Tag Archives: traveling

Food

Picky Eating and Overcoming the Fear of Fine Dining

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I’ve been a picky eater ever since I can remember. I don’t like vegetables or most fruit. I generally don’t like green foods. I absolutely hate the fibrous crunch of lettuce, celery, broccoli—you name it. Going out to eat in my high school years with friends was basically me ordering a dish, picking off 50% of the contents, and eating what little remained, unless I was fortunate enough to find the one dish that wasn’t covered in a salad and coleslaw. So how did I fall in love with food? It seems unlikely, considering that I entirely hate a major food group.

My family went on vacation the summer after my sophomore year, and my mom desperately wanted to eat at this restaurant she’d seen reviews for. It was her birthday, and I was dragged along, slightly against my will. What was wrong with just going to the Outback for another Bloomin’ Onion and some of their ridiculously portioned cheesecake slices? What about their awesome dark brown bread they served with a huge knife running through it?

I didn’t know it, but I was about to lose my footing. Birthday dinners would never be the same for me.

I swooned after one bite of something utterly and impossibly amazing. One little piece of steak. It looked so sad on this large white plate, all by itself. I pitied it, put it on my fork, and put it in my mouth. What I tasted was this juicy, creamy, melt-in-your-mouth slice of heaven. Just barely crispy on the edges, but succulent all the way through, it teased every sense out of my feeble teenager mouth. It was heavenly, and suddenly Outback seemed boring, for peasants only. I was awestruck that something so small could pack such a punch, bring up so many wonderful food-related feelings. When the time came to order dessert, I decided to be adventurous and ordered something with fresh fruit. A raspberry “napoleon”: chantilly cream layered with fresh berries with crispy pastry tuilles in between. The order shocked my parents. I astounded them again when I ate bite after bite of my dessert (previously, I’d only been interested in artificial fruit flavors).

From then on, there was a small obsession with finding a perfect bite to meet that piece of meat. Now that my parents were not as worried about me finding something to eat on any given menu, we tried new restaurants. I was enjoying new flavors, but I kept running into all of these pesky vegetables. They were on every entrée, present as a garnish on every appetizer. Sometimes, they even made it to dessert, which disgusted and horrified me. About a year after the best piece of steak ever, my mom grew tired with me leaving half the plate behind. She told me, “Finish your plate or you can pay for your share of the food,”—and with those prices, I was horrified. When a dish was a solid week’s worth of earnings at my then-shitty-semi-retail job, avoiding the vegetables was clearly not worth it when I wanted to go to Disneyland over Spring Break.

So I put the piece of asparagus in my mouth, chewed briefly, and swallowed. And it wasn’t love. It was still mild disgust, but the idea of paying for something and not eating it (at least at a high price point) started to gall me. Bite after bite, frown after frown, the vegetables went away and the plate was empty. It wasn’t the worst thing ever, but it wasn’t something I’d choose to do on an everyday basis. My family found it entertaining, that I would break such a hard-and-fast eating rule for a fancy meal.

I’d like to say that day changed something in me, but it didn’t. I still don’t like greens, though I’ve compromised and started to enjoy some fresh fruit more often. The love of food, great food made with immense care, pushes me to keep trying new and exciting things. So I keep trying different restaurants with exotic menus and preparations. And I’ll have you know, I recently ate a large slice of cucumber with eggplant relish and didn’t throw a tantrum (or throw up).

Photo by Sara Slattery

Photo by Sara Slattery

Brainfood

Camera Tech

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As the media is apt to tell us, we are living in a digital age where information is reduced to tiny pixels to be uploaded to a computer or social media site. That might be an overly detached way to put it, as the digital sharing we do every day truly can connect us to people we would never expect. We take pictures and video with our phones, and since technology has gotten so advanced, these are usually perfectly adequate for our social media needs. But for those who want to take their digital sharing to the next step (filming or taking high-quality photos and videos), there are a multitude of options available.

The Casual Photo Journalist

Smartphones these days take quality photos and can be a good replacement for a digital camera, but pictures take up a lot of memory—if you want to take a lot of pictures as well as short videos, investing in a point-and-shoot camera is the way to go. A point-and-shoot camera is exactly what its name implies: a camera where you can point it at something and take a decent photo with no adjustments needed. This kind of camera is perfect for those who don’t know or don’t care about the anatomy of a picture and just want to capture memories. These cameras can store up to 500 pictures at a time—sometimes more—and can record videos as long as 20 minutes. They are also getting smaller with better battery life and more memory space, making them the perfect travel companions. They are also great for kids who are just starting to use more sophisticated technology.

Some of the more highly rated point-and-shoot cameras out there include:

  • Canon PowerShot A-Series – This is a series of point-and-shoot cameras that range in price and power but provide an easy experience.
  • Nikon Coolpix Series – This series has a number of cameras under $100 with a variety of zoom ranges and different settings for taking pictures.

What you’ll find with a lot of these smaller cameras is that they are super easy to use. They have a lot of options for how to take your pictures or video without sacrificing too much quality, but the camera will always control how much light or focus the picture has. If you want to get more creative, you might want to invest in some of these bad boys below!

The Not-So-Amateur Photographer

For those who really want to dig into photography and experiment with light, zoom, focus, and a whole bunch of other variables, then investing in a DSLR is the way to go. A Digital Single-Lens Reflex (DSLR) camera is a fancy way of saying a powerful digital camera. These cameras pack a lot of punch.

First, their memory storage is phenomenal. Most of these cameras can have memory cards that hold at least 1500 pictures. You also get to control the operating parts of the camera, such as the shutter (which controls how much light goes in) and the shutter speed (which controls how long the shutter stays open to let light in). You can do some fun things with the focus of your pictures, as well as with the light. Now, if none of this makes sense to you but you want to use these more advanced cameras, doing some research or taking a short photography course (from an online learning site like Lynda.com or at a local community center) will definitely help you get the most out of your equipment.

There is some rivalry between the Canon and Nikon camps, but honestly, they are both super good at making cameras and it’s really a personal preference. This author is partial to Nikon, but that was after months of research and examination of my personal needs (as I write this, my Canon-adoring editor overlords are plotting their revenge!).

  • Nikon D Series – Nikon’s DSLR cameras range from the monster D4s, which have the ability to use 16 million pixels in one picture, to the modest D3000, a model that is perfect if you are just starting out using a DSLR.
  • Canon EOS series – These cameras, much like the Nikons mentioned above, have a wide range between each camera. The Canon 1D X has 18.1 megapixels and have a few less advanced models that is good for those who don’t need such a powerful camera.

With each DSLR, you need a few lenses to get the best quality photos. Unless you want to get crazy, a standard zoom and a telephoto lens work just fine. There are a few others that specialize in zoom or have a fish-eye, but those have a very specific purpose and may not worth the money unless you are seriously making a career out of taking pictures or you want to take those kinds of photos all the time.

The power of these cameras is unreal. In fact, they are so powerful that some people in Hollywood are using DSLR cameras to film small budget films and music videos—that’s the kind of quality we are talking about. So if you want to make photography a serious priority or hobby, I would look into DSLRs. I got my Nikon D5000 for my high school graduation and have used it on multiple trips, including my year abroad in Europe, and it was a fantastic experience. That said, my friends with regular point-and-shoot cameras also got some quality photos.

Overall, I would assess your needs, consider the amount of upkeep and effort you want to exert, do some research, and ask questions! Cameras are a great investment and can help preserve some of the best times. So make sure you’re using quality technology!

Photo by Rob Adams

Photo by Rob Adams

Home

Mindful Road Rage

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Once upon a time, I drove around in circles in a Kaiser parking lot bawling my eyeballs out, thanks to an old man who had no a clue just how terribly he had impacted me emotionally. I had already spilled my morning smoothie, was running late to an appointment, and had a conference to prep for the next day.

