The Weekend Rambler

Travel the Mind to Pass the Time

April 16, 2020

If you’re a wanderlusty one-man traveling flea circus-like I am, then I know how you feel right now.

You’ve dropped your goddamn marbles on an ice-cold tiled floor and you’re wearing shorts and have to frozenly erode your knee ligaments to kowtow across each corner of the tiled floor to pick up each marble just so you can collect them, put them back in your brain jar, and drop them again cause you’re a butterfinger sad sack who never could hold on to shit even if stuck to your fingers.

Yes, the past month has been a rough ride for everyone. My heart truly goes out to everyone who is fighting or has a friend or loved one who is struggling right now. Perhaps the best solution would be to indulge in some fishbait hallucinogen that would knock you out until all this blows over. But since nothing exists and since we’re upstanding citizens that like our hallucinogens shaken, not debilitating, we shall have to search for other means of entertainment.

So to distract you while doing the same for myself, I figured I would indulge in a bit of tippy tapping on my keyboard to teach you how my non-stop traveler soul has kept itself from imploding under social-distancing measures.

Step 1: Read a Fuckin’ Book

It gives me some sort of egotistical pleasure to believe I came out the womb quipping literary bullets better than Billy Shakespeare. Even after 24 years of unending breath in my lungs I still can’t write for the most basic Punk Zines or nonsense filled travel blogs. Luckily millions of beautiful minds have honed their craft to create spellbinding literature that will engage and delight your quarantine time even after sustaining the withdrawal onsets of Tiger King and La Casa de Papel.

Yes, the blanched tree sheets can keep you entertained for the long-haul, my caged birdies. No other measure of self-reflection and initiative can promote the soul and strengthen it quite like hallucinating while your eyes interpret ink scribbles on a piece of dead tree pulp.

What am I reading to keep from going crazy? Luckily we can kill two birds with one stone by reading travel novels. It’s a similar teasing sensation as reading an erotic novel except you learn more and you don’t moisten your sweetbreads reading it. Let’s explore some notable titles of mind exploration to pique your interest, otherwise, skip to Number 2:

Paul Theroux, Riding the Iron Rooster

If you’ve read Paul before there’s a chance that you hated him. His pervasive pessimism and ability to see the dreariest of a situation make some turn away and poopoo each page. Yes, he can focus on the muck of society and basks in its armpit stains to craft prose with its grotesque fungus infected toenail. But his humor and wit have always impressed me, and I’m somehow been able to find so much pleasure in his discontent.

A professor once told me that great writers should make their readers think “…are they okay? Should…should I call someone?” If the answer is yes then you’re good to go, give me my medal Mr. Nobel. What would an Ernest Hemingway book be without the niggling thought in the back of your head of “will his liver filter sufficiently enough to guide the final pen stroke of this novel?” What would an Oscar Wilde novel be without worrying about Oscar’s painfully gay existence in horrendously Catholic Ireland? Maybe I’m reading into the situation but I like to know the face behind the scribbles. Paul works the same way for me. If I read his books and worry about his butt getting sore and his intestines properly digesting bat stew then I’m a happy reader.

For me, Paul traveling around China post-economic reform and opening up in 1989 was intoxicating. I’ve experienced a whole lotta Hong Kong and a lil bit of Beijing but it was enough to make me fetishize traveling around China to see all of its nooks and crannies. And Paul saw it all. Each dirty corner, every face having to live with the consequences of the cultural revolution, and the in-depth definitions of each and every different meaning behind a Chinese laugh. This is the third book I’ve read from Paul and by far my favorite. A year’s worth of stories in one of the most mysterious lands kept me riveted from page 1 to 480whatever.

Yukio Mishima, Death in Midsummer

I’m an avid horror/gore movie buff but this book was the first time tree pulp sheets have turned my face green. Yukio’s a crazy guy. Look him up. You’ll find a picture of a Japanese man shredded more than a pulled pork school lunch posing with a samurai sword in a thong or making an ice-cold face while sporting a badass leather jacket. Then take out your pocket fan and cool off your sweltering brow while licking your moistened lips once twice and maybe even three times. I’ll wait.

I’ll be real with you ramblers, I’m 99.99% sure I’m not gay…but maybe that’s because I frequented the wrong Japanese bathhouses back in the 1950s. He’d never take me anyway though because he was a fucking crazy person, and it shows in his writing. Death in Midsummer is a collection of beautifully composed short stories, each one beautifully composed like a cherry blossom falling daintily into a passing mountain stream. Patriotism is a gut bending short about a young army general that commits seppuku with his obedient wife to defend his honor. The description of the suicide is beautiful in its sublimity, and horrifying in its grotesquely beautiful details. There’s even a pretty little black and white short film starring Yukio himself, so go and check it out when you need a break.

