The Cheap Bastard Does Iceland

"There's no way around it," reads Let's Go about a visit to Iceland, "costs are high."

I took that as a challenge.

When I arrived to find that $1 is equal to ISK70 and my bus trip to Reykjavik (the capital and largest city in Iceland) cost ISK1100, my heart sank. My hostel bed already put me nearly over my daily budget max of €50 a day, so I decided to play hardball. No more Mr. Nice Bastard. And here's what I have found:

- All bowls of soup in Iceland come with free refills and nobody cares how much free bread and humus you take along with it.
- Beer is cheaper than Coke, with is cheaper than water. Drink accordingly.
- The water coming out of the cold tap is pure, fresh mountain spring water.
- Icelandic art is amazing, and there is a different museum offering free admission each day.
- The Botanic Garden in Reykjavik are world-class and absorbing.
- The Reykhavik Library has cheap internet access and a fantastic selection of English media.
- There is no charge to go hiking.
- The thermal pools are less than $4 a pop and they don't kick you out.
- The pylsur (hot dog) is more or less the national food. They're relatively cheap (about $3 each which, by Icelandic standards, isn't bad) and come with fresh and fried onions and three types of sauce.
- Coke comes in half-litre cans, which are cheaper than the half-litre bottles.
- You can make yourself a breakfast of Sykr (drinkable cheese), a multigrain bar and a local pastery for less than $5.

However, while Reykjavik is very nice, exceptionally clean and viciously expensive, the real treasures of Iceland are to be found out in the wilderness. Here's where the Cheap Bastard splurges. I took a delightful 10-hour bus trip around the vacinity of Reykjavik (costing upwards of $80, so I think it averages out OK) with a truly multinational crowd: an American working for the BBC, a young British professional couple, a Cambridge professor, a couple from Luxemborg, a Dutch woman (from Rotterdam!) who works for the European Space Agency and her daughters, two Swedes, a Dane and a woman from Japan. With our zany guide Roger, we checked out the geysir, the incredible waterfall at Gullfoss, þingvellir National Park, a lava mine, a volcanic crater, a Viking grass house and a bunch of smaller sights that Roger promised us were "places only I know of." I took over 100 photos, which will be available for display (abridged, of course) whenever.

The moral of this story: soak in the thermal baths, eat lots of Ramen noodles, sleep simply, but DO NOT miss the scenery.

[Side note: this is, I am afraid, the final post from Europe. Unless something astounding happens on the plane tomorrow, I probably will not post again with stories from the road. I'm hoping for a restrospective or a "best of" list when I get back, but I don´t know when that will come. Thank you for reading along with me on this trip! Keeping this blog has been a great joy for me as I've been traipsing along and there have been many nights spent dreaming up ways to put in entries. I hope it has been as much fun for you as it has been for me.]

Rockin' in Rotterdam

Mr. Tassos drove me to the Pafos Airport early. About three houurs before my flight was to depart. With the terror alerts around airline travel to the United States, Tassos wanted to make sure I got there in time. He made a pretty big fuss over my safety on my impending trip back to the US; I think he was somewhat reassured when I told him that I would be flying back from Iceland to Minneapolis on a non-US carrier. Regardless, we parted ways happily, I checked in (the flight attendants were shocked that I was talking about the Amsterdam flight, as I was the first person of the day), passed through security and made my way to the payphones next to the Cyprus Duty Free shop. Now it was time to book a hostel in Amsterdam. Or Utrecht, when I found out Amsterdam was full. Or Den Haag, when I found out that Utrecht was full. Or Edam, when I found out Den Haag was full. Or Haarlem, when I found out that Edam was full. Or Rotterdam, finally, which had room at the StayOkay hostel. I flew my way out of Cyprus, landed in Amsterdam (no problems with lines here, either) and hopped on a train bound for Rotterdam. Another fluke.

It appears I picked the perfect weekend to hit Rotterdam. Heinekin, perhaps the Netherland´s greatest liquid contribution to the world, was sponsoringg the "Heinekin Dance Parade" a day of revelry as 24 semis-turned-stages parade down the streets of the city spewing techno and sprouting hardcore club dancers. Anybody who knows me knows that this is most definitely not my scene.

Always Say Yes.

Down the street I went, Heinekin in hand (of course), battling the fierce rain and bitter cold with the best of them. Beach balls flew down the crowd, pot smoke filled the air (this is Holland, after all!), confetti stuck to my cloths and I became drenched in all sorts of alcoholic concoctions. After about an hour of drunken bumping-and-grinding, I decided that I needed a break, broke away from the crowd and headed for quieter territory.

What I found in Rotterdam is, perhaps, the new Amsterdam.

Amsterdam is a great town. Don't get me wrong, I love the progressiveness and freedom exhibited in this fair Dam on the river Amstel like nobody else. However, Amsterdam has beenbesiegedd by tourists. Lots of them. All indulging in the pot, parties and prostitution with wild abandon. This is great, but now a little too mainstream for the kind of seek-out-the-hidden-gems traveler I've become. While I know I will be back (there is WAY too much of Amsterdam to explore), I was OK with a change this time around.

Rotterdam is big, glossy, new and undiscovered. There are almost no signs in English, despite the fact that every restaurant has translated menus and a bunch of multinational corporations hold annual meetings there. Rotterdam is the main hub for the new immigrant populations and, as I soon discovered, the best and cheapest eats to be had are along Witte de Withstraat, the home of small ethnic eateries that cater solely to a Dutch crowd (althought the employees all speak perfect English). Sri Lankan curries, Middle Eastern platters, bars, cafes, infamous coffeeshops, all that you would expect from Amsterdam (even a canal or two), but walkable (no need even for a bike!), entirely in Dutch and without the crowds (or with them, but then you are the only tourist). The city also has its fair share of museums, a nice observatory tower, some pretty cool "cube houses" and a vibe that says "hey, we're the place to be -- chill out!" It's a livable city, filled with funky artists of all kinds, and an awesome place to camp out for a few days, weeks, months or years.

My favorite Rotterdam memory: I walked into Bazar, a thriving Turkish restaurant on Witte de Withstraat. I turned to the host and, smiling, confirmed that he spoke English. I asked, "Do you have room for one?", to which he replied, "I don't know. We have a convention in town, so I think we´re 100% booked. You should go over to the reception [he pointed to a glassed-in area down the street] and ask them if we have space." I thanked him, headed out the door, scooted up to the counter at the reception and repeated my request for a table. With this, I was marched back to the restaurant, where a very angry receptionist scoldeded the poor host. I tried to mediate, but to no avail. Finally, the two of them turned to me, stared me down and burst into laughter. "What?" I asked, somewhat terrified. "Don't do that again," said the receptionist as she walked out the door. I was seated immediately. I think this whole thing had to do with my use of the word "room," but I'm still not sure.

