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The Best

the-best

It’s no wonder why Paris is the romantic destination of dreams of so many.  It makes sense why it’s the most visited city in the world.  It is after all, Paris. Enough said.  In this city, a flakey croissant, a flawless meal, an aimless stroll down a boutique lined street, a view from the top, will invariably be the subject matter of one of those experiences of a life time for anyone who visits this city.  We come here to absorb her romance, to live out a movie scene, and to experience perfection.  We come here because it’s supposed to be the best, and it is.

Our first day we sat at one of hundreds of street side cafes at a table too small for anything more than a glass of French red wine, an espresso, and the obligatory ashtray.  We sipped and watched as manicured tourists and pretty people all dressed in blacks and grays, and checkered versions of both strolled the streets with shopping bags in tow all searching out their own small cafe table to also sip wine and waft wisps of smoke.  Afterwards we took our turn to stroll the streets of this famous arrondissement window shopping in boutiques and antique stores.  We’d pause to watch an occasional street performer or make way for a groups of annual pub crawlers dressed in team culinary costumes befitting only the French.  Later in the afternoon we’d sample baguettes until we had no room left. 

One morning before the day’s first croissants were baked, we piled into a van for the three hours journey to France’s famed northern coast.  On grassy hills abutting long strips of windswept sandy beaches we stood and listened to some of our most famous, historic, and tragic stories of war.  Down on the beach, dogs played in the water and lovers walked bundled against the wind.  Looking down from the hillside we shared a sorrow not only for the toils of the war that soaked the sands here, but for how distant, almost unreachable, that past now seemed.  We drove through country lanes where the farmhouses saluted us with the unexpected sight of proudly displayed American flags and antique vehicles of war sprouted from the gardens.  A short reprieve from the atrocities of the past was provided by a bowl of steaming freshly netted mussels and a cup of locally churned butter that left no doubt that this is still France; and France is the best.  Our last visits of the day endured a duet of tributes to the lives sacrificed by those on each side who fought for their homelands.  One was a field of nameless black stones, lined up in groups of five.  Thick patches of trees threw dark shadows on the darker headstones casting an eerie gloom through the graveyard; yet at the same time they offered a blanket of protection to the tortured souls buried beneath the trees.  We entered the American cemetery on a tree lined pathway with a lone trumpet blaring in the windy distance.  The gently sloping hillside was streaked with perfect rows of white crosses and the occasionally lit by a Star of David, most of them displaying a name, dates, and home state.  A salt tinged wind blew up from the ocean at the base of the hillside, cleansing the souls of the men resting there for eternity. 

Back in the City of Lights we continued a schedule of doing all the things a good visitor should do at least once.  We queued with the masses to ascend the Eiffel tower to walk her decks and take innumerable pictures.  A rainy morning provided a perfect day to stroll the never-ending rooms of the Lourve, all the while trying to make sense of an impossible audio guide and map.  We carefully planned our meals and ate until every Parisian culinary category had been accounted for.  We walked along the Seine more than once,  and we stared up at the Arc de Triomphe.  It was just a little too perfect. 

On our last few days before leaving the European continent we moved to an outer arrondissement.  For the first time in six months of travel we aborted an afternoon walk because we felt uneasy.  Typical Parisian austere frostiness was replaced by aggression.  Groups loitered on street corners and in front of derelict buildings.  We saw a different city, rippling with palatable tensions. 

