Kindness of Strangers

I just mailed off the applications for our Indian visas.  Here’s how it breaks down:

Consular Fee:  $120
Outsourcing Fee:  $26
Shipping Fee:  $20
Sending package by registered mail:  $14
Seeing the Taj Mahal at dawn:  Priceless

Visas, we’ve learned, are a tricky thing.  More than half of the countries we’re visiting don’t require a visa, and most of the visas we do need can be obtained upon arrival at the airport, averaging between $15 and $25 per visa per person.  Our most expensive visa, for Chile, costs a whopping $131 per person!  The cost and complexity of visas often has a great deal to do with current foreign policy.  If the US increases visa prices for, say, Brazilian visitors, so, too, do American tourists to Brazil get squeezed.  It’s a checks and balances thing. 

Being clear on visa requirements and costs is a really important part of the planning process that’s easy to overlook.  Without doing your research, you could waste days waiting around a capital city for a visa, or worse, be denied entry after you’ve flown halfway across the world.  India was the one visa we were required to obtain in advance.  It’s good for six months from the date of issue (not the date of entry, which is an important distinction).  In order to obtain said visa, we had to send off a bundle of documents, two passport-sized photos, a credit card number, and our passports to — I kid you not — an outsourcing agency in San Francisco.  (It’s true!  We outsource to India, and India outsources to the US!) 

I was a little nervous to send along my passport, the only thing I really need for this trip that I will be embarking on in less than six weeks.  Apparently this is fairly common practice, but I still felt a little strange letting such an important document out of my possession.  It’s not unlike the ticketing agent at the airport asking if you have let your baggage out of your sight since packing:  relinquishing my passport felt illicit.  But with any luck, we should have our Indian visas in about two weeks. 
 

Figuring out accomodations is always an adventure in and of itself.  Doug Lansky, who wrote our round-the-world guide, is the person I want to be.  Through the travel philosophy espoused in the book, he comes across as breezy and fun, a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kinda guy who rolls with the punches and doesn’t let much get him down.  For example, here’s his system for choosing accomodations:  “If I’m tired out or staying a bit longer, I’ll pick a place further from the center.  If I’m just staying a day or two and feeling fresh, I’ll go for the best rated of the flea traps in the center.  If there are a few decent choices in these categories, I’ll typically go for the ones that are the easiest to get to.  But, whatever the case, I won’t spend more than five or ten minutes deciding.”  And he does this all on the bus ride into town.

I like this philosophy.  I really do.  It’s simple, pragmatic, and doesn’t waste a lot of time.  But living it is an entirely different matter.  As I’ve written here before in these pages, I am a planner who spends entirely too much time investigating my lodging options.  For the past week I’ve been tirelessly researching budget accomodations in Madrid, where we will spend all of 48 hours.  My system looks something like this:  cross-reference Trip Advisor with Lonely Planet with the hostel’s website.  Take the square root of the photos, multiplied by the top three most important features, then divide by the arc tangent of proximity to public transportation.  Double check with your gut. 

In the end I went with Hostal Alaska; the name seemed like a good omen for the start of the trip. 

Our week in Lisbon will be spent at one of five Hostelling International (HI) hostels scattered throughout the city.  For 38 Euros we will have a private room with bathroom, laundry facilities, WiFi access, and breakfast.  Neither of us has stayed at a hostel before.  We never did the backpack-through-Europe thing after college:  Maikael started graduate school and I went to work.  I feel like I’ve missed out on some pivotal cultural experience; that anyone staying in one of these places who’s over the age of 22 will be well-schooled in the ways of the hostel.  I’ve heard that hostels vary dramatically, even within a given city:  did I pick the “good one,” I ask myself?

After leaving Lisbon we’ll spend a week making our way north to Porto, where we’ll take our chances at finding accomodations as we go.  While I’m trying to channel the reassuring spirit of Doug Lansky, this plan makes me nervous.  I know we’ll find something — there’s always something.  But I hope not to repeat our experience in Sterling, Scotland, last March, where we spent what felt like hours driving over country roads looking for budget digs, while my stomach grumbled audibly (any of you who know my eating habits can imagine the scene that ensued).  When these moments happen — and I know they will — I hope Mr. Lansky whispers his infinite words of wisdom in my ear.

