Category: Travails of a Guidebook Author

Anthony Bourdain Takes My Travel Advice

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Of course I love this guy! Pyramids–go if you care about your life list. Otherwise, I can tell you they look just like in the postcards, but bigger. Unfortunately I can’t state it quite so plainly when I write a guidebook.

If I could write a guidebook purely to my specs, it would mention major landmarks only if they happened to be in an interesting part of the city and had a good place to eat nearby. The Pyramids in Giza are interesting from a sociological perspective–the town around the Pyramids has basically subsisted on tourism for millennia, but is now in constant battle with the government over how to earn a living without driving tourists insane. But the best place to eat out there is maybe the Pizza Hut. So I think Tony chose wisely.

Confessions of an Introverted Traveler (Me Too!)

I don’t read World Hum quite enough–there’s always some good take on travel there.

The most recent good thing is this essay by Sophia Dembling, Confessions of an Introverted Traveler.

So true, sister! I struggle with the extroversion/introversion thing all the time. I love the idea of throwing parties (and getting all ready for them), but in practice I really prefer to stay home at least five nights out of seven.

When I travel, I do get a little more lively, but not much. Flipping through guidebooks, I get excited at the sight of various bars and clubs and events, but what it all boils down to, usually, is sitting in a cafe and watching the world go by.

The only real problem with being a relatively introverted traveler, I’ve found, is that it puts you on the defensive, rather than the offensive. Because I’m not busy chatting up the most interesting-looking person in a bar, I’m a sitting duck for anyone who decides I look intriguing. I have met some great people this way, but it often leaves me smiling gamely at someone for a long stretch (I am terrible at extricating myself), and then dashing off to my hotel for a much-needed rest.

And, alas, I’ve just never been one of those people who has fabulous international romances. It sounds like such a great idea, and surely would help my foreign-language skills, but I just can’t do it. The one time I did try it (he made the first move, of course), it did not pan out well at all. No, reader, I did not kill him, as he chattered on in the passenger seat.

So you might wonder how I handle being a guidebook author? It involves traveling alone, for the most part, and getting information from people. I admit, my books are not packed with the collected wisdom of everyone I met in the hostel that night. But the very fact of having the job does make me a little more outgoing–I’m on a mission. I remember talking about this with another Lonely Planet writer at an author workshop years ago. “I’m not normally nosy,” she said. “At home, I’d never walk up to a crowd of people on the street and ask them what they’re all looking at, or standing in line for, or whatever. But when I’m on the road, it’s like I’m a different person. It’s my job to go up and find out what’s so interesting.”

I can’t say I feel quite so transformed on the road, but sheer boredom on trips can drive me to chat with people I wouldn’t ordinarily, and that often gives me some great information I wouldn’t have found any other way. And it reminds me that I don’t actually dislike talking to strangers–I just don’t want to do it more than maybe an hour a day.

Anyway, thanks for writing this, Sophia.

Oh, and for sharing this wisdom in the comments:

To digress, one of the first rules my father taught me about flea marketing was, “Never buy anything from anyone wearing a funny hat.” He believed that if they need that much attention, their prices would be inflated.

Oh, and the recommendation of the book Introvert Power. I feel better already, just having put the title on my request list at the library. (Bookstore: too much of a social space.)

Bjork Confirms: Syria Is Cool

Per NPR, Bjork is going to collaborate with a Syrian pop star, Omar Suleyman. Fantastic! I am a sucker for Middle Eastern synthesizers, and I trust Bjork implicitly. And if more people hear about cool things happening in Syria because of it, all the better.

I wish I were cool enough to say, “Oh yeah, Omar Suleyman…I’ve got all his bootlegs.” But I am too busy wallowing in old-school nostalgic Arabic music, like fellow Syrian Sabbah Fakri.

But Omar–he’s speaking to the kids today, rockin’ the rural style and gettin’ the ladies to do some serious jiggling.

Spain Hiking Photos

Photos of the grand Spanish hiking excursion are up, all over at Flickr. Lots of pics of us looking winded and sweaty on hillsides, and some beautiful tomatoes and a very silly video of Peter trying out all the public gym equipment they have in the villages.

Also, there’s a separate set from our afternoon of “fonting”–kind of like birding, but looking for obscure fonts. And boy, there are some doozies in Granada. (AV, why did you never mention this? It seems so right up your alley… And the Auto Escuela Dorado right by your apartment!)

The photos contain the juiciest anecdotes, but let me just say, in brief: Peter and I may actually live to hike again. It’s hard to believe, but we enjoyed ourselves. Peter was such a convert, in fact, that he walked home from the East Village the other night. I’m not giving up my bike anytime soon, and I still feel a little embarrassed about being seen in public with a backpack (ooh, a matching backpack with Peter’s, no less! That’s what happens when you emergency shop on the day before your flight). But it was a good trip.

