I was saddened to hear of the unexpected death of one of my favourite singers, Lhasa de Sela. It was unexpected to me, at least — I hadn’t known that she’d already been ill for about a year when I bought her last album, in the spring of 2009. I never met her, but that beautiful voice always spoke directly to me; I was deeply affected every time I listened to her magical singing and the poetry of her lyrics. They will resonate and take on an even deeper meaning when I hear them now. The last time I saw her was on stage in Montreal, on June 26, 2008, performing Leonard Cohen’s So Long, Marianne and Who By Fire. I will treasure those memories.

Lhasa died at the age of 37 in Montreal, on January 1, 2010, after a long battle with breast cancer. The press release ends on a poetic and appropriately melancholic note: “It has snowed more than 40 hours in Montreal since Lhasa’s departure.”

Another of my favourite singers, La Mari of Chambao, is a breast cancer survivor, and continues to enchant the world with her voice and her courage. As La Mari (with help from her sister Aurora) writes in Enamorá de la vida, aunque a veces duela, her book about her struggle with cancer and the ability to grow, even through pain and suffering:

Todas las experiencias de la vida pueden mostrarnos universos desconocidos y extraños. Hay que atreverse a dar el paso, cruzar el umbral con los ojos bien abiertos y mirar, como un niño lo haría, el mundo recién nacido que nos ofrece nuevas posibilidades, con curiosidad y ganas de aprender.

(My own translation: All of life’s experiences can reveal to us strange and unknown worlds. We must dare to step forth, cross the threshold with eyes wide open and see, with childlike curiosity and a desire to learn, this newborn world of possibilities.)

Like probably everyone on the planet, numerous people in my own life have been affected by this disease. My thoughts are with you all…the survivors as well as the families and friends of those whose women who didn’t survive.

This Turkey has returned home after a week away…  We got back on Saturday from four days in Istanbul and three in Cappadocia.  It was a great week, in spite of miserable December weather.  Istanbul is a remarkable city, well worth a repeat visit at some point in the not-too-distant future.

What were a few highlights (or, at least, notable moments)?

I still have bruised ribs after being very vigorously scrubbed clean (and given some kind of impromptu chiropractic treatment) by a hairy near-naked man in an ancient hamam (bath-house) built in 1450. And all this while being observed by an over-interested, creepy fat man — while he wasn’t busy farting, burping, snoring or noisily scratching at himself “down there.”

This coffee virgin finally “did it”, drinking a cup of strong Turkish Kahve. If I was ever going to do it, it only seemed right to do it in Turkey. After all, the Ottomans apparently brought coffee to the West at the siege of Vienna in 1529. Taken with a good dose of sugar (you have to tell them how much to put in before they make it), I can actually say I enjoyed it, although the afterglow and tingling skin of the hamam experience was possibly clouding my judgment.

I drank liquoricey raki liquor, and also (surprisingly) really liked the “standard” beer of Turkey, called Efes Pilsen. (I say surprisingly because I rarely like the typical beers of places I visit, as my tastes lean towards ales and darker beers that are less widely appreciated by the masses.)

We visited quite a few mosques, including the spectacular Blue Mosque as well as several of the less-touristy ones. They were beautiful and reverential places. We (briefly) awakened every morning around 6am to the pre-dawn call to prayer (known as the adhan) echoing from minaret loudspeakers.  I enjoyed these chants: admittedly more so in the city’s high-end sound system than on the tinny speakers of the Göreme mosque. However, when hiking amidst the fairy chimneys of Cappadocia, it was mesmerizing to hear the way these trebley chanted prayers merged and diverged as they arrived on the wind from nearby towns.

We visited sultan’s palaces, a harem (which was more family-oriented than the eroticized visions the word may bring to Westerners’ minds) and wandered through incredible markets, all while being hassled by countless vendors on the “tout”. We apparently saw the actual staff that Moses used to part the Red Sea, and the arm of (if I recall correctly) John the Baptist. It was definitely somebody’s arm encased in gold; at least it had been, a good while back (you can see bony fingers poking out).

