornucopia of conspicuous consumption. My father purchased a light wool sweater to replace his wool blazer as cold-weather layer of choice. I picked up yet another adventure shirt, after determining that I'm somewhere between a 110 and 115 in Chinese clothing sizes.</div>
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Leaving the department store, we made our way back into Renmin Park, where we found the Contemporary Art museum was open. Paying the admission, we were presented by the works of two artists on as many floors. The privately-funded museum may have been small, but the works of art - at least on the first floor - were fairly interesting. While nothing matched my indescribably surreal experience in Denmark (which I none-the-less attempted to describe earlier in the blog) the museum was, if nothing else, a welcome reprieve from the outdoor heat.</div>
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Deciding that it was probably time that we head back to our hotel, my father and I descended back to the Metro, though not before walking through a large underground shopping mall. It's astonishing how many things are for sale here in Shanghai, and how the city exploits every nook and cranny for unabashed consumerism. Picking up a few unusual donuts from "Mister Donut," we returned to our hotel, collected our bags, and caught a ride down to the South Train Station. </div>
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Now sitting here admits a great mass of humanity patiently awaiting their trains, I am anxious to get on the train, and watch the countryside whizzing by. With any luck, we'll soon be on our way.</div>
Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-7490466793747550822013-05-16T10:02:00.000-04:002013-05-16T10:02:10.580-04:00the people's square<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;">We began our last full day in Shanghai with a thoroughly local breakfast. At what could best be described as a Chinese Dunkin' Donuts, my father ordered a rice-patty breakfast sandwich, and I got some variety of fried dough in a savory sauce, wrapped in a doughy omelet. Both meals came with a glass of soy/coconut milk, and when we had finished, neither my father nor I was especially keen on returning.</span></div>
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Today, we were heading to the People's Square. The site of a horse-racing circuit that so captivated the Westerners (and later the Chinese) that it rose to be the third-largest business in China, the races were shut down by Chanhi-Chek in favor of a sports area. The area was then itself toppled in favor of a Glorious Square to the People. We had to dodge a rather forward shoe-shine women, but pretty soon my father and I were walking through the cool shade of the Renmin Park. Encountering an even greater variety of exercisers in the Park than we had on the Bund, we lingered in shady spots, taking pictures and acquainting ourselves with our surroundings.</div>
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Eventually, we set off for the Museum of Shanghai - a walk that was somewhat complicated by precarious placement of a highway. Walking past imposing Communist architecture, we eventually made it to the museum. Admission was free, but we rented an pair of audio guides to better acquaint ourselves with the area. We then proceeded to spend the next few hours emerged in Chinese art and history.</div>
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Leaving the museum behind, we moved away from the grand public space and into a more commercially developed area. Hoping to find some lunch - and more importantly some water - we made our way to a connivence store, purchased two bottles of ice-tea each, and proceeded to guzzle them down. While we drank, I watch a street vendor hurriedly preparing noodles for a long and eager line of patrons. She must have made the best noodles, because we would later see similar corner-side vendors languishing without customers.</div>
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Grabbing lunch at a sandwich shop, we then made our way back to the metro in search of one of the more impressive temples. Following the advice of my guidebook, we skipped the better known temple in Shanghai in favor of the Temple of the Jade Buddhas. Its entrance congested with beggars, we quickly got inside and looked around. The space was impressive, if thoroughly commercialized. It was certainly still an active place of worship, as partitioners burned fake money in outside piers and knelt before the towering images of the Buddha. The air was thick with incense as we peaked into the various temple buildings. </div>
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Eventually coming to the great Jade Buddha - 2 meters tall and carved from a single block of white jade - we began to meander out of the temple. However, our path was blocked by a long procession of monks, drumming and chanting as the went, followed by an even longer procession of women dressed in black, following behind. Making a somewhat circuitous exit, we found out way out past a pond chocked with koi, dozens of which would throng at the slightest arm movement that might indicate food.</div>
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When we returned to the hotel, both my father and I dozed off for a while. Waking up later than we intended, the immediate options for dinner were somewhat compromised. Even the nearby department store's food court was closing down, and so we eventually found ourselves assembling a somewhat creative - if not wholly nutritious - dinner from a local mini-mart.</div>
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The fruits of our foray secured, we returned to our hotel and watched an English-language Japanese new station while scoffing down salads "BLTs" and pastries of unknown fillings. We also broke in to provisions purchased for consumption on tomorrow's train ride. Ostensibly checking to make sure that these provisions were of the flavor and consistency appropriate to rely upon during our long journey, my father and I were relieved to find that Marshmallow Pies and crackers, did, in fact, taste like Marshmallow Pies and crackers.</div>
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Now it's time to settle in for our last night's sleep in Shanghai: fresher air, and more adventures to come on the other side of tomorrow's train ride!</div>
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Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-54519412557451528742013-05-16T10:01:00.001-04:002013-05-16T10:01:18.735-04:00bund-bound<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;">Yesterday we started out by heading to the Bund. "The Bund" refers to a stretch of buildings running along the western bank of the Huangpu River (the river that bifurcates Shanghai). At the turn of the last Century, banks and trading houses from the UK, France, Italy, Russia, Germany, Japan, the US began cropping up in the area, throughly Westernizing the area with everything from Anglican Churches to rowing clubs. </span></div>
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Posh hotels with all the trappings of the Imperial Colonial age sprang up, and a Shanghai emerged that all but forbid the local Chinese from entering. All that changed in the 1950s with the Communist Revolution. Most of the financial institutions moved out, the rowing clubs and cafes were shut down, and the area was opened up to the people. With the modern reintroduction of capitalism, many of the grand edifices that line the Huangpu River have reverted to their former uses as banks and financial institutions. The government of Shanghai has aspirations to see the Bund become something of an Eastern Champs-Élyséese, and the area already sports an collection of designer stores and couture houses unrivaled in China.</div>
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Walking around the Bund early <a href="about:blank" style="color: darkblue; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">on Sunday morning</a>, there weren't too many people out. A few old men flying kites and some folks engaged in a variety of different exercises under-occupied the grand space. We were hoping to find some breakfast and walked most of the length in our pursuit. The view of Pudong, on the other side of the river, was shrouded in a haze of early-morning smog, enveloping the eccentric menagerie of skyscrapers in the Special Development Zone.</div>
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After a circuitous route to nowhere, we happened upon a cafe that was about to open for business. As my father waited, I explored a little farther down the road, found a connivence store, and picked up a bottle of mocha ice coffee (very good, very cheap). Pairing the ice coffee with some rather elegant chocolate pastry twists, we enjoyed a quick breakfast, while planning our next move.</div>
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Walking back on the raised thoroughfare by the river, we dodged exercisers and chatted with some locals for a while. Leaving the Bund behind, we finished our morning with a tea ceremony, consisting of six different kinds of tea - each for a different quasi-medicinal purpose. Leaving the tea hall, we headed into the heart of the Old City.</div>
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If the city planners have their way (and they always have their way), the Old City will soon be buried beneath a forest of high-rise apartments and modern shopping malls. The process has already begun. Like dandelions towering over the grass, 40 and 50 story apartment buildings have shot up helter-skelter amidst the sea of two and three story houses. But as long as one does not look skyward, the vibrancy of the Old City is still palpable. </div>
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We began in the "Antique / Fake Market," a collection of stalls and shops selling everything from "ivory" chopsticks to Little Red Books. It was like being back at the Souqs of Egypt, or the Bazaars of Istanbul. As we walked by, shopkeepers would invite our attentions with the two or three English words they had memorized. Modern knock-offs mixed with curious antique oldies: a rusted gramophone, a frayed officers cap, and a old baritone horn. We picked up a few knick-knacks, sharpening our bartering skills as we went, then left the Fake Market for a stroll through the Old City. </div>
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There we were confronted with the modern markets of Shanghai, selling everything from bags of tea leaves, to live turtles. The din of a thousand Lucky Crickets, chirping inside their boxes, filled the air, and we wound our way through the markets. Caged birds screeched out, old men idly played cards, and locals engaged in animated displays of haggling.</div>
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Eventually, foot-sore and fatigued, we emerged into a more recently developed part of town, hoped onto the Metro, and returned to our hotel. Taking a few hours to recompose, we then planned a visit to the Captains Bar. </div>
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Sitting atop a five-story backpackers hotel, the Captains Bar offers one of the best free views of the Bund and Pudong in the city. My father and I ordered a couple beers as we watched the sky darken, and the lights of the city come to life. This was the first time that we were reasonable well-surrounded by Westerners, and it was a pleasant way to spend a few hours. </div>
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Walking back down to the Bund, we explored the area after dark. All of the classic colonial buildings were lit up, and a throng of tourists and site seers (overwhelmingly Chinese) had congregated on the raised thoroughfare. We stayed long enough to get some pictures and some "fresh"-ish air, then retired back to our hotel for an early night's rest.</div>
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Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-2961464530870297262013-05-14T22:56:00.001-04:002013-05-16T10:02:20.408-04:00restricted access <br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;">So it turns out there's no access to Blogger in China. Nor to Facebook. Nor to google searches with the words "Blogger" or "Facebook" and "China". Google will still take you to "silly cat pictures" though, so the Glorious People LolCats prevail! </span></div>
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I'm developing a work-around (if you're reading this before <a href="about:blank" style="color: darkblue; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">May 28th</a>, you'll know that it worked). For now, it's been 28 hours since I've seen a bed, so I'm going to see about this "sleep" thing I hear everyone talking about. </div>
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Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-1026031680716902232013-05-14T22:55:00.004-04:002013-05-16T10:02:30.280-04:00planes, trains, and automobiles<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;">Just arrived at the hotel. It was a little trickier getting here than I expected: first we boarded the Maglev train (very cool) and zipped along at just over 300 km/h suspended by an array of very powerful magnets.</span><br />
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The fun times ended at the other end of the station. We were greeted with a thoroughly incomprehensible subway map, and opted to head of the station. There, we met a new friend. Hardly the most ostentatiously dressed man I'd seen that day - Chinese urban fashion appears to draw inspiration largely from a confused marriage of Victorian wallpaper samples and Army Surplus styles - our friend guided us to his taxi. I've been fleeced on taxi rides from the airport before (see my arrival in Cairo) but our friend was prepared to fleece us on a whole new level. After securing our bags in the trunk, and driving a few feet, he turned to my father and I saying: "something something, 'fowr-hunded' something." "Four-hundred!" I exclaimed, assuming that he meant ¥400 (¥ to $ is about 6:1). There was no way that I was paying ¥400 for a cab ride. </div>
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We began a process of bargaining that largely involved me opening the door to step out, followed by a ¥50 drop in the price. This went on until we talked him down to ¥200. Now, ¥200 is still way more than we should have paid, but it had been over 24 hours since we left our beds back in NH, and we were anxious to get to the hotel.</div>
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Blindly hoping that our friend knew where he was going, we set off in the general direction of Downtown Shanghai. 40 mins. later and about 15 left-turns later, he dropped us off at what he claimed to be our hotel. It wasn't. But at least, it was on the right street. A 10 minute walk that acquainted us with a marvelous array of scents and we were at our hotel. </div>
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Now it's time to make a few calls, grab some food, and finally get some rest. </div>
Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-68278790395770352302013-05-14T22:54:00.002-04:002013-05-16T10:02:39.032-04:00northern exposure<span style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;">May 10th - Flight</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;">I'm not sure where in the world I am right now... probably still over North America. It's </span><a href="about:blank" style="color: darkblue; cursor: pointer; font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">5:30</a><span style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;"> (P.M. in New Hampshire, A.M. in China), and we've been flying for about five hours. That means nine more hours to go, and I'm quickly depleting the films available to me ("Oz: The Great and Powerful": pretty good, not all that memorable; "Les Miserables": excellent so far). </span><br />
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Anyway, I'm writing because it just hit me: I'm going to China. That may seem silly, but with law school, job searching, visa problems, planning, and finals, I've not had the opportunity to reflect and appreciate that I'm going to be spending two and a half weeks in the Orient. But now: speeding toward the city of Shanghai, I haven't been this excited in a long time.</div>
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[amendment: now <a href="about:blank" style="color: darkblue; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">8:19</a>, Les Mis great, must be near Asia now, they just served "Cup Noodles." A quick check of the satellite map shows that we're actually only a few miles away from the North Pole, approaching Siberia]</div>
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Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-59589234847891098212013-05-09T23:18:00.001-04:002013-05-09T23:19:59.617-04:00dusting offIt's been quite some time since I've updated this blog, but it's also been quite some time since I've been doing any serious traveling. I just finished my second year of law school this morning, and in less than 10 hours I will be wheels-up on a fight bound for Shanghai.<br />
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...which means I should probably start packing. In the two years since I returned from South America, I've replaced many of the travel essentials that were stolen from me in Venezuela. Now, armed with a trusty pair of boots, my Tilley Hat, and an implacable zest for adventure, I'm look forward to exploring new cities, eating stranger foods, and falling off bigger waterfalls. </div>
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This is my third major adventure, and like the third Indiana Jones movie: this time, dad's coming along. After booking my ticket at around 1:30 am one morning, I called him up and asked if he wanted to go to China. He said yes, and asked when we'd be going. "In a couple weeks" I replied, and without missing a beat, my father said "okay, let's do it." So now we're off; our travels will take us from the vibrant metropolises of Shanghai and Beijing, through the limestone peaks and steamy tropical south, and up to the wind-swept precipice of the Himalaya. As always, I'll be updating with journal entries and photos as I go. </div>
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For now, I really need to get packed and sneak in a few hours of sleep. Next post: Shanghai.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">By the way, if anyone is interested in visiting China, here are three things that I wish I'd known ahead of time:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">1. A Chinese Visa (which must be obtained ahead of your departure) now costs $160.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">2. You have to either show up to the Chinese Consulate in person to apply - or pay an agency to do so (no mailing your visa application and passport to the consulate)</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">3. The last three pages of your passport "don't count", insofar as the Chinese Consulate will not affix a visa to these pages.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444;">Had I known these things ahead of time, the last few weeks - already heavily-booked with law school finals - would have been somewhat less manic. </span></div>
Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-34737564331815872172010-02-18T08:24:00.004-05:002010-02-19T19:31:17.970-05:00bom dia brazil<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The flight from Caracas to </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">S</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">ão Paulo</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> took around six hours, but because S</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">ão Paulo is two and a half hours ahead of Caracas (itself a half hour ahead of Boston) I spent most of the day in transit, and the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">S</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">ão Paulo International Airport did everything in its power to prolong this exposure. Collecting my bags, I made a valiant effort to exit the airport, but was foiled my the cleverly-designed Duty Free shop that appeared to be guarding the exit. In reality, having failed to notice what was little more than an unmarked door leading out into the airport, I entered a maze of tax-free items from which there was no escape. It took me the better part of 20 minutes just to get to the point where I could then wait to clear customs and officially enter the country. After a bit of chaos, I was able to get a cab into town that dropped me off at my friend Walter's apartment, a little more than 15 hours since I had first left the apartment in Caracas.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Surprisingly alert, I showered, changed, and joined Walter and a collection of his friends for diner at a nice little Italian/Brazilian restaurant. The food was great, the company was excellent, and it was a good opportunity for me to meet the group of people I would be spending a good deal of time with over the next few weeks. After dinner, we drove to a rather hip and trendy night club as a way of integrating me into Paulista culture. We stayed out late enough for me to be just shy of the 24 hour-long day mark, and I was properly exhausted when we finally returned to Walter's place. I must say, he had quite the set up ready for me in his converted three-bedroom apartment, and I continued to feel spoiled by South America as I sank into my comfortable double-bed.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The next day was kicked off by a stop by a nearby shopping mall with Walter's friend Andrea. I was hoping to find some clothes to replace the ones stolen in Venezuela, but time and again Brazilian fashion/sizes didn't exactly conform to even my more eccentric standards. I returned from my shopping venture to pack for a trip out to Walter's country house out in Minas, which promised to offer a few days of rest, relaxation, and (most importantly for me) rural surroundings. Adrea was also coming along, and the two of us met Walter and walked over to his parent's apartment (half a block down the street from Walter's) for a quick lunch followed by a frenzy of loading. Soon enough we were off, the towers of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">S</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">ão Paulo melting away into the background as we sped north. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBhp3LViR6ZzoHEp_u061C45byTu4sur4um3XCuggh-jzq1xKogHYdtEA5PRFXyOeacYJ3GeyzWu0MeU4mcQWK2rCl2v1BPFSaVNHs1uoRLIKmyYq70SEXvsplQ3-Wq4vhxYHUq64xN12y/s400/101_0237.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439575067572387410" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Whizzing by the Brazilian countryside.