The People Up

I wanted to share a quote I heard on NPR a while back.

David Simon, creator of The Wire and now Treme, said this about travel:

Well, you know, there's two ways of being a tourist. The first way is you get on the tour bus and the guide grabs the microphone and you drive down the streets that everyone has driven down before. And he tells you, you know, when this church was built and then you go in for 15 minutes and you come out again. And you go to the next country.

And then there's the other, which is when you go somewhere for a while and you dont have a tour guide, and you walk into the nearest bar or shebeen and you just be. And you start figuring out a place from the people up.

Mr. Simon hits it on the nose. How fulfilling is it when you can get your hands dirty and be one with the locals!

There was the time my friends and I were walking down the streets of Cairo to our hotel, when some guys asked us to join them for tea. Or the time I tried to get a pot-laden cake from a coffeehouse in Amsterdam. Or the time I was approached by a tuk-tuk driver in Chiang Mai, asking if I wanted a lady. All these times involved interacting, breaking out of the "tourist bubble" I'm used to putting up abroad.

As I get ready for Tokyo and Hong Kong, I ask myself how can I travel from the people up? And for you, Faithful Traveler, what would that look like for you?

Stories

I've become more interested in the narratives of travel. The stories that I take back home, put to paper (or screen), and share with all of you. Like the time I got a foot massage in KL. I love that story.

Stories are what I strive for. They're everywhere. They're in first time you set foot on the London Underground. The first bite into a Parisian crepe. The moment you reach the top of Dead Woman's Pass. In all these moments, the story lies in two questions: "How did you feel?" and "What did you think?" The stories fall from there.

I'm not a master storyteller by any means. I like a good story, and I know a good one when I see one. I like to devote some blog space to craft of storytelling. What makes a good story? What makes a good travel story? Perhaps that will be a post to come soon...

The Next Trip...

The flights have been booked! I'll be traveling to Japan and Hong Kong (by way of Korean Air) this November.

A lot of firsts this trip around; First Thanksgiving abroad, first Birthday abroad, first international trip with K. No mancations this time.

My feelings are mostly excitement, but I'm a little nervous. K and I have only traveled to Portland together, and while it was a blast, I found it hard to account for one other person. It used to be that if I could get away from people, have some alone time, it wasn't a problem.

I'm sure K would give me alone time if I made it known at the outset. But it's not like I can just walk away from her any time I want. I know this. It takes getting used to.

I'm nervous because there's the fear that we may not be travel compatible. Will that be a problem in our relationship? We'll soon find out...

Grounded

In the past four months, I've taken two flights. Both to Oakland. That barely qualifies as a flight. You take off, you order a ginger ale, you have thirty seconds to finish it, you land.

As my flight began its descent into LAX, the old feelings returned. The wanderlust, you can call it. The desire to get the heck out of wherever you may be. Man, I miss it.

I'm not complaining. You have to know what it feels like to be grounded, to fully appreciate what it means to fly. And I can't wait to fly.

Attack of the Habibis

I won't go into the Pyramids much. I saw them. I took pictures. I stared at them for what seemed like an hour, unable to fathom that after nearly 4,000 years(!), these tombs are still here. They are true wonders of the world. See them before you die.

What I really want to talk about are the habibis.

Habibi is an arabic term that means something like darling, or if you're so inclined, hottie. This was told to us by Osama, our tour bus driver. As Osama was taking our pictures in front of the Great Pyramid of Cheops, he turned and pointed to a fleet of jumbo tour buses. "Habibi!" He hollered.

On cue, they came forth. Dressed in halter tops, tube tops, short and tight tops. Cleavage out in full force. Hip-hugging hot pants and short shorts, some in denim, some in spandex, revealing legs of all shapes and colors. Habibis, no doubt Western, with their S.O.'s hiding behind behemoth DSLRs, streaming from luxury coaches. While their boyfriends and husbands clicking away, they posed in front of the Pyramids like Vogue models.


*J, center. Habibi, right.*

I was in shock. If anyone does some research before visiting Egypt, when reading about how to dress, they'll come across words such as "modest", "respectful" and "for the love of God, cover your skin". Either the habibis totally disregarded what their Lonely Planet guidebook told them, or they just didn't know.

