Tag Archives: UNESCO World Heritage Sites

Colours of Cartagena, Colombia

by

The first time I saw photos of Cartagena de Indias, the port city on Colombia’s Caribbean coast, I knew I wanted to visit one day. Although Colombia wasn’t initially in our honeymoon plans, a deal on flights convinced me to visit South America for the first time, and my husband was up for the adventure.

Previously considered one of the most important ports for trade during the Spanish imperial era, Cartagena declared independence from Spain on November 11th, 1811. It is most famous for its historic walled city, the picturesque architecture of which earned it its status as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1984.

On every blog I had read about Cartagena, pretty much the same advice was given: October is part of the rainy season, so it’s best not to visit at that time of year. We went against this advice and arrived in mid-October. As we stepped off the plane at Rafael Núñez International Airport, bright sunshine made us cover our eyes and a blazing heat caused us to swiftly remove our sweaters. For the three nights we stayed in Cartagena, we wouldn’t see a drop of rain. Some would call this luck, others would call it climate change.

We caught a yellow taxi into the city centre. It’s about a 10-minute drive, with ocean views on the right. We watched, silenced with astonishment, as cars zoomed chaotically along the highway, narrowly avoiding mopeds that darted in between the lanes. Most of the mopeds carried female passengers on the back. They held on loosely, seemingly unworried as their driver sharply changed lanes without a glance over his shoulder. Signalling doesn’t seem to be a thing here; instead, drivers will frequently toot their horns as if to say, “Move it, I’m coming through.”

Approaching the history city walls, we passed Las Bóvedas, a former dungeon converted into a market. Entrance to the old town was through narrow archways. Traffic-wise, it was every man for himself. Cars from all directions bunched up, beeping incessantly, trying to be the first to go through. “Right of way” didn’t appear to be a concept!

We drove up narrow, cobbled streets, passing pastel-coloured houses with flowers draping around balusters and vine plants spreading along the walls. Our driver mumbled to himself as he tried to find our hotel, and then made a satisfied sound after recognizing the Hotel Casa del Curato on Carrera 7.

Taxis in Cartagena don’t have meters. Some drivers will let you know what the cost will be at the beginning; others seem to wait to see what is offered and then let you know if it’s enough. I handed our driver 25,000 pesos and he looked very happy, which made me wonder if I gave more than necessary…

As we retrieved our bags, a man approached my husband rapping a song. I had read about these artists on a few blogs, all of which had advised to avoid engaging with them because they would ask for money. I had shared this with hubby in advance, alas, this appeared to be forgotten as he shook the man’s hand with a smile and answered when asked which country we were from. Soon after came the man’s open hand and a request. I watched, half irritated, half amused, as a look of realization swept across hubby’s face. Thankfully, a sweet doorman from our hotel came to the rescue and gestured us up the steps inside.

We walked into a cool lobby dotted with various plants. A house cat peeked out curiously from behind a pot. After checking in, we walked up the wooden stairs past a beautiful painting of a Caribbean woman. Our room was bright and airy, with white walls and a balcony that looked onto the street below.

I chose Casa del Curato because it seemed to be located in a slightly quieter part of town, and I have a fondness for independent, boutique hotels. It certainly had a lovely character, and it was cheaper than many hotels in the city, but as a 3-star hotel I also didn’t feel it was quite worth the approximately $200 CAD a night. I reminded my frugal self that we were on honeymoon and let it go.

Freshly changed, we walked down the street, passing the Iglesia de Santo Toribio at a junction on our right. We quickly learned that vehicles were not inclined to give way to pedestrians. On Calle de la Tablada, we turned left and crossed a few blocks until we came to La Mulata. This Carribbean restaurant had been recommended on a blog I read, and we were keen to try to some local food. A sweet lady brought us a complimentary bowl of soup as we glugged water, sweating heavily after only seven minutes of walking. We ate delicious fried fish and coconut rice before bracing ourselves for the humidity of outside once more.

As we walked south down Carrera 7, we saw vendors frying empanadas and stalls selling mangoes, melons and bananas. This street leads to the Plaza de los Coches, in which stands the Monumento Torre del Reloj – a stone gateway with a spiral clocktower. The square was buzzing with tourists. A long arcade ran under a row of colourful buildings, with vendors hoping to tempt tourists with jewellery and crafts. We followed the street as it wound to the right and came to the quieter Plaza de la Aduana.

Continuing along Calle 32, the Santuario de San Pedro Claver caught our attention with its double steeple and old stone architecture. The church blended nicely with the bright yellow of the fancy Hotel Casa San Pedro.

We turned right up the Calle del Landrimal. The street thronged with people as we approached the Plaza de Bolívar. Buskers played in front of park walls painted with beautiful murals and street vendors walked around looking for customers. A Caribbean lady who looked to be in her late 70s smiled gently at the tourists, gesturing with weathered hands at her cart of paper fans. She was quieter than most of the vendors around her, but her presence stood out the strongest to me.

Some of the blogs I’d read about Cartagena had talked of feeling harassed by street vendors and vulnerable to mugging. We prepared for this through the standard travel practice of only carrying the money we needed and wearing money belts under our clothes, and used common sense in not having phones or cameras on show. Some might argue that having a strong man with me helped, but I can truthfully say that as a relatively good-looking woman with naturally very blonde hair, and having experienced a fair amount of street harassment (mostly while living in London), I did not feel unsafe nor harassed in Cartagena. (In fact, this was the case during my entire experience in Colombia.) Street vendors would approach with enthusiastic greetings trying to sell their items, but we found that a polite “Non, gracias” and a gently raised hand to wave them off was enough to prevent them persisting. I would describe the vendors as relentless in their attempts to earn a living, but respectful.

We turned left down the Calle de la Inquisición and then right up Carerra 3. The street led us to the Plaza de Santo Domingo in which we saw a monastery that dates back to the 17th Century.

Continuing along this street, we eventually came to the city wall. I climbed up and took in the ocean view. I knew it would be a great place to watch the sunset, but I wasn’t sure we’d be able to last that long; we had been sipping from a water bottle but the heat and humidity was giving us a light headache.

We joined the Calle de Don Sancho, grateful for the slight shade it offered. The stunning Catedral de Santa Catalina de Alejandría rose up ahead. Hearing hooves clip-clopping behind us, we stepped aside to let a carriage pass, led by a lean horse. Caribbean women wearing brightly patterned dresses sat relaxing in a patch of shade. They can be seen around the walled city selling fruit which they carry on baskets on their heads.

After passing the cathedral, we lost our sense of direction. We never bother buying data plans for our phone when overseas, and the Google Maps on my phone was not in sync. After wandering around for 10 minutes with no luck and a decreasing amount of patience, we approached a group of male police officers. I greeted one of them in Spanish. He responded with a smile and pointed us in the right direction to our hotel. We walked up the steps of Casa del Curato drenched in sweat.

After a cold shower and quick nap, we headed out for dinner. Horses trotted briskly through the streets, leading carriages. Located just up from our hotel, La Cevichería was a seafood restaurant I’d read good things about. We took a seat outside, wanting to be away from the noise of indoors. It’s generally advised not to drink tap water in Cartagena, so I prepared to order two bottles. Looking at the menu, I noticed that a bottle of mineral water cost 1000 pesos more than a pint of beer.

As we waited for our food, a street entertainer dressed as Michael Jackson arrived and set up a small stage on the sidewalk in front of us. Hubby and I glanced at each other, wondering if we should have sat inside afterall. The opening to ‘Thriller’ started loudly, startling us in our seats. As the entertainer broke into dance, we looked down at our food, not wanting to get his attention as he hip-thrusted and shamoned away. Our waiter watched from the doorway and grinned at us, evidently expecting that we would enjoy the loud music and random shrieks of “hee-hee!” I wished he had given us a warning.

After finishing his performance, the impersonator approached the diners outside the restaurant and asked for money. I grimaced as he came to our table. My husband quietly shook his head and apologized. I felt awful because this man was just trying to earn a living, but we had not wanted nor asked for what was ultimately a distraction to our dinner.

Upon viewing our bill, my eyes widened with surprise. At 160,000 pesos, it was more than I expected. A tip had automatically been added, and it didn’t seem justified for a disrupted dinner of a dish that was too salty and seafood that tasted like it had just been heated up out of the freezer. Having anticipated paying 120,000 pesos maximum, I had to dash back to our hotel to get more cash from the safe. We left the restaurant disappointed, feeling like we had been ripped off.

After a great sleep, we got up early. Somehow understanding my jumbled Spanish, the ladies in the hotel kitchen kindly gave us a banana and refilled our water bottle, before we strolled down Carrera 7 to Muelle de la Bodeguita. Keen for a day of swimming in the ocean, we had booked a day tour to one of the Rosario Islands. An archipelago about 36 kilometres southwest of Cartagena, the Islas del Rosario consist of 27 small islands. For a fair price of $200, our tour included the return boat transportation to Islabela Eco Hotel on Isla Marina, plus a welcome cocktail, beach bed (no worrying about others taking yours!), and lunch.

After boarding the boat, we were given lifejackets and the captain gave a briefing in Spanish. As we slowly passed through the harbour, hubby observed with interest a navy ship that carried the Finnish flag. The boat began to pick up speed as we entered wide ocean. Soaring through the sky were slender dark birds with long wings that formed an interesting shape. Looking like pterodactyls from the dinosaur age, they were quite fascinating to watch.

During the one-hour journey, I watched the water hoping to catch sight of some dolphins. Flying fish sparkled in the air as they dove up from the surface. Eventually we came to a small bay with turquoise-blue water. Friendly staff greeted us as we walked towards a collection of rustic umbrellas standing over beach beds in front of a small sandy beach. We dove in the ocean as fast as we could, and it was delightful. For lunch we had fried red snapper and coconut rice with salad, accompanied by a large jug of delicious iced tea. Tour participants had the option to pay extra to go snorkelling with a guide, but we were conscious of funds and felt content with doing our own thing.