Like everyone else, I was desperately searching for parking and finally found someone leaving fair and square. Unfortunately, I had to torturously watch a seemingly evil old man slowly steal my spot, pretending I wasn’t there honking at him, staring aghast at the injustice of it all. One last hand-on-the-horn-for-15-seconds only earned me the bird for my efforts to take back justice. And only resulted in the flood gates bursting open instantly. Once I managed to calm down, I tried to justify my overemotional reaction after reigning in my thoughts of how cruel and, well, fucked-up people can be. I was ready to get that old man and his little dog, too

Here’s something everyone can relate to: road rage. Just pure, unadulterated everyone-out-of-my-mother… fatherbrothersister’s-way road rage.

I don’t know what it is about people who drive like maniacs / fools / donkey riders in the tenth century… but nothing riles me up faster than being cut off by someone (read: idiot on wheels) who doesn’t have the decency to pick up the pace when they get in the lane that is rightfully yours. Isn’t that what it feels like? The thirty-foot space in front of your vehicle belongs to you! It has your name carved into it. I get so territorial and deranged; I start tailing them,  revving the little engine of my not-so-souped-up two-door manual Civic and I’m so damn pleased with myself when I finally overtake the shit out of them, sneak over with a dirty look, and show them who’s boss. (Cue a war cry followed by your choice of ‘EAT MY DUST, SPARKY!’ or ‘JUSTICE!’ or  ‘This is SPARTAAAA!’)

But what happens when you are desperate to be constantly zen like me? When you judge yourself every time you get irritated, because you have a reputation for being a meditator and working at a center for compassion? I’ve been doing that for nearly eight years now (the meditation bit; the compassion gig for two), and only in the last few years have I touched upon the tip of the iceberg of something I like to call “Mindful Road Rage.” The road is truly is the best place to practice mindfulness—and by that I don’t mean you start meditating while driving. (My old research professor says she ‘meditates with her eyes open’ for her grueling two-hour commutes—much to my horror for her safety.) What I mean is realizing your supremely bizarre emotional anger every time you feel wronged on the road, before you begin to act like that a-hole on the road yourself (everyone in a Beamer—I’m looking at YOU! Including my friend Ari. The stereotype is there for a reason…!).

Of course, as I was thinking of this article, someone (an idiot so to speak) cut me off and I had immediate road rage Tourette’s and cursed out loud in what is known as Unglish (Urdu English—the language would warrant too many horrified gasps and therefore will be withheld. My mother knows I blog, okay?)

So why does this matter? Why in the holy name of Thom Yorke’s exceptional dance skills would you want to be mindful about your road rage? Why should you and whose army care?

Well firstly, not everyone can be as special as you, driving like they’re Han Solo in the Millennium Falcon in an asteroid field. Damn these inferior X-wing drivers. But guess what? The only person whom this negatively affects is actually you. The person who just cut you off most likely has no clue. And it’s unlikely they’ll become a better driver because you go off blaring your horn at them. You’ll probably startle them shitless and make them more of a liability on the road.

It can also be hard to see a person in a vehicle as a human being with loved ones… I know I just see a damn box on wheels. Similar to how it’s harder to relate over a computer or phone screen: we’re wired to read body language and voice tones. So it’s easy to get caught up and be obnoxious. Perhaps the metal body surrounding them, like a Power Ranger on wheels, sucks a little bit of the humanity out of them? Bold and a little out there, but something to consider.

Another reason is… science. Our flight-or-fight response is best reserved for fighting off wild beasts. It hasn’t evolved to deal with first-world problems just yet because we change shit too fast and too well; evolution is a long process of trying and testing—not like fast tracking in the FDA. There’s nothing you can do to get rid of that damned stress hormone, cortisol, so when you amp up your stress response, you are literally creating conditions for chronic stress (which, over time, will seriously fuck you up—to put it kindly). The power of science compels you!

Let’s go back to that dastardly old man in that Kaiser parking lot. Once I finally wiped the sob-snot from my face, I thought, What if this man has a wife who’s dying in there? What if he’s coming in for his own regular chemo? People do douchebag things out of desperation sometimes. Perhaps this was something that didn’t matter in the grand scheme of what he was going through. Or you know, maybe he was just truly being a douchebag. But once you start to consider that you have not a damned idea about going on in another person’s story at that moment, it is in your best interest for your sanity to give them the benefit of the doubt. And that, ladies and gentlemen, will put some so-called a-hole drivers in a whole different perspective.

The fact is that everyone else on the road, your fellow earthlings, are just trying to get where they’re going, just like you are. They need to put their needs before yours, just as you put yours before theirs… and it’s going to happen again and again and again. You can’t change that, but you sure can change how you feel about it, and it’ll benefit not only your own well-being, but also the chaotic mess that is the phenomena of driving and traffic. You can even take it a step further by making it your random acts of kindness for the day or an easy way to be nice. You can’t change the situation, but you sure can change your thought process about it.

Now when you want heads to roll on the freeway, either play nice to boost your own good karma or choose wisely from Carlin’s incomplete list of impolite words, take a deep breath, and drop it immediately, so that no drivers, including yourself, are harmed in the process.

Big Mak standing by…

Photo by Rob Adams

Photo by Rob Adams

Career

Adventures in Freelancing (Pants Optional)

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I never thought I’d miss desk chairs.

I was fortunate enough to be one of those people who started working immediately after college. A yearlong internship panned out—the television company with which I’d been interning took on a $45 million project during my last semester, and rather than train new coordinators, they just started paying me once I graduated. I started at $500 a week, which at the time felt like legit riches, and then got bumped up to $600 a few months later.

Although I was only supposed to contract for about 5 months, I ended up staying as an employee for more than a year, during which time my incredible boss/mentor rallied tirelessly to get me put on salary, but to no avail. I tried to move laterally in the company, toward one of the creative jobs that were more along the lines of my degree, but nepotism reared its fugly head and I was passed over for any new positions.

So, I found myself with no chances to move within the company and no full-time prospects elsewhere. I did cry, once—in the comfort of my own breakfast burrito—and no one noticed except the waiter, who (bless him) wordlessly handed me a mimosa. After a few sips, I pulled myself together, considered my skills and connections, and shifted my mindset to freelancing. Fortunately, thanks to the proactive work of my now-former boss, I spent almost no time searching for jobs. She put me in contact with a few company connections, all of whom I reached out to immediately and pushed to set meetings up with. During these meetings, if there were even an inkling of a suggestion of a task mentioned, I said yes. Always yes. I agreed to everything from working a private school charity function for a producer to managing the marketing for an upcoming indie film. I can’t stress enough how important it is to say yes. If the task is basic enough that they’re asking a relative stranger to do it, and it doesn’t involve a Hazmat suit, it’s probably something you can figure out how to do. I consider myself a lifetime double student at the universities of Google and Your Local Public Library.

So I got a backup laptop battery, switched out my unlimited MetroCard for a pay-per-ride and, before I could put on my comfy slippers, I was juggling five different freelance gigs. And I do mean different. I spent my days alternating between cutting Flavor of Love highlights (yes, the VH-1 masterpiece), to pulling stills and sound bites for a TV show’s digital board game, to frantically researching Photoshop layer-masking for a website’s design after having promised I had the adequate skills to do it.

The Money

Let’s talk about the fun part of freelancing: getting paid!!! Negotiating a pay rate is not as tricky or as terrifying as you’d expect. Before that process begins for you, ask someone in a similar field about the rates they charge, both when they started and now. When you go back to the employer, don’t be afraid to aim higher than you think you should. If you’ve gotten this far in setting up a freelance position, they’re unlikely to slam the (e-)door in your face. They’ll either say yes, or they’ll counter with a lower rate. From there, feel free to negotiate away; I found that agreeing on a rate within a couple of emails saved both of us from any potential resentment.

