The Traveling Social Worker

I'm sure that travelers can recognize the sentiment, that maybe after some time, it feels as though you put your life on hold at home. It's not a bad feeling, or a good feeling, simply a parallel feeling that there are two lives being lived, and one can easily be paused while the other continues. You have a travel life and a home life. The world carries on. Your family and friends' lives proceed. Maybe you wonder if you being there ever made a difference. Certainly it did, however the thought can creep up on you. Maybe there is nothing you miss, and this disconnect concerns you, or, better yet, thrills you. Maybe you become jaded from a life away from home, constantly having to reaquaint yourself with surroundings - always introducing yourself, having the same conversation over and over. Maybe all of this causes you to miss home, or maybe the fact that you don't miss home at all makes it feel as though it isn't your home anymore. Time no longer exists, only the day to day - money, and basic necessities. You had an education you might not be using, things you did and were passionate about before that don't matter anymore or that you don't have access to. With new knowledge comes new passions, and new passions can make a whole new persona.

When I originally left on this trip more than ten months ago, I justified my abandon by saying that traveling will enhance my career as a social worker. It will give me insight to all kinds of ways of life - cultures, ethnicities, and beliefs that exist around the world. The mere ability to say a couple of words in someone else's language can strongly enhance rapport when empathizing with clients of all diversities. I said to myself, I will volunteer in other countries to help me get by, and that will support the building of my resume during my extended absence.

After receiving my masters degree in social work, I had a few months to put my affairs in order before deciding to leave for a prolonged period of travel. A period that, in time, became more and more drawn-out. So far I am four months beyond my personally advertised return date. By the time I actually do return, my originally planned trip will have more than doubled in length. Spontaneity is a beautiful gift, considering that concrete travel plans are as real as a "worse case scenario." Everyone can imagine how it will go, but no one sees it come to pass the way they envisioned. Definitive travel plans on extended journies never follow through, and only seem to prevent incredible opportunity. I learned this a long time ago, and for the most part, threw limits, expectations, and deadlines out the window.

As freeing as it has been, lately I have felt as though I put my entire career on hold to travel the world. I can't help but recognize that, at times, my experiences are more for personal gain than they are for educational knowledge that will 'enhance my career.' Since most service opportunities on this side of the world require the volunteer to pay for participation, the idea of building my resume abroad became distant and virtually unrealistic. Sixteen months of "unemployed traveler" may not be the best way to sell myself to the next employer. Certainly not with the argument that such a long absence may have caused me to become out of practice.

All of these thoughts about my absence, and abandon, had been rushing in as a full year of travel rapidly approaches me.

The other day, a symbolic gift was sent my way that would later bring me towards feelings of fulfillment and purpose. I received in an email a post-test survey concerning my graduate degree specialization in integrated primary and behavioral healthcare. As I completed the questionnaire I found that most of the examining questions went as follows: On a level of 1 to 5, rate how confident you are in working with clients of different cultural backgrounds (1 being not confident, and 5 being extremely confident). Topics included; communication using nonverbal behaviors, racial identity, language barriers, educational background and interests, gender role and responsibility, role of elders and children, recognizing your own personal values and beliefs and preventing or resolving their intrusion into practice, comfort when entering a culturally different world, similarities and differences between cultural groups, clients refusal of treatment based on beliefs, need for cultural care preservation/maintenance, cultural sensitivity, dealing with racism and prejudice of clients while maintaining a non-bias practice, religious conflicts, values, etc. etc. etc.

About halfway through I began to laugh out loud at my previous concerns over 'enhancing my career.'

Maybe I am no longer in a therapeutic group setting - teaching mentally ill women how to appropriately cope with feelings of anger while living in a homeless shelter. Maybe I am not doing one-on-one private in-home therapy with hospice clients. Maybe I am no longer doing in-home structural family therapy with troubled youth and their parents in the struggling heart of Brooklyn. What I am doing is communicating on a daily basis with people from around the world, learning about religious and cultural practices, coping with my own discomfort in rural and suburban underdeveloped settings to the point where there is no discomfort, understanding the basis of my values and how they differ from the people around me, learning about wars and racism between ethnicities I didn't even know existed, using different languages, seeing firsthand the daily practices of different cultures, understanding traditions and ways of life, experiencing fundamentally complex and corrupt governmental effects on citizens, living in other peoples' homes, practicing different religions, teaching about love through my own openness, etc. etc. etc.

After taking the post-test, I realized, I haven't left a life on pause somewhere. There is no "home" to go back to or life I left behind. There is no extended "absence." I have never been more present. I am home, everywhere I go. I feel it is a gift to be able to say that even after traveling to 43 different countries in my life, and counting. I can find comfort in anything or anyone, in myself, and at any location. Life before travel, is simply that. It's not continuing on its own - there is still a life being lived. This concept of living a paradoxical double life doesn't exist. People at home will go about their lives, as travelers go about theirs. We will grow in our way, and they will grow in theirs. At the end of the day, I have captured more in a moment than I could possibly have dreamed of in a lifetime. No matter which way we spin it, it is for personal gain - the kind of gain that will make us better practitioners, friends, lovers, and empathizers. The kind of personal gain that benefits everyone wey meet. Every backpacker must be a social worker to an extent. Every traveler must have this knowledge that enhances any career or relationship they have. It requires an openness, a tolerance, a patience, a self-awareness, and an overall understanding of one's personal role in humanity.

I used to think that when I decide to call it quits with long-term travel, or put it on hold until further notice, that is when I will settle down and begin my professional career.

The truth is, I am settled, and I am practicing social work every day. The important thing for all travelers to remember, is what this survey reminded me. Although we may not be working or volunteering, or even interacting with locals every day - we are spreading wealth and knowledge around the world. In return for satisfying the basic human need to participate in humanity, travelers gain an immeasurable growth and goodness that can only effect positive change within and without themselves now and forever. I dare others to be their own genies, grant their own wishes. As travelers do when they choose to travel, I encourage you to also follow your dreams. It only makes us better at being.

A Hitchhikers Guide to Malaysia

Diving right into Malaysia from Thailand, and intending to spend a short amount of time, meant being prepared for a few things. I heard from many travelers in passing, that costs in Malaysia were higher than in Thailand, and Thailand was one of the most expensive Southeast Asian countries I had been in. Granted, I was there the longest - with 6 weeks under my belt, and some luxurious indulgences like elephant sanctuaries, private rooms, and motor scooter rentals - nevertheless, Malaysia was coming, and I had to prepare.
Before arriving in Malaysia, I imagined villages, much like rural Thailand, and I imagined major cities like Bangkok, Ho Chi Minh, or Beijing. I needed to book flights from Singapore to Borneo and around Borneo, so once that booking was finished my time in west Malaysia was limited. I held off on the flight booking for as long as my budget could stand it. If one thing is for certain in life and travel, it is that plans are more like rough guidelines, often more useful as toilet paper than anything else. Holding off on purchasing my flight gave me the freedom to flush my previous plans, 10 days in west-Malaysia (Penninsular) down the drain.

The tentative plan was only there for budget reasons. More time more money. Mo money mo problems.
I took my budget struggle to the streets. I searched on CouchSurfing.org, messaging half a dozen people on Penang Island, so that I would have a place to start after driving south from Thailand to Malaysia. Within a week I received a response from a lovely Iranian guy, Milad, getting his doctoral degree at the university on the island. Four nights on Penang Island with good Middle Eastern company, boom, check.

Penang Island had NO island feel to it. I arrived coming down off of a high from camping and having beaches all to myself in Ko PhiPhi, Ko Lanta, and Ko Tao, Thailand - I was not really in the mood to explore a city on public transportation. Luckily my gracious host offered me everything, from transportation to almost anywhere, to a big bed with air con and wifi. This was the time I would take to research the future of my trip. For all intensive purposes, from here on out I am going in blind - the best way to go if you want all of your senses taken to the next level.

Judging by the things that interested me in Penang, leaving West Malaysia within 10 days was looking like it would be no problem. Everything was going as planned.

After a few restful days I found another CouchSurfing opportunity in Kuala Lumpur. Elma was the next sweet soul to take me in. While I was on the bus to arrive at Elma's house, I received an email from her explaining that she is not actually in Kuala Lumpur. I should arrive in KL, get a train to an outer suburb called Rawang, then find a local bus, or hitchhike if I arrive after 7:30pm, to a place called Bandar Tasik Puteri. My lazy side contemplated passing-up the opportunity. I would have to hitchhike since the journey wouldn't bring me into Rawang until 9pm. Honestly, I couldn't even say the town properly until I started asking around about how to get there. It was also only the third or fourth time I've hitchhiked in the last ten months of travel, and I was nervous. Of course I took the journey out to Rawang, asked around, hitchhiked. No one picked me up. It started to rain. I took a taxi. First Malaysian hitchhiking experience was an epic fail.