The day was so relaxing and a welcome change of pace to balance out the hustle and bustle of Cartagena’s walled city. We spent a lot of time in the ocean, wanting to make the most of the opportunity to experience the warm Caribbean Sea. I observed an American couple avoid the water, instead taking work calls on their beach bed as a waiter from the resort brought them a burger and fries. It seemed like such a waste.

At 3 p.m., a bell signalled that it was time for us to return to the boat. The sun was starting to lower in the sky as we made our way back to Cartagena. Hearing the word “propina” in his final comments, I gave the boat captain a small tip and we headed back to our hotel.

A stage had been set up in the Plaza de los Coches and a crowd was starting to form. As we walked up Carrera 7, we heard singing and drums beating. On approach to our hotel, a colourful procession came down the street, dancing and smiling as onlookers cheered and clapped. Our doorman was standing on the steps of the hotel, watching. I asked him what was happening. It was difficult to hear him above the noise, but I heard the word “carnaval.” I hurried upstairs to the balcony of our room and watched, entranced, as women wearing dresses with bold colours and vivid patterns danced in tandem, twirling in circles and swishing their skirts.

I had one of the best views in the house and I wasn’t even sure what it was for. But a quick bit of research told me that students from local colleges were participating in a cultural week – early festivities ahead of the official celebrations that take place each November to commemorate Cartagena’s declaration of independence from Spain. I felt so lucky to witness this special event, filled with vibrant colours and joyful faces. It was probably the highlight of my time in Cartagena!

The next day, we left Cartagena and travelled south-east to the small town of Santa Cruz de Mompox, before returning to Cartagena two days later. As we re-entered the city on a Sunday afternoon, I watched through my window as a lady around my age with crooked posture collected glass bottles and tin cans from a garbage bin and put them in a bag. Her son sat nearby, looking no older than five years old. He picked up an empty plastic Starbucks cup from the pavement and played with it in his hands, as if it were a toy. I looked away with a pulling in my chest, picturing children in Canada with their pretty dolls and shiny lego.

Our hotel for the third night of our stay in Cartagena was Hotel 3 Banderas, one block east from Casa del Curato. It stood on a pretty street of pastel-coloured houses and hanging blooms.

Wanting to avoid any overpriced restaurants, we went for tacos at Los Tacos del Gordo – a small, casual eatery on Carrera 7. We then wandered down to the Parque Centenario where we were fortunate to see several marmosets in the trees, scampering along branches playfully. Someone told us there were a couple of sloths in the park as well, but they are notoriously difficult to see without binoculars.

After spending several minutes admiring the monkeys, we walked out the opposite end of the park and down Calle 31. We were now in the neighbourhood of Getsemani, described on a few blogs I’d read as the somewhat grungier, more “hipster” part of the city. I went in with an open mind but did agree it had a slightly rougher feel to it, similar to looking at London, England, and comparing Peckham with Covent Garden.

A portion of Calle 31 is known as Calle de Las Sombrillas because of the canopy of umbrellas that hang above the street. There are a few of these streets in the neighbourhood, and as you can imagine, they are very popular with Instagram lovers.

Rappers made rhymes as we walked up streets showcasing colourful artwork. After taking a look at the Plaza de la Trinidad, we headed back down through the Parque Centenario (the monkeys were too cute to not see again!). The Torre del Reloj was still surrounded by tourists as we made our way back to our hotel.

We woke early on our final morning in Cartagena, prepared for an upcoming flight to Panama City. A decision to take a final stroll of the hotspots turned out to be an excellent choice, because at 7 a.m., the city was empty. No tourists, no vendors. We revisited some of the places we had passed by previously, this time able to take a longer look. With no disruptions and a more tolerable temperature, we could greater appreciate the beauty of the architecure and art work inside this walled city.

Grateful for an unexpected 30 minutes of peaceful exploring, we returned to our hotel to pack up our things before heading to the airport. I left Cartagena glad that I got to see it for my own eyes, but reminded that there is always more to a city than what the photos show.

Cartagena was a vibrant city painted with various colours. The walled city was abundant with rich, happy tones – sights that most tourists would see and remember. But it was also speckled with muddy spots – small details that some tourists wouldn’t notice, but that caught my eye and were hard to forget. And on the outskirts of this tourist haven was a greyer canvas that illustrated scenes of struggle and misfortune.

Price-wise, Cartagena was a city that seemed to take advantage of its popularity with tourists. This left me conflicted – in some ways frustrated; in others, mindful that the residents here don’t have much. The prevalence of street vendors caused a complex array of emotions – sometimes sympathy, sometimes annoyance, sometimes sadness. But the strongest emotion was probably admiration, for their tenacity to keep doing what they could to provide for themselves and their families.

A few bloggers I’d read had said Cartagena was not their favourite place to visit in Colombia, and after my own experience, I can say I feel the same. I do not regret visiting it at all; it’s a vibrant city with a Caribbean culture that permeates through the streets, and overall I enjoyed witnessing the different customs and ways of life. The architecture within the walled city is beautiful and certainly worth seeing, and a trip (ideally an extended one) to the lovely Rosario Islands is a must if in the area. However, in any country, the most touristic cities generally do not give the most authentic representation of a country’s culture. To get a better glimpse of the “real” Colombia, it would be wise to combine a visit to Cartagena with time in smaller, quieter towns and communities.

*

Did you find this article useful? Click here if you’d like to download a GPS-coordinated version from the GPSMyCity app for reference during your visit to Cartagena.

Santiago de Compostela – A City of Culture & Connection

by

September 2022 brought me and my fiancé to Lugo, Spain, for my friend’s wedding. We decided to make a trip out of this occasion by first exploring some of the other highlights of the north-western region called Galicia. I knew of the Camino de Santiago hike, a historic pilgrimage route that ends at the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, where Saint James the Great is said to be buried. While we wouldn’t have time to complete the trek, I jumped at the chance to visit the revered old town that is recognized as a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Our flight landed at Santiago’s small airport late on a Tuesday evening. A cab driver drove us to the heart of the city in 15 minutes, at a fixed rate of 21 Euros. I was impressed by how well he knew the location – many taxi drivers these days end up asking their customer for directions!

We had booked three nights at Hotel Oxford Suites on Calle de San Francisco. Its close location to the Cathedral and photos of the traditional stone walls in its rooms had caught my interest. The website had said check-in was open until 11pm. It was almost midnight when we arrived. I had emailed earlier in the day to ask if there were special instructions for arriving late, but received no response. We approached the front door only to find it was locked. A sign translated to English said to WhatsApp call the number provided to gain access. We had our Canadian phones with us and no data. Uh oh.

Fortunately, the street was still quite busy with locals returning from the bars (or more likely, making their way to them!). I spotted a man who seemed similar to our age and asked him in my best Spanish if he spoke English. Thankfully he did, and he kindly called the number for us and told us the code to the hotel, our room number, and room code. The kindness of strangers strikes again!

When I went down to reception the next morning to pay, it became clear that English is less spoken in this autonomous region of Spain, but I liked this. It made the experience feel more authentic and was an incentive to practise the language. Galician is a language of its own here, and I would later be told by a native that many people from other parts of Spain can’t understand it. Probably the easiest thing for foreigners to remember is that in this region, “thank you” is pronounced “grath-ias” and not “gras-ias.”

Hotel Oxford Suites was more like a hostel, with a café bar downstairs that sold coffee for 2 Euros. My fiancé had pledged to have less coffee during this trip but he couldn’t resist the cheap prices! The room was comfortable but it was a little loud (inside and outside the hotel) so I would probably book a different place to stay if returning again. (Hotel Costa Vella looked lovely but was fully booked on our dates!)

The forecast had said there would be showers for the duration of our stay. Cloudy skies looked down on us as we walked towards the Cathedral, from where an instrument that sounded like a mix of the clarinet and bagpipes played throughout the day. Throngs of people filled the main square (Praza do Obradoiro), many of them hikers that had just finished the long trek. Cheering in celebration, they lay on the ground with their legs in the air in what seemed like both a demonstration of their fatigue and a sign of their respect to the symbolic building that stood before them. I’m not religious myself, but you don’t have to be to appreciate the beauty and significance of the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela.

We walked down the cobbled streets of Rúa do Franco, passing restaurant windows with small octopus on display (a Galician tradition I didn’t feel compelled to try!) Other windows showed lobsters in tanks, awaiting their fate. On the more commercial street of Rúa da Caldeirería, we came across a small, unpretentious bakery called Pastelaría Tentación that sold empanadas, sandwiches, and pastries. The lady listened patiently as I tried to pronounce our choices. We would end up coming here again the next day.

We next made our way to Rúa das Ameas and passed through the Mercado de Abastos where various vendor stalls sold fruit, cheese, meats, and seafood. We bought some fresh peaches for 2 Euros and wandered back to the square, where even more hikers were celebrating the completion of their hike.

By now, the sun had broken through the clouds. We walked down Rúa das Hortas before taking a left up Rúa do Pombal and entering Parque da Alameda. And what a lovely park this was! People jogged along the tree-lined promenade while others sat reading or chatting on benches beside pretty flowerbeds. A calming sound of trickling water came from a fountain, in front of which there was a beautiful vista of orange roofs, church spires, and the Cathedral towers.

As we stood having a cuddle in front of this view, a same-sex couple came behind us and showed us a photo they’d taken of the town, with us included in the image. We offered to take their photo in return. We were amazed (but glad!) that there weren’t many other tourists in the park. It definitely provided what I would imagine are some of the best views in Santiago de Compostela. Looking outwards from the city, we saw rolling green hills in the distance.

As we made our way back to our hotel for a siesta, the sun decided to do the same. We felt even more lucky that we went to Paque da Alameda when we did!

My friend had recommended a tapas bar called El Papatorio for dinner. Evening meals are eaten later in Spain, with many restaurants not opening until 8 p.m. We sat in the Praza do Obradoiro trying to guess what all the different flags on surrounding buildings symbolized before making our way down Rúa do Franco again. A group of women who looked to be in their early twenties were walking up the street, smiling and cheering as they neared the end of the Camino hike. Upon hearing them, a group of elderly ladies that were sat on a restaurant terrace proceeded to applaud them.

