tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83398602973972905112024-03-13T09:18:39.465-04:00Living like a touristTravel like a local. Live like a tourist.Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.comBlogger223125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-79220603659507673082020-03-15T18:24:00.003-04:002020-11-24T10:33:23.422-05:00Locked down but not out in Italy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13.6px;"><i>Singing from the balconies! One nice thing about this crisis ... solidarity!</i></td></tr>
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“Guess you’re not living like a tourist anymore,” was the funny, truthful and somewhat gut-wrenching message of a friend the day the lockdown in Italy began. Today is day 6.<br />
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My beloved Italia has been hit hard with the COVID19 epidemic. With the second largest elderly population in the world, the epidemic has meant a disproportionate amount of deaths in the country. So though I haven’t been worried about contracting it myself, this isn’t about me or someone like me who, if contracted it would probably have a sucky couple of weeks and then recover. It is about if someone like me contracted it and then spread it to a person with a complicated health history or an elderly person with a weakened immune system.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Eerily orderly: Lines for the grocery store, each person one meter apart</i></td></tr>
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In a country with no concept (and no physical room really) for personal space, and in a city with reproachable hygiene standards in its public spaces (hand sanitizer and hand washing should not be a new thing here - Public transport in Rome is quite frankly repulsive!), it isn’t totally shocking that the only way to contain this is to lock everyone down.<br />
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Things closed slowly, like the pace of most things in Italy. First cancelling large events or sport competitions, then closing gyms, museums and cultural centers, then asking businesses to be flexible with teleworking (meaning our agencies complied), then stopping travel between provinces (and really the outside world), and then shutting the bars and restaurants (the real sign that things were getting bad!).<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>First time I have ever seen this corner bar closed</i></td></tr>
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Ciampino airport closed down too, and finally yesterday, at least in Rome, the parks were locked up because people weren’t respecting the mandated meter distance between each person. This to me felt like a child stealing another kid's toy at kindergarten and the school board banning toys in all kindergartens city-wide… but the mayor wanted to make a point.<br />
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Grocery stores, pharmacies and <i>tabacchi</i> (for the cigarettes?) are the only places left open and though there are lines down the streets to get into them, the shelves are practically better stocked now than they would be in August or even some Sundays. There is plenty of toilet paper… unlike most countries it seems (perhaps that is owing to the bidet culture?).<br />
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At this point though, to access any of these remaining locations, we have to carry an <i>autodichiarazione </i>(self-declaration) to state our purpose for being outside (work, returning home, situations of necessity or of health). Some people have been very uneasy with this, reminders of wartime or fascist eras. For me, as long as someone is not blockading my door, I am quite willing to carry around whatever piece of paper they want to see.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Masks on retailers and costumers alike and duct tape to delineate where to stand</i></td></tr>
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On Thursday, when the bars and restaurants closed and the real lockdown began, I panicked that we couldn’t even go outside for runs or walks. The Civil Protection site stated we could, but the messages on some news stations and even from my workplace seemed to state you couldn’t. This made me really edgy, nervous and claustrophobic. Runs are the one thing that can keep me calm and make me feel like I have had contact with the outside world.
So I couldn’t help it; I had to try.<br />
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Thursday night, armed with my self-declaration, my foreign ID card, my work ID and of course my phone with the Civil Protection FAQs page open, I went outside, practicing my argument/pardon in case I was stopped by the police. As I crossed the street, the first thing I see is a police car stopped outside the only Bar that doubles as a Tabacchi left open on our normally busy shopping street.
The police didn’t even look at me.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"Masks and Hand sanitizers sold out... and we don't know when they will be back in!"</i></td></tr>
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I continued down to my normal path along the Tevere and encountered a decent amount of runners, in fact a pleasant amount, far less than the recent mobs that have overrun this rediscovered path, and everyone, bikes, walkers and runners were staying in their proper lanes, respecting distance and space… I kind of loved it. It was soothing to have people pay attention to rules and to others as opposed to the normal zig-zag walker on the phone with her dog’s leash spread out across all lanes who won’t let you by even when you shout “Permesso!” because she simply doesn’t acknowledge your existence.<br />
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After that run, and the further clarifications the next day that we are indeed allowed to practice <i>Attivita motoria</i> (motor activities?) I calmed down. This would be my one release. I could make it these next 3 weeks…
Except that Italian spring is taunting us.<br />
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The gorgeous time of year with the warm sun and the cool breeze. The clear air, clearer now with the reduced cars on the road. The memories of the beach and the small hilltop towns, the outdoor fish lunches and the white wine chilling in its silver pool.
I can see the hills of the Castelli from my windows and the beige and yellow buildings of some distant places…<br />
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The lakes are just beyond: Nemi, Albano, Bracciano – my places of refuge outside of the city after a busy week of work. For us, expats and permanent tourists, people who have renewed our vows to take advantage of Italy’s offerings and to see the bounty of places and culture that are at our fingertips in Europe, it is hard not to focus on what we are missing in these weeks- all the places we could have gone and had been going on a weekly basis until now.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>One of our most recent day trips: Lake and hilltop town... alas, it cannot be a memory I frequent too often.</i></td></tr>
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But I am trying to reign in those thoughts, those admittedly selfish thoughts. The country is in a crisis and being one of the lucky ones not sick and not worried about my own family contracting the disease, it is only right that I do my small part: to stop living like a tourist, and stop even thinking like a tourist.<br />
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I won’t complain. I am in Italy. I still have the weather, the wine, the mozzarella and the solidarity of Italians who are in the same situation. Despite living here for almost 15 years, I don’t often feel Italian. But I do right now, stuck inside an apartment building, one in a row on a busy artery of this capital, like everyone else- missing the normal way of life with meals al fresco and the perfect caffe or cappuccino available at every street corner’s bar.<br />
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I know some expats and foreigners panicked, wanting to get out of the country before it was too late, to go home. But not me. Italy is my home. If I am to be in lockdown, this is where I want to be. And I want to be here to standby her and protect her. They aren’t my <i>nonni </i>(grandparents) but I am worried about them. They aren’t doctors from my country and it isn’t my healthcare system, but they are the ones that have taken care of me for most of my adult life and I hope for their safety.<br />
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Guess it does take a crisis to force you to search your feelings. Though I have known for some time that my criticisms come from a place of love and that I try to balance it with compliments… maybe I need to tip the scales more the one way than the other. Because when this is all over, I am so grateful to have the fortune of being here on Italy’s doorstep waiting to discover or rediscover every inch. There is no better country in which to live like a tourist. Viva Italia!<br />
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<br />Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-2098000642406980992020-02-19T15:11:00.002-05:002021-02-17T05:27:27.676-05:00Exploring the "what if" in Belarus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We have been going away for a few years now for my birthday. I won’t deny that part of it is escaping the need to acknowledge my age, but the larger part is that there are few things that I like more than walking around a new city, in a new country, without any plans and just discovering what we discover simply by being there. It is such a liberating sensation for me to just BE elsewhere, to just try life outside of my own reality, to know more of how the world lives on a day-to-day basis. It is the ultimate playground for my imagination: what if I had grown up here? What if I spoke Russian and not English? What if I move here now or if I had moved here when I was 21? What if I move here when I am 81? There are so many possibilities in life and it is astonishing that our reality is the one that played out.
So for my 41st, we went to Belarus, for no other reason than this – to go somewhere else, somewhere new, somewhere that could have been. A "what if" trip.<br />
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Arriving in Minsk, I was happily proven wrong in all of my ideas and preconceptions. I thought Minsk might be like Kiev, but perhaps more run down. That the buildings would be gray and worn, rectangular and soviet. I thought it might be like some of the suburbs we saw in Tallinn or Vilnius: quaint and quiet, seated under gray skies, brushed by cold winds and (hopefully) dusted with snow. I thought Minsk would be small in size and traditional in style.<br />
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I was off in every respect. Minsk was large, grand, well-manicured and looked after, modern yet classic with all the buildings of the core city center in much better shape than Kiev or in fact many cities in Eastern or Western Europe. Buildings had a golden sheen and spread out for blocks. Streets were 4 lanes wide; squares were massive. Every street looked like it could rival the Champs-Elysée in width and prominence.
And there was no snow… Belarus in January, and there was not even a flurry in the 5 days we were there. I think this is more climate change’s fault than my own flawed conceptions, but my visions were still wrong.<br />
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What I love about my birthday trips is the lack of planning. We show up and kind of lead a local life: waking up late, going running, getting groceries, going for coffee. Our great little Airbnb apartment in Minsk was perfectly situated for wandering and for running. In a city that was undercrowded, running was a dream and there were bike lanes, park paths and wide sidewalks, even along the city river.
So the runs were long and glorious.<br />
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I am now always shocked by cities that are not overpopulated. In Rome, there isn’t anything you can do anymore that doesn’t entail a dozen people within 50 feet of you at all times. In Minsk and Brest, long stretches of sidewalks, road, bike trails and paths were just for us, or for the next runner 1000 feet ahead. People were still out, walking running, biking, using the city facilities but nothing was overrun. Freedom at its best! (Happy birthday to me!) <br />
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Restaurants had larger menus for drinks than for food. There were pages and pages of beers, vodkas, fermented “juices”, tinctures, other imported wine and alcohol. You could not find a gap in the options.<br />
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Food choices on the other hand were not so bountiful especially for a vegetarian. This is never really a surprise or a problem for me, especially in this Eastern part of the continent. I am actually quite easily satisfied with a nice salad or soup, which Belarus did have. The beet root and goat cheese salads were always a go-to food and the mushroom soups were very tasty. But the traditional food, the dumplings (<i>pelmeni</i>) and especially the potato pancakes (<i>draniki</i>) were served much too oily for my taste. I quickly switched back to my staples. Even though there was also white fish on the menu as an option, let’s just say that I wasn’t in my culinary heaven. But this might have been a different story for meat eaters or heavy drinkers.<br />
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Aside from Minsk we also ventured to another city, Brest, 4 hours from Minsk on the border with Poland. This leads me to another totally misconceived idea: the type of train we would be taking. We thought: old, soviet, last-maintained-40-years-ago chugg-a-roo.
Our experience with buying the train ticket only reinforced these notions though as we stared at old analog boards listing train arrivals and departures in Belarusian, with 3 rooms of tellers only distinguishable by signs in Cyrillic. After trying 2 tellers that didn’t speak English, we sat in the large, high-ceiling hall and tried to book online from their English site, but not only were the translations often undecipherable (what is a class train?) we couldn’t pay with our credit card. Why? Who knows. <br />
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So back to the tellers we went, to a younger, friendlier looking face who did manage with some basics in English and booked us 2 seats to Brest and back. On what kind of train, in what class, in what arrangement, we had no idea. We just walked away from the teller feeling accomplished with a classic-style ticket, complete with a golden emblem, and we thought, let the adventure begin!<br />
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The train to Brest, it turned out, was super modern. Like an airport shuttle train, basic but clean and fast, with spots for suitcases and easy on-off access. For a 4-hour ride, it wasn’t super comfortable, but it certainly didn’t have anything “soviet” about it. It was far more modern than the train to Fiumicino for example.<br />
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On the way back from Brest to Minsk, however, we were pleased to find a more traditional style train, not exactly Soviet, but one with small alcoves, cots that pulled out from the wall and little tables that would come across your knees. There were ticket-takers in uniforms and fur hats and the train, which ended back in Minsk for us, actually went all the way to St Petersburg (18 hours away in total!) for some others. This was more like it! A REAL train experience.<br />
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But beyond the train ride, it was also nice to get a sense of the country outside of its capital. Brest was much smaller than Minsk, but not as small as I imagined either. It was quainter, but also had grand, prominent and very historic sites to visit. The Brest fortress, the city’s most well-known tourist attraction, was the site where the Great Patriotic War started when Germany attacked the Soviet Union during World War II using Brest as its entry point. The fortress, still in star-formation and unbelievably large, bears the scars of the heavy battering that it took. Two statues are now on the site as memorials, both in rock and both some of the largest statues I have ever seen anywhere in the world…. One is called Courage and the other Thirst, tributes to the soldiers of the war. <br />
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Aside from the military history, Brest is also known for the picturesque pedestrian artery of the city, Sovetskaya Street, and its preserved tradition of manually lighting the streetlamps. Much of this is for show as the street lighter will take pictures with the tourists (I did not opt for this) and the lamps that he lights are the least bright of all the ones on the street, but it is a nice tradition to watch play out.<br />
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Belarus was also great because we couldn’t communicate. Despite or perhaps <b>because </b>I work in Communications, I am always fascinated and amused by not being about to decipher another language, as you may have noticed from <a href="https://www.livinglikeatourist.com/2019/05/choosing-unknown-long-weekend-in-kiev.html#more" target="_blank">my other posts</a>. Very few people in Belarus spoke English and the ones who did usually couldn’t speak beyond the functional needs of their job.<br />
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We relied heavily, very heavily, on Google translate’s photos and conversation functions. But it was nice that no one had a problem with us using this electronic intermediary. We spoke into our phone, trusted that Google would give a reasonable translation, then they would speak back into our phone, and we would see their response. It worked well enough to buy a very good type of vodka, to know whether a certain type of dish contained meat and to know whether the train we were about to board was the correct one. Very handy little tool. But it was great to be somewhere that made you feel like you did need a little help and locals (as well as Google) were happy to give it to us.<br />
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We found plenty of other things to do: a <a href="https://catmuseum.by/index_en.html" target="_blank">cat museum/café</a> that was a little spooky at moments but well-meaning, taking pictures of the eccentric art (a nose dressed up as a soldier or a single boot statue for example) or tasting sweets that we couldn't pronounce. The Great Patriotic War museum in Minsk was also impressive and definitely a must, even for people like me who are sensitive to these topics and can only handle so much reality at a time. <br />
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Everything was an experience and one unlike others we had. It was great to be voluntarily displaced, set amidst a new scenario and see how life would play out. And it played out very well with great places to stay, lovely people to meet, tasty drinks (and even food) to have, scenic walks, sites and runs to experience.<br />
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I came back a new me, someone who could have been Belarusian in a different life but wasn’t. And someone who now appreciates both that reality and my own a little more.Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-82298912171515791462019-05-12T10:18:00.002-04:002022-03-28T07:00:13.899-04:00Choosing the unknown: A long weekend in Kiev<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mdsGjn2n7tA/XNgibwcCzwI/AAAAAAAAHIc/RmpGgqeRcts1dyftaTlmWEda2Z-yKu5mACEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_20190421_193607.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mdsGjn2n7tA/XNgibwcCzwI/AAAAAAAAHIc/RmpGgqeRcts1dyftaTlmWEda2Z-yKu5mACEwYBhgL/s640/IMG_20190421_193607.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Ukraine was country #78 for me, #91 for my husband.<br />
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Why do I know this? Because I married a Virgo, or for those who don’t care about horoscopes, a Type A, hyper-organized, live-for-numbers-and-charts kind of guy. That means that we have an excel sheet tracking the countries we have been to. Columns indicate my visits, his visits, our visits, the year he went in, the year I went in, the year we went together, or whether he, I or both would one day like to visit. The excel sheet also, I will have you know, has country flags, links to Wikipedia pages and automated cell counts. Don't get me wrong, this aspect of Virgos fascinates me. I put pins in globes, scratch off countries on maps, or make scrapbook pages of trips, but I am not sure it would have occurred to me to count them... go figure.<br />
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But the point of going to Kiev (despite the excel sheet) wasn’t to make it number 78. For me, going to Ukraine was to continue to push the boundaries of what I know and what I don’t. And this thinking usually leads to how I make my choices.<br />
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There is of course a comfort and happiness in doing something familiar, in repeating a habit or in knowing what to expect. It is nice to go to a restaurant and order the same dish and not be disappointed. It is easier to go to your favorite place for gelato or coffee to make sure that your treat lives up to your expectations. It is more comfortable to go someplace where you know the language or the layout of the city, where you don’t need a new SIM card, a currency app, or a cheat sheet on who to tip And I, like everyone else, like to have the comfort option when I need it.<br />
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But my personality, even against my own will at times, is much more intrigued by what I don’t know. My favorite flavor of gelato is dark chocolate, but I have willingly tried tomato gelato just to know what it is like (tastes like vomit by the way). On a menu, I will find the strangest type of pizza combination (pear and gorgonzola or cicoria and fontina cheese) just because I haven’t seen it on a menu before and when would I ever get to try it again? I deliberately buy fruits or vegetables that I can’t name at the market. And by now, I know that at least 50% of the time, I don’t like what I have tried. But faced with the same decision next time, I will still make the choice for the unknown because that is part of the fun.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">No idea what this says</span></i></td></tr>
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So Kiev was another unknown for me. Despite having explored other eastern European countries, even former Soviet Bloc countries, there is a lot I don’t know about this region of the world, starting with the alphabet.<br />
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Kiev was, for me, an experience in being illiterate. I could stare as long as I wanted at a sign or newspaper and no matter my concentration, I had no idea what is said. What a great and humbling feeling that none of my linguistic knowledge was useful for anything there! It is a position I think everyone should be in every now and then just to remind yourself of how much you don’t and will never know.<br />
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Kiev is a grand city, and that is really the adjective that comes to mind. Grand is the sense of expansive more than in the sense of opulent: large dominanting buildings, wide multi-laned streets, big sprawling sidewalks, wide open piazzas. It is the opposite of Rome where everything seems ristretto..<br />
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The pace is also fast. People walk briskly. Perhaps not as manic as New York or business-like as London, but people are still going places and use the sidewalks for that. In Rome, the sidewalks seem more like the chosen hangout spot rather than a functional city feature. Standing, ambling, window shopping, smoking, leaning on motorini, sitting at a café, staring at cell phones – people in Rome seem to use sidewalks for everything except walking.<br />
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If the pace in Kiev wasn’t obvious to you from the sidewalks, then the metro escalators could tell you a thing or two. Like the gates to let you into the metro, the speed of the escalators is unforgiving. You either jump on to catch a ride or you fall... a long way down. As well as the fastest escalators I have ever seen, they are also some of the tallest. There are billboards on the way down to distract you as you are escorted kilometers into the bellows of Kiev.<br />
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Like most of the transportation in the city, the aesthetics, or perhaps lack thereof, are strong reminders of the Soviet era. The metro stations were usually grayish, off white or brown. Color accents were within the confines of geometry: Blue triangles in one stop, orange rectangles in another. But fast and efficient, the trains came within minutes and took you to where you needed to go without drama or flare.<br />
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The grandiose layout of this imperial city mixed with the methodical calculations of communist architecture led to an imposing, awing effect not without a certain feeling of coldness. But that is where the real Kiev came through, by taking these facades and turning them into the unexpected.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Drunk Cherry - appropriately named</span></i></td></tr>
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Everywhere in the city there were modern coffee bars, themed barber shops, boutiques of super shiny jewelry or delicately polished antiques. Beer, vodka, cherry liquor or other alcohol of choice was also widely available in almost “drive through” manner. You pick your drink at the counter, stand outside at a beer barrel, umbrella or under the store awning, chat for a couple minutes, smoke if you got ‘em, finish your drink and be on your way to whatever was next on the list. Not a commitment in any way to stay there for all or even a significant part of the night.<br />
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Drunk Cherry is one of these spots where the drink of choice is tellingly obvious – cherry liquor filled to the brim… You can ask for half a glass, but they will gently suggest the full, which requires a sip at the bar to be able to move the glass. Offered to all the costumers, we understood this is as tradition and not just the heavy hand of one particular bartender. There are many drunk cherry locations scattered around town like a Starbucks would be. No Starbucks are needed in this city though as the only thing more prevalent than orthodox churches were coffee stands. 5 or 6 stands all grouped together –They were all lined up awaiting commuters, workers or passer-byers in general.<br />
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Speaking of Orthodox churches, in Kiev, the golden domes were everywhere. And not just one gold dome per church, 4-8 domes depending on the size and importance of the church. From buttercup yellow to baby blue, the churches were like ornaments on the city, but they didn’t even hint at how elaborate they were on the inside. Patterns, faces, portraits frescoed on every part of the church and framed icons plated in silver at every couple steps. A handkerchief often hung next to the portrait to wipe away the kisses given from the person before.<br />
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One night we went to the ballet –– We walked up the red carpet into an old-style theater where you traded in your coat for a token until the end of the night. The gold balconies and red-felt interior set the scene for a grand affair, making me wish I worn a gown and pearls instead of dark pants and gray sweater. But even in grand old Kiev, the black-tie days of the theater were over.<br />
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On the important topic of food, it was fabulous even for a vegetarian. Pumpkin soups in bread bowls and dumplings filled with potatoes mushrooms or cabbage. Throughout Kiev though, Georgian food was all the rage and much easier to find than Ukrainian food.Though we gave into the trend for 2 nights, we sought out Ukrainian where we could.<br />
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As usual I loved to walk around the grocery store and try to figure out what I was looking at, learning the hard way sometimes. (Kefir and Milk packaging look a lot alike… in fact, it stayed a mystery until I poured it into my coffee…)<br />
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Postcards were very hard to find and individually wrapped when you did find a tourist shop selling them. People were very friendly. Ubers were everywhere. Running was not an easy task, with uneven sidewalks, hilly streets, long distances between parks and dirtier air from older diesel cars.<br />
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It would have been nice to see other parts of the country, as a capital never tells all about the country it represents, but that would have to be for another time. Long weekends can only hold so much adventure.<br />
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Next month we go to Latvia and now I am curious to see what I might or might not recognize there. Of course, I am secretly hoping that I don’t recognize much. The surprises are always more fun.<br />
<br />Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-91156207257275031572017-05-11T03:24:00.000-04:002017-05-11T16:55:31.983-04:00Even in total silence, time flies<div class="MsoNormal">
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Lately, “Time flies” and “I have been<b> so</b> busy” are quite possibly the most
common phrases that I say or hear. In fact, it seems to be the root of many
conversations: explaining why we haven’t been in touch, why I haven’t returned
your call, why I haven’t seen you in weeks, why I didn’t know about your latest
news… it all starts with, “Oh, I have been so busy lately… ” and
“Wow, I can’t believe it has been 3 weeks/3
months/3 years! Time really does fly.” All of my conversations seem to gravitate
around these two points.</div>
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We know that the world has gotten more scattered and
frantic. People are available 24 hours a day on 6-10 different
channels: 2+ email accounts, FB messenger, What’s app, SMS, Twitter, LinkedIn,
Instagram... All of these notifications pop up on your phone by the minute, urging
you to check them constantly in between everything else you are doing: getting
dressed while checking the phone, drinking coffee while checking phone, running to
catch the bus while checking phone, meeting with friends while checking phone, even meetings at work now happen while half of the people are checking their
phones.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Even Facebook thinks it! As I was posting this, <br />Facebook made a Time Flies video for my "faceaversary</i>"</td></tr>
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Everything is done frantically, instantaneously, halfheartedly,
so messages are easily overlooked or forgotten; phone calls are rarely accepted and in-person meetings are increasingly sparse. I am too busy. Everyone feels
it, so it is always a valid excuse. And no one can complain about it because it
is always true. We are all too busy. Too busy for human interaction because we
are now 24-7 interacting with humans and we are overloaded.<br />
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So sometimes we all
need to lose, or at least lose track of, our phones. Oops, it was on silent. Oh, I went for a run. Oh, I
was cooking dinner. Oh, I was on the phone… In truth, the phone pretty much
participates in all of these activities, but we need to say we were
unavailable, even if we weren’t because, we can’t do it anymore. We need some
time for silence, even if it is forced.<o:p></o:p><br />
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These thoughts were even more striking to me this weekend as
we went to a place of total silence, a site of practically no human
interaction: <b><a href="http://www.collepardo.it/certosa.htm" target="_blank">Certosa di Trisulti</a></b>. It is a 12<sup>th</sup> century monastery/hermitage
in the hills of Lazio, 1.5 hours from Rome, where currently only 2, but up to
60 monks, have lived their lives in total silence. The rule of the land was
quiet. No one spoke to the other, and human interaction was usually limited to
mass. Wooden boards replaced spoken words for logistical purposes, assigning
daily chores. Some kept to their rooms entirely and never left, not even to
eat. A private garden offered them the sustenance they needed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XyJ9AWrm0dU/WRQN_3kBceI/AAAAAAAAGyI/nr6tZL2lBjQRB_D7pUI9y4B1vOOpyJtFQCLcB/s1600/IMG_20170506_131146-2_wm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XyJ9AWrm0dU/WRQN_3kBceI/AAAAAAAAGyI/nr6tZL2lBjQRB_D7pUI9y4B1vOOpyJtFQCLcB/s400/IMG_20170506_131146-2_wm.jpg" width="398" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>13th Century Chore Board</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In this setting of utter quiet and basic human interaction,
the floor of the resident pharmacy (which they needed because, even in sickness,
you never left the monastery) displays a mosaic picture of an hour glass
with wings: time flies. The 13th century version literally translated from the Latin: <i>memini volat irreparabile tempus </i>reads "Remember,
time flies irreparably." Written in a dead language, in a secluded setting such as this, silent monks coexisting peacefully in their own
worlds, were still reminding each other through art that time flies and you
better make the most of it. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-klk7TzLgHG0/WRRIHlIcZuI/AAAAAAAAGy8/7xmsXyY1wFwL8FFHusqPyUVaBiODdS_nQCLcB/s1600/IMG_20170507_215458_120.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-klk7TzLgHG0/WRRIHlIcZuI/AAAAAAAAGy8/7xmsXyY1wFwL8FFHusqPyUVaBiODdS_nQCLcB/s400/IMG_20170507_215458_120.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: 12.8px;">"Remember, time flies irreparably"</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wonder how many of us overstimulated human beings would
find that time flies when living in utter silence, in one setting, day in and
day out, closed off in one place for all our needs. This scenario is almost our modern definition<b> </b>of boredom. But this message
was part of their experience. One of the few that are engraved throughout the
site. It would seem that these monks did find that time flew. Even in solitude,
in quiet, with no interaction, time flew. Someone thought this an important enough message to remember along with other sayings around the Monastery: <i>One does not live on bread alone</i> and <i>Better to prevent than to cure</i>. Time
flies was a part of their existence. It was a truth they faced.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7Wt_SsOB8wk/WRN1m0D-ZQI/AAAAAAAAGxg/pS5VHTtuqykf3TSgXae9dg4xWaGT7BQ2QCLcB/s1600/IMG_7238.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7Wt_SsOB8wk/WRN1m0D-ZQI/AAAAAAAAGxg/pS5VHTtuqykf3TSgXae9dg4xWaGT7BQ2QCLcB/s400/IMG_7238.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>One does not live on bread alone</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How interesting that no matter what the circumstance, no
matter how quiet a life might seem to an outsider, how slow an existence might
be to an external person, the person living it still feels like life is fleeting. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In some ways it makes me feel better. It makes me feel like
even if I threw my smart phone into a well and lived in a village outside of
the maddening pace of a big city, I would still feel like life is too short.
