Bangkok to Krabi Town

I write this on the plane as I wait for my flight to take off from Bangkok—where I’ve spent the past two nights.

The plane is loading as people trepidatiously find their seats. Why the hesitations? As I climbed the last stair onto the plane I immediately noticed what I thought was smoke quickly filling the isle. My memory quickly conjured the recent news stories of Air Asia crashes while simultaneously constructing the future one, which would see my photo flashing on the local Seattle news, “We have just gotten confirmation that one Seattle native was aboard the plane that is believed to have exploded mid-air.”

Yes, it is true, I have an over active imagination, which coupled with anxiety and slight paranoia is maybe not the best combination.

I asked the nearest flight attendant, “What is this?” gesturing wildly with my hand trying to sign language smoke.

“It’s because it’s hot outside. It’s the difference in the air temperature.” She assured me through the type of smile that made me think she’d been asked this before. Indeed, I heard her and other members of the flight crew repeating this information to every other person coming up behind me.

The “difference in temperature,” is a welcome reprieve from the ridiculous sticky heat that has plastered my clothes to my skin the past two days. When I arrived in Bangkok I did a wardrobe change before even leaving the airport. The moment we landed an image of The Wicked Witch (Wizard of Oz) shrieking, “I’m melllllting!” played over and over in my head.

Once I had changed my clothing I plowed confidently through immigration towards the exits, found my way to the airport train, took it to the last top and hailed a cab the remainder of the way to my hostel. One thing that traveling extensively, and mostly on my own, has done is given me the confidence to know I’ll end up in the right place even if from the onset I have no idea what I’m doing—which, let’s be real—is most of the time.

When I got into my air conditioned room, using any excuse to stay in that cool air for as long as justifiable, I began my travel routine of going through my bag to determine what I’d forgotten to bring.

This time it was only one thing (breaking records here!) and it was pretty obvious. The only shoes I had were the ones I was wearing: my Nike running shoes. That was absolutely not going to fly, so I set off into the busy, polluted, motor-cycle and tuk-tuk crammed streets of Bangkok. 

Where I was staying was a 2 minute walk from Koh San Road, which is loaded with stalls selling things aimed at tourists, Thai musicians crooning “hits” from 10 years ago at you from open air bars, food carts selling everything from ice cream to fried tarantulas. It was such a unique, fun, chaotic atmosphere that only after wandering for about an hour did I remember what I had set out to do. It was some time around the point I thought, “Oh em gee. I wish I was barefoot because my feet are on fire.”

There was a Canadian couple staying in my room. When I returned to swap out my shoes for my new bedazzled flip-flops we engaged in the standard traveler chit chat. “How long are you here for? Where are you coming from? How long are you staying? Where are you from?”  When I said I was from Seattle, but living in England they both informed me I had picked up a slight English accent. Even though it did make me self-conscious of the way I spoke for the rest of the night so as to not come across as a poser, this did come in handy the next day.

As you meander through the alleyways and back-streets of Koh San the vendors will try to engage you with the opening lines, “Hi Miss…” or “Hello, friend…” ending the sentence with, “where are you from?” I noticed quickly that they all responded identically when I said I was American.

“Obama. Obama,” or—extending their arms out—“High five!” Usually the greeting was a combination of the two. It got me to wondering what they might say if I was from another country, so I began answering that question, “I’m from England.”

“Lovely jubbly” was the response every single time. Without fail.

“I’m from Australia,” was the next one I tried.

“G’day!” was the answer to this one with the exception of two times when I got the really odd, “Kangaroo, mate!”

My cynical and conspiratorial part of my brain on overdrive; it made me wonder if these stalls were maybe all owned by the same two or three Westerners who had hired the Thai to work the markets and taught them phrases from English speak countries to attract customers.

Last night I met a guy from Philly and a guy from London who were both traveling solo. I got into a really funny conversation with them about life—the kind of discussion usually reserved for friends you’ve known for years. It made me remember that this—deep human connections with people who an hour earlier were strangers—is one of the absolute most amazing things that comes from this lifestyle.