Cyprus Part Tesera or Growing Up

Cypriot hospitality is something I will never forget. Mitros and Ursula had been so kind over the last three days, feeding me excellent food and not letting me pay for anything (except for a haircut, which I insisted must come out of my pocket). They are people I have missed terribly and am glad to have seen again. As I headed to my service taxi to Pafos, a coastal town close to the airport from which I would be departing, there was a lump in my throat. I hope my next visit to their house will not be seven years away.

My destination in (or, more accurately, 16km outside of) Pafos was Vasilias Nikoklis Inn, known to my family as Mr. Tassos's Inn. The place, between the foothills of the Troodos Montains, is a traditional inn, preserved and beautifully decorated, and was my family's favorite destination on the Island. Tassos knew my family well at the time, introducing my sister to rose water (a disgusting liquid frequently mixed into milk and granting me one of my Cypriot names: Ephistos, Iron Man. I assumed he would have no memory of my family, but I still wanted to go back, stay at his inn and enjoy his fantastic cooking.

After two shared cabs and a CYP17 taxi trip into the village, I arrived at the inn. Tassos clearly had no idea who I was, but, very kindly, pretended to remember my family. He showed me to my room, number 4 (the only room at his inn I had not occupied) and reminded me to come down for dinner. I wouldn't miss it forever.

Just like the foothills, Mr. Tassos's Inn hasn't changed a bit. Sure, there are some new knick-knacks on the wall and they redid the counter, but everything else is the same. The grapes still hang over the dinner area (and Tassos goes after every evening to supply dessert), the cats still prowl the cobblestones, hoping you will drop a bit of your kleftiko. Even the showers, with their pathetic hand-held hoses, still have terrible leakage and horrendous water pressure. But the place is still full of memories, and I'm glad to have made it back.

That night at dinner, Tassos asked me what I was planning to do the next day. Scared off from cabbies by that exceptionally high fare, I told him I planned to hike up the foothills and check out the nearby Nikoklia village. This, it seemed, wasn't good enough for Tassos. "I take you to Koklia village tomorrow," he said excitedly. "We have sarcophogus [pronounces SAR-ca-FA-goose], very nice museum." Koklia is a mere 2km away, but Tassos was insistent. "I drive you," he shouted, banging the table. "You walk back. Endaksi?" I nodded, knowing this "OK" was not actually a question.

The next morning at 10am, Tassos drove me to Koklia, pointing out landmarks on the way to make sure I didn't get lost. I smiled and nodded and, when we got to Koklia, thanked him with an efharisto and headed up to check out the museum, where I was reminded how incredible Cypriot history is. You stare at jars, still perfectly functional, that are over 3000 years old, and realize that, in the scheme of Cyprus history, that's relatively recent. The sarcophagus was indeed cool and telling of an Egyptian influence on Cyprus. Nearby, the Shrine of Aphrodite provided some lovely Cyprus mosaic art and cool old ruins. I really am a sucker for Cypriot history.

Yet, perhaps the most meaningful part of this excursion was the walk back to the inn. As I looked out at the foothills of the Troodos, realizing that I was the only person on this road and, in two directions, for at least 10 miles, I suddenly felt very alone. I remembered going on hikes by myself in the early mornings when my family would come visiting, and would feel that same sense of aloneness. Then, aloneness came with power; this time, mine was mixed with fear. Call it growing up, but I realized, as I have a few times on this trip, that I am headed out into a grand sense of "aloneness" very soon: the profoundly changed and uncertain life of a professional, one no longer bound and protected school and academia. As I hiked down the country roads, I realized that, like it or not, I'm growing up and, like it or not, I'm facing more and more of these "alone" times and that, as I have for the last 7 weeks, I can manage them, sometimes even with grace. I turned into Nikoklia village and realized that I was crying. Perhaps tears of fear, perhaps tears of joy. I detoured back into the valley and sat myself down under a Cypress tree. My own personal "Tree of Idleness." I sat for a few hours, content to work out my thoughts.

That evening, as I ate Tassos's exceptional sheftalia, I noticed the moon rising over the foothills. The Cyprus moon and I have always had a special relationship. When we first arrived on the Island and were driving towards Nicosia, I looked out the window at the moon and, missing my Minnesota friends terribly, reminded myself that this was the same moon they were looking at. This time, I realized that the moon hadn't, and wouldn't, change. A constant, unchanging force in the heavens, a universal that doesn't go away. Call it drunken poetics (I was enjoying Cypriot village red wine), but I held up my glass to the moon and gave a silent steenay yah sas. Cheers and thanks.

Cyprus was always been a place where I said I really grew up. It still seems to have that effect on me.

Cyprus Part Tria or North and South

So, I did it. I crossed over to the North. Yes, I understand that this was not a popular choice with those offering me housing in the South (I was made well aware of the wrongs of the Turkish government and the failings of both Turkey and the newly-emigrated Turkish settlers the morning before my departure at breakfast time), however the Northern part of Cyprus was an important part of my year in Cyprus and I had no intention of neglecting it on this memory tour. Mitros offered to give me a ride to the Ledra Palace checkpoint but, sensing the frustrations with the current political situation, I declined. I headed down to the UN Buffer Zone (the Green Line) and crossed over.

Things in the Buffer Zone have changed. On the Greek side, there used to be old widows dressed in black, holding photographs of their missing husbands and spitting at anybody who tried to cross the line. None of that exists today, perhaps because of the new freedom of movement (you must still show your passport in either direction). Those of us headed over to the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (the TRNC, as the North has called themselves since 1983) were also confronted by grizzly pictures of atrocities committed by Turks on the Greek Cypriot population of the North. These still greet anybody headed northwards, but the images are severely weathered and cracked, barely visible to anybody who hadn't seen them before. A good thing, I imagined as I strolled past the checkpoint, and a step in the right direction.

Entering the TRNC, I showed my passport and received a paper visa. "Keep this," the somewhat scruffy police officer told me. I nodded and, thinking it was very nice, but a little strange, that they didn't stamp my passport, continued to head to Old Nicosia, the Turkish-controlled side of my favorite city on the Island.

