Eric Lian

Slovenia

Back when the wind was blowing east, I was going to take the slow boat from Venice, across the Adriatic Sea  to Pula, Croatia. By the time I was ready to leave Venice, the wind had changed and I found myself on the northbound train to Ljubljana, Slovenia. All I knew about Ljubljana was that it was a train station in the direction I was going. I had no idea what to expect, and as the train slowed, I was having second thoughts about getting off because it looked we were going to be stopping in the middle of nowheresville. The train rolled on for another twenty minutes and into the middle of a small city, Ljubljana, Slovenia's capital city. Now, some of you are shaking your head because I failed to do the research before hand, but again, I'm flying by the seat of my pants and don't necessarily want to know too much or anything at all about where I'm going. I prefer to find out when I get there because where I intend to go on any given day might not be where I end up.

Although each country is a collection of many photographs and experiences, there are usually one or two stories that shape my memory there. In Tanzania it was Malaria and Scottish reindeer rangers. In Egypt it was pyramids and riots.  Besides the castles and dragons, friendly people and open air markets, Slovenia was defined by the mission to find the Kurent from Ptujsko Polje. 

To back up just a bit, the missions started in Venice when a little bird with a penchant for riddles flew onto my shoulder and dared me to follow and complete a task. It's not like I didn't ask for it. The About page on my blog hints at a game I might be willing to play and here was a player more than happy to add her own personal twists, turns and intrigue. Whether she knew it or not (I think she did), the first mission was doomed to fail, but I had to attempt it anyway, and just as I thought, a big fat zero. Now in Slovenia, the little bird returned to wheedle me into another mission:

"...now that you've crashed and burned on the first mission - how could you ever redeem yourself? ;)"  Your mission should you choose to accept it is to take a photograph of:

The Kurent from Ptujsko Polje.

Points schedule:

Live = 20 points + (edited for contentxxxxxxxxx)
Stuffed/non breathing = 5 points + (edited for contentxxxxxxxxx)
Failure to do so = Not a viable option this time
Failure with an amusing/hysterical explanation = (edited for contentxxxxxxxxx)            

The what?! Still smarting from the effort of my earlier mission failure in Venice, I set out to have some success in this mission. How much success was entirely dependent on what this Kurent thing was and where I would have to travel to to find it. I decided to illicit help from the hostel staff. Not an easy thing to do when your mastery of Slovenian is only four words: Hello, Good-bye, Please, and Thank you. The first several people I approached nodded knowingly when I said the words, "Dobro dan, Kurent eh Ptujsko Polje?", but when I asked them where I could find the Kurent, some would laugh and wave me off as if i was just trying to be funny, and others would shrug their shoulders and say, "No here now, come back cold, winter."  Another impossible mission. The Kurent was probably the Slovenian equivalent to the Easter Bunny, unlike the ubiquitous Santa Claus who can probably be found anywhere at anytime of year. Where does she get these missions?

I finally came across Bavo who hesitated a little when I asked about the Kurent. It's not that he didn't want to help me, rather, I sensed his hesitation was that he didn't want to disappoint me. "I sorry, de Kerant iss unly heer when it iss pest de weenter time end he come heer to breeng de spreeng time. It iss not possible to see de Kurant now." I guess I would have to settle for the consolation prize if I could find a stuffed version or toy. Bavo pointed me in the direction of the market place. Three city blocks down and over the bridge, make a right turn, cross over another bridge, follow the tall buildings on the right until you get to the open market. He also suggested that I try the local museum which was several blocks away because if they didn't have an example of the Kerant, nobody would.  It was Friday. The museum was only open Monday through Thursday due to construction.

Strike 1, there were no live Kurents until winter. Strike 2, my best hope of an example over three inches tall might be in a museum that was closed and I'm leaving on the day it reopens. I could see my tormentor staring in her crystal ball like the wicked witch of the west in The Wizard of Oz, shrieking with laughter to know I was already down two strikes and I hadn't even left the hostel. I rented an umbrella for a 10 Euro deposit and set out for my hike. It was cold and it was raining, but I enjoying the change in climate.

You might be thinking that I headed for the market. That would be incorrect. Most museums have people there seven days a week, there's always maintenance and odd jobs that need to be done. Maybe I could find an open door and charm my way in for a special tour. Lacking that, I could always throw myself to someone's mercy and prostitute myself for whatever menial tasks they needed completed for an entire day. Driven by a need to succeed, I was sinking to an all time low.

Forty five minutes later and possibly even a longer shortcut than the one I took to the train station in Venice, I was at the museum. I went through the wrought iron gate and slogged around the building on the soggy lawn looking for an open door. There were a few cars in the parking lot and I found a service door, but there were no open doors to be seen. I sat and waited for someone to go in or come out of that door. After 20 minutes a painter walked out of the building. I approached him and asked if there was someone I could talk to inside about seeing the museum. He didn't understand English and the door closed behind him. A half hour went by I noticed two ladies walking towards the door. It was now or never. I approached them cautiously as not to upset them, but really, it's hard to look intimidating holding an umbrella. I smiled my best smile and asked if they spoke English? Yes, and one was smiling back. Good sign. "Does the museum have any permanent exhibitions that show a Kurent?" Again yes and still smiling. God, please forgive me for what I am about to do. "I'm from America and I'm leaving early Monday to Zagreb. My mother is Slovenian and left when she was a child during the war and was never able to return. She is very old now and I wanted to bring her back something special as I have been away from the states for the past six months. She always talks about the Kerant and we always had little stuffed Kerants all over the house. Is there any way I could see your Kerant exhibit and take a picture for her? I would be deeply indebted to you."

I could have squeezed out tears at his point, but that might have been a little over the top. I'm sure they would have gone unnoticed anyway due to the rain. She paused, looked me in the eye and smiled. I knew that look. She was amused, maybe even a little intrigued, but I was busted. I knew she knew I was lying, but I didn't turn my eyes away.
"Usually, people say they have a relative who is dying, you didn't," she began.
My humiliation was complete. She knew.
"Yes, I'm sorry. I couldn't say that because I didn't want to curse her. She'd be horrified to know I even referred to her as very old."
"But she is Slovenian?"
I was sinking lower, but knowing she was at least amused, poured on the charm. "No, not actually. She's Dutch, but  I think she did have to leave during the war as a child. 
"Sprekt u Nederlands?" she asked.
"Ik verstaan je vel," I said
"Mijn vader is ook van Holland, maar mijn moeder is Sloveens," she added as she motioned me towards the door.
I was in. Mortified, but I was in.

