Hang on Tight

Knowing there isn't much diving back home, I pushed for one more tropical dive.  Destination: Puerto Galera. The city is only a "hop, skip, and ferry ride away from Manila," according to the Lonely Planet. The authors also noted the water crossing may be choppy.  That was our first warning.

Three and a half hours of "Transformers," "Final Destination," and other high-speed collision type movies on a speeding bus and we arrive in the port city of Batangas.  I noted the Anti-Hijacking Office to my left just before stepping off the bus.  After searching the options on both piers, I resigned to our only option: a small outrigger.  Our advice was to take a big fast craft, but none could be found.  I bought my ticket, then the mandatory environmental usage tax, and then the mandatory port fee.  I politely declined the optional life/severe injury insurance.  Warning number two.

Bamboo poles of the outrigger

Harvesting Sugar Cane . . . By hand . . .

is tough work . . .

Make sure to check out the rest of the photos on the right -->

Balut

Balut: a fertilized duck or chicken egg with a nearly-developed embryo inside that is boiled and eaten in the shell.

Following the instructions of my Tito Serge, you first add some salt, chili, and/or vinegar, sip the broth, peel back, and enjoy.

Like a fine wine

Filipino Thanksgiving

July 4th came and Halloween went with little more than a shoulder shrug. But Thanksgiving was different. That was the one special holiday -- family, food, good ole American overeating -- that we'd surely miss.

Fortunately, I have family in the Philippines. On November 25th my cousin Paulo picked Larissa and I up at the Manila Airport (we were returning from scuba diving Dumaguete), and he brought us to meet my aunt and uncle at Dad's, a restaurant serving up turkey, stuffing, cranberries, and all the other typical Thanksgiving foods. . . Plus lechon! The food hit the spot, and there were bites of pork, moments of fatty piglet bliss that took me away from homesickness and back to enjoying the present.

Starting a new tradition: pork over turkey

Diving in the Coral Triangle

The Coral Triangle -- comprised of the Philippines, Indonesia, Malaysia, Papua New Guinea, Solomon Islands, and Timor-Leste -- is nothing short of incredible.

And here's why:

• The triangle is the origin of coral reef species, from where these species dispersed and populated the oceans.
  
• The triangle has the highest coral diversity in the world (76% of the world's coral species).
  
• Home to over 3,000 species of fish.
  
• Home to 6 out of the world's 7 marine turtle species.

The most important rules to follow while scuba diving are to always breathe (shocker!) and to equalize the pressure in your air spaces (hold your nose, close your mouth, blow). With so much to look and awe at in these waters, the simple steps above prove surprisingly difficult.

Learning to scuba dive in the Philippines

Day 1 of scuba lessons:

Yea, we look a bit spastic, but by day three we were gliding over awe-inspiring reefs, and even 18 meters down a coral wall.   Scuba Ventures is an incredible dive shop to learn with.  Can't recommend them enough - thank you!

18 hours later

After several " we really, really need to update the blog"s between us, here's a quick recap.  Keep reading, there's more after this post.

Andrew and I left Bali on Nov. 5th, spent the night in Kuala Lumpur (in a hotel this time, an upgrade from a bench in the Bali airport), then arrived in Manila, Philippines on the 7th.  Finally in THE Philippines!  A desire to come here motivated this whole trip over a year ago.

In a few words, Manila was awesome.  Andrew's aunt and uncle - Tita Agnes and Tito Bengie - welcomed us to Manila, hosted us for a lovely family lunch, showed us the major sights, and introduced us to my newest desert obsession, halo halo.  It's a party in a bowl.  

On Nov. 15th we took a short flight to Kalibo, then a shorter ferry ride to paradise, also known as Boracay.  Look at the pictures, you'll agree.  More on Boracay soon.

Family Tour in Manila

A big salamat to my family in Manila, from left to right: Tita Agnes, little Louie, Tito Bengie, Alexi, Paulo, Juliana, and Melissa.

From eating (see below, plus some durian ice cream) and drinking (thank you, Melissa), to sightseeing, they braved the Manila traffic to show us around the bustling city. The sights -- Intramuros, St. Augustine Church, Manila Cathedral, Rizal Park, Manila Bay -- were all very impressive. What won the day for me, though, was seeing the area where my mom grew up and went to school.

Link to pictures on the right.

Lechon & Halo Halo in the Philippines

Our introductory tour to the food here in the Philippines:


Suckling pig, followed by . . .

Halo halo ("mix mix"): Filipino dessert of shaved ice, milk, beans, fruit, oats, flan, and ube ice cream that all come together surprisingly, and incredibly, well.

Spa-ing Bali

As I lay there smelling like rotten cheese from the "organic yogurt rub" shellacked onto my back, I thought maybe this "special deal" was a little too cheap for a two hour spa treatment, even in Indonesia . . .

I declared spas were definitely not my thing.  Then again, with so many to choose from in Ubud, maybe I just picked the wrong one.  I decided to give another place down the street a shot. 

Bliss.  And, I could still afford dinner that night.  It was a lovely way to say good bye to beautiful Bali.

Surfing Bali

Surfing Bali may just be the "coolest" thing we've done during the past six months of travel and work.