Elma was the sweetest woman, and reminded me a lot of my mother. She was righteous, funny, and young in spirit. We were instant-friends. She always had something to feed me, and left me with a lovely Russian guy to have the entire house to ourselves while she went on vacation. Unfortunately she was a busy woman, so I had to start hitchhiking to do pretty much anything in the area. It was the perfect push to get me out of my bus-taking, taxi-riding shell and breakout into the hitchhiking world.

On her way out of town Elma brought me to a nice little corner next to the highway where I could easily get a ride for my first day of adventures via hitchhiking. Within five minutes a Hokkien Chinese-Malay guy picked me up and brought me to the national park.  At the park I climbed waterfalls, got my feet wet, and then took my time returning to the highway to thumb another ride. Within ten minutes an Indian-Malay truck driver pulled over and picked me up. Furthermore he gave me his phone number and said that if I need any rides along that highway I could call him because it is his working route. He seemed too eager to be my chauffeur and it gave me a funny feeling. Eventually he wanted to detour off of the highway to pick something up, I didn't understand what he was saying and was not comfortable detouring from the route with a guide who gave me a 'funny feeling.' I got out on the side of the road and found another ride within the snap of a finger. This time a nice Hakka Chinese guy brought me all the way to Batu Caves outside of Kuala Lumpur, I did my tour, and then found another ride partway back. Somehow, since the driver was not going all the way to my destination, I ended up under a highway bridge with a bunch of motorcyclists during a massive rain storm. They all were fairly entertained watching me try to hail down a car for 30 minutes. The rain storm seemed to make people less generous. Eventually we waved down a local bus and it took me back to Rawang for less than a dollar.

That was my first day of commuting completely via hitchhiking.

Now 100% confident in the generosity and safety of the hitchhikers way, when it came time to leave Elma's house, my plan was to hitchhike all the way two hours north, to a town called Ipoh, where I would re-join with my friend Luca who I traveled with in south Thailand. Foolishly I stood, facing the wrong direction, on a road that was not the main highway. I got a lot of waves and thumbs up. I'm sure I made friends with passerby's just by standing there smiling, and waving at everyone.
After some time of waving to people who smiled, gave me thumbs up, and still did not pull over to help a sister out - I finally met my angel of the day. The man who picked me up was named Nick - nickname Mun. Straightaway Nick told me that he was not going all the way to my destination, he was en route to his parents house an hour north where he is caretaker for his mother and father. He told me that he would go most of the way and then leave me at a local bus station. It took so long to get a ride on the road initially, that it was already 3pm when he stopped for me, and I was accepting of any generous offer. It started raining once I got into the car. After chatting along the way, I felt really good about meeting Nick. He offered to stop to get me lunch, and gave me all kinds of advice about hitchhiking and traveling in Malaysia. Since my final destination after Ipoh would be the tea plantations in the mountains of Cameron Highlands, Nick told me that there were also plenty of mountain adventures in the area we were in. He told me that, if I wanted, he could take me around the mountains, and then I could sleep at his parents house for the night. Considering I had such good feelings about this generous guy, I said yes. My mind was completely at ease when I arrived at his parents house and met his hardcore Chinese mom who invited me to eat, do laundry, and stay in a private air-con room. Heaven has a name, its a tiny Hokkien Chinese village called Rasa, Malaysia.
That night Nick took me out for dinner, insisting on paying for everything, and he even brought fireworks for us to set off in the street. In this small town, everyone was fairly informed about everyone, so much so that when Nick walked in anywhere, it was as if the mayor had arrived. He told me that showing up with a young white foreigner would certainly hit the rumor circuit by morning. I told him to fuel the fire. We sat next to each other, talked all night, snuck out the back of the restaurant for a cigarette instead of smoking where we were sitting, and I imagine rumors got really wild when the same people saw us go out to breakfast the next morning. Staying with Nick was a lot like staying with my dad's best friend. After breakfast he drove me one hour out of his way to my destination and left me at a local bus stop to get me where I'm going. After a night of accommodation, treating me to anything I wanted, fireworks, and laughter, I was sad to say goodbye to him. Uncle Mun!

By now it has been one week in Malaysia, and it's safe to say that I was absolutely in love with the country. Ten days wouldn't cut it, so lets throw in the tea plantations, highlands, jungle, and rainforest for good measure. These are all places I didn't know existed before stumbling across an online magazine article during my downtime in Penang. The article advertised the Top 20 Must-See things in Malaysia, now my aim was to do as much of them as I could manage.

I arrived in Cameron Highlands, not having paid for a single night, or tourist bus for the previous week in Malaysia. I was completely in love with what Malaysia had to offer in spirit. When I met up with my friend Luca at Cameron Highlands, I found him in opposite spirits. He wasn't enjoying the experiences he had in Malaysia up to that point. I told him one day with me and he will love it.

On that one day we took a two hour trek into the jungle. The climb was hand and feet through mud, pulling ourselves up over the vines that nature presented as steps to the top. Once we arrived, we had a little picnic. On the sunmit there was a road to return down the mountain, and a guy was offering some Netherlander girls a ride which they declined. So I chimed in 'We'll take a ride!' The guy, Azmi, and one of his wives, drove us down the mountain to a place called the Mossy forest. He pulled over, told us to go tour the area and that he would wait for us. Really? That's extremely kind, don't mind if I do. At this point, I am grateful for the generosity, but not surprised at all. Luca was still taking it all in. "Wow, he's so nice." Yeah bro, this is Malaysia.

On our walk we bumped into a German guy named Cornelius. It appeared as though Luca and Cornelius had met before, so we walked out of the forest together, and Azmi told Cornelius to get into the car also. There we were, feeling blessed by the generosity of this traditional Muslim-Malay couple, two Germans and an American covered in mud, sitting snug in the backseat. I knew what was in store for this ride. It was fun for me to sit back and watch Luca and Cornelius in shock and awe at the Malay generosity they were receiving. I grew to expect it, love it, make friends with it, so when the rest of the day became the Azmi-guided tour, I was extremely grateful and unabashed. Azmi not only took us on a tour of the tea plantation, but he also took us to the enormous and beautiful Lavender gardens where he paid for our entrance. The Germans and I all chipped in to buy his wife a bouquet of fresh flowers as a "thank you." Following the gardens, he brought us to the Kings' vacation home where it turns out he is the landscape artist. We walked around this VIP spot admiring his work, and the gorgeous view. All of the states of Malaysia have a king, and the king is re-elected every 5 years. Azmi made sure we knew that no tourists go there. No one goes there but the politicians and kings. Before parting ways, he invited the three of us to dinner, where he insisted on paying for everything, and then returned us to our hostel for the night. We walked away, all jaw-dropped at the kindness we were shown. I think by the end of the day it was safe to say that one day with me changed Luca's opinion of Malaysia. Really, one day of hitchhiking and meeting Azmi.

From Cameron Highlands, Luca joined me for a detour to Teman Negara to trek through the world's oldest rainforest and walk along the world's longest rope bridge. Teman Negara included some more hitchhiking and friend-making, before I said my sad goodbye to Luca and headed to Kuala Lumpur. I reveled at the idea of meeting people who were shocked at the idea of hitchhiking, and i would try to convince them to do it. It felt as though I would be introducing them into a whole new world of experiences.

When I arrived in Kuala Lumpur I emailed Azmi and Nick to thank them for the amazing memories that they made with me. Azmi responded telling me how disappointed he was the he couldn't be in Kuala Lumpur to show me around. He really was disappointed, because as an alternative he gave his daughter, Mya, my phone number, and within minutes she was calling me to make plans for the tour of KL she would take me on. Just as I received the response from Azmi with the 'programme,' I bumped into Cornelius. He joined me on our adventure the next day with Mya, her mother and her beautiful baby boy. We went to a fantastic pink mosque, a children's theme park called I-City, delicious Arabic food in between, and also the evening light show at the famous Petronas (Twin) Towers in KL. Mya was so generous, patient, and sweet, that she wanted to take us the next day on a day trip to Malacca town, which is a beach city two hours west of KL. Curse the notion of making plans! I had already booked a flight from Singapore to Borneo, so I had to move on and pass up another fantastic day with this incredible family.


