Europe
London
I landed in London – Heathrow on a Sunday morning in June, grateful that I was somewhat familiar to the city and had booked a hostel bed in advance. Compared to New York, I was amazed at how little people were on the streets. Even though England is not a Eurail Pass country, it was cheaper to and there and I figured I would catch a train to Paris as soon as possible. My plans were disturbed by the connecting train being out of service on the exact day I wanted to leave, but this way I could check out the places I either hadn’t seen on my previous trips or those I found a liking to.
After relaxing at Leicester Square, I took the tube to Camden Town, strolled around the market a bit and checked my e-mail in a small Indian restaurant. From there, I took a twenty minute walk over to the British museum, one of the places I hadn’t found time to visit in my earlier trips.
After a long shower and even longer nap in the Piccadilly youth hostel, I wandered around the neon flooded streets of London’s SoHo and found a small pub to enjoy a dinner of Fish and Chips.
The next morning I took my time to go to Waterloo station and buy my Eurostar ticket to Paris.
Paris
Another four hours were blessed toward my fight against jet lag and I arrived well rested at Gare du Nord in the late afternoon. After getting lost in Montmartre, I finally found my hostel, dropped off my heavy backpack and strolled up toward the Sacre Coeur. After an hour of resting in the sunshine and enjoying the beautiful view from in front of the church, I headed back down and found a small cafe that served very well priced, three course, traditional French cuisine. It was getting dark when I walked the length of the Boulevard du Rochechouart up to Toulouse Lautrec’s Moulin Rouge, a sad sight, nothing left of the original flair.
Back at the hostel, I met a few fellow travelers and exchanged experiences and stories about places as far away as the beaches of Thailand and Cambodia and as close as
Versailles.
The next morning, after a breakfast of Espresso and a croissant, I found myself in the midst of a busting market. The fabulous colors and smells forced me to buy a pound of cherries, doubled to two pounds by french generosity of the salesman. I left a trail of cherry pits along the roads of Pere Lachaise cemetery, where I visited the graves of Oscar Wilde, Edith Piaf, Jim Morrisson, and many others under the pouring rain. As soon as I left the gates behind me, the sun peeked up behind the clouds and joined me on my long walk to the Centre Pompidou and while staring up at the Notre Dame, I found my clothes had dried. I bought a dinner of artichokes and pasta at a small corner shop near the hostel, where I used the community kitchen to cook up too much pasta and decided to share the rest with my friends from the previous evening.
On my third day in Paris, I made my way to the Louvre but was discouraged by the long lines and ten Euro entrance fee. I was sure I will have another chance to see the Mona Lisa and so I crossed the Seine to the famous district of St. Germain de Pres and visited cafes often frequented by Sarte, Camus, and Hemingway in their time, and had a nice chat with the current tenant of an apartment on Rue de Fleurus which had once been inhabited by Gertrude Stein.
A sudden shock of homesickness hit me and I decided to take the overnight train to Berlin.
Berlin
I surprised my best friend Felicitas by showing up at her door with a bag of freshly baked rolls, just minutes after she woke up. She had been expecting me sometime in the next weeks but I had not informed her of an exact date, as I wasn’t sure of my plans either. Over coffee and a typical German breakfast, Flici told me that she and a group of our friends were planning to drive to Timmdorf, a tiny town on the northern coast. My friend Chris, with whom I was later going to visit the Baltics, Russia, and Mongolia, has a house in Timmdorf, large enough for eight of his friends to spend the weekend. On the evening of my arrival in Berlin, two cars were packed full of people and headed North.
Timmdorf
The majority of us, eight in all, were spending their summer working on interning for various companies, so that the idea of a weekend by the lake appealed very much. The plan was to rest up as much as possible and fill the days with games, grilling, and rowing the boats out to a deserted island in the middle of the lake that Chris’ house looks out on. And that was precisely what we did.
Sunday evening rolled up sooner than we thought and we arranged ourselves back into position in the cars.
Berlin
I decided to remain in Berlin for a few days to run a few errands and visit friends I hadn’t seen since I had moved to New York a year ago. I ended up spending most of my time with Flici, visiting favorite places of mine in Berlin and attending the graduation at my old high school.
Soon the smell of the unknown hit my nostrils and I was off again.
