Day 418: Otavalo

Before making our way across the border into Colombia, we stopped for two nights in Otavalo, Ecuador. Otavalo is a little town that is most famous for it’s markets every Saturday morning and early afternoon. As we walked through town last night, I knew I was going to enjoy our short stay here. While the Ecuadorian coast was nice, and the historical center of Quito very pretty, I think the beauty of Ecuador lies in it’s small towns inland, or in the mountains. I loved Mindo, I had a feeling I was going to love Otavalo as well. It made me feel a little bad we spent most of our time in Ecuador studying Spanish instead of traveling around more smaller towns! We spent the morning at Otavalo’s main market, and then the afternoon searching down the Peguche waterfall outside of town.

It seemed as if the entire city shut down and morphed into a giant market. Granted, the city wasn’t that big, but when all of the streets are suddenly covered in tents and stalls selling everything from skeins of yarn to gold bracelets to pre-Colombian statues to slabs of pork on a plate for a quick lunch it felt huge and delightfully overwhelming. Andrew and I strolled around taking it all in, taking pictures, and seeing what was for sale before we bought anything. We could have bought small and unbreakable things, but we went straight for the pre-Colombian statues (some of which you can see below). More specifically, Andrew wanted them. It’s official. I have rubbed off on him. At least when it comes to buying (and subsequently having to carry around) breakable, slightly heavy and hard to pack souvenirs.

We’ve also seen reproductions based off of Ecuadorian artist, Oswaldo Guayasamín‘s work throughout Ecuador. They were everywhere. In our guesthouses, in restaurants, even on the walls in our Spanish school in Quito. I was hoping I’d be able to find a few prints or hear more about the artist before we left Ecuador. Fortunately the market offered lots of reproductions and we were able to hop from stall to stall pricing out different ones we liked and eventually decided on a few that our future walls simply will not be able to live without. Done shopping, we strolled through the food market (always one of my favorite areas of a market) and took pictures before ducking into one of the restaurants for lunch.

The outskirts of the market offered quieter streets which made it relatively easy to sneak back to our room to drop off our newly acquired art before trekking out of Otavalo to check out the Peguche waterfall. We took a public bus and got off at the suggested stop, but we felt a little lost wandering around a much smaller town with no clear signs of a waterfall.

We were also told it was a weaving capital of the area surrounding Otavalo, but we quickly found out this simply meant there was one shop with very pricey rugs and tapestries inside. I was more impressed with the street art. This little tiny two street town with hardly anyone walking through it offered up some incredible murals. Even in Otavalo offered equally impressive public art.

Even though we asked for directions, walking down this dirt road we were a little skeptical if we were heading in the right direction. There weren’t any signs, no other tourists, so when some locals walked past us, we simply followed them and were relieved when we found ourselves at the entrance of the park and winding trail towards the waterfall. Anxious to catch a public bus back into Otavalo before dark, we didn’t linger in the park too long.

Instead, we walked to yet another small town that wrapped itself around the outskirts of Otavalo in search for the bus or perhaps a taxi if we were lucky. Eventually we were told where we could go, and before the sandflies consumed my exposed legs entirely, we were back on a bus towards Otavalo and heading back to Taco Bello (yep, you read correctly) for another taco salad.

Day 413: Mercado Artesanal La Mariscal

Back in Quito after our weekend away, we went right back into Spanish lessons in the morning and exploring (and sometimes studying) in the afternoon. We stopped off at the Mercado Artesanal La Mariscal thinking it would be a bit… more than it was. After so many months of traveling, I think tourist markets like this one have lost their charm on me. I noticed this in Peru, with my Mom. She would be bout it bout it walking into a souvenir store or a market that was geared towards tourists. If you haven’t noticed by now, Andrew and I tend to prefer the markets that make your nose wrinkle a bit in reaction to the not so fresh smell of butchered meat. A market should have fresh produce and locals shopping in it. If the only customers are tourists (or travelers if you will) you’re in trouble. In my very humble opinion, if a market is clean and orderly, chances are you’re not going to find something unique, and you’re definitely not going to get a good deal.

I recently was talking to my Mom about bargaining. She’s not the greatest. At least, she wasn’t in Peru. She explained that she knew a few dollars to someone in Peru meant more to them than it did to her. I agreed that she was probably right, but pointed out that she hadn’t been traveling around the world for over a year, and she had to think of other travelers and their wallets, not just the woman selling scarves in the street.

“Just buy more souvenirs instead of spending more for than you should for one!” I insisted. If I really like a vendor, I won’t bargain hard, but I’ll still bargain. It’s usually expected, and sometimes it’s considered rude not to (not all the time, keep in mind). I might even buy two of something instead of one, or sometimes I’ll leave a little tip.

I love bargaining. Not necessarily because it gets you a cheaper price (even though of course what’s easiest on my wallet is always good), but because it’s a way to interact with a local. Sometimes it’s a way to practice a language. And sometimes it’s just plain fun. Unless, of course, you really really want something and you know your bags are already fuller than full. (Which obviously happened to me. a lot.)

Day 368: Our first day in Cusco

Another day… after another overnight bus. Turns out trains in Peru are crazy expensive. As an alternative, we’ve started booking the “luxury” seats on the buses. We boarded and were totally thrown by the big lazy-boy style seats with individual screens and a selection of recent movies on tap. And then we realized the sound didn’t work. Our flight (er, bus?) attendant didn’t seem to care. We slept. Mostly. And then we were whisked away to bed in Cusco at five in the morning. A couple of cold showers later and we were walking around town. Friends and family have raved about Cusco. I can see why. It’s charming and full of Incan architecture, women dressed up in traditional clothes walking through the streets with baby lambs and llamas, and even an…”INCA!” The little girl below was SO excited to see the Inca that she not only screamed, but ran up to him and wrapped her arms around him. It was like a little girl back home seeing Santa for the first time. In a word, it was adorable. I couldn’t resist turning around to try to get a picture of it.

Our plan for the day was quite simply to walk around. We even paused outside of the Inca Museum debating if we wanted to go inside, until we reminded ourselves we hadn’t planned on doing anything other than walk around the town, acclimate ourselves to the altitude, and take it easy before we made our way to Machu Picchu.

Andrew and I are positive we could have saved a lot of money on this trip had we brought along a tent. However, I’m not so sure I would have been able to sleep so soundly atop a tuk-tuk in the middle of a busy afternoon in Cusco!