Concerning safety, traveling alone as a woman, and not knowing enough about my surroundings, I was always hesitant to do any kind of hitchhiking while on my own. I'm not sure if I would continue this in every country I go to, however, Malaysia has certainly opened my heart and my eyes to the generosity, opportunity, and love that the people here have to offer. I am so grateful for hitchhiking, and I wanted to share that with everyone.

Here are 8 reasons hitchhiking and CouchSurfing in Malaysia was one of the highlights of my trip

1. Hitchhike. Do it. Malay people are generous, friendly, and do not expect anything in return except to maybe be your facebook friend, get your phone number, or take a selfie with you and their children.

2. Hitchhiking and CouchSurfing awards positive experiences that you can't plan, pay for, or expect.

3. It's free.

4. You are officially off the beaten path. Locals know stuff that you can't learn without them. They take you places, teach you things. Just by talking to them and asking them questions, you will learn so much about the area, culture, language, and religion. They picked you up or took you in because they expected to talk with you after all. It builds your confidence. Knowing you is just as valuable to locals as knowing them might be for you. That is why they want to meet you to begin with. Your host is intrigued by your skin, your tradition, they all want to know where you come from, what religion you are. They get the experience of meeting a foreigner, and you get the experience of meeting a local, along with the added bonus of a free ride. Everyone leaves happy.

5. It's the scenic route. You're not stuck on a bus, train, or subway - you're not in a noisy hostel having to pay for anything and everything straight down to the drinking water. You have your hands out the window, or the air-conditioning in your face, you have a couch or a bed in a private place. Take it all in and fill yourself with gratitude.

6. You are completely on someone else's plan, and you must go with the flow. This can be difficult for some people, and for others it's not a downfall at all. However, in their car or their house, and on their time, you are their guest. Flexibility is a fantastic learning tool.

7. Sometimes you are in extremely remote areas, and this can be inconvenient. Who cares though, its a trade-off for a great experience and a new friend outside of the partying, traveling, backpacker crowd! Often times, remote places are more memorable than the alternative. For me, it depends on where I am and what I want to do as to whether or not I prefer to CouchSurf or stay at a hostel. Sometimes, being remote is fine because I want to relax and be with the people. Other times, I have an active schedule in mind, and it can take a lot longer commute time to try to hitchhike everywhere I want to go, and a lot more money and effort otherwise.

8. There are good people in the world. If there is anyway to renew your faith in humanity, the Malay locals will certainly light your fire.


More to come while in Borneo! Cheers

Are you a traveler or a tourist?

"Tourists don't know where they've been. Traveler's don't know where they're going." - Paul Michener

Thailand has shed some light on the backpacking whirlwind I was caught up in for the two months before I arrived there. I almost forgot what "normal" tourism was like. I almost forgot what Americans were like. Backpacking creates an entirely different environment than short-term tourism, and expat lifestyles.

G.K. Chesterton said it best, "The traveler sees what she sees. The tourist sees what she came to see."

Travelers and tourists lead essentially different travel experiences. The traveler or backpacker is a tourist and expat in one. We have a budget and we have an extended period of time - like an expat. We do this while we are foreigners trying to experience a new land and get the biggest bang for our buck - like a tourist. However, for some obvious reasons, and not so obvious ones, tourists and backpackers live very different travel lives.
So here are what I find to be the major differences between tourists and backpackers;

1. Time constraints - a backpacker is usually not in a hurry, usually doesn't have a place to be, and usually only makes his or her own time constraints when there is a sudden desire to go or do something different - or that sad day is approaching when they return home to work their ass off for the next adventure (or their visa expires). Backpackers travel on island time (we can meander and wander), not city speed (trying to fit everything in to the day at lightening pace). A tourist basically has a small window of time within which to fit all of his or her hopes and dreams of the place visited. A tourist is banging out the main spots, seeing and doing as much as they can while they can. We all are, really.

2. Money constraints - backpackers have this, big time. We want to see the world and we want to do it slowly, taking as much time as we want, and have a little bit of money left to survive when we're ready to settle down. The backpackers are looking for that local price. What you might spend on a weekend out with your buddies in the States, Australia, New Zealand, or Europe, seems pretty reasonable for those nights when you're off from work and want to spoil yourself. Well, that is every day for a backpacker, and "spoiling" yourself while traveling sometimes just means you are paying the tourist price for something that locals get the same of for cheaper. We are not about to "spoil ourselves" every damn day and still manage to travel the world for months or years.

3. Accommodation - Due to money, and sometimes personal need, tourists don't typically stay in backpacker hostels, or homestays. Anyone traveling less than a month is more than likely going to lay on the beach at a resort with Mai Thais being served to them by some guy who makes 2 cents an hour. I'm not knocking it, you're on vacation, you deserve to de-stress and have someone wait on you once in a while. No way in hell are you sleeping on a top bunk bed during your precious vacation time from your stressful life. As a backpacker, however, I am feeling pretty damn spoiled if there is air conditioning, an in-suite bathroom, a proper locker, and bread with jam for breakfast. Damn, sometimes you just want that American style buffet brunch, even though you know you wont eat half of the food offered, its there and that is luxurious in and of itself. I'm surprised I haven't peered through the window of the Marriott to watch brunch like its food porn. Window seat is free.

4. Transportation - again, money is a factor, but then again so is time. Buses take time, and are cheap - sometimes uncomfortable, sometimes overnight, sometimes the air-con leaks on your face, or the person next to you smells like they lived in India for 5 months without showering. I have been on overnight buses that were too short for my legs, so I stretch out over the top of my recliner kicking my neighbor in the head occasionally (that's how Vietnam introduced me to valium). Then there were overnight buses that were beds for two, and someone else with a ticket got to be my bed buddy (like in Laos, or Myanmar). One memorable trip was the overnight bed-bus in Laos, sweating without air-con and trying not to touch the sweaty body laying next to me for fear of sticking together and producing more heat. Then there are bus companies in some countries that are under the delusion that they are bigger and better depending on how loud they show a full-length feature film in the middle of the night (Myanmar with their Burmese soap operas, and Thailand with their blockbusters). I want to thank whatever Thai bus company it was that decided to show the second Hobbit film at the highest volume from 11pm to 2am. Sometimes earplugs are completely useless. My favorite buses are the ones during the day that play local music throughout the entire ride (Cambodia, Vietnam, Nepal) or slow down so that other locals can jump on the moving vehicle and we don't waste too much time by stopping (Nepal, Myanmar). I could discuss at length the sort of transportation I've used just to save a dollar. Motorbike for three with 5 bags of luggage. Overnight boat that was one giant bed for 100 people with insects falling in my face, and rain sweeping in from the window. Lots of times, when I'm on your average 5 hour mini van trip, the van would stop and all of the locals would get out, and I would have no idea what's going on. The best was when bathroom rest-stops in Nepal meant stopping at the jungle while the ladies go in one direction, and the men go in the other. There was always someone sharing tissues or hand sanitizer. I had a good laugh that time that I hopped on the wrong overnight bus at a rest stop and had to bang on the driver window, waking everyone up at 2am, so that he opened the door and I could jump off as it was moving to go and find my assigned bus. Thank God that was not a day that I indulged in a sleeping pill. Theres the time that the tuktuk driver didn't realize that I climbed on the roof of the car during a drive through the forest, so that I could take in the beautiful view of the mountains. Or that time 30 of us sat on the floor of a long-boat on our way to a no-name abandoned island for the day. -- Its interesting to hear about right? The reason I had these experiences was because I didn't want to pay for anything that would run my budget dry, and I had the time for it.  Unfortunately for tourists, these experiences are few and far between, simply due to the fact that land journeys take a lot longer than air, and a short term vacation usually means being able, and needing, to afford a domestic flight.

5. Tours - theres the kind of tours that are advertised at the Marriott, and theres the kind of tours advertised at the central backpackers hostel. This is when tourists can really lose out, paying double or triple what a backpacker would pay for the same thing and actually getting the same thing. Then there's times when you really truly get what you pay for, and the backpacker is lumped into a van or boat full of people hoping for the promised adventure and soon learning that they were all mislead about what they were paying for. Mainly its the difference between private tours and group tours - flower pedals on your clean bed every day, versus a leaky sink and stained towel. Sometimes its a roll of the dice, but always, as a backpacker, you have spirited people with you on the adventure!

