Traveling Tight

New Years 2008 - The Flipside of the Philandering Coin

2011-01-18T00:21:00.005+05:00

After such an arduously long, and admittedly heavier Part 1 of Tanzania, I've decided to reward you all with a quick tale. This is my story of New Years Eve, 2008.

I had met Sophie in Lviv during a typically wild, well-imbibed weekend. She was visiting along with her boyfriend, a short, likable chain smoker from Vienna, as she was. Rolph didn't speak much English, while Sophie's English was near-perfect. It was adorably tinted with the accent and occasional subject-verb disagreements that are common to western Europeans who are erstwhile trying to expand their vocabulary through the repeated use of words they have read in their extensive English book collection. "Rolph does have a very profound passion to smoke the cigarettes." Who can't love that?

Sophie's humor was uncanny. I am not particularly sure if she intended as many jokes as I and everyone else found, but should that even matter? Funny is funny. People like funny. After several days of the three of us and ol' Ed Burns hanging out, I began to develop a real attraction to Sophie. Ed creepily confirmed her status as attractive in such a way that only Ed Burns can: "She's plenty a good place to pahhk yaw sausage wagon, Brian." Ed often punctuated his sentences with a person's name for emphasis. He also told her he'd lick her feet. I'm not sure what kind of punctuation that needs.

One evening after many shots of vodka and Rolph in bed nursing an oncoming illness, Sophie tells me about her rocky relationship with Rolph. About how he's quite jealous and how she feels "unable to sustain the facade of this caring nature" any longer. She said more stuff too, but once I processed those words, my brain switched from interested conversationalist to conniving homewrecker, and I stopped listening entirely.

There was much dancing and flirting. Sophie was an extraordinarily poor dancer -- picture a drunk autistic child with anger management issues controlling a marionette -- she is that marionette. Amid the flailing and gyrating that could only be meant to interpret the soundtrack of a violent rape was the spliced-in time-warp scenes of me circling the club in search of other (more immediately unattached) women of casual morality. I found none, but at some point Sophie went back to her hostel bedroom and I was left with Ed Burns as we took yet another taxi through the McDonald's drive thru lane, only to chastise one another the following day. This was a common pattern, insofar as Ed and I shared a love for late night food and the inevitable remorse that comes with it.

At some point over the next several days, Sophie leaves, while leaving me with her email address. What this served to accomplish is to kick off perhaps the longest email flirtation in the history of email flirtations. Most people (sensibly) don't even bother engaging in such things. I, on the other hand, view written dialogue, be it text, email or Facebook as an integral part of the wooing process. It's nearly foreplay, really. The difference being that the duration as measured in quantity of words is inversely proportional to the number of minutes needed to complete the coitus thereafter. Which is nice. Especially since it don't cost nothin'.

Not surprisingly, this method works in reverse as well. It serves as an incubator for the inexorable sexual tension of a third date. At least for me. Then again all my third dates have inexorable sexual tension as my strength to keep from staring at boobs finally wanes. That's a lot of time spent pretending to be interested in things other than boobs.

Sophie and I trade 35 emails over the course of the next 4-5 months. They are of varying lengths, though tending more toward the full page length, each requiring an immense amount of effort and thought. Several are quite a bit longer. Her written English, for a girl of 20 for whom this is a second language, is far better than just about anyone I know, and that includes myself. Many times I found myself looking up words like "metagenesis" (My family has a metagenetic history; I do not believe my mother to have ever had sex) and "contrapuntal" (Rolph and I were merely contrapuntal). I mean, what the fuck? Shouldn't her default be words like "stuff" and "shit?" That stuff is the easiest shit to say.

I agree to fly Sophie from Vienna to Tel Aviv so we can hang out in Israel for about 8 days around the New Year. Aggressive? Yes. Then again, my worst New Years Eve ever would prove to be the following year in which the tale of failure included a date with a girl I'd met once before, some recreational drug use and its inevitably painful aftermath, so one might say the payoff for my impulsiveness is your reward.

Sophie arrives and I am actually somewhat uncertain as to where we stand. Are we pen pals? Just pals? Scissor pals? I prefer the latter. The first night we head out in Old Jerusalem and it appears clear my hopes are well received. Although she kisses somewhat like a crazy person, it isn't all bad and is quite enjoyable. In other words, the enthusiasm is appreciated. And let's face it, there's a lot to be enthusiastic about when a worldly stud of my esteem flies you to the most religious clutch of the world for a week of sinful influence. I'm saying you should put out, that's all I'm saying.

The sex is of a frantic nature, much like that of a crazy person. And sad as it is to say, I have some experience in this arena. Alarms are starting to sound that perhaps a theme is taking shape, although the lure of her high-minded philosophical discourse sprinkled in between all the crazy is too much to ignore. I have been weak when faced with the sweet seduction of words ever since a drunken high school party where Shana Bazelmens somehow managed to convince me that love was a worthwhile pursuit at the age of 16, 18 years later, I would know only too well how tangibly possible such ideologies could be. At 16 however, they seemed absurd. Still, Shana Bazelmens remained my dream girl for a short while afterward, and the electricity conducted by her philosophies remained with me each time I would connect with a woman on that level for several years. In cases such as with Sophie, this can affect my judgment considerably.

The following day, we walk through the various quarters of the Old City exploring, among other places, the Armenian History Museum. While upstairs in yet another room full of 18th century things from places in, near, or sounding like Armenia, we slipped behind a hanging carpet where Sophie offered her thanks for the flight ticket from Vienna. Let's just say that it's a good thing we were in the Armenian History Museum. Judging by the low patronage, it seems clear that no one cares much about them.

I was really starting to like Sophie. Public displays of lewdness aside, our connection was real for both of us. She spent much time explaining her thoughts on life, and on herself. Her introspective depth was mature beyond that of anyone I had ever met. She analyzed me and my idiosyncrasies (calling them "idiosyncratic moments") accurately and without judgement. She was utterly perplexed by my desire to see the world -- not that she didn't identify with it, but more by what drove me to be this way when I'd never been on a plane until the age of 23. This degree of intellectuality was beginning to appeal to me more and more. I was actually having thoughts of what the possibilities could be for us to be together in New York. Would she move there? She said she wanted to live there. But, who doesn't? Point is, I was thinking about it. As I zipped up.

New Years Eve comes around. My plan is to hit a proper club in Tel Aviv, but I hear of an underground DJ rave outside of Jerusalem and change course. If there is one thing a traveler will drop everything for, it is anything involving the word "underground." Underground poetry reading? YES. Underground pottery class? Definitely. Underground Thai boxing to the death? Fuck. Yes. DJ rave was happening.

We get rather drunk on vodka (after all, it is over vodka that we met in the first place) in our room amid some more awkward sex (though less awkward than before) and we may have even smoked some hash I had leftover from Turkey. I was probably so high I didn't even notice. Upon our arrival at the converted warehouse where this debacle was about to take place, we notice most of the people streaming inside are of the "dirtier, hippier" persuasion. Personally, I have no problem with this. Sophie does not like hippies. Must be the German in her.

We quickly down two double-vodka / random-mixers and after more discussion of yet more articles of our philosophy, I convince her that we should head away from the bar and into where the real party was happening. I really wanted to dance, jump, lose control, and generally do the things you do at raves. Those things do not usually include solving the issue of why you can't seem to initiate a real relationship with your parents. Time and place, Sophie; time and place. It is party time. And I *really* love to party.

Once we are inside the heaving, undulating throng of exploding appendages, I immediately get the sense that Sophie is extremely uncomfortable. The dancing, I am sure, is part of this. Really, I had never before or since seen a more horrendous dancer. She kept trying to dance on me. Grinding, maybe? I wasn't really sure what it was, but I kept my eye out for any necessary medical equipment nearby should she take it the next 1% and slip into a full-on epileptic fit. With that search concluded with the realization that a bungee cord and a lighter would likely suffice, I really just wanted a bit of time to dance and enjoy my drunkenness and have a good time. Truth is, all of her gyrating was quite cute, really. What wasn't cute however, was what I saw next.

After some time (five, *maybe* seven minutes??) I had lost sight of Sophie. After a bit of casual searching without foregoing my good time, I find her thrashing about on some other guy's groin. I'm actually relieved. Someone else is providing her the attention that to this point in the past seven minutes I had been unwilling to provide. I resume dancing and am actually having a slightly better time knowing that I have some actual time to enjoy what I came to enjoy. After some time, I look back over my shoulder and shake my head twice to clear whatever cobwebs may have created the image in front of me. It is confirmed. She is swallowing some *other* guy's face. I take a moment and consider how she and I must have looked when she had done the same thing to me in prior days, and it is frankly rather appalling.

Almost immediately I regret the entirety of my decision to bring her to Israel for New Years. This is a superiorly gifted intellectual, with the comfortability in her skin of a self-loathing transsexual. This somewhat explained the overexuberance to have sex or make-out with just about anyone. It also explained why eight days is way too many to spend with someone whom you really only know through written words on the internet. When they're not near their computer, they may be neck deep in crazy. That seemed like as good a New Years resolution as any, and so I vowed never to do this again. Until the following year. (Again, a story I will tell soon).

I wait and try to enjoy myself while I stave off the need to urinate. When that urge became unbearable, I tap her on the shoulder and calmly ask her if she'd like another drink, at which point she unhinges herself from the very breed of hippie she hates and follows me towards the bathroom. I don't much feel like talking to her, and I'm quite sure she senses this. I am realizing slowly that I am actually *responsible* for this girl, and her parents would rightfully castrate me had I decided to leave her behind. Which, if not for her age, I would equally be rightful in doing. Quite a pickle.

We go our separate ways at the bathroom, where there are far more men than women in line waiting on either side of a shared sink console. While in line I send out the obligatory "happy new year" text to my friends back in New York punctuated with "you have got to be having more fun than I am," essentially admitting defeat. Once I am done on the men's side of the bathroom, I emerge to find Sophie mauling some *other* sloppy hippie ON THE SINK. What the fuck, really?? I can't leave this girl alone for even FIVE FUCKING MINUTES without her needing to scissor some guy on top of the only dirty sink in a dirty converted warehouse full of the very dirty hippies that she professes to hate? Really? This is my nightmare.

I take her by the hand and lead her out of the rave. This is enough. If it were possible (and economically feasible) I would have put her on the first plane to Vienna that departed Tel Aviv in 2008. Having already sunk enough money into this adventure though, I opted to bring her back to our crappy hotel and tell her in the taxi ride how much this night SUCKED MY ASS.

It didn't matter. She was blathering on about something about being sorry or maybe it was that I should be sorry? She explained "I am sorry. I am not an elegant person." Which was kind of adorable. And then she fell somehow and split her lip open. I think she fell off the bed, but I was so drunk who could tell? Who cares. I wanted this night to end.

The next day, we are sharing a miserable meal as I am trying to explore the psychology of what would ever make her act that way. I am understanding that she is indeed only 20 years old, and lord knows I was probably making out with another guy's girl countless times when I was that age. Ok, maybe I can count them, but maybe it happened more than twice, so I can at least break even? I hope so. She asks me if I still like her, to which I respond, "I like you... I just like you a lot less than I did before yesterday." I could see that statement land with impact. She was hurt now. And we still had three days more to go. She'll need to conjure up all that isn't elegant in her to make them bearable.

We suffer through the next few days and she finally leaves. We may have had sex again, but if we did it certainly wasn't terribly memorable insofar as it was clearly a "throw each other a bone" type deal. Literally, an exchange for the pain and awkwardness we were each forced to endure over that period.

We've stayed in touch, although clearly we both used it as a learning experience that we'd rather not relive. At least I did. I'm not sure I can say the same for her. She sounds just as crazy as she ever was each time I hear from her. And honestly, I kind of like that she stayed true to her crazy roots. See? She really does know who she is. And I like that.

Truth is, I do think about her from time to time and hope she's doing well. Just not better than me.

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Tanzania - A Lesson in Growth Capital

2010-05-19T08:03:00.007+05:00

Heads up to those dwindling few of you who still read this that I finally posted a selection of my pictures to Facebook several weeks ago. Everything is still on Flickr but who cares? Let's get on with the story.

Leaving the smoldering asspit of Dubai behind came about as naturally to me as does a double-down on 11 or a 3rd glass of wine. While I had a good time in Dubai, I was craving something a bit more adventurous, and a lot more natural. Tanzania would prove to be plenty of each.

From Dubai I had booked a place to stay about 20 km outside Dar es Salaam, as well as a transfer from the airport to my lodging. In spite of this, my first several hours in Tanzania were spent in the airport haggling over Serengeti tour prices from inside a nondescript side room off the baggage claim area. I have a general rule that I don't buy anything from the first vendor I meet in any one place, as inevitably, a cheaper price can be found with even a minimal amount of lackadaisical effort. And I am quite proficient at putting forth a minimal amount of lackadaisical effort. For nearly two hours, I was sequestered against my will, while fending off Serengeti tour pitches. It was a good-natured exchange. Although over this amount of time, even a practiced diplomat such as myself grows understandably weary. Promises of my car arriving "any minute" were rebutted with genuinely polite skepticism and the following internal dialogue:

Polite Self: Fuck it. You're in Africa. You're going to see the Serengeti either way. Just sign up and get it over with.
Annoyed Self: Fuck THAT. I am not going to reward this imprison-and-pitch strategy.
Polite Self: Fuck this. The car isn't coming until I/we/you lay out some cash. We're all tired. What's an extra 100 euros after you see a lion decapitate a zebra? Or better yet, a child?
Annoyed Self: Fuck you, dude! I am not some bullshit rookie traveler. I'm standing strong!
Polite Self: What the fuck? Who cares what this guy thinks?
Annoyed Self: Fucking... It doesn't matter. I refuse to get ripped off!
Polite Self: Fuck it all. It's getting late. I need a beer.
Annoyed Self: Mmmmm... beer....

Evidently, my internal voice has a rather limited vocabulary. No matter who is talking.

I unhappily concede defeat, thus lending insight into which "Self" above I really am. Total price for 5 days of animals and escape from the tour-pitch prison: 700 euros. Down from 1,500. I know I'm still getting ripped, but I take solace in the fact that I am finally out of that dingy room and will be en route to the glory that is Arusha by 4am the following morning. You read that correctly. In Africa, busses commonly depart at crazy early hours of the morning, because by 9-10am, it is sufferingly hot and no one wants to do shit. In fact, all of Africa grinds to a halt in the midday sun. Animals and people alike collect under any sun cover they can find, and stasis becomes the overwhelming pursuit of all living things. Kind of like my average Sunday afternoon, without the humiliation.

My first morning in Africa began with a 3:30am transfer to the bus station. With such a brutal wake time, it was not until I reached the bus station that I realized I hadn't yet produced my pre-trip bowel movement.

Allow me to pause here and explain something about "life on the road." Especially life on the road in the developing world, where traveling 100 miles can often (and typically does) take up to half a day. In such times, one's bowels are a never-ending concern. I fully realize this is a seemingly sophomoric topic. Just shut up and listen: This has nothing to do with my unfortunate Croatian episode. Let's put it like this: You know when all the demonic pressures of hell are mounting in such a way so as to bring forth Armageddon through a wave of convulsions the likes of which only Harry Dunne from Dumb and Dumber can truly appreciate? Hardly able to contain yourself until the time you reach the stall door or your front door, and suddenly all hell breaks loose? It's like that, only this is not the covert exit to the handicapped stall down the hall in your office that you're used to. There are countless hundreds of miles to travel on a bumpy, unpaved roadway aboard a stench-filled sweatbox. With every needling jostle comes the painful reminder that you should have handled your business before you left the bus station. And by business I mean poop.

I am now at said bus station, about to embark on an inevitably arduous traversing of northern Tanzania. A good log is necessary. Though in such circumstances, any log is a good log. I wait in a queue for the stall, abundantly aware that this endeavor constitutes my first real task in Africa. Once inside, I am greeted with a squatter. This I expected. What was not expected was a handleless bucket in the corner and no toilet paper. Immediately, my capability to handle Africa was under serious reconsideration. Did I really miss Dubai already, after only 10ish hours in sub-Saharan Africa? Is that how weak I am? Apparently so. My log retreated back upstream with the same force I'd have felt had it gone the other way. But it was a welcome relief, and the hope that I may make it to Arusha (11-14 hours) without stopping to extricate these demons suddenly seemed feasible. For a moment, I contemplated whether or not my mind's control over my bowels was somehow an incarnation of god's divinity. To this day, I believe it was.

I awoke 5-6 hours into my journey to find the bus overpacked with traversing Tanzanians, many of whom were forced to stand uncomfortably in the aisle. Overpacked that is, except for the seat next to me, which was conspicuously vacant. Ordinarily, this form of reverse-racism would be off-putting. In this instance however, it was immensely pleasing. I was the only comfortable person on a bus of 70+ passengers. Is this what a black person feels like on the bus from Fargo to Bismarck? If so, I'm buying. Racism rules.

Several hours later, a Massai gentleman named Nick (short for something) from the back of the bus came forward to join me. He offered insight into "the way of his people" and how their blatant avoidance of me was not discriminatory, but rather a manifestation of the embarrassment they feel when speaking subpar English. Bummer. Guess I'm back to short-selling racism.

Back in the States, I may say "Who cares? How often do you speak to someone you sit next to on a bus anyway?" However, in the underdeveloped world, this is not at all so. It is customary in the Middle East and (to a lesser extent) Africa to offer your food to the person next to you, should you be eating something, and this typically leads to pleasant discourse. Unless they're pushing broccoli. In which case, they can fuck off. That shit is nasty.

After a short conversation, Nick (who was wearing street clothes as opposed to his brightly colored traditional Maasai clothing) offers me the following: open-ended housing in his home (a rondaval) with his family, taking part in their customs, and they would be happy to feed me for as long as I stayed. An offer of this type, I've found only happens in the poorest of areas. It was not uncommon in the Middle East and Africa that I'd meet someone in town, chat with them for a spell, and then be offered room and board in their home. It struck me as odd (and romantically civilized) that the people with the least in this world, were the mostly likely to give the most. An offering of a place to stay in a dung-floored hut is actually a greater gift as a percentage of familial worth. The rondaval is all they have. Jane in accounts receivable on the other hand, can get a new microfiber sleeper sofa anytime, and yet would never be caught dead with a guest on her couch that wasn't a "top friend" on Facebook. And I think too that we can all agree that Jane in accounts receivable could use a little bit of coitus once in awhile so she can loosen up around month end.

Point is, we in the west have the audacity to view the people of these areas as being somehow less civilized, when in fact, they've managed to hold on to a most endearing humanity that many in the west seem to have lost. Then again, I've never been to DRC, where rape is about as common as a drunken brawl after a Yankees game. Hell, it's about as common as a Yankees game period, and those insufferably seem to happen all the time. Both though, are measurable deviations to the mean when charting the evolution of the human species. Then again, you wouldn't take Hunts Point as a representative reflection on New York City, so perhaps DRC was a poor example. Whatever. Just don't rape people unless they're staying on your couch, that's all I'm saying.

Unfortunately, I already had that Serengeti tour booked, leaving the following day. So my Massai friend and I would try to reconnect when I returned to Arusha. Arusha, incidentally, is commonly considered the midpoint between Cairo and Cape Town, which happen to be the two endpoints of the old British Empire. It's a smallish city of under 300,000, located near the base of Mt. Kilamanjaro whose main industries are textiles, mining, and tourism. It has an industrial feel, with an overactive, adolescent vibe of a city that can't wait to be a grownup.

Before departing for Lake Manyara the next morning, I opt for a haircut. One thing I had decided way back in Croatia was that while yes, cutting my own hair was certainly cheaper; the chats with the townsmen in a barber shop was typically an experience I'd happily pay far more for. This particular barber shop in Arusha was nothing more than a thinly walled stall in a marketplace off the center, with two decrepit looking barber chairs, and a sandy weight in the air that characterizes many an inland African city. I'm ushered into a chair, and I offer nary a glance at what I'm sure is the rusty clipper blade about to narrowly miss giving me tetanus.

Until this point, my declaration of being from New York was always met with wonderment and a street-cred badge that I'm sure only new maximum-security prisoners with teardrop tattoos enjoy. I was always granted club membership. But as with any other club that professes any level of exclusivity, nonmembers attach (completely justified) labels of affluence and desirability to those already admitted. Put differently, if I had the money for a flight to Tanzania, I already had far more than the guy who was about to overcharge me for my haircut. And with such social and socioeconomic inequality comes the delicate dance the altruistic traveler must dance when faced with the assistance-seeking market merchant.

With me strapped into a barber chair, this guy now had a captive (imprisoned?) audience for the duration of his pitch. Arusha, being a popular jumping off spot for the Serengeti, Maasai Mara, and Kimanjaro, has a vibrant tourist trade. Therefore, the best paying jobs in town involve English-speaking tours into these areas. However, in order to get these jobs, one needs a minimum of two years of education in order to learn the local flora and fauna well enough to answer the many (and often inane) questions of the largely Western travelers that patronize these tours. After some enjoyable conversation that meandered from reggae music, to George Bush (a popular topic in Arusha for reasons relating to his arrival to sign a $700 million grant later that week), to reggae music, to ganja, to white women, to reggae music, to the Champions League to reggae music, my dreadlocked haircut vendor asked me if I would read a note he was going to give me. I comply happily, thinking it is most likely a love note from a Dutch or German woman to whom he'd given a very different kind of tour. Instead, he begins writing the note himself, with careful diligence. Now I'm not quite sure what kind of love note to expect, but I worry now it will be a note asking me for something I wish not to give, be that money or anal.

"Mr Iddy
My call no 075297****
The aim of this letter is wanting to know how are you doing I hope that you are well and also I am well thank God. Please my friend
I need your company
I want to learning Collage of tourism guide but for now I haven't pay money of tourism
Every After 1 months 50,000/= of Tanzania help me my friend
I wan't to learning 4 1 year
Go May God bless you for Every thing."

Now, I can appreciate a market vendor who is slick enough to make me think I'm really getting a "special price" for that $10 screen printed rag I've seen in literally every marketplace throughout southern Africa for $3. However, I can *really* appreciate the slickster who has the stones to ask for a years worth of education in a single shameless mouthful. I was even offered my haircut gratis. Which is kind of like donating $1,000 to a charity and getting back a thank you letter along with that useless stack of printed address labels.

And to be honest, I've spent $410 in far worse ways. More than a few overserved club nights in New York come to mind. And furthermore, the idea of completely changing the course of one man's, one family's life with just the swipe of a debit card was more than a little appealing. It felt like a Sandra Bullock movie that didn't suck. Except that this was real, and all of her good movies are still being made in a dimension in which none of us will ever live.

Rather than fork over the cash to this guy, ultimately never knowing where it will go, and also recognizing that a country that at the time boasted (?) an 11% unemployment rate (or about 10% worse than New York State today), I didn't see the need to help a guy who was already running his own business when there were clearly others who could use the help a bit more. It did give me an idea for a not-for-profit, however. But I'll speak on that later.

I spent that night eating dinner with the guy who met me at the Arusha bus station (all transfers were a negotiated inclusion in the 5 day tour purchase) and his absurdly fat, absurdly drunk, yet absurdly sweet Dutch girlfriend. Philip, Annika, and I complete dinner, and Annika insists on paying. I'm not sure if she's looking for a zebra-coat gangbang, but i'm willing to let her pay for dinner if I can buy drinks afterwards. After all, the Euro at the time was 50% stronger than the USD, and she certainly looked as though she was about to eat 50% more than this US citizen. Furthermore, it is a foregone conclusion that I'd be drinking far more than twice as much booze as she would all night anyway, so an exchange of this kind seemed the most logical. As a reward for bequeathing these good people with my presence and the good times that inevitably come with it, I get a ride around town to the nightspots of their choosing. Not a bad deal. For them.

After a stop at a billiard hall where we play for shots (and I lose often), we go to a large sports bar located on the outskirts of town. It is a bi-level bar with a capacity of around 800, not unlike most sports bars we in the West are familiar with; save for the smattering of prostitutes who would blend into the crowd if not for the 1,000 cock stare that is the unmistakable trademark of a prostitute no matter what country she blows guys in. What is truly unique however, is the scene. It is the Champions League semifinals match between Liverpool and Chelsea. In other words, we're watching white people. I am one of about five white people in a packed, frenzied crowd of near 1,000 black people. It is like the negative from a photograph taken at every other sports bar I'd ever been in. And at this moment, the perma-smile overtaking my face says only one thing: I am in Africa. And this is why I travel.

I will preface all my references to "Africa" as being those of someone who was keenly aware of the lure of Africa as a spiritual frontier for the lonely traveler seeking adventure. Having been through much of southern Africa, I can now say that each country in Africa is starkly different from the next, though at this stage in my African journey, simply "Africa" was a place I wished to feel. Looking back now, I can say that the Western labeling of Africa as one place is precisely why I believe it is allowed to be exploited and why people with shit-for-brains like Sarah Palin thinks it is just one country. Then again, if you haven't picked up a periodical since Alaska was a Russian territory (1867, or when Africa was being colonized), then I suppose I can understand. What I can't understand is how that chick has a book deal, and I'm still hoping to get one. But I digress.

Early the following morning, I join the small group with whom I'll be seeing the Serengeti, Ngorogoro Crater, Lake Manyara, and lord knows what else. I say that because for some reason after the night before, irrespective of the fact that nothing boastful occurred, I truly felt as though nothing but unexpectations awaited me on the dark continent. This is akin to the moment when most people who say their dream trip is a "an African safari" realize their fantasy. For one thing, it's illegal to enter any protected area in Tanzania without a guide. So at the moment I met our guide Tom, who was proudly wearing his "Endangered Feces t-shirt, in front of a fully-packed 4WD, I wore a glow that was evident even through the iron veil that was the intense hangover Philip and Annika left me with about four hours earlier.

Along with me would be an Aussie girl named Maggie and a British girl named Ronda, an asian girl from San Francisco, and an older Dutch woman. But before I get to know these people, I'm going to need some sleep. For one thing, it's not a short drive out to our first stop, Lake Manyara. And besides, the loathsome traveler's pleasantries I'd grown to avoid were not at all as important as making sure I wasn't passed out when a leopard was dragging its catch into the treetops. As a devout animal lover, a frequently stoned Discovery channel watcher, and a harbinger of all things wildlife, I wanted to be as close to peak condition as 10+ shots of konyagi and another 7-8 Kilimanjaro beers the night before would allow. And let me just say that "peak condition" is a term used in relativity to the bristling sobriety of my safari compatriots.

I awake at the park entrance. It's time to see some shit! Already I see a few baboons poking around outside the main gate. I can hardly control myself, and my enthusiasm is equalled by everyone else in my group. We have not even entered the park, and already our cameras are clicking like a stuttering Zulu. Pausing at the entrance for long enough to visibly exasperate Tom, we finally enter the park. It is immediately apparent that this is not a park that harkens images of Africa at all. There is lush soil, trees thickly packed together, and the symphony of running water underscoring the rhythmic chatter of the forest. Upon seeing the first of each animal species, we pause for a photo orgy that even a picture whore like Kate Gosselin would be shamed by. In front of a group of five impala, Tom's expression says everything.

Digital cameras, and their costless incremental use of file storage, as opposed to their now-ancient predecessor, the film camera, have created a monster that can only be fed by the utter lack of attention span of the 21st century tourist. It used to be that one would travel with four rolls of film, containing 96 total exposures, and that amount of pictures would have to last until the next time you got to a store selling 35mm film. And in Tanzania, that can be quite some time. Instead, with the transportability of the digital age, and the immediate need for gratification that comes with it, people inevitably spend half of their time experiencing the very wonders they've traveled around the world to enjoy through a 2.5cm LED screen. Which frankly, is worse than watching it on television. For the first day or two in Africa, I was no different. After probably 15 minutes in front of these five impala, Tom calmly says "These are everywhere. Let's see a lion!"

Sure enough, 2 km down the road, a herd of over a thousand impala are nibbling at the short grass in a plain that stretches towards the horizon, where a flock of tens of thousands of flamingo pinken the wavy haze that blurs the line between the horizon and the enormous blanketing sky. At three degrees south of the equator, the sky is as big as it is going to get without the help of a serious hallucinogen. At this moment, I have never felt so insignificant and blessed at the same time. There is a colliding reality that comes with knowing that your place in this world is both one of banality and influence. On that truck, even with those people, I was so alone, and yet so blissfully pleased with what I'd accomplished already, that I wished I could be that alone forever. The accomplishment I speak of is nothing as tangible as having put more pins in my map than most others dream of; and it was not just an understanding of what it is like to partake in the human experience. Rather, it was *feeling* what it was like to partake in the human experience, and taking note of it as it is happening. So often, I feel these moments happen for people in retrospect. They look back on their wedding day, when the person they love affirms that their love is none unrequited; or they remember the birth of their child, or they watch the video of when they win the Tony Award they've worked their entire lives to achieve. For me, I felt blessed (quite a weighty word for someone who professes Atheism) to have felt the moment, absorbed it, and smiled at it; awaiting more.

In my younger years, I had a dislike of Asian people that to this day makes me physically ill to acknowledge. I didn't hate them, but at a glance, I had decided I didn't want to be around them. I still cannot fathom why. Which frankly, is probably the worst part. It's not as if an Asian person robbed me at knifepoint, or I was ever gang-raped in a Thai restaurant and at a young age had declared they were all somehow barbaric or threatening. No. I was just a close-minded suburbanite who thought I had some bazaar supremecy. Maybe it was the German in me? Now, several stages of personal development later, I was seeking to experience people of differing ilks, to broaden my own universe beyond that of the silly child in Kinnelon, NJ. Hell, I hadn't even been on a plane by the time I was 23 (save for a flight to the Grand Canyon at 11 months).

For some reason, Africa defined this ultimate transition. I'd been to southeast Asia, sure. But that trip was taken with friends over the course of just a few weeks, and was footnoted with credit card swipes at the finest restaurants and hotels at each stop. Fun; definitely fun. But hardly the growth I was seeking, and more importantly, in need of. This moment, looking over the steppe in the direction of Kenya, was the moment I knew I needed when I decided to leave New York and "see the world."

I am shaken from my daydream when Tom spots an aging lion male stalking a herd of buffalo. He is discernibly visible only through binoculars, and is breathing heavily as he walks determinedly through the herd. This lion, even to my untrained eye, can be seen as no threat to even a young buffalo. He is alone, as is customary for an aging male after being ousted by a younger, more virile male from his own pride. My first lion! His mane is magnificent, and his massive paws strike the ground in unison with my quickening heartbeat. And I think my penis moved. Not sure if that makes me gay for lions, but if it does, I can certainly live with that. They rule.

And just then, three more trucks like ours pull up. Typical. All the aloneness I had been enjoying was now drowned out by the gurgling idle of the other tour groups and most disturbingly, the thick southern accents of the couple in the truck next to ours. It seems that even in Africa, alone time will likely be fleeting, lest I pack a bag and a tent and head into the bush on my own. Call me a pussy, but that's just a little more self-evolvution than I'm prepared for. Possibly ever. Though who knows...

Lake Manyara was great as an introduction to African wildlife. Giraffes, elephants, buffalo, and all kinds of monkeys wandering around, all as curious about our truck as we are of them. Tom was an excellent guide. He knew everything by the book, no matter how pointed our questions were. He truly made the experience a lot more enjoyable, from the standpoint of someone who was not just looking to see stuff, but learn about it. Next however, after a six hour drive, was Serengeti. We camped outside Serengeti the night before, and planned to head in the next morning around 5:00 am. Like I said before, everything in Sub-Saharan Africa happens before 9:00 am. If you want to see a lion maul one of god's creations, you're going to have to get up crazy early, and you're going to have to shut up about it.

That night I, Tom, Maggie, and Ronda all stay up drinking the vodka I'd bought at the Dubai duty-free. Nothing, I've found, assists in popularity quite like the foresight to have booze out in the desert, and the willingness to share it. Tom, a Masaai educated by the tourism board (essentially the education my barber was seeking), is a pleasant man in his early 40s, with a smile as big as his face could stretch. It's clear he likes Maggie a lot too, and I'm sure in that part of the world her big boobs are seen as an ample food supply with which to raise a large brood, thusly making her more attractive still.

The next morning, we drive into the Serengeti. The Serengeti is special: It has no fences, and is a massive desert steppe, where only animals and Masaai are permitted to dwell. Additionally, inasmuch as it was the tail end of the wildebeest migration (though nothing like the Planet Earth documentary), we were treated to the symbiosis that zebras, wildebeests, and impala share. Wildebeests and zebras migrate together, eating the same types of grass, each consuming different parts of the plant. It's kind of like how white people eat the shoulder, knuckle, flank, and delicious bacon portions of a pig, and then Asians go ahead and eat the ass and elbows. Wildebeests also depend on the superior hearing and smell of zebras; watching them for signs of alarm. I tend to believe this is why Asian women pair up with Jewish white dudes so often, as with the breadth of our noses and with eyes that actually open, we must innately be seen as supreme detectors of danger. Little do Asian women know that upon detection of such danger, we are quick to toss them into the lion's mouth if only to give us a few spare moments with which to escape. Little known fact: Did you know that Hanukkah is actually a celebration of how many days a lion was kept at bay with the body of one Vietnamese child? A girl, obviously? It's true. How did a Vietnamese child end up outside a cave in the Negev, you ask? That, my friend, is the miracle of Hanukkah.

The Serengeti, being so expansive, provides one the opportunity to experience nature in a way that is as close as the layman can get to natural authenticity. Irrespective of the omnipresent whir of the overworked engine of the 1981 Jeep Terrain, the clatter of camera shutters, and the intermittent gasps of awe climbing from slackened jaws, you really feel as though you are immersed in a nature that god intended, invented. When people who have been places (having not yet truly achieved the distinction of "traveler") describe a particular sight or event as being "amazing", it is the feeling of timelessness and exception that a place like Serengeti should conjure. Instead, an iteration of the typical resort hotel and its adjacent half-kilometer of white sand beach littered with jet ski operators and polished shell salesmen is sadly what is most often being conveyed.

For one thing, human nature is comprised of a relentless search for new startling impressions. If it's not, then you're just another monkey looking for the next banana. Put simply, as we grow older, it takes more and more to impress us. And as humans, it damn well should. As a child, a simple ball bouncing was enough to captivate me for hours. Many years later, some ornate church in Eastern Europe would underwhelm me for three long minutes. What's worse, these three minutes were more of a conscious homage to the many toiling workers who risked (and often lost) their lives for its construction than it was a compelling appreciation for its pulpit or archways. Although this callous reaction to what can only be described as an extraordinary human achievement may be a result of having seen so many extraordinary things, that the world simply takes quite a bit more to impress me than it used to seems like a very real human characteristic. It's akin to the first time a caveman discovered fire. Pretty freakin' awesome, right? Seriously, fire is FUCKIN' AMAZING! But once that shock wore off (it still hasn't for me), he no doubt got down to figuring out how many other things, animals, children he could burn. Just as I'm more akin to ignoring the demographics of the Church of the Blessed Eucharist, and instead am fascinated far more by learning why a typical Ukrainian male is perfectly at peace getting drunk all day with his friends and passing out on a monument erected to celebrate one of Lviv's greatest scholars. More gripping still, I am fascinated that the typical Ukrainian female is likely to be studying at the local university all day and afterwards prancing past any and all willing onlookers wearing the world's sexiest designer knockoffs. This study in particular is ongoing. And going. And going. Oh my god.

Where was I?

One such impression occurred on my first night while camping in the Serengeti. I awoke at what must have been around 3 in the morning with a familiar drinking pang to urinate. As I stepped out of the tent into a symphony of wild coos and howls, I was staggered by the moon's brilliance, its grandeur, its divinity. Hanging low in the vast night sky of the desert, was a perfectly round spotlight draped with a halo that carved out greater than a third of the sky's intense blackness. On the ground, everything was illuminated as if under a low wattage terrarium lamp; no shadows, nothing unseen. If nightclubs were this well-lit, my friend Kris wouldn't have semiannual herpes outbreaks.