I barely remember taking this shot of Momma in the market. I think I shot it from the hip as we were walking through, but boy am I glad I took it. I really love it. What you can’t see is that she’s looking out of one of the doorways of the market (which lit her perfectly) to the street surrounding. I don’t know what she’s looking at, but I love that I caught her observing Cusco while so many people are going about their business around her.

I could not get enough of the colorful clothing. If I didn’t have enough to hang up on walls I don’t have, I would have gotten one of these beautiful dresses just to hang up! They really are works of art! (I’m also still kicking myself for not getting an embroidered hat in Cabanaconde a few days ago. Again, just to hang up on my wall as art. I should have known better to pass it up when I did…

While we were waiting on Momma to buy something (again) I couldn’t take my eyes off of this nun. She didn’t move from this position, maybe didn’t even look at something else the entire time we were waiting. I wondered what was on her mind and shot this picture from the hip as well, probably talking to Mom at the same time about what color tablecloth or blanket she should get.

And then, a little dress-up action happened.

We were on our way back to our hotel when Mom got tricked into going into a shop along the way. While she was trying to decide what color or what size or what to get in general, one of the shopkeepers dragged me and Andrew in and proceeded to play dress up. And then for good measure, stuck a giant penis in Andrew’s hand that he seemed to grow quite fond of. (I mean seriously, why is it in every picture?) Putting these pictures on the blog is likely to lead to me receiving an email from my Mom. “I can’t believe you posted those pictures!” Well, believe it Momma! I did! And don’t tell me to take them down, because chances are I won’t have any internet to do so later! (Love you!)

Day 365: Chivay

Chivay was supposed to be the stopover, not the main attraction. Yet, I was delighted it proved to be anything but a stopover. Momma actually stayed behind at the bus pick-up until we realized she would probably enjoy the market and streets surrounding that were full of character. As much as I enjoyed the quietness of Cababanaconde, it was a little too quiet for me and lacked the character that Chivay more than made up for. We were only there for about two hours, but had a really great time walking through the market, eating sautéed alpaca (and what we found out was jello with cool whip on top), and photographing women with llamas while we waited for our bus to Puno in the afternoon.

On our way out of Cabanaconde it was hard to say goodbye to Colca Canyon and it’s surrounding fields despite being for the most part dried up during the winter months.

Once we got into Chivay, we were surprised to see these statues lining one of the main streets (just outside of the covered market). Some of them seemed very friendly and welcoming, but seriously, what is up with the dude in a mask who looks ready to come to life and decapitate me? It reminded me of some Mexican wrestling, but who knows if I’m anywhere near what he really represents!

I couldn’t resist these adorable ones eating ice-cream while I waited for Andrew to run back to gather Mom and our things. I tried to ask for permission and I think I was granted it, but the little one in the middle seemed perplexed. I only wished my Polaroid wasn’t buried in another bag so I could give it to him to give to his mother afterwards.

We wandered through the market, stopping to eat alpaca meat and buy only a few blankets, tablecloths, and scarves. The alpaca is slightly gamey, but good and with a squirt of lime, I highly recommend it. If nothing else, you won’t find a cheaper lunch otherwise! While Andrew and I sampled the street food, we lost my Mom as she ducked in and out of stores faster than we could take turns sharing our snack! We eventually found her again, helped pick out some gifts for some family members and continued walking through the market more for fun than for buying- at least, that’s what Andrew and I thought anyway! When we emerged, we found the most adorable baby lamb laying down in the middle of the sidewalk. Of course, we fawned over it (me and momma) while Andrew went in search for more street food to taste.

I asked how much he (she?) cost and tried to convey how much I wanted the little bundle of adorable (I mean, seriously, who wouldn’t?) but then explained that I didn’t have enough room in my bag. I think (key word: think) everyone understood and was amused by my willingness to take the little thing with me… if only I could (and Andrew… and my mom would have let me!)

On our way out of the market area, I also couldn’t resist taking a photo of this woman and her llama. Usually I try not to participate in photos for profit- something that we’ve encountered often during this trip, but I couldn’t help it after I saw a few tourists take a photo with the llama and then not give the woman a little tip. It’s a no brainer that if someone is dressed up or standing with an animal that they are there to make some money. It felt a little disrespectful watching others take photos but then walk away pretending they didn’t know any better. I took a few photos, disappointed the woman wouldn’t at least look at me during the process, but then put a couple soles in her hand as I shook it, thanking her for her time.

There were a couple of options getting from Chivay to Puno. We decided to take the slightly more expensive (and more comfortable) option after our unfortunate longer than anticipated adventure from Arequipa to Colca Canyon a couple of days before. A “3M” bus boasted a more touristic ride from Chivay to Puno with a few stops at the highest point in the Andes, a lake full of flamingoes, and at the highest lake in Peru. It was worth it- not for the stops, but for the comfort and the coca tea we were promised at the rest stop. I don’t normally get car-sick, but as I quickly found out, I do get altitude-car-sick. It’s not fun. Fortunately, coca tea helps.

When we stopped at the highest point in the Andes en route to Puno (and Lake Titicaca) my head hurt and I was feeling a bit squeamish, but got out to take a look around thinking the fresh air would help. We were greeted with a cold fresh air and surrounded by little stacks of rocks that we were told were prayers built by the Peruvian people. All of them were built as high as they could go because the closer to the sky they were, the more likely the prayers were to be granted.

We stopped off briefly at the highest lake in the Andes (so we were told) with just enough time to take a picture and then climb back on the bus. Everyone talks about adjusting to the altitude in Cusco, for the climb to Machu Picchu, but they seem to skip over the fact that Puno is higher than Cusco, and that Cusco is higher than Machu Picchu. They also seem to skip over the fact that driving from one of these places to the other is the worst part. My advice? Drink a LOT of coca tea. Take an asprin. And be prepared to feel like you’re slightly hungover.

Day 360: Miraflores; This is it?

Miraflores is a district in Lima. It’s the weathiest, and according to Wikipedia, “Miraflores is known for its shopping areas, gardens, flower-filled parks and beaches.” We walked through two lovely parks, and through some tourist markets, and then through a LOT of gated apartment buildings with heavy security to the Pacific. It looked as if there were beaches down below the cliffs we were perched upon, but it did not look like the kind of beach I would want to hang out on (read: cold and windy) and I had to assume that I was missing something- that we were missing something.

