After swearing that 30 is too old to be overnighting in a hostel with eight bunk beds full of dirty and loud 20-somethings that arrive in the middle of the night in their drunken stupor and try to climb onto the top bunk bed—your bunkbed—we decided it was time to try couchsurfing.  Sleeping in a stranger’s house, whom you met online?  “You’ll die.” I could see my sister, the voice of caution, shaking her head in alarm.  “For sure, you’ll die.” She’d say for emphasis.  But alas, my sister was not around and neither was common sense.  The only thing left after our sleepless night at the hostel was the impairment of our common sense.  And desperation.  A combination that definitely called for desperate measures.

And so that’s how we found ourselves somewhere in the suburbs of Kyoto, looking for a place we’ve never been to, trying to find people we’d never met.  Equipped with no maps but determination, driven by cheapness and tiredness, carrying over 25 pounds in our backpacks, we started walking in the direction our cabbie had indicated.  In the distance, there was a sea of simple, one-story Japanese houses, with small, neatly kept gardens.  They all looked the same.  “Like all Asians all look the same” I’d hear somebody making a bad joke.  And seeing that there were only Tim and I there, my bet is that he made the bad joke, always armed with this racial joke immunity derived from being married to an Asian himself.   We walked for about 10 minutes before verbalizing that it was, in fact, ridiculous to be walking in a straight line, based solely on the fact that “over there” was the last direction (as opposed to the other five corners) that our cab driver had pointed to.  We turned to the first person we saw, a middle-aged woman riding her bike.  We showed her the address on a piece of paper.  We were encouraged by her nodding, her expression of “aha” until, that is, she stopped at her house and asked her husband to get a map.  Her husband came out of the house and greeted us with a smile.  They congregated around the map, a very stranged map, a Xeroxed copy of a hand-drawn bean-shaped area (what we guessed was the district) divided up into irregularly shaped plots with small kangi characters next to each of them.  The couple asked each other questions, pointing here and there, looking alternatively at the hand-drawn map and the crumpled paper where we had written down the address.  The woman, who was obviously on her way home for a quiet evening, dropped off the grocery bags with her husband and started pushing her bike:  “Shougou?” we heard her ask. We knew “shougou” meant name, but we had no idea what she mean.  The natural response was to give her a confused look and shake our heads.  She realized it was hopeless and just motioned for us to follow her.

It became clear that she didn’t know where she was going when, after only one block, she stopped yet another neighbor and showed her the piece of paper with the address.  The second lady, who was wearing a fisherman’s hat, shook her head.    And as we walk forward, I realized that the lady in the fisherman’s hat was following, having decided that she too, would help these poor foreigners.  The next 20 minutes were like a neighborhood tour, where we stopped at four other houses, each time adding more members to our search party.  People would attentively listen to the lady pushing the bike, look at the address, shake their heads and trail behind us.  We made a few turns, and people took turns at re-reading the address, recruiting more members for our search party and stopping to discuss how close we were to our destination.  Every once in a while, one of them would repeat “Shougou?” and we would stare blankly at them.  When we turned into a wider, open street, we heard a motorcycle.  The members of our search party turned around to see a heavyset woman in her 60s wearing a black motorcycle jacket, black pants and pilot sunglasses, riding her motorcycle like she was parting the sea, making the big entrance that gave us all hope.  She looked all badass and the only indication that she might be a housewife instead of a Hell’s Angel were the dozens of fabric bags with pictures of Hello Kitty and other versions of cutsy human-like animals, filled with groceries and other trinkets hanging from either side of her handle.   The motorcycle grandma dismounted her bike, and as she approached the lady who was holding the map, people started moving over to the side, giving way to the person whom we had all silently appointed to be our savior.  The motorcycle grandma moved up to the front of the group and took the lead.  We walked a few more blocks and at this point I realized that the group had got so big that we are actually blocking the street.  This meant nobody could go through without being interrogated by our group of rescuers.

One of the interrogated happened to be a quiet man, a bit hunched over but eager to help.  There were words exchanged, none of which we understood, as they were all speaking Japanese.  Suddenly, there was an excitement in the air.  This man seemed to know something!  “Gaijin” here “gaijin” there.  We had finally heard a word we recognized:  “Gaijin,” or “white person.”  And as they all spoke of “gaijin” their words became more animated, the pointing more decisive.  “Gaijin, gaigjin, gaijin” they said in unison.  Soon enough, motorcycle grandma made a turn east, this time with resolute steps and a concentrated stare.  All the old ladies and men in the search party now seemed optimistic and were actually pointing in the same direction while repeating “gaijin, gaijin!”

