Travel Photography, Writing and Photoblog from Matt Feldman

Arches, Bordeaux, France

Iam selflessly volunteering. It starts with some kind of twitch, I think, and from what I can gather, most of you are afflicted with some form of this thing, too: After going some while without being on a plane across an ocean, without having another stamp in the passport, without the struggle of a strange language in a strange land, without the gastrointestinal chaos that inevitably comes from cuisine found just the other side of one's sphere of microbial familiarity, the twitch metastasizes. The symptoms grow and a common pathology sets in. This strange process — a longing, really — hijacks our neurons and wallets with equal ferocity and soon a ticket is booked. And the day arrives.

That day is today and, of course, I'm nowhere near ready to depart.

Hello again, everyone! The time for travel has come and with it, my usual barrage of emails from the road. Over the coming days and weeks, this little desultory adventure brings me to France, Tunisia, Greece, Switzerland and — drum roll please — Newark, New Jersey.

While I won't be gone long, I hope to bring you some of my exploration of the unknown and deeper inquiry into the various flavors of foolishness. And this time, my wallet is staying with me.

To those of you currently on the road and those of you contemplating giving your backpack a workout, let me know if there's a chance we will cross paths. To the rest of you, photos, suggestions, requests, money, vile comments and caustic invective are all welcome.

So with that, I depart. Because my train leaves in 15 minutes and I live at least 20 minutes from the station.

Iwas due, I suppose. All these miles, all these countries, all these flights to all these airports over all these years and my luggage had always managed to travel with me. So when the conveyor belt ground to a halt in Brussels and my backpack hadn't appeared, I reluctantly concluded that the law of averages had finally hitched a ride with me. While judging by my past karmic experience, such an event would surely beget future travel calamities, but it was not to be. Since that minor hiccup (the bag was delivered to Paris the next day), I have absolutely no disasters to report. Yet.

June 24th had slipped my mind. Across France, towns explode with the sound of music in the streets. And there are few accordions to be found. Last year on this date, I was in the southern town of Perpignan, where stages dotted block after city block, filling the city with rock, rap, jazz and curious performances best classified as "Noise." But throughout Paris' Latin Quarter this year, straight-ahead rock rules the day. Indie kids bang out Police covers with mangled English lyrics, others offer rambling guitar scenes conjuring the best and worst of Jerry Garcia and on other stages, serious, extended riff sessions abound, transcending all the languages spoken in the audience: everyone present understands loud. Including those of us lucky to have a hotel window within earshot of a stage. Or three stages.

Sleek chrome toasters that evoked speeding transcontinental trains. Vacuum cleaners and radios and power tools and water pitchers all so sculpted for speed they practically had wings. Magazine advertisements, brochures and newspaper articles of the day touted the materials of the wondrous and revolutionary future: magnesium alloys! It was optimistic design that kept form and function in an extended, aerodynamic sprint for the heart of 1930s American consumerism.

More than seventy years later, almost hidden in the southwest corner of Paris, this exhibition, "Streamline," displays a comprehensive and gorgeous history of the future. Yet the Pre-Jetsonian display is really only taking its cue from the gallery's surroundings.

The Boulogne-Billancourt neighborhood is a veritable island of 1930s modernity with extraordinary and revolutionary buildings. Here, iconic designers like Le Corbusier set the neighborhood's tone, where glass and steel and right angles offer a strong counter punch to the dominant architecture of Haussman's 1800s Paris. Not all the buildings have been kept in pristine condition, but it is clear the neighborhood cherishes its premiere architectural pedigree.

Boulogne-Billancourt: where glass and steel and right angles offer a strong counter punch to the dominant architecture of Haussman's 1800s ParisInterrupting a small group reading an apartment building's historic landmark sign on the neighborhood's walking tour, a woman pauses to brag: you can only view from the street, but you should see what it looks like on the inside.

With the usual frenetic pace and noise (and even higher piles of dog crap) of Paris left behind, Bordeaux is an outstanding change of pace. Especially with everything half of Parisian prices.

The conclusion of the annual wine convention just two days prior and the ongoing river festival means a city primed and on display. It's no surprise that in Bordeaux, food and beverage are the center of attention along the riverfront promenade. Fried duck sandwiches begin the evening, followed by roasted cheese on flatbread and wine and wine and more wine.