What is there to do in Miraflores? What were we missing? Is there more? There has to be! What do all of these people in ritzy (I’m assuming) and expensive apartments do here? Bottom line: I didn’t see much. Admittedly, because it took so long to navigate through the traffic to get from one side of town to the other, we didn’t have longer than half of an afternoon to explore, but I certainly didn’t leave with that wistful “Oh man, I wish we had more time here!” feeling at all!

I couldn’t pass up this freshly painted garage in the market. Momma was busy buying something for someone (little did we know then that this would be her favorite thing to do) so I made Andrew stand in front of the door so I could photograph him. I keep teasing him that he’s going to have a pretty solid modeling portfolio by the end of this trip. Except, that he’s wearing the exact same three outfits throughout all of the pictures.

The park on the cliff overlooking the Pacific that we walked to is called the Park of Love. In the middle of the park is a passionate sculpture titled “El Beso”, by Victor Delfin. It seemed to be popular with young couples. Momma made Andrew and I pose for a picture in front of the sculpture. Obviously we posed just like the sculpture. Just kidding.

Day 350: Montmartre et Marché aux Puces de St-Ouen

When I was on my high-school exchange trip through France, Montmartre was one of the highlights. And not only for the rats running across the metro tracks either! (Those were/are hard to forget.) Once we climbed the stairs from the metro stop to the top of the hill, this little niche of the city felt even more magical than the rest of the city (which is almost hard to believe possible). Paris on a whole, has always kept a special hold on my heart because of this trip. It was my first one abroad. It was with some wonderful classmates who turned into equally wonderful friends. I’ve since shared the same wonderful city with friends from college, my momma, and now, even Andrew. It felt right that we would spend our last day in Paris exploring Montmartre, taking our chances yet again, with another free walking tour company.

First stop: The Moulin Rouge. Just the outside of it… But I have to admit, I’ve been inside to see a show and was aghast when our guide mentioned how expensive tickets were! He mentioned tickets being around 200 euros! I nudged Andrew, insisting it was a good thing I went when I did. Upon closer inspection, however, it’s possible to get tickets for just 50 euros (without dinner of course.) Our guide explained the past of Moulin Rouge, once owned and operated by prostitutes who later figured out they could raise their skirts without putting out and make just as much (and these days more)? All of the current dancers are formally trained in dance and it’s highly competitive to work at the Moulin Rouge. Speaking from experience, their training shows, and seeing a performance while you’re in town is well worth it.

We began our ascent up the hill. Remember Amelie? This is the cafe where she worked! We took a few pictures, and kept going on our way. It seemed like everyone inside was a tourist and no one seemed to mind the photographs being taken over and over again of the façade… At least, I don’t think…

We kept going up, past the house where Van Gogh lived and his view of Paris (which you can see below). Our guide assured us the view has not changed since he resided here. He then took the liberty to talk about how dismayed all of the residents of Montmartre are with the amount of tourists and tours that roll through every day. He continued on (and on and on) about how his friend could no longer afford to live in the area and was moving to Spain. Andrew and I agreed after, as we were on a tour OF Montmartre, it probably wasn’t the best timing to complain to tourists about the amount of tourists in same area…

The Moulin de la Galette is a windmill that was operated to make flour for a certain galette (brown bread) which became very popular. Le Moulin de Galette was established for those living (or coming to) Montmartre for wine, bread, music… in other words, a good night out. Renoir’s famous Bal du moulin de la Galette is a depiction of life at Le Moulin! Currently, it’s one of the two windmills still standing (but not operating) on Montmartre.

Next stop: Lapin Agile. We were told this cabaret wasn’t always known by this name. It wasn’t until an artist asked the manager if he could exchange a painting for dinner (maybe a few drinks?) one night. Yet again, according to Wikipedia: Andre Gill painted the sign that was to suggest its permanent name. It was a picture of a rabbit jumping out of a saucepan, and residents began calling their neighborhood night-club “Le Lapin à Gill”, meaning “Gill’s rabbit”. Right across the street, a small fenced-in vineyard took advantage of the hillside perfect for growing grapes worthy of a good French wine. And before we knew it, we were rounding the corner and walking up a short street to Sacré-Cœur!

Sacré-Cœur is, in my opinion a beautiful church and as you might have noticed, I think it makes for a beautiful picture even if in the distance from other locations around France. The tiles are self-cleaning, which might explain how it stays so white! Our guide informed us that Parisians were not fond of the architecture and design of the church, as it’s a bit of a melange of so many different styles – both inside and out. We ducked in for a few minutes, but photos were prohibited, so you’ll just have to visit the beautiful church to see what the inside looks like! (It’s definitely not nearly as bright as the outside, that’s for sure!)

We began to descend the hill walking through what we hoped were the lesser traveled streets. Past the crêperie and past the many, many poster and trinket gift shops, stopping only for a photo or two. It was beautiful, yet we were exhausted. There are some days on this trip that no matter how magnificent they are, they can be equally exhausting. We had moved our things across town yet again the night before, didn’t get a great night of sleep, and then were up early to catch this tour. We had already checked out or our hotel because we had booked an overnight bus from France to England that night. The tour ended around noon, which left us with precisely 12 hours to kill before our bus, which normally would have been fantastic, but we were exhausted. I began to cry, Andrew abruptly turned around in the middle of a beautiful Parisian street with a marvelous view, and began to hug me.

I always feel incredibly silly when I get sad, or simply tired and let my emotions get the best of me on this trip… But it happens. Thankfully, Andrew understands the grind (as he’s right there with me) and never holds my tears against me. He reminded me we were going to see our good friend James the next morning and how he was going to take care of us in England for a few days. He also, as always, reminded me I was just tired and would feel better after food and sleep.

Later on, we met up with the girl who let us crash in her apartment while she was out of town. She had traveled through Asia on her own and while we were trading stories, she laughed about how some days she would be so tired she would be more interested in a bench in the park (to sleep on) than a famous site in front of her that she was supposed to see. I nodded in agreement, understanding all too well.

On our way down, we walked down Rue Seveste. It was dedicated to all things fabric! Instead of channeling Project Runway, I took a picture and vowed that next time I would pick up a yard or two. Also, lots and lots of thrift stores. Not the kind you go to when you’re as tired and hungry as we were though. You clearly had to dig for a good find here! Again, maybe next time!