As we flew eastward that next morning and stared down at the the world’s most visited city we wondered if the next time we came here if it would be as changed as it is in the last four years.  It will no doubt continue to be the opportunity to live out a day from a movie scene, and experience the best of the best.  Inevitably however in the world of today, with that territory comes a slew of expectations and imitations.  Trip Advisor ratings and 10 Best lists, become the de facto experience guides.  For every 10 best there are fifty abysmal examples with pictures on the menu, tour guides with umbrellas and headsets, and street vendors hawking the same keychains and light up gadgets.  It can muddle the experience of a place that is supposed to be a version of perfection.  That said, the truly unique and ethereal experiences in this city that many of us come to this place in search of are still very much there, but for most they lie just beyond our grasp; behind black tinted windows of luxury sedans, on private rooftops where the cost of entry is a at least a three figure cocktail, in restaurants with six month waiting lists that fill up in five minutes, at the bottom of bottles of wine worth more than a plane ticket, and behind velvet ropes to clubs that employ the strictest of dress codes and frustrating selectivity.  On the other side of the gap is a place that may follow the fate of Casablanca, a city remembered for an iconic romanticized past that now has the charm of a stale cigarette, where metal detectors guard the entry to public places and five star hotels, and where tensions run high.

Leaving Europe we’re not for the first time confronted with a powerful reality of travel; that expectations will always be shattered and that travel is not in fact about meeting expectations, but rather having new experiences that often make us at least a little bit uncomfortable.  As far is Paris is concerned, the best croissant may be in San Francisco, the most memorable meal belongs to Israel, and the most powerful sight to behold isn’t in the Louvre, it’s several hours north along the shores of Normandy.  Paris will however, forever be Paris, and that alone is worth going to experience “the best” at least once. 

                                                

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egeszsegere
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Egészségére

Sometimes deciding to go somewhere can be as simple as tracing a spinning a globe with a pointed finger, or tossing a dart at a map.  This trip happened very much that way, and as we’ve repeatedly discovered, the most underplayed destinations often make for the most unexpected and memorable surprises.  On a whim we decided to meet a friend here for a few days of absent minded wandering and discovery. 

The main boulevard in front of our apartment that leads to and from the river was closed off to traffic that first night.  Shortly after the sun went down we joined into a sea of people marching towards the water.  Echoing in the distance we could hear Viennese waltz music.  Behind ornate Austro-Hungarian buildings a constant cannon fire rippled off cement and stone.  As the crowds grew thicker from more people pouring in from side streets, the cacophony rose in tandem.  At the end of the block where the buildings gave way to unobstructed views up, down, and across Danube the the music crescendoed, while overhead, synchronized bombs of color exploded in the sky dancing to the rhythm.  Glittering streamers of fire raced down into the water off the sides of the bridges.  Ash and smoke twirled through the crowds standing on the shore.  With our eyes closed and craned skywards, and jaws slack, it didn’t take any imagination to fall back in time to when the flashes in the sky were real bombs, and the march music was coming from real instruments.  Budapest, it turns out, has a magical ability to drop her visitors into a semi-permanent time warp. 

Five minutes of walking through her streets is all it takes as a reminder that this place once housed one of the greatest and longest European empires in history.  The buildings display an intricate grandness that is the product of a bygone era, that has been regifted back to the people who walk through her streets now.  It’s impossible to stroll along the riverbank, the great separator of two great cities conjoined as one, and not experience the same lighthearted butterflies you’d have from a first kiss.  It left us breathless, awestruck, and euphoric.  Sometimes that same breathlessness was a gut punch that knocked the wind out of us.  Behind a chain link fence a world war two memorial of bronzed empty shoes were scattered on the river’s edge.  Concert speakers lining the sidewalk for an event later that night played an ironically poignant song about the bonds of humanity. 

We crossed a chain bridge guarded by two stoney lions and weaved through the crowds on the opposite riverbank where all the sights and smells of a celebration drifted in the air. Cold beers and homemade apricot liquor poured from taps.  A folky band played on a stage and people danced.  Giant charcoal baked apple breads dusted in cinnamon rolled off the grill into hungry hands.  Sometime later, over satiated and exhausted we lost ourselves in one of Budapest’s great institutions; a bathhouse.  Inside, fancifully tiled pools were tucked away in and endless maze of rooms.  Locals seemed to have a purpose for each one;  lap swimming, lounging for hours on end conversing, and water stretching, depending on their size and temperature.  Outside, rows of lounge chairs surrounded a wave pool that would draw splashing crowds every thirty minutes.  The three of us found our place in an adjacent hot spring and did like the locals do; soaked ourselves until our fingers were wrinkled and any worldly worries were sufficiently washed away.    

