Back in the 514
Pretty self-explanatory, I guess.
Back to life, back to reality.
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Pretty self-explanatory, I guess.
Back to life, back to reality.
Last Dance
Oh, woe... my final night in one of the most beautiful apartments I've ever rented. For all of my cracks about Ottawa, I will actually miss this place - if only for this apartment. Lotta good mems made here... if you were part of the madness, then you know what I mean.
Three months? Can't be.
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Oh, woe... my final night in one of the most beautiful apartments I've ever rented. For all of my cracks about Ottawa, I will actually miss this place - if only for this apartment. Lotta good mems made here... if you were part of the madness, then you know what I mean.
Three months? Can't be.
Oh. Perdita.
Perhaps no more poignant a moment for Canadian Olympic fans than Perdita Felicien's unfortunate tumble this afternoon...
Felicien, the 23-year-old heavy favourite to win the 100M hurdles - especially after Gail Devers' fall earlier this week - fumbled on the first hurdle, taking the Russian in the next lane down with her. It was ugly. Real ugly.
They've been replaying the fall in slow motion all night, and it's almost painful.
But the sign of a true champion... when asked if she'd be back for Beijing, Felicien looked right into the camera and said, "with bells on."
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Perhaps no more poignant a moment for Canadian Olympic fans than Perdita Felicien's unfortunate tumble this afternoon...
Felicien, the 23-year-old heavy favourite to win the 100M hurdles - especially after Gail Devers' fall earlier this week - fumbled on the first hurdle, taking the Russian in the next lane down with her. It was ugly. Real ugly.
They've been replaying the fall in slow motion all night, and it's almost painful.
But the sign of a true champion... when asked if she'd be back for Beijing, Felicien looked right into the camera and said, "with bells on."
Ladies, Be Sure to Have Your Heads Covered... We're Off to Yemen.
The highly anticipated excerpt from Ian Philp's wildly colourful Travelogue.
On July 13, Ian writes:
Thursday and Friday are the Islamic weekend, and my Sana’ani friends have got me hooked on their hedonistic Thursday routine. The morning begins with a trip to the Turkish baths, a relic of the Ottoman occupation of Yemen during the 17th-19th centuries. A couple hours steaming in the baths is followed by a leisurely stroll into the souk or central market. Old Sana’a is the largest and best preserved old city in the Arab world, and its souk is marvellous – save a couple electric lights and a few cheap plastic baubles on display, the souk looks much like it did couple hundred years ago. I’ve included some pictures to give you a sense of what it’s like.
After navigating the winding maze of the souk, we make our way to our favourite faksah restaurant. Faksah is a unique Yemeni stew of rice, lamb and goat cooked in a stone pot over a raging fire. Despite faksah’s incredible popularity with Yemenis, for some unfathomable reason faksah restaurants insist on only serving the dish for forty-five minutes a day. The wail of the minarets calling the noon prayer serves as a starter’s pistol – mere minutes later, Sana’a faksah restaurants have descended into a shouting, shoving mess of men yelling at the cooks and desperately hoping to get a bowlful before the supply runs out. The best way I can describe it is this: picture the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, then give everyone daggers and keffiyahs.
After savouring a hard-won bowl of faksah, the afternoon usually ends in a qat chew if nothing else is on the agenda. Recently, however, Sana’a has been in the grip of summer wedding fever, with dozens taking place across the city each Thursday and Friday. Through friends I was invited to a traditional wedding last weekend, which took place in long tent erected in one of Sana’a’s public squares. As always, men and women are strictly divided, and I can only speak for the men’s portion. Although I’ve heard that the women’s celebration is an elaborate and refined ritual, the men’s party was just a hundred and fifty of us sitting in the tent, chewing qat, and blasting traditional Arabic music until the wee hours of the morning.
Weddings are social events, so everyone brings their status symbols with them – jambiyyas, pistols and AK-47s are de rigeur. As if courting disaster, an established Yemeni wedding tradition dictates that the (very heavily armed) male members of the bride's family are to storm into the wedding a few hours late and demand greetings from the male members of the groom’s family. Tradition has it that if the bride’s kin don’t feel they’ve been greeted warmly enough they have the right to take the bride back by force, and although this seldom happens, it’s not an unknown occurrence. When the bride’s family burst into our wedding armed to the teeth, the band stopped playing and all conversation dropped to a hushed whisper. Several guests quietly laid a hand on their AK-47 or gripped their jambiyya tighter in anticipation. As the elaborate greetings took place at the far end of the tent we tried to catch a glimpse of what was happening while remaining as low to the ground as possible. Thankfully the bride’s relatives were satisfied by their reception – and when this became clear the celebration sprang back to life, twice as vibrant as it had been before.