We had great mezzes and other wonderful food, although sometimes with a tad too much raw onion and cucumber for our liking. There are some fantastic restaurants in Istanbul, and at low season we never had to reserve or wait…just wander in at any hour and have a great meal. Incredibly, for a country in which everyone seems to smoke, Turkey has done the civilized thing and banned smoking in public places, so you aren’t turned into leather in restaurants and bars (unless you hang around outside)… If only Spain would catch the hint: pretty much every other country has done it by now, so why do we still have to be the cool rebels-without-a-cause?

We survived various taxi/bus rides, including several which involved driving a) at high speeds, b) the wrong way on one-way streets, and c) jumping the median to change direction (several times) on freeways. We also bounced along the waves of the Bosphorous on a little wooden tour boat, and thankfully no one got seasick (although a few may have gotten hypothermia). Turkish Airlines got us comfortably to and from Nevsehir, albeit with a dramatic “air avoidance” maneuvre that gave us a good scare on the way home — must have been another plane on an intersecting flight path(?). Yikes, that woke me up and got my legs shaking even more than the Turkish coffee…

We met a Canadian writer (GG Award winner and Member of the Order of Canada) who was on a “working holiday” at our inexpensive but decent hotel. He was there to get away from his distractions at home, working on revisions to his latest novel.

We learned tons of history — I often glaze over historical notes, but this turned out to be so interesting that I couldn’t ignore it.  We had the most incredible guide in Cappadocia, who gave us the entire history of Turkey from around 10,000 BC to the present day (to “EU” or not to “EU”?), all over the course of several hours as we drove from one site to another. He also gave us lessons in linguistics and the complexities and oddities of the Turkish language (which is closer to Chinese and Japanese than to any Indo-European language…I was surprised to hear TV announcers speaking what almost sounded like Japanese). I’d always thought that most things we take for granted today were invented by “the Scots”, but it turns out they were brought to us by “the Turks” (or so they claim ;-).

We saw cave churches and the famous “fairy chimneys” of Cappadocia which were (and still are) home to many people; they’re also where many early Christians hid out from their persecutors. They are phallic in shape, not unlike some of the spires of Catalunya’s Montserrat or Alberta’s hoodoos, although bigger and more robust (of course!). They are made of tough stuff — volcanic tuff, in fact — deposited by various massive volcanic eruptions in the region eons ago and then worn down by water and wind. We did the requisite magical balloon ride at daybreak above the Göreme valley, in spite of it being December. Gaudí may have never it as far as Turkey for natural inspiration, but you better believe he would have loved it. Here there were Christians making organic-shaped churches more than a thousand years before his Sagrada Familia. (You see, maybe the Turks did invent everything!)

Turkey is a remarkable country and Istanbul is a city of contrasts and contradictions, full of life and openness and craziness and commerce.  While I was there (actually, on the flight home), I read Nicholas Woodsworth’s “The Liquid Continent” (Volume III — Istanbul), which was a fun and insightful (and short) read.

More remarkably than anything else (at least it would be for your “average” tourist), we didn’t buy a single knick-knack, scarf, piece of clothing, jewelry, fabric, ceramic, metalwork, “evil eye stone” (aka Nazar), hat, shoe, slipper, harem outfit, fez, flag or carpet. (Full disclosure: we did buy one thing to take home — a bag of chocolate-covered coffee beans.)

A few spots to recommend in Istanbul: (if you can find it) go for dinner at Helvetia, an almost unmarked restaurant not far off Istikal Caddesi. Not your typical restaurant; it’s lively, full of locals, students and artists, and (surprise, surprise?) inexpensive. We also really loved the restaurant Adonin, on a side street near Aya Sofya. The service was friendly and excellent, as was the food (among the most friendly we’ve tasted, in fact). We befriended Yousuf, who works outside, bringing clients in to the restaurant, in a most atypical, soft-spoken way (this is what won me over). He told us he works two jobs, totaling 18-20 hour days every day. He also recommended the hamam we went to — we wanted a less touristy one, more for locals (like my leering, burping and scrotum-scratching friend, I suppose).

Turkey has tons of Spanish visitors (maybe more than any other kind of tourist, it often seemed, perhaps because our visit coincided with the December puente), so we heard tons of Spanish — both from tourists and from those savvy goods-hawkers…many of whom seem fluent enough in every known human language to sell to any potential tourist. that may cross their path. It’s no good saying “sorry, I don’t speak (insert language here)” to get away from them; they’ll just start trying every language they know until they hit one you do speak.