We jumped on the metro and headed across town towards the Vietnamese/Chinese neck of Paris. It was a bit grungy, but again, a new side of Paris and I was anxious to see it and take care of a noodle craving. Per Andrew’s research of which was the best, we ended up at Cyclo. It was… ok. I try to keep in mind that not everyone has sat on the side of the street in the likes of Hanoi or Hoi-An or even Saigon on a little plastic chair eating noodles out of a bowl that may or may not have been washed after the person before you. Not everyone knows that you should be given an additional bowl full of fresh mint, another of freshly cut limes, and a squeeze bottle so full of hot (like really hot) sauce to season your noodles and beef broth to taste. Perhaps the editors of TimeOut Paris simply don’t know what they are missing. But when two bowls of noodles were delivered to our table sans mint, lime, and hot sauce… I was sad not because of how tired I was, but because my noodles were going to lack the flavor they deserved. Maybe this is why everyone else eats French food in Paris… and not lackluster Vietnamese… like we did.

Luck was simply not in our favor for the rest of the afternoon. We attempted to go to one of the many markets in and around Paris that I have not had the luxury of being able to stroll through. I had done my homework (i.e. several Google searches) the night before. I found a pretty detailed Time Out list (although maybe after the Vietnamese fiasco, we should have thought otherwise). We headed to Marché aux Puces de St-Ouen, only we were way too late. Everything was closed. I assured myself it was for the best. The last thing I needed was an antique I simply couldn’t live without that was larger than a bag I could carry-on an airplane (my favorite kind of souvenirs). We walked around before giving up, retrieving our bags, and heading across town yet again, only this time to meet our couchsurfing host for a drink before boarding our midnight bus to London.

Day 318: Budapest’s Great Market Hall & Thrift Store Spotting

The last time I was in Budapest, let alone in the Great Market Hall, it was without a currency converter accessible on my i-pod. I’m pretty sure I spent about $50.00 on a handmade Hungarian embroidered doily. Seriously. I remember getting back to Prague and doing the math, freaking out over how much I spent on A DOILY, and then promptly decided I shall enjoy the sh*t out of that doily.

It’s currently in a box in my parents’ house in Kentucky. I don’t think Andrew believed me, until he figured out the currency conversion of the long pieces of embroidery work on display on the second floor of the Great Market Hall.

“That’s $600.00?” He looked at me incredulously.

“Yep. Now you see how mine could have cost $50.00? Aren’t you glad I already got that out of the way? Now we don’t have to stop, because I already have one!” I tried to concentrate on the excitement of this thought, rather than the embarrassment over my rookie souvenir purchase.

The first floor, when you walk into the market has a lot of meat or fruit and vegetable stands. Some have spices including touristy souvenir spice sets. There are a few flower and newspaper stalls off to the sides.

We read in Lonely Planet not to miss out on the basement- something that I had missed out on before (when I was too busy negotiating a “good price” for my doily). We went down, but only found a few pickle shops. We did get some really tasty cheese stuffed peppers though!

The woman behind the pickle counter thought it was funny when we only asked for six stuffed peppers. I don’t think she gets many tourists as customers… She humored us though and we walked away with a little bag of peppers and an equally little bag of pickles to have for later.

One thing I regret is arriving to the market hall absolutely not hungry at all. For some really strange reason, we’ve been having a really hard time finding an authentic Hungarian restaurant to dine in! We’ve eaten Thai, Mexican, chicken wings, take-away slices of pizza… but the only Hungarian restaurants we saw were in the expensive touristy area near the river. Where were the small (and dirty) Hungarian holes in the wall that served excellent goulash and cheap langos?

The answer: The Great Market Hall.

If you have the chance, go when you’re hungry and walk around a little bit, but make a beeline for the food stalls on the second floor. They all looked wonderful!

One of Andrew’s favorite things about traveling around the world with me is when we roll into a city I’ve already been to and I have to find a specific restaurant or store or food stand that may or may not still be in existence. Half the time, this is NOT Andrew’s favorite thing. Sure, it’s great, when the bahn mi stand IS in fact still on the corner of the same hostel and serves Andrew an amazing sandwich… But when we’re in the middle of Budapest walking up and down streets looking for a bar I just can’t remember the name of, it’s a different story. (I just read this out loud to him and he insisted he didn’t mind, but it’s obvious, he’s just trying to be nice.)

“It has red walls… I thought it was called “Castro” or maybe “Cuba” or something like that… But it was sooo cooool!” I tried to remember and then stopped in front of another street insisting that we walk down. We walked past this place below. I wasn’t sure, but we stopped to have a drink anyway. I have a picture of ‘the cool bar’ in Kentucky. We’ll compare upon our return.

We wandered back towards our place afterwards, but not before I dragged Andrew into a pretty awesome thrift/vintage/independent designer boutique, Retrock on our way home. I loved it. I loved the store displays. I loved the selection. I loved that the dude behind the counter said “Sure” when I asked if I could take some photographs, and then loved it even more when he seemed to appreciate receiving my card so he could see my photos. I would have spent a small fortune on freshly designed cropped t-shirts and vintage leather bags if it wasn’t for this trip around the world. Although this store has been excellently curated, it’s not exactly the Eastern European thrift store for those traveling around the world (on a budget no less).

While searching the web to link up Retrock, I stumbled upon some possibly helpful thrift store listings in Budapest, in case you’re interested. I wish I would have done this while we were there and spent the day combing thrift stores!!! So for next time, I’ll remember to check out “How to and Where to Thrift-Store-Hop in Budapest” (although, to be fair, I did stop in Second Chance –1061 Budapest, Király Str. 28.- and I was not impressed with their selection. When I was there, it felt like a lot of racks full of 90s clothes without the occasional super good find from the 60s or 70s if you know what I mean…

I also found this map of thrift stores and a list of The best vintage shops in Budapest. Next time, I’ll spend a day cross-referencing the map and list and my own finds and see what I can come up with, unless of course someone else gets to Budapest and scouring the city’s best thrift and vintage stores before me! Let’s hope they share their list with me!

