sLOVEnia

Having spent the last of my Croatian Krona on pastries, I drove up from Rijeka and into Slovenia. I debated between taking the fastest route with tolls or lose an hour avoiding the tolls on country roads. The miser in me won out, and I was so glad he did. The next two hours were some of the most mesmerizing and beautiful roads I’ve ever been on. The Julian Alps were an omnipresent backdrop, holding court while rolling fields and tiny towns came and went. Sometimes the towns could be mistaken for little Austrian villages, so I guessed it was the different side of the same coin in Slovenia.

I started to get some elevation, and the views started to get better. At times I was the only car on the road passing through tiny villages where I might have been the only car passing through that day. The mountainsides were lined in autumnal arrays of colors, even though it happened to be the beginning of May. I stopped a couple of times to take pictures, and once I just sat in my car and gawked at the sheer splendor of what lay before me. It probably took me even longer to get where I was going because I was driving a solid 10km/hr under the speed limit. Not that there is one on the windy, tiny mountain roads, but that’s what it felt like to me.

I made it to Triglav National Park, the only national park in all of Slovenia. It was a cloudy day with rain forecasted later in the evening (I did do some planning) so I pulled together my hiking stuff (pants this time) and set off. After multitudes of switchbacks I finally got to a clearing where the view below took my breath away. I’m not sure it was the biting wind or the view itself but I started to tear up it was so starkly beautiful. Even with the clouds and the faroff rains it was still a sight to behold.

I continued the climb up and up and up and eventually hit snow. Again. I’ll stop right here and make it very clear that I didn’t learn my lesson and continued onward. Because I had pants this time! Eventually I made it to the top of the trail and saw there was a connecting path to an alpine lake and a different way down. Not one to pass on a new adventure (or learn from what happened just the day before in Croatia), I took it. Maybe 40 seconds in I heard a nearby series of bonks that frightened me away. That’s right, bonks. I don’t know what the hell kind of animal it was but it was something between a bark and a honk.

Not wanting to meet whatever animal it was that made that noise I resigned myself to my original path down. However, a little removed from my fear I found a way back up to my proposed path and took it. How stupid of a decision that turned out to be. This path I’d decided to take was exclusively covered in snow. And I was wearing my running shoes. Again. To make matters worse I managed to convince myself that there was a wolf and/or werewolf that was going to spring out and attack me at any given moment. What followed was the most fearful hike I’d ever done in my life. On the plus side, I’d never been more alert.

Stepping through snow banks, feet starting to get wet, constantly looking at trees I could climb or rocks I could throw at my imaginary beastly attackers, I made my way along the trail. Yes, it was marked, and yes, there were other footprints, but on that day I was the only one up there. Suffice to say it all worked out; I made it to the lake, no werewolf attacked, and I managed to get some incredible vantages along the way. You could even say that the trail was able to add vantages, which had quite the…advantages.

Once I made it to the lake I felt innumerably better and even ran into two other humans who definitely were not daytime werewolves. I then had to make my way down one of the steepest descents I’ve had to do on a hike, again cursing my stubbornness. There’s no way I made it through this hike without someone watching over me, and the number of times things could have gone wrong, I doubt it was a job for just one person. So thanks to Mom, Gong in Yakima, and Bop in Spokane, I made it back to the parking lot and enjoyed a homemade ham and cheese sandwich.

That night I stayed in a cute little guesthouse in a mountain village nearby and warmed up with a venison goulash. My next day began early as I got up with the morning sun and did a much less strenuous hike through a beautiful gorge to a waterfall. Even in spite of the rain it was mesmerizing and I found myself smiling all along the way. The sight of the mist from low hanging clouds being draped through the evergreen trees on the faces of the mountainsides rising from the valley floor was haunting and beautiful. Best part was I had the trail to myself the whole way.

A nice snowless morning hike over and done with I stopped in the nearest town for some groceries and coffee and caught up on some communications. I then drove again through gorgeous mountain villages to my next destination of Tolmin. There was another gorge there, and another easy hike. See! Sometimes I do learn things. But mostly when they’re after near-death experiences. Or at least ones that feel as such. The water in the gorge was clear and beautiful, an incredible contrast with the gray day.

The last part of my day was just unbelievable. As I was walking out of the bottom of the gorge I found a new path that would spit me out in a nearby village and back up to my car. As I started to walk through the forest I could see blue skies on the horizon, and by the time I broke through the tree line the sun had broken through the clouds. It was one of the most idyllic scenes I’ve seen on my travels. It was a tony mountain village dwarfed by enormous monotliths on all sides light aglow by the brilliant sun as massive ships of clouds sailed in the blue sky above. It was heavenly.

With the day having been broken open I pushed my car to climb up the windy mountain pass to my lodging on a working farm that had a couple little Shetland ponies, of all things. Enjoying the view and relaxing, I watched the colors start to turn as I made my way back down into town for the last treat of the day, and my main reason for staying in this part of Slovenia. But first, some pictures of a tiny horse. Then some background.

A few years ago, a show on Netflix called “Chef’s Table” premiered and highlighted masters of their craft from different parts of the world making different cuisines, along with the stories and lives they led that got them to that point. It was a beautifully shot and alluring show, but one of my favorites was the chef Nikki Nakamura who ran the restaurant n/naka based out of Los Angeles — Culver City to be exact. So a couple years ago for my birthday, Anna took me there and we completely geeked out over the 14-course meal that was served, even getting to meet Nikki in person. It was such a special and treasured experience, made even better by getting to enjoy it with Anna. Having gotten her hooked on the show, she finished the remaining seasons. Once she found out I was going to Slovenia, she told me I “ABSOLUTELY HAD TO GO” to Hisa Franko, another restaurant featured on the show. It’s run by a woman (girl power!) named Ana Ros, who had no culinary training but managed to create a world-renowned dining experience in rural Slovenia. Seeing as I was in the area, I couldn’t pass this up, so that’s where I was headed on my last night.

It’s a beautiful building around the bend of a tree-lined highway tucked into the backside of the valley against the Julian Alps. It’s a cozy restaurant with bold coral colors and funky decorations. What followed was a 21-course tasting menu that was all at once surprising, memorable, delicious, intriguing, and extremely fun. The combinations she used were surprising but delightful, and all of the menu items were local and seasonal, a hallmark of the restaurant. Smoked chocolate with fermented cottage cheese? Yes, please! Hazelnut miso? Don’t mind if I do. Pork brûlée? Can’t tell you what it is, you just have to try it. And given the distance they are from a major city, they are given to using all parts of animals and produce they order. Hence I ate a lamb brain purée, braised lamb, and tripe all in one meal. Just when I didn’t think I couldn’t get any better, Ana came out to all the tables to introduce herself. I was able to thank her for an incredible experience, and also get a picture with her to make sure I had a tangible way to torture my jealous sister. You never grow out of old habits. After that we got to tour the kitchen and meet the staff, where I met a fellow San Franciscan who worked at a restaurant there and came to Slovenia just to work with Chef Ana. Well past midnight I finally stepped out into the cold night and drove home in a daze, grinning stupidly at the incredible experience I just had.

I didn’t have much expectation for what Slovenia would be like, but suffice to say it blew me away. And the one-two punch of the national park of Triglav and national treasure of Hisa Franko turned out to be the perfect combination. Both were incredibly memorable and beautiful, and a great way to experience Slovenia in a short time. Even in spite of the not-so-great weather it was a beautiful experience, and I’m glad I made it a stop on my trip. More to come on my Alpine adventures in the coming days.

Full for the next day,

Ben

(Don’t Go) Croatian Waterfalls

For the first time on my driving journey, I mistakenly took a toll motorway and it was terrifying. After having taken winding mountain villages at a leisurely pace, the 130km/hr speed limit and zooming cars were overwhelming as I tried to keep pace and fruitlessly enjoy the blurred countryside of Croatia. A couple hours later I got off the car treadmill and made my way up into Krka National Park to stretch my legs and go for a little hike. It was a windy but sunny day as I set out and made it to the start of the trail, which was a loop that ran through a lush park. I’m not sure what type of environment it was, but it had all different types of beautiful water features. First power-walking my way past a group of slow walking tour groups that were monopolizing the boardwalk, I was able to slow down and enjoy the beautiful sights and pleasant sounds of the water park. There were little blubbering brooks, peaceful lakes, gurgling streams, and a couple rushing waterfalls. The water was multicolored and varied depending on the way the lights and shadows interplayed with it.

I got near then end of the trail and sat down on a rock above a lake that was fed by a tiered waterfall and had a couple sandwiches. It was an absolutely stunning lunch spot and the roaring sound of the nearby waterfall drowned out any ambient tourist sounds and allowed me a peaceful respite. I wandered my way back up through the rising layers of the waterfall and made it back to my car and drove on to Zadar. After an evening cappuccino courtesy of my airbnb hostess I took a bike into old town Zadar as the sun was beginning to set. Navigating through the fortress walls and limestone streets I arrived at the pier and sat down to a fiery sunset. The intense colors and brightness of the light had a strange effect on the sea, causing it to turn a deep purple hue. It was a glorious contrast and despite the wind, I sat and watched it go all the way out. I wandered back into town and found a quick bite, some gelato, and a beer. Finally, too cold from the dropping temperatures and stiff winds, I rode back home, managing to get lost in the dark and getting more of a workout than I planned that evening.