I stared at the moon for awhile, mesmerized the way I'm sure ancient tribespeople were before assigning it holy qualities. Alone with a moon this big, in a sky this big, allows one some big thoughts. Such as, an examination of one's possibilities. Ask me, if at any time before I took my first flight at 23 years old, if I'd ever have stepped foot into Africa. Ask me if I'd ever dreamed about writing a book. Ask me if I'd ever considered going anywhere further than a particular city's limits on my own, without a close companion. Ask me if I'd ever have dreamed about meeting exotic people from exotic lands, who tell exotic stories that color my own tales of adventure, triumph, and relative failures. Ask me if I thought I had control, if my life could follow a storyline written by my imagination, and not the imagination of my parents or the path traveled by countless others [college, job, promotion, promotion, marriage, children, suburbs, retirement, death]. The shadow cast by these musings stretched deep into my past, back to the inception of the life I would live and find more fulfilling than the lack of imagination I found in the lives of my parents and nearly everyone else. In that sense I suppose I too was attaching sacred meaning to the moon. Or maybe it was all the bush weed I'd been smoking.

It's interesting. To this point in the book/trip, I'd been feeling that the experiences and stories had more or less written themselves. This format, thus far being one of loosely linked anecdotes in the largely false pretense professing a theme of inner betterment and growth has to this point been aptly and rather simply achieved. At this juncture however, getting into the more densely packed sinews of a tight and underused muscle, I am finding my words more grandiose, more difficult to speak, loosen, and just plain take seriously. Examining oneself out from under the safety of humor and snark allows a bit more opportunity for criticism, and I suppose it is at this point my writing will probably adjust its focus somewhat. Though who knows, I'm about to suffer a crippling stomach virus and get robbed twice in one day, so there are plenty of good times ahead.

This ends Part 1 of my Tanzania story. Feeling like starting fresh on a Part 2.

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An Effective Cover Letter

2010-02-02T06:18:00.021+05:00

Brian A******
New York, NY 10009

ABC Capital, LLC.
New York, NY 10017

RE: Job listing #17441G7 advertised on Careerbuilder.com

To Whom It May Concern, and Those Nearby to Whom It May Not,

I am writing to introduce myself for consideration for your assistant controller role advertised on Careerbuilder.com. As my included resume will clearly indicate, I have a stout accounting background that unequivocally qualifies me for the advertised position. However, it is likewise clear after an ongoing five month job search that I will not be getting this job in spite of my qualifications, insofar as my background is a mess of inexplicable job moves and gross half-truths. Why did I leave Position A at Firm X, you ask? Probably because it offered me the same miserable future that your firm similarly promises, and for a brief period I saw an alternative to the soul-sucking dismal existence I am sure to enjoy at ABC Capital. But the real question is: why would we bother wasting each other's time to meet one another, when instead you can go ahead and interview 21 more cardboard widgets pumped out from the Teloitte & Douche machine, each bringing nothing more to the table than the ability to mindlessly book journal entries and not send personal emails from work? That was a long sentence; although I think you'll agree that the punctuation was a thing of beauty. I digress: The answer to the above question is simple: I have an extremely high X-factor.

The X-factor is defined as follows:

X = (S^U)*(C/K) + I*T

where
X = Value to your firm.
S = # of Skills that pay bills.
U = Unexplained job moves, as depicted on resume.
C = Coolness, defined as the inverse of a typical 5 year Ernst & Young financial services auditor on a scale of 1 to douche bag.
K = # of times the candidate considered Killing themselves on all-night audits at Blackrock.
I = Intelligence as defined as the ability to communicate in everyday written discourse without the use of absurd shorthand variants of the word "you."
T = # of Times the candidate has slept with a coworker. Double this number for conquests taking place on company property.

That math was rather simple, even for an accountant. Had I been able to integrate integrals (word play) with a qwerty keyboard, it would have likely been much more fun for both of us. Interesting though, how in that last sentence I flexed my calculus muscles in such a fashion so as to simultaneously draw attention to my humility. It is precisely this encompassed attack to problem solving from which your firm would benefit should you decide to hire me at a modest premium over the obviously inflated salary figure I already provided via your online application form.

The choice is yours. You can either interview another head-down accountant who ends his sentences in prepositions because he's on an H-1B visa and experiences difficulty communicating in terms not used in financial statement footnote disclosures, or you can interview a diversely talented accountant like me who ends his sentences in prepositions ironically because of. Just think of all the exciting banter that awaits us as we mercilessly ridicule Jiang "Bruce" Chung behind his back when he leaves each day for his lunchtime piano lesson.

I recognize that the chance exists that you may be one more dirty-kneed supplicant looking up at the long hard dick of Corporate. In this case, what I suspect will happen next is you will walk into your boss' office carrying a copy of this cover letter so the two of you can share a laugh at my gracious expense. And let's face it; this cover letter, if not funny, is at least worth the walk to his office past his assistant Brenda-- the busty aspiring actress-by-night who hates your double-pleated guts by day. And when your boss does laugh as you suspected, you will think to yourself "Wow, we really connected there. Perhaps I should take this opportunity to invite him to my lame Super Bowl party." And he will once again politely decline your sycophantic attempt to ingratiate yourself into his personal life. You'll then walk away dejectedly, which is much the same feeling I will experience when my follow-up email to you in one week's time goes unreturned and I lament the time I wasted researching your lousy firm.

Don't you see how much we have in common? I feel like we really connected there. Want to get lunch today? Oh, you're busy? What about tomorrow? What about never? I miss the days when we would laugh about stuff together.

Finally, I encourage you to refer to my enclosed resume. Upon meeting me, I am confident that the value I would add to your firm will become clear, unless of course you are beholden to applicants who look as though they were raped by a Ralph Lauren Chaps discount rack. I don't even know where people buy Ralph Lauren Chaps anymore. Then again, I don't shop for clothes in stores that sell portable CD players and deck furniture. Though I am happy to pick up some Haggar slacks and an oversized Gap poplin dress shirt for the interview if it better qualifies me for the assistant controller position, thus showcasing my adaptability when faced with unfortunate circumstances.

I thank you immeasurably for your time and consideration, and very much look forward to meeting you and learning more about the assistant controller employment opportunity and how I may fit into your depressing firm during your next scheduled group suicide.

Blow me,

Brian A******

Dubai - A Lesson in Mating Misconduct

2009-09-28T22:20:00.007+05:00

Ok, I’ve been getting a lot of heat from people lately, and deservedly so. I have a good five months yet to write on the trip I completed over a year ago. Those of you who know me well know that I’ve been busy with stand up lately, but that’s really no excuse to let the prose slip by. So… here’s my olive branch. Dubai. I apologize for its length, as it should really be three separate stories. But if you stick with it, I think the third act will pay some pleasant dividends. Enjoy:

My exit strategy from the bowels of Earth known as Cairo was to grab the cheapest flight to Dar es Salaam in Tanzania to begin my African chapter. Fortunately, this took me through Dubai, a city whose modernity was starkly evident during my flight's descent. Given the buzz surrounding Dubai, and my anxious anticipation to see it, I can't resist the urge to compare it to Las Vegas.

Though it's quite different indeed. The recipe for Dubai is as follows:

Take one whole Las Vegas. Remove strippers, gambling, fake boobs, overt hedonism. Take the soulless glitz that remains, and spread it out over 400 square miles. Stir in two cups of high-end shopping. Sprinkle in headscarves. Add two heaping quarts of self-entitled ex-pats. Stir vigorously until a culturally substantive void is evident. Bake at 900 degrees Celsius. Sweat perpetually. Consume with copious amounts of alcohol (to taste). When sober, desperately avoid suicide while awaiting departing flight.

Arriving in Dubai, my first impression was of the airport, which is by all accounts a step above all other airports I’ve ever been in. This includes notables such as Schiphol, Heathrow, Charles de Gaulle, and Narita. The shopping is very Fifth Avenue, with the people even more irritating than your average Fifth Avenue Louis handbag street strutter. In other words, pretty douchey. Apparently it is possible to be a douche and wear a headscarf, which I have to admit, took me by surprise. Immediately I was struck with the realization that the Middle East, although I was still in it, had become a much different place. Like comparing New York and Lincoln, Nebraska I suppose. Aleppo, Syria this was not. Thank fucking Allah. That place was a glory hole in the Shroud of Turin as far as I was concerned.

I wonder…. If the Shroud depicts the image of a crucified man (believed by many to be Jesus, though there’s clearly no real way of knowing), where would the glory hole be? Remember, there are more logical hole positions in Jesus than in the average human.

Enough. Even I’m disturbed that that imagery.

My first night in town I went to a nearby hotel bar known for it's weekday party scene, where I met a couple of Pakistani guys, Farhan and Nike. Nike is a stylish hairdresser type, and lord knows Pakistanis have plenty of hair. He should have been rich. He wasn't. Though he was quiet, polite, and under control. On the other hand, Farhan is a near complete disaster. The depth of his mania would prove to be staggering on a level I'd only before seen outside my neighborhood methadone clinic. Or maybe it was inside. I was so fucked up on heroin, it was hard to tell.

Farhan tells me he’s the son of a Pakistani prince, and that he ran away from Islamabad when his girlfriend broke up with him. It is at this point, after about 30 minutes of exchanged pleasantries, that he shows me the accordion of scars up and down his arms depicting his many failed attempts to gain the favor of 77 virgins. Not being one to judge, I laugh it off with a remark about how everyone knows that cutting your arms vertically is the only real way to impress a virgin. He seemed to like that.

Next he bought me a shot of Patron, while launching into a lengthy diatribe about how he plays drums in a band back home, and how he'll have to take me to see some of the good bands in town. Being an avid live music fan, I accept the shot, accept the invitation, and likewise, accept the sneaking suspicion that I may have quickly become Farhan's best friend in all of Dubai. Apparently my intense friendship with Braun in Sharm el Sheikh was not lesson enough. I was suddenly in a committed relationship. More importantly, Farhan and Nike each confess to me their undying affection for white women, and I soon realize my role has become that of a conduit between these two and the western women they covet. Farhan is buying my drinks, and with a willing benefactor, I’m all for getting these guys some fair-skinned floozies.

Unfortunately, Farhan is completely useless in this arena. His mode of operation, however formulaic and perpetually unsuccessful, is the following:

-Buy as many of the most expensive drinks available as it takes for a girl's eyes to glaze over and her mouth to fall open
-Pontificate ad nauseam about his drum playing skills while emphatically air-drumming to punctuate his awesomeness
-Show off his arm scars depicting failed attempts at attention-- I mean suicide.
-Gyrate awkwardly with his massive purple lips bouncing in unison with the baseline

As such, the first night ends rather uneventfully; with some unnerving conversations with ex-pats and about 14 rounds of shots, many with Red Bull as a key component. Because what says “forcing a good time” like Red Bull and a massive bar tab?

The next night was my most pivotal night in Dubai. This was one of life’s examples of how a seemingly insignificant action can result in a complete course redirection. While at Budda Bar with Farhan, a tall, striking white woman seemed transfixed on my sexy splendor. Or maybe it was my bleary eyed gaze back towards her and her concern that I was somehow plotting her imminent demise. Frankly, it was probably more the latter.

After about 20 minutes and another four shots of Patron, the situation was clearly turning uncomfortable. For me. Farhan was telling me for the ninety millionth time about how he misses "his girl" back in Pakistan. Given his blubbering, I no longer needed to imagine what would make a woman, even one of meager Pakistani means, to leave a man of royalty. He was a royal pussy. Real nice guy, though.

I answer the beckon from the staring woman, who turns out to be from Canada, and who just so happens to be there with her boyfriend. Although, this did not preclude her from flirting relentlessly with both Farhan and I. Frankly, part of me was wondering whether or not this chick was actually a high-priced call girl (of which there are many in Dubai). But to my surprise, she invited Farhan and I out to their condo on the Palm Jumeirah the next night. I'd already heard what a pain in the ass it was to get out on the Palm, so an invitation of this kind was Dubai's equivalent to getting invited into the Playboy Mansion, if the Playboy Mansion didn't come with a dying old man and more STDs than a biopsy of Courtney Love's cervix.

The next day, we are on our way to the Palm, after being passed at three separate security checkpoints. This, I've surmised, is meant more to keep out the toiling laborers who have built Dubai under the guise of day labor, but in reality is more a form of modern day slavery. It's akin to Reno "entertainment professionals" mining and refining the very silicon used in the fake titties hanging off each "entertainment professional" working in the Spearmint Rhino, but when the sun goes down, the Reno "entertainment professionals" are banned from the Spearmint Rhino because they're obviously not worthy. Which I guess is fair. No one likes a whore with black lung. And no, that's not racist. It's sexist.

On the way to the Palm, the city's overexpansion became even more clear. Every single building was capped with a crane, and in a glance you'd see up to 10-15 skyscrapers actively under construction. So much so that across the world, there was a shortage of cranes, because one-third of all the world's cranes were in Dubai. Keep in mind, this is a city in which its sudden boom is directly correlated not only with the discovery of oil, but with it's value spike up until a year ago. Dubai was (over)developed under the assumption that oil futures would average $100/barrel, and ever since that level has proven to be grossly inflated, everyone knows that Dubai has since turned into a bit of a ghost town, or the Williamsburg, Brooklyn waterfront. Take your pick. Either way, Dubai has the feel of a city that's no more than five years old, and one that certainly hasn't matured past its age. It carries a strong whiff of plagiarized Westernism, from the post-modernist architecture to the stuffy air of entitled self-importance. It also boasts western university outposts (RIT, American Univ, Boston Dental, Cass Business School, Manchester Univ), many western restauranteurs have opened outposts there, and even more westerners live there as employees of the financial and service sector, inasmuch as 75% of UAE are not native to the Emirates. It's like Chinatown for white people, without the fish stink.

Once out on the Palm, Farhan and I are led into a gorgeous three story condominium, replete with art-deco furnishings and Indian art that looked far too expensive to be carrying the weight of overturned wine bottles and overstuffed ashtrays. It reminded me of walking into my rich friend's parents' house the morning after a high school kegger. Only better because I was in Dubai and not Kinnelon, NJ. And better still because I've had sex before, and in Kinnelon I couldn't lay claim to claiming a lay at all.

Each frond of the Palm Jumeirah is a manmade beach peninsula, so that every condo on the Palm enjoys beach front property, even if your neighbor is only a 50 meter swim to the next frond. Which makes for a pretty slow getaway for a ding-dong-dash. This is the project completed before the infamous World project (a collection of islands meant to resemble the Earth) got underway. The Emirates, sparing no expense, moved immense amounts of sand to create the Palm and the World. Sadly, I was unable to find any of the peyote the emirates themselves were clearly reliant upon to visualize such insanity.

Because of the world's recent emigration to Dubai, the most common question asked by the ex-pats is "how long have you been here?" To which my answer of "this is my third day" was often met with astonishment. People apparently had been trying to get out and see the Palm for over 6 months (since it's completion at that time), and my supremacy in the field of networking has never before or since been so unquestioned.

Once arrived, the party was rife with people of varying professional services backgrounds, be it advertising, financial, or escort services. To be sure, some women at the party were no doubt experts in the field of arm candy. And everyone at the party were experts in the field of hard partying. My kind of crowd.

Julie, the host who'd invited us, seemed to take a keen interest in Farhan and me. Which, in light of Farhan's penchant for ladies of the Caucasian influence, made his big purple lips pucker eagerly to slobber pretty much anywhere on her body, whether she wanted them there or not. Interestingly, this air of desperation only seemed to endear Farhan to Julie even moreso, and Farhan took the early lead in the Julie sweepstakes, albeit a distant second place to her rich, live-in boyfriend Nisham. Farhan likes 'em white, Julie likes 'em brown... I get it.

The party lasted well into the early morning hours, with wine and weed acting as the predominant currency. Being a poor leader and a fabulous follower, I spent a great deal of time drinking and smoking out in the backyard on the beach with Paul, Julie's neighbor from Essex who'd moved next door two months earlier. He had recently gotten engaged, and was somewhat reticently anticipating his fiancee's arrival to live with him the following week. The reason for his petulance was simple: he was having too much fun without her. This would be even further evidenced in the days to come. The word "come" here is intentionally being used duplicitously.

Also at the party was a tall, stunning personal assistant from Montreal named Nicole. Seeing Julie transfixed on Farhan's purple people eaters, I spent a good deal of time at the party drinking champagne and smoking joints with Nicole. She was reciprocating in kind, and Farhan and I could be seen exchanging glances across the crowded living room as if to say "that's my nigga."

Julie's boyfriend was floating around the party flirting heavily with anyone who would give him enough time to fill their wine glass. Something about this couple felt a bit askew, while at the same time refreshingly progressive. At the time, it was no wonder they loved each other so much, insofar as their relationship was clearly devoid of any hint of jealousy's parasitism. And who wouldn't love someone who was so willing to watch you get a wet pinky with the girl who served you lychee martinis at brunch?

The next day, I escaped to the Mall of Emirates to glance underwhelmingly at the world's largest indoor ski slope. More than just another example of man's inability to impress in comparison with nature, the indoor ski slope just strikes anyone who's ever seen an actual mountain as being utter masturbation. For a Bedouin however, it's probably more akin to an average passportless Midwesterner taking awestruck pictures in front of the "Eiffel Tower" at Paris Paris in Las Vegas. In other words; suck it. Get out and see some real shit.

Later, in the record store, I am besieged with a thousand advertisements for DJ Tiesto's Valentine's Day concert at the Madinat Arena. Without hesitating, I text Farhan my plans to stay an additional twelve days, then dial Emirates Air to change my flight from a February 4th departure the next day to a February 16th departure (leaving myself an extra day to recover from what is sure to be an epic party). With Farhan's help through a friend of his in the booking department, I change my flight free of charge. Now my only problem is finding another suitable hotel for under $200/night. In Dubai, that's like finding a finding a Manhattan apartment for $600/month whose walls aren't covered in DNA.

My hotel at the time was a spacious apartment-style flat with a balcony and plenty of room for Farhan to crash as he had been the past two nights, as his apartment was in a part of town much further from what is considered desirable. My next two hotels however, would prove to be progressive examples of how ones accomodations can degenerate to crack-den status without proper planning.

The first was in the same area of town that Farhan lives in, generally nothing more than a financial center with nothing worth doing nearby, and that includes girlie bars. I'll explain the girlie bars shortly. My hotel room was fine, and Farhan was excited because apparently the house band at my new hotel was amazing. Falling victim to my "always say yes" mantra, I agreed to check this band out. They had some awful name like "Monkeythrust" or "Blue Whale Cocks" or something, and they were nothing more than your average college-quality cover band. To be honest, I've seen better bands at Karaoke parlors in Thailand. Farhan however, was so enamored with the drummer, that he bought her some expensive set of drumsticks, and I made a crack about how he's "moving too fast". I don't think people in other parts of the world understand that a proper courtship should involve a period of letting the other person know definitively that you don't give a fuck about them.

From this hotel, I moved even further down the scale into probably the closest thing to a ghetto any white person in Dubai can find: the Claridge, which was a small step above a homeless shelter, in an area of town most likely to have a homeless shelter. It still ran me $140/night. There are no cabs to speak of anywhere nearby, and more often than not, I had to walk 30 minutes to a highway and wait another 15 before an available cab drove by. Is that what it's like in the Bronx? See? Even in Dubai, I was considering ways to identify with Black America. Though in doing so, I wanted to kill myself. All I wanted was a goddamn taxi queue near my hotel. Would have settled for some fried chicken though.

Let me get back to the girlie bars. Our first few nights out, Farhan had insisted on paying for everything. Being a prince, he claimed to have piles of money. Later in the week, I learned differently. Not only was he drawing off scant resources, he was doing so to impress me (of all people). In doing so, he'd take us to these "girlie" bars, which when suggested in such context, certainly sounds like a time worth having. Once inside however, you learn quickly how the influence of Islam can affect a good time. These bars consist of nothing more than a fully dressed (typically Filipino) girl dancing on a stage as any normal girl would. Mind you, not as any normal stripper would, but any girl would. On our third visit (along with Nike) to one of these "girlie" bars, for two hours, the following cycle repeated itself roughly 6 times:

One round of bulldogs (a rum/vodka/red bull drink that only served to heighten Farhan's mania)
Call forward one of the girlies
Tip her with anywhere from 6-10 necklaces (which account for a minimum tip apiece)
Farhan waxes wistful about his girl back in Pakistan
I tell Farhan to look at the stage, and not in his heart
Another round of bulldogs

Finally the bill arrives, while Farhan is in the bathroom. Since he'd been so generous to this point, I elect to pick up the bill. Only after running my credit card do I look at the tally, pre-tip: $1,150US. WHAT THE FUCK!? I hadn't even seen a boob yet. I later told Farhan that "girlie" bars were no longer an acceptable pregame activity, barring a dramatic reduction in either cost or clothing.

Dubai is rife with prostitutes. If you're touring the town using only a guidebook, you're likely to seek out a place that Lonely Planet would describe as a place with a "fun, easy-going vibe, with moderately priced cocktails your wallet will enjoy." If Lonely Planet knew a damn thing, what they'd instead say is "fun, easy women, at moderate prices your cock will enjoy." This is why the more I traveled, the more I realized I didn't need (or want) a guidebook for anything. The people who write those things are retarded. Though if they're hiring... hook me up! I need a job, and I'm only mildly retarded.

With the days counting down to Tiesto, Farhan and I went on a desert safari, which consisted of driving like maniacs on the dunes in Toyota Land Cruisers, followed by an uber-touristy belly dance. We also rented jet skis and risked our lives playing chicken on the Persian Gulf, which was decidedly more fun. By now, I've become keenly aware of my need to endanger myself in order to be thoroughly entertained. It's a minor miracle I've never broken a bone [knocks on wood], although it's a major miracle I've never killed myself.

My days leading up to Tiesto were spent most commonly wandering through any one of the nearby malls (they are literally everywhere in Dubai, as shopping is a full time job there) to either watch a movie, or just gaze into the windows with the most shiny things. Swarovski is especially good for that. During one such day, I was again in the Mall of Emirates, when Julie calls me and asks why I wasn't at Brunch. Apparently I had a voicemail with an invite. And apparently now many of the people I'd met at their party were completely hammered at 5:00 in the afternoon on a Thursday. She invites me to their house for the "after party" and to be there by 7:00. I spring into action.

At the time of this conversation, I was wandering around in an old t-shirt, shorts, and running shoes. Clearly, I was going to need an overhaul (if not a shower). Additionally, my crappy hotel was at least a $40 cab ride away, and with the Palm being in the opposite direction, I was facing at least $100 in taxis to get home, change clothes, and head to Julie's. Instead, I make the much simpler decision to to buy all new clothes. New shoes, jeans, and shirt to the tune of $160 (you can get some good gear in Dubai at affordable prices; there are no import tariffs). Then I went into the bathroom, changed, took a faux-shower with liquid hand soap and paper towels provided by the bathroom attendant, and tossed my old clothes in a bag and left them on the sink for anyone who wanted shorts and sneakers that had been to the Valley of the Kings. Ramses III must have rubbed off on them somehow. Wait, was that another fertility joke? ZING!

Looking the part of a guy who looks like he should have retail tags hanging from his sleeve, I arrive at the condo to find about nine people all completely shitfaced. Farhan is already there. I have some catching up to do.

I retreat to the back patio to smoke a joint and swill some wine, and Farhan joins me. Moments later, he is sobbing to me about his girl back home again, and as is customary when my brain is seeking an escape from a conversation that can involve anything, preferably lethal substances, my eyes rolled and a deliberate wandering gaze commenced.

However, on this occasion, I was treated to the most delightful segue in the history of the ending of bad conversations. A glance inside to the living room delivered the sight of Julie sitting between her boyfriend Nisham and her neighbor Paul, spread-eagled, hands on multiple cocks, with multiple hands and mouths aggressively exploring her erogenous zones. It took me a minute to process; meanwhile Farhan could not stop crying. I'm unsure how many people since Marie Antoinette have been gifted with such a sight, but my emotions evolved from shock, to delight, to fear, to glee, back to fear, and finally confused arousal. Then I told Farhan to shut the fuck up.

I felt like Scooby Doo (watch his expressions). They are all relatable here.

Farhan refused to stop sobbing about his woman until I literally slapped his face and spun him around to look at the sexual splendor taking place in the next room. Jaws flagging wide open, we started dancing and laughing like two kids who'd just come out of a peep show. Though, we pretty much are kids, and we were pretty much watching a peep show. So yea; so much for that analogy.

At some point, I knew I needed more booze. The three oversexed animals on the couch didn't seem like they'd care if I made a move to the wine fridge, and so on my way through the living room, I toasted them, they all smiled, and continued doing what they were doing. God bless them.

Minutes later, Paul was in the kitchen with me, smiling ear to ear, as he hurriedly gathered three dirty wine glasses and a bottle of red. Our conversation went as follows:

me: Dude, mazel tov!
Paul: Mate, today is crazy.
me: I feel like I missed a full-blown orgy by about three hours.
Paul: Well, you certainly missed on getting blown.
me: What the fuck are you doing down here talking to me, get upstairs and get me a story to tell.
Paul: Mate, I just had it off with Nicole a couple hours ago. I thought that was a story.
me: I'm not leaving Dubai. Or this condo.
Paul: See you in an hour.
me: Hey, if you need a hand in there, knock twice on the wall.
Paul: See you in thirty.
me: [to self] Nice guy.

I learned something that day. I learned that I know my place when an orgy is going down. And that is to ensure all involved parties don't have it fucked up by some lovesick Paki. I took the bullet for the next hour or so while Farhan manically oscillated between musings of how his girl would never do the kinds of nefarious things Julie was now doing, although when pressed, I convinced him that part of him really wished she would.

The rest of the night consisted of a high-speed drunken car race to the club in the back of Nisham's convertible M5, and a VIP table scene with many bottles of Dom on hand, courtesy of Nisham. Nothing says "I'm celebrating a threesome" like Dom. I drank scotch. I was celebrating my first ride in an M5. Not the same.

According to Julie, she'd never done anything like that before. For my money though, she sure seemed to know her way around multiple inputs at a level a bit above that of a novice. Paul confided in me that Nisham wouldn't let him have sex with Julie, but was more than fine with letting him take the head while Nisham took the tail. I told Paul that isofar as he hadn't bathed between acts of coitus, it was probably a fair limitation. Then Paul started drinking scotch with me to celebrate my ride in the M5. Nice guy.

Our conversation inevitably turned to the eventual arrival of Paul's fiancee. He smiled and laughed that had he known days like the one he'd just had could take place in Dubai, he would have been none too swift to drop a noose on anyone's ringfinger. When I reminded him that none of these sordid events had taken place before I showed up, he confided to me that he truly thought I had absolutely nothing to do with any of it. I think part of me fell for Paul as well.

Dubai, however, was a similarly extraneous variable. It really doesn't bring a lot to the table in terms of what makes a city great. Without these people out on the Palm and to a lesser extent Farhan, it's safe to say that my time in Dubai would have been best served to remain at three days. Frankly, as I mentioned before, even the indoor ski slope that everyone talks about is wholly unimpressive. Oh, you have a three story hill of snow indoors? That's awesome? Wrong. It's not. You suck.

Frankly, the only thing Dubai has is a canal walk that can very much be missed, some pretty incredible shopping, and an entitled air carried by the ex-pats who arrived in Dubai to make their money and live lavishly. The restaurants boast some impressive names, though I would challenge anyone who is of the belief that Gordon Ramsay is really taking an active role in his outpost in Dubai. I think Jenna Jameson cares more about where her videos are being pirated (my apartment) than Gordon Ramsay does about what a bedouin thinks of his roasted Barbary duck breast. Mmmm... breasts.

After several weeks of waking up at 3pm, window-shopping for things I couldn't afford, and watching movies, it was finally time for the Tiesto concert at Madinat Arena. Julie and Nisham were throwing a party (again) that night, and though I desperately did NOT want Farhan to join me at Tiesto, he somehow managed to put himself on the event staff, and wound up working the concert. Luckily, he was typically too busy showing off his security badge to the other 8,000 partyers to bother too much with me.

Several people from Julie's party were going, and I was going with Nicole. Nicole is one of those women who is so stunning that she looks at a line of 25 people waiting to buy drink tickets and says "I'll be back in a minute," and within two minutes has a fistful of drink tickets. I didn't even know you could blow a guy that fast. She was like a magician, only better because instead of hidden magnets, she has boobs.

Madinat did everything they could to ruin this show. First, there was a narrow shoot to funnel through for ticket-takers. Farhan helped us there. Second, was the long line to show ID to get a wristband for drinks. Then there was a mile-long line to buy drink tickets, which Nicole breezed through. Finally, there was an angry sea of expectant drinkers teeming with brutal sobriety waiting to buy drinks from the six bartenders staffed to serve 8,000 fans of fucking trance music?! This was already a shitstorm, and although I was considerably more drunk than most everyone else there, and blessed with a blow-off-any-semblance-of-a-queue card in Nicole, I was still irritated.

Nicole was obsessed with making sure she connected with everyone she knew who was at the venue. We spent the first 30 minutes of Tiesto's set running around trying to find some guy who it turns out Nicole used to date, but upon meeting him, was an obvious douche. I have learned something over the years though... Most girls have a soft spot for douches. Only the coolest and most desirable of all girls will turn their nose up at any and all douches. Of course, if you're someone who can't be with a girl who has ever been with a douche (like I am), this pares down the population of desirables to a scant number of hippies, hipsters, and victims of date rape.

Later on, Nicole had to go to the bathroom again, for the 30th time to pump whatever stimulant she was on up into her face. Either that, or she ate some bad shrimp. Hard to say really, as I was on the verge of utter obliteration by this time. On this occasion, Tiesto was whipping the whole place into a frenzied orgy of jumping fits and screams. I have a very real weakness for a frenzied live music orgy. As the throbbing and whooting increased, I slowly gravitated back to the dance floor, thinking Nicole and I would reconnect in the middle of the thumping bass bukkake that had become Madinat Arena.

That never happened. My texts to her went unreturned for the rest of the night. Which, to be honest, was somewhat of a relief. I was able to enjoy the rest of the show in my own unencumbered, booze-fueled bliss while Tiesto tore the motherfucking house down.

The following day was my last full day in Dubai. I spent it hanging out with Farhan and some of his dopey friends. In a cyclical twist, we were all back at Budda Bar, the same bar in which Farhan and I met Julie and Nisham. After the threesome, those two opted to take a break from partying for awhile, and they sent me their regards. Truth is, I think they were both a little ashamed of it all. Fun while it lasted, but I think they were back to figuring out why the hell they were together in the first place, if all either of them wanted to do was take other people's clothes off. Say what you will about open relationships, but it is my contention that if there isn't any hint of jealousy on both sides of a relationship, it's probably more one of convenience than one of undying devotion. Or so says the guy whose only serious girlfriend boned her ex-boyfriend two months into their near two-year relationship. So, what do I know?

At Budda Bar, a couple ladies from California and I began talking, which evidently was Farhan and his friends' cue to descend on the scene and all but mouth-rape the very girls I was trying to mouth-lovemake to. This method of predatory cock-blocking seems it would be the most successful in a tent in Karachi, where the girls inside know their choices are either mouth loving one of the men in the tent, or a stoning against the wall outside the tent. Either way, you need a tent.

Predictably, the girls flaked off, and I had reached my breaking point with Farhan. It was our last night together, and I just couldn't take another episode of him showing off his scarred-up arms and stories about what an amazing drummer he's not. I said my good-bye and mercifully got into a cab on the way home. With a 30 minute ride to my hotel ahead of me, my mind wandered back to Nicole. I was a bit irritated that she blew me off, and that I'd let her get away with it so easily. Was I happier to have seen Tiesto on my own? Definitely. Though was I happy at all that she had gotten the last word? Not so much. I chose this time as my opportunity to even the score.

The following are our texts back and forth on my last night in Dubai, at approximately 2:30 in the morning:

me: Let's bone. Where you at?
Nicole: Fuck you.
me: I love your spirit. Does this mean you're at home? I can be there in 20.
Nicole: Seriously, fuck off.
me: For someone who ditched me last night, you sure seem to be misdirecting your anger. It is my contention this will make you a better lay. What say you?
Nicole: I looked around for you for half an hour and went home. Was too drunk. I thought you ditched me.
me: I texted you like 5 times. Let's take our clothes off and bury the hatchet.
me: And by hatchet I mean my cock.
Nicole. When do you leave?
me: Tomorrow
Nicole: Safe flight
me: There's still time for you to have my baby.
Nicole: Look me up if you're back in Dubai ever
me: I will. Next time we hang out I plan to fuck you and never call you again.
Nicole: Asshole
me: I was planning to use your vagina.
Nicole: Gross
me: It doesn't have to be.
Nicole: See you when I see you
me: Tell Paul I'll miss him.
Nicole: Haha. He likes you too. I will.
me: Him I'll miss. You, not so much. Till next time...
Nicole: He'll miss you too. I'll look you up on Facebook.
me: I will reject you. Going to bed now.
Nicole: G'night. Safe flight.
me: Good chat.

Of course, with my luck, my phone with all my Dubai contacts was stolen in Dar es Salaam and I've lost touch with everyone I'd met and spent time with there. This is particularly tragic because Paul is apparently in NY all the time, and he's the one person in particular that I really wished to stay in touch with. Either way though, my opinion of Dubai is that if you ever plan on going there, and you don't know Julie, Nisham, or Paul, you're better off not going at all. It's a fun city, but not one in which you can't have the same amount, if not more fun elsewhere, in a city that feels genuine and real. Dubai had an overwhelming falseness to it. I don't plan to ever go back. Besides, it just can't be better the next time than it was the first time. It's better to preserve that memory. And by "that memory" I mean the memory of Julie with her hands full of cock.

Next story will be of Tanzania. I am committed to completing the stories from my trip. For those of you that care, stay tuned.

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Egypt - A Lesson in Disappointment

2008-11-17T08:22:00.020+05:00

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Where do I start? Hm. For one thing, the relationship I haven't had with this blog in the past four months, is pretty much my third-longest relationship. Once that revelation nestles in, allow these similarly shocking notions to land with appropriate gravity: I have a job. I arrive at work at 8:30am every morning. And yet somehow, my drinking habits haven't changed.

This is particularly noteworthy, given that I have managed to do so on a modest budget, and an even more modest amount of sleep. Some will recall my tale of narcolepsy in Budapest; well, that story repeated itself last week, minus the amazing festival, kebabs, and tales of modest triumph.

But enough about all that. What you're really tuning into here is a taste of a little something out-of-the-ordinary; a little taste of something foreign; a splash of whiskey; a little dollop of aoli. You know: some pizazz, some spice. As such, enter [this guy] into Egypt.

I found my exit from Israel to be both necessary and well overdue. For reasons stated only about three months ago in my last entry, I felt an urge to leave the holy land that only god himself could empathize with. The difference being, the nails to his extremities were metaphorically represented in me with each bottle of wine I ingested past the point of cogency.

I hitched a taxi to the Eilat/Taba border station, riding past the foul glitz of the marina (sad), the dolphin pool (sadder), and the Egyptian consulate, which occupies the lower floors of a brownstone that I’m a bit too embarrassed to admit to trying to break into while blacked out (saddest). Or at least that’s what I’m told.

Looking back, Eilat does have the benefit of a convenient proximity to Timna (a national park full of staggering rock formations dating back to 500 million years ago), though it conversely possesses the unfortunate detriment of being the stomate through which each 18 year-old American Birthright traveler insists on flushing themselves like the sticky detritus that clings to my colon walls. They arrive hundreds at a time, and seem to leave at the agonizing pace of a one-night stand. Thankfully though, Eilat and its inexpressive gleam were now retreating into a fleck in my cab’s rearview display that proved to be its most redeeming moment in the six days I spent there.