Day 280: a morning in Chania, an afternoon in Rethymno

Because half of the shops were closed on Sunday, I wanted to hit the market in Chania in the morning before we left for Rethymno in the afternoon. I shouldn’t have been, but still was surprised by how touristy the market was. After living in Korea for so long, and photographing the many (many, many) markets in Seoul, I’ve realized my preferred ‘local market’ experience is far from the typical tourists’ preferred experience. If I’m not jumping over puddles of murky fish water, walking past pigs’ heads, and getting elbowed around every turn by older patrons annoyed that anyone -let alone one with a camera should interfere with their daily errands it feels a bit disingenuous. A few shops weren’t as touristy as others, but only a few. Nearly all of the others sold boxed olive oil or raki gift sets for tourists to take home to their loved ones. Unfortunately, glass and alcohol aren’t so easy to travel with and my loved ones will be spared of any and all raki shots in the future. (This is a good thing, I promise.)

We wandered around Chania before our bus for Rethymno. Amazed at the remnants of an older city, like you can see here in this random archway half demolished tucked behind some shops on a pedestrian street. I also liked how many shops or even studios had open doors so you could peek inside a bit to see what was going on. Some were tailors, some were artists, framers, I lusted after their studio spaces and reminded Andrew that one day I will have my own… And then there was the graffiti. We may have escaped it on Santorini, but not on Crete…

Wandering around Rethymno (the last picture above) in the afternoon felt very similar to Chania. The Venetian quarter was full of little alleyways and mostly pedestrian filled streets in between shops. Mostly jewelry shops. Lots and lots and lots of jewelry shops. It was nice to wander, as it always is, but it didn’t seem to be as unique as I thought it would be in comparison to Chania.

Both cities were surprisingly expensive as well, especially compared to Santorini. A private room was nearly double in price, so we thought we’d be responsible ’round the world’ travelers and check out the youth hostel instead. ‘Youth’ was a relative term because it seemed half of the guests were old- like really old- men. At first we thought it wouldn’t be so bad, because despite it being a nine bunk dorm (Yes, you heard me. NINE BUNKS. Eighteen beds) it looked as if only four people were sleeping in the room. We turned in early to watch an episode of Game of Thrones and had the room to ourselves, when not ten minutes later, one of the 70+ year old men walked in. He took off his shirt and climbed into the bottom bunk less than eight inches away from mine and promptly laid down facing our- my direction.

Of course. Out of the seventeen other beds in the room, he had to pick the bed next to mine to sleep in. Andrew, being the gentleman he is, promptly asked if I wanted to switch beds and took one for the team sometimes facing him throughout the night.

Day 253: Hadrian’s Gate

Hadrian’s Gate is one of the few ruins in Antalya to see. We happened to stumble upon it looking for bus companies to book our tickets to Goreme. I’m glad we did, because even though it’s not as spectacular as other ruins, it’s still pretty incredible to think that this was built in the year 130. Yea, you read that right. 130. It was built for the Roman Emperor Hadrian who visited that year.

Apparently city walls were built around the gate and it wasn’t used for awhile, which is why perhaps it’s in such good condition these days. After being in Africa, where the history is mostly oral, it’s really incredible to be in a land overflowing with visual history. Afterwards, we swung by the bazaar, and much like the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, I was a little dismayed at the majority of the market being more knock-off bags, rhinestone studded Euro jeans, knock-off sunglasses, knock-off shoes, etc. etc. etc. We didn’t stay long.

Early in the evening, after figuring out where exactly the bus company was, we were able to purchase tickets and get a “service” ride to the station for our overnight bus to Goreme.

Day 196 Stone Town Fish Market

After a late morning taxi back to Stone Town, we lunched, walked around town, and then headed to the Stone Town Fish Market after dusk. What was the best part about going to the fish market? Not the fish (although I am now a huge huge fan of barracuda)… No, not Mr. Nutella either, but it was having an expert with us to point out the shady sellers and what was worth trying. Asha had been to the fish market before we met up in Kendwa and had the lowdown on who was who at the fish market. Ok, not exactly. But she knew of at least one dude to avoid and what price on average was good for skewers and sugarcane juice. That was more than we knew and we ran with it.

We had grilled barracuda, lobster skewers, sugar cane juice, and I tried the mango nutella pancake. Our pancakes came with a little Swahili lesson as well. I’ve been thoroughly confused trying to say hello to people throughout this country. When do I say ‘Jambo,’ when do I say ‘Mambo,’ and why do people keep saying ‘Poa’ back to me, but only some of the time? For the past two weeks I’ve simply been taking turns saying ‘Mambo’ and ‘Jambo’ and smiling at their response- whatever their response may be. Mr. Nutella set me straight.

Jambo = hello. You say ‘Jambo’ they say ‘Jambo’ and that is all.

Mambo = how are you. You say ‘Mambo’ they say ‘Poa’ which means ‘fine’

It was all pretty delicious and pretty touristy, but sometimes a little bit touristy is not a bad thing. It was certainly better than sitting down for overpriced fish or grilled (when I ordered fried) calamari.

Day 186 Mt. Meru Market

Andrew and I woke up squeezed into one dorm bunk bed because the hostel had overbooked and half of us partnered up to make room for guests who had arrived with a reservation and no room to sleep. I felt like we had been transported back to college waking up to so many squeezed into one room and giggling over the night before.

There was a karaoke machine in the club. Andrew and I may (or may not have) killed it with our own rendition of Mr. Big’s “Be With You.” Not to mention the dance-offs that took place between middle aged tourists and Tanzanian b-boys workin’ the floor. It. Was. Fun.

The day after wasn’t as much fun. After breakfast, Andrew and I busted a move back to town to figure out how we were going to get down to Dar or if possible, straight to Zanzibar. We had our fingers crossed for a really cheap flight, like all of our new Arusha best-friends said we would find. But… unfortunately none of the cheap flights were available the next day.

We stopped back at the tourist market for some earings and shukkas (Masai shoulder wraps) but I couldn’t be bothered with haggling whilst hung-over. The market is a gauntlet. Everyone asking you to come in their shop. Everyone telling you to slow down. I knew I was going after earings and shukkas which made things a little easier. I also had ice cream that was melting, so we didn’t stay long and instead headed back to the hostel to lounge with the smart ones who stayed in all day.

Day 162: a day at Red Chili

We woke up to a knock on our door at 10 AM. We slept through checkout. At first on this trip, I would feel guilty, like I was wasting time sleeping… But now, I’ve realized that sometimes I need the sleep, especially after a long day of travel. We moved into the dorms (one night free before leaving on safari) and camped out yet again with coffee and our computers. It turned into a day at Red Chili, with a teensy break going into “town” for anything and everything to ward of mosquitos and malaria.