The next day I drove outside of Zadar into Paklenica National Park, as it was a beautiful day to go hiking. It was a clear, sunny day as I walked up the path through the deep gorge and admired the multitudes of climbers as they began their slow scalings of the cliff faces. I found a loop trail that didn’t look to difficult, and as I started it, that proved to be the case. That quickly changed as I got above the tree line and it became more about scrambling up bouldered cliff faces than it did hiking on a clearly defined path. I thought the hardest part was going to be physically climbing my way up, but it turned out the hardest part was finding the trail markers and going the right way. It turned out well in the end, as I arrived at a high peak that afforded 360° views around the coast of Croatia. The snow capped peaks on one side fed down into a rapidly descending valley that spilled out into the coast of the Adriatic Sea, which you could see for miles from my vantage. I enjoyed a hikers lunch on top and then continued on to what became one of the hardest hikes of my life.

Rather than recognizing that I had just done an extremely strenuous hike that involved climbing up and over boulders, sometimes with a cable as assistance, and going back down the same (albeit previously traveled) way, I let my adventurous side make the decision and go a new way down so I could see new sights. That was stupid. I got lost twice along the way, as it’s harder to come down from a mountainside following the faded markings than it was coming up it. Also, picking your way down a craggy and crumbling mountainside is an easy way to lose your footing, which may or may not have happened thrice. It probably would’ve helped to have legit hiking shoes, but I had confidence in my sturdy running shoes. That was misplaced. An hour and a half later of angry hiking later, I checked to see how much further I was from the trailhead to find I had only made it halfway back. At this point in the hike I began puncturing the tranquil sounds of Croatian nature with colorful and projecting expletives, cursing everything from rocks to shoes trail makers to a fucking snake that crossed the trail. After a grueling series of up and down and up and downs I finally reached the last descent of the trail which was just a rockslide in repose. 5 hours after starting the trail I finally made it back, having stopped in a freezing mountain stream to wash my face and head, which also had a surprising effect of washing away my anger and frustration as well. Unburdened and refreshed I made it back to my car and began the drive up the coast of Croatia.

It was a beautiful drive along the cliffs as I drove 4 hours up to my last stop of Rijeka, Croatia. The only reason I picked it was it was on my way to Slovenia, and didn’t really know much about it. I got into town, found a pizza, took some medicine to bang out the last of my cold, and called it a night. And with that, my Croatian chapter ended. It had its ups and downs in the most literal sense, but I very much enjoyed my time in the country. It’s a beautiful place, with such diverse topography from the coast to inland, that I could easily see spending a few weeks to explore some more. My next few stops were going to take me deeper into the mountains, so it was great to enjoy the coast and sounds of the sea for a couple days.

Making dumb decisions so you don’t have to,

Ben

Border Crossings

Before I left Serbia I wanted to stop at a scenic view of a snaking river deep in the bottom of a photogenic gorge. It showed up on Google Maps, so it looked official. I punched it in, set the navigation and started on my way. I started to drive out of the city and passed through proceedingly smaller and smaller cities as the roads got windier and windier. On about the 23rd roundabout I got folded into a procession of mini tour vans, two in front of me and one behind. It looked like we were going in the same direction and like Luke Skywalker in stormtrooper armor, I had to just go with the flow and see how it went. As the road went from two lanes to one, from paved road to dirt, and from buildings to rolling hills, I started to wonder what the hell I was getting myself into. Eventually the tour buses in front of me pulled into what looked like someone’s private driveway as a guy standing before them greeted them and motioned for them to unload. I sat idling behind them and was eventually directed to pull into a parking spot, so the tour bus behind me could unload as well. Apparently this was someon’s private property that had an agreement with a local tour group, and I had somehow been mistaken as a tour attendee who had decided to drive himself to the location.

Not to let the illusion fade, the group had started walking through the open gate so I flung on my shoes and fell in at the back of the group. Everyone in the group was speaking Serbian so I tried to avoid any conversation lest I be discovered as an interloping American. Also it was like 9am and I hadn’t had coffee so I didn’t really want to chat anyways. I inserted myself deeper into the group (but still off to one side) as we approached the vantage point and got a good view of the gorge below. It really was beautiful, as the group stopped to listed to the guide explain who the fuck knows what in Serbian. I feigned interest while taking as many pictures as possible, all but convinced at any point someone was going to call me out, talk to me, ask me a question, or ask for a picture and my cover would be blown. After I had gotten all the pictures I needed I slowly backed my way up the hill, miming needing a better vantage to get the full scope of the view below. At this point, the tour guide was directing people’s attention down into the gorge in the opposite direction, and I took this moment to continue backing away until I found a shrub to duck behind. From there, like James Bond…ok ok, like Leslie Nielsen in ‘Spy Hard’ I escaped from view and power walked back to my car. My final test was in front of me, as I wasn’t sure if there would be anyone to challenge my escape or ask me where I was going. I speak no Serbian, so even the simplest question would’ve revealed me as a freeloader right away. My only hurdle were the drivers of the tour vans, who probably should’ve known something was up with that one blonde-haired guy in the Kia Sportage with Bulgarian license plates. However, with the full confidence of Madonna getting ready to adopt another baby from Africa, I strolled up to the car, nodded to the drivers, started the car up, waved goodbye, and did my best to not peel away. Constantly searching the rear view mirror for signs of a flailing tour guide/land owner running up the hill after me screaming in Serbian, I pulled away and drove out of the area and out of Serbia.

Now a (completely imagined) criminal in Serbia, I fled to the Monetnegro border. My destination in Montenegro was Kotor, an alpine lake resort city in the south of the country. It took me a while to get there, but boy was it a beautiful drive. Driving through the country I decided that Montenegro is improperly named. I think Monteverde is more appropriate as all of of the mountains are covered in evergreen trees in an affect that is simply gorgeous. I’m sure there’s a reason an old white conquerer christened the country its name, but this young white guy has got a different opinion that everyone needs to listen to and take as completely valid! Whatever you call it, and despite the rainy weather for most of the journey, it was absolutely stunning. The high mountains and jutting peaks made for stark beauty and dramatic sight lines. I stopped for a little coffee in the Djokovic Hotel (no relation to the tennis player unfortunately) in a mountain village and finished the rest of my winding journey down into Kotor. The city reminded me of a mix of Queenstown, Hakone, and Ha Long Bay. Queenstown for the mountain village feel, Hakone for the breakthtaking lake views, and Ha Long Bay for the enormous mountains rising directly out of the water. It’s a really beautiful city, rain or torrential rain. I called it an early night due to all of the driving and a budding fever, and was swept into blissful sleep by the reassuring sound of rain dropping on the roof above me.

The next morning I awoke to…more rain. Undeterred by both this and my cold, I popped some pills and walked around old town Kotor and admired the ancient walls that rose up into the misty mountains above. During my meandering in the cold wet morning I stumbled on a path that looked like it switchbacked its way up above the city. It was at this point that I unlocked a new level of my whiteness: Hiking in the Pouring Rain white. I never thought I’d willingly get to this tier, but sometimes we don’t get to choose the type of person we were meant to be. It offered some great and eerie views of the lake below and I went until I couldn’t see beyond the clouds anymore. Fully drenched and invigorated I changed, showered, and set off to my next country. The last part of the drive through Monetnegro was still gorgeous as I spilled out of the mountain range down into Bosnia and Herzegovina below.

My destination in Bosnia was Mostar, the second biggest city in the country and a popular tourist destination. It’s settled in the foothills of a large mountain range and has a large hill with a large cross towering over the city itself. The drive on the way there highlighted the poverty the country is still pulling itself out of, brought on by the war not much younger than I am. Taking my time on the way I stopped for a bit and had lunch out of the trunk of my car while enjoying the valley below. There were also some beautiful rivers and lakes along the way and fully relished in the lack of urgency I had in arriving. It helped that I wasn’t feeling all that well and didn’t feel compelled to put my body through the physical exertion of another hike. Sometimes I do things on the smart side of decision-making. I walked around town after getting in, which I managed to complete in about 10 minutes. It had a river running through it and a couple nice bridges with some good vantage points. I hit up the store while the moques began their evening calls to prayer and cooked a dinner of soup for myself and cozied up in the heated apartment as a massive thunderstorm crashed its way overheard into the night.

The next day I felt better after having taken 2 days of cold pills, so I hiked up the top of the hill above town which entailed more roadside walking than I would have liked. I made it up to the top and enjoyed the Tetris Cross and nice views of the town below. I didn’t want to stray too far from the trail in fear of unearthed mines that still hadn’t been cleared from the area. I made my way back down, got caught up with Peter on the phone, and then made my way out of town. I tried to stop at a waterfall park on the edge of the Bosnian-Croatian border but I didn’t have any Bosnian Marks and they didn’t take cash so below are some pictures that were as close as I could get. Enjoy!

That whimper of an adventure marked the end of my time in Bosnia as I crossed into Croatia and began the northern journey towards my final destination of Prague.

Always min(e)ding my business,

Ben

You’re Serbian Cute

Driving away from Bulgaria I was swallowed up by the mountainsides and cleaved gorges of Serbia. It was quite difficult to drive because the cliff faces I had to drive through were so imposing and impressive. I stopped over when I could to snag a picture just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming up the sights I was seeing.

My first stop was the little town of Nis, on the eastern part of the country. It’s a cute university town, with a river cutting through the middle of it. I parked my car and wandered around for a bit, stopping to exchange money and bought the first of what turned out to be nearly 20 boreks over the course of 10 days. A borek is a Balkan pastry, made using filo dough in the shape of a giant spiral cut into pizza shape wedges. They can be filled with cheese, meat, spinach, chocolate, anything really. I didn’t know it at the time but this was my first taste of a gateway pastry that would haunt me through my subsequent countries.

