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What in the world?! Funny photos from around the globe

April 18, 2012

Here are some of my favorite funnies from around the world. Why? Because it’s tax day. And because today has been kind of a bummer anyway. And because you should stop asking questions.

Just enjoy these random bits that I collected on my round-the-world trip — like this command that was painted on a barn in Uganda.

It makes perfect sense.

Everything is slightly off in Bolivia, including this discount version of Uno.

Wise words from a Buddhist temple in Thailand.

The hottest curry at this shop in South Africa was the Mother-in-Law Exterminator.

An after-dinner condom jar in Thailand.

Uh, how many times does Taiwan have to tell you? DON’T sit on the bears!

Please to enjoy some cock at this Vietnamese shop.

Or sample the poo-poo platter here.

And drumroll please … my very favorite sign of all time. It’s pretty self-explanatory.

Fancy-schmancy amenities on a backpacker budget

April 17, 2012

I read this article about the world’s most outrageous hotel amenities. They include all kinds of super-posh services that cater to one’s every whim and desire. Like a tanning butler. A fragrance sommelier. A soap concierge — you know, for all those moments when you really want to get clean, but you also need options.

It got me to thinking about my round-the-world trip. I didn’t get any of that fancy stuff! Nobody coddled me, wiped me or sprayed anything on me. At least, not on purpose. But that doesn’t mean my trip was amenity-free either.

None of these things included a sommelier, concierge or butler, but they were amenities all the same:

The Adventure Brew Hostel in La Paz, Bolivia.

Price pre night: $7

Amenities: CARBS! Microbrewed beers, a pancake buffet.

After a month of downing watery Bolivian brew, a free beer with actual flavor seemed like the most novel thing ever. And Saya beer is brewed on site by good people who know what they’re doing.

So what if the hostel showers were tepid and the beds were hard? I drank beer — REAL BEER — all night long. And in the morning, there was a free, all-you-can-eat pancake buffet waiting to sop up my hangover.

***

Ecolodge Sol y Luna in Coroico, Bolivia

Price per night: $14

Amenity: Hot tub. But it’s not what you think.

Backpacking is dirty business. Filthy, actually. One time in Bolivia I found a twig stuck to the back of my knee, and I had no idea how long it had been there. So when my friend and I saw an advertisement for Sol y Luna, it only took two little words to convince us to stray from our planned itinerary: Hot. Tub.

We traveled many, many hours out of our way. When we arrived, we discovered that the ecolodge had a very different idea of hot tub than what we imagined. It was a stone tub, situated outside in the garden. And it was filled by hand, one kettle of boiling water at a time.

But you know what? It was perfectly lovely. It would have been great anyway, but it was especially memorable since I hadn’t felt hot water on my skin in almost two months. The dirt floated away, the heat turned my bones into butter and I was clean for the first time in ages.

***

Hostel Estoril in Buenos Aires, Argentina

Price per night: $15

Amenities: Rooftop bar, free walking tours of the city, social events at night.

I made friends, I socialized, I felt safe. And I don’t know if there’s a more beautiful spot in Buenos Aires than this rooftop bar.

***

Red Chilli Hideaway in Kampala, Uganda.

Price per night: $6

Amenity: A pig as big as a sofa.

Why did they have a pig as big as a sofa? I have no idea.

Why did I find a three-legged cat on my pillow every night? I can’t answer that either.

***

Bodhi Villa in Kampot, Cambodia

Price per night: $4

Amenities: Movies, chill room, floating bar, bioluminescent plankton, illicit activity.

Bodhi Villa almost feels like something I conjured up in a fever dream. There were beaches, crabs, rope swings and Billie Holiday. A sprawling bar opened into a river dock. The scenery was slightly too bright and sharp and unreal, like looking through the wrong lens at the optometrist’s office. At some point, a chubby Cambodian man named James Brown put me on the back of his yellow Vespa and drove me through acres of pepper plantations.

Days were drowsy and often spent in the “chill room,” but the nights exploded with raucous live music. A group of strangers became my closest friends in the world. We drank together. We sang loudly and off-tune. We jumped off the dock and marveled over the neon clouds of bioluminescent plankton that swirled around our limbs.

I was there for days? Weeks? Whatever it was, it was much longer than expected. One morning I woke up and realized I might end up at Bodhi forever if I didn’t get out. I immediately booked a bus bound for Ho Chi Minh City, about 10-12 hours away.

Before I departed, a new friend handed me a sandwich and a joint the size of a lipstick tube.

I politely declined, “Oh, thanks, but I don’t think I want to bring any drugs across borders today.”