Computing at Red Chili was slow. Rather, the Wi-Fi was super slow, and most of the time I was staring at Flickr willing it to upload a single picture faster. We eventually gave up and walked into town for some malaria meds, mosquito repellent, and even a mosquito net to put above our beds if a guesthouse or campsite didn’t offer one. Full disclosure: I was not planning on taking any malaria prophylactics on this trip. I haven’t taken any throughout the five years of trips around S.E. Asia… and not that I don’t take malaria seriously (because, I do) I’m just super sensitive to medications (and sometimes allergic- especially to antibiotics) that I didn’t want to be in the middle of the bush breaking out in hives or having a worse reaction.

But, Andrew had decided to do some research and made the executive decision that I had to at least try taking the malaria prophylactics. I agreed. Very begrudgingly. We walked into the pharmacy and Andrew asked for Doxycycline and Artenam.

The pharmacist looked at him funny and asked, “You want to prevent and treat malaria at the same time?” We both began to giggle at him.

Andrew said, “Well, no… but, just in case…” And she shook her head and told him we only needed the Doxycycline (the prophylactic) for now. We got two boxes for a fraction of the price we heard others had paid for other malaria prophylactics in their home countries. We tracked down the mosquito repellent and net, had our first taste of matoke- I was wrong in the video, I thought it was mashed potatoes before I had a bite (think mashed potatoes only made with plantains instead) in the market and took our first round of Doxycycline before we headed back to Red Chili.

“Is your face burning?” I asked Andrew within fifteen minutes of taking the pill. He stopped, said he was fine, and examined my face. The area around one of my eyes was burning and I became slightly terrified I was going to go blind. Andrew asked if I wanted to go to one of the health clinics around, but I didn’t see how that would help matters. I told him we would go if I broke out in hives or my throat started closing up. Neither happened, but the burning sensation continued off and on for the rest of the night.

Day 135: Mahane Yehuda Market

Mahane Yehuda Market is a mostly open air market selling baked goods, vegetables, fruit, fish, and meat. Kosher signs dangle above some stands. Coffee shops have sprung up in between mountains of freshly scrubbed veggies and the oddball souvenir shop. It’s a great market. Smaller than we expected (but then again, after five years of markets in South Korea, it’s hard to be objective) but still a great time to walk through. We stopped to get a small bag of olives and saw something leafy wrapped up. I asked what it was.

“Yaprak!” He said and motioned for me to try one.

“But what is it?” I asked again, picking one up to try.

“Yaprak! It’s Yaprak.” He seemed baffled that I wanted to know more. Andrew laughed at me. I googled it. Yaprak = stuffed grape leaves.

We walked around the market, up and down the back streets and found a plethora of awesome street art. I meant to ask Meidad what some of the Hebrew translated to, but forgot. If anyone knows, please fill me in!

Andrew spotted the eyes after I was photographing the mustached mouth. “You should make a diptych!” He suggested. (I think he was secretly excited that he remembered what a diptych was) “Brilliant! I didn’t even see the eyes!” I got super excited and went to work- on my iphone, so if you haven’t seen the diptych yet, just click on the Instagram feed to your right to see it! (It’s one of my recent favorites!)

And then we made our way “home” to our wonderful couchsurfer hosts.

Day 132: Jordan Israel border crossing

Arriving at the Jordan Israel border crossing early in the afternoon was not a part of our plan at all. We had planned to go to Wadi Rum, a desert made famous by Lawrence of Arabia. I also learned that more recently, Transformers (Revenge of the Fallen) and Prometheus were filmed there as well. So, we woke up and were down in the lobby by six in the morning to catch our bus. It picked us up and then parked in the bus lot and told us that if we wanted to go, instead of paying 7 JD each, we’d have to pay 30 JD total because we were the only ones on the bus.

“Why did you wait to tell us this?” I asked, perplexed that they picked us up, drove us across town (the town isn’t so big) and then parked until randomly breaking the news to us fifteen minutes or so later.

“We told your guesthouse.” I narrowed my eyes. The same dude that told us there would be heat (when there wasn’t) didn’t deliver this bus news to us. I relayed this to the bus driver. He apologized and I assured him it wasn’t his fault. Andrew and I mulled it over, and decided we may as well save Wadi Rum (along with Jerash) for the next time we’re in Jordan. Instead, we crossed the border.

Which, is probably the most expensive crossing we’ve encountered yet. Not only did we have to pay a Jordanian exit fee, but we had to pay a luggage fee on the bus over to the Israeli side! We thought we had it bad, and then we met an Australian who was denied entry into Jordan because at this particular crossing, you needed to already have a ‘multiple entry’ visa. He didn’t. Not only was he “detained” on the Jordanian side, once he got back to the Israeli side, he was accused of looking nervous and his bags were confiscated to be searched. We left him at the second (of three) security checks before Passport Control.

Once at Passport Control, I went first and was asked twenty questions regarding our visit to Israel and why I didn’t want the Israeli stamp in my passport. I played the naive tourist (ok, so maybe I didn’t have to try too hard on the naive part) and walked out ten minutes later with a stamp on a piece of paper and my passport clean. (If I decide to go to Lebanon in the future, having an Israeli stamp in my passport would guarantee problems and most likely getting denied entry. Given that my current passport is only three years old and that I would love to go to Beirut in the future, I didn’t want an Israeli stamp inside.)

We walked around The Old City in Jerusalem for a bit, before I nearly fell asleep in my hummus and Andrew had to drag me back to our very fancy (not. at. all.) hostel outside of Damascus Gate.

Day 106: Colaba

Not quite finished with the book, Shantaram, I told Andrew I had to (even though I knew it would be touristy) have a coffee at Leopold’s while we were staying in Colaba. Colaba is a small part of Mumbai (or Bombay, whichever you prefer) and it’s become quite the tourist beat, or perhaps it has always been the tourist beat. The Gateway of India is here, the Causeway, The Taj Mahal Hotel, tourist boats to Elephanta Island… these main attractions sit in the middle of art museums, cricket pitches, and even old Art Deco Bollywood movie theaters. We stuck to the Causeway (basically the main street) for our first day, having breakfast at Leopold’s and then bumped into our German pal, Bastian and walked through the market, through a very non-touristy neighborhood, to the water and then back around again.

