Rome Sweet Rome

 

Since the moment Chanelle and I pulled into this city, I wasn't able to shake the lyrics from Pink Floyd's Time out of my head:  "When I come home cold and tired, its good to warm my bones beside the fire."

As we were already one month deep into our Euro trip, being in a new city everyday was becoming both a mentally and physically exhausting feat.  Arriving into Rome Chanelle and I decided right off the bat that we were not going anywhere for a least 3 nights. 

Rome sweet Rome

Rome served as a better home away from home than I could have asked for.  It had this overpowering sense of security about it. Most people have a character in their life that they feel completely at ease around; someone that produces this contagious relaxing aura that you just can't get enough of, and you feel the weight of the world melt in their presence. 

This was the feeling Rome gave me.  I have never felt more poised and at harmony with the world in my entire being.

We booked a hostel last minute and it ended up costing us way more than we hoped to spend, but it was located right in the heart of the city so we agreed.  Walking into the hostel, there were two Indian gentlemen at the reception.  I chatted to them for a while recounting the parts of India I had visited. 

"No way!"  he kept saying.

"You are friend," he said to me in broken English.

 Then he turns to Chanelle and says, "And you will be my sister today! Yes you will be my sister..."            

That was a strange statement for the both of us and I gathered he was slightly intoxicated, but he was entertaining so we listened to him rant for a while.  He went on and on about how upset he was to see our corrupted youth this day and age, and how all our morals have gone to hell, and then he continued with stories about the wild days he had in his youth.  At the end of his spiel he turns to us and said,
 "But I can tell that you are good girls, so I'm giving you 50 euros off your price, because you are my family today".   

 Score!

To top it all off he offered us a free bottle of wine.  As if I couldn't love Rome anymore already.



The lads at reception



There might have been Vodka in that watermelon

He really liked Chanelle

The next morning Chanelle and I visited the Coliseum, one of the seven man made wonders of the world.  What an incredibly eerie place.  It was hard to believe that we were trailing in the same footsteps dating back to 80 A.D.

I couldn't fathom an idea of what the earth was like back then, but walking through the ancient walls you could almost feel it.   You could sense the history and power of the place coursing through your body with every step you took.  The only time I have been so moved by a building in my entire life was when I visited the Taj Mahal in Agra.  It was a very spiritual experience.








Still time for a little gladiator reenactment

 
 
 
 
 

Suprises in Hawkshead

When I travelled Europe, I flew into London initially to meet up with Catherine who was visiting her relatives there for a few days before I arrived.  After we had sufficiently conquered the city, we started bussing and train hopping northbound through the UK with no concrete plans in mind.  Leave it to Catherine to close her eyes, circle her finger around the map, randomly strike down on it with full force and say "There! That point shall be our next destination."

"Great Catherine, but where the hell is Hawkshead?"

Hawkshead, it turns out, is a tiny little village in the Lake District of northern England. One of those towns with hardly any tourists, and where all the residents know each other by name.  It is also quite possibly the most beautiful area I have ever seen, with rolling green pastures serving as the immaculate backdrop in all directions.



Hawkshead


 

Our hostel was situated a mile up the road from the bus station.  Our eyes were peeled for any sort of grungy looking building (for that's what hostels usual consist of) but this was not your average hostel.  Originally a colonial mansion, it had been converted into a hostel twenty years ago, and was set amid beautiful flower gardens and held a most majestic view of the lake below.




Hiking to the Hostel





Catherine sunbathing outside the hostel after our long hike up




Pony and Lenai


That evening we went exploring in some of the nearby pasture fields, which we were drawn to because of this cute little pony, when we stumbled upon an old cemetery from the 1800s.  Towards the top of the cemetery, a dreary old church came into view.  It looked fairly abandoned so we approached it for  a closer look.  Suddenly an elderly man appeared at the doorway and said,  "Good evening ladies! Are you here for the concert?"

 "Which concert would that be?" we inquired.

 "Oh well the annual accordion orchestra concert of course!" he stated.

Catherine and I looked at each other completely bemused.

"Yes! Of course we are here for the accordion orchestra concert!"