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The drive took most of the afternoon, and when we finally pilled out of the car in the charming provincial town of Saint Sebastian of Paradise, I was more than ready to stretch my legs. made a pit stop to see Walter's grandmother - most of his family lives in SSoP. We had a light dinner, performed a rather inspired arrangement on kiddie instruments for Octavio - Walter's gigantic 16-month old cousin - and then headed off for the country house. Andrea and I were shown to our rooms, and we spent of the rest of the evening relaxing by the pool. The pool would largely become the focal point of our activities over the next few days. I have to imagine that in the few days we spent in SSoP, I swam as much in this pool as I did my own back in New Hampshire, during its all too brief life. In the morning, I would wake up before anyone else, and slip down to the water for a few laps while breakfast was set out by the maid. Walter's father was usually the first up after me, and we would sit and enjoy an embarrassingly full breakfast while everyone else slowly left their beds. Walter was always the last out of bed by far, and I grew to not expect the pleasure of his company before 13:00, though usually much later. This was in part a symptom of a developed nocturnal habit that usually kept us up passed 3:00 in the morning (on at least one occasion everyone did not sit down to dinner until a quarter to midnight), and in part a result of the excellent sleeping environment provided by the countryside.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPgIMZKJhbuEDvzGV28RNkRCMCFtjbxT-dNSEPtDMPFeZbc-HX4MUo2QG6quSxzTcex9DoVnzNE7NWK5BYIYBTsWK-MxOV0NBFyRbXk7XLx1GBiJD8Rx4VYzddGQiuz5zMBzBKWjOTIE-r/s1600-h/101_0203.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPgIMZKJhbuEDvzGV28RNkRCMCFtjbxT-dNSEPtDMPFeZbc-HX4MUo2QG6quSxzTcex9DoVnzNE7NWK5BYIYBTsWK-MxOV0NBFyRbXk7XLx1GBiJD8Rx4VYzddGQiuz5zMBzBKWjOTIE-r/s400/101_0203.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439575061377119522" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Casa, sweet casa.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">On our second full day in Minas, we took a trip out to see the family ranch, and the "villa rustica" (as apt a way of employing my Latin education to describe something as I've come across) farther out of town. Our adventure began with a tour of the villa rustica, currently in the final stages of construction. The tour was punctuated by a visit to the basement, where with a series of loud claps, Walter's father startled some bats into flying around our heads. A second round of applause accidentally frightened a pair of bats into the main area of the house where we cooridinated our efforts to herd them outdoors. Quite proud of our mastery of nature, Walter, Andrea, and I continued our tour of the grounds, where I enjoyed seeing my first wild parrots and leaf-cutter ants. There were, I am grieved to report, no monkies in the trees that day, and so the bats, birds, and bugs were the only creatures I was able to see.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe_33Vw4w5OwtRGY6tKQQtNB_rTGAxyduxWf5JEPgJURn2EAbSZj8__4kn1AGbl4sF7n4o-5S6WEuRhaoaCzwZSISSQXaWGMqCsM541CXHFko6gNqc4J5slIm96PSnXf-8DAk1VBIUhTwW/s1600-h/101_0179.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe_33Vw4w5OwtRGY6tKQQtNB_rTGAxyduxWf5JEPgJURn2EAbSZj8__4kn1AGbl4sF7n4o-5S6WEuRhaoaCzwZSISSQXaWGMqCsM541CXHFko6gNqc4J5slIm96PSnXf-8DAk1VBIUhTwW/s400/101_0179.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439575046927710610" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">An admirable Land Rover advertisement if I do say so myself.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Before returning to the country house, we drove through the family coffee plantation in persuit of a rather elusive waterfall, nessled in one of the few stretches of pristine Atlantic forest left. While the womenfolk waited in the car, Walter, his father, and I set out through the mud and vines on an admittedly short, yet very satisfying expedition. The waterfall thus appriciated (from a safe distance, given my history with foreign waterfalls) we returned to our lives of near-comatose activity lounging by the pool. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmMZ9S_PN3aRakQ3QaAfzDTrDv95llZCHBljEyIZ6my24altFMUxtSrlDC6D884TBf8L4xGGxA4hOdEN5sAxtYXvHSEfxEPi34954QCcjxZzZ73w_w_Hfu1lUeUjZdsCDsQ2UlU8NCOVld/s1600-h/101_0196.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmMZ9S_PN3aRakQ3QaAfzDTrDv95llZCHBljEyIZ6my24altFMUxtSrlDC6D884TBf8L4xGGxA4hOdEN5sAxtYXvHSEfxEPi34954QCcjxZzZ73w_w_Hfu1lUeUjZdsCDsQ2UlU8NCOVld/s400/101_0196.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439575051386715330" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></span></span></span></div></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Brave river explorers.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Different branches of Walter's family were constantly stopping by the house, and it was right after a rather large family lunch that one of Walter's cousins happened upon my Portuguese phrase book. It is fare to say that the selection of words and phrases complied in such a book provide insight as to the author's opinion on what forms of social interaction their readers are likely to be involved in. And so much was made of the "Dating", "Romance", and "Problems" sections of the book, which were the cause of many mock-scandalized looks cast my way. </span></div></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); font-size: 16px; -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeKFPx2cXWODh2CZxxUM_xdZ5yEaeau3tKn2dBBKNt9XVafKjm2VSRlIChovYSPbz0xjQxcNu2dx8Y34x5Se52E3F2i24lY2QB6Yd3D0Y9XmhD2nHaWeWKduDYhUfBQSHLL14KixxONGTz/s400/101_0222.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440116294970542978" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; font-size: medium;">Gazing out at SSoP from the window of my room.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">We spent our last days in pool and hammock-related relaxation before finally packing things up and heading back to the city. Saint Sebastian of Paradise provided an excellent introduction to Brazilian food, culture, and napping habits, but it was time to switch things up with a proper immersion into the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">S</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">ão Paulo nightlife. But that's a story for another time.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 19px; font-family:georgia;font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: normal; font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-56210439536197670092010-02-09T14:52:00.013-05:002010-02-18T08:20:56.611-05:00vamos de venezuela<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify; ">Returning to Caracas from Merida involved more Spanish than I was prepared for. When I left for Merida a few days earlier, it was from "the good bus station" which is conveniently close by my apartment. But when the bus pulled into an unfamiliar station in an unfamiliar part of town, I grew concerned. Exiting the bus I was immediately set upon by a small gaggle of taxi drivers, each more eager than the next to welcome me into their cabs. The problem was that any time I mentioned the address of the apartment, I received confused, yet hopeful expressions; as if I might give up on this foolish address and pick a more familiar destination. Finally, one enterprising driver decided to put on a confidant face at hearing the address, and gestured me to his cab. Ten minutes into the drive, and it turned out that this show of confidence was nothing more than a clever ruse. It seems my driver was relying on my mastery of the layout of Caracas - explained to him in my fluent Spanish - in order to bring me to my desired location. </div><div style="text-align: justify; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEo5SLQRwGoMFlLYhQkYQy5Uwgbx2-TIk0j49NLi6l8AjXJKS-rJ8up_2kriwTOxZCyWGimMXhZxRpGHmiB220xBEGZaXZEzZ8V1uVf-evYyuUPjUAKjZpDb7Xoy9kf7tUR-nGrm1iVJ35/s400/101_0156.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437377024275986290" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Navigating through Caracas.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Things went better than I would have expected, and through a haphazard stream of "left", "right"s, I somehow managed to navigate my way through the city, and arrive at the apartment. Having achieved such unexpected success (as fifteen minutes into the ride, I had all but resigned myself to kidnap and torture) I was quite content to take inventory of my remaining possessions and crash for the rest of the day. That night I met up with Ricky's friend Ignacio, and we swung by his apartment for a relaxed house party populated largely by Ignacio's relations (it took me a while to appreciate how many people Ignacio is related to, but I can now safely assume that his relatives account for roughly two-thirds of the population of Venezuela). </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="">The next morning, I swung by the Brazilian Consulate to pick up my passport, which contained a shiny new Brazilian visa, before joining Ricky's aunt for a day at the beach. It was a relaxed afternoon of sun, sand, and suspiciously warm ocean water, and it gave me a chance to think through my plans for South America. One of the things left on my Venezuelan itinerary was a hike up Mount Avila, the moderately-sized peak that separates Caracas from the sea, which stared down at me every morning through the sliding glass windows of the apartment.</div><div style=""><br /></div><div style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSLEOpxmmKbysaXBOjWmApXWxmeJyvewaBapPzaUHACKUu_t4VyMtHHbtpJ_Amq_kCHK_Ws1guZgfY8hjNcjpttZR1R5V1IG8cPIikxln12tK5rkp5WQ23CaDSmL476km3gTxVW01LMRub/s400/100_9906.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439558275979317234" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Gratuitous greenery.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And so, early the next morning, I found myself at one of the more unusual trail heads I've ever set off on. You see, the city of Caracas, strained by its desire for growth amidst challenging topography, has built itself right up to the very slopes of its surrounding mountain ranges. Which means that this particular trail head began a vertical assent under a main highway artery. Yet climbing higher, I was surprised at how quickly the tell-tail signs of the urban metropolis vanished into a sea of green. While still on the main trail, I passed a number of joggers taking advantage of the cool forest for a morning run, but as the trail branched out, I began to see fewer people until it would seem I had the mountain to myself.</div><div style=""><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWjRktrYBXtdyZ3ID-2nh398PhU16GVjh0J2NJyu0_sRLkzXIUI3Gl176PWNbXAAmwP-ApihuXcLCPQQZL5ZLd5kNyB-qPLbq3lGnjvBU46YYwNJyTC3nDVd0ApHPREEEf2eOfLm2kLjRI/s400/101_0140.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437377039843684690" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span><div style="text-align: center;">Following a stream as it trickles off the mountain.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="">The day grew hotter as I climbed higher, and at some point I came upon a little side trail. Offering a more adventurous route up the mountain, I was soon grasping onto tree branches and vines as I followed the twisting "path" higher. Assisted by a newly-carved bamboo walking stick, eventually I reached a high plain, not quite the top of the mountain, but evidently the end of the trail. I tried to find a way to continue my ascent, but quickly realized that I was getting myself lost, and abandoned the summit in pursuit of good sense. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfhzSyr_BrLMcKlag83NHpi2pikNd8yQTF4IPBa-RKnEhyTBdzWprEVhwTAEJmryIvy6x3XzJawAC7shhtdnsxkxWUpC3otTu5ArnBpTHojmNVC_gX2y9LaLo8vOTp7VpsXUmVDtWMr3vV/s400/101_0149.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437377044238188482" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><div>Crawling through the thicket on my way up the mountain.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tracing my path back down, I was left with some rather spectacular views of the city, which welcomed me back from my all-too-brief escape from its clutches. I spent my afternoon finalizing air arrangements that would take me down to Brazil early the next day, before meeting up with Ricky's cousin Caro for a tour of her university. Exploring the campus, I was then invited into her public speaking class, which I found rather fascinating. There is, of course, so much more to public speaking than the words that you use, and this becomes very evident when you cannot understand the language that a speaker is using. So I watched as various students gave their speeches, focusing my attention on their cadence, inflection, and facial expressions in order to interpret what they were trying to convey. It was a very education experience that was capped by the professor requesting that I give a two minute speech (mercifully in English) about myself. </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk4y5p8cXs2XJ1AAdyNx6D2Ql4kt4pv47NlhSL31B-UgeIg6JGk7iP7t8MkHBXOOVeuGhP-oGpOdm1ZURfb7oLibjsEIT6rQwcfBuZ5ZOX9zCnMnbi40Z4h987SlmXUVE4kxr3onIH6DXg/s400/101_0143.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437377052409893218" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div>Gazing down on Caracas</div></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I met Ricky's parents for dinner, and went through the easiest packing experience of my travels in preparation for the morning's flight, but it would seem that my last day in Caracas was not quite over. Ignacio stopped by, wanted to make sure I had a proper send off, and so we retired to a nearby bar for some late night revelry before I finally returned to the apartment and collapsed into bed around 2:30 in the morning. What seemed like minutes later, my 5:00 alarm went off, and I showered, dressed, and said my goodbyes to Ricky's parents before meeting my cab at the front door. I tried to get some sleep during the 45 minute drive to the airport, but I was largely unsuccessful, and so I was still in a bit of a daze when I arrived... which might have explained my suspicious activity. Unsure of where to check in (in my defense, they literally hid the TAM booth behind the area most airports employ for checking in) I began wandering up and down the International Departures area, until a security official literally asked me to come with them for questioning. They rifled through my bag, checked my papers, and thumb printed me before finally revealing to me the location of the TAM booth. And thus, I finally was able to leave Venezuela, bound for more wacky airport adventures in Brazil, but that's a story for another time.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div></span></span></div></span></span></div>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-44283171613757680272010-02-08T13:52:00.008-05:002010-02-08T15:21:55.371-05:00meridan missapropriations<div style="text-align: center;"><u><br /></u></div><div><i>Good afternoon, for those of you who had been following my blog, you will have noticed that for the past few weeks I have not posted. The reason for this will be revealed in this, the first of a series of posts that will hopefully get the story of my South American adventures back on track.</i></div><div><div style="text-align: justify; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">After a good deal of research and planning, I recently found myself on a bus leaving Caracas for Merida - a small mountain city in western Venezuela. Merida is Venezuela's jumping off point to the Andes, and I looked forward to some trekking through the area. So with well-practiced lines of Spanish, I negotiated my way to the bus station, bought a ticket, and found my bus. The 14 hour journey began at 20:00 with a pointless American B action movie: (terrorists take over an area, everyone - including recently introduced disproportionately attractive female character - is taken hostage... except one lone guy, lone guy systematically takes out a series of individual terrorists sent to "check for survivors" while simultaneously trying to convince impatient authorities to "give him more time", lone guy saves disproportionately attractive female character, kills head terrorist in an especially protracted and grizzly sequence, and gives a big pointing thumbs up to the camera. Roll credits). The movie's only redeeming virtue was that it was in English, and so I stayed up to watch it before settling into my fully reclined chair and falling asleep.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU5b73hLZwXeyHEPKob6rO0-ThyphenhyphenGID5pQJOoMKnfYTW7jXj5o7hrGBV2m1e9TP-dXnUChVGC9iV_oHfgmfiAkoK9N79Zbghjo9qe4COe9wswk0RKlS_qQeSKxLkHSBPUAFxg2QbpKdjN-I/s400/100_9987.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435954963478709698" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Driving through the Andes.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">While my sleep suffered through occasional pit stops, twisting roads, and a preference for air conditioning settings that would make penguins uncomfortably cold, I reminded myself that I had been spoiled for sleep over the last weeks. The sun had been up for several hours when we finally arrived in Merida, and I disembarked, collected my luggage, and hailed a cab. Ten minutes and twenty Bolivars later I was standing outside the Posada Guamanchi, which my Lonely Planet guidebook had recommended as a good place to coordinate expeditions into the Andes. I checked into a small, lackluster room, called home on my netbook, and took a short nap before checking out the town. I left my room at 13:00 intent on sampling the cuisine, though the first recommended restaurant I came to was a Venezuelan interpretation of McDonalds. Reviews suggested that the burgers were well worth a stop, and so I did my best to wolf down their famous "Double Quarter Kilo Burger with Cheese" (more than a pound of meat). Having conquered the mountain of meat, I was curious to check out the country's most famous ice cream, located just a few blocks away.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgotkV_A-EnN5O7mfKXuqCYlUXT2M-seJnrQ62bj3vUzl0U1zdyf0GLBInUjCPwcwLq80SLMJNqrHX81AOs5KPLB6l-W_kgXvb_sNjq5A6SVbhW1sIbzHUbzrQxSqhVXotfNuKNw0d7DZJy/s400/101_0005.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435954955345142578" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Merida: city of steel and stucco.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">The Heladeria Coromoto sits in an unassuming building near the center of town, and has been selling ice cream every Tuesday to Sunday for three generations. And while "chocolate" and "vanilla" are available, more eccentric flavors such as "black bean" and "trout" have helped to make the ice cream shop famous. In fact, for the last seven years, the Heladeria Coromoto has held a page in <i>The Guiness Book of Records </i>for having the largest number of ice cream flavors available. With somewhere between 850 and 950 flavors to choose from (depending on the season and availability of some of the more exotic ingredients) Herladeria has something for everyone. I split my selection between the exotic and the bizarre, getting one scoop of Blue Curaco and one scoop of Polar Beer. The curaco was sweet and delicious, the beer was, well... surprisingly true to flavor. And so I happily finished my frosty treat and made my way back back to my hotel.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><br /></div><div style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7rBhcRDAF2XETJjIfufzojkcYFetfAklSGL7sPkCXG0U6Z9JFuFl3SHTOrujJX-sFbdoTqJ8esGD6shsAnuQ-Jg0ZL5Wlh4u0w1-7YUuODBIzSSXx10MT5tVUiEwrk_Dm5rwMd8puwx5y/s400/100_9997.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435954978695526322" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">A small section of the west-facing wall of the Heladeria Coromoto, also known as the flavor list.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Stepping into my room at 15:00, I did not allow myself to become immediately concerned by the sight that met me. There, on my bed, was something that had not been there when I left: and ID card. But more curious than this addition was the absence of both of my bags. Walking down to reception, ID card in hand, I esquired as to the location of my luggage, and it wasn't until I read the look of panic on the receptionist's face that I knew for certain that I had been robbed. </div><div style="text-align: justify; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">I spent the next few hours in a bit of a daze, trying to come to grips with the implications of what had happened. Aside from the clothes on my back, I had been left with only my netbook, which after calling home with, I hid (for reasons unknown but fortuitous) in the top shelf of a bureau, and must have been overlooked in the break-in. My camera, passport, wallet, and Tilley Hat were also on my person at the time of the break-in, and for this I was grateful, but as I complied a list for the police of what had been taken, the items kept adding up. The UV water filter I had first used in Iceland, the Camelpack that shadowed me up mountains on three continents, the leather-bound journal I crafted to chronicle my adventure, my iPod, my trusty waterproof jacket, a whole trove of adventure-wear, and my backpack itself, which had been with me though not only my world travels but my European wanderings as well. It was a lot to take in, and most of my regret came from losing the items that had such happy memories attached to them. The cable to my netbook was also amongst the requisitioned items; and after draining the battery to call home and alert my parents as to what had happened, I had been unable to boot it up to blog until just recently.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimcgHyNVDUsLr3rrO_9Xy-gwRDGRuNnjZu8_Zw-M6Uy8Nsut0yRw7nYOX4yWlEjVsE5u2UuDwehGP7-NsGQtbY1GCjB85uapO-ghcJ9v55RKoJ_4oG_WDyHD8c4fJVhO2nX9U9HbNwAo0j/s400/101_0036.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435962207004912274" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">A mural, showing the liberation of Venezuela from the corrupting influence of the west... the bombs that form the crown of the Statue of Liberty are but some of the many interesting little tidbits you'll notice if you look closely.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Once I got over the shock however, I knew I would have to plan my next moves to make the most of what had just happened. In addition to all the aforementioned material possessions, I had also lost around $900 in cash, part of which I had planned to use to finance my time in Merida and the surrounding region. The hotel was doing everything they could to be accommodating, so I accepted their offer to stay the night (free of charge of course) while I planned my next move. I wanted to get back to Caracas to regroup as soon as possible, but I also didn't want my trip to Merida to be a total wash, so I headed out the next day to take a look around town.