From Cusco to Lima to Atlanta to San Francisco then the airport shuttle back to San Jose and finally I'm home. The pets are not dead. The TV is not stolen. And I don't have a family of possums living in my dishwasher. However, something smells a little funky in the refrigerator. I should have thrown away that Brie before I left.
I'm sitting here at the computer, the dogs are asleep on the floor next to me and I'm drinking a beer. It's amazing how fast you settle back into your old routines. In a way it feels like I never left. But in another way, I can't believe I'm already home.
One of the strange things about travel is how it plays with your sense of time -- and not just through jet lag. Any trip I've ever taken of any appreciable length seems to fly past at high speed, but stretch out behind me in slow motion. This trip was no exception. I can't believe five weeks have gone by already, but when I look back, it seems like it's been a year since I left.
As I write this, I'm downloading 602 pictures from my digital camera to my computer. Like the camera, I still have a lot to process. It's beyond a cliche to say that travel changes you, but the reason it's become a cliche is because it's true, and so people say it a lot. It's only been five weeks but I do feel changed.
More important than anything else I've learned on this trip, I've learned that being born in a Westernized, first-world country is like winning a sort of Universal Lottery. I've seen enough shantytowns, one-armed children begging on street corners and open sewers for me to realize how good I really have it.
I read recently that 2% of the population of the world holds more than half its wealth, and that almost all of that 2% live in Europe and North America. Those numbers sound impressive but they start to hit home even more when a five-year-old kid rows up to your tour boat in a bowl and asks you for a dollar.
My trip was always fascinating, but really, it wasn't always fun. Sometimes, it was painful.
I had an amazing opportunity, and I was incredibly lucky to have the time and money to take a trip like this. I met wonderful people, ate some truly, truly disgusting food and saw more eye-popping wonders than one person has the right to expect to see in an entire lifetime. But I've come away from this experience with the realization that the world, while beautiful, is also an incredibly hard and unfair place.
Often on my trip, I felt like I was slumming. It's easy to take an air-conditioned cab to a spectacular temple ruin, snap a few photos, and then ride back to your air-conditioned hotel so you can take a nice shower and go have dinner. When you get tired of the heat and the bugs, when the government collapses in yet another coup, or when the monsoons flood the town, you can just go home. On the other hand, the kids who should be in school but instead spend their days trying to sell postcards to people like you are stuck there, and so are their families. And largely, nobody on the planet cares if they make it, or if they don't, because 98% of the planet is too busy themselves trying to survive.
Despite what I wrote before I left about happily embracing all the pre-packaged cleanliness of modern tourism, now I'm not so sure. I wonder if it's a good thing to travel to these places, happily snapping pictures and buying Angkor Wat paperweights, then flying away again, or if it's like going to some kind of zoo where the exhibits are people.
I can now see the appeal of eco-tourism, where before I felt like it was something hippie wannabes did. I think I would feel better about visiting a place if I were going to help dig a well or build a school in ADDITION to sightseeing and buying souvenirs. It's great to have come up a winner in the Universal Lottery, but I think there has got to be some responsibility that comes with it.
Still, another part of me thinks (hopes) that at least by visiting a place and spending some money there, I've at least done something positive. Maybe, in a teeny, tiny way, I've helped re-distribute the world's wealth just a little.
So, my trip is over, but the thinking has just started. I'm grateful to be home, I'm grateful to have a home to go back to in a country where stable (if inept) government, potable water and electricity are the norm, and I'm grateful to be among that vanishingly small percentage of the population of the world that has the luxury of engaging in tourism. I've learned something important. Now I just have to decide what to do with the information.
But no matter what I do, I know I need to do something differently.
So, it's true that travel changes a person. This trip has changed me. I'm just not sure how, yet.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Alive
Flying from Lima, Peru to Cusco - gateway to Machu Picchu - requires flying directly across the Andes. The Andes have a somewhat unfortunate reputation when it comes to air travel, and as soon as I got on the plane I started deciding which of my fellow passengers would taste the best. Just in case.
Fortunately, most of the people on the flight were college-age backpackers in their prime, and not many potentially stringy old people. Of course, happily, it didn´t come to that. We made it just fine, obviously, since if we had crashed on a mountain I probably wouldn´t be blogging right now, I´d be trying to figure out how to build a radio using rocks and frozen urine.
