Travel – Page 3 – Tales From Parts Unknown

Dan and Ian Wander Europe: In Bruges

So, you know that annoying thing people on the internet will do, where they fail to update their blog/comic/whatever, and then apologize by saying that they were working on something super cool that they can’t tell you about yet?

Welp.

The real problem is that, since we last spoke, I’ve been working on something that I’m not telling people about because the odds seem very small that it will go anywhere. It might. It might go somewhere, and if it did, it would be the single greatest thing that has ever happened to me by a significant margin. Save for “successfully being born,” I guess. But until that switches over from “dimly possible” to “actually probable” I’m trying not to get my or anyone’s hopes up by making a big deal.

And now that I’ve done that exact thing I dislike, onwards. Belgium. Let’s do this.

Bruges

I won’t lie to you. Bruges did not get on the itinerary through the noblest of methods. We weren’t in Belgium to see Flanders Field. We didn’t hit any World War memorials. We did not swing by the EU Parliament building in Brussels. No, we were in Bruges because I saw the movie In Bruges and thought it looked worth visiting.

And I was not wrong.

Since my return, people ask “What was the highlight of the trip?” And that is often a difficult question, since so much of it was great. But when I do come up with an answer, it’s usually “Other than London? Paris for the city, Rome for the weather, and Bruges for the food.”

Seriously you guys, everything in Bruges was delicious.

Show me where your noms at

My primary goal for Switzerland was cheese fondue: for Belgium, it was waffles. And the old town had plenty of waffle take-out windows to get lovely, fluffy waffles doused in chocolate, caramel, whatever you desired… I had a waffle in Calgary not so long ago. What a bland waste of time it was in comparison.

Belgium is also the birthplace of the french fry, thus giving us all the excuse we needed to gorge on street fries outside of the famous Belfry. You see, there’s a regular contest in Bruges: local fry makers compete against each other, and the two top entries get the right to set up a fry cart in front of the Belfry. This means those two carts are pretty much guaranteed to have the best fries in the whole city, and if you’re not helping yourself to an order from each one to see who comes out on top, why are you even there? Why are you even there.

I did not expect to say “Bruges had the best meatball I’ve ever had,” but there it is. It’s said. It happened. A random lunch stop brought us to a mom ‘n’ pop restaurant with a hilarious name and absolutely incredible food.

If you’re in Bruges, go there. Get a meatball. You will thank me. Do this or I will find you and hurt you.

Time for beers

I’m not a beer drinker. This is generally known about me. Just never developed a taste for it. When I finally began experimenting with alcohol, I drifted towards whiskey and cocktails, and skipped over beer completely, finding it unpleasant. But we were in Belgium. They brew over 2000 beers in Belgium, and they take it seriously. How seriously? They have designed individual glasses for each of those beers to optimize the drinking experience. And if you were to serve, say, a Hoegaarden in a Duvel glass, a Belgian drinker will send that shit back and demand you do it properly.

So while beer had never been my thing, going to Belgium and not sampling their ales would be like going to Italy and not having any pasta, or going to Greece and not having a single souvlaki, and god damn it I am not doing that again.

So, on our first night in Bruges, I eventually opted to skim the beer menu, see if I could find something palatable. What’s that, Duvel? You have a 12% alcohol content? Why, this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

New friends

Also, if you’re in Bruges on a budget, by all means check out the St. Christopher’s hostel. Best room? No, not really. Best beds? Not quite. But it’s got a bar. A bar full of fellow travelers. The perfect place to hang out and have a few drinks with new friends. Ian put up another “Hey, we’re nice but shy, so come talk to us” sign, and within minutes we were invited to what became known as the “Commonwealth party:” a table of four Scots, two Australians and a Chinese woman living in Germany (for variety) that had met doing the In Bruges walking tour, something we’d been eyeing for our full day in the city, given my fondness for the movie and Ian’s fondness for looking at stuff.

The people behind the walking tour (which used our hostel as home base) also had two other gatherings: a beer tasting, in the pub connected to our hostel, and a pub crawl. I continued to succumb to local fares and signed us up for the beer tasting the following night, where I learned that Belgian ales are, in fact, not too shabby in general. Yes, I was like Christopher Columbus: boldly discovering something that millions of people already knew about.