Amsterdam
Thomas had written me in an e-mail that he was currently in Amsterdam and invited me to come. He, a friend of mine from Washington, picked me up from the train station and showed me a great time in the ‘Venice of the North.’ Thomas has spent the past six summers in Holland and thus had all the insider knowledge to show me the best Pommes Frites in town and the cheapest boat tour. He knew enough that I didn’t have to open my guidebook once to find out the facts or history of this place or that.
Vienna
Thomas had to head back to Bonn the next day, so I boarded a train in the same direction and decided to get out in Vienna, where, as I had found out, a friend of mine from New York was. I arrived in the early morning and walked around the city, stopping off at the Sigmund Freud museum, Mozart’s residence, a Dali exhibition, and, of course, the Stephansdom.
I reached my friend Jim after a few hours and received the news that he had encountered some complications with his traveler’s checks and is in the Sacher Hotel at the time, an arrangement his father made for him. I would not let such an opportunity go to waste and quickly found his hotel, the very hotel famous for it’s Sacher Torte, heaven in the shape of a chocolate cake. Aweing his room and the entire decor of the five star hotel, I made myself at home and spent the rest of the day watching Wimbledon and eating cake. I didn’t feel bad cooped up inside while I could have been touring more of the city because I told myself that if my goal is to capture the feel of the cities I visit, staying in a high-class hotel and being served was very Viennese, as I imagined.
The next morning I woke up early and walked, in the brooding heat, to the Hundertwasserhaus, a building complex designed by the artist Hundertwasser. His theory was that gray tones and level surfaces were against human nature and anatomy and he designed his houses in this manner, ending up with a structure straight from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate factory. A roll of film later, I went back to the same train station I had arrived at and boarded a train towards Budapest; everyone I had met in Vienna was headed there and it seemed like a logical destination, considering it’s proximity to the Austrian capitol.
Budapest
Shortly before arriving, a young man entered my train compartment, handed me a map of the city and asked if I had already arranged my accommodation. I had, in fact, and so I politely waved him off. Once outside the train station however, I noticed that this was not, as I assumed, the main train station, but a smaller one across the Danube, which meant as much as ‘I am far away from where I planned to be and my hostel, therefore, is very, very far away. Extremely disgruntled, I approached a taxi cab and managed to communicate where I wanted to go.
To add to my misfortune, I had completely forgotten the fact that Hungary is not involved in the Euro and that I have no accepted currency on me. Leaving the taxi behind, I wandered the run down streets around the station, hopelessly looking for an change bureau. When I was sure of my hopelessness, I absentmindedly walked along a street until I remembered the map I stowed away in my pocket minutes before arriving. I pulled out the map and spotted the hostel the man had advertised in our conversation.
It was ten blocks or less north of where I was standing! In a surge of energy, I speeded toward the red star with the number 23 was located on my colorful map, hoping there is still vacancy. There was. Gratefully, I plopped down onto the hard mattress while my roommates informed me of their nationality (swedish) and travels (same as most, traveling around Europe, next stop where ever they feel like). The evening was spent among other hostel visitors, first crowding up the entrance hallway and then, as the clock was closing in on midnight, on the roof of a building, around a pool table.
The next morning I showered (surprised at the warm water – most hostels have only cold water) and made my way up the hill to the castle district. The next few days, four in all, I spent with the people I had met at the hostel (three from Oregon, one Brit, a young japanese girl, and two Israelis, and a Frenchman): viewing the sites, strolling through museums and learning the history of Buda and Pest, covering ourselves with dust, inching ourselves through a claustrophobic’s nightmare – foot wide crevices and cavernous rooms underneath Budapest’s surrounding hills, and enjoying the hearty hungarian cuisine.
Bastian, the Frenchman, knew the city relatively well as he had been living there for three months – going to school during the day and living in youth hostels because getting an apartment for such a short period of time wouldn’t make sense – and showed us the best un-touristy restaurants and cafes, remainders of communism, tables and chairs set up under the night sky, undetectable from the street, hidden behind three houses, signs to be quiet the only thing leading the way.