And how cool I've been itching to be! More farm work? Please. Teach more English? Puhlease. I'm heading to Bali, baby, ergh, I mean, bro (bro? bro!), to surf! Steps strutted, sunglasses on, never off, and biceps flexed, I'm heading to Bali!

We landed, all cool (Larissa was not reading Wuthering Heights on the plane, and I was certainly not completing KenKen puzzles). We tried to catch the sunset but, intercepted, the sun settled instead for a soft landing inside some dense, grey clouds that were, we soon discovered, holding the night's rain as well. Rather dark at that point ("Will you take off those sunglasses already?"), Larissa led us to a bar/restaurant where fried rice, Bintang beer, and the surf report were consumed.

Next day, surf day! Mind you, my pretensions and nonchalant ego towards my surfing debut are due to an applicable background: swimming, say, reaching the state finals in Florida, should help, as should those years spent skateboarding Bergen County's mean streets and snowboarding Vermont's oft-icey mountains. Larissa was comfortable in her own right -- nationally ranked synchronized swimmer and years of snowboarding. Sure, we were excited. Thrilled, even. But, throwing up a cool front, we stayed down low.

Enter surboard rental shop:

Andrew (casually looks around): You know, just looking for two boards.

Surf Shop Dude (fortunately, a friendly local): Alright. 6, 7, 8, 10?

Andrew: Nah man, it's cool, we just want one board each. Two (holds up two fingers to help translate) boards total.

Surf Shop Dude (confused look turns to smile): I meant size. 6-foot, 10-foot. This your first time surfing?

Andrew: Yeah, but, you know, when I was younger. . .

Surf Shop Dude: Let's see. . . Ok, these two are perfect.

Not so surfer cool, these 8-foot padded boards decorated with sea creature cartoons.

I spent the ten minute walk mumbling under my breath and under the immense weight of the board, which balanced as so because it's weight and width proved any other carrying method impossible. Once we saw the waves, though, we stopped. Maybe Surf Shop Dude had a point about using these beginner boards for these Bali waves, these mountains of water that made me consider those lessons offered or trying to find a helmet somewhere or. . .Wait, what? Reason? That's totally onshore, while that wicked awesome dude -- me -- is powerstroking his way through the waves and into position to catch a big one. Oh yeah, gone surfing, let's do this!

I stumbled ashore, a bit anticlimactically, a few minutes later. My first thought was to shake my hair, nod to the nearest surfer and attempt a comment about the knarly waves the Surf Gods brought in today. But my shin was bleeding, and one of the three fins on the board was broken, so I let out an instinctive, New York "%#$&!!!" instead. Another wave crashed in, flipping the board over to reveal the smiling sea creature cartoons. I called the board stupid ("Stupid board!") and then searched for Larissa.

I found her standing up on her board, surfing! Ever so smart, so logical, Larissa chose to tackle the smaller waves closer to shore and then work her way back. By the time I reached her -- my cool front down, my ego broken with the fin -- she was up again (goofy stance) and I was shouting, cheering, clapping. She was still acting cool, but I could feel her smile. Giving in, she gave me a big high five and then I went back out to follow her example. By sunset we were riding some decent sized waves, and by day two we were cool again, riding 7-foot fiberglass surfboards.

___________

P.S. This is taking place in Kuta, the main tourist area of Bali. Combine a lacrosse player with a surfer bum and you're left with a bro that just loves broin' out and broin' up a Spring Break atmosphere all over Kuta. This is all good fun until the drinks are downed and the brosephs of all ages become surprisingly rude and offensive -- the worst tourists we've seen throughout our travels. The casual observer will begin to understand why it's said that the locals here love the money, but hate the tourist. If you're going, stay in Legian or Seminyak -- same stretch of beach, same food, about the same prices, cleaner, and fewer bros.

P.P.S We missed the Indonesian tsunami and volcano eruption, as we had moved further inland to Ubud a few days before both disasters hit. We may stay in Ubud for longer than expected -- a post about that soon.

Watch out!

This could happen to you too . . . if your request for a minor trim is lost in translation to your Thai male hairdresser who sports long golden fingernails. He took the liberty to give me short bangs despite the 99.5% humidity in Bangkok. Awesome.

"Be Right Back" Ranked #8 Travel Blog of 2010

We are thrilled to announce that our blog, "Be Right Back: Working and Eating our Way Around the World", received a prestigious accolade this morning: the #8 ranking by Lori&Lorna, an independent organization of everything awesome that just held its annual Top Travel Blog of the Year competition.

We thank our followers for all their support! Without our loyal fans, a consistently updated blog would have been tough work.

For those who casually peruse the blog, or for those who are new, here is a recap:

France, May-June: Starting in Provence and ending in Bordeaux, we toured, worked, biked, relaxed, ate and drank our way through the south. Highlights include many nights of conversation and wine with new friends as long hours of humbling farm work proved to be a certain bonding experience.

Italy, July: Ah, Italy. From Bologna to Rome . . . the best coffee, the best art, and our best work exchange. Highlights include making gnocchi with an Italian gradma, making gelato with an Italian grandpa, and butchering a wild boar with a city-slicker turned farmer.

Turkey, August-September: The land of incredible hospitality, baklava, and a compelling history that is only matched by its landscape. We started in Fethiye, in the southeast, and bussed our way throughout the country until we reached Istanbul. Highlights include the Rhodes, Greece to Fethiye, Turkey ferry, Gulhayat, two Turkish weddings, and hanging out by the Galata Tower.