Anyway, Yukio was a nationalist that was devoted to reinstating the Japanese Emporer as an all-powerful leader of Japan. He made a hyper-nationalist political group and captured a military base in a sort of coup d’etat with his little army boy toy buddies. When they took the commanding officer as a hostage, they appealed to the soldiers to take up arms and fight to restore the glory of Japan by bringing absolute power back to the Japanese Emperor (long may he reign), but when the soldiers more or less laughed him off and continued to chain-smoke their cigarettes, Yukio committed a botched and bloodied seppuku by the hand of his (possibly) former lover who could not properly decapitate him. Hardcore.

But Yukio was a beautiful soul regardless, and he’s one of those Japanese authors that creates so much perfection in different mediums that it makes the rest of us look like subway rats gnawing on a rotten diaper. Writer, actor, playwright, model, thong-wearing swordsman, more ripped than Nancy Pelosi’s copy of the State of the Union Address…stop showing off Yukio we know you’re great. The collection of shorts is beautifully theatrical and shows that Yukio is one of the major voices of 20th century Japanese literature.

Step 2: Embrace the Vice

A Danish winter can not be survived without indulging in at least 1 vice. I have alcohol, caffeine, chocolate, erotic French poetry from the 1880’s, and the occasional romantic cigarette, so the Danish winter is quite survivable for my oligarch soul. A Danish winter is not too distant from quarantining conditions. Danes are already masters at social distancing, and the winter weather usually keeps me inside on my computer anyways so this period has been an easy one.

Take a lesson from the Danes. Fuck the hygge, open up the whiskey, coffee, or pack of ciggies and indulge until we can all go out and play.

Step 3: Learn Something New

I was taking Korean classes until this whole shebang changed everything. Now, my Korean teacher is sweet enough to post daily lessons on Facebook for us. But I’m a terrible student, so I never check it. Instead, I watch Kingdom on Netflix. The show takes place in medieval Korea, where a power-thirsty nobleman tries to resurrect the King and ends up creating a zombie apocalypse in the process.

I also made kimchi a few weeks back and man is it pungent. My roommates thought something died when I opened it up, but I think that just means the kimchi was ready to eat and give your intestines a nice big hug. Just when I thought my mind wouldn’t study Korean in this dark and desolate time, Coursera came up and offered me, FREE KOREAN CLASSES. Now I have no excuses and a quiz on Sunday which I haven’t studied for and definitely don’t have the time to study for but hey, at least I got my kimchi.

I like things that come in threes so this is all I’ll write. And really, we don’t need much more than books, booze, and a squishy brain massage to survive this quarantine. There are enough books to fill our minds with knowledge and merriment and enough booze to pickle your liver purple with pleasure. I mean really, there’s no point in us sitting around complaining for the next 5 months about how we can’t go to bars or concerts or travel, so we may as well see the bright side and try to find a way towards personal growth. This too shall pass, and let’s immerge better people than we went into the bunker being.

Stay safe, my little ramblers, and take care to protect each other in these times. Call me anytime if you wanna hangout or just talk about stuff. Hope you have a positive day.

Onwards —
Journey into the Rose City

February 8, 2020

We had avoided zig-zig in Aqaba and begun piloting our little spam can up an hour and a half towards the fabled Rose City hidden in the dusty valleys of Jordan.

Several millennia have passed since this city was first inhabited, yet the feeling of awe that struck the lungs of Roman conquerors is the same that strikes my suntan lotion basted cheeks. The merchants that once ruled Petra and lived in its rock carved mansions have turned into Bedouins with kohl eyeliner and a quiver of clever quips, ready to take you for a ride on their sleepy donkey. One may even learn the tale of a German tourist that enjoyed her sleepy donkey ride so much, she married the Bedouin man that steered it and traded her life of strudel for dusty desert tea.

For us, the fridge magnet and traveler’s trots would be plenty.

As stated in the first post on Jordan, DO get a Jordan Pass to save big on goodies, and save some money on your ticket into Petra. Avoid the donkeys and make the walk into the valley, as it really isn’t that long of a walk. Indiana Jones didn’t pay a Bedouin to take him in by donkey, did he? The forty-minute walk through the steep martian walls creates a sense of calm that is oh so inexplicably turned to wonder once the view of the grandiose Treasury peaks through the ochre crag.