After four days, guilt was creeping up on me, telling me to use the ability to travel around europe on my railpass, and I rejoined Jim and his friend Scott on a train destined for Venice. I was not particularly fond of the idea of visiting Venice. The two other times I had spent in the island city were less than enjoyable and the tourist overflowing, expensive city left a bad taste in my mouth, but I figured that I will venture over to the nearby island Lido and spend a few days relaxing on the beach.
We were scheduled to change trains in the outskirts of Vienna, but when we arrived there, we were informed that our connection had left three minutes ago. Bypassing distress, we quickly decided to forget Venice and head towards Rome, catching a train in
two hours and arriving in Rome early the next morning.
Morning came and the three of us, Scott, Jim, and I, were sound asleep as the conductor announced ‘Roma Termini.’ A few miles outside of Rome, I woke up with a startle, realizing our missing of the stop. After the boys had awoken, we planned to get out in Naples.
Naples
We found an internet connection that informed us of no vacancy in the entire city of Napoli after bustling through an array of stands and merchants, desperate to sell us hand woven bags and cell phone accessories. Trying to stay in good spirits, we sat down at a small trattoria and engaged in a large meal of Napoli’s trademark: Pizza, before boarding a train for the fourth time in 24 hours.
Rome
To our surprise, a hostel was completely empty upon our arrival. That surprise was heightened the next morning when the manager, for no apparent reason, aggressively threw us out onto the street. We were lucky enough to find another place to stay and reported the very possibly insane hostel manager to the police after we strolled the streets of Rome, pausing at the Pantheon, the Colosseum, Palatine Hill, visiting the Bocca della Verita, and singing alongside tourists and locals on the Spanish Steps.
My time was nearing an end and I wanted to fit in a stop in Stuttgart before heading back to Berlin to begin the second part of my summer. After saying goodbye to my friends and promising an evening of reminiscing once I was back in New York, I was informed that Charlotte was not in the city at the moment so I decided to take a very long trip from Rome to Copenhagen to visit my friend Nada.
The overnight train from Cologne to Copenhagen was bursting at it’s seams and I found myself in a compartment of six seats occupied by myself and five very intimidating looking middle aged men. After failing trying to ignore my nervousness and uncomfortably among this crowd, I packed up my belongings and made myself as comfortable as possible in the hallway. I was soon joined by two young Irishmen and, unable to sleep on the hard floor or even lie down without feet trampling all over us, we proclaimed a spot next to the doors ours and exchanged stories and folk songs. One of the boys was carrying a guitar that served as a musical accompaniment to our horrific tunes.
Copenhagen
The train rolled into Copenhagen’s main terminal early the next morning. Too early to call Nada, I bought myself a coffee and walked towards Christiania, an autonomous commune left over from three decades ago. I was surprised at my knowledge of the city I had wandered around over a year ago and quickly found a spot of grass among Christiania’s colorful buildings and many playgrounds to get some much needed shut eye. Nada lived close by so when the time was right, I heaved my pack back onto my shoulders and trotted off to the Josten family’s door.
Irma, Nada’s mother, opened the door with her finger held to her mouth. She had not told Nada of my call the previous day and had thus made my visit a surprise. I snuck into the kitchen and greeted an ecstatic Nada. The next two days were spent with her friends from the International School of Copenhagen. I had seen the sights on my previous trip and was glad for the hours spent relaxing in King’s Garden, listening to the ongoing Jazz Festival.
Berlin
I ended the first half of my summer in Berlin, where I met up with friends again and did the last preparations for my upcoming journey. Chris and I ventured to all sorts of embassies, consulates, travel agencies and camping gear stores to stock up on necessities and other fun gadgets we might need in the wilderness.
Kiel – Klaipeda
One month after arriving in London, I was seated in a small, dingy cafeteria on the docks of Kiel. Once we entered the room of Scandinavia Lines, the company that was to bring us to the Baltic states, we had lost all feeling of being in Germany. Lithuania started here, over our bowls of cold goulash and around the television, blaring a cheesy show, incomprehensible to me on so many levels.
Chris and I had chosen the cheapest tickets for our two day journey across the sea. Pullman seats. Little did we expect the 30 Euro to be 100 seats crammed back to back in a small room without windows. To test our adventurous natures, we abandoned our backpacks on our assigned spots and spread out our sleeping bags on the deck of the ship. The night was beautifully clear. I would have not traded my spot under the stars for a first class cabin.
