Really Long Travel Day, But Home!

Monday was the last day of my two month epic journey. It felt really good to be getting back to recognizable territory, and I had no idea that two months of travel would make me miss home so much. Traveling was wonderful, particularly at the beginning of my trip when I was full of energy, but by July I had worn down, and even the best of travel destinations I was willing to trade in for a home-cooked meal and some familiar faces.

The final piece of my journey was not going to be easy. Given Barcelona's status as a non-hub airport, and given the high airfares to Europe this summer, I needed to sacrifice convenience to get a flight within my budget. Tracking gyrating flight prices in April made me a little nervous, and when I saw Orbitz advertising Barcelona to Dublin to Boston to DC for a couple hundred dollars cheaper than the next closest option, I frantically clicked "Buy Now", purchasing the first flight of my journey. As a friend put it, "You're either brilliant or insane for booking the last leg of your trip first."

As I had managed to arrive in Barcelona as scheduled, the stars were aligned for me to arrive home on time! Let me provide you with the play-by-play commentary I wrote down during my 24 hour travel day:

06:05 Central Eastern Summer Time (UTC+2): I am woken up by Australians returning from a late night out in Barcelona. Bloody hell. At least I'm not going to miss my morning flight. Love them or hate them, the Australians definitely take the crown for heaviest partying nationality I encountered on my trip.

06:55 CEST: I check out of my hostel, strap on my money belt, and venture out vigilantly into the pickpocket infested streets of Barcelona.

07:55 CEST: I arrive at "El Prat" airport, well in time for checking into my 10:50 flight. There's no one yet staffing the Aer Lingus counter and a queue has formed.

08:20 CEST: T minus 2.5 hours to the flight, and still no agents available for check-in. When I had booked the flight, Aer Lingus was teetering on the verge of bankruptcy, and I hope that there isn't a labor strike today that I didn't get the memo on.

08:25 CEST: I make friends with the family of 4 behind me in the queue, who are also transferring to the Boston flight in Dublin. They finish their day with a 90 minute drive to Maine, and have been on a 3 week cruise in the Mediterranean. They ask about my trip and I mention that I have been traveling around the world for two months. The father, slightly unimpressed, comments, "I did something like that once for a whole year...started in India." Once again my trip has been outclassed.

08:30 CEST: Some airline agents appear but no one is being checked in yet. The Maine guy speculates that it's their first day and they therefore need to be trained. Indeed it does appear that the delay is due to someone needing instruction.

08:45 CEST: Passengers finally start getting checked in, and I'm relieved that I will have time for a leisurely breakfast at the airport.

08:50 CEST: My discipline for getting to the airport early is rewarded with a window seat in the exit row for my first flight. As the New Zealanders say, sweet as!

08:55 CEST: I start my day off with a delicious jamon bocadillo, a fruit cup, and a big water.

09:20 CEST: I have some euros to burn and need a pick-me-up. I order a cappuccino.

10:15 CEST: Boarding for the Aer Lingus flight to Dublin commences by walking onto a bus and riding to an Airbus A320 in the middle of the tarmac. We are really out there.

10:20 CEST: My exit row window seat is blocked by two teenage Irish girls who don't seem to understand that seat "C" is on the aisle. I don't enforce my seat assignment and take the aisle seat, promising in my mind to be very passive-aggressive if either of the girls dares to use the restroom during the 2 hour 10 minute flight to Dublin.

10:50 CEST: Airborne for flight #1, on time.

12:05 CEST: I awaken from a nap. Pull my iPod out from my bag, as I'm in serious need to listen to some America-inspired music. Homesickness has hit a crescendo. I have a fair bit to choose from, such as "American Woman" by the Guess Who, "American Boy" by Estelle & Kanye West, and "American Idiot" by Green Day.

12:30 CEST: I move to "Born in the USA" by Springsteen.

12:40 CEST: Now listening to Jimi Hendrix's "Star Spangled Banner". Realize why old people in the 60s hated hippies.

12:50 CEST: Pilot's announcement about impending arrival to Dublin. I feel the need to fire up some Irish music on the iPod, and switch to the Cranberries.

12:15 Irish Summer Time (UTC+1): Arrival at Dublin airport.

12:20 IST: Disembark the plane via stairs and observe that summer has temporarily ended. It's overcast and 17 degrees C (63 degrees F). Am glad I am wearing long sleeves.

12:25 IST: The boarding area at Dublin Airport is one of the worst I've ever seen for what is not a small facility. I take a long walk to my connecting gate down a tight crowded hallway.

12:27 IST: I'm amused by the use of the Irish language on all the airport signage, as I thought everyone in Ireland spoke English. I've never visited Ireland (besides the airport of course), but am I wrong?

12:30 IST: I see that I will need to clear passport control, odd as I'm not leaving the airport and I traveled between EU nations.

12:36 IST: I officially enter Ireland and receive yet another stamp in the old passport. Very friendly Irish agent directs me to the Aer Lingus transfer desk.

12:40 IST: Receive my boarding pass for the Boston flight and instructed that I need to report for boarding in 5 minutes, despite scheduled departure not being until 14:00. Bah. Plans for lunch in Dublin airport are thwarted.

12:45 IST: Long trek towards my connecting gate.

12:50 IST: The airport quality has improved considerably beyond passport control, and I'm now passing lots of good restaurants and Guinness pubs. Dammit. I really want to catch my US flight, though.

12:55 IST: Finally reach my gate area, and see that I will actually need to clear US passport control to board my flight. Novel pre-clearing procedure -- I had only seen this in Canada before. Fill out my customs form and proceed.

13:02 IST: I officially leave Ireland after a 26 minute stay. DHS agent comments, "You've been to a lot of countries on this trip, haven't you?"

