Touching foot in nineteen different countries scattered over three continents in the last six months, it is good to be back in my favorite corner of the world. While Jules Verne's Phileas Fogg may have done something similar in eighty, even with more than twice that time I often felt like I was moving too quickly and I can't help daydreaming about a similar trip in the future, but next time with an open-ended return date. I arrived in Edmonton yesterday after a direct flight out of London - a little less than nine hours in the air - and hung out with friends before crashing at night after more than twenty-five hours without sleep.
Besides seeing a few sights and gathering a few stories, what I have noticed in six months are the changes back here: Relationships have grown stronger or dissolved altogether, people have switched jobs and moved locations and of course the snow has left. All that, and I am just a guy with longer hair and a full passport. A friend said to me while I was traveling to soak it all in and not to consider what I might be missing if I was still back home; that the mundane is all that was going on. While the day-to-day life of settled lives might be considered mundane, there is a magic to that sort of living as well, though I think it is easier to be lulled into considering the days rather unimportant. Getting into a new city or tasting some new food or deciphering a foreign language are all things that kept me keyed into living in the moment and soaking up everything that was right in front of me, and as I now head back into routine (as unsustainable as experiencing something new everyday is) I am going to try to maintain the sort of focus on the immediate. Even if it is something I am intimately familiar with.
While I can't point to any epiphanies that have struck me to my core or experiences over the last six months that have fundamentally altered the way I try to live my life, I am not surprised. I figured out a while back that it is only through reflection that I personally come to anything resembling certainty about pivotal life moments, and it will be in hindsight over the coming months (and not to be melodramatic, but maybe years) that I will be able to look back and reflect on how my trip around the world contributed to who I am.
This got a little deep. Thanks for reading along.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Over and Out
With the bass pumping through the floor of the eight-bed dorm literally causing my head to shake on the pillow Friday night, I questioned the sanity of trying to fall asleep before the bar below turned off its music. While the music had been discernible on the three previous nights, Friday nights apparently demand a further forty or so decibels. Eventually I did fall asleep, but I didn't wake up this morning feeling well rested.
After my lazy day on Tuesday in London, basically just puttering around Greenwich parks and daydreaming, I started my Wedneday sightseeing with a vengeance: A walk under the Thames and then west along the northern bank to Tower Bridge, then a tour through the Tower of London, checked out The Monument to those lost in the Great Fire of 1666, attended the evensong service at St. Paul's Cathedral, walked past The Globe Theatre, the London Eye, and finally Big Ben at the Place of Westminster. I estimate I covered about fifteen kilometers by foot, and the next day was more of the same as I climbed to the upper dome of St. Paul's for a fantastic view of the city, and then ambled through the National Gallery and the Tate Modern.
I was glad that admission to the museums was free, for while I enjoyed the National Gallery, I doubt I will ever be able to drum up any reasonable enthusiasm for modern art. Installations, like a Volkswagen van in front of a herd of sleds, each with a block of fat and a roll of felt, were interesting, though not something I could appreciate given my unfortunately bourgeoisie view of art. I did get to see my first Jackson Pollock though, which was special for me. Pollock is an old nemesis from a college art class where I had been assigned to write a paper about his life and work. This was after the teacher had been shocked by my treasonous assertion that his work would not be what I would consider art. I was one of this teacher's least favorite students for the rest of the year, just ahead of the guy who compared Monet's haystacks to finger-painting. I thought that seeing Pollock's paintings might change my opinion of him, but I still think it's crap. Who says with education comes appreciation?
At the end of Thursday to headed to Trafalgar Square where a stage had been set up to celebrate - you guessed it - Canada Day! The festivites had been going on all day, including a ball-hockey tournament, poutine, mounties posing for pictures and numerous travel booths extoling the beauty of Canada. I found a spot to sit as the concert full of imported Canadian talent started (Hawksley Workman, Sarah Harmer, Jully Black - and some others I didn't recognize) and afterwards made my way back over the now-familiar transit route to Greenwich after another long day.
I spent yesterday basically lazing around; going for a short walk and then polishing off a novel and starting another, and I expect to do more of the same over the next two days before my flight on Tuesday morning. I do want to see the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace - nothing more touristy than that I know, but hey, I embrace it - and there are a couple of more things to do, but nothing pressing. That being said, this will be last post from me outside of Canada - thanks for following along with what I am afraid were often rather rambling pieces of prose over the last six months, and if you're reading this from Canada, see ya there soon.