P.S. I love going to supermarkets in other countries, seeing how they are different from (and how they are similar to) the ones in my country. And I love seeing the different products. I almost bought a bulk package of hot Turkish paprika with the brand name: Economic Boy. Yum, spicy and timely.

I just found out that Air Canada will be flying non-stop from Barcelona to Montreal next summer (Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays from June 3 until October 18, 2010 — other days the flight goes to Toronto). The past few years they’ve been experimenting with service to/from Madrid in the summer season, so it’s about time they got here. This is great news (for me, and for my friends and family who will surely take advantage of the convenience to come and visit…ha ha. ;-).

Recently I’ve been suffering from frustrations with the fantastic “customer service” here in Spain. Sometimes things get done efficiently. Sometimes. And it’s not that the “agents” aren’t always friendly or trying to be helpful, it’s just seems that the different parts of the company don’t communicate with each other. What happens typically is this: agent A claims to understand my problem, and is dealing with it (sounds promising, right?). Then I phone back a week later and explain the still-unresolved situation to agent B. They then say that this is “very unusual” and don’t know what could have possibly happened (on a good day — normally there is no apology or acceptance of “error”). Agent B then assures me they are dealing with it (sounds promising, right?). And on it goes. Agent C. Another week later, D. I’ve been trying to open a new (”online”) bank account now for almost a month, and still haven’t received the initial forms to sign. I simply need to keep phoning every few days and try again… Foolishly, I remain optimistic — “Phew, this time it really sounds like they’ve sorted it out!”

Anyhow, I’ve recently had similar problems dealing (from afar) with customer service folks at a Canadian “online” company, so it must be universal. A symptom of our glorious digital age?

How about this one…? We have a painter “here” this week, painting our flat… He came Monday morning for a few hours of good work. Said he’d return in the late afternoon. He never showed. Didn’t show (nor call, nor could we get in touch with him by cell, email, etc.) on Tuesday. Or Wednesday. We were worried he’d been killed in a traffic accident or something! Finally, my Dulcinea got in touch with him at home (I hadn’t known she had his home number) on Wednesday evening. Oh yes — turns out he’d badly injured his hand on Monday afternoon, and couldn’t paint right now. Well, we don’t blame him for being injured, but we certainly do for not having the courtesy to inform us of the situation, so one of us (that would be me) wouldn’t have to stay locked at home, on the off-chance he shows up.

Anyhow, on Wednesday evening he promises to come Thursday morning at 9am. Dulcinea is certain he won’t, but I am brimming with optimism. After all, he said he would, right? I stay home. Thursday (surprise, surprise!) he doesn’t show. Is never accessible on his phone (I can’t leave a message, because MoviStar informs me that he is perpetually offline or out of range). Thursday night Dulci calls him back at home. What happened? No apology or anything…simply says he’ll be there Friday morning. Well, let’s hope so…but we both doubt it, this time.

Even worse, he was recommended to us — the relative of a good friend (el enchufe, right?). You’d think he’d try to make the best possible impression, no? We both really can’t believe it, even Dulcinea who is more used to “the way things are done” here. There is no notion of apologizing, if you make a complaint there is no “sorry,” just a statement of what he plans to do next (which he subsequently doesn’t). Aaaaargh… Meanwhile we are living out of “cardboard boxes”, since the whole house’s contents is stacked in the living room. Not an ideal situation for one week, let alone (it now looks like) two. Two? Now that’s being optimistic.

Epilogue (maybe more of a “mid-logue”):

Murphy’s Law? No. A watched kettle never boils? Something like that. Or the reverse. Because of course, just moments after I write this irritated post, the buzzer buzzes and it is the painter. He at least paints the spot behind the radiator, so we can connect it back in place and turn the hot water back on (showers again, yay!).

And then, just after he leaves (he promises to return tomorrow, even though it’s Saturday), the buzzer goes again. The documents I’ve been waiting to sign, for a little less than a month now, arrive by courier from the online bank. Après la pluie, le soleil? (knock on wood) Thank you, agent E!

New News

Last summer, jellyfish (aka las medusas in Spanish or les meduses in Catalan) ruled the waters of the Mediterranean. It looks like this year will bring more of the same, because we saw huge schools (if this term applies to jellyfish as it does to fish) of them pulsing through the water. White ones, large translucent ones, ones that seemed to be made of amorphous black disks.