We chose not to go on the pub crawl, despite the fact that it meant parting ways with our lovely beer tasting hostess, Caitlyn (being named Caitlyn makes you 10% more attractive to me, not sure where that comes from). Instead, we hung out with a new friend we made during the beer tasting, a ginger from America who may have moved to Florida but never lost her New York attitude. Once we’d finished the beers that came with the beer tasting experience, we set off into the damp night in search of other bars with other beers. Our primary targets, including a small tavern at the end of Bruges’ smallest street that brews a beer unavailable anywhere else in the world, were closed, but we continued undeterred, determined to find more beers. She suggested we make an adventure out of it.

We managed to only subtly imply that our reaction to being asked on a drinking adventure by a cute ginger was less “Oh, if we must” and more “Where the hell have you been the last three weeks?”

Oh, but before we left she had to check in with a guy from Scotland she’d “accidentally fallen in love with,” so don’t get excited.

I thought one full day would allow us to get the full Bruges experience. I don’t know why I thought that, but I was quite clearly mistaken. Perhaps one day I shall return… one day…

Dan and Ian Wander Europe: Switzerland!

I dropped my phone onto wet ground last night. An hour or so later, the screen began to turn purple. This morning, the purple was going to black. Within the next hour the screen will no longer function at all. Within the next two business days, I’ll have a replacement of the exact same model and colour (who said warranties were a waste of money?), but I’m still melancholy at watching it slowly die. I mean, we made it through Europe together, it shouldn’t end like this. Bizarre sentimental attachment to inanimate objects: this is how my brain works. I’m just glad to have not gone full-blown hoarder yet.

Right, yes, Dan and Ian Wander Europe. Where was I.

There is still a staggering amount of world I haven’t seen. And thus each window I have to take a trip becomes a struggle over where to go: do I go somewhere entirely new, see things I’ve never seen, seek out new adventures? Or do I return to somewhere I’ve been and loved and want to see again? A day will come when I visit London for the last time but it’s a terrible thought and a moment I’m not exactly racing to meet.

So for this trip, I went for a hybrid. London, Paris, Rome and Florence were all old friends, even if I hadn’t seen them in nearly 20 years. But from Venice on, I picked out new places to go, including two new countries. The first? Switzerland, a country that had had my curiosity for some time.

Zurich: where the party at?

Our train from Italy never quite managed to get up to full speed, given the mountainous terrain it had to navigate. Switzerland swiftly reminded me of parts of British Columbia: all forests, mountains and lakes with cities crammed in between said lakes and mountains wherever possible.

Now this trip had one major difference over past vacations of mine: a lack of swimming. The vast majority of my trips over the past decade have involved at least some scuba diving, or at least some quality lake-time on a summer houseboating weekend. I haven’t been diving since Hawaii, 2011. I haven’t been to a lake since the summer of that year. Despite having spent the previous day in flooded Venice, I was feeling a distinct urge to be in a large body of water. And now here I was in lake country.

Anyway. Upon arriving in Zurich, we made our way to our hostel with aid from several passers-by. The Swiss people were already making us feel quite welcome. We discovered that the very night of our arrival there was a pub crawl sponsored by the hostel. Ian was waffling on the notion, but I thought this was the clear way to get drinks and meet people, something we (particularly Ian) had previously considered a priority. But in any event, first we set out to explore the surrounding area: Ian wanted to pop into the local supermarket (as he often did), and there was an amusingly vandalized traffic sign we wanted to grab a picture of.

We did not expect to spend two hours searching for it. Only to discover it was only five minutes’ walk from the hostel and we’d passed it without knowing.

By the time we returned we were too late to get dinner at the hostel bar and too late to make the pub crawl. Slightly dejected, we settled into the hostel’s large common room to have a few drinks and access some sweet, sweet internet. Ian did up a quick sketch in his sketchbook, announcing that we were Dan and Ian, and we liked meeting people but were terrible at introducing ourselves. Did this ploy have a hint of desperation? Maybe. Did it work regardless?

Thank god for the one other guy at the table who didn't speak German. — BOOM! New friends!

Did it ever. And so we achieved exactly what we were looking for: drinks and meeting people, at a fraction of the cost with none of that pesky “walking” stuff. And zero douchebags. Huzzah! Now… what to do with our one full day in the city…

Lucerne!

We tried asking friends for Zurich tips over Facebook. The overwhelming response was suggestions of stuff to do in Lucerne instead. Which, I felt at first, was nice and all but wasn’t really what we’d asked. However, it did turn out to be the exact right advice, as Lucerne is everything that’s great about Switzerland.

There’s old town, with it’s quaint medieval look, historic bridge and great shops and restaurants. Including one where we finally acquired my primary objective for this leg of the trip: cheese fondue. A cheese fondue with bits of bacon in the cheese. God bless Switzerland. There was the Lucerne lion, a famous carving in the wall of a mountain.