Martina happened to be the assistant curator at the museum. There was construction on the first two floors, but the exhibition that held the Kerant was on the 7th floor. As we walked though the museum towards the elevators, I confessed the mission, told her of my failure in Venice, and of my travels over the last six months.
"Now that I can believe," she said laughing.
"Would you have let me in if I had told the truth," I asked.
"No, probably not, but your task master must be very special for you to make up a story."

The elevator stopped and we stepped into a dark room. Martina took a few steps and turned on a bank of lights. The whole floor lit up and TV monitors began playing their prerecorded bits of history. As I scanned the exhibit, the Kerant came into view. I could see Martina in my peripheral vision looking at me and I suddenly noticed I had a big smile on my face.
"Do you see what you came for?"
"Is that the Kerant?" I asked.
"Two examples from two different regions," she said. "Feel free to browse the floor. I'll be here for another two hours. When you are finished come to the reception area and the guard will let you out. You do not look like a criminal, but in case you are, there are cameras on the ceiling and the guards are watching you," as she pointed to the ceiling.
"How can I thank you?" I asked.
"You already have...," she smiled as the doors closed and the elevator moved to the first floor.

I was alone with the Kurent from Ptujsko Polje. Is one's own humiliation worth redemption? You bet! 

Venice - Deja Vu

So I walk out of the Venice train station and was immediately hit with, whoa... Ever had that? Just whoa? I was having a deja vu. I had been here before. I stood on the steps looking at the canal and the buildings and the bridges. This is too weird, why does this look so familiar? Rather than standing there gaping and looking like an idiot, I walked in the direction of the town - or is it a city? Up over a large bride I went. As usual, I had no clue where I was going and hoped to run into a few hotels or hostels along the way. I wound though narrow streets bordered tightly by three story buildings. I kept the sun on my right to ensure I was walking in the same direction because it would have been very easy to get lost here without the ability to see landmarks past the buildings, and the buildings were worthless as landmarks because they all looked relatively the same. I was in a virtual maze.

I was surprised how hot is was in Venice. I figured I'd leave the heat behind in Florence when I moved to the coast, but that wasn't the case. I passed a couple hotels, neither of the them had my name on it, and I was trying to enjoy the walk, but the 75lbs of gear I carried on my back made that a little difficult. Up and over canals I walked, the sun on my right, the sun behind me, the sun on my right. A least I was generally moving in the right directing because the sun on my right, in front, on my left, then in back would have meant I was walking in a circle. Hey, it's happened.

I turned down another street and saw two hotels across from each other. We're talking streets that are three people wide - narrow. Don't ask me what my criteria is for choosing a hotel, I don't know myself. I just get a feeling that one is more right then the other and I walk in. If the price is right, I stay. Since I don't have to check with anyone to see if the room is okay with them, my life is easy, because frankly, I don't really have any standards. If there are any niceties that I didn't expect, it's a plus. Otherwise, I just need a bed and an electrical outlet - two outlets and I'm over the moon. After showering and grabbing my cameras, I was out the door to see what there was to see.

I was no more than a block from the hotel when I noticed a grocery store - the biggest grocery store I had seen in months - not a USA sized store - but a decent size for a small city. I hadn't eaten today and was looking for a few items to throw together. I had trouble deciding what I was hungry for. I grab a package of tortillas, a package, of salami, and an orange Fanta and headed out again. Yes, I paid. And because Venice is Venice, I would never be able to find that grocery store again.   

I had wandered far enough and sat down in a courtyard, I've had been doing that a lot in Italy. On the ground, leaning against a wall, I pulled out a tortilla, threw on some salami, rolled it up, took a bite and called it dinner. As I ate and took sips of my Fanta, I looked around at the tops of the buildings surrounding me - and then it hit me. "Oh Christ," I said, half amused, half in disgust. I'm in the "Pirates in the Caribbean" ride at Disneyland, except this is for real. I laughed to myself. The Pirates in the Caribbean ride is my favorite of all time and if it wasn't for people wanting to go on other rides, I'd sit in that one all day and just go round and round. I think it's because it's dark and cool, and the sound of the water splashing against the boat is so relaxing to me.

I've spoken about the perspective you get when you finally go somewhere and see it for yourself. In all my years of seeing pictures of Venice and the gondolas, I figured the canals were just there for the gondolas as a tourist attraction, but that's just not true. Since there are no roads in Venice and no cars because there are no roads, the only way to move things - people, cargo, and my orange Fanta - is by boat. There are taxi boats, bus boats, ambulance boats, and fire boats. Garbage boats, construction boats, fish boats, and ferry boats. I'm starting to sound a little like Dr. Seuss now, but you get the picture. And the skill that the boat drivers have is astounding. More than once I'd see a boat that I thought was way too large for the given width of a canal navigate oncoming traffic and the boats moored on either side. Impressive.

Oh, and that courtyard that you always see on TV where the tourists are feeding the pigeons and the pigeons will fly onto your arms and shoulders and head to eat the bird food you buy form the vendor. It's right here in Venice. That was fun to see. 

Last thoughts on Venice. This would be the most amazing place to have a Halloween party. And for those of you who are wondering if there are any parrots here, there aren't. I looked because a friend had sent me on a wild goose chase - for two long and hot days. The rest of the story involves the bottom of a boat, packages of broken pasta, a swinging light bulb, and being tied down to a chair - but you wouldn't believe a word of it if I told you.

A folder containing additional photos from this episode is located at the left - titled, Venice.

Carol's Italy

In one or two past blog updates, I mentioned that Carol, my sister-in-law from Parma, Ohio, was scheduled to join me for a week in Florence. To be perfectly honest, I was both looking forward to her visit and a bit apprehensive having someone from the family join me in what had been six months of travelling in near anonymity, without the pressure of having to do anything but exist wherever I happened to be. I suddenly worried that my blog had painted an all too rosy and interesting portrait of what the trek had been to date. Not that I lie, but as most of you know from our personal email exchanges, I am not above exaggerating certain facts and using ridiculous analogies for the sake of getting a laugh. Would Carol's presence blow the lid off of my image as the intrepid world traveller, and would I have to purposely induce moments of fun and terror to live up to the stories she had read thus far?