By night, the palatial persona of the city fades to black its eastern European hard edge cuts through the darkness.  Crowds from restaurants and bars spill out onto broken sidewalks smoking cigarets and clanking bottles.  Ruins of buildings decimated by a long finished war, have been deliberately un-maintained and transformed into one of several infamous ruins bars in which we sipped drinks on shrapnel tables with twisted rusty plane parts hanging from the ceiling.   Just before the sun begins to poke through the horizon as we strapped on our backpacks and left our apartment that next morning a few groups of friends sat still swirling the dredges of last nights beers, half an unopened pack still in front of them and no intention of going anywhere anytime soon; still lost in the alluring vortex of Budapest.  So are we. 

                

haha-whatever-i-dont-know
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Haha, Whatever, I Don’t Know

The cab driver from the airport spoke just enough English to ask us where we were from, comment on the weather, insist that we eat a few dishes we’d never be able to pronounce, and we visit a whole list of places that all sounded like Hephaestus (which we also couldn’t pronounce).  Five minutes in, and it seemed we were already smack in the middle of any Greek comedy movie.  We were dropped off at the edge of an empty dingy alleyway where the cab driver pointed towards the end and summarily sped off.  At first glance, if this were an empty street in the middle of San Francisco, we probably would have opted not to walk down it with all our worldly possessions on our backs.   Graffiti covered ever visible vertical surface.  There were no lights, and aluminum gates barred the entry to every building.  It took some searching to find our apartment key lockbox camouflaged into the aerosol painted landscape.  Up a poorly lit stairway humming with that chilling sound of nearby open electrical currents, our situation wasn’t looking much better.  Once inside the door however, the veil was lifted, the wand waved, the genie blinked, and our Greek pumpkin transformed into Zues’ chariot.  Views of ancient Athens stretched from wall to wall and floor to ceiling.  The apartment was larger and more modern than any New York city shoebox.  On closer inspection, the street graffiti below looked not just appropriate, but artfully and intentionally placed; like someone’s tattoo that you can’t help but gawk at.  Hanging over the street, easy to miss by day but now lit up in the early evening, were rows of festive and colorful paper lanterns.  The gated buildings, turned out to be trendy bars and restaurants that would come alive with a circus energy at night.  We didn’t know at the time, but over and over Greece was going to tell us that things are not as they seem here. 

Our two travel partners joined us that night where we stayed home to create our own Greek feast and watch the sun set over the world’s most mythological city.  Almost immediately an infectious laughter sparked up, and didn’t stop for the next eleven days.  Requisite historic walking tours, inclusive of stick drawings in the dirt completed, we escaped to an accidentally discovered locals only rocky cove on the coast.  Above it, beachside seafood restaurants sat empty, waiting for the crowds there were sure would come.  A few hundred yards away the jumbo inflated kids water fortress drifted empty.  The four of us splashed around in our own isolated bubble of Greek paradise, save for a few local couples as old as Hephaestus, watching us with equal parts confusion and amusement. 

A short puddle hopper touched us down in the romantic blue and white tiled isle of honeymoon dreamers everywhere; except that we were’t honeymoon dreamers, we were four friends looking for a beach and some adventure.  And that blue and white tiled island of a Hollywood movie set? It turns out that version of Santorini was just that, only as big as a facade movie set.  Our southern chunk of the island looked as if someone had hit the pause button during the set construction and everyone came to a slow halt at different speeds. Afternoon sunlight pierced through abandoned empty cement frames of round roofed houses and hotels alike.  Ghost staircases led nowhere.  On the beaches tourist restaurants peddling souvlaki and mojitos survived a bit longer, but unlike the southern shores of France, these places were were basically giving away the beachfront lounge chairs and umbrellas.  Where most second and third world countries of southeast Asia might be inexpensive tourist destinations, Greece has managed to draw a very distinct line in the sand between its costly tourist market and a crumbling country for everyone else. 