And how did we see these swimmer-torturers? Fortunately, from the safety of a boat. This weekend we did something new — my Dulcinea and I took a sailboat for a couple of days. Sailed up the coast from Barcelona some 20 (nautical) miles (~37km) to Arenys de Mar. There, we docked in the marina and explored the town, which was a bit sleepy as the summer madness (fortunately) hasn’t kicked in yet.

We “overnighted” (a fancy term for “slept” ;-) on the boat before returning back to Barcelona. In Arenys, we enjoyed drinks at sunset with Bob, a delightful Scottish man (whose sailboat was tied up next to ours) who is just wrapping up eight years (!) of sailing every nook and cranny of Mediterranean. He’s headed back to France to de-mast his sailboat and cruise it up the Canal du Midi, which he came down in 2001. Then finally, (mast back up and) across the Channel and the home stretch to Glasgow. When I commented admiringly that he must know every inch of his boat, he replied with a grin: “More like I hate every inch of it!”

The weather was beautiful: sunny but not hot. In fact, cool enough to require a jacket at night. It was a new adventure for both of us, and somehow those two days of sailing under a bright sun made it feel like we’d taken a week’s vacation! Back home, the solid floor of our flat seemed to rock and swell beneath us as we ate dinner, so I guess even in that short time we got our sea-legs.

Middle-Aged News

I discovered that my favourite (Montreal-based) singer Lhasa de Sela finally had a new album out, her third, after a six-year hiatus. Although it was available on the Spanish iTunes site, this was one case where I wanted the booklet and a tangible disc in my hands. I went down to FNAC the next day to pick up a copy. I’ve been enjoying it ever since, but I do wish she hadn’t chosen to write and sing exclusively in English this time — I loved the Spanish and French songs (as well as the English) on her wonderful earlier albums The Living Road and La Llorona. Nonetheless, I still really am moved by her voice and the poetry of her lyrics.

Having completed my Canadian taxes for the end of April (and, as an ex-resident, hopefully for the last time), I am now settling down to…enjoy doing another set: the Spanish income taxes, which are due at the end of June!

Meanwhile, my experience with Spanish bureaucracy took a wonderful turn for the better a few weeks back, when I went to get an international driver’s licence. I had fussed about filling the forms, photocopying documents, worrying about the fact that I didn’t yet have my new residency card (even though it’s approved and in the process of “being physically manufactured”)… When I got to the motor vehicles department, I somehow was able to bypass all lines, all number-taking and waiting. Even the pre-filled form wasn’t necessary — they had them there on-site for you to fill out if necessary. There was a special “line” (which, amazingly, was empty) for international licences. There was no need to go out to a bank with a modelo de tasas to pay — they had their own cashiers on-site. After that, I went upstairs where a woman asked if I had all the required elements (I had done my homework, thus had all my proverbial ducks in a row). The woman shrugged (doing the universal sign of: “whatever”) when I tried to explain about my in-progress residency renovation, and I actually left the building in less than fifteen minutes, with a freshly-made licence in hand!

Old News

A couple of weeks back, we stayed the long weekend in Arnes with a group of friends and their kids, hiking around Els Ports Natural Park. Ancient towns on hillsides. Honey, traditional farming, a 2000-year-old olive tree. Countless streams, bowls, waterfalls, all surrounded by vertical walls of limestone. And crystal clear water, which is more than can be said of the plastic-bag-(and-jellyfish-)riddled Mediterranean waters near Barcelona. Yet another beautiful break from the “drudgery” that is living in Barcelona…ha ha.

Berlin

We spent a wonderful five days (but could have done without the pollen allergies) in Berlin over the Easter long weekend. I’d never been there, and was duly impressed…a big city that is very accessible (thanks to great public transport), has lots of great food at good prices (we mostly ate “typically German” Thai and other South-East Asian food ;-), is very “arty” with a broad assortment of galleries and museums, is in touch with its history (interpret this as you wish) and has loads exciting architecture. Hmm…sounds a lot like Barcelona, except we don’t have such an abundance (and low price) of Thai and other South-East Asian food.

