Blogabout Europe

Passport at the ready

This blog is almost one year old, and it has been shamefully neglected.  I am aware.  I blame the fact that i can't access it at work, and my computer (second computer in four months) has recently died. 

Here's the important stuff - my UK days are numbered.  Next week, I'm going to Turkey, then a few weeks after that I'll be blogging a Wicked campervan trip around the UK & Ireland.  Then...it's a one way flight to Sydney.  Goodbye Thames, hello Pacific.  Now that's a body of water. 

So I need to know this:  advice for Turkey?  It will be a quick trip, five days of Istanbul, cannakale, and Gallipoli. 

You can also start thinking about this:  advice for a three week campervan journey around England, Scotland, Ireland & Wales.  My primary question is How do I shower?  Someone suggested wet naps.  I hope it doesn't come to that.

Can you really Carpe every Diem?

When we were sitting in Rome, sharing a bottle of Italian red, Anne brought up a good point. 

"Do you ever find it kind of sad that traveling isn't always as exciting as you imagined?"  

I couldn't help but wonder (shoot me now, Carrie Bradshaw) if she was right.  In a way, yes.  There are those times when you are exhausted from taking a bus to a plane to a train, down a darkened Roman alley, only to arrive at a hostel that is experiencing a blackout.  There are times when you are dirty, wearing scummy tennis shoes, sporting a bird's nest on your head, and all you want is a hot bath and some nice-smelling body lotion.  And, as we experienced in Italy, there are the times when you see something so mind-blowingly old, like the colosseum, and instead of really seeing it, you snap a few photos with your pocket-sized digital camera and dart back into the metro station.  

I think the initial letdown comes from the realisation that no matter where you are, you are still you.  Turning up in Rome, Paris, Tokyo or Sydney doesn't guarantee some sort of personal transformation.  The enlightenment, the exciting part, comes from the parts that aren't on your must-see list, or the images that are frozen in your mind instead of on your memory card.  

Anne and I might not remember exactly how we felt when we threw coins into the Trevi fountain, but I won't forget 3-year-old Francesca, who insisted on throwing her bunny puppet into our laps on the plane, then roaring with laughter.  Or Mister Salvatore, a young Italian mama's boy who tried to coerce us into the hotel's reception area so that his silent, computer-card-playing friend could have a crack at Anne, the blonde American.  Though it certainly wasn't funny at the time, I'd like to think that Anne can now laugh at the stress of us running like graceful elephants through the Vauxhall train station so we could get the last train to Hampton Court.  Then, thirty minutes later, just after we'd caught our breath, I inexplicably got off at the stop just before mine, forcing us to make the game time decision to call a taxi.  

Because that's the appeal of travel, really, as opposed to a vacation.  You learn what kind of stuff you're made of.  Once you survive a wily cab ride through the streets of Cairo with a fist waving Arabic man, or a food-poisoning-related blackout on the hard linoleum of a New Zealand hostel bathroom, you realise that you're capable of more than you thought.  You learn to relax, you learn to breathe, and then you learn to really look at what's in front of you, and understand that you're here to see much more than you'll ever fit into a photo album.  

lvfit

Don't forget the hand sanitizer

Luxor

.  I knew that it was the name of a pyramid-themed hotel in Vegas, but that was the extent of my knowledge.  After two days of the

Temple of Karnak, Valley of the Kings, and Hapshetsut's Temple, I can see that Vegas does a poor imitation. We caught a taxi to the Luxor airport on Monday morning, because that’s where the bus station is located.  Our driver told us that there had been a bomb the previous day in Cairo, but we knew nothing about it, as CNN’s ‘World News’ coverage had focused exclusively on the success of ‘Slumdog Millionaire.’ 

He dropped us at the bus station, where we waited for forty-five minutes to catch our bus to Hurghada.  It was an air-conditioned coach, and there wasn’t a tourist to be found.  We drove along the Nile valley, stopping in tiny villages for toilet stops, or slowing down to a crawl, allowing passengers to jump off the bus as necessary. 

The highlight of the ride was probably Muslim prayer time, when the wisdom of our seat choice became clear.  Jared and I made an inspired selection, unwittingly sitting directly under the only speaker on the bus.  The driver turned up the volume of the prayer to top volume so everyone could enjoy it.  Yes.  Enjoy is certainly the word I would use.

A close second was my toilet experience.  I used a hole-in-the-ground toilet before, five years ago in Greece, when I caused a ruckus by monopolizing a stall in the Patras bus station.  This was due to my inability to squat, thus requiring me to remove my pants to prevent embarrassing stains.  The consequence of this were numerous dirty looks from elderly Greek women who no doubt could squat over a hole one inch in diameter on a moving train while wearing leather pants blindfolded and still not miss.