“What? You got big plans for the bus?” he said. “Just take it and remember Bodhi … If you can.”

***

Ringo’s Foyer in Malacca, Malaysia

Price per night: $4

Amenity: Bike tour of Malacca.

Almost every night, the owner of this hostel takes all his guests on a bike tour of beautiful Malacca.

It became one of my favorite memories of Malaysia. We carried bikes down skinny stairwells. The hostel owner strapped a radio to his handlebars and blasted Lady Gaga from the tinny speakers. And then we pedaled off into the night, through downtown, down ribbons of waterfront, all the way to a local restaurant that didn’t have a name or a real address. The excursion forged a camaraderie between all of us guests, and I saw things I wouldn’t have found otherwise.

***

Lazy Bird Guesthouse in Incheon, South Korea

Price per night: $19

Amenity: Love.

I arrived in Seoul around midnight. I was too tired to travel an hour all the way into the city, so I booked a night at a guesthouse that is located close to the airport. Everything about this place was marvelous. The owner’s husband, Jackie, picked me up at the airport. My bed was ridiculously comfortable. The shower was hot and strong. The wifi was fast. The coffee was brewed first thing in the morning. There were games, DVDs, a Wii, even traditional Korean costumes for dressing up. And I am not exaggerating when I say this was the cleanest place I’ve ever stayed. It was SPOTLESS.

The hospitality went above and beyond what I expect at a hostel/guesthouse. The owner, Liz, and I had long conversations about our travels and our favorite places around the world. We exchanged e-mail addresses. They took my photo for the guest wall. And then Liz and Jackie practically had to kick me out.

“We can drop you off the train station …”

“Thanks. Maybe in an hour or so.”

After some time passed, they tried again.

“Don’t you want to get into the city …?”

“Uh, yeah. Maybe later.”

Finally, they said I should probably go unless I was going to stay for another night. It actually made me ache to leave. The place felt just like home — only a nicer, cleaner version of it.

A few days later, I received a follow-up e-mail from Liz. She wanted to see how my travels were going, make sure I was safe and see if I needed anything. “Yes!” I was tempted to respond. “I want to pack you up and and take you with me!”

I want to ‘Go with Oh’ to Berlin!

April 12, 2012

NOTE: This post is my entry for the “Go with Oh” blogger competition. Want to enter? Find out more details here!

For about two weeks in India, I traveled with a 19-year-old German backpacker named Denis. We met on the train from Mumbai to Goa, then shared a beach hut for a few days. We decided to head to Hampi together on an overnight bus.

Denis and friend in Hampi

When we bought tickets for a shared compartment, we had no idea that the compartment was actually just one cramped foam bed, approximately the size of a desk drawer, with a plastic door that slid down and was locked from the outside. The two of us fit into this cabinet like human Tetris pieces. It was extremely close quarters for relative strangers.

Making the most of a weird situation, Denis and I turned our compartment into a bar. We stayed up all night, chatting and mixing Coca Cola with cheap Indian whiskey that tasted suspiciously like men’s cologne.

Denis and I were both tall enough that our foreheads pressed painfully against the ceiling, which also served as the floor of the compartment above us. The road was so bumpy, our fizzy cocktails quickly went flat. As our bus honked and weaved through the Karnataka night, Denis told me about his home in Munich and his travels throughout his country.

I loved listening to the way Denis talked, with strong enunciation of English words, punching each syllable in the throat. It reminded me of my mom, who was born in East Prussia. During World War II, when she was a child young enough to be confused but old enough to remember the pain, her family was forced to flee their home. They made a long, arduous journey to safety on foot, crossing frozen lakes and passing through war-torn cities. They eventually settled and created a new life in what became West Germany. Now whenever I see photos of the expansive green vistas, rolling hills and stately castles of Germany, I get a tug in my belly. This is my ancestral homeland. This is what has been woven into my soul.

“So have you ever been to Germany?” Denis asked.

Now this was awkward.

The answer was yes. I have visited my grandmother in Germany. But I hated admitting that to young German backpackers.

“Um, yeah.”

“Did you go to Berlin? It’s like party party! So crazy.”

“Well …”

I visited Germany when I was much younger, I explained. And there was still a wall.

“A wall?” Denis said. “As in, THE wall?”

“Yeah. Checkpoint Charlie wasn’t a museum yet.”

“My God,” Denis said. “How old are you?”

