Finding a new home in Cape Town:

I am feeling every so slightly guilty about my lack of blogging. So, instead of spending hours creating a piece of writing I'm proud of, I'm just going to verbal vomit on this page and tell you all what I've been up to. 

I just arrived back on the ship after five days in magical Cape Town. I had a special feeling about this port- the evenings reading through my guidebook actually were actually a serious contribution to my lack of sleep recently; I'd pick it up for a bit of light reading before going to bed, and one night got so excited by all the activities and hikes and natural beauty that I ended up using my precious internet minutes googling 'How much does it cost to study at the University Of Cape Town?' in anticipation that I'd immediately want to move there. 

What made it really special, however, was our host. We went made an impulse decision a month ago, whilst sitting on the train in Ireland, browsing through Air BnB apartments, and saw one that was completely incongruous. For about the same price as a hostel it looked like we could stay in luxurious hillside flat, complete with a host with gushing reviews from anyone who'd encountered him. It seemed too good to be true, but we booked it anyway and waited for the moment where our bank accounts got cleaned out and we had to find a last minute moldy hostel and resign ourselves to our own naivety. Luckily, we got an email from Ian, our host, as we docked: "I am here! Black t-shirt, red scarf, no hair".

 His beaming face greeted us as we stepped off the ship, and I instantly loved him. He was one the most immediately likable people I've ever met. I think hospitality was actually exuding out of his pores in the Capetonian spring heat.  He gave us all hugs like old friends, and piled four extremely relieved travelers into his little white car. We spent the next four days in his sun-lit, sophisticated apartment, the walls colored with his personal art collection and surfaces piled with neat little stacks of guidebooks and cookbooks from around the globe. 

How lucky we were. We sat on a deck that looked down onto the city as it met the ocean, drinking bottles of local wine that cost less than a cappuccino back home, and woke up to the sun rising over the waterfront. It still felt like there had to be a catch, but there wasn't. We were a little puzzled as to why he'd want a bunch of students taking over his property- it almost didn't seem worth the hassle of the cleaning, picking us up, answering our one thousand questions, all for relatively little compensation… but it turns out he just has a genuine interest in meeting travelers, hearing their stories and welcoming them to his city. Ian had traveled all around the world and loved to story swap over coffee from his dinky little espresso machine. He just liked people. This made me feel better about the world.

Ian took us on a road trip round the 'Cape of Good Hope' to celebrate Emma's birthday, which is a beautiful stretch of coastline that makes for a spectacular drive. The winding road wraps its way around a peninsular of rugged cliff tops and towers over white sand beaches that are miles long, passing through scrubland dotted with wildflowers and inland roads flanked by tribes of baboons and antelope. We stopped for cold white wine and local fish in a restaurant that sat on the oceanfront, and sung happy birthday over a fat slab of 'malva pudding'- almost like English sticky toffee pudding but better- I know moist is the king of cliches when describing cake, but it would be a travesty to not include it here. You have NEVER had such a moist moist moist moist cake. Horrible word, great dessert. We fed seals in small fishing town, and stalked an ostrich we found in the scrublands, which looked us straight in the eye and resolutely did a large poo in our direction. It was the highlight of the day, and I've never laughed that hard at something going to the toilet. Matters of excretion reminded me that I can grow up all I want, but my sense of humor is stuck firmly between the ages of six and eight. It was the confidence in it's expression that did it for me. It knew how much power it held in that one maneuver, the ultimate diss as we attempted with over-dramatic shuffles to sneak closer to it, despite being in its direct line of sight. What we would have done upon reaching it, I'll never know; pop a leg over and ride it home, perhaps? Sadly, it's bowels got in the way of any potential ostrich-jockeying. I only hope he knew how much it meant to me.

In more lady-like news, we hiked to the top of Lion's Head, a large rock with panoramic views of Cape Town, and went to an almost awkwardly cliche African restaurant, (where they did things like play bongo drums and sell key rings), but it was worth it to try their plate of barbecued meat you'd never get elsewhere- antelope, kudu, crocodile, springbok and…ostrich. Probably our old friend from the cliff top. That'll teach him. 

We woke at 4am one morning to go (cage) diving with great white sharks. I'm almost tempted to leave out the cage part, incase my mother's blood pressure needs some exercise, but we were all safely tucked behind iron bars. That is, except when my feet stuck out into the open ocean because my legs weren't quite long enough to hook under the safety bar, and were left flailing as all my senses were paralyzed by the sight of a twelve foot shadow emerging from the murky water, it's beady black eyes looking straight at us. 