North and South Nicosia couldn't be more different. My first thought when entering the North portion was that I was now in an Arab city. The streets are lined with little, independent shops. No chains anywhere to be found. I remembered having this perception from years ago, that the North had maintained a very Middle Eastern sense. I stopped for a Turkish Coffee (the same thing as a Cyprus Coffee in the South) and watched a game of backgammon. As I had been seven years ago, I was reminded of how culturally similar the two sides really are. My backgammon-playing friends looked identical to the cabbies I had watched a day or two earlier in the South, wearing the same light clothing, drinking the same coffee and chatting about, presumably, the same things. I strolled the winding streets, camera in hand, documenting all that hadn't really changed. The buildings, maybe, are in somewhat better shape (thanks to EU grants, from what I could make out), but not much else is different.

As I headed back to the South (packed in my bag a box of the world's best, and cheapest, Turkish delights from the old Turkish Cypriot market), I passed a little boy playing hop scotch. He looked up at me and stopped. I realized he was afraid of me and decided to make friends. I tossed a stone and down the path. He followed suit. I started mirroring him. He laughed and tried more complicated movements.

"He's playing with you," a voice said from above.

I looked up and saw an older gentleman, white hair and a thin white mustache leaning off the railing of his balcony. I stopped and looked up. He asked me where I was from, sizing me up a little. I explained my history with Cyprus, hoping that we would be able to chat. He seized on my story, asking me where I lived in South Nicosia and what kind of work my parent's were doing when they were here. When I explained about their bicommunal peace-making efforts (the easiest two-second explanation I could come up with at the time), he laughed. "Do you really think they want peace?" he asked with a chuckle, pointing southwards. "When I was 14 years old, I was chased out of my village by the Greeks. They beat me, they lit my house on fire. Do you really expect me to live in peace with them?" I shrugged, unsure of how to continue. "They are afraid of the Turks," he continued. "We're safe here and things are never going to change, regardless of what they want or the British want or the Americans want!" "But don't you want to go back to your village," I pressed, "to show your children where you used to live?" "That's not my home anymore," he scoffed. "This is home and this is safe. The rest, pft, what good is it?"

We chatted a little while longer about much happier topics (I moved the subject to New York City, which he told me he loves) and then parted ways.

I made it back to South Nicosia at about 5pm and felt like I had walked onto another planet. Along Ledra Street, the main pedestrian thoroughfare, I found myself surrounded with the trappings of globalization: Starbucks cafe tables along the street next to a McDonalds. The small shops I remembered from my year on the Island had been replaced by the ultimate in cosmopolitan living. The main shopping mall on the Island, formerly owned by Woolworth, has now been taken over by a British chain (Debenhams). If North Nicosia is the Middle East, the South is Paris with a Greek flair.

"So, how was it?" asked Ursula when I returned home for another of her incredible home-cooked meals. I commented on the improved state of the buildings, hoping to put a positive spin on the day. It barely worked. Even the slightest mention of the North set off a tirade against Turkey and the Turkish Cypriot leadership. Mitros and Ursula railed against all that has gone wrong over the last 30+ years and all I could do was sit and agree. Besides, had somebody come and taken 30% of my home, regardless of the circumstances, I know I would be pissed. I don't begrudge them (or my Turkish Cypriot friend) their frustrations, I just don't fully share it.

The Cypriots have a saying about the ethnic Turks and the ethnic Greeks: "One face, one race." It's true, but it's going to take a lot of work before everyone can see this fully. I left Cyprus seven years ago convinced that a peace settlement was a long way off. (Despite my support of my parents work, I know this was not a task they could have completed). Today, after hearing both sides of the tale, I am still sure that a resolution to the "Cyprus Problem" is a long way off. Perhaps it will take a new generation of people who didn't live through the events of 1974, or perhaps it will take another full-out war. Who knows? What I do know is that the Cypriots are no closer to peace then when I left them last, and maybe a lot further away.

[For those who are feeling a little lost regarding the history of Cyprus, visit these two Wikipedia articles, this one on Cyprus and this one on the TRNC. They are probably some of the most objective sources I have found.]

Cyprus Part Theo or Hills and Valleys

Day Two in Cyprus began abruptly as Ursula called to my door, "Ethan, Good Morning." I had crashed during the night (remember, I didn't sleep at Gatwick and you could hardly call my nap on the Cyprus Airways plane sleep), but was certainly awake now. I remembered in the back of my mind having heard something about a trip up to Troodos, a mountain town in the range with the same name. I showered, shampooed, threw some toast down my throat and headed out the door. The Mountains! How long has it been since I even thought about them! Perhaps since I was 14, camping with the Boy Scouts.

As we ascended the mountain path, I remembered again how scary driving in Cyprus can be. To get up the Troodos, you must follow tiny, one-car-only dirt roads where you see to your right a terrifyingly huge drop. And then cars try to pass you! Clearly, my tolerance level has gone down for Cyprus driving. Mitros and Ursula, however, took no notice, filling me in on the failures of the Annan Plan to reunify the island, their son Karolos's recent engagement to a lovely woman named Athina, the war in Lebanon and, eventually, news from their personal lives. It was fascinating to hear world politics from a Cypriot viewpoint and to have detailed exactly how the Americans got it all wrong in our own media. For a country with no news about Cyprus, the US certainly manages to fill that which we do get with propaganda. Or, perhaps, Mitros and Ursula have radically different views of reality.

As we approached the village of Troodos, I inquired about crossing the Green Line. The subject had come up the night before -- Ursula asking if I intended to visit the Turkish side of the island, to which I honestly replied that I did -- and seemed like safe territory. It is now much easier for Greek Cypriots and Turkish Cypriots to cross between the two halves, but that does not mean that frustrations have subsided. We turned a corner and Mitros pointed out the window to another car. "Look at that license plate," he said, pointing to a place with a red stripe around the perimeter. "That's a Turkish car. They come here all the time." "Isn't that a good thing?" I asked, hoping to put a positive spin on the conversation, just in case things turned ugly. "Yes," he shrugged, "but the Greeks who go over there spend all their money on gambling and women, over CYP135 million this last year. They should stop that!" I let the conversation slide.

At the top, we took in the fresh mountain air, enjoyed some Fanta, spotted a few more Turkish Cypriot cars and snapped a photo or two. I had forgotten how stunning the Cypriot mountains are. Dotted with trees which somehow manage to survive the brutal Mediterranean summers, they are glorious and terrifying things to behold. I stared down a huge cliff and remembered myself as a Boy Scout, watching a red sun rising over the Cypriot Mount Olympus.