After that I did some of the administrative work I’d been slacking on doing, like answering emails and buying ice cream cones. Before sunset I wandered into town and found a little place outside to enjoy a nice quiet dinner. While enjoying the beautiful view and people-watching, a family sat down for dinner behind me. Their two year old daughter then proceed to incessantly scream “Mama!” for the next half hour. I nearly whirled around and bitch-slapped the little shit into next Tuesday, but kept my cool. Couldn’t they tell I was trying to enjoy my platter of sheep meat in peace?!

Unwinding back home with a ice cream cone or three, I finished up a much-needed load of laundry and called it a night. The next day was an early start as I drove through a tiny little village up to a deserted ski resort which was the trailhead for my next hiking destination. It was a beautifully clear spring day and the greenery of the trees was once again stunning. The hike cleared the trees after a while and I reached a fork in the saddle between two mountains. Obviously I chose to go to the taller one. Battling the howling winds whipping up from the valley below and the the rocky trail beneath my feet I finally reached the top and was rewarded with a stunning view. You could see for miles across the mountain ranges and rolling foothills of Serbia.

After a short little lunch break I decided to try my luck at a timed selfie, something I still haven’t been able to manage on my travels. One of the difficulties of traveling solo is taking pictures of yourself. Also, water is wet. I’ve managed the selfie quite well (as you can tell from the hundreds of photos of me), but the timed picture has still eluded me. Well, as you can see below after some trial and error I finally got a good one, got cocky, and had a full on photo shoot. Please, don’t contact your agents to book me for the fall runway at New York fashion week just yet, I’m still trying to figure out which fashion house is the most morally bankrupt, like me.

The way back was a nice leisurely walk back down the mountain, and I drove on to my next destination of Novi Pazar, which is down in the south and skirts Kosovo along the way. Imagine if Taiwan was land-locked by China and that’s basically what Kosovo is like to Serbia. With surprising self control I didn’t cross the border, instead taking the long, meandering way through the beautiful countryside. At one point, given all the verdant scenery along the way, I decided the best score for this journey would be Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony in C Minor. As the first movement started to get rocking, so did I. I conducted the violins to their feverish tremolos, brought the brass in with forceful gesturing, and pounded out the percussion lines on the steering wheel. Everyone driving the opposite way got a full show of a deranged mad man at the wheel banging his head and gesturing wildly like he was listening to Megadeath on full blast. Little did they know I was rocking out to the intricate and interweaving melodies of a 192-year dead deaf German composer going through an emo phase. I was a man possessed, whistling along with the soaring and tremulous piccolo solo, reveling in the lushness of the cello soli in the start of the second movement, thundering along as deep as possible with the bass lines, and shouting in high alto with the triumphant blaring of the trumpets. I don’t know what spirit got hold of me on this drive, but something about the scenery and the soundtrack along with it was intoxicating, and I was FEELING myself. For some reason I find German composers to be my punk rock, thus forever cementing my status as an orchestra nerd.

But as the finale started to play and the evening sky started to color I thought back to how I got to this point in my life, and what this type of music meant to me. I eventually followed the thread of memory all the way back to being forced to learn piano by Mom at a young age. Moving forward from there, that begat a begrudging acceptance of playing followed by a genuine enjoyment, which lead to the discovery of cello, further blossoming into one of the true joys of my life. And from there memories of playing Beethoven’s Fifth came rushing back and a mixture of joy and pride came gushing out as I reminded myself that I was able to create the sound I was hearing. So I placed myself back in the music and it gave me chills: I was given the gift of music and the opportunity to cultivate it to the point where I could personally produce a sound so elegant and beautiful as what I was hearing coming through the speakers. At this point I started crying as these thoughts coalesced and all I could think was how grateful I was to my parents for giving this gift to me. Ok let’s be honest, 95% of it came from Mom. Music has been such an important part of my life and has been an indispensable outlet for me to work through my feelings and emotions during this trip and most specifically on dealing with Mom’s passing. My most vibrant epiphanies have had some sort of musical cue soundtracked with them, and this drive through the hills of Serbia only served to remind me how vulnerable and open I can be when I let those moments take over me.

Having safely made it in to Novi Pazar despite swollen eyes and swollen hands from vigorously pounding the steering wheel on beat, I explored around town and treated myself to the meat plate specialty of the city, which was called cevapi. With 100% less annoying children around I was able to enjoy it in peace and go to bed a fully fed and happy man. Little did I know the next day would bring out an exploration into the criminal life and an escape across country borders, but that’s a story for another day. Until then, find your inner punk and rock out unabashedly, even if that’s to Mozart or Yanni or Reba McEntire.

Rock on,

Ben

Into ‘Taken’ Territory

As I got off the train I heard sirens wailing in the distance. I’m not sure if it was the blinkered morning feeling of not getting enough sleep the night before or if they actually were getting closer. I glanced up and down the track to see if anyone was eyeing me. I looked back at the scene behind me as the old man reached a hand out and searched into my eyes and said…”If I don’t see you again, safe travels”.

No, I didn’t kick him in the back off the train. But god help me, I wanted to. Instead I took my anger out on my roller bag, which I dragged behind me on my walk to my hostel like Kris Jenner dragging her least favorite child Rob to some semblance of fame. I got settled and set about exploring Sofia, which is a city still escaping from the shadow of Soviet era rule. Actually, I’m not even sure if Bulgaria was part of the USSR and I’m not going to look it up. Though it’s the capital of the country, it’s still possible to walk around the whole city in a couple hours. While I was waiting for my room to be ready I strolled the streets, stopping every now and then for some coffee and pastries to keep me awake.

Eventually I got settled in and took a stab at planning out my road trip. My friend Nic is joining me on my adventures and we had agreed to meet in Prague on May 14th. I had arrived into Sofia on the 30th of April so that gave me 2 weeks to get there. Instead of making any headway I fell asleep and watched some Netflix eating Milka chocolate in bed. However, I did pick up the rental car and even managed to plan something for the next day. Long-term planning would have to wait.

My first full day in Bulgaria was a national holiday, so it was quiet in the city. I didn’t take advantage of it, instead opting to drive to the mountains down south and go for a hike. It was a beautiful drive up and around the city, and the landscape around Bulgaria really is something to behold. Sofia is built in the valley of mountains, giving it a stunning backdrop as well as easy access to jutting peaks. As I got closer to the mountain range I could see the snow capped peaks rising out of the green forest below and I got really excited. Having spent so much time in major cities surrounded by people the last month or so, I was ready to get out of cities and into nature. I was like some white bastardized version of that classic Billy Ocean song.

Climbing up and up the winding mountain road I eventually found the parking lot and trudged up to the trail I’d be taking. There was still some pockets of snow in some areas, but I didn’t let that deter me. I thought, “It’s May, there’s still can’t be too much snow on the trail.” This is called foreshadowing, dear reader, and wait til you see how comically it plays out. Eschewing the faster and easier route of the chairlift I instead hiked underneath it, slipping and sliding up the muddy mountain face. I was walking gingerly though, so I thought I’d have no problem the rest of the way. Finally reaching the summit, I got to the ACTUAL trailhead on the mountain and saw that I would be going…directly onto a snowfield. Undeterred, I saw it was only a 6km loop and something I could do easily. There were no rain clouds and it was a sunny day, so I forged ahead in full confidence of my facilities and capabilities.

As I started to climb, the views became more and more incredible. The combination of a moderately warm spring day while on top of a snow-capped mountain peak was utterly breathtaking. But that was mostly due to the high winds that were whipping their way up from the valley below. It was such a beautiful vista and I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to see a sight as epic as what my eyes were seeing. There were supposed to be 7 lakes along the trail, but they were still frozen over and covered with snow. That didn’t take away from the beauty of the day however, as you can see below.

And here is also where I share with you my hiking gear for the day. I know no one is shocked, but I can feel the silent disappointment and disapproval as each of you reads this and judges me (completely validly, I would have to say so myself).

At this point in the hike my shoes had already gotten wet from the melting snow seeping through the porous knitted fabric of my sneakers. Instead of going back the same way I came, I decided to follow the loop through the decidedly snowier return path. Three sheets to the wind I bounded down with giddy spirits at the ridiculousness of what I was doing and the childlike joy of hiking down a snowy mountain. This lasted a short while, as I soon found my feet crashing down through the weak surface of the snow and my body became engulfed up to calves, knees, and sometimes thighs. A few times I decided to slide down on my butt or feet down a particularly steep portion. Proportionally more times, gravity decided for me.

Eventually I was over the hike, but lo and behold I was only back at the original trailhead and still had to hike back down to the car. At this point snow was replaced by mud, which was even more treacherous. Once I slipped and was able to save myself from getting completely muddied with a nifty swerve and pivot on my hand. Several minutes later I slipped again and got mud on parts of my body I didn’t even know had touched the ground. So I stomped my way down the rest of the way, not a care for how wet my shoes were (very wet), how muddy my clothes were (very muddy) nor how pissed I was (VERY pissed). After getting back to my car I took off my shoes, ate some food, and felt so much better. I then started laughing at what a ridiculous adventure I had been on and had a merry drive back to Sofia, happy to be back in nature. I got back to Sofia and had a nice dinner including a delicious dessert that looked like a cherry. I also bought a new pair of “hiking” shoes, which have more tread than my previous pair but are still just running shoes. Will I ever learn? No.