6. Food - Well, really this also depends on the degree of openness that the traveler has. Sometimes it takes time for tourists to open up to the idea of eating on plastic patio furniture in the street with only a metal cart of food in baskets with flies all around, and a wok frying pan as the kitchen. It can take time for a foreigner to learn that this is what locals call a restaurant. I remember as a tourist in Morocco it was particularly difficult to choose a "local" place to eat based on cleanliness, since food poisoning was so common. Backpackers, expats, and sometimes locals, call the local run-in-the-mill restaurants "street food", and backpackers live off of it. I can pay $.50 in Myanmar, $2 in Cambodia, $1 in Laos, $1 in Vietnam, $2 in Thailand, $1 in Malaysia - and for that price I can have a delicious, home-cooked, all natural, local meal. Tourists are usually going where they are sent or recommended, and not looking around in order to stay in their budget. A tourist wants "local food" they go to a proper westernized restaurant and they get it, the same enormous plate I got for $1 in the street, they will get for $5 in a restaurant and it will be smaller and not like mama makes it. Of course, like I said, there are tourists who know better, have traveled much before, or are open to all of these new foods that you come across in travel. However there is no necessity to find cheap local eats, only desire. Backpackers have both the desire and the necessity.

7. Language - being a backpacker does not mean lower standards, it means no expectations. Hostels may not be concerned about how much English their staff speaks, and guesthouses and homestays definitely involve language barriers. As a long-term traveler, a backpacker can pick-up some crucial local words, or even learn the English words that a local could understand easier. For example, instead of saying "can you wait for me?" And repeating this over and over with sign language, I simply say "you wait me." It's almost always understood, and communication is more efficient. I have found that the poorer my English is, the better I am understood. Suddenly I am saying to friends back home things like "no have" and "wait me." This is not to say necessarily that tourists lack this skill, or even that all backpackers take the time to learn how to communicate, however, being in the same place for a long time and traveling at a slow pace creates an openmindedness that simply may not feel necessary for the traveler who is passing through. Sometimes learning is hard work, and people don't want to do it while on vacation.

"When you travel, remember that a foreign country is not meant to make you comfortable. It's meant to make its own people comfortable." - Clifton Fadiman

8. Attitude - One thing I have learned, for sure, the longer you stay in one place the more time you have to fall in love with it and the more tolerance you build. I have met negative backpackers, negative tourists, as well as tourists who are openminded and backpackers who put a sincere effort into loving and learning from every experience. Of course, after traveling for a while, the backpacker usually evolves into having a "backpacker ideal" of simplicity, fun, understanding, open-mindedness and ease. After traveling so many countries, and seeing how different people can be, the only way to truly live and love is with an open mind, and patience. Unfortunately this is when tourists often fail to take the time to grow from travel. There are so many people who go to a country for a short while, unfamiliar with customs and culture, expecting things to be accomplished in the same manner as it would at home. I have seen tourists yell at locals for making them wait because the bus was late. I have seen tourists insult locals, for the quality of the work that they do, to their face. Rather than comparing or observing customs, I have seen time and again the judging of them. The savvy tourist will have the open-mindedness and patience of a backpacker. Unfortunately not all tourists are savvy, and neither are all backpackers. However, backpackers will often flow with the culture and what is going on. I suppose this is also freeing for some people. Tourists, even the openminded and easy going ones, often don't have enough time to travel so that their stress is completely released and their need to control and plan dissipates. The ability to "flow" is much more difficult to obtain. It took me months before I was able to release all of my stress and float through some places, rather than force my plan and not create worry in a situation that is out of my control. It took me time before I was walking at a local pace. In some places dogs would bark at me like I was a threat to their life when I was moving quickly or breathing heavily - when I slowed my pace it was as if I became one with nature. The fact is that backpackers can simply show up, and have the freedom to figure things out as they go, and to do so at the pace of their choosing. Tourists don't have that luxury.

"If you reject the food, ignore the customs, fear the religion, and avoid the people - you might better stay at home." James A. Michener

9. Meeting locals and making friends - it has mainly been while traveling that I have experienced the natural connection between people. Often times back home, the person sitting next to you will observe and experience the same thing, and still no one will communicate about it. On hundreds, literally hundreds, of occasions while traveling it has been the norm to turn to the person next to me and start a conversation. Where are you from? We are more connected to where we are from and where we have been than the person sitting in front of us sometimes, as a result this questions is often asked before the person even introduces themselves. It is because of this that I make a conscious effort to ask people their names first. Then, there's the backpacker questions of: how long are you traveling for? Where have you been? What was your favorite place? Where did you start? I can now list off the countries I've traveled at lightning speed.
Backpackers get more in your business than tourists too. After all, we have been sharing rooms with strangers for months on end, and we understand the difficulty of budget travel. So backpackers don't hesitate to ask: where are you staying? How much does it cost? Even more so, how are you affording this? I have come up with my standard answers, and in doing so have realized that tourists don't really ask these questions, not unless they are desperately curious for the same thing and always with the prerequisite of "i hope you don't mind me asking." Tourists are more likely to keep to themselves, also more likely to be traveling or meeting up with other people. The tourist wants to talk enough to have share a moment, but not enough to make a travel companion. The backpacker is the same, we are all in constantly changing environments as travelers - when we meet those special people who are worth traveling with its really a gift. However, when a traveler is with a companion, or on a fixed plan, it is harder to leave their bubble and expand to new people and alternative plans.

10. The party - we all pretty much party the same. I think that tourists do this the right way, and backpackers could learn a bit. Again, it depends on the person, but when I am traveling in a conservative country I am mindful of that, and often times I look around and see backpackers and tourists in revealing clothes, publicly drunk, and yelling every which way to their friends. In this case, maybe we're all doing it wrong. But when it comes time to party, we can. We dance to the crappy electro music and Pitbull songs from 10 years ago, we get sweaty, drink buckets of alcohol (literally), and are completely open to meeting people.

I'd be interested to see if other people who have traveled can understand and agree with these points or not. Being a backpacker has made me feel as if I am a part of a secret society that understands something that others might not. We are well-rounded, but by accident, through travel osmosis. We have tasted it all, from the BBQ rat, to the luxurious air con hostel, to camping on a deserted tropical beach, to fried scorpion, to invitations from complete strangers to go on overnight excursions, and on and on with all of the awesome and weird travel opportunities we get, learning from each of them all along the way.

Cheers

Mahem in Myanmar

With political fighting currently going on, the army run-government, the corruption of Buddhism, millions in foreign investments, and a newly adapting backpacking culture - Myanmar/Burma was more than a change of scene from the easily backpacked and modernized countries like Thailand, and Vietnam. Traveling from city to city was almost the same as traveling between timelapses.
My first goal was to understand the difference between Myanmar and Burma. Locals debate upon which name they prefer, however "Myanmar" is the Burmese name for Burma, and Burma is the English name. The change in name only occurred within the last 20 years. All locals have an opinion about the political situation in their country. Some are excited about the development, the freedom, and the money coming in, whereas others are concerned about what this will mean for their culture, their children, and their country. These folks are more up-to date about the happenings in their government than I am about my own government. Between student rallies being seized and arrests being made, to fighting from state to state within sections of the country, to monks begging on the street - Myanmar is a quickly developing, heavily confusing place.

The typical backpacking circuit in Myanmar begins in Mandalay or Yangon, and goes to Kalaw for trekking to Inle Lake, and also to Bagan for ancient ruins. Traveling outside of this circuit is easy, however there are parts of the country that tourists are still not allowed to go to because of fighting. I'll be honest, I don't know much about the fighting in Myanmar, but I do know that there are several different states and ethnicities within the country, and each of the 16 ethnicities have their own army. Since the British relinquished control of Burma to the Burmese government in 1948, all of the ethnic armies began to oppose the central-government. Since then, fighting has occurred between all varying parties, and the agreements appear to be far off. At any rate, Myanmar seems to be developing rapidly to join its famed fellow Southeast Asian countries - like Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam - known as easily accessible, safe, affordable, and totally worth going to. The overnight buses are great, the people are friendly and patient, and when the power goes out it comes back on as planned (more like Nepal, and parts of Cambodia in that way).

I had read about some of the fighting in Myanmar and had been hesitant to go alone. I only knew people who had traveled there in group-tour style fashion. Sufficed to say Myanmar was another country, along with Laos, that was not on my "to visit" list before planning to come to Asia. People change, circumstances change, and somehow my attitude became so I had stopped putting shackles onto my own plans by creating concrete ideas. It was time to go with a feeling, and my feeling was that I shouldn't miss out on Myanmar. I would love the serene life temples and reflection.

