I only spent two weeks in Vietnam, as I am behind schedule, and wanted to spend as much time in China to make up for the high cost of my visa; this also meant I missed out on visiting Laos. Before traveling to Vietnam, I talked to many fellow travelers who were unimpressed with Vietnam, and said it embraced too much cookie-cutter tourism ploys; sadly I had couldn’t disagree.

Vietnam is a war-torn country which is striving to find its identity again after years of tumultuous fighting with the French, Chinese, and Americans in the last century. I do not want to belittle the conflict that has taken place here, but it seems the new war in Vietnam is that of the wayward traveler trying to find genuine people to meet, and glimpses into the real Vietnam. The devastating effects of chemical deforestation and charred towns has offered Vietnamese level ground; perfect to build a vast tourism industry. Unfortunately, this means everyone looks to foreign money for income, be it hokey tours or straight exploitation. The native faces are bent in latent unwelcoming angry poses, unless there is a chance you will be giving them money. It is a stark difference from the Thai’s beaming smiles and amiable attitude.

I visited the War Remnants Museum in former Saigon, which presented ‘the American War’ in biased favor of the Viet Cong, making a one-sided argument against the oppression of foreign influence. However, it was hard to ignore the grotesque effects of deforesting agents like Agent Orange on the Vietnamese population.

I found myself trying to make the most of the country, and started by negotiating with a local to take me to a non-tourist section of the Cu Chi Tunnels outside of Saigon. The Cu Chi Tunnels is an infamous area north of the Mekong Delta and west of Siagon were Vietnamese embedded their livelihood underground, and waged a successful guerrilla front against occupying forces. There is a group of original tunnels about 25 km away from the touristy widened tunnels for the larger foreigner clientèle, which are rarely visited, which I planned to check out with Travis from Vancouver.

After riding on the back of mopeds for almost two hours we stopped for lunch, our guide tried to bring us to the tourist tunnels, hoping we wouldn’t notice the two dozen buses in the large parking lot. Unimpressed with his sly ploy he reluctantly brought us the rest of the way to the other tunnel system. This area was tastefully developed into a beautiful park, but it was hard to see more than a handful of other people. The tour was informative, and fun, and I was happy to take the extra time to visit the real thing. I managed to squeeze into one of the real-life sized VC holes, and enjoyed putzing through the underground maze of rooms.

After leaving the moped insanity of Saigon, I went to the beach towns of Mui Ne and Nha Trang. Both of these were a pleasant escape from the city. Mui Ne is a kite-surfing haven, but unfortunately the winds were unkind, and I instead visited the nearby red sand dunes, and white sand dunes. Although they were very beautiful, they were paltry in comparison to Warren Dunes close to my home in Indiana; at best they were 1/3 the size of my hometown dunes. Nha Trang was a nice town, but very over-priced with highlights including a water park, and cheap scuba diving. Thankfully, I visited both of these towns with a large group of friends, and we made the most of these beach side towns. My favorite experience was walking along the beach in Nha Trang near the famous Sailing Club bar and being offered a platter of decadent shellfish for only 10 euro. Our host for lunch was a petite Vietnamese woman who was jolly, insisted on dancing with her fingers in the air and shouting, “Oh My God! Delicious!” as she roasted our food on a small wood fire while wearing her blue moped helmet. The food was fantastic, and it was a nice change to see a smiling Vietnamese person.

The last stop of on my journey was in the capital Hanoi. I insisted on taking the local 22-hour train instead of the flight as I firmly believe this is a better way to meet real people in any country. Thankfully, Vietnam upheld these expectations just as I was losing hope. My five Vietnamese cabin mates stared at me as we prepared to sleep through the night. I was awakened in the morning to one of the guys poking me with food and a beer they bought me. Now, this wouldn’t be as much of an issue if they decided to wake up at a casual time, but the cabin was alive with activity at 7 am. Furthermore, I can firmly say having a beer can cracked open in your face is not the most pleasant way to wake up, but I was happy to have the hospitality. My beer and vinegar egg and rice breakfast wasn’t the most appetizing, but the smiling faces certainly were.