My last day in Sofia I decided to test my luck again on a hike, this time closer to the city, and 100% less snow-capped. It was a beautiful drive up the mountain side, and spring was in full bloom as the green of the aspen trees was nearly blinding. I would’ve sworn they were neon, as the brightness of the leaves was almost unnatural. I hiked my way up to the top of the mountain that overlooks the city, and had some beautiful views. On my way back down I decided to stop at a waterfall, which dropped off a cliff over a valley that fed into the city below. It was incredible, but it sure was a bitch to get to. I got a little lost on the way back but found the car again, and getting some last pictures in of the hillsides and a natural rock river, let Bulgaria fade in the pavement behind me. I made my way to the border of Serbia, my next destination, happy to have spent time in Bulgaria. It’s a beautiful country with many Turkish and Soviet influences melding together. Alas, I didn’t see Grigor Dimitrov but saw posters of him everywhere so I felt like I did.

Onwards and upwards,

Ben

Turkey Lurkey Time!

After the low of Israel, I was expecting any sort of uplift in Istanbul. Boy, did it deliver. The majority of it was due to the fact that I got in some quality human time (which I hadn’t had in a while) but I didn’t hurt that Istanbul was such a cool city. My guide and hostess for my too short time I was there was a girl named Emily who my cousin Lily had met while they were both in New Zealand. After having a connection through Antalya, I finally arrived in Istanbul at the new airport that had just been opened two weeks prior. Which meant I had to take a bus about an hour into the city, as there was no train line up to the new airport yet. I also managed to get in right as a soccer match was getting ready to begin at the destination I was heading to. I finally made it to our meeting point, the ferry terminal, and Emily was gracious enough to come get me rather than let me endure any other travel headaches.

So we crossed from Europe to Asia in about 5 minutes, getting acquainted while I enjoyed the view on the water. We dropped my stuff off at her place and headed out back to Europe and roamed around Beşiktaş, where we had met originally. This was a fun and vibrant area of town, even more so since the soccer match was happening just down the road. We wound our way past the strewn beer bottles of the fans who had walked to the stadium and climbed up the hill overlooking the venue. We went past Taksim Square and into the lively shopping district of Istanbul while Emily regaled me with stories of protests she’d been to and the number of times she’d been teargased (16, if I recall correctly). While I admired the shops and tasted the Turkish Delight samples, she would point out which stores sheltered protesters from harm and which ones shut them out. I’ve been to a couple marches in San Francisco, so I could relate to her stories on a deeply personal level.

We eventually found a bar for the second half of the soccer match and we tried to figure out which players had the most similar hairstyle to me. Once the match ended with a victory for the home team (thank god or else we would’ve had to have walked home through a riot) we walked back through main street. Emily led me to a cool tower for a good photo op, and then fully ready for food, on to a local joint. We feasted on delicious kebabs and a yogurt drink and it was perfect. We took a shared taxi back to Asia, crossing the bridge this time for a beautiful view of the sprawled city at night.

The next (and unfortunately my last) day in Istanbul was one for errands. We took the train all the way to the far end of the city to buy an overnight train ticket for me to my next destination, Bulgaria. From there we bus-hopped to the Ministry of Justice so she could get a document verifying that she wasn’t a felon. It was written in Turkish so I took her word for it. From there we stopped at a mall for a quick bathroom and WiFi break, and then hiked up a hill to get some great views of the city. Though it was a hazy day you could see into the far hills and islands on the Asian side, as well as deep into the rising skyscrapers and crowded growth of the European side. We got some local Turkish street food that was essentially a cheesy crepe and a fully loaded baked potato and I went to town. Fully satisfied we took a detour into a part of Istanbul that has resisted development by the government and maintained the feel of a traditional Turkish village in the heart of a bustling metropolis.

It was one of my favorite parts of Istanbul because you have these plots of land that look like small working farms with fruit trees and goats and vegetable gardens lining the winding and steep streets. It filters down into the main commerce street of the neighborhood, and I had serious deja vu because I felt like I was back in San Francisco. Multicolored Edwardian and Victorian apartment buildings shot up from the tree lined street while down beneath them boutique coffee shops and pet stores welcomed people in. The Asian part of Istanbul is older and teeming with Mosques. It has more of the traditional Turkish feel and maintains that old Asia Minor style that pops up in peoples minds when they think of Istanbul. The European side is more modern and where all of the growth is happening, so you see more skyscrapers and western influences there. The neighborhood we stopped for coffee in felt entirely different, yet in a strange way made perfect sense in Istanbul.

What struck me most about Istanbul is that it’s a city in constant conflict. Sometimes violent, yes, but mostly due to the fact that it is a massive melting pot of culture, religion, ideals, people, and styles. Mosques are jostling with bars for real estate. Secularism is seesawing with religiousness in politics. Modernism is chafing with conservatism in style. It’s a wonderful push and pull in so many ways that gives the city an overstuffed and dichotomous feel that is wonderfully alluring. Every aspect of humanity and culture has a place there, and it’s valid. Sometimes it has to be fought for, and advocated for, and protected. But it doesn’t mean it doesn’t belong, and it’s beautiful. I could’ve spent a solid month there and still not even scratched the surface, but what I saw I loved.

We ended my time there with a walk along the Bosphorous, the main water channel that separates the two continents and also a bustling shipping lane. Across the water the sun set over the top of the “tourist peninsula” that holds all the major tourist attractions, including the Hagia Sophia mosque. We had some tea on the waterfront and enjoyed golden hour before stopping in a Turkish cafeteria where I proceeded to house some food because who knew when I was going to eat next!!

Fun fact: in Turkish, no two vowels can be next to each other, so the “g” is used to separate them. However, if is not pronounced. So when you’ve most likely been pronouncing it the HA-GI-AH Sophia, it’s actually the AI-YA Sophia. Now you can seem worldly and impress all your ignorant friends!

I collected my things from Emily’s apartment and she escorted me to the train and rode with me a couple stops on her way to a jazz concert. I’ve met some interesting people on my travels, but Emily ranks right up there with the best of them. She was an open-minded, well-traveled, intelligent, funny, and kind person and I’m glad to have met her. She’s also a tarot reader and gave me my first ever reading. Like I said, a real interesting girl. So I ended my whirlwind of a time in Istanbul on an overnight train to Sofia. I had mentioned to Emily before I left that I hoped I didn’t get a snorer in my berth and who barrels his way through the door while I’m making my bed? A 79-year-old man from Perth. Just my fucking luck. What a 79 year old is doing on an overnight train is beyond me, but that’s the Aussies for you. At first I tried to chat with him in a friendly manner, but I soon realized he was a) never going to ask a single question and b) never going to shut up so I just stopped responding. You’d think that would’ve worked but he just kept on going.

Eventually he decided he should go to sleep and I tried to beat him to it, but alas he was quicker to the draw. And then my 10 hour nightmare began. Even passport checks at the borders did nothing to interrupt his flow, as he would pick up right where he left off. I managed to eke out and hour here and there by blasting my headphones, but overall it was simply miserable. We finally arrived in Sofia 12 hours after leaving Turkey and as he stood in the doorway getting ready to disembark I thought about helping him out with a solid kick in the back. What happened? Honey, this is a cliffhanger so you’ll have to wait to find out.

From prison????

Ben

The Lost Tribe of Benjamin

It’s official: I have no self control. Just when you thought I’d learned my lesson in Athens and taken it easy in Israel, I walked 15 miles in the unpredictable spring weather and ended up getting full blown sick. I’m sure anyone reading this is not surprised at all, but this is just one of those things I had to admit out loud and own. Getting sick while traveling in a foreign country is not fun, and it made me miss out on a lot of Israel. That being the case, here’s my stream-of-consciousness fevered ramblings on my time in the holy land.

After making it to Tel Aviv early in the morning and feeling better from what I thought was a mild fever in Athens, I made it to my lodging in Jerusalem and strove to set out and explore the city. I packed a days belongings and set off into the warm spring day, buoyed by a new country, new city, and new chance for exploration. I enjoyed the warm sun on my face and marveled at how prevalent sandstone was in the architecture of the city. Sidewalks, apartment buildings, pathways, museums, everything was seemingly made out of sandstone. It gave everything an old-world feel while also acting as some sort of urban camouflage, as if the city was trying to melt into the desert it had been built from.

Eventually I found my way into the heart of Jerusalem, the old walled city. Mother of God, Yahweh, and Allah: I was not prepared for the crush of people that were there. I don’t know if it was like that every day, or the fact that I had arrived in the middle of Passover, but there was a stream of aggressive stroller-pushers who were pushing their way to the Western Wall. No shoe back was safe from the wrath of a mother pushing her stroller towards prayer and salvation. And that brings me to my first tangent, which is that I have never been to a place where I’ve seen more young families in my life. I know Israel is a young country, but when people use that term to mean it was only founded recently, it should also apply to the population. The stroller industry in Israel must be absolutely booming because I did not see any couple walking around that didn’t have at least 2.5 children. And not a single family had a teenager in their midst. It was one of the more surreal things I’ve seen on my travels.

After a while of feeling like a salmon returning to its breeding grounds I arrived at the Western Wall. Despite the history and significance of this place, I didn’t feel any inspiration or awe at it. Granted, I haven’t felt that at any of the religious institutions I’ve visited on my travels, but even being in the heart of the three major religions of the human race didn’t stir anything within me. Whatever that means.