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4GImTKBwNQDYt2kLS2XwJ16yG6oLVU0-rXIEgxT4wqrkC4rpTi4yyj8A6d1N5YNcz6zHgmv2GEs2ODavM4jRG9SXGaK361CAHhYpFnAkPRkUAjHOEPMAUAzbrL0au3Migk08_4lruvBmj/s400/101_0028.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435962195530096226" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">The church in the center of town: one of the few attractive pieces of architecture.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">Merida is a small city, benefiting from a large student population and an gorgeous placement high in the Andes. The town itself in not all that nice to look at, as I soon discovered, but after taking the advise of the hotel's receptionist, I found my way to a local bus stop (well-marked, not by signs or a waiting area, but rather the curious collection of impatient locals gathered around a random intersection) and was soon speeding off higher into the mountains. My destination was a a nearby National Park, and the end of the line for the overcrowded minibus. I spend a relaxed afternoon climbing through the foothills of the Andes in a part of the country that could almost be confused as being Alpine. The fresh air and beautiful vistas were a welcome relief from the congestion of Caracas and (to a lesser extent) Merida, and it was with regrets that I eventually found my way back to the minibus stop.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3-jKMX4MnjueNEartYyBEC_TRXTzijCXl90gYVxPa3zsU07_63pQCfpisKBNXpSRCdwJhQhBIuiaSR-Pst40LQ9fyGb63XlA2FczMYuUZNHmcPLFy8yrHbWdqRP13ka32wdEvJcgXxsJP/s400/101_0091.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435962199400117986" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Passing by a ranch house on my way into the mountains.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify; ">I spent one more night in Merida after an unsuccessful attempt to buy a ticket back to Carcass at the bus station, and spent my third and final day shopping for essentials, having grown more than a little tired of wearing the same clothes for the last three days. While I could just manage to carry the entirety of my belongings in my hands, I happily accepted the hotel's offer of a small backpack. The WUB (World's Ugliest Bag), as I have come to call it, is almost certainly a product (read: catastrophe) of the 1980's, though I can only imagine it must have seen better days. What started its life as a regrettably purple and teal camping bag has not devolved into a mass of tattered straps, and claps missing sockets. By tying a series of straps together, it is possible to secure the bag around one shoulder, while still conserving the one remaining clasp to close the main flap. Either food, fungus, or feces has become a permanent addition to one part of the "bag" which really helps to bring together the whole theme of the bag. It is a piece of luggage I elected to carry out of Merida with me for only two reasons: It was all that I had; and even the criminally desperate would not steal this bag.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmi-zZ5R_-mGWzwvKngR5xvQHV7q3ao6jFi_L1yaBkkw3HN2am32Xz_d0PR69QZgISoct4gF6dxkBnY_svJ_58lQJ7nbd8TcgkQYUxaYkzMk2qXTdnG7fxK_fOj-UgfHZU-nMVwTuUwTeT/s400/101_0080.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435962212438730114" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Up in the foothills, wearing the clothes I left Caracas in.</div><div style="text-align: justify; "><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><i>Thus ended my trip to Merida, I will be doing my best to get out daily updates of the next series of my travels until I am back up to date, but for now I have to run. </i></div><div style="text-align: justify; "><i><br /></i></div></div>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-53530664817856715762010-01-15T11:35:00.006-05:002010-01-15T16:19:16.572-05:00a tropical socialist paradise<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjShxpm6irjeJee2ORSaHuyz-5aBTX2o5dFtx1wllWMXJ1PhbzVWOLNvZS3b2fNZ4gcW9PRMMaQXGFjHNHKu3LLzGupt_s4uOzmpswsmbHgK2lgqGxg0rfUFAgVuxSztDDf1VV34-m-7Lqw/s1600-h/100_9953.JPG"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Caracas is a city beset by crime, struggling with poverty, and administered by a corrupt and wildly unpredictable government. It is a city of contrasts, where the majority of the population lives in slums, yet the cost of living for the middle and upper classes is higher than that of New York. A city of necessity rather than design, Caracas has been carved into the mountains as, in search of work, the displaced multitudes from the countryside erect ramshackle dwellings on perilously steep terrain. But there is beauty and serenity here, and thanks to my near-total insulation from the woes of this capital city, I have had a privileged view of Caracas at her best.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ9Zt-GNwJ8-HUKNGp7u5EuhyHzzygRw5ARcHUsuLDozsBS2bW4XHNgDu_9NJU6qRkCsoEKxu30CODxkG9Waj4hebjSQdE64FsqR9-DstIzk60xcK6chTzOhQSSHvDK-sc7CzPvtb3GfHF/s400/100_9905.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425612616390707010" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Looking out at the streets from behind windows tinted to the point of reflection.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One of my first experiences upon returning to Caracas from Margarita was a stop by a nearby country club. I joined Ricky's family for lunch at the club, which was everything of the classic Latin American image so stereotypically overrun in films about socialist revolution. Lunch was great, if <i>muy picante</i>, and I had the opportunity to try <i>tres leches </i>(a regional dessert made from, you guessed it, three different milks: evaporated, condensed, and heavy cream) unspoiled by resort interpretation. After lunch I accompanied Ricky and his cousin for a drive around town in search of beer memorabilia, in a quest that would ultimately prove unsuccessful. The drive did cement my impression of the buildings of Caracas as the most heavily-fortified I have ever seen. Bars on windows, doors, and even whole patios kept out those who managed to make it over fences secured with barbwire, spikes, shards of broken glass, and electrical wiring. There are few, if any security cameras, because there's no chance of tracking down thieves after the fact, so the emphasis has been overwhelming placed on keeping intruders out. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSuOeQ2D1aaHaIKFIK2GzdaSegOFCCJvt374eqRutl362X0jLzJmzd3GEPNhZnLvic1Lf9zfonEuSlQV3IRCCSOTSzkXiAegwVnKbizDK8fAyYaFnL2VUOHO2rtR1eTSk_Cr0sVHs3eY4E/s400/100_9903.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425612613127504098" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">In addition to fences and barbwire, the denizens of Caracas really love satellite dishes. </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After the failure of our mission to procure products related to beer, we commiserated by drinking actual beer at the Boo Cafe. This popular haunt offers an alternative to the Reggaeton-saturated bars are form the staple of Caracas' night life. The brewing industry is dominated by the Polar Corporation, and the varies Polar Beers are light, though reasonably good. The next day was Ricky's last in the country before heading back up to Boston, so we all went out to lunch in the mountains. The drive up with Ricky, his parents, his sister Federica, and her friend, necessitated the use of the 4x4 SUV, both for space and hill-climbing ability. The climb up the twisting mountain road was the steepest I have ever experienced, and it's no wonder that two-wheel drive vehicles are prohibited from following it. When we reached the restaurant, high about the city, everyone piled out of the SUV, and walked out to the patio to enjoy the view.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRKMZWnYsk6BlvQR9jHUFKYXc1qcCkP7rAnIfhskWlhyRQD6ItcmZyCKnd79_hf9L33lZqK903noC0YypAZrnveEjx2C_fX5OQwRlnr5_oKyDSePishX85Khyphenhyphene2aFG-HgVVi1Ay1S24NuC/s1600-h/100_9920.JPG"><br /></a></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY0vvRfPvGd3_Onc-_GuIs63dhLRdGNzGqGvdlYJ-YxK9mgvKeKyPa2yYYOC6aJ3Bakj0WY1pHGjAEAhyphenhyphenwz2QWPtzYM4ZIwwI7UATrg0rHlei7lBaUxAc6dvE50g5yzGNSePmXM2ZrBI6c/s1600-h/100_9913.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY0vvRfPvGd3_Onc-_GuIs63dhLRdGNzGqGvdlYJ-YxK9mgvKeKyPa2yYYOC6aJ3Bakj0WY1pHGjAEAhyphenhyphenwz2QWPtzYM4ZIwwI7UATrg0rHlei7lBaUxAc6dvE50g5yzGNSePmXM2ZrBI6c/s400/100_9913.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425612624937202882" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Clouds, rolling off the mountain.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We were just under 7,000 feet, and staring down at the ocean below helped to reinforce the altitude. Even partially obscured, the view was fantastic, and soon found our way to our table, continuing to take it in. Everyone ordered the three course fondue, the restaurant's specialty, and we were soon enjoying successive cheese, meat, and chocolate offerings. Venezuelan cocoa is the only cocoa in the world that is aromatic, and is therefore prized in chocolate making. While the Belgians have mastered the art of refining this wondrous bean, it was a real treat to enjoy the chocolate in its fresh, raw, and native form. During the meal, the clouds cleared and we were offered a rare glimpse of the coastline below.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRKMZWnYsk6BlvQR9jHUFKYXc1qcCkP7rAnIfhskWlhyRQD6ItcmZyCKnd79_hf9L33lZqK903noC0YypAZrnveEjx2C_fX5OQwRlnr5_oKyDSePishX85Khyphenhyphene2aFG-HgVVi1Ay1S24NuC/s400/100_9920.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425612629794937346" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span><div style="text-align: center;">Looking down nearly 7,000 feet to the sea.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ricky and Federica had to be off early the next morning to catch their flight to Boston, so I woke to see them off, before slinking back into bed. I had caught my first address from <i>Presidente de le Republica </i>Hugo Chavez the day before, and his unscheduled announcement had rocked the financial workings of the country. After years of maintaining an official 2.15:1 lock of the Bolivar to the Dollar (2150:1 before three zeros were dropped for the new currency last year) Chavez had gone forward with a devaluation of the Bolivar to peg it at 4.3 Bolivars to the Dollar, effectively cutting personal wealth in half. A rate of 2.3 Bolivars to the Dollar is still in place for goods deemed essential, such as food, medicine, and industrial machinery, though I have no idea how this is being managed. While this development is bad news for the people of Venezuela, tourists in the country with US Dollars (wink wink) now find their official buying power doubled, so you may think that I was pretty excited about all this. Well, you'd be wrong. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I have been trading all of my Dollars on the Black Market, which offers a 6:1 exchange, and has yet to be affected by the devaluation. A Black Market for US Dollars is possible because the government restricts its citizens from exchanging Bolivars into Dollars (or any other currency). So if you are not granted official permission to exchange Bolivars at the official rate, you have to do so on the Black Market. And before you start making all kinds of assumptions about unscrupulous, well-connected individuals with permission to trade Bolivars to Dollars who make truck loads of money by cycling back and forth between the official and black market exchange rates, let me assure you that yes, this obviously happens. Welcome to South America.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-decoration: underline; "><br /></span></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiODX7dfHzdKJgNfv6XwsYdcJqfXl7_1430NAdaMDrQH6RY14zh9hWBs_RCxeeqpl1fPpwp9qML_IDEHOhubBoC80ohgiWALeZqjhfDiSZXyTnyuH_AUDpu5PjhXJm5OQY0G5IfP2wC413c/s1600-h/100_9910.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiODX7dfHzdKJgNfv6XwsYdcJqfXl7_1430NAdaMDrQH6RY14zh9hWBs_RCxeeqpl1fPpwp9qML_IDEHOhubBoC80ohgiWALeZqjhfDiSZXyTnyuH_AUDpu5PjhXJm5OQY0G5IfP2wC413c/s400/100_9910.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5425612608721334034" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">The Man himself.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ricky's parents were nice enough to put me up while I attempted to secure a Brazilian visa, and so early the next day I headed down to the consulate to take advantage of Ricky's mom's connections there. I met with a gentleman by the name of Manual Becerra, who was nice enough to get me pointed in the right direction, and soon I found myself filling out a visa application with some of the ridiculous questions ever asked of me in an official capacity:</div><div><ul><li style="text-align: justify;"><i>Have you ever traded controlled substances (drugs), practiced prostitution, or been a pimp?</i></li><li><i>Do you intend to enter Brazil to violate exportation laws or to practice subversive or terrorist acts, or for any other illegal purposes?</i></li><li><i>Have you ever ordered, incited, helped, or taken part in persecutions to any person because of race, nationality, or political beliefs under the direct of indirect command of German's Nazi Party or any of its allied or occupied countries or regions?</i></li></ul><div style="text-align: justify;">I must admit, I was contemplating subversive acts, but realizing that if I was to declare them, they would no longer be very subversive (quite the Catch-22), I answered every question "no", and turned in my paperwork. I was handed a slip of paper and told to deposit Bs.335.40 in a nearby bank. To help direct me to the bank, the only pseudo-English speaking official available drew me one of the simplest, and least accurate maps I have ever followed to my eventual doom. Admittedly, I didn't actually find myself doomed, though I was rather lost for the better part of 45 minutes. I eventually become desperate enough to walk into a random bank to try to make my deposit, but though I could sense that the girl behind the counter wanted to help me, my Anglophonic explanation, "I need to give money to the Brazilian Consulate so that they will allow me to go to their country", just made her giggle. Eventually making the seemingly illogical assumption that halfway through the map, everything's relation had been mirrored, and with more than a little luck, I managed to find the right bank. After making the deposit and returning to the consulate, everything else went smoothly, up until I found that they would be holding my passport for a week. But there wasn't much that I could do about it at the time, so I left the consulate, and hailed a cab back to the apartment.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I had the chance to go back to the nearby country club the next morning with Macri, Ricky's cousin, to check out the riding corrals. After helping to get the horse ready, Macri rode while I strolled around the grounds enjoying the atmosphere. The set up of the corrals reminded me of corrals I had been to in California, right down to the fact that none of the stable hands spoke English, and the grounds were kept immaculately. Having my fill of WASPy activity, I spent the rest of the day organizing my future travels through Venezuela.</div></div><div> </div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjShxpm6irjeJee2ORSaHuyz-5aBTX2o5dFtx1wllWMXJ1PhbzVWOLNvZS3b2fNZ4gcW9PRMMaQXGFjHNHKu3LLzGupt_s4uOzmpswsmbHgK2lgqGxg0rfUFAgVuxSztDDf1VV34-m-7Lqw/s1600-h/100_9953.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjShxpm6irjeJee2ORSaHuyz-5aBTX2o5dFtx1wllWMXJ1PhbzVWOLNvZS3b2fNZ4gcW9PRMMaQXGFjHNHKu3LLzGupt_s4uOzmpswsmbHgK2lgqGxg0rfUFAgVuxSztDDf1VV34-m-7Lqw/s400/100_9953.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426997922110956210" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a><div style="text-align: center;">One of the riding circuits at the Country Club.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">I began my next morning by accompanying Ricky's mom to a local pseudo-orphanage where she volunteers every Wednesday. When we arrived, it quickly became apparent that I was the only one there that couldn't speak Spanish (a point reinforced when five year-olds started asking me questions). After Ricky's mom provided me with a grand tour of the facilities, which included bedrooms, bathrooms, a kitchen, living rooms, a preschool, a nurse's office, and a play area, I was introduced to one of the children who I would be looking after. The mostly-mute toddler was affectionately nicknamed ChooChoo for his predilection to chug along in a straight line, his arms in locomotion, until he encounters some obstacle that forces him to change direction. ChooChoo had survived a brain tumor, as well as numerous other injuries, so I was to look after him as he indulged his ambulatory ambitions outside. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqeim7vupL5uq4i0VcPTSnJ5jilW8hgclO51UV6kCXVV7Eo7BLcuWFwoIvfZ_QMqXYjsV6AiO4uyKinUv98Yg1_UnTC3aJ0CEe_vqw6DrywIXgBqtds5dX0WFu-4sNHka2M92fwSMbTJIG/s400/100_9959.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426997543478874226" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">ChooChoo.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So between the short excerpt of his story, and that reasonably adorable picture, you should be at least slightly enamored of ChooChoo, which is why you will share in my horror when, as I was helping him up a piece of play equipment, he fell back and tumbled down the stairs. The poor guy hit his head on the ground, and blood drained from a nasty gash. I rushed down, scooped him up, and ran him back to the nurse, my hand covering in blood as I applied pressure to the wound. It looked really bad, though I should mentioned that (having some experience with them) facial wounds usually look a lot worse then they really are. At least that's what I was telling myself as the nurse washed the blood off ChooChoo's face. He ended up needing three stitches, and it should go without saying that I felt pretty crummy about the whole thing, though Ricky's mom and the staff members did their best to convey how often things like this tend to happen to poor accident-prone ChooChoo. By the end of the day, he was smiling back at me from the seat of his high chair. After ChooChoo had been taken care of, I spent the rest of my time at the orphanage hanging out with the toddlers (the bigger kids were at school), doing my best not to wound any of them too badly. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT5Gg706sSNWKoDW9VzKYsOc1mIccffmwbJD2bpv-bsVJOsysx6YwJr_NFPuYE9JYihPyW-CKuIS6c7IBL8r_4J6vcU7VvSVBoLp0qCWww6VtV43rvtAzqk8CbbNiuEWyPRvXxgL_fS8n6/s1600-h/100_9976.JPG"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN95El0o6YaoBruOTjUOZA40-qxsXmOTk9vIFKb8nHTk2ELuDzMpwT9rjAa6nflrPvXYGRsWpusW42XsRs9EYpDpCwcSLhTUlZfFiKBSzi3paPiDqrQvNPwbH6SXtp4h2bg0bj9OCpSD1w/s1600-h/100_9971.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN95El0o6YaoBruOTjUOZA40-qxsXmOTk9vIFKb8nHTk2ELuDzMpwT9rjAa6nflrPvXYGRsWpusW42XsRs9EYpDpCwcSLhTUlZfFiKBSzi3paPiDqrQvNPwbH6SXtp4h2bg0bj9OCpSD1w/s400/100_9971.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426997549974759890" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Babies in a box.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqeim7vupL5uq4i0VcPTSnJ5jilW8hgclO51UV6kCXVV7Eo7BLcuWFwoIvfZ_QMqXYjsV6AiO4uyKinUv98Yg1_UnTC3aJ0CEe_vqw6DrywIXgBqtds5dX0WFu-4sNHka2M92fwSMbTJIG/s1600-h/100_9959.JPG"></a><div style="text-align: justify;">After pulling some strings, I returned from the orphanage to find that my Brazilian visa would be ready first thing the next morning at the consulate. So that's where I found myself, forking over another Bs.77 at the nearby bank for the expedited charge. But no matter, I have a visa, which means that after all the hassle I went through with the Brazilian Consulates on two continents, I could finally visit this largest South American country. After leaving the consulate, passport in hand, I went with Ricky's aunt to spend the afternoon at the beach. It was a relaxing day, complete with some of the warmest sea water I've experienced since Greece. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Today I'm getting everything ready that I might leave Caracas to head up into the Venezuelan Andes to a city called Mérida. Overnight buses leave from Caracas until 21:00, so I'm hoping to catch the last bus out, that I might wake up the next morning rolling through the mountains. Admittedly, this is where my lack of regional language skills may prove to complicate the voyage, but optimistic, and armed with my Latin American Spanish Phrasebook, I'm going get back into the swing of international travel.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div></div></div>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-68499136427195814682010-01-13T17:57:00.007-05:002010-01-13T18:57:52.049-05:00a belated dedication<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5seJ1lnnU5DH7g_kSTXACxD3D0du9Yd7666ERXM922way1DTpcjQGOaBo78t_MlnThr7i0ZD1nby77ogkQZ3sFWvTachLuaQU7ZowuSdDsSZvNBuhWjtullofNGBvb5qR6YVzY7hTqTbF/s1600-h/100_9923.JPG"></a><i>As per the unanswered request of my mother, and before I carry on with my tales form South America, I present this introduction to this leg of my travels, written in the physical journal I have been keeping. The following is the word for spell-checked word entry I made on December 31st, New Year's Eve, the night before flying down to Caracas...</i><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A decade ago, citizens of the civilized world trembled in fear at the approach of Y2K. Bank failures, electrical disruptions, the end of the the Western World, all these things and more were predicted to befall our computer-dependent society. And so, the huddled masses hunkered down to await the certain doom of the new year. And of course, nothing all that perilous happened. The doom avoided, the fears unjustified. And so, it is with this learned cynicism in the pessimistic predictions of others that I approach the events to meet me in the new year. In exactly 15 hours, 53 minutes, I will be departing my home country for exotic lands afar. And in planning this trip to South America, I encountered my fair share of dire predictions of impending doom. From guerrilla wars to drug trafficking, insects of disproportionate size to diseases of surprising mortality (not to mention an abundances of sinister waterfalls) South America is indeed rife with things that can kill you. However, along with my 98.9% DEET bug spray, I am applying a protective layer of optimism to my journey. I look upon the friendly spider-infested nations of the Great Southern Continent as a spirited challenge in determination and positive thinking against malaria and a total lack of regional language skills. To this end, I dedicate this log, that it might serve as memoirs to my travels, or at the very least, clues to my disappearance... off now, to adventure! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-16951788072412848142010-01-08T10:33:00.016-05:002010-01-11T07:27:02.746-05:00where hugo's boss<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I've made it to Venezuela having successfully navigated the international airports of Aruba and Bogotá. Things were a little tricky in Aruba (with no international transfers desk, I had to get a visa, recheck my luggage, and convince customs officials to let me back into the airport) but I managed easily enough, and was soon jetting toward Columbia. Mind you, this transfer was a bit ridiculous, as Caracas is at most a 20 minute flight from Aruba, and I was instead flying 2 hours out of the way to then turn around and come back, but this way I got to see the inside of another airport.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHKCVh_vu5iHadwU2LIzvSKrTRUYSLwpcRtwVt5ntUOSls0Dz_dyZ-G5AV4s2h1vc2PMb2BwVsiawswQeQ_Hhy_T_nuj0X7xAXfJfpPoFRubpAbHEjGldvq6qkWauyfsqF5ROpo7c7tzG2/s400/100_9738.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424399109947495970" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">A brief stop by Aruba.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLY0mwCW2o6wZ8CgfPpEZCXkcYnCzSA1_ERBhf4rObZDKpMOnXdA6b6ojZCllbWW7ukNTJUsctiQK5MlkxBmoNpbt7R3dibe6Cm1OqpBnfSJ8ksOsHP7hcC3yPBX3NSaTSKpis5lSsvkA3/s400/100_9744.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424399120536485314" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Flying out to Bogotá.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Landing in Caracas, I was met by Ricky and his father for a short cruise through the city. This gave me a chance to see Caracas at its best (that is: its least visible). Still, I found the drive through urban poverty from the backseat of a bulletproof SUV (with Ricky pointing out the sites of major revolt) to be very memorable. As open sewers and decaying tenements gave way to trees and golf courses, we pulled into the apartment, and I stepped out into the warm Venezuelan night. Greeting Ricky's mom and sister, I offloaded my bags and settled in to catch up with the family. Before long, it was time for bed, and I retired to my quarters.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvQly03hXExtym2PRqklh71uMLXQmv2CvisiUzxdatT3UiQJWEO3k9Sg_ErRcb8bpNQ3L3_g-G1uveWLWFkFNb7irdmnxvm4egZ-xvg51Hq9nw94Wo8VeVaay7GJo2U_qLDSV_V7VTXLgo/s1600-h/100_9759.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvQly03hXExtym2PRqklh71uMLXQmv2CvisiUzxdatT3UiQJWEO3k9Sg_ErRcb8bpNQ3L3_g-G1uveWLWFkFNb7irdmnxvm4egZ-xvg51Hq9nw94Wo8VeVaay7GJo2U_qLDSV_V7VTXLgo/s400/100_9759.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424399125236109538" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Waking up in Caracas.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Waking up late the next morning, I joined Ricky for a traditional South American breakfast prepared by their Colombian maid. The rest of the morning was dedicated to set up for a barbecue, planned for the afternoon. I helped bring down meats and Polar beer (some of the only available in the city, due to a wildcat strike/total breakdown of Polar's distribution capacity) and before long we were cooking away. As I learned how to play Dominions, a serious business in South America, I was treated to an array of tasty local delicacies (mmm... blood sausage). Also available was a selection of local libations, including the famously potent "caiprinha."</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo66qwxc1ta4Gf47k56j1GgXuCXlbzD52PWl3S_u-syIz2bt-3auWfXRSyp1Pbq2vvQTtV88EUkBd2sEsevi22WS4wa3gJlOYXSF1gguZD4ofRJuX3F3dd7TGVr-2QtGG5luPsxao0VNQn/s1600-h/100_9750.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo66qwxc1ta4Gf47k56j1GgXuCXlbzD52PWl3S_u-syIz2bt-3auWfXRSyp1Pbq2vvQTtV88EUkBd2sEsevi22WS4wa3gJlOYXSF1gguZD4ofRJuX3F3dd7TGVr-2QtGG5luPsxao0VNQn/s400/100_9750.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424399126307457538" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Caiprinha, a traditional drink made with rum, lime, and sugar.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We were joined by a number of Ricky's friends, many of whom would be making the journey to the island of Margarita with us the following day. Thus began my immersion en Espanol. While bilingualism is a common enough feature of Ricky's friends, I'm doing my best to embrace this language, and I'm learning all kinds of fantastically useful phrases to supplement my Ritchie Valens-based education (yo no soy marinero, soy capitan!) All in all, lots of laughs, lots of dominoes, lots of meat. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The following morning, after far too little sleep, I joined Ricky, Andres, Lucho, Ignacio, Luisja, Andrea, and Daniela at the airport. After a few hours, we boarded a flight that would last roughly 30 minutes before touching down on the Caribbean island of Margarita. Venezuela's most popular island destination, Margarita was sunny, warm, and totally absent of the snow currently inundating my home state. Our cab ride from the airport to the resort took longer than the flight from Caracas, but we arrived just soon enough to be told we would have to wait another four hours for our rooms to be ready. So we passed the time playing dominoes and getting the first of our less-than-stellar all-inclusive meals.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHKCVh_vu5iHadwU2LIzvSKrTRUYSLwpcRtwVt5ntUOSls0Dz_dyZ-G5AV4s2h1vc2PMb2BwVsiawswQeQ_Hhy_T_nuj0X7xAXfJfpPoFRubpAbHEjGldvq6qkWauyfsqF5ROpo7c7tzG2/s1600-h/100_9738.JPG"></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCmNNXdIFrDh0YiEydqDKvLr9EriXHPZNsBO_juhBeDCEpxyyMeJd7vWLfLMNhRR8vocm-3BgSPzBJJKY7s3mlYQfXNtKdUR0n7aCWP_DtlARK6a3kAU7qM-GPEmlO3hIQqfkgq8kXpR9x/s400/100_9818.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424399135552235506" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4PT8joRo3wOXkHShE_4T3CEte85vZ83r8zA9Euqmzdz-2pGpd1xOz1Mzimf0lBUIWLGF_8zp1zTYejK5srg2OhIXRSVWf3uh8Usj6i5OyVcwJe7YnUxu7c5Bem_U13divTP0WAAV-yrpD/s1600-h/100_9899.JPG"></a><div style="text-align: center;">Checking into the resort.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After checking in, we wasted no time in changing, and were soon enjoying the warm, sandy beach. Dominoes continued to be a feature of our social interaction, and it was on this afternoon that I would begin my reign of terror over the game. I also experienced my first empanada, a deep-fried dough pocket containing, in my case, plantain and cheese, and the single greatest cause for premature heart failure on the southern continent. But like everything that's bad for your health, the empinadas were delicious, and became a staple of our diet over the next few days. The eight of us spent a relaxing afternoon doing pretty much nothing, and after a while we made our way to the resort for a buffet dinner with all the culinary excellence of airplane food.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxbK5evhb_TLEWbwunEQXY36U-BD1sYauMmZqpk62sSV9V6kINnNpyxl_E2sQMgJBEN9PSzELedmzEiJ4zHuZNW_fpcoS3C6QRZoSeQf63atMtNZfKQQ8-PLBR0la62nCnp5WXX_B9mUQU/s400/100_9891.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424401756510002066" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">The sweet ride that brought us to the beach every morning.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After dinner, the eight of us called a pair of cabs to take us to into the city to check out a local club called Latitude. Arriving at the club at 22:30, we found that it had not opened yet, and so everyone milled around for a while while we waited for the doors to open. Inside, the club was reasonably posh, and I settled in with our group to continue my Spanish education. It wouldn't be until later that I would finally embrace the latin beats being pumped out of the sound system, but it was all in all a reasonably good evening. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The next day was once again spent at the beach, with lounging interspersed with fiercely combative dominoes. I would be on this day that I began my reign of terror over the domino table, carrying a unbeaten streak through two days of play. We sat around the table sipping Regional Light, a beer that's only redeeming value is that it was complimentary, and creating intricate patters in domino. Before long, everyone was ready to head back to the resort, where we entertained ourselves with 'Los Simpsons' while getting ready for the evenings activities. After yet another abysmal dinner (seriously, stray animals refused this food when we offered it to them) Ricky, Andres, Lucho, Ignacio, and myself packed ourselves into a single cab bound for a local casino. The only way that we could fit all five of us into the cab was for Andres and I to share our laps with Ignacio, and because of this I can summarize the half-hour ride as being: painful.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-F2vA2dhW7BqXcTOGCTTmKImLyBxXJFhqLe5Eg0OGWjjX0wuKSaXMn3NmlHzF9_v6grto8oCqX9NYcgQManbtXVqPIoJwNlL7ilZ87IwiR-lhFfRjtM6MSS-av0e_gTn-mjIfcK1YCCFi/s1600-h/100_9845.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-F2vA2dhW7BqXcTOGCTTmKImLyBxXJFhqLe5Eg0OGWjjX0wuKSaXMn3NmlHzF9_v6grto8oCqX9NYcgQManbtXVqPIoJwNlL7ilZ87IwiR-lhFfRjtM6MSS-av0e_gTn-mjIfcK1YCCFi/s400/100_9845.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424400574844793442" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a><div style="text-align: center; ">The Beach.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Arriving at the casino, I allowed the feeling to return to my legs before heading in to watch Ricky and then Ignacio lose their money on electronic roulette. I myself followed my traditional approach to casinos, and meandered over to the actual roulette table. In a system that has become the cornerstone of the Patrick Ives School of Casino Roulette, I followed a pattern of betting on the 2nd and 3rd dozen numbers over two cycles, and walked away from the table with my investment effectively doubled. I then coached Andres through my system, played for Ricky, and later coached Lucho, and I am happy to say that the Patrick Ives School of Casino Roulette has continued its unblemished streak of success.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">One of the more interesting features of the casino that we were playing in was that it was a part of the Hilton Hotel complex recently seized by the Venezuelan Government. A subject of much international controversy, but not altogether uncommon in this pseudo-dictatorship, the hotel was seized last October, and has since been run by the state. This did not, as I experienced, save it from being subject to the new power-rationing policies resulting in orchestrated brown-outs across the country. In an effort to save electricity, the casino and hotel were taken off the grid at midnight, though they continued operation on backup generators.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyYdDEejrfrvnaP4K08BYM0Vfg01iwQP4yhAjbKoMbRI04DvyR9VfyNB8ANfVtnE_mihctWv4WioSEBjJ9eR2R-B9oaVaCeXaYJdUcP9AlghGlF5_bX6KOWVNMqv4jjFNs2-_byYfOtLHY/s400/100_9763.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424877460399404514" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Covert photography of the Casino.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After enjoying a few complimentary drinks, we left the casino to return to our resort, where I was kept awake through a series of five domino games before I was finally defeated, and allowed to go to sleep. The next morning began, as with every morning, with a trip to the beach. Though on this occasion, we walked the length of the coast, to visit a neighboring beach were we were meeting Ricky's aunt and cousin for lunch. The walk was short, but enjoyable (I should mention that certain parties would disagree with both of those categorizations) and we were soon greeted by Ricky's relations. Everyone huddled under cover during a brief afternoon shower, during which we enjoyed an excellent lunch of fish and fried everything. I followed lunch with a spirited, if reasonably talentless game of beach tennis with Ricky's cousin (who was actually rather good at the "sport") before we piled into a car for the drive back to the resort. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIuye4ibsiBeWavITD6ixCjHzSGr2McDggvfY8tdf5SPz5jSdbPW6TVXNsLcat7pzrNx5qw_GNeEpwJKU9___pzyF_2MNpykJ8LJ2E8f1fXaInEj2fCEonIZACkzxhiu8hex4b8WqljlSO/s1600-h/100_9862.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIuye4ibsiBeWavITD6ixCjHzSGr2McDggvfY8tdf5SPz5jSdbPW6TVXNsLcat7pzrNx5qw_GNeEpwJKU9___pzyF_2MNpykJ8LJ2E8f1fXaInEj2fCEonIZACkzxhiu8hex4b8WqljlSO/s400/100_9862.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424400578580777778" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a><div style="text-align: center; ">The arid land of Margarita.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;">'Los Simpsons' continued to be a feature of our late afternoon schedule, which ended with dinner, the unarguably hilarious concept of "cop chickens", and a cab ride out to a different club. "The Beach Bar", as it was appropriately titled, was less pretentious and more enjoyable than or previous club-of-call, and I found myself more involved in the dancing aspects of the evening, though tragically, all photographic evidence of the evening has been mysteriously destroyed. When the music finally stopped playing a little after 4:00, we all piled into cabs and returned to our resort for a well-deserved sleep.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4vgBlkaseEIMh4N7CIEx7FmlbygIE6MSwWA0McIgIFa4IDmlBjAoIT4F7BClUVJFd210lltq9I0OWT1j71vZgCYm83GPu3M3tA1BYrfvcNQeClEjcpowXsgmQFTjGKeJaFs1X4CXZk974/s400/100_9817.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424400598620357538" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center; ">Wrapping up night of wild Caribbean dancing.</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Another morning, another day at the beach. I procured a new pair of swim trunks, as well as a beach towel, and otherwise followed the laid back schedule that we had by now become accustomed to. I opted to explore the rocky coastline at the edge of the beach before heading back to the resort, and found the rocks to be reasonably accessible, through very secluded. Which would probably explain why, rounding a bend, I... how should I say? "interrupted" a couple. Waving, a bizarre knee-jerk reaction, I turned about-face and headed inland. I explored the arid landscape of Margarita for a while, coming across some rather stunning landscapes in the fading light, as well as a wild honey bee hive. Before it started to get genuinely dark, I strolled back to the beach and caught a ride back to the resort when I rejoined the rest of the group.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaB4vqhvkIeJWhB6gl7AiFd7oe_16nasd3WVu5uSPZpYORGt9gD-BuIHBiyWWsjQMVdFAOHyCSfkQbeqbrAu2hDNaXM1yX1ZxRQOdpm_rRb2M3L9wgEwokF_vMdrgw7vbnly6Kllf-G3bt/s1600-h/100_9878.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaB4vqhvkIeJWhB6gl7AiFd7oe_16nasd3WVu5uSPZpYORGt9gD-BuIHBiyWWsjQMVdFAOHyCSfkQbeqbrAu2hDNaXM1yX1ZxRQOdpm_rRb2M3L9wgEwokF_vMdrgw7vbnly6Kllf-G3bt/s400/100_9878.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424400586476835394" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Stumbling on a wild bee's hive.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We spent our last evening on the island relaxing and playing several rounds of premium tequila-fueled dominoes. Turning in sometime after 3:00, I woke early the next morning to enjoy our last day at the beach. It ended up being a short stay, as we had to return to the resort to check out, so I'm glad I made the most of it by sleeping nearly the entire time, then charging into the waves right before we left. After checking out, we had plenty of time before the shuttle would meet us to take us to the airport, so we called a pair of cabs to take us to The Mall. I'm not a big fan of malls, but it was a good way to kill some time. Lucho deprived the elderly and infirm of mobility by renting a scooter(which is actually a common enough practice for otherwise mobile mall-goers here), which he drove around the mall in a highly entertaining fashion. Before long, it was time to head back to the resort so that we could catch our minibus to the airport. All in all, it was a great few days at the beach, but now it's time to plan out a more adventurous chapter in my travels.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div></div>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-78462214499696118742010-01-01T09:26:00.005-05:002010-01-01T09:49:40.725-05:00happy new year<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha_PwmRu56NAT1n1WdW5bhC3p1YazRpZ0aNYnlU5-cSwelgfySrU3mkx9L2gZ-9yhzsBw0W0u5sEQOpfVZH6v9HiQHvKMZ452NLQLN_od8xlZcJMNMi8n34QcDwR5fo-WG5YQoPLR670EG/s1600-h/100_9726.JPG"></a>I'm taking advantage of Logan International Airport's brief flirtation with free wifi to post this from my boarding gate. They'll be calling us any minute, so I'll briefly mention that I have obviously made it to the airport in time to catch my flight despite staying out until roughly 3am for New Year's (a quick shout out to everyone at the party who I promised I'd keep blogging for: I hope you'll all be enjoying the New Year when you finally wake up in roughly 4 hours).<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha_PwmRu56NAT1n1WdW5bhC3p1YazRpZ0aNYnlU5-cSwelgfySrU3mkx9L2gZ-9yhzsBw0W0u5sEQOpfVZH6v9HiQHvKMZ452NLQLN_od8xlZcJMNMi8n34QcDwR5fo-WG5YQoPLR670EG/s400/100_9726.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421782852498485746" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">All geared up and ready to go.</div><div><br /></div><div>Because my first layover will be in Aruba, sitting here in the waiting area in the early morning hours feels a lot like going to Bow Mill's United Methodist Church: everyone's a little groggy and I'm at least 40 years younger than the next youngest passenger. After all, you can't spell "I want to get the heck out of the cold" without "old". So far I've managed to avoid getting my cheek pinched though I know it's just a matter of time.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikygLCA4sPlzxsXyL7J3X2G3pFrHUJZ5Dso7hRQ8GeSrxPFhmsOZwvMClhRv_qXNyrEpvJ-m64JJ9reOaKnpy8cMeCALZoKkk0OtcGK_kA0rA5uLxwd1JU1hK6DeQnOgzgAsiJC1MfhbFi/s400/100_9729.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421782860398226098" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Saying goodbye to the frost and snow.</div><div><br /></div><div>Okay, the Captain and crew and making their way inside now, so I'd better get packed up. Next stop: Aruba, Bogota, and Caracas!</div><div><br /></div>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-68017745712163804532009-12-29T13:05:00.009-05:002009-12-29T17:04:49.255-05:00out of hibernation<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Well, it certainly has been a while since I've updated a post; but with more adventures looming, I felt that it was time to get back in the habit. Before I go any further, I feel I should explain how exactly I got from a train in New Zealand, through an airport in Fiji, and back to my house in New Hampshire: two updates that never really materialized.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-9Nk8IHFgga5vRC6UbcALdDVRBMVjB_sQ-uyAcVMuNv_qdJmuuwv7SamWNTKbWX5Exk67Y-uIeQyIORWCftjzM_TlP3lIXW4PyrvuKnX7t8VFcQSVVWejoRkpuRU72BzXnZiBoDoJ9bQN/s400/100_9066.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420724150901649394" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span><div style="text-align: center;">Arriving in Auckland: a modern metropolis</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI1J69gsV8_Bbc-oQDodpE1b3N_iw5drxP6FZ-d1IY8LqGRSjZwUgZKFLEWXPJNWa10MItf3J5cG4SPso5ZdUvnnZ5KRPsnNFgrinBdA_euaqog3l9obHqbF0P_AGeAgyXutUbyLrq9ZFe/s400/100_8948.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420721722410035586" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">I spent much of my first full day in this museum.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMMBOBtoNjdXKBuaSzewmCER3_pqSvc35VhFEayiPBSxHTnX-2KD7njo3CY5zNt4o-e6m-NFs3g4NkxE8yHVstbod5HO0Bph8UBsbpIOrbauHx3evjKvKKbjl1fADB3s6bUfpF8Y4cOjQF/s400/100_9030.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420721729488054898" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); "> Interspersed with exhibits on Maori culture, and a rather realistic full-experience demonstration of how Auckland was going to be destroyed in a massive volcanic eruption (scientists are predicting this will happen any day now) was this exhibit that included Sir Edmund Hillary's ice axe. Having just come from Nepal, I enjoyed it.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTquccNx4DPLH4li8TcmN_dCMf1iictq_848UknuEU-x29SAPYPfpEheOs4DY_6qK5QyCkACri8dLcmrlxom_0dqUb1lbV8tTcRp_F2033nEW6iGGaAtxWQH7ZJH74GRpiqaRwS2jsuEAr/s400/100_9076.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420724135281097042" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">For my last full day of travels, I charted a boat to take me out to the islands in Auckland's rather large harbor. These islands were created by the same volcanic eruptions that now threaten to destroy New Zealand's largest city, but for the time being the volcanic soil makes the area one of the premier wine growing regions in the world.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjagW1bAP2rgLd9O_p8npZOyC0oRD4o7r20v42f6-fwUaR208UPNKDVkK3gLpwA3vUJSu0H6zxG8y8VGqydRiRTtkVSkBKIFKjdApznHp3XsmWoYpxYGQnxGH577LAfPBmuVj1rMG_33phX/s400/100_9150.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420721732557913890" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Checking out the beaches on Waikiki Island</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRbtWQG0hPzvOSBl0W7ErTRB6jW9enl-8aR39yG7sJ1mJt-niiDkAwdfaFBt3Q2xxWaTt465ugvdJiK8USceyAtq0yT1xqgUZhu3BR_NhEt-awfySuZmLLLLFe7uKZhGZYdY_k84YZjNZM/s400/100_9165.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420721741502076418" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Beachflowers on Long Beach</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKIWIsDDhskK9DtmtHIsUbpMbSlVjH6ZjO8whj6suUtj1xdzYf2Me2Wvn7lCbswfiwYa7qgekIUeFOUWzIqGn8n7BFfXWXXKVr2EU2_FrZzFL66FMnGOYtZCdL7torcUqCm0ql8ZPWfkvz/s400/100_9205.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420721748716641234" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Exploring the rocking crags along the seacoast</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKwQe0utDtE2Df-Vhl-r7huJ-ts_47jfzhkRV8zngucOO5txmhEN4Kzj-ZsyrusblUCedblxB2yzR69Pfe2arq0mpLUWh0vJbSclfnSdQadFQCZ3Bth_-4KkYxdGds9v4H8F7yeBdHBpXc/s400/100_9220.