Tweaked and Untitled

Two Kids, The Turks, and Awayness

Western Europe is idiot-proof. And, that’s the exact reason why you’ll wait three hours in a shitty line to visit the Sistine Chapel or pay nearly $28 per night to share a dorm with 17 year old Polish kids playing trance music on their iPhones at 4am. I beg you, save yourself some heartache by coming to Europe in the winter AKA the low season and you will have a much better time. All those post card images of Italy in my head were utterly shattered when I would see 80+ tour buses parked outside every noteworthy site. This could have been avoided if I had local friends, did a little more couchsurfing, or stuck to more rural locations. But, fuck it, everybody needs a good reality check that they’re just another dumbass with a camera and this is exactly the fuel that I used to take on Turkey.

Istanbul…? Two words: FUCKING AWESOME! Rome, Paris, London, and Berlin? Fuck that noise, a place that many people leave out on their itineraries is this incredible city called Istanbul and maybe that’s the precise reason why it’s unbelievably rad. Istanbul is a crushing megacity and well-endowed with loads of adorable neighborhoods, historical treasures, and flocks of beautiful people. There’s an overall electrifying metropolis energy buzzing around, but with just enough grit to make it all seem unfeigned. Sometimes I feel like I’m on the set of Blade Runner, other times it feels like I’m rocking out at an offbeat bar in the Mission. Top this place off with some ridiculously friendly locals and I instantly fell in love with the city.

My busted ass didn’t really do any research on Turkey, just understood that it was one of those creepy places in the world where people only had good things to say about it. On the traveler grapevine, Turkey remains a disclaimer-free location; a truly special phenomenon amongst narcissistic bastards who like to envision themselves as the next Indiana Jones. I’ve just kept one ear to the ground and everything pointed to the East for this inviting part of the country. I’ve made it to Southwestern Anatolia, just a few dozen kilometers from the Syrian and Iraqi borders. Now north, closer to the Iranian border and plotting my grand entrance into the former Soviet Union.

After five weeks, hands down, the number one reason to come to Turkey is the PEOPLE. I must say, in all of my travels, I’ve never had an experience where the locals where my favorite feature. In other countries, the overwhelming reality that you are simply considered a visitor remains obvious. However, here in Turkey, even the smallest public interactions make you feel like a guest. Turkey is the place where I’ve been able to discern the remarkable difference between being polite and being helpful, being presumptuous versus being curious, etc. From the local women in the hammam asking about my tattoos and then offering to scrub the skin off my naked ass (with no shame) to anonymous strangers paying for my lunch on the ferry. The locals will blow your mind over and over again, something very rare in the blooming commodification of travel.

Southeastern Turkey is full of glorious landscapes and the feeling of being far away never really leaves you. Trust me, after the gnarly mass of tourism throughout Italy, my path was searching for something more discrete. The southeast offered me an array of huge mountain ranges, dry plains, and epic gorges. No fucking hostel network, this shit is some straight up elsewhere. So, I dove in again, but this time the landing was soft… Well, because as luck would have it, there was someone there to catch me.

Two strangers finally found each other in Istanbul. In the strange event that we both lacked onward tickets, it was decided to team up for this stretch of road. Unlike other fervent sprees during the half Korean world tour, this arrangement is mobile one and a girl has to keep her cards close. But, for the first time, I’ve finally found that someone to match me step for step. Over the course of a few euphoric weeks, it all exploded into lots of surreal scenery, playing music, hitch hiking, soft skin, rolling cigarettes, and French whispers. Sharing each others stories word for word and resting in nightlong embraces. Although life is visceral and urgent, everything seems simple and sweet together. It’s all been swirling around us, in an ever shifting mirage of far away landscapes. Old lives will have to wait, commitment is retired; somehow I have it all right here and right now. Is this being happy?

Otherwise, it looks like your favorite half Korean freak show is going Post Soviet. This ragged vagabond tag team is taking on the lands of Central Asia with American & French passports. The menu includes Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikstan, and finally Krygstan before crashing into Western China. The reason why most people tell Central Asia to fuck off is because of the bureaucratic nightmare associated with the visa process. The ‘Stans don’t give a shit about a tourist’s dollar, but that’s precisely the charm of it all. To be honest, besides my former lovely roommate Janar from Kazakstan, I don’t know one single person who’s taken this part of the world. Oh yes, I should mention that we’re doing this shit entirely overland.

Overall I’m excited about going in blind, but my nerves get a little rattled about how Central Asia is seriously a blackhole of traveler information. Yeah, I’d love to shine some image of being hard core, but honestly, I’m trembling in my boots and googling shit until the sun comes up. Seeing as most people opt for the more well-trodden paths of elsewhere (ahem, SE Asia), the phenomenon of serendipity becomes a lot more religious in Central Asia. Bus times? Visa procedures? Cheap accommodations? Lonely Planet is an antique yardstick at best as most of the information about the region is an internet word of mouth lottery ticket. Oh yeah, and subject to change at a the drop of pin. This part of the world is literally in the middle of nowhere and my North American ass won’t have this chance again. Throw in my super hot sidekick… Well, this half Korean girl is fucking sold.

So, if you happen to have any friends or family who’ve spent some time in Central Asia and can offer some tips / tricks / any info not to let my busted ass die in former Soviet territory… Send them my way! I don’t have much to say because I’m not hellbent on liberating all of the shit talking that normally pollutes most of my inner monologues. As you can tell from this entry, my writing’s gone to shit and it’s because I’m in love. They say contentment is one of the leading causes of major writer’s block and yours truly is suffering a classic case. With no pending meltdowns on the horizon, I’m not pissed off right now. Give it some time, you know I’m good for it. Miss and love you all!

Another Fat American Tourist in Italy (me!)

The transition of going from a “developing” country to a “developed” country (and vice versa) is always a fresh kick in the teeth. My first day in Italy, I couldn’t quite put my finger on what felt so strange… Then it hit me. There was no one screaming “Japan” and “konichiwa” at me in the street. The call to prayer was replaced by church bells and now I’m nearly being run over by stylish scooters instead of diseased donkeys. Oh yeah, and then there was the joy of paying $9 for a fresh squeezed orange juice and a cappuccino. Apparently la vita dolce comes with a price, but I knew that going in.

Let’s go ahead and get one cliche out of the way; I am in in Italy to EAT… But, I want to see you attempt to subsist on the flavorless bullshit known as Moroccan food for months, then landing in one of the culinary capitals of the world. Let me know how it goes. After hundreds of bland tajines, I’m in complete tastebud gluttony right now. Currently gorging myself with procuitto, white truffles, gnocchi, buffalo milk mozzarella, gravitas, pizza, salami, hazelnuts, focaccia, tiramisu, risotto, and pecorino! Afterwards, washing it down with beverages like machiattos, grappa, cavatappos, limoncello, and chianti wine. It’s all been one grotesque exercise in waistline destruction, but I’m enjoying it down to the last dress size.

Upon arrival to Florence, it’s immediately established that tourism is out of fucking control. Combine the likes of Times Square with Disney World, then multiply them by a hundredfold. Only then might you get a sense of the armies of poorly dressed foreigners with cameras around their necks that obstruct the sidewalks here. The most tragic part is all the horrific tourist traps of businesses on the Italian cityscape. Flocks of tacky souvenir shops and restaurants that serve food that looks worse than microwave dinners. It’s all earning a buck off the mass produced fun for middle class vacationers. I’m not exactly pissed off by it all because I’m really no different. I wanted to eat gelato and saunter around the Uffizi Gallery just like everyone else.

The only thing that sets me apart is that it’s gonna be a cold day in hell when I pay €23 for some runny tomato sauce and cardboard flavored bread. So, I should mention that the redemption in Florence remains in the fact that you can leave behind the majority of the tourist freakshow and all of its tasteless carnage by simply walking away. Literally, walking away into a direction other than the crowds and into the neighborhoods. With just a tiny bit of footwork, things get good real quick and I’ve been able to greedily satisfy all my cravings because of the laziness of others.

In terms of language, my brain is a complete clusterfuck at the moment and the best example I can give is accidentally ordering my first coffee in Arabic. When the barista looked at me like the crackhead I am, my busted ass switched to French for some reason. Still confused, I instinctually defaulted on Spanish? Eventually I just pointed at another person’s drink in shame. Thanks to my dexterity in Spanish, I usually understand the gist of written Italian and can faintly grasp very basic spoken conversation. Response is an entirely different hurdle in the world of language acquisition, thus producing a coherent sentence in Italian is out of the question.

English is so widely spoken and it’s a worldwide tragedy how painfully monolingual the vast majority of Americans, Australians, and Brits are. Remaining with a single language doesn’t develop a part of the brain correctly and watching any Anglophone carrying on dialogue in a foreign country easily illustrates this. These scenes usually consists of a person wearing performance fleece (tourists / backpackers) while barking off broken sentences in English like caveman at some poor victim not wearing performance fleece who doesn’t speak English (locals). However, in all of my travel episodes, learning just a few words of the local language always wins you 1000s of smiles and engenders an entirely different experience in the country.

