Vechea Lume

Stare Miasto. Remember I didn't take any of these. But trust me I was there.

I was laying in the back row of the nave in St. Anne's church at about 7:15 AM on Wednesday morning. Not minutes after I arrived I got out of my taxi it began to rain. Not tolerable summer rain. Blustery Polish rain. I didn't have an umbrella, anywhere to buy one, or anywhere to go. Things in Old Town don't pick up until around 1. So I tuckered down the side of the road and slid into the first church I passed, which happened to be one of the most beautiful I've ever seen. I dropped my bag in the empty nave and sat in the corner by the tomb of a 15th century Polish knight. In the gallery above/behind me they were tuning the organ, meditatively climbing the deeply resonant notes, so thick that the whole room was wet with sound. The gold leaf was trembling.
This is how I arrived in Warsaw.

They let me catnap in St. Anne's for an hour or so until the rain stopped. I dropped a few zloty in their indulgences box and went out to do what I do. Unfortunately the rain caught me again, and I ducked into the ramparts of the old Barbican wall, where I waited it out with the ravens. It was eerie how few people were around, but I think the environment thus far really catered to my romantic imaginings of how Warsaw always is. Being able to walk through Old Town (Stare Miasto) is the result of a pretty impressive feat. Warsaw had it's ass removed and handed to it during WWII, as it's been often related to me. I think Eisenhower said that in all the destroyed towns he'd seen in his days, he had never seen one so destroyed as Warsaw. That was in 1944. By the late sixties, Stare Miasto had been completely rebuiIt to the exact likeness of it's previously-annihilated self. I was impressed.

Old Old Town

New Old Town. Pretty good, right? Probably took a lot of spit and a few tons of pierogi.

So I walked around Old Town a little more, and after finally conceding that there would be nothing to do here for the next few hours, I headed towards 55 Ul. Sienna.

When I reached 55 Ul. Sienna, I was standing in front of a apartment block in modern, downtown Warsaw. Unfortunately, what I was looking for was not right on the street, as I had expected, and it took a little curious searching to figure out where they were hiding it. I walked down a small corridor through the building to a courtyard. There were kids playing soccer, but they weren't surprised that some random dude walked into their yard. There it was on the left, the last remaining section of the Jewish ghetto wall. I was thoroughly chilled by approaching it. Pieces were removed, chunks broken off the top, candles wedged into chinks in the brick. There were no monuments or benches or signs of large crowds visiting this site. Only a plaque indicating that this was the furthest corner of the former ghetto. I don't know if anybody has ever taken note of how strong a presence ruined walls play in Jewish veneration. Sometimes it seems like they're all we have. We build them and someone destroys them, or someone builds them and someone else destroys them. Either way, we are a nation of wallflowers.
I recited a broken mourner's kaddish and left.

At this point I was hungry as hell. I went back to Old Town to a Polish brasserie called Podwale Piwna Kompania and ate my weight in saurkraut and meats. After two steins of beer and three pounds of kielbasa still on my plate, I burped for the check, and they brought me a shot of cherry liquor. You know they were very nice, but I think they were testing me. One of the waitresses was carrying a mop.

Downtown Warsaw

The rest of my afternoon, and my last day in Europe, I spent careening down the little streets of Warsaw, drunk on wurst and good times. I wasn't feeling any of the stresses I had undergone earlier in the trip. Days alone in Eastern (well, Central this time) Europe were old hat now, and I felt an extreme sense of comfort just walking around with my backpack companion. The sun came out, and I stretched out on a stone bench in market square and squinted to see a horse and carriage trot by. While I drifted off, I thought about my past weeks. One thing I did remember is why I felt so bad about leaving Israel, and that I had never finished my commentary on here about that.
Although America is my home, and my loved ones and personal history and many of my roots are laid down here (yes, I made it back), I do not feel like America was a country founded for me. It formed on the backs of people who believed in freedom and revolution and open spirituality. It was a country made for the people of the world. But Israel was made for my people. It was made almost in the same way, for the same bases, and on similar universal principles. But when I'm lost in the masses of the United States, where everyone is trying to be somebody and get ahead and do less to make more and cut corners, Israel maintains composure, and it remembers me. Not to take it too far with the metaphors, but if I had a homeland to return to, Israel would be it. I guess that's why it was hard to leave.