The Church




 Despite the rundown exterior, the church was remarkably well maintained inside.  At the front of it, were ten musicians ranging from 10-70 years of age.  The three with accordions in their hands made up the first row, and the back row consisted of a pianist, a cellist, a few on the violin, and the rest on the flute.  Watching them was a small audience of about 25 people.  We quietly slipped into the back row, and remained there memorized for the next hour listening to the melodies of Moon River, Pirates of the Caribbean and Celtic Connections. The sound produced was so beautiful it was hypnotic.  By the end of the hour the whole church was so absorbed in the music that everyone began clapping their hands and stomping their feet to the beat.   I think that's when I leaned over to Catherine and whispered, "Are we in a run-down church on top of a rolling hill in the English countryside listening to an accordion orchestra concert right now?"

 Just your typical Saturday night overseas.


Catherine and The Pony



I think he liked us...

Greetings from Amsterdam

If I were to describe Amsterdam in one sentence this would be it: Earth's meeting place for its coolest inhabitants.



 

 

This was the first time during my travels that I found myself completely on my own, but ironically, I have never felt more surrounded by people. I think there is an unwritten resident requirement that you have to be an unreasonably content person in order to live here. Walking down the street you will simply look out of place if you’re not smiling, because everyone else is!

 

 



This is said to bring you good luck when you rub it! 



 

Meeting new people proved much easier as an independent traveler. There was the Greek receptionist who enlightened me to a 20 minute philosophical chat over the meaning of life in the lobby,  the enthusiastic Brazilian on the bottom bunk of my bed who I convinced to do the traditional Brazilian Creo dance Chanelle had taught me, and lastly the shy British fellow I met on the terrace outside.  He opened up to me about his struggles as an environmental engineer in a world that just doesn't seem to care.  That’s the mentality of this generation for you: "don't fix it until it breaks".  Too bad you can't put a Band-Aid on the ozone layer.

 





Vondel Park was a two minute walking distance from my hostel and I thought it would be nice to read under a tree just before sunset one evening. I didn't even open my book. After two hours in that park I was having a very difficult time understanding why people pay money to go to the circus when you could just sit in Vondel Park for free. There were people walking on their hands, hula-hooping, having 3 legged races, rolling around in the grass, and I even saw three people rubbing dirt on their bodies so passionately it was as if they were going to absorb it like heroin through their skin. I think they are only mildly influenced by drugs...




 

 I visited Amsterdam its prime days.  All of the coffee shops (licensed marijuana sellers) are restricting sales of this green plant to locals only, in hopes that the business will slowly die off.  I changed hostels on the second day and when I went to drop my bags in the room I found two of my roommates hiding under the bed.  These were two fully grown men, squeezing together under a bunk bed shaking with fear.  They were so scared that they scared me.  I was looking around to see if they were being held at gun point, and when I noted they were alone in the room I asked if they were okay.

“The cyclists are trying to kill us!” was all they could stammer. 



They are rather scary...



They had started off the day with 3 Space Cakes (special brownies if you will) for breakfast,  then wandered around the streets aimlessly, and had almost been run over a few times by the many Amsterdam cyclists.  Paranoia can be a major side effect of marijuana, and they began to speculate they were being hunted down by anyone passing them on pedals.  Maybe it’s a good thing the industry is dying down for visitors like these folks.




 

Train Hopping through Italy




Some of my favorite travel memoirs were of my first backpacking trip through Europe.  The summer before my last semester of University my sister Chanelle, and my best friend Catherine, suggested we pack our bags and venture out into the world of Europe.  I didn't need to be asked twice. 

Those two months could have easily been the highlight of my life.  Everyday was a new adventure, and I rarely slept because I was so full of excitement all of the time.  These next few posts are dedicated to the summer of 2011.  May they inspire you to grab a backpack and confront the wonders of the world...



While Chanelle and I were hanging out on the Beach in Marseille we were introduced to a crazy Italian gent named Luca.  Also an outdoor adventure junkie, Luca used to be a Burton sponsored competitive freestyle snowboarder before an unfortunate accident crushed his dreams of making it pro. It doesn’t take much for me to take a liking to someone, but with Luca’s striking Italian features and a stomach that is the definition of “washboard” abs, it was especially easy. The only difficulty we had was one of a language barrier.  Growing up in Brixen, a small ski resort town in the Alps of northern Italy, he speaks English just about as well as I speak Italian: Non lo facciate (I don’t). 
 