On Friday we called the Hotel Peninsular in Porto to reserve our room, which is where we’ll spend the last week of our time in Portugal and use it as a base to explore the northern region via day trips.  We had originally planned on staying at the hostel in town, which the Lonely Planet describes as “the crown jewel of Portugese hostels.”  Perched high on a cliff overlooking the water, this newer hostel boasts modern facilities and  sweeping vistas.  The only problem?  It’s a 4 km/30  minute bus ride from town.  In the end we booked something in the city center which, of course, I spent way too much time researching.  We didn’t have to pay in advance, though, which provides more flexibility should our plans change (the hostels have all required advanced payment thus far).  Iselda at Hotel Peninsular said we just had to call if plans changed.  We asked her if they had Internet access, something most hostels have.  “No.  But we will next week when it’s fixed.” 

Doug Lansky assures me that we will develop our own system for finding accomodations.  I know once we hit the road that we won’t have the time to thoroughly investigate options.  One of my goals for this trip has been to become a better, more flexible traveler.  I don’t think I’ll have much of a choice!

Last week my Little Sister asked me what car we would be taking around the world.  “What do you mean?” I asked.  “I mean, which of your two cars are you going to drive around the world?” she responded.  I explained that we would be leaving both of our cars parked at home, and that you couldn’t exactly drive around the world (unless, of course, you shipped your car).  “Well, then how are you going to get there?” she asked.  When I told her we were going to fly, she exclaimed, “You’re going to fly around the whole world?!” 

This, to me, didn’t seem to be any astonishing feat.  Planes have become the Greyhounds of the skies, shiny canisters that propel masses of people around the world on a daily basis.   I am, in fact, bummed that we are taking such a generic form of transportation for the majority of the trip.  Our round-the-world planning guide dedicates a whole chapter to promoting alternative forms of transportation, such as the taking a felucca down the Nile in Egypt.  When in Rome do as the Romans do, right? 

Our round-the-world tickets gets us from Albuquerque to Madrid, but so as to save one of our 20 legs, we are getting ourselves from Madrid to Portugal and back.  The question was, how would we do it?  I was eager to take the train from Madrid to Lisbon, the train being the ultimate European experience.  I imagined sipping sangria in my sleeper car, reading Don Quixote or some heady work of classic fiction, while the Spanish countryside streaked by in shades of ochre.  I would munch on churros y chocolate in the dining car, making fast friends with my fellow travelers and talking animatedly in Spanish with an unexpected degree of fluency.  This fantasy came to a grinding halt when I discovered that the train was an overnight route — common in Europe.  The landscape would be nothing but darkness, and we couldn’t afford the tickets that included meals.  A basic sleeper car without a shower would run us $170 per person. 

Next we investigated driving.  I could still have my vibrant countryside, only this time I could get out to admire Spanish hamlets and wave hello to the myriad olive farmers I would inevitably pass on the road.  The daily rental fee was only $20 — but the cost of taking a car over an international border on a one-way trip added an additional $600 to the fare. 

So, after staying two nights in Madrid, we will be on an Easy Jet flight to Lisbon on July 16 for the ridiculously low price of $50 per person.  The taxes cost more than the ticket itself.  While it’s not the romantic train experience I had always envisioned, I will be privy to another quintessential European experience:  bargain basement airfares.  There is incredible competition in this market, driving tickets prices down to nearly nothing.  Airlines such as Easy Jet and Ryan Air (whom we will fly from Porto to Madrid with) cater to the weekend traveler; as such, they gouge you on extravagent extras like checking one bag per person.  Seriously:  it will be more expensive to send our luggage than ourselves from Porto to Madrid. 

Not all trains are created equal.  After spending a week in Libson we will meander our way north up the coastline for two weeks, taking a series of inexpensive trains and busses that link most Portugese cities.  I may have my European rail experience yet. 

At least once a week someone mentions the falling dollar, rising gas prices, the tanking economy, the global food shortage, the housing crisis, or the persistent troubles with American Airlines (those mechanical problems just can’t seem to get themselves out of the news).  I’d be lying if I said it didn’t worry me.  “Could we have picked a worse time to go on this trip?” I moan, approximately once a day.  My greatest fear is that, despite our best efforts to be frugal, we’ll run out of money half way through our trip.  And then what will we do? 

I was shaken out of this doomsday thinking when a letter postmarked Anchorage, Alaska, arrived this Friday.  It was from my friend, Nikki, whom I’ve shared an 18-year correspondence with.  A fellow world traveler, she shares a lot of the same dreams that I do and always has a way of making me feel better.  She said these issues, rather than making her feel doubtful, remind her of the importance of getting out there and living life.  “These things are a reminder that our time here is precious and we should make the most of it:  sooner rather than later.”  Truer words were never spoke. 