The Bedouins that still inhabit these buildings will try and charm you with their eye-liner coated shiners but rest assured you can enjoy this site on your own two feet. No need for a sleepy burro, weary travelers. You can access most beautiful areas all within a nice hour+ and a bit stroll through the valley and rocks.

For the stronger willed, a journey up the rocks towards the old graveyards is a worthy journey to undertake. Along the way, we saw vast burials sites carved into the rock face of the former rich merchants, now dotted with shops of wrinkled Bedouin women selling dusty trinkets on their thick woven blankets.

The path is steep and seemingly neverending, but the relative lack of tourists and views will make the journey worth it. My sweating extremities and lubricated gizzards could have and should have taken the donkey, but where’s the fun in that.

At the top, you can stop for a tea with a view or continue on for the view of the treasury. If you’ve got another thirty minutes of walking, then why not go for the treasury? The best view is protected by a tea shop where you have to pay to enter, but we were able to settle with the second-best view.

Jordan, while off the budget backpacker’s path, is well worth the pennies paid to see some of the most beautiful and awe-inspiring sites our little planet has to offer. The food, flavorful and filling and served by some of the most genuinely kind and welcoming locals make Jordan well worth a visit from anyone that enjoys a view with a new friend.

Jordan, you are a treasure in its purest form.
Zig-Zig in the Desert

January 15, 2020

What is Zig-Zig, you ask? We’ll get there shortly, my scruffy faced little fauns.

Our toasty little desert hams were roasting in the North Jordanian town of Madaba last time we met. Now the time had come to get our hams into the spam can and get down south into the breadbasket of Jordanian attractions. Our destination: Wadi Rum.

We labored some three hours down the desert highway, not stopping much for lack of roadside attractions. No Jesus cafes or Petra roadside restaurants sit on the highway, only people trying to go about their day without the looming pressure that they live in the cradle of humanity. The only stop we would indulge in would be in our short coffee breaks at gas stations. Dark and dusty, gas stations offer little to the wandering traveler. But the coffee they make; cooked the traditional way in hot sand and spiced with a concoction aromatic enough to slap awake a light-headed eunuch, Jordan’s gas stations are the supreme leader of cheap gritty energy juice.

Have you seen Star Wars or any other movie based in space recently? Wadi Rum may look a bit familiar. Annikin Skywalker in his pod racer has been replaced by a better actor in his spam can racing down the martian highway. Wadi Rum is a fickle place for the tourist. It’s one of the few places in Jordan where tourists are treated as a commodity and seen merely as a perpetually opened leather wallet. We were planning to stay in a Bedouin tent, but after reading a review that the owner drove his guests out to the middle of nowhere and coaxed them into buying a $75 4×4 tour, we decided to ditch the desert completely and spend the night in nearby Aqaba. We did, however, get to see the martian landscape and share a hookah with a Yemeni man who lives here in search of a better life.

When our new friend passed us the pipe, the man sitting next to him said something along the lines of “That’s haraam!” Our friend put up his other hand to hush his partner, and the unwavering genuine hospitality of (some of) these locals continued to impress us.

Out of the desert we traveled, filled with apple licorice smoke and another gritty cardamom coffee. Only forty minutes later we found ourselves in the metropolis of Aqaba, a glittery city on the shore of the Red Sea. Russians come here to vacation, as the water stays pleasantly warm even in December. The spam can was parked and we put down our bags in a cheap hostel, allowing us to venture out into the city and explore for a meal.

The rule I live by when finding a place to eat has stayed unchanged since my time in Hong Kong. Always find the restaurant packed with locals. The best option, Hashem Son’s: A gritty little stop with outdoor seating, wedged between fancy restaurants filled with reddened Russian tourists. At Hashem Son’s, locals sit and eat gigantic bowls of hummus or chat over thick black tea. As the only westerners at the restaurant, we made the waiters quite excited. For about $12, we feasted on a gigantic bowl of hummus, freshly grilled chicken, olives, tabouli, and a concoction of other pickles and sides. For our trip, this would be the cheapest and most filling meal that we were able to find.

We grabbed a digestive coffee in the dark and sat next to the Red Sea to grab a view of Israel right across the boiling waters still quaking from Moses’ last visit. Soon, our faces were spotted and a young man sat next to us. He smelled of whiskey and every time I would say something he would frown and say “No English!” What was I to do?