I tried to get to the Dome of the Rock, which is beautiful and omnipresent in the Jerusalem skyline. However, it was blocked off to all tourists that day, so I had to settle for pictures from afar. Ignoring my growing headaches (which I again stupidly attributed to dehydration) I decided to climb the Mount of Olives on the far side of the city to get a better vantage. A towering climb later, I was able to sit on a cemetery wall and enjoy the madness of tourists and devoutees as they jostled to enter the holy site from its few gates.

As the strain of the day (read: tourists) started to wear on me I braved my way through the old city walls to try and hit for the cycle. Eventually I found the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Being the bad Catholic that I am, I didn’t really read up on the significance of it, or what was in there but I think it’s where the remains of Jesus are? Either way, I witnessed a shoving match in the crowded line, so I left feeling safe that I wasn’t the least Christian person in the room at the time.

Over and done with the ancient tourist trap I followed the train line back home, stopping a couple times along the way for delicious iced coffees and ignoring the growing tickle and feverish chills as well. Instead of catching the train back to my lodging, which conveniently dropped off a 5 minute walk away, I decided I would walk the remaining 45 minutes instead. When I finally got home I was in a full blown sweat and finally ready to admit that I was full on sick. So I turned up the heat, covered myself in blankets and called it a night.

The next day was one for bed, as I tried to sleep off what I had. At one point I made it to a pharmacy since the the Tylenol I was relying on wasn’t doing the trick. Armed with the finest Israeli cold medicine pantoming could procure, I retreated back to my den and holed up once again. Feeling mildly better the next day I slowly made my way to the train station to Tel Aviv. Just my luck, it was the Thursday before a holiday, which meant the trains were shut down and I had to take a bus. I’m not really sure how I got the right one and how I got off on the right stop, but I made it to my lodging in Tel Aviv in one piece. I valiantly tried to walk and explore a little bit but the efforts of my day and lingering fever propelled me back to the comforts of my new sick den and I again tried to sleep it off.

My tactics changed: armed now with human medicine AND nature’s medicine, I made my way to the beach with the intention of getting blasted with Vitamin D and sweating off my cold. While that plan seemed rock solid in my head, I didn’t account for the sand flies that would be on the beach. Three hours later I returned home still sick and feverish, but now with about a hundred itchy sand fly bites.

Determined to not let Israel defeat me I set out again on my last day, adamant that I would have an enjoyable day and finally vanquish my enemy that was sucking out my life force. 3 straight days of cold medicine had done its job well, and a steady rotation of 1.5L bottles of water was helping as well. I didn’t have time for food in this battle of the wills. I made my way to the gayer beach section of Tel Aviv, which probably wasn’t a great idea. Emotionally speaking. It must be the mandatory military service, but everyone on that beach had abs. Men, women, they all had it. It was like some sort of benevolent contagion that had spread throughout the population, of which I was unmercifully immune. Feeling pale and weak and bloated from my illness, I spread my carcass on the beach and let the beautiful people walk past. I got the most attention from the sand flies again, and at that point I was thankful some living creature was noticing me.

Bitten, burned, and emotionally bruised I left all the beautiful people to enjoy each other in peace. On the way back I stopped by a movie theater and decided I’d see the new Avengers movie. I also had a bunch of shekels I still had to spend so I talked myself into popcorn. And candy. And chocolate. And a soda, cause it was a hot day. After crying at a Marvel movie (I’ve turned so soft!) I made my way back home, fully defeated.

So completed my wonderful misadventures in the Holy Land. I sure made a mess of things with my overly ambitious hiking day, but I did enjoy what I saw of Israel. But that’s not really saying much, is it? Next stop is Istanbul, and it’s only up from there right? Literally, isn’t part of Israel one of the lowest points in the world? I’m only speaking literally, because we all now I’m gonna make another bonehead error and it’ll be right back down in the emotional pit for me.

Optimistically yours!

Ben

Mamma Mia 3: Just Put Your Lips Together and Blow

As I start writing this post in the Athens airport at 4:15am while waiting for my flight to Tel Aviv, I am being charmed by the dulcet sounds of a samba muzak cover of Black Eyed Peas’ “I’ve Got A Feeling” and I can’t think of anywhere else I would rather be in the universe. Some people are blessed with great wealth, beauty, or charm. I’m blessed with this moment which I will cherish for the rest of my life.

Serifos

My journey to Greece was quite arduous, as I left Venice on an 8am flight and finally made it to my destination after 8pm. It was a plane to Athens, a train to the harbor Piraeus, and a ferry to Serifos. Word of advice for those of you visiting Greece in the future: opt for the fast ferry, that slow one ain’t worth the savings, honey. I arrived on this little Greek island and got settled into my Cycladic house (a house ala the style of the Cycladies, natch) and explored town. 2 minutes later I was back at my place trying to decide between one of the 3 places that were open for dinner. I finally settled on a souvlaki place and then called it a night.

“How did I decide on Serifos?”, I’m sure you’re wondering. Well, that was quite a difficult decision because there’s so many options, but I saw that the weather wasn’t going to be that great in most places so I wanted to find somewhere small that I didn’t need a car to explore around on. I’d read that Serifos was more local, out of the way, and was a good combination of beaches, mountains, and local culture. Which ended up all being true, so it was good in that regard.

I started off my first full day hiking up from my place in the harbor to the town up in the mountains. It was a beautiful sight with this small town spattered on the top of a mountain, the white walls and blue roofs blending in with the sky as it rose from the ground below. I got to the top and had some amazing views, but the bracing wind and the cool late morning air buffeted me to find a cafe somewhere for some breakfast and warmth. Once fed, I made my way up to the mountain pass beyond town towards the north side of the island. I made the first part of the trip just find, but as I was following what I thought was the hiking trail, I ended up getting lost in a ridge above where the route was supposed to be. It’s not like it was a huge deal, as the island was small and navigable, and there was no forest or growth to get lost in; it was all low shrubs and rock outcropping. But the wind. Oh my god the wind.

I have never been anywhere where the wind has been as forceful as the half hour I spent walking back down to the road to regain the trail. It was ceaseless and insistent, causing me to lean into while walking. The first 5 minutes were fine as it helped me to cool off from my hike, but then it started to annoy me. Then I started to get angry because it wasn’t abating. Then by the time I had reached the top of the peak and I could see the road I needed to get to, it was straight up trying to lift me off of the island. By this point I was so angry I started yelling at the wind. That’s right, I got into a full blown shouting match with wind, a force of nature. I was screaming at the top of my lungs, beyond upset at this fucking wind, how fucking stupid it was, and how it needed to fucking stop. Then I started to taunt it, shouting if that’s the best it had. I called it a bitch. I called it a piece of shit. I called it a motherfucker. I was resilient and I wasn’t going to let that wind beat me. I finally made it back to the road having vanquished my opponent. As I started walking down the road I busted out laughing at how ridiculous the situation was, full catharsis having been reached as my anger and frustration was siphoned away by yelling at the top of my lungs from a mountain.

I enjoyed the rest of my walk to the other side of the island, soaking up the sun and all the wildflowers in bloom. I ran into maybe 2 other people the entire 5 hours I was hiking, so I definitely got the solitude I was looking for in coming to Serifos. Once I made it back up to the top of the hill overlooking the main town, I sat on the path, arrested by the beauty of the sight down below me. The sun was going down over the top of the mountains, the bay was glittering in the light, and the white town on the mountain shone. I had the sudden urge to listen to “Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, Variation XVIII” by Rachmaninoff, and I was overcome by the beauty of everything about that moment. Once back in town I stopped by the market and got some snacks and had a lazy evening on my balcony watching the sun go down. Another souvlaki dinner and some Greek desserts capped my night as I turned in beat from the activities of the day.

The next day I was still sore from all the hiking I did, so I planned on having a slower day by the beach and do some reading. I walked to a nearby beach hoping I could find a sheltered spot. But then my old nemesis, that fucking wind, showed up as I tried in vain time and time again to find a spot away from its clutches. Eventually I had enough and resigned myself to the comforts of humanity and returned home to its glorious four walls and heating apparati. It was nice to just kick back and let the day ease on by and let the stress of my annoyance at the wind fade away.

Milos

The next morning I left the island of Serifos, catching the ferry to nearby Milos. I arrived to town in the afternoon and was thrilled at the calm weather and warm sun this island had. After catching a ride up to my lodgings, I set out and started exploring around the island. Milos was more populated and less barren than Serifos, though it being the offseason it was still quiet and light on people. I explored a few of the beaches around, weaving my way in and out of some of the small idyllic towns along the way. The sight of the white houses and blue roofs never got old. Spring was in full bloom and I thoroughly enjoyed walking through the numerous fields of daisies that were on the hiking trails. Fully inspired by these sights I put on “Appalachian Spring” by Aaron Copland and made my way back home as the sun was starting to set.

I had another moment like I did in Italy, where I found a stunning vista that stopped me in my tracks. I sat there as the “Simple Gifts” theme began in “Appalachian Spring” started to play and just started to fully lose it. I’ve always found “Simple Gifts” one of the most beautiful songs and the arrangement of it in “Appalachian Spring” takes it to its ultimate potential. It’s the most lush, pastoral, emotive, and stirring sections in music I’ve ever heard. And now every time I hear it I brings up so many emotions for me. It reminds me of Mom. It reminds me of Maureen. It brings hope and joy. It brings optimism and potential. It’s what I want my life to be, and it’s what I want to make others feel. Music stirs up so many emotions and feelings in me, and I don’t know if there’s anything that does it more than that passage in “Appalachian Spring”.

