There and Back Again

I've been home for almost a week now, for the first time in over a year.

Well, "home" is a relative term. I'm staying with family a stone's throw from my university, the place I called home before I left for Paris, only now it feels strange and distant. Most of my things are with my parents in Seattle, at the address that I list on official documents, but I haven't really lived there in quite some time. But home isn't defined by objects, physical boundaries or even people; it's being somewhere that embraces you like a security blanket. And I don't feel that warmth, not yet.

I had a co-worker in Paris, an American expat who'd been living abroad for five years or so. We secretly made fun of him because he used insults like "your mom" and "retarded" that used to be popular at home but have since fallen out of style. Hearing him speak was like cracking open a linguistic time capsule - a throwback to my middle and high school years.

Have I become obsolete? In returning to Silicon Valley I sometimes feel like Rip Van Winkle awakening to a world changed almost beyond recognition. I updated my iPhone to iOS 7 and had to look up a tutorial for how to use it. My friends tell me to download this app and try that new online service. Last Friday night after a concert I used one to get a ride to the train station. Opening the app as I followed the throng out of the auditorium, I sent for a car while crossing the lobby; by the time I exited the building the driver was at the curb. I didn't have to negotiate a fare, demand the meter be turned on or pull up the location because he didn't know where it was. It was so easy. 

When I went out shopping on Sunday I first checked the store hours because, in other parts of the world, shops are closed from time to time. Not so in America.  Likewise I felt overwhelmed by choice when I stepped into a supermarket - the bright lights, the million iterations of every product that probably only differ by a few chemical structures. 

Maybe it's post-trip depression, or just the drastic shift from waking up eager to see what the day would bring to making endless to-do lists and running errands. There are plenty of things I "should" be doing, but instead I can't help but fantasize about leaving again. Whether it's getting a work holiday visa or volunteering overseas, I'm plotting my next move after I've worked a bit and saved up enough.

One adventure ends, and the next begins. The only question is: where to next?

Good Morning Middle-earth

Australia may have gotten away with all the biodiversity, but New Zealand has pretty much any kind of climate/landscape (rainforest, beach, snow-capped mountain, lake, etc) you could possibly want to see all crammed into its two relatively small islands. This plethora of natural features unblemished by power lines, roads and signs of modernity is why Peter Jackson, apart from being a kiwi himsef, wanted to film The Lord of the Rings and Hobbit trilogies there. Many of the filming locations are on the South Island, which I did not visit on this trip, but about two hours south of Auckland is the Waikato region, whose rolling green hills serve as the back drop for the shire, home of the hobbits. 

All tours begin at the Shire's Rest, where buses depart for Hobbiton (only about ten minutes away but completely hidden by hills from the main road). And as you walk between the hobbit holes and around the lake and party tree, you learn quite a bit about the production as well.  

A few fun facts: 

- Around 40 hobbit holes were constructed, generally to a scale between 40-60% in order to force perspective and make two normal-sized actors match the expected heights of their characters (e.g. Gandalf and Frodo). Bag End is the only full-size hobbit hole.

- The sheep farm where Hobbiton was built is so remote that, before filming for LotR, Jackson - via the government - enlisted help from the New Zealand army to construct a road so that cast and crew could access the site easily. 

- Jackson is a perfectionist and sought to remove all native plants and animals from the set; the plants were easy but the animals less so. Frogs from the original pond were simply moved to another further away, but in order to get the native birds to leave the crew regularly set off explosives in the days leading up to filming so that the noise would scare them off. 

A few photos below. See the rest here.

(That moss in the first picture is fake, btw. Looks real though doesn't it?) 

10 Types of People You Might Encounter at a Hostel

Real post coming soon. Currently under time/data limitations with this internet connection. To paraphrase a local:  the lack of free wifi in Auckland is frankly kind of embarrassing for a first world country. 

10. (Valencia) Japanese girls.

These model tourists are already asleep by the time you get home from the pub crawl and gone by the time you wake up extremely hungover. It's probably best that way such that they're not around to judge when you pull the trash can a little closer to your bed.

9. (Cordova) The family from Holland.

Aside from the fact that they occupy three out of the four beds in the room, the parents both sleep in their undies so after the first night you practically feel like one of them. The mom reads Harry Potter out loud in Dutch to the son before bed, which reminds you of your own childhood, and the dad snores just like yours.

8. (Marrakesh) The YOLO couple.

A German guy and Brazilian girl who exhibit dangerous signs of getting it on in your room but, thankfully, take it elsewhere. Still, it's pretty much a repeat of the Prague experience.

7. (Marrakesh) German bros.

Super chill and willing to share cigarettes and Hennessy.

6. (Marrakesh) The hiccoughing Icelander.

A perfectly agreeable gentleman with the curious tendency to, at the beginning of each sentence, inhale sharply like a fish gasping for air. It's disconcerting during conversations because this habit makes it seem like he's really surprised at everything you say.

