Note: for fans of noodle soups and good hangover food.
Beef noodle soup from A&J
Annandale, the D.C. suburb that sits right inside the beltway next to Fairfax, has the best food in the region. It’s filled with delicious cuisines including Szechuan, Vietnamese, Peruvian, Mexican, Japanese, Indian, and perhaps most famously Korean barbecue. Moreover there are mouthwatering hybrids and fusions between these cuisines that have yet to let me down.
I am from Annandale. I am writing this during social distancing measures, so a couple of my photos will be from the Internet rather than my camera roll. I apologize for this in advance. I would love nothing more than to take a gastronomic tour down Little River Turnpike right now and indulgently post about it, but I will settle instead to indulgently post about it while I daydream with fondness about these restaurants.
Forewarning: most of these choices revolve around noodle soups, my favorite type of dish. If you’re not interested, then keep reading, because my goal is to make you interested.
1. Lighthouse Tofu
While the Korean barbecue is plentiful in Annandale, and always flavorful, my personal favorite is Lighthouse Tofu, with its awesome menu of Korean stews and noodle dishes. If you eat meat, don’t let the name dissuade you; there are plenty of options for the carnivore as well. The tofu soups are particularly tasty, and I recommend going with a group of friends in order to indulge in the combos.
2. Pho Hai Duong
This is my go-to Pho spot in Annandale. It has a relaxed vibe to it, perfect those early afternoons with a hangover. Tranquil Vietnamese music drifts in the background. The service is fast as the kitchen has pre-made the broth upon opening. I admit that I haven’t ventured further past the Pho on the menu, though the desserts are recommended. Very affordable for the amount of soup you receive.
3. Chicken Pollo
I recommend this spot for lovers of Peruvian chicken. It’s often very busy, so expect to wait just a little bit in the line. They are fast at preparing the food. I go there for the chicken and the sides of Yucca, a personal favorite. Let’s face it, Peruvian roasted chicken is always good.
4. Tanpopo Ramen House
If you’re craving ramen or sushi, this little spot tucked away off Markham Street is reliably delicious. The sushi menu is filled with classic rolls, all of them excellent. The ramen has never failed to disappoint me. My personal favorite is the Miso ton Kotsu Ramen, and the Udon. I hope that it opens up again soon.
5. The Block (Asian Fusion)
This isn’t so much a restaurant as it is a food court. It is consistently packed, a sign of good quality, and there is also a bar and TV that usually has a sporting event playing. Make no mistake, it is a fun place to go with your friends, especially if you are a little buzzed. If you are unsure of what you want, there are wide-ranging options here, from banh mi, soup dumplings, pork noodles, pig frites, ramen, and an ice cream menu. This spot is the perfect encapsulation of Annandale in its mixture of gastronomic styles. To not include it on this list would be irresponsible.
Honorable mention: A&J restaurant
In the same building as Tanpopo Ramen House, you have A&J, a restaurant I can’t exclude from this list. It has my favorite beef noodle soup in the area. It is inexpensive and totally worth it. This is often the place I bring my friends as it is a small place. Remember to bring cash, or download your Venmo account – they don’t accept cards!
When I wish to go out to eat in my hometown, I head within the beltway to Annandale. I believe it to contain the widest array of options for dining out in the D.C. suburbs… at least in Virginia, though without a doubt there are equally delectable places on the other side of the Potomac!
Blues from Mali, for fans of Tinariwen, Ali Farka Touré, and any West African sound.
You’ve heard Blues from Chicago and Mississippi. Maybe you’ve heard some Piedmont pickers, or John Lee Hooker’s one-chord style from Detroit. If you’ve enjoyed the latter, or any of the above categories for that matter, then I wish to direct you towards Malian blues.
Particularly the album by Boubacar Traoré, which I have linked at the bottom of this post. He’s a musician whose life story is as fascinating as his sound. The subject of the wonderful documentary, I’ll Sing for You, he first became popular in the 1960s in his home country of Mali, a newly independent country after seventy years of French colonization. It was a country in transition, a time where art, when not suppressed, had flourished.
In 1962, with his early rock n roll stance!
While Boubacar Traoré had experienced a small amount of popularity in the 60s, he fell into oblivion with the arrival of military strongman Moussa Traoré (I know… I refer to them with their full names to avoid any confusion). The military ruler silenced anyone associated with the regime before him, including university professors, politicians, and socialist-leaning activists. He was a bloody leader who wished to stamp out the previous regime. He monitored the radio airwaves, ending Boubacar Traoré’s musical popularity.
With the fall of Moussa Traoré in the nineties, Boubacar resurged. He recorded this album in 1992 in France. He is now celebrated as one of Mali’s finest musicians, collaborating with Ali Faria Touré, the African guitar god best known to western audiences for his album with Ry Cooder.
His particular style of desert blues blends the Arabic and Tuareg sounds with his own home country’s musical roots, blending into a style that mesmerizes from start to finish. I hope you enjoy it.