Malaysia & Singapore, September: Leaving the ol' comforts of Europe and landing in Kuala Lumpur, we entered the bustling future. We ate an impressive amount of food in KL, and then traveled down to Singapore, which seems all but programmed for success. Highlights do not include crocodile meat and durians (both made possible by Singha beer), but rather the familiar hawker centers -- congregations of food stalls serving real, delicious food to families and friends, rich and not so rich.

Cambodia & Thailand, October: With Bangkok as our base, we traveled the region a bit. We taught English outside Korat, a city in northeast Thailand. We then trekked to Siem Reap, Cambodia, dodging scams along the way to see the inspiring land of Angkor Wat. Highlights include 1hr, $7 traditional Thai massages (feels great, but much more of a body-alignment wrestling match than table-top relaxation session), getting hassled by government officials in Cambodia, surviving a flat tire en route to Bangkok, where we are currently stationed, watching typhoons and floods wreak havoc on the region and our itinerary.

And there you have it! See the post below for our upcoming plans (or current lackthereof). To get a better picture about us, and why we received such a high ranking, please look through the pictures and posts.

Lori&Lorna was not available for immediate comment about the rankings. The reputable organization, led by a two person staff, must be busy answering questions as to why "Be Right Back" wasn't #1.

Finally, getting through to Lorna, I received strange replies of "...What are you talking about? Have you been getting sleep? Are you.." and then the Skype line cut out.

Where to next?

Great question!

Traveling in Southeast Asia during the rainy season calls for a bit of flexibility and patience as the weather -- rainy -- will no doubt change your itinerary.

At this very moment, Larissa and I should be sampling some fine banh mi in Hanoi, Vietnam. But as "Super Typhoon Megi", a category 5 son-of-a-, barrels through the northern Philippines and heads towards Vietnam, we've decided to delay our trip and sit tight in Bangkok for the moment.

Our Thai visas are good until October 27th, so we plan to explore Thailand a bit more, track Megi and other possible storms, and head to Vietnam (perhaps from Malaysia) around the beginning of November when the rainy/typhoony season supposedly ends.

Don't worry! We'll keep you updated.

In other news, below is the wild, adolescent monkey in Cambodia who played a one-sided game of "slap-n-scratch" with Larissa. I helped her out by throwing in a "just don't let him get the water!!" jab. Because, you know, it was really hot there.

The Brightest Green

The Temples at Angkor, my reason for visiting Cambodia, were spectacular.  The complex was much bigger than I thought and included many unique temples.  I loved the views from East Mabon, the Jungle Book trees gripping Ta Phrom's crumbling walls, and of course the majestic Angkor Wat.

My favorite part of our short venture into Cambodia was the tuk-tuk ride to Banteay Srei.  It poured the night before Andrew and I planned to see Angkor Wat at sunrise.  When the alarm beeped at 5am, the rain was still thundering down.  Though our early plans were washed out, the weather cleared into a beautiful day.  We grabbed a tuk-tuk and continued to explore.  Tuk-tuks are the way to travel around Siem Reap and the temples.  You feel the wind in your hair, wave to smiling kids, marvel at the apparently unlimited hauling capacity of a single motor bike, and inhale the exhaust along with everyone else.

During the 21km ride to one of the farthest of the Angkor Temples, I marveled at the scenery as we zipped by.  Thatch roof houses perched on stilts, tall palms, kids throwing nets to catch fish in the swollen canals, and my personal favorite: fields and fields of flooded rice patties.  They are so green!  Brilliant, alive, green.  4pm until sunset (6:30ish) is the most beautiful time in my opinion.  The sun is a little lower, the clouds are puffy with the night's rain, and the water in the fields shines.

Backstage in Bangkok

We didn't really know what we were getting ourselves into when we joined our host to watch students from her school perform in Bangkok . . .  

 Turns out they were competing on national TV!  The other school's flashy performance won this time, but it was still exciting that our group made it that far.  Good luck next time!

Thai English

Ok, back in Bangkok and back online.

We spent a week in Pat-a-Choy, a town outside Korat that doesn't see many tourists. Drop a camera-toting Canadian (a respectful photographer, mind you) and a mosquito-clapping American, both throwing sluggish, useless, Muay Thai kicks and punches at the haze of humidity, and attention from the spice loving, never sweating Thai -- how?! -- is drawn.

Despite that, we eventually made friends.


We taught these kids some damn good ABCs.


But mainly we worked with our host's awesome nieces

More to come soon, but do check out the photo albums to the right.

Singapore

Singapore, a 50-year-old country of five million Chinese, Malays, Indians, and Eurasians, is a letter-perfect picture-book currently unfolding the apparently real life story about a government that works, about a healthy population that works hard, about a modernity that climbs towards some type of futuristic efficiency, about an escalator that crawls when you're off and, motion detector alerted, accelerates when you're on.

It's supported by a big brother government, sure, but an odd, kind, transparent big brother at that. It's bolstered by the financial and biomedical sectors, and, ensuing, blazoned by luxury brands and hotels. It's framed by fishable, windsurfable, divable water.