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The highly anticipated excerpt from Ian Philp's wildly colourful Travelogue.
On July 13, Ian writes:
Thursday and Friday are the Islamic weekend, and my Sana’ani friends have got me hooked on their hedonistic Thursday routine. The morning begins with a trip to the Turkish baths, a relic of the Ottoman occupation of Yemen during the 17th-19th centuries. A couple hours steaming in the baths is followed by a leisurely stroll into the souk or central market. Old Sana’a is the largest and best preserved old city in the Arab world, and its souk is marvellous – save a couple electric lights and a few cheap plastic baubles on display, the souk looks much like it did couple hundred years ago. I’ve included some pictures to give you a sense of what it’s like.
After navigating the winding maze of the souk, we make our way to our favourite faksah restaurant. Faksah is a unique Yemeni stew of rice, lamb and goat cooked in a stone pot over a raging fire. Despite faksah’s incredible popularity with Yemenis, for some unfathomable reason faksah restaurants insist on only serving the dish for forty-five minutes a day. The wail of the minarets calling the noon prayer serves as a starter’s pistol – mere minutes later, Sana’a faksah restaurants have descended into a shouting, shoving mess of men yelling at the cooks and desperately hoping to get a bowlful before the supply runs out. The best way I can describe it is this: picture the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, then give everyone daggers and keffiyahs.
After savouring a hard-won bowl of faksah, the afternoon usually ends in a qat chew if nothing else is on the agenda. Recently, however, Sana’a has been in the grip of summer wedding fever, with dozens taking place across the city each Thursday and Friday. Through friends I was invited to a traditional wedding last weekend, which took place in long tent erected in one of Sana’a’s public squares. As always, men and women are strictly divided, and I can only speak for the men’s portion. Although I’ve heard that the women’s celebration is an elaborate and refined ritual, the men’s party was just a hundred and fifty of us sitting in the tent, chewing qat, and blasting traditional Arabic music until the wee hours of the morning.
Weddings are social events, so everyone brings their status symbols with them – jambiyyas, pistols and AK-47s are de rigeur. As if courting disaster, an established Yemeni wedding tradition dictates that the (very heavily armed) male members of the bride's family are to storm into the wedding a few hours late and demand greetings from the male members of the groom’s family. Tradition has it that if the bride’s kin don’t feel they’ve been greeted warmly enough they have the right to take the bride back by force, and although this seldom happens, it’s not an unknown occurrence. When the bride’s family burst into our wedding armed to the teeth, the band stopped playing and all conversation dropped to a hushed whisper. Several guests quietly laid a hand on their AK-47 or gripped their jambiyya tighter in anticipation. As the elaborate greetings took place at the far end of the tent we tried to catch a glimpse of what was happening while remaining as low to the ground as possible. Thankfully the bride’s relatives were satisfied by their reception – and when this became clear the celebration sprang back to life, twice as vibrant as it had been before.
Tomorrow's News... Today
To appear in tomorrow's NYT:
RETIRED '60 MINS' EXEC HEWITT: 'WHERE THE HELL DO YOU GO?'
He is 81 years old, has just ended a 36-year career as the executive producer of 60 MINUTES, and has no idea what to do with his life.
Don Hewitt has problems.
The NYT plans to visit the lost stop-watch man in Friday editions.
Hewitt strode into his office and gestured toward the walls. There hung photographs of presidents, diplomats, foreign leaders and entertainers. There were notes from Presidents Reagan and Eisenhower. A constellation of Emmy Awards. Arrays of plaques, posters and medallions.
"I'm not trying to be an egomaniacal maniac, but look," he said. "I don't want to lower the temperature. Where the hell do you go? What do you do that's going to be like this? What I've got to do is feed my soul."
He speaks plainly and bluntly, "could haves" morphing into "couldas" and "have tos" becoming "gottas" and tells the story of his life in cinematic scenes, reveals Times reporter Pat Healy.
