LLWorldTour

I had five days in Bratislava which was more than enough time to see the majority of ‘tourist’ sites so I decided to take a trip about 20 kilometers to the south to the Modern Art Museum, the Danubiana, perched on the edge of an island smack dab in the middle of the Danube River. The problem was getting there. There wasn’t exactly any direct route. My, curt and mostly unfriendly, unhelpful hotel staff told me just to go to the bus station. The cute young guy at the tourist information office told me of a public bus I could take that would bring me to the town where the museum was located and then I would ‘surely see signs to follow’ to walk there. The best laid plans…

So for about thirty cents I hopped on the bus (which turned out to be right around the corner from my hotel–thanks guys) and rode south through the charmless communist-era apartment blocks, through corn fields, and through lovely little ‘subdivisions’ of surprisingly newer expensive-looking homes. I had been told to ride the bus to the end and get off at the final stop…which I did…and I was in the middle of nowhere with no sign of any museum…or really anything at all. I asked the bus driver who spoke no English and just shrugged at me. I asked a little old lady who was waiting for the bus. She spoke no English either, but spoke German, a language I am quite ‘unfluent’ in except for a few words. But through body language (I’m learning how much we really can communicate with this under-praised language) and a few ‘jas and neins’ I was on my way down a random path in the woods, past a church, through a tiny town, through another trail in a second set of woods, across a highway, onto a bicycle path—full of Sunday rollerbladers (Slovakians love ice hockey so it’s no surprise to see so many in line skating in the summer) and cyclists, across a bridge and dam and lock system on the river, and finally an hour after getting off the bus, I reached the museum. I think I practically walked back into Hungary. Perhaps I should have rented a canoe and paddled my way here downstream from Bratislava instead—that may have taken less time. Okay, probably not. The bus ride took me thirty minutes, but the walk from the bus stop took me one hour. Something just didn’t seem right about that.

The museum itself was actually a bit of a bore, although the building itself was really cool and the grounds were nice with interesting sculptures dotting the landscape. But I realized that I actually had more fun (using the term ‘fun’ quite loosely here) walking through the woods and different neighborhoods of ‘every-day-life-Slovakia’ than seeing the inside of this museum. It was one of those ‘it’s all about the journey not the destination’ moments that I’ve come to love. I liked seeing the town and as I sweated my way down the one mile path that linked the mainland with the island I had ample time to take in the surroundings especially the huge white fluffy clouds that hung low in the blue summer sky. It got me thinking about how little time in our busy, work, work, work lives that we have to just gaze up at the clouds like we did when we were kids.

Traveling like I’ve been doing and breaking out of my everyday routine has made me much more cognitive of things I didn’t notice before. We all know how easy it is to get caught up in a ‘routine’—it’s almost like being on auto pilot all day. We walk around like zombies listening to our ipods or staring at our latest text message on our cell phones. It seems like all our senses all dulled. We barely notice the simple sights, sounds, or smells (unless it is a very stinky urine soaked hobo sitting on the train next to you) all around us.

Remember the days lying on the plush green grass in your front yard and just staring at the sky for hours on end? How great was that? I tried to do this as I walked, amazed at the wondrous clouds and all their shapes and mystery. It was nice…but of course, I got bored with it after five minutes.

A common conversation I’ve had with folks back home lately:

“I’m now headed to Bratislava.”

“Brati-what? Where in the world is that? I’ve never heard of it.”

Well, my little geography students, Bratislava happens to be the capital of the fairly newish country of Slovakia. We all remember being back in school learning about a country far, far away called Czechoslovakia? Although, I’m hesitant to say that as a kid I pronounced it ‘Checkle-slovakia.’ Well, the second syllable of the word finally declared its independence after the Velvet Revolution of 1989 and a new nation was born.

