Category: Travel Journal (Page 1 of 5)

Our World Traveling journalist, Mr. R.F. Burton got pretty real about Kiev in this little missive.  Open your mind and eyes and read on…..Kiev – Entertainment for Men!

If the publishers of Maxim magazine designed a city, it would be Kiev. Kiev is a place almost exclusively for men. Now you might think I am simply talking about the over the top abundance of beautiful, Slavic women, I am, but that is not where it stops.

The architecture is solid and powerful, including one university painted entirely blood red; hotel parking lots are stuffed with Ferraris, Lamborghinis, and Hummers; large, stalwart men with ear plugs and sunglasses stand in doorways for no apparent reason; and the food is hardy with thick soups, stews and carbohydrate stuffed portions. Even going to church is an indurance test as the orthodox congregations are required to endure three hour services… standing.

Kiev was a destination of choice as I had to make sure that I had covered my bases with my company. This meant including an Eastern European country in my initial tour.  

I arrived clueless. I had never to been to this part of the world and, to tell the truth, had never really thought much about going. Harsh winters, harsh terrain, and harsh people with deep warbling accents were the pictures in my mind. Not exactly vacation destination one would typically choose. The fact that I grew up as a military brat during the Cold War meant that my view of the former USSR was tainted by James Bond villains and steroid popping female shot putters. What I experienced did change my view, but perhaps not for the better.

This place is one of many where the greatest challenges of capitalism are visible in every shape and form. Kiev is a playground built for a few rich, rich, people. In this city, the few rule makers who have ultimate control over many poor people. It is a place where political connections determine success or failure, where money is worshipped, and where many have lost the will to work. Instead, they spend their time finding ways to infiltrate that aforementioned world of the very wealthy through whatever means.

This discription is not mine but that of my local guide. She is serious business woman who I am pretty sure can take me in a fight, and she presented her views unapologetically.  As she showed me around the city and pointed out its monuments with great pride, she colored her commentary with tragic accounts of historical brutality while cursing the government corruption and the deteriorating economic situation of today. She derided the gold digging working girls sitting at cafes waiting impatiently for their next text message, and she expressed a intense desire to get the hell out of Kiev. Suffice it to say, she left an impression.

While her account of Kiev may sound brash; don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed it immensely. My hotel, the Premier Palace, was gorgeous and central to everything.  With its classic 19^th century design, a roof top beer garden and a (way expensive) strip club built in on the eight floor; well, let’s just say it didn’t’ suck.

I was taken aback by the beautiful, un-restored orthodox Churches and a unique Cold War outdoor museum where Soviet tanks had been turned into a child’s playground. I enjoyed the many street musicians and the beautiful part where “Big Mamma,” a Soviet era anti-Statue of Liberty, stood warning off potential invaders rather than beckoning the tired and huddled masses.

I must admit, even as tourist, I did get the cynicism of the place. Take the hotel. If one sits in the lobby for any period of time, you are likely to see numerous red faced, middle aged millionaires waiting with arms full of flowers for their twenty-something, supermodel girlfriends.  All around is a clear sense that you are being watched because you are.  Staff man every doorway, several at a time. When you steps out of the elevator they all turn to see who you are and where you are going. I am sure this to make sure you receive proper, 5-star service, but it’s still a bit creepy.

During my trip, I had a meeting with a woman who was a major executive at a local company and a clearly very tough business woman. However, when she greeted me in the hotel bar, she was wearing what amounted to a short, sexy ballerina like costume and high, above the knee, black boots that cut away as sandals at the foot. It is difficult to imagine the accumulation of influences that brought this person to dress in this adolescent dominatrix style for a business meeting, but, in a way she was emblematic of the city of Kiev.

Is Kiev a place on the rise or on the way down? It is hard to say. Kiev has become a destination for European men on holiday similar to Bangkok in Asia yet with a surreptitious, darker edge. It is safe to move about and even elegant in some areas, but an strange underbelly lingers –  a cold practicality coupled with a sense of entitlement.

Truth be told, I enjoyed my time in Kiev and achieved a greater understanding of this part of the world, eyes wide open.  As for the entertainment value…I’ll let you be the judge.