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To appear in tomorrow's NYT:
RETIRED '60 MINS' EXEC HEWITT: 'WHERE THE HELL DO YOU GO?'
He is 81 years old, has just ended a 36-year career as the executive producer of 60 MINUTES, and has no idea what to do with his life.
Don Hewitt has problems.
The NYT plans to visit the lost stop-watch man in Friday editions.
Hewitt strode into his office and gestured toward the walls. There hung photographs of presidents, diplomats, foreign leaders and entertainers. There were notes from Presidents Reagan and Eisenhower. A constellation of Emmy Awards. Arrays of plaques, posters and medallions.
"I'm not trying to be an egomaniacal maniac, but look," he said. "I don't want to lower the temperature. Where the hell do you go? What do you do that's going to be like this? What I've got to do is feed my soul."
He speaks plainly and bluntly, "could haves" morphing into "couldas" and "have tos" becoming "gottas" and tells the story of his life in cinematic scenes, reveals Times reporter Pat Healy.
All Seats in Their Upright Positions...
We follow Miss Kalnitsky on her journeys, this time in Praha.
Ruth writes:
I apologize for the occasional typo and lack of punctuation, these Czech keyboards are a little off ... Day one in Prague has been lovelz, the city is beautiful, but packed to the brim with tourists. I arrived yesterday afternoon, to be picked up in a rented car by Rebecca and her friends, the drive back to prague was a bit frightening, but we made it alive despite a turn onto a road with a sign of a car crossed out by a red line. the girl driving decided that it meant "no buicks" rather than "do not enter" and went right ahead. Never again will I get into a car driven by an american tourist in a foreign country.
Like a good American, my first stop in town was at a Pivenica where we went all out and splurged on what appears to be the national beverage, beer. We all know what a huge beer fan am, so needless to say, the only quality I found was the price, half a liter costs less than a buck.
I was a bit unconscious after hours of flying on planes with broken air conditioning, yes, both flights managed to have broken air conditioners. That was pleasant. And the on my second flight, I was granted the opportunity to sit next to a lovely Czech boy, who, like most of europe, has yet to discover antipersperant.
This morning, Rebecca and I were up at the crack of dawn, thanks to me, of course, and started playing tourist quite early. It proved to be a great idea, there were hardly any people in front of the astronomical clock or on the Charles bridge.
The astronomical clock did NOT live up to its name. My understanding of how it works is limited, and I noticed the astrological signs all over it and all that jazz, but its name implies much more than it really is. If i were writing the guide book, Id just call it the prettz cool clock with marching apostles. I was far more impressed with the Charles bridge, and even more so with the senate building. We found that by accident - neither one of our guide books even mentions it - but the outside of the building is meant to look like the inside of a cave, but there are frogs, snakes, and monster faces carved into the stalagtites that you only notice if you look very carefully. In the middle of this cavernous wall, there§s an aviary with owls in it, a bit creepy, and the sign explaining why they are there is in czech, so that is something ill have to figure out later.
After the senate building, we decided to have some authentic czech lunch. Rebecca, the vegetarian, got fried cheese with potatoes and pickled cabage, and I got goulash with bread dumplings. As appetizing as it all was, I dont think czech cuisine is going to the top of mz list.
I strolled over to the old Jewish ghetto, which so far is the most impressive part of this tourist infested town. I visited the oldest synagogue in Euröpe, ánd a few other non functional synagogues that are devoted to all sorts of exhibits - one is a Holocaust memorial, another has a bunch of stuff about death in Judaism and illness and stuff like that. All of it felt verÿ fake and touristy, so I was mildly annoyed. Älso in the Ghetto there is an old Jewish cemetary, i think its the oldest in europe, which is fantastic, the tombstones are piled onto each other with absolutely no space in between them, and a few Hasidic men were praying at one of the graves. I think the men praying were the onlz thing that lent the entire ghetto any legitimacy¨, otherwise i would have just assumed that like disneyland, the entire area was built purely for tourism. ¨The best one, the spanish synagogue¨, is now used for concerts rather than services, but its beautifully decorated on the inside, with a blue and maroon ceiling with gold trim and massive, massive organs upstairs.