I stepped off the train in Hanoi rested, and ready to stretch my legs. I opted not to travel to Halong Bay as I had a limited amount of time, and there was no good way to visit the beautiful bay filled with steep jutting islands without paying a ghastly amount for a day trip, or avoiding poorly reviewed cheaper options. I decided this would be a great jumping off point on a return trip to visit Laos and the Philippines, and stuck to exploring the city limits before heading off to China. I like to think with more time, Vietnam will emerge a country proud of its heritage, willing and capable of holding its traditions over tourism…and I also like to think with more time to explore it, I would be able to find the Vietnam I was truly out to experience.

There is a lot of elder and conservative opposition to the outward expression of love and “western ways.” The best example is from the state of Haryana, where our EWB work was done. The government was offering instant marriages to couples wanting to marry out of consent from the families and panchayat social caste structure, and also guaranteeing their safety with 24-7 security. The security is because family members are ashamed of such actions and a member of one or both families will usually kill the lovers.

The holiday has also been a banner for women’s rights in general. We passed a man holding a sign in the middle of the road that said, “I support my mother, my wife, my daughters, and all women.” He gave us a nod of recognition as we passed. We also happened to see a few commercials on the TV. One of them basically said, “If you’re wife wants to learn to drive, don’t stop her.” The other ones were focused on domestic abuse and giving people examples of how to confront a neighbor, including a gang of boys playing cricket, and a single guy knocking on the door and asking for some help with something and then proceeding to walk away. Its a new take on a greeting card holiday and refreshing to see societal progress blossom out of it.

This was certainly a different side to India, and seemed to be a bit of hope far from the dark gloom of the Ganges in the north. Early tomorrow, Sam and I are headed to Kathmandu to meet up with his dad and brother to trek in the Everest region of the Himalayas. I’ll be out of touch for a while, but hope to hear from everyone at some point.

Happy Valentine’s Day Everyone

Arambol is a bizarre little town of chilled out locals, gracefully aging hippies, and a smattering of tourists. We took a scenic two hour bus ride on back roads to reach the town. Everyone seemed to be very happy with a quiet scene and a healthy choice of beach-side restaurants. People were friendly, but tended to stick to their social circles and stay unimpressed with the two day tourists. We managed to hear some mediocre live music, and find some excellent food in between diving into the ocean and watching the locals use surf nets to catch fish. This was my first time in the Indian Ocean, and it was bathwater warm. I wish it was a bit cooler, as to be refreshing, but once you were in it was hard to get out. Happy with our short time in Arambol we boarded a night bus from Mapusa to Hampi.

There was a magic bus to India from London, but don’t fall into the disillusioned thought that buses in India are happy times. India’s past-time of installing speed bumps and growing potholes has left a symphony of oscillations ready to make souls dance as they sleep. The compartments on the bus would have been spacious if made for one person, but they were actually for two people. Sam and I crammed into our assigned sleeper compartment on the upper level, and mentally prepared for our next transportation saga.

Throughout the next twelve hours, we managed to attempt many things. Our sleeper flat was in the very back of the bus, when sitting up there were only a few inches of clearance. The catapulting bus managed to foil card playing, reading, typing, and steady eye contact. It succeeded in consistent head banging, sleeplessness, and aerial awakenings in which our bodies would be completely air borne from the constant bumps as we were on the brink of sleep. We laid down most of the trip out of sheer comfort, and on average were thrust into the air at least once every ten minutes.

As dawn brought scenery into view, we were graced by a playground of giant boulders and rice fields, occasionally passing an ancient ruin or tractor filled with locals. Our bus drove right into the ancient bazaar and unceremoniously left us there before taking off. We took a small ferry across the river to our hotel with breathtaking views of the rice paddies, river, and ever-present giant boulders.

We had two full days to explore Hampi, and immediately decided to rent bicycles to pedal around the ruins. There was little wildlife, but some great views of the countryside. We spent the day riding around the ancient and royal centers, exploring temples, walking through giant crevices in the boulders to nondescript temples, and fording the river with the help of some locals. Around sunset we visited the main temple, and I splurged on buying a 20 Rs armful of bananas to feed the temple elephant. Apparently he had eaten too many bananas by the time I was done, and left, so we hiked up to the flat rock to watch the sunset with a small family langurs in the trees below us.