Winding south under ominous clouds and a stiff wind, through the low hills with endless stretches of vines and wheat and sunflowers, I moved towards Toulouse where I was met by the warmth of both the Mediterranean Sea and the Zaka family (yet again) in Marseille. But after too brief a stay, I head back to North Africa.

More to come,
Hannibal

The speaker blares to life and startles me back to consciousness. It has been just under a year since traveling in a Muslim country and being woken by one of the five daily calls to prayer. But here in a Tunis hotel at the edge of the Medina (old town), just feet from the entrance to a mosque, there's no escaping the speakers perched right outside my window. With the end of my nap comes the beginning of my exploration of Tunisia.

My frame of reference for a major city in this part of the world is, of course, the amazing experience of Marrakesh, a wild world of food and art and music and just about everything else imaginable, wrapped in a swirling, noisy tapestry of the fun of new experiences. Tunis, by contrast, is somewhat of a drag.

Only 80 km southwest of the southern tip of Italy, Tunisia maintains a much more prosperous and modern footing when compared to Morocco. The median annual income here, for example, is about $2500/year — a full order of magnitude more than what the average Moroccan sees.

Beginning just feet from the hotel door, I plunge into the souqs (market stalls) of the medina (oldest part of the city) to see what's on offer. And almost immediately, Tunisia, in the long shadow of Morocco, disappoints — I have to walk a full hundred feet through before being offered my first suitcase-sized chunk of hashish. Why must I suffer so?

After navigating the city of Tunis, I head north to the ancient and fascinating Phoenecian port city of Carthage, legendary for being violently and continually tossed back and forth between various ruling nations and sects over thousands of years. Further up the road is Sidi Bou Said, the blazing blue and white seaside community that any visitor to Santorini's town of Oia or Morocco's Chefchouen would recognize for its vivid blue and white colour scheme and striking stature. In heat approaching 110oF and on my fifth 1.5 L bottle of water, I retreat to Tunis and on to the south.

In my first few days in this country, I am perplexed by what appears to be a vast one-dimensionality to contemporary Tunisian music: the people all watch and listen to the same stuff.

I'm not new to Arabic music. But with eerie similarity, it's like The Big Game is on every channel, all day, all night, every day, every night. There are televisions in the restaurants and cafes that I pass and in the places I eat. And tonight, like every other night, every single television is tuned into the same channel — a music show where a man sings a song almost indistinguishable from every song that is on every radio station I've heard. The usual orchestral arrangement, the solo vocalist, the omnipresent pungi (the snake charmer), being played with the same ferocious intensity, full tilt, 24 hours a day. I don't get it. I must be missing something. And what are they singing about? In a Tunis restaurant one night, I tried to ask, but all I got was "Is good song!" and didn't want to press for further info so as to not be insensitive or condescending.

Balconies and rooftops are decorated with a billion satellite dishes here and Tunisians presumably can tune into other programming, but young people, old people, whomever — they all seem to listen to and watch the same stuff. Sometimes there's no pungi. Sometimes the vocalist is female. Sometimes the young people have the thumping dance mix version. But that's where the spectrum ends. There is no varietal equivalent, in my experience, to jazz or country or hip hop — it's just extraordinary homogeneity. What am I missing? After a week of hearing what is effectively the same song, I am left without any further answers.

The logical extension of this question in my travel world, of course, is how it can be extracted and reduced to a torturous tool, wielded in a confined space for an extended duration. My particular chamber of anguish is the Hellfire Express, a midday train journey from Tunis to El-Jem.

It is a day where I struggle to recall ever being so hot or sweating so much — in all, a fabulous time to be lugging around a backpack and traveling on overcrowded trains to destinations even further into the soaring heat of the Sahara desert. When the action of blinking is enough to send a torrent of sweat flowing forth and opening the train car window is like putting your head into the business end of a jet engine, why does the guy beside me on the train feel the need to sing, at what seems like maximum volume, for the whole goddamned train ride?