There was a line-up outside El Papatorio, and of course, the view in front of me of the opposite restaurant included the window of lobsters in the tank. As we waited, one of the kitchen staff proceeded to pluck a lobster from the water. The lobster’s comrades proceeded to rush towards the other side of the tank, frantically climbing over each other in an attempt to hide themselves. It was actually quite uncomfortable to witness this behaviour and realize how aware they were of what was happening to their friend…and what would eventually happen to them!

As I pulled my eyes away with a newfound sympathy for lobsters, the couple next to us made a joke about the scene. They were an Australian couple in their 60s and had just finished the Camino hike. We ended up sitting next to them in the restaurant. They said they did the hike every year, but this was their first one since the pandemic began, now that they were finally allowed to leave Australia. This year was the busiest hike they’d ever experienced, with thousands more participants than usual. The couple’s kids were of similar age to us, and they shared empathy about the challenges our generation faces with rising inflation and house prices. The man advised us to plan financially for the future “so that in 30 years you can come back to lovely places like this.”

It was 50 Euros for two drinks and a large and delicious selection of tapas. As we paid our bill, I was reminded how nice it is not to have a tipping culture in Europe. The waiter brought back our exact change; there was no question of “Would you like change?” as I’ve noticed happen in some restaurants in Canada. His approach actually made me more inclined to leave a tip.

We walked back to our hotel with full bellies and warm hearts. The Cathedral stood luminous under a dark sky, like a lighthouse to the hikers seeking its welcome.

The next day, we took a day trip by train to the coastal town of Pontevedra, known for its charming medieval squares and many bridges. The journey took around 30 minutes and it was only 20 Euros for both return tickets. Views from the window showed lush green land. Galicia truly seems to be like the British Columbia of Spain!

On return to our hotel in Santiago de Compostela that evening, we would learn that the Queen had passed away. I suppose I felt a little more indifferent to this news than some Brits, but what’s for sure is that we will always think of Santiago de Compostela whenever we remember hearing this historic news!

We had dinner on the leafy terrace of a laid-back restaurant inside Casa Felisa hostel on Rúa da Porta da Pena. It was 40 Euros for two drinks and two meals that included sea bass and beef. The downside for people that aren’t used to eating dinner so late is that it’s hard to fall asleep when it feels like your stomach is still full to the brim…

On the Friday, we were leaving for Lugo in the afternoon. We spent the morning sitting in the square with our luggage, relaxing under the sun. For breakfast we chose to dine at Café Carrilana on Rúa de San Paio de Antealtares. A more modern and youthful café, it served yummy eggs bennies and fresh orange juice that was actually freshly juiced and not from a carton. A large group of people comprising of individuals from all around the world were sat at a table nearby. It seemed that they had met during the hike and, having formed strong bonds, were having a final meal together before everyone went their separate ways. After a German man said his goodbyes to everyone, an Irish woman quietly left the table to walk out of sight with him and say a more personal goodbye. Maybe they will see each other again, maybe not.

There was something truly joyful and uplifting about our time in Santiago de Compostela. We encountered so many friendly people – locals and fellow tourists. With all the hostile events going on around the world, we all need some amiable connections to remind us of the goodness in others. If you’re interested in visiting Spain and experiencing authentic culture, choose Santiago!

*

Interested in downloading this article for reference on your trip? You can using find it here on the GPSMyCity app!

Puzzled in Poland | Tales of Coping with a Language Barrier

by

Ask someone why they would not like to travel alone in a foreign-speaking country. The answer will most likely be because they are scared, or because they do not want to feel lonely. Ask them what they’re scared of and they’ll probably say being kidnapped or getting lost. They will probably not mention the more immediate, everyday emotions and situations that people tend to be afraid of: the confusion when you’re on a bus and aren’t completely sure when you should get off; the daunting feeling of entering a room with an awareness that you are not proficient in the local language; the alarm when a stranger starts speaking to you and you have no comprehension of what they’re saying; the potential loneliness when everyone around you is laughing or debating about something in another language and you can’t participate.

Before visiting a foreign-speaking country, I always ensure I know a few key words and phrases, such as “Yes”, “No”, “Please”, “Thank you”, “Excuse me/Sorry”, “‘I don’t understand”, “I don’t speak…do you speak English?” Even if the recipient speaks your language, this gesture of making an effort in their language can help foster good relations. But of course, these are not conversational terms and you will still be left clueless as to what people are talking about most of the time. However during a visit to Poland in autumn 2016, I began to see the funny and advantageous side of having a language barrier in a foreign country.

Sightseeing

On the Sunday morning of a weekend in Kraków with my co-sister-in-law, we visited Wawel Cathedral. The queue was extremely long and snatches of conversation apparently suggested ticket sales were about to end for the Royal State Rooms. My sister went to inquire inside and came back grinning. In a moment of jamminess, two South American ladies with spare tickets had overheard her asking about the probability of getting tickets within the next hour and offered her their spares. One of the ladies was an architect working in Warsaw and proficiently explained in Polish the origins behind the royal tapestries and regal pieces of furniture. It’s quite rare for someone from Latin America to speak Polish, and it was refreshing that this was the language of choice over English. I would stand with little idea of what they were saying, smiling and nodding at what seemed like the right times.

The funniest point is when people suddenly start laughing. Laughter is contagious and it’s an instinct to join in…except when the laughter is about something you can’t understand, people will look at you with a puzzled expression and you’ll feel like a Ben Stiller character.

At the same time, and, rude as it may sound, having a language barrier can bring a sense of liberty. There is no obligation to pay attention and contribute, but instead the freedom to wander around in your own world.

Yoga Classes

A few days after my Kraków trip, my sister-in-law invited me along to a yoga class. It would be my first experience of yoga but with traffic congested, we were running late. I suddenly felt a slight build-up of butterflies, flashbacks to when I was a child  turning up late to my first session with a swimming club not knowing anyone, or feeling self-conscious as a teenager walking into a party already in full swing.  But I was older now and more used to new situations.

We entered the studio with four other participants already making shapes (so much for my plan of going to the back of the room!) and were thrown straight in to abnormal stretches. Oblivious to what was going on, I would glance around the room and attempt to mimic the poses, with my sister-in-law whispering occasional instructions. Sometimes I would close my eyes to help me maintain a pose while the instructor kept talking, only to look up and notice that everyone now had their legs over their head and so forth.

The instructor had trained in California and could speak English. She would approach me with calm whispers of “Focus on your breathing – in and out through the nose.” ‘But I might collapse!’ I thought as I attempted to stick one leg straight out behind me while putting my hands in the praying position to my chest and twisting my head up towards the ceiling.

I then found myself in what I can only describe as the ‘Giving Birth’ position. Lying on my back with my legs spread far open, the instructor slowly attempted to ease them further apart. With eyes wide like a baby rabbit staring into the open mouth of a fox, I smiled up at her pathetically, hoping she wouldn’t snap my legs off (and be too disgusted by the condition of my feet).

By the end of the class, my brain and body was destroyed. However I went again a week later and saw a definite improvement in my ability to hold some stretches. I even started recognising the Polish words the instructor was using to count and say “hold” etc.

Dog Shows

I also had my first experience of a dog show in Poland, when my brother and his wife took their two dogs to two competitions in one weekend. Over two days, I got a glimpse into the snobby, two-faced world that is dog shows. Imagine a row of poodles, Old English Sheepdogs, and Chihuahuas on tables having their fur blow-dried, curled or straightened. Imagine big men in tracksuits blowing whistles and shouting commands at their Alsatian as it gallops recklessly around a ring with the handler hanging on for dear life. Imagine smarmy judges reducing owners to tears with their arrogant, disapproving comments about a dog’s features. Imagine owners casting you filthy looks if your dog so much as glances at theirs. (Any slight scuff of contact can stimulate verbal wars.)

I was put on dog-and-baby-holding-duty, the latter inviting some curious looks which I was relieved didn’t lead to anything more. (My brother later joked that, based on typical Polish culture, most people were probably thinking I was too old, rather than too young, to have a baby.) When holding the dogs however, people would sometimes approach wanting to stroke them, occasionally asking questions. I could only smile and nod. On the second day I noticed one of the dogs trying to smell the bag of another owner sat near us. The owner later turned and said something to me with a facial expression that I found hard to interpret. I later found out he had been complaining about the dog’s alleged salivation on his bag. Being oblivious, I wasn’t able to feel bothered by anything he said.

This is where a language barrier can be beneficial, because of the desensitisation it brings to verbal interactions that might otherwise upset you. Another example of when I’ve appreciated language ignorance for this reason comes from Porto in Portugal, where I would sometimes walk down the street and males would make what seemed like, based on their body language and facial expressions, sexual comments towards me.

There are of course disadvantages to this specific scenario of a language barrier though, in that you can’t apologise for any bad actions you’ve committed unawaringly. This dog owner probably didn’t appreciate me smiling as he grumbled about my dog…but hey, I didn’t see any saliva anywhere.

Great Grandparents

My sister-in-law’s grandma speaks very little English. We stayed at hers over the weekend we went to the dog show, and as she showed me my room, she would mutter away in Polish as if not realising the extent of just how unproficient I am at the language. I would make enthusiastic “mmm” noises and say “piękny” (pretty) whenever she pointed at something and looked at me. Then there was the time when I was holding my nephew after he’d started crying. I finally managed to soothe him with some cheerful singing (Motown genre, to be precise) and looked out into the garden as his head flopped onto my shoulder. Then I sensed a new presence in the room and heard the approaching steps of the grandma sneaking up behind. I glanced around and saw her with her arms reached out expectantly, looking at her great-grandson with calculating glee. I had no choice but to relinquish him, before looking away awkwardly when he immediately started crying again.