My own first attempts at foreign languages probably sound like I’m gurgling broken glass to any native speaker, but just making an attempt implies a sense of respect for the visited culture (usually). It’s not rocket science… Greetings, excuse me, thank you, or simply inquiring if they speak English in their own language in their own country! Can you even imagine someone on an American street asking you in Nepalese where the train station is? Probably not. This isn’t a call for everyone to master dozens of languages fluently, just take a step back from your global entitlement to pick up a few words here and there in order to begin a diplomatic exchange.

You know that whole “traveling to learn about the world” bullshit that everyone keeps rambling about? Don’t forget that language is a big chunk of that, it’s just not as easy as binge drinking and staying in hostels. Keep it real and learn some!

Otherwise, from the sweet advice of my dear friend Hayley, I’m currently in Cinque Terre on the Ligurian coast. Nestled on the side of some gigantic cliffs, the region of Cinque Terre consists of five petite coastal villages that are settled between gorgeous Mediterranean headlands. With no roads and an overpriced train service, the best way to get from place to place is to hike the trails that links the towns. At the cost of maxing out my dwindling lungs, I took the more strenuous ridge trails along the wine terraces to avoid the crowds who opted for the flatter coastal paths. The teal blue seas, pastel architecture, and green mountain ranges have lifted a huge weight off my chest. Life is good!

I’m off to Rome for a few days. After that, Istanbul is next and I’m a little giddy about it. While living in San Francisco, my most glorious apartment building in the Tenderloin was shared with a group of marvelous Turks. And, guess what, I can only say great things about them all as people. As I’ve come to learn during this vagabond bullshit, it’s the opinions of people you respect that guide your path to the greatest treasures (See: Above for Cinque Terre). While my old Turkish roommates would fondly remember the fabulous things of their homeland, I always had the gut feeling that I’d end up there one day. On top of that, I scored a gig at a permaculture farm on the Mediterranean coast and excited to learn more about soil with the teal sea as a backdrop again.

After that? No plans yet because I only plan one country at a time. India was ruled out because of the scorching summer weather during June. Although I have a handful of friends in SE Asia, stomaching the banana pancake trail at this point seems like a bad idea. It’s basically the skid row of backpacking; full of all the broke crackheads and second only to Western Europe in its appalling unoriginality. The stars are pointing to Nepal because of cheap airfare and then Tibet to get some rain shadow views of the Himalayas. Jury is still out, unless YOU can come along.

Nostalgia Absolves All

Who spends two months in Morocco? Ahem, well…

First, I have an admission to make. I’ve spent almost the entirety of my travel career within a certain comfort zone. Sure, that might seem like a disgusting overgeneralization as it covers nearly 20 countries. While Latin America certainly was no breeze, at university I studied the region for years under a multi-disciplined curriculum and I speak Spanish fluently. Otherwise, I’m the daughter of one mighty fucking insane Korean woman and after spending half an afternoon with that hot blooded mamma with her soap operas, smelly food, and neurotic outbursts… Well, the rest of the East Asian region didn’t really get my panties into an exotic bunch.

Otherwise, one has to be a sheltered and pedantic chump to honestly believe that there are any gaping differences between European and American lifestyles. Yes, yes, this is where you curse me and wax on about how X, Y, or Z is so much better on whatever side of the Atlantic you happened to have studied abroad in or like to call home in the Northern Hemisphere.* Fuck off. Have you ever enjoyed the privilege of earning more than $100 per month? Can you afford jet fuel, an iPod, or college tuition? We can go over all sorts of democracy and quality of life indices, but let’s just break it down by the fact we both share functioning sewage systems and the cute girls bear the freedom to wear tank tops in sweltering hot weather.

Morocco… I loved it. I hated it. Raw is perhaps the best way to sum it up. A bootcamp of sorts in what was once completely uncharted half Korean territory. This place was a demanding experience of cutting my teeth on a fiercely new environment. I don’t know if you can call it strength, because Morocco isn’t a warzone and most of the drama taking place here is a direct result of the blooming tourism industry. I hate to compare and contrast, but unlike Latin America, Morocco never felt dangerous, corrupt, or violent. It was just a shit ton of hassle, remaining constantly assertive, and avoiding burnout.

Still, I’m giving myself props for not letting this place chew me up and spit me the fuck out. Locals and travelers alike were always surprised to see my dumbass rolling around by my lonesome while not quite dead or catatonic. Honestly, there was a lot of thinking on my feet when dealing with shitty new situations; the sorts of encounters that I had zero tools, insights, language, or business for confronting. With several stunts off the beaten track, getting around this insane country as a single girl required a thick skin and some straight nerves of steel. Yes, it’s true, I had to pick myself up out of the ashes of a few meltdowns and my intestines will start to decompose if I eat another fucking tajine. But, I’m still in one piece and that’s what counts.

Let me be straight up about something too… Every time I was ready to write Morocco off into an oblivion of eternal loathing, somehow the universe would undermine my resentment and send a little angel (of an experience, of a person) to rescue my deteriorating perceptions. The unbearable compassion of so many strangers still makes my heart hum with admiration. It’s only with their kindness that I conquered my three abstract goals: set foot onto the Sahara Desert, catch a glimpse of Islam, and get down with my homegirl Vanda for a month. So, for all the melodramas that my ridiculous ego overdid, I’m pushing off with nothing but respect for the uninhibited beauty in Moroccan culture and this place will always remain sacred ground.

Some other bonuses are landing a few of the best beaches of my life, falling madly in love with the medinas, constantly feeling honored to step into local homes, and pausing my liver’s descent into cirrhosis with two whole months of sobriety. The rest of the episode is being placed into the mental folder of “process later” and I’ll diplomatically leave it at that. When I’m in the comfort of my own home again and yawning at my painfully boring life in America, the pandemonium of Morocco will sift down to a thankful place… Only happy thoughts will remain.

In other boring travel news, I’ve decided that Lonely Planet and all other guidebooks will be stricken from my circus show. This is not an attempt at being hardcore; I just recognize them now as the instruments of myopic clods on boring paths. Seeing as the logistics can easily be googled (See: wikitravel or travelindependent.info), guidebooks are simply a mechanism to remain unimaginatively isolated and they scratch only the surface of pre-arranged entertainment. Without the maps and the tailored routes, I had to rely much more on the discerning opinions and wonderful help of actual PEOPLE I met. Throw in some serendipity and the occasional epic failure… Well, it all lead to much more tasty food, pristine nature, interesting friendships, bizarre sights, psychedelic adventures, and the sweetest aftermath.

So, I’m heading into Italy tomorrow. I know! I talked mad shit about not going to that overpriced continent again. But, as the airline schedules would have it, the cheapest way to get to Istanbul was to fly on few shitty low cost carriers. It honestly came down to a layover in Frankfurt or Pisa. Uhh, no-brainer?! My bank account is already burning with fury… A single night of a shitty hostel dorm in Florence costs the same ONE WEEK of my own private hotel room in Morocco! So, I’m technically spoiling myself just a bit… More art history pilgrimages, food & drink odysseys, and not pissing in a hole for a couple of weeks. As for conquering Turkey? I’m staying purposefully obscure about the place, but the cosmic compass is indicating I should wander into Asia afterward.

angelicabaldwin (at) gmail (dot) com

*Americans are fat, carry guns, and don’t have universal health care… Big deal. Last time I checked, one can still watch almost every American reality TV show on European soil. If that shit ain’t a sign of the apocalypse of Western civilization, then I don’t know what fuck is.

Drugs, Sex, and Other Fond Voids

10 Steps to Finding an Eccentric Beach Festival

1. Oversleep your bus ride by three hours.
2. Get dropped off at a gas station as the last stop.
3. Bargain with the station owner to sleep on the roof for $1.50.
4. Wake up at 4am to LOUD house music.
5. See if the source (Re: hippy blaster van) will lift you to next town.
6. Although heading in the wrong direction, hop in anyway.
7. Through broken French & Arabic, charm an invite to stay with them.
8. Arrive at a beach festival with no food or water supply.
9. Thank your mamma for your sleeping bag and your pretty face.*
10. Party for three days straight.

Been living like a faux sufi for months… And then, in a matter of hours, it all went straight to hell, both literally and figuratively.