After my tour of the Jewish ghetto, I met up with Rebecca and the other kids on her studz abroad program and we went out for... my favorite... czech food. I knew better this time than to order goulash, os I stuck with soup and salad. Little did I know, the soup was SERIOUSLY a bowl of high-concentrate chicken broth with raw onions, and the pile of cheese on top of the salad was about two inches taller than the pile of vegetables below it. Did I mention I'm not a fan of czech food?
Anÿways, my other adventures prettz much consisted of going to see the old castle and the St vitus cathedral. I'm not sure why Notre dame in paris is so famous, and nobody talks about st vitus, its much more beautiful. I did make the mistake of buying a ticket to walk to the top of the tower. If any of you ever plan on going to Prague, DONT DO IT. the winding staircase seems eternal, its narrow, stuffy, and people go in both directions at the same time. So unless you want your nose directly in someone§s rear end for 45 minutes straight, while you walk in spirals, onlÿ to get to the top to see a pretty great view for two minutes and then go back down, steer clear of teh churchtower.
I also got extraordinarily lost looking for the John Lennon wall. My guidebook describes it as "a tribute to peace" where tourists leave graffiti messages. Its hidden behind the french embassy, and john lennons face on it is about the size of a computer screen. Some clever person wrote "MUFF" over his beard, and the rest of the wall looks no different from ghettos in chicago or brooklyn. Pretty lame in my opinion. BUT finding it was quite an adventure and I stumbled on a lot of landmarks that I intended to see, and when I was about to give up on finding the wall, I followed a group of Japanese tourists and they led me right to it.
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We follow Miss Kalnitsky on her journeys, this time in Praha.
Ruth writes:
I apologize for the occasional typo and lack of punctuation, these Czech keyboards are a little off ... Day one in Prague has been lovelz, the city is beautiful, but packed to the brim with tourists. I arrived yesterday afternoon, to be picked up in a rented car by Rebecca and her friends, the drive back to prague was a bit frightening, but we made it alive despite a turn onto a road with a sign of a car crossed out by a red line. the girl driving decided that it meant "no buicks" rather than "do not enter" and went right ahead. Never again will I get into a car driven by an american tourist in a foreign country.
Like a good American, my first stop in town was at a Pivenica where we went all out and splurged on what appears to be the national beverage, beer. We all know what a huge beer fan am, so needless to say, the only quality I found was the price, half a liter costs less than a buck.
I was a bit unconscious after hours of flying on planes with broken air conditioning, yes, both flights managed to have broken air conditioners. That was pleasant. And the on my second flight, I was granted the opportunity to sit next to a lovely Czech boy, who, like most of europe, has yet to discover antipersperant.
This morning, Rebecca and I were up at the crack of dawn, thanks to me, of course, and started playing tourist quite early. It proved to be a great idea, there were hardly any people in front of the astronomical clock or on the Charles bridge.
The astronomical clock did NOT live up to its name. My understanding of how it works is limited, and I noticed the astrological signs all over it and all that jazz, but its name implies much more than it really is. If i were writing the guide book, Id just call it the prettz cool clock with marching apostles. I was far more impressed with the Charles bridge, and even more so with the senate building. We found that by accident - neither one of our guide books even mentions it - but the outside of the building is meant to look like the inside of a cave, but there are frogs, snakes, and monster faces carved into the stalagtites that you only notice if you look very carefully. In the middle of this cavernous wall, there§s an aviary with owls in it, a bit creepy, and the sign explaining why they are there is in czech, so that is something ill have to figure out later.
After the senate building, we decided to have some authentic czech lunch. Rebecca, the vegetarian, got fried cheese with potatoes and pickled cabage, and I got goulash with bread dumplings. As appetizing as it all was, I dont think czech cuisine is going to the top of mz list.
I strolled over to the old Jewish ghetto, which so far is the most impressive part of this tourist infested town. I visited the oldest synagogue in Euröpe, ánd a few other non functional synagogues that are devoted to all sorts of exhibits - one is a Holocaust memorial, another has a bunch of stuff about death in Judaism and illness and stuff like that. All of it felt verÿ fake and touristy, so I was mildly annoyed. Älso in the Ghetto there is an old Jewish cemetary, i think its the oldest in europe, which is fantastic, the tombstones are piled onto each other with absolutely no space in between them, and a few Hasidic men were praying at one of the graves. I think the men praying were the onlz thing that lent the entire ghetto any legitimacy¨, otherwise i would have just assumed that like disneyland, the entire area was built purely for tourism. ¨The best one, the spanish synagogue¨, is now used for concerts rather than services, but its beautifully decorated on the inside, with a blue and maroon ceiling with gold trim and massive, massive organs upstairs.