By R.F. Burton

I lived in London for a time when I was in College serving an internship for the European Parliamentary office, which, as you may have guessed, greatly contributed to my interest in global politics and business.  In a way, this trip brought me full-circle since the secondary headquarters of the company I work for is in London; however, this stay in the great city would be short, sweet, and mostly void of youthful debauchery.

 I arrived from Paris on the Eurostar. This particular train travels like a plane without the stress of take-offs and landings.  Unfortunately, the experience is not much better otherwise. I was still jammed in a tiny seat, my neighbor still fell asleep, trapping me with a full bladder, and the food was still marginal. On the other hand, it only took a few hours, getting on and off was much easier, and it delivered me safely into the middle of London at Kings Cross, which definitely beats landing at Heathrow.  Over all, I recommend the ride.  Just watch that you do not end up in backward facing seat. It sucked in the back of the family station wagon, and it still sucks now.

As I mentioned, I lived in London when I was a student, and through a random turn of events, I served an internship for the European Parliamentary office. I recently found my old boss from twenty years ago (thank you, internet!). I wanted to meet her again and thank her for helping me through those formative years, but thought it unlikely since she has earned the title of Baroness, and is currently a member of the House of Lords. I sent her an email fully expecting it to get lost or ignored.  Surprisingly, not only did I get a response, but I was invited to tea at Parliament.

The day was terribly humid and rainy. I was in a suit because I was conducting interviews all day. Luckily, I had my trusty Paris umbrella this time. Sadly, it folded at just the worst time, and I got drenched…again.

Looking impossibly fresh (read sarcasm), I proceeded through a security screening and was met at the door by the Baroness. She is the epitome of nobility: strong jaw, mumbles a bit when she talks to make you listen more intently, and very attractive in an intellectually intimidating way. She led me through the halls briskly, ignoring the history surrounding us. Despite its gothic styling, master’s artwork, libraries of books, architectural achievements, and mass of tourists lined up out the doors; Parliament is not a museum, but a working building. I had a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that this building was the source of so many of the monumental decisions in western history, and yet people bounce around in it like it is any other office building, nearly oblivious of the historical ghosts.

When we arrived at our destination, I was surprised to find myself in a pub. Save for the large paintings of Parliamentary scenes, it was like any other pub in London.  We sat near a window that opened to a view of the Thames, and then she ordered not tea, but coffee.  I did the same, and we chatted like old acquaintances meeting in the corner tavern.

We parted and I left through the old building where lines of tourists were waiting to get in. The Baroness spoke of meeting for dinner when I bring my family to London, but whether that pans out or not, it was great to reconnect. As I walked by all the tourists, I felt lucky that I got a real glimpse of the inner workings of the institution.  That’s not a souvenir you can get in a gift shop.

A few days later, I was treated to an entirely different British social experience; a party with Virgin Atlantic airlines. Now, if you pay attention to the airline industry, you already understand what might be cool about this. Briefly, Virgin is the airline started by Sir Richard Branson, the billionaire known for a quite adventurous lifestyle, so, perhaps by design; Virgin is probably the least politically correct organization this side of Playboy. The party was to celebrate the success of the sales team and partners. Naturally, a Miami, salsa theme came into play. I typically leave my Miami-wear at home on business trips, but I did have a salmon colored shirt. It quickly became clear that no one else had contemplated wardrobe as I had. In fact, most were still in business clothes. At least I was dry this time?

Virgin parties are a bit like Vegas, so I will not reveal all that went on, but Floriditas in Soho turned out to be the perfect party setting. Just beyond the walls of Floridita’s, transvestites hung out on the street, and a bevy of night clubs, strip clubs, and sex shops called to party-goers looking to take it to the next level.

I wasn’t one of the party-goers looking for “the best of Soho.” I left Floridita’s around 1am and walked back to my hotel. Walking through this part of London at night is a special experience. From seedy strip clubs to high-end theaters and restaurants, it is an eclectic mix of ancient architecture and modern frivolity… sort of like Parliament, I guess.