Here’s another thing about quoting a rate for your work. Come on—lean in for this one—I’m going to type in italics to invoke whispering: If they’re hiring you to do some extra work, eight times out of ten they don’t know how to do it themselves. They probably don’t even know what the typical rate is. Don’t take advantage of people, obviously, but don’t be afraid to upcharge based on your own experience (whatever that may be) and to make it worth your while. Like I said, I promise that an employer won’t turn down your services, then tell all his/her friends not to hire you, and then hack into your OKCupid account to declare you a huge, pompous, money-grubbing asshole if you quote a rate that’s too high.

What’s less fun than negotiating a rate is chasing after employers for money. It’s not necessarily that you didn’t do a great job, or that the employer is a bad person, or that the project is necessarily a total go-nowhere scam running out of the back of a souvenir shop. (I repeatedly stress not taking this stuff personally, because it’s very easy to let happen, especially if you’re working alone most of the time and away from the regular, conversational feedback of office life. A year of freelancing left me more sensitive to criticism than Joffrey Lannister-Baratheon.) It is simply not your clients’ top priority to give you their money, regardless of the job you did. So don’t be afraid to bring it up kindly in an email or make a phone call, regularly, to make sure it happens. No one is going to worry themselves as much about your payment as you are. Be your own #1 get-money-get-paid advocate.

The Routine

Throughout my time freelancing, it was hard to regulate some semblance of a routine. I would work late until I fell asleep with my computer in my lap, and then I would wake up the next morning, grab my computer from my bedside, and start working again. The sheer number of deadlines made self-motivation easy; the trickier task was turning my brain off from “work mode.” Imagine getting to your office at 8 am and leaving after midnight every day. Even if you’re only committed to eight hours, you’ll probably find yourself working ahead just because you’re in that environment. When I was working from home, there was no differentiator, especially when “home” was a teeny tenement apartment with no common spaces.

But there were numerous advantages! I could work in my pajamas (although to avoid the inevitable self-disgrace, I usually didn’t), I could do my laundry and grocery shopping in the middle of the day when there were no lines. I worked my gym schedule around the TV Guide for the channels I could watch on the treadmill. My conversational skills didn’t exactly flourish, but my work and home lives were the most efficient they’d ever been.

The Location

At one point, I decided to take the phrase “working remotely” to heart. With some extra cash from one particularly lucrative job, I moved to an apartment two blocks from the Mediterranean Sea for a few months while I continued to cut, edit, and write content for various clients. Wake up, work over breakfast, bring lunch and write on the beach before it got too hot, come home, work through dinner, go out with new roommates. And, of course, go on the occasional adventure. I realize that not every freelance job can be done from across the globe, but if the stars align accordingly for you, then get your ass out there.

Hanging Up The Slippers

Before I knew it, a year of freelancing had passed. By then, I was working part-time in the office of a client, a social media/entertainment startup, who now needed me on-hand for a few hours a week. I was also bartending a couple times a week, more for the social interaction than anything else. I felt both exhausted and also, strangely, unaccomplished; unless you’re looking at freelance gigs cumulatively, it’s easy to feel like you didn’t contribute greatly to any one project.

Not long after that, the part-time office job asked me to come onboard full-time. After weighing the decision, I decided to hang up my slippers and come back to office life. I would miss the freedom of scheduling my day, and I would miss indulging the weird idiosyncrasies I had developed from being alone most of the time for 15 months (like talking to myself excessively and eating certain foods with a knife only). Ultimately, the most alluring prospects were the regular, decent salary, a stake of equity in the company, the comfort of a desk chair (so much more ergonomic than the headboard of my bed), and the chance to interact all day with humans who weren’t appearing on a daytime talk show.

Am I glad I made the switch back to a one-job-only, 9-to-5 life? Yes. Do I miss the flexibility? Yes, every time I get a low-airfare alert for some exotic city, or try and elbow my way to the only rust-stain-free dryer at the laundromat at 7:30 in the evening. On the plus side, I have more regular in-person human interaction; I’m finally starting to get out of the habit of what I call ‘speaking in email,’ ending all spoken office conversations with “Best, Alyssa.” And I don’t have to chase anyone for a paycheck—it lands nicely into my checking account twice a month.

Is It For You?

I don’t know that I would recommend freelancing as a full-time job to everyone. I think it’s worth trying, especially if any of the above perks seem attractive to you. And oftentimes, they can lead to a steadier position, as in my case.

If you’re thinking about jumping on the freelance train, it’s worth having some money saved up, in case the jobs dry up or in case an employer is dragging their feet to give you your first paycheck. There’s always going to be some lingering awareness (and there should be, if you’re responsible about your bank account) that there will be periods of low income in addition to times where you’re flush with cash. Retail copywriting, for example, is heavily sought after from October to December, but unsurprisingly, work dries up after the holidays. So as tempting as it is after a well-paid gig to head to Serendipity 3 for a celebratory Frrozen Haute Chocolate, it might be worth saving some of that cheddar for a rainy day. If managing your money with some Scroogery isn’t something you think you’re capable of, then maybe freelancing isn’t for you.

Of course, starting to freelance isn’t always an all-or-nothing decision. You might be working one full-time position when someone asks you to take on a project. Then that may lead to other projects, some concurrently, until you have to consider whether it’s enough money and consistent work to quit your day job for. If so, and if you don’t LOVE your day job, then I say get out of there! Be free! Spread your self-sufficient wings! And when that day comes when you’re called back down to Earth for another permanent position, you have to make the decision for yourself: Just how much do you love eating oatmeal with a knife?

Photo by Meaghan Morrison

Photo by Meaghan Morrison

Travel

Our Mixtapes: Soundtracks For a Sane Commute

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When I was in middle school and high school, I was the queen of mix CDs. I made mixes for my friends and family, for car rides, and just for myself. It was, and is, one of my favorite pastimes. Choosing my favorite songs to find what tracks went well together was fun and challenging. Now, after years of practice, I think I’ve gotten pretty good at it (or at least my mom thinks so).

I find the process of creating mixes cathartic and important because, in my humble opinion, music makes everything better. Workouts, walks, studying, traveling, or just lounging about, music can bring you up or bring you down depending on your mood and what kind of day you’ve had. Because of this, I have several go to playlists and songs that I use when I am commuting to and from work or other places to either get me going or calm me down after a rough day.

To honor this, and hopefully give you lovely readers some cool and maybe new music, I have put together some of my favorite songs for a sane commute.

Like a Boss

These songs I feel are for a day when work didn’t crush your soul but instead made you feel like you were actually contributing something to the world. Go figure. They are upbeat but slightly melancholy in their own individual way. (Hey, you had a great day, but you still have to get up tomorrow…)

1) “Don’t You Evah” – Spoon, Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga

2) “Sister” – The Black Keys, El Camino (Ohhhh, this is a fancy live version!)

3) “Lies” – CHVRCHES, The Bones of What You Believe

4) “Jackie, Dressed in Cobras” – The New Pornographers, Twin Cinema

5) “Forever” – HAIM, Days Are Gone

Adventure Awaits

These songs are for a great day that also happens to be a Friday or the start of a vacation. They have great beats, are pretty positive overall and are fantastic for singing along. Who cares if they see you mouthing lyrics? You get to sleep in tomorrow!

