Jul 2007

Riding the U-Bahn in Berlin, a feeling of warm familiarity overcame me. I had arrived, not only to my destination on this three-month journey across Eurasia, but to a nation that has been my second home before and now will be again.

I marveled at being able to understand, once again, the voices and signs around me (I speak a bit of German), and at the German habit of instantly breaking into English when they see me struggling. They graciously see an English speaker as an opportunity to practice a language they recognize as the most prominent international tongue. They are not shy about it, as are the few Chinese who speak English. And they are not insulted by its use, as the proud and provincial Hungarians.

It's been several months now, and there's really no good excuse for having left our blog readers in a total lurch as to our whereabouts. I think most readers have figured out we're still alive and not in some Central Asian jail cell. Actually, we've been quite enjoying a life of long weekend hikes, strolls around the ever-so-quaint pedestrian street scape in our new home of Bonn, and sampling the best Germany has to offer in meats, breads, and vegetables. Somehow, we got here and got busy setting up our life, and the more time that passed, the more embarrassing it got to finish the final post summarizing our trip.

Many apologies. Here goes.

Off the plane in Kiev, we wandered around the well-preserved baroque city avoiding any serious effort to visit tourist sites as we waited for Ben to arrive and inject new energy into the group.

When he did, we took several trains to eastern Hungary where we sampled musky, sweet wines in the famed Tokay region. Then I spent the remainder of my days in the Spis region of central Slovakia, an area where ugly, Soviet style housing blocks clash with wonderful medieval towns and some bucolic and forested landscapes before taking an overnight train to Berlin.

In Berlin I was reminded of how much the life around me had changed since Day One of the trip in Beijing and I thought about the transition points. Chopsticks, to chopsticks and spoons in Western China, to knives and forks from Kiev westward. Women covered in long robes and head scarves in Kashgar, to female frontal nudity on an advertisement for laser skin surgery on the Berlin metro. Tea, to instant coffee in Eastern Europe, to a pot of fresh brew in Germany. No dairy or bread, to Tibetan simple, sour yak milk cheeses and soda bread, to bagels in Western China, to mare and camel milk in Kazakhstan, and on to what has to be the most sophisticated and developed bread and cheese cultures in the world in Western Europe. China's disgust of body hair, to German women in summer tank tops exposing bushes from their armpits. Mobs at ticket windows in China, to a cashier's admonishment I received at a lunch counter in Slovakia when I tried to cut in front to quickly buy a chocolate bar.

Germany and China do not actually occupy different continents, despite what geography teaches. But they are, metaphorically speaking, an ocean apart in culture and language. As we found out, the stark differences between the peoples on both ends of the Eurasia continent develop incrementally over the distance as one culture blends into the next.

Central Asia serves as the most significant connection point, a veritable blend of peoples who have long been exchanging cultural practices and ideas along ancient trade routes and more recently by way of Soviet hegemony. East and West meet in the cosmopolitan city of Almaty, a miniature Europe built on the Central Asian steppes, and in the bustling Kashgar market in Western China, one of the largest and most central centers of trade in the world.

It was almost easy to miss some of the differences as we traveled these many months, so incrementally were they sometimes introduced.

A focus on differences misses the continuity we found across our journey. "The World is Smaller than You Think," a subplot of our trip, does, in fact, bear true. The Buddhist temples in China, where the devoted come to pray and leave fruit and flower offerings, are not, fundamentally, different from the Orthodox churches we saw in Kiev where the pious lit candles and dropped change in money bins.

The forces of globalization and modernization have brought many of the same products across the globe, from Magnum ice cream bars to a near universal love of television. In terms of human nature, we found kind-hearted people everywhere who graciously offered us help with nothing expected in return. We also came across liars and cheats who sought to take advantage of the ignorance of outsiders. Everywhere, in varying degrees, we found both unwelcoming stares and genuine curiosity.