That even if I lived in a village and stayed inside all day every day, I might
be the one commissioned to write a saying on the floor of my village and I
would choose to say that time flies. It is comforting to know that this is a
human experience that cannot be avoided no matter our life choices. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LKFfCDbHWqk/WRN3Ghd7JrI/AAAAAAAAGx0/EbgaP0oACRkXLyLpXOWDIjOJsI2YERE0QCLcB/s1600/IMG_20170506_122913%257E3_wm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LKFfCDbHWqk/WRN3Ghd7JrI/AAAAAAAAGx0/EbgaP0oACRkXLyLpXOWDIjOJsI2YERE0QCLcB/s400/IMG_20170506_122913%257E3_wm.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The amazing pharmacy</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the other hand, it is a little sad. I acknowledge that it is I who have attached this melancholy
feeling to that artwork. I don’t know if it was at all intended. But what I am
pretty sure was intended, what is always intended, is the feeling of “Open your
eyes”/“Be in the present.” This idea
that we are here but not here is the part that is scary. We live each day, but
do not experience each day. We go through the motions, do everything we have
and want to do, we eat and sleep and exercise, answer all our messages and do
all that we should and at the end of the day we barely remember the motions of
that day. We are never mindful because our minds are too full. No wonder carpe diem and mindfulness are such trendy terms.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vFQUuK8QKpc/WRQ-GDDeMNI/AAAAAAAAGyo/kQJNvFXDSGwQ2EyGk1b1yd7xJm57fGc0gCLcB/s1600/The%2Bdiem%2Baint%2Bgonna%2Bcarpe%2Bitself.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="245" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vFQUuK8QKpc/WRQ-GDDeMNI/AAAAAAAAGyo/kQJNvFXDSGwQ2EyGk1b1yd7xJm57fGc0gCLcB/s400/The%2Bdiem%2Baint%2Bgonna%2Bcarpe%2Bitself.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/apelad/15629210590/in/photolist-pP6MN7-dxk2JL-obvnxH-eP2JDg-b37uGp-5Guxub-61DWtb-bnbSy3-dVamnp-gypJUL-mB47iv-8gJvAP-e7795-fykPSN-e3ZA2u-oMP2C1-6VfxuB-9YHZfv-dbTzLv-dVfWmE-dcW8Fr-4Mu69g-8LhoMj-ju78kb-2pZ1zW-pqpFQH-8AK6Zx-8etteA-4BVtuR-9ft1ZJ-7LEbGg-fbNy2p-ovc7Ta-JweUjH-ehWCb9-i73bSZ-qLHQpP-aCsJsM-aWvfV-gjUwKw-bDUNL-6fzKS6-dykNtb-4Y9RcH-fXjyic-bqQsVw-9Z9prg-awi4rF-D9yRkg-6daCsb" target="_blank">Photo Credit: Adam Koford</a></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My life is not going to slow down. In fact, if I believe my
elders, it is only going to speed up. I am not going to throw my cell phone
down a well. I am not going to move into a remote village or even a suburb. I
am not going to renounce speaking to humans (though sometimes it is tempting). I
will continue my busy, city, digital life because I like it and because life
works this way now. But what I will try to do more is to be present, to be
indeed more mindful.<br />
<br />
In fact, that is what <a href="http://www.livinglikeatourist.com/p/original-post.html" target="_blank">Living like a Tourist</a> is all about:
to live each day, wherever you are, as if you might never come back tomorrow.
To treat each day like you are on holiday. I am good at doing this when I am
touring my city or traveling, but I am not so good at this in mundane tasks of
“ordinary”, non-touristic life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I want to remember to put away my phone when listening to
friends, to finish loading the laundry machine before I start reorganizing the
cleaning products, to finish writing one email before looking at the new one
that pops up. I want to be fully present, because even more than remembering
that time flies, I have to remember: the present is all there is. That is what
I want to hear myself say more often.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span lang="IT">Tourist site:</span></b><span lang="IT"> Certosa di Trisulti: </span><a href="http://www.collepardo.it/certosa.htm"><span lang="IT">http://www.collepardo.it/certosa.htm</span></a><span lang="IT"> <br />
<b>Background:</b> </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Certosa_di_Trisulti"><span lang="IT">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Certosa_di_Trisulti</span></a><span lang="IT"><br />
<b>Mindfulness article</b>: </span><a href="http://www.bbc.com/travel/story/20170504-the-japanese-skill-copied-by-the-world"><span lang="IT">http://www.bbc.com/travel/story/20170504-the-japanese-skill-copied-by-the-world</span></a><span lang="IT"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-13326634685896259692017-02-09T11:49:00.002-05:002019-08-05T08:16:23.788-04:00Winning a peace prize<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5SY9KvA-hiQ/WJyZwd18AOI/AAAAAAAAGr8/zsQVdSdIZgIRou9WCrYnjmTDjAwfjM0FQCLcB/s1600/IMG_20170129_154847-2_wm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="636" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5SY9KvA-hiQ/WJyZwd18AOI/AAAAAAAAGr8/zsQVdSdIZgIRou9WCrYnjmTDjAwfjM0FQCLcB/s640/IMG_20170129_154847-2_wm.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i>Parliament House</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
I knew I wanted to get away for my birthday. Where didn't matter. But I didn't want to stay put.<br />
<br />
I have not felt at home or at peace since I have gotten back to Rome. There are a whole series of reasons why; the biggest are that my kitty died and that the apartment that we moved into has had an endless stream of ridiculous problems. This combined with a lot of smaller issues, like my old-reliable computer crashing, getting backed into in our new car and being investigated by the Quebec tax commission, has just made it feel like, despite my best attempts, I haven’t been able to make Rome feel like home again.<br />
<br />
And probably because of the stress of it all, I keep getting sick and being sick makes everything worse because you can’t run around and ignore your problems. You have to sit still and face them, which means that I have been forced to stay inside, in this seemingly cursed apartment, living in the absence of Matteo and staring at my broken computer screen.<br />
<br />
So of course, I booked a flight out of retribution. The cheapest flight to a place I hadn’t been was to Oslo, so that was the one I booked. It was self-inflicted banishment. If I was without a home, "home-less" if you will, I wanted to act that way.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3h1ePhpKPgo/WJyVuHpSPDI/AAAAAAAAGrk/_ASa4JlMMecmhJ_mckzQi5fSIBygR-lhQCLcB/s1600/IMG_20170129_134453-2_wm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="398" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3h1ePhpKPgo/WJyVuHpSPDI/AAAAAAAAGrk/_ASa4JlMMecmhJ_mckzQi5fSIBygR-lhQCLcB/s400/IMG_20170129_134453-2_wm.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Oslo Harbor</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Oslo was an escape for an unquiet and peace-less mind. And, in retrospect, what a funny place I chose to go to: Norway, the land of the peace prize. One of my first impressions was how quiet everything was: the Norwegian Air flight, Gardermoen airport, the train into town. It seemed a land where stillness was everywhere: silent zones on trains, hushed talking in restaurants, kids everywhere but rarely audible, wide open sidewalks and low population. The winter grayness and snow made the world feel even more tamed.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KuORQ6GXhTc/WJyVoSWxx1I/AAAAAAAAGrc/DNBBzTx-AnwaTF_BymlCbhPO7DEcuXwAACLcB/s1600/IMG_20170129_120710_wm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KuORQ6GXhTc/WJyVoSWxx1I/AAAAAAAAGrc/DNBBzTx-AnwaTF_BymlCbhPO7DEcuXwAACLcB/s400/IMG_20170129_120710_wm.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>View from Royal Palace</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And in turn, this stillness and quiet tamed my mind too. I let my anxiety and restlessness condense into droplets and freeze in the Norwegian cold, a mild cold, that was just enough to crystallize those drops into snow. My thoughts became snowflakes that fell on the ground of Oslo. And looking at the white world it created, a blank slate, I felt relieved.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SF49qLXq880/WJyVipvoQ2I/AAAAAAAAGro/XBRbWCq1WhA0bvex3UCRVOfiC7V3-uawACEw/s1600/IMG_20170127_193525-2_wm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="398" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SF49qLXq880/WJyVipvoQ2I/AAAAAAAAGro/XBRbWCq1WhA0bvex3UCRVOfiC7V3-uawACEw/s400/IMG_20170127_193525-2_wm.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Oslo was beautiful, serene, grand and inviting. We could walk everywhere on boulevards that seemed made for royalty and really were. New cafes and restaurants spotted the city amidst its old elegance. The theatres, palace, parliament and museums were a distinct placeholder for an elegant past, but modernity was very much alive. The new Opera House and construction cranes reflected Oslo’s march forward.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Yz8-oBrfR2k/WJyZtUy--CI/AAAAAAAAGr4/3oIZ0yJYOood4C2Ys0AYjuVIrXRawwU1ACLcB/s1600/IMG_20170128_115847-2_wm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="398" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Yz8-oBrfR2k/WJyZtUy--CI/AAAAAAAAGr4/3oIZ0yJYOood4C2Ys0AYjuVIrXRawwU1ACLcB/s400/IMG_20170128_115847-2_wm.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Construction plans for a new business district. Opera House featured on right.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It is true that everything is expensive, very expensive in fact, but it is a good test in moderation, making you question whether you really needed that extra glass of wine or that dessert.<br />
<br />
People always spoke Norwegian first, but switched to English without disdain or hesitation. We were not treated as anything special, not foreigners to gawk or scoff at, not as anyone outside of the ordinary. No one asked where we were from; it didn't matter. Everyone was treated like a local: equal, normal. We were just there and that was what mattered.<br />
<br />
Maybe that idea of equality, that no one is great no one is terrible, is what lead the Nobel peace prize museum to be subdued. Housing the stories of some of the most amazing people who ever lived, I was let down to see that each incredible person had only one small screen with about a paragraph of text assigned to him, her or it. No story. No extravagance. No drama.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N6mrGZ1pkd8/WJyVtEUbqoI/AAAAAAAAGrg/SGT_b0_uyiwSz2RhpGDVZiXy-IorkmxewCLcB/s1600/IMG_20170129_130742_wm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N6mrGZ1pkd8/WJyVtEUbqoI/AAAAAAAAGrg/SGT_b0_uyiwSz2RhpGDVZiXy-IorkmxewCLcB/s400/IMG_20170129_130742_wm.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Room featuring Nobel Peace Prize winners</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
There was something peaceful about that as well, but knowing that outside those museum walls, there was drama everywhere, sad, depressing, infuriating drama, never more personified than in the newest world leader, I was hoping to hear the stories of some of the people who stood out in history as the real lights of the world. I felt like the museum fell short of portraying that; it didn’t give due credit to these amazing people and stories. Maybe I was particularly disappointed because I needed to hear inspiring stories more than most of the museum’s visitors.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jUwDzbOf_PE/WJyVanyXNDI/AAAAAAAAGrQ/mYXJzETlbfERV0zjY7bO4C4sTjJ-1CxKACLcB/s1600/IMG_20170128_111615-2_wm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="319" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jUwDzbOf_PE/WJyVanyXNDI/AAAAAAAAGrQ/mYXJzETlbfERV0zjY7bO4C4sTjJ-1CxKACLcB/s320/IMG_20170128_111615-2_wm.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Yummy Stockfleths cappuccino. Worth the 4 euro.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Oslo is also known for its coffee and it did live up to that though. We are tough critics coming from Italy, but we tried 4 places and all were well above average. Stockfleths, a chain, but one of the oldest coffee houses in Oslo, was my favorite. We never once felt compelled out of desperation to visit the Starbucks that were there.<br />
<br />
We bought nothing but we were amused by the variety of trolls on sale and marveled at the beautiful wool of Dale of Norway. The train ran perfectly. The grocery stores were organised. All the machines we used worked. The bathrooms were clean. It was a nice break from Italy’s "charm".<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ruIVDtBBQdI/WJyVjpXz-YI/AAAAAAAAGrY/4fBXBi7XMps0sQ99ceKMLx38CQHwIAuvACLcB/s1600/IMG_20170128_125650-2_wm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="398" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ruIVDtBBQdI/WJyVjpXz-YI/AAAAAAAAGrY/4fBXBi7XMps0sQ99ceKMLx38CQHwIAuvACLcB/s400/IMG_20170128_125650-2_wm.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Families strolling in Grunnerløkka neighborhood</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I knew this fix was temporary, that getting on the plane back to Rome, nothing would be solved: no cat, no real home, no instant solutions, but I could pick up my marker again and return to that white slate.
A lot was still out of my control, but I felt calmer. In some small way, I was more ready to rebuild a home even if I am still <a href="http://www.livinglikeatourist.com/2017/01/goodbye-2016-end-we-were-all-waiting-for.html" target="_blank">grieving my lost ones</a>. I can wrap those happy memories around my grief and make them into decorations for the new place.<br />
<br />
I am not on track to win a Nobel peace prize, but out of this trip, I did win some peace.Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-30247976676095971652017-01-06T11:25:00.001-05:002017-01-20T13:07:08.057-05:00Goodbye 2016: The end we were all waiting for2016: the year everyone wanted to end. It just seemed like the bad news was everywhere: in politics - the ugliness of the US election and the unknown aftermath of the British vote; in the news - the horrifying Aleppo conflict and the endless stream of refugees needing homes in places that can’t or won’t accept them, the disgusting terrorist attacks at celebrations; in Hollywood - the unexpected deaths of so many young, beloved and talented celebrities …<br />
<br />
Even in our personal lives, everyone I knew seemed to be dealing with something: health issues, job issues, relationship issues, children issues… no area went untouched; it was all fair game this year.<br />
<br />
And it seemed like it wouldn’t let up; when you got over one bad news, another one appeared. And the new wasn’t just bad, it was usually really bad. Often times, it was unexpectedly, shockingly bad.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/LADbible/videos/3038672026179967/?pnref=story" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ABv65pqiAzU/WG9KV8OTEcI/AAAAAAAAGoM/jJ3YLOi1-j0iHHBTudOg7T6FflPAsvqiwCLcB/s320/2016%2Bhorror.png" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://www.facebook.com/LADbible/videos/3038672026179967/?pnref=story" target="_blank">This says it all: LAD bible actually made 2016 into a horror movie!</a></i></td></tr>
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<br />
Every year has its share of problems, sadness and loss though, so I don’t know why 2016 was just so tough. But somehow, it just <b>was</b>, for all of us it seemed. Maybe it is a collective fatigue. Or maybe it is our inter-connectedness on social media that we now feel everyone else’s bad news more acutely, a social empathy or recognition of all the sadness out there.<br />
<br />
Perhaps it was also so difficult because, instead of relying on one another for needed support, we stopped calling, stopped going out, stopped talking... I seemed to notice that in 2016 we retreated into our own sorrow; we hid away from the world. Like crabs afraid of what the waves would bring, we buried deeper into our sand caves, which of course made it all the harder to carry our own burdens because we were carrying them alone.<br />
<br />
As for me, in 2016, things weren't so awful comparatively speaking. But the last 6 months were mired with never-ending house problems, contract delays and very frequent vet visits. It was also a year when I lost pretty much all the homes I knew: my one in Rome last year, my childhood one, the new one in Montreal and then of course, my kitty, who was what made each transient place I went to a home. That was of course for me the worst loss: losing my Matteo, <a href="http://www.livinglikeatourist.com/2010/01/non-traditional-travelers-checklist.html" target="_blank">my travel companion</a> and best friend for 12 years.