There was the vast lake. Still no swimming, but it’s for the best: we dipped our feet in the glacier-fed river coming from the lake and mother of GOD it was cold. Even for us Canadians it was bloody freezing.

Lucerne was gorgeous, and I only wish we’d had more time to enjoy it before we had to return to Zurich, find dinner near the hostel and meet up with some of our new friends again.

And find out that the hostel had a pool, a pool that I never managed to track down. Blast it all.

Next time: Belgium! Beers! Belfries! BRUGES.

D&IWE: Italia Part 3: the Italianing

So on our way out of Zurich, a key portion of my recharging apparatus decided to leave this cruel world behind, leaving me with no way to charge my iPod, and needing to split Ian’s semi-functional charger to get any power in my phone or Kindle. And since Ian’s phone is both his camera and the way he shoots, edits and uploads videos, his phone always takes priority over mine, which absent of WiFi is simply the way I check the time.

Also it’s his charger so he was probably gonna call dibs anyway.

Venice!

Time to wander

Our time in Rome and Florence was incredibly rushed compared to Paris. We perhaps could have used an extra day or two in Paris, but in Rome we barely felt we were scratching the surface. Other than the Colosseum and the Roman Forum, we saw things but never got to explore them. We saw the Vatican but didn’t go in. We saw the Vittoriano monument but didn’t go up top. We did see Tiber Island but it is seriously underwhelming.

But in Venice we had more time. Enough time to really wander the Floating City. Including one day where it wasn’t floating as much as it should have.

Things get wet

Our first two days in Venice were gorgeous. Sunny and warm as Italy had been for most of our visit. Day three it rained. Not hard, but enough to warrant buying umbrellas before bussing to Venice proper from our hotel on the mainland. We were prepared: we’d done our canal tour the previous day and planned to do indoor stuff while it rained.

By the time we reached San Marco square, home of the basilica and palazzo we intended to visit, water levels were rising. Large puddles had formed across the square. Undeterred, we found the entrance line for the basilica and went in to get us some nice, dry history.

Parts of the entrance were flooded, but they already had crude bridges constructed. Not a worry.

From the church’s balcony you could see the whole of the square. At first I thought the line to get in had gotten much bigger, given the long stream of people in front of the building. On closer examination it became clear: it wasn’t a line-up. It was traffic build-up on the one portion of the square that was still above water. But the rain had diminished. Surely the worst had passed?

Next was the palace adjacent to the church, former seat of power for Venice’s ruling body and courts. We explored the building, saw the extravagant paintings (man but renaissance Italy was not afraid of painting balls) and stores of weaponry from swords to spears to early guns. As we began to leave, Ian jumped to avoid a puddle.

“That was close,” he said. “Almost got my feet wet.” Then we rounded the corner and saw the square.

There was no dry strip. Not anymore. The square was flooded, reaching knee-deep in places.

We waded our way north, to less flooded regions, taking note of how prepared Venice was for this. Plank bridges and wading boots were everywhere. Street vendors stopped selling questionable souvenirs and started selling plastic slip-ons to keep your shoes and pants dry. Of course by the time we saw them it was already far too late for us.

But in the end we wouldn’t have traded it. Venice in the sun was beautiful, but Venice under water was an experience.

Next time: two nights in Switzerland.

Dan and Ian Wander Europe: Italia

The greatest mystery on this trip, for me anyway, was this: I’m used to walking a lot on trips like these. I am not used to my body rebelling so vehemently against the notion. My feet don’t hurt as much by the end of the day as they did a week ago (they still protest when there’s a lot of standing still to be done), but right now I have a severe cramp in my right calf that makes every alternate step an ordeal (that’s new, started this evening) and blisters on both heels left over from Paris. The one on my left foot has become big enough that I’ve named it Alphonse and should probably get it tennis lessons.

The likely culprit for all of this, I’ve realised, is that I failed to break in my new sneakers before I left. This could account for many of my woes. That and the 2.7 km hike to today’s destination, which ended in a gravel road up a savagely steep hill. Blaming the cramp on that. Tomorrow’s hotel may include a bathtub, which could help; tonight’s hostel has a bathtub, but no plug, making it more of a tease.

Ian’s greatest mystery is where his alcohol tolerance went between Rome and Florence. On our last night in Rome, he drank an entire bottle of Chianti, while giving me a hard time for sticking to Coke as I wrote my last entry. He was buzzed. On our first night in Florence, we hit the bar/pub district for dinner and hijinks. We each had a bottle of wine, then hit a pub across the street where Ian had one beer and I had two highballs (what was I going to do, NOT order the drink called “Sexy Motherfucker?” That’s crazy and you’re crazy for suggesting it). I was nicely buzzed.