13:05 IST: "Entering the US" consists of gaining access to a cramped holding pen with people waiting around for the Boston departure. Walls are plastered with information about "The Irish in America", "Emigration from Ireland", "Contemporary Irish America", and "Ireland and America in the 21st Century", containing pithy statements of important knowledge such as, "Emigration from Ireland to the United States is a long established practice."

13:10 IST: I need some food and water, but all I see are a couple vending machines and a tiny cafe. I enter the latter, purchase a Danish and a bottle of water. Rings up to €4.59, and for the first time in my life I receive back the €0.01 coin. What a piece of rubbish.

13:30 IST: Receive notification from the gate agent that she apologizes for the brief boarding delay which is due to a "minor" technical issue. Update promised at 13:45.

14:00 IST: The "13:45 update" arrives 15 minutes late, and we have bad news. The flight is delayed and we won't receive another update until 14:45.

14:15 IST: I fire up the iPod again and turn on "Zombie" by the Cranberries, because I feel like one now.

14:20 IST: I need some American music again. iPod switches to John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads".

14:30 IST: The airline gods had been so friendly to me for the past two months. Had taken 20 flights and each was within an hour of being on time. And I hadn't lost my backpack despite needing to check it each time. My luck appears to have finally run out.

14:40 IST: I realize I now stand little change of making by 18:02 connecting JetBlue flight in Boston, and run through the scenarios in my head of what to do if I get marooned in Dublin.

15:00 IST: "14:45 update" arrives late to inform us that, in fact, they have no new information and will update at 15:15.

15:05 IST: I've reached my breaking point. In need of food, drink, and psychological relief I head back to the cafe, by now picked clean of almost all food items. To alleviate all 3 ailments I choose a bottle of Guinness, which appears to have been placed there for precisely this scenario. There probably hasn't been a run on these because you just don't get that full Guinness experience from a bottle.

15:10 IST: Guinness rings up at an outrageous €5.50 ($7.09). Feels even more extortionate considering it's brewed just down the road, it's served in a bottle without a widget, and I don't even get a glass to pour the beer in. In spite all this, the Guinness is still pretty refreshing.

15:15 IST: For once we receive an update on time. We're now promised a 16:30 departure with boarding commencing at 15:50. Relieved that at least I will end up in the US tonight.

15:20 IST: With my foreign currency balance dwindled to €2.26, I decide I need to clean out. I finish my Guinness in the cafe and hear a guy at the counter order a bag of chips for €1.40. I decide that's what I want and I jump back in the cafe queue, which is now quite long.

15:30 IST: Still standing in the cafe queue, chatting with the American in front of me. Turns out he lives in Appleton, WI and went to college at UW-Madison. A Badger connection! He also knows someone in my incoming Darden school class -- when I meet Veneet in a couple weeks I should tell him I ran into his college buddy Taej at the Dublin airport!

15:35 IST: Taej and I order the final two bags of chips. I drop my residual €0.86 in the tip jar as the poor cafe lady looks exhausted.

15:40 IST: Have entered airport hell. The United States on Irish soil is pretty terrible.

15:55 IST: We finally start boarding for the Boston flight.

16:00 IST: A lot of ads for the New York PD covering the interior of the jetbridge to board the aircraft.

16:50 IST: The captain apologizes to us for the lengthy delay, which he attributes to a supply truck barging into the original aircraft. As the damage couldn't be repaired the solution was to bring us a new plane. I don't see how this qualifies as "minor".

16:55 IST: Aer Lingus flight 137 bound for Boston has taken off!

17:20 IST: I've locked in the window seat in a favorable 2-4-2 configuration, but my seatmate has now entered the "demilitarized zone" by laying full claim to the armrest and digging his elbow into my side. I once again promise some passive-aggressive fury if he needs anything from me on this flight.

18:00 IST: First movie I select from my in-seat screen is "The Last Station", a new movie about the end of Tolstoy's life. It's confusing.

19:40 IST: First film ends. Still 3.5 hours to go before we land.

19:55 IST: Shift to TV, and start watching an episode of HBO's "Entourage". Hadn't seen it in months -- great show!

20:00 IST: These shows are all preceded by several minutes of advertising for Irish restaurants located in midtown Manhattan. I didn't realize there were so many. Too bad we're landing in the wrong city.

20:15 IST: Halfway through a hilarious "Entourage" episode guest starring Matt Damon. Are there any women actually named "Sloan"? This has always bothered me about the show...

20:30 IST: Show over, time for a bathroom break. Still 2.5 hours, ugh.

21:30 IST: Watch episodes of "Frasier" and "Family Guy", then fall asleep for another nap.

22:15 IST: Awakened by in-flight meal service. Devour a cheese scone.

22:45 IST: An episode of "30 Rock".

18:30 Eastern Daylight Time (UTC-4): We arrive at the gate in Boston! Technically, however, I've already been in the US for 10 hours.

18:40 EDT: Am thankful that my backpack is one of the first bags to pop out of the luggage carousel, and that I won't be greeted by an interminable line at passport control.

18:45 EDT: Stuck in the bowels of Logan Airport, again at the Aer Lingus transfer desk.

19:00 EDT: Thankfully Aer Lingus has rebooked me on a later JetBlue flight scheduled to depart at 20:20. Switch terminals and check in seamlessly to my third flight. That was easy.

19:10 EDT: Sit down in food court for a quick meal so I'm not starving when I arrive at home. Order my first burrito in two months. It's huge! I need to get re-acclimated with American portion sizes.

19:30 EDT: 20:20 flight has already been delayed to 20:40. Call my mom to let her know -- this day just won't end.

20:20 EDT: We have a plane on the ground here but no crew, which is still airborne on a flight from New York. Boarding has been delayed until 21:00.

20:30 EDT: I'm getting really tired -- it's already 02:30 Barcelona time, and I slept 4 hours last night.

21:45 EDT: JetBlue flight to Dulles airport finally taking off. My re-booking onto the later flight has forced me into a middle seat, but I really don't care. So tired.