We took one of the back roads, passed two community gardens and stopped.  Motorcycle grandma politely motioned us to go up the porch of the house with the corrugated roof.  Everybody pointed at the sign outside of the door:  “Shougou!” they said.  We later found out that every Japanese house has a name, and in addition to the street and district, this is also required information when trying to find an address.  The group looked at us encouragingly, as if to say “go ahead, knock on the door.”  We did as we were told and the door opened.  Our hostess, a Canadian, opened the doors and greeted us with a warm smile.  Even though we had never met her, she knew exactly why we’re there.  The group watched us and when they were sure they had delivered us safely, they proceed to say “arigato” and bow down, though it was us who were thankful for their help.  Our rescuers slowly retreated, looking at as they bowed down and walked away, bowed and walked away until they disappeared into the distance.

On Jan 5th, we left Phoenix for Bangkok and on Nov 5th we will return to Seattle. It has been 10 months of being on the road living out a trip that we had planned for two years. The money is gone (more than we expected!) and the adventure is over. I can’t believed it has been that long. Traveling around Thailand seems like ages ago. We saw some amazing sights including Angkor Wat in Cambodia, Aya Sofia in Istanbul, the rice fields of Bali, the sheep and mountains and everything of New Zealand, the Great Barrier Reef of Australia, the Tibetan Plateau of China (or Tibet depending on who you ask), the mountain villages of Laos and Thailand, the Killing Fields of Cambodia, the beaches of southern Thailand, the children of VIetnam returning home after school dressed up in their beautiful white uniforms, the karst formations rising from Ha Long Bay in Vietnam, the 300 monks accepting their daily alms in Luang Prabang, the Vietcong tunnels of Vietnam, the green mountains of Northern Spain, the shanty towns of South Africa, the crystal clear water of Zanzibar, the small town life of Provence, the giant wildlife (think lions, zebras, giraffes and hyena) of Kruger National Park, the vineyards of France, New Zealand, South Africa, Switzerland, Spain and Australia and most importantly, the people and food of the world. What an amazing year it has been!

While it is a bit sad that it is all coming to an end, we’re also excited to be returning home.

Home. Where our friends and family are. Where we have our own place. No more hostels. No more hotels. No more sleeping on the (very appreciated!) couch of a friend or the (very appreciated) dirty floor of a stranger.

Home. Where there are 400 channels of TV. Where the snow is starting to fall in the mountains and the snowboard is waiting to be taken out for a ride. Where we have cars and can go wherever we want whenever we want.

Home. Where our jobs are…

Wait.

That last one isn’t so stellar but it ain’t so bad either. Being productive is nicer and being able to afford a meal and the power isn’t bad either.

It’s our last night here in Paris. Just in for 20 hours to catch our flight home. We got in a great meal and picked up a few kitchen supplies but that’s about it. We have to be up at 6am to catch the flight home and we will be back in our second home (Charlie and Emy’s) by 3pm.

See you soon!

We met my sister Emy and her husband Charlie in Istanbul.  While the Greiners enjoyed their 4 star hotel (sadly right next to the train tracks, but did the beautiful hotel description mention that? I think not), Tim and I went down the street to a hostel and shared an ok room with yet another stinky  and moist bathroom.  But this too, shall pass, I kept telling myself.

The first night we met up with my friend Yasemin, a Turkish-German that I met in Seattle a few years ago. Yasemin works for the German embassy in Ankara, but she made the trip out to see us. Being the local and all, Yasemin showed us around, ordered some great Turkish food, took us out for drinks with her cousin and friends and, at the end of the night, got us a cab.

She negotiated the price with our cabbie.  15 Turkish lira, she said.  Seemed like a good deal, about 10 bucks for all 4 of us (later we found out the tram is much faster and only $1 per person).

To say that the cab drivers there are crazy is an understatement.  They drive horribly whie yelling and raising their hands up in the air as if everybody were a horrible driver (true) except or them (not true).

So the crazy driver stops abruptly–not in front of our hotel, mind you–and rudely motions for us to get out of the car.  Guess it’s time to leave, we all figure.  My sister gets out.  Charlie gets out.  Tim gets out.  I am still in the car, ready to pay.  I give him a 20 lira bill and he nods his head.  I wait or my change.  He motions me to leave the car.  Nothing.