1) “Drove Me Wild” – Tegan and Sara, Heartthrob

2) “In Your Light” – Gotye, Making Mirrors

3) “All of the Lights” – Kayne West, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy

4) “Santa Fe” – Beirut, The Rip Tide

5) “Forever Yours” – Alex Day, Forever Yours

6) “Fearless” – Taylor Swift, Fearless

Down for the Count

These next few songs are for the defeated. That might sound a bit melodramatic, but sometimes that’s the only way I feel after a long and arduous and probably really stupid day. They are sad but beautiful, and hopefully they can serve as a reminder that you just have to keep doing you. So plug in your head phones, and let the world fall away.

1) “Orange Sky” – Alexi Murdoch, Away We Go Soundtrack

2) “No Cars Go” – Arcade Fire, Neon Bible

3) “Bella Donna” – The Avett Brothers, The Second Gleam

4) “Perth” – Bon Iver. Bon Iver

5) “The Story I Heard” – Blind Pilot, 3 Rounds and a Sound

6) “The Gambler” – fun., Aim and Ignite

7) “I Know What I Know” – Paul Simon, Graceland

8) “Right as Rain” – Adele, 19

Photo by Remi Coin

Photo by Remi Coin

Travel

Time Stamped in a Different Time Zone

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This February will mark my two-year anniversary of booking a one-way ticket to Bangalore, India, ultimately leaving New York and my friends behind to chase a newfound interest in helping women’s rights abroad.

A lot has changed since the nights I spent in New York drunkenly crying on my bedroom floor, chain-smoking Camels to temper the taste of feeling pathetic, frustrated, and directionless in my mouth. Full disclosure: I listened to the entire Drake album on repeat for months, too.

And, yet, this March marks my return back to the U.S. to pursue graduate school. Though my intention behind the move was to donate my skills, the reality is that I took more lessons from India than I dished out.

India has gone above and beyond in delivering the unique experience that I desperately craved, but Frommer’s did not tell me how to handle spending the night in a lodge run by an oiled down 12-year-old boy, sleeping on a blood-stained bed sheet. Women’s interest blogs did not guide me on how to hitchhike on a 16-year-old’s motorcycle to get away from a group of leering men that started following me out of the gym. Expat groups did not tell me that before I even started my first day at work, my colleague would be kind enough to invite me to his daughter’s first birthday with the rest of the team.

But I don’t want to focus on the lessons of humility, patience and sanitation that I’ve learned from moving abroad. It would be trite to remind you to eat only cooked food or observe the local attire.  I don’t have photos albums of sepia-filtered temples or me doing the downward dog on the beach. #princessjasmine

All those things could be learned and recreated from a Lonely Planet forum or even a short-term visit to a foreign country. What I have experienced from being away from the U.S. is something that no amount of literature or conversation could have prepared me for: transience.

The life of an expat can be inherently sad and lonely. Unless you moved abroad with your family or plan on settling long-term in a new place, you immediately realize the implications of having a time-stamped relationship with your host country.

Almost everything in my current life has a clear expiration date, except for ironically, the milk (seriously, why doesn’t it ever go bad here?). I meet a fellow expat and, by the time I learn his last name, I also know his departure date and what airline he is flying. The takeaway? Always fly Emirates.

I find investing in these friendships exhausting because I wonder if I made any stable or consistent connections in the last two years. Are we all rushing into fake intimacy because it is better to be slamming shots under the guise of friendship than it is to be the lonely girl at the bar ordering white wine…. again?

Or can six months of friendship be a solid enough foundation to keep the momentum going for years to come? After all, those six months were littered with experiences like holding my French friend’s hand in the ambulance as we rushed to the emergency room to avoid a potential splenectomy. Or sitting behind my Australian friend on a scooter as we navigate a new beach town. And then I remember that our home countries are scattered all over the world. Our unifying thread is the time we spent in India. I don’t look for lifetime friendships in everyone I meet, but when I met you on Saturday and I know you leave in three weeks, I can’t help but ask, ‘Why bother?

Those restless nights in New York made me desire something else, but only professionally. I never questioned whether my personal life would turn into a revolving door of faces and names, nor did I imagine that I’d spend consecutive months with someone to never see them again. In essence, I took everyone for granted.

But this transience, she plays dirty. She’ll make you feel crazy and stupid until you are desperately refreshing Kayak for a good deal home. And just when your third bout of diarrhea hits from eating at the alleged five-star restaurant in the Sheraton and you’re stuck at home missing your friend’s goodbye party because a cab strike prevents you from physically attending, she comes over, sits on your lap, and gives you the ride of her life: Oh, a group of you guys are going to Goa this weekend? Sure, let me pack really quickly. Dinner at the Taj? Good thing I’m driving by RIGHT THIS SECOND.

Maybe she isn’t soo bad.

After all, transience has also shown me the beauty in expat life.  The constant merry-go-round of people in my life has forced me to enjoy each outing, each dinner, and even each bathroom trip for what it actually is. There is no false promise of the next hangout or a future trip. As corny as it may sound: moving away has forced me to actually live in the present.

And as you enjoy the third round of sangria at Sunday brunch with a group of people who you met three days ago at a some guy’s house party who is moving back to Canada next week, you also realize that life’s truest moments are those you spend with your fellow transient strangers. There are no guards up when talking to each other or feelings of shyness to cut through because you literally don’t have the time for the initial, get-to-know-you-slowly, game.  The second you realize that all you have are mere seconds to get to know someone, you stop sizing each other up and down and approach with more confidence and acceptance: commes des F down, we’re just doing dinner.

Now, I’m contemplating what profound insight to leave you with because my boyfriend just came home. I’m watching him change from a suit into a t-shirt—not because I’m completely creepy (well, okay, that too), but to take in this moment, because we may not be together after March, when I return home and he stays in India. He is an expat, too, from New York. I guess I really couldn’t leave New York behind.

This is when I want to slap transience for her loud mouth taunting, for filling me with doubts and “Why bothers?” We may be tragically time stamped. That ticking clock may force me to really—no, really—spend time with him here. But that’s all any of us ever have: today and an uncertain future. So I’m here now, today, with my own departure date. And all it took to appreciate this moment was to leave everything in my past.

Photo by Henri Legentil

Photo by Henri Legentil

 

Health, Travel

Food Poisoning as a Broke Foreigner

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Before I left on my two-week dream excursion to Western Europe, my boss had one piece of advice for my first trip to Europe: “Watch out for that French food. They love their rich sauces and butter.”  She was right—the French coat everything imaginable with creamy, delicious sauces.  My boyfriend teases me that I am overly sensitive to food, and he is right, too: my stomach can’t quite handle the greasy, fried foods that most young people in their twenties enjoy.  I have made a point of eating healthier since graduating college; however, this new healthy lifestyle was going to be left back at home. In Europe, I was determined to eat what I wanted, when I wanted, sensitive stomach be damned!

After consuming everything from the four basic Western-European food groups—cheese, meat, bread, and beer—David and I halted our binge in the Louvre. There, we hoped to find a quick, simple lunch.  I ordered what I assumed to be a cheap alternative to the rich and extravagant French dishes: a chicken sandwich.  Baguette, cold white meat chicken, hint of mayo, and lettuce.  By “cheap,” I mean 8 euros, which trust me, is cheap for Paris.  Especially compared to the fondue-and-champagne birthday dinner to which my boyfriend treated me the evening prior.

After filling up on our easy lunch, we commenced our 9-hour Louvre visit.  But, among the Egyptian ruins, mummified cats, and pages from the Book of the Dead, I was already starting to feel tired. It had only been a few hours so I dismissed it as travel fatigue (this was the last day of our whirlwind trip) and carried on. I was not about to miss any of the artifacts from one of my favorite historical eras! So, despite the occasional audible complaint from my stomach, we saw the mysterious Mona Lisa, the gorgeous Venus de Milo, and more paintings of Jesus than could fill the Notre Dame.