At first we though it was a coincidence there were a lot of Israelis on our bus to Hampi, but after biking around, wading by the river, and hanging out on the patio of our hotel soon realized this was a hotspot for Israelis. Unfortunately, many were silent, elusive of meaningful conversation with non-Hebrew speakers, and overall protectors of their svelt club. We did manage to hear about a nice reservoir around the us.

The reservoir was in the hills a couple villages away, so we made a tentative plan to day-hike to it, and walk along the boulder strewn shore back to our hotel afterward. Laden only with the bare necessities in a water-proof bag, we hiked for several hours before finding the reservoir. Upon arrival we were greeted with a large sign warning us of crocodiles in the reservoir. We could see a handful of foreigners swimming and jumping from the rocks, but decided to not be as carefree. We eventually found a couple of Danish guys near the drainage point for the reservoir, along with a few locals with inner tubes. The locals told us the sign was to keep the residents from drowning since many didn’t know how to swim, and it was perfectly safe to swim around.

After cooling off, we took up the locals offer to rent the inner tubes to go down the reservoir release and pick us up with the Danes motorbikes. We proceeded to unceremoniously jump in backwards with the tubes and float through a small canyon before floating at a more relaxed “lazy river” pace for 20 minutes. We all had a blast, and decided it was time to head back to civilization.

This sounds like a normal task, but in reality it involved 6 guys, 4 inner tubes, and 2 motorbikes. The two Indian guys drove the bikes while myself and a Dane sat on the back of the bike holding an inner tube each off the side of the bike. If we were going faster than a crawl I would be worried, but as it was we had to get off the bikes each time we encountered a small uphill section, and after many laughs, were delighted to get back to our hotel.

In reality we weren’t staying at the hotel, but picking up our bags and boarding another sleeper bus back to Goa. Unexcited and hesitant we loaded onto another sleeper bus, and although we were located in the middle of the bus, the compartment managed to be a bit smaller with walls on the aisle side this time. We slept head to toe, and by 4 am I had managed to keep my eyes shut and become completely exhausted. Wondering why the bus was stopped, we found out it had broken down. We both slept in the stillness until the sun came up and started to get unbearable, at which point we flagged down a local bus with a few other passengers and managed to get to Palolem in Goa.

Thankfully, the train we were supposed to catch to Kerala stopped in Palolem, so we stowed our bags at a trustworthy looking shop, and promptly went to the beach. The warm water was delightful, and we both sat at a beach side restaurant to recover. I was nursing a bruised right side of my head from the bus ride, and it was a spectacularly lazy day. Palolem is a more party oriented town, and we managed to collect quite a few flyers about parties and silent discos. The silent discos are an innovative response to noise violations from locals and trendy club scenes. The basic premise is everyone wears headphones and listens to whatever music they want, if you take them off, its quiet. We sadly missed out on this, but were ecstatic at making our sleeper train, and getting some real rest.

To the James Bond connoisseur, Udaipur is known as the backdrop for Octopussy. For the lay person, it is a city who is surrounded by artificial lakes made by the Maharajas of past years, which have delicately placed palaces in the middle. The shores are buttressed by the buildings during the rainy season, and during bad droughts bone dry. We managed to be visiting during the wetter half of the year, and the shores were only starting to recede. The town is small, relaxed, and a timid version of the cities we have visited so far. People are happy to just converse with you, and store clerks will wait for you to show a semblance of interest before heckling you to come over.

Sam and I have been tromping around cities, and we thought it would be a good idea to do a little hiking before trekking in Nepal. Surrounding the lake and city are the Aravalli hills, and on the highest peak several kilometers away sits the Monsoon Palace. We thought it would be a good jumping off point for a day hike. Originally we had great visions of climbing to the top and watching sunrise over the city, but were struck down by the wisdom of a sleeping person at 5 am. The palace is about 8 kilometers from the city center, so we took a rickshaw to the gate of the wildlife sanctuary and hiked the rest of the way. On the ride over, the rickshaw driver tried to convince us we would be attacked by tigers, and we should just take his rickshaw the whole way. After a simple check with the park ranger, we assuredly walked into the park on our own.