Vilnius
Once we arrived in Klaipeda, we directly made our way to the train station to catch a ride to Vilnius, the Lithuanian capitol. The train ride was my first of many on a Russian train, I got to know the exact definition of ‘platzkartny’, third or ‘hard’ class: a long wagon full of beds, no walls or doors in between, six beds to each area. Two can be lowered to create some more room above the heads during the day. Along one train wall are two seats, a table in between than, once flipped over, is the middle section of yet another bed. Above that, another collapsable bed.
We arrived in Vilnius at the crack of dawn and found a hostel after a few detours along the curvy streets. The administration was not open yet, so we pulled ourselves some coffee from the machine and sat outside. Soon, a young woman appeared at the counter so we checked in, made our beds and freshened up.
Greeting us at the beginning of Old Town was the castle which we ventured up to for a few panorama shots. Then we visited the depressing Museum of Genocide Victims before laughing at the ugly communist architecture and ‘art’ in front of the Parliament. I got my first impressions of onion-topped churches as well.
Car alarms sounded off everywhere and lulled us to sleep.
Riga
After two days of which one was spent repeating everything of the other day (we knew the towns would be small, but hadn’t expected them that small), we shared another overnighter to Riga with two Munichers. Our tickets were all for the same small four bedded area in the wagon, but since the rest were completely free, we asked the provodistna
(conductor) if we were allowed to spread out a little. We weren’t.
Again, we arrived at the ungodly hour of 6.30 a.m. and sipped coffee in the shadow of a large department store adjacent to the train station. A suave young man approached Chris, who is known to attract all sorts of weird people, and we passed the time talking about the differences of America and Latvia. These are the first countries it is better if I claim to be married, and so until St. Petersburg I will be married to Chris for a few months and from then on, Steph will be my husband of two years.
The toilet, shared with the rest of the hall in our hotel (we decided to go for a hotel instead of a hostel since there is basically no price difference and the only hostel in all of Riga is pretty far outside the centre), splashes so that you have to run out the door as soon as you pull on the string.
We wandered off to the city centre which, as all of Riga, has more of a big city feel compared to Vilnius and Tallinn, and visited the Cat House. A landmark of the city, two cats were built on top of a building, their rear ends once pointing toward the governmental district as a protest. After lunch we were unimpressed by the Dome, but the Market lifted my spirits with all sorts of colorful fruits and flowers. Chris needed to finish off his viewing of all nine Seven Sisters (Lenin’s office buildings in the wedding cake style), so afterwards I shlepped him through the Jugendstil quarter.
Tallinn
There is no train service to Tallinn and we had to take an overcrowded, bumpy bus. We arrived late at night and found out that last years Lonely Planet listings for hostels are outdated. After wandering around empty, dark streets, we came upon an Inn which was booked out. Thankfully, the portier made some calls and directed us toward a different, newly opened hostel about 30 minutes away by foot.
On our way there, we witnessed a robbery. Three people were walking towards us when a woman reached into her purse and noticed her pocketbook was gone. One of the men then turned around and ran toward a man. This burglar did not run away at first, as one would assume, but performed a little jesterous dance before bolting up a nearby path. The burglar was caught and surrendered.
Chris’ and my laughter faded as we entered the street on which the hostel was meant to be. After walking it up and down multiple times I was fed up and overly tired and sat down on the middle of the sidewalk. Chris’ went to a cafe we had passed again and again and asked for direction. Finally we located the place, hidden behind a few buildings and even more bushes.
The next morning we agreed to have breakfast at the cafe. Going inside, I saw that it was as if stepping into a different world: the sixties. The waiters all had headbands on and we were seated in big beanbags. After a few coffees and a conversation with the waiter, who was extremely glad to meet us, we wandered the streets of Old Town, stopping every few hours for another helping of Fried Bread. At night, we settled down to try ‘Black Magic’ an old Estonian Liquor that supposedly healed Catherine the Great with just one sip.