Anyways, my trip is over. I won't make a big deal out of it and make any bold, sweeping statements about the true meaning of it and how it changed my life and all that crap. It sure was wonderful, and I'm glad I did it. I know I was big on romanticism and significance and stuff like that before I left. Not that I no longer am, but laying it on thick is only going to lead you to a couple brisk slaps in the face, when you realize that your imagination does not manifest into your experience. But it's hard not to build it up when you go on a trip like this. Everyone should take at least one trip by themselves. It's one of the only ways the average person can experience the true sensations of adventure. When you only have yourself to rely on, you realize how much weight you can actually carry, and how light you really are. Anyways, that's all for now.

Thanks

Z

The view from my window.

First off, the picture above is the last of mine that you will see. Unfortunately, the battery in my camera is dead, and I left half the charger in Israel. Genius. I'll probably steal pictures from the internet.

Before about a year ago, I had very few, uneducated opinions about Romania, probably founded on nothing. Though I adore world cultures, especially in Eastern Europe, I really didn't know too much about anything going on here, aside from the vampiric legends that trickle into western culture. And I think it will be safe to say that the average American reading this doesn't know much more than I did. This is kind of sad, seeing as how just in my lifetime, several historically epic events have occurred in this city, and many serious civil problems still remain unsettled in Romania and unnoticed in the West. I became fascinated, perhaps linked, to Romania when I began percolating an idea for a film set here, centered around the formerly rampant population of homeless children in Bucharest. After over a year of slow but steady research, I decided I would not be doing my project justice if I did not visit, at least for a short while, before I began working on a first draft. I surely didn't know what I was getting myself into, or what I expected to find here. But, much like my ethos in Kiev, I figured a solid immersion experience might do my creative mind good.

I'm not going to bore you with all the historical implications that have made Bucharest what it is today, that is, a gorgeous city with serious issues. But just a few anecdotes won't kill you. Bucharest is like a beautiful woman scourged with wounds that won't heal properly. It flourished as a cultured, well respected capital for years since the 15th century. But, much like the rest of Eastern Europe, social evolution does not always bear edible fruit, and things tend to fall apart. From 1955 to 1989 Romania was a Communist state, conceived and corrupted by Nicolae Ceauşescu, one of the supreme f-ckheads of the 20th century. He shattered the possibility of Romania evolving with the rest of Europe with unquestionable rule and delusions of grandeur. He was finally ousted in the Revolution of 1989, beginning the country's healing process, though not without scar tissue.

During my taxi ride into the city on Sunday, I asked my driver how life has changed since '89. He told me "Life of rich people is better. Life of poor people, me, is actually worse." He went on to say that while he wouldn't want things to go back to the way they were, he had a better life then. Communism was a system engineered for the working class people, and though I always knew this, I never would have assumed that people would still prefer it. But it makes sense. This driver was also very informative on all the best massage parlors in Bucharest, although the information was uninvited.

I'm staying at the Rembrandt Hotel, which is really super-great (tell your friends), and I was greeted in my room with a bottle of wine and a love note. It has really been a comfortable safe house in an often uncomfortable city. It's in the central historic district of Lipscani, one of the only neighborhoods not filled with soviet-era apartment compounds. This lovely area, full of baroque architecture and sexy churches, was my first impression of the city. But the next day I, unfortunately, had to spoil this image. I went around to some of the poorer, less traversed (at least by tourists) regions of the city, to look for the remnants of the homeless population of children. I started at Piata Victoriei, and went to the train station and around the derelict neighborhood of Griviţa. The children I had hoped to find are almost entirely gone. This arouses mixed feelings in me, because I had hoped to meet them and at least attempt to interact, but this means that the problem of street children is being definitively addressed, which is the most important thing. I did, however, encounter a handful of homeless people in these areas. I really did not want to seem as though I was making a spectacle of them by taking pictures, so I resolved to take advantage of my zoom lens. A decrepit little man, with an aurolac bag in hand, approached me and told me to take pictures of him. I did so, and he posed like a superhero. After a couple snaps a woman from the store behind me came out and pushed my camera down, scolding me and making a scene. She told me that people seeing this man is not good for Romania, and to take pictures of ordinary Romanians. I was complacent, and put away my camera, but I told her that this man is an ordinary Romanian. I realized that these people are very image sensitive. They don't want to feel like a side-show nation, and are working very hard to get out of the gutter of Europe. In the future I will be more heedful of this sensitivity, but it's not going to stop what I want to accomplish.
I ate bear ragout for lunch. It was delicious. I really don't want to know where they got the bear from, though.