And unfortunately, just turning the page on the calendar doesn’t make the pain go away.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wrZoOjBdb7M/WG9K13sJrhI/AAAAAAAAGoU/amlq7PorZkosyrBXB_FxL0uMIGR90NmRgCLcB/s1600/Matteo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wrZoOjBdb7M/WG9K13sJrhI/AAAAAAAAGoU/amlq7PorZkosyrBXB_FxL0uMIGR90NmRgCLcB/s320/Matteo.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>One of my <a href="http://www.livinglikeatourist.com/2010/01/non-traditional-travelers-checklist.html" target="_blank">first blog posts about Matteo</a> as my travel companion</i></td></tr>
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That’s the thing about New Year’s: Health issues aren't cured at midnight. Jobs aren't found or fixed with a stroke. Pain doesn’t just evaporate. The new president still takes office this month. 2016, and its challenges, doesn't disappear overnight.<br />
<br />
I don't want to put a silver lining on the 2016 cloud because I don't want to gloss over the pain people have felt and still feel from these issues. I do, however, think it is important to paint the full picture of 2016. And for me, despite sadness, I feel like I grew a lot last year.<br />
<br />
<b>Direction </b><br />
I took this year to figure out what my calling might be, to understand what I wanted to do with my talents, my interests and my nagging desire to write. I finally seem to have it straight in my head that I want to be a writer, but I don’t want to be an author. I want to write one book, but not write books for a living. I like writing on behalf of causes. I don't like writing blog posts every day (obviously). All this is clearer to me now after a year of reading books, listening to podcasts, seeking out articles, speaking to people, interrogating friends and just generally overthinking (my trademark). I was searching to figure out what I wanted to do with this interest and I understand a little bit better now. So my goals are clearer.<br />
<br />
<b>Partnership </b><br />
In 2016, things were also clearer to me about marriage and partnerships. I think there are statistics out there about the first year of marriage being difficult, but I didn’t expect it. There were growing pains that I didn’t foresee. I think in the first year, conversations are sometimes laced with a certain defense mechanism, a type of edginess from the idea that you need to stand your ground or perhaps lose this point in this “rest of our lives” scenario. Everything is a bigger deal because it is setting a precedent. If you let one thing go, you could get stuck in that pattern forever. Of course, this isn’t the reality, but it is often how we feel: secretly at war, defending our own independence and former lives. But to make it past that first year, you have to put away the weapons. You have to realize that marriage isn't trying to kill your former unattached self. In fact, it is important to preserve those versions of ourselves. Marriage is about incorporating those versions of ourselves into our new versions and into our partnership. By 2016, I understood these things; the war had ended. I had found peace.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VBPUevZycys/WG9LzSSu7wI/AAAAAAAAGog/DrnDCZl9OHA7TcB9FID3MVPzae9eK_c2wCLcB/s1600/Family%2Bskype%2Bcall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VBPUevZycys/WG9LzSSu7wI/AAAAAAAAGog/DrnDCZl9OHA7TcB9FID3MVPzae9eK_c2wCLcB/s320/Family%2Bskype%2Bcall.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Our Christmas Day family Skype call. <br />We were in 3 different countries, but still took a selfie.</i></td></tr>
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<b>Priorities </b><br />
I saw my family a lot this year which reminded me of my priorities in life and the importance of a strong family foundation. I also saw friends, many of whom I have lost touch with. This is a priority I have been neglecting, and it is something that I have vowed to work on in 2017.<br />
<br />
<b>Faith</b><br />
Faith played a huge role of support and comfort for me this year. In all my travels and my fear of flying, in starting over and believing that things would work out and especially in the death of Matteo, I felt more strongly supported and comforted than I ever have before. Maybe it is because I had to rely on it more than before, but the power of prayer, meditation and gratefulness is more obvious to me now than it ever has been.<br />
<br />
<b>Home </b><br />
With losing and changing homes so many times this year, I realized that I could make a home anywhere I want: Rome, Baltimore, D.C., Montreal, Guatemala etc. Living like a tourist has taught me that I can make the most of any place I am in. And that the important people in your life will be there no matter where you are, even if you have to make a greater effort.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lxnlRxkDDIs/WG9Q0CaWXVI/AAAAAAAAGos/TPwIJjvn4i8715n0EfjqsvBp10moSiXRwCLcB/s1600/Baltimore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lxnlRxkDDIs/WG9Q0CaWXVI/AAAAAAAAGos/TPwIJjvn4i8715n0EfjqsvBp10moSiXRwCLcB/s320/Baltimore.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My original home, Baltimore.</i></td></tr>
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<b>Love </b><br />
Letting go is a huge part of love, the hardest part of love. It seems counter-intuitive, but it is very true. It took me a long time to come to terms with letting go of Matteo. And I am still working on it. The instinct is, of course, to want to never feel that pain again. But I know that one day I will want another kitty; it is an important part of my life to love and care for another being/ living thing. It makes my life more whole. Perhaps knowing this, I might be more ready for motherhood than I thought. (However, I'd like to stress the <b>perhaps</b> in this sentence).<br />
<br />
<b>"A smooth sea never made a skilled mariner." </b><br />
It is unfortunate that there are periods in life where things just seem awful, difficult, dark and never-ending. I hated seeing so many of my friends dealing with such serious issues. I wanted their pain to end. By the end of the year, I too felt very worn-down and ready for a break, a new start. I may have learned a lot, but I was exhausted. I suppose this is how life works though. "a smooth sea …, what doesn’t kill you…, no pain, no gain..." Those sayings come from somewhere.<br />
<br />
Back in 2007, another difficult year for me, when challenges hit, I often sunk or chose the easy way out. At least in 2016, I felt like I did rise to the occasion. I hope that 2017 gives new air to these wings and offers us some brighter, sunnier days to let them dry out a bit.Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-26746865682223932992016-10-05T10:21:00.001-04:002019-08-06T10:11:58.873-04:00Living here and there<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uXKUKE1tJGY/XUmKgZ-uaVI/AAAAAAAAHM0/hCQ9fg32ZSA1GIOnFz9zLOUvI3iaLiIygCLcBGAs/s1600/LLAT-%2BLiving%2Bhere%2Band%2Bthere-%2B1-edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uXKUKE1tJGY/XUmKgZ-uaVI/AAAAAAAAHM0/hCQ9fg32ZSA1GIOnFz9zLOUvI3iaLiIygCLcBGAs/s640/LLAT-%2BLiving%2Bhere%2Band%2Bthere-%2B1-edit.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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So many of us are living in more than one place at one time. It is especially pronounced with expats, who on paper already have two addresses, permanent and present. But even for those of us who commute to work (which in North America can easily be 1-2 hours one way) or who work in one city, have a house in another and daycare in a third, our lives can feel split among many locations.<br />
<br />
After a year of traveling and moving around, I am working to reestablish a residence somewhere and that somewhere is currently in Rome. We have an apartment in Rome, but I don’t yet have a visa to stay. So I am leaving again next week. I am going back to see family in the US, settle some things in Canada and regroup before probably coming back out again.
I am partly living in Rome, but I am partly living in Canada where we have our own apartment and citizenship status. And I am partly still living in the US, where I have a history and an address that is on my driver’s license, credit card, mail etc, but which is only valid until my parent’s sell their house, an imminent occurrence.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TAsaLSpWy7A/V_UJmieNSnI/AAAAAAAAGhw/Pxgxz2BqDOUzVpP0cRV3Ad2xuxu9J_yzQCLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2BRome%2BTevere.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TAsaLSpWy7A/V_UJmieNSnI/AAAAAAAAGhw/Pxgxz2BqDOUzVpP0cRV3Ad2xuxu9J_yzQCLcB/s320/LLAT-%2BRome%2BTevere.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
It is as if little parts of me are residing in a multitude of cities, as if I am living everywhere and nowhere at the same time. This is the downside of living like a tourist.<br />
<br />
I find it great fun to come back to somewhere like Rome, somewhere that I have known for over 15 years and for which in many ways is home, but still do all the touristy things to make me remember what a great city I am in.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AhD1Ue6XFXw/V_UJedyS8QI/AAAAAAAAGho/ltL9LqfJjMUVKxCO4p6J9R31jChWcndDQCLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2BPizza%2BCave%2BCanem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AhD1Ue6XFXw/V_UJedyS8QI/AAAAAAAAGho/ltL9LqfJjMUVKxCO4p6J9R31jChWcndDQCLcB/s320/LLAT-%2BPizza%2BCave%2BCanem.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pizza at Cave Canem: Yes, I still take pictures of my food</i></td></tr>
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Each time I come back to Rome, I have to get a coffee at standing at one of the many bars and a <i>biscotto della nonna</i> gelato at La Romana, thick pizza at Da Grottino or La Focaccia and thin pizza at Cave Canem or Baffetto 2, <i>cacio pepe</i> in Testaccio and have at least one plate of <i>cicoria </i>(chicory) wherever. I have to see the Colosseum during the day and Pantheon at night. I have to run along the <i>Tevere</i> (Tiber) river at sunset. And now, just not to tempt fate, I have to throw a coin in the Trevi. If it is summer time, I need to get a <i>granita di caffe</i> (coffee slushie) at Tazza d’Oro, if winter, a <i>zuppa ai ceci </i>(chick pea soup) at Ai Balestrari. And of course, I have to drink as much wine as I can, particularly of Primitivo, Ripasso di Valpolicella, Nobile di Montepulciano or Lacrima di Morro, varieties that are harder to find outside of Italy.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6iTco8GFbCk/V_UJjV6qfPI/AAAAAAAAGhs/nur7KkdEBn4atacHshGHhic5hzUoN9sBACLcB/s1600/IMG_20160809_222106.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6iTco8GFbCk/V_UJjV6qfPI/AAAAAAAAGhs/nur7KkdEBn4atacHshGHhic5hzUoN9sBACLcB/s320/IMG_20160809_222106.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Charming Rue St. Denis, Montreal</i></td></tr>
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Whenever I go back to any city, I have particular habits: get a bagel and half a poutine (I can never finish one) in Montreal, walk around the Old Port and St. Denis, run along the Lachine Canal. In Baltimore, I make it a point to have Old Bay on something and see the Inner Harbor, go to an O’s game and get a local brew in Fells Point. In DC, I get Julia’s empanadas or falafel in Adams Morgan. I go running on Rock Creek Parkway and see one of the many DC museums (most of them for free!). I walk on the Mall to see the Capitol and the Washington Monument. If I go in the spring, I like to see the Cherry Blossoms (with the other two million tourists who come to DC for this as well).<br />
<br />
It is nice to be back in these cities and be a local in the sense that I know where everything is, I have friends there, I have memories there, I know all the things I have tried and liked and all the things which I tried and didn’t like. Yet, I still get to be a tourist, visiting everything with new eyes and retrying certain things in case it, or I, have changed (salted caramel ice cream in DC for example… I like it now).<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jVf-4KVQ5P0/V_UKt2_oENI/AAAAAAAAGiA/neMnkcLuarw7SvfeWAIws6Jyd1bL5bnfwCLcB/s1600/IMG_20160814_012658.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jVf-4KVQ5P0/V_UKt2_oENI/AAAAAAAAGiA/neMnkcLuarw7SvfeWAIws6Jyd1bL5bnfwCLcB/s320/IMG_20160814_012658.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Mandatory Colosseum picture taken in August. Guess I will need another soon.</i></td></tr>
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At the same time, it is a weird predicament. I am always back for a limited period of time; that period of time is sometimes a year or more, but sometimes that period of time is 2 weeks, like it will be now. So am I still a local or am I just a visitor at that point? I am neither living there nor here. Does that make me a tourist everywhere or a local everywhere?<br />
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I don't know the real answer to that question, but I try to be both. I try to live everywhere like I am a local, but take advantage of the city like I am a tourist. I try to make the most of my time in any one place because I never know how long I will be there. Like any of life’s dualities, it is both a kind of sad and a kind of great way to live. But I remind myself that it is the lifestyle I have chosen, so I choose to focus on the great.<br />
<br />
I'll miss my husband but I will get to see my parents. I will miss my kitty, but I will get to see my cousins. I will miss my Rome-based friends, but will see my Balti-DC ones. Our lives are all split, (yes- some more than others), but you just have to focus on what you have in each place, not what you are missing in it.Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-51247065208570014782016-08-16T07:36:00.000-04:002019-08-05T08:10:14.806-04:00The end of a Sabbatical<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JmDyjxy6euc/V7L5J384fpI/AAAAAAAAGRE/FKtZ_qwwbHwZV82OG1jnI9sxDmhmApF_ACLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2Ball%2Broads%2Blead%2Bto%2Brome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="580" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JmDyjxy6euc/V7L5J384fpI/AAAAAAAAGRE/FKtZ_qwwbHwZV82OG1jnI9sxDmhmApF_ACLcB/s640/LLAT-%2Ball%2Broads%2Blead%2Bto%2Brome.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i>Fifth time back, but still love pictures in front of the Colosseum</i><br />
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It was about June last year when we were discussing the concept of this entire plan.<br />
<br />
“A year? You want to take a year off?”<br />
“At least.” he said.<br />
<br />
Where is this coming from? I said more to myself than to him because I knew his answer would be, <i>I don’t know</i>. He is not the introspective type. But despite where it came from, the pebble was rolling and quickly picking up weight on the way down. By July, it was a boulder and there was no stopping it.<br />
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I was hesitant. I was very hesitant. Italy felt more and more like home. I finally lived in an apartment of my own furnishings and decoration. I had a job where I felt needed. And though it had been a hard year for a variety of reasons, I was more in the mindset of keep your head down, and work harder. I had been doing that for months.<br />
<br />
Most of the time, when there's a will, there is a way. But sometimes willing it, is just not enough. I couldn’t change all of my circumstances by willing them. So I finally agreed to stop the current tide and start something new. Who knew, maybe it would create a different, welcomed ripple in our future.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BaOwame9Gng/V7L2cusSJ6I/AAAAAAAAGQ0/0l1Xh0ehjzofWnlT4duVDGtCaq8ZJU7TgCLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2BGoodbye%2Bapartment.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BaOwame9Gng/V7L2cusSJ6I/AAAAAAAAGQ0/0l1Xh0ehjzofWnlT4duVDGtCaq8ZJU7TgCLcB/s400/LLAT-%2BGoodbye%2Bapartment.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Our emptied apartment in Rome</i></td></tr>
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So in Summer 2015 we told our work places that we were leaving Rome. We gave up our apartment, sold our car and furniture, packed up most of our possessions, threw out the rest, closed our bank accounts, shipped 400 kilos of stuff to North America, put it in a U-haul towed it 10 hours to Montreal to set up a new condo that we had bought in pre-construction, bought new furniture, unpacked the 400 kilos of stuff and probably another 100 kilos of my childhood things. Stopped everything and went to Vancouver, then came back to Montreal, then back to Baltimore. Went onto Central America: <a href="http://www.livinglikeatourist.com/2016/01/real-antigua.html" target="_blank">Guatemala</a>, <a href="http://www.livinglikeatourist.com/2016/02/the-paris-of-mayan-world.html" target="_blank">Honduras</a>, <a href="http://www.livinglikeatourist.com/2016/03/panama-is-like.html" target="_blank">Panama</a>, <a href="http://www.livinglikeatourist.com/2016/02/the-way-to-see-san-jose.html" target="_blank">Costa Rica</a>, Nicaragua, then went back to Baltimore, collected my cat, drove back up to Montreal, finished setting up our condo, drove back to Baltimore, dropped off my cat, flew to <a href="http://www.livinglikeatourist.com/2016/04/ayiti-cherie.html" target="_blank">Haiti</a>, attended a wedding, then went down to South America: <a href="http://www.livinglikeatourist.com/2016/06/dont-judge-country-by-its-travel-guide.html" target="_blank">Cartagena, Bogota</a>, <a href="http://www.livinglikeatourist.com/2016/06/home-away-from-home-buenos-aires.html" target="_blank">Buenos Aires</a>, Colonia, <a href="http://www.livinglikeatourist.com/2016/07/stuck-in-my-head-santiago-chile.html" target="_blank">Santiago, Valparaiso, Vina del Mar</a>, Mendoza, Santiago, <a href="http://www.livinglikeatourist.com/2016/08/peruvian-surprises.html" target="_blank">Lima, Pisco, Paracas, Huacachina</a>, Lima, Cusco, Aguas Calientes, Machu Pichu, Cusco, Lima, ended the trip with a week in Charleston, SC. Drove 10 hours back to Baltimore, picked up my kitty, drove another 10 hours back to Montreal, put up the last frames and touches on the apartment, and then undid it all to pack for Rome and start a shipment to go back to Italy.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Hvy1b1Ze-04/V7L4qzVLZOI/AAAAAAAAGRA/U0oR-yrljnoSSpUl3pneq5oqHEWI9xjmQCLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2Bunpacking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Hvy1b1Ze-04/V7L4qzVLZOI/AAAAAAAAGRA/U0oR-yrljnoSSpUl3pneq5oqHEWI9xjmQCLcB/s400/LLAT-%2Bunpacking.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Unpacking the shipments</i></td></tr>
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Which is where we are now. 9 months later, it is all over. We went full circle and are back in Rome once more. Mind you, that was not the intention. The intention, as aforementioned, was to do something <b>new </b>after this sabbatical.<br />
<br />
But fate had stepped in to say what our next step should be. While we were still on our travels, my husband got a call for a job in Rome and it was a hard one to turn down. We discussed it at length and, as I do, I thought about it even longer. But the answer was ultimately, yes.<br />
<br />
When you decide to take a year off, you think that you have so much time. Surely, a sabbatical would allow you to accomplish everything you wished you had time to do: write a book, learn Spanish, visit all of Central and South America, catch up with old friends, spend time with family, find a miracle vet to cure my cat’s cancer, discover a new home, uncover my calling, reorganize everything I have ever owned and still have time to do yoga, a couple marathons and maybe learn croquet. (Just kidding about the croquet part, but you get the point). It doesn’t work that way. I made headway in a little of all of the above, but, as you can imagine, I did not <b>complete</b> any of the above.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Rgay1Z1Bzvk/V7L56gEugyI/AAAAAAAAGRM/ksQFqpDr2FIa2eqR9888A2TEu9gC6lQVQCLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2Blearning%2Bspanish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Rgay1Z1Bzvk/V7L56gEugyI/AAAAAAAAGRM/ksQFqpDr2FIa2eqR9888A2TEu9gC6lQVQCLcB/s400/LLAT-%2Blearning%2Bspanish.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I am not exactly fluent, but 4 weeks of Spanish is a good start</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I will admit that I hoped it would be the eat-pray-love year that would turn my entire life around and lead us to a whole new reality: a new city, a new job, a new career, a new calling... a type of prize for having taken a leap of faith and trusting in life and fate. But maybe fate handing us back our old life is the prize. And maybe it is not our old life at all, but the newness we were craving. I hope so.<br />
<br />
So despite everything that we tried to do, I am back in Rome for the fifth time. And the truth is, I am happy about it. I have proven that no matter what I do, Rome will never be out of my system.<br />
<br />
All roads lead to Rome. I couldn’t put it better myself.
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Sw1-Ujf2Uw8/V7L1wKii8pI/AAAAAAAAGQs/raxDB_XWonw90MIB6AaAMK3XpZpPs_8GQCLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2Bgoodbye%2Brome%2B2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Sw1-Ujf2Uw8/V7L1wKii8pI/AAAAAAAAGQs/raxDB_XWonw90MIB6AaAMK3XpZpPs_8GQCLcB/s400/LLAT-%2Bgoodbye%2Brome%2B2015.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I keep throwing coins in the Trevi Fountain. That must be the problem!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-32302034275081782432016-08-10T15:55:00.000-04:002020-02-03T11:29:31.505-05:0010 Machu Picchu planning tips for non-planners<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Machu Picchu. As I mentioned in my first post on Peru, I
thought that the hype might overshadow the real thing. But it is as if all the
noise and all the crowds, hush once you get to the top of the mountains and
find an abandoned city hidden in the clouds, surrounded only by sky and other
silent mountains. Even without knowing the exact history of Machu Picchu, just
seeing what humans have created, (and humans 600 years ago no less) with and in
respect for nature is humbling enough to leave anyone amazed. For the history
buff and selfie-taker alike, Machu Picchu is magical. You have proof of genius
and greatness that withstood time and conquests. It was as if nature, knowing
that the city was honoring it, shielded its location and kept it hidden under
its branches until it was safe to offer it back to the world.<br />
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Getting to Machu Picchu is not easy (easier than it was for its
first discoverer, Hiram Bingham, I am sure), but the Peruvians have left in a
bit of the adventure just to make you feel accomplished when you finally align
all pieces and get to stand at the citadel.</div>
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1. <b>Getting to Machu Picchu: The
adventure begins</b><br />
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When you want to visit Machu Picchu, getting to Peru is the easy part. From there you still have many steps before reaching this legendary site. Assuming that your only goal is to get to Machu Picchu from Lima, you still need to take a flight, taxi, train, bus and/or hike to get to this wonder of the world.<br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Get a flight from Lima to Cusco</b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">- Flight time is 1 hour. Few if any international
flights go directly to Cusco, but the flight from Lima is cheap approximately
$80 RT</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Taxi from Cusco to Poroy</b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">- The train from Cusco to Machu Picchu Pueblo (Aguas
Calientes) does not actually leave from Cusco, it leaves from Poroy which is
25-30 minutes away. You need a taxi to get there.</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Train from Poroy to Aguas Calientes-</b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> The train, either </span><u style="text-indent: -0.25in;">PeruRail </u><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">or
</span><u style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Inka Rail</u><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">, from Poroy to Aguas Calientes, the town at the bottom of the
hill from Machu Picchu, is 3.5 hours. The distance is not far, but the train
does not go more than 40 mph. Sit and enjoy the ride.</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Aguas Calientes to Machu Picchu itself</b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">- You can hike up the 6km hill to
Machu Picchu which takes about 1.5 hours at 4 am. Or you can pay $12 to take
the bus which takes 30 minutes. I say save the energy for Machu Picchu itself.</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b style="text-align: center; text-indent: -0.25in;">Machu Picchu to Wayna Picchu (also refered to as Huaynapicchu)</b><span style="text-align: center; text-indent: -0.25in;">- If you want to see Machu Picchu
from above, you then need to factor in a strenuous hike of another 1.5 hours
and you need to plan this in advance as it is a separate ticket. More on this
below.</span></li>
</ul>
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<b>2. Plan your trip at least 3-6 months in advance (yes, you need this much)</b></div>
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We are not really <i>plan-your-vacations-in-advance</i> people, but we didn’t have a choice with Machu Picchu. The internet calendar dictated the first available dates for Machu Picchu so we bought our spots and planned the trip around that. This was two months in advance. To really get the dates you want, you should book 3-6 months in advance. This rule also applies to the train to and accommodation in Aguas Calientes (Machu Picchu Pueblo), the town below Machu Picchu.</div>
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<ul>
<li><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Pick your dates: </b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">End of May or early June is still good timing. It is after the
rainy season, but it is not peak season. July and August might promise better
weather, but it can also dish out 35 degree Celsius/95 degree Fahrenheit temperatures
which can be brutal for hiking<b>.</b></span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Pick your entry route- </b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">In all cases, you will need to book
your Machu Picchu </span><a href="http://www.machupicchu.gob.pe/" style="text-indent: -0.25in;">tickets online</a><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">. However,
there are three route options: 1) Machu Picchu, the citadel only, 2) Machu
Picchu and Huaynapicchu (aka Wayna Picchu) and 3) Machu Picchu and La Montana. Entrance
to main citadel of Machu Picchu is now limited to the first 2000 people per day.