The train station in Nakhon Ratchasima, Thailand. I took this upon arrival.
I sat in a second-class compartment. My suitcase barely fitted on the overhang; half of it precariously hung over the edge. The seats were a combination of faded beige and hot pink, the color worn away from the passage of time.
I sat on a train in the Bangkok station. It was still morning. I was on my way to Nakhon Ratchasima, a city in central Thailand.
The lights dimmed and flickered as the attendants sauntered between compartments. They checked everyone’s tickets with the sort of dull energy that only comes from a mindless routine. Outdoor vendors were making their final round of customers on the train, selling bottled water and small snacks. I bought a bag of cookies. I decided to pass on the bottled water.
Due to the newly instated government protocol, the attendants wore surgical masks on all public transportation. The media storm on the virus had forced every country to take initiative at this point. It was the middle of February, three weeks after my arrival in China. I was going to teach English in Hangzhou. I was on my way to a new teaching job in Nakhon Ratchasima, known colloquially as Korat. I had never heard of this under-the-radar city prior to my arrival in Bangkok. It made headlines for a mass shooting that occurred in a mall a few days before I arrived. I have been desensitized to mass shootings in the news, as they are a regular occurrence in my home country.
Nakhon Ratchasima at night
In spite of the impending Thailand shutdown that would come a month and a half later, life went on for the Thai people. Public transport and commercial centers had started to stock sanitary products and fever checkpoints. People went about their daily chores, chattering away in markets, cooking in their street vendors, riding their motorcycles, and drinking at the night districts. The virus felt far away. It was a comfortable, though irresponsible delusion.
I watched the fans oscillating above me, basking in the air conditioning. I had carried my heavy suitcase through the early morning heat and my shirt was already soaked in sweat around my neck and chest. I checked the time: it was 9 in the morning on the final Monday of February, yet temperatures peaked at 97 degrees Fahrenheit.
As I waited for the train to finally take off, I tried to catch my breath. I thought about the city to which I was moving. My new job in Nakhon Ratchasima had not been part of any plan. This train ride had not been part of any plan. I was once again a passenger heading down an unknown line, accepting the new direction with a familiar contentment. The best moments happen when the plan falls apart. The virus had taught me, once again, that one can’t always be in the driver’s seat. One must surrender, must relent their attempts at controlling their own lives. To do otherwise is a desperate sort of vanity that can stunt one’s growth.
The low putter of the engine and the chatter of restless children filled my compartment. My breathing slowed a little as I finally relaxed, content that I would soon be moving again. I glanced around at the other passengers. I was the only Westerner in sight. Americans and Europeans flood the streets of Bangkok. The economy of Thailand runs on tourism, inspiring a common built-up image of Thailand outside of Asia. That image evaporated as I left Bangkok.
The hydraulic brakes released the doors to the compartment shut. The voices outside drowned. I picked up my book. We were finally on our way. After a while, I laid my head against the window. Tiny vibrations rippled up from the wheels on the tracks to the crown of my head as the train puttered along. I drifted off into an uneasy nap.
A rice paddy in Central Thailand with a local friend
I haven’t posted for a while. There’s a simple reason for that: I’m lazy!
I’m lazier than just about anyone I meet. I like nothing more than to sit around all day and read crime novels, smoke, watch movies, and shoot the shit with old friends. Laziness is a luxury. Most people do not have the time to indulge themselves like I do.
More important than that, however, and especially important to those who are lucky enough to travel, is that that I have a room to which I can return if I wish. I’m fortunate to have a bedroom in the family home. This condition has granted me a tremendous freedom to teach abroad and travel with my backpack for extensive periods of time. I have no burdens except my own. The luxury of having a clean place to sleep far outweighs any other in my life and I can hardly quantify my gratefulness for it in words.
Nonetheless, I still deal with my mental health. I am medicated for depression. I’m not sure what caused it, but I have accepted it as part of me for awhile now. In truth this is my biggest strain. When you are depressed, you work to maintain a certain kind of neutrality, a mental balance. At times it can be a delicate balance, others it brings you to your knees. All you can do is manage it the best way in which you can.
I have written a sizable amount about traveling through Europe, the Middle East, North Africa, and Asia in the last year. I have since returned to fairfax, Virginia to reboot my weary system while Coronavirus continues spreading itself across the globe. I have seen its results in three separate countries now. While the virus has undoubtedly triggered that old prowling depression that’s lived around the block from me the last fifteen years, I have been using it as an excuse to avoid publishing anything. A pathetic weakness!
I watched the Michael Jordan documentary yesterday. There was a moment that struck me. Steve Kerr is discussing the fall of star athletes, declaring that the failure of athletes happens in the moment when they are worrying too much about failure. They become their own worst enemy by accident. I believe that many of us know from experience that fear of failure is a self-fulfilling prophecy. All the same, what struck me was Jordan’s response; when Steve Kerr voiced this to Jordan back in 1998, he replied, “why would I worry about a shot I haven’t taken?”