At night Bucharest becomes a different city. I was thoroughly sketched out by some of the things I saw and felt it best to stick to Lipscani after 10 from now on. Packs of wild dogs run amok, terrorizing pedestrians and cafe patrons. After seeing them nearly attack a man with a McDonalds bag, I armed myself with a stick for my walk home. The streets, even the main avenues, are barely lit, so it's really hard to tell where the persistent zoo smells are coming from, or who/what is laying and on the stoops and sidewalks. On a shortcut back to my hotel, I passed a ringing pay phone in a dark alley. However you imagine these things, that's close to how it was. Despite the crude environment, I only encountered one potentially dangerous situation. While walking on Unirii Boulevard, a really sketchy looking guy (I think he was one of the sources of zoo smell) came up to me and began asking me all sorts of questions. He basically told me that every preconceived notion I had about how to survive in Bucharest was wrong, and acted very surprised when I didn't hear about any of the "important information" he was referring to. He made up an Orthodox holiday that was happening that day, and told me I needed to arrange for a bus to take me to the airport because everything was shutting down in an hour. He told me about another more valuable Romanian currency called the RON, which I knew was an abbreviation for the one and only Lei. He told me that I was standing in the middle of one of the most dangerous areas of the city, when it was full of average looking people. He told me would lead me to a tourist info kiosk around the corner where they would help me. I guess I have an innocent face, but you know, it's not hard to smell imminent armed robbery when it reeks of false promises and goat piss.

I visited the Museum of the Romanian Peasant, after hearing it was the best museum in the city, and one of the best in Europe. It's a good thing it was free, because there was very little English and farming equipment isn't really my thing. But Bucharest isn't exactly knee deep in the tourist industry, so I figure they're doing their best.

I am leaving at 2:00 AM for Warsaw, which will be my final destination before my return to New York, so this will be my last post before I'm back in the states. But I will do a final post then. Bucharest, with all it's faults, has the good soul of a city that knows it will see better days. I'm really enjoying this place, and two days was surely not enough.

Z

Le Bleu Mosque

Funny that I mentioned "hopefully having internet" once I got to Bucharest, because not long after I arrived, the internet at my otherwise lovely hotel kicked it. But, it has since returned, as you can see.
So, I arrived in Istanbul at around 7:30 in the morning, which is way too early to be anywhere. It took about an hour and a half to get out of the airport because they have a funny visa system at Atäturk. You need to buy one before you go through passport control, only you need to pay with dollars or euros, and I only had shekels at the time. The kicker is that you need to get through passport control to get to an exchange. Turkish trickery. They actually ended up letting me get through to the transfer terminal to exchange money, where it took another half hour to find the only ATM in the whole airport. It was right next to the mosque.
Anyways, I'll start by saying that I'm very glad I got to visit Istanbul. First and foremost, I appreciated it as a transition city, going back into Europe from the Middle East. I think it's always nicely fulfilled that purpose. It was also really nice to walk around, and there was very impressive architecture to be seen all over the place, including a handful of classy mosques. I had a short grocery list of things I wanted to check out in Istanbul, because I knew I wasn't going to have too much time, and it's a pretty big city. I saw the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. They're right next to each other, which indicates some poor Ottoman city planning. But both very beautiful.

A window in the Hagia Sophia. One of many.

Also conveniently around the corner was the Basilica Cistern, a cavernous underground decorative sewer used in the Byzantine era. The Grand Bazaar was closed. Bummer. If I had known it would take an hour and a half to see everything on my list (in a 9 hour layover) I would have brought a couple books. I walked to the other side of European Istanbul and watched fisherman on the Bosporus.

Justinian wishing well. The Basilica Cistern

Smelly chaps, the lot of them. And unlucky. Slow day on the Golden Horn.

