Istanbul (Not Constantinople)
Posted on | February 27, 2009 | 1 Comment
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Loading ...If you’ve ever lost sleep wondering why Constantinople got the works, you can now rest easy: I’ve discovered the answer. My extensive research, which consisted of making stuff up while drinking wine, shows irrefutably that the word ‘Constantinople’ was Byzantine Greek for ‘Place where it doesn’t rain every fucking day;’ the Ottomans, in their wisdom, realized how completely inappropriate such a name was. I believe that it’s that rationality and levelheadedness that allowed them to take the city in 1453 and hold onto it for 400 more years, thus allowing them to rename it to whatever the hell they wanted. Personally, I would’ve gone with something like ‘Eternia,’ but apparently the Ottomans were more into Islam than He-Man.
In reality, Constantinople meant ‘City of Constantine’ (again, I’m just making up ridiculous crap), but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s rained every day that we’ve been here. I’m actually starting to think that I preferred Budapest’s 28 & snowing to the 40, raining & windy that we’re getting here in Istanbul (not Constantinople). Despite the weather, though, we’ve managed to get out and see a few things in the old city; I’ll try to post some pictures soon, although I don’t have too many because I haven’t had a chili dog in three months and the shakes are making it hard to hold the camera still.
I should note that when I say “we,” I’m referring to myself and my parents, both of whom flew the 20-something hours across ten time zones to meet up with me in Istanbul (not Constantinople). They’ll be traveling with me for two weeks, reaping the benefits of my experience (and awesomeness) at traveling as we go overland from Istanbul (not Constantinople) to Rome, where I’ll have to come up with a new city-based joke to beat to death with no regard for your intelligence as a reader. Forgive me.
Anyway, since I’m such a glutton for punishment, tonight we’re taking the overnight train from Istanbul (not Constantinople) to Thessaloniki, Greece, which will include yet another customs & immigration stop at about 1:00am. As I understand it, the Dostluk/Filia Express is supposed to be quite nice, but nothing could be nicer than sleeping in a stationary bed and not having some strange, mustachioed man rifle through my underpants. As a side note, ‘mustachioed’ and ‘underpants’ are two of my favorite words, and this is the first time I’ve ever been able to use them together. Moving on, though, what I am looking forward to is the fact that this will be my last border crossing for quite awhile, as once I get into Greece I won’t be leaving the Schengen Area for at least six months.
Don’t tell Interpol.
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Money Talks
Posted on | March 2, 2009 | 2 Comments
(5.00 Total) Loading ...Just yesterday I was sitting on the train from Thessaloniki to Athens, staring out the window at passing vineyards and pondering the harsh realities of our inevitable subjugation by the evil robot overlords of the planet Zergon 5, when something of dire importance occurred to me.
But that’s not important right now.
What is important is that after Istanbul the weather here in Athens is a gift from the gods (except, perhaps, that dirty hippie Poseidon). It’s March now, and that means high spring in Attica & the Cyclades; the sun is shining, the wind has stopped, the wildflowers are in bloom, and the dryads are up to their usual tricks. I’m not quite sure what it is that dryads do, but I think it involves sex with trees; I’m not into that sort of thing, personally, but I guess maybe I just haven’t met the right tree.
Also, I have a low pollen count.
The one negative thing about being back in Athens is the sticker shock of the Euro zone. Last night I paid more for a pint than I would have for a decent hotel room in Laos or Cambodia, which is quite a sticking point when you consider the fact that I haven’t had a job since the Bush administration (although as I understand it, that’s true for most Americans at this point). Last night we arrived in Athens at about 7:00, just in time for happy hour at the hostel, which is pretty much the best hour of the day; after a bit of paella (one of the guests was cooking) and some pretty righteous old-school Gojira (that’s Godzilla, to the uninitiated) my parents went off to bed and I stayed on in the hostel bar doing what I normally do when left to my own devices. In this case, it was sit around drinking while trying to figure out the name of the evil monster in the movie; it took me until about five minutes ago to remember that it was Rodan. You know, the half-pteradactyl / half-cardinal thingy? Breathes some sort of fire?
I’ll overlook your ignorance of 60’s Japanese cult cinema, but just this once.