Jordan uttered a truth that I believe we all know on some level: it’s better to try and fail rather than to not try at all. I know from my own vantage that I’m guilty of this when it consists of sitting down at my computer, writing, editing, and publishing a piece. I fear it is not that good, as it is almost impossible to gauge one’s writing skills on their own. In fact this is a bad piece and I should be disappointed in it. Be that as it may, a blank page is worse than an incoherent paragraph.
I type out all of this as a reminder to myself, to keep publishing, to find the time and willpower to write something. Well, if you’ve made it this far, thank you.
Western travelers often say that their first trip East surprised them in unexpected ways. Nothing could have prepared me for my own trip.
I arrived in China on the last week of January at the beginning of the Lunar new year. As I landed in Beijing, the plane descended upon a cyclone of smog in the middle of low mountains. The sun was a blood-red crescent hanging in the middle of the horizon as though invisible lines suspended it. The depth of pollution was casting an eerie murky light upon the city beneath me. Dusk was approaching. The blinking city lights blurred in the thick, grey haze; the only clear movement was the rising smoke from the factories on the outskirts of the city. I learned after landing that the government allows the factories to increase production during the Lunar New Year because droves of people leave the city to visit their families; pollute the air now, while the people evacuate the capital for their weeklong holiday.
As the plane finally landed on the runway, I began to taste the smog for the first time. A dusty, metallic texture in my mouth. I put my exposable surgical mask on as I stepped off the plane and approached the customs desk. Once I stepped outside of the airport, I found my taxi and headed into the city to meet my friend, who offered to house me for my first week in the mysteriously alluring northern capital.
After a day of traipsing through the old towns of Beijing, I began to notice the strangeness of arriving in the middle of the New Year during a virus outbreak. The city was empty. Beijing has over twenty million residents, yet not a soul drifted through the metro systems. The sky was gray and heavy. Despite arriving in the middle of winter, the smog absorbed the cold air like a blanket, giving you warmth in the early afternoon.
The Great Wall, Tiananmen Square, The Temple of Heaven, and the Forbidden City were all closed due to health concerns. My companion and I resolved to explore the neighborhoods outside of the Forbidden City and try to find a restaurant. After an hour of wandering, we found a lunch spot, where I ate my first donkey burger, a popular sandwich in Beijing. Hardly a burger in its construction, the bread resembles a baguette more than a bun. I’m not complaining though, it surprised me in its deliciousness.
We spent our time in Beijing exploring parks and shopping malls. At this point the city had officially declared a lockdown due to the rapid growth of COVID-19 and shopping mall Starbucks and the occasional dumpling shop were the only places open. I forgot that I was in China from time to time, bemused at the sight of the city before me which seemed to resemble more my mental images of Siberia or Ukraine than it did of the Far Eastern capital city. Empty playgrounds in a park, skeleton trees lining the asphalt roads that cut through the brown patches of grass, the eerie cast of a low-hanging grey sky, as though it were on the verge of collapsing upon us. In this apocalyptic, dreary backdrop, we played badminton… I inhaled an invisible cloud of smog with every sudden breath. I found myself questioning whether my exhaustion came from the jetlag, the pollution, my imagination, or the absurdity of it all.
We managed to find some temples that were open to the public, though very few people were visiting them. A few times I removed my mask until I noticed the locals were shooting scornful glances in my direction. We explored the ruins of an imperial garden called Yuanmingyuan. These ruins had been torched by Anglo-French expeditions, as well as American and British military campaigns in the 20th century. Though it is difficult to find information of the site in the park; all of the plaques simply list the architectural dimensions, nothing about the history. The site now holds patriotic pageants that depict foreign barbarians running from the powerful Chinese dynasty. The Western-style palaces echo remnants of Western expansion in the East.
A week later, I was in Hangzhou, a city closer to Shanghai. Located in Zhejiang, the number two COVID-19 province behind Hubei, Hangzhou was my original destination. It was where I was going to start my new teaching job. The situation only grew more absurd as I traveled further south in the People’s Republic.
Visiting an abandoned village in the heart of Catalan country in 2019.
Graveyard in Aramunt Vell
For the past fifty years, numerous villages in Catalonia have sat as skeletons, rotting away due to abandonment. The ghosts of communities, markets, homes, and cafes linger in the soft breeze at the foothills of the Pyrenees.
One such place I visited was Aramunt Vell. Deserted in the 1950s, it’s perched atop a hill next to neighboring village Aramunt. The town overlooks a clear azure lake that glints in the mid afternoon sunlight with an aura of tranquility. Though it’s empty, the village felt as though it were breathing upon my entrance. It seems to pulse beneath the sea of ivy and moss growing over the concrete and stone buildings that stoically stand against the tests of time. They have withered in their isolation, the concrete having oxidized into fading hues of pink and red. Wild flowers have also emerged on the church floors.