When people tell you to go to hell, they are referring to the desolate abyss of Western Sahara. Or, if you will, “Moroccan” Sahara as it’s known to its occupiers. The UN defines it as a “Non-Self-Governing Territory” to the international community. However, my half Korean ass simply called it the end of the world because it’s nothing but harsh sandscapes and 1000s of miles of emptiness. I’ve been to deserts before, but the territory of Western Sahara takes the cake as the closest I’ve come to the center of the void. It’s one of the least populated areas of the world; not many people are lured to reside there with of its lack of arable land and ongoing water shortages. Oh yeah, a separatist movement and an abundance of land mines aren’t really doing any favors for real estate scene either.

To elaborate on the above list… Well, as Slug once said, when life gives you lemons, paint that shit gold. There really is no accurate way to describe the panic engulfing me when I realized that I overslept my bus ride past Tarfaya and into Western Sahara. Yours truly has done some REALLY dumb and risky shit in life, but nothing compares to arriving at a gas station at 10pm in the middle of nowhere with zero hope of finding a hotel room in a disputed wasteland of a desert. And the funny part? I got into this situation NOT because I was drunk, NOT because I was hanging out with sketchy weirdos, and NOT because I ignored the little voice in my head… It’s because I fell asleep on a fucking bus! However, through the grace of Allah and some mild language skills, a Moroccan / French contortionist troupe with a few fabulous gays and colorfully wigged women allowed me to tag along to a desert party on the Atlantic coast. Serendipity, at it’s finest.

Ending up on a beach with no food or water might be some cliché nightmare scenario, but the difference in my version is that I was in the desert and not quite deserted. I managed to survive three days by the kindness of 100s of strangers and party my ass off at Northern Africa’s microscopic version of Burning Man. Crazy costumes, weird themes to different camps, an abundance of music & performance art, and bucketloads of substances to walk the fine lines of surreality. Surprisingly, the crowd was mostly Moroccan artists and hippies while punctuated with standard issue Euro freaks. As for the rest? Party and bullshit! I might have fried my neurology a little too hard for a girl approaching her 30s, but it was worth every brain cell.

There ain’t nothing like a few more pristine beaches with a tall dark stranger to get your chemically devastated serotonin levels up? Let me back up by saying that I’ve been CELIBATE during the last few months. In Morocco, the only thing a woman has to do in order to get laid is literally step outside and be breathing. Sexual advances (from both local and foreign men alike) are as ubiquitous as cockroaches in this country. With almost the same consequences: they usually fuck up my meal / stomach, scare the shit out of me, and leave me reeling for a few hours. Lo and behold, I’ve been repulsed by penis when it’s crawling out of the wood work and somehow remained abstinent until further notice.

The notice finally came in the form of a mysterious Moroccan surfer with a deadly smile and bronzed body? Lured by the conspicuous bait of a free ride back north, I followed a very quiet Berber surfer / fisherman to his bare-bones shack outside of a village called Tan Tan. No hot water, no common language, and no civilization. I got to play the beach bunny / hippy housewife role for a few days (daze) while eating fresh fish, playing on the sea, and listening to 1000s hours of reggae. It’s all fun and games… Until you wake up in a room full of hash smoke and dozens of used condoms, realizing that you have to catch a flight on the other side of the country in less than a week. While certainly not the first person to develop severe amnesia from riveting intimacy and stunning beaches, the trail of broken hearts must go on.

Now safely returned to the cheeseball backpacker trail, I’m in the surfer / artist town of Essouira and regrouping as best I can. During my first shower, you don’t even want to know what color the water was flowing down the drain… I’ll spare the details by saying that I’m happy to soak in some seabreeze WITH civilization. Never thought my busted ass would ever admit this publicly, but chatting with cookie-cutter backpackers about dull and repetitive topics has been a relief! Drunk Anglophones are still annoying as fuck (*cough cough* Australians), but I might go into a murderous rage if I hear one more brain-dead exchange about absurd New Age subjects. Ranging from crystal ball therapy to the horoscopes of trees, I’m fucking DUNZO with all that hippy bullshit until I can successfully pass another drug test.

Was it all another shameless jump into brazen madness on Moroccan soil? Perhaps, but I must say that this time was a lot more fun and I promise I’m not being a cheeky crackhead whore about it all. Just understanding this last week as a colorful lapse in judgment linked together by the magical spells of free rides and bitchin’ beaches. Still wondering when I’m going to grow up, but I’m making my way up the Atlantic coast with one last beach stop in Asilah and finally crashing into Fez before my flight to Tuscany. With the Italian Renaissance and the world’s best coffee as my torch, I march forward through the final stretch of this Moroccan rabbit hole. Insha’Allah!

*Literally, I have to thank my crazy ass Korean mother. She FORCED me to purchase a sleeping bag before I left (while I rolled my eyes & planned on ditching it) and it’s been worth its weight in gold. AND, the pretty face? I get that too from my mamma.

The Meaning of Unequipped

Allow me to apologize; I got caught out there while totally cracked out on the melodramatic landscapes of Morocco. I let my super inflated sense of achievement get out of control and I paid for it with my mental health. I’m keeping it humble these days, err, being mindful that my traveling around is just another jailbreak. Stash away the delusions, this ain’t shit but a poorly plotted escape from the real world and responsibility. Now over 14 months on the run, my tenacity just ain’t what it used to be. However, in every fall from grace there lies a decent comeback and here goes mine.

Culturally sobered and somewhat psychologically composed, I can only thank a little sanctuary called Flower Power Cafe. I spend my days working here and my nights in an apartment, pretending to have a normal life. I’ll be honest, it’s pretty much the anti-Moroccan dining experience and usually filled with an array of wealthy Francophone expats as the clientele. Although it’s an organic restaurant with a lovely menu of healthy food, it’s not the ringing image of local authenticity. Dining out in Morocco is normally an incredibly fun shit show while Flower Power Cafe is more reminiscent of something found in the G20’s realm of restaurant culture. Situated within a tree nursery outside the hustle and bustle of Marrakech, the entire property is a few acres covered with this huge multi-colored lattice of gauzy nets.

I have a daily routine, precious co-workers, homemade food, a small apartment, books to read, and the delightful company of my good friend Vanda. I guess these things are the given tokens of a normal lifestyle, customary to most people in the day to day. However, in my case, they’re offering me some serious bliss. Am I like a battered hobo right now? Or, simply being rehabilitated to remain thankful for the small things in life? Whatever the case, this episode of stability was the much-needed chance to take a pause and breathe. Finding myself with the time to gaze inward again, in order to figure out what the fuck I’m doing more than a week in advance.

As a result of this warped craving for a boring life, I’ve been flirting with the thought of repatriation. I’m almost 30 and maybe it’s not such a bad thing to stop being unemployed and homeless? After throwing out a few lifelines and reviewing relocation possibilities, my busted ass is approaching a dangerous threshold… The thought of “returning home” is now starting to seem as grueling and outlandish as “leaving home” once did. Somewhere along the wreckage of time and space, the nagging pressure that I’m supposed to actually be doing something incredible with my life has faded away. I was waiting for the right moment, but the very nature of prosperity is evolving in my eyes. Not like I’ve resigned to failure, it’s just that the spectrum of favorable outcomes has swelled.

I guess the act of being-on-the-go drowns out all my long-term memory and engenders a severe case of existential ADD. Wasn’t this the dream that I used to claw and scratch over in my shitty soul-sucking cubicle just a few years ago? You know, the whole traveling the world? So, I push the magic bus forward.

Otherwise, I’ve gone 7 weeks without a sip of booze. Say what?! I don’t think I’ve endured this long without the hot sauce since interning at an emergency room in Ecuador almost six years ago. Sure, you can take it as one of the 100s of sign that my ass is getting old as fuck, but I might just outfit this change into my lifestyle for good. As for my other famous vice, men have just become a series of emotional landmines along my path and now I avoid them. Just not in the mood for the liabilities that come with being loved and understood; enjoying this stint of autonomy before the desperation creeps in.

I’ll just conclude this wack ass blog with my next moves. Starting the first week of April, I’m fucking off in Tuscany for two weeks and then cutting east into Turkey. Yeah, you got that right, I-T-A-L-Y, bitches! It might seem like the makings of one epic Eurotrash cliche, but everyone can kiss my motherfucking ass… For a whopping $40 flight, I’m able to get a sweet dose of the comforts of a first world economy before heading further into the beast. With a mighty fine culinary scene and an art history capital as the backdrop, my half Korean ass is SOLD. There’s only so much off-the-beaten track bullshit a girl can handle; I just want some fixed prices and a squat toilet free week. After Italy, I got a ticket booked into Istanbul and then heading south on the Aegean coast to work at a boutique hotel for month. See some fair chimneys in Goreme, play in pretty oceanscapes, and try to catch the butterfly migration.

After that? Maybe heading into the Balkans for the summer or into the Nepalese horizons. Or, maybe quietly disappear into a small apartment to never blog again. Yeah right!