As our full-day Louvre excursion continued, David remained enthusiastic but I was drained and found it impossible to find the energy that had kept me going through Versailles, sightseeing in Berlin, an 8-hour drive through the German countryside, and Oktoberfest in Munich.  I kept having to sit down to take breaks on every bench we passed and build my energy to move through a museum that is rumored to take weeks to explore.

After a solid nine hours in the museum, David and I set off to find the Metro station, and stopped by a corner brasserie for dinner.  We were scheduled to fly back to the States the next day, so I wanted my last fill of traditional French food.  I ordered a rare steak, pommes frites, crème brûlée, and a glass of Bordeaux.  I was going to eat what I damn-well pleased and work off the inevitable weight gain later.

We were back in our hotel room by 8 pm and, within an hour, I was complaining of nausea and had a pretty nasty stomach ache.  After taking some Pepto Bismol (a necessity if you plan to eat and drink your way through Germany and France), I was not getting better.  Another hour later, I was vomiting.

David was our pillar of strength—and I say “our” because dealing with your significant other’s food poisoning is no cake walk for either of you—through the next 24 hours, which would prove to be my worst case of food poisoning to date.  (Which is really saying something: when one is born with a delicate stomach like mine, one is prone to overdramatic food poisoning episodes, like the time I got food poisoning from eating a veggie burger in middle school. Yes, that’s right—a burger patty comprised of vegetable matter gave me food poisoning.)  Anyway, once we realized I could not keep one sip of water down, I started worrying about the effects of dehydration. My mom, a registered nurse who has been to the emergency room with a bad bout of food poisoning, was our first call.  We spent 46 euros (about $62) to call her back in California on our hotel room telephone at 2:30 am (no, we didn’t have a calling card, and no, we weren’t about to go hunt one down at 2:30 am).  She confirmed that my symptoms were, in fact, the result of food poisoning and warned David not to let me get any more dehydrated.  Dehydration is the primary concern for anyone with this kind of food poisoning (the vomiting kind), because the effects of dehydration usually warrant a visit to the emergency room.  From then on, our chief concern was to keep me hydrated enough to avoid going to the E.R., where they would give me an I.V. for the fluids that were refusing to stay in my system.  At one point during the course of that night, I simultaneously begged David to make sure I didn’t get dehydrated and not to force me to take another sip of water.  Yes, I was a mess, but at least not a hot one—thankfully, I wasn’t running a fever. Dehydration plus fever equals a certain and expensive trip to the hospital.

When the vomiting wasn’t easing up at all, we realized I still needed medical attention and since we were trying to avoid the E.R., David and the hotel clerk contacted an on-call doctor who was available to make the last-minute house call to our hotel room at 3 am, for the low, low price of 110 euros (about $147).  This angelic, Parisian woman with lovely dark features came into our hotel room with a real-life version of the doctor kit that I played with as a kid: stethoscope, thermometer, blood pressure cuff, and briefcase adorned with vials of prescription drugs.  After asking for my age, known allergies, and what I had eaten the day before and when, she opened her briefcase, pulled out a needle, and prepped an injection.  Now, I’m usually perfectly okay with needles; I am devoted to my yearly flu shot. But, given my incapacitated state, I became uncharacteristically worried about the chance of a rouge air bubble left in the vial and of my doctor’s ability to practice medicine at 3 am.  In my haze, I remember asking what the mystery vial contained, and she responded with the prescription name of an antiemetic, to help with my vomiting and nausea.  I have no idea whether her response was in English or French: I don’t speak a word of French, and her English was coupled with a heavy French accent—so, to this day, I have no idea what she injected into my body. I felt another wave of nausea come over me, so I shrugged my shoulders, looked at my adoring boyfriend for support, ignored the fact that she never snapped on a pair of latex gloves, and willingly handed her my arm.

That doctor’s visit cost 110 euros, cash only, payment on the spot—a fact that I somehow managed to ignore until she was done treating my symptoms.  The “cash only” caveat being an issue since, between the two of us, David and I had roughly 65 euros on hand that was supposed to get us through our final day in Paris.  But the wonderful doctor with the miracle injection that promised to make me stop vomiting needed to be fairly compensated for her time!  David walked down to the hotel front desk, for the third time that night, and asked to borrow the remaining 45 euros with a promise to pay him back once the banks opened and David could withdraw the cash. Thankfully, the grumpy front desk attendant begrudgingly agreed.

I vomited a few more times but, finally, whatever the doctor administered kicked in and I had stopped by the time the sun came up.  I was in no shape to eat solid foods, but I needed to ingest something that would increase my blood sugar and energy.  David left the hotel room on a mission to find Coca-Cola, pick up medicine prescribed by the doctor, and—most importantly—get cash.  What David didn’t prepare for was the fact that, during our dream vacation out of the country, his debit card had expired. This meant he was unable to retrieve cash from any source.  My poor boyfriend walked back to the hotel room to get my debit card and face a not-so-forgiving version of his helpless girlfriend. By the time he returned with the soda, pills, and cash, I was worn down to the point of tears, and David was exhausted.

While the original plan was to hop on the Metro to Paris Orly Airport, there was no way that we could coordinate that effort with my sick ass and our four bags of luggage.  With the remaining cash from David’s morning ATM trip, we spent 80 euros (about $106) for a cab ride that far exceeded our original plan of a 3 euro each Metro ride.  But, we made it to the airport: broke, weak, and grateful for each other.

And when I got back to work a few days later, after arriving safely in the States, I was able to tell my boss all about our unforgettable trip.

Photo by Rob Admans

Photo by Rob Adams

Travel

Rob Me

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There are certain aspects of my life where I’ve been pretty lucky. I’ve managed never to break a bone or have a cavity, I went to a great university despite being an unapologetically lackluster student in high school, and hell, today I flew cross-country for a job interview only to find myself in the TSA screening line behind the very person I was traveling to meet.  But there is one place that luck seems to elude me (and it’s not my dating life, for those of you who read this site regularly)—it’s that people love to mug me.

Photo by Meaghan Morrison

That is not a statement you can write if you’ve only been mugged once. I’ve been pickpocketed in Manila, held at knifepoint in New York, and punched out in both Baltimore and Los Angeles. Having been mugged or otherwise robbed four times means, clearly, I’m doing something wrong. Word to the wise: if you don’t want to get your ass kicked and become intimately familiar with the practice of replacing the entire contents of your wallet, don’t be named Kyle. I hear that works pretty well.

MANILA

The Philippines, beautiful as it may be, is insanely dangerous. In the south, there are al Qaeda–affiliated terrorist groups who like to kidnap tourists; in the north, there was a military coup three weeks after I left town. Before college I was there visiting my great-uncle, and near the end of my trip he pulled me aside and told me I needed to “truly experience Manila.” My options were to go with him to a brothel so he could “make sure I left as a man,” or to go see what is regarded as a cultural hallmark of the Philippines, a cockfight. Telling my girlfriend back home that “it’s not cheating because my uncle made me do it” was not a thing I wanted try, so I figured watching chickens fight to the death was slightly safer.

We were dropped off at what can only be described as the shadiest arena ever built: this place looked like a dilapidated tennis stadium coated in a centuries worth of grime and chicken shit. Inside, all the seats had been removed and a crowd of nearly a thousand men (no women allowed) surrounded a fighting pit the size of a boxing ring. About halfway through the third bout, I felt something rubbing against me and looked down to see a hand stealthily trying to slip my wallet out of my pocket.