Nobody was rushing to shut him up and I certainly wasn't eager to volunteer. He had personally replaced the ubiquitous, blaring music that was coming from the speakers in shop windows and stalls of the Medina and on the bus rides and in the cafes. As he sat down and launched into his extemporaneous performance, I wondered if his song was a pre-departure prayer.As he launched into his extemporaneous performance, I wondered if his song was a pre-departure prayer. Or perhaps a solemn travel song for safety, strength and tasty train snacks? Or perhaps a solemn travel song for safety, strength and tasty train snacks? The Tunisian version of La Vida Loca? The first five minutes of his solo act were interesting when observed firsthand — he was very serious about the song. But the tenth minute was pretty tedious. And the heat of the "air conditioned" car, hovering around one hundred degrees, certainly wasn't helping my patience. But after 30 minutes of what would ultimately be a four hour single song, (only ended when I bolted for the door at El-Jem, my destination for the day), I was in dire need of a drink. Or six.

New Rule: the nose picking has to end. Because, really, it's out of control. And pay attention, France, because this means you, too. In Tozeur one afternoon, after my driver took the ignition key deep out of his nose to start the taxi, he replaced the key with his finger, plunged in to equal depth. And, of course, he offered to shake my hand as I got in. Wonderful. My fledgling Arabic language skills have not yet progressed to, "No, sorry, that's disgusting," so I shook, boarded, rode and washed thoroughly upon arrival.

As I settled in for the four hour bus trip from the Mediterranean coastal city of Sfax eastward to Tozeur, I couldn't help but notice I was being watched from across the isle. While I tore into my massive roasted chicken sandwich, a boy of about seven wouldn't stop staring at me. I was certainly on the receiving end of much staring in Morocco, where it seemed I was much more of a rarity, but this kind of attention hadn't been a feature of Tunisia to date. So with the sandwich devoured, I moved onto dessert, a package of chocolate cream-filled cookies. But there was the kid, staring.

I figured I had an opportunity to reach out across the metaphorical and physical isle to this boy. I thought I could extend some gesture of friendliness. And what better way to bond with a seven year old than through cookies? I plucked one from the sleeve and held it across the isle towards him. He looked at me and smiled. But he didn't take it. He looked left, to his mother gazing out the window and with a few words, asked her (presumably) if he could have it. After her brief reply and a nod, he took the cookie with a smile. And then it was my turn to watch, to investigate the outcome, albeit from the corner of my eye.

He took small bites. Nibbles, really. I thought back to a time when as a kid I was actually encouraged by an adult to see how many cookies I could simultaneously cram into my mouth. (A skill I'm still cultivating.) Was this the opposite of my excessive, cookie-laden, Western upbringing? Was a cookie — especially from someone like me — so rare for a rural Tunisian kid that he was endeavoring to savour each bite?Was a cookie — especially from someone like me — so rare for a rural Tunisian kid that he was endeavoring to savour each bite? Would he remember the time the stranger on the bus shared a treat? Would this event somehow leave a mark on his life?

My answer came about an hour later as the coach paused in the middle of nowhere, at the kind of desolate rest stop that exists solely for clientele of long-distance bus travel. The boy and his mom returned to their seats from the scorching heat of middle Tunisia on a July afternoon. In his hands were three sleeves of the very cookies I had given him. I sunk a bit lower in my seat. My gesture wasn't so unique after all. And then he took a page from my very own playbook and proceeded to stuff three cookies into his mouth at once.

My gesture rang hollow, my intercultural bridge had crumbled. There was one key difference between his hesitant, deliberate munching of my offering and his current ravenous devouring of what was rapidly becoming an entire cookie sleeve: he simply hated chocolate cookies. All three of his new packages were vanilla.

In the interest of space and internet cafe time, I'm going to leave this one out. But suffice to say that a train ride aboard a beast called The Red Lizard, into a place where there are no roads, was one of the most amazing rail trips I've ever taken. There are lots of photos and an interesting story that I'm hoping to publish, so I'll leave it there. Stay tuned.

New Rule: Chris Martin of Coldplay must go away. Forever. Now. After his recent comments about the Live8 shows being the most important thing ever organized in world history, he has ascended to a level of self-delusion and pomposity that require him to be packed into a rocket and shot into the center of the sun. The Manhattan Project, maybe. The Human Genome Project, perhaps. But a half-dozen rock shows where only a tiny fraction of attendees have been shown to have any clue about African debt and hunger relief or the mechanisms at work to actually achieve tangible results is, Chris, not the most important organized thing the world has ever seen. What will be better organized, however, is his personal interplanetary thermal delivery system, so technically revolutionary it burns only Coldplay albums as fuel. (Or Mariah Carey, but that may actually count as internal, self-combustion.) Now that would truly be some relief.