The point is, I’ve come a long way, because this time I peed like a pro and didn’t bat an eye at the unidentifiable bugs, lack of toilet paper or suspicious bucket of water in the corner.  And I am not ashamed of my liberal and immediate use of hand sanitizer afterwards.  

 Hurghada is a work in progress, in an apparent rush to join the club of tourist resort towns.  We stopped there so I could dive in the Red Sea, which was what we did most of the next day.  We used Funny Divers, who were right across from our hotel, the Empire Three Corners.  The captain put together a big traditional buffet lunch between dives.  There was falafel, taboula, pasta, potatoes, and I couldn’t even tell you what else.  Easily one of the best meals we had in Egypt. 

 The next day, it was back on another bus - this time, no prayers piping over the speaker; instead we were seated opposite the staircase to the toilet.  Egyptian food is good going in, but I can assure you it does not smell nice going out.  

One final installment still to come on the Egypt trip, but next week I am off to Rome & the Amalfi Coast.  London may be grey and dreary, but it is definitely doing its job as a jumping-off point.  

* and a side note that has been bothering me.  I was wrong; Cleopatra's mummy is not in the British museum.  There is a mummy there, and she was called Cleopatra, but she is not THE Cleopatra.  My mistake. 

Midnight Train to Luxor

"You're taking an overnight train in Africa?"  

This was the incredulous response I got from Shelley, a former co-worker and Zimbabwean, when she learned of our travel plans for Cairo to Luxor.  

"I'm sure it'll be fine," I answered.  And it was.  I can't say it was an easy or familiar process, but in the end, it was fine.  

I'm sure I read somewhere that tourists should avoid using the metro in Cairo, but we did it anyway, travelling a few stops from our hotel in Dokki to the Ramses train station.  For 2 Egyptian pounds apiece, it was even more cost effective than haggling for a taxi, and the chances of the metro diverting to a papyrus shop were slim.  

As soon as we entered the train station, we were bombarded with requests.  

"You need taxi?"

"You need hotel?"

"You want souvenir?"

Then a policeman stopped to help.  We told him that we needed overnight train tickets to Luxor, leaving that night. 

"Come with me," he said, offering no explanation or room for argument. So we did.  

We crossed over to another platform into a ticket office, where he sent us to the first ticket window.  

"That window only.  But maybe train is full.  Today is a public holiday."  

Well.  That did explain the crowds at the station.  We waited for a while at the window, only to be told that yes, the train was full.  All trains leaving that night for Luxor.  

"Try next room.  Window 17," the policeman said.  

We dutifully trudged to the next room, which apparently was where second class tickets were sold, which is what we were after in the first place. 

"No seats.  Train is full."  

We walked back to the first room, starting to lose hope.  Our trip, while loosely planned, still relied heavily on us getting to Luxor by the following day.  

The policeman appeared again. 

"I help you.  Follow me."

Having nothing to lose and time to waste, we followed him out of the station and around the corner to a hotel.  According to the policeman, the man at reception also ran a travel agency and could possibly arrange tickets for us.  

After five minutes of listening to the receptionist's offer of a five-night, all inclusive holiday in Luxor, I was beginning to lose my cool.  The man refused to sell us train tickets only, as he only benefitted from a package deal.  Fair play to him as a businessman, but extremely unhelpful to our situation.  

The policeman accompanied us back to the station, and up to window # 4.  Suddenly, he announced that we could get overnight tickets for the 12:30 train, but we had to buy them from Cairo all the way to Aswan, then get off at Luxor.  All this for a mere 10 Egyptian pounds more.  

Rather than ask questions, we were happy to pay 109 each for the tickets (under 14 pounds UK).  And that is how we found ourselves, many hours later, in first class seats for the nine hour overnight service to Luxor.  

I slept the whole way and it was amazing.  

Walked Like an Egyptian

Wasn't travelling with my laptop this time, so I'm considerably behind on the updates...let's go back to Cairo, February 20th.

After haggling at the front desk of the Concorde Hotel, we were led to a taxi driver who agreed to drive us to the Pyramids for about 75 Egyptian pounds (less than 10 English pounds).  Two minutes into the ride, after asking the requisite questions about where we were from and whether or not we'd been to Egypt before, the cab driver snuck in a sales pitch. 

"So I drive you Memphis, Sakkara, Pyramids, Sphinx..." he began, reeling off a day trip's worth of places.  

"No, no," we told him.  "Just the pyramids, thanks."

"Ok, ok," he agreed.  

The taxi whizzed through the dust of Cairo, passing donkey carts, fruit stands, prayer rooms and men smoking shisha pipes.  Still no sign of the pyramids when the taxi slowed to a stop in front of a rundown little building.  'Egyptian Papyrus Museum,' the sign announced.  