Finally on the other side of the Eilat/Taba border station, I and my massive backpack board a bus after a brush with an unpleasant sex tourist on his way to Thailand via Cairo. I guess there's just something about a 71 year old guy from Detroit with holes in his shoes telling you he can't wait to get to Bangkok to "fuck, fuck, and fuck some more." Now, I'm all for the relentless pursuit of gratuitous sex, but for some reason when the status of the participants is so egregiously incongruous, I'm filled with pity and sadness. This particular case can be explained away by an economic gap that can most easily be bridged by the offer of sex for money, and I am able to see how both sides benefit. However, when I see some dopey geek strutting down the sidewalk with some girl that looks like she's straight out of an American Apparel ad, I can only assume she has daddy issues and a deteriorated self image. And then I wonder why I didn't have the foresight of said geek. And then I weep. I guess I have daddy issues too.

I'm in Egypt now. After a nine hour bus ride down the eastern coast of the Sinai peninsula, I arrive in Sharm el-Sheikh. Of course, once again I'm met by George Bush and his ever-present road closings and general impedance to any progress I'm hoping to make. This is the fourth time (of five) that I happen to run into him in the nearly 14 months I spent away. I wonder if he's in New York as often during the course of an average year. Probably not. I picture him in the Oval Office smoking joints saying things like: "Why would I go to New York when there's a Denny's over on Tennessee Avenue?" George: we should hang out.

A brief history: The Sinai was always Muslim, since around the 11th century, or around the time of Islam’s rapid proliferation. Then, Israel was created with the auspices of the British and American governments in the form of the British Mandate in 1948. This angered the neighboring Muslim states, and Egypt used the Sinai as a launching pad to initiate attacks on Israel and to block its access to Eilat (a greater favor from a foe has never before or since been paid). In response, Israel retaliated (with the help of Britain and France) and took control of the entire Sinai Peninsula. America and the Soviet Union (allies from WWII) urged Israel to relinquish control back to Egypt, they complied, and as such, Israel and Egypt have remained at peace ever since. This peace was mildly tested while I was in the Sinai when Hamas blew down the wall separating the Gaza Strip from the Sinai and 200,000 Palestinians flooded the peninsula in search of fuel and food.

Some people emailed me while I was there to make sure I was ok, which puzzled me inasmuch as I am clearly not a source of neither fuel nor food. I do however have an above-average sized nose and a Jewish last name. While in Sharm el-Sheikh, I did my best to throw all Palestinians off the scent as I indiscriminately spent my money the way any Gentile would.

In Sharm el-Sheikh, I am staying on a beach about 9 km outside Na’ama Beach (the main strip) at Sharks Bay. It is here, at Sharks Bay, where I’ll spend the next 11 days scuba diving at some of the most diverse and well-preserved reefs in the world. Sharm is widely considered the premier dive spot in the entire world. Unfortunately, as this was the place I first learned to dive, every dive from now on (with exceptions) is bound to fail to measure up. This is akin to losing your virginity to Keira Knightly or Hugh Jackman, only to break up with them a week later. You’ve had the best, and now you’re just like everybody else: gettin’ drunk enough to make out with people you’d ordinarily avoid.

That analogy doesn’t quite make the impact I’d intended. Upon further inspection however, diving drunk is pretty much a recipe for nitrogen narcosis, and that just so happens to be the only way coming off Keira Knightly and entering the bar make-out scene might be made palatable. Read up on it. Nitrogen narcosis, when removing the threat of death, actually sounds like a pretty excellent time.

Sharks Bay is a tiny community consisting of an intimate hotel-slash-dive school, two slightly larger and higher-end hotels, an intimate beach, and a strip of shops peddling the usual tourist wares. It, along with the rest of Sharm, is patronized almost entirely by oil-rich Russian tourists escaping the January chill up north. The locals, on the other hand, are almost entirely modernized Bedouins seeking to support families from the interior with the money they make from their jobs in the tourism industry. The rest of Sharm is typically all divers.

Forced to choose from a swarm of Russians whose English was far worse than my Ukrainian, I found myself gravitating to the Bedouins in their shops, hanging out in the tiny back rooms that proved to be no more than filthy, unkempt parasites attaching themselves to the shops seen by most visitors. After only a short time, I was frequenting one shop in particular. A 27 year-old economics student named Braun, his cousin (they all seem to be cousins somehow) James who was a gaming geek from Cairo, and their other cousins who owned the shop comprised my crew. Aside from James and Braun, their English consisted mostly of transactional commands like “you buy,” “you pay,” and “I fuck." Good guys.

Braun in particular took a keen interest in me. He was a tall, handsome guy who spoke near-perfect English, who openly dreamed of studying in the United States. But who cares? He had more hash at his disposal than anyone who lives on a blanket in a closet has ever had in history. It’s true. I looked it up.

According to a study conducted by the International Max-Planck Research School on Astrophysics, Braun’s method of smoking hash is the most effective accelerant that we have here on earth, propelling one from stasis to intergalactic space travel in under three seconds. His method (please consult diagram) consists of manipulating the block of hash into a long thin rod, and inserting it into a shortened cigarette that nestles itself in the lip of a drinking glass. One lights the end of the exposed hash rod, and as it slowly smolders (think of an incense stick), one covers the glass with cardboard and waits for the glass to fill richly with pure hash smoke. When this is achieved, one tips open the cardboard, and inhales all smoke through one’s nose. And for the next three minutes, you’ll want to hurl yourself into a wall of samurai swords. After that feeling of impending doom mercifully passes, you’ll want to be alone in a dimly lit place, horizontal, and away from sharp objects and prescription meds. Thirty minutes later, you’ll be ready to hit the town and speak to exactly no one, while having an amazing time for precisely no good reason at all.

Braun is the most unnecessarily proud doer-of-any-drug I’ve ever met in my life. If he wasn’t showing off his uniquely death-defying method of smoking hash, he was boasting recklessly about the quality of his hash. And if he wasn’t talking about hash, he was talking about white women and how they’d probably like to smoke his hash.

White women, it turns out, was the only drug he’d opt for over a glass full of space ether. We’d go out, and no matter the physicality of the target, Braun was radar-locked on achieving the coital union of east and west. It was proof that even in a time and place where typically religious and racial divisions prove difficult to bridge, love can still be found. See? There is merit in sex tourism…

Braun and I got along well. Sometimes, he would even show off his dancing skills for me. It felt a little gay, but beyond that, it also felt kind of nice that he cared what I thought about his gay dancing. He did a pretty good job of freaking out a few of the girls we’d met along the way, but luckily I was too spaced out to give it much notice. Frankly, I was overtly pacified at all times in Sharm el-Sheikh. Whether underwater with Napoleon Wrasse’s, or in the throes of an intense hash binge, I don’t think I ever had the urge to do anything more than wryly smile and enjoy.

Except, that is, for the toiling trek up Mount St. Catherine. The summit is where Moses allegedly received the Ten Commandments, spoke to a burning bush, and thought it was God. Sounds to me like Moses was spending a bit of time with Braun as well, and to that effect, I kind of felt like God himself was wagging a finger at me while I coveted a few of the Russian pilgrims once atop the apex. After a moment of reticence, I wrote it off to hash residue, gave Moses a knowing nod, took about 90 pictures, and resumed coveting.

There is some conjecture that copyists misinterpreted the word “Sinai” in Hebrew as “bush,” as there was a mountain of Sinai that was also on fire at some point in the sordid history the Old Testament attempts to recount. In any event, after the nearly three hour climb to the summit in the dead of night to catch a rather spectacular sunrise, I was more than a little ready to return to the friendly confines of Braun’s cousin’s back room with a nose full of dense fumes to take me back to a place that felt more like something I can actually believe in.

My last night in Sharm I spent at the Sinai Grand: a glistening, beckoning beacon of gambling splendor that from my first moment in Sharm I knew held within it the promise of riches. It was one of those things where I just knew even before I walked in that I’d walk out with a smile as wide as my wallet.

After an inordinately swift loss of 300 euro, I cashed back in for 200 more. Keep in mind that at this time the exchange rate was 1 euro = $1.54. Add to that the juice the casino takes on every transaction, and I was facing losses along the lines of a $1.70 per euro. Upon my return to the table, a Russian couple (shocker) had sat down. After the umpteenth time this fool and his wife split 20s and won nothing, all the while scoffing at me when I hit on 16 against dealer 8s, I had amassed a stash of chips equal or greater than the pile he and his wife had lost. Ordinarily, I get frustrated when people at the table don’t employ basic strategy. But in this case, his burgeoning anger was entertainment enough, to say nothing of the amazing luck he was affording me. By the time the casino kicked us all out, I was sitting in front of a pile of almost 1700 euro (up about 1000), and smiling ear-to-prophetic-ear.

The following day, I hopped a flight to Luxor, to do some hardcore Egyptian sightseeing. As it turns out, greater Egypt has a far different feel than the Sinai. Luxor was a proper city. Touristy; yes. But it was about as clean as a Bedouin taint. Luxor is a sullied city of under 400,000 people that straddles the Nile in the southern part of Egypt. As the site of the ancient city of Thebes, it is considered the world’s largest open-air museum. Personally, I think that title belongs to Cloris Leachman’s vagina. But then again, I’ve never been there as far as I can remember. On the other hand, I have very distinct memories of Luxor.

Luxor, on the east bank, boasts the Temple of Karnak, the Temple of Luxor, the mummy museum, and the Luxor Museum. On the west bank, is the Temple of Hatshepsut, The Ramesseum, The Valleys of the Kings, The Valley of the Queens, Tombs of the Nobles, and the Temple of Ramesses III. And yes, I saw all of them (except The Valley of the Queens).

I’ll save you the details of each, but will offer these bullet points:
- The Luxor Museum was far more impressive on a bang-for-your-buck basis than the Egyptian Museum in Cairo.
- The Valley of the Kings gave me the inspiration for how I wish to be buried. Lavishly, and by the hands of hundreds of loyal disciples. It was like an MTV Cribs marathon from 2500 years ago.
- After looking on a map and seeing the relative proximity of the Temple of Hatshepsut to the Valley of the Kings, I opted to hike alone over the hills to get there. It took forever. This, I learned later, was not recommended.
- The Temple of Luxor was littered with phallic images of the God of Fertility. In each instance, the massive cock in the engraving was tinted dark with the oil of a thousand hands. It seems that in order to pray for fertile sperm, one needs to rub an ancient engraving until it emits some of its own.
- Ramesses III was not afraid to live large. He was the Ludacris of the Egyptian Age.
- Tombs of the Nobles were the best-preserved tombs of all that I saw. And I saw many. Not that you care, but at least some of this blog needs to recount things I did and saw and not merely kowtow to you people.

Luxor however, was my first experience with the aggressiveness that is the Egyptian people. If you are white, and walking, you are invariably a target for belligerent hassling that exists on a scale that approaches a screaming boil. And the screaming will be your own. I hatched a plan to combat this by renting a bicycle solely to avoid the badgering of the locals. This decision proved to be the most effective use of $2 I enjoyed in all of the Middle East. And that includes every two packs of cigarettes ($1 each) I’d choke down.

Luxor also had an impressive market, within which were even more intrusive shop owners who would be physically unable to allow me to pass the gaping mouth of their shop without declaring my friendship. Their misinterpretation of friendship is far worse than that of half of my Facebook friends. As such, I opted to enjoy the market with sunglasses and a hood pulled low. I figured I may as well look like someone who may steal something if I want to be left alone. And frankly, that was also a marvelously successful strategy.

At this point, I was beginning to feel as though I had conquered the acute unilateral attacks of the Egyptian people. So when I purchased dried apricots from one particular shop owner and asked for cashews, the deeply-creased 68 year-old Bedouin set in motion a search for cashews across the entire Luxor marketplace. To no avail. To express his sincere regret, he invited me for tea and hash at his apartment, to which I enthusiastically agreed. When an aging Bedouin asks you for tea and hash, here is really no other option.

We traipse the seven or so blocks to his flat, on the third floor of a building in average condition. The interior, however, was a different story indeed. As we enter, he explains to me how he owns three shops, the fruit/spice stand at which we’d met, a tailor across the street that he’d opened seven years ago, and another tailor across town. Tailoring is the trade he is most proud of. Mine is boning. I rule.

The three-room apartment is dimly lit with a total of two light bulbs. In the main room is a shredding polyester blanket that stretches between padded benches lining the walls. Before we sit on the blanket, we customarily remove our shoes. Upon sitting on the blanket, this action seems evermore ironic. To be sure, the ground outside is considerably more unpolluted than the blanket on which I was now seated. There were inexplicable grains of sand attaching themselves to any patch of exposed skin left uncovered. But the beer was cold and delicious and once the hash entered the picture, I lost all cares in the world. No wonder this shit is so popular in places where life typically sucks.

After flipping through an enormous stack of pictures of his friends (ie. white people who took pictures and sent them to him) I am left wondering if it’s the hash or am I starting to think these guys really do make friends this easily? Like, do the Egyptians employ friend-finding methods only recently revolutionized by Facebook patrons? Fourteen hours later, I wouldn’t care anymore. Because Cairo made me want to kill myself.

I will say this about Cairo: it fucking sucks. And that includes the pyramids. Consider for a moment that I probably read more than two dozen books on the pyramids before I entered high school (yep, I was that cool), and I am saying this unequivocally: the pyramids are a disappointment.

Don’t get me wrong, the pyramids themselves are impressive indeed. But everything around them (the litter, the Bedouins hocking donkey and camel rides, the pirates asking for your ticket only to have you bribe them to get it back, the totally gay night laser show) was seriously awful. I made a comment to many people that if the ancient Egyptians ever saw how the current-day Egyptians are treating their landmarks, they would wage war on them. And they’d win convincingly because they all ride camels that are about 90 years old and malnourished to a point where the word “euthanasia” tickles your sympathy bone.

Cairo is also a horribly filthy city, so much so that you can actually taste the pollution. Imagine always walking around with a mouthful of orange juice right after you brushed your teeth, along with an ashtray shoved up your nose, and you’ll only begin to understand what it’s like to walk around Cairo. The food there is decent, and there is a vibrant nightlife scene, but it can all be missed.

I did however, manage to use my charm to score some privacy while they kicked everyone out for the three hours before the light show, which allowed me to watch the sun set over the pyramids alone and in peace. I got the feeling as it was happening that it was a uniquely rare tourist experience.

One additional special moment was watching the Super Bowl (as a Giants fan) at an ex-pat bar in Cairo. Kickoff was at midnight, and along with about thirty other people (mostly Australians and Brits), watched the greatest NFL game in history. Word spread around the bar that I was from New York, and I enjoyed minor celebrity status the likes of which only Samantha Ronson can probably relate to. By the end, I was the recipient of countless hi-fives, free shots, and invitations to parties for later in the week… if only I didn’t already have a flight booked to Dubai two days later. Dubai is a much more entertaining story, provided I can figure out a way to write it appropriately.

A Few Words...

2008-09-03T08:48:00.003+05:00

A lot of you have given me shit lately (and rightfully so) for not posting a story in some time. By now you've come to understand that I'm much better at making excuses than I am at owning up to my own expectations, never mind all of yours.

Rest assured, a story on Egypt is in the works, and from there I have to walk everyone through Dubai, Tanzania (including Zanzibar), Mozambique, South Africa, Swaziland, Namibia, Botswana, and Victoria Falls. I can do it, trust me.

But I'd like to quickly call your attention to the following reasons I have yet to post an entry since returning to the states five weeks ago:

- I've been homeless
- I've been motherfucking working (!!!!)
- I've been reassimilating to life back in the developed world
- I've been approaching depression due to the above
- I suck.

If you could follow that convoluted laundry list of confusing insights into how cluttered my brain/life is these days, then my hat's off to you. Additionally, if you've got an itch to read any of my exploits over the aforementioned 13-14 months of travel, then I present you with a choice: A) visit the archives, B) take my place at work, or C) tag me as spam for making too many unnecessary lists. And then suck it.

Finally, I'll offer you a teaser: the Egypt story is one that includes an intense friendship, an awkward breakup, a hash binge, and one of the Seven Most Disappointing Wonders of the World. Methinks you'll find the wait well worth it. And methinks you love the word "methinks" more every time I use it...

Recognize.

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Israel - A Lesson in Spontaneous Inefficiency

2008-07-02T02:23:00.006+05:00

Let’s see. I was in Israel oh— only about six months ago. I know this because my intention was to get to Jerusalem so that I could observe Christmas there and/or Bethlehem. I may not be religious, but I’m all for tradition. Besides, if it turns out there actually is a god, I’m sure he’ll give me a pass on some things (this blog?) because I made an effort to rub elbows with some of his most faithful on one of his holiest days. Right god? Or is it God? Ooh! A butterfly!! [scampers into dewy meadow].

I cross the border at the Allenby Bridge, and get my passport branded with the Israeli stamp, effectively dismissing entry into any more devout Muslim countries. Not that I was anxious to go back to Syria anyway. From there, I make my way (via four separate busses from Amman, Jordan on the day) to Jerusalem in time for Christmas Eve. I choose not to make the additional trek to Bethlehem for the following reasons: A) after that many busses, I wasn’t about to board a fifth, even if Jesus himself was at the other end making me a schwarma with virgin baby meat B) the “right” way to get to Bethlehem on Christmas Eve is to walk all 17 km, and that was NOT happening under any circumstances, and C) at the end of the day, my hypocrisy can extend only so far. So, let’s just get drunk like it’s any other Christmas, shall we? Good. Proceed.

Dismissing the Bethlehem idea, I join two Israelis from Tel Aviv on a nighttime walking tour of Jerusalem. I suggest we do so with wine/beer, as there’s really no better way to celebrate the lord than to imbibe the very nectar of his divinity. This was our way of honoring him, assuming he did all the things that that silly book says he did. And even if he didn’t, we’d be too drunk to give a shit. Advantage: Jesus.

Interestingly, there is a strong preponderance of atheism in Israel. Though upon further inspection, this can easily be understood. For one thing, religion is omnipresent in Israel. With so many Christians, Muslims, and Jews residing in a place of such significance to each, it’s not difficult for one to find the logical shortcomings in any religion. To say nothing of recognizing the problems religion causes from an origin of conflict perspective.

Let me pause here for a moment and say that ordinarily, I would not inject religion or politics into any entry on this blog, but please understand that it is impossible to ignore such things in Israel (much the same as it’s impossible to ignore politics in Zimbabwe). Plus, it’s my blog, and I’ll write what I damn well please. God stuff is for poopy-brains. There, I said it.

It’s remarkable to see the relationship that America and Israel share. It’s unique in that you have many Jewish Americans on Taglit (or Birthright) trips, sponsored by Americans as a way to introduce Israel and foster its support. Additionally, you have even more Americans on holiday with their church groups, following the Stations of the Cross and praying at the Holy Sepulcher. Finally, the Temple Mount is a place of religious pilgrimage for many Muslims, and so unless you’re a Buddist or a Taoist, you’re bound to come through Jerusalem at some time or another. And if you’re a Scientologist, you’ll pop up in any place a body thetan isn’t, and those places are rare indeed.

If anyone was wondering, here is the religious checklist available in Jerusalem:
- Al Aqsa (or Temple Mount) – the third holiest place on earth in Islam, after Mecca and Medina. In truth, the Temple Mount (as the site at which many of the prophets, including Jesus and Muhammad, met to pray to god) was the direction in which Muslims faced during prayer until Muhammad was ordered to change the direction towards Mecca. I guess this proves that like us, god can be fickle sometimes.
- Wailing Wall – the holiest place on earth for Jews, and this is only because in actuality, the Temple Mount is THE holiest place (though specifically where on the Temple Mount is as yet undetermined). This is because in the Talmud, it is the place from where the world was created (more accurately, the Foundation Stone). Additionally, the bible states that this is where Abraham was asked to sacrifice his son Isaac. But the Wailing Wall is as close as the Jews can get to all of this, insofar as the Muslims control the Temple Mount. This remains a key point of contention in the Palestinian/Israeli conflict, and god invariably rolls his eyes and wishes he had the foresight to have all these significant events happen in different places so everyone could just SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT IT already.
- Stations of the Cross – Jesus got hooked up with a cross at some point oh… around 2000 years ago. Stop me if you’ve heard this before. In doing so, he was asked not-so-nicely to carry this massive thing around with him through the slick, cobblestoned streets of Jerusalem. Along the way, he did a number of things (14 to be exact), including falling three times, getting his clothes stripped from his body, and being laid to rest. Forgive me if I’m missing something, but this pretty much sounds like my average Saturday night. Then again, the cross Jesus bore weighed 80 kilos and was spiked to his wrists, whereas mine is 80 proof and has stickers on it. Touché, Jesus. You win this round. I’ll get you yet! Fucker.
- Holy Sepulcher – is the final Station of the Cross, where Jesus was laid to rest. Mercifully. To be honest, his life didn’t sound like it was that much fun to live anyway. Then again, I guess that’s where all that “died for our sins” talk comes from. But you know, I’d quit swearing if it meant saving just one life. Just one. Does that not a messiah make? Methinks so. Goddamn, I’m a fucking great man.
- Mount of Olives – This is the grove of olive trees outside the city walls where Jesus, knowing he would be arrested that night, asked his douchebag friends to stay awake with him. Guess what? They didn’t. They slept like the selfish cunts they are. For the record, if any friend of mine asked me to stay awake with him the night before he was going to get arrested-slash-nailed to a huge wooden cross, I wouldn’t leave home without a wheelbarrow full of Red Bull and rechargeable tasers.
- There are obviously others, but if you want a more complete description of them instead of the snide account I’ll offer you, you’d be better served with a Google search. Clearly, I’m more into entertainment than I am into history lessons. Don’t worry, Jesus understands.

After a night in Jerusalem, I went out to the Dead Sea on Christmas day for some much deserved mud bath love and a much less enjoyable trek up Masada. For what it’s worth, Masada is maybe the most incredible story I’ve ever heard, whether or not it’s all true. Click the link to read a bit of the debate. Needless to say, none of the contrarian argument is offered at the actual site. The Jews say the Zealots committed mass suicide rather than be taken as slaves by the Romans. However, there is at least some evidence that the actual account should probably still be in debate, as it’s possible that the Romans indeed did storm the plateau and kill everybody. Cause that’s what Romans do. Duuuuh!

This brand of reconstructing history is kind of like if suddenly the Christians started erected crosses everywhere saying that Jesus wanted to die, disallowing the Romans any possible feeling of accomplishment in taking him against his will despite all of his followers. Wait. What???? That happened? Hmm… Curious indeed [strokes chin and eats supreme cheese Dorito]. [mmm... supreme].

I can’t remember now if I and this Israeli girl (who was a very eager and knowledgeable tour guide) went to the Dead Sea spa at Ein Gedi before or after Masada, but who cares? The Dead Sea, no matter how many things you read or hear about it, is like another planet. Everyone knows its salinity is the densest of any body of water in the world, and that you float when laying in it. You hear those things, and you see pictures, and it’s like someone else reciting to you their weird dream. Basically, who cares about the guy with the lizard tongue who reminded you of your third grade art teacher?

However, when you lay back into the Dead Sea, you are suspended like an astronaut in a NASA space station. You float like you’re sitting in an armchair. There were other college-age tourists there, stacking large rocks on each other trying to make each other sink, and they were failing. It was awesome.

And that’s something I didn’t see much of in Israel, was failure. Knowing the history of the region, you definitely get the sense that Israelis have a keen sense of perseverance. For one, Tel Aviv looks like a mirage. It’s situated on a beautiful crescent-shaped beach, dotted with kite surfers, slick cafes, and sick clubs. It's only 100 years old, is perhaps the world's foremost destination to view Bauhaus architecture, and has a positive energy that is hard to find elsewhere.

Secondly, Israel has gorgeous people. I guess mandatory military service (three years for men, two for women) has its advantages. Everyone is in great shape, carries massive guns (those currently serving, anyway), and parties like it’s the last night before the next holocaust.

I’ll footnote all this talk of Israelis with the asterisk that I am not speaking about Palestinians. I did meet a couple, but on the day I planned to try to go into the West Bank, stupid George Bush was in Jerusalem and there was no getting in or out of Jerusalem for three days. So, I left Jerusalem for Eilat the morning before he arrived.

For Palestinians however, there is no getting out of the West Bank, virtually ever (which is why it was difficult to meet any). This is because there is a massive fucking WALL surrounding the West Bank. Not quite the image a “security fence” (as detailed in the media) conjures, believe me.

On the flip side, there is still ongoing conflict. Homemade rockets (with virtually no range, but still enough to possibly kill people) are launched over the wall from time to time, and two Israeli soldiers were killed in the West Bank while I was in Jerusalem. All this adds up to one simple fact: it is such an emotionally charged clash of belief systems that it leaves both sides completely out of focus, and therefore it is nearly impossible to engage in an objective conversation about it with anyone. Both sides are simply as right as they are wrong.

Finally (on this political tip), I’m surprised that the extremist Muslims don't aim more of their ire at the Christians. The Christians, for lack of a better term, FUCKED THEM UP during the crusades way worse than the Jews ever have. But let it be said that 99% of all Muslims I met in the Middle East were all for peaceful conflict resolution with the US and Israel in all respects. They too, denounce the practices of the radical few.

Speaking of Christians, I spoke with an Evangelical Christian lady from Texas for what seemed like AAAAGES about evolution. Note to self for next time: fuck that. We sat in front of an internet connection, Googling various studies that would support our theories. The difference being, that the studies I would bring up were conducted by scientists in huge research laboratories full of massive microscopes, and the studies that she would direct me to were conducted by preachers who all studied from the same tiny book in their living rooms, with their undersized televisions hooked into only the lowest form of public access drivel.

She kept bringing up the case of the woodpecker, and how it was the single best example of intelligent design. She said that it was impossible for the beak to evolve because if it didn’t have a beak and smacked it’s brain on the tree, then it would die. I found that to be a compelling argument, insofar as I’m quite sure the same thing would happen to me, if I were dumb enough (ie. drunk enough) to try such a thing. However, she said, if the beak evolved, and it’s brain stopped getting splattered all over the tree’s trunk, then the skull plate in the back of the head would have to evolve too, lest the brains come flying out the back of the head instead of landing all over the tree. This, of course, smacked of a regurgitation of something she'd heard her preacher say at some point, only because it was a reasonable start to an argument she was unfit to carry forth. And I was equally unfit to recognize this fact in advance of getting sucked into this conversational vortex.

Ok, I said. So they evolved at the same time. The beak got progressively stronger, and the skull did as well. Somehow, this concept of two things occurring at once was one that she couldn’t get her mind around. I made a joke to the effect that "See? Two things are happening at the same time right now. I am talking, and yet simultaneously, time is moving backwards, along with our progress." [silence]

Later I had her explain to me that since six different species of giraffe were determined to exist (a scientific study that at that time had recently been released), that god designed the giraffe species, but evolution takes over at the sub-species level.

Oooooohhhh! Why didn’t you SAY so in the FIRST PLACE?!?! All this time I thought god was handling the whole kit and caboodle! How wrong I was! So let me get this straight. He gets man-scientists to determine, man-scientists mind you, hell-bent on disproving his own very existence, the point at which he, as god, does or does not have any control over the design!?! Really?!?! That’s the answer?? All these years, I’ve been such a FOOL!!! What’s next? Are unicorns real? Please say they’re real. For god’s sake, if you can design any species, why wouldn’t you make a horse with wings and a massive horn??? Those things are AWESOME!!!

Then it occurred to me. I am the woodpecker. And the skull plate in the back of my head has not evolved to the point where I can withstand banging it against a substance with the impenetrable density of this woman’s lack of sense. Check please. I'm out.

After some eight days or so spent in Tel Aviv (one of which was spent eating the best pork chop I've ever had during Shabbat), and about ten or eleven in Jerusalem, with at least four trips back and fourth to either one in between, I headed down to Eilat on the Red Sea. After another stop on the Dead Sea, of course. Clearly, I opted to traverse Israel in the least efficient way possible. And I wasn’t done yet.

Eilat is a resort town where Israelis come to escape the party-loving splendor that is Tel Aviv. However, Eilat is pretty much a hole. I mean, it looks nice, if you’re into antiseptic places with no discernable character. Why anyone would ever leave the blissful allure of Tel Aviv for the soulless asspit of Eilat on a vacation is a mystery to me. Then again, I wasn’t there in the summer, so it is possible that at that time it transforms into a place with some spirit, and (hopefully) no conscience. Lord knows Tel Aviv has none.

From Eilat, I hooked up with a group of New Yorkers on their way out to Petra in Jordan. Have you ever looked at a really cool sand castle and thought to yourself, “I want to live in there” and not been on peyote? Me neither. But if I ever accidentally eat a kilo of peyote on a beach during a sand castle contest for giants, then I’ll have to jump out of my Batmobile and shimmy down the Batpole to my Batlair where it’s safe. And when all that’s over with, I’ll compare my psychotic memories with my pictures from Petra and probably still be disappointed by my lack of imagination. Petra is that cool.

On the way to Petra, the NYers invited me to a trance party on the Dead Sea later that night. The Dead Sea is about a 6 hour drive north of Eilat, back in the exact same direction I had finally escaped from. I thought about it for about half a Batsecond and signed up.

The reason I took any time at all to consider this, wasn’t because I was worried about going back up north, far out of my way, or because I didn’t want to go to some inevitably awesome trance party on the Dead Sea. But more because I was asked early in the morning (with the ever-present throbbing hangover), when I’d had literally less than an hour to meet these people. Now, I consider myself a good enough judge of character to know that this was a good group, so I wasn’t even worried that I wouldn’t like them or they wouldn’t like me (how could they possibly not like me??). But the fact was, they had one car, five people, and I wasn’t entirely sure they thought I’d ever say yes.

They were wrong. I decided almost immediately that I’d rather deal with inconveniencing them than miss this. They seemed genuinely surprised when I accepted, but more in a pleasant way than in a “crap. This guy’s coming now?” way. So, good times were ahead.

Until, that is, we hit the Israeli border station outside Eilat coming back from Petra. Neverminding that I had already been in Israel earlier that same day, they spied my Syrian stamp on my passport, and that was it. “Park your ass in a bright, colorless, sterile room for the next three hours before we decide you can come into our country that wouldn’t even be much of a country without your country and it’s Jewish citizens like your obviously Jewish father who gave you that Jewish last name that I can plainly see on your passport. Suck it.”

At least, that's what I thought he said as my brain was approached combustible levels of irritation. Of course in retrospect, I know that my father had nothing to do with the formation or prosperity of Israel. And even less so, have I done anything beyond reinvigorating their tourist economy. So basically, who really cares if I'm made to sit and wait forever just to come in and party on the Dead Sea? Answer: Jesus. He died so I wouldn't have to wait to party. Ever. Praise the Lord!

After nearly three hours of patiently waiting (along with the others, who were so f***ing cool about it that it would have made me cry if I wasn’t ready to snapkick every border guard instead), I get let into the same country I left earlier the same day. Shortly afterwards, the six of us pile into their undersized economy rental car, and burn up to the Dead Sea for this party.

Which never happens. Apparently the Israeli cops broke it up before it got anywhere near underway, and that was that. Instead, we left our kibbutz the next morning and went back to the Ein Gedi spa (my third time). I’ll never get tired of the Dead Sea. Which is a good thing, I think. Because with or without global warming, it’ll be gone in less than 50 years. Duhn duhn duuuuuuhn…..

At some point during the day at the spa, probably around the time the guys and I were assailing each other with mud balls, I mention that we have to party together to make this long, arduous journey pay off. And at that moment, we decided I was going with them to Tel Aviv. That’s right, back to Tel Aviv. Again. Mind you, about 90% of my belongings were still in storage down in Eilat, and I could not have possibly cared any less. The Jewish side of me was clearly at odds with the thrill-seeking party side. Risk losing stuff that costs money? Or live with years of regret about what might have been? Verdict: caution is for sissies. And mud fights? They’re for unabashedly tough, hetero cockslinging stallions… Ok, ok! No more science.

We get to Tel Aviv, where we meet up with a few other people, and have some good times. Nothing overly noteworthy, just real good times. And after a couple days of this, I get the overwhelming urge to move on from Israel. There’s a LOT I still wanted to do there, but I was getting the itch to move on. People ask me how I know it’s time to move on from a place. And the truth is, it’s right around the time I realize that I’ve been wearing the same boxer shorts for four straight days.

From Tel Aviv, I head directly down to Eilat, and get the fuck out of Israel the next day. I loved Israel and can’t wait to go back, but by the time I left, it was clear that if I ever had to set foot on another Israeli bus, I was going to blow myself up. And wouldn’t the cops be surprised when they found out I was the one they knew they shouldn’t have let back in the country with my ominous Syrian passport stamp? Last laugh: Irritated tourist. Zing!!!

If this seems like a long story, it’s because it was. Thus, the feeling like I had to GET OUT of Israel and move on. The map above indicates the circuitous path I took around an otherwise very small country. Somehow though, I managed to spend half my time in transit. That is not the kind of ideology that has made Israel a technological and developmental blueprint for the world to follow. Mine is clearly a path less traveled. At least in that country.

As for more current events, I’m STILL in Cape Town. However, I’m flying back to New York (finally) on a flight leaving next week, arriving early the following morning. So, from then on, I’ll probably keep posting belated stories on here just to catch everyone up properly. In the meantime, you can all look forward to my new blog, to be revealed in the coming weeks. Spoiler alert: You’re gonna hate loving it.

PS – You may have noticed that I changed the name of the blog. I hated the old name, as I never really gave it any thought. This name, I like a bit more. Comments on the new name can be directed straight up your ass. That’s what traveling tight is all about! Boo-yah!

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How Long Has It Been???

2008-06-11T18:22:00.007+05:00

I've gotten in the habit of beginning these posts with excuses, and I see no reason to discontinue that trend now. So, since my last entry, I opted to take an organized tour (my first in over a year of travel) up through Namibia and northern Botswana to Victoria Falls. The problem with this was several-fold. For one, it was a camping safari, so it's not as if I was in the lap of luxury with any consistent internet access. Secondly, you're herded along like desperate speed-daters in such a way that consciously impedes on your sense of freedom. So on the off-occasion when I'd actually have time to access the internet, it consisted almost entirely of A) checking my bank balance, B) organizing another tenant in my apartment, and C) rejecting Facebook "pillow fight" invitations. Long story short, I (again) apologize for the extended silence.

Let's see. UPDATES!!! From Cape Town, I went overland for 20 days with a group comprised of a bunch of mid-twenties Dutch, two German couples, an older Spanish couple, and a bunch of American college girls. Basically, it only confirmed what I think I knew all along: I drink.

Let me explain. Each night after our day's activities, the first thing I'd do is crack a bottle (or box, as the case often was) of white wine, even before our cook began preparing our meal. By 11pm, I was usually a bottle deep, and catching awkward glances from our guides. The group, however, seemed to react surprisingly favorably to my er-- dependency. In fact, one Dutch psychologist on the tour told me one night "You drink too much. But at least you are funny and enjoy life." I think that's a pretty excellent theme.

Truth is, when I spend half my morning on a tour truck, I am ready to go absolutely bananas by the time I get off. Those who have traveled with me in the past will attest to the fact that I have a near boundless amount of energy, especially when traveling. This, when coupled with time, space, and free-thought restrictions is pretty much the perfect recipe to send me into a downward spiral, in this case abetted by chenin blanc by the box.