Amonstrous day of travel brought me from the Sahara desert oasis town of Tozeur back to the Mediterranean's capital of apathy and pissedoffedness: Athens, Greece. Or at least to the airport in Athens, which continues to defy logic by actually improving their (already nice) facilities. This free internet terminal is proof of advancement that even trickles down to backpackers. The most substantial new feature since my last visit is the wonderful train link between the airport and downtown, more efficiently whisking residents and masochists into the smoldering belly of the irate beast.

Could time and enhanced modernity and the learning curve of a million Olympic tourists have softened the deadly razor's edge of interpersonal Athenian communication into something more mellow, like maybe just a pummeling with a blunt object or a drive-by shooting? "Oh come ON! You've got to be kidding! Go over THERE!" barked the check-in agent at the airline counter marked ALL DESTINATIONS, where all those destinations do not seem to include mine and I'm summarily bounced to an unmarked counter hundreds of feet away that, clearly, I should have telepathically recognized. But, says the big overhead banner, "Athens Welcomes You."

The glistening Aegean Sea is smooth as glass and on the approach to land in Santorini, the plane skims Kamari beach with its tavernas and cliffs and umbrellas and volcanic rocks. Home, sweet home.

I've come back to Santorini with the intent to spend the week. There's no pretending, this time, that I can escape its epic pull and visit other islands. Joining me for my week will be Karol and Neill, Irish and Scottish guys, respectively, who I met here last year. They will be flying in later today, at which point we will find a place to stay. The duration of their visits, however, is enough to make me want to burn my return plane ticket. Karol is spending a few weeks, Neill plans to stay at least a month. There is no hiding my jealousy.

I board the bus from the airport and wind my way toward the main town, Fira. It's warm. Dry. Wonderful. Fields of vines and white stuccoed houses pass by. I know the bus route enough to recognize the changes since last year. As a devout vagabond, I have an unrelenting passion for the new and undiscovered, but this island resonates on a different level. There is great comfort in the familiarity of Santorini. And the contrast with my past week of travel is compounded when I realize how happy I am to be out of Tunisia.

While interesting and distinct and certainly worthwhile, I'm content to have left its persistent air of edgy aggression behind. I won't miss the absolutely punishing heat, either. Although I already pine for the amazingly delicious Merguez (sausage) sandwiches.

Which is convenient because my first culinary destination is the infamous Lucky's Souvlaki, the gravitational center of my gyros universe. There are other gyros shops vying for supremacy, of course. And some, like a beachfront taverna at Kamari, even have offerings to brag about. A typical North American gyros is shaved from a Spam-like slab and has a quality somewhere between unedible and awful. But at Lucky's, even on a bad day (should such a thing exist here), the gyros creations are nothing short of sublime. What a rebound.

Swimming a few hundred metres from the shore of Perivolous beach, I pause to look back to shore. The early evening sun is still warm and bright and soaking everything in a luxurious, golden hue. The water is calm and exquisitely refreshing after a day spent lounging on the sand. New friends and old friends alike relax on chairs and paddle around in the gentle swells, more buoyant than usual from the increased salinity of the Mediterranean. One of the nearby beach clubs throws music into the sky, loud enough that the danceable fusion of modern house and warm Afro-Cuban jazz rhythms extends all the way out here at the edge of the swimming area.

The island of Santorini is many things. But with each visit, the sum of those things seems to exert an even stronger attraction towards its shores. Santorini has come to define a vacation. For all the wandering I have done, this island remains one of the few places to which I eagerly return and dread leaving. Almost no other destination veers so dangerously close to perfection.

Somewhere on the island, I am sure there must be a tally of those who simply abandon plans to return home and adopt Santorini as their own. Judging by the sentiments of crowd assembled with me, that tally could easily grow by a few more. But in a few hours, however, my bags will be grudgingly packed and I will board a ferry bound for and Athens before flying on to Zurich and Baltimore.

In the meantime, work calls: I have a barbeque to get started.

This brings my final trip dispatch to a close. I'd hoped to write more and more often, but, well, you know. As always, thanks for reading and thanks for writing. Stay in touch, and stay on the road.