Regardless, as always happens when Godzilla is involved, I ended up at some Irish bar off Monastiraki with the hostel bartender and a couple other guests. As it turns out, last night was the end of Carnaval; in Greece, what that apparently means is that everyone runs around on the street hitting each other with inflatable Flinstone-style clubs, and I kept getting my ass smacked by complete strangers, which I guess is no different from going out to Blake’s on the Park. What was different, aside from the lack of bleary-eyed men inflating my already-substantial ego, was the fact that draft beer was five Euro a pint; that’s more than twice as much as you’d pay in either Istanbul or Budapest.
I was finally able, though, to enjoy a pint of Guinness after all these long months without. It was life-changing. I even did an Irish Car Bomb, against my better judgment, but with the prices where they were, getting too drunk was an impossibility. In the end, I ended up where I always end up after a night out in Europe- a cab. We walked so far to the bar that none of us remembered how to walk back, so the easiest option was just hitching a ride. I got back around 2:00, and succeeded in waking up both of my parents, who returned the favor five hours later.
I have to go now; it’s time to blast Journey on my iPod and imagine what I’d look like with a mohawk, for the 11,942nd time this week, but I promise to upload my Istanbul photos today, so check back.
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Don’t Tell The Toaster, But…
Posted on | March 18, 2009 | 7 Comments
(5.00 Total) Loading ...I need to keep this brief; the toaster has been giving me the evil eye all day, and I think that’s because it knows that I’m about to talk about feelings. I’ve known something was wrong ever since it burned my toast, even though I had it set to two (out of ten), and don’t even get me started on the Pop-Tart setting. The only reason I eat Pop-Tarts, which I don’t, is because I don’t want to have to think, which is hard.
Then, later, I was watching Futurama, and Bender insisted that I (and all humans, Martians, and strange lobster-men) bite his shiny metal ass. Coincidence? I THINK NOT. Also, all this talk of lobster-men is making me hungry for bisque. And oyster crackers. So be warned, lobster-men, as your over-sized claws will be delicious with melted butter and lemon, and you don’t possess the opposable thumbs to stop me!
Anyway, I’m obligated to talk about my feelings now, despite what the machines say, because every woman in Atlanta wants to hear about feelings that men aren’t supposed to have; so, with that in mind, I’m going to take a break from sitting around in my underpants, drinking champagne straight from the bottle, and listening to Tom Jones, all just to tell you about some of that feeling stuff.
On that note, I wish I had a hot tub. That would be the optimal location for drinking champagne straight from the bottle.
I want you to take a second and consider what a sacrifice I’m making for you, loyal reader. Testosterone and emotions go together like oil and water; not only am I temporarily giving up my man-card (and yes, that exists- you can register at the Best Buy car stereo section, any area Denny’s around 3:00 am, or the Pink Pony on Tuesday nights), I’m giving up the perfect morning: Champagne, underpants, a sunny patio, and Tom Jones. That’s Sir Tom Jones to you, you disrespectful hippie.
I digress.
Loyal readers will already know this, but Mandy and I broke up once before (and for a similar reason). It was in June of 2007; we had been planning to leave that fall on our much-hyped global odyssey. She decided that she didn’t want to leave anymore, and since I was dead set on going, I moved out and started making my own plans. It was about two months later that we talked and met for dinner, and I realized at that point that maybe it would be worth worrying about her first and traveling second, so I took her out to lunch and laid it all out, and we got back together. I even wrote down a speech and everything, because I’m a giant nerd. A few months later, Mandy decided that she wanted to travel again, and we left last May.
Flash forward 18 months and 12,000 miles, to a similar situation; this time, Mandy wanted to go home and I wanted to continue traveling. You would think that we’d remember what we went through in the past, but after nine months of being together literally 24/7, I think we both needed a break.
After a few weeks apart, Mandy took a page from my playbook (she even stole my line!) and tracked me down in Italy. We spent a week or so drinking wine and discussing logistics & feelings, but really just enjoying each other’s company (except for the amount of time Mandy spent crying). I was pretty resistant to the idea at first, because it seemed so sudden; Mandy will tell you that I’m not one to be forced into a decision. We made plans for her to come to France after I finished school, but I’m sure she could tell that I was still a bit distant.