The only question left: where is the culture?

The culture and excitement are wholly concentrated at the hawker food centers spread throughout the country. Family, friends, family and friends gather here to eat from their favorite stall or share plates from different vendors. Cafeteria seating and price, yet gourmet ingredients: from bbq pork (char siew) to crocodile stew (not bad, really), from papaya salad to mango pomelo to durian (see below) -- your sweet, sour, spicy, and salty comes in all its variations. Leonard (pictured to my left), my Dad's colleague's nephew, was a great host taking us to his favorite two hawker centers. We ate, and ate, yet still didn't cover everything on his must eat list. We'll just have to return.

King of Fruits

Singapore is known for its strict laws.  Some people find them suffocating, others feel that the laws make life in Singapore quite pleasant.  No second hand smoke, no whiffs of someone's double cheese burger during your subway commute, and no spontaneous flame dance performances (we actually saw quite a few in Turkey).  Citizens conform to the laws or face harsh punishments, like fines or jail time.  When I saw this sign though, I had to wonder . . .

. . . what's a durian??

Leonard, the nephew of Mr. Whyte's colleague, had the answer of course.  He was a fountain of information about Singapore and, having spent 4 years in the US for university, was able to point out differences between the two countries.  

A pile of durians at a fruit stall

Durians are known as the king of fruits in Southeast Asia.  According to my friend Wiki, "Some people regard the durian as fragrant; others find the aroma overpowering and offensive. The smell evokes reactions from deep appreciation to intense disgust and has been described variously as almonds, rotten onions, turpentine and gym socks. The odor has led to the fruit's banishment from certain hotels and public transportation in southeast Asia."  I guess it's not just Big Brother in Singapore that has excluded the fruit from public areas.

Andrew trying the edible inside of a durian with Leonard awaiting his reaction

The only question about Singapore Leonard couldn't answer - and I wish I had a picture for this one- was:  "So, how come all the cats are missing part of their tails . . . ?"

MalASIA time

After kissing and, between sobs, taking small bites of my last piece of Turkish baklava, we said see you later, Istanbul.

And hello, Kuala Lumpur! How these crazy kidz get around.

KL, Malaysia, is one of the major hubs for domestic and international flights in Southeast Asia. We're heading to Singapore tomorrow, and then making our way to Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, Philippines, and then back home in December. Expect nothing but fantastic stories, like Larissa's Muay Thai match in Bangkok, or Andrew becoming a vegetarian and not eating a large helping of bbq pork over noodles and not going back four hours later for a second helping.

Another Wedding!

Lucky us!  Ferial's (our fairy godmother from Pastoral Vadi) sister got married in Istanbul this weekend.  The henna night - named for the last event of the evening when the bride, and then the female guests, smear henna paste into the palms of their hands, creating a circular orange stain lasting a few days (representing one's good wishes towards the newly weds) - was Thursday night.  I got henna-ed too!  A crowd of older women gathered round, very excited that their American guest was joining in.

Henna night was the beginning of the celebration.  Family and friends gathered to dance to traditional music, tried to swap a few sentences over the extremely enthusiastic oboe player (earning tips for particularly triumphant blasts), and danced some more. 

Today was the ceremony and party.  We took the rapid MetroBus to the outskirts of Istanbul, desperately searched for an ATM and Nescafe to go, power-walked through parking lots parallel a highway, and arrived to a warm welcome.  There was dancing, eating, smiling, gold coins and cash pinned onto the bride's veil and the groom's sash, and pinches from a Bulgarian grandmother.  What a day.  And what a great way to wrap up our stay in Istanbul.
 

A Farmer's Feast

I love food.  I may have even thought twice about this trip if chocolate crosiants, gelato, curry, and pad thai, weren't so magical when eaten in their home countries.  Fruits, vegetables, baklava, gozleme, and these little cheese-stuffed breads are among the bounty Turkey has to offer.  I'm also interested in how food works in different countries and cultures: who can afford what, how food is produced, people's tastes, special customs, how food knowledge is passed on, etc. I've really enjoyed strolling through markets in Provence, learning recipes in Italy, and trying grilled squid while overlooking the Mediteranean in Greece.  Who wouldn't? =)  Turkish cuisines is one of my favorite so far, and the price is just right. 

Anyone who's ever shopped at the Union Square Farmer's Market can tell you that the setting is beautiful, the flowers are fresh, the food looks delicious, but it's expensive!  Sure there are deals on seasonal items here and there.  A bunch of basil in July for $1.  But $9 for a pound of, albeit perfect, little tomatoes?  Organic food bought at farmers markets is usually more expensive than comparable items in the supermarket. 

Union Square farmer's market in Manhattan

Having worked on organic farms, I understand part of the price premium.

Merhaba

Istanbul. Istanbul! Istanbul.

Let's see.

We started with my family--Brendan, Emily, Nick, Mom & Dad. From the 8 star apartment (mix fixtures such as chairs, couches, and pillows; add hot water; celebrate), we took Istanbul's streets by storm: bazaars, mosques, museums, fishing villages along the Bosphorous, Turkish cooking experiments at home, local eateries, nights spent walking around with the Ramazan crowd, quiet nights spent with baklava, wine, and good company.

The week's only drawback was its length.