5. (Essaouira) Dutch bros.

You may have made tentative plans to catch a bus together back to Marrakech, but in the morning when everyone is running late they can't bear to leave the hostel without breakfast. Such a shame; three strapping young men would have done wonders to fend off unwanted advances from local guys.

4. (Singapore) The future Jay Gatsby. 

I came back one night to find one other person still up in the common room - a Malaysian guy about my age who interrupted my blogging reverie by asking if we'd met somewhere before. I immediately said no, (it being my first time in Southeast Asia and all it seemed rather impossible) but it later occurred to me this was perhaps a flirting tactic. He spoke with a posh British accent, not uncommon in Singapore but usually it's more of a slight twang than full-on I-am-Lord-Crawley-of-Downton-Abbey speak. After he told me that he was Malaysian-born I asked him what he was doing in Singapore. And I distinctly recall him saying, and quite haughtily at that, "Oh, I don't speak like a local." (Didn't even answer my question, but whatever).

Other phrases he used that ultimately reminded me of Gatsby's verbal tic "old boy" to denote the class he longed to be associated with include: "What do your friends call you?" and "I apologize for the behavior of my colleagues." (As opposed to the more standard "What's your name?" or "Sorry my friends were being dicks last night...")

I find it rather off-putting when people put on airs but, who knows, maybe one day I'll read about him in the NYT and regret the time I didn't take him up on his offer for drinks.  

3. (Kuala Lumpur) The hostel staff.

Upon checking in, I was surprised to see two of the lower bunks converted into cave-like enclaves thanks to the plethora of towels, scarves and clothing hung around on each side, giving the strong impression that their inhabitants were in for much more than a short-term stay. And then, when I was going to bed, I realized why: the beds belonged to two of the staff members. It's not uncommon for young people to travel until they run out of money and then work at a hostel in exchange for room and board until they decide on their next move but, yeah, the caves. Those were a bit strange.

2. (Auckland) The working holidayer.

A guy on a work-holiday visa who, although perfectly friendly and civil in conversation, makes absolutely no effort to be quiet when he enters/exits the room after everyone else has turned in for the night. Aka the worst kind of roommate.

1. (Everywhere) Weary travelers who DGAF.

People who have been on the road for so long, met so many people and made so many memories that they can't keep them all straight. It's not that they don't want to talk to you, it's just that they're a little tired of making introductions, and by now they've been on the road for so long it would take a really long time to recap.

Melbourne in Photos: Street Art Edition

As I came in through the city center via bus, I couldn't help but get a New York City kind of vibe - the wide streets, fancy theaters and high-end designer shops brought to mind 5th Ave. But as I left downtown for the neighborhood where my Airbnb host lived - Fitzroy - it became more San Franciscan in feel and, when I actually got out to explore the neighborhood, my hipster meter landed decidedly on Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Yes, if you gave everyone funny accents and made them drive on the wrong side of the road, then the two communities would be practically interchangeable. Interpret that how you will but there's no denying that the food and coffee are to die for.

Even accounting for the fact that I'm a bit sick at the moment, meaning that a) I can't really taste anything and b) I get tired out quickly, there simply aren't enough meals in a day to try all the establishments that I want to and have been recommended to me by friends. I guess a repeat visit is in order. 

Photos below, mostly from around Fitzroy.  

Perspectives on Sydney

Aside from the customs debacle, I was excited to arrive in Australia because it signaled a return to the sort of cultural norms that I'm used to (e.g. ethnic diversity, coffee shops everywhere, reliable forms of public transportation, not having to haggle over everything, speaking English, being able to trust strangers, etc.). Not to mention that, after being in very hot climates where each day was a struggle to stay hydrated on account of all the sweating, I relished the idea of wearing pants and jackets. (Actually, I forced myself to wear pants in Morocco and India to reduce the chances of being creepily hit on - didn't stop some guys! - and it was terribly uncomfortable).  Maybe my internal thermostat is just out of whack from the shock of crossing the equator, but I've come down with some ill-timed cold/flu-like disease. Prior to landing in Sydney, I honestly don't remember the last time I felt cold. 

My host Michelle, who was my travel buddy on last summer's Scandinavian adventure, and her friends struggled to come up with activities for me in Sydney that didn't revolve around eating. This is not to say that the city is boring, but when you've lived somewhere you're whole life, you tend to take things for granted. I go through the same process when people ask me what to do in Seattle. (And my mind always jumps first to the best places to eat).

But as we sipped cocktails at the bar under the famous opera house, we agreed that the thing no one ever gets tired of is the views. Most of the photos I took are along various points of the many coves and bays on either side of the historic Harbor Bridge. If it weren't so expensive I might want to live there just to bask in its beauty. 

See more of Sydney here. 

