1. Cool, sleek architecture that occasionally flirts with being geometrically OTT
2. Doors that slide open when you press a button -- Don't push or pull...just a touch.
3. Taxi doors that open and shut automatically...Be careful not to touch!
4. No garbage bins on the sidewalks...How do they keep Japanese cities so clean and litter free?
5. Semi-communal restaurant dining at long shared counters or tables...I tried it once, but my meals in public are meant to be enjoyed in the privacy of my own table, thank you.
6. A preponderance of pizzerias
7. Smoking in restaurants
8. Cashiers in even the finest dining restaurants
9. A wet washcloth before every meal
10. Weak cocktails. No kick. Stick to beer, wine (plum -- if you can find a restaurant/bar that serves it), and tequila shots that are twice as big as the ones bars charge $10 for in Australia.
11. A Family Mart on practically every block selling some of the yummiest food you'll eat in Japan
12. Weirdest language moment: When I had to communicate with an Ueno massage therapist in Spanish because she (like nearly every local I encountered in Tokyo, Kyoto, and Osaka) didn't speak English, and I don't speak Japanese.
13. Tower Records...I thought they'd gone out of business.
14. Free public WiFi that you need an Internet connection to access...How else are you supposed to get the code that they email to you?
15. Public vending machines selling refreshments in Kyoto
16. Bicycle riders in Kyoto that give me Berlin flashbacks -- Look out!
17. Impeccably dressed and manicured women who all look like they're on the way to the same audition
18. Older men who dye their hair a rather unflattering -- and unnatural -- shade of reddish
19. Quite possibly the smallest four-star hotel rooms in the world
20. Low sinks clearly made for a general population that's under 160 centimetres tall...If you see a black guy walking around Sydney with a stoop, he's probably me.
One day after my arrival in Kyoto, I was still trying to figure out why I was increasingly more appreciative of its considerable charms than I was of Tokyo's. Then en route to the Philosopher's Path on foot, it hit me: It's a nature thing.
Tokyo is cooler, hipper and more happening. It's the epitome of urban excitement, possibly even on par with New York City. But having OD'd on cool, hip, and happening in the Big Apple in the '90s and in Buenos Aires and Bangkok this century, I no longer place as high a premium on those qualities. Perhaps that's why I can prefer Melbourne over Sydney or Jerusalem over Tel Aviv or Woolloomooloo and Potts Point in Sydney over Newtown. It's not all about the urban hustle...or being on trend.
Concrete jungles wear me out after a while. I know there's nature in Tokyo, having witnessed it firsthand. But every major city has parks, trees, and more rural outskirts...sometimes a river even runs through it. Nature in Tokyo, though, feels almost incidental to city life. It's there if you look for it, but it's so far removed from the pulse, from the figurative heart of Tokyo.
In Kyoto, nature is built into the city. Whether walking along the Kamo River or strolling down the Philosopher's Path (billed as one of Japan's 100 greatest roads) at the foot of the mountains that frame Kyoto, the urban experience is a natural one, too.
And that's the thing about Kyoto. I'm getting the urban experience that I live for (I will always be a city boy at heart, a true urbanite), but I'm getting something more, something I haven't really gotten in many of the Asian metropolises that I've visited. I'm also getting natural beauty, much of it breath-taking.
Kyoto is beautiful in a way Tokyo isn't. And at this point in my life, when it comes to location location location, aesthetics will trump vibe every time.
It just dawned on me that I've spent nearly a year doing something I haven't done since 1993: I've stayed put. Right before Japan Airlines flight 772 from Sydney's Kingsford Smith Airport to Tokyo's Narita Airport departs at 8.15 Thursday morning, I will have spent almost exactly 10 consecutive months in the same country without a single international departure.
That's something I haven't done since 1993 when I flew to Bermuda with a group of my People magazine colleagues on a posh private plane with a full bar (and a bartender who made a killer Bloody Mary!). It was the first time I'd ever traveled outside of the United States, and it launched an adult life spent regularly jetting off into the far-off unknown.
When I returned to New York after several days, I promised myself I'd never again spend an entire calendar year in one country. I vowed to visit at least one new country every year, and it's a promise I've managed to keep. In fact, by the time Japan Airlines flight 771 returns from Tokyo to Sydney on August 30, I will have crossed another city/country off my travel bucket list for the third consecutive calendar year, having already done Tel Aviv, Cape Town and Tanzania.
The last nine years, in particular, have been filled with frequent travel, partly because my travel bug wouldn't have it any other way, and partly because visa requirements limited the amount of time I could stay in any given expat stomping ground without at least one international departure.
With my arrival in Sydney last October 22, I knew everything was about to change. For one, I'd be working a full-time 9-to-5 gig for the first time since 2006. Second, the company that hired me also sponsored me, which meant no more taking flight from my expat stomping ground every 90 days unless I wanted to.
I never expected to last 10 months. There have been four trips to Melbourne, one to Adelaide and one to the Blue Mountains, but I haven't once stepped foot outside of Australia since arriving here from South Africa. I wonder if that has something to do with how underwhelmed I've been with Sydney and, by extension, Australia, despite the fact that I spent years being obsessed with all things Aussie before officially living here.
Maybe it's like moving into your boyfriend's studio apartment and never seeing other people. How could you not get sick of each other when you never get away from each other? How could I fully appreciate Sydney when I'd never given myself the opportunity to miss it?
Everyone tells me to give it time...Sydney is a city that rewards patience. I've tried to be patient, and in some ways, it's paid off. I've settled into my job to the point that I actually enjoy both the gig and my colleagues. And one month ago, I moved into a dream apartment in the building I've wanted to live in since a couple of months after my arrival. Life is good, but Sydney isn't home. Maybe it never will be.
I haven't given up hope, though. I may never find my Sydney "family" or a make a new friend whom I don't work with or go on a fourth date here, but I'm excited to see where my trip to Japan takes me mentally. The best holidays are the ones you don't want to end that also somehow make you appreciate where you live more.