Outside the Blue Mosque

Now, Larissa and I are both incredibly intelligent world travelers; we are four months into a very important trip whose very importance should be studied -- or thought about over some coffee, perhaps, or maybe, even, I mean c'mon just glance at the blog when you have nothing to do, will you?--by all.

As a result, no such instances occur in which, having just said goodbye to my parents and therefore their itineraries and guidance, a taxi driver drops Larissa and I off at the wrong destination and drives off with the change (my baklava money, dammit!). We're smarter than that.

We may or may not have then walked to our new apartment, where we still reside a week later and for at least one week more. Our apartment?! We met and friended a late 20s/early 30s couple vacationing at Pastoral Vadi -- our most recent help exchange location. We got along mighty well, and they, Nazlihan and Kemal, informed us that they have a spare apartment in Istanbul, unused and with our name on it if ever needed. Such altruism is equally humbling and inspiring.

We took them up on their offer once our Indian work visa was rejected (see a few posts below). And we've spent the time here figuring out a new plan for September and October, which we'll blog about next. We've also, as usual, been up to no good:

Exploring!

Larissa crossing a bridge! The Galata Bridge

Hanging out with friends

Nazlihan, our friend/host, at the farmer's market. We made them beef bourguignon and chocolate chip cookies (rare in Turkey), and it was awesome.

Breakfast with Hande, an Istanbul resident and law student who volunteered at Pastoral Vadi with us.

Eating baklava

With vanilla ice cream, it's serious

Caring for Dante

Kemal and Nazlihan's golden retriever challenges me each day. "Do ye not comprehend that we are worms born to bring forth the angelic butterfly that flieth unto judgment without screen?”, he asks me, and then adds, "Feed me."

Istanbul

The throne of two great empires, Istanbul is the 5th largest city in the world where sprawling streets envelop huge monuments that attest to the power and influence concentrated here for over a thousand years until the collapse of the Ottoman Empire in the 1923.

We've been exploring this beautiful city with Andrew's family who met us here on Saturday.  Europe, Asia, and back in an afternoon is no problem for this group lead by our intrepid, well-informed guide, Mrs. Whyte (sorry folks, "Tours-by-Lorna" are all booked for the year).

More to come soon, but first the archeology, art, culture, food, and history await us.

Rejected

Another quıck update -- more ınfo comıng soon.

But here ıs how we felt leavıng the Indıan Embassy, where we trıed to get work vısas:

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xck45q_lebron-james-top-10-blocks_sport

Quick Update

Not too much news, just enjoying our last days at Pastoral Vadi and planning our next steps. Off to Ankara on an overnight bus Sunday so we can be first in line at the Indian Embassy on Monday morning. Tourist visas are no problem, but employment visas may be another story. Wish us luck!

Dancing at a village wedding

The Creek

I struggle to write about the mountain creek that runs along Pastoral Vadi because to do so, to describe its beauty and what the water does to me, for me, would lead the reader (I think there are 6 now) to falsely believe that I am not enjoying my time at Pastoral Vadi, or even abroad.

I'm happily immersed in Turkish culture here -- the people, the food, the chai-coffee-raki-fueled dancing that strikes me as a milder bhangra -- yet there's nothing particularly Turkish, or social, for that matter, about my favorite part of Pastoral Vadi: the creek.

After a morning shift in the field, I head through the woods and towards the water with a slight, and altogether strange feeling of earnest apprehension that falls somewhere in between arriving too late to a party and rushing to work.

At this point, power-walking in a manner that suggests overdue bowel movements, I tell myself to calm down, it's only a creek. And when I arrive, panting anyway, to finally see what I'd been listening to all morning, it's really nothing special, just trees, grass, rocks, flowing water.

But how special it is! I think to myself, throwing off my shirt and shoes. Trees, grass, rocks, and flowing water!

When my foot hits the water (always surprisingly cold) and slowly descends onto the slippery stone a foot below, magic happens: I forget about stuff.

I forget about the three hours of morning weeding. I forget how incrediby hospitable, hard-working, and patient (Turkish lessons) the villagers are here in Yaniklar. I forget that I forgot to write my Mom back, and that I should get on that soon (Hi Mom!). I forget about questioning why exactly I've been working on so many farms because, in those moments of questioning, I forget how well we've eaten, what we've learned and who we've met. I forget about wondering what I'll do after this trip. I forget about my interest in finance and my love for a city. I forget the sad, self-inflicted frustration of defending the former and latter to people like Sinan, who makes a Williamsburg hipster look like a Goldman Sachs I-Banker, and his sidekick, Levant, who, to be polite, is a negligent hypocrite with few brain cells left unlit ("We hate people who judge, man"; "Cities take your soul, man"; "There's definitely no poverty in India, man, just peace and love. Just go to Goa, man, there's just all peace and love and pyschedelic raves, man"). I forget about the dance-off breaks Larissa and I take while weeding. I forget about brainstorming for the next blog post.

And what I'm left to remember, now lying down in the middle of the creek, propped on my elbows and looking at nothing, are the memories floating past me, drifting downstream from the Vermont mountain creeks where I grew up playing. I see my sister, ever the designer, collecting rocks to stack for her statues. I see my brother, a born pitcher, collecting rocks to knock down her completed works. I see myself, the youngest, with a rock in hand and unsure who to imitate. I see my parents sitting on the bank, arms around their knees, knees to their chests, with books, newspapers, and sandwiches at their side. I feel the cold, clean, rejuvanating mountain creek water. And I'm only stirred by the lunch bell, to which I happily get up to eat with our new Turkish friends.