After my tour of the Jewish ghetto, I met up with Rebecca and the other kids on her studz abroad program and we went out for... my favorite... czech food. I knew better this time than to order goulash, os I stuck with soup and salad. Little did I know, the soup was SERIOUSLY a bowl of high-concentrate chicken broth with raw onions, and the pile of cheese on top of the salad was about two inches taller than the pile of vegetables below it. Did I mention I'm not a fan of czech food?
Anÿways, my other adventures prettz much consisted of going to see the old castle and the St vitus cathedral. I'm not sure why Notre dame in paris is so famous, and nobody talks about st vitus, its much more beautiful. I did make the mistake of buying a ticket to walk to the top of the tower. If any of you ever plan on going to Prague, DONT DO IT. the winding staircase seems eternal, its narrow, stuffy, and people go in both directions at the same time. So unless you want your nose directly in someone§s rear end for 45 minutes straight, while you walk in spirals, onlÿ to get to the top to see a pretty great view for two minutes and then go back down, steer clear of teh churchtower.
I also got extraordinarily lost looking for the John Lennon wall. My guidebook describes it as "a tribute to peace" where tourists leave graffiti messages. Its hidden behind the french embassy, and john lennons face on it is about the size of a computer screen. Some clever person wrote "MUFF" over his beard, and the rest of the wall looks no different from ghettos in chicago or brooklyn. Pretty lame in my opinion. BUT finding it was quite an adventure and I stumbled on a lot of landmarks that I intended to see, and when I was about to give up on finding the wall, I followed a group of Japanese tourists and they led me right to it.
Got yer passport?
We're off to St. Petersberg, Russia, with Ruth Kalnistky!
Ruth writes:
Well, time in St. Pete is quickly drawing to a close, and I think we've crossed out almost every reccommended site in the guidebook as well as the massive lists of places people told us to visit. Of course, when I come home, people will ask if I saw such-and-such or ate at this-and-that, and Ill say "nope, never heard of it" but seriously, we've seen every major chuch in town, more palace rooms decorated in semi-precious-stones than you can imagine, and the inside of some weird-o restaurants.
All of the on-the-path tourist stuff that we did was awesome, of course, but aside from gold-gilded columns and malachite tables, we saw some pretty cool stuff that is actually useful this century.
Yesterday we went to the farmers market, where Rebecca and I quickly befriended several Tadjikistani (I cant even spell it) market-guys, who showered us with compliments and practically dropped to their knees begging us to take them back to the United States with us. We kindly declined, but our inflated egos caused us to buy some of everything they had. We spent a good deal of time roaming around the market, and left about $10 poorer but with bags and bags of non-restaurant food in our hands. Yes, I'm a spoiled brat, I'm bitching about eating in restaurants every day, but seriously, when one person doesn't know a word of russian and the other person needs about an HOUR to read a menu and then another hour to translate, only to be greeted with a dish that is inevitably either butter or oil encrusted... well, vegetables are a refreshing change.
I have made friends with the front-desk lady at our hotel (partially because the desk is two-feet away from our bedroom door, and she has given me the role of translator for lost english speakers, which I have the honor of dealing with abotu twice a day) so she let us use her fridge, and her espresso maker.... basically she lets us use whatever of hers we want in exchange for translation services.... well, I made that story a lot longer than it needed to be, so I'll conclude quickly: we feasted on cheap-ass heirloom tomatoes (there's no such thing as a perfectly spherical tomato here...) and cucumbers and all sorts of lovely fruits and vegetables with no chemical enhancements (read: everything is smaller and tastes good).
As a break from the tourist attractions of St Pete, we went to a cemetary today, where all of the people that died during the 900 day blockade are "buried". The ride there was frighteningly far from downtown, the cemetary was very well manicured, but the tombstones bearing no names, just years (about 3 tombstones per year sit at the head of all the bodies that died)..... and my card is expiring so Ill leave you wit htat... oh- they have speakers playing classical music all over the cemetary. NOT COOL. never go there at night
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We're off to St. Petersberg, Russia, with Ruth Kalnistky!