Birthday Parties

One evening, my brother’s neighbour invited us over for a birthday dinner. One dessert dish was roasted pumpkin with honey, and it was really tasty. While guests would talk to me in English now and then, naturally the conversation would soon revert back to Polish. Again I faced the challenge of smiling at the right time, but there was also the added challenge of refusing food offerings. Polish culture has an emphasis on hospitality – people enjoy feeding others…a lot. I felt my stomach ballooning to the point of discomfort but felt rude saying no when someone mentioned in English that they’d made the cake themselves. Even if I said no, minutes later they would only hold the plate under my nose with encouraging nods.  “Pyszne,” (delicious) I would say with a thumbs up as I forced the food down my throat.

Then there came the biggest challenge: the singing of “Happy Birthday”. My solution to this seemed to be standing with my mouth half open, nodding my head from side to side in time with the tune, trying to guess when the person’s name was about to be mentioned so I could jump in and contribute at least one word.

*

There will always be times when not knowing the local language leads to stressful situations. But having a language barrier can also be highly entertaining and create fond memories. It also reinforces the value of patience, good manners, initiative, and observation – attributes useful in any environment, no matter what languages you speak.

Please share your hilarious language barrier stories below!

Popular Tourist Spots That Will Leave You Disappointed

by

*Guest Post by Jordan Greene*

No one likes to be disappointed, especially when they’re travelling to see something supposedly amazing. But not all tourist spots are worth the hype they get. To save yourself the journey, we’ve picked seven of the most disappointing tourist attractions from around the world. Check them out:

1. The Little Mermaid, Copenhagen
Look up any list of reasons to visit Denmark, and Copenhagen will be near the top – and rightly so. The capital city is beautiful, chilled and full of enough tourist attractions to keep you busy for a weekend break. But for some reason, a very small statue of a reclining mermaid has become hugely popular for no apparent reason – although the Secret Traveller suggests it might be due to the lack of other attractions in the rest of the country. Stick to Copenhagen’s real attractions, like Tivoli Gardens or the National Gallery of Denmark.


2. Mona Lisa, Louvre Museum, Paris
The Mona Lisa painting itself isn’t what’s disappointing. After all, it is the world’s most famous painting. It’s the fact that you’ll never get close enough to see whether it’s any good or not, as there are so many people stuffed into the one room of the Louvre. Add to that the disappointing view from the Eiffel Tower, and you’ve got a very disappointing visit to Paris if you don’t plan it well.


3. Hollywood Walk Of Fame, Los Angeles
Surrounded by tacky shops trying to get tourists to buy some rubbish souvenir, the Walk Of Fame has nothing good to offer visitors. A TripAdvisor review from someone local to the attraction says it’s a waste of time, and suggests going to Griffith Park and doing the Hollywood sign hike instead. “You’ll get exercise and have a better time,” they say.


4. Times Square, New York
New York is busy, everyone knows that. But every day, tourists still turn up to Times Square hoping to get a great photo to show everyone at home. But there are virtually no pedestrian areas, making it not only disappointing but potentially dangerous. Spend your time elsewhere in the city – Central Park, the Metropolitan Museum of Art and Top of The Rock are just some suggestions to start you off.


5. Loch Ness, Scotland
Loch Ness in Scotland is famous because of the legend that a monster apparently lurks in the waters – aptly named Nessie. There are numerous “photos” of the beast, and some people have devoted their lives to proving its existence. But at least with all the other disappointing tourist spots on this list, you’ll see something. Here, you won’t.


6. The Leaning Tower of Pisa, Italy
All you need to know about Italy’s most famous tower is revealed in its name. It’s a tower than leans. Going to visit it is just a bit underwhelming and you’ll find yourself getting annoyed at everyone trying to get the perfect photo of them “holding” or “pushing” the tower. Adding to the frustration is a load of salesmen trying to get you to buy some trashy souvenir. Looking for a relaxing break? Avoid the Leaning Tower of Pisa at all costs.


7. Stonehenge, England
We’re back to the UK for our last disappointment. Stonehenge might be on many people’s must-visit list, but don’t devote an entire trip to it. As this post says, only visit Stonehenge if you happen to be near the local area. And don’t expect too much – you can only view the boulders from a distance and it’s quite expensive.

Do you agree with these choices of disappointing tourist spots? Have you visited somewhere else and been disappointed? Let us know!

*

Please note that all views expressed in this post are those of the guest author and not of SoleSeeking.

Books & Bridges | Budapest for the Quiet Solo Traveller

by

There seem to be two types of solo traveller. There are the ones who, as extroverts or simply because they don’t enjoy being alone, enjoy putting themselves in social situations and meeting new people. They will join free walking tours and bar crawls and essentially go to any place or do any activity that allows them to interact with others. Then there are the solo travellers who, perhaps being slightly more introverted, are happy to explore alone and avoid the big social scene, looking for picturesque serenity more than pubs and parties.

I definitely fall into the latter group. If I’m travelling solo, particularly if it’s just for a short break, I don’t tend to look for social contact and companionship. Brief encounters with a random character are enough to satisfy my social sanity whilst ensuring my personal itinerary isn’t interrupted. The truth is, I like having time alone and having the chance to fulfil my own plans at my own pace. However, if I do happen to meet someone who becomes a great travel companion, I will cherish this new friendship and do my best to preserve it.

Budapest is a top choice for a boozy holiday with a friend or romantic getaway with a partner, but it’s also a great place to wander around solo. Below is an account of my time in Hungary’s capital city.

*

A few bad experiences of sharing hostel dorms with snorers has made me more inclined to choose Airbnb for accommodation. This is definitely a wise option for Budapest because of the exchange rate. I spent £19 a night staying in a spacious room with a double bed, hosted by a lovely lady called Maria. Her cool apartment is decorated with various travel souvenirs and is conveniently located next to Nyugati station. She’s also very helpful when it comes to recommending things for you to do and see that cater to your particular tastes. If you sign up to Airbnb using my code, you’ll get a discount!

It was in Budapest where my love for vintage shops was reignited. Falk Miksa utca is home to many antique stores varying in value and appearance – some are elegant stores featuring opulent collectables, others have more of a flea-market feel.

DSC_0050

I love nosing through vinyl collections for Motown records, and the one above has many to browse (although Motown music isn’t so popular in countries of the former Soviet bloc). Inside, the store was packed with CDs from Britney to Deep Purple, Jennifer Rush to Santana. Opposite this was an antique shop called Kacabajka, where an old lady sat contentedly on a wooden chair chatting with the male owner. Some people would call the items in the shop junk, but I loved looking at the typewriters, delicate crockery and other interesting knickknacks. It was here where the question “Beszél angolul?” caught my attention (it means “do you speak English?”) and I looked up to see a Middle Eastern couple asking me what metal I thought an ornament was. After helping them, I hoped the shop owner wouldn’t proceed to start chatting away to me in Hungarian…

To others it was obvious I wasn’t Hungarian. As I browsed some fancier antiques in a store down the road, a man on a stool said: “This man [the owner] would like to know where you are from.” The questioner wore a top hat and waistcoat and rested the point of a long black umbrella on the floor. When I said I lived in London, he told me he had visited Portobello Market a few months ago and had some good finds. He spoke with a well-to-do accent and I suddenly felt like I was in the scene of a 1920s F. Scott Fitzgerald novel.

I was keen to browse some second-hand book shops, but discovered that sadly those recommended in my (slightly dated) guide book had shut down. However my Airbnb host recommended I try Massolit on  Nagy Diófa utca. This is a quiet little street (I walked past it about three times) which makes the cosy cafe and book store even more appealing. University students and academics appear to be the main customers, with a range of genres being offered from romantic fiction to political economy. I spent a good 30 minutes deciding on which book I would buy, only to end up buying two – ‘Roughing It’ by Mark Twain and Pascal Mercier’s ‘Night Train to Lisbon’ –  for between 1000 and 1500 Forints each (£2 – 4). In some cafes you feel very aware of being alone, but here you can sit with a hot drink, some cake and a book and feel completely comfortable. Once again I was transported to a New York setting, this time when I was aged 15 on a trip to visit my sister, sitting in a cafe in Greenwich Village and seeing a girl in a black hat, blue vintage dress and boots eating soup alone whilst reading a book, thinking to myself that she was really brave and cool.

DSC_0089

Budapest is a beautiful and safe place to walk around at night. Visit in early spring and the river banks are not bustling with people, as they seem to be all year round in London. If you’re into photography, you’ll love capturing the glittering bridges and various Churches, palaces and parliamentary buildings that beam brightly at the Danube below. I happily spent a couple of hours each evening taking photos from both sides.

DSC_0106 DSC_0127 DSC_0129 DSC_0199 DSC_0208 DSC_0215 DSC_0216 DSC_0225 DSC_0235

Another thing I love when travelling alone is to have picnics. You can choose where you eat and there’s no waiting involved. Thankfully there was an Aldi near where I stayed so I could stock up the night before, paying around 775Fts for some baps, cereal bars, fruit and chocolate. Naturally I also had to include Hungarian cakes in my itinerary. A good takeaway bakery is Lipóti on Kiraly utca, which makes a delicious chocolate and blackberry brownie cake as well as classics such as poppy seed cake.

For picnic locations, head to the Buda side of the city where you’ll discover more historical architecture and see its greener side. I made my way there over Margaret Bridge, taking a detour to visit Margaret Island. In summer this large park holds performances in its Open Air theatre and there’s also an outdoor swimming pool. You won’t see the park at it’s prettiest in the spring, but I did love how there was a separate 5 km track set up for runners!

DSC_0132

Castle Hill in Buda is a UNESCO World Heritage Site home to regal museums and the Royal Palace. You enter a quaint quarter where you’ll find many tourists but all within a tranquil haven of cobbled streets, splendid statues and quiet restaurants. The picturesque views of Pest continue for over a kilometre. It’s the perfect location for a wedding parade!