23:05 EDT: We land in Washington! So close to ending my day.

23:25 EDT: My backpack pops out yet again...22 for 22 on my trip! Somehow Murphy's Law hasn't struck yet again -- it's not as if today's 3.5 hour delay crippled me.

23:30 EDT: My mom is at the airport almost immediately to pick me up. Greets me with a big hug.

0:05 EDT: 24 hours after waking up, I've finally reached my mom's house. Home sweet home! My mom wants to tell me about everything that's happened over the last two months, and I need to shoo her away so I can sleep.

Barcelona – City of Contradictions

The final stop on my world tour was the romantically alluring city of Barcelona, Spain. Though I had looked forward to this stop for months I was now like a rock star on his last legs, desperate to get home. I had 4 days and I looked to make the best of it.

I was done with vapid Ibiza and needed an infusion of history and culture. One of the important old European cities, Barcelona certainly had both to offer. Unfortunately Barcelona also has enough urban grit to deter the squeamish. Every guide I referred to screamed about the city’s rampant pickpocketing epidemic, and it also has its fair share of poorly lit dodgy streets to be fearful of at night. You see a lot of graffiti and most shops fence themselves off after closing. At times Barcelona was one of the most beautiful cities I had ever visited, and at other times it was one of the sketchiest.

One of the first things a visitor notices upon arrival at Barcelona’s airport is the trilingual translation of all the signs. There’s English, there’s Spanish, and there’s something that looks French or Italian – must be Catalan. It’s a common misperception that Catalan is simply a dialect of Spanish; it’s very much its own language.

I took the airport bus to the city center at Placa Catalunya, then raced to the Metro subway and made sure to cover my pockets. With all my stuff on me I felt very vulnerable, and my eyes darted back and forth as people approached. The Metro tunnels are unbearably hot in Barcelona. Lugging around a 25lb backpack, I broke quite a sweat.

I checked into the Mambo Tango hostel on Poeta Cabanyes street and appreciated the cool air conditioning on a hot summer afternoon. Despite being only 100 miles away Barcelona felt much warmer than Ibiza, and I understood why people in Spain embrace the afternoon siesta. I embraced it myself with a nap.

I woke up feeling much better and made my way towards the Parc Montjuic, a big hill overlooking the city, which was also the home of the 1992 Summer Olympics. Really beautiful – if all of Barcelona was this pretty I was really going to enjoy the place. The old Olympic stadium had a great classical architecture and was very well done – must have hosted a terrific games 18 years ago.

I walked a little further to a building that looked like a palace. “What could that be?” I wondered. It looked like a palace for a great kingdom, but no! It was an art museum! The Museu Nacional D’Art De Catalunya. An absolutely massive structure…how could they possibly find enough art to fill it all?! Being on a hill, the art museum provided a great view of the city – no skyscrapers like many European cities but a couple important buildings do stand out (more on that later). Also a grand view overlooking the Placa Espanya.

By the time I was walking back to my hostel it was getting late, a little after 9PM. Perfect time in Spain to eat! Spain’s timing is unusual for Americans – you eat late, you go out very late, and don’t try to get any errands done mid-afternoon.

I wasn’t super hungry, and there was a famous tapas place next to my hostel. Would have been the perfect introduction to Spanish cuisine, but there was a line out the door, leaving me to scamper around looking for the next best option. After wandering around the block for awhile I poked my head into a bar and sat down. The bartender was an Asian immigrant so I felt safe using my 20 word Spanish vocabulary with him! I recognized “chorizo” on the menu and tried to order it, but it came in two forms. I went for the “bocadillo” variety, and was pleased to see a sandwich come out of the kitchen. It was tasty too, and washed down with a local Estrella Damm beer my total only came out to €5. Great success!

My next day started at the museum of the world-famous FC Barcelona at their stadium, the Camp Nou. Though I’m game for all things soccer, this museum does more than just describe a sports team – it also showcases the Catalan identity and the sometimes violent struggle it has had with the Spanish national government. The club’s Catalan slogan, “Més Que Un Club”, translated as “More Than A Club”, highlights the club’s history as a symbol of Catalan nationalism and pride during the dark days of the Spanish Civil War and the totalitarian Franco regime.

The stadium tour is cool – you get to sit in all three tiers and check out the club president’s box, the finest seats in the house. You then get to walk through the players tunnel to the field and imagine walking out to play in front of 98,000 fans. There are all sorts of cool interactive video exhibits and I think you can watch every famous Barca goal ever scored.

I headed from there back to the Placa Catalunya, more fun now that I didn’t have all my gear with me. Right off of there is the famous La Rambla, one of the most vibrant streets to be found anywhere. It contained all the cheesy tourist souvenir shops that I needed to visit, as I hadn’t yet purchased anything for my family and I couldn’t return from two months of travel without bringing gifts! The street also has a wide array of street people in costume, pet salesman (you can purchase anything that fits in a cage), and of course pickpockets! Walking back to my hostel I got a little lost and stumbled upon what I believe was a street full of daytime prostitutes. They started yelling at me in English and I ran away real fast!

When you travel you meet people, and sometimes they have a way of popping up again. Remember Pam, the friend I made in Hong Kong? She was in Europe on business and heading over to Barcelona for some sightseeing, so she's back in my blog!

After Pam arrived Friday evening we went out for some beers to catch up, then needed to find some food in a foreign country. Sadly my Spanish was even better than her’s, which meant we would have problems! Along the same street where I had been the night previously we walked into a different bar, this one with a picture menu. I picked out a couple tapas and started to try to order in Spanish. Again the waiter was Asian, so when we hit a communications snag after my 20 words vocabulary was exhausted, Pam starts speaking to the waiter in Mandarin. They have a perfectly fluent conversation, and soon food appears! So lesson learned; if you speak Spanish OR Mandarin, you’re fine in Barcelona!