The withered cathedrals were of gothic origin. Their arches have deteriorated and fallen at their peak so that they’re now disconnected. The ceilings are open to the bright, expansive skyline. Flowers bloom where the pews once stood. I sidestepped past the poison ivy and walked along the altar. Graffiti adorned the place. The wooden floorboards along the altar creaked as I stepped out into the graveyard. The cemetery took up a rather small patch of land. There’s a faded path that leads to nowhere along the side. Flowers and bouquets lay on top of some of the headstones. Many of the dates on the graves revealed short lives through the late 19th century. Behind the graveyard, there was an alluring view of the lake. Again, I felt the pulse of life in a ghost town.
In the church.
Beneath the town there was the village Aramunt. Many of the last residents of Aramunt Vell migrated down to this village during its final days. They left for convenience; electricity never reached the top of the hill. When the well had finally run dry, locals had to climb down the narrow path along the hill to the turquoise lake, carrying large buckets of water. It must have been a long, taxing journey to quench your thirst and wash your clothes. I couldn’t imagine it on a daily basis, coming from my own background of American middle-class wealth. The villagers slowly abandoned the town so as to pursue a better life in the neighboring village.
For some of them, the transition was difficult. I met a woman in Aramunt. She asked me, “Where are you from?”
“United States. Virginia, specifically,” I said.
“Did you get to the town on the hill?”
“Yes, but it was difficult to climb down one of the paths. Very narrow and a lot of plants.”
“I’m originally from that town.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I left when I was five years old. My family and I were among the last to leave. It’s hard to abandon your home. The place you grew up. The place you prayed. You understand?”
“Yes,” I replied. My Spanish was limited, but I managed to get by speaking to her.
“The last one to leave was the priest. It’d been his family’s home for generations. He refused to go initially. At one point, he was the only resident living in the town.”
“Wow, I can’t imagine.”
“There was no electricity. We were too far from the markets. Everyone knew it was time to go. That’s life though.” She smiled at me.
“…There’s no real guidebook to Morocco, no way of knowing where the long trail of the Rif is going to land one…” – Edith Wharton
During the Spanish Reconquista, thousands of Muslims and Jews fled the mountains of Sierra Nevada by order of Ferdinand II of Aragon and Isabella I of Castile as they united the kingdoms of Spain into one Catholic Monarchy. While this sequence of events ultimately led to the modern incarnation of the Iberian peninsula, many minorities beneath the crown suffered accusations of heresy against the Church. As a result, large numbers of exiles ended up settling in Northern Morocco and sought refuge deep in the Rif Mountains. They began to establish themselves there. One of their refuges would become Chefchaouen, or Chaouen, as the locals prefer to call it.
Though it has since become a tourist hotspot (myself included, I can’t deny that), the evidence of the city’s establishment as an Inquisition refuge still permeates into this small Moroccan city’s vibrant culture. French is unnecessary here as almost all locals speak fluent Spanish. Street signs and neighborhoods have Castilian names. Amongst the traditional blue houses and markets that cover post-cards in the tourist information centers are various churches and fortifications of Spanish or Portuguese architectural origin. The city is around 600 years old – rather young for Morocco’s standards – yet still feels European in many regards.
My partner and I arrived to Chaouen in the late afternoon. We got off the bus and climbed a steep hill on the outskirts of the Medina to our Airbnb. The sun was brutal at this hour, forcing us to stop for water and tea less than halfway through our uphill route. We finally met our hosts – an extremely gracious, patient Italian and Moroccan couple – who led us to our homestay for the next two nights. After showing us our room and a brief introductory chat about the location of the apartment building in relation to the city center, they sat us down and served us coffee. They gave personal recommendations of their favorite sites and restaurants. We thanked them and headed out to enjoy our last few hours of sunlight. My skin was crawling with the amount of coffee and tea consumed that day; we hadn’t eaten a proper meal since early in the morning and I felt my system begging for more sustenance and less caffeine.
Our Airbnb
To say that Chaouen has an unforgettable medina and Kasbah would be an immense understatement. While it’s undeniable that locals exaggerate their market presentation to reel in the daily throng of tourists, one can’t deny the breathtaking atmosphere it exudes nor resist the giddy, childlike thrill of getting lost deep in the cloudy blue backstreets. It’s charming and picturesque; if you travel for instagram fodder (I hope you do it for more than just that) this is the Moroccan city for you. It’s also an easy medina to navigate. So easy, in fact, that it’s color-coded: if the floor is blue, there’s no exit. If you’re looking for a way out, don’t follow the blue floors. I know they’re mesmerizing like a moth to the flame, but you’ll only wind up on someone’s front stoop and come off as another ignorant, misguided tourist (which you are – always keep that thought prevalent).
We ate dinner in the Kasbah that night. It was Friday, the best day to order cous-cous, according to our Airbnb host Luanne. “The cooks prepare the semolina early Friday mornings, giving you the freshest taste,” she’d told us. “If you were to order it any other day, it wouldn’t taste as good. You have to take advantage tonight!” Naturally, we took her advice. Any insider information helps!