The Anatomy of a Meltdown

I have this bad habit to keep going, going, going until I’m gone. You name it: the work world, pizza, romantic relationships, and/or whatever else cockamamie project that I think I’ve put my heart into. Putting in 3000% until it all implodes into failure and finally running from the ensuing carnage. Although I’ve been giving myself kudos for getting as far as I have in Morocco without jackshit, I’m starting to think it was just a generous streak of beginner’s luck instead of legitimate survival skills. With the exhilaration of a new country and a powerful currency, I put the pedal to the metal and didn’t stop until it was almost too late. Lo and behold, I came within an inch of a nervous breakdown after 20 days on full travel throttle. Three weeks is some chump change for most, yet please bear in mind that I’ve been in the vagabond grind for over a year now. Not stopping for a pause leads to a supernova level of destruction…

There is glory in covering landscapes, seeing once-in-a-lifetime sites, deciphering cultural customs, eating street cuisine, learning new languages, figuring out transportation, and wondering where I’m going to sleep. But, it can lead to absolutely zero down time. If you throw in some ice cold showers, shitty ass food, being alone, and getting your patience wore down by persistent Moroccan touts… My spirits were in the dumps and it all deteriorated into full-blown Angelica Baldwin versus Morocco mode. It seemed like only a one-way ticket to the United States of America could save me from stabbing the next motherfucker in the eye who said “konichiwa” to me on the street. And, trust me, that’s one bad place to be.

Maybe I deserve a little credit, even my most seasoned comrades of travel have told me that Morocco is a stressful fucking place and being a woman alone compounds the hassle. Word on the traveler grapevine is that only India and Egypt any get worse than my current scenario. Moroccans are generally nice people, especially the women, but the amount of attention I get as a foreigner is overwhelming. Although there are moments of breathtaking redemption from locals, nowhere in my life have I been hounded like this. Trust me, it’s winter in this country and my ass is covered from head to toe. One can’t help but develop a distaste for this place from the day to day experiences and this leg of travel is getting under my skin.

This is not just a case of vendors / curious folks / beggars, it’s a full blown gnarly rash of disgusting young men that pollute Morocco’s public sphere. In some places, the volume is less and walking around with another male traveler helps. Some examples? I counted six (6) men today, trying to to convince me to come to their house and following me for an average of 15 minutes a piece while I tried to buy some groceries in the market. No does not mean no, ignoring them does nothing, and aggression only leads to serious drama. Otherwise, stepping off a bus in a station is like being mobbed by the paparazzi for rides, taxis, hotels, and cafes. Nevertheless, my sense of diplomacy is dwindling with the infinite amount of touts, fake guides, horny assholes, and other shitheads that target white chicks. I should say that it doesn’t feel dangerous, just three weeks of this bullshit has exacerbated my exhaustion enough to want to crawl back to California.

They say that a grand don’t come for free and tourism is a goldmine. As for the hassle factor and warped ideas about non-Muslims, I’m not really blaming Morocco. Taking a glance at the loads of package tourists getting off Ryan Air and Easy Jet flights says it all. If walking too slow and gaudy cameras around their necks were the only transgressions, I’d jump for joy. However, attempt to imagine a middle aged British woman’s enormous stomach hanging six inches out of her undersized shirt while cussing out a waiter for not speaking better English. Backpackers with bloodshot eyes reeking of hash and furious that they are prohibited from entering the mosque. Puke. Witnessing interactions between Moroccans and tourists has gotten to the point where I feel like I’m watching an episode of trashy reality TV series, wishing I didn’t speak the language to understand the scenario.

The moral of the story? Not sure. This rant is over and I guess it’s been another cliché of finding my place in it all. I’ve come to find that sitting on a barren Moroccan roof top while chainsmoking and drinking tea brings me a lot of peace. Oh yeah, I called home to get some love from my Grama & Mom and my clothes don’t smell like a decomposing animal carcass anymore. Got my shoes shined, read a book, cut my hair, and couldn’t be bothered with the world 20 feet from my roof top. Am I new woman? By no means. However, taking a few days to myself has kept the dreaded traveler’s burnout away. Now off to meet up with my friend Vanda to work at a cafe and tree nursery in Marrakech. Not exactly a vacation from a vacation, yet I’m staying put for a few weeks with a sweet friend and then recalculating the next few steps.

Phase two? Getting the fuck out. Turkey or bust!

The Sahara, Bootleg Half Korean Style

“He’s having a fucking yack on the side of the mosque!” - Australian Backpacker #1
“It’s not in the Koo-Ran if we’re only hungover in front of the mosque, right, mate?” - Australian Backpacker #2

Witnessing this conversation, I politely excused myself from one of the dozens of Saharan desert excursion offices in utter disgust. In that instant, I decided that there had to be a more appropriate process to visiting the Saharan dunes of Erg Chigaga than with other tourists in tow. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not hung up on some grand idea that I should be the only white person around during my jaunts in Morocco. Let’s be honest, the fact remains that tourism supports a huge chunk of the Moroccan economy. To maintain some sort of National Geographic-esque notion of cultural authenticity is probably the greatest manifestation of racial paternalism. Although there’s a great chance that I’m unconsciously doing offensive shit left and right in this country, I’d say about 90% of travelers around here are asinine piles of worthlessness. I’ve only been here a month and my jaw drops about 20 times a day at their statements / acts of dense ignorance and blatant disrespect. And, well, I wanted something of a break from it all if my half Korean ass was heading all the way to the fucking Saharan Desert.

Roughing it to avoid the crowds is a failing mirage these days, so why not take a shot at the other extreme? Dishing out the extra cash for some peace and quiet? After a shit ton of bargaining with crazy ass cabbies, I managed to score a trip to the desert for the grand total of $100 over the course of four days including driver, gasoline, and car. My driver was Ali, a 50 something devout Muslim man with a shitty Blazer, speaking only Arabic and French. I only speak English and Spanish. As one can imagine, it didn’t take long for the conversation to trail off into linguistic oblivion. I didn’t need some contrived narrative or Berber folklore because gazing off into the passenger side window would be enough of a story for me. Armed with a carton of Gauloises and a big bag of flat bread, we began the six hour journey to where the road actually ends in the desert village of M’Hamid.

The trip was a lot of Moroccan radio, gaping valleys, dark brown mountain ridges, epic palm oases, and the creeping feeling that I was approaching the edge of the world. Fuck a bathroom break, Ali was a straight muthafuckin’ road warrior and stopped ONLY to pray to the east on the side of the road (See: Salah). No sleaze and no bullshit, this man drove like a trusty steed into the Moroccan Sahara and we finally got to the end of the road. What’s it like? A skeleton of a town barely surviving on tourism. M’Hamid looks like some sort of CNN stock footage of the Middle East: cement structures in various states of disrepair, Berber head scarves matched with Nikes, dirt bikes, and a lot of fucking sand. Lots.

Although he slept in his SUV, I paid for Ali’s meals and showers. And, well, through the kindness of a tri-lingual shop owner, I learned Ali had never actually been to M’Hamid or Erg Chigaga. Say what?! Apparently he was relying on directions from locals and then leaving the rest up to Allah to get to Erg Chigaga. My heart sank. I guess I should have noticed this earlier by the fact that Ali mysteriously didn’t seem to have any pertinent friends, brothers, or cousins with hotels, restaurants, or tour agencies along the route. In Morocco, touts and guides like to keep their customers in a certain bullpen of establishments in order to gain pre-arranged commissions from the owners. While I was thinking that he might just be an honorable person instead of milking me for cash, it turns out that this dude was just as new to this stretch of road as I was. Not exactly the best fucking feeling in the world, because the further into the Sahara you go, the less and less things become available. Let’s not forget that about that *closed* border shared with Algeria about 25 miles away. Taking a wrong turn into the unmarked desert, the Algerian military would grant us the privilege of experiencing their jails from the inside should we happen to accidentally cross their border. Or, drive over a land mine.

To get to Erg Chigaga from M’Hamid is about 2.5 hours of off-roading and roughly heading southwest. I should clarify that the Sahara is not just the sandy dunes of a motivational poster, but actually a mosaic of scorched landscapes. Sometimes it’s rocky, sometimes it’s gorges, sometimes there are trees / shrubs, and sometimes there are military bases. Ali managed to drive into an abyss of stones and sand to safely get us to a Berber camp just outside the Erg Chigaga dunes. I really don’t know how he did it, there were 100s of tire tracks in the sand leading into every single direction and somehow he knew the right ones? Maybe he was pulling my leg about this maiden voyage? Maybe Allah did lead the way? Whatever the case might have been, I got to ride a happy camel, sleep in a trippy Berber tent, walk on some of the prettiest dunes of my life, and, well, not go to jail or die. Well worth $100 and some change.