On the way back down, we stopped for lunch at a souvla restaurant, fulfilling another gastronomic requirement. The tender lamb certainly hasn't changed.

After my siesta, I decided to take a stroll around the neighborhood, check out the American school and see what else had changed. Strangely enough, I was surprised to find that nearly everything had stayed the same. The map in my head served me well, guiding me directly to the American International School in Cyprus (AISC) with no problems. I stuck my camera through the newly-added high security fencing and snuck it past the ominous guard tower to get a photo of the otherwise-unchanged building. As I turned around, there stood perhaps the worst pizza stand in the world: Toronto Pizza; their goofy slogan ("Trying Hard to Stay The Best") was finally gone. To the left sat Palas Taxi Service, with its cabbies still smoking cigarettes and sipping Cypriot Coffee as the backgammon dice flew. While the exterior of my old school neighborhood hasn't really changed, I hope the education inside (and their tolerance towards anything that doesn't fit the mold of strict academia) has improved.

As I strolled back, I passed our grocery store Ionnedes (still the same), our favorite bakery (no change), the most expensive photo development kiosk in the world (with newly raised prices!) and eventually made my way back to what I hoped would yield the best memory and photo-op of the trip: To Ouzerie, known to my family as Jimmy's. Many an e-pistle reader from our days in Cyprus will remember that Jimmy's was my father's favorite hangout spot, sipping Carlsburg with the guys, and our family's favorite cheap meal out. Yet, as I turned the corner, all I saw was the wooden shell of the tavern. What had happened? I stuck my face against the window, peering in between the paper-covered windows. No bar, no tables, just a disintegrating bed and fallen paper notices in Greek. I snapped a photo, just to prove that things had changed, and slunk back to 11 Fillipou Street to ask the Lambertides what had happened. "It closed up a few years ago," Mitros told me. "They're in negotiations to build a big apartment building there. Such a shame."

Indeed.

Cyprus Part Ena or Welcome Back

My plane landed at Larnaca and I was ready to jump out of my seat and feel the warm Cyprus winds on my face. As soon as they opened the airplane door, I was outside, smelling the fresh sea air and reveling in the 80-degree dry heat. I raced through the unchanged customs area (where they stamped my passport with the brand-spankin'-new EU stamp), hung around while they sorted out the bags, answered some questions from a guy from the tourist office, and then made my way through the enormous crowd of faces looking for their loved ones. How would I find Mitros, my family's landlord from over seven years ago? Would he look the same? Would he recognize me? Suddenly, I see a hand shoot up through the sea of faces. It's Mitros! He's way out in the distance, but he's there! I threw my arms around him in the most un-Cypriot of greetings and greeted him in Greek, "Kali spera" -- good evening. "You look different," said Mitros, who hasn't changed a bit. "I was expecting you in glasses."

We rode from Larnaca to Lefkosia, the capital city and my "home" in Cyprus, in under 30 minutes. I was reminded why Cypriot drivers terrify me to no end. Mitros was eager to hear the family's news, but more interested in filling me in on the current politics of the island. Somehow, I don't remember the Lambertides to have been so politically vocal, but it appears things have changed. Mitros, in true Cypriot fashion, predicted a "boomerang" on Israel for their attacks on Lebanon and, also fulfilling his Cypriot duties, paralleled the current Middle East situation to the Cyprus Problem. We chatted, joked, laughed, listened to the evening's news (Mitros translated) and wound up at 11 Fillipou Street in no time. And nothing had changed.

Ursula, Mitros's wife, met us on the steps. She gave me the three-kiss greeting (I knew I was back) and then insisted that we head out for dinner. Mitros and Ursula wanted me to enjoy a traditional Cyprus meal again and that meant a meze, a dinner made up of many little "tastes" of traditional cuisine. I showered quickly, we hopped back in the car, and raced to a taverna in the Old City. Sitting on the Venecian walls, dating back to the 14th century, I enjoyed all my favorite foods: a village (Greek) salad, olives, tahini, bread, tzatziki, sheftalia, souvlakia and, of course, Cyprus's own KEO Beer. I was home. We ended the night with sweet karpouzi (watermelon) which, for those of you who have never tasted a Cyprus watermelon before, is nothing like our American variety. Filled with fantastic flavors and ready to start a week of excitement and memories, Mitros and Ursula took me back home and put me to bed (to the strains of EuroNews, my favorite European TV news magazine from seven years ago, in the background.)

I was home.

My Personal Cyprus Pact

I recognize the fact that it has been over seven years since I have visited this country, my home for over a year. Things will have changed. People have moved on; I have moved on. I accept the fact that many people will not remember or recognize me. I accept that my memories will not be the perfect guide. I understand that the Cyprus of my teenage years is different from the one where I will find myself, politically as well as socially.

I realize I can never go home.

But, for me to be this close and not visit is foolishness. I love Cyprus and have been missing it for the last seven years. I need to go back, even if it is different, even if things have changed, even if nobody who I knew way back then will recognize me. I don't care. Nostalgia it may be, but my soul needs it.

So, with this in mind, here we go!!!

London Theatre Roundup

London cannot be done in two-and-a-half days. So, having been here once before, I decided to be choosy. No need to see Westminster Abby, the Changing of the Guard, the Tower of London or St. Paul's Cathedral; we did that last time. This trip was all about friends, art and theater.

I met up with my NYU friend Shea, who had been studying in London for the summer, within hours of arriving. We went out for high tea in front of the British Museum, tried (and learned that neither of us particularly care for) ale at a local pub, fled the rain and, of course, talked theater. Shea was just finishing up a theater class in London which involved a huge amount of theater going. Off my list flew Billy Elliot, the Musical, after Shea condemned it as a terrible piece of theater that might only be enjoyable to those steeped in British history and humor (neither of which I have, by the way). The National Theater's current productions also went away. "Hit or miss," said Shea, "and, right now, it's mostly miss." But Titus Andronicus at the Globe, now there was a winner, Shea informed me. I was still eyeing We Will Rock You, the Queen musical that is playing in Vegas right now but decided to sleep on my theater choices. Tomorrow, we'd figure this guy out.