Souks in Chaouen
The next day, we continued exploring the blue souks before wandering along the river outside the old city walls. Locals had been convening there all day it seemed, sitting at low-plastic tables positioned in the center of the shallow river, their pants rolled up and feet splashing in the creek with a carefree gentleness. They smoked hookahs and cigarettes, laughing together as they enjoyed the cool water on their feet. We sat alongside the river and watched them and the families and teenagers all flock by in the midday sun. Our time in Chefchaouen felt too short, though I’ve found myself saying this wherever I go.
We departed for Tetuoan and Tangier the following morning. After saying goodbye to our hosts, we made our way back down that steep hill to catch a grand taxi that would take us back to where we had started a few days earlier. After about an hour we managed to flag one down and hop in the backseat. We waited for the middle row to fill up… A mother, her teenage daughter, and a single man joined us a few moments later. The taxi driver took off as soon they closed the side-door.
The Rif mountains
The highway back to Tangier followed the power lines running through the mountains. The roads carved through ravines filled with pink, flowery bushes and endless fields of olive trees. We passed lakes ranging from dark blue to bright turquoise. Even this early in summer, the heat was so strong, it felt palpable; the taxi-driver had a cut-out square from a cardboard box pressed against his window as to block out the unforgiving heat invasion bearing down on him as he weaved through the two-lane traffic, dodging cars coming against him without batting an eyelash.
We passed small vendors on the side of the highway selling ceramic and pottery. Local family-run restaurants sprinkled the highway. Locals sat outside in full Muslim garb, drinking mint tea, playing chess, rinsing their hands in the Sebils, laughing together as they relish the shade they’ve found under the outdoor terraces. We watched all this pass us by from the backseat of a cross-country taxi ride in moments that felt both fleeting and undying until our sudden arrival to Tétouan.
At the beginning of 2019, my partner and I went to Portugal. It was my first time there. This piece will be about the food, colonialism, monuments, and the strange relationship it has with the country I currently reside in: Andorra.
Normally, I try not to write about food as I consider it to be outside of my territory. Yet I’ll do it for Portugal as it’s a cuisine to die for.
The staple dish is cod, which is surprising, as the Atlantic waters off the coast of Portugal are not nearly cold enough to catch it. They must import it from Norway. Thus, their national dish is an import!
But the cod was hardly my first choice in Portugal. My favorite was the Francesinha, a work of the gods hidden in the mortal form of a sandwich. A modern riff off of the Croque Monsieur in France, it was brought to Porto in the 1960s. The best description for it would be “Porto soul food,” consisting of a heavenly layer of sausage, ham, and stacked slices of steak between two slices of white bread and coated with a divine tomato and alcohol infused sauce. I’m still recovering from the invigorating experience of trying this dish for the first time. It might’ve taken a year off my life but I can say without hesitation that it was worth every single bite.
Francesinha. One of my favorite meals anywhere.
Then there are the pastries. Oh lord, the pastries. The most iconic is the nata, a cupcake-shaped egg tart doused in cinnamon. A creation of the Catholic monasteries in Lisbon, they were an accidental discovery, engendered from the surplus egg whites that were normally preserved to starch the nuns’ clothing. When the monasteries began to close after revolutions in 1820, the nuns and priests who inhabited these monasteries began to sell these little heavenly pastries as a way to bring in some much needed revenue. Little did they know that they would lead a pastry revolution that spread itself around the globe as Portugal colonized different parts of the world, carrying the nata with them.
Taking all of this in consideration, I have one crucial recommendation for anyone traveling to Portugal: eat, with minimal breaks. Don’t be ashamed, there’s a plethora of gorgeous monuments to visit that can help you burn off all those calories you’ll have consumed.
Belem Tower in Lisbon
We visited plenty of those monuments. My personal favorite was the Belem Tower in Lisbon. The picture I will post fails to capture its magnitude. Designed as a gateway to Portugal during the Age of Exploration, it served to simultaneously welcome and intimidate guests upon entry to the Portuguese empire of the 16th century. Close to the Belem tower, there is a large map on the concrete that reveals every discovery the European powers made during this time. A combined sense of awe and apprehension envelops you as you ponder the effects that the early days of colonialism has had on the tides of global affairs, an effect that ripples to the modern day. Yet here on this square, next to a port overlooking the longest Iberian river on a cloudy day, I lacked the words to articulate it.
Besides the Belem Tower, any building in Porto with Azulejo caught my attention. The famous tile work in Spain and Portugal, influenced by Arabic and Persian mosaics that now adorn houses, churches, train stations, and businesses all across Portugal. It’s the reason you buy that postcard in the first place. Yet beyond that, it represents evidence of the Iberian Peninsula’s connection to the Far East even before the Age of Exploration, a symbol of their relationship with the rest of the world. Why wouldn’t you buy that blue postcard or fridge magnet?
Nonetheless, Portugal has its problems. I was unaware how deep they went until I moved to Andorra and realized the full scale of mass unemployment in the northern region of this Iberian nation.