We Make Party? Turkish Party?

Yes, please! Pastoral Vadi has been an excellent new home. I eat delicious food prepared in wood-burning ovens, sleep in a modest yet elegant bungalow (recent upgrade from the tent we had this past week), and earn my keep by washing dishes, collecting wood, or weeding the fields. Alternative, yes. Anti-society and self-above-all-else, not at all.

The people here - staff, fellow volunteers, and guests - are what makes Pastoral Vadi a warm, welcoming place. With enthusiastic smiles and hand gestures, language barriers are broken and we enjoy our typical meal-time game of trying to guess each other's intentions. "Tonight, we make party?" was easy enough to understand. Thursday night, the staff joined guests wrapping up their permaculture course here to sing traditional Turkish songs and dance, with a little Raki to encourage the mood. We all had fun. Turkish people seem to place high value on their social relationships, greeting each other with hugs and kisses, taking time to talk over many small glasses of chai, and adding "abi" or "abla" at the end of a name to signify a more congenial relationship.

As Andrew and I returned from our first day off in awhile, we agreed how nice it felt to come home to a dinner with friends. This is why we decided to work while traveling (free room and board were big factors too!). Weeding for 6 hours isn't a satisfying way to spend a day abroad, but when the rest of that day is filled with new friends, sights, tastes, and experiences, the weeding is well worth it.

Leaving Yakabagh

After our story-book encounter with Gulyahat, I was even more excited about our next farm-stay.  The sight of our accommodations - a bare mattress in the attic - deflated my excitement.  35 hours of work a week for this?!  We ended up in another room, a small step up from the original offer.  

Our mattresses in the attic

The chores weren't tough, the work in the fields was pleasant, and the people were generally friendly.  But the atmosphere was beyond frustrating. 

Instead of trying to describe our whole stay, here's an glimpse:

Before we arrived, the house was full of bees.  There were nests in windowsills, on the ceiling, and in the shower.  Sinan, our host who slept in a tree house above his portal, insisted that the bees were rightful inhabitants, a part of nature like us all.  And so they stay.  You leave them alone, they won't bother you.  He'd been stung 4 times.  Everyone else - his daughter, wife, and friends who stayed for who knows how long - had all been stung several times.  Eventually, a friend took the nests down.  The bees still have free range in the yard, but at least there is refuge inside.     

 Andrew hoping to be teleported to New York, or Gulyahat's house

Some parts of my stay were nice, but there was an overall feeling of neglect, and selfishness that made me ask, why am I here?  The Yakabagh House on the website was a productive, vibrant community.  Upon my arrival, I quickly learned the place and its people had moved in a direction I did not want to support with a month of free, full-time work. 

One week was enough.  To Sinan's credit, he arranged that we come here, Pastoral Vadi.  He listened to our misgivings (which I didn't detail but you get the idea), and kindly offered to call the owner of our current home.  Not wanting anyone to dampen the positive energy of his house, he assured us that our leaving was "good for you, and good for me."  Then off he went to a rave for the weekend.  Not for the partying of course (he's a yogi), but to reunite with "The Family (the Rainbow Family that is)."  I'm happy that Sinan and friends have found a lifestyle they feel comfortable with, however alternative it may be, but the Yakabagh House was not for us. 

10 Things to Know About WWOOFING and HelpX

Because what blog would be complete without a list?

10 Things to Know About WWOOFing and HelpX:

1. Bring an alarm clock. Bring an alarm clock, bring an alarm clock. BRING AN ALARM CLOCK.
2. When searching for a work exchange, use HelpX first and then WWOOF. Both sites are similar -- hosts describe their place and work and prospective volunteers can scan the list. But HelpX has reviews written by past volunteers. Some are entertaining, some scary, some ideal, and all incredibly important when deciding where to work, what you'll be doing, and who you'll be living with.
3. Ask about accomodations, as these are rarely included in the farm description. We've seen a bare matress in an attic (which we politely said, ughh, try again) to a luxury one bedroom and bath.
4. Bring a small gift and a recipe you know well. You're not expected to cook (though you should help. See #5), but hosts are always appreciative of a night off here and there.
5. You're a houseguest just as much as a field worker. Help with dinner, dishes, and all the other things your Mom told you.
6. Go with a friend! The work will move faster, and you'll need someone to joke and vent with afterwards. Also, you usually won't know if you're the only volunteer or one of six, and the hosts will usually not become your best friends.
7. Plan side trips for before and after your stay, not your days off.
8. Be flexible but not a pushover. Accept dirty work, from watering and feeding chickens to cleaning a bathroom, but question the host if given a toothbrush to complete the latter.
9. Make sure there is internet access. This is essential if only for the reason that you need to leave a farm early and make subsequent plans (as we're doing now in Turkey, details coming soon).
10. Last but not least, write down the hosts' address and phone number! This was a major lapse in our planning for one farm. We missed our train and were therefore three hours late to the station where the hosts were waiting. When we arrived, they were no longer waiting.