The experience of backpacking solo there was freeing. There was little to no internet, so even if booking online was possible, it didn't happen. The best way to travel was to show up, fingers crossed. After showing up, fingers crossed, first I would walk hostel to hostel seeing what the condition of the rooms were. Accommodation in Myanmar is the most expensive that I have seen in all of Southeast Asia. I have stayed everywhere from a private bed capsule with an aircon in Yangon, to (almost) paying $10 to sleep on the floor of someone's living room in Bagan.

Yangon is the capital of Myanmar, some call it Rangoon - just as some say Burma instead of Myanmar. There are enormous pagodas, lakes and rivers to see here. On the street where I stayed there were no sidewalks, and everything appeared to be under construction. Locals were always excited to wave at any non-local possibly western looking person walking in the street.
The only thing I did in this friendly big city was visit pagodas, and drink at a local tea shop. I spent 3 hours at the enormous golden Shwedagon pagoda where I was invited to join a Burmese family for lunch. I motioned to get food, meaning it more as a question for where to get food, and they invited me to join them. Myanmar was one of the places in Southeast Asia where I found it most difficult to communicate. It required a lot of patience all around the country to voice questions properly, and I am sure that my English became extremely simplified by the end of my visit.

I made a lot of friends by laughing and pointing.

As friendly as the locals are, I found the tourists in Myanmar to be the opposite. Since the backpacking life in Myanmar is not accommodating for people to meet one another, I found myself alone most of the time, or taking notice of other solo travelers and locals who could speak some English. In Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam and Thailand, it was sometimes hard just to find time alone while backpacking - in Myanmar, it was the opposite. Most tourists traveled in couples, or groups - and other solo travelers, I noticed, would sometimes cling to each other for dear life. This offered me a lot of time for meditation, and visits to temples.

I saw all kinds of temples in Myanmar. In the desert city of Bagan, I climbed ancient ruins to view the sea of temples that remain there.

In the seaside capital of Mawlamyine I saw the largest reclining Buddha in the world, and a Buddha made of bamboo.

The largest reclining Buddha in the world was literally the size of a laying down sky scraper.

I climbed mountains in Hpa'an to find pagodas at the top, visited monasteries inside enormous bat caves, and I saw giant rocks balancing on one another, with pagodas on top that were only accessible by a bamboo ladder.

Between the mountains, the pure sunsets and sunrises over lakes and rivers, and the authentic pagodas all over the country - I have to say my favorite part of Myanmar was the children.

Being a celebrity looks something like this

In Yangon, I encountered a Hindi festival celebrating the Day of Happiness, and while there I came across dozens of fathers and mothers asking me to photograph there beautiful children. No English, just a hand expression and some pointing. I was stopped everywhere I went all over the country in order to take pictures with locals. Of course, my response was "yeah of course, but I want one too" - with some pointing and pretend clicking. Once someone asks for a photo, soon after a crowd forms around, and I feel like a celebrity.

Would you like me to kiss your baby? Lets make a peace sign. You want to make a face together? You want me to have a picture with your children? Monks took selfies with me. People stopped in prayer at pagodas to find me for a chat. The temples in Myanmar didn't tend to be very somber or peaceful, so a loud chat was hardly opposed. Often I would see couples hiding out around corners to have family-forbidden-private-time. Conservative countries like this tend to have strict cultural rules about dating, cultural rules that almost everyone seems to "secretly" break. Families bring picnics to chill with Buddha while they eat their rice and noodles in between hourly meditation. The mellowed out men and women light up cigars while they sit in silent reflection.

Me, Piopio, and little Chu. Precious

In Bagan I had an interesting encounter with a little boy named Piopio. He wore my sunglasses, and I thoughtlessly told him that he could keep them. It turned out, since a dear friend of mine gave me the glasses, that I had a sentimental connection to them. Shortly after giving them to this boy I began to cry. The story turns into a funny adventure quickly. A little 5 year-old pops up behind Piopio saying "dont cry! don't cry!" and Piopio says he still wants to keep the glasses. So I told him I would give him other glasses, I would return tomorrow. When I arrived a few hours later with glasses for all of the 5 children who were outside of the temple earlier, I began to give them the glasses and suddenly there was a sea of children saying "give me give me." They have multiplied. I forgot one of my travel guides telling me not to give things away. Classic tourist mistake.
Well we've already begun... so I played a little game with the children for them to win the glasses fairly, and when all was said and done I walked back to my motorbike rental. Suddenly, happy with myself having cleared my conscious and kept my glasses, more children and one elderly woman crowded around my bike asking me for more gifts. I told them no, of course, but I couldn't help but laugh at this old lady. There are children begging, yeah kids always want free gifts from anyone who will give to them, but lady, what are you doing here. I laughed to myself and left before my heart was taken by these kids and I gave them everything besides the clothes on my back.

"You take photo me"

From Bagan I took an overnight bus to Inle Lake, where I thought I would spend several days. I stayed one night and two extremely full days. The lake is beautiful, and the surrounding nature was fantastic. I spent 24 hours without sleep, going on a lake boat-tour to see how the local cigars are made, and joining in on how to make them. I saw how lotus silk is made, and got to weave some of a scarf, and then I went to the market and a cat-themed pagoda. After this I felt I had seen all of Inle Lake.

The next day I went trekking to a village through the mountains with a lovely little man named Mau Lau. At the village I met an old woman who smoked Burmese cigars with me, and talked to me about her children and growing up in the village. She was 61 and told me she was very old, and would probably die soon. I said NO, but realistically, since Myanmar is so under developed the lifestyles of people are rewound a hundred years in time. Life expectancy is in the 60s. Children are working beginning from 5-12 years-old, getting married before they are 22, and having many children by the time they are 30. Dancing in public is not accepted. Touching children on the head is not accepted. Women don't usually travel alone. This is all customary in the complex  Muslim/Buddhist mixed country. For some reason day drinking and blood red chewing tobacco is widely accepted, even by the monks. Myanmar is so weird - nothing is allowed or "okay" but then at the same time anything is possible and perfectly okay to do what you want. Take your time.

I even learned from locals, that although Myanmar was the safest place for me - as a tourist - to travel, it is not necessarily safe for locals traveling between different states. Sometimes women are raped, and often people keep to their own state and culture for safety. The people are good, the money is enough, and there are no worries from day-to-day life within ones comfort zone.

After my day of trekking I took a night bus to Yangon followed by an early morning bus to Hpa'an, where I spent a majority of my time in Myanmar. The capital of Kayin State is underdeveloped like anywhere else, yet developed enough so that I stayed in a nice motel for a low price and was able to travel by motorbike to neighboring villages and mountains.

I met an enormous amount of people in Hpa'An. I became friends with boat drivers, children who swam at sundown by the nearby pagoda every night, and the people who worked at my hotel. I had the great opportunity to communicate with a lot of local people.

The dogs however, were some of the meanest I've come across. I found a lot of parallels between Myanmar and Nepal, like power outages, dog gangs, and incredibly friendly people.

One thing that came as a sort of culture shock to me, was the way of Buddhism in Myanmar. I expected monks to be quiet, middle aged, simple people. What I got was monks with tattoos, chewing tobacco, selfie sticks, cigarettes, and eating anything they can get including meat. The monks live entirely off of donation, and aside from the daily rice donations that they receive, the monetary donations can go towards whatever they wish or need to survive. Also there are different ages, from 5 to 500. I saw monk children playing football, older monks smoking long cigars as they give blessings. Many of the children choose to be monks because of who they admire, or maybe their parents are monks - it doesn't necessarily mean that they are at an age of understanding. As it is, monks can become monks, and stop being monks, then become monks again up to 3 times in their lives. As I spoke with a local, he explained to me that most children are sent away to be a monk early in their life for a week or two before returning home. He told me it is like going to camp. That's cool! I worked at church camp, so I get it. I could probably use a good retreat to monk-camp once in a while.

One of my favorite monk-moments was during my trek at Inle Lake. Mau Lau and I took a detour in our trek to go see the local monastery for prayer on the day of the New Moon. When we arrived a monk was sitting in front of the Buddha facing outward towards the worshipping people who came for the day. The room was silent, and the monk was sitting cross-legged in a meditative position. I bowed to him and began my meditation along with everyone else. As I bowed I heard a loud sound like a whale. When I looked up, everyone seemed unmoved. Thats when I saw it, the monk, in his seated position, gracefully lifted one of his butt cheeks and - while making an intensified pooping face - let out an enormous fart followed by a forced burp.