If I've already maxed out my appreciation for Sydney, I'm prepared to live with that. Now that the world traveler is on the verge of making a comeback, I know this arranged marriage can be saved. Just because I don't have to leave every three months doesn't mean I can't. Goodbye, Sydney. Hello, world. Boy have I missed you!
By now I've been a Sydney-sider long enough to know that whenever anyone who has lived here longer than six months asks what I think of the city, it's just
a formality, a trick question. I answer at my own risk.
It's like "How are you?" -- or "How are you going?" in Aussie-speak. It's a rhetorical question. The answer is assumed before it's even asked. Of course, you must love Sydney!
With that in mind, I proceeded with caution when the American expat from Chicago asked me the expected question. It wasn't just that I knew exactly how he
would react to my response. His forced confidence (he was like the hammiest actor chomping up the scenery) and smug demeanor made it feel more like a
challenge than a conversation starter. He seemed almost to be daring me not to say the right thing about hallowed Sydney.
He wore his seven years here like a badge of honor, and just in case I didn't notice it dangling from the chest I half expected him to start pounding, he
announced "I'm even an Australian citizen now" in a perfect Aussie accent. He looked at me as if he was expecting a standing ovation. He was, after all, a
black American who had made it in Oz -- if obtaining citizenship and the ability to mimic the local dialect is your idea of "made it."
I can't say I was thoroughly unimpressed. I take note whenever any fish out water survives in new rarefied air. As an American expat for going on nine
years, I respect the art of assimilation…and it is high art indeed. Kudos, I thought, as I started to answer his question…cautiously.
"You know, I understand Sydney's appeal. It's a beautiful place, but I just don't love it as much as everyone else seems to."
I winced, waiting for the whip to lash me across the face. The smack didn't come, but his response was just what I'd expected it to be, for I've
been hearing it regularly since my first trip to Sydney five years ago.
"Give it time. Sydney takes a while to really appreciate, but once you do, you'll be totally in love with it."
And thus began the latest testimonial about the wonders of Sydney, how the city's appeal takes you by surprise and once it grabs you refuses to let you go.
I listened to his monologue and when he was finished, I just stared at him. I really didn't have anything to say. Obviously, there had been only one right
answer to his question. There's always only one right answer to that question.
Then he asked another one.
"So what don't you like about Sydney then?"
I didn't want to go there yet again. I was over spinning my own broken record with the repetitive beat, the one where I go on about how Melbourne is warmer (the people, not the climate), more welcoming, more rock& roll, how the gay men in Sydney are flaky and cliquey, how Sydney promises endless sunshine and then fails to
deliver it, how life is not a beach. I just couldn't bear to hear myself singing that same old song one more time.
Furthermore, his Sydney sermon had been such a turn off. He was pontificating in a loud, forceful manner that made me feel like he wanted me to justify my
position, not explain it. I had tuned him out halfway through, hoping he would eventually lose interest in me and let me enjoy my quiet time in the park in
peace. I did catch his explanation that whenever he really loves a city, like his hometown of Chicago, he wants everyone to feel the same way about it, so
he might go overboard in his zeal to sell the place.
His explanation made sense, but I wondered why it seems to apply to everyone in Sydney who isn't from Melbourne. Sydney-siders are constantly telling me
how I should feel about Sydney or how I will feel about Sydney after a few more months here. It's not like I hate the place. There are things that I
really like about Sydney. But we just don't click the way Melbourne and I do. What's the big deal?
There are always going to be different opinions of any city, and every city will have its non-fans, regardless of how much time they spend there or how
many friends they make there. Why should Sydney be exempt from that? It might partly be the constant pressure to love it that keeps me from falling in love with it.
My relocation here was strictly business. I came here for work, and one can be hired in far worse places. Once or twice I've felt like I was on the brink of getting it, but those were fleeting moments. Full appreciation has remained just out of reach. Shouldn't loving a great city be easier? I know that if I stick around, I'll eventually cultivate a little community here and become part of Sydney's social fabric, but there's more to city love than assimilation.
I may have said some of this, but mostly I sat there in silence, hearing him, but after a while, not really listening anymore. Eventually he got the message and
left me in peace.
As he walked away, I wondered why Sydney-siders are so precious about their turf. In all the places I've lived, I've never seen anything like it. It's more
than local pride. It's almost like some kind of manifest destiny to be able to call Sydney the world's most livable city (an honor that's already gone to Melbourne, which might actually partly explain the Sydney oversell).
Why else would it always be necessary to defend its honor? A lot of people adore Sydney -- most every non-Melburnian I know who has been here does. At least three of my former bosses -- two American, one British -- have lived here, and all of them rave about it to this day. Sydney is not wanting for admirers. So what
difference does it make if little old me is not part of the breathless fan club?
There's a lot that I miss about New York City, but right now, I'm really homesick for the take-it-or-leave-it New Yorker attitude. No New Yorker would ever
waste their time trying to explain why anyone should love New York. Either you do or you don't, and if you don't, well the exit door is always open.
One week from now, when the clock strikes 6 next Saturday morning, I will depart Cape Town en route to Dar es Salaam, the capital of Tanzania, where I will begin a 10-day, 9-night
overland tour from Dar all the way to Nairobi, the capital of Kenya. As much as I'm looking forward to finally spending time in Zanzibar and the Serengeti
and perhaps catching a glimpse of Mount Kilimanjaro, I'm terrified, too.
I'm heading way out of my comfort zone, exposing myself to yellow fever (got my vaccination!), malaria (pills: check!) and deadly animals with sharp teeth. But I'm not just talking about the three days I'll spend camping in the middle of the Serengeti. Can a loner like
me who actually prefers to travel solo, handle 10 days and 9 nights on the road (mostly unpaved, I imagine) with up to 17 strangers? It'll either change my life or make me want to end
it.