"You want look at papyrus," he said.  It seemed more like a statement of fact than a question.  

Jared and I repeated our mantra.  "No, no.  Just the pyramids."  We may even have made pyramid motions with our hands.  As if that was going to help.  

The driver, whose name was evidently Ramadan, reluctantly agreed and pulled back onto the manic road, where lane indicators are little more than a suggestion.  

A few minutes later, we could see the tips of the pyramids just in front of the car.  Ramadan navigated the car into a small back alley, which opened into a sandy car park/free-reign stable.  Camels and horses milled around with Chevrolets and Egyptian men in long traditional gowns.  

Ramadan turned off the engine.  "We are here," he said.  It seemed that Jared and I had no choice but to get out.  We were immediately approached by one of the men.  

"Camel or horse?"  He said.  

"No thanks," we answered.  "We just want to walk to the pyramids."

"Camel or horse?"

"No thank you."

"Camel or horse?  You just try.  See if you like it."

"Ok, horse," I said.  I'm still not sure why I opted for horse over the much more exotic camel.  In saying that, Jared and I both have previous camel-riding experience, so I guess that curiosity has been satisfied.  

Suddenly we were both astride two bored-looking ponies and led around the car park in circles by the boss's minions.  

"You like?"  he said.  "Now I tell you price."  

We never had any intention of purchasing a horse trek around the pyramids, so his offer of 160 Egyptian pounds for a forty-five minute ride wasn't overly tempting.  

"No thanks.  We'll just walk."

He leaned forward.  "Ok.  For you, I do for 80 pounds."  

"No thanks."

"Is very sandy.  Sometimes hard to walk around the pyramids.  Will take maybe half an hour on foot."  

"No thanks."  

The next thing I knew, both Jared and I were politely removed from the horses and directed back into our taxis.  The disgruntled driver took us to the entrance of the pyramids, told us we had one hour, and parked the car nearby.  It took approximately five minutes to reach the great pyramid from the entrance, and we walked along the paved road up a hill.  Every few steps we were approached by people offering camel rides (40 Egyptian pounds) or, in one case, offering camels to Jared in exchange for me.  (Net worth = 1000 camels).  

I was wearing 3/4 length trousers, but still felt that they attracted more attention than necessary, so I switched to jeans for the rest of the trip.  I'd recommend a long (i.e. ground length) skirt for all females considering a trip to Egypt.  

We were able to see three of the pyramids from where we were, as well as the sphinx, which is front and center when you walk through the entrance.  Smaller than I had imagined, but much longer in length than I would have thought.  

Towards the end of our alloted hour, we stopped at the public toilet, where we paid a couple of pounds to go into the bathrooms.  An attendant was doling out toilet paper at the entrance, and the stalls were all reasonably well-kept.  I was pleased to see toilets, as my squatting over a hole technique could use some work.  As it turned out, there was opportunity to practice, but that came later in the week.  

We met back up for a hand sanitizer session, then returned to Ramadan and his taxi.  There was approximately one inch on either side of the car, but he maneuvered seamlessly out of the parking space.

Ramadan drove us back to the Concorde, where we had the rest of the afternoon to sort out an overnight train ticket to Luxor.  And it was a mission that did take most of the afternoon.  

But that is a story for tomorrow.  

Mummies were people too

I'm moving again, so have been slightly distracted from the blog.  This will be my eleventh move in the last five years, as I learned today while filling out a security clearance form for work.  Which, by the way, is nowhere near as interesting as it sounds.  That goes for moving, work, and security forms.  Anyway, after this weekend I'll be a resident of East Molesey, but this is eclipsed by the excitement of next week's trip to Egypt. 

I'll be flying BA to Cairo, leaving Britain's balmy shores for hot days, cold nights, sand, dust, potential food-related illness, pyramids, temples, and the Red Sea.  To warm up for Egypt, we visited the British Museum last weekend, which, oddly, houses the world's largest Egyptian collection. 

I saw the Rosetta Stone, used to decipher hieroglyphics, massive sculptures of Ramses II, and glass cases of mummified human (& animal) remains.  I even saw Cleopatra, who, like most celebrities in person, was much smaller than I would have imagined.  Not too surprising, I suppose, given that she was only 17 when she died. 

My curiosity is now in full force, so I'm pretty excited for next Friday, our first full day in Cairo, where the plan is to check out the pyramids/sphinx.  Then it's an overnight train to Luxor, where we'll be for two nights, before figuring out a way to Hurghada for some Red Sea diving.  After that, back to Cairo for another day before flying back to London.  We've booked a few hotels, in Cairo & Luxor, have done a fair bit of research, but are planning to kind of play it by ear. 