Ian was demolished.

I was lucky enough to get him back to our hostel before his internal switch flipped from “Everything is amazing” to “I can’t stop throwing up please kill me,” but the switch was sudden, savage and lasted into the morning. We’re still not sure why that happened.

But back to Rome for a minute

We landed late in Rome. It was past 11 at night by the time we got our bags and left the airport. Sidenote–there are no immigration checks in the EU. I am getting no stamps in my passport. Doesn’t seem fair at all, since I, like many frequent travelers, enjoy the record of places visited a well-stamped passport becomes.

I digress. I’ll try to make up some time here. It was late, we took a cab because we thought our hostel had a midnight curfew (nope), I’ve seen car chases in Bond movies that looked safer than what Italian cabbies get up to. The point is, arriving that late never gets you a sense of a place. Unless it’s some brightly lit City That Never Sleeps like New York or Tokyo: those places can bustle at 11 PM. Most others, no. It’s just a lot of dark and mostly empty roads between you and where you’re sleeping. Maybe the occasional prostitute that briefly makes you panic that your cabbie is taking you to a brothel (left over paranoia from Cambodia, is all).

We arrived to find that we had a third roommate, whose belongings suggested “female,” but who was nowhere to be found. “Well,” I thought, “Guess she’s having a good night.” And then because society is still deeply flawed, added “At least I hope so.”

While the night is dark and full of terrors, she did make it back safely at some point after Ian and I went to sleep. And she turned out to be delightful. Emily from Seattle was so thrilled to encounter fellow English-speakers that she quickly decided to spend her last morning in Rome with us. As neither Ian nor myself had anything remotely resembling a complaint, we headed out to grab breakfast and wander the Colosseum area before seeing her off on her train to Naples. She even helped us mock and slander a friend back home via video message. Our time in Rome was off to an excellent start.

That feels like it should be foreboding. Like I’m about to say “If only it stayed that way,” promising tales of doom for next time. Well, sorry, but I blew our biggest doom story when I opened this blog talking about Ian’s hangover. Rome went pretty much swimmingly. There were, however, some complications in Florence, but they’re hardly doom and gloom stuff.

Here’s a sampling of our Roman adventures to wrap things up.

Dan and Ian Wander Europe: Paris wrap-up

As we sit in our Roman hostel, munching on the fruits, meats and cheeses we acquired to serve as dinner, it seems a good time to reflect on our experiences in Paris. Look, it doesn’t HAVE to make sense, it’s just what’s going to happen.

Hostel picnics

Tonight’s dinner was inspired by a trend we started in Paris. Yes, we were in the city of lights, in a country famed for its cuisine. Fifteen minutes’ walk could (and did) take us to meals that would make a foodie weep. They would also be between 20 and 30 euros. Each. For 15 euros total, we could gather a sampling of cheeses and sliced meats and an entire bottle of wine that would still be better than most meals we could get at home.

Most meals we do get at home.

Most meals I get at home.

Seriously though, the cheeses alone would have run us $10-20 in Calgary, so it was worthwhile. Especially since that hostel (unlike this one) had a fully stocked kitchen.

Monumental sights

There was a trend amongst the landmarks we visited in Paris. We were never, ever prepared for just how big they are. Each time at least one of us (usually Ian) would be taken aback by the scale of what we were seeing. The Eiffel Tower is massive, looming above nearly the entire city, visible from nearly anywhere. The Arc De Triomphe is nearly a city block wide. The Invalides building, home of a military museum, a hospital for wounded soldiers and Napoleon’s Tomb was huge.

You’d think I’d have been ready for the Eiffel Tower. I was there once before. But my teenage years feel so distant. I have trouble connecting to the memories. I know I’ve been up the Eiffel Tower, I know I’ve seen the Roman Colosseum before yesterday. Tomorrow will not be my first trip to Florence. But it all still feels new.

Which is all the justification I need for re-visiting these places instead of restricting myself to new cities. Thanks, cruel and merciless march of time!

Language Barriers

Ian speaks enough French to get by in most circumstances. I do not. I studied French for 12 years, but just like the Eiffel Tower and the Colosseum it’s all a blur now. So I left communicating with cabbies up to Ian. He was our Cabbie Whisperer. I remember enough French that I could basically follow along, but not enough that I felt comfortable diving in.