I hopped out of bed bright and early the next morning, chewed on my toast and cereal from the hostel's "All U Can Eat" breakfast, made my way past too many hostellers with severe hangovers and headed out to the Tate Modern, the only museum that I have heard "is the greatest thing I've ever seen" any time I mention it. The rumors are true. Tate rocks! Every piece of art on the wall is in some way challenging, with even the most pleasant Monet water lillies paired with more unusual and far more difficult pieces. It was so mind-blowing that I lost myself there for three hours.

On the way out, I decided to swing by Shakespearean Globe, just to see if Titus was around. I approached the ticket seller, inquired, and was informed, "I'm very sorry, but it appears that we have run out of all of our standing tickets in the yard." (A simple "we're sold out there" would have been OK). As I was turning away, however, I heard a shout. They found one! I threw down my L5 and walked home happy. Tomorrow afternoon, blood would spill.

That evening, the student ticket du jour was the British long-running musical Blood Brothers. The verdict: good show, iffy cast. The two female leads were understudies and, while the principle (Mrs Johnston) was phenomenal, the woman who covered her counterpart (Mrs Lyons, which is usually the Johnston understudy's role) was stiff and appeared to be having trouble remembering her lines. The two of them were painful to watch together. However, the "Blood Brothers" Mickey and Eddie were phenomenal and Eddie is now on my list of roles to play. The Narrator is also a cool role. Good show, wish Mrs Lyons were a little bit better.

The next day was spent enjoying the British Museum (and it's current exhibit on modern Middle Eastern art) and then checking out Titus. Verdict: when the person standing next to you faints, you know this must be good stuff. Gory, bloody, experimental and loads of fun! The director made good use of the yard, with constant action pushing us audience members around. I wound up next to a scholar of Shakespearean drama (not the fainter), who gave me the low-down on the history of the Globe and the show during intermission. Cool, and the right way to experience Shakespeare.

That evening, I decided to go off the wall and check out the Donmar Warehouse, a noted off-West End theater. They are always sold out. Always. While I know they have standing room, after three hours on my feet at the Globe, I was more in the mood for a seat. I stopped in, facing a "SOLD OUT" sign, slumped and started walking away. Then it hit me. "Ethan!" A little voice in my head shouted angrily and whacked my frontal lobe. "Bad traveler! You go back to that theater and get yourself a standing room ticket!" I obeyed and, as I approached the box office window, I discovered that I was right behind a couple returning seats. Seizing the moment, I grabbed my student ID, waved it liberally and requested my "concession." And, thus, the evenings entertainment was A View of My Father. The verdict: amazing play, the best acting of these three shows, lousy seats. The performers had chops! A semi-autobiographical work about the author's life as a boy with a blind father who never spoke about anything important, the play brought out some incredible truths about (I imagine) British society, but also some universal issues of masculinity, showing love and showing emotions. I have never watched an actor "die" and believed that he might actually be dead. Fantastic. When this play makes it to the States (it's moving to the West End in a few days), check it out. But, if you get to Donmar, bring a seat cushion! You are sitting on terribly-sloped upholstery-covered benches, which are not kind to your rear.

Donmar led back to the hostel and my bags, the hostel led to a train to Gatwick and, after fighting with the airline and security to allow me to check my bags, I attempted to sleep on Gatwick's sofas. Right. Not a chance. Groggy and irate, I hopped on my EasyJet flight to Amsterdam at 4:45am. Where I slept. Nothing like the "EasyJet experience."

Conquering the Eiffel Tower

Side note for anybody who doesn't know: Ethan is still afraid of heights.

My love affair with France started on my first day there, when I walked out of my hostel, turned the corner and found myself staring at the Eiffel Tower. All the years I've spent shunning France, claiming it "wasn't really that grand," disappeared when I cane face-to-face with that monumental thing. From a distance, it looks so graceful. But, as you get closer, the damn thing gets big. And fast. Terrifyingly big.

However, in Paris, one must ascend the tower. And, if one is living on a backpacker's budget, that means that you climb.

I decided that my last evening in France would be on the Eiffel Tower, probably because the idea of ascending all those stairs is not my idea of a good time. Seriously, folks, the Statue of Liberty was tough enough and, in that case, you couldn't feel the breeze through her body. I spent an evening in the shadow of the tower, sipping red wine and making the obligatory oohs and aahs when the strobe lights started going at 23:00 and 0:00, praying that that would be it. But, finally, the frightful moment came. I finished my dinner at a delightful little Rick Steves-endorsed bistro and made my way to the tower, determined not to be the only visitor to Paris who returns home saying "I didn't go up the tower." Down onto the ticket platform went €3 and up into my throat went my heart. Here we go.

For those who may not know (because I certainly didn't), the Eiffel Tower has three levels, of which two can be reached by foot. The tippy top is reserved mostly for people who have €11 to burn (which means that all the Asian tourists go there); it seems that almost everybody else either pays for the stairs or takes the more expensive elevator ride to the lower floors. With my issues with height, floors one and two would be my destination.

Getting to the first level was OK, until the wind picked up. While I have complete faith in the structural integrity of the building, I am still a little unsure of the stairs. They swayed. Not much, but enough to send my nerves into overdrive. I clung to the handrail, stared at the steps and pulled myself to the landing. While the first floor doesn't offer much of a view, the overpriced coffee and the spotless bathroom were a welcome relief and helped calm me enough to make it the rest of the way.

Level two was much better. The fencing between you and the edge is thicker, the building barely sways at this level and there is a nice, thick, wooden hand rail between the edge and atmosphere. Plus, the views are spectacular. I stared out at the Arc de Triumph, glowing in the night, and felt very, very small. A perfect crescent moon reflected on the Seine as boats sailed below. Romantics went into overdrive at the cafe, with more saliva exchanged than I have seen in a while (besides at the Picasso Museum; ask me about that one when I get home.) To say that Paris is captivating from this vantage is aunderstatementnt; it is in itself a work of art.

The trip down fine. I actually looked out at the sights, jumped down a few stairs at a time and didn't flinch when the midnight strobes started going. Heck, I conquered the tower! A miniscule step in the scheme of things, but I was proud. To celebrate my achievement, I decided to get a tiny Eiffel Tower keychain and, after a significant bargaining session with one of the hawkers (he started at €5 which, based on what I've seen, is probably what he usually gets), managed one for €.50. Pride in my accomplishments and pride in my souvenirs; all-in-all, a great night!

My Date in Paris

I saw her through the crowd.