For us, this meant a week of exploring both faces of this new Greece.  Afternoon excursions might take us on scenic drive past skeletons of sea view mansions to a guidebook recommended secret beach only to discover it windblown and abandoned.  But instead of a busy beach, we found our own private sunset.   Evenings were spent in one of two bustling tourist villages perched high above gentle waters and gleaming yachts.  Shoulder to shoulder with other tourists all looking for the same evil eye jewelry, we’d laugh harder and join in the fun.     Back at our beach view home away from home, we’d pass the hours on the rooftop deck chairs sipping homemade cocktails that were appropriately colored for an island vacation watching the sky turn shades to match our cups.  The next morning we’d wander down to our favorite beachfront breakfast bar accompanied by some now familiar local dogs; a chain-cigarette-smoking-captian-hat-wearing old timer, and fiery greek waitress who would give us the homemade jewelry off her wrist. 

On our last day we set sail for an afternoon tour of the island’s coastline.  With a well practiced efficiency, numbed to the joys of their job, the deckhands laid out the rules and retreated inside to prepare lunch.  We drifted through the afternoon on the netted bow of the boat, miles away from the group just five feet away from us.  We followed the parade of other tour boats around the island, stopped for a swim in volcanic hot spring coves, and snorkeled in enormous schools of fish who had discovered that a sure supply of bread would be tossed form the stern of a sailboat about once an hour. With blueberry yogurts in hand at exactly 8:11 that evening we crested the peninsula of the island for a grand finale of a golden sun setting over the Aegean sea.  Four minutes later we effortlessly docked at port and ushered ashore, sunburnt, tired, and happy.  The reality in Greece is vastly different than the version that fits within the confines of a 5×7 postcard, or efficiently doled out to tourists who still come to relive a scene from a Hollywood movie set.  After all nothing in Greece is as it seems.  For the four of us however, neither of those versions of Greece are the ones we’ll remember.  A wise man once told us that the beauty of travel is that no matter who goes there after you, or before you, the experience you have can never be re-lived or re-created.  The beauty of this trip were not the beaches we walked upon, or the seas we swam, but rather the company we kept and the echo of laughter that stays long after the sun has set.

                                         

spanish-summer
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Spanish Summer

The difference was immediate and distinct.  A stiff wind dried and cooled our bodies that had oscillated between sticky-damp and profusely dripping over the past two weeks.  On the beaches burkas were replaced by bikinis, or even lack thereof.  Tuna tataki stepped in for tagine, and the imams call to prayer was muted by the fast finger plucking of guitars in bars.  If Morocco was our cleanse, then Tarifa was our reward.  Sitting on the beach that first night we watched the sun whip with the wind over the horizon towards home.  In front of us was the gateway to Europe.   Only later did we discover that this place was world famous for its wind.  In the moment however it was famous to us, simply for resembling something close to a return to familiarity and normality. 

Liberated by fresh air we swapped in our bus tickets for a set of car keys and took to the Autovia.  Our first stop parked us in the wine country of Rhonda valley in the heat of wedding season.   A short walk away dipped into the valley itself and left the crowds behind.   We sauntered though small vineyards on dirt paths; crushing stray grapes beneath our feet.  The smell of dry hay and musky wine casks hung heavy in the hot air.  A secret trail wound us up a deep ravine through abandoned stone watermills with caved in ceilings draped in sun drenched ivy, and collapsed floors open to the  storming whitewater below.  We burrowed deeper along the hillside, where it seemed only rebellious teens and pioneering homeless had gone before, until we popped out at the base of a waterfall from the land before time.  Although famous to many for it’s venues with views, Rhonda will always be famous to us for the world’s best caprese salad. 

