No Name, No Bed

Traveling around the world for a better part of my adult life, I’ve become accustomed to lots of different methods of self-identification. In the States, of course, every document you will ever fill out asks for First, Middle, and Last Name. On my first flights to Europe, I had to adapt to the British English “surname” (which I still can’t hear without feeling slightly puzzled) on international immigration cards. In East Asian countries, you always put your “honorable name” (last name) first, making me Casey Sean (or “Keishi Shoun” as they say it). Japanese people customarily introduce themselves in conjunction with their place of business, so I would have been “Keishi Shoun of the Uchita Board of Education” and, in Chinese, you should remember to specifically ask for one’s family name upon meeting a new acquaintance.

I’d thought that I had heard it all and was pretty much un-catch-off-guardable, which is why I was so caught off guard when a portly rabbi in vestments showed up panting at my dormitory door at Tsfat (Israel)’s Ascent Institute waving my check-in slip in his hand and telling me that I had neglected to fill in my “Hebrew Name.” Of course I had nothing other than a blank look to offer in response was quickly shuffled off the premises after making my one phone call to secure other lodging in the area.

Now, the moment that I stepped in the door and bypassed a threesome of Hasidic Jews with their long curls, bushy beards, stiff hat, and standard issue black suits, I knew that I well out of my league. Everyone (in the whole town, really) was dressed just like they must have been in the good ole B.C. years when Moses came down from the Mt. Sinai and proclaimed “Thou shalt dress like nerdy 1920s mobsters,” but here’s the funny thing: 75% of them spoke with a New Yorker accent. It turns out that Tsfat is the place to go for rediscovering long lost Jewish roots. They could have chosen a worse place; its position atop the 3rd tallest mountain in Israel gives a sublime view of the surrounding valleys and the Sea of Galilee, and many followers actually believe that the Messiah will pass through the town on his way to Jerusalem. [As a note: Judging by bemused reactions of the 10,000 people who asked for my Hebrew name over a 3 day period, I think that I must be one of the annual dozen or so non-Jewish travelers that visit the region. After telling one teenage boy that I wasn’t Jewish, he thought that I must have misunderstood the question (granted my Yiddish isn’t perfect) and pointed to my pants signaling that he wanted to know whether or not I was circumcised (this I did very clearly understand).]

But that’s not the point. I had no Hebrew name and was back out on the streets. Of course, I wasn’t turned away because of my name, but rather because it was a big tip-off that I’m not Jewish. I freely acknowledge the benefits of rekindling spirituality and of religious community, but I can’t shake the feeling that I was unjustly treated. I’ve slept in Christian dormitories before, and never did they demand a baptism certificate or WWJD bracelet. I’ve stayed several times at Buddhist temples – most recently for 15 days – without a karma check. Now, I’m not going to lie and say that I really had my sights set on staying for several nights at this place… I just think it’s ironic that my first encounter with religious discrimination was at the hands of a group that has a 3,000 year old history of being persecuted against.

But that’s not the point either. I think what this is all a round about way of saying is that I need to adopt a Hebrew name for when I visit Jerusalem later this month and give the Jewish dormitory another go. Any suggestions?

Rediscovering Italy

I really wasn’t excited in the least to be going to Italy. For starters, it’s one of only two countries on my trip that I’ve already been to (the other being Thailand). I’d seen Rome, Venice, and Florence, and thought that I’d just be retracing old footsteps with newer, more expensive ones (the last time I was in Europe – in 2002 – one Euro was worth only $0.90. Now, the same Euro is valued at over $1.35. That’s really painful to think about. It’s an increase of more than 50%, which meant that I’d be shelling out just about an extra 50 cents on every dollar, 50 bucks for every hundred, and 500 for every thousand compared with what I spent the last time around). In particular, my desire to return to Rome roughly neck and neck with my desire to step roll back and forth over a bed of porcupines. My lasting memory of the capital city was having to cancel my credit cards and devise a scheme to borrow money from a series of friends after being pick-pocketed on the subway en route to the Vatican museums. That and how impressively the dirtiness of the air manifested itself in the form of raindrops that stained spots on my black fleece brown.