The hike to the top was nice, but entirely on paved road. We wandered around the bare interior, and watched several langurs (monkeys with really long tails) sun bathe on the edge of the palace before heading off for more interesting terrain. The ridge opposite the monsoon palace was untouched, and looked like a relatively easy climb up with a good path along the ridge line. To our surprise we spent the first half hour dodging thorny trees and cacti, and moving brush aside enough to find a solid foothold. There were some rocks near the top we climbed through, and at one point Sam shouts from below me, “Hey Dave watch out for that hornet’s nest right above your head.” After a few moments of slowly looking for the nest, I was relieved to find it abandoned. On the other side, we were met by rolling grassland. We enjoyed a well-deserved lunch on the peak, and hiked the ridge line before again descending the steeper slope back to the road below. We hiked another 3 kilometers to the outer edge of the city, and caught a rickshaw back to our hotel.

Rajasthan is well-known for its miniature paintings. These paintings originate under the Islamic realm, the figures are set at certain poses which are not realistic, but rather like those found in Byzantine icons, and are literally very small paintings with extreme detail. Sultans would have an entire workshop of artists commissioned to make large intricate pieces depicting sometimes hundreds of people topped with gold inlay. After reading a book by Orhan Pamuk My Name is Red, I was interested in this style of painting. We visited the museum in the palace, and after viewing several hundred pieces I could relate my education from the book with the art itself.

Sam and I were wandering through the streets, and decided to check out a small shop solely based on the shopkeeper’s witty comments. As we entered he said in passing, I also have some miniature paintings. By this time, I had visited several places, but was unimpressed by the either poor workmanship or large scale production. I asked him if he had any he made. Ram, the owner, smiled, and quietly walked past us to the far corner of the shop. After a minute or two of fumbling with a hidden door he pulled out a large paper portfolio, faded by the years.

I asked to see his horses, as this is generally the way to compare an artist’s workmanship, and more specifically its face. Ram smiled again, and slowly started showing us his early work. He would meticulously look at a piece and sigh, or exclaim how this one was such a good piece back then. He stopped, looked up and asked us if we would have some chai. For the next half hour, we were simply people. He telling us his story, and we admiring his pieces and seeing how his style grew with age. We became acquainted with him as an artist, and he was happy to share his work knowingly we weren’t interested in any of these particular pieces.

Ram was the third generation in his family to be in charge of their school. Young boys were taught a small task, and when they became better, they would advance to a new task. After mastering each part, he would sketch the design, and each person would do their part of coloring, shading, or applying gold inlay to create the final piece. Ram explained to us how certain styles and figures came and went out with the years. Nowadays the triad of horse, elephant, and camel in caravan is popular, and customers do not care as much about detail and fine craftsmanship.

Both Sam and I picked out a couple pieces to bring home, he was as happy with our purchases as we were, and the glimmer in his eye seemed to say, “Thanks.” After making our purchases, I ask Ram for one favor. I asked him to draw a horse for me without picking up his pen. He laughed and said, “I’ve never been asked to do this before.” We watched as he contemplated his approach, and drew the outline. Afterward, he said, “I know the great masters could do this in a heartbeat, and could start from any point on the horse, each time it would be perfect. Perfect…but this is the first time I’ve ever been asked to do this.” As we were leaving, Ram told us he was losing the shop. He couldn’t afford it anymore, he said he was an artist, not a salesman. He gave us his cell number so we could contact him when we returned with wives.

The theory of getting a visa from a consulate seems straightforward, the reality is a whole other story. As I am not as well connected as other people, nor willing to post sums of money to be vouched for in order to get into Iran, I decided it would be best to fly to India. Even if I made it into Iran, I would be flying over Pakistan into India for safety reasons. I arrived in Istanbul and thought I would have more flexibility in traveling if I got my visa from here, where I would be flying from versus the capital, Ankara. You might be asking why I didn’t get this before-hand (a simple one day turn around process requiring less information). The answer is it must be used within 90 days of issue for a 6-month visa, and I wouldn’t be in India until approximately 120 days after issue. I figured I could use embassies and consulates to get visas.