Yes, I have my hopes and fears, but being a glass-half-full type, I'm choosing to accentuate the positive -- and there are a lot of reasons for me to look forward to what the first half of July holds. Here are 9 of them, one for each night I'll lay me down to sleep on the road. (I'll bookend the overland tour with one night in Dar and one in Nairobi.)
1. Every time I dreamed of Africa before actually coming here, visions of a safari, not Cape Town's spectacular natural/man-made cityscape, were dancing in my head. It's
pretty much what put Africa on my to-do list, even before I was old enough to care about Cape Town. Many years ago when I interviewed Suzanne Vega, she talked about the exciting life she wanted to lead: "I'm not necessarily talking about going on an African safari…." Are you kidding? I
thought to myself. I'd kill to go on an African safari! Some 20 years later, I'm about to fulfill one of my key requirements for leading
an exciting life -- and nobody had to be killed.
2. I know little things mean a lot and all that jazz, but it can't be good that the highlight of yesterday was finding that fabulous wine-bottle opener at Pic
n Pay. My days and nights are begging for upheaval, even if I'll be spending most of the former admiring breathtaking scenery while an 18-seater truck takes us
through Tanzania, from the Indian Ocean coast up through the north east of the country.
3. After two weeks without a drop of alcohol, one glass of Lagare gave me a buzz and sent me to bed at 8.30pm last night. I could probably stand to be
forcibly separated from that wine-bottle opener and the Lagare stash I picked up several weeks ago at Beyerskloof in Stellenbosch. Why does it have to go
down so yummy and easy?
4. One can only take so many breathtaking shots of Signal Hill, Lion's Head, Table Mountain and Devil's Peak before even my digital camera starts begging for
a change of scenery. Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam, and the deer and the antelope play… I'm expecting a far more extensive menagerie of animal
sightings in the Serengeti.
5. A change of season is in order, too. The Capetonian winter is nowhere near as bad as I'd been told it would be, but really, a lot more sunshine wouldn't
kill me, and rainy season in Tanzania ended in May.
6. I could really use a break from emails, status updates, stupid Grindr messages, #hashtags and, yes, blogging, too, but since the temptation to plug in is
too great as long as I have WiFi access (shoddy as it often is in Cape Town), having to do without it in the middle of the wilderness might be just
what my sanity needs.
7. Speaking of blogging, I need some fresh inspiration for when I get back to Cape Town civilization. I'm sort of over gay and race issues for now. After more than six months of Black and White (racial
politics are so exhausting), I'm looking forward to a Technicolor National Geographic experience.
8. As much as I appreciate the benefits of functional training at 360 every Tuesday morning at 7, my aching muscles could use a break, and my mind could use a
couple of Monday nights not being consumed by fear of the grueling hour-long workout one bad night's sleep ahead. (On the minus side, for the past month,
after James and Daniel had their way with my body, the 30-minute walk of pride home -- the view: left -- was one of the highlights of my week. I'll miss it.)
9. Speaking of bad night's sleep, may Tanzania bring some relief from my chronic insomnia. It's been a lifelong malady, but the past few weeks, it's gotten
progressively worse than ever. I never seem to have trouble actually falling asleep, but like clockwork, when it strikes 2 (one hour earlier than when my
internal alarm previously went off), I'm up, only to fall back asleep for 30-minute intervals until I give up and get up at 5. A former roommate once told
me that when she visited Africa for the first time, it changed the way she sleeps. I need new sleeping patterns badly. I hope they finally kick in while I'm trekking
through Tanzania.
My new (old) view from the sixth floor in my Bangkok home away from home (wherever that might be)
"Travel round
I travel round
Decadence and pleasure towns
Tragedies, luxuries, statues, parks and galleries"
-- from "I Travel," Simple Minds
This morning I had a brand-new epiphany (actually, several of them), some unexpected insight into what has been a primary motivating force in my life over the course of the last nearly two and a half years. It's been driving me around the world in trains and boats and (mostly) planes since I left Melbourne in July of 2011 for what was supposed to have been a one-month holiday in Bangkok and Southeast Asia and turned into a six-month continent-hopping adventure. My co-pilot: the thrill of new.
The epiphany came while I was jogging around Bangkok at 6am, less than 12 hours after my arrival back in town after five and a half months in Melbourne and Buenos Aires. I was huffing and puffing hoping all that oral exertion wouldn't blow whatever fuse was keeping me going on only four hours of sleep after the nine-hour flight from Melbourne to Bangkok.
My old running partner Sylvie and I were darting from topic to topic, and around the 5K point, we landed on unfaithful lovers, more specifically, her ex-husband. He's a Taurus like me, given to certain traits normally associated with that star sign. We agreed on loyalty. Despite his penchant for infidelity, Sylvie said that he was a loyal in every other way. Me, too.
"It figures," I said. "We're like that. Loyal to the end. As for the cheating," I continued, "we're like that, too. Not Taureans, men. It's not an astrological condition but rather a gender one."
That's when it hit me: Although I've never had a spouse to cheat on, in a way, I am driven by the same impulse that I suppose drive many people who cheat, the thrill of the new and the pursuit of momentary happiness through it. (See Michelle Williams in Take This Waltz for the perfect cinematic representation of how it works.)
It's the way I am with cities. I love the way I feel the first few days I arrive in one, even one I've been to many times before. On a first trip, or on a return trip, a town feels the way a new shirt smells -- clean, fresh, blank. The possibilities are endless.
Right now I feel that way about Bangkok -- again. Although I've spent some 16 months here over the course of the last two years, and very little about it has changed (unlike the prices at the 7-11s in Melbourne, where a cranberry/white chocolate muffin has gone from $2.50 in January to $2.80 now, those at the 7-11s in Bangkok haven't budged in two years), it feels like the first time (again), almost like I've never been here before.