DSC_0147 DSC_0144 DSC_0152 DSC_0154

If you want to get even bigger and better views of the city with fewer tourists on your tail, head further south and stride up Gellert Hill. There are various paths that zigzag to the top, with little signage to direct. The logic seems to be that the quicker paths will hurt the most! It was just below the famous Liberty Monument that I noticed a man stood with a briefcase with a fidgety manner looking around at fellow tourists. As I passed him he asked me to take a photo of him so I naturally obliged. He was Dutch and explained with shifty eye contact and an odd smile that he was on a stag do and had been told to have a crazy picture taken, otherwise he’d be paying for all the drinks that evening. I shrugged and nodded along. “The crazy picture involves me wearing no trousers,” he said with nervous excitement. I politely declined and walked away while he looked on helplessly. Seeing random men expose themselves in woodland areas was definitely not on my itinerary today!

Panoramic views of the Danube and Buda’s rolling suburbs await you at the top of Gellert Hill. It seemed like the appropriate place for my picnic. Unfortunately I also seemed like an appropriate person for people to ask for photos from. One of the requests came from a Scottish man around my age. A brief conversation revealed that he was having a week off from teaching English in Prague. He asked what my plans were for the rest of the day, and I sensed he was interested in hanging out some more. However when I mentioned my plan to browse more markets and second-hand shops his mouth straightened with indifference. He was planning to go to an open table-tennis meet in a bar.  The two types of solo traveller had clashed. Maybe it would have been a fun event but I had no intention of changing my plans; I was enjoying my independence too much! Shortly after we said our goodbyes and followed our preferred routes down the hill and into the remainder of our individual trips.

DSC_0166

Take a right after crossing the Elisabeth Bridge and join Vaci utca – one of the longest shopping streets in Pest. Near the end you’ll find more craft shops. If you carry on south you’ll reach the Central Market Hall near Liberty Bridge. Inside this huge building is where locals will buy their meat and fruit, as well as spices, spirits and pastries. Upstairs tourists can find various gifts and souvenirs including paintings and shot glasses. There are also plenty of food stalls around if you fancy saving your Pick salami for later…

DSC_0180 DSC_0183 DSC_0182

For your third day in Budapest, City Park is a pleasant place to come and read a book in the spring sunshine. It was here that I enjoyed seeing a mother leave her toddler to crawl on the ground and examine a stone plaque. I wish more parents would be less pedantic about safety and allow their children to explore their inquisitive nature!

DSC_0277

Heroes’ Square

DSC_0295DSC_0307

If the weather isn’t so nice, and even if it is, definitely devote a couple of hours to the House of Terror which is on Andrássy utca in the direction of the park. Interested as I am in history, I’ve never been a huge fan of visiting museums. I find them quite draining and if the weather is decent, I’d rather stay outdoors being active. However this former headquarters of the Nazi and successive Soviet regime is definitely one of the most interesting and enlightening museums I’ve been to. In each room visitors could pick up a sheet which summarised the country’s history relevant to the context or theme of that particular room. Excellent footage was shown, whether it was interviews with former camp labourers during the Nazi occupation or propaganda films created by the Soviets. Harrowing as some of the films and photos were, the museum didn’t try excessively to influence visitor’s emotional reactions; it simply gave the facts and left them to decide how they felt. Even better, I only had to pay 1000 Fts for entry because I had ID to prove I was under 26. This discount scheme is a brilliant way to encourage youths to learn about the history of their or another nation. For just £2.50 I became so much more knowledgeable about a period in Hungary’s fascinating history.

Because I ended up being gripped for almost three hours in the Terror House, I could only grab a milkshake from Kino Cafe before heading for the airport. This 80s-style art house cafe situated off Kiraly utca makes fruit shakes for 570Fts that actually taste like real fruit, with no added sugar. I wish I’d had more time to spend inside (…and try their cheesecakes).

Whilst the city didn’t have so many events nor so much pretty greenery at this time of year, March was still a great month to visit the very walkable Budapest. I’d highly recommend it to someone embarking on their first solo trip, especially if they are a quieter traveller. Even if wandering alone, there are still plenty of opportunities for momentary but memorable social encounters that won’t require you to sacrifice individual plans. Flowers were beginning to bloom but their arrival hadn’t yet attracted swarms of tourists – ideal for someone who likes to avoid the crowds and adventure alone!

DSC_0317

If you have additional suggestions for quiet solo travellers visiting Budapest, please comment below.

*

Have an iPhone or iPad and planning a trip to Budapest? You can download this article for reference on your visit as a GPS-coordinated app! Just click here and you’ll get to the GPSmyCity download page.

Lazy Sundays in Lisbon

by

Sometimes people have an outfit that they really like but don’t dare wear too often. It might seem too extravagant or inappropriate for the occasion. You want to wear it but feel too self-conscious whilst doing so. Then there will be a day when something about the place you are in makes you feel care-free and confident. Something in the environment gives you a new perspective that makes wearing this outfit seem more acceptable. I experienced this feeling on my last day in Lisbon when I put on a multi-coloured sundress that I hadn’t worn for four years since I had been on Vancouver Island.

My Sunday started by enjoying the sound of drums playing in Rossio square. People of all ages wearing t-shirts with ‘Project Lisbon’ on played to the beat, inviting spectators to come join. Here I met up with my new Hungarian friend Virág before spending a lazy day together sightseeing.

11059634_10156099572680495_4841235086279796638_o

Sundays are an excellent day to go exploring in Lisbon because many attractions are free between 10am and 2pm. If you like museums and architecture, the place you need to visit is Belém which is the historical district of Lisbon. Located 6km from the city centre, it’s accessible by the tram which can be caught at Praça da Figueira.

The downside of Sundays is their popularity with tourists, which inevitably leads to crammed trams. As Virág and I boarded the carriage, I found myself trapped between a man with a huge sweat mark down his back and an old lady’s armpit which every now and then would radiate a whiff of something stale and make me want to wretch. Finally we reached our stop at Torre de Belém and I could escape the toxins.

132

Queues for the Torre de Belém are insanely long, so unless you are desperate to get a closer look at the interior of this tower, just enjoy views from the outside whilst you paddle in the river.

Belém is famed for its custard tarts (natas) which are even named after the municipality. If you are not concerned about top quality and have no patience for queues and high prices, head to Pingo Doce on Avenida de Torre de Belém where you can buy a pack of 9 for 1.50Euro (as opposed to 4 for 6Euros like in most bakeries). With some fruit and the shade of an olive tree nearby, they tasted good to me!

The Mosteiros dos Jeronimos stands on the edge of the Rio Tejas with its striking Gothic design. Built in 1496, it’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site that commands respect from its younger surrounding peers. Ladies would pester those tourists waiting in the queue by trying to sell fake Pandora jewellery. The queue soon got moving and I found myself getting inside without having to pay a penny, with 15 minutes of free entry remaining! Inside you’ll walk on marbled floors underneath meticulously decorated ceilings and alongside conscientiously carved pillars. There is a huge Church on the right side and even if like me you are not religious, you can’t help but find yourself becoming immersed in the spiritual state that surrounds worship.

11794060_10156099573745495_5445527880725140347_o11816259_10156099574015495_2962252378640392893_o11834802_10156099575185495_1581307989370129225_o

11700794_10156099574655495_2219279213309316998_o

Near the Padrão dos Descobrimentos (Monument of Discoveries), built to commemorate Portugal’s imperial expansion, was placed a structure with the word ‘LOVE’ displayed in hearts with love-locks attached. Ducking under and out of the underpass in which homeless people played the accordion, we wandered through a long market that sold a variety of things – tiles, wood carvings, tea towels, vintage car toys, ceramic plates, fancy cutlery, photoframes, hanging decorations and jewellery. The tiles are without a doubt my favourite feature of Lisbon – I could happily decorate an entire bedroom wall with them!

In the hazy afternoon shade I watched the columns of water in the large fountain continually rise and fall as life calmly slowed down around me. Even when not doing anything in particular, Lisbon is a great place for lounging around. Being lazy feels acceptable. It feels like you are relaxing in your hometown, rather than wasting time in a foreign holiday destination. I walked around in my vibrant dress but wasn’t self-conscious, instead too relaxed and absorbed in my surroundings to think about it. This didn’t feel like a city where appearance mattered, nor did it any longer feel like a city where I stood out. Instead I felt like I blended in with everyone else here enjoying the Lisbon vibe. In a place where the sun is shining, there may be less room to hide but there is also less reason to judge.

Along Rua da Prata there is a wonderful gelateria selling a variety of ice cream flavours like banana and pistachio. Burn it off by taking a fairly steep climb along the backroads between Martim Moniz and Castelo de São Jorge to Miradouro da Senhora do Monte where you find a quiet viewpoint of the city. Here local elders sat on benches looking pensive and content as they admired a skyline of orange-roofed white houses and church steeples nestled near the river Tagus. From here they could look down fondly at the city that they recall as home without having to go into the busier, more international side of it.

Lisbon feels extremely safe. A young fair-skinned girl can walk around on her own in shorts and a strappy top at 11pm in the evening without having to worry about being pestered. I loved walking around with no money, no phone and no map – it felt liberating and reinforced the sense of feeling like a local.

On a magical last evening in Lisbon, we sat on the walls of the St. Lucia Church and admired the lights on the tanker as it slept on the river. Fado music flowed out of candlelit restaurants as we wandered down lantern-lit lanes towards the river in front of Praça do Comércio, where a man played guitar complemented by a girl on the saxophone. Tourists sat on the steps with their drinks and snacks to chat or just gaze across the river. At 10pm the Ponte de 25 Abril lit up with red speckles while the moon cast its golden glow over the still water of the Tagus river. There was a light breeze but it only flickered faintly over my skin. Everything here was so warm – the tempeature, the ambience, the friendliness.

DSCF2246

The past 72 hours in Lisbon had unraveled like a romance of the platonic kind. I had slowly developed an affection for both a place and a person. I had entered an unexpected state of comfortability with both the city and my new travel companion, and sat on the steps looking out over in the river in a state of peaceful content. Lisbon provided a perfectly therapeutic holiday and I look forward to coming back again one day.

