A Crossroads in the Desert, Bosra, Syria

In Bosra at a crossroads in the desert just an hour and half south of Damascus, the Roman world intersects the Arabic in an ancient theater turned fortress. You can imagine watching a classical play while a battle rages beyond the massive walls that were built around the free-standing amphitheater. Every summer international concerts are held in less hostile conditions where the only thing you will have to contend with is the intense summer heat. It was also here that the Muslim prophet met his first Christian and developed a positive feeling for the religion's followers.

#desert #music #festival #theater #concerts #romanruins #muslim #musicfestival #christian #livemusic #islam #summermusic festival #arabfortress #ancient #civilizations #unescoworld heritage site. #mohammed #culturalcrossroads #amphitheater #crossroads #toptenculturalcrossroads #topculturalcrossroads

Originally published on Trazzler

Hidden Hookahs in Isfahan, Iran

Call it hookah, sheesha, round these parts qaylan, but this is the way to meet and greet in Isfahan (Esfahan). Just above the entrance to the bazaar, climb up the incredibly steep stairs to the Qeysaieh Tea Shop. From this open air teahouse enjoy some orange flavored tobacco and get a magnificent view of the city that the 16th-century French poet Renier quipped about being "half the world." The world's second largest square unfolds below, Shah Abbas the Great's Islamic answer to St. Peter's square in Rome. Share a peace pipe with inquisitive Iranians as the sun sets and the beautiful buildings change colors, then watch below as the locals practice what might be called the national pastime, picnicking.

#architecture #view #picnic #sunset #getaway #muslimarchitecture #teahouse #islam #bazaar #hookah #relaxing #square #smoking #tobacco #poet #giant #tea #teahouse #sheesha #nargile #iran #qaylan #renier #frenchpoet #halftheworld

Originally published on Trazzler

Northern Tehran, Iran

Up here the mythically infamous Tehrani smog thins out just enough to get an idea of how massive this city really is. Clear cool water rushes out of the mountain backdrop, down culverts lined with enormous green trees that would seem unimaginable just a few miles south. In fact this is a place where myths are not only dispelled, but destroyed. Forget that preconceived dour black image and get ready for some of the most beautiful people watching on earth. Nosejob bandages and their successive results peer out from colored headscarves that miraculously hang on to the very back of just-out-of-the-salon hairstyles while the fashions on display will definitely make you wish you'd packed differently.

#learning #fashion #local #trendy #urban #beautifulpeople #megalopolis #localculture #pollution #suburbs #stereotypes #cosmopolitan

Originally published on Trazzler

Kashan Bazaar, Iran

The only thing bizarre about Kashan's bazaar is that it isn't overflowing with tourists. The adobe beauty of this covered market screams out for travelers, but in reality ends up calling the locals to do their daily business. Cooling mudbrick domes filter in shaped beams of light, illuminating everything from carpet wool to dates. Laid-back Caravanserais lie hidden in the lanes and it's hard to pay for your own tea among the extremely friendly locals in the many teahouses that dot this relaxed place. After picking up your camel meat, ask one of the hospitable merchants if you can climb up to the roof and add another reason to your list of why strip malls should be banned.

#shopping #market #getaway #teahouse #local #wool #bazaar #offthebeatenpath #adobe #remote #silkroad #dates #tea #coveredmarket #localculture #carpets #carpet #caravanserai #coveredmarkets #camelmeat #generous

Originally Published on Trazzler

Passion

Writing in the local paper. Local issues with a global take. I never translate literally and the editor trims at will to make it fit. Here's my version, then theirs.

No matter how long I live in Spain, there are words that I think I will never completely understand. When I say this, I don’t mean that I will never be able to remember their translation but more the way that they are used and understood. 

For example, when I hear ahora, I understand now, not in three or four minutes but at that moment. Then there’s one of the more curious Spanish words, morbo. I can read and reread its definition and even understand what people mean when they use it but can never quite use it naturally myself without sounding (or feeling) put on. But it’s precisely now, as the streets fill with incense and the sound of snare drums ricochet off the Arab walls that another confusing word arises, passion. 

Etymologically, both the Spanish and English words have their roots in the same latin word and other than a slight phonological difference they both sound quite similar. Then I think of the blood streaming from the crown of thorns, the pallor of the corpse as it’s nailed to the cross or the weeping maiden mourning her terrible loss and the absolute last thing that comes to mind is the current English use of the word. 