(Actually, I was handing in my room key in the morning and she was asking for directions to the Louvre. I was headed there myself, so I decided to ask her if I could follow her. It had been a wonderful, but lonely, morning at Musee d'Orsay the day before and I was hoping that she was as interested in having a person to discuss the art with as I was. We hopped the Metro, strolled through a gorgeous park, jumped the line at the Louvre and spent three hours wandering, discussing the art and having a delightful time. Her name was Carolyn, a Canadian science student working for the summer in Lausanne and on a weekend trip to Paris.)

We agreed to meet for dinner at 8.

(Actually, it was more like, "Hey, I had a really crappy dinner last night by myself and want to splurge on a good meal while I'm here and you seem like a nice person so we should have a nice dinner together tonight." However, both of us had errands to run, so we split at the Louvre for a few hours. I got my Cyprus tickets taken care of, arranged transport under the Channel to get to London, checked out the Arc de Triumph, sauntered down the Champs Elysee, got my modern art fill at the Pompidou Center, checked my email, set up a hostel in London and took a nap. By the time we actually met up, it was 8:30.)

She appeared in a luminescent red dress.

(This is sort of true. It was her shopping splurge in Paris and it did look great. I was feeling a little underdressed in my only pair of nice pants and my simple-yet-stylish blue shirt.)

We headed to a candle-lit restaurant.

(Not even close. I found a nice-looking restaurant on a tiny, exclusive island near Notre-Dame. The place was an all-you-can-eat French feast, which is supposed to be like the king of Gaul used to enjoy. You start with overflowing baskets of veggies and sausages, enjoy a soup, a main meat course, cheeses, desert and all the wine you can stomach. It came recommended by gormands. Carolyn thought it sounded like fun. I was up for anything. And, while there were candles, it was certainly not what one would consider a romantic candle-lit dinner.)

We whispered sweet nothings to each other until 1am.

(Actually, we chatted about US-Canadian relations, travel, school and art until 1am, at which point the restaurant staff kicked us out. It was really fun, especially after the wine started hitting.)

And we capped off the evening with a stroll along the Seine.

(Yes, we did walk along the Seine, but it was more of a hustle and was exclusively for the purposes of getting back to the hostel by the 2am curfew. Eventually, I broke down and hailed a cab. It would have been a 2 hour walk.)

Paris is romantic.
(Paris is romantic, even if you are borrowing someone else's girlfriend.)

Bread, Cheese and Chocolate

In Geneva, I found myself in the middle of globalization at its best. Jay, our family friend who works for the UN, was hosting a little get-together for a group of Malaysians who were visiting his organization. Since I was there, I would up part of the "international delegation" that included Americans, Malaysians, Scots, Spaniards, Swiss and Ted, Jay's dumb but lovable lab. We sipped juice and ice tea, nibbled on nuts and talked about European Football on Jay's porch. Civilized and dignified and way classier than hostel living.

That evening, as we were cleaning up, Jay and I started chatting about a more local subject: the eccentricities of Switzerland. We moved onto the topic of doctors in Switzerland when Jay remarked that the Swiss remedy for high blood pressure and cholesterol is not medication, but to reduce one's intake of bread, cheese and chocolate. "But," Jay said, responding perhaps to the look of terror on my face, "if you're gonna do that, why live in Switzerland?"

The next day, I was on my own (it being a Friday, Jay was off to the office). I slept in (on a real bed!), did two much-needed loads of laundry, walked Ted and then set off for the Old Town and my favorite part of Geneva: the lake. However, on the way down to the water, I swung by a Swiss grocery store. Breakfast had been a few peaches and some coffee, so my tummy was in need of more substantial fixings. I grabbed a loaf of bread, considered the coffee-flavored yogurt, squeezed the peaches and wound up in the cheese section, staring at half-priced Heidi-brand Swiss cheese (but without the holes). I snagged a 1.5L bottle of ice tea and went searching for dessert. I almost grabbed the sour gummy worms when I realized what I had in my hands. My Heidi cheese and bread made up two of the essential Swiss eatables; there is no way I could deny myself the third! Into the basket went a bar of dark chocolate. The essentials. Bread, cheese, (ice tea) and chocolate! And all for less than $5.

I picnicked along the lake until the weather started to look stormy. On my way back to Jay's apartment, the rain came. I managed my way into the apartment, dried off, walked Ted and met up with Jay, who was off to a dinner. I asked him if he could recommend a good, local, small place serving more traditional Swiss cuisine. Jay laughed and said, "Had you said you wanted fondue on any other night, I would have said you're crazy. Tonight, however, you might be able to get away with it." And so, restaurant name and address in hand, I headed out for my second meal of bread, cheese and (after dinner) a nice warm hot chocolate. It was great to be the only native English speaker in the place! And, of course, to indulge in the cuisine that is truly delicious and utterly Swiss.

A Good Travel Story

My last day in Budapest was spent figuring out some odds and ends regarding my Cyprus Airways ticket to Larnaca from Amsterdam (aka the Nostalgia Trip). I didn't manage to finish everything in Budapest (it appears that the Hugarian affiliate cannot issue tickets from Amsterdam), but I got enough information to know that I would be able to meet up with Cyprus Airways in Zurich, Switzerland and take care of the rest of the details.

Which is good, because I had a reservation on a night train out of Budapest at 17:50 that evening that would land me in Zurich at 6:20 the next day and get me into Geneva (where I would be meeting up with Jay, a family friend who works for the UN) within three hours.

The best laid plans.

At 17:00, I finished sipping my tea in the Hungarian tea room (it seems they like teahouses as much as the Czechs) and started trotting my way towards the train station, ready to settle in on a long night's journey. My hand felt back to my backpack, where I had been storing my ticket in the secure inner compartment.

That secure inner compartment was open.

Frantic, I ripped through my bag, pulling out every book, scrap of paper, brochure and map I could find. My €20 reservation was gone and, with it, any hope of me making it to Zurich by 6:20 (mind you, unlike in the States, your name is not put with your reservation on European trains, so there was no way for me to prove my identity and claim my berth). Unless. Unless, I thought, I left it at the hostel when I went to pick up my suitcase. I saw tram 47 out of the corner of my eye, the one that headed directly to my hostel. Salvation! I hopped aboard, watching my clock and praying for a miracle.

At the hostel, to the amusement of the owners, I tore through the couch, my old bunk and most of the kitchen to no avail. Zurich, it appears, would come later than I had expected. I hopped the tram back to Keleti train station, arrived at 15:45 and sadly watched as the Berner Express pulled away from the station. My only recourse, I decided, was to get into the ever-growing international ticketing line and hop onto the 21:45 to Munchen, where I would be able to connect up with a Zurich-bound train and make my way to Geneva at some point.