Needless to say, I was exhausted the next morning when I woke at 6am for a day that included more interviews and a mad-dash to Heathrow to catch a plane to Lisbon.  It has been a crazy couple of weeks, and I am hoping for a quiet weekend in the Portuguese capital.

Join R.F. Burton on his next stop during his 60-country journey around the world!

Next up: Portugal

R.F. Burton’s third stop in a 60 country journey around the world.

Paris: It’s been called the city of lights, love, and romance by countless travelers who have experienced its magnificence, and while I can’t argue that it’s a magical place, at the end of the day, it’s still a city—crowded, inconvenient, and offline at the most inopportune times.

Due to events in Paris the week I arrived, the hotels downtown were either full or ridiculously expensive.  Surprisingly, the most acceptable rate I could find within commuting distance was at the Trianon Palace Hotel in Versailles (a paltry 384 euros per night), although staying there meant a trek from Charles de Gaulle airport at the most northeastern point of the rail line to the most southwestern point.  

A taxi cost 175 euros, so that was not an option. Thankfully, Paris has a pretty robust public transportation system, so for a meager 6 euros, I could buy a rail pass and take the RER B line to St.  Michel Notre Dame, then take the RER C to Versailles.  Simple and inexpensive, right? If only.

I thought I had misunderstood the route map when the train stopped short of my intended destination, but as it turned out, I was a victim of one of Paris’ regular labor strikes, and the line was closed. It was time for Plan B—the metro line. I could feel my claustrophobic anxiety building; it seemed that the metro line had become “Plan B” for everyone. People were waiting four train loads deep and nobody could get on because nobody was getting off.

By now I was desperate and decided to fork-over the cash for a cab (Plan C). Again, my plans were foiled by a taxi-line that wasn’t budging either. It was 9pm and the last train left for Versailles at 10pm. I set out to find a better way.

My intent with “Plan D” was to walk the distance to St. Michel station, and catch the 10pm train. I could only hope that the scene at that station would be different. After an hour of wandering the labyrinthine streets, I finally managed to signal a taxi to stop. The driver assured me that I would not be able to get a train to Versailles tonight even if I made it to the station on time due to the strike. I hopped in and asked him to take me to my hotel. So much for the robust Parisian public transportation system.

Just as things were looking better, and I was satisfied that I’d be in bed soon, the driver pulled over in the right traffic lane, snapped on his hazard lights, and jumped out of the car and over the barrier separating the road from a high wall. Cars behind us slammed on their brakes to avoid the stopped taxi where I was now sitting alone. When I emerged from the car (as to avoid severe injury or death), the driver informed me that the car’s transmission had given out. We waited for about an hour for another taxi to come pick us up. The new driver connected a tow line, and we all set off for Versailles.

Trianon Palace Hotel

Finally, I arrived at my hotel, exhausted, but somewhat relieved. My 384 euros had landed me a conference center room in an annex that looked like it was built by an architect who specialized in building 1950’s high schools, and had housed every smoker who visited Versailles since. I decided to overlook the lack of strawberries, champagne, and terry cloth robes and get some sleep.

Waking up next door to the Palace of Versailles left me optimistic and ready to take on my appointments in Paris proper. Then it started raining. By the time I arrived in our offices near the Opera, I was soaked through, but still pretty optimistic. I met all of my colleagues who did their best to hold back their laughter at the large, wet American who was supposed to be an executive, but looked more like something that had crawled out of a drain. However,  I think they changed their minds when I offered to take them all out for lunch. Funny how that works.

Things really took a turn for the better when I was invited to dinner by some very good friends who live outside of Paris. It was refreshing to be greeted by the smiling face of my friend as I stepped off the train. He showed me around the grounds of Chateau St. Germaine, including the house, now a hotel, where Louis XIV was born. Our time there was wonderful but brief, as he was illegally parked.

Chateau St. Germaine En Lay

 My friends live in a small village on the cusp of rural France. The houses are old stone, farmhouse-style, and the streets snake and wind in a manner that can only be rationalized by centuries of slow, unplanned expansion.