I’m reminded of a British colleague of mine who married a Lao girl from one of the animist tribes that live on the border with Myanmar. They were married in Vientiane but decided to take their honeymoon in France. As they were touring the country, they visited a cathedral and after a few minutes the newlywed bride ran out of the church with tears in her eyes. The confused groom chased after her and when he finally caught up with her, he asked what was wrong. Without warning, she became furious with him, demanding to know why he had taken her to a place that had so many images of people doing terrible things to a man. 

Passion, in the honeymoon sense of the word was the last thing on her mind and the only lasting impression that she took away with her was of tremendous sadness.

Can You Spare a Minute of your Time?

Writing in the local paper. Local issues with a global take. I never translate literally and the editor trims at will to make it fit. Here's my version, then theirs.

I spent some time in Libya before the fall of the Ghadaffi regime. Among the many almost surreal aspects of the Green Republic, one of the things that most called my attention was the complete lack of advertising in public spaces. Apart from North Korea, I think it was one of the only places on earth where you could walk the streets and not be constantly reminded of the fun that Coca Cola can bring to your life. Apart from the dictator’s face ubiquitously staring out from billboards, no one was allowed to try and sell you things from silently shouting billboards as you walked down the street. The refreshing absence of this near constant yet silent commercial noise made me realize the unconscious effort that one makes every day to filter out the messages of 20% off this and 40% that as you move from point A to point B in just about any city in the world. Caceres is no different. But what I have noticed is that, like some terrible late-night science fiction horror movie, the once immobile signs have come to life. Walking up the pedestrian street from the Gran Teatro to the Plaza Mayor has become an exercise in dodging moving ads. Whether you are absorbed in conversation with a friend, fiddling with your phone or making sure your toddler doesn’t get trampled by the oncoming crowds, it doesn’t matter. Suddenly a smiling face blocks your way and is politely demanding just a few minutes of your time to sell you on the merits of their NGO, above of course the four others that await to pounce on you before reaching your destination. Driving rain or searing shine, they're ready for you. I have observed first-hand the great work that the Red Cross does and have also seen Chechen women being resettled in Azerbaijan with the help of the UNHCR but at the risk of endearing themselves to people as much as the telephone sales person who calls at seven in the morning on a Sunday, wouldn’t it be wiser to spend the time and energy lobbying for a change in the distribution of the 0.7% income-tax-pie from the government, than harass people trying to get where they are going in the streets?

Spanish Sunday Afternoons #7

Neighborhood vetting committee.
@ Caceres, Spain

Do We Want to be the Same?

Writing in the local paper. Local issues with a global take. I never translate literally and the editor trims at will to make it fit. Here's my version, then theirs.

It seems like the mighty New York Times can never quite get it right when writing about this country. Many paella-moons ago I remember a diplomatic meltdown that almost took place when a Times travel writer published an article that happened to make a passing comment about how more than a few Spanish parents dressed their children in clothes that wouldn’t look out of place in colourized World War II photographs. The then nascent social media was set ablaze with indignant Spaniards whose pride had been mortally wounded by a fleeting line in an article that then went on to praise the modernizing wave that was then sweeping across the peninsula. According to the protesters, Calatravas and Guggenheims were the New Spain and frilly dresses and short trousers no longer fit in on the modern Zara streets. Now comes another NYT article that, according to some, once again dares throw stones at glass houses. The piece, along with many others in papers around the world, echoes some of the findings of the parliamentary commission set up by Mr. Modernity’s government that is looking into the possibility of returning Spain to its pre-Franco time zone and attempt to increase productivity by bringing Spanish work habits, and more precisely hours, more in line with the rest of Europe. Op-Eds spilled ink about the revival of the black legend and one again the tweetsphere was set abuzz with furious attempts to prove the falsity of siestaing Spaniards in 140 characters or less. Praise from both sides of the political spectrum rained down on the modern Ibero-European workers who, like their Nordic counterparts, are chained to their desks with soggy sandwiches and Starbucks coffee for sustenance. 7 minute lunch breaks and competition among our electric companies are now the norm. Conclusive proof that Europe indeed continues beyond the Pyrenees for some, harbingers of the coming apocalypse for others. Once upon a time in this country, yet not so long ago, you were allowed to make an adult choice between syrupy American sweetness or a cold beer from vending machines on sweaty August cercanias platforms. People once trusted their neighbour’s craft rather than being handed down the definition of safe cheeses and wines by some tax collecting EU bureaucrat. Butane bottles cost less than a trip to Ibiza and we could boast of a truly public healthcare system second to none, not to mention of course, the audacity of a month’s vacation. Accountants weren’t needed to tally everyone’s consumption after those old-fashioned long lunches and people tended to bond with other people rather than dogs. Hurray for sameness, ‘regular’ schedules and someone telling me when to go to bed. Well, at least here in Caceres we still have the kids in uncomfortable shoes and doilies, and of course, the odd siesta in July.

