Vacation's Over

I can tell when it's time to wrap up a trip; aside from the date on my return ticket. It's the little things that start piling up. I begin to run out of toiletries (and no, foreign replacements just don't cut it). My watch's battery has died and it's taking up space in the bottom of my bag. I start leaving things behind all over the place (I think I've accidentally left a small souvenir in every country). I start getting tired of staring at the same 5 shirts and two pairs of pants every morning. The once charming quirks of the road slowly turn into annoyances. And I start dreaming about everything I miss in America.

Traveling is like a two sided coin (um, not to be confused with those single sided coins going around today). On one side, exploring the world is one of the best things I've done with my life. The adventure and thrill of something new is addicting. I linger near maps and globes, imagining what journeys await me. Even now, after two months of traveling I caught myself staring at the world map in the back of the US Airways magazine, wondering what continent my life will take me to next. I learn something new everywhere I go and every trip leaves it's mark on me. Some marks are big, some are small, but they all help me build myself into the person I want to be.

But on the other side, the more I travel, the more I love America. Don't get me wrong, traveling wouldn't be nearly as enjoyable without the surprises that every new country brings. But what can I say, America has spoiled me. I've long since discovered that many of my life's essentials — say fruit or vegetables — are exotic and rare treats. I can't describe how reassuring it is to know that I can walk through an airport here and pick up a banana at nearly any convince shop (I spent nearly an hour in the Madrid airport this morning looking for fruit, any fruit, before finally finding some soggy, soft apples). I love that I can walk into a restaurant and be greeted with a smile and a pleasant hello, not a dirty scowl that wordlessly asks "what are you doing in my restaurant?"

Yes, I'm an American through and through. And very proud of it. And I can only hope that — in the same way that every journey leaves it's imprint on me — I leave some positive imprint from myself and America on someone who's path I've crossed. Yeah, it's a little self-centered to think like that. But when I think back through my travels I see that it's the people who make ordinary days special. It's people who teach me about life and about the world out there. It's people who show me what it really means to be a Kiwi, Spaniard, or a Moroccan. In return I do my best to show them what it means to be an American.

Going Out on a High Note

Last night one of my favorite bands, the Foo Fighters, played in London. An evening with my favorite band sounded like a perfect way to finish my adventures around Europe so I spent some time on ebay.co.uk, trying to get a ticket to the concert. The Foo Fighters are much bigger in Europe (as compared to America) so tickets aren't easy to come by. But I persevered and ended up with a seat. Sure was about about 10 rows from the top of the arena and literally couldn't be much further from the stage, but it didn't matter. The music was loud and the atmosphere was electric.

And the Foo Fighters lived up to the hype. It was an epic performance. At nearly two and a half hours long, the show included a a lot of their older (and louder) stuff. As Dave Grohl (pictured above) explained before launching into another series of vintage songs: "sometimes I just gotta scream my ass off." Which he did. It seems like a good motto for my trip, too. There will be plenty of time to settle down and take care of my "normal" life, but sometimes I just got kick back, do exactly what I want to do, and scream my ass off. Which is what I've been doing for the last two months.

I Just Want Chips

I don't understand the British language. I was at a Mexican restaurant last night, have a couple of drinks and snacks before going to a concert (more on that later). In need of a taste of America (well Mexico, but close enough), I asked the bartender for some chips and guacamole. He looked at me strangely and told me he needed to check with his manager first. I sat and watch him and the manager have a quick conversation, point at me, and talk some more. He finally comes back over and says "yeah we can do that" and proceeds to spend 5 minutes typing away on the kiosk to ring up my order.

It's during this process I realize that something has gone horribly wrong. In the back of my head a light goes off: "chips" aren't actually chips here, they're french fries. So I call the bartender back over, explain what's going on, and we both have a quick laugh. I elaborate on my original order, explaining that I actually want corn chips and guacamole. "Oh right, you want nachos," he says. I tell him that in America nachos mean just chips and cheese, and I definitely didn't want cheese. But apparently it's different over here so — for the first time in my life — I order nachos (and guacamole).

A few minutes later my order shows up and (much to my unfortunate surprise) nachos in England are, in fact, exactly the same as nachos in America. Except I have a tiny dollop of guacamole in the corner. Thanks. So I'm stuck with a plate of nachos for dinner. But it's 7:00pm, I haven't eaten since breakfast, and the nachos cost a staggering 6 pounds, so I saddled up and ate an entire plateful of cheese covered chips. Europe makes you do strange things.

The end result is that I still have no idea what the English call chips. Crisps, perhaps? I think that's just for potato chips, though. A task for my next trip, I guess.

England

England has long since been a thorn in my side. Previous trips to London were far from ideal; the city and I seem to have developed a mutual feeling of distrust. So it was a with a wary eye that I stepped foot back into the country last week. In my mind England had a lot of apologizing to do.

Fortunately, my week was sensational. The first good decision I made was to avoid London proper and spend most of my time exploring the English countryside instead. "Charming" isn't a word that's usually in my vocabulary (I just confirmed this with a quick blog search — "charming" is nowhere to be found), but there's no other way to describe the English countryside: it's charming. The English love a good brick building and the land is peppered with a variety of old brick walls, houses and facades.