We saw many of the “required” Berlin elements… Brandenburg Gate, Reichstag (outside only; line-ups were too big and we were too late reserving — busy Easter weekend — for an inside tour), memorial to the victims of the Holocaust, Tiergarten park, Pergamon museum with its incredible displays of Greek, Babylonian and Muslim art and architecture, Potsdamer Platz (the dramatic new Sony centre), Topography of Terror, Berlin Wall, Checkpoint Charlie (we didn’t explicitly go to see it, as it’s a real tourist trap, but we did pass by), various churches, Kunsthaus Tacheles (artist colony/”squat”), various markets, beer gardens, brewpubs…

Not to mention Potsdam, Sanssouci park and its palaces, … Oh yes, more UNESCO World Heritage sites to check off the list (ha ha; as if I’m so casual and humdrum).

I found Berlin’s war memorial very powerful and moving…

A highlight for me was something most tourists don’t see: a guided visit to the private collection of Christian “I collect art that I don’t understand” Boros. The collection is housed inside a remarkable building called “The Bunker”, which was built during WWII as a bomb shelter for 2000 people living in the area (and folks from the nearby train station). It survived two direct hits during the Allied bombardment (in those days you could survive to say that, when your roof was made of three metres of reinforced high-grade concrete).

Later, the bunker was occupied by the Soviets and then was used as a prison for the German secret police. Eventually it was used to store tropical fruit (at this stage of life it was nicknamed the “banana bunker”). After reunification, it became home to rowdy techno and fetish parties, all while geting “dolled up” by graffiti artists. It eventually (in 2003) was purchased by the wealthy advertising mogul Boros, renovated (with a careful eye to preserving its history) and given a new life as a private gallery. It can only be visited on weekends by private appointment (I booked several months ahead, and it was already nearly booked up).

The building was exciting, and the many art pieces on display inside were also well worth a look (and controversial, in some cases). It helped to have a wonderful guide talk to us in detail about the artists and their works. While I discovered many artists I hadn’t previously known, I particularly enjoyed a good number of works by Olafur Eliasson. The Boros Bunker hasn’t been open long, and their plan is to change the collection on display annually (seems Boros owns much more than one bunker’s-worth of art). It’s definitely worth seeing if you’re interested in history and/or contemporary art (or what very wealthy people do with their money).

Line-ups

In other news, last week I finally finished jumping through the multifarious hoops and received confirmation of my residency renovation. Yesterday, in the final phase of this process, I went back (read about my previous visit) to the comisaría on Balmes with my carefully checked and re-checked set of originals and photocopies of various documents, plus carnet-sized photos. In spite of arriving before they opened, I enjoyed a huge line-up that wrapped around three sides of the block (probably about 200m long; aka over two hundred individuals or families). After that, almost four hours waiting (first in line on the street, then in the police courtyard (in a cordoned-off area of a noisy parking garage full of chairs and exhaust fumes), finally inside the building with a new sequence number). At last, it’s all done — best of all, I won’t have to do this again for two years, this time!

It’s not that I expected to have my application denied, but nonetheless “you never know until you know,” and it’s a relief to have it all sorted (a full month after my previous residency expired). Now I just have to go back (to a different police station) in a month to pick up my new residency card — after paying yet another processing fee of course. I’m not complaining (much); I have things better than lots of people, that’s for sure. As I like to say: I may not be welcome, but at least I’m approved.

I continue my experimentation with fluid simulation. Getting some pretty good motion, and a good visual “look”, too… Basically, as long as it’s not hard-edged computer graphics, I’m happy! This one is a fair bit bigger than the last, so only download if you don’t mind the size.

(Click image to view another experiment, this time with me interactively “playing” with the fluid and varying its parameters. Size: 7.9 MB; QuickTime H.264 codec)

(I should mention that, for no good reason, today’s post is in Catalan…or some rough facsimile thereof.)

Recentment, he estat jugant amb la simulació dels fluids. Ara i aquí us ensenyo alguns resultats. M’agrada la suavitat d’aquests núvols. La simulació ha estat capturada en temps real. Divertiu-vos!

(Click image to view a test run. Size: 1.8 MB; QuickTime H.264 codec)

Well, hello there, you! It’s really been a while, hasn’t it? Description of our Nepal travels began, very promisingly, and then…nothing! So did I drop off the face of the Earth? No, not exactly. Just lost my momentum, with the blogging at least.