After my lazy day on Tuesday in London, basically just puttering around Greenwich parks and daydreaming, I started my Wedneday sightseeing with a vengeance: A walk under the Thames and then west along the northern bank to Tower Bridge, then a tour through the Tower of London, checked out The Monument to those lost in the Great Fire of 1666, attended the evensong service at St. Paul's Cathedral, walked past The Globe Theatre, the London Eye, and finally Big Ben at the Place of Westminster. I estimate I covered about fifteen kilometers by foot, and the next day was more of the same as I climbed to the upper dome of St. Paul's for a fantastic view of the city, and then ambled through the National Gallery and the Tate Modern.
I was glad that admission to the museums was free, for while I enjoyed the National Gallery, I doubt I will ever be able to drum up any reasonable enthusiasm for modern art. Installations, like a Volkswagen van in front of a herd of sleds, each with a block of fat and a roll of felt, were interesting, though not something I could appreciate given my unfortunately bourgeoisie view of art. I did get to see my first Jackson Pollock though, which was special for me. Pollock is an old nemesis from a college art class where I had been assigned to write a paper about his life and work. This was after the teacher had been shocked by my treasonous assertion that his work would not be what I would consider art. I was one of this teacher's least favorite students for the rest of the year, just ahead of the guy who compared Monet's haystacks to finger-painting. I thought that seeing Pollock's paintings might change my opinion of him, but I still think it's crap. Who says with education comes appreciation?
At the end of Thursday to headed to Trafalgar Square where a stage had been set up to celebrate - you guessed it - Canada Day! The festivites had been going on all day, including a ball-hockey tournament, poutine, mounties posing for pictures and numerous travel booths extoling the beauty of Canada. I found a spot to sit as the concert full of imported Canadian talent started (Hawksley Workman, Sarah Harmer, Jully Black - and some others I didn't recognize) and afterwards made my way back over the now-familiar transit route to Greenwich after another long day.
I spent yesterday basically lazing around; going for a short walk and then polishing off a novel and starting another, and I expect to do more of the same over the next two days before my flight on Tuesday morning. I do want to see the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace - nothing more touristy than that I know, but hey, I embrace it - and there are a couple of more things to do, but nothing pressing. That being said, this will be last post from me outside of Canada - thanks for following along with what I am afraid were often rather rambling pieces of prose over the last six months, and if you're reading this from Canada, see ya there soon.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Last Stop: London, England
When I was deciding on a title for this blog, I knew I was starting my trip in Sydney, Australia, and while my plan was to end up in London, England (as detailed by the blog byline) I was still hedging my bets with "Sydney-to-Somewhere" just in case something came up to change my final destination. As well, I was drawn by the obvious alliteration - "Sydney-to-London" just doesn't have the same ring to it. But, despite a rather vague and at times nonexistent itinerary, I have finally arrived in London.
I enjoyed my second-last day in Dublin getting a large dose of culture along with Madeline and Amy, two Trans-Mongolian friends whose travels had brought them to Dublin at the same time as me. Walking through both the Natural Museum of Ireland and the National Art Gallery of Ireland, I didn't have the time to come even close to soaking it all in, but the odd exhibit stuck with me. What I most enjoyed was learning a bit about the extensive viking culture that existed in Ireland so far into the past - in fact it was out of a viking settlement that the modern city of Dublin arose.
Back at my hostel another day, I woke up and walked across the hall to the showers, not bothering to bring along change of clothes and instead just grabbing my shower stuff and a towel. On the return trip, I could plainly see that the door that I had left open had been closed, and after knocking for a while, I realized whoever had done it hadn't done it on the way into the room. Standing in the hallway with nothing but a towel, I headed down the stairs, hoping that I would run into someone with a keycard before I had to walk into the lobby and ask for help. Unfortunately that is exactly what I had to do, and the lobby was full of a group of about thirty new faces. I feigned nonchalance and the desk clerk was quick, and I was soon hopping back up the stairs with reddish face. From the stories I have heard from other travelers who frequent hostels, walking around in a towel is often considered the height of modesty, so I doubt anyone was as uncomfortable as me.