Five and half months away was just enough time for me to recover that feeling of newness. I'm staying in the same place I've been calling my home in Bangkok since halfway through my first trip here in 2011, in an apartment on the very same line as my previous one, only four stories lower. Despite the similar view (see the photo above), everything still feels so new.
I know it won't last, and my eyes will wander yet again. As I ran around the jogging track, I realized that after going through the same experience with Melbourne and with Buenos Aires this year, I'm desperate to make this feeling of newness last longer with Bangkok, to fend off the wanderlust for as long as possible. This, I figured, might be how unfaithful spouses feel when, once they've sown their wild oats on various other farms, they return to the barn they call home, contrite and prepared to make amends with the one they temporarily neglected, who suddenly seems like a brand-new conquest. After traveling outside of the marriage for romantic gratification, what had previously felt old and routine suddenly feels new and exciting again.
But would it last? I knew in my case, it wouldn't, and I knew it from the moment I told Sylvie how good it was to be back in Bangkok and she asked a two-part question: "Does it feel the same? Isn't it funny how it immediately feels like the same routine as before?"
Only it didn't. Not yet. But I knew that eventually, it would. I had known it when I felt the same way after returning to Melbourne in January and after finding my way back to Buenos Aires in April. Though I'd previously spent significant time in both places, I'd been away long enough (10 months in the case of Melbourne, two years with Buenos Aires) to recapture that rush of newness and rediscovery when I returned. It hadn't lasted then, and I knew it wouldn't now.
That's when I realized that my latest travel plan -- 12 cities/countries for one month apiece over the next year -- wasn't just a possible theme for my next book. It was a sign of my addiction: I'm a junkie for the thrill of the new, constantly chasing that high that arrives only upon your arrival in a new place or a place you haven't visited in a while. It's like living a life with multiple rebirths.
The great thing about revisiting old loves (as I've been done four times now in 2013, once with a human one) is that you can skip that awkward getting-to-know-them phase. But it's also the bad part of retracing your footsteps. I secretly love that awkward getting-to-know-them phase, in travel and in romance. I'll get to experience it in Berlin for the first time since I went to Bali for the first time in December. (What is it with me and B places?!) Although I've been to Berlin, it's been 18 years. They say (well, Sade did) that it's never as good as the first time, but it will feel just like it.
This obsession with rebirth through travel has been a recurring addiction over the course of my lifetime. I believe that all frequent travelers have it to certain degree. It's the reason why many of us go on holiday in the first place. But it's dominated my life and thoughts for two years now, and at the moment, I see no end in sight.
But I'm open to one. They say the first step in kicking an addiction is admitting you have one. Done.
My particular addiction isn't life-threatening, though, so there is no pressing need for me to kick it. (It's also not as expensive as one might think, if you know what you're doing.) However, I'm not sure I want it to be a primary motivating force in my life for much longer. I'd be happy with once again being happy with going on holiday a few times a year. I know those sort of happy days will be here again.
"Who knows?" I told Sylvie. Maybe this adventure won't last a year. Maybe I'll end up in Cape Town, or some other city, and I won't want to leave." There is, after all, a first time for everything, and it wouldn't even be mine.
Yeah yeah, I've heard it all before in song. But consider this twist on the fear of being alone: Sometimes it's better to travel solo.
I've been doing it more often than not for 20 years, and my treks for one have resulted in some of the best experiences of my life. I have a handful of friends with whom I travel well, but you know what they say about going on trips with boyfriends. Do so at your own risk!
I've been lucky so far. I've had nothing but a good time on the road with my previous boyfriends. That said, it's been several years since I've taken that particular plunge. And how does one negotiate the awkwardness of traveling with a guy you've known for about two months, someone who isn't quite a friend, not yet a boyfriend?
That's what I was wondering two nights ago while sitting in a pub in Bangkok across from the guy who'd invited me nine days earlier on a four-day long-weekend getaway to Krabi, on Thailand's southwest coast. From the moment I accepted his unexpected invitation, my feelings were as mixed as the signals he'd been sending me for weeks.
My excitement was tempered with a fair amount of trepidation, which is why I consulted with several friends to get their take on the situation (they all approved), though in my heart, I sort of suspected that this getaway for two would never happen. I figured he'd rescind his invitation, and I'd be secretly relieved. After all, could a loner like me handle a weekend in tiny close quarters with this hot and cold guy who had such a huge chip dangling from his shoulder?
Three nights before take off, he sent me a text message suggesting that we "not rush into things," that we look at the holiday as a "chance to unwind, get to know each other better, see what develops." (See the 12th warning sign in the previous post, which was mostly inspired by you know who.) My gut told me that a cold front had moved in, and he wanted out. He insisted he didn't, and after some back and forth over the phone, he apologized for overthinking things. He shouldn't have said anything (his official assessment, not mine, though I agreed).
The next morning, he sent another text message apologizing for "sounding like a dick" the night before. I accepted his apology, though I wondered if he might have been onto something. Later on, he invited me to have after-work drinks that evening, and as I got ready to meet him, I felt like I was preparing for an audition, a moment of truth. Both of us would be trying out for the role of potential travel partner. I wondered what had possessed him to invite me on this trip in the first place. And why, pray tell, had I accepted? I barely knew the guy, and I was beginning to wonder if I wanted to.
As I sat across the table from him while he fiddled with his smart phone, I pretended to be too busy looking at some interesting scene unfolding outside to care that he was being unbelievably rude. I knew that the audition wasn't going well for either one of us. I started having flashforwards of myself sweating in a bungalow without AC, swatting away mosquitoes and trying to hatch an escape plan as he tap tap tapped on that damn smart phone. My own hotel room (AC included)? The next flight back to Bangkok? I knew a preemptive strike was in order. When he finally put down the phone, I announced that he'd be traveling to Krabi solo.