So, as I had mentioned in my last post Brad and I looked for the Indian consulate, and were pretty much given a run-around on its whereabouts. We were able to call and make sure I had all the necessary forms. Included in those was a ‘note verbal’ from my consulate, verifying my citizenship and giving me permission to travel. Pleased with finding this out beforehand I found directions to the American Consulate and planned to go early the next morning.

I arrived at the American Consulate, which is 1) on the outskirts of town 2) a massive complex on a hill 3) attacked in a gunfight last August.
Aware of all this, I politely stood in line with the other people outside of the building waiting to approach the security desk. When they found out I was an American Citizen I was whisked to the front of the line, flew through security, and was ushered up to the second floor. The room before me was packed full of people. I was prepared for this, and a long wait. Again to my surprise, they had a separate line for American Citizens, and I was ushered into a different room and given the next number to be called. I told them what I needed from them for my Indian visa, and they immediately went to work getting the appropriate papers. I received my papers along with a letter to hand to the consulate, paid my 30 USD consular fee, and happily walked out the door. Unfortunately, the consulate is so far away, I kenw the bus couldnt get me back in time to put my application in at the Indian consulate (applications are only accepted until 1130), which I was ok with as the bus ride was a great way to see the freezing cold Bosphorous. There wasn’t much else I could do during this time, so I waited until the following morning to go to the Indian Consulate, and played tourist.

I arrived to the area where the consulate should be early, as I still didnt know exactly where it was located. I thought I had the right building, and went up to the doorman who told me I was in the wrong place, it wasnt here, and looked at me like I was mad. Thankfully, a patron of the building overheard us and told him he was wrong, that it was in the building but on the other side. (Its not a big building, he was just that dense.) Red-faced, the guard apologized and I walked around to the other entrance to find the usual security set-up. I arrived upstairs, waitied my turn and happily handed in my application. After an brief pause of half-heartedly looking through my papers, she looked at me like I was an idiot and told me I had the wrong papers.

A little annoyed, but still knowing that killing with kindness is the best way to work these things out, I listened as she explained to me the US Consulate in Istanbul doesnt give them the right paperwork. Every other consulate is able to produce a one-line memo which states the following: “ [first name] [last name] is a citizen of [country of citizenship], and should be allowed for consideration of a visa.” That’s all they needed. Frivolous, simple, and annoying. As I mentioned earlier they also handed me a long winded letter, at the heart of which is the following excerpt:

…The possesion of a United States passport by the individual named therein is proof of that person’s citizenship and of the fact that United States Government has no objection to the travel of that citizen outside of the United States. Neither this Embassy nor Consulate in Adana or Consulate General in Istanbul or any other office of the United States Government will provide additional documentation or statements to private American Citizens stating that the United States Government has no objection to travel…1995

I kindly pointed this section out to her, and asked for them to consider it, as I understood this was as much as they could give me. She politely handed it to the Vice Consular who about ten minutes later told me the following: “You should apply for your visa in another country, as it is impossible for you to get one here.” He stated a lack of information infrastructure as not being able to do without such a letter. A bit frustrated with the situation, I realized there was nothing more I could do here. My only hope was to return to the US Consulate and attempt to get this ‘note verbal.’

I knew this would be a most frivolous trip, but as most of you know I exude some characteristics that might be categorized as stubborn. The bus ride almost 2/3 of the way up the Bosphorous was again enjoyable as I watched the passing mansions of yester-years and mighty ships parting the water. I again ascended the hill to the mighty complex, and decided I would play dumb, and again try to get this ‘note verbal.’ This time the lady who helped me immediately told me what I already knew. The only piece of paper they could give me would not work, and I shouldn’t waste the money. After making sure I understood her, I produced for her that exact sheet. Frustrated I didn’t have her to help me the first time, and trying to understand our foreign policy better, I asked her why exactly they couldnt provide this superfulous piece of paper. “We don’t have the power to do that.” she replied. I responded, “So you are saying the US Consulate, that the United States of America’s Consulate, is the only consulate in Istanbul who doesn’t have the power to write this one sentence.” Politely, she said she couldn’t account for other consulates, but they didn’t have the power.