So there I was on the side of the road in Greece just full on ugly sobbing. Eventually I got it together and floated on up to the top of a church in town to watch the sun set on the horizon. At this point I realized it was Easter, and couldn’t think of a better way to have spent it than enjoying the natural beauty of the world. If Easter is a time of new beginnings and change, then I hope the day I had portends a good path for me in the future.

After a quick FaceTime session with the family, I found a local spot for dinner, where I ended up having the best meal I had while in Greece. It was a true local’s place, with no menu, the options only listed out to you by the waitress. I ended up getting an appetizer of tomatoes, olives, olive oil, and feta piled sky high on a hunk of rusk bread. After I devoured that I had a plate of pork, peppers, and potatoes in a delicious sauce. I don’t know what anything was called, but oh my god was it good. To top it off they gave me a little tapioca dessert made with goat’s milk that was so creamy and tasty I could’ve sat there licking the cup clean. Fully satisfied I walked home with a smile on my face, happy with what a wonderful day I had. It was also fitting that I was in the middle of finishing up “Gilead” by Marilynn Robinson, so all in all I had a pretty on-the-nose Easter.

Athens

I flew out the next morning back to Athens (yes, some of the islands have airports) after a hearty Greek breakfast. I wasn’t feeling that well, given the combination of sweaty hiking and bracing winds was not a good one for my health. However, I was only in Athens for the day so I sucked it up, popped some Tylenol, and made my way out into the city. After balking at the €20 price of seeing the Parthenon and Acropolis I admired it from afar. It was incredible how it rises out of the middle of the sprawl of the city, commanding an impressive view from the center of everything. I’m not sure if my time in Egypt left me jaded, but I wasn’t as impressed with the ruins in Greece as I was with what I saw in Egypt. To me it was just a bunch of old rocks and broken pillars. But maybe that was also a bit of the light fever talking.

I found Athens to be a very dirty city. There was trash everywhere, and I’ve never seen so much graffiti in my life. It’s everywhere you look: ruins, buildings, benches, train cars, and sidewalks. I’m sure if pigeons were slower they would be ripe for tagging. And seeing as humanity is universal, the one tag I saw most prevalently was a basic drawing of dick, because of course it was. I’m sure if the ruins of Ancient Greek society were better preserved you’d find them there too. After wandering through town with a falafel in hand and passing a bunch of shops and stores (including, bizarrely, a cafe themed after the scene in Mary Poppins where the gang jumps into one of Bert’s sidewalk chalk paintings and there’s the fair and the penguins). After many frequent stops to catch my breath and stop sweating, I made it back to my hotel and took a quick nap. I had a last meal of mousaka and kebabs before my 4 hour nap prior to my 2:45am wake up call to catch the 3am bus to be at the airport at 4am for my 6am flight to Tel Aviv. When I first made this booking weeks back I wasn’t sure what I was thinking, and I still don’t. Which brings me full circle to the sweet sounds of a Black Eyed Peas, and what is a better metaphor for the journey of life than that?

All told I spent 5 days in Greece, and I get the appeal. Next time I’d probably like to come when it’s warmer, and there’s so many islands it’d be fun to try new ones. But I wouldn’t rule out coming back to Milos; I really enjoyed it. There’s a nice way of life in Greece, and it helps that almost everyone speaks pretty good English. The Aegean Sea is beautiful, and the juxtaposition of the islands with the water is stunning.

The next leg of my journey takes me to Israel where I’m hoping for some better weather. And so help me god if there’s wind…

King of the Mountain,

Ben

Mambo Italiano

Hi! I had every intention of writing an update immediately after I left Italy and…that sort of happened. I definitely started it right after Italy, but life and my procrastinative (is that a word?) nature got the better of me. Let me take you back to better, more productive, or at the very least satiating times of Italy.

Roma

I flew from Marseille to Rome ready to leave the inclement weather behind me for the sunnier hills of Italy, only to be greeted by…dark clouds on the horizon. But I didn’t let that get me down cause once I finally arrived at my hotel I slapped on all the jackets I had and went hunting for some pasta. I found a restaurant nearby where I sat down at had the best pasta alla carbonara I’ve had in my life. It was hot, it was creamy, and it was bountiful. It was an excellent way to start my time in Italy, and I slept well that night.

I made an early day of it the next morning, hoping to avoid the crush of tourists at a few sites at least. I’ll cut to the chase and let you know that’s not possible in Rome (or most places in Italy) any time of the day or year, even if it’s pouring down rain. It’s just such a popular destination, there’s always going to be large numbers of people wanting to see what they’ve seen in textbooks, on televisions, and in movie theaters for they’re entire lives. And once you see it for yourself in person, you get it too. But that doesn’t mean you still can’t be peeved by onslaught of roadblocks and stupidity you’re met with on a near-constant basis.

My first stop was the Colosseum, which was impressive and ruinous and perfectly enjoyable from the outside. What was even more impressive (and something I’d wished I’d waited in the hour-long line for tickets for) were the ruins of the Roman Forum right next to the Colosseum. The Colosseum definitely gets more press, but walking around the outside of the Forum I got to see how beautiful and well preserved the ancient ruins of the center of Rome were. It’s incredible that a long-dead civilization still holds such an impressive presence in the modern age, and the beauty and artistry of the Forum is testament to that.

I stopped in a couple museums around this main area, one of which was a military museum that was literally just flags. The amount of statues, fountains, and other stone work all around this epicenter were too many to count, and it all adds to this magical feeling of straddling modern and ancient times. I walked my way over to the Pantheon, which ended up being my favorite site I visited. It’s so well preserved, and the inside is simply stunning. It’s a simple design and not as ornate as the rest of what I saw in Rome, but it was striking in its beauty. The opening at the apex of the dome cast a singular light into the cupola like a spotlight from the heavens. I could’ve stared up from the marble floors and spun around enjoying the view for hours. It was a wonderful snapshot into the ingenuity and design of ancient architecture and cultural history.

After that I walked over to Piazza Navona which was lovely at that time of day. All the cafes were open and people were sitting outside enjoying their meals while the buskers played for tips. It was such a hodgepodge of people and sounds in the warm sun, I just kept wandering in circles around the square. Or oval, whichever shape it was. Once finished there I braved Trevi Fountain, which was actually quite beautiful in person and not as Vegas-esque as it looks in pictures. And the water was so clear and blue in contrast with the brilliant white of the stone.

I then began the long walk over to Vatican City, which turned into quite the pleasant stroll once I got along the tree-lined walkway along the Tiber River. Once I got into the Vatican area, the real shit-show began. Even with looming dark clouds, cold winds, and an intermittent small smattering of raindrops, St. Mark’s Square was absolutely packed. I originally wasn’t going to get in the line to go the basilica, but since I already made the trip over there and wasn’t planning on coming back the next day to try again, I groaned my over to the line and waited. And waited. And waited. And shamed a group of Russian women who tried to cut in line in front of me. Then waited some more. Eventually I got past security and made it to the interior of St. Peter’s Basilica, only to be completely overwhelmed by the ornate decorations on every square inch of the strutcure. I have never seen so much opulence in my life. Everything that could be gilded was gold-plated. Every pope and priest that had any importance had an alter, statue, painting, or all of the above. Every part of the ceiling was covered in celestial scenes to the point that you could have hidden a Renaissance recreation of the cast of Baywatch nude and I wouldn’t have even noticed.

It was a weird experience for me having been raised Catholic to visit this place of such a historical, emotional, and physical center of what was once my religion. It was strange to be able to appreciate the importance of where I stood and connect that to many of the lessons and morals I learned that shaped me during my upbringing, while at the same time questioning the gaudiness and opulence of what I saw and how out of touch with the modern era the church has become. I haven’t been to a Catholic mass since I came out nearly 10 years ago, and the more distant I’ve become from the church, the more critical I am of it. Visiting the Vatican just further reinforced how much I’ve moved away from a religious life, but also strangely reinforced how important my spirituality is to me. I also got a good laugh thinking about my Dad’s story about how he was marched to the steps of St. Peter’s in the throes of a terrible hangover in the height of summer by my very angry mother, only to be left behind because he was wearing shorts and not able to see inside (and you know that didn’t stop her from going in by herself). Seeing as I was able to make it inside, he can now safely say he’s been to half of St. Peter’s Basiilica.

Once I left the Vatican I headed back into the heart of Rome, with a headache beginning to develop. I wasn’t sure if I was dehydrated, hungry, tired, or all three, but I was definitely beginning to wear down. I eventually made my way back to my hotel, but not before enjoying the evening view of Rome from one of its many hills. Once back I napped and upon waking, realized I wasn’t dehydrated, hungry, or tired but in the middle of a developing cold.

Fortunately I had seen every major tourist site in Rome in one day, as I spent the next day alternating between popping Tylenol and napping, sometimes taking a break to catch up on RuPaul’s Drag Race in hopes that the heightened drama would flush out the illness. By the end of the day I felt I had gotten over the worst of it and was feeling peckish. However, I can never remember if the idiom is “feed a fever, starve a cold” or “feed a cold, starve a fever”. I decided to cover both of my bases and bought a bunch of bread from the market downstairs and had my last meal in Rome and only meal of the day. It was very Christlike.

Firenze

The next day I took the train up from Rome to Florence which ended up being a beautiful journey and the number of tunnels we had to pass through during which I lost cell service made me realize how hilly Italy was. Once I arrived in Florence and got settled and started exploring, it became apparent very quickly that this was more my scene, and a welcome break from the madness of Rome. It’s a smaller town built around a river with hills along the south side, but still has a lot of historical sites from the Renaissance area that gives it that comforting old-world feel.