Opening Eyes and Ears in Sintra, Portugal

by

Few times have I experienced walking around a city in the early hours of the morning with a relaxed sense of security. No need to look over my shoulder with suspicion, to shiver into a jacket with a sudden cold rush, or feel like I was trespassing the silent empty streets at an unsaintly hour. The sun rises sleepily into the soft sky as one ambles down St. Lucia in the Alfama district of Lisbon towards the Rua de Augusta. Here waiters set up tables on the street to get ready to serve breakfast to the many tourists that will swarm this street later on. I walked into Patisserie Brasileira to buy a cinnamon pastry and ate it on the steps of King João I in the Praça de Comércio. It suddenly hit me that it was the 1st of August and I pinch-punched myself to commemorate a new month.

11780038_10156099506885495_915243630028879467_o

Today I would be heading west towards the town of Sintra with Virág, the Hungarian girl I met on the bus down from Porto. This plan of travelling with someone else had arisen only the late evening before and I wasn’t sure what to expect. What advantages and disadvantages would having company bring?

The statues in the water fountains in Rossio were still dozing in the dawn as I walked towards the train station, which I had heard could be pretty sketchy. A return ticket cost 4.80Euros and as I headed towards the barriers, a man suddenly called for us to hurry – the train was about to depart. Assuming he was correct, I hurried through the barriers with him straight behind, only to realise soon after that he had been using us to get on the train without a ticket…

A 40 minute journey away by train, Sintra is famed for its fairy-tale castles and palaces, many of which are classed as UNESCO World Heritage Sites. First however we planned to visit Cabo da Roca which is the westernmost point of continental Europe. Bus 403 will take you the 18km from Sintra station to the cape, with a hop-on-hop-off ticket costing 12Euros.  Prepare for an entertaining journey. The bus driver would navigate up steep roads and around countless hairpin bends whilst occasionally holding his phone to his ear. Every time we ascended a narrow street and an approaching car suddenly came into view, I would suck in my tummy tightly. We wound our way past lush green rainforests and through towns with large fruit markets and elderly residents chatting on café corners before arriving at the windy coast. Here the ‘land ends and the sea begins’,* the vast ocean of blue sending rippling waves crashing against the rocks. (*Luís de Camões – one of Portugal’s most highly-regarded poets)

11807583_10156099509025495_1726901738487029956_o

I quickly noticed differences between myself and Virág. I descended the sandy, rocky terrain downwards at a quick pace without giving too much thought to where I was putting my feet; she walked with more caution. She was keen to see as many palaces as possible; I was wary of spending too much money on admission fees. I was happy to walk to most places for exercise, but Virág preferred to take the bus. Virág seemed to want us to agree on the tiniest things, such as whether to go left or right, whereas this constant confirmation made things a little too rigid for my liking. She wanted to have a hot meal for lunch; I said I normally snack on cold eats when travelling.

Back in Sintra, we walked towards the town centre, passing a display of crafts laid out on top of the pavement wall with the pillars of the National Palace poking up in the background. There are various bus stops in the centre from where the 12Euro ticket can be used for most routes.

11816345_10156099509560495_1349311450634417798_o
The Castelo dos Mouros (Castle of the Moors) was built by Muslims in the 8th Century as a base from which to check the Atlantic ocean for incoming invaders, before coming under Christian control in the 12th Century. Hold on tight (especially to your stomach) as the 434 bus zig-zags around more hairpin bends for 3km to reach it. Costing 8Euros to get in, the castle has been reconstructed in the 20th Century, but as you squeeze up narrow stairways before dropping down into little dens, you can easily imagine soldiers crouching down to protect themselves from armed attack. Over its rigid stone walls you’ll see great views of the surrounding countryside (but more so on the right-side.)11792003_10156099510175495_192327044941232436_o

The National Palace of Pena is classed as a 1.5km walk from the castle, but feels like less. Don’t let the uphill gradient put you off, as you’ll likely find that by the time the bus arrives, you would have reached it by foot. Being the most popular of the palaces, this one cost 14Euros to go all the way inside. I found myself in an unfamiliar position where I had to explain my budget to someone else, and with me feeling restricted, we agreed to pay the lower fee of 10.50 for access to the grounds and onto the terrace only, although I soon learned that this was perfectly adequate. Built in 1840 as the holiday destination for the Portuguese monarchy, the palace strikes as quite gaudy with its vibrant mix of bright colours and patterned tiles. But even if it’s too kitschy for your liking, it’s still worth a look and you can’t help but be impressed by the effort that has gone into building and maintaining it.

It was while walking through the park with its various nooks and crannies that I began to realise that actually, Virág and I were more similar than I thought. Just like first impressions of the palace’s exterior might be that it is over-the-top in its appearance, I learned that Virág had more appeal to me than at first believed. We had interesting conversations and seemed to have similar outlooks towards certain issues. It made me smile when, after a moment of silence during which I began to feel grateful for her company, Virág said “I’m glad we met on that bus from Porto.”

237
244 245

I found during the day that I was rubbing off on Virág, and likewise she was rubbing off on me. At one point she agreed to walk instead of take the bus, and I was persuaded to choose a hot option for lunch. A great place to eat in Sintra is at Xentra. ‘Free buffet – 8.50’ may look deceiving, but you’d be amazed at how great the value is. Drinks are priced separately but for the main, you can choose to have as much as you want of salad, chorizo sausage, chicken, pork in white wine, fried squid and bacalhau (a cake of cod, potato and white sauce), while for dessert there is the traditional treat of Serradura – whipped cream mixed with a ‘sawdust’ of crushed biscuit. You won’t need to eat for the rest of the day.

Virág was keen to see another palace and feeling content with my stuffed stomach, I was no longer feeling frugal. We took the smaller bus 435 to Monserrate Palace which is situated a twisty 3.5km from the town centre. After paying the 8Euro entry fee and walking along the dusty path towards the entrance, I became mesmerised by the view ahead. The palace evokes an ‘Arabian Nights’ feel alongside hints of a mansion in British India, and when I saw a wedding reception take place outside, I longed to wear a pretty dress instead of my scruffy denim shorts and trainers. Pastel pink marble pillars lined a corridor underneath an intricately decorated ceiling. In the circular music room with a grand piano I could imagine the happy couple waltzing to their first song. The stone terrace looked out over a sprawling lawn that led to a majestic oasis of botanical gardens. We explored this exotic maze hearing only the sounds of trickling water and bird song. I felt even more like I’d entered the Garden of Eden when we encountered a hippy trio singing and banging a soft drum. It almost seemed inappropriate that we were all wearing clothes…

11856385_10156099529310495_3770037972807913962_o

11701001_10156099572175495_4588486187153047263_o11850702_10156099569465495_2286073482171485747_o

I envied the little girls in their white bridesmaid dresses because they must have felt like princesses here. This palace was everything a palace should be – authentic, classy, elegant, pure and sophisticated, but small and subtle at the same time. Everything looked so pretty, catching the late afternoon light so perfectly, that I found myself constantly getting my camera out, no longer caring that the battery was getting very low. We had definitely saved the best till last. But was it not for having company, I might not have seen it.

The day had definitely reminded me to be more open-minded when it comes to sight-seeing with other solo travellers abroad. Listening and taking into consideration the interests of a new companion had been a valuable experience. It had highlighted that two minds can be better than one. With some people, one day of their company travelling around would be sufficient, but I found myself wanting to also spend the next day with Virág too. It was not that I had suddenly lost all desire to travel alone, but I was more inclined towards the idea of giving spontaneous companionship a chance.

I walked back to my hostel from Rossio station with map-less ease, feeling more comforted and confident in the knowledge that I had the option of sharing my experience of Lisbon with a new friend.

*

Would you like to take this article with you on the road? You can download a GPS version to your iPad or iPhone by following this link. Thank you for reading and happy travels!

Read the final chapter from Lisbon in Lazy Sundays in Lisbon

 

Escape to Portugal | Arrival in Porto

by

On July 28th 2015 I set off on my first solo trip in two years, and my first with hand-luggage only. The destination of choice was Portugal, on the basis that I wanted to visit somewhere with a warmer temperature and relaxed Latino ambience as opposed to the colder climate and outdoor pursuits-driven landscape of more northern areas of Europe which I’m better used to. I was excited to rekindle my sense of lone adventure, but felt out of practice too, and this became noticeable on arrival.

My plane touched down in Porto just before midday. My lack of preparation and the arrangement of the airport made for a muddled and delayed time there. After changing into shorts and a vest top in the washroom (and subsequently re-stuffing my small rucksack), I had to find an ATM that would accept my debit card, having been so busy that I hadn’t had time to change my currency beforehand. Then it was time to find the metro to take me into the city centre. After I wrongly approached the car parking machine on the lower level, a fellow tourist directed me back upstairs to the main level to buy metro tickets, only for me to be told by a member of staff up there that these had to be bought downstairs from the machine. (Life lesson: never take advice from an American man with long hair!) There were large queues for the three machines but there were no staff around to advise and the queues weren’t moving as confused tourists looked around helplessly. I finally reached the front and selected a ticket for zone 4, having read that the machine accepted 50Euro notes. Mine however was rejected meaning I had to walk all the way back upstairs yet again to buy some water for change. By now I was getting frustrated – I just wanted to be in the city out in the sun exploring.

20 minutes later I finally had my ticket for the violet line to Trindade at the price of 2.35Euros. Up on the platform my hands were full with change from the machine, tickets, receipts, water, a map and guidebook. I kneeled down and precariously shoved bits and bobs in various pockets, only to glance up and wonder why a man was staring at me with interest. A glance back down revealed that I was flashing a large amount of cleavage…The journey to Trindade only took about 25 minutes but because of my headless chicken-style running around in the airport, two hours had passed by the time I reached the centre. But I was finally here, it was time to think forward and that began with applying large amounts of sunscreen, ideally without involving extra exposure..!