Huaynapicchu, the peak jutting up over the Citadel (the nose of the face if you
will), is limited to 200 per day. La Montana is the hill behind Machu Picchu
and those tickets are limited to 400 people per day. In terms of fitness level,
the citadel is the easiest to do, La Montana the second easiest and Huaynapicchu
the hardest.</span></li>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MEdvB5Dl1uc/XiizUN15jxI/AAAAAAAAHTo/d478MMuAligaIpZO1TCPpI6ErwdsIXpbgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Machu%2BPicchu%2B%252865%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MEdvB5Dl1uc/XiizUN15jxI/AAAAAAAAHTo/d478MMuAligaIpZO1TCPpI6ErwdsIXpbgCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/Machu%2BPicchu%2B%252865%2529.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<li><b style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Local Tip: If you plan on going to Huaynapicchu, pick the 10-11 am
entrance</b><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">. There
are two time slots, one at 7-8 am and the other at 10- 11am. Our local guide
told us that it is extremely common for it to be foggy and rainy in the
mornings in Machu Picchu, but it usually clears up around 10 am. This is
exactly the situation we faced. The strenuous hike up to Wayna Picchu is
primarily for the panoramic view overlooking Machu Picchu, so it is a shame to
go in the morning when the fog would mask all of this.</span></li>
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<b>3. Don’t put let the fear of altitude sickness rule your trip</b><br />
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Read about altitude sickness and its causes/cures, but don’t let it
scare you out of or ruin your trip. We went against the advice to leave Cusco
immediately and go to Machu Picchu pueblo directly mainly because of logistics.
However, we found that if you take it easy the first few days, rest, drink
water, don’t walk too much, eat light and just really heed your body’s
warnings, most people will be fine. And for those who aren’t there are oxygen
tanks at hotels, pharmacies with pills at every corner and a whole town of
people who are geared for how to help treat <i>sorochce</i>, as it is locally
called.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<b>4. Enjoy the train as part of the
full experience<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Book your train tickets online in advance. There are two main train
companies: <a href="http://www.perurail.com/">Peru rail</a> and <a href="http://www.incarail.com/">Inca rail</a>. Both have different class
options that allow you for either a basic trip or one with a greater view,
enhanced meals and music or entertainment. We found that Peru rail had more
options in terms of timing and routes from Cusco, but Inca Rail can be a bit
cheaper when comparing certain class tickets.<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">We took Perurail’s Vistadome there and its Expedition back. All the
train options are fairly expensive (+/- $150 RT per person), so if you are
looking to save money, but still want to savor the experience, book a day time
ride with skylights (PeruRail’s Vistadome or Inca Rail’s Executive Class) train
on your way there, but then an evening, more economic Expedition or Premium
Economy on the way back. It is a good way to save 15-30 USD/per person.</span></div>
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<o:p></o:p><br />
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<b>5. Don’t neglect Cusco. Stay at least a couple nights.</b><br />
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It is one of the most beautiful cities in South America. We stayed 5 nights and
didn’t get bored. There are also a ton of fascinating day trips to do from
Cusco: <b><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maras,_Peru">Maras</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moray_(Inca_ruin)">Moray</a>, <a href="https://www.rainbowmountainperu.com/">Rainbow hill</a>, etc</b> <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>6. Don’t be afraid to stay more
than one night in Aguas Calientes (Machu Pichu pueblo)</b><br />
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Everyone will advise you not to
stay in Aguas Calientes more than one night. And there are many reasons why
this is good advice. However, you can miss out on a lot in order to avoid some
commercialism and tourist traps. The point is that after all the effort to get
to the Machu Picchu site, you don’t want to shorten your time there by having
to worry about catching a train. We saw an exodus of people leave the park at
3-4pm just to be able to catch the evening train back. I think it is definitely
worth the extra night to stay at Machu Pichu until closing time and get a few
hours more at the incredible site. <o:p></o:p><br />
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The extra night also means you can fit in little known treasures
like the <b><a href="https://www.lonelyplanet.com/peru/aguas-calientes/attractions/museo-de-sitio-manuel-chavez-ballon/a/poi-sig/470336/363400">Manuel
Chávez Ballón Site Museum</a> </b>and attached gardens. Or for the die hard, I
think that there is more than enough to see to book 2 days at Machu Picchu. There
is no two-day pass, but it could be worth paying for two separate entrance
tickets just to see it all. In fact, one day only at Machu Picchu usually means
that you miss out on the farther sites like Temple of Moon, the Inka Bridge or the
Sun gate. In terms of where to stay, there is a village full of accommodation
options, but much of it is not the highest quality, booking it early means you
have your choice of the nicer/cheaper places.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<b>7. Good packing is key<o:p></o:p></b><br />
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Leave your big suitcase at your hotel in Cusco and pack a weekend
bag. Most hotels willingly accommodate this request. It is a common one. For
your Machu Pichu days, remember to pack exercise clothes, rain gear, mosquito
repellant, sunscreen and water. Hiking boots are a must especially if you do Wayna
Pichu. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<b>8. Day of: Wake up early. Very
early. It is worth it.<o:p></o:p></b><br />
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We got up at 4:45 am and were in line by 5:30. The line for the bus
was already up the street but we only waited 25 minutes. The park only opens at
6am, but it takes 30 min to get there. 4:45 was not that early after all.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<b>9. Get a tour guide but do not to arrange ahead of time<o:p></o:p></b><br />
<b><br /></b></div>
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It might seem excessive to pay 40-60 USD on a 2-hour
personal guide. However, Machu Picchu does not have any signage and as well
preserved as it is, the sites and their significance are not at all obvious. We
bought a detailed book on the important sites and still hired a guide and I
would recommend both. There is a lot of mystery shrouding Machu Picchu, what it
was built for, who lived there etc, but it is invaluable to hear the theories
and accounts on what you are looking at while you are looking at it. TIP: You
don’t need to book a guide from your hotel or from the town. It is more
expensive and there are just as many certified guides at the entrance of the
site. Also, if you understand Spanish, it is worth hiring a Spanish-speaking
guide as they are less expensive. Guides charge more depending on the language
you need: Spanish is the cheapest.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<b>10. Bring your passport to Machu Picchu for a stamp</b>!<o:p></o:p><br />
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Technically, you aren’t supposed to have stamps from
anything but official border crossings in your passport, but I had an expiring
passport that I didn’t mind.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<b>Don't forget to respect the site. <o:p></o:p></b><br />
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Machu Picchu is a natural wonder, a world heritage site, historically
important and one of a kind, don't get carried away with your selfie taking and adventuring. The site is not about you. Be respectful and don’t leave a mark. </div>
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Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-55279296153671238792016-08-07T16:46:00.002-04:002019-08-05T08:07:51.302-04:00Peruvian Surprises<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ClmVMQGNWnk/XUgbcONwVfI/AAAAAAAAHMg/8VaTc-sRqjAPO_4A6O4hCKLmIDPeakBTwCLcBGAs/s1600/Lima%2B-%2BCentro%2B%252851%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ClmVMQGNWnk/XUgbcONwVfI/AAAAAAAAHMg/8VaTc-sRqjAPO_4A6O4hCKLmIDPeakBTwCLcBGAs/s640/Lima%2B-%2BCentro%2B%252851%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Peru was probably the greatest surprise of our trip. Unlike <a href="http://www.livinglikeatourist.com/2016/07/stuck-in-my-head-santiago-chile.html" target="_blank">Chile</a>, I had no inner attraction calling me to visit, and unlike <a href="http://www.livinglikeatourist.com/2016/06/dont-judge-country-by-its-travel-guide.html" target="_blank">Colombia</a>, I had no preconceived, albeit wrong, judgement detracting me. I had seen the ubiquitous postcards of lush Machu Picchu and grazing lamas just like everyone else and had thought: sure, it would be a nice place to go. However, my rebellious Aquarian nature (I’ll blame it on astrology) always makes me skeptical of fads. Machu Picchu seemed like the latest booming one.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ALOT9Lm1hqo/V6eOFOQfrGI/AAAAAAAAGPs/4_wyYpLUQdcJHG0i9GYu04tT_zUCXoX7gCLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2BMachu%2BPicchu%2B%2528327%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ALOT9Lm1hqo/V6eOFOQfrGI/AAAAAAAAGPs/4_wyYpLUQdcJHG0i9GYu04tT_zUCXoX7gCLcB/s400/LLAT-%2BMachu%2BPicchu%2B%2528327%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Machu Picchu- you've undoubtedly see this shot before</i></td></tr>
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Regardless, we couldn’t go to Peru without going to the Lost City of the Incas, and we made it the last stop in our trip. I should clarify that, although it was nice and symbolic to end our trip on a “high note” with the infamous Cusco 11,000 feet elevation, Machu Picchu was also our last stop because logistically it had to be. This part of the trip was by far, the most convoluted and difficult to plan. One of my next posts will be on just the tricks we wish we had known when planning our Machu Picchu adventure, because it is scarily easy to miss out on much of that experience and we very nearly did.<br />
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Aside from Machu Picchu though, Peru has so much to offer, and to contradict one of my earlier statements, even though we didn’t want to miss out on Machu Picchu while in the country, Peru is still worth a trip even without including this wonder of the world. Peru kept us guessing at every turn. There were so many things that we did expect from it and were awed by.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-e584mh3AVsQ/V6YI2sh9Z6I/AAAAAAAAGOg/GQNJF1Ahh8kwp2WDLaZaSPrW3OAR5vIPwCLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2BHuacachina%2B%252869%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-e584mh3AVsQ/V6YI2sh9Z6I/AAAAAAAAGOg/GQNJF1Ahh8kwp2WDLaZaSPrW3OAR5vIPwCLcB/s400/LLAT-%2BHuacachina%2B%252869%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sand dunes outside of Huacachina Oasis</i></td></tr>
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One of the first surprises for us was that Lima is in a desert. You drive just a few miles outside of the city and hit sand dunes. I had no idea. This Middle Eastern looking landscape is a far cry from the lush valleys and green hills you see in those famous Machu Picchu postcards. But coastal, northern and southern Peru are comprised of three deserts, the Sechura, the Coastal and Atacama deserts, that stretch all the way down to Chile. In fact, according to <a href="http://www.uniglobephillipstravel.com/post/view/10-interesting-facts-about-lima" target="_blank">one site I read</a>, Lima is the second largest desert capital city after Cairo.<br />
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Another surprise is that Peru really lived up to everything people told us about it. Machu Picchu really was magical. And the food really was extraordinary. Throughout our travels, as we explained our itinerary which ended with Peru, people, without fail, would say, “Oh, you are going to eat so well in Peru!” The first, second and third time, we smiled and said, “Ah yes, ceviche. We love ceviche.” But the enthusiasm of friends and strangers alike on Peru’s gastronomy had us very curious indeed by the time we got to Lima.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OTb_AQlOoBo/V6dxePUbOlI/AAAAAAAAGPY/bPYQ2kjK9p4ubchRZIuU20ThwcnF8t39gCLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2BLima%2B-%2BCentro%2B%252810%2529%2Bcopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OTb_AQlOoBo/V6dxePUbOlI/AAAAAAAAGPY/bPYQ2kjK9p4ubchRZIuU20ThwcnF8t39gCLcB/s400/LLAT-%2BLima%2B-%2BCentro%2B%252810%2529%2Bcopy.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Cebicheria Rosita - everything you dreamed about when thinking ceviche</i></td></tr>
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Of course, as with any hype, we expected to be let down, but our first meal had us hollering Amen to all the chants that Peruvian food is heaven. <a href="http://www.cebicheriarositaperu.com/contactenos.php" target="_blank">Restaurant Cebicheria Rosita</a> had the best ceviche we ever tasted, and it wasn't just the ceviche. We tried<i> Arroz con mariscos a la Limeña </i>(seafood rice), <i>Chicharron de calamar</i> (deep fried calamari), <i>Leche de tigre</i> (citrus marinade) … all amazing. It was probably the best meal we had in any of our Central or South American trips.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YR-E6owyO80/V6YXGOeUl5I/AAAAAAAAGO0/EHVu3XzVBwwXUh7YFUuVl0tuPjWz8oWxACLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2BLima-%2BMiraflores%2B%2528181%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YR-E6owyO80/V6YXGOeUl5I/AAAAAAAAGO0/EHVu3XzVBwwXUh7YFUuVl0tuPjWz8oWxACLcB/s400/LLAT-%2BLima-%2BMiraflores%2B%2528181%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Chupe de camarones</i></td></tr>
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I also discovered another dish called <i>chupe</i>, a type of seafood stew, that was one of the most diverse sets of ingredients I ever had: shrimp, evaporated milk, one sunny side up egg, a local type of mint, rice, corn, cheese, potatoes, green peas, tomato paste, a lot of other things and a bunch of spices. It was a completely surprising taste that reminded me of a mix of Thai, Caribbean and Latin food all at once. If I didn’t think it would take me 30 hours to make and come out tasting like play-dough, I would make this dish at least once a week.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kfg0NS_0U28/V6edkg7JaTI/AAAAAAAAGP8/hPKTifNcnvUK2nuj8X2rYBLcI0fJD_ZRgCLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2BHuacachina%2B%252822%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kfg0NS_0U28/V6edkg7JaTI/AAAAAAAAGP8/hPKTifNcnvUK2nuj8X2rYBLcI0fJD_ZRgCLcB/s400/LLAT-%2BHuacachina%2B%252822%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Huacachina Oasis</i></td></tr>
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Peru also provided us with the chance to see a real oasis, Huacachina, and to climb a sand dune to watch the sunset. It offered us the opportunity to go off-roading in a natural reserve where the desert literally stopped dead and plunged into the Pacific Ocean.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iH4RqKWTab0/V6YXLqwyq3I/AAAAAAAAGPE/05RCYI-QAgQhVrxuyK4Qu16cbcquylqjACLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2BReserva%2BNacional%2BParacas%2B%2528343%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iH4RqKWTab0/V6YXLqwyq3I/AAAAAAAAGPE/05RCYI-QAgQhVrxuyK4Qu16cbcquylqjACLcB/s400/LLAT-%2BReserva%2BNacional%2BParacas%2B%2528343%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Paracas Natural Reserve</i></td></tr>
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It gave us the possibility to spend the night in a trailer park; its status as not-quite a hotel, an eco-park they called it, allowed for it to be the only accommodation on the reserve. Hundreds of flamingos (again not what I would expect), hundreds of thousands of pelicans, and other colorful birds flew around the coast line or small lakes that had somehow formed within the desert.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DNI2ZOmfrO8/V6YXFCbXgaI/AAAAAAAAGOw/BfCLBsXsG-oRXZbSW2S4Wca3lo7aAxo9wCLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2BBungalo%2BTrailer%2B-%2BParacas%2B%252842%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DNI2ZOmfrO8/V6YXFCbXgaI/AAAAAAAAGOw/BfCLBsXsG-oRXZbSW2S4Wca3lo7aAxo9wCLcB/s400/LLAT-%2BBungalo%2BTrailer%2B-%2BParacas%2B%252842%2529.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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We got to go to a small fishing village, Pucasana, hidden among sand dunes, where we were definitely the only tourists. We found a winery that was like stepping out of the desert and through a worm hole to another part of the world where the hills are rolling, the land is lush, and the soil is fertile. After driving for hours on highways with only sand in sight, it was like discovering life on Mars. Peru is fascinating like that.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gBHWx104Uhs/V6YXMyamXHI/AAAAAAAAGPI/0Htl4F1IrFsGdOKpkjTPWCbBKDoAwpTWgCLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2BTacama%2BWinery%2B%252838%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gBHWx104Uhs/V6YXMyamXHI/AAAAAAAAGPI/0Htl4F1IrFsGdOKpkjTPWCbBKDoAwpTWgCLcB/s400/LLAT-%2BTacama%2BWinery%2B%252838%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Tacama Winery, offering another type of oasis amidst the desert surroundings</i></td></tr>
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As promised, my next post will talk more on Cusco and Machu Picchu, the two being true highlights of our trip, but I was happy that we had also scheduled in an extra week before even getting to Cusco. Though Lima had its charms, (the aforementioned food, its very grand and beautiful main square i.e <i>Plaza Mayor</i>, the Kennedy park which is a refuge for stray cats, Miraflores’s uppity elegance along the coast and Barranco’s mellow hippy-ness a little further south), 2-3 days was ample time there and we quickly reorganized ourselves to see more than just the capital. This extra week, which many tourists may not factor in, let us discover so much more about Peru, and its truly surprising nature. We never knew what to expect and it always turned out to be a good surprise.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YTLEtrfDMeA/V6YXHYBmdCI/AAAAAAAAGO4/M9gSfmjy2D86CqfvJtMhTb7AH-ADGHsvwCLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2BLima-%2BMiraflores%2B%2528149%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YTLEtrfDMeA/V6YXHYBmdCI/AAAAAAAAGO4/M9gSfmjy2D86CqfvJtMhTb7AH-ADGHsvwCLcB/s400/LLAT-%2BLima-%2BMiraflores%2B%2528149%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i>El Parque del Amor in Lima, very Gaudi like</i><br />
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Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-69470980245586732202016-07-13T22:00:00.003-04:002016-07-14T22:22:24.764-04:00Stuck in my head: Santiago, ChileThere are some places that get stuck in your head. You want to visit and you don’t really know why. They have mixed reviews, or people say to skip them altogether, but, no, you want to go there.