In any case, on this tour I did the following (bulleted for indexing and brevity):

- Held a poisonous scorpion in my hand
- Watched sunset at Fish River Canyon, the third largest canyon in the world
- Saw the Namib desert, which included climbing a 200m dune at sunrise. And let me just say that it was about 10,000 times more difficult (and amazing) than it sounds.
- Also in the Namib desert:
- Saw the Dead Flats in Sossusvlei, which looks like a real-life Salvador Dali painting. Words honestly can't describe.
- Barrel-rolled down a dune for pretty much no reason
- Sandboarded (for which I have video and pics, to be posted later) and reached 72kph and threw out my hip. I am now totally committed to learning to snowboard/ski, effective immediately.
- Slept in the bush, under the most intense and intoxicating night sky I've ever imagined. Also had to scare a wild cat off the rock me and three others were sleeping on.
- Ran into some random rock festival that used the rock formations of the desert as an acoustic backdrop. Met some wacky chick from San Francisco that I could swear told me she'd been on amphetamines for three straight days without sleep. She does AIDS research for the Center of Disease Control. Nice.
- Hung out with some Himba orphans and gave helicopter rides to about 30 of them before nearly slipping a disc.
- Had the best safari experience yet at Etosha NP in Namibia. In just over an hour, at a night watering hole, a pack of six hienas came down to drink, then a black rhino who then gave way to a leopard (respect!!!!) which are nearly impossible to spot in the wild. Then two black rhinos boned before getting chased off by a fleet of about 40 elephants. It was like a National Geographic Sunday night special.
- Ate a zebra steak. It's a lot like beef, only better because it's zebra.
- Spent two days in the Okavango Delta. Spent nearly an hour flying above it at 400 feet, watching herds of elephant and buffalo from above, which was seriously incredible. Then camped for two days in the delta, which took a two hour mokoro ride through tall grass and reeds to get to.
- During these two days, I tracked elephant, zebra, and giraffe, had nuts thrown at me from treetops by vervet monkeys, played capture the flag in a field of wooded thorns, swam naked in a natural (freezing cold) pool formed by the delta and sat in a mokoro on a lake full of hippos about 30m away. All this was almost definitely something I would have been unable to arrange on my own. So, maybe organized tours aren't ALL bad...
- Went to Chobe NP and did a sunset game cruise up the Chobe river, spotting tons of elephants (they roam wild, on the side of roads and in villages in Botswana), hippos, crocodiles, and eagles. This was my favorite game drive out of about 20+ to this point, not the least of which because I could consume as much wine as I could carry.
- Saw Victoria Falls. Which is absolutely gorgeous.

I also saw first hand what a cunt Robert Mugabe can do to a once prosperous economy. I saw Vic Falls from the Zimbabwe side. There is so much I can say about how sad it was but I'll try my best to condense it here. For one thing, the store shelves are all nearly bare, because by the time a store is able to sell anything (even perishables), inflation has rendered them unable to recover their cost, so they opt not to carry anything but cigarettes, rice, and bread.

An example of how fucked their fiscal policy is, the first day I was in Vic Falls, you would divide by 800 to get the amount in Botswana Pula. The next day, you divided by 430. The whole economy operates on Pula, Rand, and USD. Unless you want to buy something in the shops, in which case you may end up with a stack of $10,000,000 Zim notes about an inch thick as change from a dollar. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, goes across the border to Zambia to get their fuel and food. And the worst part of this is... this was VICTORIA FALLS!! This is perhaps the biggest tourist destination in Africa, save for maybe the pyramids. If this is what it was like in Vic Falls, I shudder to think what the state of things is like in the villages.

This is also made worse in that Mugabe COULD have left office eight years ago, and been remembered as a great man. He had built sub-Saharan Africa's most prosperous economy, their best education system (which is why many skilled Zimbabweans are able to find work easily in South Africa, kicking off the violent protests of locals around Jo'burg and Cape Town), and blah blah blah he's a fucking cunt.

Other than all that, I also got my first ever pedicure, and before you judge me let me just say this: try it. I lost about a kilo of dead skin off my feet, and I can honestly say that now my feet are beautiful and silky smooth. I wouldn't have it any other way. Judge away, you scaly-footed fucks.

Additionally, I played, and fed and held, lion cubs yesterday. It's a little sad to see them domesticated, but I was assured they will all be released as killers into the "wild" (game parks) once they reach three years of age. In the meantime, I got to hang out with a bunch under the age of eight months. Which, I'll admit, was cooler than I thought it would be.

Lastly, I am currently in Sun City, South Africa, once again traveling on my own. I can't put into words (well, I can, but interpret this as blatant laziness) how good that feels. Anyway, Sun City is supposed to be South Africa's answer to Vegas. Well, the answer is all wrong. I've been to Vegas what, maybe 6-7 times I think? I don't ever remember walking into any casino and not finding a nightclub that oozed decadence and downright sin. In Sun City, there are no nightclubs to speak of, no strip clubs whatsoever, and in general, it's a disappointing place to spend a birthday. I mean, I'm glad I'm here, but it's not what I expected. Oh yea, and ALL the game tables close down at 2am. What is that about?!?! How am I expected to make irrational decisions prior to the 4am hour??

From here I am heading up to Gabarone (back into Botswana) to get a feel for the people around there, since I think this is a really interesting time to see Botswana, and I can't say I learned much of anything about the actual country when I was flying through the Okavango and Chobe at warp speed. After that, I go to the Kalahari for one last ditch chance to see a cheetah run (or at least see something kill something) before going back to Johannesburg, spending a couple days at the museums and in Soweto, then getting to Cape Town and ending this thing once and for all. By then, 13 months of travel will be in the books. I think that's plenty. My wallet thinks so too.

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Cape Town's Got a Hold of Me!!!!

2008-05-17T20:00:00.003+05:00

This is another update. I've been in Cape Town now for nearly three weeks, as I just haven't been able to leave. For the past three weeks, Niels (a guy Ed and I met in Port St. Johns who has been living in Cape Town since January) and I have been strong on the scene, logging late nights and some memorable (if sometimes unbelievable) stories. One or more are bound to find themselves on here once I can concentrate on actually writing stuff for you all.

But enough excuses. I paraglided today, but inasmuch as I didn't catch any thermals (oddly similar vernacular to that which surfers use), it more or less just felt like a parachute ride. Either way though, I did have to take off and land, so anyone who wants to call me a pussy from their desk chair can pretty much just suck my ovaries.

Wow. Even I didn't see that one coming.

I'm leaving tomorrow on a 21 day overland camping tour through Namibia and Botswana, finishing in Zambia at Victoria Falls. It's the first tour I've booked in nearly a year of travel, so I guess you could say I'm getting a bit lazy. Then again, if you could see for five minutes the unbridled fervor with which I attack vodka-sodas in this country, you'd be positively awestruck.

Once in Vic Falls, I'm considering a quick 3-4 day dash into Zimbabwe to do a game drive and/or visit a nearby township before flying back to Cape Town. The move from there is to either settle down in Cape Town (a gradually increasing scenario) or head home to New York. What I love about Cape Town has a lot to do with what I love about New York, so I'll just have to see where my head is at after three weeks of camping in the bush. Certainly, I'll have plenty of time to think while traveling an average of 350 km/day on some outdated tour truck farting along at about 80 km/hr.

Ok, I need to take a nap before taking Cape Town by storm one last time (in May anyway). I'll report back.

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Yikes!!! From South Africa

2008-04-28T15:25:00.008+05:00

Updates!!!!

I'm in Cape Town after traversing the Wild Coast and Garden Route in the Jazz. Highlights are many and require about a story per town, and I'm starting to realize that I'll be catching up on stories for a long time. My sincerest apologies for that, but I assure you what the catching up will most definitely occur.

Random thoughts and updates of note:

- I suck at surfing, but I'm amazing at swallowing ocean.
- Climbing Table Mountain in Cape Town = overrated.
- Bungee jumping off the Bloukrans Bridge (biggest bridge in Africa and longest bungee in the world including a 180m freefall, reaching speeds of up to 190 km/hr ) is the SICKEST thing ever.
- What IS scary is that I wasn't scared at all.
- Cliff jumping, on the other hand, is fucking terrifying. I have logged two separate 9m jumps and a 5m. One of the 9m jumps involved waiting for a wave to come in, dodging an outcrop on the way down, and avoiding a rock upon landing. That... was scary.
- Hiked (barefoot over rocks and boulders) and swam up the coldest river I can imagine to view a gorge around Knysna.
- Then got robbed a fourth time when a thief broke into our car and stole a used pair of sneakers, change from the cupholder, and our cds. It was easily the most useless heist ever.
- A LOOOOOONG story short: Ed and I rolled out to some boys camp (think Afrikaans Jonestown) because some idiot split his head open and needed medical attention. Cops would do nothing, nearest hospital is 2+ hours away, and they are the closest I've ever come to a cult. Details forthcoming in a proper entry...
- Ostrich is DELICIOUS.
- So is warthog, even though they are awesome little badasses when they're alive.
- Crocodile tastes like a cross between chicken and balsa wood. Pass on it if given the chance.
- After seeing 1.1 million penguins in Argentina 5 years ago, I was no less excited to see about 40 on Cape Point.
- Everyone (and I do mean everyone) in South Africa smokes weed. Oddly, the visitors here don't smoke quite as much.
- South Africa is hardly Africa.

That's all for now. I have a video and pictures from the bungee that you really just have to see to believe. Unfortunately I already mailed all that home before I put it on my computer. Bad move. You'll have to wait for those.

This entry is long on detail and short on laughs. Next time, expect the opposite. In the meantime, I'm staring at least a week or two in Cape Town in the face before heading up towards Victoria Falls through Namibia and Bostwana. Africa is incredible.

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For the Love of God

2008-04-15T18:32:00.010+05:00

First of all, to those who thought I may have somehow jumped up to Syria betwixt Tanzania and Mozambique, let me first assure you that you might be retarded. Secondly, I am much more retarded, if only because I have about nine countries to catch everyone up on with stories, so I completely understand any and all confusion. Unfortunately, finding the internet in places like Kruger National Park is more difficult than spotting a leopard, and let me just say that I'm 90% sure that those things are imaginary.

On the other hand, I am much better at conjuring up excuses for updating this blog so irregularly. The quick and dirty update is I'm in Durban, South Africa. Recent events include a raucous week in Maputo, one in which a story is sure to find its way onto this blog; spent 5 days on safari in Kruger trying (and mostly failing) to spot anything that doesn't eat grass (lets just say I didn't see anything this interesting); nearly died on a treacherous dirt mountain pass on the way to Swaziland in a hailstorm, driving a Honda "motherfuckin" Jazz (pictured); whitewater rafted down the Usutu River in Swaziland while braving category 3 and 4 rapids; and already logged one strong night in Durban since arriving here. Ed's friend Dave took off this afternoon and now it's just Ed and me on the way to Capetown. Should be something of note to include in the meantime, not the least of which will likely involve Ed beating me over the brain with a Nubian statuette.

As for all else, I'm scheduled for a dive with tiger and zambezi sharks on Thursday, going surfing tomorrow, and generally just still bragging to all that will listen about the good times I'm having. I'm sure I'm a real pain in the ass to be around, but no more than normal. I'm still on schedule for an early June homecoming, and lets just say that if you hear of a job opening up in the meantime, please forward. Bitches be broke deez dayz.

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I'll be including my traveladvisor map from now on, to show a graphical progression of my last few months of the journey before heading home. It includes all places I've been, but if you concentrate on eastern Europe, the Middle East, and Africa, then you'll see how far I've come. Anyway, it's fun for me, and that's all that matters.

Syria: Suck it.

2008-03-31T20:14:00.003+05:00

After a full day of travel that involved no less than five different busses, two failed attempts to hire taxis, and the omnipresent semi-continuous activation of my gag reflex in response to liberal middle eastern hygiene, I arrive at the Syrian border (sans visa) with my two traveling companions: a Belgian girl who as far as I can tell, speaks decent Turkish, and a Japanese guy who everyone can tell, speaks excellent Japanese.

The Belgian girl, named Gabrielle, I’d met in Cappadocia in a town called Goreme. She was heading in the same direction I was, and seeing as how she speaks some Turkish, she could only be seen as an asset. Along the way, she divulged to me that her first kiss was at age 25. I’m guessing there haven’t been too many in the two years since, either. The Japanese student, whose name was something very Asian-sounding, I’d met in the Alana bus terminal. He was wandering around looking extremely confused, and through his broken English was able to convey that he too was on his way to Aleppo, Syria. I took it upon myself to invite him along with us, as Gabrielle is hardly an asset I’m feeling compelled to monopolize.

Once we finally approach the border, amid a teeming bus of nondescript pilgrims, whom the bus had picked up on the side of a highway in complete darkness, the three of us are directed towards the office of the guard on duty. He is a man of average height and build, with an above-average mustache and hard eyes. His colleague, a younger man who almost looks white, sits down directly in front of the Japanese guy:

“Where are you from?” he asks in a deliberately thick western accent.

“Japan”

“Do you know… Jackie Chan?”

The officer on duty (lets call him Rollie - as in Fingers - you know, because of the mustache) motions for us to sit down, and after learning where we were all from, assures Gabrielle and Jackie Chan that they’ll get their visas shortly. I, on the other hand, must await word from Damascus, which could take anywhere from one to three hours.

At this point, Rollie offers us to have some of his chicken schnitzel and chips. Gabrielle and Jackie do the sensible thing and politely decline. I, realizing I could be at this border station for the foreseeable future, while also assuming that accepting the offer may make me seem more like someone they may want to invite into their country, hungrily dig in. And let me just say that it tasted EXACTLY like every other schnitzel I’ve ever had in my life. Jackie and Gabrielle look at me mystified as I am eating at a pace far beyond Rollie’s. It’s about 8pm, it’s too dark to see your feet outside, there’s no food elsewhere in the border station, as it’s a Muslim holiday (so things are likely to be closed anyway). Schnitzel was perhaps the only sustenance I’d be seeing for the foreseeable future.

My two companions get their visas and are prodded by the bus driver to either opt to stay with me at the border, or get back on the bus, the last to pass through the border station until sundown the following day. Not much of a decision, really. I check my pockets and realize I have exactly ten Turkish lira, or not enough to buy a coffee much less a visa, and Gabrielle offers to lend me 50 euro. Faced with no other options, I agree and offer to Paypal her the money when next I have the chance. I say thanks and goodbye and kiss her on the cheek, which in her prudish world is probably a precursor to anal.

They leave. The border station is a huge narrowing room with linoleum floors and dirty white cinder walls, and is completely empty save for a half-dozen guards and clerks. I set off on a mission to convert my euros to local currency. The only exchange bureau unpredictably raises a stink because there is a tiny tear in one of the bills near the top-left corner. Recognizing this as being completely illogical, I storm off in search of the only other place to exchange money; a bar/restaurant across the driveway, which also unwaveringly rejects me.

I am blown away. Astonishment is not even the word. At this stage, if I am unable to unload this 50 euro note, I will be forced to either take a taxi about 150 km (one way, which I’m guessing would cost roughly $200 round trip) back into Turkey just to go to an ATM, wait roughly 20 hours and take a bus, or make a run for it. Making a run for it, especially in Syria as a money-clutching, hooknose Jew (their probable point of view, not mine), is not advisable. The irony in the size of the rip compared to the problem it is causing is simply legendary.

It occurs to me that in a land where the currency converts at a rate of about 1,400 Syrian pounds to one shit stain in my underwear, that rejecting a 50 euro note on the basis of a 10 micrometer tear is like a desperate trucker rejecting the advances of a hot, southern college co-ed because he objects to her fake Gucci handbag. My tolerance for the absurd has never been so tested.

I corner Jackie Chan Superfan and after some karate-ish gesticulations that I’m sure he found amusing, I manage to lobby him to protest the exchange bureau on my behalf. He succeeds, albeit at a rate that would seem horribly unfair under any other circumstances, and I’m now liquid enough to buy a visa, should I be granted one.

In a vacant border station, hours creep by at a pace that feels as though time is actually moving backwards in order to taunt you. Each tick of the clock comes as painstakingly as a blip on Terry Shiavo’s heart monitor. In three hours, all five of the people that have been processed at the border have come and gone briskly and efficiently. Apparently, no one is foolish enough to attempt to cross into a Muslim country on a Muslim holiday. This news serves to discourage my pioneering spirit, as I begin wondering what the likelihood is that I’ll be sleeping the entire night on the stiffly ribbed blended polymer bench I’ve now warmed to the temperature of my narrow ass and thighs.

I’m fiendishly smoking cigarettes solely as a way to quantify time in units other than minutes and hours. Forlorn glances at Rollie through the window of his office are met with wry smiles and eventually a sardonically deliberate closing of his wilted horizontal blinds. A fax machine in the office nearest my bench sits idle. I am so alone that I actually laugh out loud just to hear the echo laugh back at me mockingly.

I’ve been carrying Jonathan Franzen’s “How to Be Alone” for weeks after book-swapping it in Istanbul. Despite its timely poignancy, I don’t even have the strength to open it. I lie down and expectantly wait for my iPod battery to die.

I am awoken to a knock on the glass of the office with the fax machine. Rollie is beaming. He beckons me into his office, and I dance/shimmy towards him to the beat of some bad Arabic pop song he is playing through the speaker on his old, worn Nokia cell phone. I’m going to Syria. Now all I have to do is get there.

Rollie sets me up with a guy who will walk me to a taxi, each person engaged in the transaction cunningly getting a piece of the little remaining cash I have left to spend. The time is shortly before 2am, almost six hours since arriving at the border. The taxi costs all but 13 shitstains of the money I have left on me. I get in to the taxi without hesitation. Get me the fuck to Aleppo, stat.

Four minutes after getting into the car, I am in a thick cloud of buyer’s remorse. This guy must have caught hell from the missus for going out at such an ungodly hour. He was hitting speeds in his late 1970’s model Peugeot that even I wouldn’t dream of reaching back in the days when I would angrily race my Audi A4 down the Pulaski Skyway after a workday. He is all over the road. The middle yellow line is merely a suggestion of best practices as we tear toward Aleppo, experiencing g-forces I’m sure have only before been seen at NASA training facilities.

He drops me at what must be considered the dodgiest corner in Aleppo. There are vagrants and mangy animals everywhere. The hotel I booked is nowhere in sight, but he assures me it is a block towards the center. I set off and after walking around for 20 minutes at 2:30am in pretty much the nastiest part of any town I’ve ever been in, it occurs to me that the sign for my hotel is most likely in Arabic, and I have no chance of finding it, especially at this hour and with any remaining energy quickly slipping away.

Fucked again, I happen across the place Jackie Chan said he was staying at. He did warn me that it was only $4/night and that it was probably horrendous, but at this point, all I want is a room with a lock on the door. Room optional.

After waiting nearly twenty minutes for the desk clerk to escape into the night with my passport and return with what is probably a very good imitation of what I initially gave him, I am led through a narrow walkway to a door with an unconvincing lock clinging to molding that loosely holds together its paper-thin paneling. Security, evidently, is discretionary.

As the clock stalks 3am, the doors part to reveal two dusty beds shivering in the frigid cold captured by a room that looked eerily similar to the border station I’d left behind. Linoleum and cinder are clearly not materials to consider when insulating oneself from winter weather, yet a glut of these resources evidently exist in Syria.

Exhausted, I take the room. The bathroom down the hall makes me think that although I’m filthy, it can only make matters worse. Instead, I put on three layers of clothing, a wool knit cap, and blankets from both beds as I lay down and fall asleep to the resonance of my chattering spine.

The next morning I awaken to beaming broad daylight and a throbbing left eye. Upon further inspection I can see (with my good eye) that my left eye is almost completely swollen shut. I curse the wool cap, Jackie Chan (the Japanese guy and the real Jackie Chan), the hotel clerk, and the Prophet Mohammed as I set out in search of money, a decent meal, and a worthy distraction (hoping my eye improves on it’s own).

A quick stroll around Aleppo’s center tells me the following:

A) ATM’s are difficult to find

B) This Muslim holiday has shut nearly all places of business

C) Aleppo is a filthy shithole

D) The combination of having white skin and one mutant eyeball is enough for people to openly stare

I opt immediately to bail the hell out of Aleppo. The next bus out of town was later that day, and I had little poofs of smoke blasting from my heels on my way to the bus station. Aleppo, fuck off.

After several hours of sleep in the seat directly behind the driver -- underscored by the tinny blare of a grainy Syrian television show -- I awake to the bus pulling into a roadside truck stop. Commonly this is accompanied by a 30 minute stop for food, toilet, chain-smoking, and latent confusion.

Once toilet and snacks were satisfactorily taken care of (I could have used a seat in the toilet, if you're picking up what I'm laying down), I exit the dingy restaurant to the vacant parking lot. Bus: Gone.

Recognizing that openly panicking only makes me a target for unwanted attention, I firmly puff my first cigarette. I begin having thoughts of "Shit, is there even a US embassy in Damascus?" as I watch the minutes waft by. After two hurried cigarettes, I begin looking around for familiar faces while cursing my front seat assignment (as I was unable to recognize anyone for lack of turning around while en route).

Finally, my confused state and constant head-swiveling attracted attention indeed, as someone who recognized me (for once, it helped being the only white guy on public transport) assured me that the bus would return. Which, after another cigarette, it finally did.

From there, I spent five days in Damascus, which was a pretty cool city with some dodgy nightlife that I only took part in half-heartedly. In a muslim city where women aren't allowed out at night, the club scene generally tends to suffer.

In all, there was much more in Syria I wished I could have seen (and given it a fair shot aside from just Aleppo and Damascus), but with a friend meeting me in Tel Aviv shortly thereafter, I had to move forward. So, feel free to visit Syria, just ignore Aleppo. That place can suck it.

Right now, I'm in Maputo, Mozambique having just come off a very cool show at a reggae bar-slash-art gallery. I've been hanging with some of the Mozambican guys I met in Tofo and a surfer from Durban and been having a real solid time in the south here. Ed is meeting me on Thursday and on Monday we head into Kruger National Park. More lions, baby! Rowr!!!

Who's the Worst Blogger Ever??

2008-03-28T18:42:00.003+05:00

I suppose by now it's clear that I am. Although I will go easy on myself given that I am in a little surf village called Tofo in Mozambique, where even an ATM is an hour away by public transport. Certainly, in such a place, internet is more a luxury than a way of life.

For one thing, there's no building in this town more than two stories high. No hotels per se, just a lot of camp lodges and guesthouses. Since I got here 10 days ago, I've been hanging out with a small (but tight) crew of ex-pats and a bunch of local guys. Everyone is great fun to hang out with, and despite my rampant chain-smoking and chain-drinking of Tipo Tinto, the local rum (750 mL will cost you roughly $3US), I've managed to make some good friends here. I'm heading out tonight with a group of the locals to hit a club in Maputo and do some serious damage there for their Saturday night party.

Beyond that, just living it large here in Tofo. I have a story on my Syrian experience upcoming, but as with the others, it takes time just to find a computer that will accept a memory key, much less one that has a connection fast enough to upload anything. I'll keep trying. I'm sure by now most people don't even check this anymore. For those of you that do, I appreciate you keeping the faith. Clearly the next blog (once home) will have much more periodic updates.

I Got Robbed!!! Twice!!!

2008-03-06T22:42:00.002+05:00

Finally!!!!! After nine months of traveling without incident, I was starting to think I looked poor or something. Then, along came a nice gentleman this afternoon to wildly gesticulate while clutching my shirtsleeve as his buddy lifted my piece-o'-shit first generation Motorola RAZR out of my pocket. How'd he know I was so dissatisfied with that thing? Who knew the good people of Dar es Salaam were so perceptive?

Then, when I got my huge backpack from the baggage carousel in Pemba, Mozambique (where I am now), I found it had been rifled through and my camera was missing. But.... the good fellow responsible was nice enough to leave the camera bag behind, which I found immensely thoughtful. I'm so glad people care about me in Dar es Salaam.

Actually, Dar was fine up until an hour before I was leaving for the airport and the first incident occurred. At least the phone was a story to tell. The camera is just shit luck. But I'm fine (for those that were wondering) so the stories should keep coming as I get more and more of my belongings taken from me. On the bright side, and as my friend in Ukraine reminded me, at least I'm still an ass virgin. Good stuff.

Why America's Cock is Huge

2008-03-05T19:32:00.004+05:00

America has a huge cock. There, I said it. America’s cock is so big, it’s like the only black man in a Japanese locker room. There are a great many reasons why this is factually true (if a horrifying visual metaphor can indeed be proven as fact), and I’m going to name just a few.

Hollywood
The United States is the only authority on filmmaking. Period. If you’re someone living in the developing world, you probably don’t have a choice of any other outlets beyond Big Hollywood anyway, so you pretty much think Brendan Fraser is a great actor. And you should kill yourself, because your steady diet of big budget crap with poorly translated subtitles has left you thinking that this is the best thing a movie can be. Meanwhile, many people in the States (ok, maybe not “many” but at least some) know that it can be so much more.

Think for a minute about your first sexual experience with your first girl/boyfriend. Go on, do it. It was awkward at first, but still pretty good, right? You knew that person cared about you, so the awkwardness was tolerable, and then you felt safe in their arms afterwards. Not bad, right?

Now think of your first sexual experience with the town whore/drug dealer. Nothing safe about that. But damn if it wasn’t fantastic and didn’t prove that there’s a whole world of sex out there yet to be explored. And then two years later you get the clap. Life is cruel sometimes.

The same goes for movies, except for the clap part. But the point is, as bad as many of these big budget movies are, they’re still about nine million times better than what is produced locally in many countries. So for that reason, Hollywood reigns supreme.

Secondly, Hollywood is the first (and many times, only) introduction to American culture that many people get to enjoy. This endears people to America a great deal. And why wouldn’t it? Who wouldn’t want to emulate a culture in which one thinks it’s common to bluff your way into a wedding and find all the women sliding off their chairs at the mere sight of you? Hell, that world sounds pretty attractive to me, and I’ve already been to the Ukraine.

Lastly, Hollywood is a brand. You roll with Hollywood, the Trojan of the film industry: no clap. On the other hand, Aleppo is the clap. With or without the movies.

Capitalism
I know there are some boneheads who think capitalism is the root of all evil. And to some degree, they may be right. Conversely though, it allows all people to compete freely for the ability to succeed; theoretically at least.

However, in other countries, corruption and nepotism preclude people from the belief that they can be “anybody.” They observe the Anybodys near the Somebodys are always tomorrow’s Somebodys, and meanwhile, they’re still pushing camel rides at $3 a pop, and so are all their friends. Plus they’re high all the time. That’s probably part of it too.

But in America, you can be high AND have a big-time job. And if you work at some two-bit chop house like Northport Partnership Management, you get to do so while cheating on your wife by boning one of the controllers in her office after hours. Just ask Curtis Grow. He made it an art form.

See how beautiful that is? Who wouldn’t want to be a part of a society in which this is not only accepted, but grounds for a promotion to something like… oh, I don’t know… Director of Business Development?

Fashion
I’ve made a big hullabaloo in the past about all the fake designer clothes in many parts of the world. Now I’m making a bigger hullabaloo about the use of the word “hullabaloo.” That word rocks. Any word that close to “balloon” has to be cool. Yay, balloons!!!

That was weird. Where was I? Right, fake Dolce & Gabbana and Gianfranco Ferre again. Neverminding the fact that these are not American designers (thank fucking god), it is the perception that Americans like this garbage that enables it to saturate the foreign markets. Then again, some losers actually do like these shitty labels, which in itself is tragic. So much hopeful youth, gone down the drain. That drain being Staten Island. And that hope being that sterilization of douchebags is somehow made legal.

Anyway, people abroad don’t know that everyone in Staten Island is a blend of asshole and Dep Megahold, and they see a western brand and run for it not understanding its message. That being “I’m a doooooooouchebag.”

George Bush is the King of the World
The guy is a cunt. Granted. Few would argue that point these days with a 7 year track record that makes God’s brain hurt. I’m in Arusha, Tanzania at the moment, and I’ve watched as he waltzed in and completely shut this city down. This is the same thing he did in Jerusalem when I was there about a month ago. He blows in, shuts down all roads in/out of the city he’s in, suspends service at all airports, and in the case of Arusha, even cell service was suspended all day while he dallied around the Ngorogoro Crater.

Which brings me to an ancillary point. What the fuck is George Bush doing following me around?? I wonder if the Dept. of Homeland Security crosschecked my passport if they would consider me a threat. I’ve been in Prague, Slovenia, Jerusalem, Sharm el Sheikh, and now Tanzania with this guy. And these are not exactly typical stops on a president’s itinerary either. It’s not as if we bumped into each other outside the Camp David bathroom during a barbecue. These are countries he’s never even been to (and doubt if he could point to on a map) and yet we find each other on similar itineraries.

What this has done, is it has given me a considerable number of opportunities to see how a city reacts when the US President is in town. And let me just say, it’s absolutely staggering.

For one thing, everyone talks about it. Whether they like him or not (Jerusalem and Tanzania being pro-Bush, all others thinking he’s the clown most well-read Americans think he is), everyone wants to talk about him when he’s in town. I’m pretty sure Nicholas Sarkozy wouldn’t get nearly the amount of attention if he waltzed his philandering ass into the Sinai as Bush does.

Another tangent: Sarkozy gets divorced and remarried within months, clearly implicating himself in an extra-marital affair, and the international community says nothing (aside from maybe “dude, his new girl makes my penis move”). On the other hand, Clinton gets a bj from some slob and there are impeachment hearings?!?!? I’m confused. And suddenly more attracted to the French culture.

Either way, it probably has more to do with the fact that no one gives a fuck about what the French think or do, so it’s just a case of no one paying attention. Plus, when you’re trading in your ’86 Chevelle for the ’08 S500 as Sarkozy has done, people generally turn a blind eye. Clinton at best made a lateral move, and that raises big questions. Like, “Who???”, “What?!?!?”, “Fucking WHY?!?!?!”

Speaking of, am I alone in thinking that Michelle Obama is hot? Probably. Ok, forget I mentioned it.

The dollar is the biggest dick in the currency game
Despite the decline in the dollar, it’s still the standard by which all other currencies are weighed. Every exchange bank I’ve walked past in the last 8+ months has listed the US Dollar at the top of its buy/sell chart. That, and the fact that you can drop dollars literally anyplace in exchange for goods or services, provided you’re ready to get bent over on the rate. Go ahead and see how many places across the globe accept Pounds Sterling. Probably five. And you wouldn’t want to go there anyway.

All this is hardly a surprise. Since WWII dollar dominance has pretty much been a foregone conclusion. This is especially apparent when you’re in places like Tanzania wandering around with 10,000 shilling notes (worth about $8.50) and people would rather have the greenback than anything printed locally. Which makes sense when you think about it. After all, if the dollar is The Rabbit, then why bother with The Butterfly? I don’t know, maybe I’m still figuring out the vagina.

New York is prettiest girl in school
If you thought you were the prettiest girl in your high school, for one thing you were probably delusional. For another, you were also probably pretty popular. And if you were popular and not the prettiest girl in school, you were probably a total whore. And you were also most likely ignoring Academic Decathlon geeks like me. Fair enough: Blogs like this have become your comeuppance. That, and your sagging waistline. Score one for the geeks.

But no matter. Because New York’s waistline is tight and trim and still getting looks from all the seniors. No matter where you are in the world, New York reigns supreme. If it’s not a bad pizza place named Manhattan Pizza, or a shoddy hair salon named Soho Style (and no, I’m not of the impression this is harkening images of London), then it’s a picture of the Brooklyn Bridge in a bad Italian restaurant. New York is the first girl the guys call when they’re having a party. Without New York, there is no party.

Couple that with the enamored glint in the eyes of inhabitants of the developing world when they hear the name “New York” as they tell you it’s their dream to go there, and your cock literally grows an inch. Of course for many, any city that doesn’t depend on its camels as a source of income is probably a wet dream as well, and that includes pissholes like Detroit, so maybe I’m tooting the horn a bit too loudly. But even so, New York is everywhere. Everyone wants to know her, everyone wants to sleep with her, and many don’t think she’s the bitch some would have you believe.

It’s my contention that part of the reason the past nine months have come so easily, is that A) New York prepares you for anything, B) New York’s street cred is the gold standard, and C) once you’ve slept with New York, all the other girls in school think you must have something going for you besides a sense of humor borne out of self defense.

Beyond all that, I’m in Dar es Salaam on my way to Pemba, Mozambique on the northern coast tomorrow. I opted against Mafia Island as I’ll have plenty of opportunities to game fish and dive in Mozambique. Meeting my friend Ed in Maputo on April 3rd so I’ll be gallivanting overland to get there by then, with my eye on a week in Malawi as I’ve heard nothing but good things. I need to look more into that before making the move, however.

Apologies

2008-02-29T18:44:00.002+05:00

I'm hoping no one has written me off (at least not everyone) given the fact that I've been failing to keep the blog updated of late. Truth is, internet of any acceptable speed is difficult to find
in Tanzania, especially considering a week was spent out on safari (which was everything you thought it might be). Pictures may take awhile, as wifi is about as common as a lion kill in these parts.

Ok, so the update is, I've been traveling for the past 10 days with these two girls (an Aussie and a Brit) who have been a lot of fun and it's made it much easier to get around. Currently I'm in Zanzibar, heading to a small island called Mafia Island in a few days to do some deep sea game fishing and diving (supposedly the best on the Indian Ocean). Can't wait for that.

From there, I'm likely headed to Mozambique, probably overland but may fly if the price is right. My friend Ed is meeting me in Maputo (if he doesn't flake) which should make for a nice and interesting conclusion to this adventure. My plan (for those who still remember who I am) is to be back in NYC for my birthday on June 10th (*observed June 11th). Before then I'll be through Mozambique and South Africa with the possibility of poking my head in elsewhere along the way.

Anyway, I'll try to keep everyone updated. It's real hard to get any work done when A) you're not traveling alone (though the girls leave in a few days), B) you can't openly work on your laptop in view of anyone (it's not recommended), and C) you're constantly on the move. So, I'll do my best to keep the entertaining stuff coming, but bear with me.

In the meantime, I've decided to launch another blog upon my return to keep the juices flowing. Topics and stories will be no less random, self-depricating, and hopefully, funny. Until then... I have a massage to get to.

I'm in Dubai

2008-02-13T20:49:00.002+05:00

That should pretty much say all that needs to be said about why I haven't posted in awhile. I could go into detail about this place, but it may make your head spin.

Prior to getting here, I'd heard mixed reviews. I have had no such mixed experience. Only good times.

In any case, I'm almost ready to post a story about America that I think you all may find interesting. To be fair, you may need to give me a few days to get that up here. In the meantime, I'm seeing Tiesto spin tomorrow night which should be sufficiently insane, and then flying to Tanzania on Saturday. Things are bound to slow down a bit there.

Until then, I'm still basking in the glow of a Giants Super Bowl win. I don't know about anyone else, but I'm still choking down all the Eli insults I've been spewing over the past two seasons. Watching the game in Cairo was definitely an experience, too. Though the Egyptian people can pretty much suck my ass and they'd still be getting more than they deserve.

No offense. Details on that forthcoming as well.

Some Shock Value, and Something for Your Lunch Break (updated!)

2008-01-28T14:36:00.000+05:00

I understand completely that most people haven't bookmarked my blog, kept the original email, committed the URL to memory, or make use of the handy drop-down menu in their web browser. It's something I might do, in fact. Especially as I'm probably even more selfish, self-involved, and egocentric than most of you. So, no worries.

What is interesting however, is the methods people use to find this link when all the above methods fail them. Some people may ask someone to forward them the link, and others may email me and ask me directly. Sounds reasonable.

Still others use Google search to find the link. This is also a rather effective method. It's also totally uninteresting, isn't it?

Well, I have a point to mentioning this. What's interesting about searching for my blog via search engines, is I can access a report that gives me the search terms used to direct someone here. This I find immensely entertaining.

Below I'll list the top (subjectively) search criteria used to find the link here, removing all combinations of my name and all derivatives of the words "traveling" and "light", along with my comments. Proceeeeeed....