Still, I found the flight to Cusco a touch nerve-wracking. The approach to the airport requires flying down a valley that seemed at the time to be only slightly wider than the plane itself. I suspect, in fact, that they built the plane based on measurements of the valley. It was also in the back of my mind that Cusco is at approximately 11,000 feet above sea level, which means that there really aren´t even that many air molecules to hold the plane up in the first place. Also, Cusco airport (I made the mistake of reading before I got on board) is infamous for its wind shear. I don´t know what wind shear is, but I know I don´t want anything to do with it.
I breathed a sigh of relief when we landed safely, but since I was at 11,000 feet, all that came out was a tiny little puff, and then I got dizzy from the exertion. You might be surprised how much you really notice being 11,000 feet above sea level. Let me tell you, you notice. I bent down to get my luggage from under the seat and when I came back up, I almost blacked out. I´m fine if I lie completely prone and don´t move. But as soon as I do anything (sneeze, pick up a particularly heavy cup of coffee...) I need to stop and take a rest.
Thankfully, the Peruvians, after 400 million years (I made that number up) of living at these elevations have come up with a great way to combat altitude sickness. They call it Mate de Coca, but what it is, literally, is cocaine tea. Celestial Seasonings should grab onto this market, because trust me, it´s going places.
Now don´t get the wrong idea. You´d have to drink hundreds of gallons to get high. It´s very MILD cocaine tea. But I hope eBay doesn´t institute random drug testing any time soon, either. It does work wonders on the altitude sickness, though. Before you drink it, you are dizzy and lightheaded, and after you drink it, you are dizzy and lightheaded and you think you can walk through walls.
No really, it´s not like that. But it does seem to clear up those nagging headaches you get from the rarefied air. The interesting thing is (at least for someone from the United States) is that this beverage made from a Class IV Narcotic is available everywhere. They have a big carafe of it in the hotel lobby. They served it on the plane.
It doesn´t taste too bad, either. Never having tasted refined cocaine (really, Mom) I can´t compare, but if that´s how the street stuff tastes, I´m surprised the addicts don´t sprinkle it on ice cream.
But I digress. The main reason I came to Cusco wasn´t the cocaine, it was Machu Picchu. I went today, and really there´s no point in even trying to describe it. Suffice it to say that, without exaggeration, it is the most amazing thing I have ever seen in my entire life. It beats the Pyramids, and it beats Angkor Wat. Don´t get me wrong, those places are also amazing, but this place doesn´t even seem REAL. You come through the entry and there it is, perched on a mountain, and you are so awestruck by the sight of it that you just stand there with your mouth hanging open, frozen to the spot.
In fact, later in the day, I entertained myself by standing near the entrance and watching other people come in. It didn´t matter what language they were speaking because I could tell from their expression that they were saying the exact same thing I said. ¨Holy shhh...¨
Those Incas had a real flair for the dramatic. It´s like they always say - location, location, location. If you can pick anywhere to build your temple complex, I say build it on the top of a mountain in the Andes. You can´t beat the view.
Machu Picchu was my last stop on my round-the-world trip, and I´m glad I ended here, because I can´t imagine anything else I could see that would compare.
Now I´m off to bed and tomorrow it´s back on the plane to Lima, then home. This time, I´m packing seasoning salt in my carry on.
Fortunately, most of the people on the flight were college-age backpackers in their prime, and not many potentially stringy old people. Of course, happily, it didn´t come to that. We made it just fine, obviously, since if we had crashed on a mountain I probably wouldn´t be blogging right now, I´d be trying to figure out how to build a radio using rocks and frozen urine.
Still, I found the flight to Cusco a touch nerve-wracking. The approach to the airport requires flying down a valley that seemed at the time to be only slightly wider than the plane itself. I suspect, in fact, that they built the plane based on measurements of the valley. It was also in the back of my mind that Cusco is at approximately 11,000 feet above sea level, which means that there really aren´t even that many air molecules to hold the plane up in the first place. Also, Cusco airport (I made the mistake of reading before I got on board) is infamous for its wind shear. I don´t know what wind shear is, but I know I don´t want anything to do with it.
I breathed a sigh of relief when we landed safely, but since I was at 11,000 feet, all that came out was a tiny little puff, and then I got dizzy from the exertion. You might be surprised how much you really notice being 11,000 feet above sea level. Let me tell you, you notice. I bent down to get my luggage from under the seat and when I came back up, I almost blacked out. I´m fine if I lie completely prone and don´t move. But as soon as I do anything (sneeze, pick up a particularly heavy cup of coffee...) I need to stop and take a rest.