Of course, I had completely forgotten that introducing another person into my semi-charmed kinda life also meant more potential material for the blog. Carol certainly didn't disappoint me. She burst into Florence on day one in a blaze of glory when Air France saw fit to make her first journey out of the states a memorable one - not by moving her from coach to first class, but by losing her luggage somewhere between Florence and Charles DeGalle airport. For me, losing luggage is just something that happens when you travel - it's to be expected. For Carol, it was a serious breach of the contract she agreed to when she bought her ticket, and the fact that she had a three hour layover in France made that breach completely inexcusable. If she - a novice international traveller - could make it from one terminal to the other to change planes, surely her luggage could have managed to do the same. After all, three hours is a long time in the evolutionary timeline for a suitcase. It could have grown legs and walked to the plane by itself, but because it didn't have the additional hour to develop an eye and a brain, it just didn't know where to go without help.

France was already at the top of her "you-know-what" list, but the Italians, guilty by association and for having an unsympathetic and lackadaisical attitude in dealing with the situation were now running a close second. After more than two hours of getting the runaround and the shoulder shrug that preceded, "come back tomorrow," I hailed a taxi back to the apartment. It's a good thing she looked cute in her striped shirt. She'd be wearing it for a full three days. "Buongiorno. ventisei Corso Italia, per favore - L'ambasciata Americana," I told the driver. He responded in Italian with a big a sarcastic grin, "What, no luggage?" Good thing Carol didn't understand Italian. I shook my head and smiled back, "You don't even want to know."   

One row of buildings from the Arno River and just down the street from the conspicuously guarded US embassy, our apartment turned into "Find That Bag Or Someone Will Die Headquarters". Carol, armed with my laptop, a wireless internet connection, a baggage claim number, flight number, and a myriad of other numbers was on the case. There was no having fun until this was resolved to her satisfaction. Yeah, she looks sweet and innocent enough, but you mess with her personal property and you might as well try to swipe the dog dish from a hungry pitbull.

Her husband, Marc, who by coincidence is my younger brother and in Ohio watching over the kids, was on the other end of the Gmail chat connection taking heat. Marc called Air France to figure out what had happened to her bag. In a few minutes, he typed back that he had talked to the carrier and the bag would be on the first plane to land in the morning. Having dryly teased Carol the whole way home that she would likely never see her baggage again, I decided to keep my mouth shut, but based on experience, I was not confident it would be on that morning flight.

It was evening and I checked with Carol to see how tired she was after her long flight and ordeal. I wanted to keep her awake as long as possible to shorten her transition in the new time zone. She said she was wide awake so I suggested we take a stroll into the center of the city. Life in Florence really doesn't begin until 9pm. The restaurants were full, and crowds were walking the streets, peering into shops, and ordering gelato. We grabbed a couple of sodas and soon we found ourselves in a busy a courtyard surrounded by statues, sat down, and just talked about everything and nothing as we had a history of doing. Any apprehension about her coming had melted away long ago. It felt good to sit next to someone and talk about familiar things. I had a feeling the next seven days were going to be much too short.

The next day was check on the luggage day. Unlike the states where they may send the lost luggage to your house in a truck, we would have to go to the airport and check for it. If it wasn't there you'd either wait the whole day or come back later in the afternoon. I suggested that we check on the luggage in the afternoon - giving the French a plane or two, or three to make good on yesterday's promise. In the meantime, we walked the streets again and caught up on a few years of conversation. There was nothing pressing to do today except to head to the airport in the afternoon.

Carol was settling in and enjoying having to do nothing at all. That was a good sign. I wouldn't have to jump through hoops to make sure she was entertained. We did have a loose agenda to work with based on the remaining six days. She wanted to ride on a train, see either Venice or Rome, and Croatia if possible. The train part was easy, Croatia was probably out of the question because we really didn't have enough time and day number two was slowly slipping away. I suggested Rome as mentioned, and Lucca and Pisa as alternates to Venice and Croatia, and one day of shopping. We'd play the rest by ear.

That afternoon, and four cab rides later at 20 Euros a pop, Carol had her luggage. She was happy. Let's get this show on the road...

The greatest fun of travel is being plunked down into the middle of a foreign country,
quickly learning the bare bones of the local language, and learning how to work within the environment without calling too much attention to yourself. We were headed to Rome for the day, a trip that would require the high speed Trenitalia Eurostar. After deciphering the train departure board and figuring out which train went to which cities in the least amount of time, we decided to try our luck with the self-serve ticket dispensing machines. I wish I had a story about how we screwed this up, but I don't and we had our tickets.

Rome Day 1

At 186 miles miles per hour, Rome was only one and a half hours from Florence. Once we reached Roma Centrale Stazione, I sat down to consult the Lonely  Planet guide to see where we might go first. We walked out of the station and in the direction of the Colosseum, you know, the famous one where the gladiators used to do battle? Well, it quickly became apparent that Rome was not Florence and we would not be able to walk the distances involved. We backtracked to the train station and decided that our day trip had just turned into an overnighter. We found a cheap but decent hotel and settled in for a much needed nap. Carol and I had the tendency to push our daily conversations to the early morning hours so we were simply trading day time hours - when it was too hot outside anyway - for night time hours when the weather was cooler. After a brief nap we headed to the bus depot for a ride to Vatican City.

The buses do not have coin or token operated boxes on-board, and you can't buy bus
tickets at the bus station. If you need tickets you need to go to a news stand or a Tabbachi (Tobacco) shop. Not a problem - now we know. Once we figure out which bus we needed - and there were more than several to choose from - we hopped aboard and were on our way. After several stops and trying to recognize St. Peter's square amongst all the other amazing landmarks, we confirmed with bus driver and hopped off. We stood in front of a large city wall. Do we go left, right, or straight? What the hell, let's go straight, I think it's left, but straight might lead us somewhere interesting. Okay, not that interesting. We headed left and after 20 minutes or so had the Vatican in our sights. St. Peter's square opened up in front of us and we became a piece of history. There were people everywhere, but not the crowds you might expect. We strolled a bit through the columns and then plunked down on the steps to people watch for the rest of the afternoon. No rushing around, no standing in line, just happy to be there, breathing the air and enjoying the view.