I've been given random bits of advice, such as:

- only drink bottled water.
- bring stomach tablets, as apparently 'everyone' gets sick in Egypt as a tourist.  Reassuring.
- Do not get ripped off (this was specific, and, therefore, helpful)

I'm not so sure about other etiquette-related things, such as:

- how much skin am I allowed to show?  I'm not planning on parading myself around the streets, but do I need to be covering my ankles?  I realise this question is mildly ignorant, but I'm really not sure what to do.

- if I shouldn't eat the local food, what do I eat?  I'm not flying to Africa so I can feast on KFC. 

- Apparently tourists can only buy train tickets for certain trains, but the rules are not always clear.  So how do I know which one to go with?

- Just how far is English going to take me?  My Arabic is crap.  And by crap, I mean I can't speak it at all.

Only one way to figure it out. 

Back in Action

It had been four weeks, and still no sign of my passport or approved visa.  I spent ludicrous amounts of company time scouring immigration forums, reading about various reasons why people's visas were rejected, and how long it took.  Just when I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to be waiting six months only to face rejection, I found a delivery slip inside my front door.

"Sorry we missed you," it said.  "Attempted delivery 10:40a.m."

It was my passport.  I knew it.  The next day I went to the post office, where they handed me a brown envelope.  I ripped it open and scanned the letter desperately.

"...we are pleased to say that your application has been successful..."

That's all I needed.  Sure enough, inside my passport was a sticker with a picture of me, looking like a convict, confirming that I am eligible to work until January 9th, 2011. 

This means that the travel plans, put on hold until the return of the passport, are now underway.

First on the list is Egypt, just over three weeks from now.  No, I don't waste any time.  The plan is to start in Cairo, train to Luxor, then get over to the Red Sea for some diving.  I'll be going with my boyfriend, and we'll be doing it completely on our own.  Time for a crash course in Arabic, I think.

In March I'll be jumping over to Rome and the Amalfi Coast with Anne, my best friend from Indianapolis.  Budget travel meets 29-year-old mother of two who has never stayed in a hostel before.  We are taking any and all suggestions for a Roman hostel that won't send her running for the hills.  I'm trying to convince her it's not so bad, but then I remember the snoring, the stench of random people's feet, newly-made love connections on the bunk above, and sleeping with your valuables tucked under your arm. 

If anyone has any advice about Egypt, send it on - as well as anything you'd like to see happen in this blog.  But you've only got until February 19th. 

It's good to have my passport back. 

Pack your bags, I'm not done yet

I have no excuse, really, for the way I've neglected the blog.  The truth is, I have just dedicated myself to being extremely lazy over the holidays.  Now that it's time to focus on real life again, I've got some trips to plan.  Here they are, in random order:

1) Egypt
2) Morocco
3) Turkey
4) Ireland/Scotland
5) Beach location to be determined.  Possibly Santorini or Italy. 
6) Norway

A little bit further afield, there is also talk of trips to Tanzania, America & Australia. 

"How can she afford all this?"  You are probably asking yourself.  "Did she win the lottery over the festive season?"  The answer is that although I did win the lottery (£20, baby), it's all in the budgeting.  That and the fact that I don't have a mortgage or any of those other grown up financial obligations.  Student loans don't count, at least not during the short grace period that I am currently enjoying. 

Anyway, my point is that travel really isn't as expensive or as difficult as it seems, though my plans may occasionally exceed my bank account. 

It looks like the first trip is going to be a toss-up between an EasyJet flight to Istanbul or driving a campervan around Ireland & Scotland.  I will be updating the blog on progress as it develops. 

There is one thing preventing me from jumping into the trip-planning:  I am passport-less.  It feels strangely claustrophobic, not having my ticket to the outside world.  My little blue book is now in the capable (?) hands of the UK Home Office, where the powers that be will determine whether or not I am allowed to stay and work in the UK for two more years. 

I know that they at least have my passport, because I got a letter back stating that the application for LAUREN PITZPATRICK had been received safely.  Which was a not much of a relief, considering that my surname is Fitzpatrick, not Pitzpatrick.  Like I said, capable hands. 

Compass Buster - Scotland Video

A few clips from the Haggis tour...

Haggis for Your Health

The first of a few videos I'll be posting over the next few days - here, my first (and only) taste of Haggis. I don't feel that the video does it justice. It really wasn't horrible, despite my initial facial expressions. It tasted a little bit of cinnamon spice and mashed up internal organs. Just not really my thing, but then again, I haven't been eating it since I was young. Additionally, see the Haggis photo album on the left-hand side of the page for more pictures from the trip.