Thanks for the memories Myanmar. I'll never forget the meditating monk pushing out his farts in the middle of prayer.

Aside from the unique ways of Buddhism in Myanmar, children in Hpa'an were my favorite thing about the country. Since I rushed through most of the country, I didn't have enough time in some places as I would have liked to completely emerge and anamor myself with the people or the city. The reason was that the waterfestival - Burmese and Thai New Year, also known as Buddhist New Year - was quickly approaching making travel difficult and expensive. I wanted to return to Thailand before everything shut down for a week in Myanmar, and I wasn't sure how the border crossing by land would turn out. The land crossings are still somewhat new since Myanmar opened itself to tourism.

During my time in Hpa'an, I took a tour on a tuk tuk for a day to see caves, and temples that I had intended to see before arriving. Chugging along the bumpy dirt roads, around mountains, and through small villages, was one of the highlights of my day. At one point the tuk tuk stopped, and the driver with his limited English turned around and said "Camera! No!" I thought maybe it was because the villagers were out and wouldn't want their photo taken. I asked why, needing to be in the know about all, and he pointed ahead and said "wet wet." At that point we looked in front of the tuk tuk taxi and saw that about 100m in front of us was an enormous crowd of children playing with water. Celebrating the new year a little early no doubt.

Water fight action shot! These kids are precious

No one in the tuktuk really understood what was going on, other than those kids up there have water. While everyone packed up their cameras, I took my waterproof camera, jumped out of the back of the tuk tuk and ran to the children with my arms open yelling something like Yaaaaaah, I've come to play! Immediately I was attacked by the tiniest girl, chased her around while buckets were thrown on me, and I began tripping all over myself on the slippery muddy road. As the tuk tuk drove through after me with the rest of my group still on it, all of the children lined up on either side with a bucket and threw water inside the open sides of the truck. Everyone was soaked. After realizing that there was no point in not joining in the fun, the rest of the tuk tuk unloaded and we all began playing with the children. I really just wanted to play. Water fights are my sort of thing.

After this uplifting play-time I decided to buy a water gun at the market the next morning.

The temple team

My last day in Myanmar was spent riding around on a rented motorbike squirting children with water. I went to the temple where crowds of children joined in throwing water from their bottles at each other. One little girl started directing me towards who I should attack next. Afterwards they all wanted to take pictures with me on their phone or my camera, whatever was nearby. They were adorable children.

I stopped at another house on my way towards the city, slowly got off my bike towards a few children playing with their mom, and went straight for it. Normally, where I come from, if a stranger gets off their motorbike and approaches you, chases you and sprays you with water - it just seems like the parental response would be more alarmed than the response I received in Myanmar. With the festival approaching, and the heart-pounding heat, most people embraced the water as part of the celebrations. When I ran towards these children, the mom clearly directed them in Burmese to get water and attack me back - yelling all of this while she takes out her cellphone to capture photos of the strange westerner coming to play with her kids off the street.

Nothing like being welcomed. I think maybe I am just weird enough to make it in Burma.

The Baltic Sea

In one week I have changed timezones 4 times.

Stockholm

I arrived with only one full day around the city, and although I would have liked more time, one day was enough.

The hostel I stayed in was the coolest part of being in Stockholm. On the tiny island of Langholmen, in the middle of the city of islands, is an old prison. Surrounded by a small beach, bike paths, small boat ports, and parks, Langholmen prison was turned from a maritime holding place to a hostel/hotel and conference center. Resurrected inside are preserves of the prison-life and museum casings. I would have spent a day or so on the island if I had more time in Stockholm. But I didn't, and instead I walked along the water for an hour before turning onto the main drag. The Royal Palace was much to be desired, since the original one had burnt down and the replacement had no bells and whistles. It serves its purpose. Sitting along the main streets, I was harassed, several times, by one particular gypsy girl. She would ask me for money, and of course I acknowledged her and said no in Swedish - since thats all I could say. However, the three separate occasions throughout the day when she asked me for money, she put her hands on my arm and on my head, and when I forcefully said "no" - since I don't know how to say "don't touch me" in Swedish - it felt like she would almost smack me. I have no judgments of gypsies - in fact I feel a lot of compassion for them and anger towards the governments that shun them and oppress them. But you shouldn't touch a stranger. That's crossing a boundary. Of course she was touching me to buy time to look into my pockets, try and see whats there, and perhaps steal from me. Her touch was not of compassion, so of course I knew there were no good intentions behind it. My pockets were all zippered up like a smart little traveler. 

It's a terrible conundrum. I feel bad for her, I have little to no money to spare for myself, I want to give to her, and I would have, but then she treats me with contempt and I see that she is seeking an opportunity to steal from me. Even so, I know that stealing and begging are yet another outcome of her oppressed life and culture. I'm torn. After the several times of touching and harassing, I was no longer torn, and instead I felt that if I had given to her then it would only condone her behavior. I would have karate chopped her in the throat by that point. Which I thought about as she passed me a fourth time. When did I become so violent?  No, I wouldn't do it. But thinking about doing it made me wonder if I was capable of beating someone up in a situation where I was acting in defense rather than pride. Mom says karate chop them in the throat. My brother says cup and hit their ears to destabilize them. Dad says kick em where the sun don't shine. Sandra Bullock says to S.I.N.G. - solar plex, instep, nose, groin.

From Stockholm I left on a cruise to Tallin - St. Petersburg - Helsinik and back to Stockholm. The cruise itself was less expensive than a hostel would have been for 4 nights in most places, and here I had an opportunity to see 4 different countries. Briefly, but beautifully, and restfully.

The cruise was much like a hostel. Everything cost extra money, so I did not pay for anything. I have become  a savings bank in my own right, and the proof is in my financial anxiety and a suitcase full of fruits and homemade sandwiches. From the Langholmen hostel where I had a free breakfast, I sneakily packed away 4 sandwiches from the buffet. Free dinner for the week, on the cheapest cruise of a lifetime. 

Upon checking in for the cruise, I was given my boarding card. I asked the woman behind the desk if I was sharing a room with someone else. (I had assumed that for only 120 Euro, there had to be some sort of catch, maybe I was paying for a bed in a room with strangers?) The girl told me that I had the room to myself. It was like Sinterklaas came early. I jumped up and down, and let out all of my excitement like a child. I was so happy I could have kissed the girl behind the counter. Thank you! I have been spoiled my whole life with a room to myself, and for the last 6 weeks I haven't minded sleeping in a room with strangers. However, the added anxiety of not having my privacy, of being walked in on by a man or woman who is a stranger at any moment, of locking my things in the morning and the night - it all was beginning to make me tiresome. It kept giving me more to think about, and because of hyperawareness, I hadn't slept a full night since I began traveling. Earplugs don't seem to make a difference. So I jumped up and down and sang the praises of every officer I passed on my way through customs to the ship where I get to snore, fart, burp, and sit around naked for the next 5 days in a room that is mine. Not that I do any of those things, but the option is so freeing!

Tallinn

Next was a time-zone change to Tallinn Estonia. One day here is all you need, and I had 4 hours. That was more than enough time to walk around the cobbled streets (the kind that twist your ankle if you're not careful) hear street performers, see the ancient parts of the city and the monuments, and enjoy some local food - all before returning back to my cruise.

Trying to learn Estonian for the short time I was there was absolutely pointless. Estonian is close to Finnish, and both Finnish and Estonian (like Hungarian) are completely different from any Slavonic, Germaic, or Russian langauge. The language itself, like Finnish, was sing-songy. Both of them, with the linguistics, intonations, soft and sweetness - they made me picture a pond at a lake with a quiet lone frog jumping from one lily pad to another. It was as if the languages created a sweet tone, an outdoorsy thoughtful tone - like when, in my imagination, the frog comes across the mermaid Ariel while she is to the side of the shore crying - the frog doesn't saying anything, it just sits there ribbiting while she talks to it. Thats what Finnish and Estonian were like to me, if that makes any sense at all.

St. Petersburg

After Tallinn, the next day I entered into the Russian Federation's timezone, and mobile network. Everyone working on the ship was Russian, and so I had been warming up as best I could by asking people phrases and writing it down. I lost the paper an hour into my tour of the city, but I remembered enough.

At the help-desk on the cruise they made me say the words back to them. Mikael, the guy who was helping me, kept saying, "its okay but say it angrier."