And so would I. Why should I give up my trip to a place I'd never been just because I knew it would be a terrible idea to go with him? Sitting on the hour-long AirAsia flight to Krabi in the rear of the aircraft with my former would-be travel partner, who hadn't taken my near-game time decision well (he'd unfriended and blocked me on Facebook within an hour!), somewhere in front of me, I wondered if I'd made the right decision to go, after all. When I landed in Krabi and got into the taxi, I knew I had. Cab rides from airports to hotels are typically flat, drab affairs, but cruising along with high-rise rock formations rising up on both sides of the road, I felt like I was traveling through a post card. How did it take me so long to get here?
"Dear Mr. Helligar & Partner," began the welcome letter in my suite at Vogue Resort & Spa. I wondered if the proprietors had been spying on me over the course of the last few days and now were taunting me for my hasty last-minute change of plans. Then a text message arrived from my friend Samuel. He was in Krabi. He wanted to surprise me, so at the last minute he and his house guest booked a 12-hour bus ride from Bangkok to Krabi. About a half hour after I received his text, they were in my lobby.
Normally I'm not crazy about surprise visitors, but this one thrilled me. I was happy for the company and the glimpse they gave me over lunch of what might have been. Watching Samuel struggle to communicate with his Thai friend, observing his growing frustration as the guy he'd been spending the past week with paid more attention to his smart phone than anything or anyone else, I knew that despite that awkward "Dear Mr. Helligar & Partner" greeting underneath the Vogue letterhead, I'd made the right decision.
I'm looking forward to hanging out with Samuel in Krabi, but I'm also eagerly anticipating the time I'll spend alone. For a recovering introvert like me, quality time with a friend is always best when it ends with a quick "goodbye," and me alone, again, naturally.
I can remember exactly where I was when I first caught the travel bug. It was 1993, and I was going to Bermuda for a three-day People magazine off-site. It was the first time I'd ever traveled outside of the United States, and as I applied to have a passport quickly issued to me a few weeks before my departure, I wondered what had taken me so long.
One night after dinner as I stood on the terrace staring at the Atlantic Ocean waves, I could so clearly see my destiny. Though it wasn't New Year's Eve, I made the one resolution of my life that I would actually keep: Every year, for as long as I was able to get on and off of airplanes on my own two feet, I would visit at least one country I've never been to.
It's a promise that over the years has taken me through much of Europe (Netherlands, Spain, France, Portugal, Italy, Greece, Denmark, Austria, Germany, Hungary, the Czech Republic, Turkey), the UK (England, Scotland and Ireland), a chunk of South America (Argentina, Chile, Uruguay, Brazil, Colombia, Peru), Australia, and Southeast Asia, to Mexico, Canada (I'm so ready to add Vancouver to Montreal and Toronto), New Zealand and the Caribbean, but strangely enough, never back to Bermuda, despite the fact that I absolutely loved it there. I've seen more of at least three continents than I've seen of the United States!
When I think of things I want to do before I die, they generally don't include jumping out of airplanes or meeting any celebrities. (God, knows I've met enough of them to last this lifetime!) My bucket list strictly comprises places I've never been. Three months into 2012, I'm still trying to decide what new frontier is in store for this year. I've whittled my options down to 10, though I have a feeling that Laos, which I've been hearing excellent things about lately, or Jakarta, where two very cool people I've recently met call home, will be my next previously unseen destination.
But getting back to my bucket list...
1. Lebanon My friend Rob is going soon with his Lebanese boyfriend, and I'm officially green with envy (at least it's my color!). I've heard mixed reports about Beirut (a former colleague of mine told me about bombs going off in the middle of the night during his recent tour of professional duty there!), and growing up in the '80s, I always thought of it as a place of extreme political unrest that must be avoided at all cost. I wouldn't necessarily want to die for lust, but if the guys there are as too die for as I think they are, I might eventually take my chances.
2. Tel Aviv When bombs were going off there regularly I stayed away because I didn't feel like being blown up in the disco. Cat Power even recently deleted it from her tour itinerary because of political unrest there between the Israeli and Palestinian governments. But lately, I've been tempted to flirt with danger because of the, well, flirting options in Tel Aviv. As the hottest men on the planet go, Israelis are right up there with Australians and Argentines. I don't believe I've ever met one with whom I wouldn't consider running away (I even spent the millennial New Year's Eve in Brooklyn, of all places, for the benefit of ringing in 2000 with Amir), or for whom I wouldn't think about going permanently kosher.
3. Cape Town A former roommate who once spent time in South Africa told me that it was a life-altering experience that even changed the way she slept! That I might finally get to sleep through the night isn't the only reason I've been dying to go there for as long as I can remember. I've never heard anyone who's visited say a bad word about the place, and I've never had a bad word to say about anyone I've met who comes from there. In the back of my mind, I suspect that when I've gotten wanderlust and the urban bustle out of my system, I'll end up on a cape somewhere near the southernmost tip of Africa, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.
4. Egypt I haven't been much of a sightseer since I took a train from Florence to Pisa to see the Leaning Tower and was thoroughly underwhelmed, but I can't imagine dying without setting eyes on the Great Pyramids and the Sphinx in Giza.
5. The Grand Canyon See America first. That's advice I never followed, but of all the places in the U.S. that I have yet to see, the best reason I can think of to ever visit the state of Arizona (except perhaps to hang out with Stevie Nicks) is at the top of my to-do-in-the-U.S.A. list.
6. Alaska No. 2 on that to-do list. Men in Trees, the Alaskan-set Anne Heche series from a few years back that nobody watched piqued my interest. My mom and I once talked about taking an Alaskan cruise some day. I have to remember to revisit that idea with her soon.
7. Iceland Not just because it's the country that gave us Bjork! A friend of mine whose gorgeous husband also hails from Iceland, recently gave me a glowing review of Reykjavik. As must-see as the glaciers and volcanoes must be, before I close my eyes for good, I'd like to spend the summer months closing them at night when the sun is still shining. (I'd definitely pass on those months of darkness, though!)
