Tales From An Eventful 2018 In Travel
Spending time in 14 countries and four continents in 2018 may qualify me as a world traveler, but it’s still a massive planet.
It’s incredible how something so simple can broaden one’s horizons.
Only 42 percent of Americans owned a passport in 2017, according to Forbes — a figure that has climbed significantly in a decade, when slightly more than a quarter of the population had one. That number undoubtedly bloomed because, as of 2007, Americans needed a passport to cross into Canada or to visit several Caribbean islands. That’s the reason why I first got one, as I knew I’d be traveling through Canada; also, having a passport seemed like the cool thing to do, as it made me pretend that I was a world traveler.
Ten years on, here I am, close to believing that title actually fits. In 2018, I spent time in 14 different countries and crossed two additional continents off the list. I went bobsledding down a former Olympic track, tried to follow the plot of a German-language musical and explored a decommissioned nuclear fallout bunker. I ate burgers made of reindeer, skewers of wildebeest grilled over an open flame and something called a mopane worm (three, actually).
I understand I’m incredibly privileged to be able to do these things, and even more so to be able to say that I live abroad. That’s part of the reason why I created this site — to be able to share my experiences with anyone who may be interested.
Over the past year, I’ve told some of my favorite stories and posted the itineraries of a handful of trips that I have taken around Europe. A lot of smaller adventures have fallen through the gaps, though, so here are a few shorter tales from my travels over the past 12 months.
Most Eye-Opening Experience: Seeing Lions in the South Africa Wilderness
Dawn was breaking on the third day of our South African safari in June when Rob, the ranger driving our vehicle, received a frantic, excited dispatch over his walkie-talkie. A colleague not far ahead, Goodman, had spotted a male lion resting in the brush, and his enthusiasm was at a peak because lion sightings had been rare in Kruger National Park.
Rob quickly detoured from our planned morning drive and led us to the spot of the sighting, where a dozen vehicles full of eager lion-spotters had already congregated. There, low in the grass with flies circling its backside, was the lion, dozing and seemingly oblivious to his human companions. We waited for about 20 minutes, watching the lion yawn and roll over multiple times, before continuing our drive.
That decision was quickly rewarded. The dirt road we were driving on was hilly, and after our vehicle climbed a particularly high one, we spotted three distinct golden figures well ahead of us coming our way. They were three male lions, and Rob said that because they prefer walking on dirt, if we stayed, they were likely to walk right on by.
He began to recite his safety instructions: sit down, do not move and do not speak. Lions won’t feel threatened by a large, green vehicle, but they can react suddenly if they recognize a collection of individuals. As they approached, we could see their ribs protruding; since there were only three of them, Rob explained they had likely been excommunicated from the pride and were hungry because they now had to fend for themselves.
One by one and a few strides apart, they slowly began to pass within 10 feet of our vehicle. Although I trusted Rob and believed I was safe, I was all the way on the right side, closer to the lions than most in our group. I could feel my heart beat faster and realized at one point that I hadn’t been breathing.
It took a few minutes for them to reach the other side of the hill, and once a safe distance away, Rob turned the vehicle around and began to follow them, driving slowly to match their speed. They stopped occasionally, smelling the brush and marking their territory, before abandoning the road and tucking into high grass away from our prying eyes. Lions in their natural habitat — majestic, indeed.
Most Bizarre Tram Ride: A Trip on the No. 2 Line in Amsterdam
It was fairly close to a perfect day in Amsterdam when we visited in early April: Temperatures reached the low 70s, skies were sunny and the first real hint of spring was in the air. That meant people — a lot of people — swarmed the city to celebrate the warmer weather.
One man did so in his own special way. We had boarded the No. 2 tram in the city center when my wife pointed out that someone sitting behind us, across from the doorway, was barefoot. A man in his early 20s, with a beer can in his right hand, was drunkenly arguing with a friend in some vaguely Russian-sounding language. Not only were his shoes missing, his black sweatshirt was only zipped up halfway, exposing his pale, bare chest, and the waist of his light gray sweatpants had dropped around his mid-thighs.
Before our first stop, the tram came to a sudden halt, and two female police officers stormed up the four steps and confronted our barefoot companion. “You,” one shouted in English, pointing at him. “Get up.” The man rolled his head, spoke in his own language and stalled. The tram’s driver approached, acknowledging he was who they wanted. The first officer, fed up with his delays, pulled him to his feet.
That’s when the man lost it. He reversed the hold, grabbed the officer by her wrist, spun her around and pinned her up against a pole. He then began sloppily thrusting his pelvis against her, loudly yelling, in English, “Sex! Sex! Sex!”
The second officer, understandably, had none of it. Even though she was significantly shorter than he was, she was strong enough to grab him by the neck, drag him backward and shove him down the stairs. His limbs flailing everywhere, he somehow landed on his feet, wobbling like a boxer on the wrong end of a haymaker. The officers followed him out the door, but he had one last surprise.
Standing there dazed, the front of his sweatpants began to darken and a stream of liquid started spraying everywhere. Onlookers, panicked, backed out of the way. That’s when the tram chugged forward, leaving the two officers bewildered — and undoubtedly pissed off.