This list is not exhaustive, so if you have any questions feel free to ask!

Introduction to Turkey

It was bound to happen sooner or later, hitting that wall.

During the Fethiye, Turkey bound ferry, I acknowledged (to myself as Larissa, who can sleep anywhere, was sleeping) the great times we've had and the adventures to come, but I secretly hoped, after nearly three months of planes, trains, buses, taxis, and walks every two weeks, to end the two hour ride from Greece swallowed by the shadows of New York's beautifully looming skyline.

Priveleged complaint? Sure, but at that moment, surrounded by shirtless and hairy Turkish men all built like refrigerators, I was tired, sticky (I've now converted to the shirtless ways. Chest hair coming soon, I'm sure), and longing for my own bed and some routine.

Underlying my discomfort was the fact that I was en route to a country that I know very little about. I don't need to be a scholar, but I prefer to know certain information: the capital (Ankara! Not Istanbul); a scan of the economic and political headlines (this guy is my favorite, check out his archives); history (yep, wiki); and how to say hello ("merhaba"). I didn't know any of the above, and I'm still trying to figure out how to enjoy the current country while researching the next. Maybe I could've started with.. Not using Orhan Pamuk's "Istanbul: Memories and the City" as a pillow on the Greek beach.

My annoyance with my ignorance simmered for two hours on the Mediterranean until, as the ferry slowed and Fethiye appeared, I was suddenly overcome by childish excitement. This is where we anchored:

A port city built at the base of a mountain range! Nice.

And so began an incredible introduction to Turkey: the unexpected landscape, the customs official stealing four euros from me, which was exciting for some reason; Turkish travelers in line with us and their outpouring of financial support as we stood at the gate thirty euros short (45 euro entrance fee for Canadians!); and the storybook hospitality of Gulhayat Durdu Kalsen.

Once we cleared customs, we got lost on our way to the hotel. Actually, that's not entirely true since we followed Google's directions to the exact spot. And at the destination, which was outside the town center and tourist zone, there was no hotel, just a family's home. At that point, both exhaling the second wind that our Fethiye arrival gave us, we started dragging our feet down the same dirt road that took us twenty minutes to walk up (not fun with heavy backpacks).

Halfway down, Larissa smiled and waved to a woman who was leaning her elbows on the second floor windowsill, trying to catch an early evening breeze. She smiled back with such warmth that I immediately thought, now there's someone I'd trust with my lunch money. Or something like that. Nevertheless, we weren't completely taken aback when, in broken English, she asked where we're from and if we'd like some chai (tea). With perhaps too little hesitation, we accepted. She met us on the porch, asked if we'd like to shower or at least wash our faces in the outdoor sink, and then brought out some tea, a basket of bread, a pot of tomato stew, and a pot of rice stuffed peppers.

Now completely taken aback, we enjoyed the meal (she kept heaping more onto our plates) with a lot of smiles, hand gestures, broken English, and Turkish lessons (table, spoon, fork, pot, chair, etc.).

We left Gulyahat's home with correct directions to the hotel, a bag of figs, and astonishment over her hospitality. We left feeling happy, energized, and excited to learn about Turkey.

Where are all the pictures??

Picasa is acting up and I can't post any pictures at the moment.  Hopefully we can share Turkey's lovely landscape soon!

Revisiting Florence

The New York Time's most read article is currently "36 Hours in Florence"...

In my expert opinion, I agree with the author about trendy restaurants popping up and traffic decreasing and therefore creating a more pleasant walk around the city.

But perhaps we needed to take her advice about "Making a bella figura (a good impression) is an important Italian custom, both in terms of how you look and how you act. Do your part with a facial at the new spa at the Four Seasons in Florence," in order to fully understand, to see with freshly cucumbered eyes (I don't know what that does) the "Evidence of a more youthful and revitalized Florence (that) is everywhere."

Also, the picture is a bit misleading as there is little biking in Florence (we were advised not to by the hotel receptionist).

Anyway, I wanted to comment on the article but I couldn't, so this blog post, reaching about 4 readers, will have to do.

Turkey updates coming soon!

Where to Next?

New alphabets, architecture, and culture - the trip is becoming an adventure! 

We left Rome, spent two days in sun-drenched Rhodes, then caught a ferry to Fethiye.  The marina is beautiful.  Green mountains surround the marina, and distant blue hills seem to swell from the blue sea itself.  Tomorrow we take a bus 40 minutes outside of Fethiye to Yakabagh House for our final work exchange on a farm.

Hot, sticky, and loving Rome

Unfortunately our days at Pulicaro came to an end.  We said our good-byes and hopped in the car with a family of guests from Denmark who also happened to be catching the train from Orvieto to Roma termini at 10am.  Bernard, their adorable three and a half year old, kept us entertained on the hour or so train ride to The Eternal City. 

Our heavy backpacks in tow in the 90+ degree heat, we walked several blocks to the hotel we booked on Expedia.  We rang the doorbell.  No one answered.  Rang again.  No answer.  Found an internet cafe.  Called with Skype.  Disconnected.  The number wasn't in service.  Great.  But hey, we're in Rome, so we jumped on one of those red double decker bus tours and saw the sights.  Dragging our bags around wasn't fun, but back to the hotel we went.  Still no reply.  Long story short, we're now happily in a friendly B&B in Trastevere, no thanks to Expedia though.