8. Venice I've been to Rome (loved it), Florence (hated it), Genoa (loved it) and Milan (love, love, loved it), but I've yet to venture to the city on water, which I fell for the first time I watched the Katharine Hepburn movie Summertime. Why am I holding out? I'm brave enough to travel anywhere on my own (and for the most part, I have), but Venice is one place I want to experience for the first time with someone I love, truly, madly deeply.
9. Rwanda There's a scene early in Hotel Rwanda before the violence and bloodshed kicks in when Don Cheadle is driving on a cliff-side road passing by some of the most breathtaking scenery I've ever seen onscreen. Since I couldn't climb inside (and considering what was to come, that would have been a deadly move anyway), I'll have to spring for a ticket and five-star accommodations like the lovely one in which hotel manager Paul Rusesabagina sheltered his endangered countrymen.
10. Greenland I know, nobody wants to go to Greenland. And does anybody even live there? It's one of those places you never think about because no one ever talks about it. That's precisely why I want to see for myself what everyone very well might be missing out on. And like I said, green is my color.
10 more places I'd like to check out if I live to be 100...
I recently had an interesting conversation with Keith, a young man from Melbourne who ran a bold idea by me: People who travel, he declared, are usually running away from something, whether they know it or not.
I carefully considered his words. They sounded so familiar. A couple of weeks ago, my friends Nicholle and Noelle were visiting me in Bangkok, and Noelle told me about a conversation the sisters had had on the flight from Koh Samui to Bangkok.
"Why does Jeremy travel so much?" Noelle asked Nicholle, who replied, "I think that maybe he's running from something."
"Are you?" Noelle asked when she was standing face to face with me. "Of course not," I said, surprised by the immediacy and resoluteness of my response. "If anything, I'm looking for something, running to something." (For the record, despite what might appear to onlookers as life lived on the road, I've spent the last three months in one place, not once venturing outside of Bangkok's city limits, for despite my occasional bouts of wanderlust, I am, by nature, a nester.)
I explained this to Keith when he floated his theory by me, well aware that he was trying to shove me into a box. I know the type, some of them are my best friends, others are Facebook "friends": expatriates, frequent fliers, travel writers, people who always seem to wake up in different places. I recently ran into a Facebook friend in Bangkok who told me that when he travels, which would be most of the time, he never spends more than two nights in the same hotel. To some, that would be a fantasy life. To me, it sounds like hell.
I won't pretend to know what motivates wanderers, drifters and wayfaring strangers. I can only speak for myself. I've been a big traveller for most of my adult life, and for the most part, it's been about pleasure. For a long time, I was happy with my life in New York, but several times a year, I had the urge to visit London, or Europe. I wasn't running away from anything because there was nothing to run away from. I was simply going on holiday, and I was lucky enough to have a job that paid me well enough that I could book trips to some of my dream destinations.
But one doesn't live on three different continents in one year, as I've done in 2011, unless it's work-related, or due to some personal crisis. Though my travels over the past year have been great for my writing, when I hit the road, I was doing it more for my psyche, hoping that I'd stumble upon a place where I can have it all -- the perfect job, the perfect apartment, the perfect love.
I've never had all three at once, but for a while, when I lived in New York City, I came close. Back then, my brother said that my life was like clockwork, and even with all of my fantastic trips, it sort of was. I always had a full-time job and a great degree of stability. In my 15 years living in New York City, I had only three apartments and spent 13 years working for the same company (a dedication to the firm that has had the prolonged positive effect of giving me the freedom to live the way I do today without worrying too much about funds).
When I moved from New York City to Buenos Aires, I wanted to try something new, and for three and a half years, my life abroad worked. Then one day, I began to wonder, "Is this all there is?" I didn't want to return to the U.S., but a change was gonna come. In March, when I left Buenos Aires and moved to Melbourne, I was beginning a journey of self-discovery. Yes, I was running away from something, a life in Buenos Aires that no longer felt exciting. But more than that, I needed a new challenge, a shot at finally landing that elusive triumvirate of perfection. I was looking for something.
Exactly, said Keith. They are the same thing. When you travel because you are looking for something, you are, in a sense, running from something, too. He made it sound so dirty, like traveling was the pastime of damaged people, swapping continents the desperate act of the emotionally scarred. "The people I know who are totally content with their lives have no desire to travel," he said.
I shuddered thinking who his friends might be, these happy people with no interest in experiencing life outside of their own little microcosm. Wanderlust isn't for everyone, but sticking to one's station is no way to evolve, and it certainly doesn't sound like happiness. Traveling can be about pleasure, or discovery of a world outside of your own, which can lead to personal evolution. Last night I was speaking to guy from Ireland who told me that visiting different countries has taught him to be more tolerant, someone who is open to so much more than what falls into the narrow confines of what he grew up knowing.
I don't know if it's made him a happier person, but I refuse to accept the notion that contentedness with one's life and a burning desire to see the world are mutually exclusive, that all of those travelers at the airport eagerly anticipating arrival at their final destinations are running away from something.
I am suspicious by nature, always searching for some ulterior motive to pretty much every action. But escaping your routine for a week or two needn't be about running away from it. The concept of "escape" can be positive, too. It can be about rejuvenation, gaining new perspective from a distance, which allows you to appreciate the life you have even more. Sometimes when you step onto that overnight flight bound to London or Rome or Istanbul, it's all about waking up in a brand new world, ready to see life from a different angle.
A town named for a British king (George III) in Malaysia
Dearest Malaysia,
I just don't know what to make of you. You wear so many faces -- most of them beautiful, but each one so different from the one worn before it.