So this is where my day took a noticeable turn for the worse. I didn't have a map, or a travel book, or any real plan for my next 4 hours there. I had seen everything I intended on seeing, and everything that wasn't within a half-kilometer radius of the Hagia Sophia complex was news to me. I would have been more inclined to explore, but it was also painfully hot and the area between my back and my backpack was like an old sponge. So, I got a finally döner pita from one of the three places that wouldn't even pay attention to me, and sat in the park. It was only then that I realize just how touristy Istanbul is. And it is. Awfully, almost embarrassingly touristy. I'm sure that the whole city is not full of groups following a guy with a flag, but I couldn't seem to avoid them. Also, I wanted to do some gifting, but with the bazaar closed, I was stuck with the normal memorabilia shop bullshit. It was frustrating. I ended up going back to the airport early because I didn't know what to do with myself. Also, in defense of my lousy excuses for not taking full advantage of my time, I was operating on a half hour of plane sleep, which was constantly being disturbed by a loud Turkish man yelling at his seven granddaughters. I was literally hallucinating from lack of rest. But I must say, two of my most enjoyable parts of the day were the tram rides to and from the airport, which gave me a very nice view of the outskirts of the city.

In the Sultan Ahmed Mosque.

I liked Istanbul. My problems with the city might be irrelevant if I was prepared to spend more than a few hours there. So I'm not going to be too quick to judge. They do, however, need a couple more mosques.

I will give a summation of my days in Bucharest tomorrow.

Salut,

Z

I am leaving Jerusalem in 40 minutes. I have a 5:30 flight to Istanbul, and I am not quite prepared for a day in Turkey with no sleep. I wish I wasn't leaving. There's a lot I want to say about Israel, but I can't find the words right now. I will miss this place, to a degree, in the same way that I miss home. More than just a week's vacation anywhere else would merit. Once I reach Romania, and hopefully get internet back, I may try and flesh this out some more. See you then.

I've been in Jerusalem for three days now. Before I elaborate on how I've been spending my time and the things I've done, I'd like to discuss the concept of the Birthright trip, which up until now structured my only first-hand experience with the nation of Israel.
When you go to Israel for the first time, especially as a young adult, Birthright is the bee's knees. There really isn't a better option out there. You see all the hot shit, hang out and get drunk with a bus of jappy kids who want to pray and make out, and it's all paid out of the pockets of rich benefactors and Israeli bigwigs. Go to the Kotel, then back to the hotel. This is how it is, and it is good.
This impression, I fear, is the first and only impression many Jews (let alone goyim) ever get of Israel. They see the desert from the window of a bus. They see the Muslim Quarter souks from a falafel stand bench in the Jewish Quarter. They see the cathedrals from the Dan hotel. They go and do it up, and are sated. This is not good. I also know it's not entirely true, and that many people come back, and for lengthy periods. But even after what I've done in only the last few hours, I understand the weightiness of my unfiltered presence here. I'm not just here for the punch. I genuinely love Israel, and I'm really glad I came back. I know that for me, there is no "last time" in the foreseeable future.

Minaret in the Christian Quarter

Flying into Ben-Gurion was like a warm blanket and swiss miss after coming from Kyiv (no offense to them). I feel very comfortable here, and even though it is geographically further than Ukraine, and in many ways more hostile, it's like a neighbor with a cup of sugar in my heart and mind. I arrived at my apartment on 42 HaPalmah in the German Colony to be greeted by my Aunt and Uncle, cousins, and Grandmother (talk about warm blanket.) It was my initial plan that I was going to be spending more time on my own, but having people to go around with, especially those who are familiar with the non-touristed and less visited areas and sites, has been very nice. They have friends all around the city, and this has afforded me chances to do ordinary activities with ordinary Israelis. I went to a Sephardic Bar Mitzvah at a kitschy, discotheque party complex in the desert near Rehovot. Classy. The head of the Ethiopian Jewish Community in Jerusalem came to the apartment to talk to Cousin Avi about a job. Also classy. Activities not often afforded when you're knee deep in Birthright itineraries.

Sephardic Bar Mitzvah. Like a night at Buddha Bar with yarmulkes, smoked fish noshes, and explosives.

On monday I went to the dead sea. The one activity so far that Birthright did better than I did. I went to Ein Gedi, which is about halfway down the coast, and a popular bathing spot (free). It was 110 degrees outside. There was no beach. The water was reached by climbing down a precipice and onto scorching hot salty rocks. The mud, usually slapped in your hand by a swarthy man with a bucket, you had to drudge up from a tar-like pit nearly a quarter mile down the coast from the "beach." The scenery, however, was remarkable, though the picture opportunities slim, being in the water and all.