Yet, Keleti is not the most efficient of stations. Windows close at odd times, forcing whole lines to disperse themselves again and again. I got chatting with a nice Italian gentleman in line. We got to the front, he purchased his reservation and the curtain of death fell. No ticket for me in this line. I made my way to another. Same deal. Finally, after three hours in line, I made my way to the front. The nice, English-speaking Hugarian train employee informed me that "you could have just gone to the train and bought your berth there because you have a Eurail pass." COULD HAVE?! After traveling for six weeks and being told repeatedly that reservations are required for overnight trains (or you face a €100 fine), the rules change?! You mean I COULD HAVE been on that train to Zurich. I slumped, grabbed my bags and ran to the Munchen-bound train. Which I found empty, except for a conductor, who gladly took my €20 and gave me a berth. Sheish!

I scrounged for dinner (where I am sure I was ripped off by the cashier when, after she demanded payment for one of my items twice and I refused, she summoned the police and got me to hand ovthe equivalententent of $0.40) and hopped back onto the train, only to find a nice Swiss Latin teacher seated in my compartment. He informed me that the train, it seemed, was delayed by three hours, making my connection to a Zurich a pretty tight one. No matter, my Swiss friend told me, they'll make up for lost time. With the way my luck was going, I figured I might be spending an evening in Germany.

My Latin teacher friend and I spent most of the night chatting, drinking the free coffee offered by the conductor to apologize for our delayed departure, and finally sleeping a little. When I woke up, I was in Munchen. With enough time to catch my Zurich train. The little angels in my head started singing.

I hopped my train to Zurich and, after chatting up a nice Czech bartender, discovered that the Cyprus Airways office was located at 10 Bahnhopfstrasse, a short walk from the train station. Knowing that trains depart for Geneva ever half hour from Zurich, I decided to spend a bit of my time racing off to fix my ticket. I hopped off the train and started my stroll, passing swanky department stores and people wearing $500 suits. In my t-shirt and backpack, I felt a little out of place.

At last, I arrived at 10 Bahnhopfstrasse. I peered in the door and, to my complete confusion, discovered that the store I was entering was in factjewelryery design store. The woman behind the counter looked at me like I had just arrived from Mars. I asked about Cyprus Airways. At the name of the airline, the manager stepped out and, in perfect English, lamented, "Everybody comes here looking for Cyprus Airways! What do they tell you people!?" I produced the brochure I received in Hungary, explained the confirmation of my Czech friend and sweet-talked the receptionist to call the reservation line for me. Where we both learned that there are two Bahnhopfstrasses in Zurich, one of which is at the airport. Thank God for unlimited Eurail passes.

I called Jay, explained my situation and asked how I should meet up with him. Jay gave me a great set of instructions, wished me luck and hung up. With his blessings, I headed off to catch my train to Zurich Airport, secure in the knowledge that this would be my final Cyprus Airways interaction and I would leave, ticket in hand, headed to Geneva.

On arrival at Zurich airport, I spied a Cyprus Airways ticket counter. Already unsure about the way to Bahnhopfstrasse, I went up to the counter, hoping that the woman sitting behind it would be able to give directions. When I approached, I read the huge "CLOSED" sign on the desk. Unwilling to give up (and really just wanting directions), I decided to ask her. What I discovered is that Zurich airport employees don't like to be bothered. I was met with venom and spit and, after explaining that all I wanted was directions, the opportunity to purchase tickets at the counter. I sprang at the chance and, despite the fact that this woman clearly wanted nothing to do with me, pressed forward with as much Midwestern goodness as I could muster.

Until the question of the visa.

"Have you got a visa?" my Cyprus Airways receptionist asked, seeing an out in sight.
"I am a US citizen," I replied, curious as to where this was going, "I don't need a visa"
She smiled deviously. This was not going well.
"Are you sure?"
"Well, I lived in Cyprus for over a year and I checked the American State Department website the other day, so I'm pretty sure."
Another smile. This was not good.
"Well, I'm afraid I can't issue you the ticket unless I have proof of a visa requirement and you shouldn't be asking me if you need a visa."
I questioned whether she was listening and suggested that she surf her web browser over to travel.state.gov for further information.
"No," she smiled again, and my heart sank. "I need proof of a visa. Here is your reference number. Goodbye."

The next thing I knew, I was on a train bound for Geneva, cursing Cyprus Airways and hoping that Jay would forgive my lateness. Chugging through small-town Switzerland, I watched the Alps disappear behind clouds and passed perhaps the world's most beautiful lakes. Until we reached Neuchatel.

At Neuchatel, an announcement came over the loudspeaker in French. I caught a few words (what else is Latin good for), but only enough to tell that they were talking about Geneva. I grabbed the conductor, who had already been speaking in about four languages to different people on the train, and asked him if this train would be continuing on to Geneva. He said "no" and I hopped off. But, as I turned around and watched the train roll away, I looked up at the platform listing. Where was the train headed? Geneva. I threw down my bags and started hunting for another route.

An hour later, with only one additional train connection, I wound up in Geneva. As I stepped out of the train station and started looking for the tram Jay had recommended, something popped into my head. "My," I thought to myself with a laugh, "this is a Good Travel Story."

Spicy Goulash

Budapest was a total fluke. I woke up in Vienna, the day before I was expecting to leave, and thought, "Hmm, I wonder what Budapest is like." So perhaps it is no surprise that, like all unexpected adventures on this trip, Hungary and Budapest have generated some of the most unusual of stories.

My arrival in Budapest was a mix of good and bad. I was initially introduced to what one might consider the country's more shady elements in that, during the course of a bus ride from the Keleti train station to my hostel, I managed to have one of my credit cards and my only ATM card disappear. I have no idea how this happened, especially since they were both zipped into my pants pocket, but, when I arrived at my hostel, they were gone. A quick call to USAA put a stop to any unexpected charges (and, from what my bank reports, nothing has been attempted since), but I was left with only the Euros, Swiss Francs, US Dollars and 20,000 Hungarian Forint (around $93) I had in my money belt (and a credit card which, after a few international phone calls, has become an ATM card). But, this being Eastern Europe, $93 gets you pretty far.