Hash Assassins in Alamut, Iran

The Crusaders might have had a more difficult time getting here and the bus is surely faster than Freya Starke's donkey, but the windy trip into the ancient realm of the mythical Hashshashin is still a modern day adventure. Deep in the Alborz mountains an 11th-century sect hounded the invading Crusaders with fierce warriors stoned out of their minds on hash who descended out of impregnable mountaintop fortresses. Their ferocity gave birth to the word ""assassin"and this valley was their home. Today's residents however are far more welcoming (and sober!) though the inaccessibility of the now ruined fortresses still holds true for all but the most intrepid hiker but the stunning views make the effort worthwhile.

#adventure #hiking #history #mountains #camping #views #getaway #castles #fortress #adventuretravel #remote #11thcentury #warriors #crusade #crusades #fortresses #freyastarke #assassin

Originally published in Trazzler

Saint Who?

Writing in the local paper. Local issues with a global take. I never translate literally and the editor trims at will to make it fit. Here's my version, then theirs.

I’ve come to know a fair number of saints, both dead and alive, since I moved out here to one of the last stops before you start hearing Portuguese and yet I’m always surprised when there is yet one more to discover and then puzzle at its English translation (try both major and minor St. Jameses on for size).

In fact, these holy men and women have become such a part of my day to day life that I now feel totally comfortable being on a first name basis with them. Just the other day I strolled through Santa Maria on my way to meet someone in San Juan, who lives down in San Blas, in order to talk about what we were going to do on our day off, which was of course thanks to Santo Tomas de Aquino. I never forget my youngest daughter’s birthday because it happened on San Jorge and when I cross San Francisco, he no longer takes offence that I had once thought of him only as an earthquake prone city on the west coast of the United States.

The worship of all of these do-gooders or in some cases done-bad-toers seems to make more sense to me than fawning on the venerable virgins that grace every village, mountain, stream and town from here to the Pyrenees. Monotheism and the first commandment aside, the image of a dapper sword-swinging saint chopping the heads off of your wrong-religion enemies surely lends itself to a fiesta more readily than that of a doe-eyed 13-year-old girl dressed in billowy whites, but that could be a question of taste.

It’s not the first time, however, that I’ve managed to adapt to local mores. While living in South East Asia I became quite familiar with the Bodhisattvas that kept the drinking jars safe all the while keeping snakes at bay. I’ve even managed to chalk up a few celestial points on visits to several different Marabouts all the way from Rabat to Hadhramaut, of course when the fundamentalists were looking the other way.

Who am I to refuse a little extra protection? After all, there are more poisonous snakes in Laos than there are political parties and the nearest hospital was across the Mekong in Thailand. Whether it was the patron saint of this fine city or that particularly hard working midwife working in the San Pedro de Alacantara hospital who helped safely deliver my daughter is for the Minister of the Interior, Fernandez Diaz to uncover. He isn’t shy to let on that his sources inform him exactly which supernatural power is interceding in the lowly day to day affairs on this peninsula.

I might not know whether or not the aforementioned patron is a double agent working for Catalan separatism or if Santiago has anything to do with Real Madrid winning the Champions League but I do know now that it isn’t only the capital of Chile and can now put names to a lot of anguished faces on the walls of the Prado. The strangest thing of all, given that I have all these saints around me, is that I will probably have to read the English press in order to be reminded whose day it is today.

OK, the farmers are happy...

Rather than doing a 'please stop raining' dance, I've decided to look at old pictures and try to remember what summer once looked like.

Where better to start than the Greek Isles?

About a day's sail out of Rhodes or maybe more, days melted into each other like ouzo, ice and water. Turkey was always somewhere on the horizon and the sky as clear and blue as the empty sea below it. Morning coffee came after tumbling into the already warm water. Sunburnt bald islands like scrubby blots above the waves until the colors of the towns came into view and called us into port.

Name that village?