Ever since my first taste of the Sonoran Desert so many years ago, I’ve always been compelled to search them out. Deserts are so bare yet so colossal. Being alone with my thoughts, I tend to emerge a slightly different person. That said, there is absolutely nothing in the entire world that compares to the Erg Chigaga in the Sahara. Nothing. The dunes rise about 150 meters high, one can see the Milky Way at night, and the curves / shadows / colors of the dunes will be etched onto my soul forever. One of the most stunning moments was seeing the 3/4 moon illuminate the dunes at midnight. I cried about some things, I smiled about a few more, I thought about nearly all the people in my life, and I guess I left feeling pretty good.

Side Note: Everyone wants to talk shit about hijabs, burkas, face coverings, and the other “opressive” coverings that Muslim women have to wear. Well, do you know how much sand was in my butt crack because my oh-so liberated ass was able to wear jeans to Erg Chigaga? Or, how about my lips almost split into 6 pieces from the desert wind? The pleasantries of sun burnt scalp? These Muslim get-ups aren’t half bad in the Arab world precisely because much of the tradition of the garment emerged in the desert. Plus, the men wear them out here too for the exact same public health reasons.

At the moment, I’m in another shitty Moroccan hotel by myself in Marrakech, chilling safe and sound. All things considered, I would not do the Saharan experience as a woman alone again. My driver, Ali, was a saint, yet the rest of the sexual climate there was like the wild wild west or Mad Max and it was every man for himself searching for an oasis of vajayjay. I was constantly having to stay assertive with men by saying that I did not want to sleep with them. There were a lot of uncomfortable advances from hotel owners, Berber camps, camel guides, and the other people you’d semi-expect to understand boundaries. Whereas in the city you can just leave and have the public sphere somewhat keep gross pervs in check, in the emptiness of the desert I sometimes felt very trapped, edgy, and embarrassed. Nothing dramatic happened, but I just constantly grappled with the perpetual feeling that I did not have a safe space out there; I wouldn’t wish that anxiety upon any other woman.

So, I’m off to work on another farm near Casablanca in the north and then? These days, I don’t know what I’m searching for anymore or what the hell I’m actually doing… Just letting myself be be be and see what the tides bring. There’s half of me that’s eyeing Turkey, the other half of me is thinking of heading home. Home? Your guess is as good as mine to where that might be.

Down the Moroccan Rabbit Hole

Morocco. Let’s just start with my last coherent thought.

I had this gut feeling before jumping the border that I would have to cast aside all of my mechanized traveling habits if I wanted to survive Morocco in one piece. If wandering around Andalusia took the sensation of de ja vú, well, my Moroccan experience definitely feels like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole into a curious dream. I mean this in the surreal perception that I’m somehow involved with it all, but not really in control of the things actually happening to me. I arrived here with three vague objectives: to see an Islamic country, to catch a glimpse of the Sahara, and to meet my friend Vanda. The rest of my awareness is being left to the birds.

With these unconfined guidelines, there’s no need for a rigid itinerary or a Lonely Planet guidebook. I guess I should mention that unlike in Europe, my American currency is worth more than peanuts here; securing a last second hotel room all to myself usually breaks down to about $7 per night. Instead of avoiding the chaos, I dove head first into a new spontaneity; letting things flows instead pushing against the current. In the end, this untamed wonderland has rendered me with a severe case of writer’s block and my busted ass can’t really structure a solid piece about it all. Below I offer some traveler’s mental diarrhea, err, disjointed vignettes… Proceed at your own boredom / poor taste in half Korean writing.

1. My favorite activity is blasting through the desert landscapes riding a crumbling Mercedez Benz taxi with six other passengers in it.

2. The seeds of Arabic have been planted, but the language has yet to blossom. I should second that by saying that somehow I’m learning French at the same time because it’s the second most widely spoken gig here. My confidence in both languages has developed into absorbing the greetings, introductions, being able to count to 20, asking people how they are, and where stuff is, etc. But, honestly, I usually spew out words in this linguistic vomit of Arabic / French / English / Spanish / Berber. Then I smile a lot, point at shit, and somehow it all works!

3. When in doubt, have a mint tea.

4. Cigarettes are the national pass time of Morocco and this is what I imagine American smoking culture to be like in 1950s. The decay in my left lung has probably doubled in mass since my arrival here, but it felt pretty fucking amazing to smoke in the long line at post office and in my sleeper car on the overnight train from Tangier.

5. Sharing is one of the pillars of Islam and the manifestations are incredible. Unlike in the United States, charity is not some single ostentatious gesture. It’s shown by strangers in these very small and inconspicuous acts all the time. You will see the brokest mofo buying a kid a soda or people offering me food just because I’m sharing a seat with them on the bus. Somehow, it all seems more genuine to me.

6. I slept on a roof in Marrakech for $3.

7. Although I recently had a major detour with a tall British musician, I’m officially going on a fast from all things male because attachment doesn’t seem to be my forte at the moment. The last few months have been some fun flings, however, from now on, any activities that require intimacy with that specific appendage between the legs can count me the fuck out.

8. My cruises through the medina at midnight are now on the list of best biking experiences EVER.

9. Being a woman alone in Morocco has its pluses and minuses. A lot like my experience in Colombia, carrying a vagina on you means a perpetual stream of harmless cat calls. If these dudes were hot, it wouldn’t be a problem at all. However, it usually stems from toothless cretins with too much gel in their hair and the attention is more annoying than anything else. On the other hand, being of the “weaker” gender, most people are more than happy to help a single woman with difficulty instead of waving me off like some idiot tourist.

10. After the wine gluttony of Spain, my liver has been thankful for the lack of booze culture in Morocco. You can buy alcohol in specific stores and at overpriced hotels, but the locals just aren’t into drinking and I don’t really get the feeling that it’s being repressed in some 1920s prohibition style. To be honest, I don’t really miss it.

11. On the other hand, tajines just don’t do it for me and I really miss Korean food.

12. In Morocco, one is never really alone. I’ve hiked to some extremely remote places and usually find people just sort of chilling like it ain’t no thang. These aren’t day trippers or people on family outings. Kind of like the Cheshire cat, these are random entities just sitting on a rock on the side of the mountain or laying in a huge field with no place to go.

13. Call me a fucking sissy, but I still hate squat toilets and cold showers. HATE.

14. The call to prayer happens five times a day over a speaker systems that broadcasts across the entire city. In something like a mix between a poetic chant and a tornado siren, it’s the moment when most Muslims pray to Mecca. I love it because it’s a moment to pause.

By no fault of his own, the aforementioned British musician sort of backed me into an emotional corner and I gotta jump ship before someone gets hurt. From Marrakech, I’m now scrambling southeast into the desert for some peace and to make good on the second intention of getting my half Korean ass to the Sahara. All roads end at the village of M’Hamid and let’s hope I find something good there. After that, I’m returning north to do another farming stunt near Casablanca. Then hook south to Essouaira, Marrakech, Fez, and then London? Turkey? Nepal? India? I’m sick of taking pictures by myself, come join me!

Spanish Aftermath and The Rising Morrocan Sun

The raging stream of images and sounds that flow from Andalusia are so ridiculously potent. I find myself experiencing a sense of de ja vú while walking around here… As if I’ve already been to this place in my dreams. Andalusia is the powerhouse of flamenco, bullfighting, and other romantic portrayals Spain, yet these are just the tip of the hypnotic spell. It might sound like I’m just rattling off stereotypes about Latin culture, but there’s a slow pace of life in the air that’s fairly addictive; it’s a passion for the small things and an appreciation for the process. I wish I could be more specific, but Andalusia can only be summarized by tapping the duende that oozes out of the bewitching atmosphere. Whenever I think I’ve discovered the most blissful place in Spain, the next heavenly region finds its rightful spot in the national mosaic to cement this country as one of my favorites in the whole wide world.

They say that falling in love is easy, but staying in love is where we fail. You could say that my relationships with foreign countries are like my relationships with men. There’s always a honeymoon phase where the novelties seize me and I happily drink in all the unfamiliar delights. However, it’s only a matter of time before the mystical luster gets lost somewhere between the constant annoyances and the heartbreaking enigmas of not knowing how shit is supposed to work. I’m old enough to now understand that I can never get back to that initial stage of blind rapture because all things become ordinary one day… Sometimes the ordinary is worth fighting for, but Spain and I are breaking up right now. Petty stuff is irking the shit out of me and that’s my cue to exit with some style and grace. Well, just like with boys, it’s only after putting some major time and distance between myself and the country can I make sense of the situation for what it actually was. Give it a few years and eventually the annoyances disappear in the land of cozy nostalgia. Perhaps it’s just the habit of a naive optimist or maybe a mechanism of self-preservation, but these memories will be good memories.