We took it in turns to be submerged as the boat's captain threw chum into the water, and propelled a resigned looking tuna head attached to a rope into the water. The sharks would often throw themselves out of the water to clamp down on it's sad little face, flashing their huge white underbellies and rows of pointed teeth as they flew through the air. As we returned to shore four hours later, shivering from the icy water but with adrenaline still electrifying us, I decided the sharks were more beautiful than terrifying. This was something the boat's captain, who swims with them un-caged, felt very strongly about: leaving the Jaws stereotype behind of a vicious man-eater, and seeing them as a powerful, instinct-driven animal who would much rather eat a seal than a human, but sometimes gets a little confused. We don't taste great, apparently. 

We're currently midway between South Africa and Argentine, and the levels of Ship Crazy have reached new heights; 12 days at sea is a proving a challenge- the ship lettuce is slowly fading from a vibrant green to a muddy dishwater brown, the bananas are getting steadily blacker, and there is a ship wide shortage of french fries, the grandest of all disasters. However, as we near the end of our journey, these little  quirks are becoming more an more endearing, because I know this is the only time in my life I'll get to complain about them. And as the food is getting steadily more dire, the sense of community on the ship is increasing with equal force, a happy result of many, many hours spent together, talent shows, sea olympics and movie nights. We are sailing on to Buenos Aires, and five days in Patagonia await- a completely new landscape that I've always dreamed of exploring. I will update again after our next adventure!

Hanna

Rooftops, riads and the right way to kill a chicken, in Fez, Morocco.

This weekend made the shortlist for the best ever introduction to a new place: walking into a gorgeous Moroccan riad to find my sister, who I haven't seen since April, glowing from a 3 month adventure around Nepal and Indonesia, waiting for me with a pot of mint tea. After significant badgering of our parents, Mols came out and visited me 3 days before her new term started at LSE. What a trooper. We explored the medina, did an amazing cookery workshop and had some serious rooftop catch up sessions, and I couldn't have asked for a better weekend with my number one lady.

The medina (or 'old city') of Fez, Morocco, is said to be the best preserved in the entire Arab world. As we wound our way through its heart, the coiled streets hummed with activity. Afternoon light filtered over the high stone walls and shone a soft gold onto a labyrinth of narrow passage-ways, towering keyhole doorways and leather workshops, and the smell of dye and dust hung heavy in the air. Every corner seemed to reveal a new reward for our curiosity- we found carved doors marking the burial place of Sufi mystics, where pilgrims still came to pay tribute and pray. We saw tight circles of women holding babies aloft wrapped in white cloth, chatting rapidly in local dialect, and the late sunlight caught the swirling dust and gave them all halos; their children really looked like angels at that golden hour. Or a tiny souk where lavender, carob and orange blossom honey was piled high around a little courtyard, and we knew this place had hardly changed in the last one thousand years. The whole place felt heavy with history, and even the donkeys, the taxis of the old medina, seemed to have this air of confidence, of permanence that comes from over a millennia of plodding stoically through the same tangle of alleyways.

Our foray into Moroccan cookery began when we ducked through a nondescript doorway tucked down a side street, and entered the beautiful open courtyard of a traditional home, or 'riad'. Waiting there was our family for the night, and we exchanged smiles and hugs with four sisters and their two friends, the latter both fluent in Arabic, English and French, and who helped translate between us. We decided on our dishes and entered the street, pushing our way through the gathered throngs of the local market, headed for wooden carts laden with a rainbow of towering fruits and vegetables; giant orange squash, flowering zucchini and eggplant for our vegetable tagine, along with a mound of spices: ground ginger, pepper, saffron and turmeric. After some passionate haggling with the stall holder over an enormous pumpkin, we left with overflowing bags for a well-earned price. Our chicken cous-cous got a little more emotional, however. First lesson of the evening: please don't name your dinner as it flaps innocently around the butchers shop. Jeremiah-Flynn was tenderly marinated with the residual guilt of a recovering vegetarian, and I promise you that does nothing for the flavor of the dish. 

For the next four hours the house seemed to burst with a colorful collage of vegetable peelings, simmering pots and seven women's worth of laughter. We translated jokes in a mish-mash of French, English and local dialect, at first with veritable attempts to learn each other's language, before we realized that my cave-man hand gestures and pitiful Arabic abilities were far more entertaining. Laughing (again) at my chopping skills (like a toddler maniacally mashing a banana with a knife) I finally learnt the Moroccan way of using ones thumb as a kind of chopping board: creating leverage between vegetable and knife, slicing down, then pulling away just before your appendage adds some extra meat to the pot. (A skill hard enough to grasp, and even harder to explain in writing, so please do not attempt this based on such an inadequate description). 