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420724143359086754" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Committing a minor blaspheme, I finished off my afternoon by ordering a beer in the heart of wine country</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUQF8WeDl9BAwzeUYxWNUh-DUX4iAGpmsSqeoLcfXO3JBtPkravLZs74vPtlhIYuAGRuJxOBVv0CPJITv-0LVR0UROS9cW4rjaef6bR5IxHeM25gGPjS7CrSmBkVgSgTwzqGt92jYxdLec/s400/100_9270.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420724159887620898" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">The sun set in a brilliant splendor as I made back to the mainland</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I need to interrupt the slide show here, to explain how this next set of photographs was made possible. After a restless Halloween's night (not celebrated in New Zealand) I woke early to catch a plane to the island of Fiji. I had arranged an eight hour layover on this tropical isle, hoping to take advantage of this brief visit by popping out of the airport to see the countryside. When I landed in Fiji, I joined my fellow passengers in line with my customs forms. However, standing in front of a customs official, I was informed that because I was simply on an extended layover, my stop in Fiji was not "legitimate" and I would not be granted a visa to enter the country. I was then escorted with another young man to a waiting area where we were to spend the next eight hours lounging around an airport terminal. As I watched my disappointed comrade glumly accept his fate, my indignation gave way to a determination to step out onto Fijian soil. My mind raced to come up with a way to get on the other side of the custom's area. Excusing myself from my escort, I enquired about the possibility of rearranging my flight to extend my stay, thus "legitimizing" my visit. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In a procedure that took me the better part of an hour, I succeeded in frustrating the customs officials into granting me a visa, first by making several phone calls to my airline, and then seemingly attempting to reschedule my flight on the only computer available on this side of customs (the ones behind each official's desk). In the end, I was granted, in the words of the officials, a "highly irregular" 4 day visa to make my necessary travel arrangements, on the condition that I submit to a full search of my bags. This condition worried me some, as I had loaded up my checked luggage with a veritable cornucopia of plant, wood, shell, and bee-product items that all but defined any island nation's list of restricted imports. I don't really know how I made it through the search, I just started chatting with the inspector, and being over-the-top, in-the-presence-of-your-grandmother polite. But after an extended search, I was cleared through, and reveled in my success at thwarting the official entry procedures of a nation. It had taken me a rather long time to do all this however, and so my series of photos from Fiji are mostly restricted to the area around the airport...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfveQj1OVjj3m6e9aH2oM336uLKTh8ZvpSS5PmyoAmjIhezRseSyTwo-fUO-31s-qn0BRFYnfV6X-rbT35HZxsgZvBK9UNQGDfY1Cd7i_EM04oV232lZstItkHiOn3OKmm1mBgFExDzsLx/s400/100_9305.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420724168148005746" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">I stepped into the parking lot, knowing I didn't have much time, and started taking pictures like mad.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzLsJ-Snb90dL17p7xro72sqAHMPZV7vL2TENfrHVD4bIgSaFGYFLZskxlqmtg7_DLP4dsrNZDcpSfPyqGAQqxP64YXg44pu9SU76N0qjtx9jBMTkTZkMrUvfixTKVH8z5Wy990yR8wNCv/s400/100_9340.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420732423845299698" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Fiji smells a lot like Hawaii</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLDgH1NWIR8Za-E4ua2ZyUSkWd850_KH0sWhckKF5hvCa46mg6XDAlao4KVJKa9suGEz8HZmy_m-yw9ajRsN5HSi29b-Lpp7Te74EMWNMe3IUXfi7SEOd5Yx0rKGXkpWHXoE5JQeFbK59Z/s400/100_9309.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420732430120712658" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Flowering trees against an overcast sky</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUbuGH5ATW54C2dbUel1qIsJMotnhxu9YP6A1rZPcGWmdQ3rTf5PTeGiI2iW3o0IqtSqQF0hEETU8MNiy7LUz50zj0MQ4qcBtzDCNacKvWR8UHPepTt5Nrf4KCbFZUuICpuFxPcxYnIZ0k/s1600-h/100_9345.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUbuGH5ATW54C2dbUel1qIsJMotnhxu9YP6A1rZPcGWmdQ3rTf5PTeGiI2iW3o0IqtSqQF0hEETU8MNiy7LUz50zj0MQ4qcBtzDCNacKvWR8UHPepTt5Nrf4KCbFZUuICpuFxPcxYnIZ0k/s400/100_9345.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420732441638739442" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a>Artsy shot of a taxi whizzing by</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9YMfSH0N6Q2Kzg91IqJrElELtG6ky7hKgHBOUuiB8_BRNHqlzrtefLzUwxG46YJJhJHJsKP_Jptc964sC-vxzA5V_Zw2s6HN8eDOhi9DAoRu8HK-n7JVM-4FYm9CK7U2m-LG76Oigu-Bt/s1600-h/100_9349.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9YMfSH0N6Q2Kzg91IqJrElELtG6ky7hKgHBOUuiB8_BRNHqlzrtefLzUwxG46YJJhJHJsKP_Jptc964sC-vxzA5V_Zw2s6HN8eDOhi9DAoRu8HK-n7JVM-4FYm9CK7U2m-LG76Oigu-Bt/s400/100_9349.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420732437971155058" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Fiji's International Airport</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj26vzR8Wd2bKLeKzBTDlQSYgCxACOUeUzsn_l_hzG0j1mZnkHOMQR1p-VpmeV4O73th9i8WZfohbshZOcJKBYJTol7Ua51BcAt3qRUGPzdA5XoC2OKK7OaCuORZb67UCE8fYte9RHlr7S2/s1600-h/100_9378.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj26vzR8Wd2bKLeKzBTDlQSYgCxACOUeUzsn_l_hzG0j1mZnkHOMQR1p-VpmeV4O73th9i8WZfohbshZOcJKBYJTol7Ua51BcAt3qRUGPzdA5XoC2OKK7OaCuORZb67UCE8fYte9RHlr7S2/s400/100_9378.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420732451588073170" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">All aboard: time to head home</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And so I did, head home that is. I managed to secure three empty seats in succession and sprawled out, much to the envy of those sitting behind me. Right before midnight, we crossed the International Date Line, which reverted me back to my second Halloween of 2009 for a few minutes before I resumed another November 1st. All tolled I spent 29 hours of November 1st in the air. Bizarre.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Having ended my travels on a holiday, I am electing to resume travel on a holiday by departing for Venezuela early in the morning of New Years Day. This will probably mean that I don't get much sleep, which will make all the more surreal my route from Boston to Aruba, Aruba to Bogota, and finally Bogota to Caracas. I'm scheduled to land in Caracas just after midnight were I will either be met by my roommate and his father in their bulletproof car, or immediately set upon by the seediest elements of South America's notorious criminal population. Further updates to follow contingent on the outcome.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-39380270959359742642009-10-31T20:32:00.004-04:002009-10-31T20:40:59.370-04:00overlanding<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">To call the rolling grassy hills picturesque, broken up as they are by winding fence, bits of rock, small tufts of trees, and everywhere dotted with sheep, to call these hills picturesque sells short the landscape I find myself moving through. From time to time, our train runs parallel to the road, and the colorful menage of vehicles that keep pace with our <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">locomotive</span> help to define the locale: pick-up trucks weighted down with the tools of the land, antique cars reinforcing the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">nostalgic</span> atmosphere, and the odd motorcycle gracefully hugging the winding dirt road. Everywhere there that grass grass can grow, there are sheep, and the grass seems to grow everywhere. In broad strokes it paints the hillside, while in narrow slivers it follows the contours of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">clifsides</span> and riverbeds. There are 60 million sheep in New Zealand, and I can hardly <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">imagine</span> an environment better suited to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">theses</span> well-<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">insulated</span> fluffy lawnmowers.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCFfQbleD-0OkHTN2bRDAfL5K3c92yxLlvFXYdfGCkd3AiQGg8kkQ08ejKZK6IPa6NoyGeCEAPqQ0YrqzNT-jxUc3fj2uz_lTVwD2gjJ0Quh69iTeuoK2bwqcanZLenA0vplTYpUGNY2lX/s400/100_8774.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398927581346699698" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Green fields and pastures.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Where streams and little rivers cut into the green earth, a dramatic display of elevation in the miniature scale contrasts against the great peaks and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">valleys</span> of the background. All around me is beauty.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As I rode the train, the sunny day gave way to a spot of rain, which turned to snow as we reached into the higher elevations. But this bit of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">precipitation</span>, and the corresponding cloud cover, would quickly vanish as we steamed our way north. I was on the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Overlander</span>, New <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Zealand's</span> most famous rail line, which connects the political and cultural capital of Wellington with Auckland, the country's metropolitan hub. While both cities are on the North Island, Wellington and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Auckla</span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">nd</span> are situated at the southern and northern extremes respectively. This distance, coupled with the occasionally sluggish speed of the train as it steamed up the mountain track, makes the overland journey an all day affair. Now that budget airlines have taken up residence in New Zealand many are wondering if the 12-hour long <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Overlander</span> service will be able to attract enough customers to stay viable. The line was already shut down some years back <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">amidst</span> a fury of local indignation. New <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Zealanders</span> seemed <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">adamant</span> that the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Overlander</span> should keep running, and they asserted this by buying out all available tickets on the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Overlander</span> in the final weeks of its operation. Initially, this did not seem to be enough, and the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">line</span> was closed for a number of years before resuming service. The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Overlander</span> is still on shaky ground, so I was glad for the chance to avail myself of it before services is shut down for good. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR_FUhmpt6G_fRNuQIcX_4E47iVZ1zCdz2yU-u9Oy3qsjdUBTotzsUcchQpQQS_abJBqbFWQ3QSreNzm3Sd59xaNsNsofMJs7eNmdwf-Vog6Y6V0twilR07T48-INVOcUtT_YuXExIMlI/s400/100_8847.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398927588093954898" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Sheep-dotted hills.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">For my part, I share in the extreme <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">disappointment</span> felt by New <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Zealanders</span> faced with the close of their historic rail line. The train ride may not be the most economical way of getting from Wellington to Auckland, or visa <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">versa</span>, but the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">experience</span> of riding through the New Zealand countryside is so fantastically memorable that I would have likely paid for the ride even if it rain in circuit. Of the many unique amenities provided by the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Overlander</span>, one of the best is the observation car. This small, open air deck exposes brave, camera-wielding <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">passengers</span> to panoramic views of the countryside. Those seeking a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">smilar</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">experience</span>, with all the comforts of indoor living, can recline in the rear-facing lounge whose all-glass rear wall affords generous views of the surrounding landscape.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4GDyhpM_uqVxIuTWiGY19BLChY2-t286SllgDO-JrZfNdOyw0uP_XwBuXE2Nr0Ls4aX__zWQpYbdkWXMqqjS3Ehr7Ox9sIjD3Ptl_b0gMqre3WdtFVmOQAhaXSRRJl7sGnu9kDt_xEtkD/s400/100_8824.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398928094327024626" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">More greenery.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was generally more disposed to the open air observation car, and I would alternate my time between <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">capturing</span> scenic vistas in the open air, and relaxing in the totally-empty front carriage. I suppose I can understand the budget crisis faced by the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Overlander</span> when an entire carriage is left without paying customers, but I certainly enjoyed having all the room to myself. Ordering a mince pie and a beer from the dining car, I took my light lunch to my private carriage (as I saw it) and enjoyed the classic Down Under meal while sunlight streamed through the train windows.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs-KiJpqANKyMapG71-ZekWbGxepQWeQKlE2D_U6ZtalLhjVjgW1ULTheI9m4sXzpt5-VcaFbLt_xoGZ8Qw4zl6aPTqLxnAUJfcx9kL_tEovmNEy7Y5nA0iGJou5GkRTrCk05ypFD8uqc/s400/100_8718.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398927596074355010" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Mince pie and beer... delicious.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">About <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">four</span> hours into the trip, we stopped at a small skiing town, all but abandoned as the summer months crept ever closer in New Zealand. It was a nice break to be able to walk around outside and explore the town, which simply choked of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">nostaligic</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">wintersport</span> appeal, but soon the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">train's</span> whistle blew and I climbed back on board for the continued journey.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchO61aZEo5Iaxo-vMHygRVYGHdmjgB0Hk5idn0VuIP1JQq5k8dgvlEUrJHpHPvuPOEd86nF90TUQT6eDyuVNsYzh295DrjUPUhpzgZovUlJft8r_djqr4NzpTu-5sk2V5gpFHkQHU7hQ/s400/100_8769.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398927605068969602" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Tracing a river.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Every once in a while, one of the cheerful train conductors <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">woudl</span> get on the public address system and point out what was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">meant</span> to be an interesting landmark. These addresses were made when passing along record-breaking bridge <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">expanses</span>, or tallest mountains, but also pointed out in our journey was New <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">Zealand's</span> largest coal-burning <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">power plant</span>, a variety of gardens the conductor found particularly appealing, and choice places to relocate if you were considering a move. I was admittedly charmed to bits that anyone could dote about the size and capacity of a coal-burning <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">power plant</span>, and soon I was listening for the crackle of the PA system, eager to learn another bit of Kiwi anecdote.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU4GgDio4ptftXxs1fNfH6gzVmqdCdMaRx2_PhD9naF20sAmxykuLT3eMD3b-M2fKwXrdqkkzZcmc1hTJCIAuSQsUZklgK5EpnT8p9x4y8H4dqkQDhtb1sfqbzPjAcL0KZL6tXwBmrb24v/s400/100_8921.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398927617641472578" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Nearing the end of the line.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And that is largely how I spent my day. I would take a few pictures from the observation car, retreat to my carriage to do some light reading, nibble on snacks while listening to the conductors, and generally take in the astoundingly beautiful scenery. Soon the sun began to set, and as I saw the skyline of Auckland appear on the horizon, I knew the journey would <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">coming</span> to a close. We pulled into Auckland right on time, and I stepped off the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">Overlander</span>, the last <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">passenger</span> to do so, having more than enjoyed my day steaming through New Zealand.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-87621443186710897272009-10-30T16:52:00.006-04:002009-10-30T17:21:30.012-04:00beef in wellington<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhDyjddESqCSnsq9dTlSLcjiER4rkqHYYhww-X5YQE6rAu5L6wrhMRCPOVJSr554Csxqh0_YmEh6Q4kI4gS5bZFdmy7zCPn-4hXtSGtK5ytCVh4-hGxKonJUigTFJSGA8QDWxASS-WPxKK/s1600-h/100_8460.JPG"></a><div style="text-align: justify;">Three hours hours after falling asleep, I woke up to my final morning in Sydney Australia. You may remember, if you follow the intricate details of my blog with a near stalker-like interest, that I set my alarm to wake me up after four hours of sleep. But my brain, in all its intricate wonder, has a habit of waking me up before the time I set for alarms. I rarely rise out of bed when this preemptive consciousness strikes, and so I was left to sit there in the semi-dark, contemplating the benefits of pursuing an extra hour of sleep. In the end, I staggered up, crept quietly passed the sleeping hulks in the bunks around me, and allowed the alternating freezing cold and scorching heat of the hostel shower to bring me into my full senses. I then quietly extricated my half-packed bags from the room and nosily packed them in the hallway. Kneeling down to zip a final side pocket, I felt a tear in my pants, and realized that I had ripped a hole in the knee of my jeans. Annoyed, but unable to take any immediate action to rectify this, I hauled my luggage downstairs where I was able to catch an early morning breakfast before my shuttle bus arrive.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Sitting in the nearly abandoned meal room (there was one other hostel goer up and about, under circumstances similar to my own) I suddenly felt the compulsion to repair my jeans. I had all of ten minutes before my shuttle bus was scheduled to arrive, and so I tore an iron-on mending kit from my bag, and rushed to the laundry room to heat up the iron. Seven minutes later, my pants were mended, and I was feeling pretty good about myself right up until I reentered the meal room and realized that the shuttle had just arrived and they were impatiently waiting for me. Rushing to put my shoes back on (such things need to be taken off if one is to repair jeans you understand) I broke the fragile left lace, damaged in the fireplace mishap in Nepal a month ago. Cursing this misfortune, I hastily gathered together my luggage, and fumbled out to meet the shuttle. Leaving the hostel into an early morning rain, I managed to get on board and we were soon underway. Jerry-rigging my lace to hold my boot tight, I was soon stepping off the shuttle bus into Sydney International Airport, still feeling a bit disheveled. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I clumsily checked in at the Air New Zealand booth, and cleared security with such swiftness and ease that I found myself with plenty of time, far too much in fact, to look around the Duty Free and the various other airport shopping offerings. While I would avail myself of none of these offerings, I did learn a great deal more than I expect I needed to about the collection and processing of merino wool, as well as the myriad of different semi-useful things one can knit it into - if anyone has been looking for doggy leg warmers made from 100% Australian Merino Wool, I saved a business card.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">On board the airplane, I was treated to one of the more impressive in flight entertainment systems I've yet come across, and having my pick of recently released films, I chose Frost/Nixon - this over Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen, under the theory that if you're going to go through the labor of watching a Michael Bay film, where the only redeeming values are the digital editing and explosions, an eight inch screen is hardly the proper medium. Frost/Nixon is definitely worth a look if you missed its release onto DVD, bearing in mind that I am a political science student, and anything I say about the fascinating qualities of politics or economics should be taken with a grain of salt; more on this later. For the time, Frost/Nixon got me through most of the three hour plane ride to New Zealand, and when we landed I had to hurriedly fill out the immigration card they provided me upon entering the aircraft.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">New Zealand is famous for inventing the bungee jump, its fruits and birds beginning with "kiwi", and a fanatical obsession with keeping out anything that might be seen as an invasive or dangerous threat to their ecosystem. Germans were forbidden entry through the 1970's. So I was more than a little nervous at coming up to the immigration desk with a suitcase full of souvenirs that would provide textbook examples of "tree products", "food items", and "things derived from the sea." The "Instant $300 Fine!" sings didn't help to steady my nerves. I had half-heatedly declared that I was carrying certain things that may not be allowed into the country, as a way of safeguarding myself from the consequences of a random search, while still avoiding the heartbreaking loss of some memorabilia that has been with me throughout my travels. In the end, my scheme worked (I sure hope no one from New Zealand's Immigration Security reads my blog) and I managed to sneak passed after a short round of questions, during which I honed my political skills by never once lying.