Am I rebounding by rushing into the arms of Morocco? Maybe. Spain gave me a new pulse and I must always remain thankful for that. At this exact second, I’m sitting on my huge balcony and taking in my last views of Cadiz before the sun sets over the ocean. Everything is comfortable and perfect and understood and safe at this precise moment. I have a cozy bed, soft sheets, hot water, clean towels, and a lovely view with a plate of jamon serrano + bottle of Penedès. It will not be like this tomorrow, when I take my first steps onto a new continent. It’s one epic case of pre-trip jitters, an affliction that hits me each time before taking off into the unknown… Beneath all the apparent half Korean extroversion lies the quest to fulfill my own individual myth. One doesn’t have to look far to understand that in foundation of that myth lies insecurities, self-doubt, and discontent. So, I’m trying to quit thinking about myself all the fucking time and keep some perspective. To even have the chance to experience this kind of traveling anxiety is a gift, so I need to get tough or die trying.

Although I’ve had the pleasure of enjoying the weak € to $ exchange rate, it’s about time for my half Korean ass to say fuck off to the likes of Western Europe. It was real, it was fun, but it’s going to take a lot more than an emaciated Norwegian dude for my broke ass to return to this side of the pond. The only way you’re EVER going to find me on this overpriced continent again is on a work visa or something equally as unlikely. And, after 13 months of wandering, I can finally see the beacon of my tribe off in the distance… California is luring me back to American soils very soon. Before all that, I still have to cut my teeth on a few more countries and tomorrow I charge into Morocco. Wish me luck!

And It Was All An Andalusian Dream

After a chaotic week of urban vice in Madrid, I carried my busted ass to work on another farm about an hour north of Seville. I should break the news that I think I’m working for a cult. C-U-L-T. I only say this because I learned that the group was banned in Belgium and France (countries with rigorous anti-cult legislation), then took this compound of theirs south of the border to Andalusia. Apparently they use intense emotional workshops to interpret and then role-play dreams. Their philosophy is based on Jung’s psychoanalysis models with the goal of some sort of ultimate healing and heightened consciousness. I’m usually very receptive to all sorts of alternative healing measures and religious practices; I don’t judge anyone for their conscious efforts to manage life’s bad shit and become more whole. However, even as a Northern Californian, the stuff going on here sounds a little fucking weird.

The majority of the group being Belgian, there’s about 30 people here of all ages; some as families and some as solo actors. I haven’t witnessed any firearms, active polygamy, or fucked-up rituals, so perhaps they’re just an intentional community with a New Age flare? I promise it’s cool, because they’re not attempting to proselytize me in any way, shape, or form. If anything, they’ve been pretty mum about it all and prefer to talk about what’s happening in the outside world. Plus, they’re an intellectual bunch with decent vegetarian grub and a pretty gorgeous property that they’re sharing with me. Maybe I’m just relaxed because I’m not in Waco, Texas or somewhere equally as dystopic? In any case, I’ve promised myself to avoid the kool-aid at all costs because my half Korean ass ain’t going out like that.

Another reason why I suspect this site of being a cult is because these people have the acute organization that dirty ass hippie communes usually lack; a well-oiled machine of independent living is happening here. This isn’t exactly Jonestown because they have an amazing variety of crops, solar panels, tons of useful livestock, an olive press, music hall, swimming pool, sewing room, bike shop, station for hand-washing clothes, library, classrooms, and an herb garden that will fill your nose with every single aroma possible. It’s pretty much the self-sufficient wet dream of any Burning Man camp or Oakland Warehouse set-up. Although I can see how their utilitarian workloads keep the place humming along, an operation like this one requires a lot of fucking money and cults are pretty good at collecting cash too. However, just like the luck with my last two internships, I’m learning a colossal amount of information while eating tons of healthy food and sleeping in sweet room with a view of the foothills of the Sierra Norte. If this is the extent of my cult participation, then I guess I’m cool with it.

Compared to busting my ass on single family farms, my work has been a lot less physically intensive on this experimental eco-community. Labor gets divided pretty efficiently, everyone has their specialties, and people help out wherever they can. Apart from the 14 bee stings that I received, I’ve spent most of my time learning the techniques of traditional beekeeping and how to harvest organic honey. It’s probably been my favorite food process to date and it’s incredibly easy to establish anywhere! My other favorite activity is busting my ass in the bakery, mastering a few great French secrets about making awesome bread with a solar oven. The rest of the work has been turning the soil for the grapevines and some general household chores. It’s been a welcomed deceleration from the back-breaking farm grind.

A very interesting aspect of all this is that I’m witnessing how seasonality affects one’s dining options. In our world of supermarkets, we are accustomed to having every grocery imaginable at our consumer disposal. Fuck the immense distances and the extraneous growing conditions outside of the season, I can buy a pomegranate at any hour of the day, any day of the year in San Francisco. Well, in the isolated boonies of Andalusia, the food options can get pretty slim pretty quick and due to the most trivial reasons…

For example, I know how to make beet pies, beet salad, beet juice, and beet stew. Because, guess what, beets are in season! Or, there’s no yogurt this week because the goats are nursing a few newborns and those nipples are tapped. We’re out of marmalade because of a random fungus that destroyed the rest of the sour mandarin crop a month ago. Or, dammit, no jamon serrano because Pedro watched the football match instead of making the weekly delivery. You learn to get creative with what you got and that’s precisely the foundation of culinary excellence. So, aside from the weird undercurrents of participating in some sort of sect, the farming knowledge that they’ve shared with me has been priceless.

Tomorrow I’m off to spend two weeks circling the rest of Andalusia, armed only with a love of arid landscapes, sherry, and free tapas. Apparently the Costa del Sol is Europe’s answer to Cancun because it’s the German & Scandinavian colonial outpost of high rise beach resorts and tropical drinks with tiny umbrellas. Costa del Sol is probably a reasonable escape from Northern Europe’s royally fucked up winters, but I’m precisely keeping it landlocked to avoid it. Visiting Cordoba, Granada, Ronda, with a few Spanish white towns and pueblitos in between. Finally jumping the Straight of Gibraltar onto Tangiers and southward for a few months of exploration in Morocco.

I have no onward tickets as of yet, so the jury is still out. Turkey? Nepal? India? Join me!

Madrid and Life in the Big City

Ahhh, la vida madrileña. I’ve been spending my days at the world renown golden triangle of art: Prado Museum, the Reina Sofia gallery, and Thyssen-Bornemisza. I can blame this specific pilgrimage on Professor Weisberg; he was one sadistic man who required me to scorch my corneas with 1000s of art history slides. Otherwise, the gay scene is immensely fierce, I love the flea markets, and the southeastern corner of Park Buen Retiro is like a Chronicles of Narnia type maze forest. The nightlife in Madrid even managed to knock Barcelona out of the top spot. Have you ever shown up at an empty club at 3am, only for it to become packed to the bone at 3:30am?! On a fucking Tuesday?! Insert your joke about a 46% unemployment rate amongst the youth here, but tapas are damn good and the wine is tasty enough to make anyone put off touching up their CV for at least a week. Although I’ve been amused by Madrid, it just doesn’t seem like my kind of place; a little overpriced and nonspecific for my tastes.

All that said, I should let everyone in on a secret… Traveling like a cheap asshole actually sucks. These exclamations of envy that I get need a little context because only the money shots get published online. What you don’t see are the many dreadful moments of bullshit; I’m not exactly writing home about of the interior of a Starbucks at 5am. I could fill up a dozen Facebook albums with images of bed bug bites, airport lobbies, and night bus nightmares. When you have a job, paid-time-off is of the essence and you must spend the extra cash to get the most out of your short trips. When you’re a vagabond, well, time just happens to be your currency to waste. That means sacrificing all forms of comfort, efficiency, and even safety in some cases just stretch out the savings. Every moment of joy extracts its price, so below I’m going to list some repeat offenders… Activities I do almost every day that really fucking suck just to save a peso, kroner, euro, or dollar.

1. Being Ugly As Hell:
It’s almost impossible to feel sexy when everything I own has a stain or a hole it. My hair makes me look like a White Snake fan and it’s not even intentional; I can thank box dyes and homemade bang trims for that. I haven’t bought new clothes in almost a year and half. If you look closely at my photos, I’m wearing the same fucking 5 v-necks, the same fucking Canada hoody, the same fucking 2 pairs of jeans, the same fucking black jacket, and the same fucking 4 camisoles. I can’t wait to rejoin the real world because I miss skirts and pedicures and waxings and high heels and perfume and blow dryers! So, thank your lucky stars you have a job with disposable income and apartment with a bathroom / closet, because these treasures just don’t exist in my world and I’m about two steps away from being mistaken for the neighborhood bag lady.

2. Loitering = Waiting Without Spending Money:
Between check out times, transportation schedules, and general lag, my itinerary never really synchronizes correctly. As a result, you have no idea how much time I spend loitering and it’s actually one of the strangest states I can find myself in. When I’m dropping cash on cafes, museums, and other bullshit, I have rightful place to be somewhere. But, with no money, I get to wait in bus stations, at parks, and the other unsavory places where one finds the other crackheads in town with no money. Even with a fully charged iPod and a good book, these places make me want to blow my brains out and crawl back home safe.