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5p6qG7DqxiU/V4bYBa7bFAI/AAAAAAAAGL8/TJZYk6tVx3YeorrbWOFrV4OjwZYFqp1yQCLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2BChile.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5p6qG7DqxiU/V4bYBa7bFAI/AAAAAAAAGL8/TJZYk6tVx3YeorrbWOFrV4OjwZYFqp1yQCLcB/s400/LLAT-%2BChile.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Going to Chile has always been something I wanted to do</span></i></td></tr>
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This was Santiago de Chile for me. I had always wanted to visit this capital despite the warnings of smog, the recommendations that the country side is nicer, the statements that the city is just a modern city with nothing much to offer tourists. I didn’t care; I wanted to go. My husband was also on board as he had friends there from a long time back and they had offered to host us.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ke97GTnV4A4/V4bdTrR2hWI/AAAAAAAAGMY/s4GOXd_up10rhbrEhbtwK8fXjjhuFvQ9QCLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2BSantiago%2B%2528147%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Ke97GTnV4A4/V4bdTrR2hWI/AAAAAAAAGMY/s4GOXd_up10rhbrEhbtwK8fXjjhuFvQ9QCLcB/s400/LLAT-%2BSantiago%2B%2528147%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Downtown Santiago</span></i></td></tr>
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When you can visit friends on your travels, the whole experience turns into something different, something amazing. You don’t <b>try</b> to live the local life, you just do it. You have real conversations about the real day-to-day issues and realities of the country. You know what people really eat on a daily basis not just was is "local," you end up seeing what the real work day hours are, and you experience where people chose to live and their reasons for it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vc_hWOlN_mw/V4btR7b1UsI/AAAAAAAAGM4/U77ZWXzbPhwHDwSnlBXh8A1v9Fe9OSO-ACEw/s1600/LLAT-%2Bmarket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vc_hWOlN_mw/V4btR7b1UsI/AAAAAAAAGM4/U77ZWXzbPhwHDwSnlBXh8A1v9Fe9OSO-ACEw/s400/LLAT-%2Bmarket.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: 12.8px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Buying fruit at the local fruit market, where locals actually go</span></i></td></tr>
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Staying with locals in a country is like being accepted into a secret society... without having to go through the acceptance rituals of moving there. I love it. And these friends, although not originally mine, were as if I had known them for years. We met the full wonderful family, mother, father, daughter, son, grandpa, grandma, auntie, doggie, and kitty.We hung out with them all, and enjoyed our time with them all.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VEEGrG1Ay-4/V4bTZQgh51I/AAAAAAAAGLw/UdRC9P4DYUo-n1sDj4MIAWNTkxtkKz2WwCLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2BSantiago%2B-%2BConcha%2By%2BToro%2B%252866%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VEEGrG1Ay-4/V4bTZQgh51I/AAAAAAAAGLw/UdRC9P4DYUo-n1sDj4MIAWNTkxtkKz2WwCLcB/s400/LLAT-%2BSantiago%2B-%2BConcha%2By%2BToro%2B%252866%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Concha y Toro Winery</span></i></td></tr>
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They took the opportunity of having us there to, “live like a tourist” as I might say, i.e. to do some touristy things that they would not necessarily do on their own in their own country, but things that they enjoy anyway: the Concha y Toro winery, salsa dancing, dinner at Peumayen restaurant (which serves native Chilean food), going to visit one of Pablo Neruda's famous houses (Isla Negra) etc.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Br0U0khUYDQ/V4bTXQ9sPPI/AAAAAAAAGLs/SUNP2ekxyBYhC7vzilEsiQY_FsWsB0_rgCLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2BValparaiso%2B-%2BLa%2BSebastiana%2BNeruda%2BHouse%2B%252833%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Br0U0khUYDQ/V4bTXQ9sPPI/AAAAAAAAGLs/SUNP2ekxyBYhC7vzilEsiQY_FsWsB0_rgCLcB/s400/LLAT-%2BValparaiso%2B-%2BLa%2BSebastiana%2BNeruda%2BHouse%2B%252833%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">One of many homages to Chilean writer, Pablo Neruda</span></i></td></tr>
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We know this phenomenon very well from our visitors coming to Rome. On the one hand, it can be annoying to go to the Vatican museums for the 7th time, but on the other, visitors always give you a chance to relive the enthusiasm of being a tourist: throwing a coin in the Trevi fountain, eating pizza near Piazza Navona, getting gelato twice a day, going to see the Pantheon at night ... it is a great excuse to be excited about your city again.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x2Lkqh_fbaI/V4bTVSrmKrI/AAAAAAAAGLc/z0HiXpLTt0412HW1YMaYBuRsgyuf3TTlACLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2BSantiago%2B%252850%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x2Lkqh_fbaI/V4bTVSrmKrI/AAAAAAAAGLc/z0HiXpLTt0412HW1YMaYBuRsgyuf3TTlACLcB/s400/LLAT-%2BSantiago%2B%252850%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Costanera Center, the tallest building in Latin America</span></i><br />
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We didn't subject them to doing all the touristy stuff though; we saved some of the super touristy things to do on our own. We went to the top of the Costanera Tower (<a href="http://www.skycostanera.cl/en/start/" target="_blank">Sky Costanera</a>) for the view, visited all three of Pablo Neruda’s houses (inside and outside of Santiago), went to the artisan market in the center and walked through the sculpture garden with a view of the skyline. I had a so-called <i>terremoto</i> (i.e. earthquake) drink, which was so sweet that it can cause an internal earthquake, and a much-contested Chilean pisco sour (Chile and Peru are in a <a href="http://theculturetrip.com/south-america/peru/articles/peru-vs-chile-a-pisco-sour-battle-for-cocktail-victory/" target="_blank">century-long battle over the Pisco Sour</a>). We also went to most of the historical sites in the center, including a church modeled after the Sacre Coeur in Paris (<a href="https://sacramentinos.cl/inicio/historia/nosotros/" target="_blank">Parroquia Santisimo Sacramento</a>).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Z-nLX-IxECI/V4bTVoiOUiI/AAAAAAAAGLg/zL0capfuxSgbOS60d5z__12J5jM9si3VgCLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2BSantiago%2B%2528145%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Z-nLX-IxECI/V4bTVoiOUiI/AAAAAAAAGLg/zL0capfuxSgbOS60d5z__12J5jM9si3VgCLcB/s400/LLAT-%2BSantiago%2B%2528145%2529.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Stunning resemblance to Sacre Coeur, Santisimo Sacramento Basilica</span></i><br />
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Though we didn't have time to go to the far reaches of Chile like the Atacama desert in the North or Patagonia in the south, we went to the much more accessible coast, specifically Valparaiso and Vina del Mar. The former is like Tim Burton meeting Bansky for a chat on urban design, the latter is like the setting for a sunset drink between George Clooney and Gwyneth Paltrow.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fGfI6uzdizM/V4bcDU9qU5I/AAAAAAAAGMM/kTZLE_4QW_gARo2bMtYDDtnSPLlSRPzfACLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2BValparaiso%2B%25283%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fGfI6uzdizM/V4bcDU9qU5I/AAAAAAAAGMM/kTZLE_4QW_gARo2bMtYDDtnSPLlSRPzfACLcB/s400/LLAT-%2BValparaiso%2B%25283%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Chile's Napoli, i.e. Valparaiso, for all of its good and not-so good, connotations<span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> </span></span></i><br />
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In our Italian frame of reference, we also deemed Valparaiso the Napoli of Chile and Vina del Mar its Sorrento. Valparaiso vs. Vina del Mar was like industrial vs. elegant, raw vs. refined, chaotic vs. organized.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sUGCzBGI8CM/V4buhV6AKgI/AAAAAAAAGNE/ocb7Z47jMPszjRadRuomuon9tbALWLIDACLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2BVina%2Bdel%2BMar%2B%2528139%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sUGCzBGI8CM/V4buhV6AKgI/AAAAAAAAGNE/ocb7Z47jMPszjRadRuomuon9tbALWLIDACLcB/s400/LLAT-%2BVina%2Bdel%2BMar%2B%2528139%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Vina del Mar, Chile's Sorrento if you will</span></i></td></tr>
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Both towns were fascinating, particularly in their juxtaposition against one other along the coastal highway. It takes a little longer to see Valparaiso’s charm, especially if you visit the city amidst the rain and gloomy skies, but it definitely makes an impression and it is definitely worth a visit. Vina del Mar is a classic pretty coastal town, and is worth the visit as well, if for nothing else than a comparison point to its neighbor.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rX1tY58LzGk/V4bu9pgMadI/AAAAAAAAGNI/-EAESRhY0MQS35mM3O1nSzLC7kOYDQr6wCLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2BVina%2Bdel%2BMar%2B%2528160%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rX1tY58LzGk/V4bu9pgMadI/AAAAAAAAGNI/-EAESRhY0MQS35mM3O1nSzLC7kOYDQr6wCLcB/s400/LLAT-%2BVina%2Bdel%2BMar%2B%2528160%2529.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">A Chilean Pisco Sour at Sunset. I could get used to this</span></i></td></tr>
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On my “I could live here scale” Chile certainly ranked very high. I think that becoming a local though would require at least three significant feats: 1) I would have to get used to the idea of regular earthquakes. Locals are able to joke about therm regularly, 2) I would have to get my ear (and my tongue) accustomed to the very different Spanish spoken in Chile, and last but not least, 3) I would have to once and for all declare my allegiance to the Chilean Pisco Sour. Otherwise, my adaptation would not go so well. On point 3, I might be OK, but I still have some work to do on one and two.Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-36713666969829700462016-06-20T13:04:00.003-04:002016-06-20T13:04:28.411-04:00Home away from home: Buenos Aires<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KWqrKRJ9V6M/V2gJsNRkr0I/AAAAAAAAGIA/x1nKHhYa2G8WdZkwIr62kmN6a0NC5lBqwCLcB/s1600/LLAT-BA-FLag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KWqrKRJ9V6M/V2gJsNRkr0I/AAAAAAAAGIA/x1nKHhYa2G8WdZkwIr62kmN6a0NC5lBqwCLcB/s400/LLAT-BA-FLag.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Argentina's White House = the Pink House, Casa Rosada</i></td></tr>
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When we left Rome on December 1, it really felt like we left home. This shouldn’t have really been surprising to me, considering how much time I have spent living there and how <a href="http://www.livinglikeatourist.com/2011/06/home-at-last.html" target="_blank">four years ago I finally declared Rome my home</a>. Yet, somehow, it was surprising. It was even more surprising to realize how many people we were saying goodbye to, not just friends and colleagues, but to neighbors we got to know, to our dry cleaner up the street, to our Porter, to my aesthetician, to the priests who married us in Spello, and all the other people that we saw regularly in our life in Rome that we wouldn’t see after December. It felt like a final goodbye this time, even though it was my fourth goodbye to Rome. Perhaps it would not be a real goodbye, like the three times before were not, but it felt different, scarier, this time and there was a large part of me that feared that this one was for real.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--9gPALUxYKY/V2gJwO9IZtI/AAAAAAAAGI0/-nISKV7C-vEL0Hkc1-ddPBk0HtxhUGjcQCLcB/s1600/LLAT-BA-outdoorcafe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--9gPALUxYKY/V2gJwO9IZtI/AAAAAAAAGI0/-nISKV7C-vEL0Hkc1-ddPBk0HtxhUGjcQCLcB/s400/LLAT-BA-outdoorcafe.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Outdoor cafe in la Boca area</i></td></tr>
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Five months later we landed in Buenos Aires and even in the airport, I felt like I was in Rome again, for all the good and bad reasons. There were about 5 ATMs in the airport, none of which worked, the rationale: it was Sunday. Yes, we could have been in Italy.
The resemblances just kept popping up throughout our entire stay: The cashier's resentment at getting a large bill. The mega long lines and peculiarly slow check-out at grocery stores. The 4 dollar bottles of wine that were better than the North American 30 dollar ones. The protests ever couple days. The blocks and blocks of yummy pizza and gelato restaurants. The coffee culture.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zJgiH-Ni1TM/V2gJsvajSnI/AAAAAAAAGII/h-CQBC2nVeEpZldXXCvJ9c924R9euzqPACLcB/s1600/LLAT-BA-CafeTortoni.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zJgiH-Ni1TM/V2gJsvajSnI/AAAAAAAAGII/h-CQBC2nVeEpZldXXCvJ9c924R9euzqPACLcB/s400/LLAT-BA-CafeTortoni.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Famous traditional cafe, Cafe Tortoni</i></td></tr>
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The similarities ranged from small things like the pits in the olives on pizza and the bidets in the hotels and apartments to big things like being able to sit outdoors in cafes during the mild winters and receipts that were wrong or change that was missing. To me, even the way people speak Spanish is reminiscent of Italian; Argentinian Spanish has the same beautiful, sing-songy inflections and dramatic tones as Italian.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6B1r4uonjIw/V2gJvvvmAkI/AAAAAAAAGIs/ZZLMqvvMxh0VaKirjvNo_tkKdKdHI7V-QCLcB/s1600/LLAT-BA-gondola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6B1r4uonjIw/V2gJvvvmAkI/AAAAAAAAGIs/ZZLMqvvMxh0VaKirjvNo_tkKdKdHI7V-QCLcB/s400/LLAT-BA-gondola.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Random Gondola</i></td></tr>
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Of course, there is an obvious reason for all of these similarities. A huge percentage of Argentina's population has Italian heritage (up to 62% according to some sources). Most of these immigrants came over about 150 years ago, in the late 19th - early 20th century, around the same time that they went to New York. To a much greater extent than the Big Apple though, Buenos Aires really felt like it has carried on the culture and feel of the mother country.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-u1wEFr_RYek/V2gO_yE4VOI/AAAAAAAAGJE/tsun-7jwXjIoZRkU3mRo35f4S_UgijuLQCLcB/s1600/LLAT-BA-pizza.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-u1wEFr_RYek/V2gO_yE4VOI/AAAAAAAAGJE/tsun-7jwXjIoZRkU3mRo35f4S_UgijuLQCLcB/s400/LLAT-BA-pizza.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">P<i>izza at <span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Pizzeria Guerrin,</span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> one of the many famous spots</span></i></td></tr>
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Don’t get me wrong, Buenos Aires was very un-Italian in many ways too: broader, grander boulevards like those of Paris or Madrid, a much farther-reaching, organized and cheaper metro, avocados on the streets, tango clubs and radio stations, bold, shiny Latin-looking buses, more legitimate parking options and churches filled on Sundays, to name a few. Argentina very much has its own culture and national identity, one that they are proud of, and should be.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p_JHs1cZ7do/V2gJuj0HA4I/AAAAAAAAGIg/CdhSWGig72UPIuOHLByQ0lV82WIhfEv6gCLcB/s1600/LLAT-BA-Tango.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p_JHs1cZ7do/V2gJuj0HA4I/AAAAAAAAGIg/CdhSWGig72UPIuOHLByQ0lV82WIhfEv6gCLcB/s400/LLAT-BA-Tango.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-w2Y35VBoeD8/V2gJtHLglII/AAAAAAAAGIQ/imqnPvfreH8RY6H8IfKeMPADY_bpjfP5wCLcB/s1600/LLAT-BA-Gardel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-w2Y35VBoeD8/V2gJtHLglII/AAAAAAAAGIQ/imqnPvfreH8RY6H8IfKeMPADY_bpjfP5wCLcB/s400/LLAT-BA-Gardel.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Gardel's ubiquitous portrait</i></td></tr>
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We didn't stay in Argentina long enough to get into the real subtleties of the culture, but we did have time to take in the local life. We had rented an apartment for those 12 days in Buenos Aires, so at least for that short time, it felt like we were properly living there. We went to the grocery store every day and to mass at the corner of our street. We used the metro to get everywhere and went running in the nearby parks. We did laundry in the building and then at the nearby laundromat when the laundry machine broke (… also like Italy). We cooked meals with the local ingredients and had coffee in the neighborhood cafes.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MqmXx9S0bUc/V2gJthxGuPI/AAAAAAAAGIY/CKUuWeIJnkcM4w7UpqrISY5278KVcYpZACLcB/s1600/LLAT-BA-Metro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MqmXx9S0bUc/V2gJthxGuPI/AAAAAAAAGIY/CKUuWeIJnkcM4w7UpqrISY5278KVcYpZACLcB/s400/LLAT-BA-Metro.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>lovey sight from the BA metro's open doors</i></td></tr>
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Yes, in many ways it felt like being home, but in others it felt far from it and far from friends.
I had visited Buenos Aires once before in 2004 and I had loved it. It was the one other city aside from Rome where I could see myself living. Now I know why. Back then, I don't think I had picked up on all the similarities. This visit was a little bittersweet for me; I still loved it now, but it felt a little like dating a boy that reminds you of your ex. It might ease the pain, but it is not a great reason for being together.
Buenos Aires reminded me of my ex and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it this quickly after the break up. Perhaps it was too soon.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QtlJy8g47cw/V2gJuq-VtJI/AAAAAAAAGIk/Wxo5jGPzoaMVJqQAuZLblQRtalQmulwMgCLcB/s1600/LLAT-BA-Statue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QtlJy8g47cw/V2gJuq-VtJI/AAAAAAAAGIk/Wxo5jGPzoaMVJqQAuZLblQRtalQmulwMgCLcB/s400/LLAT-BA-Statue.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>One of the many elegant buildings found across Buenos Aires</i></td></tr>
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Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-38008662096122694762016-06-06T11:13:00.003-04:002016-06-06T11:15:48.651-04:00Don't judge a country by its travel guide: Visiting Colombia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RcrKSwFjx_U/V1TQmOW951I/AAAAAAAAGFQ/1Ovqp660bMMadWl-a8mER-iDm26LFF6GACLcB/s1600/LLAT%2BCartagena%2B%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RcrKSwFjx_U/V1TQmOW951I/AAAAAAAAGFQ/1Ovqp660bMMadWl-a8mER-iDm26LFF6GACLcB/s400/LLAT%2BCartagena%2B%25282%2529.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">I am not even sure how we ended up in Colombia. Last I remember, we were struggling with how to cut down our large and ever growing list of countries to visit on this sabbatical. After a not-so enthusiastic review in our travel book and the realization that our friends who were in Colombia were no longer there, I remember opting to leave it out on this particular tour of South America. Then we somehow realized we would fly through Colombia anyway en route to Argentina and it was back on the list. </span>Colombia ended up being one of my favorite countries yet on this trip. So it goes to show you how impressions (and travel guides) can be wrong.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m2gjuqetUfg/V1TQmwbf9WI/AAAAAAAAGFY/XciYvQw8yJcTWxz55fjl_03q2CBlq9MawCLcB/s400/LLAT%2BCartagena%2B%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Colombian Colors</i></td></tr>
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Cartagena was the first of two stops in Colombia, Bogota the second. Completely different in climate, temperature, elevation, character and almost everything else, it was hard to see them as part of one country. But this proves the diversity of the large countries in South America.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RIJ-S9ySClQ/V1TRXaMQIeI/AAAAAAAAGFs/iibmHijgQD8vN0kJINAwWsS5XVfqhAdtACLcB/s1600/LLAT%2BCartagena%2B%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RIJ-S9ySClQ/V1TRXaMQIeI/AAAAAAAAGFs/iibmHijgQD8vN0kJINAwWsS5XVfqhAdtACLcB/s400/LLAT%2BCartagena%2B%25284%2529.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
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We arrived from Haiti to Cartagena to face even hotter and more humid temperatures than the island we had just left. Cartagena is steamy alright, and there is nothing to do about it but get used the constant perspiration and rehydration cycle. But you could hardly care about that when you are wandering the old colonial streets of this enchanting city. You are surrounded by color: on the buildings, in the flowers, the artwork, flower pots, door and window frames, murals. Everything catches your attention, eye and heart in this ode to color. Like admiring a peacock, just watching this fanfare of hues can make you happy.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Cartagena's Bocagrande skyline</i></td></tr>
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Cartagena was a great mix of modern and traditional: skyscrapers in one direction, fortified walls and canons in another. With its heat, tones, coastal front walkway and seaside sounds, the place screamed summer, vacation and relaxation. Cartagena is the place you dream of in the middle of winter after 3 months of cold gray skies… or perhaps the place you dream of when living in Bogota in April. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SAbxk_vPNKc/V1TfXbkDhDI/AAAAAAAAGGc/BvKLlMz8Z-set6SaakzaK7r4qBjMQn9TgCLcB/s1600/LLAT%2BBogota%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SAbxk_vPNKc/V1TfXbkDhDI/AAAAAAAAGGc/BvKLlMz8Z-set6SaakzaK7r4qBjMQn9TgCLcB/s400/LLAT%2BBogota%2B2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>New England-style: Brick buildings and side walks in Bogota</i></td></tr>
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Funny enough, our next destination, Bogota, could have easily been the site of one of these aforementioned gloomy dreamers. April in Bogota is 10-15 degrees Celsius, cloudy, threatening, rainy and gray. It has English or Irish weather. And the similarities to England didn’t stop there. Actually Bogota reminded me even more of New England in the US. The city was a sea of red bricks: buildings, neighborhoods and streets filled with them. Many of these red brick buildings were pubs. Beer was advertised everywhere. You could tell instantly that beer is a large part of the past-time in this particular city. Many artisan beers were featured on billboards, but even the national beer, Aguila, made quite an appearance. Restaurants and bars were set deep inside these brick houses creating cozy, dim settings with bars and benches of wood. Bogota could have been Cambridge, Massachusetts or London, England. A far cry from the hot, Caribbean feel of its Colombian sister, Cartagena.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v9mpAlB0H_I/V1TfX5KQWBI/AAAAAAAAGGg/WUBh5NXvuNkI9vZz24n-9L-G044mIKkcgCLcB/s1600/LLAT%2BBogota%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v9mpAlB0H_I/V1TfX5KQWBI/AAAAAAAAGGg/WUBh5NXvuNkI9vZz24n-9L-G044mIKkcgCLcB/s400/LLAT%2BBogota%2B1.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Bogota Beer Company</i></td></tr>
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In both cities, the people were hard working and courteous. The food was excellent; breakfast like the Central American ones, heavily featured eggs, plantains and a meat of sorts. The juices were thick with tropical fruit. Both cities had massive grocery stores with everything you could want and coffee stores that demonstrated their tradition of coffee.<br />
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I kicked myself in the end for being swayed by a book’s opinion and wish we had included other Colombian cities, but we already knew that this trip would be a small sampling of South America, not an exhaustive experience. Cali, Medellin, even Cartagena’s islands and surrounding towns would have to wait for another time, but I was more than happy with the time that we did allot to this country. Like making the acquaintance of someone that you had not expected to get along with, I had made a new friend with Colombia.Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-61002323017549301672016-04-30T00:00:00.000-04:002016-05-02T10:53:41.681-04:00Ayiti cherie<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4H3XXfWayrA/VyLZYxvTSyI/AAAAAAAAF7g/wAUHTWP3KIg5aHdSv8jWctACUZVFTwOjACLcB/s1600/llat-%2Bjacmel%2Bbeach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4H3XXfWayrA/VyLZYxvTSyI/AAAAAAAAF7g/wAUHTWP3KIg5aHdSv8jWctACUZVFTwOjACLcB/s400/llat-%2Bjacmel%2Bbeach.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i>Jacmel beach</i><br />
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Practically since we met in 2006, a good friend of ours has been urging us to come visit her country, Haiti. So since then, Haiti has been on our minds. In 2010, my husband was deployed to the country for the emergency response. That year, Haiti was in everyone's minds.<br />
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We finally made the trip last week. Reflecting on my recent 10 days there, I originally started to write about how the country seems after the earthquake, how it looks, how the people are. I was so concerned and interested to hear about it all after having only had second-hand stories. However, thinking twice about this post, I decided against this. I did not go to Haiti for work or for a journalist assignment. I went to Haiti to attend a wedding and to visit friends, happy occasions that led to a joyous trip and I don’t want to boil Haiti down to those terrible 30 seconds in January 2010. There is much more to the country than that.<br />
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Here are some highlights:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Im_Ght7_tFE/VyLVFUzIBtI/AAAAAAAAF60/YZCSAYQ_wZUN8841M-b20Ngtl3S-coXyQCLcB/s1600/LLAT-%2BJP%2Bwedding%2Bcake%2Bcopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Im_Ght7_tFE/VyLVFUzIBtI/AAAAAAAAF60/YZCSAYQ_wZUN8841M-b20Ngtl3S-coXyQCLcB/s400/LLAT-%2BJP%2Bwedding%2Bcake%2Bcopy.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Yes, this cake is real.</i></td></tr>
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<b>Nothing is too fancy </b><br />