(by a wide margin, quantitatively) - "Jeff Jones, Croatia" - This speaks to the legacy that is anywhere the ambitious, often anxious, and always ambidextrous Jeff Jones goes and spreads his gospel. I take only a small amount of credit for his worldliness.
"sex tourism + krakow" - This elicits a bit of concern, and many questions. For one thing, it's clear that anyone who read my Krakow entry would know that there was nothing in it concerning sex tourism whatsoever. Which begs the question, who is specifically seeking out sex tourism in Krakow? Sure, it exists there, but it takes a considerable amount of creepiness to google it.
"banya + Lviv" - Boring. Next.
"slovenia" - This is puzzling. That someone would somehow page past the first 90,000,000 or so results (there is a total of 151,000,000) to reach my little ol' blog with my 300-600 visitors per month, is perplexing. First of all, inasmuch as it may take around three months to count to one million, which I find to be a rather conservative estimate, to click past 15,100,000 pages of search results (there being ten per page), is quite striking. What must a person with this much time do for a living? For one thing, (s)he's obviously married. Why else would someone consciously engage in such a mind-numbingly painful act of isolation if not for the desire to avoid a nagging wife or needy husband? For another, it must be a woman, because men just simply cannot concentrate on any one thing for longer than a commercial break between the hook and the exciting conclusion to Real World Las Vegas. It's also clear that it's a woman in that a man would have clicked past eight or so pages and then said "fuck it, I'm signing up for Milfhunter."
"vienna" - Equally perplexing, with perhaps the same explanation as above. Only this is unique in that Slovenia is awesome and my experience there was equally so. Vienna is nice, not awesome, and my experience was rather lackluster, which always makes for a better blog. In that sense, I believe the people searching for Vienna were actually looking for me. How many people have considered just reading about Vienna, versus wanting to read about extracting oneself from a painfully overbearing, self-indulgent conversationalist? Exactly. That would be like reading about dandelions instead of the Kim Kardashian home "movie". Which would you choose?
"chest whipping"- Is this a euphemism for something? Am I missing a gay joke? Someone please email me what this means, preferably with (cockless) pictures and/or diagrams, and a detailed explanation of it's derivation. I may not be gay, but no one can say I'm not trying to better understand them.
"'steam room' lesbian or boobs or aroused" - It's undeniable that this person knows me, and knows my blog. What's curious about this is the blending of male and female sexual allusions. This can only be the work of someone who has recently made the switch between preferences (as their mind is as confused as their loins must be). Craig? That you?
"bus fart kiev" - I'm not making this up. Three people directed themselves to Travelling Light by way of these search terms. I don't have any idea how to respond to this, other than to say that I never took a bus in Kiev, but I'd be lying if at this moment I wasn't regretting it. It seems like if you're going to drop bombs in Kiev, the bus is the place to do it. Not the bus stop, as was my modus operandi.
"cesky krumlov nightlife" - A paradox if ever I heard one.
"communist titties" - A delicious after-dinner snack. And I hope one day I see this phrase on a t-shirt, so I can say "I began that movement."
"dubrovnik sex massage parlor" - I was unaware that my blog contained all those words, but in examining it a bit closer, I'm sure it was probably contained in more than one entry. Even so, from what I know of Dubrovnik, this searcher is probably going to be left sans tug after his rub.
"guys sauna cock" - I'm for the first time, genuinely ashamed of myself.
"herza czech rigged" - Indeed they are. I'm glad I'm seen as a foremost authority on the matter.
"hungarian for kebab" - Delicious. Pronounced: yuhm-ee in mahy tuhm-ee
"ian pooley 2007 gallery" - [shrug]
"jeff let's eat" - The legend that is the revered, the reveled, and the never remonstrative Jeff Jones is truly a phenomenon.
"keanu" - My only guess is that this was after a fruitless string of gay sex searches, and Google has some level of intelligent forecasting device.
"kiev gay banya" - I'm finally starting to get a sense of my audience.
"nude male banyas russia" - As if "nude" were really necessary. And trust me, it's not. "Banya" and "nude" are pretty much synonymous.
"sarging budapest" - Nice.
"sex tourism minsk whore" - My audience is nothing if not diverse.
"silhouette porn" - Wow. I'm not one to judge, but... fuck it, I'm downloading some now. I'll report back.
"traveling with narcolepsy" - Recommended.

In other news, I'm currently in Sharm el-Sheikh, Egypt, as I've mentioned before. Tomorrow I fly to Luxor and from there I'll make my way up the Nile to Cairo/Alexandria before flying somewhere in southern Africa.

Sharm is the first place I've enjoyed a semi-consistent wifi connection since leaving New York last. As such, the bulk of my spare time in the past four days has been spent uploading an obscene amount of pictures from the past two months.

Some of you may have taken a spin through the first 10-15 pictures I was able to upload from Istanbul, but I've since added much more. Sadly, I haven't got the time to add the searing witty descriptions you're all used to, but I'll try to toss a few in there to add a little flavor. And pay no attention to the pictures names themselves, that has nothing to do with where I was at the time.

Lastly, I apologize in advance for the huge quantity of pictures. Inasmuch as I haven't had time to write descriptions, I similarly haven't had time to weed out the ones not worth keeping. So, you have plenty of pictures to whip through while you dig into your overpriced Pax World salad and stale bread. Have a great Monday, LOSERS!!!

Turkey - A Social Experiment

2008-01-22T19:04:00.000+05:00

After a couple weeks of what was all too familiar back in New York, I flew into Istanbul ready to engage in a full-frontal assault on the rest of my trip. It was good to see everyone, but it was time to move on and see some brown people in their natural habitat. You know what I mean…

The first things you notice as you take a ride through Sultanhamed (pretty much the tourist center), are two of the biggest houses of worship fucking ever. The Blue Mosque and the Sophia Mosque are situated opposite one another like two prize heavyweights in opposing corners pre-bell. Holy Muhammed these things are enormous.

Until this point, I’d never before seen a Muslim-world mosque. Upon seeing these though, my first thought was “Jesus is gay.” Clearly, the Muslims in old-world Constantinople really love Muhammed. That guy gets serious love in the form of huge domes and tall, piercing and majestic minarets.

On the way inside, most Muslims wash their feet under small spigots outside. I still do not know the reason for this, considering the rest of their bodies are typically in dire need of this level of attention. Once inside, you realize the grand exterior is masking the fact that it’s more or less just a big cavity, with areas of worship and next to them, areas to watch, point, and stare.

After leaving the second mosque, I was approached by a man who claimed to want to show me “real Turkish hospitality.” I was up for that. I went with him to his family’s carpet shop, where I drank black tea (the kind with the most caffeine) and nodded approvingly at the many carpets he and his cronies insisted on showing me. I made sure to show a bit of added excitement when the double-knot numbers were higher, and when materials such as silk or cashmere were involved. But inasmuch as I had no intention of buying anything, I was really just trying to hide my utter amusement.

This gave me an idea. I decided to go on a carpet store tour. I walked around, and anytime anyone suggested I come into their shop (this happened with alarming frequency), I would emphatically agree. A typical exchange would be the following:

Antagonist (them): Yes, sir. Excuse me. We have wonderful carpets, sir. Please come.

Protagonist (me): Yes. Absolutely!

A: Would you like some tea? Black tea?

P: Of course!

(many dozens of carpets later)

A: Which one will you buy?

P: None.

A: Why none? This one here is beautiful.

P: That seems rather subjective.

A: Excuse me, would you like to see some more?

P: Absolutely not.

A: Why you not buy?

P: I like tea, but I don’t like carpets.

This occurred probably 10 times over the next two days. I was practically resonating with caffeine on a daily basis in Istanbul. Which is a good thing, because café americanos cost about $5US in Istanbul. And Turkish coffee, in my opinion, is trash. So, I was able to entertain myself endlessly while staying caffeinated and saving money. Big win for me. I liken it to being at a strip club, and engaging Bambi in enough conversation to get her to give you a dance for free under the assumption you’ll buy a bottle of champagne. Then after the dance, informing her that you don’t drink and don’t plan to watch her drink either. The looks of disappointment I’m sure are congruent. My satisfaction in this case though, lasted considerably more than 3 minutes, and didn’t leave me with blue balls.

While in Istanbul, I went to a Turkish hamam (bath). Real good stuff. First of all, the men have the common decency to cover their schlongs with a lightweight wrap, so the prevalence of cock is effectively marginalized. Which, I don’t need to tell you, really enhances the experience.

There is no steam room in a hamam, though. Instead, there is a heated marble stone in the center of a room on which everyone lays. Then, at the point at which you’re most comfortable, you are summoned for your actual bath, which consists of a large, hairy Turkish man with a scrubber mitt and a bowl of soapy water rubbing on you for 30 minutes.

This sounds worse than it is. In fact, it’s quite relaxing. What isn’t relaxing however, is when you see the astonishing mass of dead skin being ripped from your body. You feel no pain, but your eyes wince at the sight of the large worm of dead skin collecting underneath your bather’s mitt. It’s positively nasty.

At some point in Istanbul (which was crawling with tourists), I was sharing my Middle East itinerary with some others, all of whom had already decided to gravitate north to Romania. Later that night, one of the girls (a 27 year-old from Singapore) suggested she come along with me, since she’d spent some time in a kibbutz in Israel and thought it would be cool if she went back for the holidays.

I wasn’t thrilled with this, but I generally agree to any suggestions made by pretty much anyone, especially a mildly attractive girl, so before I know it we are traversing western and southern Turkey together. The first stop was Ephesus, which was incredible. The ruins were beautiful and generally well preserved (see pictures when I’m able to upload), and was striking in it’s grandeur and expanse. Interestingly, of all the sights in (the ancient) town, there are no signs. Except one. For the brothel. Nice.

Additionally, there was the ruins and tomb of St. John the Baptist, which were quite nice, but paled in comparison to Ephesus. Finally, we saw the resting place of Mary Magdalene, which pales in comparison to my Credit Suisse cubicle. It’s a building the size of an average restaurant bathroom, with one small tomb with a few candles and a picture of Mary hung overhead. Mary must be pretty pissed when she considers the dumpy quarters she’s laid to rest in. I’d certainly be upset, and I certainly haven’t sired any symbols of hope at this point in my life. Yet, bitches. I got time….

But who cares? This story is about a social experiment.

The girl and I split off for much of the day and explore the ruins on our own, which I’m completely in favor of. Later that night, we’re getting drunk on vodka and having some laughs and eventually decide to call it a day. Selcuk, after all, is hardly a nightlife epicenter. While quietly enjoying a cigarette and a peaceful walk back to where we’re staying, I suddenly find myself on the receiving end of a spastic punching fit that ordinarily I’d only expect from an angry retard. For one thing, she’s a tiny girl, so none of it hurt. Even for a pussy like me. But she was punching as hard as she could, and with absolutely no reason for it other than the vodka. And perhaps her latent psychosis. Which may have turned me on when I was around nine years old and was just excited when a girl would touch me. At 31 however, it was cause for alarm.

The following morning, after our 10^th consecutive absolute-cheapest-meal-in-town (all at her behest), we went to Pamukkale for the day to see a mountain of calcium deposits formed from a natural hot spring, which is all positioned beneath the ruins of Heiropolis. Really an incredible place. The water is the temperature of a warm bath, despite the frigid air outside, and the misleading appearance of ski slope surroundings. Even the pictures hardly do it justice.

In any event, this day included more separated exploration, which was actually rather preferred. After all, I’m never anxious to hang out with someone the day after a beatdown. And as someone who has so far preferred to travel alone, this is right up my lonely alley. Although her “look at me go” attitude I’m beginning to find quite abrading.

We agree to meet for lunch, and I realize that as she’s discussing our next two weeks together, and aside from the fact that the idea of spending two more hours with her is up in the air in my mind, she has us moving no further than northern Syria. And considering my plan was to make it to Jerusalem for Christmas and Tel Aviv for New Years, this was quickly becoming a malignant situation, and I could feel my blood clotting as she spoke about how much fun it would be to cross the border to Syria together.

Later that afternoon, we head to Antalya as a jumping-off spot for Olympos. During that bus ride, I decided I needed to remove this girl before her cancerous impact on my Turkey experience spread to any surrounding countries. This was going to take some delicate and perhaps painful surgery.

I elect for a more invasive procedure. I decide to ditch the charm and affability that landed me in this situation, and instead opt for a passive-aggressive offensiveness, hopefully leading to an eventuation of her unmitigated withdrawal. Recognizing this as perhaps the least direct path, I accept it as being the most enjoyable.

As we are entering our second hour of waiting for a cross-town bus (in lieu of a $12 taxi) to the departure point for Olympos, after a combined four minutes of enjoyable discourse, I launch into a series of admittedly shocking questions:

Me: So, you’ve told me only about 47 times that you spent time in a kibbutz. You really think they want you back?

Her: [confused stare]

Me: I imagine your rampant frugality fits right in in Israel. Is that why you want to go back?

Her: [disgusted glare]

Me: You think we’ll have sex at any point in this adventure of ours, or am I going to have to remain intellectually and sexually frustrated?

Her: [horrified] Are you serious?

Me: Sorry, I must have mistook that violent fit of yours the other night as kinky foreplay.

Her: [understandably appalled] Yea. Must’ve.

Me: Does your idea of traveling the world consist primarily of loitering at street-side bus stations to save five dollars an hour, or do you at some point have any interest in focusing on more stimulating locales?

Her: [long pause…. it’s working!!!!] Uh, I just don’t have that much money.

Me: I’m going across the street to buy some booze. I need to get drunk to make this interesting. You want anything?

Her: You’re serious?

Me: Yes, I need to make this interesting somehow. You have a better idea?

Her: [long pause with prolonged head shake] You can take a taxi if you want and I can meet you in Olympos.

Me: [look of obviously feigned disappointment] Yea? Oh, ok. See you there (we hadn’t even discussed where we’d be staying).

Her: Yea, ok.

Me: [grabbing my bag with determined efficiency and wide grin] Cool. Good luck.

Who says passive-aggressiveness is a bad thing? The sense of accomplishment one feels when a plan comes together so neatly like this is something I haven’t felt since I rocked my first MS Excel pivot table. The sun shined brighter, the birds sang a sweeter tune, and the wind caressed my patchy hairline with the tenderness of an asian masseuse. Which, interestingly, is all a lot more value than this girl was ever able to afford me all along.

I arrived in Olympos in about three hours, after hitching a ride from a guy that just happened to own the “treehouse” community that Lonely Planet lauded the most. The “town” of Olympos is basically one big glorified campground, with some bigger hotels lining the areas beyond the beach. Now finally alone, I was bedding down into what amounts to an average-sized log cabin room with a fantastically comfortable bed. Things are continually looking up at this point.

I meet a less-than-attractive late-30s marine biologist from Syndey and we decide to hike the ruins the next day. Which are completely overgrown and requires quite a few hacks through the underbrush to see mosaic floors and ancient Roman baths. It’s cool to see some ruins that seem a lot less discovered than those at Ephesus or Heiropolis.

Next day we hiked up a small mountain to see Chimaera, where there are rocks on fire. I’m serious. As someone who has always loved fire, including experiments such as diving head-first through bonfires in college and compost heap arson in high school, this was going to be amazing. And it was.

At the near top of an 800 meter peak, there is a large mostly-horizontal rock face with pockets of fire blazing from underneath. Apparently, an undetermined gas is released from within the earth’s crust, and once it makes contact with air; ignites. The pictures will show you how the flames have eventually worn away rather impressive amounts of pure rock, which gives you some indication of the amount of time and heat these things have been burning. Fucking cool shit.

During the walk back from Chimaera, we pass a group of four people walking along the beach. Three are walking in front, laughing and having a good time. Four paces behind them trudges a pensive, somewhat depressing girl walking with a fair amount of dissatisfaction in every deliberate step. Closer inspection proves my first impulse: this was the girl I left back in Antalya. Her demeanor proves the validity of my earlier detachment, and my face broadens widely as I turn my gaze away from her towards an ancient fortress up on a cliff. It looks so good I want to fuck it. Or at least give it a good 9^th grade dry-humping…

From Olimpos I went to Cappadocia, specifically the town of Göreme. Day one I meet a guy from the UK who has been hitchhiking for the past four months. We are nine hours from the nearest border exiting Turkey, he is carrying six Turkish Lira ($1.20), and he’s planning on making it last. I realized immediately that in the world of backpackers/travelers, I am a huge pussy.

I spend the first day getting lost in the Rose and Red Valleys among the fairy chimneys. These are ancient lava deposits carved out by massive floods and earthquakes to leave behind towering structures which all look like a soft-serve ice-cream cones with cherries on top. In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, a civilization of people (I forget exactly who) came in and carved out multi-level houses from the inside to form ancient jungle gyms of complicated labyrinths within. There are also a large number of ornate churches and strange cave markings. The entire day, I was so lost that the only other human I saw all day was a local guy hunting wolf and fox (of which I saw several) with a shotgun that looked as though I’d be safe if he drew on me from across a dinner table. Hearing the Muslim prayers echoing off the canyons as I sat alone on the top of one of the many peaks is an experience I’ll never forget.

Nearby there are also a fair amount of underground cities, which are the kind of places where if I was 11 years old, I’d have the time of my life. As an adult however, and after seeing the 92^nd room that looked exactly like the previous 91, and with temperatures plummeting the further underground I went, I was over the underground cities within 15 short minutes.

Anyway, the day of exploring the underground cities and some churches was spent with a Belgian girl I’d met that morning at breakfast. She was a laid back, tall yet average-looking language teacher who offered some intelligent conversation and her disclosure of her conversational knowledge of Turkish quickly rung loudly in my head as someone who could (for once) add me some value.

We hung out for the day, and the following day hiked the highest peak in the region as the sunset, and while I could tell she was somewhat insinuating that she wanted me to make a move to complete the romanticism of the moment, I take a pass so as not to complicate what can be an otherwise friction-free traverse across the remainder of Turkey on our way to Syria (where she was heading anyway). Turns out, I’d need her help at the border anyway, which is a story I’m half done with, and will post next, hopefully sometime later this week.

This was an especially long entry, and I give that credit to the fact that Turkey is incredible. Whereas in Eastern Europe, it’s easy to glance over the sights as being somewhat benign in contrast with the social landscape, it’s impossible to overlook the breathtaking sights and scenery of Turkey. I spent a little over two weeks there, and if you’ll notice, Istanbul isn’t even what I found to be close to the most impressive (though it certainly was). I need to go back there and explore some more. Really, it’s an amazing place.

Right now, my update is I’m in Sharm el-Sheikh, Egypt, and yesterday finished my scuba certification. I saw a moray eel on my final dive, and that shit is just fucking cool. I felt like I was watching Discovery Channel/BBC’s Planet Earth documentary series. I’ll be here for a few more days (and a few more dives) before I launch for Cairo and start digging into the pyramids a bit.

I’m starting to feel like I’m finally running out of time, so I’m trying to move forward, but with places like Sharm being the undisputed best scuba in the world, and the pyramids and Nile valley upcoming, I feel inclined to give Egypt it’s due. Plus, the partying in Sharm is quite impressive and the Egyptian people, of all the people I’ve met along the way, get perhaps the highest marks. I’ll get into that in my Egypt entry.

In the meantime, those of you who have been asking can expect me back in the States around mid/late May. I've been a bit absent on email lately what with running around Israel like a madman and spending my days in Sharm underwater the whole time, and my nights spent in thumping discotheques. I'm expecting my online presence to fade considerably until I reach South Africa, but I'll still be writing and trying to get stuff posted more regularly. Till then...

Over the Top

2008-01-10T21:35:00.000+05:00

I found this sticker on the toilet of a men’s stall in a Jerusalem restaurant. I went back to my room and got my camera; that’s how good it was. This sticker invoked the following conclusions:
- Those who wear their hats backwards, have small balls.

- And no arms

- It doesn’t matter how you wear your hat. In Israel, your anal beads go up the shaft of your cock.

- Guys with their hats backwards are too dumb to lift the seat.

- If a toilet bowl is transparent, go ahead and put your cock in there. Your shaft beads will tell you how deep the water is.

- With that many beads up the shaft of your dick, it’s a lot harder to sit and relax with your elbows on your knees, the way most people do it. Look at how tense that guy is!

- I pissed on the wall. I wasn’t wearing a hat.

What's Awesome, and What Isn't; Part Dva

2008-01-05T15:35:00.000+05:00

I’m picking up where I left off a couple months ago with the food & music review; despite the fact that all of you thought I’d forgotten. Your faith in me is both underwhelming and to some degree, accurate.

After a reluctant exit from Slovenia, I made my way down through Croatia for a couple weeks. Having a long, rocky coastline that snakes nearly all the way down the Adriatic, I naturally gravitated towards seafood for much of my stay here. Any whole fish I ordered was typically prepared minimally with some lemon, light olive oil, and garlic, and was of predictable freshness. No complaints there, and if Croatia weren’t located along the coast of a large body of water, I’d say the fish was all very good. Seeing as how it does indeed have a prominent coastline, it was pretty average. Make sense? Sort of like when you spot a hot girl on the street in Herald Square, you’re liable to slip a disc at the sight of such a rarity. However, if you’re partying on the island of Hvar and see one, you’re more likely to yawn and order another beer. And then maybe jerk off. In that order.

That was the fish. The grilled calamari, on the other hand (if it didn’t react horribly with my digestive system), was outstanding. They serve it with the guts (is there another word for this?) still inside, and the portions you receive are definitely more than is necessary. I contend that calamari, be it grilled, broiled, or fried (yuck), makes for a great appetizer, but is a bit too heavy and briny for a main dish. This is especially true in Croatia, where the seawater is extra salty and is evermore present in the seafood.

Besides that, the baby squid was incredible. If you can get over the fact that you’re eating 5-7 once-living organisms in each bite, the baby squid I had in Croatia was as tender and light as it was mild. Simply brilliant. Pair that with the octopus salad, which was little more than a delectably tender octopus ceviche, and you have a nice contrast of sharp and mild flavors. Kind of like what I imagine the vagina of a 20 year-old virgin to taste like. Wait… too much? Come on, like there’s such a thing as a “virgin” anymore…” Either way, the octopus ceviche was good stuff.

Another thing Croatia does very well is the pizza. In fact, I am tempted to say that although I’ve never been to Italy, it may have the best pizza in the world outside of New York City. The dough is light and fluffy and crisped up nice underneath a fresh, tomatoey sauce that takes on more of an active role in the overall flavor of the pie than it does back home. The cheese is fresh and laden in just the right ratio to the dough beneath. There isn’t nearly the emphasis on garlic here, and any toppings you get will be a nice, never-frozen addition to an already delicious meal. We made pizza a pretty major component of our diet, right after anything served in a 0.75L bottle. Yea, we get drunk!!! Woo-hoo!!!

One thing I did learn while in Croatia is that there is virtually no difference between cuttlefish and squid by the time it lands on your plate. Cuttlefish risotto and squid ink risotto is EXACTLY the same thing. Don’t let some slick waiter with an overbite tell you anything different. Fuck that guy, it all tastes like shit after the third bite.

Having watched a Discovery Channel special on cuttlefish over Thanksgiving, I have since learned that cuttlefish are among the most intelligent of all underwater living things. And… since then, I have been left feeling more than a little guilty for eating these super-intelligent little critters. Especially since they taste the same as a dumb old squid.

It’s like how you can nickname someone a “squid” and you know that kid is a fucking douchebag. But if you nickname someone “cuttlefish” it’s more likely to be someone on the other end of a Dawson’s Creek friends-that-will-never-amount-to-more relationship. Either way, Dawson was a fag. That shit is scientific.

Moving on. I don’t need to go into much detail on the kebabs in Budapest after the way I lauded them a few months ago. Granted, nine-tenths of my meals there were under heavy alcohol and “philosophic” influence, but the kebabs were amazing. The rest of the food there was usually eaten with the homesick, humorous, and horny Jeff Jones, and tended to be of mixed European fare. I had some decent beef on occasion, but nothing particularly noteworthy. Anything else seemed to be rather nondescript. Either that, or my memory of Budapest suffers greatly from a three-month binge on cheap (and delicious) vodka in Ukraine. Or maybe it’s equally likely that I’m making excuses for my weakness for (good) kebabs. Fuck those things are good.

Before I get to that though the music from Sziget (in Budapest, if you need reminding) was from all different genres, and it all sounds great when you have a fistful of marinated lamb meat oozing with love and devotion. Gogol Bordello though, as I think I’ve mentioned, is a speed/punk/gypsy act from the Lower East Side in New York who I hadn’t seen prior to Sziget, and was absurdly energetic and as much of a show as it was a great concert. Plus, I think the playful, pipe-hitting, pocket-pooling Jeff Jones and I fell in love with the two bass drummers who dance and prance around the stage like tempting little vixen tinkerbells. Oi. The virile, ferocious, and voracious Jeff Jones even had me concerned with his date-rape stare.

Seeing Sinead O’Connor was definitely a cool and (perhaps once-in-a-lifetime) experience. Her voice is completely enveloping, soft and somehow powerful, and all coming from this tiny little Irish chick (who has gained a bit of weight since burning the pope’s picture years ago – that’ll teach her to mess with fucking GOD…). But the whole time, you got the sense you were watching an icon. She’s not in anyone’s consciousness much anymore (at least not back in the states), but when you see her on stage, you get the sense anyone within arms length may start crying. And you’d be more apt to hug them than call them a queer.

Tool was sick.

That really needed it’s own paragraph. Once I escaped the cauldron of death (ie. the mosh pit), and was able to somewhat safely enjoy the show, I immediately understood why Tool fans have a huge boner for Maynard. Huge. The guy is just fucking cool. He’s the kind of performer I’d expect David Beckham to be if he could sing, dance, and convince me to get an abortion. Wait… what???

I expect most people who know even a little about Tool know that Maynard never shows his face. On this occasion, he was wearing dark sunglasses and a cowboy hat, and faced the back of the stage the whole time, with his silhouette broadcast on the white screen in front of him. Which makes me think that silhouette porn is probably the only frontier porn has yet to explore. And honestly, wouldn’t it also be the cheapest? Though probably also the least fruitful, from a consumer’s perspective. Whatever. Nevermind.

His air of mystique definitely pervades throughout the show as the crowd grows into more and more of a vibrating hormonal asexual orgy until some song like Schism gives everyone the opportunity for some weird emotional and energetic release, thankfully devoid of any actual ejaculations. At least as far as I could tell. And believe me, I was looking.

Anyway, I was a Tool fan (one who would buy the occasional album because I respected Maynard’s “vision” for the album so much), but never one to wear a t-shirt or pierce anything. Now, I’m quite sure I’ll never miss another show if they trip through New York.

Faithless is a jazzy-pop-electronic group from the U.K. that was about 5,000,000 times better than I thought they’d be. Granted, five million times zero is still zero, but whatever. I went in there expecting to shout “I told you so” to my hostel-mates over the top of some shitty pop track, as I made my way for a third kebab. On the contrary though, I thought they (Faithless, not my dumbass hostel-mates) brought an immense amount of energy, and that’s not just because they had the biggest crowd of any other band I saw at Sziget. Simply… they bring it. The crowd was a throbbing hoard of heaving kinesis the whole time, and every song raised the bar a bit further than the one prior until finally at the end, I needed a cigarette, a shower, and a good cry.

Pink played too. Yes, that stupid-ass Pink. I dropped by to validate how bad I thought she’d be, and even I was surprised at how brutally horrendous she was. It was like taking home a girl you KNOW is regrettable to begin with, and then finding out she can’t even fuck. I opted for a kebab instead of sitting through a third Pink song. Interestingly, a kebab is exactly what I’d be passing on in the event a sub-par girl happens past my apartment threshold.

I saw Deep Dish too. Ask me if I remember a damn thing about it. That’s how good they were. Definitely won’t miss them when next they’re in New York. I wish I could say more, but I’d have to download or Google something, and at that point, I become much less of a lame blogger, and a lot more of a lame journalist. Either way, we’re all losers.

I saw a shitload of other electronic music while there, most of it spent by myself or with the adventurous, transcontinental, and occasionally transgender Jeff Jones, and all of it is one big blur. That should give you some indication as to how good Sziget is as a festival. Simply one of the top three festivals I’ve ever been to, and probably in no small part due to the fact that I wasn’t sleeping on mud, wood chips, the back seat of a Hyundai, or linoleum.

After Budapest I went to Lviv, and spent three months in Ukraine. I remember I was so fed up with mistaking the map for which area was Center for the first two days that I ate McDonalds three times in two days. Let me tell you, it’s no less disgusting in Ukraine. In fact, it transforms from food to remorse in less time than it takes to chase each filthy bite with cola.

After the first two days, I began moving to greener pastures and delved into cuisines from Georgian, Armenian, Lebanese, and of course Ukrainian. Let me start by saying Georgian food is perhaps the most tasty and flavorful cuisine I may have ever had. For one thing, starting a meal with harcho is a must. Harcho is a soup made from beef stock, with chilies, onions, tomato and chunks of beef making for a spicy and hearty opener. I’ve tried many other Georgian soups, and they simply don’t stack up against everything the harcho delivers.

Next, you can snack on their sweet and spicy sauces paired with flat grilled bread, and then move onto any number of perfectly grilled meats, prepared over direct heat on a skewer over a wood fire. Excellent, and exactly the way it should be.

Armenian food is quite similar to Georgian food, though their meats tended (in my experience) to be cooked over coal and that just isn’t the same. It was kind of like sex with a condom, frankly. Still good, but not nearly as satisfying.

I ate quite a bit of Lebanese food while in Lviv, only because a friend of mine owned a Lebanese restaurant nearby Ivano Franko University, so the food and the slut parade often paired to a fabulous start to my day. Not to mention, my friend made the best ayran I’ve ever tasted.

Ayran is a garlic-yogurt drink with a dash of cayenne, and not only is it healthy and satisfying, it’s also the surest way to increase your own personal greenhouse gases. Simply, it's the middle east's answer to Mexican food.

Ukrainian food is rather bland in all respects. There is an emphasis on pork (for women) and more pork (for men). This comes in many forms, including sala, which is a spiced raw pig fat, which should really be served with a bowl full of Lipitor.

There is also a multitude of sausage options, and their bacon totally ruined the erection I'd typically have after ordering it, as it would normally show up raw. Their soups can tend to be rather heavy, which is fine when it's busecca, which is a delicious tripe soup served with a garlic cream. Goooooooood shiiiiiiiiiit.....

Produce in Ukraine is of the best quality I've ever had. Especially the tomatoes. Interestingly, there is no appetite for salads in this country. Which is totally disappointing, especially after a dinner of raw pig and busecca. It's sort of like waking up with a regrettable girl next to you, knowing you need a shower, and finding out there's no hot water. Crushing.

Caviar in Ukraine is top notch, as you'd expect, and even though the bread products are typically nothing more than decent, you can find a decent selection of cheeses to pair with it, though definitely no wines (that don't taste like cat urine) to complete the triumvirate.

As for music, I did see De Phazz while in Lviv, which was sponsored by Nemiroff, or else they never would have come. They're a very cool, lively, diverse jazz/funk act from Germany, with a male lead singer on some songs, and a female lead on others. They played to a half-full house of about 400, since most Ukrainians can't afford a $40US ticket. Even so, they brought a lot of energy and played not one, but THREE encores. That was a pretty nice touch.

I also saw some other new-age jazz act whose name I can't remember, but it doesn't really matter because they sounded a lot like how Michael Bolton probably wishes he sounded, and that's still not very good. But seeing them for $2US, I would hardly complain much. Though it does probably explain the crappy suits the performers were wearing.

As for me, I’ve been through Turkey, a quick fly through Syria (with some issues at the border, but nothing serious), a night in Amman, and have been in Israel now for about two weeks. I’m in Jerusalem now and heading south to the Sinai Peninsula within a couple days. From there I move to Egypt after a quick jump back out to Jordan to see Petra and Wadi Rum.

I’ve been incommunicado in general lately, if only because I’ve been on the move a lot since leaving New York. I’ll be settling down someplace in Africa for a bit to relax and catch up with everything. Unfortunately for all of you, I haven’t been drinking as much the past five weeks or so, so there isn’t quite as many opportunities for me to get into any trouble. I’ll work on that.

Kiev - Not for the Weak

2007-12-23T13:42:00.000+05:00

Before returning to New York, I engaged in an all-night Lviv finale that concluded about 75 minutes before my flight to Kiev. I was feeling more than a little battled and bruised as I arrived into Kiev on no sleep at all save for what I was able to steal on my 80 minute flight. It was Friday morning when I landed. It was going to be a long weekend.

Upon touchdown, the first order of business is sleep. Unfortunately it’s only 9:30am and I can’t check into my hostel until 11am. Awesome timing. To kill time I schlep my weary ass into a wireless net café and order some awful excuse for a salad (until this point, I had no idea how badly a house salad could be fucked up) that consisted of nothing more than a few feta cubes, even fewer olives, and some decayed lettuce. Cost = 33 UAH (almost $7). Clearly I am far from the familiar and fiscal comforts I’d become accustomed to in Lviv. And just as clearly, this dish is not going to provide me with nearly the necessary nutrients it will take to sustain me for another 85 minutes.

Know what will, though? Beer.

The waitress shoots me a completely justified curious glance as my one open eye gives her just barely enough assurance that I won’t fall asleep somewhere in her section. Shortly thereafter, a tall half-liter Chernivitsky glistens in front of me in all of it's invigorating splendor, while my salad retreats to the back of my table like a frightened rattlesnake: It is actually more scared of me than I am of it.

I go to the bathroom a handful of times, alternatively to dry-heave and keep my blood moving to remain awake. Time elapsed: not enough.

Finally I check into my hostel and promptly pass out until 5:30 that afternoon. Feeling about half as refreshed as I’m feeling filthy and cracked-out, I start putting together my plans for the evening while I fend for the good Ukrainian people against the bigoted owner of the hostel.

He’s a beady-eyed short, balding man with cropped, graying hair, who’s wearing a white t-shirt and gray sweatpants. He’s got a midsection as bloated as his pregnant Ukrainian wife, and a voice like Speedy Gonzales, if Speedy spoke English with a Norwegian accent.

He’s pontificating endlessly about the Ukrainian work ethic and how dumb and worthless they all are. I repeat: they ALL are. When challenged, he won’t relent that there may be even one Ukrainian in the entire country of above-average intelligence. One wonders why a guy like this would A) run a business here, B) marry a Ukrainian woman, and C) knock her up. Wouldn’t his child then have to be half Ukrainian? Thus making him/her half stupid and half asshole? Who wants to raise Keanu Reeves, anyway?

Feeling inspired, if only by the knowledge that I could never be that ignorant, I step out for a night of fine dining on good Ukrainian beef. In a restaurant called SoHo Steak. Which reminds me; does everything have to have a New York theme? I’m shocked with the prevailing New Yorkness of anything that encourages someone to spend money. Mind you, this New Yorkness is always in name only.

This gives me an idea. From now on, I’m going to give pet names to any girl I date. Like Tânia, Larissa, Gabriela, or Leila. They’re the top four Brazilian girl names of 1986. In other words, the cover is the only part of the book worth reading, as far as I'm concerned.

The steak was average steakhouse fare, the price definitely above average, and the ambience was something a dead person might call sleepy. Hardly the jump-start I was looking for. In a restaurant that probably seats around 300 at capacity, I was one of five people dining that night. The other four were all cougars perched at the table across from me, who would intermittently turn around and giggle in my direction. Flattering? Maybe. Though definitely not enough to induce an erection.

Let me just interject for a moment and say that I am writing this from a fucking frigid “hotel room” in Aleppo, Syria. And let me also say that I’ve never used the term “hotel room” quite so liberally. Pictures wouldn’t even do this justice. I say this at this moment (during a Kiev story) because my thoughts are having a hard time straying from my numbing appendages. If I could read Arabic, I’d be staying in the hotel I actually booked. Instead however, I was worn and weary from an arduous day of bus travel (five in all), four hours spent waiting for my visa at the border, followed by easily the most harrowing taxi ride I’ve ever had in my life. And that includes the tuk tuks in Bangkok. And all that led to me dropping into this shitbox for the night. And all it really amounts to is a moment of fucking amusement for you cunts. Which gets me exactly nothing but maybe a mild case of frostbite on my cock. I hope you’re all happy.