He kept trying to get Ivana to sit next to him, but she was happy where she was. So he moved to sit next to her. Later, he showed us the tattoo of an old fling, a past fiance who left him, the dastardly Sara. Her name was written in cursive on his shin, and underneath was an eye with a single black tear dripping from its porous ducts. Our friend pointed to a couple holding hands and noted, “They are having zig-zig.”

“Zig-zig?”

He nodded. Turning around, he found another couple walking along the seaside promenade. “They also have zig-zig.”

“What the heck are you talkin’ about…”

“Zig-zig! I don’t know what is. I never had. You have zig-zig?” He rubbed his two index fingers together as if to start a fire on dry palm leaves. “You teach me zig-zig?” Sara was a bad teacher.

The finger flint started a fire in my brain, but my understanding of zig-zig was still thawing.

“We have zig-zig?” Gesturing at the three of us by swirling his finger into a sultry little whirlpool of imaginary zig-zig fluids.

The fire started. “Ah! Zig-zig!” We stood up, shook his hand, and left him to look at Israel.

No zig-zig for us, friend.
Sailing to Mars: The Jordan Roadtrip

January 7, 2020

There comes a time in every hobo backpacker’s life when the destination comes before the wallet. The beaches of Seychelles, visiting the Vatican, and smuggling yourself into Pyeongyang are all off of the cheap asshole backpacking radar: yet they are tantalizing to the wanderlusting soul just as much as a dumpster full of sun-heated cinnamon buns is to a famished raccoon. My inner raccoon has more control over me than I care to admit, occasionally getting me in financial and gastrointestinal distress. I will indulge in the dumpster buns, and I will spend the pretty penny on seeing the Rose City in the desert.

Let’s be frank, Jordan is not a cheap country. It costs $50 to get a visa, and any experiences on top of that will cost you. Trips to Petra can hit $50-60 just for a day pass, and a dip in the Dead Sea can set one back $20 (Rambler tip: get a Jordan Pass to save a bazillion dollars). The country relies on the Instagram girls, Indiana Jones nerds, and falafel craving Westerners to fuel its stable lifestyle in an otherwise ungentrified neighborhood. My Western ass was on the way to spend a pretty dinar, but as always, I’ll try and make the trip as easy on the wallet as possible.

Ivana and I landed late at around 18:00, and we immediately went over to rent a car. Renting a car allows for an incredible amount of freedom, and on top of that, they’re not incredibly expensive to rent. For 4 days, we rented a perfect little car from Sixt for $70. The bus from Amman to Wadi Rum alone costs $15 one way, so after a few calculations, we shrugged and doubled down for a rental. In retrospect, renting a car was absolutely the way to go.

We immediately avoided congested Amman at all costs and headed for Madaba, a small town near the main desert highway. The town is quiet and quaint, just enough for a stroll and a cheap shishah in the main square. If you’re coming from the airport and need to get South, spend the night in Madaba. It’s much closer to the airport, right off the highway, and you’ll see some genuine Jordanian life.

In the morning, we went in search of fruit for breakfast. We wandered into the first fruit stall we found, a dusty little shop with dirty potatoes and bright green apples cozy in a thick sandy suit coat. Two men sat. One, presumably the owner, and his companion, huddled around a table eating a bean stew plate with a side of flat bubbly bread. The moment we walked in, they saw out foreign faces and, not speaking much English, said “Welcome,” gesturing for us to sit with an outstretched hand full of flatbread. We initially said no (not wanting to intrude), but after the second time, I kneeled and took a solid handful of bean stew. We could not talk to each other, but the two men looked content in the knowledge that their foreign visitor would not go hungry this morning.

Months before, on a gray, rainy Danish day, I found myself looking for a coffee to escape the cold. The nearest coffee shop was a little shack meant more for coffee on the go than a lingering espresso. However, they do have outdoor seating, where I sat to watch the rain with my steamy Americano. Next to me was a Middle Eastern man, eating a sesame bagel filled to the brim with cream cheese. I sat, and without a word, he looked at me and offered a bite of his bagel. “No,” I gestured, and as we started talking, he revealed his origin as a Palestinian living in Jordan. With that, he told me that it is a Jordanian custom to offer whatever you are eating to the person sitting next to you.