That’s over now. We’re in Italy. The best I can say about my skills in Italian, gleaned from one semester of lessons back in ’96, is that it’s better than my Swahili. Thankfully, like Malaysia, people working in tourism related industries (including restaurants) tend to know their fair share of English, so we do okay. But it means that after two days of me knowing the lay of the land in London and four days of Ian knowing the language in Paris, we’re well and truly strangers in a strange land now.

Which is what makes it an adventure.

The Meanest Thing I’ve Said to Ian, Apparently

A big benefit of travelling with me now as opposed to back in high school is my adoption of Mr. Wil Wheaton’s motto of “Don’t be a dick.” Lines may be long, mornings may be early, and my feet may very well be quite sore by the end of the day (blisters the size of Twix bars on my dang heels), but moaning about it won’t help me and will ensure that whoever I’m with has a miserable time because of me. This cannot be allowed.

That said, I did apparently hurt Ian a touch.

We were making our way back to the Eiffel Tower. An easy enough task given how it looms over the city. As we approached, Ian said, jokingly, “Found it. All by myself.”

“Well spotted,” I replied. “Ten points for Hufflepuff.”

He stopped in his tracks, as if struck. Finally speaking in a sad whimper:

“I… that… I’m not a Hufflepuff! I’m not.”

Oh, Ian. There’s nothing wrong with showing badger pride.

Next time: Rome.

For more of our Paris hijinks, check us out on the Youtubes:

Dan and Ian Wander Europe: Rapid Fire

The problem with trying to blog about a trip is that cool things happen to you way more often than quiet moments when you have the necessary time and wi-fi access to write about them. And I’m not about to skip out on good times and adventures just for internet time. That can’t happen. So with that in mind, let’s play catch-up!

Reflections on Montmarte

So I believe I touched on Montmarte and Sacre Coeur last time. Fun detail I forgot: as we ascended the last of many, many staircases to reach the hill’s summit (there was a tram, Ian. There was a god damned tram), we noticed a stream of… let’s call it fluid coming down from the plaza on top of the hill.

“I hope that’s water,” said Ian. I caught a whiff of the unmistakable scent of “filthy urinal.”

“Well… parts of it are,” I replied.

Montmarte was also, as I mentioned, where I truly began to buy into the magic of Paris. I thought “If only I’d seen this Paris in 1994, maybe I’d have had a better impression of the city.” Pause. “Wait. Wait. I was here. I was exactly here. We came here after dinner one night. I gave some of the girls a hard time for being drunk at a church.” The realization sets in, as does the memory of how cute some of the girls were. “God DAMN it, Young Me, the SECOND someone invents time travel you and me are going round and round!”

Ian: Stripper Bait

As we made our way to the Moulin Rouge, we had to run a gauntlet of strip clubs and their Engineers, the men (sometimes women) who run up to you asking if you want to see a live show and sexy dance (the implication being that yes you do) and encouraging you to head into their club. Now, we had little interest in this, because ~~Ian was short on money~~ Mom taught me to respect women and avoid dens of ill-repute, but there were legions of them between us and our destination. But I noticed a trend. A trend I kept to myself until we were clear of the district.

Every single Engineer targeted Ian. Not one came at me.

I pointed this out to Ian in a tone that the unobservant might have mistaken for a gloat. (“Heh heh, they all go for YOU” could have many interpretations) He considered, saw the trend, and exclaimed “They DO! Damn it, now I’M the sex tourist!” After years of dealing with the jokes people make about white dudes traveling south-east Asia, this was music to my ears.

Co-ed dorms turn out to be just that

When I was booking hostels, the two room options (aside from private, which is expensive and thus undesirable) were “co-ed” and “women only.” No “men only” option. Which, in fairness, we wouldn’t have asked for even if it existed. Even if it existed and were cheaper, possibly. But since “women only” was an option, I expected that most of our roommates would be dudes.

Not so.

Of the five roommates we’ve had, four out of five have been women. Two friends out of Brazil (who thought they’d booked an all-female room, but didn’t mind), one girl from Kansas that we only met our last morning in Paris (she’d been asleep by the time we found our way home), and one from Seattle we just spent the morning wandering Rome with. Our only male roommate was also from Canada, and also named Ian. Just weird, that is.

Next time, either a sum-up of our time in Paris, or more rapid-fire notes on our time in Italy. In the meantime, we hear that there are street vendors selling wine that you can then drink from the bottle in front of the Trevi Fountain.

I like this plan.