Bratislava is often overshadowed by its much larger, much more touristed ‘step-brother,’ Prague. But, I’d been to the jewel of the Czech Republic and had heard that Bratislava was just as lovely, but with less crowds and even lower prices. Bratislava is great. It is another one of those places that forces me to walk around its cobblestone, medieval pedestrian-only old quarter with a bit of a smitten grin plastered across my face. Not only is it charmingly filled with story-book castles and towers and some amazing gothic and baroque architecture, there is a great artistic cultured feel to this town.

The streets brim with colorful cafes, museums, theaters, and art. It’s summertime so there are outdoor concerts nearly every night wafting the sounds of Jazz and even Latino beats through the echoey centuries old cavernous lanes. There are these fun whimsical life-size Bronze statues at every turn—‘the Frenchman,’ ‘The Peeper,’ and ‘The Photographer.’ I can tell I’m in Europe again—there’s an artsy creative feel to these cities that seem to give them a progressive edge over many American cities. Although Millennium Park in Chicago is one place that comes to mind that always reminded me of something I’d find in Europe. The plazas and lanes here burst with life and public art mixes with form and nature. After 7pm, families come out with their kids for a refreshing gelato treat, lovers nuzzle and purr into each others ears on benches lining the park, girlfriends laugh and chat over a glass of wine, and the tourists snap happy photos of this fairy tale scene that is real life Slovak-style.

Something hard not to notice here–the people are all beautiful. I have to say, so far on my trip, these are the most gorgeous women, as a group, that I’ve encountered. Of course, I’ve seen pretty Asians, Australians, Argentineans, and Emiratis (at least their eyes were amazing), but the majority of the gals I pass here could all be walking right off the runway of a fashion show. You know them as all the eastern European models on the pages of the fashion mags: extremely tall with legs up to their neck, thin, and nearly perfect.

Another sign I’m in Eastern Europe? Beer is the breakfast of choice here with many locals. Every morning I would undoubtedly see guys hanging out at cafes way before noon with a couple pints of lager and a cigarette. I like to do as the locals do, but I still prefer a latte and maybe some eggs over easy. Or a bagel—something else Slovakia has. I haven’t seen one of these since…hmmm….maybe Australia, but I honestly don’t recall any there either.

The one odd thing that stands out amidst the scene of medieval delight–besides the rows and rows of communist apartment buildings just on the ‘other’ side of town and the Soviet super highway that was built right through the old Jewish quarter destroying dozens of old buildings in its path —is the local McDonald’s. But even it is brimming with life under the umbrellas on its alfresco ‘McCafe.’ And even this little slice of America somehow, if it’s possible, takes on an air of European charm.

Though a generation has come of age since the Iron Curtain parted in 1989 in Hungary, reminders of the regime are relatively easy to find. It wasn’t so long ago that Budapest was ruled with an iron fist by the Soviets. I wanted to learn more about this chapter in their recent past so I took a “Soviet” tour of the city. It began in something called Szobor (Statue) Park on the edges of the city. This purposely barren-looking bleak park was created as a ‘final resting place’ for the huge ominous communist-era statues that had dotted the city-scape from the end of WWII to the early 1990s. Some of the statues had been mostly destroyed by the people during the final days of communism—and as if meant to be …all that’s left of Lenin are a pair of huge boots. I guess they were made for walking…so to speak.

But the most moving and somewhat disturbing display had to be one of the most powerful museums I have ever been to, the House of Terror. From the moment you enter its imposing entry hall and hear the eerie music, you know you are in for something different. Once headquarters of the Hungarian Nazi Party and immediately following it the Communist State Security Police, it’s now a modern, stylish, high-tech museum that uses amazingly creative, well thought out displays (including an eerie Nazi board room, a re-created “interrogation” room complete with old ‘reel to reel’ recording machines, a room on life in the Gulag, a maze of rubber ‘pork fat bricks’ reminding old timers of the harsh conditions of the 1950s, a memorial room called the “Hall of Tears” with hundreds of backlit victims’ names on the walls and dozens of tiny lights on stakes in a ‘field’ across the floor), and videotaped interviews with victims to illustrate the grim decades of Nazi and Communist repression.