There are other things I remember about the summer I spent in Germany. My grandmother didn’t own a car, so we biked everywhere or took trains. It was my first time visiting a fresh farmers market. I drank milk still warm from the cow. I slathered my food with grainy mustard. The bread was so hard that it slit my gums, but it was so delicious I didn’t care. The cathedrals were so utterly awe-inspiring that it made me feel holy. The whole country was blanketed in flowers.

I spent the past year traveling around the world and enjoying a lot of things. But I do regret that I haven’t returned to Germany since the reunification. I haven’t seen my grandmother’s grave. I haven’t walked the streets my mother once did. I haven’t truly seen the country she left behind when she fell in love with my dad. It’s embarrassing to admit there’s something so much a part of me, and yet I haven’t fully been a part of it.

I am also incredibly jealous of all my fellow travelers who swap Berlin stories, because I know it is a city where I could have a lot of fun. Art and music are my air and water, and Berlin has a thriving cultural scene — including a museum island! I’d like to see if “the green fairy” will offer me any inspiration at The Absinth Depot. I want to take a dip in the bathing ship, which is wacky enough to be cool. I want to see what it’s like to have dinner in the dark at this restaurant, where all the food is served in a pitch-black room. And yes, I’d like to visit Checkpoint Charlie, a place I only recall from a time of crumbling wall and tangles of wire.

Before Denis and I split off a few days later, we exchanged e-mail addresses. Then he asked, “Will you ever make it to Germany? I mean, for real this time?”

Of course, I said. And I promised him a whiskey and Coke when I got there.

_________

Don’t miss your chance to win four fantastic prizes from Go With Oh! Click here for info.

Celebrity Homes in Palm Springs: An Incomplete Guide

April 9, 2012

Nearly every time I go out for a morning run, I see a double-decker bus jammed full of tourists with fancy cameras. And then I have to stop and let them take my photo and it’s totally embarrassing.

No, that last part is not true.

The bus full of tourists part, however, is real. And it got me wondering, what in the heck are they looking at?

I already knew this central Palm Springs neighborhood is home to swanky digs and architectural gems. And I knew celebrities and Hollywood legends made this area their playground. I just didn’t exactly where, who or what.

So I did some googling and came up with a list of addresses. (This Southern California hiking site was a tremendous resource. Thanks!) Then I grabbed my iPhone for some jogging and shooting.

This is not a comprehensive list by any means. They’re just some of the fun celeb homes I run past every day. (OK, OK. Three times a week.) And I still have at least a dozen more to photograph. So stay tuned for part 2!

Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell • 550 Via Lola

This house is one of my favorites. Doesn’t it look so breezy and fun, just like the stars who lived there?

Debbie Reynolds • 670 Stevens Road

This house is perched on top of a tiny but steep hill. If you hold your computer up to your ear and listen hard enough, you might be able to hear me wheezing.

Elvis Presley • 845 Chino Canyon

Unattractive black fence. White rocks that look like the bubbles on a stagnant pond. CREEPY ELVIS FACE. What’s not to love?

Elvis and Priscilla Honeymoon Hideaway (WARNING: There’s music on that link) • 1350 Ladera Circle

I’ve heard a lot of people say this home is tacky, but I think it’s a charming, unapologetic throwback. Living here would be like having Tomorrowland in your living room.

Marilyn Monroe • 1326 Rose Ave.

This home wins the prize for the most difficult to photograph. It’s located surprisingly close to the street and isn’t gated or anything. But there’s SO MUCH SHRUBBERY. And I always seemed to be there when the sun was in the worst possible position. So excuse the weirdo color — but it just adds to the classic 1950s aesthetic, no?

Otherwise, it’s an adorable little home. I can easily imagine Marilyn padding around the yard in a silky robe with sexy bedhead.

Nat King Cole • 1258 Rose Ave.

Again, there’s a whole lotta landscaping goin’ on.

Ronald and Nancy Reagan • 369 Hermosa Place

Stately, conservative and totally California. I would expect no less.

Clark Gable • 222 Chino Dr.

Frankly my dear, I do give a damn. It’s just so pretty! And pink!

Sammy Davis Jr. • 444 Chino Dr.

The parties that must have gone down here. Can you imagine?

Cyd Charisse and Tony Martin • 1197 Monte Vista

Dean Martin • 1123 Monte Vista

Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy • 776 Mission Road

I didn’t want to run up to the gate and stick my phone through the fence to get a better photo. Especially since someone was home at the time. Just trust me, this house is everything you’d expect of Katharine the Great.

Sydney Sheldon • 425 Via Lola

Undergoing a second draft.

Howard Hughes • 335 Camino Norte

What? You can see the home of a famous recluse from the street?

