Red Brier Happiness, Richmond, Tasmania

(lest I confuse anyone, this is an old post... We're in the Barossa Valley in South Australia, but I'm going to try to catch up chronologically)


We haven't stumbled on somewhere this magical since the House Hostel in Sokcho, Korea.  Our host, Vianne, was concerned that we might not immediately fall in house love with the 1834 cottage that she rented out in historic Richmond village.  I'm not sure what wouldn't be to love about wide plank floors, huge fluffy beds, and nearly 200-year-old details including an old bread stove in the living room. 

Vianne has 2 other well established accommodations on the property; one an old school cottage and the second a contemporary villa.  Judging by the interiors mags overflowing from the magazine racks, I'd say the whole complex is her creative playpen.  The main house (where we stayed) is her newest addition.

I've said it before and I'll say it again - I may yet be cutout for small town life.  After an unbelievable Italian dinner at Anton's our first evening, I wasn't even angry to find it randomly closed when we tried to go back a couple of nights later.  Know why? Because that's what people in small towns do.  They close their shops so they can pursue their hobbies and see their friends and maybe their kids instead of grinding it out making pizzas every night of the week.  Someone remind me of this when I start interviewing, kay?

But I digress.  The cottage, the town, the magic.  The view out our bedroom window.  When we had the window cracked the smell of lavender filed the room.

The 3rd bedroom in the little cottage, which Vianne had converted to also be used as the breakfast room.

Each time I slide the automated key into the slot of another crappy Australian motel room, I momentarily squint in hopes that we're back at the Red Brier.  Sadly, once I take in my surroundings, very few places we've stayed since have come close to being as lovely.

There's a reason its not called the "Alright Ocean Road"

Yesterday we concluded a full 4 days on the Great Ocean Road.  Ed piloted our sessy slate Toyota Corolla around windy, sheer cliffs, up gravel mountain passes, and through countless beachside towns.

We started our journey in Torquay at the Surf Museum where we learned that surfers in the 60s were really skinny and smoked a lot of weed.  We followed this up with the obvious visit to Bell's Beach, where major surf competitions are held.  Unfortunately we arrived mid-afternoon and there weren't any wave riders to ogle.  I think they prefer to ride at dusk when the white sharks feed.

We stopped in the town of Anglesea because we had read that kangaroos hung out on the golf course.  I wasn't holding my breath, because I figured this was like promising a dear spotting in Connecticut - like, the odds are pretty good, but there's no guarantee one is going to show up.  Apparently Australian animals are more predictable:

After checking the first animal off of our Australian wildlife bingo cards, we motored on to Aireys Inlet to see our 2nd or 3rd lighthouse of the day.  This one was mighty impressive; my Mom and I surmised that high gloss paint was employed.

As my FB brethren know, bookings here have been a bit of challenge due to the summer holidays and "the tennis."  So I was a little uneasy when the only affordable accommodation I could source that afternoon was at a "tourist park" in Wye River.  Limited on time and options, and with both Ed and Penny boring holes into my brain across the picnic table, I called.  I used my nicest Yankee manners to get a break on the price, and booked us into a cabin at the campsite.  After an obesity inducing dinner in Lorne (never order a large anything in Australia.  never ever ever) we hopped in the car for the final leg to the campground and held our breath as we pulled in.

Our 2 bedroom cabin was located on "Koala Road" within the camp and as we pulled up, we were all very quiet.  I think, as Americans, we might be slightly, snottily, predisposed when it comes to motor homes and the like and this place was full of them.   Imagine our surprise when we unlocked the door to find the tidiest, most spacious, well equipped, shiny new rooms we've inhabited in months.  After the best night of sleep we'd had in ages, complimentary coffee and mind bogglingly good muffins from the "world famous" general store at the bottom of the road, we continued down the coast for day 2 of epic views and wild water.  Rugged! G'day!

Queenscliff. Pack your steamer trunks.

Sometimes a place that we stop is so lovely, so expectation exceeding, so singularly charming, it seems like it was built on a sound stage so some scenes from our trip could be filmed there.  Queenscliff came with high praise from our Aussie friends, and it now ranks in my top 5 towns/cities of the last 6 months.

During the Australian gold rush in the late 1800's, Queenscliff was the seaside destination for the super-wealthy.  The Southampton of Oz.  Huge Victorian hotels sprang up to service the fabulous coming in from Melbourne via paddle steamer and later from Geelong when the train was built.  The thing that makes it so unusual, though, is that the heyday is long past.  After car travel became possible, Queenscliff cooled way off.  The train service was reduced and then cancelled.  The rich built grander houses in other seaside villages destinations.  And what's left is a glorious, architecturally perfect, virtually forgotten ocean town, population: 1400.