We capped the night off with a beer at a place popular with absinthe lovers and which probably hasn’t seen a paintbrush in 30 years. We got lost looking for a second bar and were guarding ourselves tightly on the dreary urban streets around La Rambla – I’m really glad my hostel was in a safer-looking area.

On Saturday, Pam and I woke up early to catch a free walking tour of the Old City. We started in Placa Reial and wandered a couple hours in the historic Gothic Quarter, learning the histories of Barcelona and Catalonia along the way. This included the majestic city hall and regional parliament buildings, the Barcelona cathedral with its 13 white geese, and Roman ruins.

We stuck to the Spanish schedule, eating their typically big lunch and then retiring to our lodgings for afternoon naps. When we woke up, we returned to the Parc Montjuic and took a cable car ride to the Castell de Montjuic, a big fortress built to protect the city in the 17th and 18th centuries. Though we were too late to go inside we were perfectly timed to see a superb panoramic view of the city near sunset.

We stumbled down the big hill and were heading in the direction of the waterfront when we heard music. We walked towards it and found an exciting street festival! The music was accompanied by “gigantes”, giant mannequin-like figures of traditional Catalonians propped on the shoulders of people who make them dance up and down to the music. Pam and I didn’t quite understand what was going on; a local told us that this was a traditional neighborhood festival.

After a tasty dinner we walked to the Columbus Monument, then along the marina where a pack of racing sailboats where stowed for a regatta. Passing by the aquarium we walked to Barceloneta, the city’s beach neighborhood. Pam and I were disgusted by what we saw – easily the most trash-filled beach I have ever seen!

My final day in Barcelona began with another free walking tour, this one of the buildings by the world-famous architect Antoni Gaudi. His buildings defy traditional form and are uniquely his own – almost every famous residence in the city belongs to him.

Our Argentinean guide showed us the famous residences of Palau Guell, Casa Batilo, and La Pedrera. We learned that what are now some of Gaudi’s most famous works were highly controversial when first constructed.

The tour ended at Barcelona’s most famous landmark of all, the Sagrada Familia cathedral, 125 years in the making and still going! The construction has long outlived Gaudi, but his architectural legacy lives on to this very day as modern contractors try to assemble his intricate masterpiece.

Another long lunch and another nap followed. When we reconvened, Pam and I headed for the final two big landmarks we hadn’t seen – the Parc Guell and the Magic Fountain.

Parc Guell was also designed by Gaudi, but would have been too vast for a 3 hour walking tour. It is, without question, my favorite of Gaudi’s works. The best part is an elevated terrace held up by classic pillars and lined with mosaics. The stonework here is very colorful and appealing to the eye.

We took the long walk from the Parc back to Metro. On the train halfway to the Placa Espanya stop a man boarded screaming "STOP IT! DON'T YOU EVER DO THAT AGAIN!" The use of English was surprising, but the man was a tourist, and he held out his finger to point at a stone-faced woman who had just boarded the car and taken a seat. "SHE TRIED TO PICK MY POCKET! SHE'S THE ONE!" We all sat there dumbfounded, not sure what to do. I can see why a city would have a pickpocket problem -- this incident illustrates how hard they are to pin down -- but I can't understand why the problem would be so much worse in Barcelona than other cities. A greater cultural acceptance of thievery??

The Magic Fountain, a nighttime event at the art museum, is visually catchy. Not as good as the Bellagio fountain in Vegas but similar idea – moving fountains set to music against a stunning backdrop.

Having seen both the good and the bad in Barcelona, I’m now intrigued by Spain and would like to see how Madrid compares. Spain can be difficult for an English speaker, so before I make my next trip I need to improve at my Spanish speaking!

Ibiza Trance

Before trying out "real Spain" I headed for the Balearic island of Ibiza (aka Eivissa), Europe's equivalent of Cancun.

Ibiza is known as a hedonist's paradise. It is flocked to for its summertime club scene, which I will admit to an American feels very foreign. This place is best avoided by the prudish -- just look at the club advertisements at the airport. One was called Amnesia, presumably because, maybe under the influence of a hallucinogenic substance, you want to forget what you did there the night before. Another club advertised a Thursday night party whose name I cannot repeat here, but was something along the lines of getting intimate with another person because of his or her fame and notoriety.

Not being a hedonist myself, my first thought upon landing was, "What on earth am I doing here?" (this was followed shortly by, "Where the heck is my bag?"). Well, most things are worth trying once, and I wanted to see if I could peel the onion to get underneath the Spanish party capital.

In late evening I checked into a hotel with favorable online reviews on Playa d'en Bossa. I was disappointed to discover I was paying $100/night for a small, sparsely appointed room in a hotel with the aesthetic appeal of a Best Western.

Though online reviews were accurate that one couldn't hear the famous dance club across the street, they failed to mention that the hotel was directly underneath the flight path to Ibiza's airport. Bah! How did they know I was hoping to be woken up by the 2AM Ryanair flight from London? At least I had a balcony with a view of the beach, and thankfully I had packed my earplugs.

One thing my hotel did offer was free breakfast and dinner, which was useful as Playa d'en Bossa has only the lowest quality of fast food and pub fare. The buffet food was mediocre and I felt like I was dining in a school cafeteria, but it did fill me up.

A definite positive of my hotel was its location next to the beach. So I slapped on some sunscreen, packed my towel, and looked for a nice spot to stare at the Mediterranean.

Unlike Croatia's rocky offerings, Ibiza's beaches are full of smooth sand. Playa d'en Bossa is long (a 45 minute walk end-to-end) and lined with accommodations. The seawater is a bathtub temperature. Woo!