NO! Of course not.

There’s actually a great big wall around this place, bigger than what you’d find at most prisons. But I jumped really high, held my phone up in the air and hoped for the best.

Liberace • 1441 N. Kaweah Road

I love this place. I mean, not for me. But it’s so … Liberace, all the way from the lion statues to the piano mailbox.

Coming soon: Jack Benney, Zsa Zsa, Frank, Bing and Lucy!

Fake limbs and forced sobriety: My first night in Rwanda

November 28, 2011

NOTE: Rwanda ended up being one of the highlights on my round-the-world trip. The first few days, however, were a little bumpy. This is the story of my first night in Kigali.

They call Rwanda “the land of 1,000 hills,” but I couldn’t see any of them from my room inside a prosthetic limb factory.

I was paying $35 a night for an excessively tall jail cell, fashioned from windowless walls that loomed cold and hard at least 25 feet high. The mosquito net above the bed looked like it had been vomited out by the ceiling. It sagged with knots on one side and was peppered with golfball-sized holes on the other.

A smaller stone wall partitioned off the bathroom, consisting of a shower head, a clogged drain, a wobbly sink and a toilet that didn’t flush. For an extra $10 a night, I could have received an “upgrade,” which meant that the owner would turn on the hot water, but my budget was too small to indulge in such luxuries.

I wasn’t even sure what I was doing in Rwanda, although it was easy enough to form a number of rationalizations. I had already spent a month in Uganda, and it was time to add another African country to the list. I was looking for a place to volunteer for a few weeks, and Rwanda sounded as good as anywhere else. And Rwanda is small and manageable, about the same size as Maryland.

Plus I really liked the movie, “Hotel Rwanda.” I imagined a land populated by 10 million Don Cheadles.

It helped that it was an incredibly simple border jump from Kampala, Uganda, to Kigali, Rwanda. The bus journey took just 8 hours — that’s lightning speed in African bus time — and cost only 25,000 Ugandan shillings — about $10. So what did I have to lose?

I arrived in Rwanda with no map, no plan and no idea where to stay. When the bus stopped at Kigali’s clogged and smelly Nyabugogo market, where every step involved a piece of garbage or rotting entrails, I simply hopped into a cab and asked the driver to take me someplace safe. And that is how I was steered to a prosthetic leg factory on the outskirts of town.

After I checked in, it was too late to travel 15 miles into the city but still too early to go to bed, so I explored the property instead. In the windows of my building, firestorms of sparks illuminated men in welding masks, constructing limbs for thousands of people who had been maimed during the 1994 genocide. On my way to the hostel bar, I stumbled over a stray fake leg.

The bar was reggae-themed, with portraits of Bob Marley sagging from mossy beams of wood. Steel-drum music blared from tinny speakers on top of the beer refrigerator. I perched on a leaning bar stool and ordered a Primus, the Budweiser of Rwandan beer.

“Primus for boys,” the bartender said, her face as flat and hard as a river stone.

“Um, that’s OK. I’ll take a Primus anyway,” I said.

“No.”

“Er, OK. Fine. I guess I’d like an Amstel?”

“No.”

“Are there any drinks I can have?”

“No. You already too drunk, lady,” the bartender said, matter-of-factly. “You don’t even know what you want to drink.”

With that, she dismissed me. This was my introduction to the incredibly frustrating task of communicating my desires in Rwanda, but it wouldn’t be the last. Only an hour later I would have the following exchange with the manager of the hostel/limb factory:

“Do you have a kitchen?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, smiling, but offering no follow-up.

“Is it a kitchen that guests can use?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, again with a wide grin.

“May I use the kitchen?”

“Oh, no.” With that, he walked away. No explanation.

Sober and hungry, I took deep yoga breaths to avoid punching anyone in the face. I grumbled to myself and kicked rocks all the way back to my room. There was a 4-month-old, smashed Bolivian granola bar in the bottom of my pack, so I ate that and threw curses at the blank wall of my cell. I paced the concrete floor like I was trapped inside a mental institution. I felt weak with an absence of power.

Just as my pity party was hitting its climax, the one lightbulb in the room gave up and went dark, as if it committed suicide.

I cried. I cried as the room remained frustratingly dark. I cried as mosquitos flew through my protective net and into my ears. I cried as the toilet spontaneously belched foul water onto the floor. Then I thought about how I had no real reason to cry in a land of genocide and unspeakable horror, and that made me cry harder. I cried for people I’d never known and the people I never would and all the ache in between.

That night I dreamt of malaria and detached body parts.

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