Rome Day 2

Unlike Day 1, we had a specific agenda for Day 2: The Vatican again, the Sistine Chapel, the war memorial, the Colosseum, a spin on the underground metro, and the Eurostar back to Florence. With a full day ahead, we got an early start and took out favorite bus to the Vatican. There were several lines we could have jumped into, and decided on the "tombs of the popes" where all of the popes are buried in an underground vault. Interesting and a little surreal, we passed tomb after tomb and noticed a small crowd bunching around one tomb in particular. You probably already guessed it would be the tomb of the beloved Pope John Paul, the most recent pope to have died - and you'd be correct. 

The Sistine Chapel was next on the list. Located on the other side of the Vatican walls, we took a little hike and came upon a small line - must be the line for the Sistine Chapel. One of the things that I appreciate about travelling with someone is that one person can wait in line or watch the baggage while the other runs an errand or gets sodas. It was heating up and Carol came back with two sodas while I played camel and hauled the bags. As soon as we rounded one of the corners at the intersection, we realized our small line was really just the tail of the most humongous line I had ever seen. It literally followed the Vatican wall up the street, veered to the right, and disappeared to the left at another intersection. Oh well, we were moving slowly but surely and we weren't going anywhere else anyway. Eventually we reached the entry, paid for our tickets and got in. You could easily spend days looking at every museum, every exhibit, and every artifact and painting in the Vatican's collection. I only wanted to see one thing, the Michelangelo's painting high atop the chapel where God creates Adam. Had I been by myself I would have blown past all that other stuff, looked at the painting and been a happy camper. I consulted Carol to see what she was interested in - and here's where her true beauty shone - she could also have given a damn about all that other crap - and we were on in foot race to the Sistine chapel. Yeah, all you art purists or probably choking on your soup right now, but to each, his own. Even the beeline to what we wanted to see was a major mission, and not knowing what to expect, we kept thinking we were getting closer. The paintings on the ceilings and walls were magnificent, overwhelming in a busy way really, and we pressed on. Every time we approached a darkened section we'd think we were there, but we weren't. Winding around, gallery after gallery, upstairs, downstairs, more darkened areas and hallways and crowds beyond belief we finally made it. We went through a pair of doors and  spilled into a large
square room with a high ceiling that reminded me of, well, a train station. I was expecting a glorious dome or something. I looked up and saw postage stamp size paintings on the ceiling and smack in the middle of them all was the God created Adam painting. I was a bit flabbergasted. Art purists, get ready to have a stroke. With all the hype that surrounds this painting and how carefully it's marketed in brochures, art volumes, and Discovery Channel epics, I was completely underwhelmed and unimpressed. I took photos for posterity, but this will have to top the list of my greatest disappointment of the 21 century, thus far. That said, I was still happy that we made the effort.

Exiting the Vatican, we made our way to our favorite bus on the number 40 line. We
needed to keep a close watch out because the bus stopped near, but not where we wanted to go. We spied the war memorial waited for the bus to stop somewhere, hopped off, and walked the rest of the way. The Italian War Memorial is impressive. I have never seen such a bastion in size or grandeur, maybe some of you have elsewhere, but I haven't. In the US, I would have to say our government takes a conservative approach to memorials. The Italian version was way over the top. Just awesome.

The Colosseum, was an easy walk from the war memorial and rose in the distance as we got closer and closer. This, my friends, would be the landmark I needed to see to make my visit to Italy complete. It looks deceivingly small from the outside, but once you enter the gates and walk around the arena you realize how big this structure really is. It is the largest amphitheater built during the era of the Roman Empire and was able to seat 45,000 spectators. The floor of the Colosseum is no longer intact and you get a nice view of the under-floor vaults and tunnels that used to hold the animals and slaves. You could almost imagine the the noise from the spectators and the bloody battles that took place here  Definitely worth the price of admission.

 

Well, I did my best to push her to the edges of her personal comfort zone, but she showed she had the stamina to keep up every step of the way. Any nomal person would have crumbled under the heat, humidity, and the unrelenting pace we had set that day. If she was tired at all, she certainly wasn't going to give me the satisfaction by telling me that she was. We had come to see what we wanted to see and now it was time to bid farewell to Rome, and experiencing the Colosseum was a good way to end the day on a high note.

Just across the street from the Colosseum, we caught the underground metro to Roma Centrale Stazione, and took the Eurostar back to Florence. Although Carol enjoyed Rome, she was looking forward to getting back to the city of lost luggage. We had a full day of running,  and getting familiar with the bus, the underground metro, and the Eurostar. We were wiped out, but that didn't keep us from continuing our converstions until the wee hours of the morning.

The Last Day and Pisa

The best decisions are often those that were never planned. We were walking around
Florence trying to do some shopping when we passed the all imposing Duomo in the center of the city. As we were walking around towards an outdoor market, I noticed the door to enter the Duomo which usually had a mile long line was completely empty. Perhaps we were earlier than the rest of the tourists. Before we knew it, we were making our way up the 463 steps to the top of the dome and standing outside with a grand view of the city below. I'll go out on a limb and say the top of the dome is the highest point in Florence. At least I didn't see anything higher than we were. Not even the Duomo's grand tower was higher than we were. 463 steps down and the shopping excursion continued.   

Pisa was almost a last minute decision. We were feeling a little lazy and it was another hot day, but figured this would be the last excursion before Carol had to leave.  We started out dry on the 20 minute walk to the train station, but were quickly overtaken by a passing thunderstorm. To her credit, Carol didn't utter one word about her hair, duck under shelters to wait out the storm like some of the too cool Italian men on motorbikes, or complain when her mascara started to run. We were soaked to the bone, and she earned her "Can Travel with Eric" badge that day. I'm not sure if we went to Pisa for the train ride or or because we just had to see the Leaning Tower. I suspect it was the former. Trains are fun and a nice way to travel.