At the dawn of the economic recession in 2009, Portugal awoke with a feeling of nervousness and anxiety. They were Western Europe’s poorest country even before the world economic collapse ten years ago, and during this time, they were hurdling down an even darker, more unsure road.
The result was the desperate emigration of 300,000 young people (Portugal has 10 million citizens, so that’s three percent of the country’s population) from their country to look for employment. A large number of those young people were from the Northern region of the country.
I learned this from my own experience living in Andorra, a tiny principality in the Pyrenees with a lot of Portuguese citizens. The majority of these Portuguese workers have taken blue-collar jobs: mechanics, construction workers, electricians, and so forth. Andorra has developed their infrastructure in the last thirty years and they have done so on the backs of Portuguese men and women. They have suffered for it. A dozen of Portuguese workers – 5 of whom died – constructed a bridge designed to connect two parishes in Andorra. While they were laying cement for the construction of the viaducts, the temperature dropped too low, resulting in the collapse of one of the viaducts. There is a small plaque commemorating the tragedy as you walk the trail that passes under a bridge before the tunnel.
I believe Portugal to be one of the most beautiful, peaceful countries in all of Europe. Tourists tend to opt for other countries in Western Europe such as England, Spain, and France. Don’t get me wrong; I love all of those countries. Yet there’s a calmness in the air I’ve yet to experience anywhere else in Western Europe. People are friendly and proud of their country despite their economic problems. All of the Portuguese in Andorra I’ve met return home for the holidays and speak of their homeland with deep fondness. After a short time there, I can see why.
A
local described the color of the bus as “sour milk.” What the hell does that
even mean? I asked myself.
I
waited with a couple of fellow Americans I’d met earlier that day during
breakfast in Durres, Albania, a beautiful city bordering the Adriatic Sea. I’d
spent three days there and was now venturing to the south of this mysterious country
to a town called Vuno.
Albania is filled with beautiful scenery and kind-hearted people. They are shocked to see people traveling in their country due to its lack of development, yet it does not in any way diminish their pride; the flag waves everywhere you turn. They rejoice in their language, an Indo-European anomaly in the Balkan region, yet they are quick to practice their English on you and help if you are lost or need recommendations.
Sunset in Vuno, Albania
While the friendliness of Albanians is memorable in a positive light, the timetable of the public transport is not; I can’t recall how late the bus ended up arriving, perhaps two hours or so. We watched as a faded white double-decker bus hurled around the corner toward us and stopped suddenly under the leaky bridge where we were waiting. “Well, I guess the color does kind of resemble ‘sour milk,’” one of my friends said.
We climbed into the bus, paid the conductor, said goodbye to the locals that waited with us, and departed for the South. My destination was Vuno and my new friends were heading to Himarë. The two towns are about fifteen kilometers from each other, so we made plans to meet up at some point in the few days we’d be in the same region. After several hours passing through the narrow, cracked mountain roads, as well as a lightning storm that forced us to pull over on the side of a cliff for an hour or so, we arrived in Vuno. The trip had become almost a full-day experience. Again, the bus service was memorable… I bade goodbye to them and climbed off the bus.
I gazed at the small town tucked high up in the cliffs of the Adriatic, a place of unbelievable scenic beauty. The town had one market on the main street consisting of packaged pasta, eggplants, potatoes, fresh tomatoes, cold beverages, Rakia (the local spirit), and beer. Pipes leaked onto the roads. Abandoned churches concealed themselves behind dense walls of overgrown weeds and thickets off of the main street. There were no banks, no restaurants, no post office… I loved it.
Cave swimming in Gjipe
I
followed a dirt path down to the local campsite, pitched my tent, and checked
in. At this point the sun had set. I made some pasta I’d bought at the local
shop and cooked a red sauce in the small little kitchen with fresh basil and
garlic I’d found on the campsite. I fell asleep shortly after eating, exhausted,
of course, from a long day of just sitting around waiting for a bus. Oh, the
woes of a backpacker!
I woke early the next day and decided to hitchhike to Himarë as to find an ATM. After a short wait, a black BMW with tinted windows approached me from behind. I heard that Damian Marely jam rock bass line thumping along as the ride inched closer to me. I stopped walking and lowered my thumb once it finally reached me. The window rolled down, revealing two men who looked like bodybuilders. Their heads were shaved and they wore aviators. I couldn’t blame them; the late July sun has the capacity to kick your ass around here, even at 9 in the morning.
They beckoned me into the back seat. I got in as they turned up the music without a moment of hesitation. They handed me a joint rolled with perfection; I know a fine work of art when I see one. I took a few hits while they welcomed me to Albania with their limited English, though they were very happy at the opportunity to practice it. The car pulled into the center of Himarë a few minutes later. I thanked them for the lift. They gave me another joint, a bottle of water, and requested a selfie with me. “Enjoy Albania,” one of them said before driving away.