Dan and Ian Wander Europe: Paris, day one

At some point our train to Paris must have gone under the English Channel. This much is clear. But neither of us were entirely clear when. There was one tunnel that was kind of long, I guess, but none of them seemed long enough. Until I looked out the window and noticed everything was in French. Such was the speed of our train.

Step one after checking into our first hostel of the trip (a convenient two minute walk from the train, although it took a further two minutes of staring at the metro map to realise that–we’re quite smart) was to acclimate. Find out what was nearby. Learn the area. It being Sunday, and between three and five P.M. (after restaurants close for lunch but before they open for dinner), most of what was near us was closed, but we did identify restaurants clearly worth returning to, and a handful of supermarkets we could hit up for munchies and cheese. Such glorious cheese.

This completed, I honed in on two of my travel go-tos: observation decks and sunsets. I reckoned that if we moved with purpose, we could make it to the top of the Eiffel Tower by sunset. We hit the Metro, made our way to the Tower (bigger than either of us were ready for and I have been there before), and got in line for the elevator as the sun slid towards the horizon.

Which is when Ian noticed his wallet had been stolen.

So we abandoned the Tower to deal with that instead.

However, we are not of a sort to sulk about setbacks. Once a replacement credit card was ordered, we hit the streets to see Montmarte at nightfall, to explore the magical Paris everyone loves. And it did not disappoint. The spontaneous party outside Sacre Coeur (apparently something that just happens all the time), the view of the City of Lights lit up for night time from atop the hill the church sits on, the vibrancy of the crowd outside the Moulin Rouge (budget and a massive line meant we just saw it from outside), it was a great night.

Although not one crowd of people burst into a choreographed musical number outside the Moulin Rouge.

And not ONE magical limousine turned up to whisk me away to a party filled with famous writers and artists in the 1920s.

Needless to say I’m outraged.

On a positive note, our roommates at the hostel are not terrible. Despite a sudden infestation of douchebros on night three, our roommates since arrival have been two Brazilian women whose only flaw is a tendency to chat at full volume if they can’t sleep at 3 A.M. WE WERE SLEEPING JUST FINE, THANK YOU.

Next time, Paris on a budget and Vimy Ridge.

Curse you, Young Me!

I’m currently three weeks out from my next trip, a European vacation over a year in the planning, a journey I shall refer to a “Dan and Ian Wander Europe.” Works better if you picture it to the tune of “Troy and Abed in the Morning.” You know that one, right? Anyway…

There are two reasons I wanted to go back to mainland Europe for my next big trip. First of all, as discussed in my last post, as much as I love what I’ve seen of Asia, I grew weary of the assumptions of sex tourism. Second, I haven’t been to mainland Europe since high school. Every year from grade 10 to 12, as part of my high school’s travel club (yes, that was a thing at my high school), I’d spend spring break on the Mediterranean. Italy, Greece and Turkey primarily. They were all great trips, including my first time on a cruise ship…

And in many ways I blew it.

To begin. I’ve long been a little bit obsessive-compulsive, and until I was twenty was a horrifically picky eater. These two things fed into each other. I distrusted sauce (except ketchup and mustard), and could not allow sauce from one food to touch another. Now I live for sauces, but at the time it was quite the problem. The relevant problem is that instead of eating local food in Greece (I now love Greek food), Italy (who doesn’t love pasta?) or Turkey (eh, why not), I sought out the local McDonald’s experiences.

I regret that.

I did not have the best impression of Paris when I first saw it in 1994. It rained a lot, for one, and for two everything was being renovated. I didn’t drink wine (unlike most of the group) and honestly believed Eurodisney to be the best part of our stay in France.

I regret that.

Every year, I got a little older, but the club had to open its doors to the junior high school a little faster. Which meant I routinely roomed with 14 years olds. Have you met a 14 year old? They’re terrible. Some were okay, some I couldn’t stand by the trip’s end, but you can’t always pick your companions.

And so I looked forward to this chance to revisit some places I once loved, like Rome and Florence, places I’ve been meaning to give another look, like Paris, a few places I’ve never seen like Venice, Zurich and Bruges, and a couple of stops at my favourite city on Earth, good old London. And this time around I’ve got a partner in crime to keep life interesting.

I look forward to telling you all about it. Hope you stick around for the journey.

Dodging prostitutes around the world part 2: Electric Boogaloo

Let’s be real. The last subtitle this post needed was “Secret of the Ooze.” Creates some interesting and unnecessary visuals.

I also considered making today’s post a blow-by-blow account of removing a rubber tube from your own kidney, but I think I could best summarize the experience with “Try not to put yourself in a position where you need to.”