The tower is about a mile from the Pisa train station. Just follow the signs, cross a
river and you'll find yourself there in no time. What's interesting about seeing a major world landmark for the first time is you finally gain perspective of where the landmark really lies in terms of its surroundings. Can I say it looked like the tower was standing in the middle of a schoolyard? You'll have to go there and decide if that makes sense for yourself. The tower is a fun attraction to see and we spent the rest of the afternoon there just milling around, enjoying the sun, taking silly photos of each other and just enjoying the day. Cross the tower off of our list.

The walk back to the Pisa station was in a different direction than we had come. It was also Carol's last day so we walked a little slower than normal. One more train ride back to Florence, one more taxi ride to the airport in the morning and that would be it for her and I would be on my own again. We had a fantastic time together, and as I had predicted early on, our week together had ended much too soon...

It's interesting what you can learn just by doing things, and at the same time gain skills and experience you didn't even realize you might use in the future. Carol came in as a novice international traveller, and left as a travel monster. She can run around three major Italian cities like a pro, know which buses to take and which to avoid, decide when and why the underground metro is preferrable to the bus, book the EuroStar in eighteen different directions, and walk miles from one landmark to another. How many people in Parma, Ohio can actually claim they know how to do that? Better yet, how many people in Parma have actually done that?

In a funny twist, she emailed me later in the day from Amsterdam, her first stop on the way back home. Seems that she and her fellow travellers were somehow delayed at the airport and their connecting flight back to the states had left without them. She was stranded. But instead of asking what she should do, she promptly whipped out a map of Amsterdam and started mapping out the hostels she was going to stay at for the next two weeks. I couldn't have been more proud...

A folder containing additional photos from this episode is located at the left - titled, Carol's Italy.

Just kill me now...

From: Nick Hays <nickhaysX@XXXXXX.uk>   
To: Eric Lian <ericlianXX@gmaiX.com>
Date: Jul 16, 2006 11:27 AM

Hey Eric,

All getting a bit mental in Israel right now. My brother and I are in Tel Aviv waiting for our flights out -apache helicopters go past our hostel every 30 minutes - would have been a good photo opp for you!

How's Italy?

=====

The nice thing about email is that friends can find you no matter where you are. The bad thing about email is that friends can find you no matter where you are...

Still weak from my exchange with Rami, I received an email from Nick, my travel buddy (and ancient film camera photographer) from the UK. We shared a room together for a few days in Beirut and spent a day together in the Bekaa Valley - the heart of Hezbollah  country.

To the uninitiated, Nick's email seems friendly and quite innocent. And, yes, the world is flat. Knowing that the Israelis recently "installed" several sizable craters in the runways at Beirut airport, the email is a serial killer dressed as Mother Theresa sent through the internet to my Italian apartment to do away with me.

In case what I'm talking about is completely lost on you, I'll interpret each methodically crafted sentence. It's really quite vicious, even in terms of dry, understated British humor:

Hey Eric,
[You poor, sorry SOB. I know you're watching CNN and kicking yourself]

All getting a bit mental in Israel right now.
[I'm sure Italy is all safe and pretty right now and that you (and your completely useless camera gear) are probably sitting in an Italian cafe sipping an overpriced espresso - with your pinky finger extended in that high-fashion sort of way - content to watch the tourists walk by]
My brother and I are in Tel Aviv waiting for our flights out
[A pathetic trick to distract me from what is about to come, and he's being evasive in not telling when and where he's flying out to because he doesn't want to kill me just yet. He probably found a fearless taxi driver to take him back to Beirut right now]
-apache helicopters go past our hostel every 30 minutes-
[A low blow and I didn't even see it coming. The room goes black and I crumple to the cold cement floor]
would have been a good photo opp for you!
[It's not enough that I'm already down. He kicks me hard for good measure. I'm just waiting for the death blow now. I hope it's quick...]   

How's Italy?

[And there it is...A wooden stake through the heart. Simply masterful...]

This is now getting out of control!

From: Rami Mukhtar <rami@XXXXXX.com>   
To: Eric Lian <ericlianXX@gmaiX.com>
Date: Jul 14, 2006 2:28 PM
Subject: RE: Beirut...

Eric,

This is now getting out of control!  I am getting a bit upset about all of this. How on earth are these Israelis getting away with it?  To think, all those people living in Beirut, the cafes, the restaurants, the expensive and very over rated shops.  In 12 months from now that could all be gone.

But you know what?

I am more pissed off that we are not in Talal’s right now – because it would have made one hell of an interesting holiday to tell the grand kids about!

Rami 

=====

A small departure from the illusion of travel...

Rami is from Australia, but is of Lebanese descent. We met at the Talal hostel in central Beirut and shared a room together for several days. We hit it off immediately. He was visiting relatives and getting in touch with his roots. I was in the country because I heard trouble was a-brewin'. Turns out the tit-for-tat skirmishes we witnessed while we were there were likely the opening salvos of the current conflict.

At this moment, Rami and I are furiously firing emails back and forth lamenting our bad timing as reports filter in from CNN about continued strikes in Beirut and the airport by Israeli jets.

If Rami and I had the slightest inclination those skirmishes would have escalated to the direct bombing of Beirut, Rami wouldn't be in Australia and I certainly wouldn't be in Italy right now. We'd be in downtown Beruit dodging missile strikes and we'd be happy - though likely scared senseless - to be there. I know some of you are shaking your heads and thinking we couldn't possibly be more stupid and that we probably need our heads examined. It's certainly not something everyone would choose to do. 

That said, we are both extremely concerned for the friends we made there and for his extended family who live in Lebanon. In the past twenty years, neither one of us cared a damn about Lebanon prior to our experience there and unfortunately, as in any conflict or war, it's always the innocent who will ultimately suffer. this is going to get far worse before it gets better.

Travel goes a long to humanize and personalize what are otherwise nothing more than attention getting, space filling quips in newspapers and web pages. If there is still any question in your mind why I do what I do - it's as simple as that.

UN-BELIEVABLE

New Feature Alert: There is a folder of additional photos you can view. The folder is located at the top of the left sidebar. Click on the photo icon to view.

UN-BELIEVABLE

Even more so considering I wasn't really suppose to arrive in Italy for another ten days. I could have been trudging my way through Slovenia right about now. What a thought.