Gorge in Gjipe
I got out of the car and sauntered my way into the local market, my stomach grumbling. I bought some pastries and juice and stepped back outside to the early morning heat. I sat down on a bench and gaped at the bright blue sea, watching locals and tourists pass me by as I scoffed down my breakfast. After a few minutes, or maybe an hour, I remembered I had to go to the cash machine.
I
withdrew a little money and decided to wear off the effects of the weed by
walking along the boardwalk. I realized I was a little too stoned for nine in
the morning. I sat down in a café and ordered more food, my stomach still
grumbling. I texted the friends I had made on the bus the day before. They
joined me and we talked for a short time about traveling, sipping a cup of
coffee in the early morning summer heat.
After paying the bill, we set off for a local beach. We arriver after about 30 minutes. I can’t stress with any hyperbole how beautiful the beaches are in southern Albania. The water is azure, crystalline, and clean. Though tourists certainly crowd them, many of them are still relatively unspoiled, although I’m certain that will change within the next couple of years. The country is beginning to open up and become a tourist destination as people have slowly started to discover what Albania has to offer. Not to mention it’s a cheap destination. I’m probably not helping the situation by writing this.
We made an Argentine friend on our trip to the first beach. He had joined us at a bar and told us he was looking for Gjipe beach. I was also curious about Gjipe, so the four of us agreed to hitchhike there.
A pick-up truck stopped for two of us along the highway heading back in the direction of Vuno, the town I was staying for the next two nights. The driver was on his phone, eating, and smoking a cigarette all the while weaving through the winding two-lane traffic road at breakneck speed. I could honestly say this was the one scary moment I had in all of Albania. After a few minutes, he got us back to Vuno. On the way out, he handed us a small wooden box filled with fresh nectarines with a smile. I gave them out at the campsite when we arrived there. What were we going to do with that many nectarines for ourselves?
We hitched one last ride that took us to Gjipe beach. Tucked away between two mountains and at the end of a large, dangerous gorge, it is simply too beautiful to describe. I can only say how happy I am to have seen it. The water is the clearest I’ve ever seen. There are caves off the coast you can explore as well as a gorge between the two cliffs that surround you. It’s ideal for camping; I wish I had brought my tent there instead. I spent the rest of the afternoon swimming, cliff jumping, chatting, and drinking beer. You can hike into the gorge if you want, but there are a lot of snakes. I decided the sand and sun was more to my liking.
Gjipe Beach
As the sun started to set and people began to go back home, I stumbled back up the cliff with my group to the parking lot to hitch one last ride back to camp. A hippy lady picked us up in her large white Volkswagen. She was also staying on the same campground as me and offered to drive my friends back to Himarë after dropping me off on the main street in Vuno. They thanked her profusely for her generosity. “Chill out, dudes,” she said. “I’m always happy to help some people out.”
She
dropped me off and headed towards Himarë. I found myself back on the main
street of Vuno again. I stopped into the local market and picked up some drinks
before returning to the campsite. Sitting at the table was a group of girls
from Switzerland with a couple of guitars. They asked me if I played at all.
For the remaining hours of that humid summer night, we drank Rakia (grape-infused brandy, typical of the Balkans. It tastes different from region to region; in Montenegro it was fruity and smooth. Here it tasted like what I imagine gasoline to taste like) and improvised a jam session. I felt my inner hippy spirit dancing among the music and alcohol. At some point, in my drunken stupor, I asked the local campsite owner what he thought for the future of Albania. “Give it another year or two,” he said. “The roads are coming. People are coming. I’m sad to lose Gjipe beach to tourists, but I’m happy to see more people here.”
Montevideo street art, a failed attempt at driving manual, biking Punta Del Este, and an unfinished Trump building.
Punta del Este, Uruguay
The ferry from Buenos Aires to Montevideo, the capital of Uruguay, takes a little over an hour. I was traveling with three girls I’d met through my study abroad program many years ago. They were from very different backgrounds, yet we all convened at the same table in the dining hall one morning by chance and planned a trip. I was a little older than all of them and they seemed nice enough.
The ferry, called Buquebus, is a short ride but a long wait. Immigration requires a two-hour arrival prior to departure as to check fingerprints and acquire visas. I waited with my new friends near the gate. I bought a cup of coffee and the four of us boarded the ship towards Montevideo.
Americans
tend to sleep on South America in general, but Uruguay especially. This
southern cone nation is a gem of South America, a calm paradise. The cow
population outnumbers the human population by about seven million, so one is
not surprised to find out about the importance of the beef and cattle industry
here. It is, after all, next door to Argentina, the country with the best beef
in the world (I’ll fight anyone who tries to tell me otherwise).
The
ferry docked into Montevideo mid-afternoon. We picked up our car rental, our
first mistake. By nature, renting a car in another country is a nightmarish
experience. A dark cloud of fear hangs over you as you pull out of the garage,
mindful of any thin gap or crevice that could leave a scratch that will siphon
a heap of cash from your wallet when you return it. It was fortunate that I
wasn’t the one taking the reins; I didn’t know how to drive stick. I sat back
as my Moroccan friend drove the car into town.