Thankfully, the Peruvians, after 400 million years (I made that number up) of living at these elevations have come up with a great way to combat altitude sickness. They call it Mate de Coca, but what it is, literally, is cocaine tea. Celestial Seasonings should grab onto this market, because trust me, it´s going places.
Now don´t get the wrong idea. You´d have to drink hundreds of gallons to get high. It´s very MILD cocaine tea. But I hope eBay doesn´t institute random drug testing any time soon, either. It does work wonders on the altitude sickness, though. Before you drink it, you are dizzy and lightheaded, and after you drink it, you are dizzy and lightheaded and you think you can walk through walls.
No really, it´s not like that. But it does seem to clear up those nagging headaches you get from the rarefied air. The interesting thing is (at least for someone from the United States) is that this beverage made from a Class IV Narcotic is available everywhere. They have a big carafe of it in the hotel lobby. They served it on the plane.
It doesn´t taste too bad, either. Never having tasted refined cocaine (really, Mom) I can´t compare, but if that´s how the street stuff tastes, I´m surprised the addicts don´t sprinkle it on ice cream.
But I digress. The main reason I came to Cusco wasn´t the cocaine, it was Machu Picchu. I went today, and really there´s no point in even trying to describe it. Suffice it to say that, without exaggeration, it is the most amazing thing I have ever seen in my entire life. It beats the Pyramids, and it beats Angkor Wat. Don´t get me wrong, those places are also amazing, but this place doesn´t even seem REAL. You come through the entry and there it is, perched on a mountain, and you are so awestruck by the sight of it that you just stand there with your mouth hanging open, frozen to the spot.
In fact, later in the day, I entertained myself by standing near the entrance and watching other people come in. It didn´t matter what language they were speaking because I could tell from their expression that they were saying the exact same thing I said. ¨Holy shhh...¨
Those Incas had a real flair for the dramatic. It´s like they always say - location, location, location. If you can pick anywhere to build your temple complex, I say build it on the top of a mountain in the Andes. You can´t beat the view.
Machu Picchu was my last stop on my round-the-world trip, and I´m glad I ended here, because I can´t imagine anything else I could see that would compare.
Now I´m off to bed and tomorrow it´s back on the plane to Lima, then home. This time, I´m packing seasoning salt in my carry on.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Last Tangle in Aires
If you ever want to feel like a big, fat, un-coordinated, gigantic-footed, stumbling clod (and who doesn't?) try dancing tango with an Argentinian.
I have discovered on my visit to Buenos Aires that Argentinans are, almost invariably, lithe, attractive, graceful and could probably tango straight from the womb. I, on the other hand, am the exact opposite. I am not lithe, attractive or graceful, and I when I dance I look like a drunk Pillsbury Doughboy. For these EXACT reasons, I chose to see a tango SHOW, where I could sit unobtrusively in the audience and watch other people be graceful. If I had wanted to dance, I would have gone to one of the approximately 15.6 million tango dance halls in Buenos Aires. There's one in the bathroom of my hotel room. It's not as if I couldn't find one if I'd wanted.
But of course when I went into the bar where the tango show was taking place, I discovered it was the size of a shoebox and had three tables. (It was recommended by the couple running the hotel where I'm staying. They didn't mention the fact that you could have fit the entire dance floor onto a TV tray.)
As soon as I walked into the door, I felt an icy finger of terror run up my spine.
"Oh God," I thought to myself, "they are going to make us come up and dance with them." It was far, far too small for me to remain hidden and anonymous in the audience. But by then it was too late. I was already being led to my table. It was some comfort that I was seated next to a Korean man who, if anything, looked even more mortified than I was. He obviously knew what was awaiting him, too.
But it was supposed to be a SHOW. A SHOW. I looked at the little brochure I'd picked up in the lobby of my hotel. It even said "Tango Show" right on it. I had been led like a lamb to the slaughter.
Suddenly there appeared on the dance floor an (of course) impeccably dressed, lithe, attractive couple who, despite having four square feet of space to work with, were quickly flipping and twirling and writhing and doing other various tango-related things. Someone once called tango "the vertical expression of a horizontal desire." After watching these dancers, I think that's fairly accurate. In fact, there were moments when I felt somewhat uncomfortable to be watching them at all. "Do you two want some privacy?" I wanted to ask.