Russia
St. Petersburg
We had planned to meet Steph at the Winter Palace on the 25th of June. . . or so we thought. Once we had waited around for a few hours at the specified place and there was no Steph to be seen, we decided to check our e-mail at the Internet Cafe on Nevsky Prospect. Our last e-mail from Steph enlightened us that we were a day early. We send him another e-mail, hoping he will check it again today, telling him to come to the Winter Palace, we will be there every hour, on the hour. To our surprise, just two hours later, he appeared in front of us and took us to his host family. Steph had been living in St. Petersburg for two months already, learning Russian and working at a children’s camp.
The next few days Steph showed us all around St. Petersburg, clueing us in to various insider information, for instance why you, if you listen closely enough, can hear a metronome ticking all along Nevsky Prospect (it is a homage to the days of the siege where they had a ticking on all radio stations).
After a few days of nonstop sightseeing, tea drinking and pelmeni eating, nit was time for us to take the train to Moscow to meet our last companion, Rob.
Moscow
While Steph picked Rob up from the Airport, I went into the Red Square to view Lenin’s body. Chris stayed outside with our valuables and my camera (Rob, Steph, and Chris had visited the Red Square two years ago) while I followed the barricaded pathways to the entrance of the tomb. After the silent walk among other tourists (mainly Russian) I went through the other paths that led across the square but was told to turn around, the rest is not open to the public yet.
Taking a detour through the GUM, I met Chris again at the gates. Steph and Rob were not to return for a few hours so Chris and I crossed a bridge near the St. Basil cathedral and looked upon one of the Seven Sisters, gigantic in the distance. After about twenty minutes we found a park to lay down and sleep in, a park I later found out to possibly be the same exact park described in Bugalkow’s ‘The Master and Margarita’ opening scene, the Patriarchal Lakes. We returned through the Alexander Gardens and crossed paths with Rob and Steph who had just recently came back from the airport.
The city was less than I expected and I was not at all sad that we left just after a few days of touring the Gorki park and viewing a few things here and there, picking up cheap souvenirs and enjoying the last of civilization for the next few weeks.
The Train
On the first day of August, us four youngens boarded the Rossija towards Novosibirsk. II had dreamt of this day for some years now and was excited to be able to take part in the adventure it is. II was aware that it would be very different than the accounts I had read or listened to.
The drunken sailors and random acquaintances were unlikely to encounter a young girl with three young men in a compartment filled entirely by us. Despite what i might have missed out on, I had my very own Transiberian experiences. I had a jumbled surprise dinner (I could not read the menu even though I had studied my cyrillic intensely since Copenhagen) with the girl who often made her way throughout a few cabins during the night, who gave me her insights on Russian men and life on the tracks.
As they say, the ride did not at all seem like forever and the four days passed in a blur. I was used to the rattling shaking me to sleep and enjoyed tea and Korean noodle
snacks every day, every meal, apart from what babushkas sold at the train tracks. But passing small towns and siberian landscapes, a view that kept me occupied for numerous hours, ended as the train rolled into Novosibirsk.
Barnaul
Minutes after departing the legendary train, the four of us found out that a train was departing to Barnaul, our next stop, in just a few minutes. Hastingly we grabbed out packs and arranged ourselves among four professional hikers (and their unbelievably large luggage) in our cabin.
Barnaul surpassed our wildest fantasies and proved itself to be the financial capitol of Siberia. Here is where our travel agency is stationed, the one that after much hassle gave us our permission to cross the Russo-Mongol border at the point we had planned to. After we each indulged in a meal intended for two persons, we tuned our brains into the fact that this night will be our last ability to shower and sleep in a comfortable bed for a while.
The next morning, at the crack of dawn, Chris, Rob, Steph and I boarded a bus that would take us to Biysk, where we met our driver and made our way toward the last Russian city of our trip; Taschanta.
Taschanta
The car we had been riding along the Chinksy tract in broke down the moment it rolled into the dusty streets along the border. Our offer for help was refused and soon enough, we were approached by a yellow eyed man and his sidekick, as dusty as the roads and obviously Kazak. Initially, I was a bit frightened at the aggressive manner and loudness, and by the fact that they automatically assumed we were Americans (you can never know how Americans are received, especially in that area of the world). After a bit of talk about George W. Bush, the taller one invited us to his home for tea and a warm bed but we declined, preferring the fields.