Ruth writes:
Well, time in St. Pete is quickly drawing to a close, and I think we've crossed out almost every reccommended site in the guidebook as well as the massive lists of places people told us to visit. Of course, when I come home, people will ask if I saw such-and-such or ate at this-and-that, and Ill say "nope, never heard of it" but seriously, we've seen every major chuch in town, more palace rooms decorated in semi-precious-stones than you can imagine, and the inside of some weird-o restaurants.
All of the on-the-path tourist stuff that we did was awesome, of course, but aside from gold-gilded columns and malachite tables, we saw some pretty cool stuff that is actually useful this century.
Yesterday we went to the farmers market, where Rebecca and I quickly befriended several Tadjikistani (I cant even spell it) market-guys, who showered us with compliments and practically dropped to their knees begging us to take them back to the United States with us. We kindly declined, but our inflated egos caused us to buy some of everything they had. We spent a good deal of time roaming around the market, and left about $10 poorer but with bags and bags of non-restaurant food in our hands. Yes, I'm a spoiled brat, I'm bitching about eating in restaurants every day, but seriously, when one person doesn't know a word of russian and the other person needs about an HOUR to read a menu and then another hour to translate, only to be greeted with a dish that is inevitably either butter or oil encrusted... well, vegetables are a refreshing change.
I have made friends with the front-desk lady at our hotel (partially because the desk is two-feet away from our bedroom door, and she has given me the role of translator for lost english speakers, which I have the honor of dealing with abotu twice a day) so she let us use her fridge, and her espresso maker.... basically she lets us use whatever of hers we want in exchange for translation services.... well, I made that story a lot longer than it needed to be, so I'll conclude quickly: we feasted on cheap-ass heirloom tomatoes (there's no such thing as a perfectly spherical tomato here...) and cucumbers and all sorts of lovely fruits and vegetables with no chemical enhancements (read: everything is smaller and tastes good).
As a break from the tourist attractions of St Pete, we went to a cemetary today, where all of the people that died during the 900 day blockade are "buried". The ride there was frighteningly far from downtown, the cemetary was very well manicured, but the tombstones bearing no names, just years (about 3 tombstones per year sit at the head of all the bodies that died)..... and my card is expiring so Ill leave you wit htat... oh- they have speakers playing classical music all over the cemetary. NOT COOL. never go there at night
Are Your Bags Packed?
Section 2 goes international, starting with this entry from Kate Vogel, live from the Brazilian rain forest...
Kate writes:
My biggest adventure was a four day trip to Iguazu Falls which is located on the border of Brazil and Argentina. While I was there it rained almost constantly (maybe that's why they call it a rain forest?), but I still loved it. The falls themselves were amazing. Very different from Niagra falls, I hear, though I don't know from personal experience. I guess Niagra is a longer drop, while Iguazu is much much wider with many different falls. I saw it from both the Argentine and Brazilian sides, but my favorite view was on a boat that went right under one of the falls. Actually, I couldn't see much from there since it was all water and white, but I found out the falls taste fresh and also it was really the way to feel the power of all that water.
I opted to change a little bit the standard group tour schedule by skipping the part where we spent half a day looking at a duty free shop and other places to buy souvenirs and instead going on a jungle expedition where I learned more about the plants (like which ones are natural contraceptives and which ones store extra water in their trunk in case you're ever really thirsty and in need of water...in the middle of the rainforest). I also climbed a really tall tree with a ladder (with supports and everything to make sure it was safe) to see what the jungle is like from the canopy. I also did this zipline kind of thing from there and was extremely nervous pretty much the whole time, but definitely loved it. And I also rappelled down a small cliff. That was very scary but I am pleased I did it and even more pleased I didn't die doing it.
I saw toucans in the wild and also coatis which are small animals with long tails that I am apparently not very good at describing. In a bird park nearby I saw lots of parrots. Also, in the hotel, this frog jumped up on the window and was able to just hop vertically up the whole thing. That was cool to watch. There are these frogs that climb trees to lay their eggs in the leaves of the trees far away from some of their natural preditors. Probably this was one of those types. Anyway, besides a little bit of Portuguese, most of my weekend was conducted in Spanish. I felt pretty proud when the guy who was booking my jungle expedition thing told the person on the other line in answer to the question "what languages does she speak?" "English and Spanish". The result of course, was that my guide spoke just Spanish, and so I did miss some parts of the jungle explanation. I triple checked my understanding of everything regarding the zipline and tree climbing and cliff rappelling there, also asking some of the more bilingual fellow travelers. The more standard parts of my tour were entirely in Spanish. Pretty much everyone else was from Buenos Aires, certainly no other foreigners.