The per-game festivities are like the world's biggest block party where everyone knows each other. There's no such thing as staking out "your" territory or being polite about bumping into each other. The fact that you're going to sit where you can and get a little squished in the process is all part of the fun. Beverages of every type were passed and shared from group to group regardless of whether or not you knew the person who's knee was resting on your shoulder. There was little room to walk, but somehow people were still able to negotiate their way through some areas where one more person couldn't possibly fit and still get other people to nudge over and make a little more room. All this and the dancing, singing, and flag waving continued to invite more people in. The more the merrier isn't just a saying in Italy, it's something that is ingrained in Italian society.

There were a lot of photo opportunities even before the game started. I shared the stage area with three other local news photographers and though none could speak English, and I speak even less Italian, we were able to easily comminucate through hand signals and smiles. One of the roles we played was as official photographers to the fans. People would hand us their cameras and we would take photos of them as they mugged with their group. I couldn't help but notice - maybe it was just my imagination - that some of the female fans would sometimes do "things" to draw the attention of the cameras. Is that conceivable? Do you really think they would do that on purpose? Well, I fell for it... Shameless, I know, but I'm only serving those of you who have been hounding me with, "What, no women?".

On with the game     

The penalty kick that was awarded to the French at the seven minute mark - and successfully executed - was like letting air out of collective tire. What a blow it was to Italian fans to have something so dastardly happen so early in the game and there was no shortage of jeers and taunts in the direction of the big screen. Goals at this level of play are extremely difficult to come by, but I didn't see anybody anxious to leave. Soon, Italy scored a well deserved goal of their own and the fans were quickly reinvigorated. Score: France 1, Italy 1.

Two halves of regular play and two extra time periods and the score was still tied. As I mentioned in the previous entry, penalty kicks were not an Italian strong point, but again, I didn't see anyone get up to leave or cover their faces because they could not bear to watch. You may already know what happened in the end, but I've included a video clip so you can take a brief walk to the front of the stage.

I finally arrived back at my apartment at 3:00am having been pulled from cafe to cafe by some of the people I met in the crowd during the day. Italians - gotta love 'em. This was truly an unforgettable day.

Download italy_final_2_0001.WMV

 

Special World Cup Report

Enough about being sick. Yes, I still am *cough*. However, I have to interrupt my real life for a timely report. My sincere, heart-felt apologies to my German travel friends who may want to stop reading here...

I am in Florence, Italy. I've been here for a little over a week and my good friend Sylvia, from Los Angeles, has already emailed me and accused me of going soft. Tough crowd  :)  I can think of no better place to be to experience the passion Europeans have for football (soccer) than in the country that has a possible contender for the finals. I figure it's even better than being in Germany - where the World Cup is being held - because the fans here are 100% Italian - not diluted nationalities choosing one side or the other because they have tickets to the events, just pure screaming, cursing, out-of-control Italians pulling for the Italian team - All or nothing!

 

My Italian friend Tania tipped me off to the huge, outdoor, big screen TV that was
erected on the other side of the Arno River to showcase the semi-final match between Italy and Germany. Germany was favored to win, but as many of the matches have progressed in this World Cup, it was anyone's game to win or lose. The game was scheduled to begin at 9:00pm - the site was a half hour walk from my apartment - 8:30 and it was still light outside.

 

When I arrived, there were at least ten thousand people sitting on the park lawn anxiously waiting in front of the Sony PS2 big screen. They were already waving flags and banners and singing those songs that only Europeans sing. The reason that the US sucks at soccer is because we don't have a song. The only thing we have that even comes close is the  Atlanta Braves Tomahawk Chop chant, but that's baseball. Americans think it's sissy to sing, therefore, we'll never win a World Cup.

I made my way towards the front of the stage so I could shoot back at the crowd. The TV fired up - Live From Germany - and the crowd went bonkers. Everyone joined in during the Italian national anthem and when it ended you would have thought Italy had just scored the first goal. When the German national anthem began to play, a single German fan with a face painted in red, yellow, and black - likely the only one for a hundred miles - stood up on a high pillar in front of the crowd, more to antagonize the Italian fans than to show spirit, and was summarily jeered and ridiculed by 10,000 blood thirsty maniacs. I have never seen so many beautiful women scowl and flip someone the bird. Fortunately, he had the sense to stay well out of reach.

For those of you not savvy with World Cup rules at this late stage of the tournament, regular play is two forty five minute periods. If the game is tied after regular play, there are two shorter overtime periods. If the game is still tied, then the game moves to penalty kicks. The overall consensus was that if the game were to go to penalty kicks, Italy would certainly lose because German efficiency did not allow for failure from 12 yards out.

I spent most of the match looking at the crowd trying to pick out animated faces while listening to the broadcast to anticipate the best times to shoot. As the game progressed, emotions ran the gamut of joy, frustration, and cries of sudden horror quickly followed by nervous laughter and relief whenever Germany got too close to the Italian goal for comfort. After the two periods of regular play, the Italian crowd was still engaged, but their faces were filled with angst. It was almost too much to bear.

The first overtime period had finished, the second was two minutes from ending and still there was no score. Penalty kicks were all but inevitable. Download the movie clip to see what I saw and it will be like we saw it together. You and me in Florence in front of 10,000 screaming Italian football fans...

Download italian_lesson_1.WMV

Summing Up Dubai in two words...

Hot and shopping. If you don't like to be hot or shop, or be hot while you shop, or shop while its hot - this is not the place for you. Dubai is essentially a non-location in the middle of the desert with the most amazing urban planning vision I have ever seen. Whoever is in charge of development in this country certainly knows where they want Dubai to be in ten years, and that vision is plastered on hundreds of bill boards showing you exactly what each development will look like when completed.

Two of the most fascinating developments are currently under construction. The first (one of three of its kind) is a community that looks like a gigantic palm tree floating on the ocean when viewed from the air. Access to the community is via the palm's trunk with housing and business offices built into the palm's fronds. The second development is also being built just off the coast and consists of 300 man-made islands shaped to look like a map of the world. Who thinks these things up?