Queenscliff is very "Ye Olde Post Office"-y which I sometimes hate (see: Colonial Williamsburg).  But I think because it feels abandoned rather than manufactured, its just plain magical.  We spent a too-short 24 hours browsing the main street shoppes (har), wandering the coast where the antique trains have retired to, haunting our ancient, fabulous hotel, and eating every delicious thing we came across.  I hope to return in short order.

Ye Olde Post Office:

Our hotel.  As the proprietor put it "We're just a country pub with rooms upstairs.  But they're clean and tidy and we're happy to have you." Bless.

SE Asia hearts vintage

There are a million differences between the developing world and home.  I've been thinking a lot about the small frustrations that we've grumbled over in Vietnam and why the locals don't even notice these myriad irritations.  But more on that later.  One key difference that's obvious is that here goods are maintained; at home we replace.

This can be highly frustrating.  Arguing with a worker in Mongolia who insisted on patching a tube in the tire of my bicycle for the 97th time rather than simply replacing was rage inspiring (I offered to pay him for the new tube).  The number of cracked glasses we've been served, even in swank joints, is surprising.  People hang on to their shit until its absolutely beyond repair.  Often this is financial necessity, equally often its stubborn habit.

Sometimes, though, this behavior allows for preservation of old treasures.  And I mean preservation, not restoration.  Even as the pool tiles turn to dust at the Atlanta, the staff continues to skim the top, bleach the deck, and chlorinate the water.  The idea of re-tiling probably hasn't crossed their minds.  And the Unification Palace (aka the Reunification Palace, Independence Palace, and The Palace) in Saigon practically feels haunted.  

The Atlanta:

Both of these places look magical from afar, like stepping back in time.  Up close the wear and tear peeks through in faded upholstery and 50 year old uncleanable dirt.  They're like Demi Moore that way.  Did you see "The Joneses?"  Because I did, and I expect she's filed a civil suit against that DP.  Some rough angles in that flick...

Ed and I likely set a record for time spent in the palace and gathered some hot decorating tips (no joke) while we wondered.  Its considered the site of the end of the Vietnam War, the famous lawn the VC rolled their tanks onto.  The basement is a maze of communication rooms used to plan and execute war.  It was beyond creepy down there, and we loved every second.  Its basically Communist Graceland, minus the music.

The Unification Palace:

The Dominique Factor

We've obviously been heavily reliant on the internet during our travels.  Booking tickets, researching locations, checking maps to figure out, literally, where on earth we are, the world wide weber has played a starring role in ensuring the smooth moves.  Conversely, its usage by vagrants like us has substantially limited travel spontaneity.   During college (in the stone age), we showed up in a town or city and phoned accommodations pulled from a trusty guidebook at a payphone in the train station; there was no other way.  Now, even hostels can and often must be booked in advance.  One the one hand these advances take the anxiety out of the arrival, on the other they deprive us the joy of living on the fly.

Lately, I've become a good bit more dubious about sites like Tripadvisor.  I love user-supported content as much as the next liberal.  But we've recently stayed at a few top-rated joints in SE Asia and I've begun to notice something I've named 'the Dominique factor.'

When I was in middle school I was a devoted watcher of General Hospital (insert joke about academic achievement and intellectual development........ here).  During the year or so that I watched, a featured character was Dominique, the girlfriend of mobster Sonny Carlino, who was also being semi-stalked by Brenda (played by Vanessa Marcil).  As an aside, Brian Austin Green, I tip my hat.  Vaness then the Fox? What kind of jewelry/drug/waterboarding cocktail do you give these women?  Anyway, Dominique was constantly referred to as "pretty."  It was like the writers couldn't go three lines without inserting dialogue about her ethereal attractiveness.  But, like, she's not that pretty and she's always standing next to Brenda who could make anyone look like a dog.  Even so, Dominique is supposed to be the more beautiful.  The thing is... over time I started to think that maybe Dominique was the hotness because that was beaten in like a drum.  I found the beauty in a fairly average face because I was brainwashed into believing and, so, the 'Dominique factor.' 

I'm developing a theory that the same happens with Tripadvisor.  Since the vast majority of reviewers are tourists, they have limited knowledge against which to benchmark their experience.  The scenario, as I see it, plays out thusly: a visitor checks in to a hotel and has a good to great time and writes a glowing review.  A reader chooses the hotel on the merit of that blurb and is pleased to find that it lives up to the review written.  That person piles on another good to great review.  This happens several times until the hotel's reviews and averages paint it a fantastic choice. 

Here's where the Dominque factor comes in.  Down the line, a traveller books in to that hotel and he already knows he's going to have a great experience.  He checks in with the understanding that this is an awesome hotel and that belief positively impacts his time there.  Because, when he sees that the shower needs re-tiling, or the owner is tipsy, or there is noise from the street, he doesn't let those things detract from the experience he thinks he's going to have.  Like my watching of Dominique, he believes the place is fab because so many have agreed that it is.  And, sometimes, regardless of his true assessment, that confidence lets him overlook the warts (or Dominique's way-too-big-forehead) and merrily enjoy the experience he expected to have rather than the one he actually has.  Maybe even to write another positive review.

Coming to this realization hasn't made me trust travel sites less, its just put them in a different context; perhaps a context you all have previously considered.  In reality, the people reviewing a bungalow on a small island in SE Asia probably haven't been to any other bungalows on that small island.  There is no ability to compare so the baseline is an arbitrary expectation.  I've started to realize that when a business has experienced this statistical grace its likely merited, but there are probably a dozen other joints down the beach just as good.

Deep thoughts...

Slacky Blogger

Although normally I have blogarrhea, with so much to say and so little time for 'putering, the last few days I've been taking in a lot more than typing out.  After leaving Sokcho, we traveled to Samcheok for some quality time in the penis park (more on that in a moment).  The following day, we headed to Gangneung for a morning bus to train layover, then came to Andong where we've been for a few days.  Tomorrow we set off again and will be in Gyeongju by mid-afternoon, learning more about the Shilla dynasty than we ever thought possible.  Particularly because we didn't know what it was...

I weirdly miss Sokcho and often think about canning the rest of our Korea itinerary and heading straight back there.  Hanging our hats for 10 whole days put us in a completely different mindset - toiletries unpacked, favorite restaurants visited twice, a couple of afternoons in the rain reading on the covered porch...  Plus, we miss Yoo and his awesome dog.

I learned an interesting lesson staying at that place....  I've always figured that working in a hotel must be awful.  People are rude, have asinine expectations, think they should behave like idiots because they're paying for the priveledge, etc.  I, too, have been a testy business traveler; late for my flight, annoyed that the express checkout function on the TV didn't work, impatiently extending and retracting the handle on my rolly bag because there is a line at the front desk and I need to GO.  Eventually faced with a facially placid and verbally insincere hotel employee who at once apologizes for the delay and then asks whether everything was ok, and, wouldiliketoprovidemyemailforfuturespecials even though CLEARLY I just want to get the eff out of here I, too, have been a not exceptionally polite version of me. 


Anyway, everyone who does work in the accommodations biz should take a page from Yoo's book.  I challenge even the crustiest road warrior to get angry or impatient with this man.  I think the expression "you get more flies with honey" must have been translated from the original Korean.  Always smiling, always apologizing even when nothing is wrong, always thanking us for doing nothing.  And here, I brought you a ginormous piece of my birthday cake.  And here, I got you some beers and bottled water to take to the train station with you.  And can I please walk you there?

I'm looking at my creative Tshirt-making friends here....  When I get home and my new aura of benevolence leaves all who look upon me sightless, I'd like a T-shirt made and I'd like it to read:  I learned it by watching Yoo.

Some stuff I've learned about travel.

Being away from home for an extended time with no real schedule or end date or solid future plan can be daunting.  Total self-direction is something that I haven't experienced before, what with the working and the regular-life obligations.  When responsibility comes in the context of a purely selfish pursuit, it can be heavy.  Every day I balance worry that I will squander this opportunity by not doing enough or the right enough with annoyance that I can't just chill out for once and enjoy my time off the grid.  Its a high-class problem to have, but a tightrope still, my friends.

All that is to say that in the 7 weeks since we left the States, I've come to a few conclusions that are shaping my approach to travel and maybe will help other people headed off the reservation.  So, I thought I'd share.

-  Stay in nice places.  I've never cared much about the accommodations on vacation because I'm not one to spend much time in the room.   The difference now is that the where we stay is home while  we're there.  This isn't a quick jaunt from our permanent residence, this is our life.  And besides being the place we sleep, its where we do research, make travel plans, Skype with friends and family, and conduct life business.  So its needs to be better than just inhabitable.  Nice vibes, please. 

-  Stay in hostels, even if you don't have dreadlocks and a backpack.   I think most Americans picture dorm-style flea factories but, infact, a lot of hostels are uber-charming and feel more like B&Bs than freshman bunks.  Most have a common area and/or kitchen, which gives you a spot to hang besides your room and a chance to mix it up with other people.  When we have stayed in hotels we haven't talked to a soul.  Socializing, even for an hour after dinner, with strangers is like an injection of new material into the routine.  We flex our social muscles and remember our couple-y A-game.  Also, we occasionally have something to mock when we retire for the evening. 

-  Figure out how much fun is enough fun.  The amount of stuff we pack into a day varies hugely.  Some mornings, we're breakfasted and traveled to our first destination by 10 and return long after dark.  Other days, after 5 or 6 hours of sightseeing, I want to go to the room and stare at the ceiling.  Being in unfamiliar surroundings, not speaking or reading the language, not knowing where we are, how we'll get to the next place, or even what the next place is, can be tiring.  I think the brain can only take in a certain amount of newness a day.  After that, let it rest.  Sponge full.

-  Research is helpful, but it can become a Sisyphean task.  I mean, thank God for the internet.  At the same time, there is so much information and so many strong opinions, I've found myself in decision paralysis more than once.  The world is our oyster, yes, but its a big-ass shell and I'm bad at geography.  Sometimes just picking the next destination based on weather, affordability, cool accommodations and 1 thing we want to see or do is enough.  Like the place we're headed  tomorrow with the penis-sculpture park.  Good times!

-  Also on the research front, I've sort of crossed over from pulling together lists of restaurants, bars, galleries, etc., to just getting a basic understanding of which neighborhoods to check out, and a map.  The contributing writer for the Lonely Planet doesn't have better taste in boutiques or bars than I do, so I mostly wing it.  We find it more satisfying to make great discoveries ourselves than to spend much time circling the address of a place recommended.  Because, frankly, there's only a 50% chance that its better than the one we would've picked just walking by.


-  And in terms of food/restaurant discoveries?  Our system is pretty much to hang out in non-touristy neighborhoods and eat in crowded restaurants.  In Beijing, in particular, this strategy did not fail.  Most of those joints had Chinese-only menus, so we just pointed at what other people were eating and had some of the best meals of our lives.  
  
I think that was the most serious post I've written since we boarded the plane for Mongolia.  Gravitas exhausted.  Seacrest out.

Beijing is so rad

We've been in Beijing since July 21st. It is a radical city with an astonishing identity crisis. The 6 nights we were booked for morphed into 14 and we still won't be ready to leave when our time here is up. I didn't have lofty expectations for this place and they have been hugely exceeded.

The neighborhood we stayed in for the first part of our trip was Xicheng, near Ping Anli. We were at the Red Lantern House, which I highly recommend if you are looking for quaint, friendly, hip Beijing. The West building, where we stayed, is nestled off the main drag
(though not in a hutong) behind large painted wooden gates. Some rooms face an interior courtyard with a glass ceiling, a bridge over a little koi river, and cosy couches. Ours faced an exterior courtyard covered in potted plants and crawling vines. Incidentally, 600 ml beers are 500 yuan/70 cents.

Our first full day we wandered from our hotel through countless, ancient hutongs and wound up in Tiananmen Square. I think this first walk sums up my impression of Beijing; it is so rich in history (the really old kind, not like our few hundred years in the US), but the
evidence is being paved over in the interest of progress. The obsession with modernity can be seen in nearly every aspect of Beijing life, from the cult status of name brands to the leveling of historical courtyards to widen the boulevards. When you glimpse the
ruins of the dynasties, it breaks your heart a little to think of whats been lost to ugly block soviet-style architecture. To consider the wooden temples and marble statues that met with the wrecking ball to make Tiananmen Square the size of several football fields. But
that's Beijing. Each dynasty leveled much of what was built by the prior. All that's left of the imperial palace of the Mongols is one lousy jade vase. The Communist party took down the dynastic and ornate walls around the city. Hundreds of blocks of hutongs were
destroyed in preparation for the Olympics. This is just how these guys roll....

The result is that Beijing is like an onion. Every block and every sight is built atop another site that it has usurped. Proletariat slogans from the 70s can be glimpsed in one of the oldest hutongs in the city; which has now become a hipster haven for artists and expats.
You could spend ages peeling back the layers, looking for the real Beijing, but I think its a place that exists as the sum of its history. You have to just eat the onion.

INHTMF

One of the things that kept Ed and I amused during those long stretches in the van was back to back "This American Life" podcasts, 100s selected and downloaded prior to departure. Molly intro'd me to this show about 9 years ago (I know! We're getting old!) and its one of those particular flavors of which I never tire. Like Saltines, kind of.

Ed had never heard the episode "Frenemies" and I was more than happy to re-listen. Fans will recall the interview with Rich Juzwiak who talked in-depth about the line "I'm Not Here to Make Friends" and its over-usage on reality TV. His annual montage of these moments can be viewed here:
http://fourfour.typepad.com/fourfour/2010/07/happy-im-not-here-to-make-friends-day.html
Why do I bring up INHTMF? Because the evening after we listened to the ep, the 3rd traveler on our tour arrived. She had visa conflicts and joined 1 week into the 3 week tour. We'll just call her A, which is short for Asshead, which is what we actually called her. She is a Danish pastor in her 50s and that's all I'll reveal about her identity lest her offspring stumble upon my blog. Although I don't think I'm going to say anything that would surprise them.

A had at least 2 personalities. These two were the strongest, there may have been more. #1 was an engaged, neurotic, bookish, manic, know it all. The second personality was withdrawn, brattish, obsessive. We guessed bi-polar, which I imagine is a real treat when she's christening your baby. We can ignore the second personality because, well, we ignored it. But when A was manic, she was hard to overlook.

Like all tourists, she took a lot of photos. And like some tourists, she had no qualms about racing up to a nomad child or wild animal and snapping away in its face. Or, about walking through center stage of the Nadaam festival so she could photograph the wrestlers (during a match) from 3 or 4 feet away. And, like all tourists, she didn't want
to miss a photo-op because of an uncharged battery. She hadn't figured on the whole no-electricity thing and therefore didn't bring backup batteries. So on the nights we stayed in ger camps with generators (used only at night), she would jet from the van to an employee and harass them about what time the electricity would be made available to her. If the generator went on 12 minutes after she was promised, you could hear the rant from across the camp.

One powerless evening, her camera battery actually did die just before we headed to see the yak-herder family. She cursed the entire way (Armageddon had come), and then asked if we would email her our not-yet-taken-photos from the evening. Of course we would, and please shut up about your camera. What we didn't bet on was her shadowing us so she could helpfully point out photo ops. As you might imagine once I was holding the camera this behavior ended.

There were several other incidences involving the camera/battery/electricity paradigm, but I think you get the gist.

I've mentioned before that our tour guide was a freaking dolt, yes? A picked up on this pretty quickly as well, and yet, personality #1 chose to inundate Undraa with questions, firing squad style, at least a few times a day. Did Undraa have the answers to these questions? No. Did she understand the questions? Only after they were repeated at least twice. Did the questions even have answers? Let's review....

Sample questions actually posed by A to Undraa. When each inquisition began, Ed and I could be heard muttering "Is it bigger than a breadbox?" to mark the beginning of another Q&Q sesh.
- When will the rain stop?
- Where is that nomad going?
- Does that cow [pointing to solo cow in field] belong to the family
we saw earlier?
- How long until this road becomes pavement?
- What will they serve for lunch?
- How many people will be staying at the camp?

Completing the triumvirate of A's worst traits was her role as Hector-the-Corrector. Anything that Ed or I said was immediately and summarily corrected or contradicted. Topics ranging from the mining industry to whether the tent was big or small to what kind of fruit was in the jam at breakfast were open for debate. Usually, the conversation would go something like this:
A: Do you know how much the ticket is for tonight?
R: I believe its 10 thousand Mongolian
A: So what is that?
R: Around 8 US
A: NO, that's too high.... Undraa, how much is 10 thousand Mongolian in US? Undraa, of course, goes to ask someone at the restaurant.
U: About 7.50 US
A: See? I knew that was too high.

And thus a dinner would conclude and Ed and I would pretend to go to bed only to circle back to the restaurant at the ger for big Mongolian beers and card playing without her. We would remind ourselves that we went on this tour to see Mongolia, not to make friends, and that soon enough we would be rid of A.

And though I loathed her, the day we headed back to UB, a little seedling of generosity sprouted in my heart. We knew that A hadn't yet been to the capital and we warned her of the pickpockets and theft we had seen and heard of and cautioned her to take care of her stuff.  We ran into her in the hotel restaurant the next day where she let us know, triumphantly, had been out for hours, hasn't seen any pickpockets, and that UB was perfectly safe. We were, obviously, wrong again.

The day after that we saw her in the lobby. Red faced and panting, she had just been robbed. Her camera, with all the photos from the trip, was gone. And could we please email our photos to her?