Looking back, I realize I made a few mistakes: aside from going to what is without a doubt the most dangerous place I’ve ever been in my life, the bigger mistake was the spectacle my uncle and I made upon our entrance. Two people getting out of a chauffeured car and leaving a bodyguard at the door is a bit conspicuous. Add in the fact that I’m a head taller and significantly paler than the rest of the crowd, and it starts to make a little sense why I was targeted. When traveling, it’s wonderful to get a true sense of the local culture, but if you stray from traditional tourist destinations, be careful not to bring the tourist vibe with you. There is something to be said for the theory that you’re safer when you blend in with the herd.

NEW YORK

In the fall of my first semester at NYU, the oppressive summer heat had started to give way to the welcome crispness of autumn, and it felt like a great day for a walk around my new city. There I was, minding my own business, listening to a mixtape from my then long distance girlfriend (yes, the same one I didn’t want to piss off in Manila), when a guy started yelling at me that I had bumped into him and broken some glassware he’d just bought.

I can be oblivious at times, but even in my own world listening to some awful Feist mashup that I thought captured the depth and complexity of “love” at age 18, I was fucking positive that I wasn’t responsible for the random shards of glass that this guy was claiming I broke. I protested, and that’s when he got more aggressive and flashed a knife at me. Bear in mind: this is mid-afternoon on 14th Street, and somehow I happened to be on the one block that was completely deserted. For those of you not familiar with Manhattan, finding a deserted stretch of 14th Street at any hour is like winning the lottery three weeks in a row—except, instead of becoming a millionaire, I lost the money I’d intended to use on a fake ID.

The lesson was to not fight it. At the end of the day, nobody robbing you really wants to hurt you: it’s just an intimidation tactic. While it sucks, giving up a little cash is the easiest way to ensure you stay safe and get the whole process over more quickly. That being said, if you plan on walking or taking public transit a lot in a major city, it’s best not to carry large amounts of cash on you. Most places take cards nowadays and paying a few extra ATM fees is better than getting stabbed or losing a hundred bucks in one fell swoop.

LOS ANGELES/BALTIMORE

One of the dumber things I’ve failed to learn in my life is that bad neighborhoods are bad neighborhoods for a reason. That’s not meant to seem like this privileged half-white kid from Malibu is afraid of minorities (after all, I am one); it’s more to point out that walking down a block filled with burned-out buildings in a sketchy part of Baltimore or trying to score some tacos at 3 am in a park known for LA’s May Day Melée is probably a really stupid idea.

Both of these instances have one major thing in common—drinking. An analysis of my drinking habits would likely necessitate another article, or bloat this current one past a length my editors would be willing to publish, but the thing to glean from this is that having one too many makes you an easy target. When sober, I’m pretty vigilant, but while drinking (and I don’t think I’m alone in this) I tend to get a little more reckless. Typically, this means I make ill-advised decisions with my phone or possibly earn some “constructive criticism,” but other times it means I go to iffy areas and mistakenly think everything will work out fine.

The easiest way not to get mugged is to not put yourself in a spot where that is likely to happen. If you wouldn’t go to a place during the daytime, you certainly shouldn’t go there at night, especially alone. Exploring new neighborhoods is often exciting, but what might be intended as a night of edgy fun can quickly take a turn from hipsterrific-dream to manic-pixie-nightmare. If you’re going to an unfamiliar place, don’t make it even less familiar by over imbibing. Nothing screams “rob me” like a drunk person who won’t remember the street corner they’re on in the morning, let alone their mugger’s face.

The brutal reality is that if you live in a highly concentrated urban area, you have to deal with the dangers that come with it. There’s nothing I can impart in this article that will ensure you never get mugged. While the act itself does feel violating, the key is to remember it could be worse: if you manage to get out unscathed physically, it’s a win. Usually nothing in your wallet or purse is irreplaceable, and it certainly isn’t worth putting yourself in danger. For those of us who feel that inexplicable draw of the big city, a hefty dose of common sense and responsibility goes a long way. And if that fails, just avoid hanging out with me at night.

Travel

That Time I Went To The West Bank

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In the fall of 2011, I was living and freelancing remotely in Tel Aviv, which is a major metropolis along the Mediterranean coast of Israel—vibe-wise, it’s somewhere between Manhattan and Miami. My good friend Idan had promised to take me to Hebron, a city in the West Bank controlled jointly by the Palestinian Authority and the Israeli government. He had been stationed there for a while during his time in the IDF (Israeli Defense Force, the military service which is mandatory for young Israeli men and women) and had been meaning to take another visit, especially because of the significance of the city to the Jewish religion—Hebron contains the tomb of the Matriarchs and Patriarchs: Sarah, Abraham, Isaac, Rebecca, Jacob and Leah.

West Bank Square

Photos by Alyssa Kurtzman

I was intrigued to see such a significant (albeit difficult to get to) spot, especially with Idan, who is a veritable encyclopedia of Jewish lore and, even though it’s not his first language, probably speaks better English than I do. While in the IDF, Idan had been a pretty big-deal military paratrooper but sadly can’t disclose most of his airplane-leaping past. A slight guy, he has a seeing-eye-school flunkout Golden Lab named Ray (irony intended), and his drinking stories usually end with “and then I beat the shit out of him!” We made plans to go to Hebron in November, a few days before I was scheduled to fly back to New York. Needless to say, I decided against telling my parents in advance that we were taking a jaunt into Palestine.

Let’s pause and take note that everyone and their urologist has an opinion about Palestine. It’s a polarizing topic, and I expected to find it just as tumultuous a place. The furthest I had previously been into the West Bank was a couple months earlier, when my friends and I had raced up the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem for kicks and, needing a place to buy water, wandered into East Jerusalem (which was totally uneventful). I was very curious to see what deeper parts of the West Bank would be like, particularly in a city both so theologically important and so marked by conflict. Control of Hebron has changed hands and seen violence many, many times since Israel’s independence in 1948. Currently, a tense peace is maintained in Hebron by the fact that both peoples manage to get around without almost ever seeing each other.

The day came for our field trip to Hebron. Idan and I hopped an early coach to Jerusalem, where we switched to a second bus with reinforced, bulletproof windows heading into the Territories. It had occurred to me earlier that I might need a passport, but Idan kind of rolled his eyes at me when I brought it up and ensured me that there was no sort of “border” process. Much of the highway we passed through, as we wound our way eastward over some mountains, had cement curved walls extending from the cliffs above, apparently to prevent kids from hurling rocks down onto passing vehicles. Adventures!

After an hour or so, the bus stopped in Kiryat Arba, a Jewish town bordering Hebron, and the bus driver made an announcement. Hebrew is not a strength of mine (let alone muffled Hebrew) so Idan translated: the bus wasn’t going any further. Why? Who knows. “Okay, no problem,” said Idan. “We can hitchhike the rest of the way.”

I guess if you’re going to hitchhike for the first time, Palestine is as good a place as any.

We waited at a main road between the two towns until a woman in a small car pulled over and rolled down her window. Idan told her we were going to Hebron, and she said to hop in—she was headed into the city center to set up for a friend’s wedding. We wedged ourselves into the car, which was stuffed with streamers and balloons, and she streaked off up the windy road around another steep hill. She let us off near the entrance to Hebron, which was surprisingly desolate for a Sunday (a weekday in most Middle Eastern countries). We headed toward the giant, ancient tomb, observing some of the homes along the way.

Photos by Alyssa Kurtzman

Jews and Arabs in Hebron live quite literally on top of each other. Some of the buildings along the border of the two communities are owned by differing families, one (Jewish) entering through a door from one road and taking the bottom floors, and another (Arabic) entering through a door from a road on the other side, and residing in the upper floors. Two different tenants, living in one building, never seeing each other. This isn’t to say that these two families would lunge at each other with kitchen knives if ever they met, but it does point to the kind of tacit truce that exists between their communities, each claiming their right to such an important religious focal point but trying hard to avoid an excuse to engage in any more violence. Interestingly, many of the homes have locked screens completely covering the terraces, not to keep the people inside safe, but to keep them from throwing rocks or bottles onto the street below.