Besides that, Rome is incredible!  There are so many religious, historical, archeological, and modern sites to see, cobblestone streets to wander, paper thin margherita pizza to try - it's best to adopt the attitude that you can't see it all.  Over 2,000 years in the making, Rome is still a vibrant urban center, glorious as ever.

A WWOOFing day at Pulicaro

Here's how a typical wwoofing day at Pulicaro unfolds:

• 6:30AM: Simple breakfast of toast, jams, yogurt, and cereal with hosts Marco and Chiara in their kitchen where the radio plays LOUDLY and it's EARLY (I always thought it was stuck on the max volume, but, as it turns out, it's just the really passionate Italian newscaster detailing the morning weather and traffic like it's the World Cup finale, every morning). Nonetheless, with that and an espresso, and Marco and Chiara's ever cheerfulness, we're ready to go.

• 7 - 11:30AM: I'd say about 80% work and the rest idle time that we use to weed or pass the soccer ball. The idle time stems from a busy farmer (or any employer) taking a wwoofer (or intern) for two weeks. Certain tasks are completed with common sense and a bit of that university knowledge (farm animals enjoy food and water each day!), but many projects require Q&A sessions with said busy, though patient and didactic in our case, farmer. The work consists of turning the soil, preparing drip irrigation, planting some vegetables, and harvesting other vegetables under a sun that's already too strong at 9AM. It's hot, sweaty, physically demanding. It's a farm. For city folk like me, it's a free, long, edible morning session at the gym, plus a tan. Not bad.

• 11:30 - 1:30PM: Clean up the work area and help with miscellaneous tasks like carrying the harvest to the house and playing with the dogs. Wash up, daily nap vs. 2nd espresso decision, and then help with lunch.

Naps usually win.
• 1:30 - 2:30PM: Lunch under the mulberry tree with Marco, Chiara, and Chiara's parents. On a 90 degree day I'd usually say no thanks to a bowl of warm pasta for lunch. But I'm usually not in Italy, and usually not offered pasta fresca from an Italian, and never exercising for extended hours in the morning, so the bowl of pasta is perfect. Sometimes served with a side of courgette (zucchini), sometimes with tomatoes and mozzarella, and always peppered by more passionate Italian conversations ranging from the scum of Berlusconi to, in all seriousness, how long to cook the pasta.

• 2:30 - 5:00PM: The heat forces us all indoors. If someone goes to work in the kitchen (prepare pasta and gnocchi, butcher wild boar), we'll happily help. If not, we'll spend time reading or working on our netbooks to answer emails, update blog posts and pictures, research the next leg of the trip, check headlines. I thought, after all this time away on farms, that I would not want to spend too much time on the internet. But Chiara, a farmer with an iPhone, connected to both her land and the world, tells me that it's all good, that I don't have a problem when I'm busy looking up where to eat in Rome or refreshing espn.com to see where Lebron landed.

• 5:00 - 7:30PM: Feed and water the 5 goats, 50ish rabbits, 100ish ducks and turkeys and geese, and 250ish chickens. Just thinking about what to write here makes me tired. If you're thinking about starting an animal farm (because who isn't thinking about starting an animal farm), then here is my advice: start with rabbits as they're friendly, clean, quiet, quite reproductive, delicious, and slowly jumping onto menus in America; raise some cute ducklings and, when you're girlfriend isn't looking, rub their bellies and livers in an excited, mad scientist manner; keep a dozen hens and two roosters (breeding purposes) for the sole purpose of eating their eggs; think long and hard as a small-scale farmer if you'd like to not vacation, even for a weekend, as the animals are a 365 day responsibility. So, unless you're like Marco, whose love of animals transcends a job title and results in well raised livestock, proceed with caution.

Larissa giving water to the chickens

• 7:30 - 9PM: Shower, play soccer, read, help with dinner.

• 9:00 - 10:30PM: Dinner. Same as lunch, throw in some goose or chicken, and end with Gigi's (Chiara's father) homemade gelato. He, along with his wife, owned the oldest gelato shop in Milan -- "Orsi" ...He'll use apricots and strawberries from the garden, and it's amazing.
  

• 10:30 - 6:30AM: Sleep.

Dinner at a castle

Twenty minutes of hilly, curvy roads and we pulled into Castello di Proceno in Tuscany.  The gracious hosts (sitting on either side of Andrew) are friends of Chiara and Marco.  Beef tongue carpaccio was surprisingly delicious, though I didn't know what it was until after tasting it.  Thanks Andrew and Marco.

It's easy to see why the beautifully restored castle, farmhouse, and restaurant - with it's fresh, regional food - earned a star from Michelin last year.  Below, guests enjoy a quiet meal on the garden terrace.

Authentic Italian: Great food, big family, beautiful setting

We're having a fabulous time with Marco, Chiara, their friends and family here at Pulicaro

Andrew making pasta fresca with Fiorella

 

Larissa making gnocchi

Pasta fresca under a mullberry tree.  From the right, Chiara (owner of Pulicaro), Chiara's parent's friends, Gigi (Chiara's father), Andrew, Clara (Chiara's mother), Marco (owner), Oliver (wwoofer from UK)