Moving along, it was snowing/sleeting/annoying outside in Kiev after dinner, as I decided to walk in some direction towards what I thought was Center while working off some of the kilo of red meat in my gut and texting a few people I thought could give me some decent advice for nightspots. I finally land at a place called Arena, which was aptly named given its four floors of sports pub, casino, nightclub, and strip club. I opt for the pub downstairs to log my first fistful of vodka, as at least then I’ll have the TVs to keep me busy till the club gets going upstairs.

Around my twenty-fifth deciliter of vodka, some old drunk German spills his beer down my back and then looks at me as if my prolonged stasis somehow provoked him. I tell him to “fuck off” in English, then Spanish (my default language when English fails), then some other language that I made up on the spot that incorporated a lot of German-sounding cha’s and eich’s. After about ten minutes of this, his friend (a tall, late-20s Dutch guy) drags him away and buys me a beer. Ten minutes after that, the drunk German cunt takes off, and Dutch Guy and I are devising a plan of how to attack the club upstairs. After of course, my shirt dries. My purpose in reminding him of this is to elicit not only guilt, but more free drinks. Goal: achieved.

When we get inside the club, we are immediately dazed by the sheer unbridled energy inside. Not only are there lasers and all kinds of other euro-gimmicks, but there are an obscene amount of gyrating women on the dance floor, and gawking Ukrainian men leaning on anything out of the mirror ball’s reach.

Dutch Guy and I quickly decode the forlorn glance from any woman loitering near the bar without a drink as being an invitation to buy them a Blue Balls Breezer (Dutch Guy loved that one, which got me another free drink -- finally my humor is paying dividends). Eventually, we retreat to the bullpen, aka the same place all the other guys are.

Any time one of us goes to get a drink, we are each aggressively approached by women. For about an hour, we are amazed at how forward and confident they all are. And by “they” I mean prostitutes.

But these aren’t just ordinary prostitutes. These are expert conversationalists and genuine salespeople. It starts with light conversation about why I’m in Kiev, and they seem honestly surprised when I show off some of my Sesame Street Ukrainian. Typically, this would make me think I was just being my normal charming self. In this case however, I was feeling a bit like a guy walking into a Thai massage parlor with a hard dick and a fistful of fifties. In other words, I’m feeling like a mark, despite my flimsy cock and flaccid wallet.

It made me wonder how it was that I stood out in a crowd of Ukrainians. For one thing, I’m half Belarussian and half other white-bred European (I think it’s a German/Welsh/Scottish/Belgian mi,x or something like that). So, by looks alone, my complexion isn’t at all what is giving me away. Then I remembered the fact that Ukrainian men dress like castoffs from Staten Survivor Island. For the first time in my life, I’m seeing the value in dressing in Dolce & Gabbana. Even if it’s real. At least it would have thrown the sharks off the scent.

Dutch Guy suggests we hit the dance floor if only to avoid the onslaught of temptation. Good plan. As we approach, I realize immediately that we soon will be the only men out from under the cover of darkness. If you’re a believer in peacock theory (sorry, could not find a decent link), then this would be a move in the right direction. Besides, our confidence was collectively lubricated with a minimum of one liter of vodka coursing through our veins, so what could go wrong?

I’ll fucking tell you what can go wrong. Dutch Guy got tired of being rejected by “nice girls” and bailed for a freelancer who’d hooked him earlier. Meanwhile, I was left on the dance floor with a bleeding thump in my brain that had nothing at all to do with the “Comfortably Numb” remix I was listening to for the 2,786,311th time within Ukraine’s borders.

See, typically if I’m at a club by myself, I’ll take it a little easy on the booze so I can remain somewhat cogent in the event I find myself in a situation with some hair on it. However, I let my guard down as Dutch Guy was pumping tall Nemiroffs into my hand as they’d quickly snake down my gullet moments later. At this point, I was seriously considering calling my married friend Olga (from Lviv who was in Kiev for her brother’s birthday) if only to extricate myself from a dizzying array of stimuli.

Quick side story: Olga is in love with me. Yes, she’s married (with a two-year old daughter, whose birthday party I attended along with nothing but family and only two other friends of theirs), and yes, I’m also good friends with her husband. Olga is strikingly beautiful and extremely sexual. It’s a trap a mile deep, quite frankly (in times of crisis, I revert back to the customary system). But for the sake of making this story much more entertaining, let’s say she’s a fat chick with oodles of acne. So, maintain that image as we proceed…

She’d told me only a few hours before I left to get my flight to Kiev that she was in love with me; this after about two months of purely platonic friendship. Her husband is quite influential in Lviv, and is not someone to piss off, given his connections to what I can only assume is a bevy of contract killers and body smugglers. Any late-night phone call is a cry out loud for a certain beat-down.

I resist the urge. Remarkably. Truth is, I have a rather super-human ability to resist the drunk-dial. Some people are good at sports, and some people can fart really quietly. This is my gift, I suppose. For some reason, no matter how drunk I am, I understand its utter uselessness. Especially when the girl is a fat cow like Olga. However, this is not to say it never happens, but I’m just saying it happens very seldom, and I’m usually conscious of it’s (usually unfortunate) outcome. This skill served me very well in this case.

Just as I’m heading to the bar for what I’m predetermining is my last drink of the night, I get scooped up by a random girl and her friend in a conversation about where I’m from. I realize once more that I really need to pick up some D&G gear if I’m going to retain any level of anonymity in this environment.

Feeling a bit more comfortable in the fact that hoes don’t normally work in pairs, I entertain their conversation and give the 2,700th wide-eyed response to the “Do You Know ‘Sex In The City’” question. Idle conversation leads to an invitation back to the dance floor, which I reluctantly agree to after the punishing last bite of my Nemiroff (no drinks on the dance floor, asshole!!!).

After some time, one of the friends flakes off, and I’m left in the clutches of a gorgeous Ukrainian, and yada yada yada, she ends up quoting me what would normally be considered an extraordinary value for my U.S. dollar. I opt instead to drop $200 on black on the roulette wheel on my way out, lose, curse the Dutch Guy to a life of eternal damnation as I pass a church nearby, and go to bed.

===================================================================
Next night, I am invited to Olga’s brother’s birthday party. And of course I go. Like a damn fool.

Unlike other times I’ve hung out with Olga, the last time I saw her, she was not with her husband, and so she was really open about a lot of things. Such as what she thought I’d be like as a husband, what she thought I’d be like in bed, and what she thought I’d be like as a partner for “the whole of her life.” Her English is so formal it almost makes me reticent that it’s my first language. Except for the fact that it’s the language of the rich, and Ukrainians don’t have shit.

Knowing what I know from two nights earlier, I walk into a party with all of Olga’s friends and family. It’s a closed party, and thus, no place to hide. It’s a new restaurant, in a brightly lit room, with a long U-shaped table arrangement lining all walls, with the fourth wall being a dance floor area. She is dancing with her daughter and her husband Sergei (Olga and Sergei, it’s almost TOO fucking cliché, isn’t it?) calls me over to a chair near him as he’s already pouring us shots of vodka. For fuck’s sake, I’m drunk already, and this is how he’s going to kick off my arrival?

Sergei and I don’t move for about two hours while we pound away at what amounts to nearly an entire bottle of vodka. We’re having a great time, and now I’m shitfaced. Unfortunately, I don’t slur when I’m drunk, so usually it’s only me who can tell how drunk I am. On this occasion I’m afraid, I’m wearing my inebriation like an iron veil. Olga can smell it, and I’m fucking terrified.

Olga sits down on my side, and I notice quickly that she and Sergei aren’t talking. Each time he gets up, she touches me under the table or makes some other overt advance that I’m REALLY not comfortable with. When he’s around, they don’t even acknowledge one another. I mention this, and she tells me they have “no more passion.” For fuck's sake!! Just what I need. She’s obviously someone who seeks an inordinate amount of passion (not to mention food, with a caboose as wide as Shevchenko Avenue), and Sergei ain’t delivering. I’m genuinely fearing for my life.

More than once her brother catches Olga holding my hand (I can only pull away so often in a weakened mental state such as the one Sergei himself put me in), or at least reaching for it. I turn down her offer to dance more than once, and at some point Sergei invites me to his 30th birthday party next year (I’d already been to his 29th in October). I’d recently (finally) watched all three of The Godfather movies, and the line “keep your friends close and your enemies closer” is echoing in my vacant head. I’m going to die.

Finally, Olga makes a casual pass at me while we are smoking a cigarette (I can’t remember it now, but it probably had something to do with smoking my cock), which I reject with a smile and a joke (the only way I can deal with any uncomfortable situation), and Sergei joins us as Olga leaves without looking at him. Seeing this as my best escape route, I tell Sergei I’m going to hail a cab and he wishes me well. Two days later, I was on a flight to New York, so I think I’m going to live. At least long enough to entertain you fucks a bit longer.

Since then, I’ve gotten a fair share of forlorn emails from each Olga and Sergei (they both miss me immensely, or so they say…). I’m not sure though, that a return to Ukraine is in the best interest of my well being, however.

A Not-So-Apologetic Quick Update

2007-12-19T00:03:00.000+05:00

I realize it's been about two weeks since my last entry, and trust me when I say I have a couple entires about half done, which will be posted quickly following completion. But as for what I've been up to the past couple weeks, I've been moving around A LOT in order to rush my way down to Jerusalem for Christmas.

Those towns include, Istanbul, Selcuk (site of Ephesus), Pammukale, Olimpos, Antalya, and Goreme (where I am now). Lots of cool shit, and some much more interesting observations of Turks and a very pointed opinion regarding travel partners.

I've posted a few more pictures, so if you're bored at work (or looking to over-bill a client), then take a stroll through those. I haven't added captions for all the Kiev pictures yet, so maybe you can do me the favor of holding off on those until I can present them to you in at least a mildly entertaining format. Otherwise, they're just pictures of some place you've never been, may never go, and don't care to see. And I thank you in advance for your open-mindedness.

Keep checking back here, as the first chance I get I'll post my tale of Kiev, and Part II of the food review. When I get some time to breath, I'll kick out a story on Turkey too, but that needs careful consideration. Consideration, I might add, that their teeth sorely need.

Working is for pussies. Never forget that.

A Lesson in Popularity

2007-12-04T12:07:00.000+05:00

I've been back in New York for a couple weeks, with an arduous week in Delaware thrown in for good measure. I say arduous only because Delaware is what it is, and although relaxing (more a function of a stimulus vacuum than a serene landscape), it was nice to return to the energy and organized chaos of New York City.

One thing I've learned in the past few weeks is that if ever you feel as though your popularity is flagging, all you need to do is disappear for six months, and then reappear with tales of adventure. It makes me wonder if Alan Johnston is also enjoying gratis lunches and rounds of Patron shots in honor of nothing more than his arrival back in the UK.

I'm sure he probably is, and I guess I can lay my head down at night knowing that he and I have more in common than just a retreating hairline and night terrors. [secretly hoping to get abducted by Islamic fundamentalists].

Also a function of popularity is the shortened return. The fact that my return to New York is of a finite duration, only adds to my appeal. If I were back for good, I'm sure I'd find myself with a lot more unreturned voicemails and as a result, a lot fewer friends to carry forward into 2008. I should probably consider that before I sign up for a cell plan when I get back.

The final, and probably most important function of my sudden spike in popularity, seems to be my exposure to ill-prepared seafood and Ukrainian cock. And given this revelation, I rest easy knowing that even if I die alone (as several exes have sworn), then at least I'll have more hits on my blog than all you married fags. If you want proof, then read Nino's blog and see if you don't have "qwerty" across your forehead when you finally come to.

With just a couple weeks being spent here in New York, people were forced to appreciate me (for once!!!). Although I'll footnote that last sentence with the fact that no matter how much love people show me, I'll always feel as though the people near me appreciate me far less than I appreciate myself. After all, I'm rewarding myself with 6+ months of vacation. A free lunch somewhat pales in comparison. (all those wishing to contribute to 6 more months can paypal me at my gmail account. you can feel free to send insider trading tips and NFL "locks of the week" as well).

In all seriousness, thanks to all who hunted me down (I admittedly didn't do much to go out of my way to "announce" my return to everyone in my address book) and showed me some love. In return for your collective generosity, I'll get back to work on this blog thing (once my head clears from a far-too-taxing weekend) and try to adhere to the once-weekly minimum I've been trying to set for myself. Although I guess I can blame those of you who kept me out until 5-6am the past few nights, I suppose I should take responsibility for the 16 hour binge my friend Brian and I logged on Saturday.

Actually, fuck that. Brunch at Extra Virgin was his idea.

I'll say that the brunch = ok, the bacon = delicious, the bloody mary's = frequent and generally unnecessary, and the hangover = epic.

I think you can probably gauge a hangover by the number of words you speak before dark the following day. Let's just say that Brian and I hung out in his apartment the entire day on Sunday, and spoke a total of 12 different words to each other. They were seven variations of the sentence "I feel _____" peppered with the occasional "I feel like killing myself." Good times.

Updates on Kiev, Lviv, and New York coming soon. I've got a long flight to Istanbul, so I'm hoping to get some catching up done then, when I'm once again outside the clutches of the familiar. Patience my pretties....

Back on Solid Ground

2007-11-21T05:34:00.001+05:00

I'm back in New York for the next couple of weeks to log some parent time and reaffirm my belief that New York is easily the best city ever. Mostly because I'm in it.

I'm looking forward to eating at my old haunts, catching up with people and not saying words like "haunt" ever again.

I'll kick something out there over the weekend, which reminds me: Have a great Thanksgiving all.

A Trip to the Banya

2007-11-05T20:36:00.000+05:00

My friend Ed suggested one day recently that we go to the banya. Bath houses had always intrigued me since the days of living on East 10th St., a block from the Russian and Turkish bath house in the East Village, and so the chance to check out an old-school Russian banya was met with enthusiasm. After all, with as much as I've been drinking so far in 2007, I could use a good opportunity to sweat out some toxins.

Ed tells me to grab a towel and flip flops, as well as some basic toiletries. I ask him if I should bring a bathing suit, and he responds with open laughter. Nice. Should be an interesting day.

Ed's friend Guy also joins us. Guy is somewhat of a resident expert on the banya, and as he's someone who spent 20 years in a monastery before coming to Lviv, I'm immediately wondering why he's taken so much interest in anything not involving women, booze, or an online porn membership. He is carrying a bag full of tree branch bundles, and I write this off as more of his crazy god-stuff. Not that god is crazy, or that believing in an all-powerful being like him/her/my cock necessarily is, but carrying a bag full of kindling definitely borders on erratic behavior.

Once we arrive at the banya, I see some crusty old ladies out front selling the same bundles at 5 UAH each. For some reason, this gives me a little more faith in Guy's sanity, and yet a little less faith in my own. If Guy and these old ladies born in the late 1830s know something that I don't, then I seriously need to reassess the avenues I use to gain information, because clearly some things are slipping through the cracks.

Already self-conscious, we pay our way in, and Guy leads us up to the locker room. The door opens to reveal a long, slender room, with two long rows of poorly-kept dark blue lockers lining the walls. There are wooden benches running parallel, and a light gray floor in between. Sounds like any other locker room, doesn't it? Perhaps. Until you account for the overabundance of nude Ukrainian men.

Now, to this point in my life, I've seen probably about 20-30 cocks (including my own), and in most places outside of San Francisco, Chelsea, and my friend Brian's apartment, some would say thats about 19-29 too many. That figure quickly doubled in a matter of seconds.

In most locker rooms, you see men in various stages of undress, but the nice thing is, they are rarely naked for long. Somewhere between shedding their towel and replacing their underwear, you may happen around a corner and be met with an eyeful of rod, but in those extraordinary cases, you can usually erase such a damaging image with a decent lap dance at Scores after your acid bath. However, in this particular locker room, I am immediately met with about 20-30 wiggling weenies dancing beneath the overlapped waistlines of Ukrainian men ranging in age from their late 30s to early 200s. I've never been further from going gay in my life.

Upon this sight, Ed tells me the following:
"In the banya, there is only one rule. Don't make eye contact with anyone getting rooted from behind."

I don't necessarily fall for his joke, but regardless, I'm already concentrating my gaze around the room at roughly a meter above eye-level. I'm issued a key for a locker, and the disrobing begins. Now, as someone who is immensely comfortable with my sexuality, I'm nevertheless having a hard time ignoring the fact that I am undoubtedly the best looking man in the room. Granted, there are not many rooms of 30+ men in which I am able to say this, though this has never bothered me. On the contrary. At this particular moment, I am wishing this moment never took place. Or alternatively, this moment instead took place at a raving sex party in Brazil.

Quick aside: I have always said that if I'd ever go gay, it would be with myself. Ultimately, only I would ever be able to put up with me for the rest of our lives, and so if I were to ever meet me, I'd go so gay it would make Perez Hilton look embarrassingly hetero. And then we'd marry and have little baby Brians and drown any that lacked our searing wit and contempt for douchebags. In fact, meeting myself may be my only chance at true love.

Unfortunately, there were no smiling faces in this dreary room. Only sneering douchebags (I can only assume), probably upset that their abdomen has enveloped 30% of what used to be their already below-average cock. All that sala (raw pig fat) really has its consequences. And I know from experience, if yaknowhatimean.

I finally shed my layers and inhibitions and calmly hand my key back to the dungeonmaster. Carrying only a bar of soap and an ass pad (supplied by Guy, which is a questionable source at best), I march faux-confidently into the iniquitous nether regions of Ukraine's bastion of not-exactly-gayness. But a little-gayness will no doubt be present.

What I am met with is an orgy of prancing hairballs with disproportionate dangling light switches. There is no direction I can turn to that doesn't contain an eyeful of penis. I pause, but only enough to take a deep breath and plunge forward.

Have you noticed the use of imagery in this passage is almost entirely duplicitous? You can make an innuendo out of almost any sentence I've written. Play along at home! Or alternatively, don't.

I head towards the steam room, which is a tri-level wooden wet sauna (as opposed to dry - big difference), with the steam so thick, I can barely see a meter in front of me. This is definitely not a place where I would want to attempt the arms-outstretched-feeling technique of getting around. Lord knows what I'd wind up with a handful of. Probably boyfriend.

In any case, Guy hands me a wad of tree and I finally have the courage to ask what it's for. Apparently, the venik is meant to be lightly beaten on the body, by either yourself or a partner (the use of the word "partner" in this environment makes me more than a little squeamish). It is used to promote blood circulation, cleanse the skin (and hair) and release pleasant smells to aid your respiratory system. They are either of birch or oak, and I learn that mine is birch. Apparently, since my skin is normal (as opposed to dry or oily), birch is perfect for me. I'm touched that Guy would be so keen as to know my skin type ahead of time. Creeeeeeeeepy.......

The steam room is waaay hotter than any sauna I've ever been in. I'm sure the embers and coals were probably about the same temperature that I'm typically used to, but with all that exposed rod giving off heat as well, my unscientific best guestimate put the temperature at somewhere around 700 degrees Celsius hotter than your everyday average cockless sauna.

After about five minutes, my pores are exploding with as-yet unprocessed alcohol, and consequently, I am giving absolutely no thought to the men around me. Conversation is minimal, as even breathing is rather difficult, to say nothing of the energy it would take to actually lift my head. Ten minutes after that, and I am dragging my weary (yet still virgin) ass out of there completely spent. I leave for two reasons: A) I am unable to tolerate any more heat and B) I am physically incapable of fending off any frisky Ukrainians.

The next step is to wait a minute or two, and then dunk yourself in the ice pool. I wrote earlier how Jones and I had tried out the Turkish baths in Budapest, and how disappointing they were. The cold pools there were akin to a chilly shower, and the hot springs were not much more than your average shower on a cold day. Here at the banya, however, the ice pool is F.U.C.K.-I.N.G. C.O.L.D.!!!!! I would say that if people weren't continually dipping in and out of there, that the water would freeze solid in under an hour. It must have been at least 10% freon. And 80% river water from Pluto.

So, I enter the pool. Never in my life have I felt anything quite like the rapid retreat of my testicles into my greater abdomen. In under one second, I get the sensation that I may never have children, coupled with the much more pressing concern that I may never again experience an orgasm. It strikes me as odd that I'd be concerned with orgasms while in a pool of naked men, but I dismiss it as ball-chilling hysteria.

Frantically massaging the place my nuts used to be (also a curious action to engage in here), I get my first honest chance to peer around the room. Lining two walls are shower stalls, with soapy men lathering every crack and crevice. Not much unlike a locker room, and at this point, I'm becoming more comfortable with the sight of cock everywhere. Until, that is, I take note of the massage tables. YIKES.

There are four massage tables along the wall nearest the entrance (thus why I missed them on the way in), where naked men are on the receiving end of rather rigorous massages by... other naked men. The "masseuses" (aka fluffers) can only have their ages determined through the use of carbon dating. Their old withered hands are rubbing any and everywhere there may be a muscle, or at least where there is something that is commonly mistaken for one.

My question: why do THESE guys have to be naked??? No one has given me a satisfactory answer to this question as yet. Double YIKES.

At this point, I see Guy exiting the wet sauna heading to the ice pool. He's at about 9/9:30 with excitement, and for the first time, I think I understood how tough it must have been to live in a monastery for 20 years. Merely the sight of skin probably gets his roger up. This also explains why he's so knowledgeable about the banya in the first place. Now I'm officially uncomfortable.

However, knowing that the ice pool will cure his "problem" lickety-split, I rest easy. The ice pool by now is a calming reprieve from the heat of the sauna, and if you're able to ignore how many sweaty guys have dropped in and out of there, it's actually quite refreshing. Needless to say, a humble man the ice pool makes.

I repeat the procedure several times (hot/cold/hot/cold), giving my gonads time to recover each time the ice pool sent them packing for my lower intestine. Jesus, is that where they go?? Who knows? Who cares? Please come back!!!!

And let me say that the venik beating is indeed a powerful piece of the equation. With every whip to my back/thigh/chest/everywhere but my terrified genitals, I could feel a hot rush of blood to the surface, and a strange energy boost. Sort of like a Red Bull with the life cycle of a nitrous-oxide hit.

Once I call it quits, I walk back into the locker room with the confident stroll I wish I'd had earlier. Not because I'd conquered the banya, but more because with my genitals shrunken to a size that would make a Ken doll blush, I knew beyond any doubt that there was nothing sexual about the place whatsoever. Not that I ever thought there was, but with that much cock around, sometimes you just can't be sure.

Later that night, I was completely spent. The banya absolutely wipes you out for the rest of the day. It's a great workout for your heart, as I felt like I ran about 10 miles. Away from a starving cheetah.

By the way, I vehemently promise there will be a LOT less cock talk (does that rhyme?) in the next entry. Given the subject matter, I don't feel compelled to apologize, but I do feel compelled to download some porn. Lesbian porn.

A Day in the Life of a Ukrainian Male

2007-10-31T01:42:00.000+05:00

7:07am: My father wakes me up with the tortured coughs and gags of a dry-heaving fit.

7:37am: I am again awakened, this time by my rupturing large intestine, painfully suggesting its need to expel only a small percentage of the hot dog and sausage meat I've been eating for the past 27 years.

7:40am: Stomach stops convulsing. Expulsion: complete.

7:42am: My ass is bleeding uncontrollably due to overuse of 30 grit toilet paper. I am crying.

7:45am: Back to bed, amid curses in Russian.

8:18am: Alarm sounds. I turn it off because I have no job, and Mom gets pissed when I abuse the snooze, and I am in no position to deal with that bitch right now.

10:41am: Wake up to the sounds of horny cats exchanging mating calls in the courtyard outside.

10:42am: Urinate. Emit audible sigh. Chernigivske feels a lot better on the way out.

10:43am: Resist impulse to shower.

10:44am: Exit bathroom without pausing at the sink to consider washing my hands or teeth. Not as if there's soap or toothpaste to use anyway.

10:55am: Devour a sausage and eggs breakfast, while desperately trying to ignore my father's rant on how Tymoshenko fucked the last election for everybody. I'm also trying to ignore the bits of food reflecting off his last remaining incisor.

11:04am: Return to my bedroom, and play my favorite shitty Ukrainian pop song for the 6,429th time this week while I…

11:05am: …Put on my fake Gianfranco Ferre Shirt o' the Day, fake D&G Jeans o' the Day, and Fake Leather Pointed Loafers o' the Day.

11:08am: Inspect self in mirror. Adjust shrinking groin area. Gesticulate a gunfiring motion to falsify confidence.

11:10am: Gel hair forward. Remove dandruff flakes from bang area. Give no thought to the possibility they may exist elsewhere.

11:11am: Crowd onto the marshutka towards town center. Driver is wearing a "Fuck You You Fucking Fuck" t-shirt. I give him a hi-five. I hope everyone saw me do that.

11:12am: Terrify the blazing-hot girl seated underneath my outstretched arm with a combination of my rancid body funk and date rape vibe I'm exuding.

11:21am: Exit marshutka onto Svobody Avenue and promptly buy a 0.5L beer at news kiosk.

11:34am: Finish beer #1 as my friend Roman shows up to loiter at Shevchenko monument. I can't believe he also wore his black fake Gianfranco Ferre shirt today. I punch him in the face, knowing full well that fake Gianfranco Ferre shirts come in only one color.

11:36am: I am approached by a policeman who had witnessed said act of aggression.

11:39am: I have 20 less UAH ($4US) to spend on beer and cigarettes. My teeth and gums thank the officer sincerely.

11:44am: Buy another beer. Resume position in front of Shevchenko monument.

11:58am: Finish beer #2. Shampoo effect kicking in nicely. Time for a cigarette.

11:58:25am: Cigarette: gone.

11:59am: Yell at some passing girl in tight black capris adorned with gold buckles and buttons.

11:59:05am: Shudder when she turns around and flashes teeth worse than mine.

12:03pm: Commit to buying more than one beer at a time. Clearly, today is no different from yesterday.

12:06pm: Spend my last 15 UAH ($3) on three more beers. Kiosk attendant gives knowing glance.

12:11pm: Remember I have to meet my girlfriend Olga for a date at 12:30. Shit.

12:13pm: Finish beer #3.

12:17pm: Finish beer #4.

12:21pm: Finish beer #5.

12:21pm: Borrow 5UAH ($1) from Roman.

12:23pm: Buy beer at kiosk.

12:27pm: Finish beer #6. Fully lathered now.

12:29pm: Borrow 5UAH more from Roman.

12:30pm: Buy beer at kiosk. Attendant unphased.

12:38pm: Arrive at Opera House to meet Olga. She looks great. I look like a Cinco de Mayo piñata.

12:39pm: Olga rolls her eyes. I'm drunk again.

12:43pm: I roll my ankle. I'm drunk again.

12:44pm: Olga comments that our walking date has become a limping date. I love her sense of humor, but I'm sensitive to criticism so I berate her as part of a public spectacle to exhibit my waning dominance.

12:47pm: Continue our walking date. She window shops while I smoke cigarettes relentlessly in anticipation of my next beer.

12:58pm: Olga takes pity on me, and buys me a beer. My excuse that I left my ATM card at home is met with more eye rolling.

12:59pm: Nearly half an hour after my last beer, the first sip tastes so good. It's warm, but it's getting the job done. Olga can say whatever the fuck she wants. I'm not even listening.

1:24pm: It occurs to me that since Olga bought me the beer, not a word has been spoken. It similarly occurs to me that for once in my life, this ridiculous hand-holding over her shoulder (around her neck) finally proves useful. I have a beer-buying human crutch for a girlfriend. My limp is negligible, and all is right with the world.

1:31pm: I am essentially dry-humping Olga as we walk past storefront windows containing items neither of us can possibly afford.

1:35pm: Quietly rummage through Olga's purse with my off-hand for some Hrivna with which to buy my next beer. I could ask, but I just don't feel like talking.

1:41pm: Olga is in the McDonald's bathroom. I am outside, perched underneath a full bottle of beer, hoping to finish before she finds out who bought it.

1:44pm: Olga returns, and suggests we eat at McDonald's. What does she think? I'm made of fucking money?!?!?!?

1:48pm: Oh yea, she's buying. Again. Score!! Supersize.

1:50pm: The only smell worse than the stench of a McTasty is whatever is being secreted by my underarm glands. Man, I'm hungry.

1:58pm: Done eating, Olga needs to get back to her job at the bank. I need to get to Shevchenko monument before Roman finds something better to do. An unlikely scenario, but the beer has me acting a bit paranoid.

2:02pm: Suggest we get together to bone later that night. She says something about something, and I nearly pass out from the energy it took just to listen.

2:14pm: Back at the monument, drinking one of Roman's beers. Lose count of how many beers I've had, but understand that there are at least 15 of my elders nearby who are a lot more drunk than I am.

2:32pm: Laugh at the expense of a local guy in goggles who is trying to push against a moving delivery truck, and is sliding backwards on the cobblestones as the truck driver accelerates. Life expectancy: 17 seconds.

2:32:14pm: The local guy in goggles takes two swift overhand rights to the face and neck from said truck driver. Roman and I are on the ground bawling. This is the best day of our lives.

2:39pm: Pick ourselves off the ground. We need to celebrate. We need to do something amazing. Begin brainstorming.

2:53pm: Park ourselves at Adam Mickewiecz monument 80 meters away, and resume drinking beer.

6:01pm: Wake up. I’m still at Adam Mickewiecz monument, and Roman is gone. How long have I been asleep? Where is my beer?

6:03pm: Collecting my thoughts, I smoke a cigarette, and contemplate a lifestyle change.

6:07pm: I need beer. I kick in the door of the kiosk. Lifestyle: changed.

6:11pm: Halfway through my next beer, decide to go to the Ringworm Window and order a nasty hot dog with all the fixins (mayo, corn, peppers, mayo, lettuce, mayo, and mayo).

6:14pm: I’m dry heaving. Man, that was good.

6:41pm: Go to a convenience store nearby, sit on milk crate inside. Text Olga and Roman. Where the fuck are they?

7:07pm: Roman calls me. He’s at Shevchenko monument, drinking. For some reason, this surprises me.

7:13pm: Watch a young boy get hit by a car. I’d stop to see if he’s ok, but Roman said he only had one beer left, and that I’d better hurry. I’m sure the kid is fine.

7:16pm: Genuflect as I pass the Virgin Mary statue. It’s a good thing I haven’t sinned today.

8:14pm: Three beers later, decide to go to Club Metro later.

8:24pm: Go to ATM and withdraw 80 UAH ($16). It’s going to be a big night.

8:28pm: Olga calls. I tell her I have a lot of work to do, and can’t see her tonight. Roman laughs audibly in background.

8:41pm: Engage in a very in-depth political conversation with Roman on the merits of westernization versus assimilation with Russia.

8:44pm: Tire of politics and begin discussing girls’ asses as they walk by.

8:53pm: Roman calls a foreigner “George Bush.” I fall over in hysterics and almost spill my beer. Man, that was a good one.

9:14pm: I can barely breathe after my 34^th cigarette. Finally I feel as though I’ve accomplished something.

9:19pm: Gasp about how much I want to fuck Tymoshenko. Roman has heard this all before.

9:41pm: Throw empty bottles at the stray dogs in the square, while narrowly missing passers-by.

9:44pm: A policeman approaches me about the throwing of bottles. I promise to stop.

9:45pm: He asks me about a kiosk robbery. I promise to stop that too.

9:46pm: Bribe policeman with 10UAH ($2). Fuck, that was an expensive conversation.

10:07pm: Pile into Roman's 1974 Broke-Ass Mobile, (BAM!!!) each through the driver's side door.

10:08pm: Ask if he’s too drunk to drive, to which he assures me he certainly is.

10:09pm: Laugh hysterically.

10:10pm: Back over a homeless person.

10:11pm: Laugh maniacally.

10:29pm: Park the BAM on the sidewalk around the corner from Metro.

10:41pm: Balk at the 30UAH entry fee, even though we knew damn well it would cost this much when we hatched the idea.

10:46pm: Head straight for the bar and quickly down four shots of vodka. Each. Purpose: to manufacture confidence.

10:52pm: Dance like epileptics in need of attention. Girls around us look horrified. We call them bitches.

11:22pm: Two more shots of vodka while Roman is in the bathroom, and I’m now belligerently shitfaced.

11:24pm: Tell Roman that tonight I’ll either A) fuck or B) fuck someone up.

11:31pm: See a foreigner hitting on a Ukrainian girl we know from somewhere. We are in disbelief that she can possibly find him attractive given his good hygiene, keen fashion sense, and gainful employment. She must be wasted too.

12:14am: Finish smoking a shisha and run away before we’re asked to pay for it.

12:22am: Slobber on some girl about how she should marry me. She shockingly rejects me.

12:25am: Have three more shots of vodka. That shit will never reject me.

1:35am: I haven’t seen Roman in hours. I don’t care. I’m dancing spastically in the center of the dance floor, sweating and trying desperately to make eye contact with an available female for purposes of mating.

2:22am: I think I’m in the bathroom, but it’s hard to tell with all the people in there making out. I have no idea where I am, nor do I know where my phone is.

2:41am: Back on the dance floor, I somehow manage to find a girl that can best be described as being of questionable quality and character. The line I used: "Vodka?"

2:55am: Engaging in full-stage foreplay in a banquette while wishing Roman could see what a stud I am. At the same time, I hope Olga’s friends aren’t here.

3:01am: Olga’s friend Olga points and screams at me about being a bad man.

3:02am: Girl leaves, Olga’s friend leaves, I consider sleeping in banquette.

3:07am: Spend my last 12 UAH on a taxi ride home at the behest of club security. Not without a fight, mind you.

3:12am: Jerk off

7:05am: My father wakes me up with the tortured gags of a dry heaving fit. I have no memories of anything past that awful hot dog.

7:17am: On the shitter again. Another day...

FYI - I've uploaded a bunch of pictures of Lviv to Flickr if you want to check them out. Happy Halloween, all. My favorite holiday ever, and I still don't have a costume 4 hrs before the party starts. We'll see what I come up with.

The Perfect Crime

2007-10-24T23:08:00.000+05:00

The night began at my apartment with me and my two (American) friends Eytan and Matt (not from Krakow) polishing off a 1L bottle of Perlova. This, to most, may sound excessive. And in any ordinary place, I'd tend to agree with you. However in Ukraine, this is commonplace, encouraged, and even lauded.

One of the many things Lviv is lacking, is a decent pre-game lounge to get things started. Sure, there are bars, and plenty of them. But unless you feel like bumping elbows with a slouched old war veteran that smells like a sulfur leak (who insists on spitting slurred Ukrainian at you no matter how many shrugs and English words you respond with), then you may as well drink at home.

So Eytan, as is his custom, went home afterwards, as he gets all the stimulation he needs in an evening by questioning the merits of religion and retelling the same stories over and over again. Plus, he's the most self-assured cheap fuck I've ever met in my life. I've never met someone who takes so much pleasure in being the cheapest motherfucker in the room. And yet, somehow, I don't mind buying him a meal and a few drinks here and there. I don't know how he did it, but now that I'm thinking about it, I'm beginning to get pretty fucking pissed. Since when am I in the business of rewarding people with a free meal in lieu of torturing me with itemizing a bill? I clearly need to revisit the drawing board on this one.

Where was I? Oh yea, Eytan and his air-tight fucking wallet go home, as Matt and I head out to the best club in town: Millennium. It's a Thursday night, so it's ladies night. Presumably, that means it'll be OUR night, if yaknowwhatimsayin (wink wink, nudge nudge). Once inside, Matt and I order a bottle of Perlova and some mixers (cost: $14US) while trying to avoid slipping a disc as we swivel our heads to eyefuck each prancing pinup.