The house where Louis XIV was born (in St. Germain en Lay)

Walking after dinner in rural France during the last hour of sun light is a once-in-a- lifetime experience. The quiet is deafening, every turn reveals another quaint cliché you hope to discover in a French provincial village, and the rolling hills look like the subjects of an impressionistic painting. We came to small pool where village women used to bring their laundry. We walked a trail through field of wheat and barley and past a World War I era aerodrome. When we turned near the top of the hill, in the final moments of sunlight, the village was visible on the next hillside.  There were no street lights, no neon, and no satellite dishes to spoil the view.  A few headlights combined with the warm glow from the windows, and the lit spire of a chapel enabling us to see outlines of the village in the dusk. We looked on for a while breathing in the fragrance of the fields, sipping wine, and taking about how lucky we were to be alive on such an evening. I thought that there could not be a more satisfying moment on my trip to Paris. The next morning, I would be proven wrong, again.

The Village of St. Germaine En Lay

Next Stop: Paris Part Deux

By RF Burton

So I am on a plane to Stockholm, which will be the second stop on a journey that will take me to almost 60 countries. You see, I recently got a job with a company that has offices around the world and part of my gig is to get to know them all. This is an exceptional opportunity that has its challenges, not the least of which is a lot of time away from family, yet I can’t help but believe this is one of those lifetime opportunities that you can’t pass up. I am looking forward to sharing the fun, non-business parts with you. So let’s back up to my first stop – Mexico City.

I chose to start in Mexico because it was “geographically desirable” (a.k.a reasonably close to my point of departure,) but still culturally very different from the US. I knew I could get a feel for the challenges of international operations. Upon my arrival, I was greeted by our office manager and a tour guide, Sergio Perez.

Sergio was a top-notch guide. He was worldly and fluent in both English and French. He seemed to know everything about Mexico City, though he conceded that if he didn’t know the particulars of something he could easily “make up a good story.”

Massive Organ at the Catedral Nacional

Our first stop was Zocalo or Plaza de la Constitucion at the heart of the city. The Plaza is built on top of the ancient Aztec city now under excavation. While it doesn’t look like much, you can get a glimmer of the old structures and carvings in a corner of the plaza.

I arrived on a Sunday so many popular attractions like the Palacio Nacional were closed, but we did get to tour the Catedral Nacional which actually deserves a full day of tour on its own.

The Catedral Nacional

I love cathedrals. They’re a contradiction of sorts– public and yet sacred and they all come with tons of legends. My favorite tale from this one was the story of the “poison crucifix”. Supposedly, a bishop had the habit of kissing the feet of a Jesus on the crucifix when he arrived each day. One day, an enemy of the bishop’s placed poison on the feet of the statue in and effort to off the bishop. When the bishop knelt at the feet of the statue, the statue came to life and raised his feet. While this action saved the bishop from the deadly kiss, the poison penetrated the white marble of the crucifix turning it black. Whether this account is legend or fact, I’ll leave to your personal beliefs; but either way, it’s a wonderful explanation for the statue’s unique ebony appearance.

The Palacio Nacional

While the the opportunity to tour the city was limited, the food was abundant. Unfortunately, Mexico City is too massive and confusing for me to give you precise directions to the restaurants. Add to that the fact that we needed a driver who, apparently, was formerly army and our protection, and I decided it was best to keep my head down and not ask too many questions.

Business meetings take place over meals in Mexico City and I was treated to the “best of.” The first night, we went to a Mexican fusion restaurant, Pujol, in the Polanco area, where we enjoyed an eight course tasting menu. We drank Don Julio Reposado with a tomato juice taster, so the incredible spread was more like an incredible blur. You know what they say; “One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.” That probably explains why the highlight for me was the first dish. It came in a large clay pot filled with corn husks for flavor. Inside, baby corn on sticks were served in a coffee-based sauce. I also remember liking a mushroom dish covered in mole. Luckily, my host grabbed the bill because I think it was beyond my bank account.