Being in Colaba felt a bit like being in Itaewon in Seoul. The streets were lined with restaurants and athletic stores and sidewalks that were covered with street stalls selling “antiques” and clothes and knock-off sunglasses on every block.

When we got to the end of the ‘tourist beat,’ we turned down a street that looked like it was a market, but a very sparse market. Perhaps it was the time of day we were walking through? Most of the food vendors had a small supply of fish or fruit left over, or perhaps it was just a slow day… Either way, we enjoyed chatting with the students who were on their way home from school demanding to know our names and requesting pictures. I teased them (but was hoping they would take me more seriously than I sounded) that I would only take ONE photo. They all agreed and for the first time dispersed after I took and showed the image on my screen to them.

Near the market area, on our way out, we stumbled upon a religious celebration of sorts. It was a god’s birthday, but it was so hard to hear and there was so much festivity going on, that it wasn’t the easiest to get details nailed down. It was fun and loud and I was a little bit jealous of all of the yellow tikka powder (or maybe even masala powder?) being dumped on each other. We were encouraged to take pictures, but didn’t stay long, as to not intrude any more than we already were.

Day 98: a walk through Sardar Market in Jodhpur

We left Pushkar around nine in the morning, and arrived in Jodhpur around three in the afternoon. It wasn’t a terribly long journey and riding a bus through the countryside made me wish I was on motorcycle so I could stop and take pictures whenever I wanted… The land was peaceful and its occasional inhabitants would wave and shout “Hello!” when they recognized you weren’t Indian. We made a friend (Bastian, from Germany) and when our bus arrived to Jodhpur, the three of us crammed into a rickshaw and found a guesthouse within the old walls of ‘The Blue City.’

Tired, but not wanting to give into the temptations of a nap so late in the afternoon, Andrew and I went for a walk around Sardar Market in Jodhpur. We walked through it to get to our guesthouse, and while it was not as intense as the markets of Jaipur, it was still full of bangles and saris and fruit stand upon fruit stand. I’m always a fan of walking through a market, but I have to admit, I was looking forward to going to sleep early, and so we didn’t stay out too terribly long. We tried to track down some internet to catch up on emails and blog posts, but it proved to be impossible, so I drowned my internet woes in a chocolate milkshake and fell asleep soon after.

Day 93: Jaipur: the pink city

Jaipur should really be called: The pink city that’s not so pink anymore. Because, I was expecting a PINK CITY, not really a city that sometimes had a pink building in it. I also thought it was going to be a lot smaller and less chaotic than Delhi, but it almost seemed just as busy, especially in and around the bazaars that seemed to fill the pink city. We spent the day doing a Lonely Planet walking tour- a walking tour that would have been better had it said: Get dropped off at the palace and then walk around for a few hours. We had a great day exploring, it was just not exactly what I envisioned… which is becoming a daily thing here in India.

Let’s start from the very beginning: the train station.

I have to admit, I was less than thrilled with the rickshaw drivers bombarding us on the train platform in Jaipur the night we arrived. Usually, they at least wait outside of the train station before utter chaos ensues as we try to fight your way to the pre-paid stands. It gives you enough time to brace yourself for the army of drivers demanding you get in their rickshaw. However, when we arrived in Jaipur, as soon as we got off the train, a rickshaw driver was already chatting Andrew up. When he could tell Andrew wasn’t interested, he fell back on me and tried to get me to agree to what Andrew wouldn’t. As if we were being tag-teamed, another immediately approached. First Andrew, then me. We took turns, politely declining and insisting we did not want a rickshaw. One persisted. I started losing my patience. I spoke loudly to Andrew, with the rickshaw driver walking alongside me, like we arrived at the train station together.

“Andrew, I think I might just start yelling. You know, instead of FIRE! FIRE! (like you’re supposed to do in the West, right?) I could just start yelling STOP TOUCHING ME!” The rickshaw driver hesitated, understanding everything I was saying.

“Ma’am, I’m just doing my job.” He countered.

“No, you did your job, and we both said ‘no’ several times, so why are you still walking with me? This is not part of your job now.” At this point we’re walking through a gate with a police officer watching those who were going through.

“This man is bothering me.” I said loudly, pointing to the rickshaw driver. Several women stared. The rickshaw driver disappeared.

As soon as we were outside of the station another one came up to us. When he gave up, another one came. At this point, we’re walking outside of the gated in area of the station parking lot, dodging traffic, trying to politely decline the fifth rickshaw driver who is walking alongside me, again, while Andrew is several paces ahead. I finally stop.

“I know you’re doing your job, but please, we do not want a rickshaw, please let us walk alone.” And the driver walks away. According to the map, we were within walking distance to the guesthouses we were going to check out. We both agreed to try to walk there. Andrew had the book out, he was convinced he could get us there. But after fifteen minutes, we didn’t know where we were, and I threw in the towel. A rickshaw driver pulls up, we agree on a price, get in, and then the driver says to me,

“I think you don’t remember me…” and I realize it’s the last rickshaw driver who I asked to leave us alone.

“I do. Let’s go.” and we listen to him talk about how he can take us to a very cheap guesthouse, politely decline and insist we want to go to the one we told him was our destination. He takes us there, insists on waiting with our bags. Again, we politely decline, grab all of our bags and check the guesthouse. It’s full. We pay the driver and begin walking to the other hotel we knew was down the street. The rickshaw driver starts driving next to Andrew. Then drops back and drives alongside of me.

“Please, it’s been a long day, we don’t want to go with you, please leave us alone.” I start insisting, begging perhaps?

“This is not Agra or Delhi! Give me a chance!” he counters. Andrew is too far ahead to interfere, too far ahead to see how frustrated I was, too far ahead to see that I was ready to sit down on the street and start crying because I was so. tired. of rickshaw drivers. I was really proud of myself for being able to deal with India. I haven’t let the poverty, trash, me getting sick, Andrew getting sick… I haven’t let any of it get me down. Maybe appalled at times, and a little annoyed at others, but I’ve maintained a pretty positive attitude considering. Until now. Maybe it was having to be the strong one the whole time in Delhi, or becuase it was nearly midnight and we didn’t have a place to stay, or that he was the tenth? rickshaw driver to bother us, or maybe a culmination of it all? Whatever it was, I could not deal any longer. I started sniffling, and then secretly wiping tears away while the rickshaw driver continued to drive next to me and tell me he wasn’t trying to scam me. I stopped responding. I pretended he wasn’t there. I caught up to Andrew at the second guesthouse. It was full. We walked back out, past the same rickshaw driver still waiting for us to the third guesthouse across the street. Thankfully they had one room left. Thankfully, the same rickshaw driver was not waiting for us in the morning.