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Feeling really really good about making it into New Zealand, I turned my attention to the task of making it into Wellington. In this I was assisted by the most helpful non-human entity I've come across in my travels: a touch screen computer that I identified my hostel, placed a call into reception, then printed me out a little map of how to get there. I was so happy to have this machine, which by rights should fall into the long line of "things that seem like they should work well, but don't", that I took a picture of it:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhDyjddESqCSnsq9dTlSLcjiER4rkqHYYhww-X5YQE6rAu5L6wrhMRCPOVJSr554Csxqh0_YmEh6Q4kI4gS5bZFdmy7zCPn-4hXtSGtK5ytCVh4-hGxKonJUigTFJSGA8QDWxASS-WPxKK/s400/100_8460.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398499805762736898" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Note the little receipt-like map that had printed out below.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Boarding a bus into town, I enjoyed the first and only free public wifi I've found in all of New Zealand. The bus ride took less than twenty minutes, though this was long enough to get my laptop out, boot up Skype, and place a truly mobile call back home to let my parents know I had arrived safely in New Zealand. I made it to the hostel without incident, checked in, dropped off my bags, and set out to explore Wellington. I wouldn't realize it until later, while I was flipping through an atlas at a local book store, but I had now arrived in the southernmost capital city in the world, having started out in Reykjavik, the northernmost capital city in the world. The two cities are almost exactly on the other side of the world from each other, but Wellington bore an almost uncanny similarity to Reykjavik, and I really enjoyed just walking around the city.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">At one point, a fine mist that had been coming down from the sky finally turned into the barest definition of rain long enough to become affected in the most dazzling way by the strong winds coming off the harbor. These tiny rain droplets danced in the sky, moving from side to side and coming at me from all angles as they were tossed about in the shifting winds. Behind me, a rainbow formed out of the swirling mist, and the whole thing was rather magical, if a bit cold.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhave3jxS35OljXCDZEcOmRplvjREeTFDbvTDWHAPf3flLVuhl1-HjRihRyYyDpzteLeHQ5ZFbMoVAxFLR-ITeTIP6-Dm0uhDNJr43u5dNjKZ4zoftMNPVs5a_PbDbMi02ZTKry0zxTNiYI/s400/100_8467.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398499810022131458" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Faded in the bright light of the afternoon, the rainbow was still clearly distinguishable.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I took refuge from the wind and rain in Te Papa, New Zealand's free National Museum, which is basically the entire Smithsonian complex of museums rolled into one big harborside building. Much of Te Papa involves a rather childish interactive quality to the exhibits, lifting latches, and being rattled by mock earthquakes, so suffice to say I loved it. I was hardly the only person there taller than a yard stick who seemed to be getting a kick out of the exhibits, as Kiwis (the people, not the birds or the fruit) seem to have a very playful approach to life that no doubt comes from lives lived in desperate isolation and sheep.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Te Papa was really cool, but I had come near to closing time. So, vowing to return, I headed back into the fresh New Zealand air to continue my explorations... only to find everything else closed. It turned out that this particular Monday was New Zealand's Labor Day, and so the only things that were open were the National Museum and the grocery stores. Having seen the National Museum, I naturally made my way to the grocery store. There I chanced on a ludicrously low-priced cut of beef tenderloin, that I spent the next half hour fashioning a meal around. It took the purchase of two slices of bacon at the deli, the procurement of two kebab sticks from the meat lady, and the acquisition of lettuce, potatoes, and ginger ale, but I soon had everything I would need to prepare two meals of filet mignon on a backpacker's budget. Everything, that is, except a stove. For some unfathomable reason, the hostel's kitchen had no less than twelve electric ranges (none of which worked with any consistency) and not a single stove or broiler. So after halving the steak and wrapping it in bacon, I cooked one portion in a covered pot with as much success as I should expect to get from the troublesome electric range.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqghX2c8zSHZUDJauPsH3wl_XBhlGlyrjQ59NvaFeyyoeBFXyNlzD3XegBdm8MR_AOGiVOm6vDBXpqzhR8k6DYml0aQ-MfO8GL3vrzPd0mpua6WSEGXzzpKwb90TCbhgI7m66wp8Etkk9i/s400/100_8487.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398499817699125730" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Wandering through Wellington.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyN2Alhq3Js57C1RY8Fdfgol-cKPsjqHajzVBw2txqoale4FKJJZ90ZkdQJQeOrHP-AkQG1TCutTqR7uWhIgET3rzbMsWWdK2sEIUqszsu6l6cskqwyYDdorzgON0VKZL-a3DoFQFm-WkU/s400/100_8492.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398499824265653410" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Wires for the tram stand out against the colors of twilight.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Dinner was pretty much the highlight of my evening, as after enjoying it I opted for an early night in. The next morning, and in fact most of the next day was dedicated to a proper visit of Te Papa, where I wandered through interesting and interactive exhibits, the likes of which I have never come across in my many museum-going years. Highlights of the visit included an exhibit featuring interactive architecture, a good - if goofy - summery of race relations in New Zealand between the Maori and the colonists, a large and inexplicable section dedicated to the Scottish in New Zealand, and the Colossal Squid. The Colossal Squid was entertaining for a number of reasons, none of which had to do with the squid itself. First of all, the amount of media coverage of the hooking of this squid was only matched by the fascination exhibited by museum-goers over this specimen of the deep. Where Americans would have seen a large, but otherwise unimpressive portion of calamari, New Zealanders have build an entire exhibit around the squid - which is now preserved in formaldehyde - featuring a documentary on it's capture, a build-your-own-squid interactive game, and - no joke - a 3D film complete with glasses that follows a supposed telling of the squid's daily life up to its capture by a local fisherman. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">For all of this, Te Papa has earned my endearing love, and as a way of giving back to the museum that provided me with so much entertainment - not to mention squid-based factoids - I ate lunch at the famously over-priced museum cafe. My seafood chowder was, well, certainly full of food from the sea, though the beverage I paired with it helped to redeem an otherwise mediocre meal. After finishing the late lunch, I left Te Papa to continue my exploration of Wellington. Stopping by the tourist information center, closed the day before in observance of the holiday, I procured a number of useful brochures for planning out my remaining time in Wellington, then skipped over to the local library which was reported to be rather impressive. The library was actually very impressive, though I am hardly the type to run halfway around the world just to plunk down in front of a book all afternoon while there are sites to see and adventures to be had. So I left the library and continued to wander on to little if any circumstance until the sun started to get low in the sky. Hoping to find a good view of the sunset, I started climbing one of the hills that circle the city, and so began an hour-long distraction through the heights of Wellington.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhImOM4mnPZ7CJP0q8JYtDvxz4MIXnNajbMwTXumSz8Y3VQSPb_gANjrSfBy39NQdQGNaETBwsM7O2Qzn51WhqEqLSNYEel_z0m2g9D5apcKWLkKV5JH6u96vOwPbXJC9HVnWTtxUlTr9sz/s400/100_8508.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398499829984696466" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Franks: a damn good drink.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#000000;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifmjLbvl3kZDnwTnnSfDv596MqkSU2tSyockDo8tqB6bOJm7nxHrv7BcZglHn3KTz8GU5qmGkIM92NlFsakdXrH4D-TX7LkDgOcZna8Kb-9_pKrgwLzzC3rhw1nFJIogH-ZJzLOnzr2UXA/s400/100_8528.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398500316529904706" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">The sun setting over New Zealand.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Having successfully obtained a few decent pictures, I made my way back to the hostel where I enjoyed a second night of filet mignon, much to the jealousies of my fellow hostel-goers. After dinner I shared a few beers with one of my roommates while I regaled him with tales of my adventure, and I am comfortable saying that New Zealand has by far the best beer of any country I have visited during my trip. While Belgium will likely never be dethroned from beer eminence, I place New Zealand right up there with the best of them.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizH1P_EDBUEJ4LnHP84xXONWdCGbmLoE4PynlkXrAz3Hum9St7ZbRFVM8uPvGVLihYn-3xXf-T5QOq_QNNmBd6KtQjFFXxm7NBtcaEiWx4uWTMOYiNXxyXISuPD7a7XMM_V4028cyBcqCj/s400/100_8654.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398500857049532098" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Monteiths's Summer Ale: another damn good drink, though unlike Frank's, it doesn't see fit to advertise this point. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I woke up to a hot bowl of porridge on my last full day in Wellington. That is, I woke up, dressed, walked down to the the kitchen, and prepared it for myself - this wasn't the Ritz or anything. The calories earned by the porridge would be seriously taxed by my itinerary for the day, which started with a walk over to the Parliament Building. While I had been called on to give tours of the European Parliament Building in Brussels, I have never myself taken a tour of a foreign central government building. But New Zealand's government fascinates me. Here, in one of the most geographically isolated countries in the world, has flourished a liberal democracy that has afforded its citizens one of the highest standards of living in the world, despite historically violent and reasonably recent breakdowns in race relations between the European settlers and the local Maori. Yet today New Zealand boasts a system of universal health care, defacto free university education for anyone willing to stay in the country after graduation, and original inhabitants who are well represented in everything from the government to the core culture of the country. The United States, I feel disappointed to report, can lay claim to no such achievements.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOBhjNn9ZcacDtoku1kYr-azxFUT50X1ScJcCV6tUMO5mnblpfqHO3lF6ioebVpA8drl6PBalfvhY9Qpvh9SEHzWQoolE7kiVN_rmEdhDo_rxPTrH6YRhxRAb5KOkTXM5izKKFdZrnGWm3/s400/100_8554.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398500329225727618" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">"The Beehive", part of the Parliament Building.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Outside of the macro level achievements of the New Zealand government, I learned of two interesting features of their structure and procedure during the tour - I interject again my caveat about the relative interest of government procedure to me as compared to the rest of the world. The Parliament of New Zealand was founded as a bicameral legislature with an upper house: the Senate, and a lower house: the House of Representatives. Curiously, they adopted the British name for the legislative body, and the American name for the houses. However, when it became painfully clear that the Senate, a body that in function had more in common with the House of Lords than the US Senate, were almost totally corrupt and useless, they threw the goons out. And this was not on a Senator-by-Senator basis, the government took the necessary steps to completely dissolve the Senate, rendering the Parliament of New Zealand as one of the few unicameral legislatures in the developed world.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZTnBCl1F7FaPyqosjgQ6lm20pfK_0wcil-XCl5rrfKY5AQd6fFW-oelCVUSNy0mBRc8-8KChOv1nIPRMfLCZvyF-QPwZu95MgxESjKXpDrtr_qj_g7fp5BkiWpNk9kGr1_5HnfTi7LB6_/s400/100_8556.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398500333186248978" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">New Zealand's most famous Prime Minister, you've probably never heard of, died on June 10th as the last of a string of terrible happenings for New Zealand on that date in the 19th century.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This take-no-crap attitude toward government extends into lawmaking. Contrary to what Schoolhouse Rock's Mr. Bill may have told you, the process of going from a bill to a law in the United States is rather convoluted. Ordinarily a bill is introduced on the House or Senate floor, and then it is referred to the appropriate committee or subcommittee - groups of Congressmen or Senators with a specialization in say: Agriculture, Foreign Relations, or Daisy Planting. Subcommittees are where bills go to die. This is the easiest place to allow a bill to languish obscurity, and this is the fate of the majority of legislation before the House and Senate. Congressmen in New Zealand do not have this luxury. Every single piece of legislation that has been introduced on the House floor and referred to the appropriate select committee - as they are known there - must be reviewed by the committee and passed through to a vote within six months. Extensions are occasionally granted if there is an outpouring of popular interest in the bill which leads more public addresses before the select committee - another fascinating practice of the New Zealand government - but usually the committees are treated as though they are comprised of mature adults who can be expected to make the deadlines imposed upon them. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Aside from all the procedural stuff, the tour of the Parliament was impressive simply because of the incredible Victorian architecture that graced the interior of the buildings. All recently restored after a fire, countless stained glass windows, intricately carved wood, and abundant gold leaf come together to form a spectical in nearly every room. Unfortunately, cameras are not allowed inside, so I will have to leave it to you to visit for yourself.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I finally left the Parliament, I had in mind a tour of the Weta Effects Studio, the people who are responsible for the costume and effects of many major films, most notably the Lord of the Rings Trilogy. Based right here in Wellington, their studio is in the coastal borough of Mirimar, which was only a few inches away from the Parliament building on my map. So I headed off into the hills, oblivious to the distance I was attempting to traverse. I walk at a brisk pace, and so to finally stagger into the Weta Cave - as it's known - three hours after leaving the Parliament is a testament to both the terrain of New Zealand, and the proximity (or lack thereof) of Mirimar. Admittedly, it was largely a pleasant walk, taking me into the hills high above Wellington and affording me fantastic views of the harbor. But near to the end of the walk, as I traversed a kilometer or so of windswept coast, bordered by the four lane highway, I was more than ready to arrive at my destination.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm6aieUKX7eorDArb4wc0_Z3-0PzGdrUkuUEg9_Vqb8Js9Yw83X2_TCZo7V-qI1hwG07BM8kDY6PyFLbIESWV1V9ftTjZEnZYpE2qJOiI_TcCU8acxugfbsswkQjQ3vQkQpEraCP4Mtnph/s1600-h/100_8595.JPG"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7RjWQGAOxLG10GvTTte1fmkSVqRFbBu9wfa7LQPQLiCevILm2N2sdvDIdX3jO0H80RmzbC32BvEI_VCmaV-Py2C8Wd0F-x6IHUjVYRghGZUCbm3zSt9_RDxjMF9ZoG0TtF_vrmbuRCDCK/s1600-h/100_8581.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7RjWQGAOxLG10GvTTte1fmkSVqRFbBu9wfa7LQPQLiCevILm2N2sdvDIdX3jO0H80RmzbC32BvEI_VCmaV-Py2C8Wd0F-x6IHUjVYRghGZUCbm3zSt9_RDxjMF9ZoG0TtF_vrmbuRCDCK/s400/100_8581.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398500823282064242" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">The winding coastal road that traces the Wellington harbor.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm6aieUKX7eorDArb4wc0_Z3-0PzGdrUkuUEg9_Vqb8Js9Yw83X2_TCZo7V-qI1hwG07BM8kDY6PyFLbIESWV1V9ftTjZEnZYpE2qJOiI_TcCU8acxugfbsswkQjQ3vQkQpEraCP4Mtnph/s400/100_8595.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398500831844189970" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Walking along the windswept beach.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The Weta Cave was pretty interesting - perhaps not worth the three hour walk, but all the same. They had several displays showcasing the various props and costumes they had made, as well as a wonderfully goofy video showcasing the different effects work they had employed over the years. I've never been one for miniatures, so I left the gift shop empty handed, but still enjoyed the time I spent there.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR5YxZZSNHCKq0yEaK0rI_4_lWkPmAwdayVgQEadx8-gHXZNaf2d77McrQD6fZBnUtQ2NroxtpVQYR2kw1JIwKxS02V7QVeRxhAScf90H5PTLv0Fi907Kk16D0RTROWGo2f7zdKNw7wPnV/s1600-h/100_8614.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR5YxZZSNHCKq0yEaK0rI_4_lWkPmAwdayVgQEadx8-gHXZNaf2d77McrQD6fZBnUtQ2NroxtpVQYR2kw1JIwKxS02V7QVeRxhAScf90H5PTLv0Fi907Kk16D0RTROWGo2f7zdKNw7wPnV/s400/100_8614.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398500849372075138" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Paintings hung on the ceiling of the Weta Cave.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5PV977PoPIyYhW86PXqiMyBRs-egVUxcA_W-10KZ7gIhkJ_CxvLgBdjFqYA6w3GuY_oR1Z2S-2Qz9KT8C4dcBpvkc1rPKE4ZkX3skJj_0YTjR9WqeeDxe7RkO4diQh3WJRa84abPsmH1Q/s1600-h/100_8612.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5PV977PoPIyYhW86PXqiMyBRs-egVUxcA_W-10KZ7gIhkJ_CxvLgBdjFqYA6w3GuY_oR1Z2S-2Qz9KT8C4dcBpvkc1rPKE4ZkX3skJj_0YTjR9WqeeDxe7RkO4diQh3WJRa84abPsmH1Q/s400/100_8612.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398500838737457154" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">One of the more famous creations of the good people at Weta.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My walk from Parliament had taken me passed my hostel, so it only took me two hours to return back to my place of lodging, just in time for a light dinner of bruschetta. After dinner, I joined my roommates for a light night out on the town. I am an unapologetic fan of Big Buck Hunter, virtual deer-shooting franchise that has become a staple of the American Bar. And so when I saw a New Zealand variant on the game, ironically called "US Hunter", I excitedly deposited 50 cents and waited for the thrill of the electronic deer stalking tention. The game was terrible, mostly large pixels moving against each other, and I quickly gave up and returned to more social pursuits. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjV_QNdc0SdtuLXa7-KG3Uawop3HwAQfvFWevs8dClvloMuz3gYq3bCB4YOcZo8bmcZ_2IkRJu_moOe6wH8OJ2FhY1Jp807JfRXPfnJ_zZylDDUtNxu6aX3sj6O7nUfu2FRqC-W81ee_qZ/s400/100_8540.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398500321125611378" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;">Wellington Harbor, at night.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Despite the peer-pressurings of my roommates, I called it a night sometime before 2:00, as I had a 7:00 train to catch the next morning. Setting my alarm to allow me the reduced amount of sleep that had become all too familar, I slumped into bed excited about the comming train journey. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-52736776174383749482009-10-29T07:07:00.008-04:002009-10-29T07:45:24.620-04:00sunshine and rain<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbCkIEtFD4xaYXgRJLDbppTXzyuBcIun4tHsa19GnixQ2iNWTyZdP5GLU4dBRt-qLPQbQCjG39Sp4Z7KFN9QA2_9rAhYf7MeJAikrW4VjBX2mJgS2z3RDjyma_dSz6bAHEjxvhbduIjkTc/s1600-h/100_8270.JPG"></a><div style="text-align: justify;">Friday in Sydney got off to a late start. After sleeping in, fighting <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">wifi</span>, washing laundry, and trying to plan out my remaining time in Australia, I'd burned through much of the day. Desperate to make the best of a nearly spent day, I headed out in the late afternoon to explore the city. Australian cities are famous for their frequent festivals and cultural celebrations, and I chanced into one going on in Hyde Park. Before I go on, I just want to point out how much I enjoy the fact that there is a Hyde Park in Sydney, a city that has gone to such lengths to replicate a classical English environment on the far side of the world the virtually every park, square, and civic construction is either named after a Royal Governor, or a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">preexisting</span> park, square, or civic construction in London. Back to the cultural celebration, I quickly <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">learned</span> that it was just my luck to stop by a Thai Foods Festival, with loads of different booths selling the various <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">culinary</span> offerings of Thailand... for roughly five times the prices I'd gotten used to in Bangkok. Admittedly, even if the price was right, I needed a break from noodles, and so after looking around the city I made my way back to the hostel.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM5hzXDGGjcseqSJQf41g4aZ618PWZAkp3nAL0FyIqpMGeiejQLlxyPJ-fH-ZT4sFsf_dx0d3ywZjAXLXCH0yv9QmOhQ9D6nZEyqh20tKnkH8bhv1GLlg0iCe_AFovirb7WxR0-yPmVTb0/s400/100_8281.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397977630406094514" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Sydney: a city on its way up.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">reacquainted</span> with my poker companions over a dinner of pasta and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">panini</span>, and accepted an invitation to check out the night life Sydney had to offer on a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Friday</span> night. Of the half dozen of us that left the hostel, I was the only American, the rest of the gang being comprised entirely of Germans. As my German is restricted to the first verse of "Silent Night," and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">despite</span> being a linguistic minority, the Germans graciously stuck to English while we explored the town. Our first stop was the aptly named Scruffy Murphy's, a rough-'round-the-edges Irish pub with live music blaring out from the mini-dance hall. After having my ID checked, I was subjected to the first metal-detecting pat-down I've ever <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">experienced</span> as a requirement for entry to a drinking establishment, and its necessity should have been a tip off to the character of the joint. After making it halfway through a cider I had ordered by accident, and had the barmaid turn the remains into a snakebite, which was a nice change of pace from the kinds of beverages I've been drinking in my travels. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Ze</span> Germans and I stuck around Scruffy Murphy's long enough to finish our drinks and listen to the music selection deteriorate into "the worst hits of the 70's" before we set off for our ultimate destination for the evening: the Ivy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The Ivy is Sydney's current top-level exclusive dance club. Admission alone is $20 on Saturday nights, and combining that with a few drinks is enough to quickly bring you to a $100 night. But we weren't going on Saturday night, and so we managed to get through the the backdoor <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">queue </span>for free. The sound system, centered on the second floor of the four story structure, could be heard out in the street, but it would seem that this was just a marketing ploy, as inside the music level was more than reasonable, by club standards. Good songs at appropriate volume were matched by creative <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">decor</span>, and an open-air environment that helped to keep things cool. In fact, the only complaint I have to register about the Ivy is on that Friday night, it seemed as though most of Australia had managed to pack themselves into the second floor. To call the club "crowded" doesn't really capture the proximity with which people were forced to place themselves, which I would place somewhere between the Tokyo subway system at <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">rush hour</span> and the atomic structure of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">osmium</span>, the densest element on the periodic table.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbCkIEtFD4xaYXgRJLDbppTXzyuBcIun4tHsa19GnixQ2iNWTyZdP5GLU4dBRt-qLPQbQCjG39Sp4Z7KFN9QA2_9rAhYf7MeJAikrW4VjBX2mJgS2z3RDjyma_dSz6bAHEjxvhbduIjkTc/s400/100_8270.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397977623453954690" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Looking up inside the Ivy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I left the club sometime before 3:00, as it was around that time when I finally made it back to the hostel. I was just getting used to the feeling of my head of the pillow when I was jolted back into <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">consciousness</span> by an alarm going off in our room. My initial concern was that it was one of my alarms, but I quickly ascertained that it belonged to one of my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">bunkmates</span>. My next move, after letting it go on for 30 seconds or so, was to get up and switch it off, but I was preempted in this endeavor by my more impassioned <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">bunkmate</span> from Liverpool. Rather than simply switching off the alarm, he punched the poor mechanism, and then proceeded to throw it violently across the room with a soft curse. I never did figure out for sure to whom the alarm belonged to, but I can promise you that it never bothered anyone again.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A bright and sunny Saturday morning greeted me when I awoke, and as soon as I finished breakfast, I made my way off to The Rocks. When the first settlers from <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Britain</span> came to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Australia</span> - many of them in chains - it is likely that they first stepped off onto the rocky land plunging into Sydney Harbor in this less-than-creatively-named neighborhood. Where these British pioneers found strangled overgrowth and inhospitable crags, the modern visitor to The Rocks can indulge in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">boutique</span> shops and some of Sydney's best <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">restaurants</span>. I was there <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">enruite</span> to the Harbor Bridge.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghqhU46nMSW5QlDpyQpQxtHZp5SCbyByPKnsI2mgHZ9V1Gs2xAdF_yH4t4ooUW10fuF1qlzjS-_PKa0LuafSDWqJasWO44Sozx7vvJLhsabAlyblLd6z8TSnbm5eM_Qvq_WkNssIXjJ1qq/s400/100_8297.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397979877698997138" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Purple flowering trees dotted The Rocks.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Before the Opera House was completed, the Harbor Bridge was Sydney's defining landmark: a massive steel structure spanning 3,770 feet and tall enough to allow a ten story building to pass underneath. When construction began in 1923, it was slated to be the longest single-arch spanning bridge in the world, but over its 10-year construction, a spanning bridge of similar design was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">quietly</span> completed in New York, which took the title from the Harbor Bridge before it could even be completed by an understandably frustrating 26 inches. Nevertheless, it continues to dominate the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">harborscape</span>, its twin Australian flags <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">visible</span> almost everywhere in the city. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkl_O-1SfDgipqy9EoGTEu_2B4csExF1YS0MLvBm3aGmpgeqYIyth-ROTMu5nH6kF2vO6g6-9AJrd76vRChbdu3gmG30ygyoftgrQspMv0MRLil7EAbg11Mu2ozMZY2mVu_vhxz0n8-97B/s400/100_8306.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397977636476675362" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">The Harbor Bridge: helping to define the term "venerable."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitOK9KUZgDMf_Ice5o7v06pm61UywPg3ogLTaZkqqQYtHqlWUTJt9PQ48WE7jhEJbHqPhGrLL0nf0HWjWUQaXHyLn0Ut7q9DxQ9BbVL2xBcuUrJZHu9mCO8WLAKBFFsZ6TLTT-qm22VAkQ/s400/100_8326.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397977642831924210" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">The Opera House, reflected in a restaurant window.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The Saturday morning vibe was bright and cheerful, the melody of a jazz <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">saxophone</span> whined out as I made my way up and around the bridge, taking advantage of a soft-serve ice cream vendor parked along the harbor. A chocolate-dipped cone in hand, I sat on a park bench and watched as <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Sydneysiders</span>, as they are fond of calling themselves, enjoyed the spring day. The Opera House seemed to be doing its best to draw my attention from the Harbor Bridge, reflecting the brilliant white sunlight from its interlocking sails. Equally impressive was a massive cruise ship moored in the harbor. I had initially assumed that the large white <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">harborside</span> building was an office building, or a ferry transportation hub, so it was quite shocking to discover propellers on the back of what I would later learn was the 951 foot Star Princess, a cruise ship of near-record-breaking size. In addition to long bridges and big ships, there were a plethora of street <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">performers</span> out and about, and as I traced the harbor boardwalk I saw everything from a man juggling a chainsaw to an <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">aborigine's</span> modern remix of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">didgery</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">doo</span> music.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-qI2qO3jd4FpO7uGdBEAqIIccsw-zK47o-R-g5teFFJQMijDr3MaHja-j62mDlqPhyphenhyphenZoudjMvFmx5WLy4G2pbhHHWtTXsEn0iksBCelfUXc1IzpnPB_aNR7ZW7SH6XRCu5h31SCQAnFts/s400/100_8330.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397979854129025490" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">The designers of the Star Princess seem to have drawn artistic inspiration from the graceful beauty of the hammer head shark.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000EE;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFbIXVV9_aRI6um5ncUXl7r61bbxoPBU9r4ey7bmPjJHEFMXyG5KsElvRzmjz35iV8QSt6E2zcaEYlsLBm4cqhSeVz1fXZbb-XONG2LonMeM_w0Do84hiZi-Oq5h-45qCCXU4S1Ztc0FSK/s400/100_8367.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397979902123118162" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">The city skyline, rising up above the Botanic Gardens.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Leaving the harbor, I delved into the Royal Botanic Gardens, which may be the most impressive I've ever <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">visited</span>. They certainly are the largest, the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">entire</span> gardens taking up nearly as much space as the city of Sydney proper. As I made my way through well-manicured gardens, and an architecturally impressive Government House, I continued to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">appreciate</span> the sunny, temperate, spring weather than was mine to enjoy for only as long as I remained in the Southern Hemisphere. Then out of nowhere, as I was walking passed a group of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">bache</span> ball players, I was suddenly, and seemingly without provocation, attacked by a medium-sized bird. It dived at me, its tiny <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">talons</span> grazing my scalp and it continued it <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">aerial</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">assault</span> on my head. My first instinct was to feel <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">embarrassed</span>, as though I should be ashamed that I was being attacked by a creature less than a tenth my size, but as soon as I stopped and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">appreciated</span> my physical superiority, I quickly became annoyed and battle-ready. Of course, there was a perfectly reasonable justification for the bird's action's, though it took me a moment to realize it. It turns out that in trying to keep an appropriate distance from the ongoing <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">bache</span> game, I had strayed too close to a nest of baby birds. As I watched their little necks straining to compete for the offerings presented by a parent, I <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">simultaneously</span> forgave the actions of my attacker, and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">subsided</span> annoyance for admiration.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyf7xv85W2ZTKxgTKpQbeX0y7Rw7BwKxC6_id8C57Xe_PodJckP6wb7tGA1MW8NLuZqNsit46lRG_kKJSelOqjrdyxR4i2nErTALfFC_rG9uWhC-iDObRSLM14kCT8L3vI2CGmeAw1ZIj9/s400/100_8372.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397979917161106386" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Another example of good parenting, this male bird stood like a palace guard watching over his mate as she sat on their nest.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYohmAXge4bz82Clnzix7UF16c1ioWBsUH-WewHeq-pqYkrG6QTBe97nCRcDTvoZ8JVbO8TXV-tj3NyplyJmhPJ-rcMqx0ONH7iUcwM4kNFGEGKwheS4cMDe08Uwxh3Zq4prYc55nQ-Pku/s400/100_8371.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397979828514768914" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">The Government House, a more stereotypical English manor house you cannot find in Sydney; or England for that matter.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After a full day of walking around Sydney, I passed a few weddings on my way back to the hostel. There I cooked up the most impressively delicious dish of pasta I have perhaps ever <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">prepared</span>, and I spent the rest of the evening chatting with my fellow hostel dwellers. Hoping to wake up early the next morning, I declined to go out on the town for the second night in a row, and instead enjoyed a quite night in, watching movies with some of my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">hostelmates</span>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZX9C4Pbj6ZlsaaYnUG_Au-NlgP2J79Dj_q3wTa0WCbfpESgwdgrGObUY6gzL7yU2QS14EWrqZ2j9g5CWPyHtjIh0oZhBK5VJ9uQeppH6f6vajrzMnl6GA7rmj12IXmOFUHLPyltX6O8mq/s400/100_8389.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397977653895215266" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Bats snooze in the trees high above the Royal Botanic Gardens.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was up and at 'em early enough the next day, but yesterday's sunshine was not <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">forthcoming</span> and the sky threatened rain. As I had hoped to spend my last day in Australia down on the beach, this would seem to be a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">disappointment</span>, but I made the best of it. Deciding that an umbrella would only egg on the precipitation, I left mine behind as I began what became a rather long walk to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">Bondi</span> beach. For sand, surfing, and general beach-going <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">stereotypes</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">Bondi</span> beach ranks <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">among</span> the world's best. You have to figure that any stretch of coastline that can pack in 5,000+ beach-goers on a regular basis, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53">despite</span> being regularly infested with sharks, dangerous rips, and blue bottle jellyfish (some of the world's most toxic), has to have something going for it. So with no clear idea how far away, or even where, it was, I set off in what had been suggested to me as the direction of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_54">Bondi</span> beach. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix03aU2BD72uMiB926oBmFuD8wKeaucHu6JpzwmvSDK8jzPDyb6WN2avQZ5odWcv1l8f6LVr7steVVbP3iuw62HLP0FStXtFU4QWXAwxrBPFXIESkl9ZaFJntRSxc-W2vESnIEC8rHyiOB/s400/100_8435.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397984645554634754" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Displays of color abounded as I made my way through the suburbs enruite to Bondi.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It didn't help that I assumed that the east coast-facing <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_55">Bondi</span> beach was on the north coast-facing Sydney harbor, but even then it's at least an hour and a half long walk. Inside that first hour, it started to lightly rain, and by the time I made it to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_56">Bondi</span>, about two hours after leaving the hostel, I was trying to find shelter from the downpour. Scampering out onto the beach quick enough to take a couple pictures, I quickly retreated to a bookstore/cafe, where I spent the afternoon sipping coffee, eating carrot cake, and reading a newly-purchased Bill <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_57">Bryson</span> travel book on Australia.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix03aU2BD72uMiB926oBmFuD8wKeaucHu6JpzwmvSDK8jzPDyb6WN2avQZ5odWcv1l8f6LVr7steVVbP3iuw62HLP0FStXtFU4QWXAwxrBPFXIESkl9ZaFJntRSxc-W2vESnIEC8rHyiOB/s1600-h/100_8435.JPG"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdGbVvQFrVoe7dzyMIpefm6zO37vlblsVozuisQQO_SdGSe26YBTBJyTIcocrzdI7vcOELeQb607Cio6y2nY3IBjxFlWRbl3KVmoF1clOTfqylbd_M-hhRVaqTz7Qd6ddmF9eet3edqJMh/s1600-h/100_8454.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdGbVvQFrVoe7dzyMIpefm6zO37vlblsVozuisQQO_SdGSe26YBTBJyTIcocrzdI7vcOELeQb607Cio6y2nY3IBjxFlWRbl3KVmoF1clOTfqylbd_M-hhRVaqTz7Qd6ddmF9eet3edqJMh/s400/100_8454.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397984637326769458" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Bondi beach, nearly deserted in the driving rain.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As the rain showed no sign of letting up, I eventually abandoned <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_58">Bondi</span>, catching a bus <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_59">back</span> into town. There I found the majority of the hostel had never bothered to leave, and so I joined them in their late afternoon movie marathon. After yet another pasta-based meal, this one far more <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_60">disastrous</span> than last night's success, I continued by ongoing battle with the hostel's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_61">wifi</span>, finally wrapping up shortly after midnight. I had put off packing, and as I would be leaving at 6:00 the next morning, I was now forced to engage in the delicate process packing in the dark while my roommates slept. Hoping that I hadn't left anything in a dark corner of the room, I set my alarm to wake me a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_62">mere</span> four hours in the future, and slumped into bed for my last night in Australia.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-80702492372831758812009-10-27T05:15:00.007-04:002009-10-27T05:29:31.460-04:00melbourne ultimatum<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv0rPwU4dLfO-xHwWzp7sM-Fj4ez7zGVQpysl_lYuh-gFts82L6eM4iqJyIwYKQL75qdkdBw15sTdvl1vOoU5LT0eTksga213wA677OMWOa4L0iuT7MIcZMy0vCMLnNxIg_fiO-2W_sw16/s1600-h/100_8244.JPG"></a><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwvWEgq3tjNUQj6F4fhdQXApGo_Qdfl2UdJ3CaH3CmUkqBICQPUaLGoqmTsP23VhXbr7Qp_5C4fAIWkWA__X0zVJAhZJwHNJyZFlHIe0fSUw192BSUTTimegc10CKkTsahk0ZGsw2LOboi/s1600-h/100_8216.JPG"></a><div style="text-align: justify;">I woke up early on my last day in Melbourne, in time to return the car with Seka, then pack my stuff and check out. Seka and I drove to the dealer's office, were after pumping $40 worth of gas into the gar, we discovered that we had driven so many kilometers that we owed double the original rental fee! But the day of driving was more than worth it, and after leaving the Elvis-clad rental office, Seka and I walked back to the hostel. I made a few last stops in Melbourne before I had to catch a tram to the bus station, and I have to admit that I was feeling rather <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">bumbed</span> about having to leave. My time in Melbourne was one of the highlights of a rather exciting trip, and so it was with a heavy heart that I said my goodbyes to Seka and the city.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I ended up riding the tram into town with Seka, changing at the last minute when I suddenly realized I was at my stop. The tram had taken much longer to get into the city than I had <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">experienced</span> before, and I was starting to get worried about catching the bus that would take me to the airport. Rather than flying out of Melbourne's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Tulamarine</span> Airport - which had welcomed me to the city four days earlier - I had opted to save a couple bucks by booking a flight on the budget airline <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Jetstar</span>, which flies out of Avalon Regional Airport. Avalon is about 45 minutes out of town, and is only serviced by one public transportation option: a bus that is timed to leave Central Cross Station two hours before each flight. Flights left at less-than-regular intervals, which <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">meant</span> that if I missed the bus, the next departure would take place roughly 15 minutes after my flight had left the ground. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I hastily <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">switched</span> trams, speeding toward Central Cross Station while I conversed with my fellow tram riders as to the quickest route through the station to the bus counter. Feeling very <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">prepared</span> when I arrived at Central Cross, I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">lept</span> out of the train and ran for the bus ticket counter. As I reached the counter, the women behind the booth was shouting to a man that he must run quickly if he was to catch the bus. When she saw my face, she <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">immediately</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">surmised</span> my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">circumstance</span>, and as she took my $20 and printed me out a ticket, the women suggested that I run to flag the bus. I ran, and watched as the bus backed out and started to drive back in the direction I had just come from. Spinning around, I continued my desperate run, waving like mad, my luggage bouncing behind me, until the bus turned a corner and was gone.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I returned to the counter to see if maybe, possibly, there was another bus, but my fears were confirmed when the women refunded my ticket and told me that the only way to get to the airport was to catch a cab. A pained curiosity forced me to ask "Do you know about how much that will cost?" The look on her face was telling enough, but the quantitative <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">response</span> was still dramatic. "It's going to be around one-hundred dollars I'm afraid." My heart, already dangerously weighty from having leave Melbourne, dropped to depths <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">unprecedented</span> in the Southern Hemisphere.