After allying themselves with Hitler to save their own skins, Hungary was overtaken by the Nazi-affiliated Arrow Cross Party in the waning days of World War II. Their ideology was somewhat similar to Nazism – extreme nationalism, the promotion of agriculture, anti-capitalism, anti-Communism, and militant anti-Semitism. Arrow Cross members did their best to exterminate Budapest’s Jews, killing them one-by-one in the streets, and were known to tie several victims together, shoot one of them, and throw him into the freezing Danube — dragging the others in as well. They executed hundreds in the basement of the building I was in. During its short rule, 80,000 Jews, including many women, children and elderly were deported from Hungary to their deaths. After the war, Arrow Cross leaders were tried as war criminals by Hungarian courts.

When the communists moved into Hungary, they took over the same building as headquarters of their secret police (the ÁVO, later renamed ÁVH). To keep dissension to a minimum, the secret police terrorized, tried, deported, or executed anyone suspected of being an enemy of the state. Communism turned nearly everyone against each other and anyone who didn’t ‘applaud loud enough’ came under suspicion. Political prisoners were imprisoned in ÁVH-run concentration camps many of which were crude and cruel. Private property was abolished. Industry, education, financial and commercial services as well as culture were nationalized. Shortages became a common part of the bankrupt economy and shelves in the stores were consistently empty. The iron curtain descended, borders were closed. In some labor camps the unspoken goal was the eventual death of inmates due to overwork and maltreatment. In a number of cases, torture was an essential part of camp life and discipline.

The final section of the museum began with a video of a former guard explaining the execution process which plays while you descend in a purposely excruciatingly slow elevator into the prison basement where there are re-created eerie cramped prison cells and torture rooms.

The museum has had its share of criticism, mostly from activists that have argued that the museum portrays Hungary too much as the victim of foreign occupiers and does not recognize enough the contribution that Hungarians themselves made to the regimes in question. Critics have also criticized the fact that far more space is given to the terror of the communist regime than the fascist one. Answers to these critics generally revolve around the fact that, while the fascist Nazi regime lasted only few months, the Hungarian Communist regime lasted for forty years.

After a restless, noisy ride in an overnight train in which I shared a car with a rather large, snoring Hungarian woman, I arrived un-refreshed in Budapest. This city of nearly 2 million straddles Europe’s mighty Danube River with nine stately bridges connecting the two sides. It originally was three separate cities: Obuda, Buda, and Pest. Over the years, it has belonged to many—Romans, Turks, Hapsburg-Austrians, Soviets—and it was not until 1991, when the last Soviet troops left the country, that Hungary began to rebuild it’s full market economy and became the thriving modern city that it is today. Summer was in full swing here complete with outdoor festivals, live music, and even fireworks rocketing off from several bridges in a wonderful spectacle celebrating their first King during the national holiday of St. Stephen’s Day.

Two things I’d noticed in Eastern Europe and Budapest in particular that I hadn’t seen for awhile:

1. Women are wearing shorts (scandalously above the knee!), in many cases ‘short shorts.’ It is definitely a less conservative, more free atmosphere than most countries to the east.

2. Many people are on two wheels around the city—not just for transport, like all over Asia, but for exercise and leisure. Hungary now has more than 2500 kilometers of bike lanes around the country—many of which are in Budapest. To get an overview of the city, I took a four-hour bicycle tour. We pedaled high atop the ‘Buda’ side of the city to what is known as ‘Castle Hill,’ a UNESCO-designated ‘hood bursting with history, narrow cobblestone streets, a 13th-century church, and, of course the Royal Palace. Back down the hill and across the Danube one of the main thoroughfares of Pest is Andrássy street. This grand boulevard, in the same vein as the Champs-Elysees, extends over a mile, getting grander, greener, and less commercial the farther down it goes. Like much of Pest, the boulevard was constructed in the late 19th century, and its pedigree shows. Underneath it lies the European continent’s first metro line, opened in 1896, while above ground are scores of gorgeous late 19^th century buildings. The street ends with a bang at Heroes’ Square chock full of grand statues perched high atop Greek and Roman columns.