There were a few more dances, then some singing, and I started to relax. "Maybe I was wrong," I thought to myself. "Maybe they WON'T make us dance."
But just then, as I was fiddling with my camera, I saw out of the corner of my eye some legs next to my table, and attached to them, a woman from the tango show. I pretended to be intensely focused on my camera, but then she said, in an oh-so-charming accent, "would you like to dance with me?" I couldn't even pretend not to understand her, dammit. She spoke English.
"Um."
You can't very well say "no." Not to a woman dressed to dance the tango.
She smiled at me encouragingly.
"I don't know how," I said, hoping this would end the conversation. But of course, none of the tourists ever know how, do they? That is why they bought tickets to a SHOW. People buy tickets to watch people doing something they CAN'T do. Otherwise we'd have movies about cleaning the toilet, not about car chases going the wrong way down the interstate.
"Then you will learn with me," she said. Oh she just had an answer for everything. Damn her.
Well what can you do? I didn't want to hide in the bathroom for the rest of the evening, so I got up and tried to tango. But every time I took a step I had to look down and make sure I wasn't about to crush her tiny feet. I couldn't have danced less gracefully if I'd been wearing skis.
"You can look up," she said.
"I am afraid I am going to step on your toes," I said.
"Oh, that will not happen." And she said this with the confidence of a woman who makes a living dancing with un-coordinated tourists and has thereby gained a kind of preternatural, toe-related sixth sense. And she was right, I didn't step on her toes even once. However, that is really the only positive thing I can say about my dancing -- it caused no one any injuries.
I have discovered on my visit to Buenos Aires that Argentinans are, almost invariably, lithe, attractive, graceful and could probably tango straight from the womb. I, on the other hand, am the exact opposite. I am not lithe, attractive or graceful, and I when I dance I look like a drunk Pillsbury Doughboy. For these EXACT reasons, I chose to see a tango SHOW, where I could sit unobtrusively in the audience and watch other people be graceful. If I had wanted to dance, I would have gone to one of the approximately 15.6 million tango dance halls in Buenos Aires. There's one in the bathroom of my hotel room. It's not as if I couldn't find one if I'd wanted.
But of course when I went into the bar where the tango show was taking place, I discovered it was the size of a shoebox and had three tables. (It was recommended by the couple running the hotel where I'm staying. They didn't mention the fact that you could have fit the entire dance floor onto a TV tray.)
As soon as I walked into the door, I felt an icy finger of terror run up my spine.
"Oh God," I thought to myself, "they are going to make us come up and dance with them." It was far, far too small for me to remain hidden and anonymous in the audience. But by then it was too late. I was already being led to my table. It was some comfort that I was seated next to a Korean man who, if anything, looked even more mortified than I was. He obviously knew what was awaiting him, too.
But it was supposed to be a SHOW. A SHOW. I looked at the little brochure I'd picked up in the lobby of my hotel. It even said "Tango Show" right on it. I had been led like a lamb to the slaughter.
Suddenly there appeared on the dance floor an (of course) impeccably dressed, lithe, attractive couple who, despite having four square feet of space to work with, were quickly flipping and twirling and writhing and doing other various tango-related things. Someone once called tango "the vertical expression of a horizontal desire." After watching these dancers, I think that's fairly accurate. In fact, there were moments when I felt somewhat uncomfortable to be watching them at all. "Do you two want some privacy?" I wanted to ask.
There were a few more dances, then some singing, and I started to relax. "Maybe I was wrong," I thought to myself. "Maybe they WON'T make us dance."
But just then, as I was fiddling with my camera, I saw out of the corner of my eye some legs next to my table, and attached to them, a woman from the tango show. I pretended to be intensely focused on my camera, but then she said, in an oh-so-charming accent, "would you like to dance with me?" I couldn't even pretend not to understand her, dammit. She spoke English.
"Um."
You can't very well say "no." Not to a woman dressed to dance the tango.
She smiled at me encouragingly.
"I don't know how," I said, hoping this would end the conversation. But of course, none of the tourists ever know how, do they? That is why they bought tickets to a SHOW. People buy tickets to watch people doing something they CAN'T do. Otherwise we'd have movies about cleaning the toilet, not about car chases going the wrong way down the interstate.
"Then you will learn with me," she said. Oh she just had an answer for everything. Damn her.