Most Memorable Ceremony: Watching the Dervishes In Istanbul
The Mevlevi are an Islamic order based in Turkey who are better known as the whirling dervishes because of the way they express their devotion to God. Their weekly ceremony, known as a sema, is open to anyone interested in learning more about their religion and understanding their history.
We attended their performance on a Sunday night in September at their lodge in Istanbul, the Galata Mevlevihanesi, and were seated behind a wooden railing around an octagonal stage. Meant to express the journey of one’s spiritual ascent toward perfection, the ceremony began on an upper balcony, where musicians began chanting their devotion to God and the prophet Muhammad. A drum beat and a reed flute soon joined in, and after the musical introduction, the dervishes, clad in black cloaks, approached the stage.
The first stage, known as the devri veledi, began with the eight worshippers and the presiding sheikh formally bowing to each other before lining up shoulder to shoulder and dropping their shawls. The dervishes, who varied in age from the mid-20s to the mid-60s, then saluted the sheikh before the start of the four selams, the most popular part of the ceremony.
Each dervish began spinning on his left foot, with his right palm facing upward and his left hand hanging toward the ground. They also revolved around the sheikh, and moved around the stage, expressing their acceptance of God as their creator. After five minutes, they lined up again before the sheikh, arms crossed, resting before beginning again. The second selam recognized a unity with God, the third celebrated complete submission and the fourth, when the sheikh joined, represented subservience. The dervishes were enraptured by the performance; one younger man, in particular, maintained a euphoric smile the entire time he was whirling.
After the final selam, the sheikh concluded the ceremony with a reading from the Quran, typically a prayer for the souls of all believers. The dervishes filed out and retreated to the balcony to continue meditating independently. For me, it didn’t take a complete understanding of the tradition to appreciate the beauty of their devotion.
Most Painful Sledding Ride: Down the Hills over Oslo
Korketrekkeren, Norwegian for “The Corkscrew,” is a tobogganing run set up near the bobsled track used in the Winter Olympics in Oslo in 1952. Owned by the local government, it’s popular among locals, who take the T-bane train to the top, shoot down the near mile-long course and catch the train again at the bottom for another trip. It’s even open at night, with a series of floodlights keeping the track illuminated until 9 p.m.
Those without sleds can rent them at the top of the run, which is what we did when we showed up shortly after 8 p.m. one day in January. These weren’t just any old sleds, either: They were sturdy, wooden pallets, remarkably lightweight and equipped with metal runners.
It took some time to get used to how to steer it — lean left to turn left, lean right to turn right, and use your heels as brakes — and I was thankful I was wearing heavy mittens and hiking boots. Once I had grasped the fundamentals though, I was off, feeling like a kid again as I shot down the slopes and picked up speed. Faster, faster. I just wanted to go faster.
That’s when I quickly realized that my mind is younger than my body. As I steered the sled around one bend, I could see a series of tiny, half-foot moguls set up directly in my path. It was too soon for me to try to steer out of the way, and as I hit the first one, I felt the sled lift slightly off the ground and braced for a rough landing.
I somehow stuck it, back end on wood, but there were several other humps just ahead. I knew I wouldn’t be as lucky. Just as I realized I should ditch the sled, I hit the second bump and launched into the air — certainly not as high as I thought I did, but airborne nonetheless.
When I landed, I did so on my upper back, knocking the wind out of me. I lay there for a moment, stunned and in pain, before pulling myself to my feet and trying to walk it off. My wife came sledding by moments later and yelled to ask if I was OK, and without breath, all I could muster was a grunted “no.” (She avoided the moguls.)
After a few minutes, I managed to walk over to my sled, pick it up and slowly (and shamefully) drag it down the bottom third of the hill. Once there, I did the only thing I could do in that situation: I hopped aboard the train and prepared for another run. It was just too exhilarating.
Greatest Experience: Standing on the Edge of Victoria Falls
I explained how much visiting Victoria Falls meant to me in a separate essay I wrote during the summer, not long after returning from Zimbabwe. It was truly awe-inspiring to stand amid the blinding mist of the waterfalls during the high season, when the spray can reach 2,500 feet into the air and be seen from more than 20 miles away.
It’s still an experience that I think about frequently six months later. It’s not that I fondly recall trudging through the trails completely drenched, but more what the opportunity to do so meant to me. There are very few places that captivated me while growing up — the pyramids in Egypt were one, as was the Colosseum in Rome — and to have come all this way, nearly 7,500 miles from where I was born, to see one of them, Victoria Falls, in person was unbelievable.
I’ve been asked a few times why I enjoy traveling, especially because at times, the hassles can seem to outweigh the benefits. Nearly each time, I’ve answered with a version of this story, hoping it will inspire someone else to open their mind and pursue their desires.
I don’t know what will be in store for me in 2019, but I hope I find it just as fulfilling.
Disclaimers: All products, services and experiences were paid for and arranged by the author and the vendors named herein had no editorial oversight of this piece. The cover photo is licensed through Amtrak as a publicity photo; other photographs were taken by and remain the property of the author. Contact for republication rights.