I’m excited to see what comes next…

Best things in Bangkok (in no particular order)

Grand National Palace

Reclining Buddha

Temples

Koh San Road

People watching along the canal

Grad School, Day 2

The first week of graduate school has arrived. Last week I sat through a lot of lectures on what things were going to be like and who to contact for what. It was like the introduction paragraph at the beginning of a really long essay. The next year is going to be a busy one, I think.

I’ve registered for a full load of classes. I’ve signed up for a French course beginning two weeks from now. I joined the society of the Red Cross on campus. I joined the International society. I’m going to an Insanity workout group a couple times a week. And now I get to look for a part time job. No big deal. I got this. 

In the meantime, I have to remember to make space for things that arise that are out of my control, but that do have an impact on my life. Such as this:

Yesterday was supposedly my day one of classes.  I didn’t get the e-mail that the morning class had been postponed until the following Monday, and neither did my new Kenyan friend Sasha. She arrived, saw me sitting at a desk surrounded by 50 empty seats, and suggested that maybe we had the wrong room. So began a 30 minute, sweat inducing power-walk through what can only be described a labrynth of the south side of campus. We were told by the front office that the class we were looking for wasn’t housed in the Samuel Alexander building, but instead it was in the Ellen Wilkinson. They told us the two buildings were connected. What they didn’t say was that it would be fastest accessed by going outside.  The way we went led us up a couple of stairwells, through a wing, down some more stairs, through a long glass hallway, and up three more flights of stairs.

Two days earlier I had done my first ever Insanity workout. It left me more sore than anything has ever left me in the history of my many years on this planet. Every time I wanted to sit or stand I needed to hold onto something on either side of me to keep myself from falling. I keep imagining what observers must have seen while I was trying to make my way from the wrong classroom to the right one. I’m guessing it looked like this:

 

Thing is--there was no right classroom. The teacher had decided last minute to change the date and time. This meant I had about an hour to kill before my next class. I went to the library and did some reading to get a head start. 

Interesting way to start the day :) 

This morning I got to the right place at the right time and everything worked out well. It feels validating to be so interested in the content and actually look forward to doing the assignments to learn more about something that fascinates me so much. 

More later fam! x

Day 2 Bruges

"Are you under 26?" the man at the ticket window asked me. After fumbling with a self-automated machine at the train station for 10 minutes, deciding I needed help, and standing in line for another 20, I had finally reached the front.
Under 26? Yup I am. I affirmed. Then I started laughing. I tried biting my lower lip because I have heard that helps you control yourself. It's never actually worked the many, many times I've had inopportune laughter, but it's never stopped me from trying. Still, this time it also did not work and I kept giggling.
No. I'm not under 26. Sorry. I--I don't know why I said that.
"Ok. So you aren't under 26?" The poor guy looked half amused, half concerned (most likely for my sanity.)
I shook my head. He rang up my total.
"That's 28 Euro please."
I handed him my card. When he handed it back to me he said, "If you were under 26 that would have cost you 12 Euro. So, if you're going to travel again around here--you should probably get better at that."
Damn it. Why am I such a bad liar.

I would like to tell you that the train ride to Bruges was spectacular: full of little farming villages, quaint towns, and rolling hills. But vehicular motion has always had a way of putting me straight to sleep.

Bruges = gorgeous. It's like a storybook. Cobblestone streets. Canals with lush vegetation hanging over them. You stare at the water while seated on stone bridges, feet dangling, eating the chocolate Belgium is famous for.
If you feel like getting up and walking around you will dodge more bicycles than vehicles.

My day was very food centric. I had chocolates from a shop you where you could watch people make them. I had a fresh Belgian waffle with strawberries and homemade whipped cream while people watching at the plaza and looking up at the gothic and  neo-gothic architecture the city is known for.
  

 

Even though I don't remember the train ride home, I think I may remember the bus ride back to my hostel from the train station for a very long time. On my way home I felt a wet sensation on my leg. I had felt it a few times throughout the day and feared that my water bottle might be leaking.
Every time I went to check I found that I had been worrying about nothing. Although, in retrospect, it well may have been a premonition.

The tram made an abrupt and premature stop. Something had happened and we were all instructed this would be out last stop. I got up and immediately felt the uncomfortable sensation of wet denim stuck to my skin. Given that my bag had been on my lap, there was a perfectly (crotch) placed wet streak down my leg. It couldn't have looked more like I had peed myself than if I had, well, peed myself.

