on the road again

It’s obviously been a long time since my last update. I’ll cut to the chase: it’s moving time again.

What a ride it has been to be back in Boston the last few years. Still, it’s not my kind of ride, and so I’m once again calling it quits. Join me as I make my way across the country in my trusty (so far!) diesel Jetta, soon to roll into beautiful Portland, Oregon. After a last-minute impromptu drive up to Montreal, then to New York, and back to Boston, I had about three days to finish packing and get the car loaded for the long trip. But who packs ahead of time anyway? I was certain I’d be fine. The reality turned out dirtier, sweatier, and much less straightforward.

Wednesday morning I crammed what remaining pots, pans, and plants would fit into the car. After a teary-eyed embrace with Sarah, I made a stop at my favorite bakery and was sent off with a hug and a big bag of pastries and breads. I picked up my sister come co-driver at Hartford’s airport, and we bee-lined it for western Pennsylvania, our first stop. Shiri, unable to drive my car’s standard transmission, made herself useful by researching our varied stops along the way using my handy well-connected computer. We slept in Johnstown, about an hour short of Fallingwater (the famous Frank Lloyd Wright house built over a river that I had meant to visit since 2001). Our clean Holiday Inn Express was right beside a KFC branch (mmm…), a beer store (which, thanks to PA law, sold only cases and kegs), and a depressing bar (which filled the beer shop’s gap by selling six-packs and singles of crappy domestic beer).

As we finished our long first day, two things became apparent despite our extensive ongoing research: a general lack of good and local non-chain food along the way (or at least no readily-available information on such eateries), and a severe dearth of biodiesel (along our route I wound up finding two stations that sold a paltry 20% blend of biodiesel, whereas around Boston there were several selling 100% renewable fuel, and in Portland there are predictably many more).

onward bound!

I’m falling seriously behind on blogging, and heard of some anticipation today. That’s flattering, really: I’m glad some of you out there are getting a kick out of this—I welcome and savor comments and personal notes, so be in touch!

I had been meaning to write my last couple of Beirut posts during the twelve hours of travel time I’d have on my way to Belgrade. Obviously that never happened, so the nutshell long version (to be accompanied shortly by photos): four of us (EB, her friend Sammy, visiting from Egypt, Smuggler, and I) piled into EB’s new car for a road trip. We had each looked at maps and guides and come to similar conclusions. There were three main agendas: hike through some nature, visit a winery, and eat dinner before sundown (I fast for Yom Kippur, and it began the evening of our road trip).

We arrived at a small town by a nature reserve feeling rather famished. The ladies ransacked the packaged goods section at a small grocery, and while EB wasn’t looking, I ran off in search of fresh food. Noon was early for lunch, and quick food was surprisingly hard to find given the bustle of people. I avoided the sickly looking schawarma that looked suspiciously dated, and happened upon a man grilling chickens over charcoal. Some puffy bread from next door in-hand, I ran (literally) back to the car to avoid a confrontation over schedules and delays.

We had trouble finding the site, and stopped to ask directions from a man on the street. He turned to his friend, who had just parked his car, when he heard the American accents. So this delightfully cheerful chap greeted us in the most unexpected Australian accent. Not only that, but he got back in the car, and happily led us the fifteen minutes to the site, parting ways as he told us to follow a mysterious dirt road for ten more minutes.

Guidebook moment: it turns out there’s a nearby town in Lebanon that exported many of its finest citizens to Australia during the civil war. Many have since made their way back, and begun importing Australian foodstuffs.

We ate lunch out of the car’s rear under hot sunshine before departing on a two hour hike through beautiful terrain varied with chaparral and cedar woods. I must have tasted a dozen of the wild yellow plums I found occasionally in the dirt before finding one whose sour and bitter notes did not contort my face.

The drive onward to the Bekaa valley for wine tasting and dinner was long and arduous. When planning trips involving mountains and valleys in developing countries, it certainly pays to consider the elevation changes. We went from 1500m down to sea level, only to climb a rocky peak to its peak of 3000m before descending into predominantly Hezbollah territory (Nasrallah is a man of god, and loves his people, the billboards declare). The estimated one hour trip? More than three, it turned out. The winery was surely closed (boo hoo), and the sun was descending ever faster, but we made it to our feeding spot in time for my pre-fasting food fest.

Smuggler parted the sea of pedestrians as we walked to the river-side casino restaurant (Mehanna, in case you’re ever in the area). They were surprisingly accommodating, allowing Smuggler to sit with us (outdoor seating, but still amazing for this dog-fearing country), and even bringing a dish ashtray of water for him. The mezes we tucked into were outstanding, and we hurried out to wait in awful lung-wrecking traffic for the ride back to Beirut.