Two days into my Dubai experience, I came down with the flu. Yes, I know this was the flu rather than a re-introduction of Malaria because the skull splitting headache and severe lower back pain that accompanied my original case of Malaria did not materialize. I was also congested this time which was something that was noticeably absent with the Malaria. My number one mission was to beat this as quickly as possible because traveling anywhere is no place to be while you're sick. My number two mission was to figure out where to go from Dubai. Croatia was the original flag I had planted, but I was running into a time constraint with my sister-in-law Carol flying out to visit me in Italy on July 19th. I might not have time to hit eastern Europe at a leisurely pace, and rushing through to meet the July 19 deadline wasn't appealing. 

The average daytime temperature in Dubai was 42.7C (109F). Thankfully, it cooled to a chilly 36.1C (97F) at night, otherwise I may not have been able to sleep. Daytime hours were spent finding shady sidewalks and alleys to walk through because the heat was just unbelievable, and having a fever made it worse. I soon discovered a fruit stand near my hostel that sold what I can only describe as a fruit slushy made from fresh fruit that's peeled, chopped, and blended as you wait. I quickly became addicted to the Mango-Orange-Strawberry version. Not only was it cooling, but it soothed my sore throat and I hoped the overwhelming influx of vitamins would chase away the flu. I had better drink twenty of these a day!

Other than interesting architecture and nickel and dime stores there really wasn't that much interesting to see or do. A cab driver did suggest that I visit the "Mall of the Emirates" before I left. I guess it was Dubai's answer to Mall of America. Okay, I'll do that, and while I'm at it there's this famous hotel that Tiger Woods likes to hit golf balls from. I don't know what it's called, but I'll know it when I see it. Apparently the mall and hotel are in the same area. All the better.

The hotel was a 20 minute cab ride down the coast. Just as the pyramids in Egypt, the hotel rose in the distance and suddenly I was there - Dubai's most recognizable landmark. After a brief swim in the Persian Gulf, I watched an impromptu game of beach soccer in the shadow of the hotel, and eyed the circular platform where Tiger once stood to drive golf balls, and settled in for a few night time shots before heading for the mall.

The mall was four floors high. Nice mall, big mall, expensive mall, a mall with fruit juice shops. That's what I needed *cough*. With my second slushy in hand, I steered my way to the most impressive attraction I have ever seen indoors - a ski area complete with snow, a chair lift, a luge run, and a bunny hill where inexperienced skiers could practice. If I wasn't sick, I would have been skiing...*cough*

Eric, Where ya at...?

...You still in South Africa?

Immediately following my encounter with the South African secret service [see early entries], Dan Megna - helicopter photographer extraordinaire http://www.danmegna.com - emailed me and and told me he might be coming to South Africa for a helicopter photo shoot. That was four months ago. Now he was hailing me from San Diego, too slammed with other projects to make the trip. I had been in Beirut for eight days and was headed to Syria, but told him I wouldn't mind making a detour back to South Africa to fill in for him. Flight schedules dictated that I wouldn't be able to depart for another three days. Dan was kind enough to email me the comps (sketches of the proposed ad) and some background, and Katie, who represented the Oregon based client, provided additional information and a contact number for the person I needed to speak with in South Africa. Everything seemed pretty straight forward. An air-to-air shoot to photograph three pieces of equipment mounted on the other helicopter. A theoretical piece of cake, but you would think I would be experienced enough to know that nothing is ever cake...

The cell phone reception between Beirut and South Africa was more than horrible. I was able to make out that my first contact was out of work for the next few weeks due to a car accident, but he gave me the number for the chief pilot to make arrangements for the shoot. When I hung up, I had that bad feeling that things weren't going to be as "cake" as I had hoped. I dialed the chief pilot and, sure enough, he knew nothing about the shoot. He was based in Johannesburg and the helicopter was an hour and a half drive outside of Cape Town. The reception was so bad we agreed - over the echoes and static - that I should contact him again when I arrived in Cape Town.

Beirut to Dubai to Johannesburg to Cape Town. Eleven hours of flying time plus an additional nine hours waiting for connections. I arrived in Cape Town late Thursday afternoon and called Mark Nichols, my pilot contact, to let him know I had arrived. He would be flying down from Johannesburg on Saturday to certify another pilot who had just joined the company. We were to meet at Cape Town airport on Saturday morning for the drive to Worcester. I checked the weather, clear skies through Sunday.

Late Friday evening I received a text message on my cell phone. "CALL MARK NICHOLS REGARDING THE SHOOT." Oh crap... Messages like that are never good. It was pretty late. I decided to call him first thing Saturday morning.

Sure enough, the shoot had to be canceled because of some problem with the nuclear power plant and the transmission wires that Mark's company maintains with the helicopters. He wasn't sure when they'd be able to reschedule. I would call him back that afternoon to see if he had any more information.

"Tuesday or Wednesday - maybe." was the word from Mark. I checked the weather again. Rain was moving in on Monday and Tuesday, mostly cloudy on Wednesday. The situation was just crumbling on a daily basis, but the only thing I was really worried about was having to charge the client for five days of doing absolutely nothing. That's like getting paid to sit on the bench while everyone else is playing in the game. Being Saturday morning, the client's office was closed and even if I sent an email, I knew I couldn't expect a reply until Monday evening.

I emailed Katie anyway to let her know what was happening in case she was picking up email from home and told her that it was a possibility the shoot was not going to happen any time soon if at all. Should I stay or pack up empty handed? And by the way, did you know that this helicopter company only has one of the three pieces of equipment called for in the comps? The other two pieces of equipment are in New Zealand.

I contacted Mark on Monday afternoon. It looked like Wednesday would be the day, but I would contact him again on Tuesday afternoon to confirm.

Monday evening. I had waited all day for planet earth to turn so I could call the client in person. It was 7pm, that meant it was 9am Oregon time. I called Katie and reiterated the situation. "These things happen," she said. "Stay on and see if Wednesday works out." These small words put my mind at ease. I can't control the weather and I can't control helicopter availability, but I can keep the client informed so they can make decisions about how they want to spend their money.

On Tuesday afternoon I called Mark to confirm once again. We were on for Wednesday and we would meet at the Hertz counter, 10:00am at Cape Town airport and drive to Worcester.