Ein Gedi Cliffs

Today was my most adventurous day yet. I set out to the Old City by myself (after using the bathroom at the King David Hotel) to explore every inch of the four quarters. I had only seen the Jewish Quarter last time, as Birthright doesn't let groups into the others (Christian, Muslim, Armenian). I found that a little obstinate, and determined to go as deep into the others as I could, even to the point of getting deliberately lost. The Muslim Quarter is a shitshow. It is feels ten times bigger than it is, and it is ten times more confusing to navigate and maneuver than you'd even expect. It smells of incense, spices, and piss. The souks (every damn street) are filled with charming little antiques and keepsakes, next to bras and snoods, electric kettles, and the kind of crap you buy in the toy aisle of CVS. I have chosen to wear a kippah around Jerusalem after I bought one I finally liked, but even after I took it off to enter the MQ, I was sneered at. I would not go so far as to say the people were intolerant, but I felt the looks.
However, the children of the quarter were very spunky, and often briefly involved me in their games of tag as a walking obstacle. I was denied entrance to the Temple Mount and al-Aqsa Mosque. Surprise (Jew).
I walked the Via Dolorosa, backwards first by accident, then forwards, stopping for water at every station. It was hot. It must have sucked for Him. The Church of the Holy Sepulchre was another shitshow. People really dig Jesus. They shout stuff and ring bells and cry and touch old rocks and pray at shrines and wave incense everywhere. There's no way there is a single smoke alarm in that joint. No, it really was an exhilarating place. I highly recommend it. I was also fascinated to find that people still ride donkeys in Jerusalem.

Lanterns in The Holy Sepulchre. All my pictures of the tomb were dumb.

I dropped by the Western Wall for a jaunt and a quick mitzvah. I knew I was going to be coming back but I felt bad not stopping by. Naturally as soon as I approach the wall some Chabad douchebag comes up and starts trying to guilt me into putting on tefillin. I say no sir, toda raba, not today. He asks me if I'm Jewish. I say scuse me? That's what I get for showing up.

The guy on the far right really was crying.

Later on in the day I went to pick up a Torah cover with my Uncle David and cuzzes in Mea Shearim, Über-Charedi neighborhood of West Jerusalem (Borough Park, Jerusalem). I actually got more looks here than I did in the Muslim Quarter. Charedi Jews seem at least slightly uncomfortable with, at most prepared to throw rocks at non-Charedis. My cousin Nomi, who prepared for the trip by donning a frock, was scolded by an old woman for having exposed forearms. They're not fucking around. But other than the persistent awkward moments every time someone would walk by, the area is really very cool. It's like a shtetl in Ashkenaziland. It's downtrodden and broken in. Buildings are half collapsing and the streets are tight and winding. Storefronts and housing are modest and unkempt. And even from the angle of an conspicuous, maybe brash outsider, I still felt a palpable collective memory with those people.

Charedi Jews in Mea Shearim.

More to come later. I'm tired and full of schnitzel.

Unfortunately, this post is already a day stale, and would have been far stickier with fresh impressions had I not been still recovering from my brief stint in Kyiv last night. However the pure, unforgiving intensity of my day there, in combination with jet-lagged delirium, shouldn’t be too hard to relate in broad strokes.
I have visited Eastern Europe on two other occasions, to Hungary and the Czech Republic for several days, at least three times as long as I was in Kyiv. Actually, when I say that, I’m fooling myself because I was only in the city for 5 hours. But in my mind, the day was so difficult to get through, far more than either of the other trips, that it’s hard to believe it was so short. I’ll just start from the beginning:

This is what I had to work with.

Kyiv-Boryspil airport is like a soviet-era middle school that was converted into a bus station, which is now used as an airport. While filling out my immigration card the pen exploded in my hand. That was neat. After I got through customs and went into the arrivals hall, I was virtually attacked by independent taxi drivers trying to haggle rides with me. There were men and women in traditional dress carrying large plates of vegetables. There were loud, abrasive announcements in both Russian and Ukrainian. There was no English. Not a word spoken or written anywhere. The average Ukrainian knows enough English to negotiate prices for things or say “no, ” which is a word I ended up hearing a lot. It was my own damn fault for not considering learning a single word of Cyrillic. I only had three brief conversations in English my whole time there. The first with the cab driver I ended up choosing to take me into the city, a nice guy named Roman who offered to give me a tour for an extra 50 UAH. The second with a Mexican I met on the street. The third was with myself after my 3rd hour there.