We
checked into the hostel, a colorful abode with low lighting. There was a patio
and a bar adorned with Christmas lights and plants. Other travelers had already
gathered there and started drinking. The next few hours are a little hazy, this
was many years ago and I’m not sure what alcohol I had consumed that night. All
I remember is joining a Quizombo dance routine at some point.
I woke up early the next day and grabbed breakfast downstairs, my head thundering with that familiar dull hum of a hangover. This was many years ago, when I could handle it better. At this age, a hangover generally takes up my entire day; back then it usually dissolved itself around noon.
Once my friends awoke and joined me downstairs, we decided to venture out into the city a little deeper. I discovered my favorite thing about Montevideo that morning: the street art. Plastered across every corner of the city are murals that pop your eyes even on a dreary winter morning, blessing the city with color. I’m grateful I still have a handful of photos in my phone of some of them.
After walking through the city for a few hours, we got the car from the parking spot a couple hours later and started our venture towards Colonia del Sacramento for the day. The fields surrounding were green and the sky overcast, the typical weather in mid-winter in this part of the world. This was the first moment I regretted traveling with three girls around twenty years old; Barbie Girl blasted from the speakers as they stared back and laughed at me. I couldn’t hide my disgust; I have sisters and I know this game all too well. But as one learns in life, play the hand your dealt with a laugh!
Colonia
Del Sacramento is one of the oldest cities in the Uruguay, brandishing a barrio histórico that delights every
tourist who passes through with its antiquated blend of Spanish and Portuguese
buildings among the commanding view of Rio de la Plata. Stone archways and
misaligned cobble streets snake through this town of 27,000 people. Due to its
proximity to Buenos Aires, it’s a very frequent day vacation for Porteños
looking for a more relaxed setting to relax in the sun or sit in the café and
enjoy a drink.
A stray in Colonia del Sacramento
The next stop was Punta Del Este, the “Miami Beach of South America.” To tell the truth, this was not my favorite place, only because our timing was terrible. It was a rainy weekend in winter. The majority of workers in this town are seasonal, so it felt akin to a ghost town upon our arrival. At the time, I was rather indifferent to the whole experience. In hindsight, there are a few moments that stick in my memory: my first time driving a stick shift, a failed Trump residency, and biking along the coast of the Atlantic.
The
first night of our arrival, Dinah, my Morroccan friend, offered to teach me how
to drive automatic. I said sure, how hard could it be? She drove us to an
abandoned parking lot close to the beach and gave me a brief overview of
instructions. Sounds easy enough, I thought to myself. I got behind the wheel.
The engine stalled. Okay, that’s normal, I told myself. I tried again, putting
the gear in first and laying off the clutch. The engine shook and twitched
before stalling out again. My frustration crept in.
After about ten attempts, I gave up. So much for that experience, I thought to myself. Afterwards, Dinah’s friend, Alexandra tried for her first time as well. She got it the first try. Goddamn, some people are naturals! I resigned to learn another time.
Alexandra
drove us back to our hotel where I fell asleep after a few hours. The next day
I convinced them to rent bikes with me. I was tired of walking and I wanted
more space to explore the area. We picked up the bikes and followed the
coastline, basking in fleeting winter sunlight. I felt the cool breeze against
my face and my jeans slightly tearing as they brushed against the chain rings.
I continued along the coast (at this point I had separated from the girls),
taking in the familiar, comforting smell of salt water as I passed a building
that made me grasp the handlebar brakes and pull off for a second.
It
should be worth noting that when I was in Uruguay, Trump had announced his
presidential candidacy about a month prior. Everyone was still in “this is a
joke” mode, unaware of what would happen over the next few months. It was when
Mexicans were rapists but before the announcement of a Muslim ban. I had
already disqualified him from my own personal ballot due to his comments on Mexicans.
I hadn’t expected him to take the Republican Party at that point.
Anyway, I looked up at an unfinished Trump residence in Uruguay. I stared in astonishment at his incomplete project in this “Miami Beach” South American city. All I could think was how despicable he looks in all of his photos. “The project will be finished in 2020.” It’s clearly aimed at the wealthiest South Americans. I gazed upon it with disgust, festering in his dehumanizing comments towards an entire continent while contracting them to work on a new residence; a project designed solely for the richest Argentineans and Uruguayans. I couldn’t conceive the idea that he was – or is, even today – in any way representative of regular people outside the sphere of billionaires he’s absorbed himself into all of his life. Nevertheless, I’d love to return to Uruguay in 2020 when the project is set to complete (I doubt it somehow) and ask locals how they feel about this new addition to their boardwalk.
Trump residence in Punta del Este
I
mounted my bike and headed back toward the hotel. Punta del Este is a beautiful
spot in Uruguay, but I only wish I’d gone during a nicer time of year.
Bird On the Wire 