I was about half a mile from the hostel, and had to walk home trying to use my handbag to cover the spill. It was a leeeeetle bit funny. 

Day 1 Brussels

The morning I started out for Belgium I was not in the most coherent of mind states. I had set the alarm for 3:45am to catch a bus that would take me to the airport.

When I got on the bus it occurred to me that I had no idea what terminal I was supposed to get off at. I didn't know if there would be signage. I did a quick scan of the bus for people my age or younger with big bulging backpacks, or at least big bulging beards. Good strategy as any to follow them, I figured. Alas, there were no other people on the bus except exhausted looking airport workers, or people who had wheeling suitcases so large they'd get laughed out of any hostel they attempted to check into. Right, I thought, no travelers.

I attempted sleep, because one thing my almost 30 years have taught me is that's as good a solution as any when presented with a problem. When I couldn't catch a moment's rest due to the incessant and high-pitched gossip being exchanged by the two women in front of me (yes, yes I was grumpy) I tapped one of them on the shoulder.
"Excuse me. Do either of you know where to get off for Ryan Air?"
"Yes. Terminal 3." One of the women said.
"Great, thank you." I said. Hoping that I sounded genuine and not sarcastic. I have a tendency to sound sarcastic when tired.

We arrived at Manchester Airport and the sleep-ruiners stood up. I at once felt grateful I'd chosen the seat I had. They were both wearing jackets that were labeled, "Ryan Air." I bet on them to know what they were doing and ended up following them all the way to the gates.

When I actually got to Brussels I, as usual, had no idea where I was going or what I was doing. Sometimes that works out really well for me. Sometimes it means that I pay as much for a round trip airport-city-airport bus ticket as I've paid for my return flight instead of the 5 euro it would have cost me had I booked it online. Whoopsies.

Friend from Heaven, Flight from Hell

I often love people after only a few seconds. From Seattle to Frankfurt I was seated next to a woman who I was convinced would be a good friend of mine if we were from the same town and spoke the same language. I spent the 10 1/2 hour flight laughing and gesturing with her, both of us equally unafraid of looking idiotic as the other. Our friendship blossomed, as many often do, over a meal. 
A couple of hours into the flight our attendant wheeled her cart by and asked if I wanted the pasta or meat dish. After handing me the pasta, she focused her gaze on my isle mate. 
"Pasta or beef?"
The woman--who I'm guessing was in her late 60s, looked at the flight attendant blankly. The flight attendant smiled and switched to speaking German, asking the same question (I'm assuming.)
The woman sitting next to me was still obviously not understanding.
"What language does she speak?"
I don't know, I admitted. I turned to her "English? Español? Deutsch?"
"Ukraine. I'm from Ukraine." my friend-in-the-making answered in hard earned English.
I gently placed my hand on her arm, uncovered my food and pointed to it. Then I motioned to the man in the isle across from us who was busy scarfing down the beef. She chose beef. That seemed to be the only thing we disagreed on the entire flight. She flipped through her in-flight magazine pointing out funny pictures, and I made a little makeshift foot rest out of our bags, blankets, and pillows. When I was trying to go to sleep, she leaned over me and closed my window shade. Instant travel buddies. 

I wish I could say that my flight from Frankfurt to Manchester had endeared itself to me as much but, in fact, it was one of two or three flights in my life that I could blame reality (and not anxiety) for my racing thoughts about whether or not the plane was going to crash. About half way through the 90 minute flight, the turbulence became so persistent and intense that I am pretty sure I either personally let go of, or heard other people half yell, half cry every expletive in every language any of us knew. And, as we were on our way to Europe, there were definitely some polyglots on that flight, so it was interesting. At least it would have been if I hadn't been preoccupied thinking, I hope my parents know I love them and that when they think of me in the future they'll think how I had a full and happy life. 

When we landed there was a collective round of applause. I don't know if it really happened, or if I imagined it, but my memory recalls the captain came on and saying, "We made it!" (If he didn't, he really should have.)

Italia, One...(photos coming)

I don't know why I always start my blogging ventures with such vigorous discipline and dwindle down to sporadic and vague postings.