On our walk over, I began to hear what sounded like speakers switching on all around us. I can’t say that I wasn’t a little on edge by this sudden, 360-degree sound, but Idan recognized it immediately as one of the five daily Muslim prayer calls. At once, dozens of loudspeakers all around us began booming out the ululating pre-taped prayer chant from every mosque in the city.

Standing in the shadow of one of the most important relics in monotheism, hearing these ghostly echoes bouncing off the hills around you—this is a point at which you become keenly aware that you are in the middle of a place that is vital enough to have sparked wars, both on the ground and in the chambers of the United Nations. The vibration of the panoramic sound is absolutely unreal—it’s like being swallowed up by religious purpose, like the ground under your feet is the nucleus of ideological gravity.

I’m getting carried away here. Trust that it was a sound I’ll never forget—especially because I managed to record it the next time it happened that day. You can listen to the recording here and I recommend you give it a listen, because, whoa.

The prayer ended, the world stopped vibrating, and we proceeded to go find cigarettes for Idan. Waiting for him, I hung out at a gift shop next to the tomb, where there were plenty of tchotchkes for visitors of any of the three major monotheistic religions. We then walked up the long ramp to the entrance, which is about halfway up the massive structure. A young, bored-looking guard waved us in, which was pretty illustrative of the trip so far—simpler than I had ever imagined.

A classroom inside the huge building’s entrance was filled with fidgeting young boys studying Talmud. Idan went to grab a yarmulke (the round Jewish prayer cap) as I looked around. There’s something really exciting and unnerving about visiting a place that’s extraordinarily important to your culture and that almost none of your ancestors have probably ever seen in person.

We followed some signs to a large chamber, where individual gated mausoleums marked each burial spot with a banner depicting the religious figure’s name in Hebrew: Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Sarah, Rebecca, Leah. I obviously can’t say if there are actual skeletons of those people underneath each banners, but this is the gravesite that a world of people have decided to believe in, and that’s pretty cool.

The entire chamber was almost entirely empty. Idan, who’d been there before, stepped away for a moment to help some praying scholars form a minyan (that is, a group of at least 10 Jewish adults needed to perform certain prayers) while I hung out solo. There were a couple of stone basins lit up with traditional memorial Jewish yarzeit candles, and I decided to light one for each of my deceased grandparents. A nice plan, except there were no matches to be found, and no Idan nearby to supply me with a lighter. So, not wanting to leave and disturb someone in the halls asking in terrible Hebrew for a light, I started to crawl around looking for a spare match. If I never expected to be in the tomb of my religion’s founders, then I can safely say I also didn’t expect to be slithering on the floor there, examining broken matches like a hobo. I finally found the remains of a matchbook, and then there was light. Kin, welcome to the tombs.

Photos by Alyssa Kurtzman

I found Idan outside the main chamber, and we left to explore the rest of Hebron. We went wandering up toward the Arabic neighborhoods on the hills above us, exploring a very old-looking cemetery as I took photos of some of the crumbling abandoned buildings (and one gutted 70’s-era Schwepps Truck) surrounding us. I stepped into the doorless atrium of one former home, empty except for a tipped-over desk chair. Idan stepped in behind me as I was snapping a picture and gasped. I turned nervously to him: “What?” “We used to smoke in here!” Ah, yes.

These vacant areas of the city really were like a patchy, cement playground. In parts where the hills were steep enough and the buildings close enough together, you could leap from rooftop to rooftop. (Try not to sing the Aladdin song. Try not to sing the Aladdin song.) Idan showed me different parts of the city where he had been stationed: tall guard towers, assorted little barred kiosks near schools and markets. Eventually, we had wandered high enough that I worried we were encroaching on the less outsider-friendly neighborhoods. “Oh, don’t worry,” said Idan, reassuring me that we had been in that section for some time now.

Along one road above us, two boys poked their heads out from behind a stack of burlap sacks. “Salaam!” they greeted us. “Salaam!” we said. Then, hesitantly, they said “Hello!!” “Hello!” we said back, still from a distance. The boys looked gleeful, probably that they had gotten us two idiots to mimic them. From behind the stacks emerged someone who looked like their father, investigating what his sons were yelling at. We exchanged waves, and then he shouted something down to us in Arabic that I didn’t understand. Idan turned to me. “He wants to know if we want to come up for some coffee.”

I can’t pretend that I wasn’t a little nervous to approach a strange Arabic man, wearing jeans and no head cover, accompanied by an Israeli male that I wasn’t married to, in the supposedly unfriendly section of a city in the mostly hotly contested territory in the world. But I knew to follow Idan’s experienced lead. Good thing we both love coffee.

We walked up to the gate of the man’s home, and he let us in. We followed him around the back of the small house, where children were playing in a little yard next to a wooden shed. When we walked through the doorway into the house, I half-expected to find a gathering of other tourists, similarly puzzled to have been invited in. Instead, we were led into a beautiful parlor with intricately upholstered furniture. The man invited us to sit, and we started chatting. His Hebrew was about as stilted as mine, which made it one of the most productive conversations I’ve ever had in that language. He told us he was a sandal-maker, and we told him we were visiting from Tel Aviv but I was originally from New York. The two sons came in with their sisters, sitting down and pointing at us, giggling to each other.

The man’s beaming wife came in with a tray of beautiful silver Arabic coffee cups. In case you haven’t had it, Arabic coffee is kind of like espresso but stronger, darker, and brewed with almost equal parts grounds and sugar—at least if you make it right. We all took a cup and then she sat down, too. At this point, the sons were bored enough to turn around and start playing some shoot ’em-up computer game with Arabic subtitles, but the girls stayed put. One of them started playing with the big SLR camera around my neck, and her mother shooed her away. “That’s alright!” I said. I showed her how to look through the viewfinder and how to twist the lens to zoom the picture in and out, and she was entranced.

An older woman came in and the man introduced her as his mother. The granddaughters jumped aside so she could sit, and she asked her son a question, which he relayed to us. Are we married? I don’t know the Hebrew or Arabic word for ‘platonic’ but I think leaning back and shaking your head with your eyes wide open is universal code. “No, no, no, we’re friends.” The women both started laughing at this absurd notion, and Idan and I just kind of smiled and shrugged. Then, the man asked us if we wanted to see his factory. (Actually, I don’t know for sure if he explicitly said “factory,” because Idan had to translate that one for me.) I still couldn’t believe where we were and how unremarkable it all seemed—not that it was a mundane experience, but that it was exactly what you might expect from a conversation over a coffee with some friendly people you don’t know.

After we finished the coffee, back outside we went. This time, we walked down into that little shed in the backyard—the sandal factory. Inside were four old men working at ancient-looking sewing machines and smoking cigarettes. Our host showed us a few finished products and told us that his sandals were some of the best quality you could find in the Israeli markets. Idan and I promised to tell our friends.

And that was it. Idan shook the man’s hand, we thanked him and his family for hosting us. I wish I had gotten a photo of all of us together, but regretfully I didn’t even think of it, not to mention my new little friend was having too much fun with the camera for me to want to take it back any earlier than necessary. We didn’t realize until later that Idan had been wearing his yarmulke that whole time.

The rest of the trip was entirely uneventful: We watched stray dogs and ate sandwiches from the gift shop while we waited for the bus back. When it came, we hopped on and headed back to Jerusalem.