I found a strip of sand to lay my towel on and joined the Europeans in their worship of the sun god. The weather was nearly identical to Croatia -- endless sun and warm but not too hot. Humidity a little higher but not excessive. The beach would be a pretty good place to catch an afternoon siesta except for the constant air traffic -- a parade of planes from pretty much all of Europe's numerous discount carriers pass over throughout the day.

Fearing I might be contracting a sunburn (which really isn't possible when you're wearing SPF 50), I took a walk to find a place to plop down under an umbrella. I found the perfect spot -- an English-speaking beachside cafe with a tasty bacon avocado sandwich, a refreshing Spanish white wine, and WiFi! (so important when you want to blog!) With nothing else to do except return to the sun to lay down, I lingered in the connectivity-friendly cafe for awhile.

Though the sun didn't set until 9:30PM there was still a fair bit of time to pass before Ibiza's renowned club scene gets going. As I was travelling alone I was in no mood to pre-party. Thankfully I had a TV in my hotel room, allowing me to catch up on my world news courtesy of BBC and entertain myself with an episode of "Two And A Half Men" dubbed in Spanish. Buenas noches, Charlie Sheen!

There was no definite plan for my Tuesday evening, but I thought at the appropriate time (certainly no earlier than 11PM) I would take a walk around and see if anything fancied me. In the meantime I dozed off, and when I woke up I decided I enjoyed sleep far more than going out. Yes, sometimes I am lame, but it's my vacation...I do what I want!

After the Wednesday morning breakfast buffet I decided I needed to get away from the beach and walked an hour to Ibiza Town. There's nothing really cultural about the island, and it's not as if anyone cares, really. Most of the young Germans, Brits, and Spaniards follow a repetitive cycle of sitting in the sun, eating, clubbing until sunrise, and sleeping in between.

Nonetheless, I had seen what looked like a fortress past the beach, and sure enough I found it, the Dalt Vila. Before the island of Ibiza was a place for young Europeans to become party zombies, it held strategic importance in control of the sea, so therefore this fortress was built. It was a good climb and offered a good view of the beach and town. I patted myself on the back for a token effort at doing something cultural.

After another bacon avocado sandwich at my favorite cafe it was back to the beach for me. In the afternoon the beach was full of people, so I got some good people-watching in. Some people were out wind-surfing, others kicking a soccer ball or playing a game like ping-pong at waters' edge. And yes, since it's Europe you see a fair bit of female topless sunbathing. All this paired with the incessant beat of club music on the beach, and even a few paid professional dancers.

Also patrolling the beach are disco representatives offering discounts to nightly shows at the various clubs. I received a wristband to the club Space, the big club across from my hotel. The ticket offered free admission if I arrived before 11PM, so I figured if I woke up from my early evening siesta I would give it a visit.

My nap ended around 10:30PM but I wasn't ready to head to the Space club yet -- felt too early by Spanish standards. My wristband offered 15€ admission between 11PM and midnight, and having read that to also be the approximate price of one vodka lemon I decided it would be better to walk the streets for a bit.

This paid off. More wristband dealers roamed the streets near my hotel, and hiding my Space wristband in one pocket I was able to receive another with free entry until 2AM. Sometimes, if the right DJ is in town, these club passes are like concert tickets, costing up to 50€ just to get in! I figured it wasn't going to be a good party at Space, but at least I would get to experience it on the cheap, and it was in an extremely convenient location.

So I caught another nap and woke up a little groggy at 1AM, just in time for clubbing. I walked over as is, in a polo shirt, Adidas shorts, and flip-flops. Had absolutely no problem getting in -- Ibiza really doesn't have a dress code.

Space is divided into two rooms -- a smaller lounge with Europeans yawning at their drinks, and a much larger room with the DJ and dance floor. I headed there and landed in a pit of hyponotically twisting bodies moving to a robotic thumping bass underneath flickering lights. It was pretty dude-heavy, about a 2:1 ratio. Though many of the girls dressed up the average guy was wearing shorts, a T-shirt with something written on it, and Adidas shoes. Not much great dancing, but enough fist pumping to fill an episode of "Jersey Shore".

I took in the scene and came away bewildered as to how this could be a good time. The music was dull and uninspiring -- again maybe I was at the club on a bad night -- and though the venue was large I didn't see anything exciting like maybe a fog machine or balloons or something. Maybe they save such pyrotechnic displays for the 50€ nights.

After 90 minutes I was content that I had seen enough, and I wasn't looking to sustain further hearing loss by staying at the club until dawn. I walked the short distance back to my hotel, confused but at least not a eurocent poorer.

Croatian Riviera

I spent last week on the Dalmatian coast in Croatia and can affirm what all the travel magazines say is true -- in summer, this area is one of the most beautiful places on Earth.

I started my trip by staying up all night in Istanbul to make a 6:40 AM flight (ugh), but despite being slightly out of sorts the journey was all worth it when I touched down in the sunny coastal town of Split. Seeing the town nestled between mountains and sea, I was happy to have had the window seat for this flight.

I took the bus to the center city, walked along the marble boardwalk along the harbor (the "Riva"), and found my hostel nearby. After checking in I met a girl transiting through the town briefly on her way home to Australia, and we headed out together to find one of the beaches near town.

The beaches in Croatia are almost all rocky, but with every day seeming to have perpetual sunshine and dry heat no one seemed to mind. The sea water was somewhat mild near Split, but this would not be true further south.

After swimming the two of us grabbed dinner and took a tour of pubs in the Split old town, sampling Croatian beers Karlovacko and Ozujsko and also the Slovenian beer Lasko Zlatorog. Ozujsko is a little bitter for my taste but I enjoyed the other two. Croatians like their beer -- you sometimes even see people with beers in the morning, sitting and sipping in outdoor cafes or parks. It's cheap too. Unless you're in a tourist bar (and hence being overcharged) you can expect to pay 20 Croatian kuna (about $3.50) for 0.5L of the local draft brew. Delightful!