I think of all the places I dreamed of going eight years ago, fresh out of college, when the dollar was soaring and my life had few encumberments.  What did I tell myself?  I don’t have enough money.  Europe will always be there.  There will be a better time to go in the future.  My point is, it’s always something, and most of us are very good at talking ourselves out of things.  There’s no perfect time to plan a trip like this.  If it’s not the falling dollar it’s a military coup or natural disaster somewhere.  Whenever I moan about our timing, Maikael sagely responds, “It may not be the best time for the economy, but it’s the best time for us.”  And he’s right:  I’m tired of observing life from the sidelines.  At some point each of us must take that leap into the unknown in the interest of something that matters intensely to us.  I was watching the Nicholas Cage film The Weather Man last night, a film that didn’t do terribly well at the box office, but which I found surprisingly engaging.  The main character’s father tells him, “Do you know that the harder thing to do and the right thing to do are usually the same thing? Nothing that has meaning is easy.”

And besides:  I heard that the dollar nudged upward last week. 

As I’ve written here before, one of the most common questions we receive is, “How will you pack for your trip?” Other than responding, “Very carefully,” I don’t have a good answer.  Besides the occasional nightmare or two about the packing process, I’ve somehow managed to put off thinking about it.  Until now.  The trip is less than ten weeks away, and unless I want to buy everything in the panicked last days before the trip, I realized that I better start buying some things.  But where to start? 

I made the decision to stay focused by shopping by category; I started with pants.  Why pants?  Pants, for me, are the most difficult thing to purchase, so I figured I’d better tackle this monster while I’ve got the energy to do so.  Pants are also the foundation of any wardrobe — with pants purchased, I can more easily focus on tops and shoes.  But the most compelling reason  is that I happened to be at Dillard’s one recent Friday afternoon and saw a lot of pants that looked good, so I bought ‘em. 

All of the RTW books and blogs seem to have an opinion about pants/bottoms.  The extremists advise bringing only a pair or two.  Others get downright daring by packing five pairs of pants/shorts AND two skirts.  But the biggest point of contention seems to be the inclusion of jeans.  Some swear by them:  they are versatile, easy to dress up or dress down.  Others swear they are the devil incarnate:  they weight a ton and take forever to dry.  I realized I would have to wade through the differing opinions and take a leap by making some decisions of my own, based on where I’d be traveling and my own personal preferences.  Everyone seems to agree that choosing light, neutral-colored bottoms that can serve a variety of functions is key.  Based on that, here’s how my packing list shook out:

~ One pair long, lightweight, tan pants (light enough to wear in tropical climates; long enough to wear when it’s cold; the tailoring is smart enough to wear in cities, but casual enough so as not to look out of place at the beach)

~ One pair calf-length capris in grey (neutral color that will blend easily with most shirts/shoes; light enough to wear in a variety of climates, with secure pockets for storing money)

~ One pair knee-length shorts in beige (sleek enough styling that I don’t look like I’m going on a safari; easy to dress up or dress down, depending on circumstances; modest enough for conservative countries, cute enough for the beach)

~ One black, flouncy skirt (can easily take me from a day at the beach to a night on the town — who knows how many of those there will be)

The jury is still out on bringing jeans.  If I can find a pair that’s light enough, I might make a concession.  But with the pants taken care of I made my first shoe purchase with an awesome pair of black Merrell’s.  These shoes are great because they feel like you’re walking on air, but the styling can easily take you from city to trail.  A pair of brown Sketchers and Chaco flip-flops and that category will be crossed off, too!

Last week I got carded, and it had nothing to do with the fact that I look like I’m 18-years-old.  We recently received our membership cards for the International Association for Medical Assistance to Travellers, a nonprofit organization that provides a network of doctors for travelers around the world.  Need an English-speaking doctor and not sure where to go?  Your donation provides you a directory of Western-trained medical providers around the world with a prescribed fee schedule.  So no worries about language barriers, questionable facilities, or surprise charges:  IAMAT has done the leg work for you.  We found out about this great organization through our friends at the New Mexico Travel Health clinic.  Hopefully we won’t have to use this service during our travels, but the chances are good that we will.  it’s nice to know we have a plan in place when the only thing on our mind is, “Get me to a doctor — NOW!”