On Monday I picked up my ticket to London, and boarded the bus out of Dublin at 8:15 PM. Apparently there are no Dublin to London services during the day, which made the overnight trip my only option. The Irish leg of the bus trip was short, but the ferry ride to Wales was considerably longer than the ferry I had taken from Scotland to Northern Ireland, and when we reached the UK I was exhausted, especially as I had started my day much earlier than I have been in the habit of doing. We all got off the bus after a ten-minute ride to customs, and then waited in haphazard lines as we shuffled past the cheery British officials. Back in Britian, I dozed off intermittently before we rolled into the Victoria Coach station twelve hours after we had departed Dublin. Yawning, I purchased a week's pass on London public transit and then made my way to my hostel in Greenwich. I stored my bag in expectation for the afternoon check-in and then walked down to the park, spending most of my time on a bench watching the clouds scuttle quickly across the sky, enjoying the rapidly shifting combinations of sun and shade on the Thames while thinking deep thoughts.
With a week to explore London and the surrounding area before heading home, I am excited to catch my flight back to Canada but at the same time I have gotten pretty used to this unsustainable habit of world traveling. A bed that will allow me to strech out and permanent access to laundry facilities are big draws, but they don't quite eclipse the allure of crossing a border and hearing another new language or sitting down for a pint with someone with a background so different from my own.
I enjoyed my second-last day in Dublin getting a large dose of culture along with Madeline and Amy, two Trans-Mongolian friends whose travels had brought them to Dublin at the same time as me. Walking through both the Natural Museum of Ireland and the National Art Gallery of Ireland, I didn't have the time to come even close to soaking it all in, but the odd exhibit stuck with me. What I most enjoyed was learning a bit about the extensive viking culture that existed in Ireland so far into the past - in fact it was out of a viking settlement that the modern city of Dublin arose.
Back at my hostel another day, I woke up and walked across the hall to the showers, not bothering to bring along change of clothes and instead just grabbing my shower stuff and a towel. On the return trip, I could plainly see that the door that I had left open had been closed, and after knocking for a while, I realized whoever had done it hadn't done it on the way into the room. Standing in the hallway with nothing but a towel, I headed down the stairs, hoping that I would run into someone with a keycard before I had to walk into the lobby and ask for help. Unfortunately that is exactly what I had to do, and the lobby was full of a group of about thirty new faces. I feigned nonchalance and the desk clerk was quick, and I was soon hopping back up the stairs with reddish face. From the stories I have heard from other travelers who frequent hostels, walking around in a towel is often considered the height of modesty, so I doubt anyone was as uncomfortable as me.
On Monday I picked up my ticket to London, and boarded the bus out of Dublin at 8:15 PM. Apparently there are no Dublin to London services during the day, which made the overnight trip my only option. The Irish leg of the bus trip was short, but the ferry ride to Wales was considerably longer than the ferry I had taken from Scotland to Northern Ireland, and when we reached the UK I was exhausted, especially as I had started my day much earlier than I have been in the habit of doing. We all got off the bus after a ten-minute ride to customs, and then waited in haphazard lines as we shuffled past the cheery British officials. Back in Britian, I dozed off intermittently before we rolled into the Victoria Coach station twelve hours after we had departed Dublin. Yawning, I purchased a week's pass on London public transit and then made my way to my hostel in Greenwich. I stored my bag in expectation for the afternoon check-in and then walked down to the park, spending most of my time on a bench watching the clouds scuttle quickly across the sky, enjoying the rapidly shifting combinations of sun and shade on the Thames while thinking deep thoughts.
With a week to explore London and the surrounding area before heading home, I am excited to catch my flight back to Canada but at the same time I have gotten pretty used to this unsustainable habit of world traveling. A bed that will allow me to strech out and permanent access to laundry facilities are big draws, but they don't quite eclipse the allure of crossing a border and hearing another new language or sitting down for a pint with someone with a background so different from my own.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Belfast to Dublin
Getting into Belfast after a day of travel by bus, ferry and then bus again from Scotland, I walked out of the bus station and started off on the short walk to my hostel. Situated just off the infamous Sandy Row in the heart of Belfast, I couldn't help but notice the numerous union jacks and republican slogans lining the street. Later I would walk up to the start of the Sandy Row to take a picture of the two-storey mural declaring the loyalist roots of the Protestants, complete with a balaclava-clad militiaman holding a rifle. I found this brazen show of allegiance chilling, but it is seemingly par for the course in Belfast.