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Haitians love to dress up and I knew even before landing in the country that despite my cocktail dress and new black heels, I would be one of the least fancy people at the wedding. I was correct. For any Haitian event, but particularly a wedding, you bring out the long dresses, big jewels, elegant purses, fancy hats, and of course sexy shoes. It was truly a feast for the eyes to see the men and women so elegant and stylish, many of the women, of any age, pulling off dresses that I could only dream of.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u5IUkPHu2XM/VyLVopwB20I/AAAAAAAAF64/XD06_OOyWNIIXgJ54C6Jx4LzDaBkTlC9gCLcB/s1600/llat%2Bbassin%2Bbleu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u5IUkPHu2XM/VyLVopwB20I/AAAAAAAAF64/XD06_OOyWNIIXgJ54C6Jx4LzDaBkTlC9gCLcB/s400/llat%2Bbassin%2Bbleu.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>It helps when a friend has a waterproof go-pro</i></td></tr>
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<b>Hidden, but seriously hidden, gems </b><br />
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As an outsider, it can be easy to lose sight of what Haiti has to offer when just looking around. Haiti is a very poor country. There is no escaping that fact and that kind of poverty is not subtle. There are slums covering the hillsides; there are dry river beds completely filled with trash. There are people everywhere looking for a way to survive, making a dollar or two for food. These parts of Haiti are obvious to any visitor. The parts that aren’t so obvious are some sites of exceptional natural beauty. Don’t get me wrong, some of Haiti’s natural beauty is obvious. It too has the idyllic Caribbean beaches that cruise ships have been exploiting for years now. However, some of the beauty is quite hidden indeed. One such place is Bassin Bleu. Bassin Bleu is a series of waterfalls that fill turquoise basins at different ground levels. And when I say this is not obvious it is because even with a guide and 4 other Haitians in the car asking locals in Creole for directions, we still just barely found it. This was the definition of a hidden gem. But the trek made it more of an adventure and it was worth it to finally jump into the stunningly beautiful, freezing cold water, which we had completely to ourselves. Another advantage of hidden treasures: exclusivity.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OyMnSIwM904/VyLW6rRHokI/AAAAAAAAF7I/Arbzw6qeEH01ubfEpbX-FP1yKiipTQ4IwCLcB/s1600/llat-%2Blobster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OyMnSIwM904/VyLW6rRHokI/AAAAAAAAF7I/Arbzw6qeEH01ubfEpbX-FP1yKiipTQ4IwCLcB/s400/llat-%2Blobster.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My husband dreams about this lobster</i></td></tr>
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<b>The food! </b><br />
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Food for me is part of culture so I love it for that, but I am not a foodie when it comes to researching dishes, restaurants or specialties of a place. So maybe this fact is well known, but I was not expecting it: Haitian food is AMAZING! Everything is flavorful, savory, even spicy (especially when you add the standard <i>pickliz</i>, i.e. spicy cabbage accompaniment.) Fish, lobster, conch (<i>lambi</i>), shrimp, everything from the water is well made. Plantains adorn most meals or come in the form of a tasty snack: <i>Papitas</i>, i.e. plantain chips. The local peanut butter, <i>Mamba</i>, is extraordinary. At the supermarket, it comes in all different ways, some creamier, some darker, some spicier, but of course, the best is the homemade Mamba that makes other peanut butter, especially non-Haitian varieties, seem like processed goo. Fresh mangoes, coconuts, sour saps, all of these are standard fruits that you find at breakfast or as juices. They are usually even just hanging in the trees above your head.<br />
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<b>Barrels of Booze</b><br />
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To get a little buzz on, you have at least two incredibly good alcoholic choices: Prestige beer that is the standard national beer, but it really tastes much more flavorful than your typical lager, and Barbancourt rum, that has won all sorts of awards and has its die-hard followers (one of whom was on the trip with us). We even went to see the Barbancourt distillery to learn as much as we could about its details, production, varieties and distribution. In this private tour, we had the full attention of our guide and seeing our enthusiasm for his rum, he indulged us with our requests, questions, comments and photo-taking. Our accommodating guide even let us peer into the resting room for the prestigious 15 year Barbancourt and let us have a taste of the "forgotten barrel of rum" laying among the others. It was a special tour that made the enthusiasts of our group even more enthusiastic.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KxBA8rd_ws0/VyLYLrAHiSI/AAAAAAAAF7U/VjywYmcV8NQZuOQPlBQFQW9vY2spKFI7QCLcB/s1600/llat-%2Bbarbancourt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KxBA8rd_ws0/VyLYLrAHiSI/AAAAAAAAF7U/VjywYmcV8NQZuOQPlBQFQW9vY2spKFI7QCLcB/s400/llat-%2Bbarbancourt.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i>The temple of rum</i></td></tr>
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<b>Haitian hospitality </b><br />
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The people were amazing. This goes without saying for my friend’s family and all of her friends who went out of their way to drive us around and show us a good time in their country, but it also was true for others, like the head of HR who exceptionally gave us a tour of the Barbancourt distillery when his colleague was not available. And the wonderful staff at the hotel in Jacmel who helped us with anything we threw at them and then went even above and beyond that to turn their lobby into a movie theater for us (the only guests) moving chairs around, setting up speakers and even making popcorn. I had never seen such hospitality and such honest desire to be kind.<br />
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Of course, there is a flip side and you have to be understanding of the fact that our hotel room in Jacmel, for example, didn’t have water for a day: so no shower, toilet or sink to use; that when there are demonstrations it can take two hours to get across town; that people will ask to help you or sell you something for money, because they have to; that is the only way they have work.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nX9vXMd_NvQ/VyQtcl9Xe3I/AAAAAAAAF8E/Fs56IEzRQ1U2g3ZmpBPUfGKMDyjfgfi6ACLcB/s1600/llat-%2Bhaiti%2Bview.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nX9vXMd_NvQ/VyQtcl9Xe3I/AAAAAAAAF8E/Fs56IEzRQ1U2g3ZmpBPUfGKMDyjfgfi6ACLcB/s400/llat-%2Bhaiti%2Bview.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>View over Port-au-Prince</i></td></tr>
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Haiti is an amazing country and I wish with all my heart that both its internal problems, like rampant corruption, and its external problems, like being in the path of natural disasters, let up and allow the country to take advantage of all its bounty and richness, both of land and of spirit. It would be great to know Haiti again as the Pearl of the Antilles, not as the poorest country in the western hemisphere or the country devastated in 2010.
Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-66921397282109953492016-03-20T19:47:00.000-04:002016-03-20T21:51:07.944-04:00Panama is like...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2HE80nBfx0U/VsoU4A3kFnI/AAAAAAAAF20/oxHKp23YmBY/s1600/panama%2Bskyline.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2HE80nBfx0U/VsoU4A3kFnI/AAAAAAAAF20/oxHKp23YmBY/s400/panama%2Bskyline.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Panama City skyline</i></td></tr>
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We all have a tendency to want to make the unfamiliar familiar and we usually do that through comparisons. The Copan ruins are like Paris. Dubai is like Las Vegas. That music teacher looks like Prince. Unfamiliar meat tastes like chicken...<br />
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We all have our own comparison points. Everyone told me that Panama City is like Miami, but because I have never been to Miami, that meant nothing to me and seeing the 20 some sky scrapers on the Panamanian sky line took me completely by surprise.<br />
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For me, driving on the seaside highway past Panama City’s elaborate downtown felt more like Chicago. Perhaps you have never been to Chicago and so that comparison means nothing to you. Suffice it to say though that super tall, architecturally interesting buildings right alongside the waterfront, Chicago’s or Panama City’s, is always an impressive sight. <br />
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Panama was interesting because it was so familiar in some ways, so different in others. It uses the American dollar as its currency (with the addition of their own coins). English is much more common. More than any other country I have been to in Central America, Panamanians did not hesitate to switch to English when faced with my fledgling Spanish. Malls take up both a large part of the real estate and social activities. And finally, Panama City has a Costco. Need I say more.<br />
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It was at once comforting and at once disappointing to see such a modern “USA”- style society. Like in the US, you drive everywhere which means there is usually a ton of traffic. The shopping, restaurants, cafes etc. are almost all indoor, usually in the aforementioned malls. The cost of food and other products was also comparable to the US; no 25 cent avocados like you have in Guatemala.<br />
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Of course, the USA has had a huge part in Panamanian history – for better or for worse. From its independence from Colombia to the building of the Canal, the US has always been highly “involved” let’s say… but that is a much larger topic. So I will leave it at that.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bP3xf0Yw8A8/VsoU1K4J7LI/AAAAAAAAF2s/xffuKgCGhko/s1600/casco%2Bviejo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; font-family: 'times new roman'; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bP3xf0Yw8A8/VsoU1K4J7LI/AAAAAAAAF2s/xffuKgCGhko/s400/casco%2Bviejo.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Casco Viejo</i></td></tr>
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It is also very evident that Panama is gearing up to be an economic hot spot, the likes of Dubai or Bangkok. It has improved its highways (thanks to newly installed tolls), put in a metro system, is expanding its airport and is really promoting real estate investments particularly in the downtown, Casco Viejo area. Apparently, they painted over some of the more unseemly graffiti and a ton of brochures list the various benefits, such as automatic permanent residency, that you get if you invest 300,000 USD or more in the country. It is fascinating to see a city so driven in its mission.<br />
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Panama has also capitalized on the Canal as a tourist sight and has built a completely new visitor center at Miraflores to accommodate the increasing number of people flocking to the locks.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xE4pdUT5N1o/Vu8gLvec_FI/AAAAAAAAF4w/IgL7WL7HwV4p6qy9O6mDKagbHbqp7m3_Q/s1600/miraflores_center.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xE4pdUT5N1o/Vu8gLvec_FI/AAAAAAAAF4w/IgL7WL7HwV4p6qy9O6mDKagbHbqp7m3_Q/s400/miraflores_center.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Miraflores Visitor Center</i></td></tr>
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There is something about the Panama Canal that is completely fascinating while at the exact same time, utterly boring. You stand around watching water fill a surprisingly narrow space that will eventually lift up a massive ship in extreme slow motion. Then the ship sails, or more like inches, away. It is like watching golf; there is so little action.<br />
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However, somehow, it is captivating. And everyone stares at it like the finale of the World Cup, snapping pictures, commenting to other stander-byers, waiting in awe for the locks to close and the ship to rise. It must be that somehow, intrinsically you feel that this was a huge feat of engineering. Ships should not be able to essentially go over land to get from one ocean to another, and the Panama Canal’s engineers made it happen. Pretty cool even for someone who does not, in the slightest, understand the mechanics of it.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kW_VxGygAt8/VsoU0Sq7iMI/AAAAAAAAF2o/i2diWm2s1xo/s1600/miraflores.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; font-family: 'times new roman'; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kW_VxGygAt8/VsoU0Sq7iMI/AAAAAAAAF2o/i2diWm2s1xo/s400/miraflores.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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It is also apparently the only time and place on the seas where the captain ever gives up control of his/her ship. That is requirement for the Canal, but a massive No-No anywhere else. As a control freak, I get how big a deal this is. What? You want me to hand over control of MY ship. Uh-uh. Not gonna happen. But if you don’t want to go around the entire South American continent, then you might have to reconsider this stance. You give up power, let another capable person take over your responsibility, let him/her navigate the tricky, narrow parts and then you get control back later, after a lot of waiting (it takes 18 hours+ to get through the 3 sets of locks that make up this canal). <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-w8OPBsEX-88/Vu8gRN5f9FI/AAAAAAAAF40/NIOiHvL9zHYmz4Wt7wXjQ-_CUXirkeU4Q/s1600/panama%2Bcrew.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-w8OPBsEX-88/Vu8gRN5f9FI/AAAAAAAAF40/NIOiHvL9zHYmz4Wt7wXjQ-_CUXirkeU4Q/s400/panama%2Bcrew.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Crew standing idly, taking pictures, enjoying the Canal</i></td></tr>
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This very much sounds like another important life lesson that I have been resisting lately. Sometimes giving up the navigation of your own ship is the quickest way to where you want to go. Even if the power gremlin in you doesn’t like this and resents the fact that you are just supposed to stand around idle and watch your crew take selfies. You have to suck it up and say: yes, right now my job, is not to have one. It is to listen to direction and step in when I am called. It is a weird thing to have understood from Panama, but I appreciated the reminder.<br />
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Seeing more than just its capital would have told me a lot more about Panama, but our week there was a nice chance to reconnect with friends, an interesting reminder about some facets of American society and a good example of how different countries in the same region can be. It was also a time to remember to quell the power gremlin and let someone else do their job.<br />
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Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-31566738427100461262016-02-20T11:25:00.002-05:002016-05-20T22:31:18.409-04:00The Paris of the Mayan World<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mjAeA3BO8kE/VsiAk009XUI/AAAAAAAAF1M/Sp-_ewaCfRA/s1600/macaws.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mjAeA3BO8kE/VsiAk009XUI/AAAAAAAAF1M/Sp-_ewaCfRA/s400/macaws.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The national bird of Honduras</i></td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: center;">A couple of things stand out about our two day trip to Copan, Honduras</span><br />
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1- When it comes to driving in Guatemala, Google maps suck.<br />
2- All immigration officers should be as nice as the Honduran officer allowing us into his country<br />
3- Cowboy hats are THE number 1 fashion piece in Copan<br />
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Of course all of this is secondary to the Mayan ruins, which were the actual reason that we went to Copan. To quote our enthusiastic and elaborative tour guide: Tikal’s vastness might make it the New York of ruins, but Copan’s elaborate designs make it the Paris of them.<br />
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The northern part of Central America has your pick of Mayan Ruins. Being in Guatemala the obvious choice would have been Tikal. But it is a 12 hour bus or 1 hour flight away from Antigua, about twice the distance of Copan. Also, as the preeminent tourist destination in Guatemala, Tikal’s cost for a weekend was $300+ per person which was more than we wanted to pay. Copan by contrast was not as touristy and within driving distance: 6 hours by Google's estimate. Of course, if you refer to my points above, Google should never be trusted, particularly not in Guatemala or Latin America in general.<br />
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Even if you forget about Google’s deficiencies of not recognizing the major highway and not computing the standstill traffic that we were in, we also had the misfortune of leaving on the Saturday of the Caravan del Zorro, the weekend when 40,000 motorcycles make a pilgrimage to the Black Christ in Esquipulas. It was the exact same route just one hour closer than Copan. Of course, we only found this out after the fact.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LpN1imtujqs/VsiAxK3EeLI/AAAAAAAAF1Y/vFnHiY20vKQ/s1600/copan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LpN1imtujqs/VsiAxK3EeLI/AAAAAAAAF1Y/vFnHiY20vKQ/s400/copan.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Long story short, we arrived in Copan 10 hours later, not 6. Ten hours in the car makes Karen a grumpy camper. Arriving at dark, made it worse and we started fearing that the El Florida border crossing might close. (It doesn’t by the way. It is open 24 hours a day). However, because it is generally not considered safe to be on the roads after sunset, we were the only ones arriving at 6pm. So the border crossing was all ours. The Honduran Officer was more than happy to see us. He thanked us profusely for giving him our passports, for each finger that we put on the scanner, for letting him take our pictures, for the entrance fee to the country. He was smiley, polite, respectful and kind. A great welcome to a new country. We liked Honduras already.<br />
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The next day, at its 8am opening time, we tackled the ruins. When visiting any ruins you need to bring your imagination. Even though the ruins at Copan are in very good shape, half of it is still buried under years of soil or overruled by trees extending their roots. Another good portion was gone altogether with the passing time.<br />
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We rightly determined that we should get a guide because, like the Roman forum, walking around an archaeological site on your own with the 3-4 signs is essentially like wandering around a grave site. It is a very important site for many people, but unless you have family there, the gravestones' names and dates mean nothing to you. The same with ruins. If you don’t know the story, it is hard to feel moved by the significance of a place.
Our guide was a very knowledgeable, go-lucky, playful man who, you could tell, liked his job and had pride in Copan. He was the one who compared Paris to Copan and I get the sense that were he ever to visit Paris (or perhaps he has), he would still rank Copan above it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GEA3W6Thvhw/VsiA_r92OFI/AAAAAAAAF1g/W87oxGQ5u9E/s1600/monkey%2Bhiero.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GEA3W6Thvhw/VsiA_r92OFI/AAAAAAAAF1g/W87oxGQ5u9E/s400/monkey%2Bhiero.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Monkey-looking thing</i></td></tr>
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The hieroglyphs which are more numerous here than in any other Mayan site are still indecipherable to the average human. I would have loved to be that symbologist that shows up on a site and can read a statue, an altar or the façade of a temple just by understanding symbols, but sadly, I am not and even learning about them on our tour while I photographed them my only take-aways are the bug-eyed guy, the monkey-looking thing, the teeth of something or other and the generic Mayan king/god. I do remember the dancing jaguar though because that was particularly funny and stood out.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nJiOZjLojss/VsiAtW5q4nI/AAAAAAAAF1U/g_Uu7VtBneE/s1600/big%2Bface%2Bhiero.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nJiOZjLojss/VsiAtW5q4nI/AAAAAAAAF1U/g_Uu7VtBneE/s400/big%2Bface%2Bhiero.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Bug-eyed guy</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uEs0nCwT1K4/VsiAqWI7VwI/AAAAAAAAF1Q/ZojTkI5-zYA/s1600/dancing%2Bjaguar%2Bcopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uEs0nCwT1K4/VsiAqWI7VwI/AAAAAAAAF1Q/ZojTkI5-zYA/s400/dancing%2Bjaguar%2Bcopy.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Dancing Jaguar, its real name, not like my invented ones above</i></td></tr>
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With or without a guide though, Copan does have a magical sense to it. It engages all of your sense. At eight in the morning, you can smell the dampness of the surrounding forests in the air. You can hear all the birds chirping away, happy that the dawn dispelled another night. You can almost taste the papayas and coconuts ripening on the nearby trees. Your eyes can easily feast on the hieroglyphs and intricate statues. And as an outdoor museum, you can touch the steps and stones that made up this medieval, civilization.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e7n_WDy3r-M/VsiS2ma2bRI/AAAAAAAAF2I/Eugu8q4RQB4/s1600/copan%2Btown%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-e7n_WDy3r-M/VsiS2ma2bRI/AAAAAAAAF2I/Eugu8q4RQB4/s400/copan%2Btown%2B2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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The town has adopted the name of the ruins, Copan Ruinas town. However, it just barely qualifies as a town. Perhaps more a village than anything else, it has three main stretches of activity all with businesses generally feeding on tourism: 2-3 hotels, some restaurants, a couple bars – juice and regular ones - and strangely enough, pharmacies. Perhaps these also fed on tourists.<br />
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One other thing was clear from the town of Copan Ruinas: the cowboy hat ruled. It was ubiquitous. Even more than the cities I have been to in Texas, or the west of the US, the cowboy hat here was the rule not the exception for the men of the town. It was probably the one and only real fashion statement. Coupled with all the trucks, many of which had seemingly taken mud baths, this town was not afraid of hard work or getting dirty.<br />
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Like Guatemala, you do have to take safety into account when visiting Honduras and take some precautions. Copan, like Antigua though, is a bit of a haven. I am very happy though that its reputation for being unsafe is not the only thing I know about Honduras.<br />
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Aside from being safe, Copan was interesting, intriguing, and a historian’s mecca. I am glad we visited the Paris of the Mayan World. One day I will also make it to its New York.Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-59898135512152215332016-02-17T14:09:00.000-05:002016-02-17T14:09:00.598-05:00The way to see San JoseOur introduction to Pura Vida didn’t get off to a great start: rental car mix-up/scam, 2 hours lost trying to sort it out, 3.5 hour drive from Liberia to San Jose turning into 6 hours because of standstill traffic, a hotel that didn’t live up to its expectations (and that is being diplomatic; I could just say it was a crap hole) and a Valentine’s day dinner at the Holiday Inn Sports pub with mediocre microwavable food. By the end of the night, I was happy our first day was over.<br />
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The advice I had heard about San Jose was to keep my expectations low, so I didn’t have high hopes for day two either. Upon stepping out of our hotel, I understood why. Many streets look quite rough (though apparently they are not): empty buildings, barbed wire, decrepit sidewalks or dilapidated edifices. The central part of town does have some elegance, the Teatro Nacional as one example, but it is scattered among the non-charming bits.<br />
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To me, the city of San Jose reminded me of a former soviet-block country with buildings similar to those I have seen in Eastern Europe. Square cut, arithmetically symmetrical, uniform, gray, decaying and uninspiring. It is true that San Jose is not a city to go to for its beauty, but it doesn’t mean that the city is completely devoid of it. You just have to look a little harder.<br />
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Here are some of the beautiful things I found in San Jose:<br />
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<br /><b>La Merced Church </b></h4>
With its dark wood ceiling, thin columns each decorated with different patterns and colors and blue and white-tiled floors, we were not prepared to stumble upon something so stunning. The unkempt façade did not even hint at the vast beauty on the inside. But admiring all the little details, La Merced quickly became one of my favorite churches, even when considering the innumerous Roman ones I have frequented. I don’t even know if this church was in our guide book, but it should be.<br />
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<b>Historic Houses</b></h4>
Some of San Jose’s most beautiful buildings are seemingly abandoned. Old wood colonial-style houses with gorgeous balconies, grand entrances and large porches. We saw them randomly sprinkled throughout San Jose, most of them looking like they hadn’t been in use for a while. Any of these would make amazing theaters, galleries, restaurants or cafes. They are jewels just waiting for a purpose.<br />
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<b><br /></b><b>Street art </b></h4>
We didn’t visit any of the museums in our one day in San Jose which is a bit of a shame, especially because San Jose seems to be one of the cities that gives some prominence to local artists instead of just flouting the world known masters. It is nice to see a city proud of its own.