Stubborningly, and trying to make a self-satisfying point, which I’m sure more enraged Americans have mentioend since 1995, I asked her if this was serving citizens of the United States abroad, and if there was a supervisor I could talk to about the matter. Of course, no one was available for comment. I felt at home. I felt at home in a way I so dislike. I’ve seen much worse in places like Italy. It was at this point I realized the difference. In a place like Italy where you can’t see past the density of red tape, people accept it for what it is and with patience wait for it to take its course. In America we are emboldened by our freedoms. True, it is our right to speak up, it is our right to scream in the face of powerless employees over policy made by elected officials, because we inherently believe we can change the world one vessel-popping fight at a time. Too many times on this trip I have seen Americans lose their temper faster than a mad Irish woman, over the smallest detail, and I realize with our instilled freedom to talk and rant we sometimes forget to choose our battles wisely. In a blatantly stereotypical comment, Americans tend to fight with their mouth open and eyes and ears shut. Take the truth of it as it is, but its no way to see the world.

As for this battle, it scared me a bit. I felt powerless, like a mignon in corporate America, dancing to the tune of those above me; I thought I had certain freedoms, rights, power. i didn’t. I could see the stances of each consulate. I could see a simple solution; grow up. I decided it didn’t really matter. Both consulates at some point in the process were dishonest, and politics aside there is no reason for deceitful behavior. The only reality is this is a fairly cut and dry example of politics, and a great example of its inefficiencies. Inefficiencies annoy me (as it should most engineers.)

Dear American travelers, head my warning. Get a visa ahead of time, or just go to Ankara.

(UPDATE: I applied for my visa at the Embassy in Ankara. They require a bank statement to verify address and funds to spend, and flight details. They said my visa would be ready in 4 business days. I dropped off the form with necessary attachments, and picked up my visa 4 days later. I had no problem traveling around Turkey with a copy of my passport and the receipt during that time.)

The Colosseum and archaeological park is an amazing site, and I fought back the cliché scenes from Gladiator and Ben Hur while walking around this area, but it really is a place to let your imagination run wild and envision days of yonder ages. Sometimes I think why exactly it is parents drag a couple of ten year old children through sites like this, until I realize these places aren’t about learning the historical facts, they are about opening up the mind, and allowing them to develop a mental stronghold. I am also grateful of the traveling I did as a kid with my family, albeit maybe more about playing with my brother in a new setting and remembering “how things were” in a more imaginative and grandiose manner than reality dictated.

Sometimes you cannot really create a good opinion or idea of a place until you are long gone, and have had some time to recollect your thoughts. Rome is one of these places. While walking around in a whirlwind of sightseeing, and dodging scooters as a second profession, it is hard to comprehend the plethora of normal culture absorption, history, and conversation you may have in a day. I realize now that one of the reasons I like Rome so much is its similarity to Japan. Japan has done a wonderful job of respecting the past (much more so than Rome), and this is most tangibly noticed in the melding of city buildings. A two thousand year old temple could be left undisturbed, but buttressed next to three skyscrapers filled with salarymen and daily business. The best example I can think of this in Rome is a movie theater.

There is a movie theater about 75 yards from Trevi Fountain, and while they were building this theater, they found an underground street. Sometimes this would prompt a removal of the items to a museum, creation of a site and abandoning the theater, or just forgetting about the site as there are just too many as is in Rome. Instead, they built a slightly smaller theater with side windows that look out over the excavated area and small catwalks to walk around them and read plaques with historic descriptions. In a world where we commonly indulge a fad and forget about our past, or just knock down the old to bring in the new, it is a refreshing change.

I would be lying if I told you I found this theater on my own or from a guidebook, I instead heard about it from a guy at my hostel named Will. He is a Watson Fellow studying subterranean spaces around the world for a year, and had some great stories and local hints from people he had been working with through the past months. Its a refreshing change, and we will try to meet up again in Palermo, Sicily for Thanksgiving, since only Americans (and Canadians, but earlier) seem to have a craving for turkey and stuffing this time of year.