My new Australian friend was gone the next day as I explored the old town of Split on my own. It's compact, very walkable, and very clean. By far the most prominent feature of Split is Diocletian's Palace, built by a Roman emporer as a place for him to retire. After 1500 years most of its former glory has been lost, but you still see some cool archways and the bell tower is a nice climb -- not for those with a fear of heights!

The rest of my Wednesday was pretty lazy. You can see the Italian influences in Split all over. I spent the day eating pizza, sitting in one of Split's ubiquitous outdoor cafes drinking coffee, and dined on a cuttlefish risotto for dinner. I like how you can just sit indefinitely in a restaurant or cafe after the meal is over without being bothered -- actually getting a bill can be difficult!

To burn some calories, I hiked Marjan Hill, a protected bit of green space near the city. It gives quite a view. In the evening I found some more cheap beer, watched the World Cup semifinal, and finished off with some tasty cheap ice cream.

On Thursday morning I caught a catamaran bound for Hvar town. Croatia's coast is dotted with islands and I wanted to sample a couple.

Hvar is even more beautiful than Split...a fancy harbor with an awesome hilly backdrop and all sorts of fancy yachts docked in the harbor. Other travelers described it as a mini Monte Carlo.

I had booked a bed in "Villa Skansi" on Hostel World and expected the place to be a little beach shack, but in fact the name did not lie. The house was like something out of Beverly Hills! I couldn't believe that $25 could get me something so luxurious, or a terrace with a view.

After lunch I spent my afternoon partaking in a great European tradition...sunbathing! On Hvar you take your beach towel and lay it on your favorite rock, hopefully one which fits the contours of your back. If you get too hot you can plunge into the chilly water, but beware for sea urchins!

It's interesting how different attitudes are between Europeans and Chinese regarding sun exposure. Europeans can't get enough of the sun, and will lay interminably until turning the color of a lobster. On the other hand, on a sunny day in Shanghai you would see an array of umbrellas burst out, protecting the porcelain complexions of its citizens. The girl from Hong Kong who I met in Dubai even had a "whitening cream" which she used on her face in the evening!

My night in Hvar started with dinner, more ice cream, then some time staring at all the yachts in the harbor. Rumor has it that Eva Longoria was on one of them, and someone staying at my villa claimed to have spotted her at the disco the night before.

I returned to the villa for evening drinks on the terrace and met a group of Australian expats living in London. We left for a big night out which ended at the aforementioned disco, a massive outdoor party lounge situated in a medieval castle. Quite the party spot, but don't arrive before 2AM!

After a late night it was hard to awaken to check out of the villa on Friday. I booked onward ferries, took a long breakfast at the harbor with the Australians, then headed up the hill to a fortress atop the hill overlooking the town. There was nothing in the fort, but there didn't need to be as it possessed a fantastic view of the harbor and the nearby hills.

After some more time in the endless sun I took a late afternoon catamaran to the small town of Korcula, alleged to be the birthplace of Marco Polo. His house no longer stands here but a tower has been erected in its place, and of course no trip to Korcula is complete without visiting the Marco Polo store!

Korcula is small but I wasn't staying there long, using it as a transit point to the city of Dubrovnik on the southern end of the long Croatian coast. The ride on the automobile ferry was much slower but equally scenic. I spent three hours sipping a beer while gazing at the hills shooting out of the sea.

In Dubrovnik I was greeted at the ferry port by a big friendly Croatian named Ante, whose guesthouse I had booked for two nights. More expensive than a hostel but totally worth it. My room was both luxurious and spotless, and Ante spent a thorough 15 minutes explaining to me everything to do in the old city.

Ante gave me a ride to the Dubrovnik old city and wow, what a sight! It's exactly my vision when I think of a medieval fortress. Stationed on a cliff overlooking the Adriatic, the imposing walls make every visitor stare and take notice.

Dubrovnik is far more touristy than Split, and for good reason. Nothing against the latter, but Dubrovnik is simply amazing. Even after sustaining a Serbian shelling in the 1991 Croatian war of independence, the old city remains remarkably well-preserved, or at least reconstructed. The inside of the city hums with tourists, and I found Americans! "Semester at Sea" was in port that weekend, so 740 college kids were in town. After traveling for so long out of the homeland, I actually wasn't saddened to see a few.

I cruised the streets for awhile then ascended a long flight of stairs to walk around the city walls. This is a must-do if you ever visit Dubrovnik...the views can't be beat.

Circumnavigating the city took about 90 minutes, getting me to dinner time. After so much climbing I had worked up a serious appetite, and I downed a whole pizza and a big salad. A meal fit for two, but hey, sometimes I try to play the part of fat American!

Saturday evening marked the beginning of the Dubrovnik Summer Festival, a 6 week celebration of the performing arts. That night the streets of the old city were teeming with police to protect the dignitaries attending the opening ceremonies. I did not pull enough rank to get a ticket, but I did get outside the city walls in time to see the celebratory fireworks display. After missing 4th of July in the US I'm glad I didn't go a whole summer without seeing some! I finished my night by listening to some of the live Croatian music.


Sunday was another easy day. Ate a little too much at a portside seafood restaurant, then visited the small green island of Lokrum to walk off the meal. It's a peaceful island with no inhabitants, no cars, and a few peacocks. At the top of the island was a small fort with a decent view of the old city. I walked back down and past several beaches, including a nudist one! I did not partake, but I found a different rock nearby in the sun.

In the evening I found a seat in the Buniceva Poljana square to watch the World Cup final, Spain vs Holland. There were far more supporters for the red side than the orange, and it felt like the old city was a giant Spanish pep rally! Bars surround the square and with plenty of TVs the square was packed with soccer fans. Bedlam ensued when the Spaniards scored their late goal to win the trophy. The Spanish victory cheer rang throughout the city -- "Campiones! Campiones! Ole Ole Ole!"