And as a guidebook-updating gig, it was fantastic. I could only travel so fast, and was not expected to travel any faster, which is the exact opposite of any trip involving a car and an impractical number of small towns. But I still didn’t manage to buck the Curse of the Missed Swimming Pool. This occurs whenever I have a night planned in a really nice hotel, and I think, “Ooh, maybe I’ll just be able to check in and chill out by the pool that afternoon!” No. Inevitably, my schedule gets jacked up, and there is no swimming or sunning or anything, after I check in at dinnertime, totally pooped. On this trip, it meant that the night we were scheduled to stay at the really lovely place, we got lost near the end of the day, finally found our way, slogged through the river bottom and clambered up the hill just as the sun set and a cold shadow was cast over the pool. We swam anyway, but it wasn’t what I had envisioned.

Genius New Guidebook

nmeyesI mentioned New Mexico: A Guide for the Eyes a little while back, but I just got my advance copy (connections, baby!), and it’s available for preorder now. Release date is August 1.

If you’re planning a trip to New Mexico, or you just came back from there, or you just like the place, I heartily recommend this book. The concept — a guide to all the visual icons, from architecture to food to landscape — is so brilliant that it could change guidebook-land forever.

Every destination needs one — just think of all the times you’ve been traveling and wondered what a recurring symbol/dish/car was all about. The guide to New Mexico has entries for bolo ties, pawnshops, mesas, hogans and even lowriders. Perfect reading for pre-trip education, or while sitting on the patio back at your hotel at night.

I’m Back! Plus, Spain pics…

Back from Syria, overstuffed, exhausted and happy. More on this in a bit, but in the meantime, I’m finally caught up with my previous trip, to Spain–the photos from all over Granada and Almeria are up here on Flickr.

Just a few phrases to get you excited about clicking over:

aged manchego
supermarket souvenirs
creepy clowns
cuttlefish snuff
tortillitas de camaron (really!)
tomato dresses

Go!

Post-Spain–The Fallout

Oh, guys, I hate this part. The part where I have to go through my notes and actually start writing.

That’s not so bad on its own, but I also have to read all the mail that piled up over three weeks, look over my to-do list for all the other parts of my life and unpack my suitcase. I have to go grocery shopping because there’s nothing in the fridge. I have to remember how to cook. I have to make sure I haven’t missed any credit card bills. I have to make a dentist appointment.

Oh, and I have to get my photos organized, which would make this blog a lot more interesting.

But right now I’m just hopelessly addled.

I thought I’d have an easier adjustment because I flew back via Chicago and had a few days of actual vacation. But I was totally shattered from sleep deprivation. (Whoa–that night bus to Madrid that I was expecting to be plush enough to sleep on? So not the case. Mexico, your buses still rule.) By the time I got to bed in Chicago, I’d been awake for 43 hours. No surprise I promptly caught what a friend dubbed a “crash cold.”

I staggered around for about four days, sniffing and sneezing, and I ate some roast lamb, for Greek Easter. That momentarily revived me.

But right now I’m just straight-up procrastinating. I type a few words in my Granada chapter; I think of a random errand that I forgot to do last month and panic; I sort out a hotel reservation for next month; I try to focus.

This is a dangerous cycle, because of course I’m already looking forward to leaving again on May 6–because that means that once again, I’ll be concentrating only on where I am (Syria) and what I’m doing at that moment (eating my fool head off). But all the other crap will continue to pile up in the background.

The demented thing is that I take great satisfaction in organizing my life–checking my bank balances, making appointments and so on. If only that were the only thing I had to do. Can I pay myself to be my own administrative assistant?

As soon as the idea of sorting through my photos doesn’t make me feel like taking a nap, I’ll post some, I swear.

Back to writing.

Spain–Outta Here

I think I just ate my last ham croquette for a long time.

My feet are very sore. My back hurts. My lips are chapped. My tongue is kind of coated, and I’m dehydrated from drinking nothing but wine all day. (Poor me!)

And the ice cream I eat doesn’t help. (Double poor me!) Now that I’ve hit most of the restaurants and bars I wanted to see, I’ve been subbing in pistachio gelato for lunch and drinks. I think the ladies at Los Italianos are starting to recognize me. Fortunately, today I found out that in Spain, it’s a sign of affection, and even sexiness, when someone gives your belly fat a little squeeze.

I’m about to get on the midnight bus from Granada direct to the Madrid airport. As a guidebook author, I feel irresponsible for not having known about this bus in the first place. I’d just planned on taking the expensive, inconveniently timed train to Madrid, then shelling out for a hotel, then humping our luggage across the metro system to the airport in the morning.

Fortunately, the excellent woman whose house we were staying at tipped me off in time for me to cancel both train tickets and hotel.

I am no fan of buses, but if they save me more than $150 and dragging my luggage across a whole metropolis and two subway transfers, I can live with it. Plus, it’s the plush kind of bus like they have in Mexico. Beverly and I each have our own little one-seat row by the window–we are so primed for snoozing.

Did I mention I’m tired? Today I was walking around, checking on hotels (which I had to leave till the last minute, because they were all full last week), and I felt that glazed-over, totally jaded vibe descend. “This block looks just like those other blocks…and in fact just like every other kinda-crumbly Mediterranean city I’ve ever been in….,” I thought as I trudged. Beirut? Istanbul? Athens? I was no longer charmed by various funny signs and window displays. Everything looked dusty, the plants on the balconies were drooping, and the sidewalk texture even looked the same as every other random city.