This was in me. Now it is not. The rest of the story is unpleasant.

So let’s return, as promised, to tales of international prostitutes and my attempts to flee from them.

It’s very rare that I get stopped by customs when returning to Canada. Very rare that I get suspected of any crime, really. When I moved into my current home, we only got one copy of the front door key. The key clearly read “Do not copy.” Despite this, a locksmith agreed to make me several copies even though I couldn’t produce a single piece of evidence that I was the legitimate owner of the property I claimed this key belonged to. Clearly I have a very trustworthy face, which means I have missed out on a very lucrative life of crime.

With one exception.

I am unlikely to ever be able to smuggle anything out of Southeast Asia. Because people hear that a white male of my age group is going to Thailand, Vietnam, anything in that area, and they assume “sex tourist.” The less charitable amongst them will add in an assumption about “ladyboys.” Given that I made two trips to that part of the world within two years, it’s actually become a bit of a nuisance. Especially given the time Canada Customs spent nearly an hour searching my luggage and computer for proof that I was a sex criminal. But this isn’t about that. This isn’t about Canadians who leapt to unwanted conclusions based on stereotypes about the region. This is about locals who came to that same conclusion when they saw a white dude roaming around their country.

Japan
Night one in Tokyo, and I’m slightly overwhelmed by this amazing new city and most certainly hungry. It’s around 10:00 PM, but this place makes most large cities look tiny, surely there’s some place with English on the menus where I can grab a bite, right? I’m strolling down the street that leads to my hotel, when I slow to check out the sign for a restaurant. A matronly woman, maybe 40-45, gestures towards the doorway in a welcoming fashion. Now, I’m from a far less condensed city. I see restaurant signs outside a door, I tend not to assume it’s also a high-rise apartment building. Also, if a see a matronly woman gesturing at said restaurant, I assume she’s saying “Come inside and have some food, weary traveler,” not “Come inside and have some sex for money, white boy.”

I was incorrect.

She took me by the arm, but when we broke left away from the restaurant and headed for an elevator, I realised what was happening. I quickly made some panicked excuses and pulled away while she quoted some (probably quite reasonable) prices, found out the restaurant we’d passed wasn’t even open, and moved swiftly for my hotel, deciding I wasn’t even hungry anymore. Fortunately from there I only had to worry about strip club promoters. Well, “worry” likely isn’t the word I want.

Vietnam
It’s 5:00 AM, partway through an Asian holiday known as “Dan and Sean’s Excellent Adventure.” Well, that’s what I call it, anyway. Sean may or may not have branded it differently. Sean and I are about to catch a bus into Cambodia, and I’m in search of an ATM to get cash for the border. The wee hours of the morning are about as close to quiet as Ho Chi Minh City gets. The constant stream of honking motorcycles dies down to a trickle, many of which aren’t even honking at things. Shops and restaurants are just starting to open. As I emerged from the alley our hostel was in, looking for signs of a cash machine (the directions the guy at the desk gave me were unclear but I was far too tired and awkward to ask for clarification), a scooter suddenly emerged from goddamn nowhere, pulling to a complete stop right in front of me. There were two people on the scooter: a driver and the girl behind him.

“Hello,” says the girl, a half-second after the scooter stopped. This all happened in an instant, mind you: just ZOOM. SCREECH! “Hello.”

“Uh… hi,” I manage, then I swiftly turn away, attempting to convey lack of interest and deciding to move my search away from the side streets. No sooner do I round the corner than it happens again.

ZOOM. SCREECH! “Hello.”

Same scooter? Different scooter? I DON’T KNOW. Didn’t stop to find out. I like to think I avoided yelping in alarm. I am pretty sure I flinched pretty hard. And that’s where I abandoned my search for an ATM. Well, I certainly wasn’t going to ask the prostitute and her scooter-pimp where I could find money, that is sending entirely the wrong message.

Cambodia
Later, that same trip. It’s Christmas in Siem Reap and Sean and I have been joined by two of his friends from Hong Kong. We’re partying on pub street, a hub of cheap bars catering to visitors to the ancient temples of Angkor Wat. After many, many beers and shots we decide it’s time for karaoke. One of the ladies thinks she knows a place, but it quickly proves to no longer exist. So we choose to hire out a tuk-tuk (somewhere between a cab and a rickshaw) to take us to a karaoke bar. Sean attempts to indicate what we’re looking for by repeating the word “karaoke” while waving his fist near his mouth as though he were holding a microphone. Well, that’s what he wanted it to look like, anyway.