My respect for the women around me grew as the evening progressed, especially after a particularly strenuous bread kneading session which left me ruddy-faced, slightly sweaty and marveling the deft hands of Maryam as she created perfect pillows of semolina dough on a slab of wood. We carried the loaves to the local bakery and watched them rise in a oven hewn roughly into whitewashed stone, a bundle of smoldering kindling at the back creating flickering amber light that played across our faces. The air smelled like pure comfort. Maryam pulled in a deep breath, smiled, and promised us that nothing would come close to the taste of our little loaves, fresh from the oven. Later, over a table groaning with the night's efforts, we pulled apart the still-warm packages and dunked them victoriously into our tagine; a beautiful stack of vegetables slow cooked in a traditional terra-cotta pot brimming with crushed tomato and spices that warmed your insides. Preserved lemons and green olives decorated the plates like colorful jewels. Our unfortunate chicken, Jeremiah, sat proudly aside little dishes of charred eggplant and green pepper, simmered with garlic and tomato and served with cous-cous that can only taste that marvelous when one is sitting cross legged in a Moroccan riad, smelling of garlic, with bleeding thumbs, (I never learnt), and in glorious disbelief that the magic travel trifecta had occurred: good friends, loud laughter, and good food. 

We gave our weary stomachs some rest after dinner and climbed to the rooftop. The winking lights of ancient city spread out like a blanket that met the silver studded heavens. There was something about the warm air that made conversation feel easy; and so a Jew, two Muslims and I (still undecided), stood under the stars and explored our religious identities; questioning delicately, curiously, learning from each other and concluding that, under the gaze of the expansive sky, our bellies happy with home-cooked food, any differences between us really seemed so very small.

When I step off the ship, I always hope for those experiences that make you feel both at home, comfortable, but simultaneously in awe of a place and it's people. While we are sailing, the familiarity of our floating home is constantly augmented by new conversations, chance encounters where you can make a new friend in an instant, and people who continue to inspire you with their ambition and intelligence. Now, as the warm winds of the African west coast ruffle through our textbooks, there is a tangible feeling of excitement in the air. We are ready to be tested, enamored and inspired by what lays ahead of us, as we sail onwards to Ghana, and to new adventures abound.

The playground in my backyard: Ireland, how has it taken this long for us to become friends? 

 Our first night in the city, and our feet beat the Dublin streets, a more familiar territory for us all than the neolithic monuments and ancient tombs of our guided tour that day. The city lights spin slightly through a soft haze of Jameson and warm summer air, and with the warm smiles of strangers who march over the bridge with us towards this vibrant playground of a city. Dublin just won at Gaelic football (?) (lack of detail indicative of lack of knowledge, not my area of expertise), and all I know is that the city itself is dancing. The pub floors groan as a hundred bodies jump in time to an old Irish folk song, glasses clinking, sweat dripping, their shoes sticking to the reassuring layer of spilled Guinness which coats the decks and smells like Friday night. Smiles emerge beneath upper lips kissed by a rich, chocolatey foam from the first hurried sip of a freshly pulled pint, and arms extend like branches above the throbbing crowd as each group's chosen guardian attempts to bring back his prize to waiting friends. Rotund men in football shirts transform into graceful ballerinas as they tip-toe their overflowing vessels through the throngs, arms aloft, only to be knocked aside by a gaggle of girls, heads thrown back in song, a forceable chain of linked arms and high heels. 

My observations falter as I am whisked into a whirlwind jig with a man three times my age (and size), and as the song finishes he pats my back with his sizeable paw and shouts amiably into my ear "Welcome to Dublin!". And I laugh because in London, I might not be best pleased with being twirled and lifted by an inebriated, sweatier version of my father but here in Ireland the people are just so wonderful, so full of character, that you can't help but fall in love with them all just a little bit. 

We spill into the street and take a deep breath by the banks of the Liffy before beginning the hunt for our own grease-laden weakness; the type which only resembles real food between the hours of three and five in the morning on a weekend, and necessitates a sole, single slurred utterance to bring it into contact with ravenous mouths. "Chips" "Kebab" "Burger" we cry, and stampede into the Dublin night, wailing half-heard versions of "Molly Mallone" and "Whisky in the Jar" in botched Irish accents and performing spontaneous street-side Riverdance. But the Irish still stand drinks in hand, cheering us on, laughing, welcoming us to their city. And if that isn't exceptional national character, I don't know what is. 