Before I continue, I need to tell you about this adorable little kitten that plays in my neighbor's yard. Irrelevant!!!!! It's black and white, and can't weight more than a pound. It's always hanging out by their fence and meows each time I walk by. I could swear it knows I want to pet it, but it insists on sitting inside the fence, where I can't get at it. Fucking ball tease!!!! Actually, I guess luring it with a ball isn't such a bad idea. I'll try that tomorrow. I hope kittens love puns as much as I do.

I've given it a name. It's Cunt. I liked it as an allusion to pussy(cat), plus it captures not only it's bad fucking attitude, but my teeth-gritting frustration. Fuck that cat. I tell it to fuck off every time I try to get it to join me on my side of the fence and fail. Although I'll quickly forgive it if I ever get to rub it's tiny head. "That's a good Cunt. Goooooooood Cuuuuunt..."

Speaking of cunt, I have to say that the women of Ukraine are far and away the most amazing women (by nation) I've ever seen. Millennium, on a typical night, would look like any Las Vegas strip club if you inserted vertical stainless steel poles, and charged about $600 more per bottle of vodka.

Getting back to the story (by the way, the last few paragraphs are probably very close to the conversation Matt and I were having at the time), we are borderline mental by around 2:30am. At this point, the only thing standing between us and a full-on disorder is a prescription for Lithium. Matt in fact, clearly is in need of 24 hour surveillance.

But that doesn't stop him from storming the dance floor, with me shortly behind. We see a couple of strong candidates fend off a drooling and frighteningly aggressive Ukrainian guy, after which Matt moves in for arguably, an equally creepy swoop. The four of us engage in small-talk, and somehow I'm dancing with one of the girls, and Matt disappears with the other. It seems our night is only improving.

My girl is laughing a bunch (duh!! I'm fuckin' funny!), and I assume Matt is having as much luck as I am. Things are definitely looking promising, when Matt comes up and tells me that his girl isn't giving him any love. My girl (no, I don't remember anyone's name) collects her friend, and I see her talking to a sizable crew of guys. This strikes me as odd, because I hadn't previously gotten any indication that they were with anyone there. Then again, Lviv is a very small city, and everyone here seems to know one another. Plus, I bring my decision making into question because the only thing I'm entirely sure of is that my last five cocktails were completely unnecessary.

As the lights come on, after the customary closing prom dance slow numbers (clubs here INSIST on slow dances to close a night down), Matt and I head outside. Given my excessive inebriation, I am only looking forward to passing out. My girl types her number into my phone, and the subject of continuing the evening fails to come up (to my relief). Somehow, I lose Matt, and consciously wait patiently outside for him to reappear (the buddy system is rather important in this country, even for guys). Don't ever leave me!!!!

After some time, he shows up out of nowhere and informs me that the girls want to come back to my apartment. Mildly disappointed, I call my pseudo-roommate, who frequently crashes on my couch, to see if he is interested in A) waking the fuck up and B) entertaining guests, from whom he will absolutely derive no value. He wisely declines, as he'd been sick for much of the week, and I find that perfectly acceptable.

The girls, however, are decidedly less accepting of this development. My explanation for their overt disappointment is that my game really is that damn tight. I'm also looking for explanation as to how Matt has managed to turn his girl around so successfully. Being the team player I am, I suggest we go to another bar, and the girls suggest some restaurant/bar thing nearby. Food, at this point, is the only thing that can possibly keep me standing upright.

The bar of choice is a rather dingy, well-lit pub with worn wooden tables and chairs, with exactly the type of clientele you'd expect in a Ukrainian pub at 5am on a Friday morning. We choose a table upstairs, and as the waitress approaches, my girl orders some things in Ukrainian. I sputter something, and she stops me and says "I order for all our group." Perfect. One less thing to try and accomplish with my awful Ukrainian. After all, it's hard enough just trying to decipher my date's English.

What arrives at our table is a 1L bottle of some kind of vodka I'd never seen before, and four plates of awful schnitzel and chips. If I had one wish granted that night, it would have been a picture of the look on the faces of Matt and I as this fallic death cock was placed on our table along with four shot glasses. I don't think I've ever been so terrified.

Well, that's not true. But recognize that AT THE TIME, I'd never felt so terrified. And thank you very much for not invalidating my feelings (asshole).

Amid "budmo" chants (which is a toast that symbolizes a shot of vodka is quickly approaching), I am feverishly inhaling cold chicken schnitzel in the hopes that it will keep me from achieving liver failure. My girl, seemingly sensing my ability to only focus on one thing at a time, that being eating, is instead matchmaking her friend and Matt. She's asking such things as "why don't you kiss her," which I learned in high school, always proves to be nothing short of paralyzingly irritating to the question receiver. Matt goes in for a kiss, and is met with a cheek. He instead dives in for the back of the neck, and as a result my food is beginning to sneak back up my esophagus and tickle my uvula.

Drunken mauling-out is the leading cause of gag reflex activation. It's true. Look it up.

Next, I am waking up in my bed, on top of the covers, fully clothed with jacket and shoes on at 11am. I strip my clothes off, drunkenly brush the taste of cigarettes and salmonella from my mouth, and go back to sleep. I don't A) know how I got home, B) know where Matt is or how he got home, C) know who took that bite out of the raw potato on the kitchen counter or D) care about A, B, or C.

My phone rings at 3pm. Apparently, Matt got robbed the night before (or more accurately, early that morning). He wound up being ushered into a car by four rough-looking dudes, who took him for about $200US and who kept going through his pockets in search of his passport. Luckily, he didn't have it on him (I never carry mine). His next memory was waking up in a restaurant bathroom (in town center) with a black eye and a chipped tooth.

He doesn't know how he got there, and his memory of the night is about as good as mine is, but after a quick check, I realize I have no money either. Although to be fair, I don't remember having much on me to start the night, so for all I knew, I had spent it all. Who knows how much a shit schnitzel costs at 6am anyway?

We devise a plan to at least make a police report of the incident, but to do that, we need to know where the fuck we were that morning. I call the girl I was with and find that her number doesn't work. In Ukraine, no one pays for voicemail, and if you're underground, or your phone is turned off, an automated message typically tells you to try again later. This was good for me, because I needed about nine more days of sleep anyway.

When I wake up three hours later however, the phone number still doesn't work. Odd. With my head a bit clearer, I recalled seeing a table of undesirables on my way to the bathroom in the late-night joint, and thinking to myself "don't speak English" while simultaneously writing that thought off to my drunken paranoia. I'm oscillating like Mozart's pendulum on quaaludes.

Now, it's two weeks later, and the phone number STILL doesn't work. I'm even more thankful that I wasn't more persistent in needling my friend to wake up and help me entertain. I'm now sure that if they had come to my apartment, they not only would have stolen my money, they'd have taken my passport, my computer, my kidney, and my rapidly depreciating dignity.

I still have no idea how Matt and I got separated. You know, saying that kind of reminds me of an ex-girlfriend, actually. Speaking of cunts!!! Heeeey!!!!!

Later in the week, Matt went to a dentist and got a cap on his tooth and a cleaning for $62US. Total bill for the story: $262. I told Matt that his story is worth at least twice that much. I'd trade places with him for $500 easy.

Eytan has this bad habit of telling stories in the third person, and I told him that if he wants to retain my interest in his banal tales, he'll have to supplant himself in the place of the protagonist. Not surprisingly, I feel similarly about this story. Imagine how much more you'd enjoy this story if I was the one with the black eye and backseat narrative. It's not even close. Schadenfreude, evidently, is most effective when the unfortunate loser is someone you know.

It does bear mentioning that the two broads obviously set us up. I guess my game wasn't quite that tight after all. Of course, It also bears mentioning that choosing us as victims isn't even sport considering our states of imbibed stupidity. You'd think any self-respecting thief would at least have a fistful of roofies and their cross-hairs squared on some douchey drunken Brit or something. Definitely not on two nice, affable, open-hearted dudes like Matt and me. That's like hunting kittens in a pet store, for christ sake.

Lviv rhymes with "can't leave"

2007-10-19T22:23:00.000+05:00

For those of you who don't know, or can't tell by my trending infrequency in blog posts, I've found a place I feel entirely too comfortable in: Lviv, Ukraine.

How to begin? This town is insane. There is a terrible (terribly AWESOME) amount of access to sinful stimuli, despite all of its genuflecting god-fearers. And the best part? You get all this at a budget-seeker's price point.

For example, 0.5L beers in the market = $0.60US. And they're good beers. Well, most of them, anyway. And beer is not even considered alcohol here. Seriously. Open containers are not only permitted, but consumed relentlessly at any one of the monuments at which people sit, drink, get drunk and presumably, fuck.

Which leads me to: women in this town dress positively SCANDALOUSLY. Take a stroll down Svobody Avenue, and it's like you're watching a walk-off for a spot in a Warrant video. And if you follow a woman for long enough (no comments with regards to creepiness necessary), you'll learn she A) loves to shop, B) loves to try on everything and buy nothing, and C) works less than I do. It’s absolutely inspiring. And the icing is: the cost of learning this information plus a pack of cigarettes = $1. Not bad for a lifetime of good memories.

Additionally, women here are either devoutly religious, or completely uninhibited sexually. Or both. If they’re not genuflecting in front of some Virgin Mary statue, then they’re scissor-locking their boyfriends on a park bench with his hand down her crack.

Read that last sentence again. I had a real hard time with subject-verb agreement there. I could have put “their” hand down “their crack,” but then that would get confusing, and ultimately, you’d be wondering just how many genuflects it would take to expunge the sinful disappearance of the second knuckle beyond the anal seal. Right? Right???? Backpedaling!!!!!

Wow. That was one hell of a diversion.

This is a town with a very old-school feel. All the roads are cobblestone, and in fact, they recently tore up one of the main roads, only to lay it with new cobblestone. I guess they're trying to preserve the quaint rustic feel of the town, rather than lay down nasty asphalt. But this is especially important, as women in this city only wear stilettos. Again, think Warrant videos. And then think of them walking in these stripper stilts along a glacial ridge, which is pretty much the planar equivalent of the streets of Lviv.

The truly interesting thing is that this phenomenon has spawned an entire industry of heel repairmen. Sure, those guys exist in New York too, but when every corner has a sign outside with heels pasted on it, you’re reminded of Plinko, and that game is fucking awesome.

You may remember my experience in Krakow, and how much I loved it there. This is largely considered what Krakow was five years ago, before the bourgeois Euros and bad street musicians showed up. In fact, you can wander the streets here for days and wonder if there are any tourists here at all. This is mostly a product of the fact that most tourists here are either Ukrainian or Polish.

That’s probably the coolest thing about Lviv, actually. It has always been a city of contentious positioning, at separate times in recent history falling under Austrian rule, Polish rule, Russian rule, and now is considered by many in western Ukraine to be “the true capital of Ukraine.” And all of these cultures are omnipresent in the form of architecture and art, but interestingly, not food. They shun pretty much anything Polish here, and even blindly declare hatred of Poles. It’s nice to know someone knows how useless those people really are. It reminds me of the south. Racism rules!!!!!

I just love the use of “those people” in sentences. It really puts forth a hate doctrine much more pointedly, I think. And for the sake of my parents’ complete misunderstanding of my apparently overly subtle sarcasm, I don’t hate Poles. But I fucking hate southerners.

Oops! Got’cha ‘gin!!!

Police in this city are either 17 year-old fuckwits with uniforms that fit like magnums on their tiny cocks, or they’re drunk old cunts looking for their next vodka fix. Example: my friends and I left dinner the other night, after having exactly one beer between the three of us (at least SOMEONE was representing), we left the restaurant, and presumably were speaking English to one another. Two older policecunts came over and asked us for our documents, which I personally never carry with me for this exact reason. Once they had procured the passports of my two friends (an Aussie with a Swiss passport and an American), they began telling us we were drunk (in Ukrainian) and we had to pay a drunk and disorderly fine. For ONCE, we actually were NOT drunk, and NOW we were getting in trouble. I almost wet myself due to the staggering irony.

In any case, we were no more than 50m from the restaurant, where we’re well known by the staff, and despite our insistence that we could show them the bill, they refused and repeated their “fine” requirement.

When we were asked to exhale into their faces, the irony went off the charts. The last time I remember living something this ironic was when I saw a homeless guy panhandling while leaning on a bright red Ferrari on 2^nd Avenue... These cops were WASTED. As they were smelling OUR breath, THEIR breath smelled as if the 2^nd Avenue homeless guy had been drowning in a lake of Bankers Club earlier that day. I was openly laughing at this point, which admittedly, wasn't doing a whole lot to solve our problem. Insulting!!!!!!

At first, the “fine” had been quoted at 330 UAH (about $66) each. After some wild gesticulating and emphatic “Nie”s (Ukrainian for “no”) from the three of us (not to mention a call to my friend’s lawyer), we walked away paying 50 UAH for ALL THREE of us. So, all that, and we paid less than $4 each in “bribes.” Wallet-whip!!!!

Stray dogs are also rather prevalent here. I have an apartment in the center (that's right, bitch), and on my block I have one particular stray dog that looks like a fucking lion. He kicks ass, and his balls drag like a prostitute’s labia. Man, that’s a dually disgusting visual. But with stray dogs come… stray dog shit. It’s not as much of a problem here as you’d think, but you definitely need to watch where you’re setting down your stiletto, or you’ll end up with a smelly street gasket that will inevitably end up in your shag carpeting, and then you’ll never get the smell out, and you’ll be left wondering if it’s really better than smelling Igor’s vomit from three Fridays ago. Wait. What???

I’ve also seen three stray dogs gang up on a stray cat here. I thought cats and dogs only hated each other in cartoons, but I was proven horribly wrong. Instead, it dawned on me that in captivity, all animals are pussies.

The most popular restaurant in town is a sushi restaurant. Now, if you haven’t seen a map of Ukraine, then understand that Lviv is completely landlocked. The nearest port is Odessa (or maybe Gdynia), and each is a serious hike from here. Fact is, the quality isn’t awful, and actually satisfies my cravings rather adeptly. But, I don’t necessarily go there for the food. Instead, I go there to watch all the Ukrainians eat with trainer-chopsticks. It’s fucking amazing. No less than 80% of the patrons in the most popular (and one of the most expensive) restaurants in town use the rubber-banded chopsticks that we laugh at children for in America. Snobbery!!!!!

Seriously, it is a testament to the people here that they’re willing to try new things, even if they look POSITIVELY RIDICULOUS while doing it. But good for them. I guess.

But the best part. The absolute best fucking part of Ukraine, is the way the men dress and dance. It’s like dressing up a bonobo ape in a tan suit and white pointed loafers, and then watching it juggle Asian babies. Or even better yet, a bonobo threesome, if you’re into that.

First of all, the men in the clubs here dance like spastic electroshock patients going through heroin withdrawal. I have not yet been able to detect anything even slightly resembling a rhythmic gyration from one Ukrainian man after two months in this country. It simply does not exist. They flail their appendages in all directions (being careful not to dislodge their sunglasses), smell like anything between an Adidas perfume counter at Strawberries and a dumpster, and somehow manage to sweat through their fake D&G (in huge fucking letters across their back) t-shirts in 4 degree (C) temperatures.

On Sundays, the Rynok Square becomes a promenade of married couples strutting their stuff. I’m telling you, everything in this town has at least a modicum of facejocking. Whether it’s the women showing off their fantabulexcellent outfits, or it’s the men showing off their women in their fantabulexcellent outifits, someone is showing off something. But if I have to see another tan suit (four sizes too large) with white shoes and a white belt --just ONE MORE-- I may have to continue silently mocking the man wearing it. Judgmental!!!!

I have a theory that the men getting married assume they are going to grow up and get fat, and probably cheat on their wife (infidelity is as popular as shitty pop music here), so they need to get buy a suit big enough to accommodate them when their wife finally leaves them. Fat frugality!!!!!!

Another thing that is popular here, is older men dating younger women. I’m not trying to pass judgment or anything (for once), but I’m not sure what a man in his mid-30s could possibly have to talk about with a 16 year-old (this is honestly not uncommon). I guess I could say that it’s one way for men to assure themselves of dominance in the relationship, but then I guess I could say that the swirly-faced child-fucker just REALLY liked teaching English outside the classroom.

And on that note, I’ll mercifully conclude this edition of Lviv. There is more to my time here in Lviv, obviously, but I’ll also split this one up. I have been horribly lazy lately, and for that I can only continue to promise that I do have a couple of pretty good stories lined up for the next entry. Which, with any luck, will be later this week. I’ll also try and get up some pictures. I know some of you are more than a little curious about Lviv, so I’ll get on that too.

In other news, there's a near certainty that I'll be back in New York for a couple weeks before Thanksgiving. I either need to A) get some warm clothes, B) move south, or C) contract hay fever. I'm opting for warm clothes. And a hamburger.

What's Awesome, and What Isn't [Part 1]

2007-09-30T17:06:00.000+05:00

In my last entry, I hatched the idea to clue everyone in on the various foods I’ve run across after four months in eastern Europe. Well, I think I’ll expand that to include booze and music as well, and we’ll call this a lesson in What’s Awesome, as well as What Isn’t. I'd love to post a picture of some food for this, but sadly, I still can't upload a photo in these internet cafes, and Ukraine takes WEEKS to get internet into an apartment. Good times.

Let me say from the top that I’m not entirely sure how funny this will be, nor am I sure this will add even an ounce of value to any of the lives of people not intending to A) visit Eastern Europe, B) do drugs, C) do drugs in Eastern Europe. Because as we’re all too aware, music and food and drugs are pretty much like bread and peanut butter and jelly, only it tastes better. I suppose this’ll be an adventure for all of us, so… here goes.
It’s easier for me if we travel throughout Eastern Europe according to my rather inefficient itinerary to this point, so if you’ll allow me this luxury, I’ll forgive all of you who said you’d visit, and then never did. Sound fair? Yea, I think so too.

First, the food in Czech Republic was largely average. And let me say that it took me some hunting around just to consistently eat at a very pedestrian level. Highlights include the pork knee (or knuckle), which is exactly what it sounds like, is baked and served on a spit, hovering above a dollop of mustard and another of horseradish. The skin is crisped nicely, safely trapping inside all the juices that make a pig so much more delicious than it is cute. It’s one hell of a meal, so don’t bother ordering a side (my mistake was usually coupling this beast with an order of croquettes – which tend to be a nice french fry substitute). It has a pretty obscene amount of fat betwixt (man, I love that word) the meat pockets, but the surgery is a small price to pay. It was easily my favorite meal in CZ.

Beyond that, I would suggest avoiding anything beef in CZ. As Nino discovered after exploring the “meatloaf”, it’s all trash. On the plus side, the pizzas are surprisingly above average. They’re rather uniform throughout Prague, and consist of a crispy thin crust, with a pretty solid cheese-to-dough ratio. My only complaints about the pizza are a rather high coefficient of grease, and the lack of parmesan accoutrements.

One thing of note in CZ, is the ice-cafes. Coffee, with a scoop of vanilla ice-cream, some whipped cream, a straw, and a glimpse of heaven. I had one after every meal; it’s impossible not to.
Czech food largely centers on the pig, as does most other countries in the region I’ve endeavored to. I had some pretty astounding bacon, and on other occasions, some pretty bad bacon. And fuck if I don’t love bacon. But as with any country, “meat platters” tended to be way overcooked and rife with fat and bones, and the potatoes, including the delightful little croquettes, were pretty ordinary. I don’t care what anyone says, there really isn’t much inventing left to be done with the potato. Kind of like how sex is generally very nice, but it takes a pretty special “potato” to blow your socks off. As such, I feel like I’m years away from fucking a new potato. Wait. Where did that analogy go wrong?

In Poland, I fell into a “daily borscht.” The borscht in Poland is a beetroot broth, with about 3-4 meat tortellinis (I’m sure they have their own name for these, but I never bothered or cared to find out) floating tauntingly within. It’s a nice, light (despite the oily pustules lining the bowl) start to any meal. Even breakfast. Poland has its version of the schnitzel, which I will go on record as saying is EXACTLY like it is anywhere else. Question: How can you fuck up pan-frying a pounded chicken/veal/pork something? Answer: You can’t. Every country thinks they have the best schnitzel, and it’s insane. It’s like someone telling me that Grey’s Papaya has the best hot dogs in Manhattan. They don’t. They all taste like shit, and Grey’s Papaya just has a bigger sign.

Poland does have, however, this beefy eggroll thing, laden in beefy sauce. Fuck I wish I knew what this was called, because they’re fantastic. Leave a little bit of borscht, and drizzle it on top of this thing, and your pants might come off. I swear. Mine did. Then again, that could be a function of the women of Poland, but I’ll try and stay focused on food here. But it wasn’t easy.

Moreso than anything, Poland has a FUCKLOAD of ice-cream. I was on a daily ice-cream, because Poland FORCES you to. Matt (from Krakow) and I had a running joke anytime we needed directions somewhere: “oh, M bar? Yea, go three ice-cream shops down to the ice-cream shop, take a left till you see the ice-cream shop, then turn right and you’ll see an ice-cream shop. M bar is two ice-cream shops past the ice-cream shop, across from the ice-cream shop.” They were honestly that prevalent.

And they should be. It’s perhaps the creamiest, most flavorful ice-cream I’ve ever had. So, for those of you counting at home, in Poland, I was coming off a daily ice-café, and coming into a daily borscht and ice-cream. Some may say I’m a creature of habit. I like to think I just know a good thing when I see it. Like the women of Poland. --FUCK!!! You’d think my penis is a touch-typer.

I know what will calm down my loins; I tried a hamburger in Poland. I asked a few people where I could get the best hamburger in Krakow, and they all recommended a place called Rooster. Once inside, I could tell that it was nothing more than a Hooters rip-off. The Texas license plates and other paraphernalia, waitresses in boy-shorts and cutoffs, and a menu full of American pub fare. A “Rooster,” however, is a cock. “Hooters,” as we all know, is a euphemism for titties. So it would seem, the good people of Rooster took entirely the wrong meaning from “Hooters” and drew the bird parallel. As the City of Titties, I assure you that Prague would have NEVER made this mistake. If this same restaurant were to open in Prague, it’d surely be called Knockers or Melons. I’m still amused though, that the bird name they chose in Poland, happened to be the ONLY one they could possibly pick while drawing a tangential reference to a penis. Real bad call.

Meanwhile, feeling as adventurous as I was ravenous for some ground up cow, I ordered the Rooster Burger. Patiently waiting, I was already feeling expectantly regretful, and gave considerable thought to running away and back to Babci Maliny for the third time that week. Given how low my expectations were, you’d probably be as surprised as I was to find that they weren’t NEARLY low enough. What arrived in front of me was the biggest, most disgusting saucer of overcooked, coagulated animal products I’ve ever had the misfortune of eyeballing. Visually, it was disgusting. Once I took a bite, my most empassioned fears were confirmed, and my throat cavity began convulsing as my gag reflex promptly stamped Bite #1 “Return to Sender” as it landed back on my plate. This was THE WORST bite of food I’ve had since my parents served me broccoli pancakes when I was six (true story). Lesson learned: No beef in Poland. Ever. And you can ask my parents; I haven’t had a bite of broccoli in 25 years. I can be incredibly willful when it comes to food.

As for music, at Open’er, I do feel inclined to recommend a few notables. For one thing, I’m going to assume everyone is familiar with Bjork, Beastie Boys, Sonic Youth, Groove Armada, and LCD Soundsystem. So in the interest of brevity, I’m going to keep my recommendations to those acts I found off the main stage. For example, The Strike Boys absolutely KILLED the late-night DJ set in the tent. They’re a high-energy Goa-type (with spots of ambient house) DJ tandem from god-knows-where, and were definitely a damn good reason to stay up until 6am. Especially if you were sleeping on a rubber car mat that seved to thinly layer frozen linoleum.

On the lighter side, The Bassisters Orchestra was a really cool compilation progressive jazz act, that I’m not sure even has an album. They consisted of a sax, trumpet, bass (string, not guitar), and keyboard, and had some really inventive sounds, I thought. Poland has a very vibrant jazz scene, and if you’re into that kind of thing, definitely give it a listen.

Smolik is a producer/DJ that has a lot of cool remixes of Polish acts, including Novika. Novika has the sultry voice of the Zero 7 lead, to go along with a similar supporting cast, minus the additional vocalists. She’s really good lounge fare, and perhaps my favorite side stage act at Open’er. You can steal some of her stuff off Limewire the way I did, and judge for yourself.

Next I returned to CZ, and moved to Vienna. Vienna also has some amazing ice-cream, as now I was clearly dependent upon a daily calcium/sugar quotient. Their schnitzels, as I’ve mentioned already, are the same fucking schnitzels any asshole’s ever had. BIG FUCKING DEAL. What I was surprised by however, was the overwhelmingly fabulous plate of baby back ribs I had. The sign said “best ribs in Vienna,” and being the skeptic I am, I thought I’d try them so I could complain about it to all of you later. I have to give them credit, though. They were damn good. They weren’t Salt Lick or anything close, but still probably the best ribs I’ve had in 2007. And that includes R.U.B. and Blue Smoke. They didn’t quite fall off the bone, but were tender, low on fat, and were laden in a deliciously smoky mustard sauce. Good shit.

Slovenia ALSO loves their ice-cream, though theirs is a lighter, less creamy variety. And although you’d think this would make it easier to resist, it simply wasn’t. I was still rocking the daily, and by this point I could eat a cone without needing the use of a napkin. For some of you, maybe you like to hang your hats on a flawless Partners Capital Statement or VB macro. For me, it was a carbon-neutral cone, and my prideful decline of paper products I thought exemplified my liberal excellence. Had you seen it, you would no doubt agree.

Slovenia is what introduced me to cevabcici, and I know I’ve mentioned them before. They are delicious little beer-battered beef sausages, with onion and some other shit in there that makes them taste like they came straight off Jesus' barbecue (was he Kosher??). They’re served with a red pepper paste that offers a nice sweet contrast to the salty goodness of the sausage, and visually completes the perfect dinner picture.

The sausages of the entire region are pretty unvaried. If you take the nastiest part of any pig, wrap it in a membrane and put it on an open flame for 15 minutes, douse it in mustard and offer a piece of bread, it’s going to be as disgusting as it is remorsefully satisfying no matter where you are.

Inasmuch as Ljubljana is a pretty well developed international city, I began branching out a bit more to satisfy some hankerings for tastes I was familiar with back home. I tried Mexican food, and it was predictably average. I tried some really disappointing pizza, and some average, if overpriced pasta. The salads however, were quite good. If there’s one thing I have to say about all of Eastern Europe (and Ukraine in particular), is their produce is of a very high quality. Maybe it’s because they aren’t juiced with chemicals the way they are in the US, and maybe it’s the soil and climate. But overall, the tomatoes, onions, rocket (arugula), cucumbers, and other vegetables are as delicious as they are colorful and crisp.

This topic is going longer than I anticipated. As such, I’m going to end this one with the proverbial “to be continued” and split it into two, possibly three parts. I may be a poor planner, but at least I’m a thoughtful scribe.

PS - To all of you at Credit Suisse, I've been missing Lenny's A LOT lately. Someone order the C2 on a kaiser and tell me how good it is...

A Ukrainian Dinner

2007-09-30T17:01:00.000+05:00

Those of you who have taken the valuable 14 seconds out of your boring, mundane lives to email me know that I’ve been in Lviv, Ukraine for over a month. I have an apartment here, though I still don't have internet, and the internet cafes in this city leave MUCH to be desired. In fact, this is my third time trying to upload this story, and it still won't let me attach a picture for some reason. In any case, I love this city, and I’ve been having a hard time deciding how to adequately do this city justice in a blog entry that should be both informative and entertaining. Well, last Saturday night, I think I figured it out.

My friend Roman, who lives in Kiev, but is in Lviv on business quite often, invited me to a restaurant opening. I’d dropped in to the space earlier in the week while it was being renovated, and I knew it was at least different and the place would be more than a little cool. I would be quite surprised by just how cool, however.

Roman was given a key, an actual key, to present at the door to be allowed inside. We arrive at the address, where no sign and no light indicate the passageway off the Rynok Square one must follow to find the door. As we approach the door, and knock (!!!), a small, trapezoidal-shaped window opens where on the other side, a man awaits in a well-lit room. Roman says some Ukrainian words, and the door opens to reveal an armed guard (gun not loaded, but real WWII Russian issue), who again says some Ukrainian. Then, he pours us three shots of medovuha (explained later), and we all toast the republic before he opens a wall disguised as a shelf, revealing a staircase leading downstairs.

We enter the dining room, which is comprised of two rooms, each with about six large, square, unfinished wood tables, captured underground in what can only be described as a stone bunker, built to withstand pretty much any bomb attack I could fathom. The waitstaff is clad in authentic Ukrainian army uniforms, each with a different firearm either holstered to their belt, or slung over their shoulder. More guns are being passed around for each diner’s desired inspection. My skepticism that they are loaded with blanks increases parabolically with every shot of medovuha, despite the 9 year-old at our table firing off blank rounds towards the ceiling every time he feels neglected.

Next to me is seated Yuri. He is a General Partner of Ukraine’s 4th largest bank, which just got bought out, and the terms of which locked him up in a one-year noncompete clause. So, he’s just drinking and spending money now. It’s pretty much “the dream.”

And my dream? Yuri’s hand-feeding me all kinds of mysterious food items from the table. I’m not going to lie; it was quite nice to have an MD kowtowing to me for a change.

The food he’s giving me, on the other hand, fell quite short of the cherries and chocolate-dipped strawberries that would have fulfilled the fantasy. Not in a gay way, you fucking perverts!! It was more akin to an “I really care about you and your happiness” kind of fantasy.

Instead, there was “pork, no meat,” which is… you guessed it! Fat!!! It’s a spread comprised solely of the congealed grease left behind in the pan when smoked bacon is cooked. I’m serious. It was pretty foul. I think my facial expression when Yuri (my MD date) fed it to me may have made him think I was snobby. And I am SOOOO not like that, my GOD!!!

So, to make up for it, I pretended to really like the pig fat (uncooked fat part of our traditional bacon, seasoned with cayenne pepper). It wasn’t bad, but after about three slabs of this stuff, I had to pretend to take a phone call. I think Yuri was on to me, because after all, we were about five meters underground in a bomb shelter. There is no way anyone believed I had service down there… Nevertheless, I hoped Yuri still liked me. And really, if he can’t understand my needs, maybe he’s just not the right MD for me. [sigh]

As for what was good, the borscht at this place was the best I’ve had in Lviv. Many places insist on seasoning their borscht with parsley or dill, neither of which really fits when paired with the oily, salty sweetness of the beetroot. However, here they lightly sprinkled some chive onions, which made all the difference in the world. Having said that though, I still prefer the Polish borscht. And no, I don’t plan on saying that out loud anytime soon. (It is very common to hate anything Polish here. Or Russian too, for that matter). Other than that, the baked pork knee was great, but I still prefer the Czech pork knee, as it seems to be baked at a higher temperature (leaving the skin nice and crispy and locking in the moisture) and is served traditionally with horseradish. I’m starting to think I should put together a food entry all on its own. If anyone wants that, let me know. Ok, I’ll move on.

While I’m explaining things however, medovuha (pronounced Med-EE-ov-ka) is a honey infused vodka, but with the slightly syrupy texture of a more viscous schnapps. Here at this restaurant, they brew it to order. It comes out steaming hot in clay pitchers, and smells delicious. The other people at my table (well, the only ones speaking English anyway) warn me that medovuha “clears your head, but destroys your feet.” I’m told to wait until I stand up next, and I’ll know what they’re talking about. Nervous!!!!

Meanwhile, the conversation meanders to 9/11 conspiracy theories. Naturally, I think these theories to be absurd, but in light of my 9th, 10th, and 15th shot of medovuha, I’m prepared to entertain virtually any cockamamie idea someone throws at me. Colonizing the moon? Sure… Great idea! Israel the 51st state? Awesome! Makes perfect sense!! Drop-kicking babies for sport? Awesome!! I tried it once in high school and LOVED it!!!

At one point, I take a look around the rather large table (seated for about 10-12 people). There is NOT ONE non-alcoholic beverage anywhere on the table. We’d been sitting there eating an enormous meal, drinking a ton, and no one thought to order a coke or a water. Well, I was about to be the first. Let Yuri think I’m a pussy; I don’t care. I order a water, and I turn my head away from Yuri to avoid his disappointed stare.

Sure enough, I stand up to walk to the bathroom at some point. Roman and I are completely shitfaced, as is pretty much everyone else at the table. The time = 11pm. Two more pitchers of medovuha have been ordered. The look on my face is a cross between terror and utter confusion. My feet aren’t cooperating at all with my desire to traverse the dining room on my way to the bathroom. However, I make it there eventually, and after catching myself from swaying my stream away from the bowl, I try to operate the rather confusing contraption hovering over the sink emitting water. Somehow, I break it, and cast iron pieces clash on the tile floor, no doubt signaling to everyone in the restaurant that I’ve had an “incident.” Still not embarrassed!!!!

However, I emerge from the bathroom, and I see exactly no one remaining in the first dining room. Could it be I imagined there were people to avoid on my way to the bathroom? Or could it be I spent an hour in the bathroom picking up the pieces to this mysterious water-spitting device over the sink? I stop trying to understand anything, as I back go to our table to continue doing shots of whatever is put in front of me. I don’t want another shot AT ALL, but I’m not about to punk out and not represent. In over my head!!!!!

I lose some time. My next memory is this guy Andre (who is the grandson of the founder of the Ukrainian nationalist movement) handing me a gun that looked exactly like a Chicago gangster-style Tommy gun. I’m too drunk to know what to do with this thing. Hand me a water, a burrito, or a taxi. Definitely not a gun. Give it to the 9 year-old.

I end up going out to the disco, and having a great night to finish, although no one at dinner came with me. Which is just as well. Though I am going to dinner again tonight with a couple people from that night, and I’m understandably apprehensive. The last thing I need is another 750 mL of booze. Turning over a new leaf!!!!!!

Other than that, I took an apartment in Center so I could clean up my act a bit. I should have internet access over the weekend, for those of you who have noticed I’ve been a bit more absent online lately. If you’re reading between the lines, you may have guess that it looks as though I’ll be staying in Lviv for some time. Updates on that are around the corner. As are more pictures.

Sadly, I don’t have pictures of A) Independence Day, B) Temoshenko’s political rally, or C) Yevchenko’s political rally. Too bad too, really cool stuff, leading up to the election on Sept. 30.
Beyond that, I should mention (especially before my luck changes) that I made a run to the casino here for a couple nights a few weeks ago. Night one = $900US cash money. Night two = $1700US cash motherfuckin’ money. Sadly, half that money went to buy warm clothing (all I had when I arrived in Ukraine was short-sleeved shirts) and the other half to a month plus realtor fees for this apartment. Good times.

Even though I’ll be staying in Lviv for the next few months, I will obviously still be logging some travel to neighboring cities. I am already planning a return to Krakow, a run to Minsk, and at least a weekend (probably more) in Kiev. Clearly, updates on each will follow, along with more on Lviv. Sit tight bitches.

Wikitravel - The Moon

2007-09-20T04:26:00.000+05:00

A friend introduced me to Wikitravel. It's Wiki's traveling arm of their Wikiempire. The first thing I did was search for "Moon" and was amazed to see the page actually exists. There are joke articles on Heaven and Hell, but the Moon article was legit. Until I got my hands on it. It's a bit rough, and it's not as if I went through a thorough editing process, so don't hold me to the fire if you're not on the floor (though I assure you, I was through much of it). Anyway, below is the copy/pasted article, before some tool edits out the good times. Obviously, there is still a lot of authentic content. Maybe you'll learn something!!!

LINK to Wikitravel/moon

The Moon (Luna) is the Earth's solitary satellite, roughly 385,000 kilometers away.