Maybe the story would have played out the same regardless, but that was an unfortunate choice of gestures.

The tuk-tuk we picked pulls away from pub street, heading towards the city centre… past a bar that really looked like it was advertising karaoke… onto a highway… and as we get further and further from what we’d come to know as downtown Siem Reap (possibly inaccurate, I don’t really know) we began to grow concerned. Sure enough, when we pulled off the road, it was into what was very clearly a brothel.

It’s possible the brothel offered karaoke as well, it looked like it might, but that was not the point. We swiftly and insistently demanded to be taken back to pub street.

Now, I wasn’t even alone this time. I was accompanied by two women and a gay man. How could we possibly have looked like I need to visit a brothel? HOW. Okay, in fairness it wouldn’t have taken much effort to learn that nobody in this foursome had any intentions of sleeping with each other, but still. But still, dear readers.

Also we still totally had to pay for the tuk-tuk. That just seems wrong, but there it was.

Dodging prostitutes around the world, part 1

It’s always risky, setting foot outside your front door. Now there are risks to travel that I will always be immune to. I don’t have to worry about someone drugging my drink at a bar, I’m unlikely to be kidnapped and sold into prostitution (there isn’t enough of a market for 30-something dudes of gravity to sustain the necessary infrastructure for a slave ring), and I’m never going to transport your drugs for you. However there is one little annoying pattern that I seem to be stuck with, and while it’s a far, far smaller concern than those single women may face abroad, it does wear on a person after a time.

This January a small but dedicated group of friends accompanied my young apprentice Patrick to Las Vegas for his 22nd birthday. Many, many good times followed, but there was just one little hiccup. Our flight was at the crack of bloody dawn and everyone was sick. A nasty flu had hit our little band of miscreants’ New Year’s Eve party and none of us on the trip made it out clean. It didn’t overly hold us back, but the fact of the matter is that most of the stuff you’re going to want to do in Vegas happens after dark, and if you had to be up for your flight before dawn while fighting a nasty cough you are going to be tired as balls. This sadly lasted for the first two days. Come Saturday night, following our official Fancy Dinner, all of us except one were just too wiped out to go clubbing. We struggled to persevere, not wanting to bail on Patrick on a Saturday night in Vegas, but when we returned to our hotel to hit the local club, our resident night owl suggested we go back to our rooms, change and meet back at the club in a half hour.

“Half an hour?” I said. “It’s already past 11!” I said. “That’s way too much time,” I said. I tried to warn them.

Momentum conquers all, and sure enough four out of seven of us collapsed in their rooms rather than return downstairs. Patrick and I decided clubbing just wasn’t in the cards that night, and opted to simply have a drink at the bar and call it a night. Well, after watching the pilot of Arrow. I mean, I was tired, but he asked, and I’m never too tired to make people watch Arrow if the chance arises.

As we sipped our drinks, a woman took a stool next to us at the bar. While there’d been many lovely ladies roaming around that weekend, finding one that wasn’t part of a group was a rarity, so when she started chatting with us we happily chatted right back.

You see, something I’m trying to work on is the way I tend to treat any unusual opportunity that crosses my path like a potential trap, always reluctant to embrace it and instead searching for the catch. Some people I know would say it’s important to stop thinking like that. The problem is there is always a god damn catch. And being able to spot it kept me out of a pyramid scheme some eight or nine years back and helped me duck a scam “job offer” just this week, so I stand by a certain degree of suspicion.

Sure enough, as the conversation continued, she managed to turn everything into sexual innuendo. We were in theatre? Oh, so we liked to role-play. I write comedies because I like to make people laugh? Well, she loves laughers but prefers groaners. It became clear. We were being cruised by a prostitute. A relatively high-end prostitute, compared to the scary hookers that lurked outside my old condo, but still. We made our exit as gracefully as we could.

A friend said this is a happy story. It’s not a story about how we looked like sad sacks in need of a night of rented companionship, it’s about how upon seeing us, she assumed that we were men of means, men who’d be able to afford her services. Maybe that’s true and maybe it isn’t (the same friend was openly disappointed that neither of us were interested in her… proposed business arrangement, despite years of me saying in clear and definite terms I will never wish to sleep with a prostitute, ever, so he’s clearly not right about everything), but it’s a nice way to view the story. I’d rather she’d been thinking “He looks like he can spare three hundred dollars” than “He’s white and in Asia, must be a sex tourist.”

Which happens an annoying amount. As we’ll discuss in part two.

Join me tomorrow for “visiting Asia does not mean I’m a sex tourist, damn it.”