When Mark Nichols walked into the Hertz office, I knew it was him before he had a chance to walk completely through the door. Mark was an uncanny Kiwi version of Andrew MacRitchie in stature, friendly-polite-easy going demeanor, and the below the equator accent to boot - though I'm sure Kiwis and Rhodesians the world over are jointly horrified to learn that this idiot American can't distnguish between the two accents. Mark Mclean, the pilot getting certified to work for Saphire Air and, *cough* the older of the two pilots, carried his helmet in what look like a small, well used laundry bag. If he was that humble, this certification was obviously just a formality.

It was fairly clear to me that Mark's priority for the day was to certify Mark Mclean and get back to the airport as soon as possible for a tightly scheduled flight back to Jo'burg. I wouldn't have much time to shoot, but beggars can't be choosers. I was going to take whatever I could get because that was going to be better than nothing at all. We had plenty to talk about on the hour and half drive: A-Stars, 407s, 205s, working in New Guinea with Russian helicopters, and long line with live loads. It was just like being back home, driving with Andrew on one of many road trips, and I had a strong urge to call him to tell him to get his ass down here, we're flying in one hour. 

The weather in Worcester was sunny and blue. We reached the site where the helicopter was based and the two Marks went over the helicopter and onboard equipment with a fine tooth comb. Familiarization and safety were paramount. After a couple of hours, Mark Mclean fired up the helicopter to ferry it to electrical sub station where the certification was going to take place. Mark Nichols and I and the helicopter ground crew drove to the site. The helicopter passed directly overhead while we were still lumbering down our terrestrial road and I felt that familiar rush that was hard-wired into me at birth. F-16s, crop dusters, or helicopters, if it flies, I live for it.

When we arrived at the site, the helicopter was already on the ground and taking on fuel and water. Before the first certification flight, Mark, Mark and I discussed the ad and how we needed to position the helicopter and the boom. There were some differences in what the comp depicted and what we would actually be able to do. After agreeing on hand signals, Mark Mclean took the pilot's postion and Mark Nichols took the boom operator's station. They took off for the first certification flight. I waited for them to return. My window to shoot according to the script would be between the first flight and second flight, two to three minutes at best. In the meantime a curious cow had wondered onto the road and decided to mill about in and around the landing zone. I just shook my head and laughed to myself. Why am I not surprised?    

When the two Marks returned from the first round of tower work, Mark McLean put the helicopter in a hover exactly in the area of sky we had discussed. I signaled Mark Nichols to put the boom in a few different positions. Occasionally I would signal Mark Mclean to rotate the helicopter for some different angles. Knowing we were short on time and knowing better than to keep a helicopter in a dead hover for longer than necessary, I put my hand on top of my head to let them know we were done. Mark Mclean, with his Cheshire cat's grin, jokingly told me earlier that that signal meant to the helicopter on my head. I didn't doubt for a second that he could, probably while playing the bagpipes at the same time.   

I turned my back to the landing zone to guard my eyes from the coming debris, quickly checked the images on the back of my camera, and was practically blown into the drainage ditch by the rotor wash on Mark's decent. Not to worry, I held my ground, but sported a new hair-do. The image previews looked fine.

Photo shoots are rarely what they appear at face value. But as Clint Eastwood said in the movie Heartbreak Ridge, you have to "Improvise, Adapt, Overcome." The nature of the two Marks made that possible. They were both extremely gracious and a pleasure to work with. I'm just sorry we couldn't hang around a bit longer.

One more day of day of photo editing for the client and we'll call it a wrap, Mate...

Beirut, Baby...!

Armoured personnel carriers, tanks, and anti-aircraft guns in the streets: Check.
Bombed out and bullet ridden buildings: Check.
Military check points and soldiers with machine guns at every turn: Double Check.

The farther north I go, the hotter it gets, literally and figuratively. My initial welcome to Sidon, Lebanon was delivered by a car bomb (two blocks from my room) that killed a top ranking member of the Islamic Jihad and his brother. A couple days later while in I was Tyre, factions of the PLO began firing rockets from Lebanon into Israel. The day after that, while in Beirut, Israel responded by sending a flight of F-16s screaming overhead to bomb a PLO base on the outskirts of the city. Having seen and read the news about these tit-for-tat skirmishes all my life, it was fascinating to finally be in the middle of the truce that threatened to tear itself apart. 

Lebanon is everything you imagined and nothing like what you imagined. Although the skirmishes continue and the scars of past conflicts and war are readily apparent, Beirut is a bustling metropolis that is rebuilding at a phenominal rate. Construction cranes rise into the sky like a humungus sprinklers and high-rise buildings and modern hotels grow under them like weeds. There are shops and eateries of every kind, so much so you may be disappointed to see more McDonald's restaraunts than mosques.

The road crossing rules of engagement that are ingrained in Egyptian society don't exist here at all. As soon as you step down off the curb it seems it is every driver's moral responsibility to chase you back up. The likelyhood that you will be run over by a new Mercedes, BMW, Toyota, or Humvee is high. The Lebanese seem to take as much pride in their cars as they do their personal appearance.

The informal public transportation will take you wherever you want to go. There are hundreds of taxis, service taxis, and mini buses combing the streets for your business. Which one should you take? The simple rule is, the more you're willing to travel with other people packed into the same vehicle, the less you pay. These transportation marauders will honk at you incessantly to advertise their presence, and while it does get extremely annoying when all you want to do is walk down the street in peace, you'll be quite happy to hear one honking to get your attention when you actually need one.

My travel pal o' the day, Nick from the UK, and I traveled by mini bus from Beirut to Baalbek to see the best example of Roman ruins in the middle east. Baalbek, located in the heart of Hezbollah territory, was a two hour drive to the extreme east of Lebanon and cost us 4000 Lire each. At an exchange rate of 1500 Lire to one US dollar, the trip set us back a whopping $2.60. You can't even get run over by a bus in the states for less than $45.00. Even the Hezbollah t-shirt some guy wanted to sell me while in Baalbek was going to cost me $10 - yellow looks very nice on you - $8 - okay two for $15 - please, it's for my family - I can't go lower - okay, take it, two for $13, but I don't have any change - Give me $15 and $2 will be my tip so I can feed my children...

Having been previously hardened and forged by the gauntlet of African curio sellers months before, his pleas hardly made a dent in my "no, thank you" armor.