For a nice reprieve from the hot days of sightseeing, I made a trip to one of Budapest’s dozen or so baths. There are about one hundred natural hot springs all around the area feeding natural ‘spas’ that have been used since the time of the ancient Romans. One of the nicest is Gellert Baths. It is basically a beautiful complex of several pools of varying temperatures where you can soak in the medicinal waters and laze the day away on lounge chair.

As I get farther west into Europe, I have started to notice a greater mix of cultures and ethnicities than I’ve seen in many countries in South America, Southeast Asia, and Turkey. And I’m finally in a place where I completely blend in. Hungary was also a place where the Jews of the 20th century blended in. It was progressive in the fact that Jews here were part of society like anyone else and were simply considered Hungarian and were assimilated into the fabric of life. That’s why it was all the more shocking for them when the horrors of the Nazis finally reached Hungary toward the end of WWII. Built in 1859, the Dohány Street Synagogue, also known as the Great Synagogue, in Budapest is Europe’s largest synagogue and the second largest in the world (after Temple Emanu-el in New York City). It holds 3000 people seated and can swell to 6000 during the high holy days when it is standing room only. During WWII, the Gestapo literally housed its local headquarters inside the temple which ironically is one of the reasons the building itself survived. The Hungarian Nazi party, the Arrow Cross, seized control over the country in October 1944. The new government began slaughtering the Jews immediately, killing 600 people in the first days…and eventually 600,000. Papers and certificates allowing Jews to stay and work in the city were no longer valid. 50,000 Jewish men were forced on a ‘death march’ to dig fortifications against the approaching Soviet army. The area surrounding the synagogue became the ‘Jewish Ghetto,’ similar to many all over Europe at the time, where about 70,000 Jews were forced to live in a very small area behind a fence and could not leave. In all, over 50% of the Jews of Budapest perished in the Holocaust. At its height, the Jewish population of Hungary numbered close to one million, but the Holocaust and emigration has reduced that to around 100,000, most of who live in Budapest and its suburbs.

It wasn’t until 1991 that the reconstruction and renovation work was done in the Great Synagogue; thanks in large part to American actor Tony Curtis (born as Bernard Schwartz) whose Jewish father had left his home country of Hungary to find a better life in America. Today, Budapest has the third largest Jewish community in Europe after France and the UK with about 100,000 people.

My adventures have been amazing, but the best part would have to be all the wonderful people I have met from all corners of the globe—good, kind people. I’ve developed new friendships and had some ‘romantic’ experiences as well (for more juicy details you will have to read the book). The people I’ve met from all over—Vietnamese, Maori, Argentinean, Pakistani, Muslim, Buddhist, Atheist, Jewish, Christian—have touched me in ways I will never ever forget. The kindness I’ve received from virtual strangers has been the highlight of my trip. Yes, I’ve gazed in awe at the Angkor Watt temples in Cambodia, shared the beach with the animals of the Galapagos Islands, and marveled at the ancient cities of Turkey and the modern monstrosities of Dubai. But nothing can compare to meeting the people that I now call my friends. There are bad things going on in the world and always will be, but at the basic level of day to day existence in big cities and in small towns all over the globe people are smiling and chatting and making their little slice of the world a friendly and welcoming place.

Before I left for my trip, many friends were sure I would meet a sexy man in some exotic country.

“Oh you are never coming back…I’m sure you will meet some hunky Australian surfer dude.”

“Wait ‘til you get to Italy, some Roman God will sweep you off your feet.”

“Watch out, the Turkish men are irresistible…”

It’s funny the countries we associate with hot lovers—Italy, France, Spain. No one ever said to me ‘you are going to meet some amazingly chic sheik Emirati man’ or ‘I bet you will fall for a Cambodian hottie’ or ‘some pasty white Brit is going to take your breath away.’