It was here, having fully recovered from my little cold/congestion/fever/whatever and removed from the busy of Rome that I was able to finally settle into the traditional Italian way of life. Or at least what I thought that was, which for me was eating pizza and drinking cappuccino while sitting outside staring at all the tour groups go by. This was cut short pretty suddenly by my old nemesis rain, so I hightailed it back home and treated my wet self to a steaming plate of risotto later that night.

I decided to eschew all tourist activities the next day and headed to the south side of the river, where I had seen some hills and garden. It was an absolute stunner of a spring day, and all of the trees and flowers were in full bloom. I wandered around listening to the birds chirping and the sounds of traffic slowly dying away when I found a walking loop that wound around for a few kilometers. I thought, “why not?” and headed out.

It turned into a glorious day and the hills of Tuscany were alive with the glory of spring; it was absolutely idyllic. I felt like Diane Lane in “Under the Tuscan Sun” even though I have never seen the movie. I wound my way through the narrow Italian lanes that cut through the hills and marveled in the beauty of all that was around me. It felt amazing to be completely in the present, and a grin was plastered on my face the whole time. Eventually I made my way into a small town where I stopped for some truffle pasta and a cappuccino before stopping for some gelato on my way back. On the return journey I found this picturesque road that ran above an olive field with a view of the rolling fields off in the distance. I felt compelled to just sit and enjoy it, and so I did.

While sitting on a wall overlooking all this natural wonder my mind started to wander to Mom and her own European adventure she went on after she graduated from college. I realized in that moment there was so much I wanted to ask her: where she went, what she saw, what she ate, what she did, what she liked, what she didn’t like. I realized I still have so many questions that I want to ask her, questions that will most likely remain forever unanswered. For most of my life I only saw her as Mom, someone who provides and demands and nags and cares and drives and scolds and cooks and loves. But once I started to get older I started to know her as Catherine and saw her as a woman with dreams and fears and jokes and stories and hopes and goals and opinions and insecurities and morals. And I’m sad because there’s still so much I want to know about this woman and I can’t. I feel cheated on time when I had just gotten a glimpse into the brightness of light she radiated in her life and understand I had the opportunity to learn how to glow as bright as her. But a part of me knows that I have all of the tools to do this because she had been teaching them to me all my life, whether I knew it or not. It would have been so much easier to get there with her providing guidance and direction, but I think she knew all along that I would get there eventually, even if she would not be with me.

So there I sat, wrestling with these thoughts and emotions in the Italian countryside, coming to no epiphany, but thankful to be where I was, and thankful to be. Then I gathered myself and walked back into the city, floating on a strange sense of calm and presence of self. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I found my way to the Giardino di Boboli (shoutout to Bobli pizza nights growing up!), just another sign that Mom is always with me. It was a beautiful sculpture garden funded by the Medicis that offered amazing views of the city, where I found a scenic hill to take a nap. As the light began to lengthen and the bells began to toll I made my way back to my lodging to get ready for the pizza tasting I had booked on a lark.

It turned out to be a very fun evening where I was joined by two Russian couples and a family of 5 from Boston in the back room of a pizza parlor as we spent the evening enjoying 10 different types of pizza and sharing 5 bottles of wine. I even found out the the grandpa from the Boston family was called “Bop” by his grandchildren and I nearly choked on my wine in shock. Turns out their family had an issue with their first-born grandchild having a speech impediment as well, and we all marveled at this hilarious coincidence. I walked back through the lively streets that night with lifted spirits buffeted by the joy of a fulfilling day and a filling evening.

Venezia

I took the train in the morning to Venice arriving via the one landbridge in an out of the city. And what a city it is. As I navigated my way from the train station to the hotel I was charmed by the canals, the shops, the footpaths, and the bridges. And the bridges. And the bridges. And the bridges. Holy hell, no one tells you how many goddamn bridges you have to cross when you’re walking through Venice. But I’m sure rich people don’t walk through Venice, they just take their boat service, so how would they know about bridges? I can also say with 1000000000% certainty that when the city was designed there was absolutely no thought put into roller bags, or anything with wheels really.

The first thing I did after dropping off my luggage was plop down at a table outside overlooking the water, order a pasta dish and soak up the sun. I nursed that dish for maybe an hour, just sitting and watching people coming and going and it was glorious. All up until this point in Italy I had been so consumed by exploring and sightseeing and trying to cram as much in as possible. I felt anxious to not waste my time there, especially given I had lost a day in Rome nursing a cold. It took hitting the brakes in Venice to make me realize (again) that I can’t see everything and that’s alright. Also, I need breaks and downtime to enjoy where I am, and sometimes that just means sitting around and eating. So I did, and I think I touched on the true Italian experience.

After that nice reset, I wandered through Venice without any maps, just letting the pathways take me where they may. I really enjoyed how you were never far from the water in Venice, how it courses through every part of the city; it was so calming. I eventually found myself in a park in the residential part of the south end of the city and again I just sat and watched the boats go by, and it was so nice. Eventually I made my way back, allowing for stops for pizza and gelato on the way, of course. That night I had a nice dinner and enjoyed the eeriness of the lamplight pathways at night before calling it.

My last day in Italy I had originally planned on doing a day trip to Bologna, but given the 4 hour round trip timing and how much I was enjoying Venice, I decided to scrap it and enjoy a nice leisurely day around the city. And that’s exactly what I did. Leisurely breakfast in the morning followed by a lazy stroll around the city. I went and found a haircut place cause I was starting to get sick of my long hair. I also found a manicure spot and got some color too (black, like my soul). I stopped for coffee and pizza and gelato all along the way, basking in the sun, and avoiding the pockets of tourists wherever possible. It was such a pleasant day and a nice way to ease out of my time in Italy.

Overall, I really enjoyed Italy and can see how it is so popular with tourists. There is so much history and art and culture, you could spend a year touring the country and still not see everything. And oh my god, the food. The little belly I’m carrying around now was well worth it. I enjoyed the smaller, slower portions of my time in Italy the most. When I come back I would like the skip the larger cities and enjoy the slow pace of the smaller towns and give myself into the unhurried way of life that is so rewarding.

After Venice I flew to Athens, so stay tuned on my Greek adventures soon!

Ciao,

Ben

The Rain in Spain Falls Mainly on My Brain

I don’t know where to begin to apologize for the title pun, so I won’t even bother because I’M NOT SORRY. If you don’t appreciate a deft combination of humor and Audrey Hepburn by way of Pygmalion then this is not the blog for you.

Madrid, Spain

So we’re back in Spain now. Having arrived early in the morning I fumbled my way to my next lodging where I camped out for the next day and a half. As per the previous post, this was a time of recovery and I didn’t really get out and explore Madrid very much. It was harder than I expected to do the round trip flight back to the States and be able to pick up where I left off. I’d lost all momentum and travel mojo I had before, so it took a little bit for me to get the engines going again. The only thing that got me out and about was a paella dinner with one of Anna’s friends she met while studying abroad in Spain. It was delicious and helped get me out of my funk and back into my groove.

After my wound-licking was completed, I kicked my butt out of bed and forced myself to get out and do what I do best: go to museums. There’s nothing like the impending deadline of leaving a city the next day that will make you get out and explore as much as possible. So I set off and headed to the Museo Reina Sofia. It was the best modern art museum I’ve ever been to. It had artists from all over the world, including an incredible collection from H.C. Westermann that explored the pain and facets of masculinity stemming from WWII. He also had a sense of humor and many of his scultupres left me grinning or sometimes laughing at their absurdity and juxtapositions. There was also a heavy focus on Spanish artists (duh), with the piece d’ resistance being Picasso’s Guernica which took up an entire room by itself. It really was an incredible work of art and I probably could have spent an hour in front of it were it not for the steady stream of students making their way in and out.

After that I doubled down and went to the Prado Museum, which houses art from the 1500’s to the 1900’s. It was in a beautiful building and chock full of art to the point it bordered on a bazaar. There’s also more Catholic art than you could care to see in a year, let alone one day. Yes, it was beautiful and yes, these men were masters of their craft, but there’s only so many times you can see Jesus and Mary and angels and popes before it loses its appeal.

However I did discover a new favorite artist, the Spanish painter Diego Velazquez. He, like all of his peers, had a heavy collection of religious art, but also had a good sense of humor and enjoyed mixing the highbrow with the lowbrow. Some of the standouts included an entire section on dwarfs and fools. My favorite was a two-parter of one of the fastest children in Spain at the time, paintings of her both fully clothed and nude. Somehow the painting of her clothed was the more grotesque and hilarious of the two.

After that I walked around a bit more and enjoyed the park and central area. It was a nice brisk spring evening and I turned in before it got too cold, seeing as I was wearing shorts…what else is new. Had a quiet evening enjoying another meal of tapas and called it a night to get ready for my trip to Barcelona the next day.

Side note: Rollerblading is alive and well in Spain. It’s like if Americans in the ’90s decided that rollerblading was in fact super awesome and continued to do it as a form of commuting, exercise, or just for fun. I loved how random it was to see, but it’s so prevalent. Though in a flatter city like Madrid it makes perfect sense. Not sure I’d want to bust out a pair in San Francisco.