Well what can you do? I didn't want to hide in the bathroom for the rest of the evening, so I got up and tried to tango. But every time I took a step I had to look down and make sure I wasn't about to crush her tiny feet. I couldn't have danced less gracefully if I'd been wearing skis.
"You can look up," she said.
"I am afraid I am going to step on your toes," I said.
"Oh, that will not happen." And she said this with the confidence of a woman who makes a living dancing with un-coordinated tourists and has thereby gained a kind of preternatural, toe-related sixth sense. And she was right, I didn't step on her toes even once. However, that is really the only positive thing I can say about my dancing -- it caused no one any injuries.
Sunday, April 8, 2007
I Fly to Thee, Argentina
Well, I'm back in the Southern Hemisphere again. These hemispheres, let me tell you, they are very far apart. I started out yesterday morning in Madrid and a short 15 hours later, I arrived in Buenos Aires. Fifteen hours on an airplane wouldn't be so bad, really, if, for example, you were dead. However, since I am not currently dead, I found it somewhat horrendous. Also, my seat was broken. And I flew Air France, so my "in-flight entertainment" consisted of three movie choices: 1) "Casino Royale" (dubbed in French), 2) "Monsters, Inc." (dubbed in French), and 3) some movie about Edith Piaf (originally in French, so no dubbing was necessary). My French isn't very good, so I thought for at least 20 minutes that I was watching a French movie about Judy Garland.
Turns out Edith Piaf had kind of a rough life, as far as I can tell. I don't know how to say "addicted to intravenous painkillers" in French, but I think that's what happened to poor Edith. I still don't like her singing, though.
Of course with these overnight flights, you always land the next morning at some ungodly hour and of course your hotel room isn't ready because sane people are still in bed at that hour, including the people who are currently occupying your hotel room. So I spent the morning wandering around Buenos Aires in a half-asleep stupor. I stumbled my way into some kind of flea market where I found what might possibly be the world's largest selection of t-shirts featuring Homer Simpson dressed like Che Guevara. I almost bought one, but then I decided I would wait to see if I cound find one with Homer dressed like Eva Peron. That strikes me as classier.
So it turns out that the thing to do in Buenos Aires (if you are a tourist) is to go see a tango show. Tango is very big here. People are always tangoing. I saw people tangoing on the street, including a woman who was apparently tangoing all by herself. I am not sure if "tangoing" is really a verb, but it is here. So tomorrow, I will set off in search of some tango-related entertainment.
Turns out Edith Piaf had kind of a rough life, as far as I can tell. I don't know how to say "addicted to intravenous painkillers" in French, but I think that's what happened to poor Edith. I still don't like her singing, though.
Of course with these overnight flights, you always land the next morning at some ungodly hour and of course your hotel room isn't ready because sane people are still in bed at that hour, including the people who are currently occupying your hotel room. So I spent the morning wandering around Buenos Aires in a half-asleep stupor. I stumbled my way into some kind of flea market where I found what might possibly be the world's largest selection of t-shirts featuring Homer Simpson dressed like Che Guevara. I almost bought one, but then I decided I would wait to see if I cound find one with Homer dressed like Eva Peron. That strikes me as classier.
So it turns out that the thing to do in Buenos Aires (if you are a tourist) is to go see a tango show. Tango is very big here. People are always tangoing. I saw people tangoing on the street, including a woman who was apparently tangoing all by herself. I am not sure if "tangoing" is really a verb, but it is here. So tomorrow, I will set off in search of some tango-related entertainment.
Friday, April 6, 2007
Not Having Contractions
There are no apostrophes on Spanish keyboards. Therefore, I cannot use contractions. It is very inconvenient, and it got me thinking ... is English the only language that uses contractions? Apparently Spanish does not. I suppose if you do not use contractions you do not need an apostrophe on your keyboard, unless it is for the tourists.
George Bernard Shaw thought using apostrophes in contractions was stupid and he refused to do so in his writing, so it is full of words like cant and dont, but I have trouble doing that because I am a copy editor at heart. You can get away with a bit more if you happen to be George Bernard Shaw.
I am in Madrid right now and it is still raining. It has been raining my entire visit to Spain. Thankfully I spend a lot of time indoors -- primarily in bars...I mean museums. Yes, museums. There are a lot of museums in Madrid, many of them containing art. I enjoy looking at art until my feet start to hurt, and then I do not really enjoy looking at art any more. Drinking red wine, happily, does not make my feet hurt. So I have options.