My other, and much more enjoyable, introduction to Budapest came in the form of Gergö (essentially "Gregory" but pronounced GER-goo), a chemical engineer, baritone-bass in an English choir and amature jazz pianists I met on the same fateful bus. He and I got to chatting and, after disembarking at the same stop, he gave me his mobile number and asked that I call him that evening so that "we can drink beer." Initially I was hesitant to call, concerned that he might have been the credit card thief and nervous after reading too many stories of Americans being ripped off at bars when English-speaking women sweet talk them into buying $1000 rounds of drinks, but, in the spirit of "Always Say Yes," I decided to dial away. We connected (a good sign) and agreed to meet at the bus stop. When I arrived, Gergo was with his long-time girlfriend, Annika, a language instruction book producer. It appeared that they were eager to practice their English and have me taste some of the local alcohol. And, with that, how could I say no? So, over the next three hours, we became fast friends. I learned the history of Hungary, the benefits and difficulties of the old communist system, the problems of their current government, the Hungarian perception of Americans, the structure of the educational system and the proper way to drink the tasty-yet-potent palinka, both in its apricot and kosher varieties. After two rounds, they were exhausted and I was tipsy, but my new friends were insistant that they walk me to my hostel. Once there, I received a written list of the sights, baths, streets and restaurants that "you must visit if you want to see the real Budapest." Guidebooks be damned; I'm going with the locals!

A quick word about the hostel (or Backpacker's Guesthouse, as it is officially called): think Hade-Ashbury-meets-Eastern-Europe with a serious dose of incense, Buena Vista Social Club and Indian religious figures. My room was designed around the Buddhist god Ganesha. The only double room in the place was called "The Love Shack." I was the first person ever (in their 15 year history) to pay with a credit card. Easily the coolest hostel I have stayed in yet!

Budapest and I are on great terms! The city (or, actually, two cities joined into one) is on my list of the best places I've visited. And it makes sense. Budapest combines both "old world" East and cosmopolitan West in exciting ways. You can stand in an acient castle overlooking the city, staying at the domed, very British Parliment and see a giant TV tower in the distance. My hostel, in a very residential (and, as you could probably guess, funky) neighborhood, was just blocks away from Gergö's flat, which comes in the form of an old, Communist-era housing block. The underground Metro sprawls (and one of its lines is the oldest in the world) and reaches perhaps the greatests of all of Budapest's sights: the Turkish baths. Hungary, you see, was controlled by the Turks, and it appears that the Turks felt it would be most beneficial to exploit the mineral springs beneath Budapest's rocky lands. So, about a dozen baths were created, all of which survive today. I went to one, recommended by Gergö and Annika (partially because it is located in the park where they had their first date) and, after two hours of soaking, sweating in the saunas (where I also burned my feet!), showering and swimming laps, I decided that this would need to become a daily ritual. And it did. Heck, at onlu $6 a pop, how can you go wrong?

Budapest is also a fascinating city outside of its history, contrasts and amazing baths. The Danube flows right through (separating Buda from Pest) and forces the citizens to make good use of their water-fed green spaces. I managed my way onto an island (Margarita Island), recommended, of course, by my friends, where, among other delights, I was met by a fountain that dances to classical music, ancient ruins filled with kids climbing around on them, untouched bike trails, baths (of course) amd, perhaps most importantly, only one modern building. Budapest has managed to balance its nature with its growing turn towards consumerism and Westernization. The city is super-modern (the prevelence of internet cafes and discount stores is enough to convince anyone!), and, right now, has just the right mix of charm and efficiency to make it liveable. You can haggle in the Grand Market for your veggies, then turn the corner and wind up with some of the best public transit I've encountered. If you can believe it, I was navigating almost entirely without a map by my second day.

And Hungarians (excepting those that took my cards) are amazing people! I have never been offered help so many times! I found myself a few times in lunch counters where I was the only English speaker and, believe it or not, trying to decipher my order became a communal effort, with everyone pitching in their English to figure me out. People in the street, perhaps eager to practice their English, would lead me where I was going, chatting me up along the way. That is something I have experienced nowhere else.

So, having seen the churches, the shopping malls, the open-air markets, the castles, the baths, the Metro, the parks, the backstreets, the mainstreets, the people, the tourist traps, the local wine shops and the traditional eateries (check out Time Out Corner, their goulash is cheap and amazing), I think I can honestly say that my rocky start was not the true face of Budapest. I am in love and I am coming back.

Waltzing through Vienna

So, with the Brno adventure over, I made my way to Vienna. Martin, from Brno, had emailed me the day prior, very serious about meeting up on my first evening there. We agreed to find our way to the main church in Vienna (St. Stephan's) at 19:00 and head off to find beer. So, after dropping my stuff, I headed off to do a little sightseeing on my own (for those who are interested, the Hofborg Castle is one of the best museum's I've visited on this trip and made me want to grow up to be a Hapsburg), munched on finger sandwiches at an open bar and then met Martin. We drank our beer by the Danube, talked more politics and the headed off to meet Julia, a German teacher in Vienna who Martin had met through the internet, at a little bar way outside of the tourist district.

And thus began the glory of Vienna.

Martin and I were inseparable for my three days there. We would meet up at noon or 13.00, grab a bite to eat and then start strolling. We swung by the Opera house, strolled through Naschmarket (an open air food market), swam in (more or less) the Danube, walked, chatted, drank coffee, watched open-air concerts projected on huge screens and met a huge number of Viennese. Martin is part of an online community called Hospitality Club, a way for travelers to meet locals and those not traveling to meet travelers. Julia invited us to a few get-togethers with her friends, so I had the chance to meet up with teachers, professors, journalists, college students, humanitarian aid workers... a whole slew of Viennese who spoke perfect English and were eager to chat. Our last evening was spent with Julia and her friends at a horror film festival (they were showing King Kong with subtitles, thankfully), riding on a huge Ferris wheel and then sipping cocktails at a beach-side bar and chatting late into the night.

Now, perhaps my experience of Vienna is not as true as it could have been. I missed most of Rick Steve's recommended sights, failed to check out Freud and Mozart's apartments, didn't make it to a wine bar (although I drank lots of good wine) and probably couldn't give you very good tourist information about Vienna. But, for all the tourism and sights I missed, Vienna is, perhaps, my favorite stop so far. Martin, Julia, Daniel and everybody else I met are amazing people who shaped my Vienna beautifully. I got to meet people, savor Viennese food, sip the wine and develop a sense for what it means to be Austrian today. Plus, my European address book is now filled with email addresses of people I am eager to keep up with.

And that I wouldn't trade for anything.