For the few days we practiced our best high society look alike lifestyle in the charming and all too popular old streets of Marbella.  Endless boutiques lined the streets with racks of all white clothing, next to equally endless restaurants packing the sidewalk with all white tablecloths.  Fourth of July docked us in deck chairs at an ever famous beach club while an American hits cover band played cheesy classical rock ballads on the stage over the pool and all the pretty people jammed along on red, white, and blue blow up guitars.

Our costal tour detoured inland with a stop in an ancient city famous for its Alhambra, the last defeated stronghold of the Moors.  We toured its manicured gardens and dazzled at its boundless fountains finding an excuse to take a photo or two.  By night the city is best enjoyed by foot, tapas hopping from bar to bar accompanied by a glass of dark vermouth and a diminishing sense of direction.  Being lost after dark could never be more fun. 

Back on the coast, and in search blue water, we set our heading for a national park, infamously the only qualified dessert in Europe.  We lugged beach chairs and an umbrella through baking sand dunes for miles, often running from swarms of furious bees, desperately in search of our private paradise.  When we finally got there, our eyes burned from sweat and sunscreen, and our feet blistered from sandy sandals.  While we may not have been the only people that day to find our perfect beach, the experience was no less special. 

When we ferried away from North Africa in search of our own clear blue freedom we unknowingly sacrificed a different sort of freedom.  Gone was the isolation of standing on a rooftop over the medina listening to the call to prayer and watching the sunset.  From here on our sunsets would be viewed shoulder to shoulder with the entirety of summering Europe; cigarettes and all. 

 

 

the-middle-of-nowhere
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The Middle of Nowhere

A cancelled flight, missed connection, and unscheduled ferry ride make this hard to reach place in the Azorean Islands seem further than it already is; but that’s also the point, to feel far away from it all.  Sitting in folding metal chairs drinking cheaper than water beer while looking out at the final port of call before the transatlantic route for the many the sailboats in front of us; we’re periodically blasted with the overripe salty stench of hardcore-recreational sailors.   At the tables next to us we can pick out strings of Dutch, Italian, French, and Portuguese.  The walls around the port are painted with flag sized commemorations of earlier conquests. On the bow of a boat in the distance an amateur trumpet squawks into the breeze.  It notes are rusted from days at sea and it sings that nobody ever arrives here, they only pass through.  

Our next island is roped with black volcanic stones piled into six foot high walls that criss and cross over the evergreen landscape.  As fast as the earth could spew them out, locals would stack them and rack them.  In the fields of green and gold between the walls, every color of cow grazes on tall grass.  Knotted roads twirl through small oceanside villages where the white plaster cottages are speckled with brown cow spotted stones.  Tourism hasn’t discovered this corner of the planet yet.  Shops sell only the necessities and nothing more.  Dinner is taken at a reasonable hour; influenced by a history of early risers for the daily catch or harvest.  On one hand, it’s invigorating to have such an authentic and untainted experience.  On the other, we could make a killing on a taco truck here. 

That first night we befriend a local guide who hosts us at his restaurant that evening where he feeds us fish in every form.  The next morning he brings us to a holy festival where we share a traditional meal packed into a community hall with every member of the town.  Later they parade in the streets.  That afternoon he takes us on a tour of secreted ocean coves and backyard wine bodegas.  During the summer he says, dolphins and whales infest the glassy waters.  Today, it’s just us. 

The roads on these islands whip and wind higher and higher into lands before time.  White fog swallows us up and spits us out again on top on an ethereal lake of half baltic blue and half limey green.  We stop for a quick paddle through the whimsical water and then continue on our way.  The end of the island gives way to sharp volcanic cliffs which we traverse down towards a tucked away tidal cove.  Volcanic steam creeps out of the searing black rocks that line the shore.  In the cove we cling to lengths of rough rope and let cool sets of virgin ocean water roll over.  On each ebb the water comes back warm,  inflamed by a deep and distant part of the planet below.  Here we stay, far away from everything; and close to the beginning.