Usually it has more to do with my lack of material but this time I'd say it has much more to do with a surplus of information which I have difficulty putting chronologically, and also figuring out how to tell in a sensical way.


Let's start with this; I am hopelessly and devoutly in love with Italy. Even my most "boring" days here surpassed most of my best days in other countries, which is saying a lot because this entire journey has been a whirlwind of novelty and surprises!

To be fair, Italy did stand the best chance of capturing me from the get-go because it's where I had always planned to spend the most extensive period of time.


Rewind to a Quick Re-Cap:

As my family, friends (who humoured me in my incoherent lambasting of Barca) and travel companions (who listened sympathetically to my stories over shared dinners and bottles of wine) now know, I was conned by a skillful pickpocketer in Barcelona.

Luckily for me, I found a pleasant distraction in the two Canadian girls I was bunking with. They were excellent company and made a bleak and disappointing visit a lot more fun than it should have been given the circumstance.


From there I moved onto Madrid. Ah, Madrid. It will probably take me a solid 6 weeks to lose what my new Australian friend Susan lovingly refers to as our Italian Food Babies, but I'm pretty sure that Madid is actually where I started my race towards the Rollie-Pollie. The food there! The drinks there!
Juevos Rotos, really?
I mean, who puts deep fried, sunny side up eggs on top of a bed of deep fried potato chips?

A genius! That's who!

Madrid is where I spent my first non-U.S.A Halloween, and (also on that night) confirmed that I am allergic to ciggerette smoke.
It is impossible to go to a club in Madrid and not reek of nicotine and other people's alcohol sweat the next morning.

Still, though, Halloween was a really fun night. Lots of dancing, drinking, singing, and whatever drama you might expect from a big night out in a Spanish city.

I met this really fun girl, Patty, and we went shopping for costumes the night before. I selected a blue and green striped wig. It definitely was my least elaborate costume ever, but it did the trick!

Next:

Landing in Italy I could not have been more excited! I was full of the kind of butterflies and palm sweats that are usually reserved for people who have a serious Case of the Crushes.

Disembarking my bus from the Pisa airport to Florence I took a slow, deep breath and reminded myself not to set my expectations too high...but it was too late.

And Italia did not disappoint!

Initially I was going to spend only 3 days in Florence. I ended up at the Archi Rossi hostel for 5 nights. Saw the sights, did a ton of walking, saw The David, visited the Duomo (the massive, stand out cathederal in town), made new friends, etc...Realizing how easy it woulòd be to get sucked into the loveable vortex that is Florence and use up all my holiday there I bought a ticket to Rome and headed out.

Rome, Roma, Rome. What can I say?

I spent my days walking through deeply storied streets, gazing around at the distinct achitecture, touing legendary historical sites, getting lost in lesser known areas.

And my nights?

I spent at my hostel bar running one day into another, clashing the hours into a jumble which would make it hard to determine if the day I went to the Trevi Fountain was the same night we walked what had to have been three miles trying to find a grovery store...only to realize we'd been walking in circles, besides which it was 4 in the morning and, of course, nothing was open.


Or was the night Susan and I went to dinner, bar hopping, and meadering through the streets with those American university boys the same day Daniel and I spent 4 hours at the Vatican and were so exhausted that we nearly walked right past the Sistine Chapel?

Even though I was averaging 3-4 hours a night of sleep in Rome it was absolutely a top highlight on my entire trip. I met so many great people and had some really great adventures!


After Rome, Susan and I made our way to (and ate our way through) Naples. That city was a hot mess! The trash piles in the steets are hard to get used to, but eventually if you force yourself to look beyond the grit and grime, a type of charm starts to emerge and surprise you.

We had heard plenty of horror stories. Every time you mention Napoli as a possible desitnation the most common reaction is someone cringes at you, and asks,

"Really? You want to go there?"

That's probably why it came as no surprise when we had to get a weirdo man that had been following us thrown off the bus as we were making our way.

This was the kind of thing we expected of our trip down south...
But we were very pleased to find that the food, the people and general vibe kept us there much longer than we'd ever have believed.


From my last couple days in Florence, through the beginning of Rome, and my birthday, and right up until the morning we left Naples a type of unparalleled exhaustion had set in. A kind that made me nauseas, delirious, and caused me to fall asleep in a shoe store at some point.