There’s also a big part of me (the snobbish been there, done that part) that instinctively wants to dismiss big European tourist hot-spots in favor of the less trodden, more exotic countries. That’s why it’s with great reluctance that I have to admit that Italy is really one of the coolest and unique countries in the world.

At the very least, Italy has some of the most magical places anywhere. Venice is hands down the most unique city on Earth. There’s just nothing like it. After visiting old town after old town after old town between Sweden, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, and Austria, it was like a breath of fresh air to find myself lost in the literal labyrinths of Venice’s waterborne neighborhoods that take 15 minutes to traverse 3 blocks without a map, where 3 in every 4 streets dead end onto tiny canals that you have to carefully poke your head around to get a view of bridge coordinates without falling into the water. It’s a totally pedestrian city with the obvious absence of roads and cars; the only transportation being via the expensive ‘water bus,’ the extortionately expensive ‘water taxi,’ and the mortgage-inducingly expensive Gondola rides. Renovating old buildings in such a place is blindingly costly, as well, which means that most homes and shops retain a rustic, centuries old appearance. Walking along the empty back canals at night with a slice of fresh margarita pizza or a heaping cone of gelato is really a sublime experience.

Though Venice is certainly the most unique city in Italy, Cinque Terre steals the crown for the most awe-inspiring locale. Though still not nearly as famous as Rome, Venice, Milan, Florence, etc., it should really be at the very top of every one’s list for can’t miss places in Italy. Cinque Terre is the collective name of 5 small Italian villages nestled between mountain and sea on the Mediterranean coast just south of Genoa. Each of these townships has its own unique charm – ours, Riomaggiore, spilled down from a valley between vineyards and a mountaintop church to the sea, opening up along the coast like the perfect set for a Broadway musical. Sitting on the rocks just off the port and looking back at the tiered balconies from hundreds of faded, green-shuttered buildings, you could really imagine the residents all springing forth from their houses in unison at the sound of the town bell and bursting into song. The villages are interlinked to one another by what might be the most impressive network of hiking trails in the world; the Cinque Terre area map looks like a NYC transportation schematic, but with trails where subways should be. Narrow paths between villages winding through vineyards and grottos provide some awe-inspiring views of the Italian coastline.

And this is to say nothing of the cheap (but good) red wine, pizza and fresh pasta at every meal, and heaping servings of gelato that you have to race against nature to gobble up before it melts.

I’ll even begrudgingly admit that I enjoyed Rome this time around. But then again, I consider any trip to the Italian capital that doesn’t end in a missing wallet an enormous personal victory.

Click HERE for the pics.

Couch Surfing: The Future of Backpacking

Wipe that confused look off your face. I know that some of you are probably picturing some crazy new ‘extreme sport’ that strange ole Sean managed to get involved in (and the strange picture of my Latvian friends and myself probably doesn't help matters). Rest assured, this has nothing to do with souped-up household furniture careening down canyons or anything of the sort.

“Couch Surfing” is an emerging colloquialism amongst backpackers referring to crashing at the homes of locals, as opposed to staying in hostels or camping. It’s to sleeping what hitchhiking is to traveling. The term comes from the website name and address of one of the two flagship internet sites that provides travelers with a search-based forum to network with other like-minded souls willing to lend a helping hand. Participation ranges from meeting for a cup of coffee to giving a tour around town to hosting travelers overnight. The easiest way to think about it is like Facebook for travelers; each person has their own profile with pictures, personal information, travel experience, etc. and after staying at someone’s house or meeting other ‘Couch Surfers’ on the road, you can exchange information and become online ‘friends’ and give each other ‘references.’

The most obvious benefit of Couch Surfing is that it’s absolutely free. As anyone who has ever been on a trip can tell you, the most expensive parts of travel are 1) travel itself (plane, train, and bus tickets) and 2) hotels/hostels. Couch Surfing eliminates the latter and frees up funds for other, more exciting activities.

But the real wonder of Couch Surfing lies in establishing connections. Staying in hostels, you meet a lot of fascinating people from all over the world… the downside is that none of the people you form these transient relationships with are actually from the country that you’re in. With Couch Surfing, you stay with real people in real houses with real jobs, real stories, and real insight into local culture and life. Not to mention the doors that staying with someone in touch with local scenes opens.

If I stayed in hostels through the entire Baltic region, I never would have heard about what it was like growing up under Soviet occupation, would never have stayed in an apartment above an old KGB cell, and wouldn’t have had one of the best weeks of my trip (To briefly summarize, my seven nights Couch Surfing in Latvia included a 2 night hardcore music festival in the woods, a retreat to my host’s grandparents house in the Latvian countryside where we baked in an old fashion water and hot coals sauna and ate home cooked meals straight from the farm before lying out on blankets under the clouds above the pasture, gazing in amazement as my host and his break dancing group lit up the clubs of Riga, and being treated like family by all his friends and relatives).

I could go on with all the stories of my Couch Surfing escapades in Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, Austria, and Israel, but for now I think you get the picture.

Couch Surfing is really a fascinating opportunity for backpackers to interact with local communities in a way they never could have before the 21^st century. In my eyes, this is one of the most visionary uses of the World Wide Web to date.

Check it out: www.couchsurfing.com

Exodus to the Baltic States

Wanting ever desperately to prevent selling a kidney – which is what a further stay in Scandinavia would have required – I decided it was time to push on into Eastern Europe to a handful of countries that most Americans could never imagine as travel destinations, let alone place on a map: Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, and Slovakia, before reaching the more popular tourist spots of Austria and Italy.

I fled Sweden in style aboard the Tallink ferry – the name being a hybrid of the words ‘Tallinn’ (Estonia’s capital) and ‘link’ – which was the biggest vessel of any kind that I have ever had the pleasure of boarding. I would have never in a million years thought that Tallinn would be enough of a draw to merit the daily departure of a 10 story cruise ship with hundreds of cabins, casinos, bars, disco, and a cabaret show. For Americans, Estonia and the other Baltic States remain relatively obscure and well off the radar of travel enthusiasts, but for Swedes – and for many other Europeans, including hordes of obnoxious British stag (bachelor) parties – the secret is out: Tallinn, Riga (Latvia), and Vilnius (Lithuania) are stunning, rife with life, and are quickly becoming the next big tourists destinations of the old Soviet Bloc.

The reasons that everyone is coming to the Baltics these days are twofold: the miraculously well-preserved Old Towns (the cultured response) and the pulsing nightlife (the real appeal for most). Each of the capitals features labyrinths of narrow cobbled streets winding through centuries old buildings dating far back into the medieval period filled with Gothic churches and spacious, café-laden squares. Personality wise, I found the three to be totally different from each other, Tallinn feeling quite a bit more contrived than the two, like a Medieval Disney Land of sorts. Riga’s Old Town felt like the most genuine and lived-in of the three, its neoclassical buildings and adorning nymph statues spilling out from the center and filling the entire city.

I spent about 3 weeks between the three Baltic countries, covering each of the capital cities, as well as attending the 5 day long Ollesummer (Beer Summer) festival in Tallinn, camping out in a Latvian national park for Fonofest (a 2 day ‘hardcore’ music festival) and dropping by a Chapel Hill-esque college town called Tartu (Estonia) and Lithuania’s stunning 40km long sand dune spit.

The Baltic States were not at all how I had imagined. Ignorantly, I had pictured a series of backwater towns with technology from the 70s, music from the 80s, and prices comparable to Thailand. I was shocked to find that almost all public squares were equipped with free Wi-Fi and that all Estonian citizens were using computer-chipped ID cards that had made the country one of the world’s first test grounds for online voting in a general election. They really couldn’t be very more modern. Stuff wasn’t cheap either. The cost of goods wasn’t exactly expensive, but it certainly wasn’t Budapest or Krakow either. But then again, compared with Swedish prices anywhere else in the world could seem like Eastern Europe.

Click HERE for pictures from the Baltics