One of my roommates in the hostel was a Scottish guy who was in Belfast to conduct some interviews for his Master's thesis on non-governmental organizations in post-conflict zones, and talking to him gave me some insight into what the people of Belfast have been through in recent history. While Belfast is technically a "post-conflict zone," as this Scottish academic termed it, the night before I left there was a fire-bombing, and the tension in the streets was almost palpable in some places. I may have been imagining this tension after spending a couple of hours in the Ulster museum, looking through displays highlighting The Troubles, the time of armed conflict between Irish republicans and the British army, but there is no denying that The Troubles are something that you do not bring up in casual conversation in Northern Ireland if you want to make friends.
The Ulster Museum, and its free admission, was the highlight of my time in Northern Ireland, and I really didn't do much else besides wandering the streets and getting a feel for the city. Only two nights in Belfast, and then I headed south by bus to Dublin.
A number of people I got to know on the Trans-Mongolian trip that I was a part of are in Dublin as well, and it has been nice to have some ready-made friends as it were, and we have been meeting up for meals and drinks in the evening.
Dublin is the home of so many famous authors - James Joyce, Frank O'Connor, Oscar Wilde and Jonathan Swift to name just a few that I am familiar with - and I spent a few hours wandering through the Dublin Writers' Museum, proud of the fact that my background in English literature got me my money's worth from the displays. It is interesting that while Dubliners claim Joyce as a native son, he toiled in self-imposed exile for most of his career, writing about the city he knew from memory. One of the books I have read on this trip was Joyce's "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" as well as his collection of short stories "Dubliners," and it has been interesting to walk the actual streets that Joyce's characters walk. While there are posters, a bridge, even a statue, all drawing attention to Joyce's work, I was most struck by his inclusion at the Guinness factory. The seventh floor Gravity Bar, encirled by three hundred and sixty degrees of plexi-glass allowing for panoramic views of Dublin seemed an unlikely place for literary allusions. However, I read excperpts from "Ulysses," "Finnegan's Wake," "Dubliners," and "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" pasted to inside of the windows as I knocked back my complimentary pint of Guinness.
Besides the Guinness factory, the other tour that I went on was at Jameson's Distillery, and I was one of the lucky eight among the tour group that got to do a taste test at the end of the guided tour. It was comprised of three shots; one of Jameson's, one of Jack Daniel's and one of Glenfiddich Scotch. They were all half-shots, as well as being diluted with water, but nonetheless the American woman sitting beside me quickly decided I was considerably more interesting than I actually was and we chatted about this and that as her husband continually interjected with the suggestion that she might like something to eat. "I know I'm drunk, but we are having a very nice conversation," she said, and it wasn't until a bit later that he was able to convince her that it was time to leave.
I am composing this post at seven in the morning after walking a friend back to her hostel in the wee hours of the morning and realizing that internet access here is free. While the bars here stop serving at 2:30 AM, three of us decided that the night was still young and stayed up - and got to see the significantly light full-moon night turn into day. The hostel that I am poaching internet from also has a free continental breakfast which includes ham, sausage, hash-browns and a serving of fruit salad, so I think I will stay here a bit longer and help myself to the feast, that is if I don't fall asleep first.
One of my roommates in the hostel was a Scottish guy who was in Belfast to conduct some interviews for his Master's thesis on non-governmental organizations in post-conflict zones, and talking to him gave me some insight into what the people of Belfast have been through in recent history. While Belfast is technically a "post-conflict zone," as this Scottish academic termed it, the night before I left there was a fire-bombing, and the tension in the streets was almost palpable in some places. I may have been imagining this tension after spending a couple of hours in the Ulster museum, looking through displays highlighting The Troubles, the time of armed conflict between Irish republicans and the British army, but there is no denying that The Troubles are something that you do not bring up in casual conversation in Northern Ireland if you want to make friends.
The Ulster Museum, and its free admission, was the highlight of my time in Northern Ireland, and I really didn't do much else besides wandering the streets and getting a feel for the city. Only two nights in Belfast, and then I headed south by bus to Dublin.
A number of people I got to know on the Trans-Mongolian trip that I was a part of are in Dublin as well, and it has been nice to have some ready-made friends as it were, and we have been meeting up for meals and drinks in the evening.