I'd call you "karma karma karma karma karma chameleon," but Boy George beat me to that bit. And I don't want to accuse you of having an identity crisis because that would be to suggest that there's something wrong with your randomness. In fact, that slightly hodgepodge quality might be why I love your capital city so much.
I've now spent a total of 12 days and nights in Kuala Lumpur, and I'm still perplexed. Is it "truly Asian," as you are said to be? Or, is it just another booming metropolis that could exist pretty much anywhere? Or, is it a combination of places I've known and loved, from New York City to London to Bangkok?
Bukit Bintang is a Times Square (NYC)-/Picadilly Circus (London)-style traffic jam, complete with jumbo TV screens and too many people. Jalan Alor is a strip of late-night Chinese and Thai eateries. It's Bangkok's Silom Road at 3am, with no shopping and more al fresco seating. Then there's Damansara Heights, just outside the city center, which could pass for somewhere in Beverly Hills. And Jalan Sultan Ismail, with its International Drive-like conglomeration of hotels, restaurants, nightlife and, yes, more traffic. It would be pure Orlando, Florida, if Orlando had a sky train running overhead. Though I kept getting the feeling of being someplace else, it never felt like your crown-jewel city was copying. It was always familiar, yet somehow unique.
Between the mass of skyscrapers, traffic, lights, cameras and action, KL barely gave me a chance to stop and breathe. When I did, I saw people of so many different races, nationalities and creeds (Europeans, Asians, Africans, Muslims and more) and a virtual fashion parade of burquas (in black, in white, and gold-trimmed, some covering everything but the eyes, some worn with jeans, some with tennis shoes). I began to wonder if this was actually the giant melting pot to which the United States has always staked claim. As a black man travelling through Southeast Asia, it's one of the few places where I haven't felt so obvious because of the color of my skin.
The train ride from KL to the Malaysian state of Penang revealed yet another of your sides. Just a few hours outside of bustling KL, I looked outside of the train window at the mountains and rainforest and felt like I was rolling through a postcard.
But what's up with Penang Island? Don't get me wrong. It's beautiful. I could spend all day walking around taking snapshots of the mountains looming in the distance. But when the train terminated at Butterworth (yes, as in Mrs.), and a ferry took me from the mainland to the Penang capital, George Town, where I was staying at Traders Hotel on Magazine Road, I had to ask myself, "Is this truly Asia?"
It was the first solid evidence I've seen of your past as a British territory. When Magazine segued into Macalister, I began to think I'd perhaps made a wrong turn and ended up in Brighton, England. The name of the restaurant where I stopped for lunch, Old Town White Coffee, would be right at home on England's south coast, but in Brighton, I'd probably never be served by a cute waiter from Nepal named Krishna or be approached by a monk asking for a donation in a tin cup.
For all of its Anglo flourishes (which are pretty much in names only), George Town is probably no less or more truly Asian than KL. But it's so different: The absence of sky trains, the more monochromatic populace and the dearth of KFC's (though if one looks hard enough, there's one at the end of Komtar Walk) set it completely apart.
As I wandered through the scenery of skyscrapers and shantytowns, Islamic, European and colonial architecture, mountains and sea -- seven hours and 20 minutes by train, and some 15 minutes more by ferry from KL -- I wondered, am I getting closer to your figurative, if not physical, core? Is this mixture of disparate elements what it means to be "truly Malaysian"?
With those gorgeous mountains as window dressing, it almost doesn't even matter. Confusion never looked so good.
It happened somewhere between Bangkok and Kuala Lumpur. I became the type of frequent traveller I used to love to hate.
You know the type. They arrive in new cities and descend upon the shopping scene like vultures, treating stores like museums -- a gateway into the culture and heritage of the locals. For a traveller like myself, one who prefers to do as the locals do, my turnaround may have been inevitable. As my Malaysian friend Neo explained while we drove by a conglomeration of malls in suburban KL, shopping is what so many people in major Southeast Asian cities seem to live to do. Singapore even has a 24-hour electronics mall -- just in case you get the urge to buy an iPad at 4am!
And in central Bangkok, the network of malls and outdoor markets is so vast that if you laid out the maze of walkways as a straight one-way road, it would probably take you all the way to Seoul, which, incidentally, I hear has an equally must-experience retail scene. But then, what major Asian metropolis doesn't?
Oops, there I go again, putting the shopping cart before the horse!
Getting back to Bangkok (a city where you're more likely to see an elephant -- or a statue of one -- during a shopping excursion than a horse), near National Stadium, you can take a covered overground path from supermall to supermall to supermall (from Central World to Siam Paragon to MBK, with seemingly countless shopping stops in-between) without once stooping to street level.
The names might change, but the stores within always seem to be the same: Calvin Klein, Hugo Boss, Zara and on and on. One day a few weeks ago, I was supposed to join a friend for a Sunday afternoon mall trek, and we agreed to meet at the Mac counter on the fourth floor of Central World. When he still hadn't shown up 15 minutes after the appointed time, I sent him a message.
"Where are you?"
"I'm at the Mac counter on the fourth floor."
"But I'm at the Mac counter on the fourth floor, and I don't see you. Are you sure that's where you are?"
Sure he was sure, but as it turned out, he was at the Mac counter on the fourth floor, only in a completely different part of the massive Central World complex, whose layout turned out to be as complicated and confusing as that of Bangkok itself. If Silom Road can have a 7-11 on practically every corner, why can't Central World have more than one Mac counter on more than one fourth floor? The more the merrier, which seems to be the general attitude when it comes to all things mall-related.
In Kuala Lumpur, malls are an even greater source of national pride and obsession. But here, the aloof retail employees make it harder for me to stay away. While Thais are trained to kill you with kindness and attentiveness, Malays have perfected the art of pretending that you're not there. It's a quality that might not work in the hotel industry, but in retail, it creates the optimal environment for my shopping pleasure. I like to be left alone while I browse!