The next evening we had another “business meeting” at a true Mexico City establishment, Hacienda de los Morales. This is a gorgeous place that takes you directly to colonial Mexico. Built in the 16^th century, it is like stepping out of the city into a different world. Like the architecture, the food was traditional. I had pork medallions in a guacamole sauce and a local merlot, and since it is taboo to talk business at these introductory business meals, we had some good conversation as well.

Experiencing this taste of the real Mexico was quite an eye-opener. The people I met were sophisticated, intelligent and very civilized in their approach to business.

Next Stop: Stockholm, Sweden

by Ray Pearson

This Stop: The Copper Queen Hotel, Bisbee, AZ

I love road tripping and a recent drive from Flagstaff to Bisbee reaffirmed my nomadic yearnings. Like a rolling postcard from the 1950’s, the 450 miles from Northern to Southeastern Arizona, was fueled by the soundtrack I designed to maintain the illusion of simpler times.

Tourist attractions ranging from bustling and prosperous to lonely and deserted dotted the I-10. Small towns with evocative names like Two Guns, Punkin Center, Snowflake, and Tonto Basin give way to magnificent scenery of the Salt River Canyon cutting through the Apache Mountains, as I continued southward.

Comfort and Kitsch: Cement Teepees

After several hours on the road experiencing the diverse landscape of Arizona, I arrived in Bisbee. This historic mining town saw its heyday in the early 1900s when it was the largest city between St. Louis and San Francisco. Today, it is a popular pit-stop for travelers because it is the southern-most mile-high city in the United States, and only about eleven miles from the Mexican border.

Clouds Outside of Douglas, AZ

My room at the Copper Queen Hotel was furnished with antiques, had a nice view of the downtown area, but unfortunately, had a distinct cigar smoke odor. An avid non-smoker, I requested a change of room and was relocated to The John Wayne Room where the actor always stayed whenever he was in the area for filming. As I waited for dinner, I had the chance to chat with the staff and learned that ghosts inhabit the Copper Queen. One of them that they mentioned was “Howard”, an older, tall, bearded gentleman with longish hair,  and is sometimes seen wearing a black cape and dapper top hat. Imagine the eerie feeling that washed over me when I found out that he is usually accompanied by a strong cigar smoke smell! This tidbit was certainly a “dear diary” moment!

The John Wayne Room

The Ghosts of the Copper Queen Hotel is a collection of paranormal experiences by guests of the hotel spanning nearly a decade, from 1999 through 2008. I bought a copy of the book and scanned it before dinner. I learned there are two other ghosts frequently spotted wandering the halls of the hotel: a young boy, thought to have drowned in a nearby river, and a “working girl” that killed herself after being spurned by a regular customer. Surely it wasn’t the best pre-meal reading I could have done, but it was certainly entertaining.

Finally, it was time to see what wonderful bites the Copper Queen had to offer. I ordered a superbly grilled rib-eye steak, which was as juicy as gossip. The accompanying port wine reduction and mushrooms added to the succulence of the dish. The reduction was complex and flavorful—a clear indication of the high quality of the Port, while the mushrooms complimented the meat with their mellow earthiness. I was so impressed with my entrée that I had to see a dessert menu.  The bread pudding topped with a dusting of brown sugar, caramel sauce, and a full-bodied raspberry reduction caught my eye and pleased my palate.

A short walk around the steep streets of Bisbee put me in the right state for a solid night’s sleep in preparation for tomorrow’s tour of the Queen Mine. Of course, I figured one last stop at the hotel saloon couldn’t hurt either, so I bellied up to the bar for a little historical gossip and a night-cap. The discussion turned to the significance of the large painting over the bar. As it turned out, what I assumed was off-the-shelf saloon art, was actually a century-old, nearly life size, portrait of Lillie Langtry. The British stage-actress was popular around the turn of the century, when the Copper Queen was built, and legend (such a nicer word than gossip) has it that in addition to being the love interest of Edward, Prince of Wales, later to be King Edward VII, she was the lady love of Judge Roy Bean. Although they never met, the Judge named not only his saloon, but the town of Langtry, TX in her honor.

The Copper Queen Hotel Saloon

From the remarkably well-stocked bar, I chose to end a wonderful day with a couple of gin and tonics, in honor of Lillie Langtry. Here’s to you, Lillie.