Dublin is the home of so many famous authors - James Joyce, Frank O'Connor, Oscar Wilde and Jonathan Swift to name just a few that I am familiar with - and I spent a few hours wandering through the Dublin Writers' Museum, proud of the fact that my background in English literature got me my money's worth from the displays. It is interesting that while Dubliners claim Joyce as a native son, he toiled in self-imposed exile for most of his career, writing about the city he knew from memory. One of the books I have read on this trip was Joyce's "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" as well as his collection of short stories "Dubliners," and it has been interesting to walk the actual streets that Joyce's characters walk. While there are posters, a bridge, even a statue, all drawing attention to Joyce's work, I was most struck by his inclusion at the Guinness factory. The seventh floor Gravity Bar, encirled by three hundred and sixty degrees of plexi-glass allowing for panoramic views of Dublin seemed an unlikely place for literary allusions. However, I read excperpts from "Ulysses," "Finnegan's Wake," "Dubliners," and "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" pasted to inside of the windows as I knocked back my complimentary pint of Guinness.
Besides the Guinness factory, the other tour that I went on was at Jameson's Distillery, and I was one of the lucky eight among the tour group that got to do a taste test at the end of the guided tour. It was comprised of three shots; one of Jameson's, one of Jack Daniel's and one of Glenfiddich Scotch. They were all half-shots, as well as being diluted with water, but nonetheless the American woman sitting beside me quickly decided I was considerably more interesting than I actually was and we chatted about this and that as her husband continually interjected with the suggestion that she might like something to eat. "I know I'm drunk, but we are having a very nice conversation," she said, and it wasn't until a bit later that he was able to convince her that it was time to leave.
I am composing this post at seven in the morning after walking a friend back to her hostel in the wee hours of the morning and realizing that internet access here is free. While the bars here stop serving at 2:30 AM, three of us decided that the night was still young and stayed up - and got to see the significantly light full-moon night turn into day. The hostel that I am poaching internet from also has a free continental breakfast which includes ham, sausage, hash-browns and a serving of fruit salad, so I think I will stay here a bit longer and help myself to the feast, that is if I don't fall asleep first.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Sunny Scotland
Off the airplane and into the brisk air of England, I thought that I might have to steel myself for the stereotypical weather of Scotland: Wet, cold and windy. That estimation proved to be far from the mark and I enjoyed beautiful sunny days during my stay in Glasgow and Glencoe.
I had thought at one point that flying from London to Glasgow would be the best way to head north, but I decided to take the (significantly) cheaper option and go by bus. My flight from Istanbul landed just after noon and I made my way into the city centre to catch the next available bus. Unfortunately my first available option was the 10:30 PM overnight bus that would get me to Glasgow at seven in the morning, so I hunkered down in the bus station for a long wait. I can't think of a better place to people-watch than a bus station, and I did just that for a while, until I struck up conversation with the old guy sitting next to me. With his shapeless felt hat and shoulder-length grey hair, he looked to be an ageing hippy, and after we got to talking it turned out he was pretty much that. The lead guitarist for Manfred Man, he had stepped out of the band after the drugs got too hard (from the little I gleaned they would have had to be pretty hard for him to qualify them as such) and is now operating a hemp farm outside of London that was passed down to him by his grandfather. "Of course, a little weed somehow slips in there now and then," he said, grinning as he told me how he was still sticking it to The Man. I thought that would be my most interesting conversation, but after - well, I never did get his name - the musician-turned-farmer left, a dazed skinhead sat down near me and tried to get me to buy a FIFA Playstation game. He had apparently blown all his money on booze and cocaine over the course of forty-eight hour rave and didn't have bus fare to get to the airport for his flight. He did have a litte baggie of coke that he checked to see was still safely tucked away his sock, but no cash. And if that wasn't enough, he had a new eight-inch tatoo on his forearm: "Cynthia." "Who's that?" I asked. "I dunno." he slurred. "But my girlfriend is not goin' to like it." When I finally caught my bus he was sleeping, hunched over his bag, apparently having given up hope of selling his Playstation game.
I rolled into Glasgow where I stayed for two nights, walking around the city and seeing the sights. There really wasn't that much happening, at least not much that I was interested in, and after wandering through the parks and the free museum of Kelvingrove, I headed further north up to small town of Glencoe where I stayed with family friends.
Vilma and John Deighton, grandparents of friends I grew up next door to in Fort McMurray, fed me to the point of bursting and made me feel so welcome that I stayed for the rest of the week. It was a great way to catch up on years-worth of stories as well as recharge my batteries for the last two weeks of the trip. I really did precious little, seeing a bit of the town and going on a hike up the glen one day, though most of the time I spent eating, reading and sleeping. Fantastic.
On Monday I caught a bus from Glencoe, then another bus, and then a ferry, and then one last bus to arrive in Belfast in the evening. Stay tuned for an Ireland update to follow.