George Bernard Shaw thought using apostrophes in contractions was stupid and he refused to do so in his writing, so it is full of words like cant and dont, but I have trouble doing that because I am a copy editor at heart. You can get away with a bit more if you happen to be George Bernard Shaw.
I am in Madrid right now and it is still raining. It has been raining my entire visit to Spain. Thankfully I spend a lot of time indoors -- primarily in bars...I mean museums. Yes, museums. There are a lot of museums in Madrid, many of them containing art. I enjoy looking at art until my feet start to hurt, and then I do not really enjoy looking at art any more. Drinking red wine, happily, does not make my feet hurt. So I have options.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
The Rain in Spain
It was pouring when I landed in Barcelona but I passed up the line of taxis at the airport because, dammit, I was going to use the Metro to get to my hotel. Only tourists use cabs. Of course, the fact that I was hauling a 65-pound suitcase and had no umbrella made no difference. Nor did I care it was midnight. I was a devil-may-care world traveler.
Of course, the train wasn't running because of renovations on the tracks. But that was ok because they had a bus. The friendly man in the information booth who spoke very little English told me to get off the bus at Sants train station and catch the Metro from there.
I should have been immediately suspicious when the bus stopped at Sants train station and nobody but me got off. And only after the bus pulled away did I notice the entrance to the station was closed for the night. So much for the man in the information booth.
Did I mention it was raining? Because it was raining a lot.
So there I stood, in a quiet part of town, completely lost, at 1 am, in the rain. I wasn't feeling quiet as devil-may-care at that point. "Well," I thought to myself, "I'll just hail a cab." Even though only tourists take cabs, I was willing at that point to make an exception.
Well, it turns out, strangely enough, that not a lot of cabs come by a closed train station. Did I mention it was raining?
As I stood there I noticed a group of presumably Spanish youths congregated in front of a closed store. As I watched, they proceeded to set the store's awning on fire and run away. So now, I was not only standing in the rain with a 65 pound suitcase, but I looked like I had just committed arson. If a cab didn't come by, at least I'd get picked up by the cops.
But then, like an answered prayer, came a taxi. I waved my arm frantically as it drove past and splashed me. Ah, it was full. Then another. Also full. Then another. You get the picture.
At last, I saw an empty cab. I waved my arm and he pulled up. "Hotel Adagio," I said. He looked me up and down and saw immediately I was a man in need of help. Lost in a strange part of town, in the rain, hauling a huge suitcase, he was ready to assist.
"Fifty Euros," he said.
Well, apparently we weren't going to be using the meter that evening.
"Yes, fine, yes," I said. I knew I was getting cheated but I was so wet I didn't care.
Of course, the next day I found out that cab ride should have cost me 5 Euros. It was a true-life demonstration of the law of supply and demand.
Of course, the train wasn't running because of renovations on the tracks. But that was ok because they had a bus. The friendly man in the information booth who spoke very little English told me to get off the bus at Sants train station and catch the Metro from there.
I should have been immediately suspicious when the bus stopped at Sants train station and nobody but me got off. And only after the bus pulled away did I notice the entrance to the station was closed for the night. So much for the man in the information booth.
Did I mention it was raining? Because it was raining a lot.
So there I stood, in a quiet part of town, completely lost, at 1 am, in the rain. I wasn't feeling quiet as devil-may-care at that point. "Well," I thought to myself, "I'll just hail a cab." Even though only tourists take cabs, I was willing at that point to make an exception.
Well, it turns out, strangely enough, that not a lot of cabs come by a closed train station. Did I mention it was raining?
As I stood there I noticed a group of presumably Spanish youths congregated in front of a closed store. As I watched, they proceeded to set the store's awning on fire and run away. So now, I was not only standing in the rain with a 65 pound suitcase, but I looked like I had just committed arson. If a cab didn't come by, at least I'd get picked up by the cops.
But then, like an answered prayer, came a taxi. I waved my arm frantically as it drove past and splashed me. Ah, it was full. Then another. Also full. Then another. You get the picture.
At last, I saw an empty cab. I waved my arm and he pulled up. "Hotel Adagio," I said. He looked me up and down and saw immediately I was a man in need of help. Lost in a strange part of town, in the rain, hauling a huge suitcase, he was ready to assist.
"Fifty Euros," he said.