The more salubrious part of Ireland involved a wonderful visit from Marge and Parge; a real treat, as I think I miss them more when I've seen them recently enough to really remember just how much I enjoy their company. When we spend six months apart at a time, my brain tends to downplay such things to avoid a sort of continuous nostalgia which is no good for getting things done.  We spent quality time together the way Mendozas do best: eating our way around the Emerald Isle, in constant rapture about how fresh the food was and how genuinely friendly everyone was. I think we might lose my Mum to Ireland, she is convinced after several seafood dinners and a multitude of gourmet farm shops that this is the place for her. She can park her rusty orange camper van next to the pier, take long walks in the evening sunshine and sing songs about how fresh the prawns are and how well the kale grows till the sun sets over the Irish Sea. What a life! Our impressions may have been biased by the heat wave that hit that weekend, but I'm still convinced that Ireland is a place I've been crazy not to visit until now, considering we've been neighbors my whole life. We got only the smallest taste of the kindness of the people, the wonderful food and gorgeous landscapes. 

After Marge and Parge left, Emma roused me on three hours of sleep to go and explore the cute seaside village of Nowth...or at least, I think I can justify calling it cute, because we got about as far as a row of little independent restaurants serving fresh seafood two minutes from the train station, and were immediately distracted by late-afternoon shellfish and white wine, the fresh sea breeze whipping our hair into our mouths as we tried to elegantly yet efficiently pick apart crab shells, while also expressing our sincere appreciation for the food. The whole scene was pretty idyllic, a sunny day, seagulls cawing, local prawns, not much else to do but sit and soak it all in until it was time to take the train back to the boat. That we did, and with the predictable mixture of reluctance to leave and excitement to go, we were afloat the Atlantic once more…

Ship Livin'

Here on the ship, when someone whispers, it seems to echo around every cabin and resonate throughout the dining halls within about five minutes. I think the speed that rumors travel here probably defies some law of physics, which I suppose is to be expected when you cram 500 students onto a floating island with no other distractions besides each other. (This also produces some other intriguing results, but I'll get back to that another time.) 

There are always plenty of stories being passed about; Girl X snuck alcohol on-board by disguising vodka as mouth wash using green if you bribe him enough, the Captain will let you drive the boat etc., etc. Many of them tend to relate to secret alcohol stashes, as the ship's strict drink regulation (3 drink maximum, no chugging, no getting drunk.) has turned the topic once again into a taboo: It's wonderfully clandestine, and such tales are frequently whispered through cupped hands and giggles at dinner time. I think it's brilliant. Once you finish high school and/or turn 21, your options for innocent rule-bending shrink sizably. Anything that's still prohibited will likely get you a prison sentence: not so fun. But here on the ship, you get to enjoy the hilarity of real rules all over again. Not that I would dream of testing such things, of course, but hearing the (mostly fabricated) stories of the quest to get round the system is endlessly entertaining. 

But there's another upside too. When the evening comes, all we have is each other's company. There are no bars or clubs to go to, no shots to take, it's just you, me and that cup of tea and that's just about it until bedtime. It's wonderful. You sit and talk, talk and sit, fill up your mug from the endless coffee machine and listen without distraction because you really don't have anywhere else to be. Tonight we sat and watch the sun slowly sink behind the ship's wake, turning the clouds a dusky pink. Emma brought out a stash of German dark chocolate biscuits: we were in raptures. (Ship food will do that to you). Tea, biscuits and blankets kept us there for hours, telling stories from our very different upbringings, and the moon kept sliding and slipping through the clouds and we would stop talking intermittently to watch it rise anew out of a silvery tuft, and it was beautiful every single time. It was a simple, wonderful way to pass an evening, and made me very happy. 

Berlin, and the Ultimate Hole In The Wall

Something quite unexpected happened this weekend; I think I fell in love with Germany! Most of all with Berlin. The people there seemed deservedly proud of their surroundings; Berliners know they live in a place which is truly in the midst of a cultural revolution. They are shaking off any dusty, ill-advised stereotypes and heading with full force towards becoming a city that could be considered a work of art in itself. There was a palpable feeling of creativity in the air; I felt like I could spread my arms and I'd touch a hundred different art, music or food movements all at once. It seemed that if it wasn't happening in Berlin, it wasn't really happening. We spoke to an American immigrant who found himself infatuated with the place and eventually moved here for good. He explained this feeling of change in the air: "This is that period when Berlin finally becomes that city that it so longs to be". What a wonderful time to visit.