Croatia was absolutely wonderful. I barely saw a cloud over six warm days and the Croatian people were very welcoming. It would have made for a brilliant end to my trip and I'm ready for home now, but I can hang in for more week. Who knows, maybe Spain will be equally amazing.

Table for one?

Several people have asked me if I'm bothered by travelling alone. For the most part, travelling alone is great -- you get to set the agenda, the pace you want to travel, the budget. You're not building a consensus with anyone and no one's feelings ever get hurt. You are the decider.

But it sometimes isn't as great. Though you're slightly more vulnerable when traveling alone, few things have struck fear in me. There's one big exception, however -- the nightly ritual of walking up to a sit-down restaurant and asking the hostess, "Table for one?"

You see, traveling doesn't need to be a social activity. Sure it can be a lot of work to get decent pictures in your camera which actually have you in them, or maybe you walk around for several hours without actually talking to anyone.

But, see, dining is a social activity, especially dinner. Few things bring people together better than food and drink. You can't avoid making time for it, so you might as well share the time with other people. This principle is ingrained in just about every culture worldwide.

Breakfast can be as easy as a takeaway pastry and lunch can be a simple sandwich or a la carte entree. These meals can be taken casually and the solo diner feels welcome.

But dinner is different. In the US it's the big meal of the day, and though other cultures sometimes focus on lunch I haven't adopted this mentality -- takes too much time away from seeing things during the day.

Sometimes in big cities, you can slip into a takeaway restaurant, saving your wallet and preventing social awkwardness. In tourist destinations, where the locals tend to eat at home, you're forced to dive in somewhere less accommodating.

There's a method to finding an appropriate dining destination for the solo diner. Fancy restaurants just aren't worth the splurge. From the restaurants that are left, you don't want to sit in a place that is empty. Though the restaurant staff should be grateful for your presence (they usually aren't), the silence is deafening, and you have lowered yourself to a restaurant that no one else deemed worthy of patronage.

The key is to find a restaurant that is moderately full, but has ample spare capacity such that you're not feeling guilty about partially utilizing a 2 person table. Unless you're really splurging the solo diner is worth less to the restaurant than a couple, and if you're preventing a couple from sitting down the restaurant is looking to churn you out of there.

You also need to beware for what I will call "the Valentine's Day effect". You know that feeling women tend to get on V-Day when they realize they're not in a relationship, and therefore aren't receiving dinner or chocolates or flowers or anything nice? If you're in a restaurant with young couples at candlelit tables, and you're just the solo diner...not a good place to be. That chair across from you is shouting its emptiness at you, and your PDA radar amplifies several notches. You try hard to keep your chin up, hope no one notices your solitude, and end the meal as soon as you're no longer in need of sustenance.

Dinnertime is one of the few situations where I have welcomed the street hawker. If a restaurant is begging for my token business as a solo diner, they have saved me the awkwardness of asking for a table. Not my fault if I'm boxing out that party of 4 at the door.

I'm perfectly content with myself and not one to get lonely, and traveling hasn't changed that. So save for dinnertime, or perhaps the occasional evening when you want to visit that "it" nightclub you read about in your travel guide, there aren't too many times when solo traveling is a problem. And you do meet people, especially staying in hostels, meaning not every night will be uncomfortable.

Istanbul, not Constantinople

Why did Constantinople get the works? That's nobody's business but the Turks...do do doo...doo doo do do do do...

Aside from letting myself fall for a tourist scam (read scam posting as I won't recount here) Istanbul was a lovely, exciting city. Though my trip there was tainted, I did end on a good note.

I arrived at Ataturk International Airport on Thursday evening and after bearing a long queue at passport control and a longer, nerve-wracking wait for my backpack at baggage claim, I took the bus to Taksim Square, the heart of today's Istanbul. My first observation was that it's REALLY HARD to find your way around. There are almost no signs naming streets, and even with a map it still took me an hour to find my hostel. And this only happened because of the kindness of a local who, seeing me with a backpack looking bewildered, pointed me in the right direction.


I was staying at the Stray Cat hostel, very appropriately named as there seem to be outdoor cats everywhere in Istanbul. I've never seen anything like it. Dogs are far less popular with the Turks and are far outnumbered by the cats. My hostel owner had three cats of his own and they would roam free on the streets with all the other cats when they weren't sleeping on the hostel couches. If you have a cat hair allergy, you may want to stock up on Benadryl before visiting Istanbul.

I started Friday with a really delicious and free Turkish breakfast at my hostel -- Nutella, bread, yogurt with sweet jam, tomatoes, cheese, and these devilishly good spinach pastries. I then caught the tram to the old city.

Much like Rome, Istanbul is a very old and historically important city. It was the capital of the eastern part of the Roman empire for almost 1000 years before being captured by the Turks and becoming the capital of the Ottoman Empire. As the only city in the world which physically spans two continents (Europe and Asia) it also serves as a meeting point between Christianity and Islam.

I started at the Aya Sofya, a place which perhaps best epitomizes this blend of religious traditions. Built by the Byzantines in the 6th century, this was the largest cathedral in the world for several hundred years, then in Ottoman days was hastily converted into a mosque. After Ataturk's secular revolution in the 1920's and 30's, the mosque was converted into a museum and is now open to the public.

Aya Sofya was impressively huge, and is very old, but I don't think is nearly as impressive as St. Peter's at the Vatican. It does contain some interesting Christian mosaics, uncovered by archaeologists as the Ottomans covered them in plaster, but they look a little sad as at first glance it looks like they are falling apart.

I then headed to the nearby Blue Mosque, a more recently-built and still active house of worship. It takes the name from the blue tiles which decorate it's interior. Unlike Malaysian and Emirati mosques, those in Istanbul are more open to receiving visitors outside of prayer times. The mosque is really cool looking from afar but not spectacular on the inside, though pretty good. I didn't get much time there as I snuck in just before Friday mass (the Islamic holy day) and was soon kicked out.