On our way there, a car stopped next to us. A man got out and started yelling at us. What seemed threatening, actually turned out to be: ‘THOSE BAGS ARE TOO HEAVY! GET INTO MY CAR! I WILL DRIVE YOU!’ We, again, declined and went on to find a small dip in-between two hilltops that seemed appropriate to set up camp. The tents were raised quickly before the sun had fully gone under. The horizon, the view, the ground under our feet was amazing.
I snuck off too the top of a hill with my discman playing ‘Air on the G String’ and a bundle, a small ceramic pot wrapped up inside a cloth, in my hand. As soon as a rush of wind came, I opened up the container and spread my mother’s ashes to all four directions. After a silent prayer and the end of the song, I headed back down to the others.
We had to be satisfied with a quarter loaf of bread each – the town gas pump was empty and so denied us a warm meal – before slipping into our sleeping bags and nodding off. I woke up to thousands of miles of mountain ranges in every direction and total, absolute silence. Determined to cross the border as early as possible, we went down to the station where we were greeted by a military officer with a row of gold teeth telling us it is impossible to cross the border by foot and that we would have to find a ride. Luckily we did, a Russian Jeep planned ot drive us to Olgiy, the nearest Aimag (State) capitol in Mongolia.
I was frightened of what too expect from the border station, having heard too many ‘facts’ about how 78% of guards in that region are mentally unable to handle a gun. It was a delightful surprise then when we were introduced to a few very nice officials who showed much interest in our travels and informed us that we were, in fact, the first Westerners to ever manage to cross this border (intended for Russian and Mongolian trade only), with help of our permission, stating that we are ‘professionals’ of some sort.
Mongolia
Tsagaanuur
Our expectations were reversed. Not the Russian, the Mongolian border town would turn out to be problematic. The unknowledgeable guards asked to see our visas, an item that was not required for entry for American citizens. After much debacle, we were told that the American Embassy in Ulaanbataar is unreachable and they could not retrieve any such information from other government offices. We would have to stay in town while they held on to our passports.
They offered us a room in the hotel but we favored sleeping in our tents. While we were searching for a level spot in the viewing range of Tsagaanuur, a jeep rolled up beside us. All we could conceive from the frantic driver directions was that, for some reason or anther, we were not allowed to camp in this area and should sleep in the hotels ger, the traditional felt tent.
We spent the following day climbing a hill, playing soccer with locals, and waiting to hear back from the embassy. Coming down from our hike, a lady approached us with news of development. Our passports were returned to us and we were advised to visit an office once we were in Ulaanbataar.
Olgiy
After a few days on the road, we arrived in Olgiy at dusk and hurried to set up camp near the river on the outskirts of town. We had siphoned gasoline a few hours earlier and were excited to use our cooker for the first time.
The next morning we were awakened by young voices outside our tents. The concept of privacy is not common in Mongolia and so it is not exceptional that a head or two pop into your tent or ger at any time. I played with the children while the boys packed up the tents, then moved on to cook pancakes for breakfast. Again we were invited to their homes but we had to move on so they left us with a bottle of fresh airag, fermented mare’s milk. It took some time for me to get used to the taste, but after receiving gifts like this pretty much every morning, I learned to enjoy the bitter national drink.
Soon after stocking up on supplies, we found yet another ride to Khovd. Mongolia’s highways are little more trail marks by one or another earlier jeep and during the scenic drive through nothingness, I held my mouth in fear of biting off my tongue while the jeep hopped and jumped over boulders lining the road. We stopped once to refill the car and our stomachs. By then I had noticed that any restaurant in Mongolia doesn’t have a menu; you just sit down and accept what you are given; usually one of two meals: a stew of mutton meat and vegetables or mutton and rice.
Khovd
After almost a full day of driving the driver let us off at a small river. In the dark, pouring rain we felt as professional as our permission described us; setting up our tents
without getting a drop of water in the inside. The next day we discovered that the ‘river’ was a mere sewage drain and wandered off to find a new spot. Soon enough, we scavenged a beautiful grassy plain and fell asleep again to the rushing of fresh water just a few feet away. In the evening, we again received visitors who showed us some Buddhist rituals and offered us to ride their horses, which I gladly accepted.