I set off down the street noting the style of the pavements with their uneven, shiny-stoned surfaces. Câmara Municipal do Porto provides a great view down the Avenue dos Aliados towards the river Douro. People sit at tables under small trees reading the newspaper and drinking coffee. I noticed a lot of beeping going on by impatient taxi drivers which seemed to contrast with the ancient tram that would laze along the streets with an occasional clang. Unlike in other cities, it seemed you could be pretty relaxed about walking in the road without fear of being squished by one. Walking up a road to the right, I had my first sighting of a Portuguese bakery…and it was love. But I forced myself to wait a little longer before making a move. 003 004 008 010 Inside the Torre dos Clérigos (Tower of Clerics), a sign stated that the top would only be open to visitors from 7pm for 5Euros. With my first and only plan of the day out of the window, I instead headed down a little cobbled side road with quiet pastry shops where stray cats dashed underneath cars, leading me to the miradouro (viewpoint) which showed a sea of orange roofs with the iconic metal bridge of Luis I in the background. It wasn’t the most outstanding view I’d seen but I remained open-minded. Some steps took me down a narrow alley between scruffy stone houses and as I passed neighbours gossiping across to each other I felt almost invasive. Soon after this hushed local area of modesty came the Cais de Ribeira which was heaving with packed restaurants, but rather than the menus, I was attracted by the beautiful detail on the tall buildings, with their vintage look of tiled decoration and the balconies painted with corresponding colours. It’s this ancient beauty, combined with the collection of traditional wooden boats on the water, that probably influenced UNESCO to declare the Praça da Ribeira (riverside square) a World Heritage Site. My stomach was starting to rumble but I didn’t fancy dining alone in this touristy section. I dropped 50 cents into the case of two young boys playing guitar before wandering on towards the bridge. A long set of steps led me up past another poorer area where washing hung off lines attached to houses with paint peeling off the walls as young girls sat in a doorway playing games. 016035 036 039 040 041 042Crossing the top half of the Ponte de Luis I to the south side of the Douro, things get quieter. I felt more confident of finding a supermarket here and sure enough, quickly found a local fruit and veg shop, my mouth watering at the sight of fresh produce. Moments after walking in it became obvious that this was very much a place where a local few went, namely old women. “Desculpe!” I would say as I accidentally knocked one with my bag, but they never seemed to notice. The younger lady at the till would chat away with them as she weighed their bags stuffed with pears, nectarines, cherries and plums. As she weighed mine, I saw her glance quickly at my Oyster card holder which I was using to store notes (to save the space a purse would take up in my bag). Recognising the English words, she cleared her throat, looked me nervously in the eyes and slowly but profoundly said: “1.80.” Seeing her pride put a smile on my face and I walked out of the shop in a happy day dream, before almost flattening a girl stood right outside holding her hands out for money.056 058 060 Settling down in the green space of Jardim do Morro, the view of the town was much prettier, the river now more visible and glittering in the sun. I bit into a succulent peach and watched a young teenage couple on a bench in front of me look at each other with tentative excitement before locking their hands together. A few minutes later they walked off hand-in-hand giggling shyly and a busty girl in tight jeans who looked about six years older sauntered past them to sit on the wall. Then a motorbike revved past and her boyfriend pulled up beside her and rested his arms on her lap. It was a five-minute scenario that highlighted the phases of growing up and growing in love. At first there are the sweet, fragile romantic moments of making eye contact and feeling butterflies when you hold hands, then there’s the sexual excitement and physical comfortability as you spend more time together and grow more familiar with each other. I spent most of the afternoon resting here, enjoying the lack of visible tourists around, until around 5.30 p.m. I decided I should find my hostel. A steep cobbled street led down to the lower half of the bridge, where a group of young boys attracted applause as they jumped into the water. I was tempted to join; it was hot and I was still getting accustomed, the parts of my back that I hadn’t been able to reach starting to redden (one downside of travelling alone!)    061 062 066 Walking up past São Bento station, the looks and comments from local men began to increase. Of course I had no idea what was being said, but could tell the comments were pretty indecent. With my blonde hair I had expected to stand out, but was still surprised by just how ‘odd’ I appeared to be. The attention wasn’t perturbing and I didn’t feel unsafe; I just ignored the men and walked on. One thing I’ve learned from travelling alone is the art of bluffing. Even if you are completely lost or scared or uncertain about something, you have to put on a brave face, otherwise you make yourself more vulnerable to unwanted attention. I find that when in a foreign country, it feels easier to stand up for myself against harassment, perhaps because when one doesn’t understand the language it’s harder to get upset by the verbal reply, and also because since I know nobody else I’m less concerned about what people might think of me. This meant therefore that when the old homeless man came over with his hand held out and started poking me, I could look at him square in the eyes, firmly say “Não” and walk away with no further attempts being made by him.

After a few wrong turns I finally found Avenue Rodrigues de Freitas where Magnolia Porto Hostel is located, to the east of the city centre. I knocked on the big red door of number 387 and a lady signed me in and showed me to my dorm, which I would have to myself that night. The room had a homely ambience unlike that I’ve experienced in most hostels. It’s as if the owners have put more thought into the rooms than ‘You need a bed for the night – here it is.’ I washed my smelly feet and let them dry near the window, as I’d declined to bring a towel for the sake of luggage space.

At 8 p.m. I set off out again, glad to have only my camera bag on me. I wanted to watch the sun go down at the nice spot across the river from earlier. A grey cat sat looking vain on the walls of the Muralha Fernandina. Runners passed me down a flight of dusty steps from which I could peep into people’s kitchens through the open windows. The runners turned left to run alongside the river and for a moment I regretted not bringing my trainers.

Serra do Pillar is a nice viewpoint, and probably best enjoyed with a glass of local port (which, despite its fame and heritage here, I definitely was not fussed about sampling).  The green space adjacent was busier now, but with locals rather than tourists. I was glad to have come across the place – popular tourists areas rarely do it for me. By 9 p.m. it was getting chilly and I headed back across the bridge, pausing to admire the softening glow of the sun on the river and buildings, before wandering through random areas of the town map-less. Porto hadn’t overwhelmed me yet, but it definitely seemed to be a good city for just rambling around, finding interesting little things here and there such as the Sé Cathedral. 069 076 079 083 093Again, I got confused on the way back to my hostel. In the park nearby a sign read ‘Festival das Francesinhas’ and I translated the words ‘free entry’, but there didn’t seem to be much going on. I later discovered that ‘francesinha’ is a popular dish here – a thick sandwich filled with cheese, egg, sausage and other meats in a rich sauce. However in this heat the only food I felt like eating was the juicy fresh local fruit. This time a man welcomed me inside the hostel and I felt like I was returning home as I entered my quiet dorm. The lights didn’t seem to be working but I didn’t mind – it made things more cosy and I could crawl into bed tired from the heat and just wait for the impending darkness to come and send me to sleep.

*

Would you like to take this article with you on the road? You can download a GPS version to your iPhone or iPad by following this link. Thank you for reading and happy travels!

Read about day two in A Train Trip to Pinhão

‘Jammy’ Travel Tales from Yellowstone National Park

by

There’s something immensely satisfying about the tasty sensation of sweet strawberry jam on toasty-warm buttered bread melting in your mouth. Sugar and carbs are a crime to some people, but even if you look back later with regret,  deep down they make you feel great at the time. This leads me onto the term ‘jammy’. For those who aren’t familiar with this word, ‘jammy’ is another way of saying lucky…in a sneaky way. Things jam together favourably when they perhaps shouldn’t have. It’s something that many people experience, and normally relates to the issue of expense, or rather, an unplanned lack of it! Whether it’s being under-charged for the grocery shopping, or missing a fine from the parking attendant by seconds, a little part of us might feel bad about it, but a big part of us is also likely to feel pretty great about it! My best day of jamminess came in August 2014 when I was in Yellowstone National Park during a road trip.

The first incident involved the showers at Roosevelt Lodge. Eight days into the trip, washing had consisted of swimming in lakes. A sign at Tower Fall campground said that showers would be available at the lodge. Since there was no mention of price, it was naturally assumed (out of poor-student hopes) that usage would be free. Wash bags at the ready, my chum and I parked up and asked a guy in his early twenties where the showers were. “Are you two staying here?” he asked, looking us up and down uncertainly. Perhaps it was obvious it had been eight days. “We were told we could use the showers here,” I found myself saying confidently. It wasn’t a lie; this is what the sign had said. After his unconvinced nod and subsequent directions led us to a plush washroom, I realised that I had got here from unknowingly giving slightly false information. He was thinking I’d meant a member of staff at the lodge had granted permission, not a vague sign. As I enjoyed a long warm shower complete with free soap, shampoo and conditioner, I felt a little guilty knowing that I shouldn’t really be here. Then I spotted a large stack of sanitary towel disposal bags in the toilet cubicle, and all guilty thoughts evaporated into the surrounding mist from the shower as I stuffed a few of them into my bag before walking out fresh, clean and content with my free find (because when you’re on the road living in a car with a boyfriend, maintaining hygiene during that time can be quite difficult…)

Later that day after exploring the Norris Geysers, we drove down to see Old Faithful. This famous geyser erupts on a random time scale that is on average once every 60-90 minutes, and is so popular with tourists that a highway is in operation to facilitate the large flow of traffic. Managing to quickly find a space in the huge car park, we casually strolled over to the viewing area, unsure what to expect having not researched the estimated eruption time. The walk was interrupted by a bathroom stop. Then we finally made it to the viewing area where we were greeted by the sight of a huge crowd of at least 500 people pinned against the fence. Many had perhaps been sat waiting for 50 minutes. Five minutes after our laid-back arrival, the geyser’s big moment arrived as it shot steaming hot water high into the air, reaching an elevation between 30 and 60 metres. You can get an idea of how long the water keeps spurting out for and how big the crowds were here. As we walked away 10 minutes later and passed people with looks of frustrated disappointment on their face upon realising they had just missed the eruption, I again felt a flash of guilt. Considering we had not checked the predictions and took a risky pit-stop on the way, we were extremely lucky to have made perfect timing.