My Spanish has totally deteriorated too, in anticipation of no longer being needed. How many hotel desk clerks looked at me perplexed today, as I stumbled through my, “Hi, I’m researching a guidebook and I’d like to see a room please, if you have one available, I mean, I’m assuming you do because it’s no longer Semana Santa, boy wasn’t that a crazy week…” shtick. It was working fine yesterday. Today: hopeless.

It reminded me of my last day in Morocco, on a trip nine years ago. I woke up that morning and could just no longer speak Arabic. I got Jim totally the wrong kind of ice cream after lunch, and no coffee. By evening, Jim was reduced to doing this weird pantomime of a bobble-headed toy to a street vendor and saying “El tigre?” in order to find the one he liked, because I couldn’t remember the word for “tiger.” (Alas, I never knew how to say “bobble-head” in Arabic.)

Oh, by the way: the apartment we’ve been staying in here in Granada used to be owned by the friendly neighborhood prostitute. I feel right at home, with my name and all.

Next time I post, I will have been ham-free for maybe 24 hours. I hope I don’t get the shakes.

Spain–He Is Risen!

Now that I’m Greek Orthodox, I’m not supposed to say this, but today is Easter. And you’d think that would be a day of rest in Spain, right? I mean, teams of 40 men have been carrying immensely heavy statues through the streets nearly all day, every day for a week. There was a special 100th-anniversary-of-something procession yesterday with all of the statues. Today everyone kicks back and eats, right?

Yeah, no. Three more groups are parading today, starting at noon. Como se dice ‘overkill’?

But to be fair, even last night I was still stunned by a procession. We caught one coming up a hill, without much of a crowd around. There’s this great super-slow Doppler effect with the band, which follows behind the statue. So the music’s getting louder and louder, but if you’re around a bend you can’t really see anything. And then the music is bouncing off the walls of the buildings super-loud just as the statue, surrounded by candles, emerges from the side street.

And then, as the statue goes by, and you’re boggling at how heavy it is, the band finally emerges and it is even LOUDER. And the bass drums go by last.

I saw this effect for the first time a few nights ago, with a statue of Christ hauling the cross, surrounded by centurions with huge feathers in their helmets. When the statue emerged from the side street, with the band blaring, all we saw first was the feathers. By the time the whole statue was visible, I expected Jesus and the soldiers to be doing a big kick line routine.

On the research front, things have gotten a little easier. We’ve figured out the route to break out of our little procession island, and know better to avoid bars right on the routes, because they’re mobbed and are basically pulling tapas out of their asses. “Beer coasters? Toss ’em in the fryer! Forty more people just showed up!”

Yesterday was a good day for research–I checked a fair amount of stuff of my list, and it even felt a little easy and like I was ahead of the game.

Then I looked at my watch, and I realized I’d been walking, with Beverly tagging along behind, for ten hours straight.

We started out after our churros and chocolate–the logical thing to eat when it’s 44 degrees out. But apparently the rest of the city thought so too. I have never seen bars so frenzied, even at night. The place where we did finally get our ch-and-ch fix–an excellent rec from AV–looked like a war zone inside, with empty chocolate cups four deep and two high stacked all along the bar. So we sat outside, which was for the best, since we were wearing every layer of clothing we packed (six each), and it would’ve been too difficult to adjust to a heated room.

The chocolate was thick as pudding, and the churros actually had a little ridgy texture, which I have seen only up in northern Spain–down south here, they’re usually they’re just smooth round tubes. And they were so perfectly fried and light they were almost empty inside. We shared a table with an older Spanish couple, the only people we saw all day who were as bundled up as we were.

Later, I admit, we did stop for a fairly nice lunch. Lovely baby beans with ham, and some nice fancy mushrooms. A real live green salad. And some too-creative-sounding veal with cardamom that turned out to be good. Finished with a little dab of orange wine that the waiter, who looked like Peter Dinklage, gave me for free, because apparently it was available only by the bottle. Crazy.

And later we took a 15-minute break in a bar that went from funky-neighborhoody to totally skeevy in the time it took for the foam to settle on our beers. While I was looking in the kitchen and noticing that when the sign said “food cooked with love,” they really meant “food cooked with cigarette butts and dirty wads of paper towels,” the older regulars at the bar were replaced by strung-out hippies, one of whom was doing the junkie lean into his beer. The review I was writing in my head was quickly discarded, and I pushed my octopus tapa around, feeling bad that it had died in vain. We fled up the street and took solace in a church with a very strange collection of artifacts, none labeled.

Which reminds me–earlier in the day, we saw an honest-to-God shrunken head in another museum! Why that museum is not listed in the guidebook I cannot for the life of me imagine. I can’t wait to rectify that oversight, and type the words “shrunken head” in the manuscript! First I will have to figure out what the whole point of the museum is, though–the guided tour was in Spanish, and while I thought I understood what the guy was saying most of the time, when I strung it all together at the end for Beverly, I realized it made no sense at all.

I’m sure a million other funny things have happened, but they’ve all been beaten out of my head by those bass drums. Monday is going to be quiet, right?