“It’s 15 lira,” I say, indignant.

He holds on to the crisp 20.   “20 lira, 20 lira,” he insists.

Nuh-uh.   This shady guy is NOT leaving with MY extra 3.5 dollars.  On principle.  And yes, a little bit out of spite.  Ok, so, a lot out of spite.  Totally out of spite, in fact.

“NO.  My friend already said it was 15!  She speaks Turkish and English, and she told ME only 15. “

“No change,” he blurts out, now raising his hand and violently motioning for me to get out–Charlie told me later he thought the Turk was about to slap me.

“Then give me back my money!” I yank the bill out of his hand, determined to find a stranger that will give me change.  Out on the street, to the chagrin of my husband, sister and brother-in-law, I ask a couple of tourists if they have change for a 20.  No such luck.

From the car, the cabbie starts yelling something.  It’s a miracle, he DOES have change after all.  Just like that.  So Diesel, already embarrassed by my so-called shenanigans, hands him the 20 lira note and gets the change.  And then counts the change.  A few CENTS!  Like four small COINS!!!  WTF.  By the time Diesel realizes it and most importantly, I realize it, the shady cabbie is gone.

If I had been left to take care of things, this would have not have happened.  I would have yelled (yes, indeed).  I would have chased him down the busy street (likely).  I would have kicked his Turkish butt (not likely, but hey, a girl can still dream, right?)

Sometimes Tim and I scream at each other in the middle of the street in all our ghettoness. Sometimes Kelly leaves Diesel on the side of the road to teach him a lesson, only to find out that the next exit is not for another several miles, and when she finally manages to turn around and pick him up, his wrath has reached unprecedented proportions. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes Diesel criticizes Kelly for complaining about going up a mere 50 steps to get to a guesthouse. And sometimes I finish going up a looong flight of stairs and triumphantly yell: “ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY STEPS. I TOLD YOOOOOOOU!”

But then again, sometimes Tim rubs my back when I am feeling motion sickness (which is pretty much every bus ride we took). Sometimes Diesel tells me it’s ok to spend another 5 dollars so I can have a clean(er) bathroom. Most times Diesel will carry all the crap I’ve acquired along the way. Most times I let Tim sit by the window because he likes to look out the window, even if I have to take the middle seat. Sometimes I leave him extra food on my plate because he loves to eat. Sometimes I drive more than I want to because I know he’s tired. It’s been hard at times, but mostly it’s been good. If NY has taught us to rely on each other in a city where we knew almost nobody, this trip has taught us that we are in this for the long haul.

Thanks Diesel for the good times. I hope we win the lottery one day and can do a lot more of this (or please become rich for me).

After many attempts to arrange a time and place to meet up with Kelly’s sister and her husband, it turned out that late October was the only possible date. We would be in Europe. Where should we meet? If Oktoberfest comes to your mind, then you don’t realize that Oktoberfest is mostly during September. We looked into a variety of options that would be both warm and interesting and because Emy and Charlie would be traveling on miles, available seats. Istanbul rose up and after asking around and hearing lots of good things, became our destination.

As you know, I’m back at work in London these days but because I came back earlier than expected, they decided to give me a couple days to see my family who were flying all the way out to see us. I couldn’t spend the entire 2 weeks with them as planned, but this was still a nice gesture and substitute. Kelly was in Germany still traveling and this would also be a time that we could meet up.

I flew into Istanbul’s new Sahiba Gocken Airport and quickly got into a giant queue to get a visa. It seemed that nobody on our flight was actually Turkish. Turkey must be betting on their entry into the EU because the visa office seemed like a complete afterthought. Ah. Back to the developing world where nothing works quite right.

Is Turkey a developing world? I think so. It is a member of the Developing 8 Group, an alliance of developing countries with large Muslim populations. Other countries include Egypt (home to the world’s poorest city), Iran and Indonesia among others.

I didn’t realize that Istanbul was this massive – 15 million people. And while housing and infrastructure are certainly nicer than Thailand, you can still see many similarities.

I arrived without any knowledge of Istanbul. I hadn’t even glanced at a guidebook. Traveling so much can make you a bit arrogant. I wrote down the name and address of the hotel and assumed I’d figure it out when I got there. I got a little nervous after the first taxi told me he did not know the address and my phone wasn’t working.