Luca

 

Desperate times call for creative measures, and the day took an interesting spin as we all got to know each other by playing Pictionary in the sand. It was ridiculous, half the time we just ended up laughing in utter confusion at our terrible drawings!  Fortunately I did manage to make out an invitation for us to come be his guests in his hometown.
 

 Luca was catching a train home the next morning, but he wouldn’t leave until he received confirmation that my sister Chanelle and I  would come visit so he could take us “extreme hiking” in the Alps. HELLO!  Is our last name Despins?!?  You had us at extreme!

 

 The next thing we knew we were catching the train to Northern Italy to stay with Luca in the most visually striking small Austrian town located in a lush valley at the base of one of the greatest mountain ranges in the world.   How do I get into these situations?

A castle 5 miles outside Brixen

                                      

                                             
I’m referring to this town as Austrian because although located in Italy, more than half of its inhabitants have emigrated there from Austria, and German has become its primary language.  Their annual Sommerfest happened to be taking place in the village the first night we arrived, and everyone from the town gathered under a huge canopy in a beautiful meadow, sporting the  traditional German attire of green capris suspenders for the gents and braided hair with “Little Bo Peep” dresses for the women…no joke.   We couldn’t stay long though because Luca said it gets quite rowdy as the sun goes down.

“You don’t drink Luca?” I asked.                                                                                

“Si, yes, 3 or 4, but them drink’in 14....15 maybe…and then, how you say...big fight!” he replied.

And were leaving!?!? How funny would it have been to see two German guys in wooden shoes and suspenders having a full out brawl next to the live polka music stage! Maybe next year….

 



Bubba

We made it back to Luca’s house just in time to meet his entire family.  Got to love those Italians, the most hospitable people in the world.  I’m not sure who exactly  lived in that house and who was just coming and going, but there was his parents, his grandmother (best cook in the world), his uncle and aunt, what seemed like 30 cousins, and their dog Bubba (who only understand commands in Italian and German).   None of Luca’s family spoke any English, so we were always in a constant state of dramatic sign language and charades, but ironically enough, 80 percent of the time we managed to get our point across. Who needs language when you can have theatrical performances all day?  I’ll give you a quick example of what makes the language barrier so wildly entertaining.

One night we were outside getting dinner ready when Luca comes up to me and says, “Lenai, you have fire on you.”

 

 “I DO?!? Where?!?”
 

 He looks confused, as I’m frantically looking to see if the back of my clothes had caught fire.

 “I need fire. I cook dinner...pollo,” he says.

Pollo...oh chicken!  “You mean do I have a LIGHTER on me to start the barbeque Luca?"

Dinner in the yard (Chanelle Luca and Bubba!)

 

The stream beside Lucas house



Strolling barefoot through the soft grass

 After a 7a.m. wake-up call the next morning, Chanelle Luca and I set off for what was indeed an extreme hike.  I probably should have taken into consideration the fact that I’ve been averaging 5 hours of sleep a night for the past month before agreeing to the 1000m vertical climb.  I think I was more afraid on the way to the mountain than I was climbing it.  Five minutes into the car ride Luca looks at me and says in his broken English, “You know, driving sometime make me nervous.”

You think? 
 

“Maybe it wouldn’t make you so nervous if you would stop passing gigantic trucks at 120 mph on these narrow winding passes.  You can’t drive down the mountain the same way you snowboard down it Luca.”

He of course doesn’t understand a word I said, but starts laughing anyway.  I think he simply laughs every time Chanelle or I say the word snowboard.

The hike we did that day was called Tre Cime di Lavaredo (The Three Peaks), and is the most famous hike in the region.  I could see why, because when I die I hope that’s what heaven looks like.  Enough of those silly English countryside rolling hills of the Lake District. Give me the most terrifying, overpowering, blood pumping mountain you can find. 

