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."