I had thought at one point that flying from London to Glasgow would be the best way to head north, but I decided to take the (significantly) cheaper option and go by bus. My flight from Istanbul landed just after noon and I made my way into the city centre to catch the next available bus. Unfortunately my first available option was the 10:30 PM overnight bus that would get me to Glasgow at seven in the morning, so I hunkered down in the bus station for a long wait. I can't think of a better place to people-watch than a bus station, and I did just that for a while, until I struck up conversation with the old guy sitting next to me. With his shapeless felt hat and shoulder-length grey hair, he looked to be an ageing hippy, and after we got to talking it turned out he was pretty much that. The lead guitarist for Manfred Man, he had stepped out of the band after the drugs got too hard (from the little I gleaned they would have had to be pretty hard for him to qualify them as such) and is now operating a hemp farm outside of London that was passed down to him by his grandfather. "Of course, a little weed somehow slips in there now and then," he said, grinning as he told me how he was still sticking it to The Man. I thought that would be my most interesting conversation, but after - well, I never did get his name - the musician-turned-farmer left, a dazed skinhead sat down near me and tried to get me to buy a FIFA Playstation game. He had apparently blown all his money on booze and cocaine over the course of forty-eight hour rave and didn't have bus fare to get to the airport for his flight. He did have a litte baggie of coke that he checked to see was still safely tucked away his sock, but no cash. And if that wasn't enough, he had a new eight-inch tatoo on his forearm: "Cynthia." "Who's that?" I asked. "I dunno." he slurred. "But my girlfriend is not goin' to like it." When I finally caught my bus he was sleeping, hunched over his bag, apparently having given up hope of selling his Playstation game.
I rolled into Glasgow where I stayed for two nights, walking around the city and seeing the sights. There really wasn't that much happening, at least not much that I was interested in, and after wandering through the parks and the free museum of Kelvingrove, I headed further north up to small town of Glencoe where I stayed with family friends.
Vilma and John Deighton, grandparents of friends I grew up next door to in Fort McMurray, fed me to the point of bursting and made me feel so welcome that I stayed for the rest of the week. It was a great way to catch up on years-worth of stories as well as recharge my batteries for the last two weeks of the trip. I really did precious little, seeing a bit of the town and going on a hike up the glen one day, though most of the time I spent eating, reading and sleeping. Fantastic.
On Monday I caught a bus from Glencoe, then another bus, and then a ferry, and then one last bus to arrive in Belfast in the evening. Stay tuned for an Ireland update to follow.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Rockin' the Casbah!
Sitting on the west side of the Bosphorus, Istanbul is a gateway between Europe and Asia and the ancient city shows a variety of influences in its long and complex history. My flight arrived in the morning, almost due south from Kiev, and I grabbed a cab and headed into the city. I stayedin the Orient Hostel, the biggest hostel in Istanbul, and my room alone had thirty beds in it. As we drove into the oldest part of the city we passed crumbling ancient city walls as the traffic got more and more dense. Eventually I started thinking that walking might be faster and would have been tempted had I any idea where we were.
As soon as I checked in I went for a walk, exploring the city by foot - my usual mode of transit - and found my way to the Grand Bazaar. The labyrinth of shops was built in the 15th century and covers more than 54,000 square meters. I didn't make my way through the twenty-one gates or even come close to exploring the nearly four thousand shops, though I did find my way into a leather-working shop and decided that a custom-made leather jacket would make a good souvenir. I have finally started getting the hang of the constant bartering that seems to be a part of every culture except North America and managed to get the vendor down roughly fifty percent off his original price. Every time I have success like that though I start second-guessing myself, assuming that the price was artificially inflated for the purpose of fleecing tourists. Which in this case it probably was.
In checking in at the hostel, the guy at the front desk told me that there was a tour the next day on the Bosphorus and that I could get in on the group rate if I was interested. I signed up then and there and only slighted regretted the decision as rolled off my top bunk in the morning to make my way to the pick-up point at the front of the hostel. I had mistakenly thought that the group was going to be composed of solo tourists like myself, but it was actually a Dutch high school trip and I was the only one who had been suckered into the group rate discount. Still, it was a fun day as the boat picked its way north, stopping in Europe, then Asia, then back again, finally anchoring in the Black Sea where we spent an hour or so swimming, jumping off the upper deck of the boat into the cooling water. On our second stop another solo tourist joined the group, and so Hiba, a Pakistani woman, and I hung out for the day as the Dutch kids stuck to themselves.