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's important now to mention that I only paid fifty dollars for the flight, so I was in a bit of a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">quandary</span> as to whether it was worth it to triple the cost of my trip to Sydney, or just give up on the plane and treat this like some kind of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">devine</span> intervention. Crunching numbers in my head, I figured that it would probably be about the same cost to buy another plane ticket and catch the later bus, though I wasn't sure if fifty dollars was a normal price. I also checked train <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">schedules</span>, and found that because it was already late, there were no trains leaving for Sydney until the next morning. Lastly, I seriously considered looking on this whole blunder as the aforementioned <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">devine</span> intervention, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">meant</span> to keep me in Melbourne, or at the very least, renting a car and driving up. If I have to pick my one regret of the trip thus far, it's that I didn't take that last option, though it probably would have been a whole lot less romantic than I <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">imagine</span> it to be. Instead, I swallowed the ramifications of my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">prepared</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">itinerary</span>, and forked over <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">ninety</span>-eight dollars to a local <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">cabby</span>. I cleared security with only one hiccup - I lost a fork that I had left in my checked luggage; though I managed to sneak a knife through - and before long I was high about Melbourne <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">enruite</span> to Sydney.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwvWEgq3tjNUQj6F4fhdQXApGo_Qdfl2UdJ3CaH3CmUkqBICQPUaLGoqmTsP23VhXbr7Qp_5C4fAIWkWA__X0zVJAhZJwHNJyZFlHIe0fSUw192BSUTTimegc10CKkTsahk0ZGsw2LOboi/s400/100_8216.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397207192137522882" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Spending $100 to catch a $50 flight. At least it's a benchmark I'll hope never to match.</div><div style=""><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9JVAMUbLG0xKKRiNtAOyb-ap6wT02RvqwrZrQhRLKZvZoIMgal3GtlBCGPPcxg_5ct5OBGwXOeB9H_on3zjUiB4-Jh_hyRnokDzVhHKHK5NoANRE_tvAmOEY_1l_2opYGsEcLtn46jlVV/s400/100_8221.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397207200226953330" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Melbourne from the air.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Everything went smoothly from there: I made it into the city with no problems, I found my hostel easily, and after dropping my things off, I headed into the city for a late-afternoon look around. The sun was starting to get low in the sky, and as I made my way through town, I had my sights on making it to watch the sunset behind the Sydney Opera House. As much as Melbourne, Sydney is a gorgeous city. It's even cleaner than Canadian cities, and it has a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">pleasant</span> modernism to it that isn't as jarring as Dubai, but is much more comfortable than many American cities. I made my way through Hyde Park and into the Domain - another local park - admiring the incredible purple flowering trees as I went. As I walked through the Royal Botanical Gardens (if it's <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">beginning</span> to sound as though Sydney has a lot of parks, then you're <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">beginning</span> to get an accurate picture of the city) I looked to my left, and peaking through the trees was the most famous establishing shot in the world. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Immediately</span> recognizable by its interlocking sails, the Opera House is to Sydney what the Statue of Liberty is to New York and the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">Eiffel</span> Tower is to Paris. Having been luck enough to see all three, I can tell you that nothing beats turning a corner and seeing the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Eiffel</span> Tower for the first time, but the Opera House comes pretty close. Fighting a dying battery, I managed to coques a few shots out of my camera before its <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">obeisance</span> finally won out and it refused even to close the shutter when I tried turning it off.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxUfA8jdep56fW3CB9VgLC4XQ4r1ABY-KBTyqVA4cGngpbcGzorAAb-xWmS6kLNotsQXQU7aEVD7Gny-Gwr_EdcRqOUnurR30RtkM_y_OMfNsmlo7I-YVrm0vsJI0NXSNAbbIwCyJ5R0Q9/s400/100_8225.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397207208850039234" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">The purple flowering trees of Sydney.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv_KcolRfZX0RRgysJg-oc6-_iwpIJgP2OtKrHqw3VqHVebhczbS6SfpLqnqpOFxWemI6ztMh0m5lRlAfeM_Unb_Rn55JWTkIyNsNmi8dS0Ss8AUAxmZ1WpU4yGEqIHg3bZdkVk8KOgEh_/s400/100_8224.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397207772405205506" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">The Sydney Tower, once the tallest in Australia.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv0rPwU4dLfO-xHwWzp7sM-Fj4ez7zGVQpysl_lYuh-gFts82L6eM4iqJyIwYKQL75qdkdBw15sTdvl1vOoU5LT0eTksga213wA677OMWOa4L0iuT7MIcZMy0vCMLnNxIg_fiO-2W_sw16/s400/100_8244.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397207782532047202" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Setting sun, sailboat, and symphony (I'll assume the last on for alliterative purposes)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Taking in the view for a little longer, I eventually retraced my path through the city, stopping at a grocery store to pick up provisions for my time in Sydney. The grocery store I chose to patronize (and I mean that in a good way) was the first <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">IGA</span> I've stepped into in over a decade. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">IGAs</span>, which stood for: <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">Independent</span> Grocers Alliance (in Australia, the "A" stands for "of Australia"), used to be a feature of the United States, and I can still remember shopping at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">IGA</span> on School Street in Concord, which is now, unforgivably, a Rite Aide. Adopting the support for the mission statement of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">IGAs</span> from my mother at a young age, I enjoyed the opportunity to shop in one while not sitting in the cart for the first time. My indulgent purchase of the stop was a bottle of Ocean Spray cranberry juice. Upon discovery of this most-missed favorite beverage, my heart managed to recover from the ravages of the day and soar.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmPtulysitGaft7nj2wveZDUhyphenhyphenPlUcRXkrvKQcaSEc4gZty67FxCu5nNNLoaLvVlSdyyWK2NBdzbHSVgpvFd_sOs3oDeWUrXwKfPCJOKOubg0ChBdyxP7c6ADiM__TKquM_LZ8B1dKLvVT/s400/100_8265.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397207228962728578" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">The colors of night embrace Sydney.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I returned to the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">hostel</span> with an armload of groceries, and quickly got to work <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">preparing</span> the first <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">recipe</span> I ever learned to cook. For most people, the first thing they learn to cook is pasta, or scrambled eggs. The first thing I ever learned to cook was stuffed peppers. This, combined with the fact that this skill was acquired in a course whimsically titled "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">Kindercooking</span>", was the source of serious ridicule on the part of my college friends, but I nevertheless maintain that I made a damn good stuffed pepper and most of my friends may runny scrambled eggs. During dinner, I chatted with a German girl who remembered me from the hostel in Melbourne, and then accepted an invitation to play poker with a geographically diverse group of guys. A Yank, a Brit, a Philippine, two Germans, and one guy from parts unknown rounded out the poker game, and the five dollar buy-in game got under way. I am not the world's best poker player - I suppose you'll have to play a round with me to find out if that's the truth, or part of a long-term bluff - but I did fairly well that night. Things did get a bit desperate when I went all in on a no-chance bluff against the Brit, who was holding pocket eights. The flop was in his favor, but I managed to pull off a miraculous out-of-the-blue, no-chance straight on the flop and river, so I stayed in a while longer. I didn't end up winning that night, victory went to the disciplined playing style one would expect of one of the Germans, but it was a fun night, and it helped to me to end the day on a good note.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Hey, I've finally uploaded pictures to the two previous posts... check 'em out!</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4038040953463396018.post-90684889613100909642009-10-23T20:09:00.005-04:002009-10-27T05:15:07.416-04:00melbourne supremacy<div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>It appears as though I have emerged defeated in my battle to upload pictures on the Australian <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">wifi</span>. My best hope now is to wait until I'm in New Zealand, and edit these entries then. For now, we resume our adventure with my last full day in Melbourne...</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>...which now has the pictures to match it.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I woke up at a reasonable hour on my last full day in Melbourne, and hastily inhaled breakfast. Packing a picnic lunch of peanut butter & jelly sandwiches and apples, Seka and I arrived at our first car rental agency by ten o'clock. Unfortunately the only thing the agency had to offer us was a rather impressive bucket of Jelly Bellies, as there were no cars with automatic transmission available.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Our next stop was a somewhat more run-of-the-mill rental agency, on par with Avis or Hertz. They had a 5-speed automatic available, but the $98/day rental cost was a little hard to swallow. Instead, we decided to check out one final privately-owned rental agency, hoping to find a better deal. When we walked into the office, Seka appeared to be immediately sold on the place because of the profusion of Elvis paraphernalia littering the room. For my part, the MG-F parked in the lot had endeared me to the place, and when we spoke to the representative, it seemed like this agency would give us the best deal.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I filled out the appropriate paperwork, and wasting as little time as possible, Seka and I climbed into our white two-door Hyundai and hit the road. Driving on the other side of the road isn't all that difficult, the hardest part about it is knowing how to make turns. Driving on the other side of the car, on the other hand, turns out to be a bit tricky. For me, the hardest part about driving was always knowing where I was on the road. After the better part of seven years, however, I've gotten used to the view from the driver's seat, and so to have that seat shifted to the other side of the car meant that I was constantly fighting the impulse to drift left. Before I go on, I'll ruin part of the story to reveal that Seka and I returned the car without a scratch on it, or any other person or vehicle it came into contact with, though at times it seemed like we were trying our <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">darnest</span> to keep from this blemish-free condition.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3d76mYE9j-Ih-6mXNCYGKWvx6dYRsRvaphYiUwyyHiSeaUqbqJ6aVNxHtXMUVI7UEdgJpvHwt2XJ1IwD0pO9BKrOMXrXIFUVsZbBZUDN_pnb2kG_fJGOwwG7KE5CWkRMgWyx_EycY3FHn/s400/100_8112.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397203080106525570" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Our car had a certain retard dolphin-esque quality, but we loved it. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Following directions given to us by the staff at our hostel, the two of us headed out into the countryside. The rolling fields of grain and exotic trees made for a gorgeous landscape, but it was our first ocean siting that really sold the deal on all the hassle of renting the car. I drove until I ran out of road - which, because I turned down a dead end road, took very little time - and we parked the car and strolled along the beach.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiocykr8a0_qilNLu5p1QdSa-8ftujF26Bm8xQ1TUnoogByzcBc9VC1OOD2Sz_n_SBmFIwxNgV7foJ3E5tJuNcUrSIhPB3IVErHWSe3nsmLn_wUXbzaavqFeABd7rzSsss6I8qgNpQdcOtr/s400/100_8026.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397203062186957394" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">The coast.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2AksurxSEOhMKCR883acYfUyKE8ZT7bA8CKA6Bc25NDpCyfXC4pA9ck3pSCGTKAesTKhYkHRm_5mlX8fePYhMWQoxudzTLe7MVUF6jACOqjh6GqQ2sB2fdGUnUC3NZU-NzUcsJksjl7Q-/s400/100_8101.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397203088606465810" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Welcome to my Levi's commercial.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When we returned to the car, Seka expressed an interest in checking out a fish & chips restaurant in town, and so, handing over the wheel, be backtracked to the small main street of the coastal hamlet. We placed two orders for the poster meal, as well as two "scoops" of scallops. The fish & chips procured, I suggested taking our meal outside. We found a picnic table in a coast-side park, and there we dug into our meal. The scallops, which rather than scoops were just two individual servings, were particularly <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">peculiar</span>, as they had some growth attached to them. I expect that this growth is a normal feature on scallops, but it is traditionally removed. Such removal is, in my mind, entirely appropriate as according to Seka it's pretty gross. After finishing our meal, the two of us <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">monkeyed</span> around on the playground, and took turns climbing trees for dramatic <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">arboreal</span> poses. Having exhausted the amenities of the park, we climbed back into our little white car and drove off to find the Great Ocean Road.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWcm7gwfRld4Rwk5tcj7sBN_8FCsI3se5aFNnQxFJXJtr3nuqGPpuGQVDw-m3xbwkZaExX_aYHIhpgq7rE6SsPqpWU1EssAzc_5w2nddY8al6zIFXW_93AFb8pckQFbO07EqqLOPicjV3U/s400/100_8049.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397203077052558306" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Seka finds skipping rocks and seashells along the beach.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It took a few laps around the round-a-bout, and a stop by the tourist information center, but we finally managed to figure out that we had been on the Great Ocean Road all along, albeit a rather poorly marked section. Before long, we were cruising along a gorgeous stretch of road, tracing the coastline of southern Australia. Through quite villages, populated by vacation homes and fishing shacks, and winding roads cut into the sheer rock face that plunges into the frothy sea, we drove along in our little white car, chatting as we went. The weather was absolutely perfect, and we made several stops along the way to take advantage of the scenery.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijr54zcw1718Gg-OjAWmfQGu8e4NFooUsFUPrZezQayTME7wA_IGeZikAhoM02OErG_X4PSlzZs0_HachkHmLhdGvF28GgdsHcmANDI282da21Kxr3lnVxCoK-oRyXcWIft4f0NgXUGkl7/s400/100_8037.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397203070083173810" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px; " /></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;">Steps up from the beach.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Our next major stop was a turn-off to a waterfall. Hiking a kilometer into the bush, Seka made me face my waterfall fears [<i>read "</i>Diary of a Brave Mountain Explorer<i>"</i> <i>if you've lost the reference</i>] and together we explored around the area. The area was rife with eucalyptus trees, and as my lifelong image of eucalyptus trees requires that there be a conjoined koala, I was rather disappointed that through the entire walk, we didn't see any of these icons of Australia. When we returned to the car, Seka graciously relinquished the wheel, and I had the chance to negotiate the coastal rode. Two minutes into the ride, our koala fortunes reversed when we came reasonably close to hitting one with the car. Koalas are loved for their lovable stuffed animal-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">esque</span> appearance and their docile nature. However, our koala was not exactly lovable, in as much as it was... well, ugly. If you can combine whatever preformed symbolic koala complex you're holding onto with a the image of a late career Elvis Presley, then you've basically got the picture of the chubby bugger gazing back at us with a languid apathy for its near vehicular slaughter. But never mind that, because it was still a koala! A real live, out-of-the-wild koala, which more than anything else I had yet experienced screamed "I'm in Australia" to me.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI65DJWaTjjwaSuu_830QnerOslFSTC76TcVx46-NrdgW3ZwtTcwVjcWNbmooO1fj3xFwOdAOawwOOBNBEws2Jnvhd0yyPn5BDGtb5DQzNeXSG0Wpv-REQWsgIkv52QK8QpaYrF80BATay/s400/100_8151.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397204852623885778" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">Falling water.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnoo2MTtIIdHQgK4F9TAOCfYO2XVsWTtir37DoHnRMQsuwNGS6SQ1zi5wB2JfIn1JR_FhVwz-LQi2T4pAOkYEJ6dEgrhPKS-BoXkWibqWtbTnK6MNvclMaYjl5Sv982h5mK6EOYYazggkd/s400/100_8158.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397204842030109170" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">This picture makes the koala look deceivingly cute.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Making our way around the koala, Seka and I continued to make our way down the road until we came to Apollo Bay, the southernmost point in... my travels (okay, it wasn't the southernmost point in Australia, that was a little farther down the road, but we didn't know that at the time, and I had a hankering to make it back to a lighthouse we had passed earlier in time for sunset). Which is exactly what we did. The suggested speed limit for the Great Ocean Road (one of the many excellent qualities of Australia is that they only suggest a speed here) was 80 kilometers an hour, but the good people at the department of transportation quickly realized that if a motorist was to take any of the countless turns on the Great Ocean Road at 80 kilometers an hour, then they would go flying off into the South Pacific most likely damaging the unique flora and fauna on the way to a fiery crash. The koalas certainly won't get out of the way in a hurry. So every few meters we would alternate between signs reminding you that the suggested speed was 80 and signs warning that taking the turns at more than 40 would most likely result in the aforementioned fiery crash.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Despite the mixed messages I was getting from the boys at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">DoT</span>, Seka and I made it to the lighthouse for our last scheduled stop along the Great Ocean Road. After taking in the sights, we climbed back into our car, Seka driving, and we headed off Melbourne-bound. As the light began to fail, we sped along, leaving the Great Ocean Road for the connecting roads to Melbourne. At least, that's what we thought we were doing. Distracted by conversation, Seka and I quickly found ourselves in the middle of the suburbs, with no clear indication as to where Melbourne was. Employing that marvelously uninhibited ability girls have for asking for directions, Seka quickly got us back on track, though we switched places so that I would be the one driving through the city.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrA-cbAoxY_9Ld96cquY-vatKxpHEdj8R30__LgNoaUWwfwwlbO2yz85Ow271PVc-UsBFfy_smRIv5PzTbUsHfJZWgLN4vV8VBsjzfBJgxvpjLDm8KBwom3MPxEXyX120WVuH9J-Y8ZIuS/s400/100_8191.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397204859443523890" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;">The lighthouse at dusk.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We, and by "we" I suppose I mean "I", managed to get a bit disoriented, and thought that I had missed Melbourne, when in fact we were still some miles away. Making a few turns, and a 580 degree lap around a traffic circle, I made the first legitimately illegal act when I tried turning right on a red light. This, of course, if much like trying to make a left on a red light in the States, and but for some swift acceleration, we might have been skewered by oncoming traffic. Nervously laughing off the incident, Seka proved herself the best female driving companion I've ever had for her total lack of shrieking panic exhibited during the turn.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It would take some veering across lanes and even more backtracking before we finally made it back into the city, but once there, Seka felt confident about her ability to guide us back to the hostel. Everything went well up until the final turn out St. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Kilda</span> Street. We had a green light this time, so the left turn should have been painless... except that we ended up turning in the wrong way down a rather large one-way street. Five lanes of headlights were suddenly barreling down on us, and I have to thank years of computer gaming for saving our insurance deposit, if not our lives. Again, Seka handled the situation with remarkable restraint, but it was with overwhelming relief that we finally turned the engine off once parked in the hostel lot. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Running of a "we're still alive" high, we met up with Adam in the lobby, and the lot of us arranged to meet up at one of the local bars. After grabbing a quick dinner, Seka and I did just that, arriving for Indy Night at the Malibu bar. The beer was disappointing, but cheap, and the DJ was pumping out a good mix. We stayed until close, before making our way back to the hostel, singing Irish drinking songs as we walked. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's already passed midnight here in Sydney, so I'll have to wrap this up here. Tomorrow I'll be waking up early, and making my way to New Zealand, so I expect to have plenty of time to write about how it is I made it here to Sydney, and everything I've done since. For now, it's time to pack and arrange transportation to the airport tomorrow morning. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">G'day</span>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div>Patrickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03476018965182236716noreply@blogger.com4