Today is the one-year anniversary of my “new life” in Spain. I’ve submitted all my papers to renew my residency, but so far haven’t heard anything back. Does this mean that I am officially “sin papeles”? I suppose so — my foreigner’s card does expire today. I hope they don’t decide to just toss me out! (At the very least, they could do like Spain has been doing with some other foreigners: buying them one-way tickets back to their home countries.)

Seriously, I feel very much that this is my home, now. In fact, it felt like that very early on. Perhaps I’m the kind of person who adapts easily to new surroundings? Although it took me a while to start connecting with people (other than my “Dulcinea” and her family) here. Recently, I’ve been expanding my horizons a bit, socially speaking, which is nice.

I have started learning Catalan, a new language (for me, I mean) which is somewhat like Spanish, somewhat like French, yet presents plenty of new challenges — not least of which is the pronunciation…it’s harder than Spanish because there are more “variables” or rules.

Generally, people say I speak quite well (Spanish), although I still find it very frustrating that I often feel “out of it” in group get-togethers. When people get speaking full-tilt, when there is background noise, when I’m not 100% focused and working hard at it, I still miss a lot of what’s said. Getting the gist is one thing, catching the details and subtleties is another.

It’s frustrating — to the point that at times I wondered if my hearing was failing…but a trip back to Canada, chats with folks back home, and a trip to the U.K. at Christmas made me realize it’s just the language. In English (and Quebecois French), I can listen “in the background” — the meaning seems to filter into my consciousness without effort…in fact it’s hard to tune out conversations around me, for example at nearby tables in a restaurant. But in Spanish (or Catalan), unless I really try hard, it is far too easy for the words to just become sounds, background noise my brain is happy to filter out.

Other than that, it’s cumpleaños feliz…and set the sails for Year Two!

P.S. It’s World Poetry Day, so be sure to read a poem: to yourself, to your kids, your lover, your dog. Even better, write a poem of your own, then read it to someone!

Trekking Day “-1″ (Saturday)

Fly: Barcelona to Delhi, via Zurich (~7000km)
“Sleep”: No-Man’s-Land, Delhi (237m) / Airborne, Nepal (~11500m)

What were we (or was I, at least) so anxious about? Mostly about the Indian visa (or our deliberate lack thereof). We were flying to Kathmandu via Delhi, on two itineraries and different airlines, and I’d tried to find out whether we’d need a visa for the six-hour period we’d be sitting at the airport. In theory, both of us (Spanish and Canadian) do need a visa to visit India, even if only for transit. However, I’d heard that you could do a visa-less transition at the Delhi airport, if you met a bunch of conditions. For example: having a ticket on the first available flight to your destination; not needing to change terminals; being escorted through the airport by airline staff. But would this work on two itineraries and airlines? Would our luggage get properly re-tagged?

A month prior to the trip, I’d tried to contact the Indian Consulate in Barcelona (no luck), then finally managed to speak with someone at the Embassy in Madrid. The answers I got were not definitive: “Yes, it should be possible.” Reassuringly (and more conclusively), IATA’s web site told me it was possible, though I should “contact carrier(s) concerned to check if transit is possible”. I did this, both with Swiss (on which we were arriving) and Jet Airways (on which we were departing). Neither gave a definitive answer or explanation of how it worked. Swiss told me “not to worry”, that we should speak to the agents meeting our flight. But they insisted we must be sure to tell the check-in staff at Barcelona to tag our baggage through to our final destination!

When we arrived at the airport in Barcelona, the check-in agent didn’t understand what we were asking. He said “not to worry”, and tagged the bags to Delhi. This gave us a feeling of dread, that our precious trekking cargo wouldn’t arrive in Kathmandu with us (we wore our most irreplaceable items: hiking boots). During our connection in Zurich, I queried a Swiss information person, who — once he understood what I was asking — looked quite concerned. He gave the impression we might be screwed (not his precise words), and the anxious expression on his face did not say “don’t worry”, which until then had been Swiss’ mantra. I’d tried to believe that at least we’d make it through Delhi okay, so I could focus my worrying on our luggage. But after speaking to this man, everything was up in the air again — after all, he was more concerned about our lack of Indian visas than our luggage. Great.