As I began my fast-culminating meal of leftovers the next night, I noticed a noise coming from the washing machine that EB had just started. It’s moments like these that remind you to hate on America’s litigious society for imposing door locks on washers, for EB had spied her IPod tumbling from behind the glass door. The MacGyver in me came out as I got the door open and quickly set upon fixing the problem. Lacking the proper tools, I used my semi-disposable paring knife to pry open the dripping music box. Into a warm oven went the disassembled machine, and to the airport went I, stomach beginning to churn.

The 3:10am flight was fine, though I’d spent some time chasing my tail in the airport, thinking I had lost stuff that was with me all along. I carried 20kg on my shoulders since my suitcase was overweight and the flight agent was strict (of course I was surreptitiously over the limit on my carry-ons). As my digestive functions were quickly deteriorating, I found myself chilled, achy, and unable to get any real sleep. The airport lounge (thank you, Diner’s Club) in Prague, where I stopped for five hours, allowed me a hot shower, snacks, and internet connectivity, but I was too out of it to take advantage. So I made way for Belgrade, seeing bathrooms in the light that had coined the term “pit stop.”

And here I was, thinking that I would actually be writing about my first few days in Belgrade. When I was younger and creative writing assignments were due I would have killed for this sort of verbal dysentery. I do apologize for the lack of editing, though one must realize this ailment is messy.

getting settled

Weary-eyed and physically torn, we dragged our baggage the last hundred meters. EB pushed the dog-laden luggage cart while I alternated between

two others packed with luggage. We got to be those people with their names on a drivers’ placard. We found our driver and headed for the door. EB took the chance to walk Smuggler and clean his miserable kennel off in the shadows. I was posted just outside the sliding doors and was charged with fending off the vultures in taxi driver clothing. I swatted the scavengers away as I got into it with our driver in pantomimed French/Arabic (Frerabic?) about whether all our stuff would fit in the truck. Of course it would, thought I, after all EB’s broker had arranged it all: “I will organize the pick up car for you and will confirm (since you are a very nice client); a seven seats car would be ok?” Not so. After much deliberation, translation by phone (EB’s broker was awaken between 3:30-4:30 multiple times to deal with the consequences of his lack of foresight), we finally pushed the carts yet again to the dark corners of the parking lot where the driver had parked his compact SUV rental. Though challenging, I was in my element again fixing problems, rearranging the pieces of a puzzle to make it all fit. It took two tries, but we were finally able to pile ourselves into the car.

The broker had booked us the one hotel he could find that would accept a bribe in exchange for housing a dog for the night. I went to check in while EB tended to the dog’s needs and the driver unloaded the truck. “That is not small dog,” declared the hotel manager. I shrugged: “who told you it was a small dog? WE did not tell you that—don’t know what to tell you… could I have the key please?” And so as the hoteliers glared and the sun began to poke up, I nearly singlehandedly loaded the tiny elevator and shuttled up the four loads of luggage to the smoke-staled room. EB washed Smuggler, his crate, and herself, before I took my own turn in the war-torn bathroom. My five hours of sleep that ensued were glorious. EB’s three hours were less so, but she did the productive tasks of procuring a bed and arranging the move to the apartment.

So after a six hour break we again piled our belongings, this time into two very old Mercedes taxis. We weaved the city streets, and before we knew it, the ‘concierge’ at EB’s new apartment had lugged everything the two flights up into our spacious, marble-laden domicile. The landlord was still working on the place, and it was hardly clean. Again, the broker: “apartment is ready to move in; we called [the landlord] couple of days ago.”

No furniture, save for a mattress on the floor. Hot

water for showering, check. Fridge was operating, though beeping obnoxiously at 90-second intervals. But we were home with falafel sandwiches in hand. Full stop.

it felt like home

Airplane landings in the middle east are among my pleasant memories from childhood. As far as my history is concerned, the pilot invariably lands the plane beautifully and, assuming there are predominantly natives (of whichever religion) onboard, the applause is unanimous (and would likely be a standing ovation were that a realistic option). It’s a beautiful way to celebrate flight, and life thereafter.

Deplaning is a different story entirely. Middle easterners (again, of any religion) are anything but polite. Courteous, perhaps, if dealing with immediate family. Politeness as a concept seems to be darwinistically chewed up and spat out as chain-smoking glass-eyed toughness. I am well-accustomed to the attitude, and adjust my own when in the region. So, when push came to shove, I was (and am) not in the least embarrassed about my behavior when retrieving the last of our bags from the overhead bins. It took a moment for the animal in me to awaken, but I shoved right back, not even feigning apology.

Happily, what I imagined (at length) to be a scrutinous entry process, replete with strip search and questions about my origins and business in this very non-Jewish country (there are said to be about 100 living in the country), was as simple as a squinty-eyed comparison of me to my passport photo and the international sound for “welcome to our country”: STAMP!

