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Bridges, blues and the ghost of Jeff Buckley

July 17, 2012

The Husband and I spent a long, humid night in Memphis, steeped in the scent of smoky barbecue, submerged in the blues. Eventually too much sizzle did us in, and we headed back to our hotel in West Memphis, both of us exhausted and slow-cooked in our own sweat.

As The Husband navigated our car over the Hernando de Soto bridge, I suddenly sat up straight and said, “Jeff Buckley died here.”

“Who?”

“Jeff Buckley. The singer. He drowned right here.”

“Here? Like, right here?”

Well, I wasn’t really sure where, I admitted. It was somewhere in the Mississippi. But it’s a massive river. Any part of it could have taken a young singer’s life.

Curiosity got the better of me, and later that night I looked up the details of Jeff Buckley’s death. Sure enough, he died in Memphis — and within sight of the Hernando de Soto bridge. A chill ripped down my spine.

I haven’t thought about Jeff Buckley in years. I can’t even remember the last time I pulled out one of my Jeff Buckley albums. So what was it that summoned the memory of him then? There?

I am a person who believes in ghosts. I believe that a person’s energy never disappears from this world — that my mother whispered in my ear the night before her funeral, that her grandmother once paid a similar visit to the family, and sometimes I can still feel the both of them in the air around me.

I also believe that the veil between worlds in thinnest in the South. I don’t know why. Maybe the humidity weighs it down, makes that veil thick and droopy and, therefore, easily passable.

What I know for certain is that a wispy recollection of Jeff Buckley came to me in Memphis. I crossed over a bridge and looked in a rear-view mirror, all the while humming “Lover You Should’ve Come Over.” I felt the fullness of a life in the space of his death, and it reminded me that people are never really gone. They just temporarily drift away.

Road trip: Hitting America’s hot spots – with air conditioning

June 20, 2012

I don’t mind the heat so much. I live in a desert. Warm weather comes with the territory.

What bothers me is that my car has no air conditioning. This isn’t a problem most of the year. But in summer months — when the sun is blazing and temperatures climb above 110 degrees — it is torture.

It makes me think of when I was little, and my pastor gave ominous sermons about what awaited unrepentant sinners in hell. None of it frightened me until he got to the Lake of Fire part, which is downright terrifying. This is a lake … made of FIRE. As someone scared of both drowning and burning, it is the worst possible scenario.

What I didn’t expect was that my car would become my own personal lake of fire. My hand is scorched by the steering wheel, even through the fabric that covers it. Sweat rolls down my eyelids and pools in the bottom of my sunglasses. I once made the mistake of leaving some coins on the seat — I now have Abraham Lincoln permanently branded to the back of my thigh.

Rolling down the windows brings little relief. It’s merely opening the doors to the blast furnace. The breeze feels more like I’m holding a hair dryer to my face. I arrive at my destination exhausted, dehydrated, red-faced and soaked with sweat. I am drowning and burning, simultaneously.

And the worst part is that I’m still here on earth, racking up sins. I’m not supposed to feel like I’m in hell yet.

Thankfully, The Husband and I are buying a new-to-us car. We found a fantastic, affordable 2010 Honda Accord WITH AIR CONDITIONING! I am so grateful and so happy.

The only minor setback is that this vehicle is in Ohio, so we’re making a little vacation out of it. We’re flying home to spend time with our loved ones in the Midwest, then we’ll pick up the car and drive it back to California.

On our way back, we’re doing a mini version of the Great American Road Trip — even though it’s more like The Teeny-Weeny American Road Trip, Southern Fried With Gravy on Top.

Here’s our itinerary:

Flying: 2,106 miles

Driving: 2,804 miles

Stops: Nashville, Memphis, New Orleans, Houston, El Paso.

Along the way: Family. Friends. A former crush. Two editors. A brother-in-law. An adorable niece. Graceland. BBQ. Bourbon. Tacos.

Have any suggestions for what to see, do and eat along this route? Send them my way!

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.

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