Maidan Nezalezhnosti

The city of Kyiv is unlike anything I have seen before anywhere ever. I don’t think I could have felt more detached, further away, and more socially/culturally alienated while still being completely surrounded by white people. When I first got out of the cab in Maidan Nezalezhnosti (Independence Square), I almost turned back it was so intimidatingly different. I didn’t think I was going to be able to get enough done and get around safely before I’d have to find my way back to the airport. But, I came to my senses and turned to my map, lovingly provided by a woman with a cleft palate at Boryspil.
Once I got my bearings, and ate some blinis with chicken and sour cream, things changed a little bit. I was still very much out of my element, but my attitude switched entirely. I remembered that this is why I came. I didn’t prepare too much, or expect too much, because I wanted to experience Kyiv, and Eastern Europe, with this perspective. Blind immersion is wonderful.

St. Michael's Golden Domed Cathedral. True Blue.

I visited the Saint Sophia’s Cathedral complex, which was first built in the 11th century when Kyiv was the capital of the Kievan-Rus state, the first East Slavic state. The have a lot of really sexy, onion and pear domes in Kyiv, and I was naturally attracted to walking towards every one I saw. So I also saw St. Michael’s Golden Domed Cathedral, and the outside of the Percherska Lavra Monastery. But I spent most of my time walking the miles of park that run along the Dneiper river, filled with statues and old soviet era memorials and buildings, and lots of really strange people. The views of the river were gorgeous, and I’m always down for a good park. All in all, if I had known it would be so easy to get back to the airport, which it was, I would have done a lot more. I did, however, walk about 8 miles through the city.
By the end of the day, I was completely enthralled with Kyiv. Especially considering how I felt coming in, it was a real treat. With any ordinary tourist destination, you have certain expectations based on what you’ve heard from other people who have been there. And also, the people of that city expect you as a tourist. Neither was the case, and I was forced into culturally sublime circumstances. I couldn’t have asked for a purer, more riveting day. Thanks for reading.

Z

Me at St. Mike's

This is my journey.

When seeing so many places in such a short period of time, and considering the nature of some of the destinations, it's hard to classify this kind of trip as a vacation. I don't travel to relax anymore. My short-lived days of taking march trips to the Caribbean or Florida have been outgrown like old, musty swim trunks. Life as a traveler, as of late, has been fueled more by romanticism, and purpose, than by piña coladas. As a recent college graduate, the sense of purpose is a very significant factor in everything I engage in, to one degree or another. And when given the uncommon opportunity to travel, amid work schedules and the emergence from horrendous debt, as well as a newfound sense of independence, purpose inherently guides my decisions as a traveler.

It occurred to me in the early stages of planning that this will be the first trip overseas that I will be taking (for the most part) by myself. None of my immediate family or my friends or my girlfriend will be coming, and while this is somewhat disheartening, I'm looking forward to not needing to mesh itineraries with anyone else. People who have traveled alone before, I'm sure, know that this will be a blessing. I will be staying with family in Jerusalem, but their schedules will probably be leaving me to my own devices most of the time as well.

The stops on my itinerary were chosen based on an eclectic set of circumstances and goals. Of course, the ultimate goal of my trip, like anyone, is to have a good time, see things I had never seen, and re-experience things I had. Three of my stops: Kiev, Istanbul, and Warsaw, I am making out of frugality. The price of flying these days inadvertently forced me to stop in these three cities on layovers, because flights with long layovers are often the lowest fares available. Fortunately, all three are cities I have wanted to visit anyway, so day trips in each, essentially for free, were definitely welcomed. It's unfortunate that I will only be receiving a taste of each, but it's better than not going at all. I also am very unfamiliar with the ins and outs of leaving the airport on layovers in other countries. If anyone that reads this has any input, I'd love to hear it.

I will be in Israel for the longest leg of my trip. Some of my extended family will be living in Jerusalem all summer, and I'm taking the opportunity to stay in their apartment and visit with them, while seeing parts of the country that I didn't hit while on a birthright trip several years ago. I will go into more detail about Israel another time.

Romania is a mixed bag. I won't be there for very long, although I feel the density of the experience will make my time there more than enough. I am fascinated with old world mystique, and I find a displaced sense of comfort in Eastern European cities, so I'm looking forward to a jaunt in Bucharest by myself. However, my primary decision for visiting Romania is for research. I will go more into that later as well.

This is my first blog post ever, so bear with me and I'll try and keep it updated. Expressing myself in written word can be difficult and unsatisfying, but if anything can bring it out, I think this trip will.

z