Please join me at the next stop: San Antonio, Texas.

About Ray

Ray is a nationally recognized single malt Scotch expert. He recently retired after 16 years within the spirits industry, including four as Glenfiddich U.S. Ambassador. Ray currently presents educational whisky seminars and tastings for corporate events, destination management companies, and national whisky shows. He is a photographer and member of the International Food, Wine & Travel Writers Association.

For more articles from Ray, you can visit his blog:

whiskymeister.wordpress.com

And of course check out all of his Whisky 101 articles right here at intotheSoup.com.

by Steven Shalowitz

Before, during and after my sight-seeing adventures in Aleppo, my guide, Maan, made sure I indulged in numerous sweet surprises, especially after visits to places like the Baron Hotel, a musty vestige of the city’s past, where Agatha Christie reportedly wrote parts of Murder on the Orient Express. Allepian specialties like Mamounieh–semolina sweetened with sugar and honey, topped with a dollop of soft sweet cheese, and drizzled with crushed pistachios and cinnamon was the type of treasure I was seeking. I once encountered this popular breakfast dish served with a side of savory string cheese to cut some sugar; it certainly made me rethink my morning oatmeal ritual.

Mammounieh

Then there was the baklava – a must have in Aleppo.  There are tremendous variations of this bite-sized treat; some were cigar-shaped and stuffed with nuts, while others took the shape of small crowns or birds’ nests with pistachios in the center.  However it shapes up, Baklava will always be one of my favorites.

“Bird’s Nest” Baklava

To wash it all down, street vendors supplied us with Sahlab, which is warm milk boiled with a thickening agent from orchid bulbs, and topped with a dash of cinnamon. Drinking milk in Aleppo seemed fitting since some argue the city’s name is wound in dairy lore. The Arabic name for Aleppo is Halab, and for milk, Haleeb. Some legends suggest that the city’s name is derived from Biblical Abraham who milked his cows in present-day Aleppo during his sojourn through the region.

Sahlab

As we nibbled our way through the vast Aleppo souk, sampling colorful nougats, pistachios, and candied almonds, we were drawn in by shopkeepers for glasses of ‘hospitality tea’ and Turkish coffee served by men dashing through with loaded trays of these hot beverages.   These pit-stops were as much about resting our tired feet as they were about hearing the “temptation price” for items like aged olive oil soap (an Allepian specialty) and other “new antique” chochkies. Of course, cross-cultural exchanges ensued as well.  One of the more memorable was with a 20-something fabric-seller who, between puffs of his nargilah (water pipe), and in a perfect American twang, told me how much he enjoys watching pirated Western films and loves Judge Judy “coz she’s a bitch”.

Coffee Seller in Aleppo Souk

After my stay in Aleppo I stopped at sweet shops throughout Syria to help propel me through the archeological sites of Apamea, Ugarit, Palmyra, Bosra, the city of Hama with its enormous old wooden water wheels, the imposing Crusader Castle of Krak des Chevaliers, and finally, Damascus, where Syrian hospitality was in full display, much to the detriment of my waistline.

On one occasion, I struck up a conversation with an IT specialist who wanted to practice his English on a microbus and insisted on treating me to ice cream at Bakdash, a Damascus institution in the heart of the Souq Al-Hamidiyya. Beneath the ubiquitous photo of the bearded Hezbollah leader Hassan Nasrallah, the server scooped up the café’s signature gummy-textured ice cream, rolled the vanilla wad in sliced pistachios, and served it with a smile.

Ice Cream in Bakdash

As my trip wound down, I realized that while the real Promised Land was just across the Golan Heights, I seemed to have found my own land of Milk & Honey, right here in Syria.

Back in New York, I can sample a variety of sweets like those enjoyed during my trip, thanks to the large Syrian contingent that now calls Brooklyn home and I plan to do just that. But first, I need to visit my dentist.

Halawat Al-Jibn

To see Steven’s blog, visit:  www.tastewithyoureyes.com.

Write to Steven at:  steven@stevenshalowitz.com