Speaking of old, the amount of history in England can't be overstated. Yeah, "duh," I know. But I still can't believe how every singly city is just steeped in history. Oxford (pictures here), for example, is obviously well known as one of the oldest universities in the world. But it's amazing to read through Oxford's history and stumble across all the famous people who've studied, lived, and left their mark on the town. Next to Oxford is Blenheim palace (pictures), the largest palace in England. Not only is it home to generations of famous dukes and earls, it also happens to be where Winston Churchill lived. And just a short train trip north is Warwick (pictures), one of the top 10 castles in all of Europe. As an unabashed Gothic fanatic, I couldn't help but feel giddy as I walked along the ancient castles walls at sunset, envisioning the medieval view over the old village. And then there's Stonehenge (pictures). In a country filled with history, Stonehenge is heads and shoulders above anything else. It is old. Built in 4000 BC, it was already ancient ruins when the Romans stumbled across the site in 43 AD.

So yeah, England has done its part and has won me over.

Iceland

Lets start with the facts: Iceland is phenomenal. I love pretty much everything about it. I love the constantly changing, occasionally extreme weather. I'm used to unpredictable weather in Seattle, but it pales in comparison to Iceland. Sitting directly on the gulf stream doesn't help any. A relentless wind pushes a week's worth of weather systems across the island in an afternoon.

I love the alien landscapes, the result of a recent combination of volcanic and glacier activity (not to mention that Iceland lies on the mid-Atlantic ridge, which continues to pull and stretch the island). The glaciers fuel a gorgeous collection of rivers and waterfalls, which wind their way around geothermal activity and through tectonic cracks. And there is no doubt about it, Iceland is rugged land. I saw a more diverse population of shrubs and bushes on the edge of the Sahara than I saw throughout inner Iceland. (And the rest of my pictures from a day trip through inner Iceland are here.)

I love the small, comfortable feel of Reykjavik. With a population under 200,000, downtown Reykjavik is a friendly union of small business and houses. No colossal high-rises, overwhelming pedestrian crowds, or frantic commutes. A streak of Scandinavian practicality that runs through nearly everything, too. Building design is simple and effective. It almost looks like IKEA decided to get into the architecture market.

And, possibly more than anything else, I love Icelandic people. After weeks among overbearingly boisterous Spaniards, Iceland's reserved nature was relaxing step back (although many locals appear determined to make up for their agreeable personality with a brazen disregard for American or European style standards, opting to forge a style that is purely Icelandic). Iceland is truly a multilingual country, as everyone speaks flawless English. It was fascinating to watch them talk to each other and subconsciously slip back and forth between languages, depending on what the situation called for.

And speaking of the Icelandic language, what a strange beast. I read a quote about learning the language that goes something like: "Learning Icelandic is like getting a tattoo on your ass: it's painful, it takes a long time, and you rarely get to show it off." Encouraging! The biggest problem is that most of the letters look familiar (it's based on the Latin alphabet), but the letters don't sound like you'd expect them to (and there are several sounds that I'm simply incapable of producing). For example, "h" and "v" work as expected, except when put together, where they produce a "qu" sound. The letter "g" sounds like a "g" or a "y", depending on the surrounding letters. And "ll" creates some weird "l"/"h"/clicking sound, which I haven't come close to saying correctly.

Icelanders were also a little confused about why anyone would visit their windswept island in the middle of the fall. Without fail, the first question they ask is: "Why come to Iceland, and why come to Iceland in November?!" There are, as I've started to list, at least million reasons why Iceland is amazing. Icelandic people, growing up and enduring the windy, dark, and sometimes bleak conditions, have a hard time imagining Iceland as an exotic location. But it is. I liken it to traveling to Mars and running into a Martian race there. The Martians would have a hard time understanding what is so exciting about a vast, burnt, dry, red land. But come on, it's Mars!

I always felt a little silly telling the locals I went to Iceland because well... "dude, it's Iceland!" Next time I tell them to read this, instead.

Arctic Chill

I just landed in London this afternoon, I'm currently spending a wonderfully quiet evening outside the Stansted airport (where I'll be departing for Iceland from tomorrow). I can't tell you how comfortable it is to be in an English speaking country. Passing through customs, I was able to stroll up to the counter with a casual "How's it going?" greeting. Of course, the English would rather choke on their own tongues before partaking in some casual pleasantries with a stranger, but it was still nice to know that a certain level of comprehension was available to both sides of the conversation.

Also, I still can't get over the hilarious ways that British English manages to stretch the language. Take the signs at the airport for example. There are signs for "pick up" where, presumably, one would go to get arriving passengers. So what does the sign for departures say? "Set down," of course. Sure, it's the opposite of "pick up" so it makes sense, but do you really say you're about to go "set someone down" at the airport? Funny people, these British.