196   205

Next we had to find a place to sleep for the night. All the campgrounds south of Old Faithful were full, so we drove on into the Grand Teton National Park. While we searched hopelessly for campgrounds with space, dusk started creeping in. We procrastinated from our challenge by admiring the sunset over Jackson Lake.

I said I would drive on to Jackson in Wyoming if necessary, but it was still about 4o miles away and both of us were tired from a hot, busy day. Just as our destination-less driving began to turn increasingly stressful, a sign advertising a lodge came into view, tempting our desperate selves to flick the indicator right. But would we paying to sleep in a room at the lodge? Of course not! We were thinking about the prospect of available parking space. We’d slept in a hotel parking lot before, however it had been situated outside a national park. Sleeping here seemed a little too risky. What if our car’s licence plate was checked against guest records? Maybe we would simply be asked to leave, but maybe we would be fined too. We weren’t sure of the rules, and asking would only arouse suspicion.

Alas, after much debating, we agreed to stay and parked up near other cars so that we didn’t stand out more than we already did (being in a dirty 1986 Land Cruiser in the parking lot of a rather fancy lodge),  before closing the curtains and quietly settling down for the night. I didn’t sleep too well, worried about being caught. Butterflies would creep up my stomach when I heard approaching voices or a car door slam next to us. At one point I heard youths laughing outside our car, clearly recognising what we were doing. I silently pleaded that they would leave us in peace.

Our alarm woke us at 6 a.m for a quick getaway. But having survived the night, we were feeling a little more complacent, so we stepped outside to have a look around. The lodge was right on the edge of Jackson Lake. We followed the path down to the water’s edge, boats sitting silently on the serene surface. Moon still beaming brightly, the warm sky cast a soft pink glow over the Tetons painted with streams of snow. Candyfloss and ice cream. The only sound to hear was the faint bobbing of the boats and gentle lap of the water against the shore. There was a cold snap in the air, but something about this sight made me feel cosy inside. After waking up to this view, I was glad that we had taken the risk of sleeping here. Most people would have to pay a minimum of $269/£179 per night for the view at this time of the morning, but we had got it for free. Soon after, we remembered not to risk our chances too much and left the car park with frost on the windows still clearing, feeling both extremely lucky and extremely sneaky.

217

Whilst this was the most jam-packed day of jamminess on the trip, there would be further jammy moments to come, including sleeping in a viewing area inside a national park. Campgrounds were full, and nowhere did we explicitly read or hear that sleeping in cars outside a designated camp area was prohibited. Camping in a tent would of course have been much too extreme, and if the park had contained bears, we wouldn’t have made the decision to sleep there, in case they were able to break into our car for food. We were very careful and respectful towards the environment, leaving no rubbish behind and causing no damage. Our decision was partly influenced by the stormy evening weather and concern about how good our brakes would be descending the wet roads leaving the park. But really there was also the question: “how often am I be able to wake up to a view like this?” It was a once-in-a-lifetime free opportunity. If we hadn’t done it, we’d have definitely lived to regret it. As we left another national park the next day and noticed a ranger taking notes and talking to a sheepish-looking man with a trailer parked in a viewing area (who we had also happened to see settle down in another national park previously), we realised how fortunate we had been to dodge a fine. But the risk had been worth it.

Young and carefree – that’s what the elderly fondly recall being when they were younger. Reading my dad’s memoirs, I’ve been amazed by some of the things he and my mother got away with as young travellers, such as sleeping in a graveyard somewhere in New Zealand, or on someone’s porch steps in the States. Today, such activities would be condemned and they would probably be classed as poor, dangerous vagrants, when in fact they went on to lead successful lives in the medical profession.

Is it wrong to be a jammy traveller?

When you’re young, money is tight. This restriction doesn’t combine too greatly with youthful curiosity, especially since this is realistically the time when you’re in the best shape to explore and take physical risks. Humans have been able to survive and evolve over time by choosing options that enhance their chances of survival without involving significant  physical harm and exertion. Hunters and food-gatherers would happily take berries from a tree in a rival tribe’s territory if their access was not threatened and the food would help prolong their lives. It makes sense that in today’s age of consumerism, the importance of minimising physical harm has adapted into an importance of minimising financial expense. It’s ingrained into our human instinct that we should do anything that makes our life easier and more enjoyable with as little cost involved as possible.

There are certain things I would never do, like not pay the entrance fee to a national park. My moral conscience would be unable to allow that. These parks protect outstanding areas of natural beauty and they should be supported in doing so. Regarding smaller issues though, it is easy to say “I will always abide by the rules”, but when it comes to the moment, you might be surprised by how tempting it is to take an opportunity and run with it. I am of course not encouraging illegal acts, so please don’t rob a bank after reading this. But sometimes being a little jammy leads to the most memorable travel moments. In the corny words of Luther Vandross and Janet Jackson, the best things in life are free!

 

Harming Nature Through Human Nature

by

In the past couple of weeks as I write this post in November 2014, a rogue artist from New York has been in the news for vandalising some of America’s national parks with artistic graffiti. As expected, this activity has been condemned by both national park rangers and the public. Type ‘lady defacing national parks’ into Google and the top searches begin with the terms ‘awful person’ and ‘terrible human’. The perpetrator has been slammed for drawing these images and uploading them to Instagram, i.e. for seeking fame and attention at the expense of nature.

I of course was also appalled when I heard about these acts , especially as I have many special memories of the magnificent topography in some of the victimised parks – including Canyonlands and Zion – that were formed only weeks before these images were drawn. But then I thought about this issue some more and asked myself: regardless of spray-paint, are tourists not already defacing the nature of the parks? Through our own desires to find fame from capturing the best photo of a wild animal, are we camera-crazy (albeit well-meaning) humans not causing harm too? Harm that is subtle and unintended in nature, but still damaging to nature’s routine.

The other day I read the George Orwell classic ‘Animal Farm’. Published in 1945 and banned in the USSR for its anti-Stalin sentiment, the beginning of the story involves the animals of a farm rising up in rebellion against their greedy human owner and establishing control of the farm themselves. As I read the (highly-recommended) novel, I thought back to the encounters I had with wildlife during my American road trip this past summer.

I thought about the Rocky Mountain goats in Glacier National Park being woken from their afternoon naps by invading tourists trying to take a photo of their babies. Often the mother goat would nudge her kid to its feet and they would trot off to find a new secret place – something hard to find on the particularly popular Hidden Lake Overlook trail. People would watch them go almost offended, as if it was an insult for an animal to reject human advances.

355

I thought about the bison in Yellowstone demanding that traffic come to a standstill while they marched across the road to new pastures. For all I know, their deep grunts were a sign of resentment towards the cars that clogged the man-made partition of their resources. I was surprised at how gentle they were; they were more than capable of causing damage to the monstrous RV that obstructed their path, by bashing their huge heads against its artificial walls in a determined declaration of  “We were here first.”

079

I thought about the regular signs on the roads of Yosemite that reminded tourists to drive carefully, citing recent bear fatalities (reports state that so far this year, the figure is at 25). How ironic that in our quest to see a bear, we actually end up killing them? We contradict the whole purpose of a national park to conserve a species. It is in Yosemite’s campgrounds that keeping food in cars is prohibited, since recently a few bears learned how to open doors. These bears were then destroyed to prevent the trait being learned by others and to avoid human casualties. But is it not humans that are invading the bears’ space, rather than vice versa?

Finally, I thought about the large group of elk on Highway 101 just outside Redwood National Park, who caused a traffic jam when they decided to block part of the road. I remembered a man with long hair who drove a VW campervan videoing the scene and asking out-loud, “What does this mean, animals blocking a man-made road?” At first I had smiled to myself at this apparent hippy-expressionism, then I realised that he actually raised an interesting question. Was this group behaviour a form of defiance against man’s interference in nature?

1466

Does our greed as humans for viewings of rare wildlife touch on the verge of exploitation? Are we not slightly reminiscent of the white man colonising sparse lands in order to generate revenue, killing native inhabitants in the process? It should be mentioned that it is because bison were brought under conservation in Yellowstone that the species was protected from poaching and was subsequently able to grow in numbers within the last century. But back when the park was established in 1872, who was to know that these animals would eventually become the target of the tourist paparazzi? For it has become human nature to stalk the world’s rarest wildlife through a lens.

Obviously tourists, including myself, want to get a close look at wildlife; it’s only human nature. Personally however, I try to respect animals’ privacy in doing so and not disturb them from their natural state. It’s the same way that I would attempt to be discreet if taking a photo of a human stranger doing something interesting, if it was a situation where asking for permission would ruin the moment. Animals have no voice to give consent and therefore cannot be ‘asked’ in the way we humans are familiar with, but that doesn’t mean they condone the behaviour.

After reading ‘Animal Farm’ and thinking about these issues, it almost seems plausible to imagine these animals calling for a revolution against us human tourists.

But then there is the issue of squirrels. At first, it’s cute and endearing when the tame, chubby ones in Zion scamper over to your feet and look up expectantly for food with their tiny paws out like Oliver Twist. Even my friend and I were at first caught in the trap of taking photos and ‘awwww’ing at them. However, you then see them picking on the skinnier squirrels, consequently depriving them of food. Like in ‘Animal Farm’, those animals that interact with humans benefit, and it becomes the case that ‘all animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others’. If humans weren’t feeding these squirrels, the inequality within the species would be smaller. Like the British Raj in India, it seems that human tourists have cemented power through a policy of ‘divide and rule’. Perhaps if the intrusive human presence left, the animal kingdoms would disintegrate into a state of instability and corruption.

Of course, I expect many people reading to view the idea of an animal rebellion as an eccentric, far-fetched vision. But it is easy to imagine innocent things, just like it is easy to harm innocent beings. As history has shown, both are only human nature.