The whole weekend was enlightening, and the highlight was a particular bike ride which I felt I had to get down on paper, so here goes!

"On yer bike!" was a phrase coined by British politician Norman Tebbit in 1979, when I was merely a twinkle in my mother's eye. It's pertinence to rioting and unemployment was before my time, but it's a philosophy I love to take with me whilst traveling. As much as I enjoy pounding cobblestone streets with my partner in crime (a pair of beat up Birkenstocks), with only a few days in a city you get to see a lot more on two wheels. Berlin was the perfect playground; not only was it flat, but it was also completely unchartered territory. This was my first time visiting Germany, and I could feel the tingling of anticipation that awaits me whenever my feet first hit the floor in a totally new city.

We hop off the bus and on to a pair of clumsy beach cruisers, their tired wheels squeaking with clockwork regularity. For me, the feeling of that first minute of peddling is unparalleled. Sometimes I think those brief moments encapsulate everything I love about traveling; the city lays before you, bathed in the golden light of a late afternoon. It's the same afternoon sun as the sun at home, of course, but somehow it's more iridescent, more beautiful because it shines on strange streets and strange faces and the air almost prickles with possibility. You press down, test the resistance of the pedals and in that second are thrown forward by the momentum of discovery. There's a feeling of invincibility there. Your senses are heightened, and you peer into every side street, every shop window, every passing face and grin at the unfamiliarity of it all. In these moments, there is a romance to everything. Things like laundromats and bakeries and skulking smoking teenagers make you smile. I have never smiled at a laundromat in London! This is why I like traveling. It turns me into a child; wide eyed, completely enraptured by the smallest details that would normally pass in a flurry of banality. I am happy to simple exist and to observe, peddling and grinning, grinning and peddling, the afternoon sun warm on my back.

As some of the best journeys do, ours had no real destination. We wound our way through trendy streets filled with concept stores, through large squares covered in chalk art and beat boxers performing to crowds of afternoon wanderers. We turned onto a main road and followed it in what felt like a hopeful direction, when a hole in the wall to our right appeared out of nowhere. We peer in and dismiss what looks like a building site; scaffolding and planks scatter the concrete, and all is still. We were about to ride on when a piece of wood nailed to the wall caught my eye. Scratched into the wood were the words: 'Culture Cave'.

Intrigued, we  stepped through the make-shift doorway, and straight onto the page of someone else's travel essay. It was the kind of ethereal place you only ever hear about when you listen, green eyed, to your friend's dramatized travel tales. Like the time they "were lead by this grubby nomadic goat herder to this totally authentic local spot" down a back alley of a village in the rural Tajikistani highlands. The type where you 'ooh' and 'ahhh' and secretly don't really believe it was quite as cool as it sounds, or you act pleased for them but grumble and wonder why things like that never happen to you because you always seem to end up in some "hidden bar" with fifty other Lonely Planet clutching, disappointed looking 20-somethings. Well, in Berlin, it happened. We found paradise!

As we round the corner, the Spree river stretches out before us like a gorgeous glistening serpent. Lining it's banks were rows of old fashioned sun chairs and brightly colored hammocks. They swayed happily to the sound of minimal house which the Germans do so well,  and the music mingles with the afternoon breeze giving it texture and warmth, flowing from a DJ booth set just above the vegetable garden and beside the sunflower patch. A small labyrinth is marked with wildflowers and poppies, and sand warms the soles of our feet as we cross to a small wooden bar serving german beer. An old fashioned street lamp sits casually next to a woven totem pole, on which hang shells, feathers and a white model owl, surveying the scene. Somehow none of it seems incongruous.

 Two beautiful German girls stand behind a barbecue grilling organic meat, and the last of the September sunlight traps in the tendrils of smoke that drift upwards towards a dusky purple sky. A girl in dungarees walks barefoot around the garden, watering the flowers with a russet red watering can. She pauses every once in a while to gaze contentedly out at the river, stretching her arms skywards before returning to the garden.

We lie here for a long while. The sun set and we stayed, swinging in our hammock, occasionally catching each other's eye and laughing at how odd and perfect it all was.

And here I am with a smug utopia story. Sorry about that. You probably have a quiet smile, and might be wondering about my tendency for hyperbole and 'creative license'. Or maybe you're getting on your bike, and we can trade stories when you're back with a smile on your face and a new paradise found!

