Traveling the World with No GPS

ThinkExist.com Quotes

“Tourists don't know where they've been, travelers don't know where they're going.” —Paul Theroux

At the oldest of the 7 Wonders of the Ancient World

I was born with no sense of direction. What I did enter the world with is a whole lot of wanderlust. It was hardly in my DNA; my doting parents were middle-class folks whose idea of foreign travel was a jaunt up the California coast, say from L.A. to San Fran.

My plan to backpack around the Continent midway through my quest for a college degree came as a shock to my father. “If you can afford to go to Europe, you can afford to pay for your college education,” he raved. 

Rather than counter with something like, “No one will believe I went to college if I didn't backpack across one continent or another,” I called on St Augustine. “The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page,” I told my dad. He continued to fund my higher education until I earned a degree that led to a career as a travel writer.

Beautiful Budapest

In the decades since that parental debate, I've learned an important distinction. There are two kinds of people in the world: tourists and travelers. “Tourists don’t know where they’ve been,” explains Paul Theroux, “Travelers don’t know where they’re going.”

I like to think I´m one of the latter. After all, even without a GPS, what tourist would wind up in New Orleans after boarding a train bound for Mexico? Armed with a boyfriend and $500, I´d headed south in my 20s, clueless we'd wind up in the Big Easy after a dispute in Guatemala landed us in jail. Our best option, after a friend made bail, was to fly due north, to the closest U.S. city, we figured.

And so began my love affair with the world. I lost the boyfriend but remained enthralled with the planet. As in any romance, we've hit some bumpy patches. But like John Steinbeck, who took the pulse of the country he wrote about by driving across it with his French poodle, I realized, “A journey is like marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it.” Having ditched the road to marital bliss after 23 years of fruitless trekking, I had no delusions about control. So I let the universe—and a few Dutch con men—take over when I set off down a warren of post-divorce trails.

Crazy Bangkok

These journeys have cost me more than a few unanticipated bucks. And a lot of embarrassment. Indeed, those slanty-eyed stares virtually screamed “crazy farang” when I overturned a trash bin in a Bangkok hotel, sending eggshells, food wrappers and Hong Thong whiskey bottle shards across the room. But how else could I prove my innocence to a hotel clerk who tried to convince me I'd consumed mineral water (60 baht), not drinking water (15 baht), from the mini-bar—an attempted 45 baht ($1.50 or €1) heist?

Thai snacks; do they bug you?

While contemplating bins of fried insects in Chaing Mai or haggling over bejeweled camels in Cairo's Khan al Khalili, I swear I heard James Michener whispering in my ear, “If you reject the food, ignore the customs, fear the religion and avoid the people, you might better stay at home.” Although I never tasted any of the crunchy arthropods, I did buy a few golden dromedaries.

Overlooking Jerusalem

Hardly the reluctant traveler, I've always wanted to stray far from home, to learn and grow from globetrotting, taking risks and embracing the unknown beyond the land of ubiquitous Starbucks and McDonald’s. I've found plenty of American fast-food joints along the way, but I try to resist their lure until only a big gulp or a giant burger can satisfy my appetite for Yankee fare.

Even with such indulgences, I've lost inches while broadening my world perspective, for independent travel entails a lot of work. And a lot of decisions. You walk a lot and talk a lot. You call on resources you never knew you had. But it all makes you smarter and sharper, even while you're flailing about, trying to communicate with folks who speak Arabic. Or Italian. Anything but English. And engaging in commerce with cents that make no sense in a wallet familiar with American dollars. On such occasions, I remember Henry Miller´s point, “One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of looking at things.” And hearing things, I might add.

Yup, IAmsterdam!

When I finally landed in a city that made my soul sing, I pulled up my California roots for good and bought an apartment in Amsterdam. Asked why I traded sunny SoCal for a soggy patch on the European continent that might be underwater were it not for Dutch ingenuity, I quiz back, “Have you been outside today? Met any people in this chilly lowland or lost yourself along its twisting canals?”

The real Dam Square

Watching the tourists roll down Damrak in those climate-controlled coaches, I marvel at the comfort they enjoy in their plush seats, taking in the world through giant panes of glass. Escorted by a tour guide who explains, in their native language, what time the bus will depart after their prescribed visit to Anne Frank's hideaway or the stately Rijksmuseum, they hold no scrunched maps or Lonely Planet guides—reminders of confused meanders in search of must-see piazzas or must-have falafel.

Then I return to my computer and gaze at photos posted by a friend who spent three days with me on an “If this is Tuesday, it must be Belgium``-style romp. “Dam Square,” the caption reads below an image I recognize as A'dam's Central Station. Damn! I love my friend dearly and we had loads of fun when she visited. But now I know how different we are. At least when it comes to travel.