But it all worked out. the next taxi knew where to go and while I think he squeezed a couple extra lira out of me by going an indirect way, I made it to the hotel and met up with the group.

Istanbul has some really impressive architecture and history. Sitting on both continents of Asia and Europe, it was smack dab in the middle of the trading routes between the two. It also served as the capital of the Roman empire at one time or another and has buildings dating back to the BC times. And while some sites could use a bit of maintenance, others are in great shape. The Aya Sofia, built in the 530s is one of most impressive structures I’ve ever seen. While it was built as a Christian church and then converted into a Mosque 1000 years later, it doesn’t look like any other cathedral I’ve ever seen. A massive and open building that looks both Roman and Muslim. A picture could never do it justice and you’ll just have to go one day.

Aya Sofia

We also spent time walking through the various neighborhoods and street markets. Nothing impressive really in any of those, except maybe some spices. Maybe if you’re into gold or rugs or low quality clothing, but we weren’t.More interesting to just sit in a cafe and people watch.

Istanbul might rank up there as the pushiest city, right next to some places in Vietnam. All of our taxi drivers were trying to scam us out of money and restaurants and even the nice hotel that Charlie and EMy stayed in (we stayed in a budget hostel) were hassling us. It can be a bit overwhelming to hear somebody yell at you when you ignore their requests to eat at their place or shop in their store – in every other place, people would realize you weren’t interested but in Istanbul that get angry about it.

I don’t want to leave you with a bad impression. It would have been nice to stay and I would go back one day. Kelly is still there for the rest of the week, so we’ll have to see what she says when she returns.

As I said that, another English girl walked into thebath room: “Oh, but Asian girls take a looong time in the bathroom.”

Me:  “Hm.”

She: “Oh, but I can say that because my friend is Asian.”

That’s pretty much like Diesel making Asian jokes because he’s married to an Asian, which doesn’t make it any more acceptable. Let’s face it. Only Asians can make Asian jokes.

Me (rolling my eyes): “Riiight.”

So what are the chances that two very close relatives would be unemployed at the same time??? Pretty slim, but that’s exactly what happened in London.  My cousin Felipe (nicknamed Tico) graduated this summer from the renowned London Business School and between graduation and his new job, he enjoyed a whole month of staycation (because, as you all know, when you’re unemployed you have no $ to travel).

Anyhow, we were able to spend lots of time sightseeing, buying him new work clothes, bitching about the English and how London would be so much better without them (it’s one thing to see English travelers getting drunk, being loud and rude and culturally insensitive during our travels; it is yet another thing to see them at this high concentration in one place), eating at hole in the walls and cooking.  Lots.  And while we rubbed our bellies in disgust and lamented the sad state of our midsection, we just could not stop ourselves.

Our love of food as well as our gluttony is obviously genetic, so we took a fatalistic approach and decided not to fight against our nature.  We’ll just deal with the extra poundage later…

Our week of gluttony culminated in our strogonoff meal, where I cooked a big batch of strogonoff, almost all of which we ate in one, disgusting, yet delicious sitting.  And to top it off, we beat the leftover cream into whipped cream and had it with fruit–way to turn a healthy dessert into a calorie bomb! And then, as we sat together gossiping and rubbing our ever growing bellies, it dawned on us.  We had just consumed HALF a LITER of CREAM!

Anyhow, here are some of the food highlights of the trip..

Tico and I in front of Trafalgar Square

Indian food around Brick Road

Homemade bacalhau (salted codfish) with potatoes, tomatoes and olives (typical Portuguese dish)

Dessert at a hip Japanese/Chinese place

Raclette with potatoes at Borough Market

Famous Brandisa chorizo sandwich at Borough Market

Also, after SO many months, I finally accepted that I like picasa way  more than Flickr, so from now on, my pics will be posted on picasa:

http://picasaweb.google.com/chowkelly

I’ve been back in the USA for about 10 days, just enough time to get sick, get a traffic ticket for expired tags and start work. Today I am leaving for London, where I will meet up with Kelly and spend the next month working on a work project. Kelly is only there for a few more days and then shell head to Switzerland and spend the next month traveling trough germany.

On nov 5th, we will meet in paris and fly home together. At that point we will be back permanently in Seattle. Many people have asked if we were going back to NY and the answer is no. We never had any intentions of going back there and we have nothing there now. All of our stuff is in Seattle.

I don’t know anybody in London so when I’m not working, I’ll start updating the blog again.