Anyway, back to Iceland. It will be, I think, one of the highlights of my trip. Enormous natural hot springs, geysers, absolutely alien landscapes, probably a little snow, and — hopefully — a glimpse of aurora borealis! I've never gone hiking in a snowstorm before, this could be my first chance. Of course, having just spent the last two months in a wonderfully Mediterranean climate, I'm not sure how ready I am for sub-freezing temperatures and gale-force winds. But it all adds to the mystique and the adventure.

But right now I think I'm most excited about not having to travel for a few days. Tomorrow is the end of my eleven day travel marathon. I've been through four countries, on three planes, five trains, a couple ferries and spent countless hours in buses. It's been an unforgettable, but extremely busy week and a half. I can't wait to have just one day where I can sleep in, wake up, and not pack up my bags for trip somewhere. Spending two nights in a row in the same place will be blissfully relaxing. Well, at least until I step outside and am blown off my feet, at least. :) I have no idea what to expect in Iceland, which should make every day a surprise.

Arabian Nights

My trek through Morocco marked the second time I've set foot in Africa. But the similarities between Morocco and Tanzania end at the continental level. Actually, I don't really consider this as my second time in Africa, but more my first time in the middle east. Culturally and architecturally, at least. It was an incredible trip, of course. Instead of rehashing the entire trip, I thought I'd just go through some of the highlights from the adventure.

Hands down, my highlight of the trip was our night on the edge of the Sahara desert. We only had one night and a morning there, but it was worth a two day bus ride. After yet another tasty Moroccan dinner (more on that later) we wandered out from lodging and into the dunes. It was dark already, so we hadn't really seen the dunes yet. We walked around a bit before the entire group settled down on top of a dune to enjoy the stars above us. We were (of course) in the middle of nowhere, so the starlit sky was stunningly bright. We even had a few shooting stars streak across the midnight sky. And, as if to put the finishing touches on an extraordinary night performance, the moon slowly rose over the Saharan horizon. Lying on a Saharan sand dune while basking in the pale moonlight has to be one of the most remarkable things I've ever experienced.

We didn't have much time to sleep, though. We were up and out of bed by 4:30am the following morning to catch the sunrise, as well. This time we trekked a little further into the desert, courtesy of our unusual friends. This is the first time I've met a camel face to face before and they are surprisingly large (unless you're Duncan, who managed to snag some sort of miniature camel/donkey hybrid). Once airborne, the ride was very easy (aside from the knobby saddle that made sitting comfortably more or less impossible). And the sunrise, while not as overwhelming as the moonrise, was another once-in-a-lifetime experience. And, since it wasn't pitch black out, I managed to get a few pictures, as well (this one is my personal favorite). The camel ride back under the early morning sun also created some cool camel shadows.

So in a span of just a few hours I saw both the moon and sun rise in the Sahara desert. That alone would have been worth our five days in a bus, fortunately there is other stuff to see in Morocco. Our other major stop was in Fes, one of the largest (and oldest) cities in Morocco. Previously, La Boquiria in Barcelona marked the apex in crazy local markets. It has absolutely nothing on the medina in Fes, though. Unlike Barcelona's solid square of stands, the market in Fes is just a single pediestrian road, meandering and winding some 2 miles through the heart of downtown. Our walk through the market included highlights like: watching a man slit a live chicken's throat, seeing another man tear the jaw off of a skinned camel head, and more meat hanging out than I could count. Salesmen tempted us with the finest Moroccan made shoes ("the Moroccan Nike's!" they told us). Sights, smells, and sounds assaulted every sense. But you couldn't let your head swivel too much, lest you be flattened by the occasional load bearing donkey, who's overloaded figure demanded a wide berth. I took a bunch of pictures as we hiked through the labyrinthine streets, trying to capture scene. But they were all garbage and I ended up deleting them all. So you'll have to use your imagination.

We also made a stop in Chefchauen, a small town who's claim to fame is it's uniformly blue buildings. Our guide said that the blue walls help keep mosquitoes away, but I suspect that the walls also make the city unique, driving a steady stream of tourists to this otherwise pedestrian destination. Regardless, the blue walls were distinctive and the town was a great stop. It was also our last stop before the border crossing at Tanger, meaning it was a chance for everyone to blow their remaining Moroccan currency. For me this meant a few overpriced postcards, M&Ms and a Kit Kat bar, and a huge bottle of water that I didn't really need. I tried spending a lot on my lunch too, but it's hard to do much monetary damage when your entire meal comes out to 39 Dirham (about 4 Euros).

Throughout our entire trip, though, one thing remained consistently (and surprisingly) good: the food. I am a starch addict, so things got off to a good start when I learned that bread is served at every meal. Lots and lots of bread. Granted, it's not the best bread I've ever had, but still. Any meal that involves an all-you-can-eat bread buffet is doing something very right. Aside from the bread, Moroccan meals include a lot of my favorite things: some combination of chicken (something that is sorely missing in Spain), couscous, and beef was present at pretty much every meal. Sadly, I was in full "avoid African water, fruit or vegetable" mode for the entire trip, so I didn't dare try any of the salad options. But it was still a welcome break from Spanish cuisine.