Scents, Sensibility and Holiday Magic

Scents and Sensibility

"All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware."

—Martin Buber

Jane Austen might raise an eyebrow. Unlike her Victorian fables, mine is set in Amsterdam 2010. And it's not a fabricated yarn, but rather a true tale of friendship, betrayal and ultimate justice. I aim to write and publish it as My 'Dam Betrayal, An Expat's Tale of Scents and Sensibility.

But let me set the stage for you now as I recall, for the record, its drama, violence, outrage, cat and mouse hijinks, Facebook war and even a chase up Leidsestraat in which I pursued Professor Stinky, a friend-turned-criminal, to Dam Square, where the search continued via videotape in parked Dutch Politie mobiles. Names have been changed to protect the guilty, but you know who you are.

It all began when my doorbell rang three days after I moved into my apartment in the Jordaan, once Amsterdam's district for the desperate, now the haunt of artists, intellectuals and fashionistas. It was the shoarma guy; he was unexpected. 

Mixing visuals @ Supperclub

"You did not order shoarma for 12?" the strange voice demanded. "Met garlic sauce?

"No! Nay!" I banged down the intercom.

The bell rang again, more insistently. "Hahaha," the familiar voice chirped in a Dutch accent. It was Jan, a 40-something aroma jockey I'd met through a mutual friend in 2008. An olfactory artist who mixes aromas in nightclubs, restaurants, museums and other special event venues—just as DJs combine tunes and VJs mix visuals—Jan (aka Professor Stinky) and his Ministry of Nonsense aim to make scents at dance, food, art and fashion-related parties.

"My pole," Jan moaned, caressing it.

I buzzed my friend in, chuckling at his ruse—pure Jan. 

When the elevator opened to reveal his shaggy countenance, I breathed in his earthy scent, turning my face for the traditional Dutch greeting: three kisses, alternating cheeks. He introduced me to Bill, an American expat who'd come along for the visit.

Bill

The two padded into a pool of fall sunlight. Like an alcoholic needing a drink, Jan headed straight for the pole in my living area. He wrapped his arms around it. He wrapped his legs around it. He caressed it like an object of desire. And it was! "My pole," he moaned, "my pole."

"OK, we'll negotiate," I laughed, wondering about Jan's vision. The evening ended with me handing him keys to my apartment. The deal: free room, board and PR services in exchange for decorating talent and assistance with schlepping around furniture, light fixtures and all the other things it takes to set up house and assimilate into Dutch culture.

I Smell a Rat

Howie and me at Supperclub

We embarked on a whirlwind of shopping, decorating and partying. Jan took me to A'dam's best clubs, introducing me to VJs, DJs and the world of techno-music—one that fascinated me so much, I was prepared to devote considerable energy promoting his Ministry of Nonsense worldwide. Sick with bronchitis and pneumonia, we partied on.

Alas, the signs of psychosis started early, but I could not see the red flags until it was too late. I'll save them for the memoir...along with the rest of the story about having Jan arrested at Supperclub for his stab at home terrorism, grand theft and destruction of property.

Travel Blogging in Copenhagen 

Kings Gardens, Copenhagen

Lola and Urban

In November, I traveled via train to Copenhagen for Travel Bloggers Exchange (TBEX), where I joined over 200 fellow travel writers. They included Lola Akinmade, a talented Nigerian photojournalist I met on a cycling tour in Egypt, and her Swedish husband, Urban. What a treat! The Danes regaled us with local lore, Nordic cuisine and tours of canals, breweries, bakeries, trendy neighborhoods and Christiana (Copenhagen's hippie enclave). 





Turkeys and Menorahs

When I returned, I tracked down a turkey—no easy feat in Holland—for Thanksgiving. Longtime friends Rod, Miriam and Zara Heydon; Nica (American expat/chef/sailor/luxury tour director) and her partner Christine; Bill (Hunter's Coffeeshop dealer/local bad boy) and Burt, my Surinamese friend, came by tram, foot and bike for the feast. A week later, we celebrated Hanukah with potato latkes and a menorah fashioned from votive candles. Zara's friend, Rachel, said the blessing. 

Holiday Magic
  

Nica

By Sinterklaas' (the Dutch Santa Claus) arrival via steamboat from Spain in late November, several inches of snow lay on the ground. Unlike America's Santa, Sinterklaas is quite dashing with his white mane, crimson regalia, gold crown and hunky build. But he is not so politically correct; indeed, his alliance with Zwarte Piet, the young black helper who accompanies him down chimneys of well-behaved Dutchies, has caused considerable uproar. Innocent little ones may tell you his face gets blackened with soot, but contemporary folklore maintains Piet was freed from slavery by St. Nick and willingly chose to follow him.