Even outside of the museums, we could see bits of this creativity in the street art. What looked like commissioned murals under bridges and on walls were quite unique and clever. And one of them using tiles as a type of a mosaic collage featured cats, so of course I loved it.<br />
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<b>The art of coffee: El Tostador </b></h4>
I am not a morning person and waking up early almost every day of this vacation/sabbatical has tested the boundaries of my morning inhospitablity. Thankfully some of the world’s best coffee comes from Central America. Guatemala fed my habit quite well and Costa Rica has not disappointed either. The espresso macchiato from El Tostador was gorgeously prepared, thick and foamy. It was perfection.<br />
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<b>Charming restaurant: La Criolitta </b></h4>
La Criolitta reminded me of a green house or old train station with its domed roof. This cute restaurant, marred only slightly by 4 TVs one for each wall, is a little hole in the wall place with good local food, which for me was a massive plate of buttery, spiced seabass (corvina) served by an attentive waitress. The secret is out though and everyone toting their guide books (I think it is in all of them) comes for the cheap-ish, typical “local” experience. Of the 5 tables there, only 1 was filled with locals, but at least they haven’t abandoned the place completely.<br />
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<b>Beauty of Amusement: La Casona Tipica </b></h4>
Not in guide books and seemingly a Latin American Chuck-E-Cheese, this restaurant had big masquerade costumes on the outside to lure or scare (I don’t know which) people away. The inside was all locals though (save for us and maybe one table). The menu was all <i>casados </i>(rice, beans and plantains mixtures) and<i> arrozes</i> of sorts served on banana leaves. This was the real stuff.<br />
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Don't get me wrong; I am a sucker for beauty. We all are to various degrees. So San Jose can turn you off if you aren’t careful, but it would be a mistake to judge it completely by its cover. I would love to see this city take advantage of the huge influx of tourists to make full use its potential: its empty spaces, its historic buildings, its already lovely parks, its walkable center, its skyline of mountains and volcanoes, its tendency towards promoting the arts and its gorgeous weather. <br />
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It is a chance for Costa Rica’s capital to show off its good side to the tourists who fly to San Jose only because it is the cheapest option. Tourists now either skip the city entirely or begrudgingly stay the night because of necessity. I think it could be a tourist destination in it of itself if it wanted to be.<br />
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As for the tourists who come looking for beauty, you don't always get it handed on a plate. But there is always beauty if you look hard enough.Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-61578197198245926542016-02-05T18:32:00.001-05:002016-02-05T18:32:46.662-05:00Explosive<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Our intimate experience of one of Vulcan Fuego's eruptions, in addition to seeing three volcanoes on the way to pretty much any errand, has made me a little volcano crazy. A volcanophile… if I can use an invented word.<br />
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I have researched these <a href="http://www.volcanodiscovery.com/guatemala.html" target="_blank">Guatemalan volcanoes</a> that I am living with now and, for fun, read about the Italian volcanoes that I lived with before. I have listened with awe to stories from locals and from others who have lived through the eruptions, like the Mount St. Helene's eruption.<br />
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For the Guatemalatecos it is just another fact of life, like disease-bearing mosquitoes or 5 months of rain; you give it some thought, but you move on with life. For me, active volcanoes are not just another hill on the horizon. I never get sick of seeing Antigua's three volcanoes. It was like walking by the Colosseum every day. I was still thrilled to see it. I think volcanoes fascinate me so much because you really never know what to expect.<br />
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From day to day, they look the same, but there is always something boiling underneath.
In my latest research, I learned that an active volcano is one that has erupted at least once in the last 10,000 years. That is not a small amount of time. If it is actively spouting like Fuego or Pacaya its status is considered erupting; if it is quiet like Acatenango or Agua it is considered dormant, but still technically active. A volcano is only called extinct if it hasn’t erupted in 10,000 years. So most volcanoes we see or hear about are dormant, i.e. sleeping.<br />
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What a weird thought that any day some of these sleepy giants will wake up and change the world of people around them.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rJrEVmm9kvM/VrFz4ZUQNdI/AAAAAAAAFyQ/-nNaY3lGsac/s1600/IMG_0116.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rJrEVmm9kvM/VrFz4ZUQNdI/AAAAAAAAFyQ/-nNaY3lGsac/s400/IMG_0116.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Fuego erupting</i></td></tr>
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My husband mentioned to our Spanish teachers, in his teasing manner, that he doesn’t need to see any volcanoes because he lives with one. I thought about this particular insult/joke and in the end, I agree. I think I am like a volcano. In fact, I kind of relate to Vulcan Fuego. I am quiet for the most part of the year, unassuming, even unremarkable sometimes, but like Fuego, I can become a force to be reckoned with. When I am awakened by something that makes me upset/angry/excited, I erupt and the fireworks can be quite shocking. But just as quickly I can go quiet again.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Observing Fuego's latest largest eruption, Amazing.</i></td></tr>
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My teachers always told me that of the volcanoes in their midst, the one they fear the most is Agua or Acatenango. They reasoned that when volcanoes are always erupting a little, then you know that it is not likely to have a completely devastating eruption. Whereas the ones that are completely quiet for many years, can be devastating when they awaken.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-btAjhsSiVV4/VrFzzOTJjbI/AAAAAAAAFyM/dRK08tjPhUE/s1600/IMG_0111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-btAjhsSiVV4/VrFzzOTJjbI/AAAAAAAAFyM/dRK08tjPhUE/s400/IMG_0111.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Volcano Agua, hiding</i></td></tr>
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Isn’t this just like humans? The ones that let out their frustration, anger, sadness or emotion a little at a time, even if it is shocking or awe inspiring at the moment, are not as dangerous as the ones who keep quiet for long periods of time, because at some point and some time, there will be an explosion and people around may not be ready for it.<br />
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You can’t make water like fire, any more than you can make Volcan Agua like Feugo, but for those people in your life who are dormant, it might be good to give them a small nudge to see if you can awaken the beast before the unexpected eruption changes the landscape for good.
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Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-69298733965401083032016-01-28T23:15:00.005-05:002016-01-28T23:19:06.404-05:00The Real Antigua<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d9p5qlgnqA4/VqrYdthpPnI/AAAAAAAAFwg/_02pbCfKyAo/s1600/antigua.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-d9p5qlgnqA4/VqrYdthpPnI/AAAAAAAAFwg/_02pbCfKyAo/s400/antigua.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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As I have been walking around the mainly single-laned, cobblestone streets of Antigua passing signs such as “Our beer is as cold as your ex-girlfriend’s heart” and “Shots for 5 Qtzl,” I have been a bit perplexed. Had Antigua really just melded into a playground for young Americans or other drinking-inclined foreigners?<br />
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<tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sFwjiQJI1Jg/VqrZqBExwoI/AAAAAAAAFws/QVv6x8pXbhY/s1600/exgirlfriend.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sFwjiQJI1Jg/VqrZqBExwoI/AAAAAAAAFws/QVv6x8pXbhY/s400/exgirlfriend.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.8px;"><i>The sign is actually pretty hilarious.</i></td></tr>
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We live next to an Italian-American; the guys we hang out with from school are German. The predominant language of the patrons in any restaurant is English, usually of the American or Canadian variety. Aside from stores and restaurants, almost every other locale is either a Spanish school or a travel agency all offering the same tours throughout the country: Tikal, Lake Atitlan, Chichicastenango or a hike on one of the volcanoes.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-r6f-uV_y5yA/Vqrgah0wBOI/AAAAAAAAFxQ/vpxKxD5b9QE/s1600/travel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-r6f-uV_y5yA/Vqrgah0wBOI/AAAAAAAAFxQ/vpxKxD5b9QE/s400/travel.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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Was Antigua really just “Camp Guatemala” as one of our friends called it or did it have some authenticity that I was missing? I had to think about it closely, but I realized that yes, there is indeed still a very authentic Antigua and that I had more of it in my day that I realized.<br />
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I am privy to 8 hours a day of one-on-one time with locals. And yes, those hours a day are filled with Spanish lessons, but they are also filled with the stories of Guatemalans, whose own histories tell you more about the city than any guide or school book ever will. One teacher recanted her story of how her husband’s cousin was killed at 17 at the whim of drunk soldiers causing trouble during the time of the civil war. Another teacher told me of when her cousin, who was like a sister, went to the hospital for a kidney problem. The doctor entered the endoscope incorrectly and punctured her lung which never healed and that was what killed her in the end not the kidney trouble. One of my teachers was so poor that on December 24th, they would go to bed long before midnight, like any normal night, because her family had no money for the traditional tamale meal, let alone for gifts, and she wondered why Santa did not love her. When do you ever get to meet locals who share these types of details with you?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DI2XFTWt2Zs/VqrfFWexhJI/AAAAAAAAFxE/R0LXu_hpDtk/s1600/gym.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DI2XFTWt2Zs/VqrfFWexhJI/AAAAAAAAFxE/R0LXu_hpDtk/s400/gym.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I love the outdoor feel of Antigua's gym. </i><br />
<i>It is only empty like this is in the morning before the rush.</i></td></tr>
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Another real aspect of our week is going the gym. Many locals go to the gym and observing them for the last three weeks, I can say that both men and women take their workouts very seriously. They sweat. They dress properly for the gym. They work hard and exert the maximum effort they can. (The male kickboxing teacher kind of scares me). Pushing yourself hard is the gym's standard atmosphere. No machine is ever idle and though some people are clearly standing around flirting, this is usually after their work out not instead of it.<br />
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This gym scene is in stark contrast to the Italian one I lived where I could only conclude that the majority of Roman gym-goers wanted to work out only secondarily to wanting to socialize: either to each other, the trainers or on their cell phones. If they did end up doing exercise, it was only to the extent that it didn’t mess with their outfit, makeup or look in general. Sweating is bad. Exertion is unnecessary. And contrary to here where the gym is essentially outdoors allowing a nice breeze through the slits of the tent-like roof, in Rome, windows are usually closed because drafts are dangerous. Fans are non-existent and air conditioning can outright kill you.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-M09eqfaEMg4/Vqrdc5cH16I/AAAAAAAAFw4/KQKH1v8btLA/s1600/dogs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-M09eqfaEMg4/Vqrdc5cH16I/AAAAAAAAFw4/KQKH1v8btLA/s400/dogs.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I completely admire our Salsa teachers <br />for their love towards these stray pooches.</i></td></tr>
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I also realized that I can’t think of Antigua like a city, at least not a city like Rome, DC or Montreal. Antigua is an old historic center that keeps its charm because of the limits imposed on in, but that means that it is a city by ancient standards, not modern ones. Antigua is more a community than a city. But it is an active one for locals and (some) foreigners alike.
There is a volunteer group for almost every issue: literacy, health, housing, stray animals etc. Our salsa teacher’s studio for example almost doubles as a shelter for the stray dogs that have realized that she is a kind, reliable and giving human who always has a bowl of water and one of food available to them. She asks her students to contribute 1 pound of food if they can to this cause, which we happily do.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lyC54Rk0Jac/VqrVG-MtB8I/AAAAAAAAFv8/cJ2AwdC2lmE/s1600/Diosesamor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lyC54Rk0Jac/VqrVG-MtB8I/AAAAAAAAFv8/cJ2AwdC2lmE/s400/Diosesamor.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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We go to mass on Sundays and it is easy to see that the church, whether you go or not, is a huge part of life here. Churches are bursting with parishioners at every mass. There are extra stacks of plastic chairs for the overflow. Even for those who do not attend, I think the church is still a part of their life as a willful absence. Churches are not ignored here. Religion is not irrelevant like in many neighborhoods in the world, even I dare say Rome. Here, everyone goes to church so if you don’t go, people know you didn’t go and you know you didn’t go. It is not, from what I can tell, the culture of shame anymore, but it is the culture of concern and you can bet that people are praying for you to have a change of heart. Most city-organized events are religious, and even buses and trucks are adorned with testimonials to God.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KjvY6ESmnzM/Vqrm09eKzpI/AAAAAAAAFxg/NkpUcSgnW-Y/s1600/food.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KjvY6ESmnzM/Vqrm09eKzpI/AAAAAAAAFxg/NkpUcSgnW-Y/s400/food.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Just like in Italy, food is a huge part of life. Shopping for it, cooking it, eating it as a family, sharing it, cleaning up after it: food makes up at least 50% of our conversations at school. Echoes of Italy ring in my ear with each discussion, though I replace the words <i>Amatriciana</i> or <i>Carbonara</i> with <i>Tamalitos </i>or <i>Pepian</i>.<br />
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Grocery shopping is a real part of living in anywhere. In Antigua, there are only two grocery stores and unfortunately, they are overwhelming filled with junk food. Like in most places, junk food here is much cheaper than good food. Cereal, juice, jam, peanut butter, oil, bread, crackers, cheese: you need to scan the labels carefully to understand what its contents really are. Anything that is not filled with chemicals and sugar is usually about 3x the price of its faux alternative. This is clearly the influence of the US, but it is particularly upsetting because you know that the salaries of the vast majority of people make it so that the good alternative is not really an alternative. Paying 6 USD for juice just because it has no added sugar is usually the luxury of a foreigner.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yHZ9XflK4jQ/VqrWnay1bwI/AAAAAAAAFwI/bsbBSbK81Vo/s1600/PDA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yHZ9XflK4jQ/VqrWnay1bwI/AAAAAAAAFwI/bsbBSbK81Vo/s400/PDA.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Some other observations: Everyone has a cell phone, usually a smart one. Selfies are popular. PDA is not a bad word or concept here. Beer is equally popular with women as with men. Politeness is a big part of the culture and is included in the way people to speak to each other, locals and foreigners alike. <i>Con permisso</i> and <i>para servirle</i> are some of the most common phrases. Pinatas are actually very popular and accompany many celebrations. Kids are one of the most important things you can have in life, but they are also a big source of economic difficulty for people who struggle to get by with the income they have.With its first female mayor just in office this month, Antiguans are excited for change.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MCPWt_pWgPM/VqrXt0lXPRI/AAAAAAAAFwU/m2m4BwbMz3g/s1600/tourists.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MCPWt_pWgPM/VqrXt0lXPRI/AAAAAAAAFwU/m2m4BwbMz3g/s400/tourists.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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But if you don’t want to, you don’t have to see this Antigua. If you want to come to Camp Guatemala where the beer is cheap and your Spanish is an adornment not a necessity, you can have that experience too. You can eat sushi, go to yoga, eat bagels for breakfast and hamburgers for dinner and never be the wiser. There are enough foreign restaurants, bars, hostels, tourists and tour groups to shelter you from the full reality of this little city.<br />
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Antigua has a bit of everything, so you can do as you want here, but me, I already know how I would choose.<br />
<br />Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-51320388867357075332016-01-18T22:42:00.001-05:002016-01-18T22:43:04.978-05:00A week of Antigua<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-E8YBdM-TxgM/Vp2p_qu0oiI/AAAAAAAAFu4/c0RykmkNKtY/s1600/IMG_0057-LLAT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="260" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-E8YBdM-TxgM/Vp2p_qu0oiI/AAAAAAAAFu4/c0RykmkNKtY/s400/IMG_0057-LLAT.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The famous arch, a must for photos of Antigua</i></td></tr>
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We have been here in Antigua Guatemala for a little over a week and what a full week it has been. I have joined a semi-outdoor gym, run to the next pueblo over, eaten my weight in <i>aguacates </i>(avocados), learned how to make Mayan chocolate, bought papaya and <i>bananitos</i> at the market, and purified raw fruits and vegetables with a solution that is likely more harmful to my health than any bacteria hidden on the fruits itself.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-It3U_RQZXPU/Vp2rQh3UdOI/AAAAAAAAFvM/UQt8Dc2TLDI/s1600/IMG_20160113_092327%2Bllat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-It3U_RQZXPU/Vp2rQh3UdOI/AAAAAAAAFvM/UQt8Dc2TLDI/s400/IMG_20160113_092327%2Bllat.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Making chocolate powder. Everyone agreed, I am terrible at it.</i></td></tr>
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We have taken a chicken bus to a small town (San Juan del Obispo) and a zippy, bumpy, rickety tuk-tuk back to our slightly far, but charmingly convenient apartment. We have learned some new moves, and improved some old ones, in one group and one private salsa class. And most importantly, 40 hours later, I have learned the present, past and imperfect tense of Spanish and the meaning of words like <i>madrugada </i>(early morning)<i>, hiciste </i>(you did)<i> </i>and<i> albondegas </i>(meatballs), random words that have floated around in my head for years, most likely thanks to a J. Lo or Ricky Martin song... I am sorry to admit.<br />
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The weather here is perfect: 75/24 degrees, every day, cloudy or sunny, and it has yet to rain. You can wear open-toed shoes with a button-down sweater and be entirely comfortable. They call Guatemala the “land of the eternal spring”. To me, this is what the temperature in heaven must be like.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Hhc4biDG__s/Vp2pnKmwDYI/AAAAAAAAFu0/YRvxsgOkvZg/s1600/IMG_20160109_114419-LLAT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Hhc4biDG__s/Vp2pnKmwDYI/AAAAAAAAFu0/YRvxsgOkvZg/s400/IMG_20160109_114419-LLAT.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>El Sol</i></td></tr>
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The people we have met here are some of the most polite and nicest I have met anywhere. Canada has competition. And thankfully, the Spanish spoken here is very clear and easy to understand (perhaps a useful outcome of mass tourism?).<br />
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We have bought an <i>exprimador</i> (squeezer) for lemons and a separate one for garlic. Our fridge is filled with local favorites: <i>limas</i> (limes),<i> cebollas</i> (onions), <i>ajo</i> (garlic), <i>queso fresco </i>(fresh cheese), the local favorite beer Gallo, and fruits whose English names mean nothing to me: <i>loquats</i> (in Spanish <i>nispero</i>), a type of fruit like a sourer apricot and sapodilla (<i>zapota </i>in Spanish) a fruit that strangely enough tastes like pumpkin pie.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mLrAXOx2Wls/Vp2tkQ7HBgI/AAAAAAAAFvY/3LD4NW-_JZs/s1600/IMG_20160109_151019%2Bllat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mLrAXOx2Wls/Vp2tkQ7HBgI/AAAAAAAAFvY/3LD4NW-_JZs/s400/IMG_20160109_151019%2Bllat.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>These market fruits I know. Most I do not.</i></td></tr>
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Thanks to my husband’s multiple visits and chatty personality, we regularly run into people we know in the streets.<br />
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We are locals to the extent that light-skinned, debutante Spanish speakers can be.
But for the price we are paying for our apartment, or for pretty much anything we buy at the markets and restaurants, we are definitely not locals. Nor are we expats. As is our MO, we are tourists, but ones who like to <b>live</b> in the countries we visit.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-11X6xR5s-HU/Vp2qEh1YLWI/AAAAAAAAFvA/CMkLrxUi1Qw/s1600/IMG_0144-LLAT.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-11X6xR5s-HU/Vp2qEh1YLWI/AAAAAAAAFvA/CMkLrxUi1Qw/s400/IMG_0144-LLAT.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ah, tourists.</i></td></tr>
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As people living here, I still need some time to understand Antigua; its outer layers are filled with scenic photos, organized tours and tourism talk. I want to pull away some of the glossiness and see the place for itself. Hopefully, my next post will convey my findings.<br />
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As a plain tourist though, it is easy to see why Antigua’s popularity is growing. La Antigua Guatemala is certainly charming.
Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-7557105642339091132016-01-11T20:36:00.004-05:002016-01-11T20:59:20.839-05:00Pulling the switch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wG3x5Hmw9Tc/VpMeNUGfFSI/AAAAAAAAFuA/XqQDoqYcXf0/s1600/IMG_20160109_121755.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wG3x5Hmw9Tc/VpMeNUGfFSI/AAAAAAAAFuA/XqQDoqYcXf0/s320/IMG_20160109_121755.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>See more of my pics on <a href="https://instagram.com/living_like_a_tourist/" target="_blank">Instagram</a></i></td></tr>
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I didn't know it, but the word for that little lever that makes a train going at 200 miles an hour move from one set of tracks to a new one is appropriately called a switch.<br />
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And what a switch it has been.<br />
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Our train was chugging along on the UN-Italy track and could have kept on chugging. But the path hadn’t varied in a long time and we decided that rather than settle in for the long haul on a well-known, well-traversed path, we could pull the switch, divert the train and see what happens. Down the road the tracks may meet up again, but at least along the way, we see different scenery.<br />
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December 1, we pulled the railroad switch and set ourselves on a different track.