I spent my first day wandering around the market area trying a variety of cheeses and dried fruits, watching hawkers run from police, and taking in the overwhelming smell of leather products. Be careful here, the police go after the people who buy fake merchandise versus the people who sell it. I guess it makes sense to take the money from the people who can afford it. After a bit I wandered over to the cathedral. The outside of the church is much more impressive than the inside with its distinctive green and white stone facades, and is just one instance of amazing architecture in Firenze. I wandered down streets and plazas filled with statues by famous artists, and of famous Renaissance people. They look much better than the dressed up versions I remember from the presentations made by my sixth grade classmates.

Ponte Vecchio is one of the other three shop filled bridges in the world. It was originally occupied by butchers, and when the royalty took over, they decided to kick all of butchers out and fill them with goldsmiths. They also built a covered walkway on the top of the shops so they could cross the river without having to mingle with the general public. A bit ostentatious, but the bridge is still filled with lavish gold jewelry, and has a great view of the river below.

My final stop in Firenze was my namesake, David. A bit pricey for the entrance fee, but well worth it. It is truly an amazing piece of art, and is fascinating to realize he completed it when he was only 29. I wonder what kind of world we would live in today if each person strive to out do Michelangelo by the time he or she was 29? Well, not in sculpture of course, but rather in whatever field it is we find interesting. A lofty goal at best, and I digress.

I called home from Firenze to wish my dad a happy birthday. What a nightmare! My phone was acting strange, skype wasn’t connecting, and I couldn’t buy a phone card to use. Which means after several hours I ended up making a classic collect call home. It was good to say hi and catch up even though I was a bit frustrated by the time I finally got through.

Thank you for your service abroad and at home. Except for the past few years when I have actually had friends serving in the Armed Forces, Veteran’s Day (as we Americans like to call it) has been a lesser known holiday on my personal calendar.

Today, has been the most memorable Remembrance Day I’ve ever had.

I took a fast train back up to Amiens, France in order to get some work done, and found myself on a day trip with Geoff to the Beaches of Dieppe and the V2 bunker of St. Omer. There is only so much you can comprehend of past battles until you see the places first hand. Looking at pictures in history books, and reading excerpts means nothing until you see the ridges they fought for, walk on the land that so many lost their lives over, and breathe the air passing over.

Dieppe was the site of the first attempted beach landing by the Allied Forces in Occupied France during WWII. The cost in lives was heavy, and borne primarily by 5,000 Canadian Forces. However, it is also the first time American forces saw ground action against the Germans in WWII. The lessons learned from this bloodbath raid gone awry helped prepare the Allied forces for the D-Day landing nearly two years later.

Today we arrived after a beautiful sun speckled drive across Northern France’s dotted green fields and a venerable wind to the coastal plain. As we approached the coast, rain spattered on the windshield and dark grey clouds whisked by leaving no time to contemplate their shape or stature. The beach of Puys was wet with the mist from turbulent waves breaking at high tide on the walls below. The rocky beach provided a violent and raucous reprisal for silent thoughts as visions of men storming the beach with its high white cliffs and opaque water rushed through my head. Farther down the beach is the down of Dieppe, originally founded by William the Conqueror. Still holding onto its fishing village roots, the town was wet and true to its being with a port surrounded by townhouses and the faint smell of fish. Unlike fair weather ports farther south harboring yachts and elegant ships, this was a city clinging to a violent past, proud and maintained without the necessities or demands of tourism. Here at daybreak Aug 19, 1942, on the town beach, thousands of men (5/6 of which were Canadian) were mowed down by machine gun fire and met by uncleared beaches and prepared Germans.

Today, the town was nearly empty. Artificial poppy wreaths dotted small memorials around the city and beachhead, damp and leaf covered since the weekend onslaught of veterans. Although it is not as memorable to most of the world, this beach was instrumental in victorious landings made years later at Normandy’s D-day beaches, and should not be washed out of memory.

Our second stop for the day was the German V2 launch bunker in St. Omer. This site has the feel of Dr. No’s evil headquarters but over grown like Mayan Pyramids lost in the New World. The immensity of this structure is unbelievable, and the imagery inside almost overwhelming. The site never launched a V2 rocket (a key stepping stone in the development of NASA) at nearby England . The site is now a museum showcasing not only the history of rockets, but also the local history of Northern France in WWI and WWII. As I look through these pictures of utter destruction, I try to fathom a daily loss of 73,000 people in present day terms. This may take a couple seconds to those reading about this, or to those, like me, grateful enough to not see such atrocities in person. I can only imagine what the men in WWI experienced in the trenches they called home, and the emotions that overcame them.