When we arrived in Delhi, we spoke with the Swiss staffer who met the flight. After a bit of confusion and passing us to various people, a nice woman wrote down our passport numbers, onward ticket information and luggage tag numbers. We repeated our concerns about the luggage, but she told us “not to worry”. It seemed to be a repeating theme, and one which I quickly adopted: in Nepal we discovered this is said (something that sounds like): sumase chai-na.

After all the other connecting passengers were noted down, the woman led us — like a schoolteacher at the museum with a remarkably orderly class — past a security checkpoint (they waved us through) to the no-man’s-land where we’d spend the night. It had washrooms, bright fluorescent lights, two small snack vendors, and some not-fancy-but-at-least-reclining chairs (we were lucky to find two side-by-side). People of all nationalities, waiting for flights to places like Rwanda, Beijing, Toronto and Kathmandu chatted away loudly. Others covered their faces and tried to sleep. It was cold.

Staff from various airlines would occasionally appear and call out passengers for their flights: “Anyone for Newark? Anyone for Kabul?” Much confusion, people asking each other if anyone had come yet to ask about their flight. Because with some of the agents’ accents, it was nearly impossible to understand the destinations. Announcements in airports must be impossible to understand by definition — even when not coming over the intercom. After several hours, Jet Airways staff showed up (this was 3am or something) and started looking for folks travelling to Kathmandu. They took our e-ticket printouts and passports (yikes!) and disappeared for another few hours.

On the recommendation of the travel clinic in Barcelona, we weren’t taking Malaria medication, since the mountainous regions of Nepal are safe, and Kathmandu is low-risk. However, there certainly is risk in some areas, and Delhi is one of them. While I tried to rest my eyes, I’d occasionally open them to find a small mosquito gliding past. I say glide because they don’t buzz about erratically as they do in Canada. They may carry Malaria but at least they seem very tame compared to our fast, aggressive monsters. Shhh, close your eyes, get what rest you can: remember the mantra: “Don’t worry…”

Trekking Day “0″ (Sunday)

Fly: Delhi to Kathmandu (~820km)
Sleep: Hotel Manang, Kathmandu, Nepal (1316m)

I’d never heard of Jet Airways until I started looking online for flights from India to Kathmandu. It turns out they’re one of the nicer airlines in the world! It was founded in 1993 and has won many airline awards, including “Best Indian Airline” in Sep. 2008. It has one of the youngest aircraft fleets in the world (average plane age 4.3 years), and our 737-800 (or -900?) was extremely comfortable. The staff were excellent. It helped that I’d (almost unknowingly) booked business class tickets. They were only marginally more expensive than the economy seats, and happened to be the only ones available that gave me the dates and times I wanted. This turned out to be a huge treat — excellent service, great food (even on such a short flight; less than two hours).

As we flew over the rice fields of the broad Kathmandu valley, we got our first view of the Himalaya range to the north. We could see Dhaulagiri (8167m), Annapurna (8091m), Manaslu (8163m) — although at this point they were just names to me. We came through a few bumpy patches to land at Kathmandu, but at the last moment the pilot suddenly cranked the throttle and we roared back up. There was a storm passing through and he couldn’t see the runway. We went into a holding pattern for probably a half hour. He told us we’d likely have to return to Lucknow in India (before we ran out of fuel), but he’d make one more attempt once he was given a slot. I made the requisite groaner about us hopefully having some “luck, now.” We continued to circle, and the gentle bumps of cloud (and utter exhaustion) lulled me to sleep. I was rudely awakened by a loud bang and thump, and in my disoriented state it took me a moment to realize we’d landed. My heart was racing, and we were in Nepal. What luck!

Nepal requires all visitors to have a visa, but (unlike India) you can get one upon arrival at the airport. I’d almost sent our passports to Madrid to get visas ahead of time, but they were considerably more expensive in Spain (55 Euros versus 40 USD at the Kathmandu airport; in addition you’d need to pay for a courier service). Seemingly no air conditioning at this airport, so we joined a queue of 20 to 30 sweating people, forming two lines (a hundred more behind, still filling application forms). It turned out that these two lines were for paying, but afterwards our line “merged” (that was the idea) into the other one, where a chain of officials processed the visa in assembly-line fashion.