How to get there: 

The CultureCave is open until November 2013

Rent a bike, cycle to Alexanderplatz, and takes signs for Ostbahnhoff. If you see the Barbie Dreamworld exhibition on your right, you are headed in the right direction. Turn down the street with a big Lidl and a gas station, and keep your eyes peeled for a hole in the wall on your right. About a 10 minute cycle. 

Muzer Russia' soft side.

Hello from Mother Russia!

I'm taking a travel writing class here on the ship (it's a tough life). This week our professor asked us to encapsulate our Russian experience in the space on the back of a postcard. I add this disclaimer in case this seems a little flowery- but this is mine.

This weekend, I said Checkmate to Russia. She met me with a cold, unforgiving exterior; with unrequited smiles and the smell of spilled vodka. With air laden with paint stripper that made my eyes burn and settled on the back of my tongue, filling my mouth with bittersweet words about the country and her people.
But under the soft 2am glow of a Dumskaya street lights, her brittle skin finally broke before me and out spilled a glorious community of rebels; of pioneers, of youth who flood the streets in these golden hours to simply exist. To bask in the warmth of their collectivity, in the collective refusal to stoop heavy under the yoke of the system, the government, the feudal society that threatens to curl snake-like around their youth and crush it.
These are Dumskaya's found souls. Yura, a beautiful immigrant from Belarus, stands before me speaking in perfectly coiffed cockney accent that he picked up from watching British gangster films when he was a kid. His eyes wink with the orange warmth of the street lamps as he turns and smiles: "We are the first generation to become Gods." And I believe him, I really do.

Not sure how I fitted all that on a post-card, but I managed. My teacher liked it though, and read it out in front of our class. At this point I resembled a small beetroot as I thought it sounded pompous. Talking of beetroot, I don't ever want to eat a cubed-beetroot-raw-salmon-egg-cucumber-salad ever again. This creation from popular chain Teremok sat aside such alternatives as mystery meat dumplings with smiley faces on them and sour cream laden borscht. Sadly, Russian cuisine did not provoke either my squealing or mild blasphemy, and those of you who have eaten with me know this isn't difficult. I haven't given up, however, as I'm sure not being able to understand a single menu may have worked against me, which meant I often ended up with a banana pancake for dinner.

The best foodie experience of the weekend is a chance encounter with a infamous donut shop. It is tucked down a side street and full to the brim with suit-clad locals, who seemed to attack the task of eating their treats with the great Russian solemnity and stoic determination reserved for many other activities; dancing, conversing, petting puppies and cloud watching. Russia did indeed seem like a very serious place, donuts were no exception. We knew we were down to business when everything is slammed down on the table with a reassuring force; the kind only used by those patrons who know their grub is good, but couldn't give a rat's arse if you don't agree. The coffee has the same attitude: presweetened and with milk, because frankly, gold toothed mama behind the counter couldn't care less if you don't take sugar in your coffee. It's got that no-bullshit, slap you in the face kind of sweet that makes your teeth ache and you feel guilty because honestly, it tastes SO good. Afterwards you may never want to have a proper grown up coffee ever again; black and bitter because that means you're a serious adult.
A small family kitchen bustles with the lunchtime rush, and an old tangerine haired lady chats rapid Russian to her friend while churning out these delightful light and comfortingly greasy treats. We sit around dipping them in our coffee, doodling in our journals and smiling because we've found a little corner of sweetness and our adventure has just begun.

Russia was a place of contrast for me. I say we checkmate'd Russia, because by the time we left, I loved her for rather than in spite of her challenges. Because after you get two shots of vodka spilled on your skirt by a surly teenage waiter who just stares at you when you expect an apology, your thimble of local paint stripper tastes even better afterwards. And when you get shouted at by an old babushka for falling asleep in Russia's best art museum, our laughs echoing off the walls make it worth it. And when your outstretched camera gets batted aside by four people in a row, the final reluctant photo captures so much more emotion. And when the two old women sitting in your seats for the ballet refuse to move, on the grounds that they are Russian, it's pretty funny to watch their sour expressions when you get moved to a better box across the theater. And when, upon leaving the theatre, you find yourself pulled into the midst of a golden, student filled street that practically pulses with energy, and you're having mind blowing conversation with young radicals and your ears are filled with street side guitar and your mouth with lyrics in your newly acquired russian accent…well then the world shows you it's soft side, and you are reminded again WHY you travel. It all makes sense.