 

Chanelle's beautiful photography on the hike

 



Chanelle Luca and I near the Tre Cime di Lavaredo

                                                           

 

Luca and I

I find that when you travel there is a huge difference between seeing the culture and experiencing the culture. Over the past three days, Chanelle and I were so deeply absorbed in our Italian surrounding, we became the culture.  I made it a point to greet every hiker we passed with the local way of saying hello, “Gut”, in hopes they would confuse me for a local.  If on the off-chance they did say a short sentence of reply like, “Nice weather were having here” or any other statement longer than one word where I actually had no idea what they were saying, I’d just give them my heartiest laugh and continue up the trail.  At least that way they were less likely to assume I was a tourists (who have earned a fairly bad reputation in the area).  I can’t blame them because this is paradise. If I lived in heaven I’d be selfish with my land too.

 

Before we knew it, our 3 days had passed almost as quickly as they'd came. Chanelle and I found ourselves saying a teary goodbye to Luca, his charading family, and the amazingly scenic Alps.  I couldn’t help but wonder if language barrier is one of the main reason people don’t travel as much internationally as they should. If so, it’s a shame.  As human beings we are all programed with a universal language that all too often seems forgotten; self-expression.  What language do you laugh in, cry in, or love in?  If I had chosen to let arrogance get the better of me, and look the other way that morning on the beach in Marseille when I first met Luca because of something so trivial as not speaking the same language, I would have missed out on this entire amazing experience.  The best kind of travelling holds no room for fear or judgment.  

 

Chanelle at the train station in Brixen

 


Journaling on the Train back to Milan



 

 

The Dubai Hangout

The Surf Club offered me an escape from the supercilious crowd that Dubai most often attracts.  When you're in an environment you enjoy being in, everything else seems to fall into place.  Maybe that's why I travel so much- a quest for the perfect spot. 




View of the beach through the Surf Club gate

The club was located right behind Umm Sequime Beach, commonly referred to as "Sunset Beach" because every night it held the most remarkable sunset (no rain in the desert remember). 

Still, my favorite time at the club was first thing in the morning.  Anjie (a surfing coworker of mine) and I used to wake up bright and early to beat the crowd.  Most days in the summer the waves were only just big enough to catch using a longboard.  We would grab florescent foamies and head out for some fun in the sun.



Pick a board



Anjie and I



Surf instructor Eddie from Sri Lanka and myself



Days it was too flat for even the longboards were set aside for paddle boarding.  The club was right next to the Burj Al Arab, which in my opinion is the most exquisite piece of architecture in Dubai. It's the fourth largest hotel in the world shaped like a sail boat drifting off to sea.  I'm also a little bias because the engineer was Canadian Rick Gregory.  Tom Wright was the brilliant British architect behind the masterpiece.



Anjie paddling in beside the Burj Al Arab



Since the hotel was built on its own man made island 300 meters offshore, you can actually paddle 360 degrees around the hotel.  Often times we would lay on our boards half way through and sunbath in the tropical blue waters until the lifeguards on the beach told us to move along. I didn't see why it was a hazard, maybe there were falling beer bottles coming from the windows of post-brunch hotel guests.  Regardless, those were some of my favorite days in Dubai. 

How to Paint a Surfboard

After visiting Wadi Adventure Park in Al Ain, I had never been more motivated to become a better surfer.  I invested some of my hard-earned Emirates Cabin Crew salary into a beginner 7'2"  surfboard.  I got a great deal on a Surf Betty board, but was a little disappointed with the look as it was a little too flowery for my liking.  Kelly suggested the perfect idea: to paint it.  All you need is Acrylic paint, a spray can of varnish finish, and a talented artist to transform your rusty old board (or your new distasteful board) into something you enjoy starring at whilst playing in the water. 


My mom was an art teacher but I apparently missed out on those genes as I have difficulty drawing stick-people.  Basically the day went as follows: I painted, then Kelly repainted.  She's a doll. 



Before

 

During

Kelly Repainting



 



After!



 



I used this board up until the day I moved (about a year) and it never chipped or faded.  I highly recommend the Acrylic paint over the spray.  The texture of the paint adds extra grip, which gives you some leeway in case you forget to wax it down before hanging ten.