Now ten months into my little adventure, I have met some very cool guys during my travels, but perhaps not the ‘soulmate’ everyone else seemed to be dreaming up for me. But I think I just traveled half way around the world to meet someone who, in just a matter of days, has become one of my best friends and perhaps a soulmate of a different kind. Things like this always happen with lovers…why can’t it happen with two friends? It made me realize everyone was so focused on me meeting some amazing man that no one said, ‘maybe you will meet the best friend of your dreams.’

My brother’s best friend since high school, Ed, had visited Bistrita (BIS-treat-sa), Romania years ago. He fell in love with a Romanian girl and in turn, the country, stayed for three years and ended up marrying his love and taking her back to America where they’ve just had their first child. He so much wanted her to feel at home, that he would introduce her to any and every Romanian he could find in south Florida. In fact, while she was still in the hospital, just after giving birth, Ed presented her with some random Romanian he’d grabbed out of the hallway.

Before my visit, when I thought of Romania, three things came to mind: Transylvania’s Dracula, sad orphans, and Ed. I contacted him when I got there and he was insistent that I go to his former ‘home’ to meet his in-laws. He said I would love them and he was right.

Mona is Ed’s new sister-in-law. From the moment that she and her husband, Florin, picked me up I knew I would be comfortable with them. I was greeted with warm smiles and hugs and they took me home with them to Bistrita where I stayed for four days. We laughed, shared personal stories, and even cried together. We went from being virtual strangers to nearly sisters literally overnight. And this is not something I normally do. Anyone who really knows me, knows I’m very selective with boyfriends AND girlfriends. I’ve said many times, the older I get, the more discriminatory I get with who I spend my time with. And if I have the choice of hanging out with someone I don’t really like all that much or being alone, I would happily be alone. During my stay with Mona and Florin, I met her brother, who charmed the pants off me (not literally—okay just my shirt—well, he is a licensed massage therapist and I am never one to turn down a good massage…) with his good looks and sense of humor, her parents, her son, co-workers, and some of their friends. They treated me like I really was part of the family and it is a feeling I will never forget. Her mother hugged me hello like I was a long lost cousin and cooked me her famous Romanian specialties–supa dulce (basically matzoh ball soup!), sarmale (stuffed cabbage) and mămăligă (polenta). Pofta Bună (Bon Appetit)! I think her parents were thrilled with me because I ate a bit more than they were used to with Ed who seemed to spend too much time chowing on chow mein at the local Chinese restaurant and sinking his teeth into his favorite local specialty—the Big Mac.

Mona and Florin are now planning to quit their jobs and take a six month trip to America to stay with her sister, Nico, and Ed in Florida. She says that my ‘spirit’ and independence helped her decide she could leave her home. If it wasn’t for Mona and her family my visit to Romania would be a nice memory of medieval towns and green mountainous villages, but now it was so much more. Something between us just clicked and we connected on a deeper level. Everyone talks about meeting your ‘soulmate’ while traveling the world, but no one thinks about it happening between two friends, and it just did.

Our bus drove out onto the steamy tarmac of modern Ataturk International Airport in Istanbul. It came to a halt in front of a tiny propeller plane that would fly me and my fellow passengers to my next destination on ‘The LL World Tour:’ Bucharest, Romania. The aircraft looked like it was built in 1973—the gray leather seats were worn around the edges and super shiny in the middle—from the hundreds of butts that had sat there before me. There were no high tech movie screens or anything near what I experienced on Emirates Air just a few months back on my flight into Istanbul. In fact, the flight attendants still did the safety ‘song and dance’ themselves.

After one and a half hours bobbing and weaving our way through the puffy-clouded skies, we landed in the former Soviet city of Bucharest and one of the newest countries of the European Union. Back in independent traveler mode—I hit the ground running—smiling through passport control, picking up my checked suitcase, getting Romanian Lei out of the ATM, and finding public bus number 783 into the city. It felt good to be ‘on the move’ once again.