We would like to invite you to our new blog, "The Pragmatic Epicurean." Once again, you can subscribe using your email (see the link on the right hand side of the page) or via an rss feed (very top on the right). The blog will chronicle our adventures in food and travel, starting, of course, with our year in Germany. Our first post "Bonn Voyage" is already there (and we promise to be punctual).

Additional photos of the Beijing to Berlin trip are up on our flickr account.

We cheated. No other way to say it.

Traveling overland across Eurasia in the height of summer travel season is not possible without weeks to spare.

For several days we worked to book tain tickets to Russia, but all were sold out for the foreseable future. The bus? Possible if we were to travel days on end with no stops.

Given the choice of possibly not meeting our fourth traveler, Ben, or cheating, we chose the latter.

Early tomorrow morning we have a flight to Kiev, Ukraine. We will miss spending time in Kazakhstan's small towns, but skipping a second border crossing into Russia is a bit of a relief (though at the least would make a good story).

We've learned that travel is never a sure thing in this part of the world, and an ability to wait or pick up and go in an instant is essential.

Planning ahead, however, is not always possible, particularly if you are not in the country and aren't familiar with its systems.
It's funny because after two months in China we had learned its transportation system well. How to book trains, when to book trains, how long a trip would take, the different seating classes. Same with the buses. Need to get somewhere in China? No problem.

But cross an international border and all of a sudden we faced once again the unfamiliar, which takes time and effort to figure out.

Traveling on your own without a tour group means that a good part of your time is spent figuring out logistics: exchanging money, how to use the Internet, where to sleep and eat, fundamental phrases for communication, and more.

Almaty is a slice of Europe in the Central Asian steppes.

Despite its trials, we rather enjoy diving into adaptation mode and learning to swim again, since we come to know some of the basic details of life and how it compares to other places.

We also run into more everyday characters, like the heavy-set woman at the train station this morning who runs the set of luggage lockers. Subtlety was not her forte. She screamed at us from across the room as we were loading a couple lockers with our bags, well aware we don't speak Russian. She was the sort we've seen elsewhere in Almaty. Our hotel floor attendant, for example, ran her space like a gulag. She alone had the key to the single shower on the floor and our level of cleanliness was determined by her decision to show up at night.

We call these sorts, "Graduates of the Soviet School of Service."

Creature Comforts
When you're traveling for months on end, you start to revel in creature comforts. Hotel rooms, the one space in the world at that moment where you can shut yourself away, become "home" and little things like shower soap and fresh towels are items of excitement.

An outdoor cafe and a glass of beer on a warm afternoon is the height of pleasure.

A woman sells fermented horse and camel milk at the Almaty farmer's market.

A woman sells honey at the Almaty farmer's market.

In Almaty, we discovered the baths.

Perhaps because of our restricted and unpredictable shower allowances, we were drawn to the city's bathhouse where for two hours we could lounge around naked (men and women seperated) in saunas and plunge pools or get beaten with myrtle leaves by a masseuse.

We came out of there yesterday with all the tension removed from our logistical days of hell. Knocking back a bottle of vodka finished the trick. As a matter of fact, we're headed there again before our 3 a.m. flight.

The Miracle Product

Speaking of vodka, we've come to see it as the Dr. Bronner's of Russia after the "miracle" natural soap that's touted for its many uses. Vodka here is one of the cheapest items on store shelves, cheaper even than bottled water.

So we discovered that besides a drink when needed, it can double as a cleaning agent, a disinfectant for fruits and vegetables, a gift, a mouthwash, a hand sanitizer, a degreaser, and more possibilities we are discovering every day.

As a matter of fact, we've taken to carrying around a bottle in our day pack.

Our first two days in Kazakhstan were not spent drinking in the snow-capped peaks of the Altay Mountains, or imbibing liesurely in one of Almaty's shady sidewalk bars.

No, we were in for a real shocker entering this ex-Soviet republic, though come to think of it, we should have expected trouble.

Lines filled our days. Lines requiring us to get through the border, lines requiring us to register our passports at some ministry office, and to purchase train tickets. Even a 45-minute line to buy three doner kebabs at a "fast food" stand.