That said, as the only foreigner and also the only person there solo and also I think the only person in my exact age niche (not sure), I ended up talking with quite a few people, and found my days full of conversation.
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Section 2 goes international, starting with this entry from Kate Vogel, live from the Brazilian rain forest...
Kate writes:
My biggest adventure was a four day trip to Iguazu Falls which is located on the border of Brazil and Argentina. While I was there it rained almost constantly (maybe that's why they call it a rain forest?), but I still loved it. The falls themselves were amazing. Very different from Niagra falls, I hear, though I don't know from personal experience. I guess Niagra is a longer drop, while Iguazu is much much wider with many different falls. I saw it from both the Argentine and Brazilian sides, but my favorite view was on a boat that went right under one of the falls. Actually, I couldn't see much from there since it was all water and white, but I found out the falls taste fresh and also it was really the way to feel the power of all that water.
I opted to change a little bit the standard group tour schedule by skipping the part where we spent half a day looking at a duty free shop and other places to buy souvenirs and instead going on a jungle expedition where I learned more about the plants (like which ones are natural contraceptives and which ones store extra water in their trunk in case you're ever really thirsty and in need of water...in the middle of the rainforest). I also climbed a really tall tree with a ladder (with supports and everything to make sure it was safe) to see what the jungle is like from the canopy. I also did this zipline kind of thing from there and was extremely nervous pretty much the whole time, but definitely loved it. And I also rappelled down a small cliff. That was very scary but I am pleased I did it and even more pleased I didn't die doing it.
I saw toucans in the wild and also coatis which are small animals with long tails that I am apparently not very good at describing. In a bird park nearby I saw lots of parrots. Also, in the hotel, this frog jumped up on the window and was able to just hop vertically up the whole thing. That was cool to watch. There are these frogs that climb trees to lay their eggs in the leaves of the trees far away from some of their natural preditors. Probably this was one of those types. Anyway, besides a little bit of Portuguese, most of my weekend was conducted in Spanish. I felt pretty proud when the guy who was booking my jungle expedition thing told the person on the other line in answer to the question "what languages does she speak?" "English and Spanish". The result of course, was that my guide spoke just Spanish, and so I did miss some parts of the jungle explanation. I triple checked my understanding of everything regarding the zipline and tree climbing and cliff rappelling there, also asking some of the more bilingual fellow travelers. The more standard parts of my tour were entirely in Spanish. Pretty much everyone else was from Buenos Aires, certainly no other foreigners.
That said, as the only foreigner and also the only person there solo and also I think the only person in my exact age niche (not sure), I ended up talking with quite a few people, and found my days full of conversation.
What I did on my Summer Vacation (a contest)
Section 2 is offering YOU the chance to write a travelogue, detailing your summer adventures in the far corners, and have it posted on THIS very blog!
If you've been somewhere particularly exciting in the past few months, or even if you've been nowhere exciting - but can make it sound exciting - then be in touch! Entries will be published immediately upon receipt.
This could be your break into the the world of international travel journalism. Or not.
It's fun either way.
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Section 2 is offering YOU the chance to write a travelogue, detailing your summer adventures in the far corners, and have it posted on THIS very blog!
If you've been somewhere particularly exciting in the past few months, or even if you've been nowhere exciting - but can make it sound exciting - then be in touch! Entries will be published immediately upon receipt.
This could be your break into the the world of international travel journalism. Or not.
It's fun either way.
Loop dee Loop
Ok, so every television news outlet has consistently used the same 3 shots of "Al Qaeda terrorist training camps" since September 11. That's, oh, coming up to 3 years now. 3 years of the same 30 seconds of tape, looping over, and over, and over again.
Enough! I don't need to see a bunch of hooded dudes on monkey bars in the middle of a desert to know that there are international terror networks! And you know, ooh, aren't those images of "terrorists" diving into water (PS: what sort of lakes are there in the middle of the Afghan desert, anyway?) just soooo scary? No - not the butterfly stroke! Eeek!