The ride into town surprisingly was quite lovely and we passed what appeared to be a very green city with shady trees all around. Because of its wide leafy boulevards and public squares, Bucharest is sometimes called the ‘Paris of Eastern Europe.’ I think practically all countries I’ve been in seem to claim their city as some sort of ‘Paris;’ Buenos Aires—the Paris of South America, Dalat, Vietnam–the Paris of Vietnam, Montreal—the Paris of Canada, Dubai—the Paris…no I’m just kidding about that last one.

After hearing several warnings from various friends who said Bucharest was a ‘dump’ (I can’t confirm this for myself) I planned on seeing more of the countryside and headed straight for the train station. Oh, and by the way, I was back in a country where the cars stop for people—ah civilization.

Before I left Istanbul, I’d wondered if I’d be lonely my first few days back out on my own again. But so far, this was not the case. On the bus I’d spotted a couple guys that seemed like English-speaking tourists…well it’s not detective work to spot a backpack or suitcase, but as far as the English…they just had a ‘look.’ I bumped into them in the metro station and said ‘hello.’ And just like that, as is so easy in the travel world, I had two new best friends for the next couple days. Derek, originally from Los Angeles and more recently Seattle, was on a whirlwind tour of Eastern Europe. Now that I’m an experienced loafer…committing my time in big cities to at least a week (to several months) or small towns to at least three nights, I hate to see others rushing around so much. He was spending, at most two nights in each city he hit. He’s getting a small taste of the biggest tourist areas, but never a genuine feel for the ‘real’ place, but, hey, at least he’s traveling. Bobby lived north of London and was a bit of a real estate mogul, buying up properties all over the globe, from Dubai to Sofia and Venezuela to Poland.

I was planning on taking the train to Brasov, but the guys had read that something called a ‘Maxi Taxi’ (a minivan, basically) was cheaper and faster. We schlepped our bags and ourselves over crumbling sidewalks several blocks away from the train station in the not-so-quaint part of the city where locals pointed us to the ‘maxi taxi stand.’ Unfortunately for us, when we got there we found out the one we were looking for did not even stop here. A tall young Romanian guy with a cigarette dangling precariously out of the side of his mouth who never made eye contact told us gruffly that we could head across town to find it or just go back to the train station and take the next train. So much for the ‘two heads are better than one’ theory—I guess three heads are like a quarter brain? I had planned on buying a ticket and waiting for the train. Now, I was walking around in circles in Bucharest. We headed back to the train station and hopped on the next train for Transylvania. Of course, we found out later we’d gotten on the excruciatingly slow local train that made every stop along the way and would take about four hours instead of the express train that would have gotten us there in half the time. Oh well—it was just how things were going. At least this gave us time to get to know each other in our sweaty, hot train car with sticky pleather seats that we shared with friendly, yet smelly villagers.

During the long rail journey, we climbed higher into the mountains where the air was fresh and crisp and my spirits lifted. Brasov (Bra-shov) is the quintessential medieval European city full of old Bavarian-like stuccoed buildings with red-tiled roofs and petunias spilling out of window flower boxes lining cobblestoned lanes where locals stroll arm in arm. A church bell gongs in the distance and the air is misty and cool. Cafes line the streets and idle chatter fills the air. I love it.

Romania is perhaps the most beautiful country in Eastern Europe, a last bastion of a medieval past long since lost elsewhere. The mighty Carpathian mountain range cuts right through the heart of it surprising you with jagged mountain vistas and lush green valleys with several fortified centuries-old villages. You can just imagine the middle ages with fierce horsemen galloping by on their way to attack and pillage the next tiny hamlet, killing the men, stealing the women, and eating wild beasts with their bare hands. The mythic land of Transylvania is the region of Vlad (the Impaler) Tepes, the real-life torturous prince who was the inspiration for 19th-century novelist Bram Stoker’s ‘Count Dracula.’ The intact medieval villages of this region are a trip back in time, with their charming town squares, foreboding stone watchtowers, stately churches, and surrounding Bavarian-style homes reflecting the Hungarian and German ancestry. I wasn’t sure what exactly Romania would be like and this was just perfect. I am reminded once again how much I just love the look and ‘feel’ of Europe and am glad to be back.