Then, on the train from Rome to Nice (unfortunately after Mandy had left) it all came together for me. As I stared out the window at the mountains passing by, listening to Bon Iver’s For Emma, Forever Ago, I realized two things. First, that album kicks total ass, and second, despite my fears of commitment, this is what I really want. I love this woman; there’ll never be anyone else on this earth that I could spend 6,650 consecutive hours with at all, let alone enjoy doing it, and letting her go would be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.
Except, perhaps, that one time when I was 13 and I almost burned down the house trying to make napalm.
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Liver! Feelings! Robots!
Posted on | March 4, 2009 | 3 Comments
(5.00 Total) Loading ...Late-night Greek food leaves something to be desired, and I think the stewed goose livers that I thoroughly enjoyed at about three o’clock this morning might not have been the best idea after all. To be honest, I have absolutely no idea what it was, but after years of eating at Taco Bell, that’s something I’ve become accustomed to. (On that note, I really miss double-decker taco supremes and chili-cheese burritos; the U.S. has definitely cornered the market on dishes based around the cornerstones of chili & cheese.)
Anyway, somehow, even without Godzilla’s help, I ended up back at the James Joyce Pub on the Agora last night, this time because of a football match that I cared nothing about (although I hope Liverpool will accept my hearty congratulations on their decisive victory over Sunderland). I spent about three hours over Guiness chatting with two surgeons from Manchester about life, politics, and the complete works of George Carlin. They were completely ignorant of his career, which just staggers the imagination. The man played Rufus in the single greatest movie of all time, Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure. After all that, I got back to the hostel around 2:30, decided I was hungry, and ended up at the only restaurant near Akropoli that was actually open at that hour; on the way, I walked past an average of two hookers per block for three blocks.
Question 1: How many hookers did I walk past in total?
It brought back memories of living on Ponce, especially because I think that some of them were really men, although I was too afraid of making eye contact to get a good look. I don’t have a lot of rules in life, but one of them is “Never look a hooker in the eye.” Like lions, they can smell fear and have incredibly sharp teeth; unlike lions, they have sex for money and don’t kiss on the mouth.
I need to pause for a sec to point out that the hostel maid just busted in on me in my underpants, and yes, I write updates in my underpants. Apparently knocking isn’t really part of Greek culture, or perhaps they just assume that everyone’s out sightseeing at noon; I, on the other hand, have killed enough time in Athens to have seen everything twice (including the James Joyce Pub).
We’re finally leaving Athens on Friday to head to fair Verona (Italy) of Shakespearean fame, where Mandy will be waiting for me. As I understand it, we will then spend a few days pursuing my favorite pastime in the entire world, discussing our feelings. We have to do all this talking now, you see, because once the machines have taken over, feelings will be outlawed, as will the Lifetime Channel, Hallmark, and Dr. Phil. You probably already knew that, though, since if I’m not mistaken she’ll be mentioning that on the radio. Well, I mean the feelings thing, not the machines; if she talked about the machines on the radio she’d be killed just for knowing too much. I’m not going to get into my complex emotions before we’ve had a chance to discuss things, but I can safely say that I don’t want the robots to kill Mandy.
Until the robot uprising, be excellent to each other.
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It Starts With Goodbye
Posted on | February 11, 2009 | 1 Comment
(5.00 Total) Loading ...You imagine that it’ll happen in the train station, drawn out with tearful hugs and then a final wave as one rides off while the other stands on the platform, watching the train disappear into the distance. It doesn’t make the fact that you’re saying goodbye to someone special any easier, but at least you’ll have a vivid last memory to hold on to.
What you get in reality is nothing like you imagined. It’s an unfulfilling, ten-second hug on an Athenian street corner in front of a post office, cut short both by circumstance and because you’re too proud to let half of Syntagma see you cry, which you’ll definitely do if you drag it out just a second longer. So you whisper one final “I love you” and let her go on her way, and you go back into the post office to finish your business. Then, ten seconds later, you emerge from the post office and watch her walk away, debating the whole time whether you should run after her and do this properly.
But you don’t. You lie to yourself and say that you should just let it go, but the real reason is that you don’t want to cry, not now. So instead of getting one last hug, you steel yourself and go back to your task and don’t think about it until that night, when you’re alone in a dingy hotel room. You start typing this post, and you realize the truth of the matter.
That’s when you really start to cry.