Heres what I learned.

gdyet toalet? Where is the toilet

paka - Goodbye

das vi danya - goodbye formally

privet - hello

niet - no

dah - yes

minye - I want for me

Harasho - good

kak tohebia zo voot - What is your name?

diechte - Give me

pivou - beer

schot - bill or check

spasiba - thank you

That was enough to get me through a day in Russia.

I had always imagined that the buildings in Russia would look like they were made of candy. With balls of gumdrops, different colors of twisting candy canes, and dollops of cream on top. When I entered the city all of my childish fantasies were put to rest. The city's architecture was like Paris, or London, or Budapest. No candied houses.

In the one day I had, the first thing that I did was go the Holy Resurrection Orthodox Cathedral. And the church, like a couple of other churches I had driven by on my entrance from the seaport, they did look like they were made of candy. They had twists of colors like candy canes, gumdrops on the sides, and dollops of different colored creams on top. Without even thinking, I went and bought a ticket and entered into the church. I was drawn to it. I had to go in and see what these Russian churches are about. I had to be in an Orthodox church. And it was so shiny and pretty.

I walked in, no no... I took two steps in... and I began to cry. I looked to the ceiling and the wooden throne in front of me - like the one carved and kept in St. Peter's Basilica at the Vatican and seen in the movie Angels and Demons. I saw that every inch of the walls were covered with beautiful Russian art, and Byzantine icons. I looked around in awe. The people holding the door behind me laughed at me just standing there. They saw my back and that my head was fixed towards the ceiling. No doubt they could hear me say "wow... wooow...wow" over and over. From my perspective I had only just entered and therefore I had only seen a corner of this place. I turned to them laughing at me, and still with tears, my shaky voice said "It's... so... beautiful." And then I began to cry some more.

The only other time I had been so taken-away during my trip so far, was when I arrived at the River Seine in Paris, and looked around - at nothing particularly, but I was there and it was beautiful and nothing could contain my excitement and gratitude for its beauty.

Looking at the ceiling of the cathedral, I began to walk around. I stopped crying after hearing in my head my brother's reaction to my tears in Paris, "aw are you crying?" Not with sarcasm, but with surprise, sincerity, and perhaps a little bit of concern. I'm okay, I'm okay. It's just so beautiful. I pulled myself together and toured the church. It was breathtaking all of the hand-painted icons on every inch of the walls, coming down to meet a midnight marble that touched the floor where panels of marble intersected and created more designs.

If nothing else, I was happy that I saw this in Russia. The rest could wait.

After I left the Cathedral I went to eat some true Russian Borscht, and beef Stroganoff. I had never eaten either of these foods and I like to make it a point to try the local food, the local beer, and hear the local music. That is usually one of my goals in a city or a new country. The Russian beer was heavy, and similar to Heineken. The food was so meaty and flavorful that I'm not articulate enough to describe it. I added it to my list of foods I've loved around the world. It's a long list. 

Helsinki

Due to the time change between Tallinn - St. Petersburg - Helsinki - I was pretty worn out, and my body was utterly confused. I woke up at 7am, but it turns out it was 5am, another day I woke up at 8am and it turns out it was 9am. By the time I entered the center of Helsinki I thought about going right back to the ship to sleep. But no, there was much to be seen, and after playing around on instruments in a music store I came across, I had the energy and excitement to explore.

Helsinki was expensive. Much like Norway, but they didn't fool you by using Kroner, they used Euro and straight-up shamed you with their pricing. 8Euro beer? And its an amber beer? No I think I'll stick with Carlsburg in this place. I walked along the fish market, ate reindeer meatballs, and salmon soup. I hadn't known it was reindeer meatballs. I tried it as the woman held it out, ate it, and then asked what it was. It had a pork flavor and was well seasoned. When the lady told me it was reindeer meatballs, I cried a little... then I asked for more. Walking through the market I touched all of the furs, the rabbit, lamb, reindeer, deer, duck. I laid my hands on everything. I even bought a reindeer leather coin purse. This is definitely not an animal lovers dream.

Just down the hill that the Finnish Orthodox church sat on top of, there was a giant statue in the center of the fish market. The statue looked like Benjamin Button when he was first "old" enough or mobile enough to pee standing up. And thats what the statue was, a deformed (or really old) looking baby who was standing up, holding his peewee, and draining a fountain of water into the sea. It was quite a site to watch tourists take pictures between his legs, and try to reach out to touch the fountain of water that represented urine. The statue was two stories and the eyes on the character were giant eyes looking in one direction as if to say "uh oh, I got caught" since he had a gaped mouth to go along with the expression. That was probably the funniest thing that I have seen.

That, and in Stockholm on one of the main streets, a vagabond wearing a halloween rubber mask of a horse was dancing in order to make money for travel. He danced to be funny, and it was, and next to him was a sign that said "for travel." In his hat were hundreds of Kroner too. I contemplated taking up a shenanigan of my own to start a "for travel" fund. I'll leave it to the experts with horse faces for now.

After a fantastic rest all afternoon and evening on the cruise-ship I am now in Stockholm airport, waiting for my flight to Budapest.

Cheers

Greek Hospitality in the Peloponnese

Previously, I had written an entry about my stay in Greece, including all of my cultural observations, and comparative analysis. It sounds so mechanical, and it was. As I was reading through it to check for errors, I began to loathe my writing and yearn for how I was able to eloquently convey myself in previous entries. I couldn’t figure out what I had done wrong, what was different, and I realized after reading my latest published entry that I was beginning to slack, to lose connection to what I was saying. I wondered, is it because I had been so off balance? Am I that easy to read that even my writing shifts so that it reflects my current state of being? After reading it through, I found a lack of emotion that is unlike myself. I had been feeling many things, and finally the lack of time to process and reflect had caught up to me, and I could no longer label what it was I was feeling let alone channel it appropriately into my writing. Now, after some reflection, and a significant amount of solar Vitamin D, I can say without a doubt that when I think about my time in Greece I feel nothing but love, the feeling of being so loved that I am filled with joy and gratitude. Writing this new entry feels as though I have a means of paying homage to the culture that I love, and that has loved me back.

I was welcomed here, not into one, but two Greek families. I was invited to stay in a neighboring vacant apartment of one family, and also stayed with a cherished friend of mine, and her family, for a shorter period. During this time, I have felt such love. The Greeks reminded me of what family means, or should mean. Or maybe there is no proper definition of that – but they reminded me of what I want my family to someday be, and how I want to rear that idea and manifest it into existence… some day. I found many similarities between Greeks and some Latin cultures; they welcome you, feed you, take care of you, they give you what you need, and they expect nothing – except maybe respect. [Also a commonality, I noticed, is pride in music and dance – the Greek Kalamatiano versus the Latin Merengue – Juan Luis Guiera versus Dimitris Mitropanos.] In the Greek culture, like some Latin cultures, people earn love, gratitude, and honor by doing these things to take care of each other, and they do it with humility. It’s the reason the elders are so honored – the yiayiathese (grandmothers), papouthes (grandfathers), the abuelos (grandparents) – they are all honored. Not because they are old, fragile, representing what once was, a living piece of history – rather - they are strong, supportive, and they are caregivers until they can’t be anymore. The grandparents are all of these things and the foundation for the entire umbrella of family that they have created. Here, the grandparents take care of you, they get you a job, help you get or stay on track so that you don’t wind up in jail or sick, they feed you, and if all else fails, and you don’t need any of those things, then you join alongside the grandparents and do the same for the next generation. Grandparents are the reason many Greeks survived and now thrive in the financial crisis that is still going on. Even in history, long before a financial crisis, when crises were of morality and not of economy. Grandparents made this culture. How it has taken its form now. I’m sure every war, and every threat to religion has had a hand in it as well, but the people will always seek to be a yiayia and papou, for their names to be passed down to their grandchildren and for those names to continue on. Your name is worthy to be someone elses, and that is a great honor.