3. Transportation:
Flying on national carriers and taking the high speed trains are just so jet set! Get those stylized LV ads out of your head, it costs a fucking fortune and isn’t even comfortable. What options remain for a broke ass like myself are gnarly ass buses, shitty low cost airlines, and hitch hiking. For starters, America’s own Greyhound is probably the worst of the worst buslines on the entire planet. Don’t let this fool you, the only shitty aspect of buses in most other countries are the long hours of travel. Otherwise, Ryan Air will ass rape you with with fees and unexplained costs if you don’t do your research. Finally, hitching requires a lot of loitering (see above) and sitting in a car / truck with a freak. These all are means of transportation without an ounce of romanticism, but they are the only way I’ve been able to string along this shit show without busting the bank.

4. Accommodations:
The most punishing form of hell is finding yourself perpetually staying at hostels in Europe. If this were a perfect world, I’d use budget hotels, airbnb.com, and use campin grounds with a consistent travel companion to split the cost to a reasonable price. In other parts of the planet, hostels are a suitable deal and I’ve been able to find decent fellow clientele of all ages and backgrounds. But, holy shit, in Europe these places are overpriced shitholes of unforeseen amounts of disease and degeneracy. With cocky staff and even shittier guests, it’s the most inhumane and filthy of sleeping arrangements known to the planet: rampant bed bug infestations, drunk ass idiots, showers that smell worse than the toilet, and hearing people having sex in a twin bunk bed with 20 other people in the room. Ultimately, the trick to them is not really sleeping at all and I get to endure this bad joke again and again. I’m starting to think that park benches are a better bet…

The other alternative is couchsurfing.com and I’ve had really mixed results with this website. Most people aren’t looking to be just a free hotel, so it requires me to participate in household activities, adapt to a host’s schedule, and other forms of engagement. It is quite fulfilling to get to see into the window of a local’s existence, though other times it’s nerve-wrecking to leave my valuables in a stranger’s apartment. Sometimes I’m in the mood for it and sometimes I’m not. Oh yeah, and if you’re a solo woman who is staying with a man, there’s a 50/50 chance you’ll have to bat away an unwanted sexual advance and that’s never fun. Well, unless he’s hot.

5. Vapid Relationships:
One thing I’ve learned about myself during the last year is that I’m not friendly to strangers. If you actually know me, that last statement will make you laugh. But, truth be told, someone has to have the ringing endorsement of being a friend of a friend or another platform of bonding like work or class. Talking to a random with the intent of hanging out…? Not my bag. I’m judgmental to a fault and find 95% of strangers not worth a second glance.

I honestly want crows to descend from the sky and claw my eyes out if I hear someone else talk about how they are traveling to find themselves. Enough already! The reason why most people are traveling is because they are probably middle class citizens of the first world who are exercising a privilege. People want to see new stuff, but inserting some sort of existential narrative about the matter makes me want to hurl. Otherwise, all other people are boring to tears and/or maintain a fucked up backpacker superiority complex. What’s the backpacker complex? It’s a weird game of perpetual one-up manship of geographical domination, resulting in these ridiculously disjointed conversations with pompous windbags who love to hear themselves talk. I’ll mention my favorite local poet in Madrid and somehow the other person will perform a monologue about their visit to Neruda’s house in Chile. Another form of the backpacker superiority complex is being obsessed with the most authentic local experience possible AKA loving being the only white person around.

With all those mentioned, I guess I’m a glutton for punishment because I’m trying to plot out my next moves for gallivanting across the globe. The window is closing on reasonably priced airfare to other continents as well as my European Union visa. Well, for starters, I’m going to be in Morocco on February 2nd for a month or two to meet my fellow vagabond / Thai panda / happa muse AKA a lovely lady named Vanda. I want to take my first steps onto the African continent, experience the likes of a predominantly Muslim country, and see the Sahara Desert / Atlas Mountains before I die. It’s on. Otherwise, there’s a $600 fare to Bombay en route through Nepal or a $1000 fare to Buenos Aires with overland travel to Bolivia. Himalayas or Patagonia? Buddhism or Kichua mysticism? Clear communication in Spanish or hand signals / pointing in phrasebooks? Dirt cheap rupee exchange rate or pushing the last of my budget with pesos? I’m completely fucking torn. Any advice or suggestions? Let me know!

The Kiss That Still Works

I’m in the Basque Country right now, swallowing up the cities of Bilbao and San Sebastian until the last drops. What was supposed to be a 48 hour visit has progressed into a lengthy detour. Trust me, as a veteran of travel, this shit NEVER happens to me. However, Basque Country has been one of the best surprises of Spain and it’s difficult to pull away for a number of reasons. Arriving in January means that there isn’t a fat Ryan Air passenger in sight. The Guggenheim is empty, the cafes have fashionable locals, and the delightful Christmas lights still honor the city’s landscape like no other. The Basque language is lovely, yet sometimes it looks like someone just jumbled up Castellano [Spanish] and put a bunch of extra Es, Zs, Xs, and Ks in it. The Cantabrian seascape is quite breathtaking with epic cliffs, making even a former Californian like myself forget that there’s another coast out there somewhere.

Let me continue by saying that anyone who has spent half a day with me knows how much I love Korean food. It’s one of my life’s greatest pleasures, something that makes me feel happiness on a cellular level of existence. For fuck’s sake, there’s kimchi in my veins and the number one thing I hate about traveling is abandoning my motherland’s cuisine. So, I’m committing an act of blasphemy by saying this… San Sebastian might be the first place on the entire planet where I haven’t missed Korean food. Say what?! Well, the same warm euphoria fills me after eating a plate full of pintxos, these delightful bites of culinary perfection. Colorful sauces, perfect seafood, pretty presentation, eclectic ingredients, rich meats, and everything else that makes the food here so damn good. The other crazy thing is that you can stroll into almost any dive bar / shithole / cave, still expecting the same stellar quality and flavors… Plus, the wine is excellent and the prices are reasonable. I cannot stop eating!

The Boxto (“the hole” as Bilbao is known to locals) had some very humble beginnings compared to other big cities in Spain and probably remains much less famous because of this. As the huge industrial center of the country for the last two centuries, some gnarly wastelands of factories were left in the wake of steel and manufacturing. Without royal courts or religious significance, it didn’t exactly become the glorious landscape that other Spanish cities exemplify in ornate architecture and swaths of green space. Bilbao followed a more American style of urbanization, it often reminds me of Chicago or Milwaukee. But, still, I believe that the city’s unromantic history is what precisely makes it awesome. Unlike my experience in quite a few other cities in the North of Spain, the locals don’t strut up a yuppy nose at everyone. Plus, Bilbao’s renaissance is well under way. You can spend hours wandering around the narrow streets of Casco Viejo with its hundreds of cute shops and amazing restaurants. The river walk is immaculately decorated and the beach is just a hop, skip, and a subway ride away.

There’s another reason behind all this location-based euphoria…

I’ve had one of those romantic encounters that I didn’t even think really existed. The day we met, we both awkwardly recognized that it felt like we’d known each other for years. Then the sky split in half with all this laughing / running / playing in a beautiful European city. Sign your soul on the dotted line, because a late night chemistry like this one only comes around when the stakes of fate are too high. Let’s spend all our free time together, discuss the savage pasts, argue about multi-layered trivialities, crawl all over each other, and play our favorite albums. Skin and poetry and cooking breakfast at 4pm! Day trips to the Cantabrian Coast, bike rides through the vineyards, and holding hands on the quiet streets. It’s the classic recipe for some straight half Korean kryptonite and it’s fucking deadly.

In other words, I’m sort of in love. Or, a process that’s equally as invasive? After a relatively clean break-up, I didn’t plan on feeling this way for someone else for a long time… Things were still raw because my vulnerabilities made me uneasy, intuitively knowing I had to build up a stronger sense of self before letting another person in. As we all know, there’s a little more selfish emotional security in treating men like a commodity, just playing for kicks and not for keeps. But, fuck it, I simply had no defense against topaz eyes and olive skin; discerning adoration and hours of laughter. I want to stay in Bilbao because I’m still mad to be saved by someone so amazing…

But, yo, check the fucking remix! I’m just not in the business of chasing boys across the ocean right now. A crazy girl’s gotta hold down her best fuck-the-police attitude, because this free spirit isn’t ready to sign over her liberty quite yet. Sure, I can say under oath that I’ve recently conquered the ultra magnetic pull of great booty. But, this might be the first time in my life I didn’t quite yield to the deadly sway of boy craziness. I guess being reasonable means being gone and I must keep my velocity. If I can find someone who’s strong enough to follow me on this bullshit whirlwind half Korean worldwide tour, so be it… But, as we know, that feat has yet to be seen.