The whole thing was chaotic, with no one managing the desperate, grumpy horde of tourists. People pushed forward, cut people off, acted ridiculously. Some very rude Germans forced their way to the front. But sweet retribution came when it turned out they’d missed one part of the form. The officer rejected them, and back they went as the crowd pressed past. The look on their faces was priceless, and some small bit of karma in the universe was balanced.

Visas obtained, we miraculously found our baggage lying in a giant pile of bags downstairs, beside the luggage carousel. The zippers were sealed shut with wire from the “warehouse” where they were stored in Delhi. Inside, nothing was missing. A man from the trekking company met us as promised, holding up a sign with my name. He led us to a car (and driver) in the parking lot, placed yellow flower necklaces around our necks, and we drove into the city.

Kathmandu is chaos. On the half-hour drive from the airport to our hotel in the “touristy” Thamel district (where it seems all the hotels are situated), we are assaulted by a sea of colour, smell, dust and heat. Poverty. Tiny children play in the dirt on the edge of a road that literally swims with swerving, constantly-honking cars, trucks and buses.

Dulcinea is not fazed by all this — she’s been to India and Africa several times. To places that are “worse than this”. But it is my first trip to a really poor third-world country. Nepal’s GNI per capita makes it the 30th poorest in the world. Far below Trinidad and Tobago and not even on the same page as Chile or Argentina, other relatively “poor” countries I’ve been to. But the Gross National Income at “purchasing-power-parity” (of $1500/person/year — to compare: Spain $25k and Canada $34k) is merely an average, and many people don’t even see that amount of money. In fact, 35% of the population makes under $1 a day. Its Human Development Index, a measure developed by the UN, is more or less on a par with Haiti (one of only two non-African nations that scored lower). This means the UN considers it one of the world’s least developed countries.

I’m not “fazed”, but it certainly makes an impact on me. I already have mixed feelings about being there, very conscious of being a “rich Westerner”. But everyone keeps telling me “they need our tourism dollars.” By employing local people — as many as possible! — we’re really helping. I’ll need to be convinced of this. At one point as we’re stopped in traffic, a scrawny kid motions at his mouth, for food. Standing in the middle of hundreds of moving vehicles, he moves lethargically. I smile sadly and shake my head. As we drive away, in a sudden burst of anger or despair he yanks open the car door beside me. I pull it shut, and the man who met us at the airport, without a word, turns from the front seat and pushes down the lock.

We arrive at the hotel, which is not particularly clean but has an ornate lobby. Overall it’s “okay”. What’s wrong with a few stained bedsheets and a Pigeon Air Force Base just outside the window? (After all, at least they’re outside!) I’m trying to be open-minded, as I’m told you need to “relax” and not apply my “Western sensibilities”, if I’m to enjoy myself in Nepal. (Three weeks later, on our return from camping, this place will seem utterly extravagant: “A bed! A toilet! Privacy! A shower…and it’s got hot water!”)

Later, we meet with the head of the trekking agency and our guide, Bikesh. He is a small, quiet man with a calm air about him. He says little, but enough for us to find it quite difficult to understand his English. In the afternoon, we wander out alone into the chaos of the Thamel district, to buy topo maps, a few small books, a bar of soap to wash our clothes during the trek.

To really get into the “just relax” mantra, we go for the best and cheapest massages of our lives — the equivalent of 5 Euros for a half-hour (me), and 10 Euros for an hour (Dulcinea). I was sore the next day, from the vigorous working-over and pounding on my skull. Later, as I wait for Dulcinea to finish, I notice my masseur showing his young nephew a pair of brass knuckles. Thankfully, he only used bare knuckles on my scalp. Whatever — it felt great (once it stopped).

Everything, we find, is super cheap. For dinner, we order a full Nepali/Indian meal for less than 3 Euros each. In total, it comes to 14 Euros for both of us, including dessert, huge beers, all the food… This was not a particularly “cheap” restaurant; quite tourist-oriented in fact. There are trekking outfitter companies everywhere, selling The North Face clothes, sleeping bags, tents — everything you could need from all the best mountain equipment brands. But there’s a catch: they’re not genuine. I notice the font is a little different in “The North Face”, and the Sigg water bottle I buy is apparently also a clone. Later, it turns out the lid leaks. Shocking!