If anything, editors that choose to run that footage make a mockery themselves, and threaten the credibility of their respective networks.
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Ok, so every television news outlet has consistently used the same 3 shots of "Al Qaeda terrorist training camps" since September 11. That's, oh, coming up to 3 years now. 3 years of the same 30 seconds of tape, looping over, and over, and over again.
Enough! I don't need to see a bunch of hooded dudes on monkey bars in the middle of a desert to know that there are international terror networks! And you know, ooh, aren't those images of "terrorists" diving into water (PS: what sort of lakes are there in the middle of the Afghan desert, anyway?) just soooo scary? No - not the butterfly stroke! Eeek!
If anything, editors that choose to run that footage make a mockery themselves, and threaten the credibility of their respective networks.
The Peace Room
Downing a pint of Keith's early Sunday morning with a gang of hacks (their word, not mine) from NDP headquarters.
"Wow, I feel like I have an insider's seat in the war room," I said.
"Oh, no. Not the war room - Jack (Layton) doesn't like that. We call it the peace room," was the response.
God bless the NDP.
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Downing a pint of Keith's early Sunday morning with a gang of hacks (their word, not mine) from NDP headquarters.
"Wow, I feel like I have an insider's seat in the war room," I said.
"Oh, no. Not the war room - Jack (Layton) doesn't like that. We call it the peace room," was the response.
God bless the NDP.
A Belated Spring
I was reminded last night of Beautiful Losers, Leonard Cohen's melodic novel that made me most proud to be a native daughter of the finest island on the St. Laurent River... an excerpt for this Monday afternoon...
"Spring comes into Quebec from the west. It is the warm Japan Current that brings the change of season to the east coast of Canada, and then the West Wind picks it up. It comes across the prairies in the breath of the Chinook, waking up the grain and caves of bears. It flows over Ontario like a dream of legislation, and it sneaks into Quebec, into our villages, between our birch trees. In Montreal the the cafes, like a bed of tulip bulbs, sprout from their cellars in a display of awnings and chairs.
In Montreal spring is like an autopsy. Everyone wants to see the inside of the frozen mammoth. Girls rip off their sleeves and the flesh is sweet and white, like wood under green bark. From the streets a sexual manifesto rises like an inflating tire, "The winter has not killed us again!" Spring comes into Quebec from Japan, and like a prewar Crackerjack prize it breaks the first day because we play too hard with it. Spring comes into Montreal like an American movie of Riviera Romance, and everyone has to sleep with a foreigner, and suddenly the house lights flare and it's summer, but we don't mind because spring is really a little flashy for our taste, a little effeminate, like the furs of Hollywood lavatories. Spring is an exotic import, like rubber love equipment from Hong Kong, we only want it for a special afternoon, and vote tariffs tomorrow if necessary. "
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I was reminded last night of Beautiful Losers, Leonard Cohen's melodic novel that made me most proud to be a native daughter of the finest island on the St. Laurent River... an excerpt for this Monday afternoon...
"Spring comes into Quebec from the west. It is the warm Japan Current that brings the change of season to the east coast of Canada, and then the West Wind picks it up. It comes across the prairies in the breath of the Chinook, waking up the grain and caves of bears. It flows over Ontario like a dream of legislation, and it sneaks into Quebec, into our villages, between our birch trees. In Montreal the the cafes, like a bed of tulip bulbs, sprout from their cellars in a display of awnings and chairs.
In Montreal spring is like an autopsy. Everyone wants to see the inside of the frozen mammoth. Girls rip off their sleeves and the flesh is sweet and white, like wood under green bark. From the streets a sexual manifesto rises like an inflating tire, "The winter has not killed us again!" Spring comes into Quebec from Japan, and like a prewar Crackerjack prize it breaks the first day because we play too hard with it. Spring comes into Montreal like an American movie of Riviera Romance, and everyone has to sleep with a foreigner, and suddenly the house lights flare and it's summer, but we don't mind because spring is really a little flashy for our taste, a little effeminate, like the furs of Hollywood lavatories. Spring is an exotic import, like rubber love equipment from Hong Kong, we only want it for a special afternoon, and vote tariffs tomorrow if necessary. "
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