Trouble at Customs

Let me preface this by saying that whatever negative rumors you've heard about Australian customs are probably true. Because whereas most Aussies are generally friendly and easy-going, these guys in uniforms don't mess around. I know they're just doing their jobs but, seriously, do I seem like a threat to national security?

*** 

I suppose my downfall was that after disembarking at Sydney Airport shortly after 8pm, I stopped to use the bathroom, purchase a bottle of wine at the duty-free shop for the friend hosting me for the weekend, and make use of the perfume samples to mask the plane smell that still clung to me, such that by the time I had collected my luggage from the carousel almost all the other passengers had cleared customs. Maybe the agent had a quota to fill or, after making it through countless other airports in the past weeks without incident, my luck had simply run out.

"Please follow me," said the agent when I handed over my immigration card and passport.

We passed several empty stations before arriving at a stainless steel counter that gleamed ominously in the harsh light. My purse and suitcase were placed on top. I recall him asking permission first - a mere formality, of course - but before I knew it the agent was donning a pair of nitrile gloves and pawing through the entire contents of my bag.

Questions were flung my way as I stood by, helplessly watching. But judging from the careless way some were repeated multiple times it seemed as though they were more for my benefit; you know, just so that I had something to do instead of wringing my hands and lamenting this sudden violation of privacy.

One particular line of questioning that he really drove home as he flipped through my passport (now pretty full of stamps and visas, nbd) was that I am and have been traveling alone. I've gotten this a lot from pretty much everyone, usually phrased as something along the lines of "OMG, you're so brave!" or "Wow, you're doing this all by yourself?" and it's often tinged with the same condescension offered to a toddler who just managed to piss in the toilet by herself for the first time. It wasn't as friendly coming from the customs agent, obviously, but it was just as annoying. Why? Because a guy traveling solo would never be questioned like that.

Intentional or not, it's as inherently sexist as Tina Fey getting asked in interviews what it's like to be a woman in comedy. So I'm on a round-the-world trip and I also happen to have been born with two X chromosomes. What of it? As Ann Friedman wrote in a fantastic essay earlier this summer, a man hitting the road alone is lauded for being adventurous; when a woman does the same it raises alarm.

Moments later the agent opened an outer pocket and came upon my collection of business and post cards - records of museums, hostels, restaurants and shops that I liked - handling each piece of card stock like he was defusing a bomb. (What can I say? I'm kind of sentimental, I guess). But this reaction paled in comparison to his increasingly furrowed brow as he leafed through my journal. Whether this was merely due to the sheer effort involved in deciphering my messy scrawl or a response to its contents, it's moments like these that make you painfully aware that things that seem perfectly normal to you may come across as strange or even morbid to others.  

I thought about this as the seconds stretched into minutes and he continued to read, not because the notebook contains my deepest, darkest secrets (it's a journal not a diary) but rather there are portions that, taken out of context, wouldn't make sense to an outsider. Sometimes when I'm too lazy to write, for example, I'll jot down a brief memorable encounter to expand on later, which is why certain pages read things like "a wheelbarrow full of animal organs" or "a middle-aged polygamist."

That was the worst part of the interrogation, and then all of a sudden it was over. He typed something into the station's computer, returned my passport and simply said, "All done." 

No explanations, no apologies. But I didn't really care. I just wanted to get out of there. And when I came out to the arrivals hall proper and spotted my friend, I don't think I've ever felt so relieved to see a familiar face.

*** 

I typed this on my iPad with the Notes app instead of writing it out longhand first like I normally do. I mean, it would have been amusing if the next customs agent were to have read this in my journal. Maybe. Actually probably not since apparently they have no sense of humor.

KL in Photos

Kuala Lumpur was the only city on my itinerary that I had no prior knowledge of, with the exception that it's the home of Petronas Towers (Geo Challenge ftw), or specific reason to visit. I still don't know why I booked a flight there between Bali and Australia, because it broke the cardinal rule of RTW travel (no backtracking), but I'm glad that I did because it's actually a pretty cool city. (Not literally; I think I had some minor heat stroke fatigue going on from an afternoon spent walking around getting lost).

Below are a few of my favorite places.

1. National Mosque. After seeing so many mosques in Morocco and Istanbul, this made for quite an architectural contrast. Also nearby (but not pictured), the Islamic Arts Museum had a great exhibit on architecture with models detailing different places of worship across the Middle East and Asia.   

2. Perdana Botanical Gardens. The lake garden was pretty much empty when I went in the early afternoon - a tranquil retreat that, except for the skyscrapers peeking above the treeline, made you forget you were in the middle of a bustling metropolis. 

3. Sultan Abdul Samad Building. I didn't go inside this beautiful late 19th century relic, but it borders one side of Merdeka Square, essentially the heart of the historical center. 

4. Central Market. Great place to browse for souvenirs. Also the place where I did the batik painting. 

5. Chinatown. Once you get past the densely packed stalls of knock-off designer goods, there is great street food to be found. The name to remember is Petaling Street. 

See more photos here.