I don’t know what groundbreaking lessons are to be grasped from our day in Hebron, except perhaps that 1. Religion is quite a powerful thing and 2. People are generally as generous as they are curious. That said, I can’t say that I would have traveled to such a foreign place without a trustworthy friend who knew the city so well. Before the trip, I never expected any experience in Hebron to top the Tombs in terms of enlightenment, but then I got a rare chance to see the expectation of culturally-rooted animosity completely disproved. Also, I can say that I have breathed the ground-dust of the holy tombs of the Matriarchs and Patriarchs, and it smelled like history.

Travel

Budgeting Your Overwhelming Trip Overseas

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As I demonstrated in part one of this topic (Planning Your Overwhelming Trip Overseas), when it comes to trip planning, Effie Trinket has nothing on me. I charted a course for my best friend and myself through Paris, Rome, Florence, and Venice, scheduling in every sight we wanted to see and restaurant we wanted to eat at. In two weeks. On a student budget.

traveling square

Photos by Remi Coin

Since my first installment was an overview on how to approach planning a trip abroad, I wanted to follow up with a deep dive on how I budgeted the trip. It can be tricky knowing where to splurge and where to pinch! Again, this article comes from my personal knowledge traveling France and Italy, but these tips can definitely be of use when planning any trip.

When you start budgeting your whirlwind trip overseas, break down your choices and approach them step-by-step as you estimate and add up prices. Naturally, every traveler will have personal preferences on where they want to save money and where they want to go a bit crazy. My friend might have rolled her eyes at me when I laid down 40 euros to make a necklace of hand-blown Murano glass beads in Venice, but I maintain that maybe she didn’t need a ¼ liter of wine at every meal, either! It was no big deal, though, as neither of us expected the other to pay for something huge unless we both wanted to. Make sure to plan what you want to spend the most on, and consult with your travel partner(s) so no one is taken by surprise.

1. Airfare – This will likely be the biggest price tag, with round trip plane tickets overseas easily going into the thousands of dollars. You can save a lot here by planning ahead! Studies have suggested that the optimal time to buy plane tickets is either weeks in advance and that tickets are pricier in the morning (when business people are typically booking on the company dime) than in the afternoon (when future vacationers come home from work and plan their own trips). Websites like Kayak, Expedia, and TripAdvisor can also help you find cheap airfare by allowing you to plug in numbers and play around with different airports in nearby cities and compare prices from many different airlines. These sites even let you set up notifications for certain flights, so the site emails you if one of your saved flights lowers in price.

2. Accommodations – Depending on your comfort and safety preferences, the cost of your accommodations can vary greatly. If, like many young backpackers, you are planning on hitting up the local hostels, you still have a wide range of options. Websites like HostelWorld and HostleBookers can be hugely helpful in finding accommodations that fit your preferences and budget. These sites have listings for tons of places and come with reviews, photos, lists of amenities, rates, availability, and maps to show where you’ll be in the city and where public transit is located—everything you need to plan your trip.

When I was sorting through this wealth of information and options, I considered price and location first and foremost. Often, the cheapest accommodations are distant from the main attractions and events the city has to offer. Do some research into the city’s public transit: is there an easy way for you to get where you want to go, and does the transit run as early/late as you’ll need? Also, keep in mind that staying out all day without a stop at “home base” can be draining. My friend and I went abroad during July and were often hot and exhausted after lunch. Finding a park to nap in became a frequent routine that was critical to our enjoyment of the rest of the day. If that doesn’t jive with you, make sure you’ll be able to head back to the hostel fairly easily when and if you need to.

Aside from price and location, it is also important to consider the atmosphere of your accommodation. In Italy, we stayed in a vastly different hostel in each city. A Venice Fish was a communal, hippy-ish house full of excitable, partying Australians. After Venice, we stayed in PLUS Florence, one of a chain of hostels under the PLUS name. Though we were worried that it would feel distant and corporate, it turned out to be an awesome experience and it was very geared towards ease of the traveler, with everything from a money exchange at the front desk to preplanned daytrip offers for the guests. In Rome, we stayed in these cabins outside the city. About half of them seemed to be populated with other travelers, while Roman citizens rented the other half to temporarily escape the hustle and bustle of the city. This seemed like it would be a really relaxing stop at the end of our trip, but since the cabins were sorted by type of occupants, we ended up in one end of a duplex shared by five or six enormous bros who drank and listened to dubstep until approximately 4 o’clock each morning. In short, even though you will never know exactly what a place will be like until you get there, you are going to be spending a significant amount of time at your accommodations, and it is worthwhile to scour reviews and photos to find a good match for your personality and preferences.

3. Travel within City/Country/Continent – This item varies a lot depending on where you are going. In some places I’ve been to, like West Africa, one could take daytrips from a central location very cheaply and easily, but traveling from country to country took either a good deal of time (a few days) or much more money (flights around Africa are nearly as much as flights from North America to Africa!). However, traveling around Europe was (relatively) cheap and, because it is such a frequent destination for people in their 20s taking a modern-day Grand Tour, there are many discounts available to young travelers. RailEurope is an excellent tool to plan and book tickets, as you can layout your trip and get price quotes for each leg or find special offers that help guide your planning. Another benefit is that you can buy passes that will work on any one of a number of given days. That means if you decide to stay an extra day or leave early from a city, all you have to do is look up when the next train comes and hop on!

Once you’re inside your chosen city for a few days, you’ll want to get around to all the sights. You can certainly take taxis everywhere, but most of us just don’t have that kind of money, or we would rather spend it on awesome stuff instead of a yellow car that smells like cigarettes. Getting familiar with the city’s subway or bus system is a must. The bonus to this is that you can spot the deals ahead of time and get the most ride time for your money. Our lack of foresight in this aspect of our trip was what ultimately led to our ferry ticket in Venice, as we were trying to make it back to a station large enough to have 5-day passes for sale without having to purchase another one-way pass. C’est la vie! But it is a fate you can now avoid.

4. Food Budget – I am a huge foodie, make no mistake. A big part of traveling for me is trying the weird things they like to eat there and the classic foods for which they’re famous. That being said, I revolved my Italy/France trip around art, not around food. Still, I was able to find a plethora of tasty food options all over every city. For me, the Rick Steve’s guide to Europe was invaluable. It (and other travel guides like it) collects the tastiest and most interesting food options and sorts them by neighborhood and price. With short descriptions of the restaurant’s atmosphere and fare and a little pricing scale, we had no trouble choosing a restaurant just a short walk from wherever we were.

When planning ahead for a budget, it’s extremely helpful to use these guides and the benefit of your home Internet to plan ahead a bit and check out the online menus and price lists of the type of restaurants where you plan on dining. Though there is, of course, no need to commit to a specific restaurant tour just yet, this will help you estimate costs and allow you and your travel partner(s) to consider where to save and where to splurge.

5. Attractions and Shopping Budget – This part is very broad and very dependent on your interests, budgets, and need to bring home cheesy souvenirs for your loved ones. Keep in mind that you will possibly be paying for things like entry fees for museums, covers for bars, tasty bottles of wine, key chains that say “I ♥ NY,” and other things that spark your interest. Consider your buying habits and maybe even make a list of what kinds of things you plan to purchase while on vacation, so you can more easily budget your money for those items and not buy the first 20 euro Eiffel Tower paperweight you come across.

As for attractions, the Internet is the perfect resource for discovering that admission to the British Museum is free but a ride on the London Eye costs 26 pounds. You can also often find similar tourist deals as you did for transit—for example, the Paris Museum Pass gives you free entry, with skip-the-line privileges, to over sixty Paris museums and monuments. That is something I wish I had researched before spending two hours outside the Musee d’Orsay.

In closing, plan your budget, stick to it when you can, and most importantly, have fun!

Photo by Remi Coin

Photo by Remi Coin