The next day I again wandered the city, finishing at the Hagia Sophia, the famous cathedral-to-mosque-to-museum. Built in the fourth century, the building was the largest cathedral in the world for nearly a century. When the Ottoman Turks conquered Constantinople in the 1453, the cathedral was naturally changed to a mosque. An interesting mix of Byzantine architecture and Islamic scripts, it was a great experience to explore the building along with all the other tourists. Definitely not just another bloody church!
That night, I headed back to my hostel and watched the World Cup game between Australia and Germany. Every single sidewalk cafe had big-screen TVs lining the street, and everyone regardless of their heritage was finding a spot to watch the match. All of us commonwealth types - Canadian, Kiwi, and Aussies - were cheering for the Aussie underdogs as we sat around the hookah and drank our turkish draft. A very unique soccer experience, though I call it football in conversation to avoid confusion with everyone but Americans. It was a depressing loss despite our best efforts to change the fact that the Australian team were heavily out-classed, with the game ending up 0-4. I caught a few hours of sleep before heading out to the airport the next day and flying on to London, England. Three weeks of traipsing around the British Isles with no real plan to speak of - why start planning now? - and then home.
As soon as I checked in I went for a walk, exploring the city by foot - my usual mode of transit - and found my way to the Grand Bazaar. The labyrinth of shops was built in the 15th century and covers more than 54,000 square meters. I didn't make my way through the twenty-one gates or even come close to exploring the nearly four thousand shops, though I did find my way into a leather-working shop and decided that a custom-made leather jacket would make a good souvenir. I have finally started getting the hang of the constant bartering that seems to be a part of every culture except North America and managed to get the vendor down roughly fifty percent off his original price. Every time I have success like that though I start second-guessing myself, assuming that the price was artificially inflated for the purpose of fleecing tourists. Which in this case it probably was.
In checking in at the hostel, the guy at the front desk told me that there was a tour the next day on the Bosphorus and that I could get in on the group rate if I was interested. I signed up then and there and only slighted regretted the decision as rolled off my top bunk in the morning to make my way to the pick-up point at the front of the hostel. I had mistakenly thought that the group was going to be composed of solo tourists like myself, but it was actually a Dutch high school trip and I was the only one who had been suckered into the group rate discount. Still, it was a fun day as the boat picked its way north, stopping in Europe, then Asia, then back again, finally anchoring in the Black Sea where we spent an hour or so swimming, jumping off the upper deck of the boat into the cooling water. On our second stop another solo tourist joined the group, and so Hiba, a Pakistani woman, and I hung out for the day as the Dutch kids stuck to themselves.
The next day I again wandered the city, finishing at the Hagia Sophia, the famous cathedral-to-mosque-to-museum. Built in the fourth century, the building was the largest cathedral in the world for nearly a century. When the Ottoman Turks conquered Constantinople in the 1453, the cathedral was naturally changed to a mosque. An interesting mix of Byzantine architecture and Islamic scripts, it was a great experience to explore the building along with all the other tourists. Definitely not just another bloody church!
That night, I headed back to my hostel and watched the World Cup game between Australia and Germany. Every single sidewalk cafe had big-screen TVs lining the street, and everyone regardless of their heritage was finding a spot to watch the match. All of us commonwealth types - Canadian, Kiwi, and Aussies - were cheering for the Aussie underdogs as we sat around the hookah and drank our turkish draft. A very unique soccer experience, though I call it football in conversation to avoid confusion with everyone but Americans. It was a depressing loss despite our best efforts to change the fact that the Australian team were heavily out-classed, with the game ending up 0-4. I caught a few hours of sleep before heading out to the airport the next day and flying on to London, England. Three weeks of traipsing around the British Isles with no real plan to speak of - why start planning now? - and then home.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Back in the (former) USSR
Arriving in Kiev, it felt like I was back in Russia: The signs were again in Cyrillic; passerbys did not smile at one another; the women were all wearing high heels and the hammer-and-sickle was plastered everywhere. Still, I was told that if I were to mention to a Ukrainian how similar I found their country to Russia, it would be severely offensive. I never did, though I did fish for Ukrainian's opinions about Russia over a couple of beers and my ears were blistered by vehement anti-Russian sentiments.