Next to all this are the Yerebatan Sarnici, cisterns used for filtering and storing water underground during the Roman times. Contains rows and rows of Roman columns underground, with enormous carp swimming around under your feet. Also a nice temperature drop as you descend. Pretty neat thing to see.

After lunch I visited the Topkapi Palace, the home of the Ottoman sultans for 400 years. Topkapi Palace was underwhelming on the inside, but the gardens in the courts were very nice, and I got my first great view of the Bosphorus. Does contain several items belonging to historical religious figured including a sword belonging to the Islamic prophet Muhammed.

I walked from there to the Suleymaniye Mosque, supposedly very impressive on the inside but closed for restoration. Again, despite having a map this was very hard to find, and I mostly navigated by using the sun as a compass. On my walk I took in the delights of Istanbul street food. There's an abundance of vendors selling corn on the cob and these rings of bread covered in sesame seeds. Neither are amazing but both make very good and cheap snacks while walking about.

In the evening I watched the World Cup matches and ate at a good kabob place on Istiklal Caddesi in Taksim. This area is a really cool pedestrian street and with neighboring side streets seems to stretch on forever, and is packed with Istanbulites out for a night on the town. I would have loved to settle in with a traditional Turkish water pipe but being alone this didn't seem like an option.


On Saturday morning, I headed to the ferry docks to catch a cruise of the Bosphorus Strait. The boat trip takes you north from the city, almost to the Black Sea. I recommend this as a must-do if you visit Istanbul. The trip north takes about 90 minutes and Istanbul's hilly landscape dotted with mansions and mosques overlooking the coastline.


Rather than waiting around three hours for the return boat trip to the city, I boarded a bus back to town, getting off in the Besiktas neighborhood so I could walk along the coastline. For lunch I ate a traditional Turkish "kumpir", a big baked potato. I ordered mine stuffed with all the fixings, including ham, pickles, corn, radishes, ketchup, and spices. A ton of food and I felt comatose afterwards.


I spent a couple hours from there walking along the coastline, taking in the lovely waterfront on a perfect summer weekend afternoon. Reached most of the districts along the coastline -- Besiktas, Ortakoy (which has a gorgeous little mosque by the water), Kurucesme, Arnavutkoy, and Bebek. They appeared to be the wealthy suburbs of Istanbul -- lots of nice cars and cafes. Many people were out fishing or walking around. Really relaxing.

The two suspension bridges crossing the Bosphorous are also really cool to look at. Not quite as great as the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco but still picturesque. It's no surprise that the most famous nightclubs in Istanbul are placed underneath the first bridge, with a view.


There's a lot of national pride in Turkey. I saw the red Turkish flag with its crescent moon and star flying everywhere along the water and on boats. I think there's even more flags here than in the US, a place more patriotic than most. Also a lot of statues and images of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, the founder of modern Turkey in the 1920s. When I tired from walking I drank an Efes beer at an outdoor pub -- a large picture of Ataturk staring at me from the window.

So my visit was going quite well until Saturday night, which was of course quite the painful buzzkill. You can read about it below but needless to say I wasn't much in the mood for being a tourist on Sunday.


To break up my day of walking between police stations I walked to the Galata Tower for a view of Istanbul. There was also a movie crew outside the tour filming some Turkish film, hopefully Oscar-worthy.


Sunday evening was far better. A few Australians at my hostel insisted I go out with them, as I needed to celebrate my country's independence. Feeling better safety in a group but still on guard, we headed back to the Istiklal Caddesi nightlife area and sat down at a cleverly named bar, Beer House, for some 50 ml glasses of the local Efes beer. It was packed for a Sunday and tons of fun. There was a Turkish band playing and locals out of their seats dancing. We also tried some of the mussels that we saw other tables eating -- delicious! Shells were stuffed with rice and if you see a street vendor in Istanbul selling "midye" you should definitely give them a try.

On Monday morning at the hostel breakfast I met Borge and Linn, a couple of self-proclaimed social activists who claimed they were trying to brainwash me with their "Socialist propaganda". Nevertheless, we became friends and decided to head out together for a day at the Princes Islands, in the Strait of Marmara off the coast of the Asia side. So we took a bus from Europe to Asia (!) and from there boarded a ferry for the islands.


The islands were gorgeous! We had such a great day out there. Linn had a Turkish friend to show us around named Hikmet, who spoke fluent English (uncommon in Turkey) and insisted that I was a doppelgänger for someone from his Anatolian hometown named Seljuk. I figured with my green eyes that I wouldn't fit in Turkey but Hikmet said no one would believe me if I claimed to be American.

We disembarked on the Burgaz Adasi island and it was terrificly quiet as there are no automobiles allowed, but plenty of horse taxis! We walked around and picked wild plums along the road. Lots of big, beautiful homes on the cliffs overlooking the water, the second home escapes for Istanbul's wealthy. Taking in the view of Istanbul we headed to a small rocky beach, rented some chairs, and sat down. Water was very cold for swimming!

After the Norwegians got their fair share of sun we went for soda and tea, then caught a ferry to the Asia side. The boat was flocked to by seagulls used to being thrown bed by the ferry riders, some even catching the bread flying in midair. Not good for Borge, who has a fear of birds! (blame Alfred Hitchcock)

When we landed in the Kadikoy district our destination was a restaurant called Ciya, renouned for bringing the tastes of eastern Turkey to Istanbul. Even our Turkish friend didn't know all the plates we were eating, but they were all delicious. A great meal. We finished the night with a water pipe (nargile) and Hikmet taught us how to play backgammon, a game the Turks love to play in pubs and cafes.

So my trip to Istanbul ended well and I made some new friends along the way. It's a fine city and you'll stay safe there if you exercise common sense.