We decided to go to Guatemala for a month to learn the Spanish that we would use for the rest of our travels through Central and South America: first Panama, Costa Rica and Nicaragua to be followed by Colombia, Argentina, Chile and Peru. As our savings dwindle, hopefully our creativity, opportunities and horizons will expand.<br />
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Everything else that happens along the way, we cannot predict. For me, this trip is also an important exercise in not having a goal, not having a broader plan, not having a deeper reason for this experience. It is killing me not to analyze and dissect this decision for its greater significance, and not to know whether the end will justify the means. This is an exercise in the letting the means justify the means and I am doing my best to take it as it comes: the journey not the destination. This test of self-defiance and restraint is already a tough one which usually means it is a worthwhile one.<br />
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So after dragging out my goodbye to Italy, shipping every possession across the Atlantic and agonizing over leaving my kitty with my parents, I stepped off the Delta aircraft into Guatemala City's small but increasingly busy airport and left my fears behind on the airplane between the in-flight magazine and the safety instructions card. I was here. I was doing it. There is not enough space in our heads to both live life to the fullest and be apprehensive. <i>Living like a tourist</i>-mode. I am after all, a pro at this.<br />
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<b style="background-color: white;">Follow me on <a href="https://instagram.com/living_like_a_tourist/" target="_blank">Instagram</a> to see our day-to-day in pictures.</b>Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-36405028194194808402015-12-14T07:19:00.000-05:002015-12-14T07:20:21.698-05:00Un-countried<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BypSvVhXiu4/Vm6yDbwHN8I/AAAAAAAAFsU/m7NlFpUeLKM/s1600/bampw-bags-black-amp-white-black-and-white-cute-Favim.com-424478.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BypSvVhXiu4/Vm6yDbwHN8I/AAAAAAAAFsU/m7NlFpUeLKM/s400/bampw-bags-black-amp-white-black-and-white-cute-Favim.com-424478.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo credit: <a href="http://nightmare-endless.tumblr.com/">nightmare-endless.tumblr.com</a></span></i></td></tr>
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<i>dépaysé</i>: a great French word that means disoriented from being out of your own country, or perhaps more simply put, homesick. However, when literally translated to English, you get something like <i>un-countried</i>. At this moment when I have left Italy and have not settled in any new one, <i>uncountried </i>feels like exactly the right word to describe my status.<br />
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I guess I am also experiencing a bit of reverse culture shock, but it is not really a shock anymore. I know this about coming back to North America. Whereas Rome was always a little too rude, too chaotic, too illogical for me, North America is too commercial, too fear-driven, too entertainment brainwashed. I have always sought the seemingly unattainable middle ground between these cultures: a place like the US that lets you go to the gym at midnight, drink cappuccino at any hour and makes errands so easy that you have time for other things, but a place like Italy where the other things include 4 hour meals, taking the time to make yourself presentable and walking around the city for the famous <i>passeggiate</i>. I love that Americans greet you with a super energetic and friendly hello in stores compared to the standard Roman scowl. But I hate that the US believes you have the right to a gun but not to healthcare.<br />
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I remember a few years back my dad, who was constantly checking the temperature of my wanderlust, asked me once, “So do you use the bidet now?” He jokingly followed up saying, “Because once you use the bidet, there is no coming back.” It was a funny theory, but one that stuck in my head.<br />
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I do indeed use the bidet... have I have passed the point of no return? Maybe after these 15 years, I am now more willing to get scolded for wanting a dinner reservation at 7 pm and having coffee with milk after 10 am than I am to being scolded for not knowing who Lindsay Lohan is and for hating American football.<br />
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I am not sure what to do with that information now that I have left Italy, land of espresso and bidets and I have not settled in North America, land of efficiency, GMOs and Trump. At this moment, I am without country. I am un-countried.<br />
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I don’t know if I am still seeking that fabled promise land in my head or if I will just learn to accept one as is. Maybe it is like any other relationship: you can’t keep seeking the perfect one. You have to just accept the one whose flaws are the best match to your own, whose imperfections are the most in line with your own worldview.<br />
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For the next couple of months, we will live in blissful ignorance, ignoring these thoughts to travel for awhile and let the dust settle in our minds. Allow the puzzle pieces to fall and then figure out what picture we are making, but when that time comes, I may have to re-examine my values, my desires and my habits and if not cater to them in our decision of where to live, then carve them out wherever we are. Perhaps I need to price out bidets.Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-60901169404175659192015-11-25T10:37:00.001-05:002015-11-25T11:09:52.141-05:00Expat Hindsight is 20-20As the saying goes, hindsight is always 20-20. Having major life changes more frequently than most, expats feel this truth more acutely. But hindsight is really just another word for experience; life is trial and error and along the way you learn a thing or two.<br />
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I have lived in Rome on and off for 15 years, about 9 of those have been solid experience of the Eternal City. And now, 10 days before leaving it, I am reflecting on the things that I wish I had known 15 years ago to make my life in Bella Roma a little more <i>dolce</i>. And by <i>dolce</i> I mean helluva easier.<br />
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<li><b>Invest in mosquito netting.</b> Rome has a freaking <b>ton </b>of mosquitoes; yet apartments in Rome NEVER come with mosquito screens. The tiny, demon <i>zanzare tigre</i> (tiger mosquitoes) are barely visible to the eye but to people like me I know within a second when they have bit me because I want to rip that entire limb off. With the advent of DIY home improvement shops in Italy, mosquito netting is cheap and easy to find. Do it! Even if it is not professionally done, having any kind of barrier against the little monsters has revolutionized my life and sleeping habits. If you are like me, the paramour of parasitic insects, at the very least, do not get a ground floor apartment and do not live in Monteverde.
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<li><b>Look beyond pizza and pasta. </b> Have you ever heard of <i>cicoria</i>? Neither had I. I wish I had known about this food earlier. There are so many Italian foods that take the stage that it is no wonder that a leafy green probably didn’t make the morning news, but when a restaurant makes this <i>contorno</i> correctly, it is one of the best things out there. Beyond pizza and pasta, there is also <i>Broccoli Romanesco, Carciofi alla Romana, Broccoletti, Fiori di Zucca, Panzanella</i>: I have never seen any of these on a menu outside of Italy, and I will sorely miss them. </li>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Or if you are desperate to have pizza, at least get it with cicoria</i></td></tr>
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Hunt carefully</b>. Some thoughts on hunting for an apartment in Rome: never assume anything, lower your standards of space, and get ready for the long haul. Like anything else in Rome, you can be pleasantly surprised and luck out on the first try, or you can look for 9 months and still have trouble finding anything you would consider even adequate. A couple tips I wish I had known when looking 1) No ground floor apartments (see point 1 above). 2) a good landlord is key. Base at least one third of your decision on whether the landlord/landlady seems like they may walk into your apartment unannounced (this does happen). 3) Get an apartment with at least ONE air conditioning unit. The heat of a Roman July is not funny anymore. Save yourself the hassle of sleeping naked on a tile floor to escape it. Read more about my <a href="http://www.livinglikeatourist.com/2013/07/finding-apartment-in-rome-12th.html" target="_blank">apartment-hunting adventures</a> here.</li>
<li><b>Always walk.</b> I am an avid, dedicated, stubborn walker. I opt for feet over wheels any day of the week and I quickly learned, but not quickly enough implemented, that anything within a 45 minute walk is a route better walked than publicly transported. Even with just a 10-15 minute wait (a very modest estimate for bus waiting times), the traffic and walk to and from the bus stop makes every trip in Rome 45 minutes. So if you can walk it, walk. It is much more liberating and enjoyable than being dependent on an often late, overcrowded, dirty and loud ATAC-mobile. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<li><b>But have access to some wheels.</b> And just as I flouted the joys and freedom of walking, I will also state that after 8 years refusing to do so, in my last year I have started to drive in Rome, and I wish I had done it sooner. I am still not an advocate of driving everywhere all the time North-American style, but having the option on a rainy or cold day, or when you need to carry something heavy is a lifesaver. The advent of Car2Go in Rome changed my world; I get the advantages of but not the headaches of a 24-7 car. Car2Go only came to Rome about 2-3 years ago, so I couldn’t have availed myself of this option back in 2001, but I wish I hadn’t hesitated about getting a membership.</li>
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<li><b>Get out of town</b>. To once again go against my own opinion, having access to your own car is however also very important for weekend trips. I often get Rome-aphobic, i.e. claustrophobic of being in the city for weeks on end. In fact, the ability to go to Tuscany or Umbria, not to mention the coasts or mountains, on a weekend is one of the best things about living in Rome. Most small Italian cities still exhibit everything I love about Italy, but don’t always see in Rome: kind helpful people, beautifully kept properties, wonderfully cooked meals and cheap wine. You should not live in Rome without going (often) to the amazing Italian villages a mere 45 minutes away. </li>
<li><b>Occasionally deport yourself altogether.</b> After living in Rome for awhile, sometimes you need a new perspective, something more modern, more dynamic, more forward thinking. I find that I am much happier in slow, traditional, unchanging Rome, if I leave Italy once a month or every two months. Being in Europe, there is no excuse not to take advantage of the super cheap air travel choices and plethora of countries within a 1-2 hour flight: Malta, Tunisia, Austria, Switzerland, Bulgaria, Croatia, Germany, Spain, France, etc. It is really a gift to be so close to so many interesting and culturally diverse countries. </li>
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<li><b>Don’t be too devoted to to-do lists. </b>Slow traditional unchanging Rome is the reason that so many tourists fall in love with the place. Rome is always Rome. It is not diluted by modernity or foreign influence. And living in places like North America that are completely modern and sewn together by foreign influences, Italy is charmingly refreshing, appealing and enchanting…until you live here. … and had to get your <i>permesso di soggiorno</i> … at least twice… then charming usually gets replaced by other words such as frustrating, bewildering or nonsensical. As a North American list maker, I wish I had learned earlier not to be too tied to my lists and deadlines. When picking up a prescription sometimes takes 4 trips to the pharmacy, installing internet takes 6 phone calls and 2 visits by a technician, exchanging a garment takes 3 trips to the store etc, it is next to impossible to check things off your list when you want them checked off. You just have to face the fact that it will get done, but it may not be today, or tomorrow, or next week. It may even have to be next month because in months like August, nothing is feasible. This is something I have learned about being a local here and though it is a frustrating truth, I have learned patience from Rome and patience is something I wish I had had a little more of 9 years ago.</li>
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Finally some things that I did get right: I am happy that I made lists of restaurants to try, that I consulted a guide book of Rome even 9 years into my stay, that I ran the Rome marathon and that I took advantage of Rome’s yearly festivals, like the Lungo il Tevere in the summer. I am happy that I toured around large portions of Italy and Europe in general and got to know so many Italians from all over the country. I am really glad that I lived like a tourist in Rome because it is probably the best city in the world to do so. And that is my final recommendation about living in the Eternal city.<br />
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Use my list to help you <i><a href="http://www.livinglikeatourist.com/2011/05/listography-roma.html" target="_blank">Live like a tourist in Rome</a></i> too:<br />
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<br />Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-75480203860998837092015-10-25T14:16:00.002-04:002015-11-27T09:55:13.394-05:00A quintessential expat moment<i>Quick note: I wrote this post back in July right after we gave notice to work and to our friends that we are leaving Rome. Four months later, I have a little more courage to publish it. I hope it speaks to some of you who have felt the same.</i><br />
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We have set the date for our move. It is a quintessential expat moment... but I am not feeling very expat-y at the moment. <br />
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It is not that I am not ready to leave in a way. Some really close friends have left and Rome feels smaller than it used to: more restrictive, more predictable... but knowing that it might be time to leave has not stopped me from getting sad and wistful. Already nostalgic though our departure is 4 months away. A pre-nostalgia.<br />
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I am getting sad about leaving the Ikea shelf that we slivered a piece off to fit next to the sink, sad about my fancy hair dryer that I bought only last year after 8 years of my sucky one, sad that my kitty growing more and more blind can still find his way because he now knows the height of the couch, the spot in the kitchen where his food goes and the two spots around the apartment where his water glasses are. (He is a fancy cat).<br />
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I am even sad about the plant I got as a gift from a friend who housesat in my first apartment to myself in Rome. The plant and the memory have grown and blossomed every year for 4 years.<br />
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An expat is not supposed to feel this way. Expats, or at least our variety - the rotational expats - never seem sad about leaving. Excited yes, busy yes, boasty yes. Some tempered nostalgia is also permissible, but usually only at the goodbye party, most of the time within in the "thank you, it's been great" speech. All of these are valid expat emotions to convey. But sad, hesitant, uncertain, no.<br />
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As someone who is always ready for a new assignment, a new country, a new adventure, you as an expat are not supposed to be sad about the end of an old one. Explicitly or implicitly, you subscribed to this life of rotation; you are not supposed to be unsure of it.<br />
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So I betray my true nature with this sentiment and with this post. But I have never claimed to be 100% expat. I have never been 100% anything.The fact that I even have a cat betrays this side of me the side that will miss her plants, her matching rug, her tea kettle, blender and all the other frivolous appliances we finally allowed ourselves to buy, the side of me who will miss her spot for everything.<br />
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"You can't take it with you." In these moments, I remind myself of this wisdom.<br />
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It is a good life lesson, a mantra that expats live and breathe instinctively. But for me is not the items themselves, it is the emotion behind the stuff, the stories of buying them. Those items, but more importantly, those stories are my world, my transportable abode.<br />
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Reflecting on Rome I realize that for a little while I had a place, a country, a home. It was lent to me, never mine to keep but it was a nice sentiment. It may take years before the next city hands me its keys or before I ask for them. Then again, now that I am more of a professional in this moving business, perhaps it will only take a few days. I really don’t know what to expect. But I have latched up the suitcases and I am ready to face the landscape wherever I debark.<br />
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A reluctant expat. A reluctant citizen. I don't really know how to be either and I will probably never be fully one or the other. I don't know how to stay in one place; I don't know how to say goodbye.<br />
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In any case, I hope that one day I can carry my stories around in a smaller bag. That I can extract the story of the Mexican mirror and the gifted apron and the leftover wedding vases from the physical reminder of them and instead carry around the pure memories on their own. That the physical items and places won't constitute my feeling of home; that my stories and relationships will. I would certainly become a lighter traveler even if I remain a reluctant expat.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WC96zjoeSXA/Vi0NO8znylI/AAAAAAAAFn4/OVqfwqg89y4/s1600/Home%2Bis%2Bwhere%2Byour%2Bstory%2Bbegins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WC96zjoeSXA/Vi0NO8znylI/AAAAAAAAFn4/OVqfwqg89y4/s400/Home%2Bis%2Bwhere%2Byour%2Bstory%2Bbegins.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A fitting sign: hanging at Ca'Paravento Agriturismo</i></td></tr>
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<br />Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8339860297397290511.post-65057490050152471312015-10-11T10:59:00.003-04:002015-10-15T11:46:31.502-04:00Random and Direct: our trip to Sofia, Bulgaria<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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One year we went to Targu Mures in Transylvania, Romania. Why? Because it was random and direct; we had never really conceived of going there so it was a random choice and there were direct flights from Rome. In my world, those two criteria are pretty much good enough to visit any city on a weekend trip.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T4M_ANh_CKE/VhpKjkKvGgI/AAAAAAAAFhs/3W1PXvoXiwM/s1600/cathedral%2Bbulgaria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T4M_ANh_CKE/VhpKjkKvGgI/AAAAAAAAFhs/3W1PXvoXiwM/s400/cathedral%2Bbulgaria.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Alexander Nevski Cathedral</i></td></tr>
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This October, we added one more criterion to the random and direct list: must have a half marathon. I started looking on Map My Run for a half marathon in a not-so-well-known-city to us that had direct flights from Rome. There were many results for half-marathons and many results for random cities, but a fewer number at the intersection of those three criteria.<br />
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Sofia, Bulgaria quickly came out as the winner when we factored in cost and flight duration. Only about 1 hour 45 minutes from Rome, flights to Sofia were quite reasonably priced. And not being in the Euro zone, everything else there too was a downright bargain. The hotel was about 30 Euro a night, the average meal for 2 about 15 euro and the half marathon entrance 10. And best of all 2 litre beer bottles at convenient stores sold for about 1.20 Euro (I never had one, but appreciated the concept). Considering that we were still within the European Union, these deals were of another decade.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ceb9FQWuxhA/VhpzW9A1xHI/AAAAAAAAFiw/1Alvxtb3AZg/s1600/sofia%2Bexuberance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ceb9FQWuxhA/VhpzW9A1xHI/AAAAAAAAFiw/1Alvxtb3AZg/s400/sofia%2Bexuberance.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Vibrant statue in front of the Theater House.<br />I don't know what it is called, but I would call it Exuberance</i></td></tr>
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No, Bulgaria is still a well-kept secret. Perhaps it is still in the shadows of its famous next door neighbors: Italy and more recently, Croatia, so the tourists have yet to venture that extra step east. However, I reckon that it won't be long before Sofia, perhaps like Budapest, becomes more widely known in the touristic circles.<br />
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Charming, clean, modern with an artsy flare all laid out across the backdrop of its communist history, Sofia is like an introvert friend. Unassuming and quiet, you never heard much about her, but when you give her a chance, you learn all her good qualities, making you a little regretful that you didn't know each other before.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Cu9pcXeS-i8/VhpwsKwKZXI/AAAAAAAAFiU/rnjYFauB9SI/s1600/Saint%2Bsofia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Cu9pcXeS-i8/VhpwsKwKZXI/AAAAAAAAFiU/rnjYFauB9SI/s400/Saint%2Bsofia.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Statue of babealicious Saint Sofia guarding the city</i></td></tr>
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You can get to know Sofia quite well just through some of her most spectacular sites: the Saint Alexander Nevski Cathedral (photographed above), a testament to the city's Orthodox faith, St. George's Rotunda Church amidst the ruins of the old town of Serdica, a reminder of the city's antiquity and roman past, and the hot mama Saint Sofia Statue that stands in the place of where Lenin statue used to be, proof of the city's new start after communism.<br />
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For English speakers and other readers of the Roman alphabet, Bulgarian menus are indecipherable. Restaurants don't generally have English menus posted; however, they all seemed to have one in reserve in case of requests. The food was phenomenal, mostly Mediterranean style a combo of Greek, Turkish, Serbian, Arab with some Northern European touches. Bulgar, couscous and feta combined with tomatoes, peppers, parsley are often coupled with kraut, pickled vegetables and radishes... practically the best pieces of every European/Middle Eastern cuisine.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VVB4cBbV6SU/VhpKuREZPEI/AAAAAAAAFh0/Ym52esBXkGQ/s1600/bulgaria%2Bsalad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VVB4cBbV6SU/VhpKuREZPEI/AAAAAAAAFh0/Ym52esBXkGQ/s400/bulgaria%2Bsalad.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Not the Shopska salad but just as great!</i></td></tr>
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As a vegetarian, I often miss out on National foods which tend to be meat-based. Bulgaria in contrast has national salads! The city of Sofia even has a typical one called, Shopska: tomatoes, cucumbers and cheese. I was in heaven. In addition to the long list of salads and warm or cold vegetarian appetizers, there were also at least 3-7 soups on any menu, many of which were veggie (though you may have to be flexible on the broth used). Soups are hugely popular in Bulgaria so even the fast food joints had ample soup options.<br />
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I happily indulged in all of these non-pasta, non-pizza meal options while still managing to maintain my very Italian coffee and wine habits, visiting many of the little coffee shops and wine bars on Vitosha Boulevard and across the city.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2rMdyN7Ko-8/Vhpxe5IH8JI/AAAAAAAAFig/Lz-nxlwwe3M/s1600/sofia%2Bcafe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2rMdyN7Ko-8/Vhpxe5IH8JI/AAAAAAAAFig/Lz-nxlwwe3M/s400/sofia%2Bcafe.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>One of the many cute outdoor cafes on Vitosha Boulevard</i></td></tr>
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The <a href="http://marathonsofia.com/?lang=en" target="_blank">Sofia half marathon</a>, the guise under which we chose to go on this particular trip, also far exceeded our expectations. Smallish, yes, but with a good atmosphere and number of spectators. The runners were well spaced out so you never felt cramped; they had water and sustenance stands well tended by volunteers. We got a t-shirt, a technical shirt and a medal each: not bad at all for a 10 euro entrance fee. We also got to witness the elite runners from Ethiopia and Kenya who won the men's and women's race, respectively, finish the full marathon in about the same time as we finished the half. You want to be inspired: watch these athletes cross the finish line and talk to the cameramen, breathing normally after sprinting 42 km. Amazing.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9A1f3DyMCbI/Vhpkrqq8z5I/AAAAAAAAFiE/gMuMPnNGxfw/s1600/sofia%2Bmarathon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9A1f3DyMCbI/Vhpkrqq8z5I/AAAAAAAAFiE/gMuMPnNGxfw/s400/sofia%2Bmarathon.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Enjoying the perfect weather before the half marathon</i></td></tr>
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I am no elite runner, but I ran my fastest half marathon yet and felt invigorated after the 1 hour and 49 minutes. As a reward. we had a Starbucks coffee and a hearty salad at another lovely outdoor cafe, soaking in the perfect 24 degree weather. We wandered the streets a bit more looking at the array of bakeries, cafes and little boutiques. And then boarded our Alitalia flight home, saying goodbye to Sofia and a beautiful mountainous landscape that we would have to visit on another trip.<br />
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A greater writer than I would have called this trip, <i>the road less traveled</i>. A modern guide book would have dubbed it <i>off the beaten path</i>. In my more blunt manner, I called it random and direct, but any which way you call it, being unconventional in your choices always pays off.<br />
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Check out more photos of Sofia on my <a href="https://instagram.com/living_like_a_tourist/" target="_blank">Instagram feed</a>!</div>
Karen Mardellihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17211459413311645588noreply@blogger.com0