I arrived at my hostel after navigating the metro system and, while sipping the customary free beer at check-in, was told that I had the opportunity to head out to an old Soviet army bunker. The bunker is now owned by a Ukrainian gun club and there are a variety of experiences available to anyone with a couple of extra bucks and a club member as a contact. The Norwegian hostel owner, a former NATO soldier, regularly takes backpackers out to the range, and I decided I would make the trip. While driving an armored vehicle or firing a grenade-launcher were both a little out of my price range, I was able to justify firing an AK-47. I have had past opportunities - in Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam and Mongolia - to go nuts with an automatic weapon, and my resolve finally broke in Ukraine. There was a herd of goats that I was told I could have my pick of for target practice for the right price, though I politely refused and instead opted for a bloodless paper target. With the clip full of thirty rounds, I aimed down the indoor range at the target approximately 25 metres away. At first squeezing off one round at a time, I finished off the clip with two long bursts, quickly perforating the target despite my rather erratic shooting. There was surprisingly little recoil, or so I thought immediately after while still full of adrenalin, but I still have a slight bruise on my upper chest where I held the butt of the rifle.
The rest of my time in Kiev was a little less exciting as I made my way around the city by foot and with the use of the metro, just sightseeing and enjoyig the city. What I most enjoyed was Pecherska Lavra, an underground monastery that has been in use since 1015. The catacombs have now become crypts, housing the bodies of mummified saints, and I wasn't sure what to expect as I stooped to make my way into the white-washed tunnels. I felt like an interloper as devout Ukrainian Orthodox slowly filed past me, bending over each of the glass coffins as they crossed themselves and kissed the glass. None of the mummies' faces were exposed, but I did see one shriveled skeletal hand which made me glad of the cloth covering their faces. Grimacing saints staring up at me through their transparent coffins might have been a little too much.
While the original plan - as much as I could call it a plan - had been to head down to Sevastapol and from there catch a ferry across the Black Sea to Istanbul, I found out that there was just one problem: The ferry only runs once a week. This would have meant I would have arrived in Istanbul just in time to fly to London, so I opted to fly to Istanbul from Kiev instead. I arrived in Istanbul this morning, and in three days I take my second-last step back to Canada, flying into London from where on July 6th I will be heading home.
I arrived at my hostel after navigating the metro system and, while sipping the customary free beer at check-in, was told that I had the opportunity to head out to an old Soviet army bunker. The bunker is now owned by a Ukrainian gun club and there are a variety of experiences available to anyone with a couple of extra bucks and a club member as a contact. The Norwegian hostel owner, a former NATO soldier, regularly takes backpackers out to the range, and I decided I would make the trip. While driving an armored vehicle or firing a grenade-launcher were both a little out of my price range, I was able to justify firing an AK-47. I have had past opportunities - in Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam and Mongolia - to go nuts with an automatic weapon, and my resolve finally broke in Ukraine. There was a herd of goats that I was told I could have my pick of for target practice for the right price, though I politely refused and instead opted for a bloodless paper target. With the clip full of thirty rounds, I aimed down the indoor range at the target approximately 25 metres away. At first squeezing off one round at a time, I finished off the clip with two long bursts, quickly perforating the target despite my rather erratic shooting. There was surprisingly little recoil, or so I thought immediately after while still full of adrenalin, but I still have a slight bruise on my upper chest where I held the butt of the rifle.
The rest of my time in Kiev was a little less exciting as I made my way around the city by foot and with the use of the metro, just sightseeing and enjoyig the city. What I most enjoyed was Pecherska Lavra, an underground monastery that has been in use since 1015. The catacombs have now become crypts, housing the bodies of mummified saints, and I wasn't sure what to expect as I stooped to make my way into the white-washed tunnels. I felt like an interloper as devout Ukrainian Orthodox slowly filed past me, bending over each of the glass coffins as they crossed themselves and kissed the glass. None of the mummies' faces were exposed, but I did see one shriveled skeletal hand which made me glad of the cloth covering their faces. Grimacing saints staring up at me through their transparent coffins might have been a little too much.
While the original plan - as much as I could call it a plan - had been to head down to Sevastapol and from there catch a ferry across the Black Sea to Istanbul, I found out that there was just one problem: The ferry only runs once a week. This would have meant I would have arrived in Istanbul just in time to fly to London, so I opted to fly to Istanbul from Kiev instead. I arrived in Istanbul this morning, and in three days I take my second-last step back to Canada, flying into London from where on July 6th I will be heading home.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