These were not some pansy single-file lines, either, where your placement is so assured that you could kick back and read a book. No, these lines were filled with expert line manipulators in places where nameless bureaucrats could care less what happens on the other side of the counter so long as the proper form is before them, or perferably money.

Perhaps the most startling example was the Khorgos border crossing from China. It took about a week to place ourselves in the right position, only to find that one of Central Asia's busiest border points closed on Sunday. No matter, we woke early Monday morning and walked to the border post 90 minutes ahead of opening time. We thought we were golden.

Military staff roamed about yawing, and staff arrived still in their street clothes as the clocked ticked past opening hour into 45 minutes later.

We started to sweat, thinking that at this pace, we might not get through in time for their two-hour lunch break. The growing crowd was getting restless, and our standing spots were quickly being usurped by late interlopers who were climbing over metal railings to plop themselves in front.

It was, quite literally, a stampede when the Chinese guards finally swung open the gate. Men and women of all ages and sizes threw the full weight of their bodies and bags forward and began running, in high heels and dress shoes, towards the next building. Meanwhile, the cargo trucks, which had lined up days in advance to procure their spots, began driving through a seperate gate and turning into the scrambling crowd.

I'm ashamed to admit that I ran too. But we were at the front of the first set of passport checks and sailed through the Kazakh side, too.

Our trials were not over, however. Apparently official stamps on a visa at the border are not enough to give a traveler legitimate status in Kazakhstan. We had to register yesterday at the "Office of Visas and Registration" in Alamaty, which involved more shapeless line battles. Think you're at the front and there's always someone who finds a way to squirrel around you, using the window ledging for leverage or ducking under you to appear in front. There's no shame involved.

A tactic we picked up in China has been particularly effective. We call it the "blockade," and it involves us forming a human barrier at ticket windows to shut out any cheats.

Of course, that definately doesn't mean that once you reach the window troubles are over. We found ourselves face to face yesterday with a pompous official who wouldn't take "tourism" as the simple answer to why we were in Kazakhstan.

"Why did you come here?" he demanded.

I thought but didn't say, "Because we want see home country of Borat, Great and Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan."

He then told us that Kazakhs know more about American history than Americans do, and directed us to another line to pay an $8 registration fee. It took another hour to finally reach him again, and he then asked for further copies of the registration forms and passports.

"Is there anything else you will be needing?" Jacob said diplomatically.

We had to go back again early evening to wait in line again for our freshly officialized passports, which the office was holding despite the fact that a traveler can't even book a hotel room without it.

We wonder what kind of hell we're into entering the Russian "Motherland" in a week.

Retirees

It's a hard fall when your standard of living drops. China was so good to us, in terms of our purchasing power. But lately we've felt like a bunch of retirees on shortened pensions.

Hotel prices exceed those of Western Europe while the quality has dropped well below Super 8. Our first night in Almaty -- Kazakhstan's former capitol before its meglomaniac president moved it to a nowhere outpost on the northwestern steppes -- was downright depressing.

At $65 for 12 hours rest, we got a room with two small twin beds, a lock that didn't work, no sink, and dried blood on the floor. Now we're in a $40 rat hole that charges an extra $1 for a lone shower on a crowded hallway.

I have no idea what's going on with the hotel prices here, except that there seems to be a mysterious shortage and nothing has been upgraded since the start of the Cold War.

City of Parks

All this is to say, we don't really hate Kazakhstan. In fact, Almaty is one of the most pleasant cities we have visited (once the hotel situation is sorted out).

It's so thick with foilage and parks that it's easy to miss the circle of snowy mountains surrounding the town of 3 million.

Out of registration offices, we have enjoyed the change from China to what is, in culture, a very Russified place.

The people seem a peaceful mix of Central Asian and very Western-looking types. Tall, muscular Russian men, with blond hair and blue eyes, stroll the streets with dark, heavy-set babushkas of Central Asian origin.

And for once, we feel a sense of space and openness, which comes from a country declining in numbers and not exploding at the seams, like China.

We have not quite arrived in Europe, but we are getting there.