Amsterdam is now magnificent with holiday lights, ice skating rinks, frozen canals, snow-filled boats, oliebol (Dutch donuts) and mulled wine. But the icy stuff is deadly. So I light a fire and watch the cyclists peddle by, making me dream of California where my friends are riding in shorts and t-shirts. Rod broke his arm, slipping on the ice and numerous friends have fallen from their fiets (bikes), riding on the slick cobblestones.
 

So I'm escaping to Thailand for a writers retreat on New Year's Day. After the five-day conference in Chiang Mai, I'll spend two weeks checking out temples, hill tribes and handicrafts in northern Thailand, then explore Bangkok and southern islands. I welcome suggestions for this upcoming trip.

I look forward to seeing many California friends at the BCI banquet on January 29 and at my "Over the Hump: Egypt by Bike" presentation at the February 24 BCI General Meeting in beautiful Irvine, California. Mark your calendars!

 
If you're traveling in 2011, I hope you'll visit me in Amsterdam, where I'd be happy to share my passion for what is still, for me, the most magical city on Earth. All the best for the New Year; may you follow your own dreams, finding peace and happiness wherever they may lead you.

Life on the Road: the Deep South, Spain, Israel & Egypt

"Travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living." —Miriam Beard

After a month that’s taken me from California to the Deep South of the U.S., Madrid, Spain’s remote mountains, Israel and the Middle East, here are some observations from my life on the road as an American journalist:

• Travel as Hero has an evil twin who can sear corneas, crash laptops and wreak travel havoc with volcanic ash. Moral of the story: whatever doesn’t kill or cripple you makes you stronger (and poorer).

• On a private island off Georgia’s coast, you can romp naked on a beach, spy on resident bald eagles, daydream in a swinging bed, soak in an outdoor hot tub warmed by a fireplace, and kayak amidst alligators. Bring along a dozen friends and decompress for a week for $2,500. Order groceries online and have Captain Andy Hill deliver them by boat.

• Southern delicacies include sweet Georgia shrimp, blue crabs, oysters prepared every which way and low country boil—a savory blend of shrimp, sausage, corn, carrots and potatoes, served up on newspaper for easy clean-up.

• Alligator tastes much like chicken, as does rabbit.

• Gab with Spaniards for 10+ hours a day and enjoy a FREE vaca at VaughanTown if your native language is English. Go to Gredos, 3 hours west of Madrid for 4-star accommodations or stay in a rustic collection of houses in the remote mountains of northeastern Spain at Valdelavilla.

• Israel is a troubled land and diverse melting pot where people can be unsmiling and unaccommodating. Most telling comment, overheard on a walking tour of Jerusalem’s Old City: “Welcome to Palestine.”

• Find cheap digs at Sky Hostel and Momo's in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem Hostel in Jerusalem. Save more and gain priceless cultural insight by couchsurfing with broadcast journalist Idele Ross and her artist husband, Norman Slepkov, in Jerusalem's Arnona district overlooking the Dead Sea.

• Jews who dare buy property in Jerusalem's Muslim quarter may find themselves in prison-like conditions, under constant threat of terrorism in their own homes.

• Don’t expect to buy groceries, check into a hostel, catch a bus or even snap a picture of your observant hosts on the Sabbath in Israel, when everything shuts down. Of course, it’s lively as sin in Muslim quarters, if you care to engage in any.

• There’s no bus map for public transport in major Israeli cities, making getting around inefficient and confusing.

• Think you have problems? Visit Jerusalem's Yad Va-Shem Museum, where the suffering of millions of Jews during the Holocaust is memorialized and your schtick will seem very small.

•You can get a good burger and nice chicken in Israel, but mostly anticipate an endless litany of falafel, shawarma and hummus on your plate.

• Expect to be frisked and scanned at Israeli bus stations, malls and landmarks. Steer clear of soldiers with oozies on every corner.

• Allow 3+ hours for security at Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv. Be ready to answer questions encompassing everything shy of your favorite sexual position and what you’re going to name your illegitimate child. I arrived at 7:30pm and barely made my 11:30pm flight to Jordan for connections to Egypt.

• Hurghada, Egypt is a model for what seaside development should NOT be. On a more positive note, find great snorkeling here and stay at a sprawling resort, in a massive room overlooking the Red Sea, for $30/night, including lavish breakfast and dinner buffets.

• Don’t show any interest in any souvenirs in Egypt or Israeli souks unless you’re prepared to haggle for a LONG time. Of course, bargaining is half the fun and you can come away with some cute knickknacks for your time and trouble.

That’s it for now. Bike tour down the Nile to Luxor, starts tomorrow. Stay well and keep in touch.