So, my heart is heavy with good-bye. I’ll update you freaks in Madrid.

The Wine Grapes of Wrath or One Hundred Years of Celibacy

After a passionate week, I had been enlivened by a hot Argentinean man in Barcelona. Seriously, it took all of my might to pull away from those Porteño-accented murmurs and an immaculate body (Re: “tabla de chocolate” // professional rockclimber). For what? To begin another stunt in hillbilly agricultural work? Well, I took off under the pretense that there might be some existential redemption in remaining consistent to my obscure goal… So, a half Korean girl’s gotta do what a half Korean girl’s gotta do. Three buses, two trains, and one beer truck later, my busted ass has landed smack dab in the middle of the fucking boonies to make that happen. For once, not allowing my libido to serve as my faulty compass. Well, the joke’s on me because I’m currently in a fucked up landscape where a man qualifies as “eye candy” based on the fact he has a full mouth of teeth. Welcome to La Rioja!

The vineyard that I’m working on is nestled in the gorgeous Rio Ebro valley, between some imposing mountain ridges that ripple outward into the horizons of the Rioja region. Once again, I’ve had the fortune of being greeted with an unbelievable hospitality, a comfortable bed, and tasty vegetarian cooking. Despite the fact that I’ve been silently livid about reacquainting myself with winter temperatures (45°F), there’s a wood burning fireplace that miraculously heats the entire house. And, believe it or not, there are about half a dozen wine taps strategically located throughout the crib too; glorious faucets that pour a glass of red instead of a glass of water when I need a little extra glow to my soul.

My experience at the vineyard has been a lot more solemn than the previous assignment at the olive farm. A decent American geographic analogy to describe my shift in landscape could be the contrast from Northern California to something like Michigan. Whereas the rustic lifestyle in Cataluna is much wealthier and picturesque with affluent small towns, La Rioja is the closest I’ve ever come to witnessing a post apocalyptic scenario. Many of the towns here are almost completely abandoned and lie in various states of ruin / decay. Like the rest of the world, the Spanish countryside has seen a perpetual decline in the rural populations. Most of the youth flee to the modern opportunities of cities and what remains in places like La Rioja are stubborn elderly subsistence farmers. It’s been a little surreal to walk around these empty ghost towns, imagining what they would have been like a century ago with a sense of prosperity. With no active community, the storefronts, the narrow streets, and the former mansions are now barren and rusted over. Some straight 100 Years of Solitude type shit.

Let me just reiterate that agricultural work beats the living shit out of me. There are days when it takes me 20 minutes to take a piss because every fucking part of my body hurts so bad. So, I cannot begin to imagine how most of these old ass people around here are still working the land, well into their fucking 80s like it ain’t no thang. Honestly, seeing a hunched silver haired Spanish grandma carry 55 lbs bags of firewood has completely transformed my notion of vigor. Still, the limitations of the aging population’s exertion are plainly visible as many of the vineyards have fallen to the wayside. The project that I’ve dedicating most of my time to is organic land reclamation and helping some of these crazy old Spanish winemakers recoup former terraces. Instead of slash and burn, my ass has been doing a shit ton of manual land clearing, old fashioned pruning, and soil prep.

That said, I’m currently working for Ines, a lesbian in her mid 40s from Madrid who dropped out during her final semester of law school in order to pursue a life of solitude in the countryside. That should say it all, but I’ll go ahead and reveal that this bitch is straight batshit crazy. Seriously, Inés would have most people running for the hills with her incoherent doomsday ramblings and erratic hermit behavior. Ever seen someone passionately sing flamenco while chainsawing the shit out of a tree? Chew through the leather of an old shoe as a nervous tic? Well, the conversational environment is absurd and often times uncomfortable, but I strictly abide the social tenet that I’d rather spend my time around a raving lunatic than a boring person any muthafuckin’ day. And, I still give Ines mad respect because she has been able to organize quite a few WWOOF volunteers to help out the old people in her dwindling community. Young folks get to learn vineyard work while old folks get labor where they need it most.

So, there you have it. Your favorite half Korean freakshow is in some savage Spanish scenery, sharing time with a reclusive wacko, and daydreaming about a cute boy. But, hey, I’ve got about 50 fresh episodes of this American Life, a handful of good books, and also in the throws of plotting an epic trip through Morocco. I have another week or two here, then I’m carrying my ass to Madrid after the New Year and finally south to Andalusia for one more agricultural romp.

To the Basque Country!

After being in Cataluña for almost a month, I now totally recognize how Pablo Picasso, Antoni Gaudi, Joan Miro, Salvador Dali, and many other of the world’s most creative masters share the same home province. Between romantic beaches on the Mediterranean to a nightlife for the dangerously unrestrained, a world class art scene to some of the most consistently incredible food that I’ve ever eaten (second only to Korea, of course). These descriptions apply to even the smallest of towns; the folks here know how to live and their surroundings are nearly always stunning. Cataluña is a place, a people, a cuisine, and a language that I could spend years dissecting. But, I can’t. I must move west.

So, check me out, I love organic farming! To the irrational point where I decided to ditch an under the table job offer and an apartment in Barcelona over the holidays. Instead, it’s gonna be more of busting my ass in the countryside and remaining a peon! What can I say? Being outdoors, learning new skills, seeing the mountains, witnessing the results of my labor, eating organic food, getting exercise, and reading lots of books. Sure, I’ll admit it, I’m a fucking serf for all practical purposes. But, it sure beats the hell out of an office job and dumping more cash into useless partying.

I’m taking my next assignment on a vineyard snuggled between the Basque Country and the famed La Rioja wine region of Spain. Although the wine grape harvest is long past, I’m still camping out in order to gain experience in various composting methods, to reconstruct a stone barn, and learn how to do seasonal home canning. There’s still a huge chance that this could be a hill billy shit show… I’m just trying to keep an open mind, apply my current skill set, and allow the magnetic lure of the exalted Basque Country lead the way.

Uhhh, wait a second, what the fuck is the Basque Country?

Sometimes I forget that not everyone wasted tens of thousands of dollars on a Latin American Studies university degree like yours truly. Spain, like most colonial behemoths in the world, has oppressively drawn and redrawn it’s territorial borders over the realities of ethnic minorities for centuries. This doesn’t only apply to Latin America, they did that shit right here on the European continent too. Since before the written record, the Basque people have historically occupied the Northern Atlantic Coast region of the Iberian peninsula with their own distinct culture, unique language, and fierce identity.

Some interesting facts about the Basque Country:

• San Sebastian is one of the culinary capitals of the planet and there are more Michelin rated restaurants per capita in that city than anywhere else in the world. After many superior meals at Piperade in San Francisco, I have salivated for years to devour the fabled Basque cuisine on its home turf. Let the feast begin!
  
  
• As an assertive minority population that refuses to assimilate, the Basque have been violently oppressed for centuries. The most recent wave of aggression came under Franco’s dictatorship where tens of thousands of political prisoners were taken in. The worst of the worst was the bombing of Guernica in 1937; Franco offered a personal invitation to Hitler to level the sacred town of the Basque via an air strike that would kill hundreds of civilians.
  
  
• The Guggenheim of Bilboa is an art snob’s wet dream and happens to be one of the poster child projects of the infamous architect Frank Gerhy. Right now they have an exhibition dedicated to Constantin Brancusi and Richard Serra! Visually satiated.
  
  
• The Basque language has no known connection to any other language (like Korean!). Most language isolates like this are endangered or entirely extinct, but the Basque keep their shit loud and proud instead of surrendering to a nationalized lingua franca… I guess you have to be a sociolinguistics geek like me to appreciate that.
  
  
• The Rioja wine region lays just to the south! Wine freaks love to make pilgrimage here because of the prominent and unique bodegas (re: bodega is winery in Spain, not corner store like in NYC Spanglish). Wine tastings were one of my favorite pastimes while living in Northern California, so you best believe I’m gonna cruise this booze like a muthafuckin’ pro!

Deviant nationalism, spectacular art, foodie heaven, wine gluttony, and killer beaches. There really isn’t much more needed to get my half Korean ass in motion. The glitz and glam of Madrid will wait a few weeks because I’ve got to pay my respects to this mighty region. The only way I’ll be able to protect my girlish figure is with a righteous farmer’s exercise routine… The amount of food that I’ll be gorging myself with could have me otherwise looking a little more like Santa Claus. Other than that, I will be offline as this encampment is officially in the boonies and has forewarned me that there ain’t no stinking internet for miles.

Only one more week left to give all my love to Barcelona and then I’m off again. I could write something cheesy about the holidays and being thankful, but you all know the drill. I love and miss so many of you right now… Keep me in your thoughts because I’m always doing likewise.