With this in mind, I sat in the dusty fruit stall in Madaba, wordlessly eating tomatoey bean stew with beautifully cooked flatbread. As I would soon learn, legitimate generosity from strangers would be the trend of this romp through the deserted martian landscapes of Jordan. The only genuine affection and open arms would come from the hearts of the Jordanians. Behind them, dramatic cliffs and stunning mountain vistas would sit covered in the fog of centuries of breath passing through these dusty valleys. Jordan is a tremendous country, and I had only begun to scratch the surface.
Dionysus Shines Upon Belgium

December 27, 2019

It’s become a tradition that I reach a state of inebriation beyond all human possibility every time I pass through the Belgian border. On my last visit in Leuven, an American Anheuser-Busch exec covered my drinks and lubricated me to the point of no return while I daftly debated European politics in French with two Gypsies that later stole half the bars coats. I expected no less from my trip to Mons, a lesser-known city in the French-speaking half of Belgium, Wallonia.

Wallonia isn’t known for much, aside from the terribly named “Brussels South Airport” (which is nowhere near Brussels in any respect), and the highest crime rate in Belgium centered around the Pittsburgh-esque main city of Charleroi. Mons, however, is quite a treat. I arrived late at night but in good time to enjoy a lively square filled with cherry cheeked locals drinking warm wine under the Christmas lights.

After a cheap steak-frite, I wandered around the small streets. Mons, meaning mountain, would perhaps benefit by being renamed ‘Hill’. There are no mountains to speak of until reaching the Alps. Names aside, Mons was the cultural capital of Europe in 2014, giving the city a certain bougieness that is still rubbing off of the gentrified buildings and hipster cafes. I liked the city, it was adorable for a night stroll but anything more may cause insanity. It was time for me to find my destiny.

I wandered and wandered, finding no bars suitable for an outcast like me. It was, after all, a Wednesday night in a small Belgian town. After consulting Google with the often-used question “Cheap Beer”, I was presented with a student bar. Perfect. I’ve only been a free man for a few months, I can fit in with the kids. The bar was located on the outskirts of the town, in the basement of the residential hall for the local Polytechnic University. A location one would have absolutely zero chance of finding without having the bravery to break into a student’s residence hall. Was I even allowed to be in there? Who cares.

The bar was small, filled with cherubim faced engineers getting a nice buzz before doing their homework. I went to the bar and asked for a beer. When the bartender asked for 0.80 in return, I knew I had found my fate. The bar the prophecies had foretold. The location of my damnation. I bow to thee, Polytechnic University Student Bar.

The bartender and I hit it off, and I was soon invited to a drinking game with his friends. All of them were serious engineers and serious drinkers. One of my new drinking friends, a man skinny as a rail and pale as a notebook, is the two-time beer drinking champion of Mons, holding the record for drinking fifteen beers in thirty seconds. The rest were burly Belgian boys, master drinkers like the monks that have forged tirelessly day and night to make the best beers in the world for millennia.

The first game was a simple one that I can never remember the name of. That one where you remember your four cards and turn the others into a pyramid. If your card comes up you tell someone to drink, and they can either challenge you or take the drink. As the fresh meat, I ended up being the target for a good half of the cards drawn. No problem: I graduated from a Danish University. I have a minor in beer shlauging.

It was at this point, after being made to chug my first beer, that my new friends told me that they paid for this keg with money the earned at a fundraiser and that all of my beers for the night would be free. Oh Dionysus, great creator debauchery and defiler of all manly desires in exchange for legendary parties, I pray to you so rarely yet you always shine your beer glass tinted light upon me when I pass into this cherished land. May your wine-stained smile shine upon this land for centuries to come.

These boys welcomed me into their hearts almost instantly. The beer-drinking champion told me of a French traveler he found on the street. He invited the Frenchman to the bar and to stay with him in his dorm, and after to beers the Frenchman passed out and deposited his beer back upon the kind Belgians dorm. I told him I was no Frenchman, and to that, we said “Santé” and drank another. Two hours eroded, too many beers were drunk, one man helicoptered his hilariously gigantic gentleman sausage, and many memories were made only to be forgotten. As a tangible memory, the boys signed a card in a deck with the University’s logo emblazoned on the box. At this point, the night got a bit fuzzy but I somehow woke up in my hostel bed with all of my belongings and one of the top-five worst hangovers in history. If you venture to Mons and decide to explore the possibilities of the Polytec bar, venture with caution and a strong meal of fries and cheese in your belly before entering.

With the queasiness of a baby fresh after feeding, I boarded a train to Charleroi to meet a very amused Ivana who loves poking fun at me hungover. In Charleroi, I found a Chinese restaurant that made a healing noodle soup broth that healed me back to full strength, and we were off on a plane to meet our friends in Vilnius to drink once again. This would be a long week for the strongest liver East of the Mississippi.