Today as I was being left alone while browsing in KL's grand Pavillion, I thought about my life in malls. Though I'd grown up on a steady diet of them, by the time I left Florida for New York City, where malls are a rare breed, I'd learned to loathe them. No self-respecting cool person would be caught dead hanging out in the stomping ground of bored adults and clueless kids who thought pop music began and ended with Tiffany, Debbie Gibson and New Kids on the Block.
When I moved to Buenos Aires after 15 mostly mall-free years, I rediscovered the shopping mall, not as a retail mecca but rather as an architectural wonder. GalerÃas PacÃfico on Avenida Florida -- Ground Zero on BA's retail scene -- is more notable for the palatial Victorian facade and ornate interior design than for anything on sale. The building is as artistically significant as anything you might find hanging on the walls of Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires (MALBA).
In Southeast Asia, the facades and interior designs are more similar to what you get in the States -- smooth, slick, sterile and blindingly white -- with little variation from mall to mall. Since I couldn't tell myself that I kept wandering inside of them to enjoy the architectural splendor, I blamed it on the heat. I was looking for a cool haven from the scorching summer sun, which is now officially the scorching autumn sun.
Today as I gave in to temptation and walked into yet another Topman, this one in Pavillion, I was escaping an afternoon thunderstorm, but deep down, I was grateful for the perfect excuse to check out what was on the shelves. Never mind that I'd already bought six V-neck t-shirts from Topman in Central World (two for 750 baht, or about $25!), I convinced myself that I needed two more -- after all, there was a buy-two-shirts-get-20%-off sale!
Hmm... But what colors did I already have? I was wearing the burgundy...? That dark blue -- I loved it, but didn't I buy that one last week? While I was having this conversation with myself in one part of the brain, another was telling me that I needed help. I'd spent the last year and a half divesting myself of belongings, spending $500 last year for 1-800-GOT-JUNK to come to my Brooklyn storage space and take off my hands all of the possessions that for three and a half years I'd been spending more than $100 a month to hang on to.
I'd arrived in Southeast Asia with a bag that weighed less than 15 kilos, and somewhere between Manila and Suvarnabhumi Airport in Bangkok late last week, my checked baggage had doubled in size. (On the plus side, unlike the mid-'90s when I used to stalk Kings Road and Kensington High Street in London, I'd spent relatively little money on my purchases.) I thought about my ballooning luggage (I'd already had to buy a suitcase in Manila to carry everything I've acquired since July -- it was more expensive than anything I put in it!), and the idea of dragging more stuff through airports, train stations and bus terminals, forced me to drag myself away from the t-shirts and out of Topman. Though it was still raining outside, and I had to wait 30 minutes before I could walk back to my hotel, I managed to walk into only one other store. Shopping mission: Not accomplished!
As I walked home empty-handed, I felt a twinge of pride over my small victory. After four days in KL, the only thing I'd bought was the Thai tourist visa I'd come here to get. Was I cured of my shopaholism? It might be too soon to tell, but writing about it is so much more gratifying than giving in to it.
I've never found a thrill that I was looking for. They always seem to pop up by accident, unexpectedly. That goes double for the past week, which I spent in Sydney, Australia. For most of my life, ever since the first time I heard Men at Work's "Down Under" in 1984 -- I've been dying to go. Maybe I was expecting too much. Love at first sight is rare indeed, with people and with cities. Although my greatest love of all (I'll always heart you, London!) hit me like a thunderbolt, it took me a full week to fall for Buenos Aires's charms.
I rarely travel with an agenda, any set game plan. I prefer to experience a city the way the locals do and leave all those unforgettable travel experiences, the stories still worth telling 10 years later, entirely up to chance. As I write, I'm newly arrived in Melbourne and torn between what I should be doing (seeing the sights) and what I want to be doing (writing this post). "So what do you have planned in Melbourne?" my friend Andy asked me several times before I left Sydney. It's a reasonable question, but one I didn't have, or want, an answer for. Isn't planning a trip to the other side of the world difficult enough without having to account for the hour-by-hour particulars?
For me, yes. "I need a vacation from my vacation," I've heard people say countless times. No wonder. They try to pack so much activity into what's supposed to be quality rest-and-relaxation time that holidays become more stressful than a 9-to-5 job. My vacation motto: I'll know what I'm going to do when I'm doing it.
For Sydney, however, I went against my own golden rule and opted for several introductory days of sightseeing. The first thing that struck me about the city was how much it reminded me of so many others: Boston here. Washington D.C. there. A little bit of Chicago. A touch of Toronto. A dab of New York City. Even a taste of Istanbul (thanks to the hills-and-water combo).
Oh, yes, the hills. I wasn't expecting such a curvy walking experience. The views were lovely, if not quite breath-taking, and the people were ridiculously friendly. The only thing missing was something that was uniquely Sydney, something (aside from the Opera House) that wouldn't make me think of any other place. I was glad to be there, but it wasn't exactly the ultimate fulfillment of a life-long dream.
Andy told me that Sydney is a city best experienced in summer. That's when the outdoors scene -- the sun, the heat, bbq's, swimming pools -- takes over. It struck me as a ringing endorsement that could apply to any number of cities, including the one I live in! But I understood where he was coming from. Every time I've ever fallen for a city, I've been doing something that I could be doing anywhere when suddenly, I realize, Wow, I love this place!
For me, this serendipitous moment arrived on the morning of my sixth day in Sydney, during a grueling eighth-floor workout at Fitness First gym in King's Cross. I looked out the window, surveyed the scenery, and there it was: The Sydney Opera House. I'd gone there twice before and had been disappointed both times. Not only is it not as white as it appears in photos (see the photo above, from my second trip), but it looks like it could use a good scrubbing. This morning, though, standing majestically in the distance below, it was everything I'd always wanted and expected it to be. I sighed and took it all in. Finally, Sydney had given me something special, something specifically Sydney, to remember. And I wasn't even looking for it.