I have not mentioned much about my fraternity yet in my postings, but I think this is a most apt time to do so. I would like to leave you with a poem written by one of my fraternity brothers of past who was a field physician during WWI. It is a poem we all remember, and I ask that you take a moment on this day to contemplate as well:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

— Lt.-Col. Dr. John McCrae
Canadian 1st Field Artillery Brigade
Zeta Psi, Theta Xi Chapter 1894

One man is more elevated than any other in this city, Antonio Gaudi. He is responsible for the creation of many amazing works of architecture from his first city commissioned piece, a lampost in Plaza Real, to his final work which is still in progress, La Sagrada Familia. Barcelona is filled with homes created by Gaudi, a park on the outskirts of town, a small self sufficient Dr. Seuss-like town, and of course the Sagrada Familia. The Sagrada Familia is unlike any other church in the world. The whimsical, naturist feel of this intricately designed Art Nouveau church leaves you awe inspired. When you start to realize it was designed and began construction before the automobile was invented it becomes even more impressive. The church has a different architectural style on each side, and encompasses unique figures like snails in place of gargoyles, fruit-like balls on top of spires, and soldiers.

The city of Barcelona also has the most walked street in Europe, Las Ramblas. Originally, this was a trash infested sludge like “river” which provided a means of waste disposal into the sea. Nowadays it is a beautiful meandering walkway lined with sycamore trees, shops, newsstands, street performers, restaurants, and artists. This is a great city to visit, just plan on leaving credit cards, ID, etc in a safe.

After a full day of walking around the complex, I took the time to visit a very unique area in Grenada, Sacromonte. This hillside opposite the Alahambra, has many homes in it. Yes, in it. The better known areas have been refined to look like real homes inside, and are still home to a large Gypsy community influential in the creation of Flamenco. The clay-like earth of the mount makes it ideal to carve out and maintain stability. As I walked up the side of the hill I found doors, ruined brick facades, and front yards ranging from tidy and welcoming to expulsed heaps of interior décor littered around a makeshift fenced yard. As I passed and made short conversation with people, I ran into a group of youngsters quietly practicing Flamenco on their guitars, apprehensively quiet but still recognizable. Farther up the hillside, I ran into a Senegalese man chopping wood. We talked for a while and he invited me in to his home for dinner. After refusing several times, I finally conceded. He and his neighbor had made a modest meal of pasta and a cheese sauce with bits of chorizo. It wasn’t fancy or extravagant, closer to a watered down version of kraft macaroni and cheese, but it was warm and welcoming with the mountain air starting to cool off outside. I had some chocolate in my daypack (as on most days) which was gladly accepted as dessert.

The cave was humble, but well maintained. White stucco was heavily applied to the asymmetrical walls and floor while various levels were covered with cushions and blankets provided comfortable seating. He explained to me how he added the fireplace made from of brick and mortar last year , and is working on making a porch awning currently. As happens after a relaxing meal, the conversation would die off at times, the crackling of an old handheld radio on the table outside would interrupt before quieting back down as the next weekly top 40 song started to play, sometimes prompting more conversation, sometimes providing an excuse to not make awkward conversation for the sake of it.

As I sat there in this whimsical home chatting by the light of a fire, I realized how similar people are no matter where or what their homes look like. Although this cave home was not as extravagant as others, this man has taken pride in it and is upgrading and is telling me all about it – a conversation that is not uncommon among men on the weekend in suburbia across America, about the porch they built or the problem they had while installing the new light fixture in the kitchen. Is it coincidence that I sit here in a cave overlooking one of the world’s most fought after fortresses speaking another language to a man from Senegal about something I could’ve easily talked to a neighbor about in America? I think not. The opening of doors, sharing of food, and warmth of genuine people and conversation are acts capable of single handedly stopping many problems or at least the ignorance found in today’s world.