Barcelona, Spain

I took the high speed train from Madrid and it was a beautiful trip through the rainy countryside. I arrived in the afternoon and made my way to my lodging which was in the Gothic Quarter of the city. This turned out to be the perfect area because it was smack dab in the middle of the city, and also in the most historic area. I was within walking distance of all the beautifully dramatic cathedrals and plazas. The weather was a bit rainy when I arrived and it was cold, but it eventually cleared up the rest of the day. Enchanted by the beauty of the city and seeing an opening, I started my typical walk around town, getting a feel for it. 10 miles, 6 tapas, 2 wines, and 2 sore feet later I made it back home and called it a night.

The next day was beautiful and clear so I made my way up to Parc Guell, which was designed by Gaudi. It’s a beautiful tourist trap, and even in the off-season in Spain it was still packed. It was as if the evil witch from Hansel and Gretel decided to sell her candy cabin in the woods, become a late-in-life college student, study art and design, move to Spain to study with the masters, and build a castle fantasy using mosaic tiles. Or something like that. It also offered beautiful views of the city as it was built back in the hills. Eventually I grew tired of the crowds and began another walk winding up through the city to the hills even further back, specifically the one that looked like it had an amusement park on top.

This walk was further enhanced by my soundtrack for the day, which alternated between Jenny Lewis’ new album “On The Line” and the Alanis Morisette classic “Jagged Little Pill”. I was feeling like a very moody teenager that day, so it was perfect. Got a nice walk in, saw some nice views, listened to some nice tunes, all in all it was a nice afternoon. I got back down into the city and toasted my tired feet with some more tapas and a glass of wine and headed back to my lodgings for a quick siesta, for that night I had decided to go out. After my rest I got all dressed up, slapped on some cologne and headed to the gayborhood where I found a bar called Priscilla Queen of the Desert and just had to go in. Had a couple drinks there then moved on the the next bar that caught my eye, which was called GinGin, whose mascot was a twinky ginger ala TinTin. Feeling ready to dance I made my way to one of the clubs at about 12:30am, thinking it would have been going by then. There were 3 other people there. Talking to the bartender I found out it didn’t usually get started until 2am, and would go on until 6am. Friends, I was not ready for that level of aggressiveness so I cut my losses and called it a night. Maybe if I’d come 8 years earlier I would’ve been game but it was just out of the cards for me that night.

The next day was nice and slow, as it was raining off and on throughout the day and I was feeling a little hungover. I meandered through the city some more and stopped by Segrada Familia, the famous church that’s been in the process of being built for like 150 years or something like that. I’m not sure because I didn’t take a tour and I didn’t go in, but it was nice to look at from outside in the rain. At one point I got caught in a downpour so I ducked into a cafe that turned out to be filled with Netherlanders who were watching a soccer match. A couple hours spent in Cafe Rembrandt didn’t turn out to be half bad.

I’d had enough of the rain by then so I moseyed on back home to the Gothic Quarter. And it was when I started to organize my stuff for my departure the next morning that I started to freak out: I couldn’t find the knitted beanie my mom had made me that I’d brought on this trip. I remembered packing it in my backpack the day I went on my hike to Parc Guell and beyond, but couldn’t find it anywhere as I anxiously tore through my stuff. Eventually it hit me that it must have fallen out of my backpack the day before when I’d pulled my jacket out to put on when it got cold, unbeknownst to me at the time. At this awful realization I broke down and started crying. I know it’s just a hat, an old one that I’ve had for over 10 years that had started to fray at the top; but it was one of the few remaining tokens of her I have left, and it wasn’t something I was ready to part with yet. I knew at some point I would have to let it go, most likely due to it being worn beyond use; but I wanted it to be my decision to make when I was ready to let it go. It hurt to have that decision taken away from me. Granted, I’ve felt more connected to her and more secure in how to cope with my grief in the last several months, but little tokens of remembrance do help me in ways both large and small. To have one less item of comfort I can call upon to reconnect with her was a bitter loss.

Not to end my time in Barcelona on a low note, I ventured back into town and enjoyed one last meal of tapas and wine while planning the next stages of my trip. I also got some late night churros and chocolate, which were absolutely delicious and a great end to my time to Barcelona. I caught the train early the next morning and closed the chapter on the Spain portion of my trip.

Aix-en-Provence, France

The train from Barcelona to Marseille was one of the most beautiful train rides I’ve been on in my life. You pass through the Andorra mountains, which at this time of year were still snow capped while spring had arrived in the foothills and valley, contrasting with greens and yellows and pinks and reds as far as the eye could see. It was beyond photogenic, and a warm coffee and breakfast pastry on a cozy train made it even more romantic.

Eventually I arrived into Aix-en-Provence, which is just north of Marseille. It’s a cute provincial town, and I fell in love the moment I got in. It’s centered around a fountain at the end of a long pedestrian causeway with shops running down either side. I stayed in the quaintest Airbnb in town, replete with a loft and petite versions of everything, including a mini Harry Potter cupboard under the stairs. Unfortunately the rain had followed me from Spain, so after exploring the downtown area for a little bit I grabbed some groceries and food and hunkered in for the night, listening through the open window as the rain trickled through the streets.

The next day was one for exploration, as after breakfast I decided to meander around town. Eventually this led me out of town and into the countryside, where villa after villa spread out from the ornate gates branched off of the main road. I figured this must be the vacation area for a lot of (wealthy) French families, and judging by how many looked abandoned, it must have been too early in the year for them to have been cleaned out and readied for the summer. By this point I was on my 4th listen of the “Beauty and the Beast” soundtrack which was beyond fitting.

Eventually I got to a park area that afforded some good trails and views of the stunning Montaigne Sainte-Victoire in the background. Had I known the mountain had hiking trails on it I would’ve planned better to hike it, but seeing as I had stumbled on the hiking area I had found on a whim, I decided to enjoy where I was and the lovely views it provided. While walking I started talking to myself to work out some of the stress and anxiety I’d been feeling since I got back into my travels. I’ve found that being out in nature is therapy to me, and it seems a lot less crazy when I talk to myself out loud when there’s no one else around to hear. While working through my hang-ups and other issues I eventually found myself on top of a ridge that had an open view of the mountain and the French countryside on three sides. It was absolutely stunning, and it was in that moment that it dawned on me that I’m doing something no one else in the world has done before.

All my life I’ve marched to the beat of my own drum and done things my way, no matter how hard or weird or out of the norm it may have been. And nothing could be more of a culmination and representation of that than this trip. Sure, I know there have been some people in the world that have been to all of the countries I’ve been to, maybe even all of the cities I’ve been to. But I know with absolutely certainty that no one in the history of the world has done EXACTLY the things I’ve done in each of the cities, and I found it inspiring. I know it might seem braggadocious or arrogant, but it was a moment of genuine awe and respect at what I’d accomplished so far and how courageous I was to go on this adventure. And I use the word adventure in all its meaning because upon that realization I felt a connection with other explorers of the word. Granted, I wasn’t discovering any new land or ancient civilization or naming something for the first time or planting my flag in the ground. But I’ve been discovering so much about myself and what I’m capable of, and it’s inspiring to me that I’m continuing my unique path in life with this literal once-in-a-lifetime trip. To be the only person to have done what I’ve done brings me such joy and confidence, and I hope to remember that feeling on top of the ridge in moments where I might doubt myself or my abilities in the future.

I walked my way back into town, now on my 7th listen of the “Beauty and the Beast” soundtrack. I made it back as the sun was setting and I enjoyed the colors changing on the plaza as I sat down to a delicious French dinner. Had to cut it short as the evening rains came, but I didn’t mind as I was exhausted from all the walking I had done that day.

My last day started early with breakfast as I finished off the last of the finest Dijon mustard I’ve had in my life. I found it in the cupboard of my airbnb amongst the other cooking supplies, and I had it with every breakfast and dinner. It was incredible with kebabs, eggs, cheese, salami, olives, fries, whatever. I was a slave to mustard and would’ve given my life for that jar. Or at the very least taken it out behind the middle school and gotten it pregnant.

After breakfast I started wandering again, this time south of town where I found a little road that wound its way through the countryside. Found some more beautiful villas and working farms with fields abloom with wildflowers. There is something magical about France in the spring that makes everything seem so romantic and quaint that it’s no wonder so many famous painters came from France, and so many of their paintings are of scenery. Everywhere you looked could be an inspiration for a masterpiece, and I enjoyed the solitude the out-of-the-way road provided me.

I got back into town and figured I should go to one of the several art museums that were in town, it being the birth place of Paul Cezanne and all. I spent some time in one of the local museums that had a nice mix of modern and classic art and managed to make it out and home just in time before the evening rains fell again. Fortunately for me, on the time in between my country walk and the museum I had gone around town and squirreled away enough pastries to last me a week. But knowing me, I’m sure you can already guess that I ended up eating them all that night. I just couldn’t resist the call of the meringues, croissants, brioches, eclairs, madelines, and macarons. That held me over until dinner, which was another delightful French affair on the plaza after the rain had dissipated, after which I retired back home and called it a night.

So that’s it for France and Spain! I had a great time in both countries, even with all the rain that came my way. I eventually got in a rhythm of exploring in the morning and trying to wrap my daily activities up by the time the afternoon/evening rains came. And even though it left me wet and cold, the side effect of all the greenery and colors in bloom made it all worth it. It’s been a while since I’ve seen such a verdant spring, and fully dosed with allergy meds, I’ve been enjoying it immensely.

I’m currently in the middle of my Italy portion of my trip (literally on the train in the middle of Italy), which I will provide an update on in the coming days. Most likely when I’m in transit to Greece, my next stop!

Your master of puns,

Ben