I thought about the habibis as I rode my tour bus back to downtown Cairo. How would the locals view these women? Would they leer and catcall? Would they feel disrespected and think all Westerners as ignorant and disrespectful?

Or would they even see these habibis at all? Will these tourists go back in their buses, go straight to their five-star hotels or private resort, and not once step foot on the streets of Cairo?

It turns out, most of the habibis were head to the same place M, J and I were going; On a little cruise down the Nile River...

It's Not Easy

*The view from our hotel - Downtown Cairo*

Nothing about your first day in Cairo is easy.

Taxis rides in Cairo are not easy. The driving is erratic. You're bombarded by smog. You're surrounded by calls to prayer. Traffic lights are suggestions. Crosswalks don't exist. Our driver, Muhammad, was friendly. "If you need to go anywhere, call me." He said. M was ecstatic to make a new friend. I just wanted to check in.

Checking into your hotel is not easy. We handed our passports to the clerk, a dead ringer for Harry Potter. He smiled at us, while the manager, a tall man with a thick mustache and bad teeth, pored over the reservation book. "I don't recognize your tour company." He said. The three of us looked like we just crapped our pants. The manager looked up and smiled. "Relax! You're in Egypt." Yes, of course, relax. Perfectly easy.

Ordering authentic Egyptian food is not easy. "We gotta get outta here," I said to M and J. We had spent two hours in our hotel room, wondering if this was even our room to begin with. The muezzin was beckoning all to the mosque next door. We had to leave.

Egyptian Harry Potter directed us to a place a block away. "Very good and very cheap." We stared at the menu above the counter, letters completely in Arabic. We hoped the letters would transform to English. Five minutes later, I stepped to the counter and said the only food item that I remembered from my guidebook. "Fool?"

"Eh??" The counter guy asked. "Fooooool?" I replied.

"Fuul?"

"YES!"

We ordered fuul and shwarma and waited ten minutes. Turns out, when the cashier hands you a receipt, you hand that over to another guy, who fills your order. Whatever. The fuul was good.

Even walking the quarter-mile back to your hotel is not easy in Cairo. In the evening, during the heart of Ramadan, the streets are lined with locals, sipping tea, smoking hooka. These locals are quite friendly. Especially if you look...non-Egyptian. Five of these locals waved to us as we walked past them. M, desperate for some local interaction, turned to J and me. "Why don't we hang out?" "Yes, of course." I say to myself. "This is totally normal. Shoot the breeze with five guys who look as if we're just dying to hand over all our Egyptian pounds. No worries at all."

Five guys turned into seven. They asked us simple questions; Where are we from. Where else have we gone, etc. A tray of glasses, filled to the brim with tea, appeared. They handed us a glass each. "Please, drink." I looked at M and J. I shrugged my shoulders. Hey, why not?

We continued our conversation. They spoke in broken English. We knew no Arabic. Other than "fuul". That was of no help now.

After half an hour of talking, they started to leave, one by one. "We'll be back!" One of the guys, Mohammed, shouted over his shoulder as he bolted across the street. Five minutes later, as the three of us stared down, into our cups, I turned to M and J. "They stuck us with the bill for the tea, didn't they?" An old man to my left cackled. My stomach twisted as the man showed me a picture of Omar Sharif on his cell phone. "Just get me outta here." I thought. "Take me back to Athens. Or L.A. Anywhere but here..."

Ten minutes later, they still didn't show. "Guys, I'll take care of it." M said, as he rose to talk to the shop owner about the bill. Then they appeared, our new friends, stunned that we could possibly leave so soon. They insist that we stay for a bit. I shook my head. "We have to get up early, guys. " We shook their hands, they waved goodbye, and we headed to our hotel. My stomach untwisted. Why was I so worked up? Those guys couldn't be THAT friendly, could they?

As I lay in bed that night, wondering if the next day would be any easier, I thought, "What kind of city is this? And why do I feel so alive?"

Hiatus

I realize it's been a while. I still have plenty to write about Egypt and Turkey, but this life thing pulls me away.

I have at least two stories left in me. I'll also share my pictures from Cairo and Istanbul. Can't believe it's been four months!

As for future travel, I might go to Hong Kong and Tokyo, but that won't be for a while. In the meantime, I'll look at short trips close to home. Maybe even enjoying what home has to offer.