So that was our welcome to Jaipur. Probably not the best start. I felt better after some sleep, but admitted to Andrew that I needed him to be the strong one for a day or two. And that I felt more comfortable walking in front of him rather than behind him. I explained that when I’m behind him I feel as though I’m leered at a bit more (in Delhi, a driver made kissing noises at me and I yelled at him and Andrew never knew about it because he was ahead) and that men on the street know Andrew can’t see, so they can be a little more aggressive. If I’m in front of him though, the can immediately see him and I don’t feel as vulnerable on the street as a white girl with light hair, in pants, without a scarf over my head and/or eyes.

We spent the entire walking tour with me walking in front of Andrew. And he graciously dealt with all rickshaw drivers for the day. I was able to breathe a litle easier. The walking tour itself, was confusing. Lonely Planet usually has good directions and landmarks, but this one did not offer either. We randomly began walking through a motorcycle repair street, then a tailors row before we walked through the marble sculptors and parts of the market. The markets seemed to bleed together in Jaipur. I’m not sure if it was one big bazaar that made up the pink city, or if they were indeed several different ones stacked up on top of each other. 

We ended up at Jantar Mantar; this huge astrological park that was built by King Jai Singh II. It’s advised to get a guide to explain the different astrological devices, but we didn’t really feel like it and prefered to continue our laid back meandering. I overheard one guide, and I’m pretty sure he got his information from my guidebook because it was the same. Either way, I didn’t feel too bad about not having a guide.

After Jantar Mantar, we crossed the street, dodged a snake charmer (Seriously.) and checked out City Palace. Btw: both entrance fees were ‘spensive! I can kinda see why for the City Palace, but not so much for Jantar Mantar. Maybe if you’re super into astrology or something… Anyway- we began our tour through City Palace in the arms room.

Andrew and I ask eachother a LOT of silly questions while traveling. We’re all over the What ifs… Would you rathers… If you could… When we move back to America… Today, Andrew asked me which piece of arms I would pick if I were in The Hunger Games. He was not satisfied with my pick of the bow and arrow. He kept trying to dissuade me. Offering up lightweight armour instead, or a suit I wouldn’t be able to die in, among others. I stuck to my guns. What would you choose?

As we sat in the courtyard people watching and resting after nearly three? four? hours of walking around, he asked a slew of “Would you rather” questions regarding my pet preference. Worn out, we made our way out, through a temple with some kind of guru speaking, and then out of the market (with a little pit stop inside a fun art deco decorated snack shop and restaurant.

Day 82: a market in Varanasi

It's a little strange when you find yourself running errands in a foreign country that you've only just landed in. Yet, that's exactly what we did. At home, errands consist of the grocery store, dry-cleaners, maybe the bank… Today, our errands consisted of getting some Indian Rupees, an Indian sim cards for our phones, train tickets to Agra (to see the TAJ MAHAL) oh, and getting a glass of sugarcane juice along the way. We barely made it back in time for lunch at The Kautilya Society (Best. lunches. ever.) before we went back out again to walk through the market down the street!

Day 50: Almsgiving in Luang Prabang

Alternate titles for this post: Tourists suck. or: Reasons why not to use a flash inches away from a monk. or: Seriously? This isn't a parade. or: (upon Andrew's suggestion) You shouldn't be doing that…

"I don't want to get super close." I told Andrew as we walked down the street a little before six this morning to witness the almsgiving. "Right, I want to cross the street." Andrew replied. And so we did, immediately. At first we only saw the line of orange robes, standing, waiting to begin walking. By the time we got closer, the monks had already started, and the throng of tourists waiting, standing so super close to those giving alms was flat out shameful. Maybe standing around, in a small crowd is one thing, but standing so close and using a flash in monks' faces!?! Are you kidding me? I love getting a good picture. Sometimes it can make my entire day. And sometimes if I screw up taking a good picture, I might pout about it for a little while. But I refused to stand inches away from the monks firing off my flash in their faces during what is supposed to be a religious rite. 

Which is why, some (ok, a lot) of my photos are blurry or not the best, as I was generally across the street at dawn NOT firing my flash.

Before going out to watch the almsgiving, we knew that we were not supposed to participate unless "it had deep spiritual meaning." Before writing this post, thanks to my limited internet research, I discovered that giving alms is for the lay Buddhist in the community to pay respect towards the practicing Buddhist monks. In a way, it's to connect everyone in the community to achieve Dharma. I'm still learning what that means exactly, but I'm wondering exactly how many of the tourists participating in giving alms (or firing their flashes in faces) this morning were practicing Buddhists and how many of them thought it was an act of charity and then walked away feeling pretty good about themselves for the day. I know, I shouldn't judge. But it was simply appalling how many tourists were not only out to watch and see what it was all about, but the lack of respect towards the monks made me want to pack up my camera and go far far away from all of them. It made me feel dirty for simply being on the other side of the street taking a few blurry pictures. 

I was also surprised at how many women approached us to buy food for the monks. Do they not care that we're not Buddhist? Do they not know that you should be Buddhist? Do they simply want to make a buck or two from their bananas? 

After the almsgiving, we went ahead and climbed up to a temple perched on top of a hill right in the middle of the town to take a few pictures before it got too hot.

We walked through the morning market, and then slipped into a coffee shop for the day- and by day, I mean morning, because it was only around 8:00 in the morning by this point.

Day 40: Our Last Day in Siem Reap

Our last day in Siem Reap was spent mostly waiting out the rain in the same coffee shop down the street from our guesthouse. We went to the market for some concrete bag bags (obviously, I wanted to do this more so than Andrew). Thai concrete comes in these sturdy bags with a big elephant on the front. Someone came up with a brilliant idea of repurposing the bags into wearable totes, ipad covers, wallets, you name it. They are quite cute, and I felt like I was playing a round of Texas Hold Em bartering and bluffing over prices in the market. I got a big, plastic covered tote for $5.00 (she started at $10.00) Winning! Linda helped me find a good massage salon before dinner, and then we wandered through the night markets thinking they'd be more elaborate than those in the day – but really, they were same same (not different at all).