We had not believed the Lebanese baggage agent when he told us Smuggler would come down the baggage carousel along with the rest of the luggage.

Until we saw (and smelled!) his kennel come through the passage. I fumbled for a snapshot before helping EB remove the kennel. People around us

were in what must have been shock: nobody moved, and I again needed to use my superhero shoving skills.

As long as this post is, it was only about 3am at this point. It would prove to be one of the most unpleasantly long days in my recent memory.

of german hospitality

As I fell asleep plugged into a saxy, airplane-supplied Branford Marsalis CD, I woke up courtesy of the captain’s PA come morning. The yogurt drink was all I dared try of the breakfast to-go offered by the flight crew. Besides, I was still working on the bag of pastries generously sent with me by my friend Nikola at Iggy’s bread.

Arrived in Frankfurt, we had a whole day to spend exploring. First stop: hot shower. It took us thirty minutes to find the well-hidden arrivals lounge, but it was a welcome place to put down our carry-drag-ons, clean up, and relax. The food was simple and welcome: perfectly-boiled eggs, olives, and soft cheeses, among others. A nearby baggage storage facility took our bags for the day as we went into town.

Note to the uninitiated: if two or more of you are going into the city for a day trip, splurge the extra euro on the Frankfurt Pass. It wasn’t even presented as an option to us, but would have saved us money later on our museum visit. We went first to the Staedel Museum and then onward to feed our grumbling stomachs. We walked down a long stretch of storefronts looking for the right place, occasionally asking the brusque locals for suggestions. We ate first at a chain-like though redeeming-looking currywurst joint, armed with an array of sausage-saucing squeeze bottles ranked from 1-10 based on the underlying chiles’ hotness. There was no redemption to the bratwurst we shared: it just wasn’t very great. Onward to greener pastures.

Wagner was our next (and final—I just can’t eat the way I used to in my youth) stop, where I started with my first taste of appelwine. Great beverage! Everything apple cider should be (and sadly usually isn’t), but without bubbles: funky, dry, acidic, appley. The meal that followed was, as a whole, good but not great. I did really enjoy the sauerkraut that came with the sausages.

Back to the airport, where we waited only a short while as we learned of our fate in Beirut and I helped myself to some bubbly.

In parting, another note to the uninitiated: if you

see a couple of sweaty folks lugging enough bags for four travelers when going through airport security, avoid that queue no matter how short it may seem. They’re going to take (and I quote from The Sandlot) for-ev-er.

new york shenaniganos

After a morning of frantic last-minutes parking my car, buying bourbon for gifts, and saying goodbye, I was short on time. I splurged for a taxi ride to the bus depot, and got to the gate within five minutes of my New York-bound bus departure.

The ride was productive and, though we got caught in traffic, was tardy by only fifteen minutes. EB shortly thereafter arrived to pick me, and what I saw was horrific.

Her huge truck was nearly exploding with her chaotically over packed bags. Whitney was riding in back among the puppy and the suitcases. It was a disaster. We spent the next few minutes repacking

and redistributing items that hadn’t fit in EB’s original packing extravaganza. It was truly a sight to see. Quickly, we crammed everything and everyone back into the Ford Expedition, this time with two additional passengers: Logan (a friend of theirs) and myself. I may have been the

only one able to fasten his seatbelt; I don’t know what EB was thinking.

Jane (the third and youngest Harper sister) heroically gathered our dinner from Shake Shack while we zigzagged uptown and Warren (their dad) laid in the street saving us a parking spot. As we shoveled in the sustenance all sorts of characters couldn’t resist lauding Smuggler: one batty woman went so far as to start munching on his fluffy ears.

Our goodbyes behind us, EB, Smuggler, and I hurried up to wait in traffic to the airport. Once there we were the TSA’s nightmare: a heavily-

loaded SUV parked for 25 minutes. Sure, we were unloading it for part of that time, but the security guy became skittish after we were through unloading and the truck remained parked as EB and I tended to the dog and the baggage. Threatened with a ticket, I first faked, and after playing all my bluffs finally actually moved the car, returning it to its rental home. By this time the security guard had down our plate number, and given his furious scribbling, must have had a good sketch of me too: “if you see something, say something.”

After some more last-minute repacking, dog-feeding, and excess baggage-paying, our bags were gone through security, with only 45 minutes left before our flight departed. We were stopped just short of boarding for our excessive carry-ons. EB handled it like a pro, declaring we were in business class, at which point they unrolled red carpet down the jet bridge for us. We were without a doubt the riffraff of business class, with dog bowls strapped to the outside of my oversized backpack, and a heavy Trader Joe’s bag full of dog toys. Through the commotion my corkscrew must have been overlooked by security—it would be nice not to have to buy a new one. All aboard and situated, we reclined our seats and promptly fell asleep.