We had planned to catch a public transportation bus from the town market the next day. The problem was this: the way into town was not easy. Either we had to walk two hours to cross a bridge OR we must find someway to cross the river with all our gear. It was too deep to wade across, so we were glad when we spotted a dirt truck making it’s way toward us to drive across the water. We ran towards them and soon we were sitting on top of a ton of dirt, sharing candies with children.
One of the busses, situated in large asphalt square among pool tables, was destined toward Ulaanbataar. But I’ll leave that story to Steph.
Altai
Altai does not play a big role in my remembering the trip, probably because we were busy restoring our injured joints and healing our tired muscles while trying to get ahead as fast as possible. After all, we hadn’t even started hiking yet and there was little more than a week left of our stay in Mongolia.
The following day, we met a young man who spoke English and, when he was not running his family’s bar, studied communications in Ulaanbataar. He agreed to drive us to the nearby city Arvaikheer, where we had planned to begin our hike.
Arvaikheer
Minutes after we had packed our bags and started our three day walk to Karakorin, a bolt of lighting hinted at us that maybe this wasn’t the right time to start. We quickly set up our tents again and spent the rest of the day huddled together and eating what dry food we had.
The following morning, rain wasn’t the thing that held us back, but visitors from the nearby gers. Unable to refuse an offer, Chris and I jumped on a motorcycle to meet the rest of the family and witness them making felt. Soon thereafter, we managed to part and started walking.
The walk
I can’t say that much about things that happened during our hike because, frankly, not that much actually happened. I felt like I was in the human version of ‘The Land Before Time,’ sometimes tired and cursing myself for agreeing to walk with many pounds strapped to my back, sometimes joyous and excited, the adrenaline pushing me forward and painting a smile on my face for only the cows to see. We camped in a forest of spooky trees and showered in the cold river, our first opportunity to clean ourselves in a while, as the weather was mostly not on our side.
Karakorin
The nation’s old capitol dawned on us earlier than expected and we found a lovely spot to rest up and finish off our provisions before heading back into civilization. For our ride to Ulaanbator, we decided on public transportation again, praying to God that our earlier experience was the exception to the rule. With about twelve people in the same sized minibus, we were over joyous. During a stop on the road, the driver bought a large bag of mutton meat – an illegal delicatessen in Mongolia and best bought between the months of April and September because the risk of the bubonic plague is less likely. When we reached the control station, a hustle went through the crowd and the big plastic bag full of meat was stowed away under my feet for the police not to find.
Ulaanbataar
It was midnight by the time we reached the hostel. Since we were later than expected, our room was mostly full and Steph volunteered to sleep on the floor. The boys were astonished at the difference the city had gone through since their last visit two years ago. More restaurants, more shops – the place began to look more and more like a metropolis. We had two days to spend looking around the monastery and talking about the relevance of one of our finds (like a ‘MonRonalds,’ a copy of the ever popular McDonalds – which, thank god, does not exist throughout the entire country) and finishing up
our duties like paying the recommended visit to various offices throughout Ulaanbataar concerning our passports.
Beijing
In March, in the middle of our preparations, a main concern was that of SARS. We were hoping that by the time we hit the area, the scare will have lessened, which it did. Still, the entrance into China required filling out a questionnaire about our health. Rob, the hypochondriac he is, decided to fly over Seoul and so Steph, Chris, and I were back to a Chris was urging us to visit the same noodle house he had eaten at last time around.
Unfortunately, noodles was not what we saw behind the window, but ladders and dustbins – Chris’ beloved noodle house was under construction. We then agreed on a different restaurant which proved to be the most amazing meal of my life.
Around seventeen different courses were presented to us, one after the other, each demonstrated to us on how to properly indulge in this feast. When the Peking Duck rolled around, both Steph and I declined what was described as ‘the best part of the duck’ and handed it over to Chris. He chewed and swallowed, and after noticing an odd taste and consistency in his mouth, asked our waitresses what it exactly was. ‘Brain, of course!’ At that point, I was very glad for my generosity of giving up on ‘the best part.’
The Flight around the World
Early the next morning, we took a taxi out to the airport again, boarded a plane to Tokyo, got off in Japan just to head over the Pacific to Los Angeles, then into the desert of Phoenix and finally arrived, very exhausted after a 30 hour day behind me, in Washington DC.