That's why the next spot on my itinerary was not only someplace I'd been curious to see, but at that point of my trip it was also quite necessary.

Perugia.



True, I had never heard of Perugia until Amanda Knox made front page news. And, true, most of the reason I went was my journalistic hopes of finding some good story out of the whole thing. But, guess what I did instead?

Slept.

For almost 15 hours the first night I was there. I got up, took a hike, ate an entire pizza, did a puzzle, and went back to bed.

I admit, I didn't even go into town.

My hostel was a huge farmhouse, empty of anyone but the people working there, the occassional goose or dog that would sneak in, and myself. It was exactly what the doctor ordered.


The view of the rolling Tuscan hills and fog was peaceful.

Watching the chickens run about and hearing the horses clopping around revitalized me enough to move on to my next destination...

Obladi Oblada, Life Goes On...

I carry my purse around like a child; Arms folded over, hugged into my chest. Even so, when a man on the Barcelona metro knocked into me he managed to take me for one of my most valuable posessions.
My first thought was this guy was rude for practically tackling me and not apologizing. It wasn´t until the next morning, trying to buy my ticket for San Sebastian that I realized not only had I been right about this guy being rude, he was also a theif!
I was no longer the owner of a passport.

I never had heard what a problem Spain, and in particular Barcelona has with pick pocketers. Appartently, Tripadvisor.com bestowed upon them the title of Most Talented in the world. Even Visa won´t let their cards be used there without some sort of tracking chip because of the high theft rate.
Guess what kind of card I´m traveling with?
Guess what doesn´t have a tracking chip in it?
Last question on pop-quiz, concentrate... Guess who was stuck for two days with no money?

Despite all the mishaps (because believe you me, there were plenty other than the aforementioned) Barcelona was a lovely place to visit. I had quite a fiesta my second night there--going to a bar and then a nightclub with some Aussies and Canucks from my hostel. But...that´s more of an in-person story.
I also took a walking tour to explore the most famous Gaudi buildings. The guide wasn´t so impressive, but the buildings were quite spectacular!
Also in those few days I learned I am a fan of Octopus. It came in a traditional rice and fish dish called Paella.
Admittedly, when the server first brought it over I almost wouldn´t touch it, let alone eat it because the prawns they put in it (and I´m not a fan of those anyway) came with their eyeballs still attached. Looking at them freaked me out so badly I had the mind to hurl and then cry simulataneously and likely would´ve if not for fear of being rude, so I (what I would like to believe was straight-faced and daintily) removed the offensive items from my plate and dug in! It was so good!

Being without money I became quite creative and figured out ways to entertain myself. I walked the famous La Rambla boulevard one afternoon and watched the street performers, people watched while making up their life stories in my head. I learned how to make Sangria and dare to say (at the risk of sounding self flattering) I´m quite good at it!

  

So, after taking a few days to resolve both the money and passport issue, I decided it was time to head out of Barca. It was a beautiful city, but...I wanted to get onto the next thing where these issues would be a thing of the past.
As soon as I laid my un-manicured hands on my temporary passport I skedaddled to the train station.
"One way to San Sebastian!" I proclaimed.
The cashier smiled at me, shook his head. "No San Sebastian. The train is full..."
I thought quickly and tried to exercise my memory of the map I´d looked at the previous night. What was close to San Sebastian?
"Bueno," I shrugged, "One ticket to Bilbao." 
The cashier chuckled nervously. "That´s full also until tomorrow night."
"Valencia?"
No.
"Granada?"
"I´m sorry. It´s a holiday weekend."
I was pretty sure this guy was messing with me. Here I was in the second biggest city in Spain and none of these trains had space? I glanced at the woman in the cashier window next to him for validation. She nodded at me, "Si. Holiday weekend."
Turns out the only train that had availability was to Madrid. So, already at the train station with all my bags, I booked the expensive but cozy fast rain to Madrid.


And....I love it here! It´s rainy, but the air is so fresh! It´s a really nice relief from the memory of Cairo just a few days ago where the air is so polluted that I found myself looking at cars with moonroofs thinking "why?" I think a better special feature would be an oxygen mask.


Here are a couple pictures of what I´ve seen here so far: