The travel blog is back

I have an ambition to be a travel writer, at least as a side gig to my healthcare reportage, so I think it's time to re-start this long-dormant blog. Considering the fact that I've been to Italy, Australia, Switzerland and the UK, as well as all over the United States, since the last update more than two years ago, I have lots of fodder.

I will keep this post short, however. I get a lot of travel-related e-mails, usually offering last-minute discount airfare and hotel deals, and occasionally news of interest to frequent travelers. This week, I got one notice that made me chuckle: There's a new boutique hotel in Washington called The Liaison Capitol Hill. For real.

Insert your own Eliot Spitzer, Marion Barry or Bill Clinton joke here.

Amsterdam

I’ve now spent 11 nights in Europe, and my trip actually is moving into the home stretch, but this is my first blog post. I write for a living, but, hey, I’m on vacation. I guess that sort of unofficially comes to an end Monday, when I have a meeting with an e-health official from the European Commission.

I have already seen Amsterdam, Bruges and Antwerp, and I’m heading to Brussels Sunday late afternoon. I’ve also made en-route stops in The Hague and Ghent.

Just like freelancing, traveling alone has its ups and downs. You have the freedom to do what you want, when you want. But there are also long periods of loneliness.

What’s that, you say? I came to Europe with a friend? Well, things didn’t exactly work out as planned. She apparently was upset on the flight that I didn’t read the four or five tour books she brought on Amsterdam and that I didn’t appear “excited” about the trip. How is one supposed to show excitement on a 7½-hour flight. Should I have been doing cartwheels through the airport terminal during my 4-hour layover in Newark? I suppose I should have been glad I was leaving Newark.

(By the way, I usually love flying in Boeing 767s because they are comfortable, quiet and seem spacious, but the relatively new 767-400 that Continental flies on the EWR-AMS route felt really cramped with the seats so close together and limited under-seat storage. I could not even completely open my laptop when the person in front of me reclined all the way. Oh, for a seat in an exit row!)

Anyway, the tension sort of built in the weeks leading up to the trip, with her complaining that I wasn’t getting excited. I was working hard on multiple projects, including an application for a fellowship I badly want. She was off nearly the entire month of March. During that time, my parents came to visit for a weekend, I sprained my knee playing hockey (I’ve had it wrapped nearly 24/7 on this trip because of all the walking and climbing up stairs), plus I had a trip to Houston less than a week before I left for Amsterdam. I came home to a pile of dirty clothes and a barrage of e-mail. Isn’t that enough excitement?

In Amsterdam, things deteriorated fast. I have been to Europe several times before and have found that the best plan after the all-night flight over is to get to the hotel, eat a good lunch, nap for a couple of hours, shower, go out for a few hours in the late afternoon and evening, then turn in early for a full night’s sleep so I’m ready to go the next day.

She was not happy about the nap, but that’s what I do.

Then, I had to take care of kind of an emergency. I refilled all my prescriptions the day before I departed. One medication came in two bottles. I grabbed the smaller of the two, but didn’t realize there were only 20 pills in the bottle—not even enough for a week. Another medication I just completely forgot to pack. I’m positive it’s on the kitchen counter right next to the sink back home. Why I put it there remains a mystery.

Fortunately, a pharmacy near my hotel was very accommodating. It was about 2:30 p.m. in Amsterdam, which was 7:30 a.m. back in Chicago. My pharmacy at home was not open and my doctor was not in his office. No matter, since the Amsterdam pharmacy would not fill a prescription anyway unless it came from a Dutch physician.

I figured I would have to wait in line at some walk-in clinic and hope for the best. Instead, the pharmacist called a local doctor’s office, gave the receptionist my name and told me to head right over there. Less than 30 minutes later, I had my script, and the pharmacy filled it right away. The total doctor’s fee was €13.25. (The meds—both generics—actually cost a bit more than I would have paid at home. The lower European prices we hear so much about really only apply to brand-name drugs.)

Anyway, I was tremendously grateful to you-know-who for accompanying me throughout this little adventure, since I was the idiot who forgot his pills. But my “thank you” and “I’m sorry” was inadequate, since in hindsight, the trip was already ruined.

The next day, she thought I was wasting time by doing pushups in the room before showering. That took all of 30 seconds and it got my blood flowing so I would get moving faster. Plus, it’s a good way to stay in shape when the hotel doesn’t have a gym.

Tension continued to breakfast, for reasons I still don’t understand, then boiled over at the Amsterdam Historical Museum. I like to take my time in museums, plus I actually have an interest in history. (Just check my résumé: B.A., history, Washington University, 1992.) She went ahead and finished way earlier than I did.

I didn’t know how much earlier until she found me in the museum and told me she had been waiting outside for 40 minutes. I was shocked. But then she told me rather huffily (is that a word?) that she was moving on to another museum and I said, “Fine.” She took that like a frustrated “Fine,” which it was not, and turned around and walked away without saying a word. I called her back, then she told me we needed to talk when we got back to the hotel since, in her words, we were “not communicating.”

Back at the hotel, she was already making plans to not stay together in other cities on the trip and to travel on her own the rest of the way. I asked her what she wanted to talk about and she basically refused. Yeah, I suppose we really were not communicating if she doesn’t want to talk.

We spent the next three nights sharing a room but not saying more than “hi” and “bye” when one of us came or went. Seriously, I’ve had much better experiences sharing a dorm room with five total strangers in a Madrid hostel. This time, it was a supposed friend being hostile. And they ask me why I drink!

Later, when I was drinking, someone in a pub suggested to me that I should have traveled with a male friend. If I had any male friends who were still single, I might have considered it. Such is the nature of being in your mid-30s.

Anyway, I have not let this ugly incident ruin my trip, other than the lack of companionship. Instead, I have turned into a museum maven, and even picked up a few language skills. Oh yeah, two nasty pimples disappeared along with the stress.

In Amsterdam alone, I visited the aforementioned Amsterdam Historical Museum, the Rijksmuseum, the Van Gogh Museum, the Dutch Resistance Museum, the Anne Frank House and a photography museum known as FOAM, some sort of Dutch acronym.

That’s a lot to cram into a short visit, but I was taking advantage of something called the I Amsterdam Card, which gives prepaid access to 26 museums (though not the Anne Frank House), a free canal cruise, discounts to some other attractions and restaurants, plus an unlimited transit pass for 24, 48 or 72 hours. I got the 72-hour card for €53. The three-day transit pass alone goes for €13, so I’d call it a good deal.

I would have done more, but the Amsterdam branch of the Hermitage closed one day before I tried to get in, as it was moving out an old exhibit and preparing for the next. All exhibits come from the original Hermitage in St. Petersburg.

The Rijksmuseum is undergoing a total renovation, so most of it is closed until 2008. In the meantime, the one open wing is showing about 400 of the museum’s best works from the Dutch Golden Age in an exhibit called The Masterpieces. Names like Rembrandt, Vermeer and Steen are prominent, as is Delft porcelain.

This being the 400th anniversary of Rembrandt’s birth, there are special exhibits and events all over the Netherlands. The Rijksmuseum is showing a special Rembrandt-Caravaggio exhibit at the nearby Van Gogh Museum. That’s one I actually did not get to.

As I am sure has happened to millions over the years, the Anne Frank House moved me to tears. Right past the entrance is a room with a large picture of Anne and her birth and death dates. That’s when it hit me how wise beyond her years she was in her writings and how tragic it is that she barely made it past her 15th birthday. I cried again when I saw Anne’s room, since the pictures she cut out of her movie magazines and glued to the wall are still there. Some original posters from Opekta, one of Otto Frank’s companies, are still there as well.

This tangible piece of history really humanizes the tragedy of the Holocaust and is a must-see for anyone who doubts the magnitude of the Nazis’ evil.

I do have to say it is a tad ironic that the room showing Anne’s legacy, including copies of her diary in 60-some languages, has a quote on the wall from Eleanor Roosevelt. Not that Mrs. Roosevelt was not a great humanitarian who was truly touched by Anne Frank’s diary, but her husband’s reluctance to confront Hitler until the end of 1941 probably cost millions of innocent lives.

Still, I come away from Amsterdam with the understanding that the Dutch have a long history of tolerance. The Jewish Historical Museum and the Dutch Resistance Museum, of course, do try to paint rosy pictures, but they come off as sincere. I mean, no other country in Europe welcomed Jews as early as 1600 (though it took more than 100 years for the descendants of victims of the Spanish Inquisition to make it to Amsterdam), and no other occupied country worked harder to subvert Nazi control.

Today’s openness about prostitution and marijuana (neither of which I sampled, by the way) is just the latest manifestation of this tradition of tolerance.

For the record, I did smell pot while walking through The Hague on a weekday afternoon. People all over the Netherlands just accept marijuana as no worse than alcohol or tobacco, or any other vice. (Frankly, I wish they would figure out the tobacco thing, since cigarette smoke is everywhere. Nonsmoking sections in restaurants are pretty much a joke, since ventilation tends to be poor in the old buildings of Amsterdam. I had to do laundry upon my arrival in Bruges because all three pairs of pants that I brought reeked of smoke.)

One little note on The Hague: I took a side trip there—45 minutes by train—on my way out of Amsterdam, not knowing what to expect of this town best known for its International Court of Justice, a UN installation and, most recently, the trial of Slobodan Milosevic, which, of course, ended with his death a month or so ago.

For the half-day I was there, I was impressed. If you ever find yourself in The Hague, do go to the Mauritshuis, a fine museum housed in a 17th-century mansion that overlooks a lake. Vermeer’s “Girl With a Pearl Earring” is there, as are a few Rembrandts and collections of some Flemish masters like Peter Paul Rubens and Hans Memling. The current special exhibition, entitled “Dreaming of Italy,” shows the works of many non-Italian artists who were inspired by Italian landscapes and settings.

The curator of the Italian exhibit did a tremendous job, bringing in pieces from such famous institutions as the Louvre, the Getty and the Prado, as well as from not-so-obvious places like the Milwaukee Art Museum, Smith College in Northampton, Mass., and the royal collection of Buckingham Palace.

The little diversion to The Hague lasted longer than planned, as the machine that controls the lockers in the train station broke and I could not get my luggage. Station attendants opened a couple of rows of lockers with keys to remove an access panel, but the key would not work for the row where my locker was. The mechanic they called in tried un-jamming the machine’s ticket reader and also tried the key, again unsuccessfully. He finally put his mechanic’s skills to work by jimmying the lock with a screwdriver. High-tech stuff!

This little problem took an hour and a half to resolve. I missed one train to Bruges and almost missed another, but got to that wonderful Flemish town just after 8 p.m., with some daylight left. Europe sets its clocks ahead one week before North America, so my 7-hour time change from Chicago became 8 hours the day after I landed in Amsterdam.

I’ve written so much already, so I’ll get to the rest of the trip in my next post.

Visiting 'red' states

Since I will be leaving Illinois to venture to Arizona and Texas later this month, I thought I would post this survival guide for Blue Staters visiting Red States. This comes from a blog called Daily Kos.

There, I'm protected against copyright violations. :-)



The Blue Stater's Guide to Holiday Travel in the Red States
by Spiral Stairs
Mon Nov 22nd, 2004 at 09:32:54 PST

So you're a Blue Stater who plans to visit your family in the Red States over the holidays? Contrary to popular belief, travel to the Red States can still be a safe and rewarding experience, as long as you follow some basic guidelines to ensure your safety and sanity.

Diaries :: Spiral Stairs's diary ::
Preparing for your trip.

Researching your destination. Although all Red States are, in fact, exactly the same, many attempt to market themselves in ways minutely different from others. Feel free to read up on these miniscule differences so that, upon arrival, you can say things like, "They grow corn here, whereas they grow wheat in the state next door." Or, "Barbecue sauce in this state is vinegar-based, while in the state next door they use a tomato base."

Making sure you will fit in. Citizens of the Red States are very particular about their religious beliefs. If you are not a God-fearing, born-again, moral-values-having Christian, we recommend that you become one prior to your departure. Also, if you are not white, we recommend that you become white before leaving.

Packing. We encourage you to pack lightly for your trip into the Red States. If you pack heavily, Red State security forces may be concerned that you are attempting to smuggle abortion rights literature, Monday Night Football videotapes, or an independent journalist into the Red States. Even if you are not carrying contraband, you may experience delay and frustration as your shoes are searched for secret compartments containing microfiched copies of the Koran.

Strip your luggage of suspicious tags and stickers. For instance, do not attach any identification tags that include a phone number beginning with 212, 202, 213, 312, 310, or virtually any other area code comprised of 3's, 2's, 1's, and 0's. This will only call attention to yourself as a Blue Stater, and may provoke derision and catcalls.

What to expect upon arrival.

Have your papers in order. You may be asked to produce your papers for inspection at any point during your stay in the Red States. It is very important to be able to produce them in a quick and orderly fashion.

Be prepared for culture shock. Many Blue Staters are surprised by the vast cultural differences between the Red and Blue States. You should prepare yourself for the resulting culture shock. For instance:

*You will see bumper stickers and signs to which you have not previously been exposed. For instance, you will see signs such as "Bush-Cheney", "W04", and "Proud of Our Troops." Deep in the Red States, you may also see stickers and signs such as "Kickin' Butt and Takin' Arabic Names", "Osama Bin Runnin', but He Can't Be Hidin'", and "NR Fuckin' A".

*While driving, you may be unable to find any public radio. Do not panic. Instead, tune to a Rush Limbaugh broadcast and pretend it is satire.

*You will see and hear references to something called "NASCAR." When someone makes this reference, back away slowly, without making any sudden movements, and seek shelter.

*In many Red State restaurants, your food will not be served to you on a plate. Rather, you will be asked to walk alongside a vast trough of various food items segregated into categories like "fried," "deep-fried," "pan-fried," and "fried pieces of fried food," and heap unreasonable quantities of said food onto a plastic tray. Do not be alarmed. You are unlikely to die as long as you do not engage in this eating behavior more than once or twice on your trip. If you are subjected to these so-called "buffets" more than twice, we recommend you leave the Red States immediately and obtain a macrobiotic smoothie injection in the nearest Blue State.

What to do in the Red States.

Travel within the Red States. Many of you will be visiting family members and staying at their homes. You will be safe as long as you travel with these family members. Should you need to travel within the Red States without them, exercise great caution. We recommend that you carry a full-size American flag.

Sight-seeing in the Red States. Worthwhile sights found within the Red States include:

*A giant ball of twine.

*Many birthplaces of Republicans.

Family time. If you are spending time with your family, remember:

*Bite your tongue whenever someone makes a political point with which you do not agree. You will be able to seek medical attention for the dozens of injuries to your tongue upon your return to the Blue States.

*Pronounce our nation's greatest enemies, "Eye-rack" and "Eye-ran."

*Whenever the subject of military service comes up in conversation, repeat these words: "Those men made the greatest sacrifice. Freedom is not free." Then talk about football.

Leaving the Red States.

After spending a day in the Red States, you will be ready to leave. Do so quickly and inconspicuously. Once you are safely on Blue State soil, turn back toward the Red State you just departed, and scream. It will be cathartic.

Back to nature, then back to reality

It's been two long weeks since I returned home, but the memories are still fresh. That's good, since I have not had the time to write until now.

My last two days in Senegal were quite eventful.

The Friday before I left, in hopes that I might find a story to sell once I got home, I had an appointment with the American director of a non-governmental agency that promotes personal health in Senegalese villages. Unfortunately, right after I arrived, this rather scatterbrained individual had noticed that she had forgotten about some major project that was due the following Monday and decided to cancel the meeting right there on the spot. Needless to say, I was a bit flabbergasted. It was not like I could reschedule, seeing that I would be on a flight home the next night.

This woman offered to pay my cab fare back to my uncle's house, but I was not exactly happy with what was transpiring. Thanks to my superior interviewing skills (or so I like to think), I was able to engage her in a discussion for about 15 minutes about what this agency does and about how it helps teach the uneducated masses about basic medical care. While the discussion here in America is about how to computerize patient records, in Senegal they are lucky to have health professionals (not always doctors) keep any records at all on their patients.

It was not the most convenient appointment for me, since the office was in Yoff, a booming suburb near the Dakar airport, but I did find a great little restaurant nearby, where I got some wonderful Moroccan-style chicken and couscous for about $2.

I also got to experience the thrill of Dakar public transportation on the way out to Yoff.


A Dakar car rapide going nowhere fast.

What passes for a transit system there is a seemingly disorganized fleet of minibuses known as cars rapides. This is a misnomer, as there is nothing remotely rapide about any of them. Nor is there any sort of destination sign on the buses; one has to know where the stops are and has to ask the driver or fare collector where the bus is going. The fare collector isn't wearing any distinguishing clothing or badge, either. He's usually the person hanging out of the back of the bus at the door — almost always open — that people use to get on and off.

Steps? Wheelchair lifts? Air conditioning? Yeah, right. They don't even believe in fire aisles. In fact, some cars rapides have people sitting on jump seats that fold down in the aisle, so everyone in the middle has to get up whenever someone gets on or off the bus. By the way, the vehicles are old and operate on diesel fuel. Try to imagine the fumes that come out of those things.

There are two kinds of cars rapides in Dakar, the plain white ones and the colorfully decorated blue, white and yellow ones. Two different syndicates, I'm told. No matter which one you get, it's bound to have random stickers on the back windows (foot-high decals of Madonna seem to be very popular) and have "Alhamdouililahi" ("hallelujah") painted above the front grille. Given the way people drive in Dakar, divine inspiration does not seem like such a bad idea.

You can't beat the value, though. Most rides cost 100 francs, or about 20 U.S. cents.

That evening, I had another harrowing ride, but this time in my uncle's car. His band was scheduled to play a gig at a fundraiser at Club Atlantique for the Dakar Women's Group, made up of dozens of expatriates, and he got home late from work. He got to the club as quickly, though perhaps not as safely, as possible, but things otherwise went off just great. The band was good and I got to see many of the same people I had met during my stay, including some of my cousins' teachers.

That was just a prelude for the rest of the evening, however. The same night, Americans in Senegal were celebrating the 60th birthday of an American woman who has run a job training center in Dakar for something like 30 years. The party was at the home of the U.S. ambassador (but paid for by private sources).

Right there playing on the front lawn for at least 300 guests was an Afro-Cuban-style band called Orchestra Baobab, an internationally known Senegalese group that has recorded with Dave Matthews. My uncle played with one of the drummers back in the 1970s, when the group was still a club band in Dakar. They became perhaps the most famous Senegalese musicians aside from Youssou N'Dour, broke up before the end of the '80s, then got back together around 2001. And I saw them playing a private party.

(In checking out the Web site, I see that Orchestra Baobab is playing Hot House in Chicago on March 25. Who wants to go?)

The following morning, my last in Senegal, we headed out for a game reserve in Bandia, about two hours (if the traffic cooperates) outside of Dakar.

Apparently, the Bandia Reserve is rather small-time by African standards, but it's the best you are going to do within a couple of hours of Dakar. The "real" game parks and safari areas are in eastern and southern Africa. In fact, 97% of the animals were shipped in from South Africa by the park's owners. About the only natives were the giraffes, crocodiles and several species of birds. There is no jungle in Senegal, just savanna.

Still, it was an experience for this city dweller. From the back of an open-air truck, I came within a few feet of towering giraffes, sleeping rhinos and majestic gazelles. I think my pictures speak for themselves.


Let sleeping rhinos lie.

Among the highlights of the Bandia park are three baobabs known to be at least 1,000 years old. One is called the Millennium Baobab. Another has a partially hollowed-out trunk because it was used as a burial site. You can actually see some of the skulls.

On a less morbid note, the outdoor restaurant near the entrance to the reserve offers a wonderful view of a watering hole popular with many of the animals, including the crocs, water buffalo and even a few monkeys. The kids seemed to like the restaurant because one of the tables had the McDonald's Golden Arches embossed in the plastic. There's nothing like re-use of limited resources!

On the Bandia trip, I rode one way in the car of the State Department physician in charge of health programs for U.S. officials in three West African countries. He brought along his wife, who is a public health specialist for the U.S. Agency for International Development, and one of his wife's co-workers. I asked a bunch of questions and got business cards. We'll see if anything becomes of that.

I can't end this entry without mentioning one unsettling incident that I believe happened a couple of days earlier on my way back from Mboro and Thiès.

I was at a storefront gallery of an artist who makes things out of forged iron. As I was considering purchasing a piece, one of the workers pulls out a photo album with pictures of many of the artist's works. Right there on the cover of the album was the smiling face of a certain Osama bin Laden.

My uncle, who was with me, asked the people there in Wolof if they knew who that person was. Apparently they were told he was some sort of holy man. My uncle then asked if they were aware of the fact that bin Laden was responsible for people flying airplanes into buildings in America and killing thousands. The gallery workers had no answer. They also had no sale from me.

I honestly don't think that these folks were followers of bin Laden or haters of Western values. They were just not aware or concerned with things that went on outside their own lives, and apparently bought the bin Laden album from some anti-American types in an Arab country, without really knowing who this monster really is.

This incident demonstrated to me how sorely education is lacking in the developing world and gave me a chilling sense of how many people think that the world's most notorious terrorist is a hero.

Overall, I found that it was not necessary to hide my identity as an American while overseas, though I tried my best to be respectful of other cultures by not being an "ugly" American. I think the easiest way to avoid the stereotype is not to assume that everyone speaks English. If you don't know the language, at least have the courtesy to ask if they speak English, preferably in the local language. I don't know much Spanish, but I did learn to ask, "¿Habla usted Inglés?" while in Spain and while flying Iberia, the Spanish airline. It helped.

Above all, my two-week trip opened my eyes to how vast and diverse the world is and proved to me how the only true way to comprehend how others live is to experience it for yourself. I'm excited about the possibility of exploring other parts of Africa on future trips, though the one place I want to see more than anywhere else remains Australia. Too bad I spent so many miles on this trip. I guess I'll just have to build up my account again.

News stories about what I've described

I got back from my trip on Sunday, but I still have one more long entry to make here. In the meantime, here are a couple of news stories I've come across that relate to what I experienced.

"Senegal celebrates the sheep" (BBC News, Jan. 17). Eid-el-Kabir is the Arabic name for what West Africans refer to as Tabaski.

"W. Africa's new cash making a splash, and it smells good too" (Chicago Tribune via Yahoo!, Jan. 19). This is a story about the CFA franc, the official currency in Senegal and seven other West African Francophone nations.

The real Senegal

I finally took my long-awaited trek outside Dakar on Thursday. The plan originally had been to spend 2-3 days on the road with my uncle visiting various Peace Corps sites around the country. That got changed to a planned overnighter in Kaolack, about 225 km southeast of Dakar. That eventually was nixed, too.

Instead, I settled for a day trip to Thiès, some 70 km due east of Dakar, and to a very rural site near the town of Mboro, 100 km northeast of Dakar.

OK, I take that back. I didn't have to settle. It was fabulous.

The itinerary came about because Peace Corps officials had a chance to meet with an expert on plant science at his property on a dirt road in the general vicinity of Mboro. Specifically, this man teaches rural Senegalese how to select fruit trees and other food-producing plants for grafting and how to make the grafts without transmitting diseases that threaten large swaths of forests, orchards and groves across Africa. The Peace Corps was checking the place out as a potential site for training volunteers.

I know, it sounds boring, but it's actually quite fascinating to see up close, especially when you're struggling to follow conversations in French. My uncle, who has a master's in agricultural economics, has spent the better part of his adult life helping improve food production and quality in underdeveloped countries.

We were accompanied by Mamadou, the assistant Peace Corps country director for environmental projects, and by a forestry expert from Thiès named Youssou, who often consults with the Peace Corps in Senegal. We made the trip in a brand-spanking-new Toyota Land Cruiser, which made the Dakar-area gridlock and the harrowing ride along what passes for national highways somewhat bearable. This is what large SUVs are supposed to be used for, not shuttling suburban brats to and from soccer practice.

Actually, the 2-hour trip was quite scenic, as we passed through fields of baobab and rônier trees. The majestic baobab, which, to me, looks like the Joshua Tree of the American Southwest, is a national symbol of Senegal. The rônier sort resembles a palm tree and is remarkably versatile, used for oil, clothing, basket-weaving, animal feed and a bunch of other things I can't quite recall at the moment. If I had a digital camera, I would have posted pictures of both kinds of trees, but that will have to wait until I get home to my scanner.

Also along the route were some enormous phosphate mines and a town called Tibouane, a Muslim holy city. Thibouane is in the process of replacing its tiny, original mosque, which is about 200 years old—actually very young, considering that the Berbers came through West Africa in the 9th Century to convert the natives.

Our destination was a rural house well off the beaten path, among a vast area of rolling sand dunes and bush known as Niaye (pronounced "jai"). There was no way we would have ever found the place without the help of Youssou, nor would we have reached very easily without the Land Cruiser.

Down a hill from the house, past a pen where the owner kept two sheep who apparently were unaware of their impending slaughter for Tabaski next week, was a collection of saplings, newly grafted plants and immature citrus and palm trees barely three feet high, certainly less than two years old. (It takes about six years for orange, lemon and grapefruit plants to start bearing fruit.)

The man demonstrated how to sterilize branch-cutting tools in bleach to prevent the transmission of diseases during the grafting process and how to wrap grafted areas with clean plastic. His goal—and that of the Peace Corps—is to teach that technique to farmers and villagers across Senegal in order to create sustainable agricultural enterprises.

The field, which probably was on state-owned land, was more than a laboratory, though. It had plenty of fully matured plants, which afforded me the opportunity to see age-old skills and truly experience what my uncle described as the "real Senegal," since he said that this site was typical of about 80% of farmland in the country.

(In a remarkable reminder of how small the world truly is, cell phones actually worked out there.)

Not far from where I stood, two young men were harvesting coconuts. One climbed up a coconut palm like it was second nature, scaling the 100-foot tree in about two minutes. It appeared that he left his rubber safety harness at the bottom.

Meanwhile, another local, whom the plant scientist apparently knew, approached with a machete. He was prepared to inflict harm only on coconuts. And hack away he did, taking perhaps half a dozen strokes to cut each fruit open so we could drink the sweet milk inside. He then split the coconut open and chopped away enough of the shell so that we could use a sliver as a spoon to scoop out the meat. Yes, he kept the machete in one hand even as he handed over the coconuts with the other.

We did have to pay the man, seeing that he had a machete and all. Total cost: 150 CFA francs for 6 coconuts, or approximately 30 U.S. cents.


Always be nice to the guy with the machete. 

After that eventful meeting and a delicious plate of thiébou djenn for a late lunch, we stopped at a permanent Peace Corps training site near Thiès, where newly arrived volunteers are schooled in huts. Upon using the toilets there—actual running water despite the conspicuous absence of cushy seats—I pictured my parents visiting a place like this. I then burst out laughing.

(Before you all run to tell my mommy on me, understand that I'm the first person from the Versel side of the family to visit my uncle in Africa in 20 years.)

We also had a brief encounter with the same Peace Corps volunteer I met at lunch the day after I arrived in Senegal last week—an intelligent, single Jewish woman in her 30s who's going back to the States in April. Is my uncle trying to set me up? Am I delusional yet again? Wait, don't answer that!

If Thursday's adventure was the real deal, Wednesday was more touristy, but no less enjoyable.

The outing du jour was to l'Ile de Gorée, this time during the daytime and not for a catered party at a chi-chi restaurant. With my uncle at work, I went with my aunt (it's still hard for me to think of her as my aunt since I was 20 when they got married) and a South African friend of hers who brought along her mother, visiting from Cape Town.

We hooked up with an English-speaking tour guide known as El-Hajj who apparently is a regular for the Versel family. The going rate for good Gorée guides is up to 8,000 francs, or about $16, but most other things on the island are inexpensive, including admission to the Slave House, which features the Door of No Return.

The South Africans in my party said that Gorée reminded them a bit of Robben Island, the prison which held Nelson Mandela and Stephen Biko, among others, during apartheid. The major difference, of course, is that Robben Island held prisoners up until 1990.

Not to diminish the atrocities that took place on the island centuries ago, but I understand that Senegal has done a great job marketing Gorée, which now is a UNESCO World Heritage site. Contrary to popular belief, only about 100 to 150 slaves were on Gorée at any given time, and it was far from the busiest slave-trading site in Africa. I believe that that dubious distinction belongs to Ghana, though I could be wrong.

Gorée actually was a slave auction site, rather than a main port, since captives had to be transported there from the African mainland before being forced onto transatlantic ships.

(Senegal also has been successful siphoning off large amounts of commercial and tourist traffic from Ivory Coast, which has been experiencing political unrest for a couple of years now. Senegal has had a stable government pretty much since it gained independence from France in 1960.)

A couple of people have mentioned to me that the CBS show "The Amazing Race" visited Dakar and Gorée during two episodes that aired last month. I didn't see any of it, but here's the link if you're interested: http://www.cbs.com/primetime/amazing_race6/route/index.shtml.

But I digress. Again.

Gorée, which has no roads or cars, is its own municipality, with some 1,500 full-time residents. I briefly was in the house of one Gorée couple, thanks to another family connection I didn't know I had.

The island really is terrific for hiking, as there is a hill in the middle that served as a lookout for various colonial powers during the early part of the last century, including for Vichy France during World War II. The British, Dutch and Portuguese also had a presence during the colonial period. I had my picture taken with a cannon I think the French put at the very top of the hill.


Bringing out the big guns on Gorée. 

After fending off a bunch of vendors obviously desperate to sell something—anything—so they can afford a sheep for Tabaski and not have to settle for a less-prestigious goat, we sat down for a great lunch at an outdoor cafe near the ferry dock.

Seriously, Senegalese vendors will chase you for blocks, wave things in your face, rap on car windows and do all but insult your mother if they even have an inkling that you might perhaps be interested in possibly considering looking at whatever it is they're selling. They'll try language after language until they get something they think you understand. I've heard "Hola, amigo," more in Dakar than I did in Madrid.

Some lady with a basket full of dolls balanced precariously on her head followed me for two blocks earlier this week, and I didn't even make eye contact with her.

I can't sign off without mentioning one more thing: a beautiful musical instrument from Mali called a kora. Made from a hollowed-out, leather-covered half of a gourd with a wooden neck like a guitar that supports 21 strings made of fishing line, the kora sounds like a harp when played correctly. On both trips to Gorée, it was played very correctly, and it was unlike anything I had ever heard.

The kora players got something rare from me: a donation for a street musician. Let's see the guy belting out the "Flintstones" theme on the sax at the underground entrance to Terminal 3 at O'Hare say that!

Going global

I thought I had been an international man of mystery before, what with my being published in a couple of European magazines and, of course, all those Canadian girls going crazy for me (or is it because of me?), but being overseas gives me a whole new appreciation for the world.

In other words, I'm stalling here before mentioning a little faux pas. This morning, I went to the gym that my family belongs to here and took a class similar to the muscle definition class I like at home, except that they use a weighted bar rather than dumbells. The ab exercises are virtually the same. There happened to be an attractive redhead right in front of me, who, from as far as I could tell, spoke English and did not have a ring on her finger. I found out later that I was ogling the wife of the new Israeli ambassador to Senegal!

(Yup, Israel has an an embassy here in a Muslim, though non-Arab, country. I think that's cool.)

That little bit of embarrassment aside, I was downtown after the whole family met my uncle and a colleague of his for lunch at a place called Caesar's Fried Chicken, or, CFC. The word, "Kentucky," appeared on the sign under the name. (The other Caesar's in Dakar doesn't have chicken. Maybe they want to be respectful in their blatant trademark infringement.)

After lunch, we were walking along a street when I noticed a sign for the Union des journalistes de l'Afrique de l'ouest, or West African Journalists Association. I thought about it for a few seconds, then decided I had to go in. I was dressed like a tourist and looked anything but professional and I did not have any cards or other sort of credentials on me, but they happily welcomed me, even offering me a Coke. A meeting was just about to start, but they talked with me in French for a couple of minutes, before they found an English-speaking colleague from Sierra Leone. He spoke to me for about 10 minutes, explaining that the office housed three other organizations, including a Senegalese journalists' group, the West African headquarters of the International Federation of Journalists and the African office of the International News Safety Institute.

This man worked for the latter, a Brussels-based organization that teaches journalists to be safe in dangerous areas, inluding war zones such as Iraq and kidnapping havens like Colombia. He explained to me how Western media tend to ignore most of Africa, except when something bad happens like the massacres in the Darfur region of Sudan or if the news relates to places where international correspondents are posted, such as Cairo or Johannesburg, which are thousands of miles from here.

For example, the last time the West paid attention to anything here was in 2003, when George W. Bush visited Dakar and when 2,000 people drowned in a ferry accident off the coast of Senegal. (The government is constructing a monument to the ferry disaster, which, I'm told, is the deadliest peacetime maritime incident in history, worse than the sinking of the Titanic.)

The Sierra Leone journalist suggested I report on how Dakar is a financial and trade center for West Africa. It is the headquarters of a central bank that serves the 8 countries that use the CFA franc as their currency. Even if I don't write that story, I'm sure we will keep in touch.

Another story possibility could pop up on Friday, as I'm going to meet with an NGO affiliated with several North American and European universities that's involved in social development, including healthcare. One of the employees was watching a jam session with me on Sunday. My guitar-playing uncle and a few other American expats with varying levels of musical talent have a bluegrass/folk band that was practicing for some gig at a party this Friday. It was a lot of fun.

The expat community in Dakar probably numbers 15,000 to 20,000, with most being French or from other African nations. There are maybe 2,000 to 3,000 Americans here. Many, but certainly not all, tend to congretate together, such as at the health club I visited today. The instructor I had was French and most of the people I saw looked white, Middle Eastern or South Asian. My uncle's family also belongs to a swimming, tennis and social club called Club Atlantique. I understand it used to be called Club Américain.

I didn't get to Gorée Island today because the group that is going changed their plan to Wednesday. On Thursday, my uncle will be taking me to a Peace Corps site in a village about 250 km from Dakar, so I can get a real Senegalese experience. We'll spend the night there.

Before I sign off, I need to mention two things. First off, I tried some delicious tiébou dienn (pronounced "cheb-oo-jen"), a which is a rice dish with two to three kinds of fish, tamarind, cabbage and a few other tasty veggies and spices. It's the unofficial national dish of Senegal, something that many people eat for lunch pretty much every day. Yum.

Also, everyone here—my uncle included—keeps complaining about how chilly it has been. Today's high temperature was 24 degrees C, 75 degrees F, and the low last night was 17C, 63F. Puh-leeeeeeeez!

Sights, sounds and smells of Dakar

I've been in Dakar four days now and I've drawn a few conclusions:

• This sure ain't America.
• That's not necessarily a bad thing.
• The food, at least what I have eaten of it, is good.
• Everything and anything are for sale.
• The air really is polluted.
• I haven't yet had the full Senegal experience.

First off, though, a little mea culpa. The vendors are selling sheep, not goats, for the upcoming Tabaski sacrifice on Jan. 20. Also, the western fringes of the Sahara are within 250 miles of Dakar, not the 1,000 miles I noted a few days ago. A smaller desertlike region is within 150 miles.

That does not change the fact that the city and the air are enveloped in dust. Add to that the year-round presence of aging vehicles, the availability of leaded gasoline and warm, often humid, conditions, and this is not the ideal place to breathe pure air. *cough, cough*

Apparently, many of the cars on the road here are castoffs from the Benelux countries because they no longer meet European emissions standards. A large portion of these European vehicles (OK, so they're mostly Japanese-made Toyotas) end up as taxis. You can imagine the maintenance levels of those.

On Friday, I went to my uncle's office at the Peace Corps compound in downtown Dakar. I say compound because it's a group of buildings surrounded by a fence (not heavy fortification like you might find at a U.S. Embassy or U.N. installation, but a barrier nonetheless), with your typical security guards, plus a serious inspection of all vehicles that enter. Even my uncle's car, which has diplomatic plates, was subject to an under-the-hood inspection and a pass of mirrors on all four sides, looking for explosives strapped to the chassis. Standard operating procedure at overseas American outposts these days.

From the balcony of the main, three-story Peace Corps building, I got a nice view of Friday afternoon prayers at la Grande Mosquée, or Great Mosque. The important people go inside, while the regular folks—hundreds, if not thousands of them—set up their prayer rugs on the ground outside. They bow in tandem as the minaret loudspeakers blare chants of "Allahu akbar" for about five minutes. They pack up and get on with their lives.

Senegal is about 95% Muslim, but that doesn't stop Christian missionaries from setting up shop around the country, nor does it prevent people from putting up Christmas lights and other decorations. It's just another reason to party, I suppose.

And party they do. Some obviously very well-to-do family had a wedding at a house just behind my uncle's this past weekend. Notice how I said, "weekend," without specifying a day. The party, so far, has lasted three days. I think that will be it, but I guess I'll find out tonight. There was live African music past 1 a.m. on Friday night, recorded music but clearly lots of partying most of the day Saturday, then more live music all day Sunday. Fortunately, it was quiet by about 10:30 p.m, though my cousin Julia had to sleep in her parents' room because it is on the other side of the house from her room. Her brother, Leo, had no problem, because his room also is in the front. As for me, when is the last time I've ever gone to sleep before 10:30?

For lunch on Friday, we stopped at this little restaurant on a very chaotic street (as if there is any other kind) in downtown Dakar, a place that has been my uncle's favorite for shawarma for many years. Locals eat there, so it's got to be good. We also had fatayas, which are tasty, triangular wheat thingies (patties? pastries? puffs?) filled with meat and spices. It's sort of like a Jamaican beef patty, only shaped differently. Perhaps Jamaicans got the idea from the Senegalese?

Later, I watched my uncle play hardball with a Peace Corps volunteer who went AWOL for a couple of days. This volunteer left her assigned village without permission because she wanted to do her own thing for a bit before turning up at the Dakar office to quit. But people in the village had already called the office to report her missing, so when she showed up at the office, she was busted. She asked to stay the weekend, but she was put on a very inconvenient flight with a very long layover that very evening—at the expense of American taxpayers, of course.

Following that episode, I got a tour of Sandaga, the central market in Dakar, where chaos rules and pretty much anything goes. Anything and everything are for sale, from gorgeous Senegalese handicrafts of wood and leather, traditional African clothing, traditional Western T-shirts and enough counterfeit electronics, sneakers and DVDs to make a Hong Kong merchant blush.

And that was just on the streets. Inside, people can buy food, ranging from fresh fruit to freshly caught fish to scraggly, fly-infested chickens that clearly would not pass Purdue's inspection—or make it to my plate.

Of course, every price is negotiable. Just hide your cash somewhere other than a wallet. If you don't keep your pockets empty, someone will be happy to empty them for you.

On Saturday, a friend of my aunt and uncle celebrated her 60th birthday at a wonderful restaurant called Les Chevaliers des Boufflers, Boufflers being the name of the family that owns the place. While the food itself was great—a bass-like fish called tioff (pronounced "chofe"), it was the setting that made it special. The restaurant is on Ile de Gorée, a UNESCO World Heritage site because of its past as a slave auction site, about 5 km off the coast of Dakar. In all the years he's been coming to and living in Senegal, my uncle had never been to Gorée at night. I'd, of course, never been at all.

I'll be going back on Tuesday to take the actual tour and see the museums and the slave house, which features the infamous Door of No Return.

Wow, that was a lot of typing, and I haven't even caught up yet. Stay tuned for the next update.

More fun in Madrid, and on to Dakar

I arrived safely in Dakar Wednesday night, but I have had limited access to the Internet the last couple of days, so I never got to say anything about the rest of my time in Madrid.

Tuesday, I walked around the Plaza de España on an absolutely glorious day (bright sunshine, about 13 degrees Celsius, which translates to 55 in American). I understand I missed a nice little snowstorm in Chicago. I kept hoofing it for about 1/2 hour down to the Palacio Real, or Royal Palace, which I understand is the largest palace in all of Europe. Having been to the Palais de Versailles in France, I find that a bit hard to believe, though it sure ain't small. As they say, it's good to be the king.

I didn't go in, but I did get a look at the sprawling courtyard out in front, which made for some nice photos. Perhaps next time I'll get to take the tour.

I finally made it to Museo Natcional del Prado a little before 4 pm, then had to wait in line for about 30 minutes. Since the museum closes at 6, I didn't get the chance to see everything, but I did avail myself of a special exhibit tracing the history of Spanish portraiture from El Greco to Picasso, then saw the impressive collection of Roman statuary. I caught a bit of Renaissance art from Raphael, Titian and the like and started into a room of Da Vinci sketches before they kicked me out at 6 o'clock. I was unable to get to the Dutch Masters room.

Later, I experienced a bit of Madrid nightlife. Of particular interest was a place called a sidreria, essentially a bar that specializes in alcoholic cider, la sidra in Spanish. It's different from British-style cider in that it's a cloudy, light-colored liquid and that you are supposed to hold the bottle in one hand over your head and pour the cider into a glass held as far down as you can stretch your other arm. There are buckets on the floor for those of us who have not quite mastered the craft. Or you can just have the bartender pour it for you.

The other thing about Madrid nightlife is that bars and clubs have people working the sidewalks, inviting them in for a free drink, usually a watered-down shot of some kind, in hopes that they will stick around for a while. Needless to say, people do a lot of bar-hopping.

One nasty hangover later, I left Madrid behind on late Wednesday afternoon for the four-hour flight to Dakar, the westernmost city on the African continent. The Business Class departure lounge at Madrid-Barajas Airport is something to behold. Cushy chairs, free snacks and drinks (I passed, despite the full bar), free Internet, semi-private meeting areas and even showers. I'll avail myself of the latter on the way back, after I stumble off the red-eye from Dakar at 5:05 a.m. before my connection to Chicago nearly seven hours later. I suspect I'll be able to pass out on one of the couches for a bit.

The Business Class on Iberia's 757 is quite interesting. The whole plane is nothing but coach-type seats, three on each side of the aisle. But there's a moveable cabin divider to separate the first few rows, depending on how many tickets they sell, I suppose. They simply don't sell the middle seats in Business Class, which really wasn't a problem, since the rest of my row was empty. They sure did feed us well, however.

It was quite a trip, pun intended, to hear the pilot say we would fly over such exotic locales as Casablanca on the way to Dakar, but I suppose it's no more exotic to a Spaniard than the Caribbean is for an American.

And then there was the arrival in Dakar. Senghor International Airport, named after the first president of an independent Senegal, is old and small. So old that there are no jetbridges. Planes park on the tarmac and passengers clamber down the stairs and onto shuttle buses that take you to the terminal. Then you wait. And wait. And wait some more. An Air France flight from Paris got in about the same time as my flight from Madrid, yet there were only four passport inspectors on duty. The room was stuffy. I was tired.

It took me close to an hour to get through customs and spot my uncle waiting out front—itself not an easy chore, since thousands of Muslim pilgrims had descended upon the airport to catch flights to Mecca. But I'm here, in Senegal, experiencing things I never have experienced before, such as people selling goats in the median of busy streets. Little do the goats know that they are not long for this world. On or about Jan. 20, they will be slaughtered for the Muslim holiday of Tabaski. It's a religious responsibility of some sorts.

I'm still figuring out my bearings here and working out my rather rusty French, but a few things are unmistakeable. For one, people seem incredibly friendly, until they get behind the wheel of a car. Then they get agressive and mean and lose all sense of courtesy. I would, too, if I spent so much time not moving and breathing heavily polluted air. Which brings me to my second observation: A thick haze has enveloped Senegal, the result of dust blowing in from the Sahara, which is at least 200 miles away. Dakar is surrounded on three sides by the ocean. I can't imagine what the pollution must be like further inland.

I'll sign off for now by saying that my young cousins, Leo, 12, and Julia, 9, are great. What a treat it is to travel so far and stay with family.

Plenty more on Senegal to follow.

Madrid, Day 1

I made it safely to Madrid after a fairly easy flight over here. (Being pampered in business class sure does help, though I would not pay the extra thousands for the privilege of more comfy seats, better wine and a toiletries kit had I not been using miles.) Iberia's A-340 was beautiful. I waited a lot longer for my luggage than I should have, however.

I didn't sleep much on the plane, but think about this: We left Chicago at about 5 pm. The flight took a little less than 8 hours, for an arrival time of shortly before 8 am in Madrid. That's 1 am Chicago time, or about when this night owl would be going to bed anyway. So, naturally, I took a nap as soon as I got to my room.

I'm actually staying in a hostel for the whopping sum of 15 euros a night, which, given the current state of the dollar, is more money than it should have been. (The bureaux de change at the airport wanted $1.44 per euro, though I just took money out of an ATM at, presumably, a better rate.)

You read that correctly. After flying business class on an overseas flight, I am slumming it in a hostel. Only I would do something like that.

This place, the Mucho Madrid, is hidden away on the 7th floor of an office building on the Gran Via, a couple of blocks from Plaza de España. It's nice for what it is, with a very cool manager, an older guy named Luis who doesn't speak much English, but was nice enough to pop open a bottle of cava for us (that's Spain's answer to Champagne) last night. Free breakfast and wireless Internet are nice perks, too.

Most of the people staying here are American, including some kid who was sporting a Bush-Cheney 2004 hat. I'm sure that will make him lots of friends in Europe. I brought a Roots Team Canada hat given to me as a bitter reminder of the hockey results from the Salt Lake Olympics. I haven't had to break it out just yet. I think the fact that I do ask people if they speak English instead of just arrogantly assuming helps this (hopefully) non-ugly American who doesn't speak Spanish.

Madrid itself is quite spectacular. The many pedestrian-only streets around Plaza Mayor—walking distance from the hostel—and the stores along them are packed like nothing I've ever seen anywhere except Manhattan. The area is still decorated for the holidays. Among the attractions is the Museo del Jamón, or Ham Museum. No, I did not go in.

I did, however, make it over to the Reina Sofia Museum yesterday, and saw Picasso's Guernica, as well as a special exhibition of Dali's work in honor of his centennial, which was in 2004. Terrific stuff. Apparently, I just missed a temporary Roy Liechtenstein exhibit.

The museum is noteworthy for its Louvre-like bit of modernism on the exterior: two glass-enclosed columns of elevators added to the front of the building so as not to gut the interior to make it handicapped-accessible. At night, the illuminated columns are striking.

The Reina Sofia doesn't allow cameras inside, but I took plenty of pictures of the outside and of the Madrid streetscape, particularly around Plaza Mayor.

I stopped for tapas last night. I suppose I could have found a better place, but you can't beat the value: a salad, a beer and two hot dishes for less than 9 euros. Plus, it was about 9 pm and I was tired and hungry.

Today, I'm going to try to make it to the Prado, something I would have done yesterday, except that it's closed on Mondays.

Hasta luego, or whatever it is they say here. E-mail me if you think about it.

Prelude to my adventure

Welcome to my new blog, my online journal of my upcoming trip to Spain and Senegal.

For those of you who do not know, my uncle is the country director for Senegal of the U.S. Peace Corps. He and his family have been in Dakar, Senegal, for more than two years. I had been planning on visiting a year ago, but the untimely loss of my job at the end of 2003 kind of put a damper on that idea.

No more.

Thanks to a boatload of frequent-flier miles, I leave Sunday for Madrid, spend about 2 1/2 days in Spain, then fly to Dakar on Wednesday evening, for 11 days with my uncle's family. I will be there for his birthday on Jan. 14.

For those unfamiliar with Senegal, it is in the westernmost part of Africa, on the Atlantic. It's relatively safe, for that part of the world, but it is poor and largely underdeveloped. I had to have vaccinations for yellow fever, hepatitis A and meningitis, plus polio and tetanus/diphtheria booster shots. I have anti-malarial pills as well.

My disdain for needles notwithstanding, it will all be worth it.

Check this space often for updates and perhaps photos. (I don't have a digital cam, but I'll figure something out).

Happy New Year.