In the movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding there is a seen when all of the family members are being introduced to one another, and all of the cousins names are Anita, Diane, and Nick. It’s funny, but if that were a true story (and it very well could be, or already exists somewhere in some version of it for real people), then the reason everyone is Anita, Diane, and Nick, is because of the grandparent generation of those people. Those must have been the names of yiayia, papou, and the nouno/nouna (godparent.) The grandparents in Greece display dazzling examples of how to treat one another, how to make monogamy work, thrive, and last – a rarity I’d say. The men might help in the kitchen, and they might help raise the children, and the woman might work – these are the things that vary according to the tradition of a family, not necessarily of a culture. But the woman, she certainly feeds, and she does so in a manner that is challenging and time consuming – so that the outcome is as perfect as it can be and love is inside. The men keep the family together alongside the woman, they delegate what is best and teach the children whent to yield and when to be passionate. The men always offer to help the wife with the food or the house, even though she has declined consistently for years, she feels more love from him just because he wants to help her. The men cool the car in the hot weather, even if only a second before the woman gets in. They do errands that she asks with no questions or complaints. They both simply do all they can to make and keep each other happy and peaceful, whatever that might mean. It’s not the distinct definition that Greek-American families had always portrayed to me. It’s simpler, allowing for independence but creating such love that each person chooses to deny their independence – that having this partner and making each other happy will fill them with more joy than independence can give. Its really beautiful.  I find that some Greek-American families hold onto this too literally. They taint the purity of it by lumping this mutual love and caregiving into a category of being “old fashioned” and then abiding strictly by the idea of what “old fashioned” might mean. They end up translating literally from action into action, rather than moral & emotion into action. To the benefit of the Greek-Americans, they have a church community that helps them to hold onto their culture with ease rather than desperation. I don’t mean to confuse Greek culture with Greek Orthodox religion, they are certainly not the same, but they are deeply intertwined from history to everyday traditions. For in Greece, the culture is the vessel fueled by the church, and in America the church is the vessel to sustain the culture.

During my stay in Greece, I was invited by the Eliopoulos family (one of the gracious families who took me in) to come to their trapezi. A trapezi is a gathering in the horio (village) of all of the family members for when the out-of-town family members come home. It’s a welcoming feast. In this case, we were welcoming the couple I was staying with, Sophia and Vasili from America, and their cousins Maria and Panayiotis from Athens. I was the only non-relative at the event (an honor for me), and it took several long conversations about me, in Greek, for Vasili and Sophia to explain who I was (how you know her? She is relative from America?), and why I was there (tell me every detail of her travels so I can fake spit on her for good luck and feed her since she might starve otherwise.)

I met all of the relatives. Papou Vasili, cousin Vasili, the other cousin Vasili, Theo (uncle) Vasili, Yiayia Margarita, cousin Margo, Thea Maria, and the few Giorgos and Panayiotis in between. I would never forget anyones’ names – that’s for sure.

We ate food caught, killed, or picked from the farm that yiayia has in the yard. The entire quarter acre is her own organic manifestation. The completely self-sustaining 80 year-old woman that she is, made everything from scratch using the garden, and cooked it in her wooden stove outside. Now this was Greek. However, there was no lamb on a spit, which I was told was because there was only one lamb left in the yard. I laughed, thinking that they were being ironic. But when I looked over the fence where the chickens were, I saw that it was true, there was only one lamb left. Better to save that for Easter.

The gathering lasted for 5 hours, and only ended because at 1am, yiayia and papou could no longer sit with their eyes open. I can still see both of them sitting next to each other at the dinner table with their eyes closed, while everyone around them laughed and drank. I was offered to stay the night, which I declined politely in Greek. We did drink several bottles of tsiporo, but its not often that I will have my own space to rest my head while traveling, so I appreciated being able to come home to that. After I declined her offer, Yiayia laughed and said a slew of Greek that I didn’t understand, followed by the sound and motion of spitting on me for good luck (without actual spit), and hugged me goodbye. I am generally able to get the gist of a Greek conversation simply because the people are emphatically charismatic. With my limited Greek, I said, “thank you for everything, nice to meet you, go with God.” I’m like a machine searching within the 40 phrases I know to figure out what is appropriate to sparingly convey my message. A lot of my phrases have to do with God because I learned from attending church. Doxa to theo!

On the drive home from the trapezi, between my fluttering eye lids, I began to think of how powerful it has been for me to stay with my friend and her Korkoulis family, and this the Eliopoulos family. There is such meaning and strength in every gesture that has been made toward me. I stayed with my friend, but the Korkoulis family didn’t know me. I stayed with my brother’s godfather’s cousins – surely they hardly knew anything about me! I never in my life felt so comfortable, instantly, and with complete strangers. But then, that is love, and those are the Greeks. I feel such gratitude and admiration for the ease with which these people have loved me.

In the following days Theo Vasili took me on a tour of his farm. Here in Kalamata he has a farm of cactus fruit, lemon trees, almond trees, a few pomegranate, and mainly – of course – kalamata olives. We walked around the property, and he pointed out everything. It seems the entire town are his family, “this is my cousins house,” “this is my nephews land,” “this is my other cousins house.”

We picked fresh fruits, and nuts to eat. The almonds were soft from the sun, and covered in a fruity protective layer of skin around the shell. When I awed at the work to be done, simply to eat one almond, Vasili just laughed and said, "I don't know what they do with them, I just grow them." Finally at the end of the tour, he brought me to a special plot of land where there were half a dozen different kinds of trees together, baby trees, overshadowed by one large lemon tree. Vasili told me that every tree was for a member of his family; his grandchildren, and his nieces and nephews children. The lemon tree was planted when his eldest grandchild was born. I noticed his pride and excitement in telling me all of these things. I realized that these weren't only trees, these were his family. I was meeting a symbol of his family in the form of bountiful fruitweilding trees.

Not far from there, was the oldest olive tree on the farm, over 500 years old. It was thick as if many tree trunks joined together. Vasili proudly told me, that this olive tree was planted when his great great great (etc) grandfather became a father to the next generation. And so started the tradition, the honor, the pride in it. Theo Vasili was glowing with light in his cheeks as he proudly took me through all of his life's work. 

Greece offered me many adventures and lessons. For example, one thing I learned about the Greeks is that they are in awe and want to share every bit of their agriculture and culture with foreigners - with me. While here, I received a few suggestions for where to go to see interesting sights, and invitations to join others as well. And one thing I was told to do, was to go to the top of the mountain overlooking Kalamata beach where Vergas Castle is - there I would be able to go to restaurants, and shop around. A relaxing lunchtime activity, I thought. So, one day - a very hot day - I took a 5 euro taxi to the top of the mountain where the castle was. I learned, immediately after the taxi drove away, that there was nothing to do, no people, only a small brick castle with a closed restaurant inside. I was stranded at the top of a deserted mountain in the hot sun, and it wasn't long before the closed restaurant's attack dogs started chasing and barking at me. Vergas Castle was beautiful for approximately 3 minutes. Time to get the hell out of here.

I had food and water, and so I began to hike down the mountain following the road. I didn't panic, because I knew at worst I would be walking for hours in the hot sun and sparingly use the litre of water I had with me. Not to mention, I got away from those miniature sized guards. After 10 minutes of walking, however, it began to feel like the scolding torture of hell. I went through an internal debate. What will I do? Will I bare it? Can I bare it? What are my options here? Call a taxi? I have no money, and don't know where I am. - The debate only took a moment until I decided, in this country that I love where everyone is so friendly and we all have the same religion, it may be a safe place for me to ask for a ride. So, decision made - I continued walking. When a car finally passed, I held up my thumb. Dear God, please let this be an international symbol for 'take me to the beach.' I said to the man, "to bano? Kalamata?" He asked in English, "you want to go to Kalamata beach?" I felt a great sigh of relief, and got into the car where he assured me that his dogs were friendly. The man was friendly and kind. I told him about my love for the Greek culture and hospitality, and he told me that in Thessaloniki, where he was from, the people are even friendlier, and that hospitality isn't as common between Greeks, only between Greeks and visitors. I told the man that he was my savior for picking me up, he laughed, dropped me off where I wanted at the beach, and bid me good luck on my journey. Phew. Greeks really know how to make an adventure out of nothing.

All in all, I am feeling pretty good about my first real hitchhiking experience. Please don't tell my mom.

Now, my time here is over. And as the sun went down on my last night after 10 days in Greece, I laid on the beach. I don't want to leave. Let me feel the burn of the sun on my skin one last time. Let me stay and continually be filled with the love of these people. I feel so loved and at home here, what happens when I lose this feeling? Or I forget myself? Save me. Take care of me. Keep me! I can be Greek!

But then, I remember, I did this for myself just as much as anyone else did it for me. I asked for this experience, and the Greeks – with all of their love and pride – gave it to me openly, and made it easy for me to take. In fact, they insisted I take. No, as happy, quiet, and at peace as I am, its time for me to move on, to see in what ways I will be touched and moved and twisted and turned in the next place. I just want to remember this moment, and keep this gratitude.

Thank you Greece and Greeks, you helped me refill my cup!