Get in

The Moon has had no visitors since the end of the Apollo program in 1972. America's NASA, the European Space Agency and the Chinese space program all have apparently serious plans to return, but none are in a hurry: NASA's target date for the next man on the moon is 2018, while both the ESA and the Chinese are aiming at 2024.

If you're content with just taking a closer look, Space Adventures and the Russian Space Agency have floated the idea of a flight around the moon for a cool US$100 million or so; see Space for details.

Get around

Conventional aircraft are useless on the Moon since there is no atmosphere to generate the aerodynamic lift they require to fly. The primary method of transportation has been lunar rovers, three of which are still stranded at Mons Hadley, the Descartes Highland and the Taurus-Littrow valley.

Gravity on the Moon's surface is only one-sixth of the Earth, which compensates in part for having to wear a bulky pressurized spacesuit. However, it will still make your ass look fat.

See

Luna 2, Exact location unknown (Near Aristides, Archimedes, and Autolycus craters). The first man made object to reach the Moon

Tranquility Base, Mare Tranquillitatis (Near Sabine and Ritter craters). The site of the first human landing on the Moon.

Earth. Visible from only one side of the Moon

Me. I'm over here!!!

Do

Rock collecting is a popular export activity, but only for lab coats and losers wielding metal detectors. Don't we have enough rocks on Earth already?

Play golf. There are no established golf courses available, but the moon does provide you with an excellent opportunity to practice your sand trap shots. One recent visitor drove a 3-iron off a practice tee 2,867,903 meters to establish a new Guinness World Record. Try and beat it!

Buy

Anyone with an eBay rating of 25 or above can easily air freight moon rocks back to Earth and dump them on unsuspecting Wikitravel readers looking for the "next big thing." DHL offers overnight delivery. No, really.

Eat

There are no restaurants or shops available on the Moon. Take all the food you need with you. However, McDonalds is in a bidding war with KFC for the rights to the Sea of Tranquility to open the Moon's first chain restaurant.

Drink

There is next to nothing to drink on the moon, bring your own bottled water from home.

It should be mentioned that in regions of lower pressure, it takes less alcohol to inhibit your ability to operate spacecrafts.

Sleep

The next phase of lunar exploration will probably involve the construction of permanent manned bases in the Moon's polar regions.

Camping is encouraged on the moon. However, there are no established campgrounds, so you will need to provide your own tent and fishing rod.

Stay safe

Due to the fact that there are no humans on the moon, there is also no crime problem.

The universe however is out to get you and this will become all to apparent once you leave the comforts of Earth. In addition to the obvious problems of freezing cold temperatures and the lack of a breathable atmosphere, in order to stay alive you will have to take precautions:

Solar storms (there is no magnetic field to deflect these high energy particles)
Meteor impacts (there is no atmosphere to burn them before they impact the surface)

Stay healthy

As there are no hospitals or emergency medical facilities on the Moon, you will need to provide your own snakebite kit. Be advised, there is also unlikely to be anyone to urinate on you, should you be stung by the indigenous species of jellyfish on the moon. Buzz was just as surprised as you will be.

Bring extra H2O.

Get out

Earth
While the gettin's good

More randomness

2007-09-18T21:16:00.000+05:00

So, I could kick off an entry on my last month in Lviv, Ukraine (yes, it's already been a month). However, I feel inclined to insert more random commentary I've run into over the past few months that I found interesting. And by interesting, I mean hilarious and possibly hurtful. Who's with me!?!?!?

-Sitting on the beach in Croatia, I had a revelation. I have no problem laughing at fat kids. If you're fat at 9 years old, the only help you have is the shaming glances of thin beautiful people. That is, in recognizing the obvious parental neglect that led to this problem, as being an obvious void for more traditional corrective measures. That's where we (I and all of you) come in. We would be on the beach, looking thin, tan, and beautiful, and every time we see a fat child, we'll open a bag of chips. When he/she inevitably comes running over to ask for some, we will smear their belly with peanut butter and watch the seagulls taunt them as they run away screaming.

Think of the comprehensive service we'd be providing: the peanut butter (with it's oily outer layer) acts as sun screen, and a powerful exfoliant (I've heard). The running provides a good cardio workout, and the sobbing targets the midsection!! The shame will last forever. Child obesity: eradicated.

-The following is a conversation that actually took place between me and a guy from Ireland I met in Budapest:

Irish Douche: Hey, where is an Irish pub nearby?
Me: Dude, aren't you Irish?
ID: Yea, mate. And from Australia, but I live in Dublin again now.
Me: And isn't this Budapest?
ID: Eh, yea?
Me: Sooo.... don't they have Irish pubs in Dublin?
ID: Oh, the best, mate.
Me: I'm sure. So, what the fuck?
ID: I just want to find one and have a pint of Guinness, mate.
Me: Oh, I see what you mean. Yea. When I come to Budapest I, too, think to myself 'Gee, I wonder if I can find a shittier Irish pub than all the shitty Irish pubs I have access to back home.
ID: [look of astonishment]
Me: Seriously dude. Irish pubs are garbage. You need to get over your lame love of Guinness and evolve past kitchy brass railings and slobbering loud drunk Brit fucks. This is Budapest. Let's get a drink in some weird local joint.
ID: Ok, ok!! Can I get a bite at McDonalds first?
Me: You know what? I tried. You're on your own from here on out. Fucking kill yourself.

-Ukrainian men are like So You Think You Can Dance rejects, only they dress worse. I think Nino had a blog entry about how he's the best dressed man in Prague. Believe me, if you knew Nino, you'd know this was saying plenty. In New York, he dressed like a Staten Island Guido (hell, his name IS Nino, after all) with a better haircut and fewer necklaces, so you can imagine the state of things in Prague where he is.

Well, I've been to Prague. And I have to say, the fashion culture here in Ukraine is sublimely absurd, even in comparison. Herringbone suits with white shoes and belts (which, mind you, are hiked up near the navel), fake D&G everything, fake Gianfranco Ferre everything else, and NOTHING fits properly. It's like they all assume they'll gain 30 kilos by the time the next fake line of Armani hits the rack, so they buy everything three sizes too large, and walk around looking like scarecrows in sheets with bad stitching.

-My only complaint with the women is the preponderance of mismatched animal-print tops and bottoms with patten leather boots. Many women here know how to dress well, but there are still more than a few that insist on pushing the circa-1989 Fredericks of Hollywood motif.

-As for what they do when they're together (men and women, that is), they go on walking dates. Almost exclusively. I have a hard time discerning if this is done because the men are cheap, or the women like to show off their obscenely tight, tiny outfits on the catwalk --er, I mean Svobody Avenue-- in the hopes a better man may save her from her lame date-walker.

When they aren't walking around aimlessly, they are sitting at bars drinking water or tea (because apparently getting drunk on a first date is a no-no), lightly stroking each other's hair or shoulder. They never talk... whether walking or otherwise, there is never any talking. Doesn't sound so bad, actually... though I was nevertheless perplexed. But as a girl I met put it: "The reason they aren't talking is because she is too busy thinking about whether or not he is the right guy for her, and he is too busy thinking 'how can I fuck her?'"

Funny, seems things aren't much different here after all.

-There is also an overwhelming assumption that people travel here for "sex tourism." This isn't really true about Lviv at all. Perhaps moreso in Odessa (where marriage agencies are apparently prevalent) and Kiev (where marriage agencies are disguised as whore houses).

I met one 36 year old guy from Virgina who was here for the sole purpose of boning prostitutes. He made me understandably sick for the following reasons:

-his rants on "American bitches"
-his need for "Ukrainian pussy"
-his exuberant willingness to pay for it
-his disappointment that the only ones he can find are over 18 and cost $60US
-his general bad attitude towards everything
-sexual predators, while funny to talk about, are pretty sickening up close

Sorry, that stuff's not funny at all, and for once, I can't even think of a way to make his disgusting outlook on Ukraine (or life in general) even the slightest bit appealing. I hated this cunt with the fire of 10,000 suns. And if he were to be burned by such a fire, his death would still not be painful enough. I hope he gets AIDS. Too much? Ok, at least mouth-AIDS.

-So, I came to Ukraine with nothing but t-shirts. It's around 45-50F degrees here every day, so I've needed to buy some warmer clothing. Problem? You bet your sweet ass, it's a problem. Guess who's got a new (probably fake) Gianfranco Ferre jacket? Yep, this guy!!! It's not as offensive as it could be, as it doesn't have the big "GF" emblazoned across the chest (though you should see how many D's and how many G's are on the jackets of guys around here). But it still stands for the label-whoring that takes place in smaller cities, where people really have no idea what to put on their bodies. And as such, they walk around in labels they think are "cool", neverminding the fact that A) it looks stupid, B) it fits like shit, C) they're a walking fucking billboard, and D) no one outside of Staten Island or the Jersey shore would EVER be caught dead wearing that kind of shit, and I don't care if you bought it in a store called "Soho Style."

Maybe I've just dated too many people in fashion, and maybe New York has just turned me into a cunt when it comes to just about anything. But if any of you out there have dreams of becoming a "style consultant," you could dominate this market. I promise.

-As for pictures of Lviv, they will be up soon. As will a comprehensive review of my experience here so far. I'm planning a return trip to Krakow, and one to Kiev in the next couple weeks, along with about a week in Minsk (which requires I go through Kiev for a visa). Minsk should be cool because I recently learned that's where my father's side of the family originated (well, Belarus, more generally). I would have known this many years ago, had I not been the egocentric little cunt I was as an adolescent. I know you're all shocked.

Budapest - Sziget, kebabs, and narcolepsy

2007-09-05T01:05:00.000+05:00

The awake, agreeable, and affable Jeff Jones and I landed in Budapest around 9am, and promptly bought day tickets to Sziget Festival to see Gogol Bordello and Laurent Garnier. I got tickets to see Tool, among others, for a day after Jones took off, knowing full well the perils that can take place at a festival when attending alone.

I don't think I mentioned this earlier, but I had lost my ATM card somewhere in that 36 hour clusterfuck in Croatia. I suppose it would have added more drama and tragedy to that time period, but with so much else going on, I neglected to bring it up. Or, maybe it was a subconscious decision to thinly spread my misfortune over many blog entries. Either way, the winner is: YOU!!! Schadenfreude!!!

In any case, I managed to get my ATM card back after two weeks of trying. It took this long because Citibank has fraud protection so secure, that I can't even endanger my own accounts despite really, Really, REALLY wanting to.

Despite the fact that I am obviously traveling, they can only send my card to my home in NYC. This I found to be retarded in such a way that is almost brilliant. Kind of like how Einstein didn't speak until he was nearly six years old, and everyone thought HE was retarded. Wait. That didn't make any sense. Now who's retarded? Who cares?? Customer service rage!!!!

The issue was resolved when I faxed a signed statement (complete with account numbers and all necessary data) to Citibank that read as follows:

Dear Lucy:
Please accept this statement as notification that my ATM card may be sent to Nino Tasca at the below address. This action need be taken as I lost my card, shortly before I lost my mind while on the phone with your department. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE send the card as we agreed, or I might kill myself. Thank you for your time and my utter frustration.

So I finally got my card back. That's the point I'm trying to make here. Jones and I arrive at the hotel, which he generously paid for with his reward points. While I was on the phone with Citibank at the internet cafe, I had arranged the reservation. Eh, for the wrong day. I seem to have a problem with dates and reservations and tickets, it seems. This is no less than the fourth time I have somehow screwed up a date for a ticket or a reservation in 2007, and it has cost me a good amount of money and grief. Thankfully, the patient, value-adding, if silently enraged Jeff Jones solved the problem adeptly.

Jones makes a good point as I consider laying down for a nap, that we hadn't been up that early since he arrived in Europe, and that we should take advantage of the day. Stupid schedules. I somewhat agree, and we head off to: where else? The castle!!! Never seen one of those before!!!

Once at the castle, I am completely exhausted. I look across the river at where a nice, comfortable hotel bed awaits, and I wince at the thought of hiking around ANOTHER castle all day. We begin the guideless tour and no less than 15 minutes into it, I NEED to sit down. About 0.07 seconds after my ass hits the unforgiving steel, I am in a coma. I am dreaming about featherbeds and pillows and big, fluffy dogs. After about 15 minutes, I come to and see the loyal, tender, and adequately uncomfortable Jeff Jones sitting by my side.

Quick aside: a year or so ago, Gregg and I hatched a theory that in order for Jones to be comfortable, he needs a certain level of discomfort. Read that again. Jones is not at home in any environment in which nothing is abrading him. It makes me wonder things about his upbringing like: What kind of mattress did he sleep on growing up? How long past their use would he wear a pair of shoes? Does he intentionally cut his fingernails just a little too close to the cuticle? Why does he work out so much?

I digress: the standing, walking, sitting, and sleeping pattern continues throughout the afternoon. Jones is to the point where he walks off, sees an entire wing of the castle/museum, and returns to find me sitting in a corner somewhere. I suppose all the partying, malnutrition, and viral infections finally caught up with me. And here I thought I was indestructible...

The next day, we headed off to the Turkish bath house. Hungary has hundreds of natural hot springs, and Budapest itself has more than a few. I'm not quite sure how these bath houses are situated in relation to these hot springs, but I was willing to give it a shot anyway. Simply put, the one we went to was wildly overrated. I went in there with expectations of miraculous healing, and came out with probably a half dozen communicable diseases.

Sure, it's relaxing. If you don't mind knowing that the water you're "relaxing" in is likely contaminated by the dirty, smelly, under-dressed Hungarian guys who frequent these places. In fact, I'm quite sure that half the men in Budapest use the hot springs as their only method of cleansing, and I damn sure didn't see anyone with a bottle of Dubbel Dusch.

That said, the baths were worth doing. Especially if you have Keith Richards' immune system. If not, stick to soap and a massage.

An interesting thing about Budapest is that the Danube bisects the city into two parts (Buda and Pest). I like this method. It's like using 23rd St, and naming downtown "New" and uptown "York." Get it? Because New is better, and York is for married couples dressed in Ralph Lauren Polo and Ann Taylor's Loft. Another example is, you could use Route 13 and call the eastern part of Smyrna "Smyr" and the western part "Na." Guess which one has the beautiful expanse of the Walmart distribution center? And guess what else? It doesn't matter!!! They both suck!!

In the interest of full disclosure, National Geographic Magazine did name Smyrna, DE one of the nation's top 50 small towns to live and play. Personally, I found this news simply astounding. I had always thought Smyrna would find itself on the list of "top 50 small towns if gruesome suicide is a short-term goal." But as my parents are quick to point out, Smyrna is "exploding." I think there was more, but I passed out mercifully from all the Xanax I'd already hungrily ingested.

I'm rambling. Ok, back to Budapest. Jones and I ventured off to Sziget, after a couple nights of shitty clubbing. Apparently, the whole city is out at this festival, and when we got there, we knew why.

First of all, after my experience at Open'er in Poland, I was skeptical of festivals in Eastern Europe. But after nary a glance at anything but my armband from the security officer, I felt a bit more at home. This was the kind of lackluster security I'd come to expect (and enjoy) from live music festivals.

Inside, it's set up like an amusement park for drunk adults. There is a zipline, a bungee jump, a foam tent, a foosball area, a karaoke tent, a poetry tent (interesting sorts in there), a tent for any one of a dozen political causes within which you could drunkenly soapbox, and... all the delicious food that 350,000 drunk Europeans could ever ask for.

The wide-eyed, surprised, and seductive Jeff Jones and I first took in Gogol Bordello. It was our first time seeing them, which is especially interesting considering we were in Budapest, and the band originated in the Lower East Side and has been playing in New York for some time. But they rocked. Seriously, if you have a pulse, you should see them. They're a mixture of gypsy punk metal and Ukrainian speed rock. Or something like that. Anyway, check em out.

Next we caught Laurent Garnier. I'd seen him at night in a throbbing mass of people at Open'er, and it was a great show. Admittedly, he was a bit weak on this day.

Then, it happened. We sampled the food. Well, I should say that on our way in, we stopped at literally the first food counter we saw, and choked down some of the worst pasta I'd had since our racist, drunk cook Steve was serving butter ziti and bacon back in college. However, when we ventured toward the food stands, we had our pick of more than 30 international cuisines, and they all looked delectable.

And they were. Everything I ate from that point forward was incredible. Serbian mixed grill, sausages, Mexican, etc etc. ESPECIALLY the donor kebabs. Wow. I may never eat another kebab again, because these were the best I'd had in my entire lifetime, and anyone who knows me, knows how much I love a kebab... even a bad one. These were so good, you'd think they were made of the most tender kitten meat in all of Europe.

The night stretches into daybreak at Sziget rather quickly, with a half dozen late-night DJ tents thumping till dawn. And the tireless, well-fed, and willful Jeff Jones and I took advantage of nearly every hour, before returning to the comfortable confines of Pest VII by way of a pirate cab. Duration: 20 minutes. Cost: $125US. We stormed out of his late-model Jetta after paying $75 and threatening to sleep in his back seat, though we hardly felt vindicated. Pirates, I'll soon learn, are everywhere.

Next night, we spent hanging out with a couple from Leeds we'd met at the end of dinner. They were a bit young, but overall very cool and I don't know how Jones felt, but it was nice to hang with some other people for a night. I think Jones felt the same way, actually. After all, he man-sarged the guy in the bathroom, and given his history of oddly-hetero man-sarging, the move to do so in the bathroom was aggressive, even by his standards.

Jones excitedly, expectantly, and unreluctantly left the following day. I think he missed the comfortless chaos of his apartment, and was looking forward to nearly a half day of travel, punctuated appropriately with the loss and eventual destruction of his luggage. Jones was right back in his comfort zone, and I couldn't have been happier for him.

I proceeded to log two more days at Sziget with a group from the hostel I was now staying in. I am really growing into this hostel traveling by this point. After engaging in very little socializing with Dr. Jones around, I was thrust right back into a thick social blanket, under which I felt warm and fuzzy, and a bit hungry. In a land of kebabs this yummy, I am always Hungary.

Whoa!!!! See what I did there?? "Hungary" instead of "hungry?!?!?" GOOOOD Times!!!!

The second day at Sziget, after seeing Sinead O'Connor (interesting and worthwhile) and Faithless (waaay more awesome than I thought they could ever be), I managed to extricate myself by about 1am and did my own thing (ie. stuff my face with three kebabs throughout the night) in a much happier, albeit more solitary mental space. If a kebab were a woman, I'd marry it on-the-fucking-spot. Then, we'd have little hebabs and shebabs, and I'd live happily ever after, surrounded by the pungent aroma of marinated grade-D lamb. And the younger they are, the more tender the meat. Right? Right???? Eh, where was I?

Right. The last night, I spent (solo) seeing Tool. Let me rephrase that. The last night, I spent surviving Tool. The fans of Tool are fucking insane. And not in a good way, but more in a gay way. There's a lot of forced, if nonviolent physical contact, and even more hysterical screams for Maynard. Having said all that, once I escaped the fear of imminent death (a theme seemingly omnipresent lately), Tool was a fucking sick show. Wow.

As mentioned before, going to a festival by yourself is not recommended. But I wasn't about to miss Tool, so I did it anyway. This is dangerous for several reasons: 1) with no one else to buy rounds, you double-fist while walking away from the bar, only to suck down the first drink as quickly as possible, because no one likes double-fisting, 2) however, this does not at all affect the rate at which you buy rounds, and thus, you drink twice as much, 3) and get belligerently drunk, by yourself, which leads to 4) no one intervening with the question "Do you really need a third kebab?"

After Tool, I got a kebab. Man, these things are good. I went off, danced around in a DJ tent or three and by about 5am, I decide I've had enough. Dancing and not-kebab-eating, that is. I head back to my favorite kebab stand, and proceed to put down another, my second in the night. I order another, and as I'm eating that one, I realize that if I'm going to have one more (3rd in a row, 4th on night), I'll need to get more money. One would think this would be a strong enough deterrent to call off the dogs on kebab #4, but instead, I determinedly march to the ATM (about a km away), withdraw more money, and head back for #4, all while eating #3. Gross. For those of you keeping score, that's two, three, and four kebabs in three nights at Sziget. And you know what? I didn't gain a pound. Bulimia!!!!!!

After that many kebabs, it was time to leave Budapest. I scheduled to leave the day after the festival was over, after spending the entire previous day in the train station, waiting on line for a ticket to Lviv, Ukraine. Only I lost my ticket. Awesome. $90 and a day of angst-ridden queuing, down the fucking drain. Only to face another day of the same. Good times!!!

But it was sort of a good thing, because I got to go out and see Budapest on a night when it wasn't vacant due to Sziget, and it was pretty live. I had a good night, and headed off to Lviv the following day. Though I'll admit, by then I fucking hated Budapest and just wanted to leave. And I managed to resist the ever-present urge to get one last kebab. I figured after my episode in Croatia, the last thing I needed was a serious digestive issue on a 12 hour train from Hungary to Ukraine. But part of me wishes I had anyway. And that part of me, is my yearning belly.
==
I know it had been awhile since my last entry. I'm going to stop apologizing and instead pick up the pace on this thing a bit. Honestly, since getting to Ukraine, I've been a bit lazy with this thing. And you know what? I can do what I want!! I don't even hear from most of the people who read this thing, so if you're too lazy to send an email, you can hardly crucify me for taking a few days off from entertaining you cunts!!! Where's the symbiosis, man???

Kidding. It's not like I'm working. I'll be better about this going forward. Although, I have uploaded nearly all my pictures now, with accompanying captions. And you know, those captions aren't easy when it's been weeks and several liters of vodka between picture-snap and captioning. Enjoy my toil.

Bitches.

Dubrovnik is burning? Let's eat!!!

2007-08-28T20:43:00.000+05:00

Gregg and Nino took off on a Saturday from Dubrovnik, leaving just me and the undeterred, unflappable, unstoppable Jeff Jones to take apart Dubrovnik, and soon after, Budapest.

Jones and I moved that day to an apartment nearer the Old Town, on the X and Y axis, but much further away on the Z axis. So basically, instead of being about four km away, we were now about two, but they were straight up in the air. Awesome. One thing I really needed was more obstacles between the bars and the safety of my bed at night. Mission: accomplished.

One thing Dubrovnik is not short on, is stairs. There are stairs everywhere, to go anywhere. When I arrived, my calves were that of an average 180cm tall (I'm all metric now) 31 year old. Now, they are chiseled masterpieces right out of any Michaelangelo gallery. Johnnie Drama, eat your heart out.

Dubrovnik, the town, is striking. The sun strikes the roof tiles at dawn and dusk the way you'd imagine it would on the canvas of any of the old masters. The colors are brilliant, and the layout of the city is breathtaking. The Jewel of the Adriatic definitely earned its nickname, as far as I was concerned.

One thing Dubrovnik is short on, is good clubs. The nightlife there is shit. The clubs are jammed with sweating, heaving, misguided tourists lost on an eight hour land break from their enormous cruiseline eyesore before they go back two hours early and mark off Dubrovnik on their "Cities I've Visited" map on Facebook. They're all cunts.

Sick of that scene, Jones and I go back to the only club cruisline cunts don't go to, East/West, where I run into some Portuguese guy I had evidently entertained the night before. I'd heard about a big party at the Belvedere hotel, and East/West was pretty dead, so the Portuguese guy, his friend, the adventurous, expectant, slightly scary Jeff Jones and I all head to the Belvedere.

Fucking wow. This party was out. of. fucking. control. It's set into the mountainside in a tiered coliseum-type layout, with every tier jamming with people (all beautiful), pouring their energy onto a thumping dance floor in front of world-class DJs like Ian Pooley, among others, with the backdrop of Dubrovnik reflecting it's grandeur onto the small bay in between.

Mentally, and alcoholically speaking, I am horribly ill-prepared for this. It's about 12:30am, and I, along with the dumbstruck, dazed and bedazzled Jeff Jones head for the bar with the two Portuguese guys. One guy (the one I'd met the night before), Artur, is your typical suave, good-looking, fucking cheeseball. But in a really endearing, positive way, so he's fun to keep around. Their pace in drinking slips behind mine, as I make the solo decision to increase the slope of my time-over-drunk curve by putting down one tequila shot, chugging a red bull-vodka, and buying a beer to walk around, with each trip to the bar. Astonished gazes by onlookers notwithstanding, I felt rather strong in this environment.

Around 7am, the party closes down, I am sufficiently drunk and exhausted, and the determined, undeterred, and persistent Jeff Jones is busy trying to meet the last of the women remaining in the cavity that was once Dubrovnik's biggest party of the year. We endure a 5 km walk back to our apartment, feeling triumphant and fulfilled, if also exhausted and acutely suicidal. Hyperbole!!!

Next day, we walk around the wall of Dubrovnik, which is something people with an immense amount of patience and energy typically do. Those people, generally, are not coming off an 8 hour raving binge the night before. And if they are, they are probably still complaining about the experience, much as I am now. What else would I be doing?

The walk was sufficiently taxing, though still worthwhile. I bought the audio guide with the best of intentions, only to eventually come to the conclusion that I was only listening, and not hearing. Or hearing, and not listening. Either way, I was using it as a barrier between me and mankind to keep from speaking. I learned a few things, but most of them had more to do how not to spend a day with a brutal hangover.

That day, the overwhelming smell of a campfire filled the Old Town. Why? Because the hills behind the city were on fucking fire, that's why. Of all the things I was equipped to do on this day (sleep, eat greasy food, lay, sleep, drink liquids, roll over, sleep), outrunning a forest fire was not one of them. Nor was inhaling unhealthy levels of carbon monoxide while trying to scale a flight of stairs that go straight up in the air. So, you can imagine how welcoming my attitude was towards an advancing march of flickering death flares, as they approached the Old Town. Where, interestingly, they were already nearly devouring the apartment in which we were staying. One good thing is, imminent danger = great pictures!! Hope you enjoy!!!

Owners of nearby homes were dousing the trees behind their apartments to prevent them from catching ablaze, as the timid, tepid, yet somehow tempestuous Jeff Jones and I were passively suppressing our otherwise obvious concern. While the hills of Dubrovnik gradually burned off their beauty, we discussed plans to sleep on the polished marble grounds of the Old Town, (or, more likely, the floor of a friend I'd met who lives in the Old Town), as we dined on the most delicious seafood I'd had in years. Grilled baby squid, steamed shrimp, and the freshest other-seafood-crap-I-can't-remember known to man. Ahhh, memories!!

We fall asleep in the arms of the Lord, knowing that with 91% of Croatia being devout Catholic, he's watching over this land rather intently. Hopefully, there are really big churches nearby. We wake up the next morning, inspect our brush with danger (to the tune of about 200m) and are on our way to the airport.

The drive proves that literally every square inch of what was once natural beauty, is now ash. One would think the cause would be the intense heat and dry conditions, but no, no no.... locals most often blame the Serbians for setting time-release fires to scorch the countryside.

I personally blame the Jews. Clearly they were upset at the Croatia cash-only system and wanted to stunt their burgeoning tourist metropolis. It's true. An Albanian told me so. And if there's one thing I learned from Croatians while there, it's that Albanians are always right. Or was it that they were asshole cunts? Ya, that might actually be it. My bad.

By the way, I know it's been so long since I uploaded any pictures, that everyone has probably stopped checking for them. Well, you're in for a big surprise, because Croatia and Budapest are ready for your distracted inspection. Go for it.

Random Thoughts

2007-08-22T17:05:00.000+05:00

A while ago, I promised a glossary of terms I’d learned. Fuck that. I’m finishing up my 12^th week of gallivanting. As you might imagine, by now I’ve spent enough time studying the people (both of the local nation, and of the travelers within it), to make some very insightful, if wholly judgmental observations. Sounds fun, doesn’t it? Let’s go!

The most obvious comment I can make is that Brits, as a general rule (we are generalizing here, aren’t we?) fucking suck. Let me footnote this as saying that everyone I’ve met from Leeds is especially cool, however. I’ve never been there, but the people there make it sound like an Austin, Texas. Minus the hot southern girls, and great food and climate.

Ok, enough lauding. That’s not my aim here. Hell, I just posted a story about shitting myself, so I’d say it’s high time for me to lash out at my fellow mankind. Brits suck. They run around, singing their tired-ass, stupid songs... LOUDLY, they’re all wasted by late afternoon, and they all travel in groups of like 16 people. And when they’re not telling you how fucking amazing London is (even though they live 20 minutes outside), they’re waxing wistful about their most recent sexual conquest, which just so happened to be about four months ago. Here’s me giving my look of utter wonderment.

Forgive me if these musings tend to seem a bit disjointed. And I'll forgive you for not anticipating this patternless diatribe when the word “random” is clearly the headline.

Contiki travelers fall into the following categories:

-The Curious Jorge: This guy leaves his home country with the best of intentions. His eyes are wide; his stride a bit uncertain; his hat down low so as to avoid eye contact with locals, because that’s what his parents told him they don’t like. He starts out this way. Come week 7, he is a cocky, arrogant, Lonely Planet drone with nothing but crappy jpegs of “the sights” uploaded to Shutterfly (gay). The pics are all taken with his shitty 1.7megapixel Canon Sureshot, and all the churches and bridges look like they’re frames taken from a Soderberg movie.

He’ll piss out a laundry list of things he’s seen, with only a broad-stroking knowledge of each one, and he’ll tell you that in seven weeks, he’s been to 19 different cities. Really??? 19??? That sounds fucking awesome!!! I too, would like to spend 30% of my waking holiday hours, battling train station herds and jockeying for the next available seat between Hamburg and Vienna. Great job, dickweed!!!

-The Attention Whore: I find this most often with women, quite honestly. This is the girl who leaves her university behind, wishing to come back with the craziest summer stories. Granted, we all want some crazy stories to tell, but some of us try a little less hard to make them happen. It’s like a stud baller like Kobe forcing up 24 shots (making 5), all while getting his team down 19 by halftime. Let the game come to you, Kob. There’s no need to rush it when the shot isn’t there….

Not only that, but she’ll tell stories such as, “OH MY GOD!!! The WORST THING EVER happened to me in Vienna!!! I was walking along the Ring and wearing my new sandals from Salamander, when I got them caught in the drainage grate!!! OH MY GOD it was soooo scary!! This guy was coming towards me about 80 meters away on his bike, and he wasn’t slowing down!!! I didn’t know if he’d hit me or not! And I JUST BOUGHT them so I wasn’t about to just let it go, you know [insert forced laughter]… Then the guy just barely missed me and I noticed he had a piercing IN HIS CHIN!! GROSS!!! Oh, but it was so scary. I got the sandal back, THANK GOD!!! But Vienna is SOOOOO dangerous!!!!”

It’s also rare that she’s been to more than a handful of different cities in the first place. Which would be fine, if it weren’t for her insistence on telling you all the lame things she’s done in each one. Naturally, her limited travel scope, and unlimited abrasiveness places her nearest the bottom of the travelers food chain.

Her other crazy stories are most likely derived from her wealthy Facebook library of “Group Photo!!!” ops and her fabricated claims that she made out with “this really hot Australian guy.” Oh, you mean that Russian guy in the back that looks completely disinterested and somewhat nauseated? “Yea, that’s him. He was SOOOO hot…”

-The Hopeful Wanderer: This is the category I best fit in. Let that not fool you into thinking that I do not have just as much contempt for us as the others. I do. Most of these types are of a bit longer tooth, who left a job, or are taking a hiatus to find something they feel more passionately about. Only the conclusion they all reach is that drinking obscene amounts of beer, booze, and any local vodka we can find, is a pretty good short-term remedy.

They are also a moody fucking brood. There are days when they’re happy to socialize with just about anyone. And then there are days when even the most well-meaning, thoughtful traveler will irk them with even the hint of a sentence aimed in their direction. And these transitions take place without notice or forethought. Sometimes they can be polite and interesting, but most of the time I’m wondering if they’re really just planning their exit strategy from what I thought was a mutually thought-provoking conversation. And I know this because I’ve done it. Countless times.

Meanwhile, we’re escaping you only so we can work on our next captivating blog entry to entertain our friends back home. Not only are we the most likely to have a blog in the first place, but we’re also the type to name it something “original” and lame like “Zen and the Art of Backpacking Maintenance” or “Travelling Light.” Fuck us.

-The Cunt: Always Australian. They are just looking for the next city to get fucking “pissed” in, and for another new way to do it. Truthfully, I find them endearing. They’re typically in good spirits, well behaved, and they’re always wondering why people are out trying to DO things, LEARN things, and SEE things. To them, the world is one huge pub-crawl, and each city in Europe is another pint. And honestly, I can’t say much that can take that away from them. Cheers.

-The Sore Thumb: This guy just looks like he doesn’t belong. On earth. He left behind a city like Dublin to presumably find somewhere to fit in. Unfortunately, that place doesn’t exist. Believe me, I applaud his effort, and his individuality is something I think we all secretly crave, but he’s a psycho. In an unfamiliar land, where people speak differently, eat different things, and engage in different customs, I’m not the guy who is going to spend time figuring out why the mute with piercings down his vertebrae is halfway through an entire pumpkin pie by 10am. And pumpkin pie?!?!? Where did that even come from??? This is Poland, and you’re from Ireland, for fucks sake!!! And didn’t you just say you came in from Sicily? Why the hell do you look like you haven’t seen the sun since Marilyn Manson’s last tour? EXPLAIN YOURSELF!!!!

On second thought, don’t. I’m going to the store to buy garlic cloves, and after I’ve strung them around my neck, I’ll be hanging around a church for awhile reciting some scripture. You keep organizing your goth t-shirts. See ya never.

-The ________: Judging Jeopardy!!!! This traveler typically travels in groups of three or four as they stick together like SS soldiers on trial. They spend more time staring into an LCD screen on the back of their 14megapixel, 12x optical zoom camera with polarizing lens, then they spend actually looking at the site in front of them. Each picture must be taken with requisite smile and pose in front, as they all take turns, each striking a goofy pose that elicits a similar laugh as the time they did the same thing three minutes earlier. They’ll stop in every futbol apparel store and buy anything Adidas or alternatively, anything with the Brazilian flag on it. I’ve also never actually spoken to one of them on this trip, so this is the most judgmental, and thus the most fun profile yet!!! Name the stereotype.

Ok enough. Moving on.

I’m getting concerned. My throat has been slowly closing on me since halfway through Croatia, and I’ve developed an acute case of narcolepsy. I was checking out some museums in Budapest with the honest, loyal, forthright, and fearless Jeff Jones, and he’d turn his back for no more than a moment before I’d be asleep in a corner somewhere. And lest you think these were quick naps, I assure you that each one could have stretched for hours had it not been for the caring, compassionate, and gentle Jeff Jones waking me up each time. For that matter, I’ve also begun snoring for the first time in my life. I understand that this is probably an effect of the first two issues, though for me, it’s no less alarming.

Getting back to the naming of the blog, let me just say that I totally hate the name of this thing. If it weren't for having 35 different things to do before I left the office on my last day, I would have probably given it a bit more thought. Along those lines, if I was the kind of person who gave things a lot of thought, I probably would have bought a book about Ukraine before I got here. Instead, I walk into museums and complain that I can't read a damn thing in Cyrillic. And remarkably, it's not my fault!!!

Why I hate all of you

2007-08-22T16:17:00.000+05:00

Allow me a moment to rant for a bit:

You guys are all on my shit lists. And no, I don't mean you're up to do my laundry. But where's the fuckin' love, man?? No virtual hugs from what has to be considered my most embarrassing moment? One that I broadcast for your momentary amusement???? That is unacceptable!!!

I'm in Ukraine now, where there are pirates literally at every turn. Sure, that might sound like a good time in an "aye matey" kind of way, but when you're facing possible abduction for a few hundred Hryvnia, it tends to lose its charm.

Got a few posts lined up, just need to put some finishing touches on them. Kind of like how all of you need to put the finishing touches on your underdeveloped empathy. As punishment, I think I might litter this thing with Ad Sense just to piss you all off.

I hope all of you get carpal tunnel.