Well, apparently we weren't going to be using the meter that evening.
"Yes, fine, yes," I said. I knew I was getting cheated but I was so wet I didn't care.
Of course, the next day I found out that cab ride should have cost me 5 Euros. It was a true-life demonstration of the law of supply and demand.
Monday, April 2, 2007
Ugly American
My friend Chris asked me how, as an American, I was being treated abroad. It's a valid question given the current political climate. I expected to encounter a fair amount of anti-American sentiment but I really haven't. I think that, unlike some Americans (think "Freedom Fries"), most people in other countries are able to separate U.S. citizens from U.S. foreign policy. Yes, I've seen more than one anti-Bush t-shirt, but I have yet to hear "Yankee, go home!"
Now, I'm not so naive as to think that this has NOTHING to do with the fact that I'm essentially a walking cash dispenser. Business owners in popular tourist destinations would probably happily serve lunch to someone with bubonic plague as long as he had money to spend. However, even the people I've met that aren't trying to sell me something have been, almost invariably, helpful and welcoming.
Cab drivers are another story. Cab drivers are angry, angry people. I suppose I can understand that. Imagine what kind of mood you'd be in if you spent every day commuting to work, but never got there.
Of course, while those I've met have been nice, I have certainly encountered some cultural misunderstandings. Probably the most memorable happened when I was passing through a metal detector to get into my hotel in Cairo. (There are metal detectors everywhere in Cairo.) It beeped and the guard gestured toward my belt, which I started to remove so I could try again. He said, "no, no" and waved me through (I suspect because I was obviously a tourist I didn't merit a lot of scrutiny).
I apologized and said, "sorry, at airports in the States we have to remove our belts." He looked at me and asked, with no hint of irony in his voice, "everyone, or just the Arabs?" From his facial expression I could tell it was a legitimate question. He really wanted to know. It was a little sad.
As a comforting side note, the stereotype of the Ugly American is, I think, exaggerated. I am sure there is no lack of rude American tourists in the world, but all the Americans I've met on my trip have been respectful of other cultures, well-behaved and genuinely seem curious to learn about their host country. I think when Americans travel now, they are aware both of our general lack of popularity with the rest of the planet, and that our reputation precedes us. I think as a result we try a little harder.
This is in stark contrast to tourists from other nations who seem to particularly enjoy standing in large, dense groups at the bottoms of escalators, entrances and exits to museums and will not move until you start using elbows and, often, knees. I think the worst behavior I've seen recently was the couple making out at the Holocaust Memorial in Prague.
I was just happy they weren't Americans.
Now, I'm not so naive as to think that this has NOTHING to do with the fact that I'm essentially a walking cash dispenser. Business owners in popular tourist destinations would probably happily serve lunch to someone with bubonic plague as long as he had money to spend. However, even the people I've met that aren't trying to sell me something have been, almost invariably, helpful and welcoming.
Cab drivers are another story. Cab drivers are angry, angry people. I suppose I can understand that. Imagine what kind of mood you'd be in if you spent every day commuting to work, but never got there.
Of course, while those I've met have been nice, I have certainly encountered some cultural misunderstandings. Probably the most memorable happened when I was passing through a metal detector to get into my hotel in Cairo. (There are metal detectors everywhere in Cairo.) It beeped and the guard gestured toward my belt, which I started to remove so I could try again. He said, "no, no" and waved me through (I suspect because I was obviously a tourist I didn't merit a lot of scrutiny).
I apologized and said, "sorry, at airports in the States we have to remove our belts." He looked at me and asked, with no hint of irony in his voice, "everyone, or just the Arabs?" From his facial expression I could tell it was a legitimate question. He really wanted to know. It was a little sad.
As a comforting side note, the stereotype of the Ugly American is, I think, exaggerated. I am sure there is no lack of rude American tourists in the world, but all the Americans I've met on my trip have been respectful of other cultures, well-behaved and genuinely seem curious to learn about their host country. I think when Americans travel now, they are aware both of our general lack of popularity with the rest of the planet, and that our reputation precedes us. I think as a result we try a little harder.
This is in stark contrast to tourists from other nations who seem to particularly enjoy standing in large, dense groups at the bottoms of escalators, entrances and exits to museums and will not move until you start using elbows and, often, knees. I think the worst behavior I've seen recently was the couple making out at the Holocaust Memorial in Prague.
I was just happy they weren't Americans.
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