Aeroflailing

I jogged to the check in desk breaking a sweat in exchange for a few extra minutes. As I approached, my heart sunk. Despite a sign clearly stating that the desk would be staffed up until 30 minutes before the flight took off, there was not a staffer present. I waited in line obnoxiously at a neighboring airline’s counter and told them my plight. The neighboring staffer disappeared for 5 minutes and returned with a representative from Aeroflot. She scolded me for my late arrival and told me that it would be hard to get my baggage onto the plane. That is the only hint I needed, I tossed her my id while I dropped to my knees repacking my most important possessions from my stow away bag into my carry on. Namely, I grabbed my suit and squeezed it into my backpack. As soon as this was done, I grabbed my id back (I already had printed boarding passes at home), I sprinted off to security. After apologizing as I cut into the security line and arriving at the proper gate, I was informed that the whole flight was delayed an hour. I slumped against a table and ordered some airport sushi while I allowed my heart rate to return to normal.

Despite my late arrival, I have a hard time not pinning some of this on Aeroflot. Between costing me 10 minutes by not actively staffing the check in and not communicating the likelihood (or certainty) of a flight delay, I was left in panic mode and ultimately my luggage was lost. The one hidden benefit here: I had to buy some new dress shoes in Israel. I openly negotiated the price at a commercial mall AND they have dragons on the bottom. They put dress shoe maestro Jordan Barone to shame.

'Twas the Summer of 2015

Ahhh the summer of 2015!

This year I will break my habit of executing one large annual international trip… in favor of two large international trips! It turns out my two best high school buddies both found international companions and are planning to wed them in their home countries. Although my friends will tell you otherwise, attendance for me is not optional. I have to be there to deliver the proper toasts and ensure dance floors are primed for everlasting marriages. Furthermore, instead of accept a mere long weekend in these locations, I choose to float the sunk costs of international airfare into regional vacations.

First up is a return to the Middle East, a place I haven’t visited since 2008. The wedding takes place in Haifa, Israel. Unfortunately, for the first trip in blog history, Bodds is unavailable. Luckily, my whole family was also invited to the wedding, so my parents and brothers will join me. This is the kind of man power it takes to replace the companionship and unwavering spirit of my favored travel companion.

The plan for the Middle East starts with stops in Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, Haifa, Nazareth, and Galilee. After Israel, my brothers and I will head to Egypt for another 6 days of fun in the sun. We’ll fly into Cairo and play it by ear.

The second wedding requires a trip to Newcastle, England which sounds substantially more exotic when referred to (as it was on the wedding invite) as Newcastle upon Tyne. I’m pairing this trip with mainland European adventure (my first return since 2005): Switzerland and Northern Italy here I come.

The trip to Israel and Egypt began with a slow and nerve racking journey to the airport. I wanted to leverage Washington, DC public transportation to avoid airport car storage fees and also prepare for a return flight that would bring me to Philadelphia (in time for another wedding), as opposed to the nation’s capital. Despite leaving 4 hours for the public transit journey (a drive would have taken a cool 45 minutes), a series of insanely late buses, traffic james, and zig-zagging transfers got me to the airport with about 45 minutes before international departure.

Relaxed Departures

I awoke for my final day in the Republic of South Africa to considerably more than a continental breakfast (eggs, toast, salty white cheese on the side) and a subcontinental sunny 70 degree day. Stumbling into this overnight stay through my tour guide clearly beat the plastic hotel environment. After a slow breakfast, my host and her morning visitors asked me what I was going to do for the day. I said I was thinking about visiting Mandela’s House and maybe seeking out a few souvenirs (why do I love wooden bowls so much?). At this they insisted on accompanying me, first the host’s 40 something year old daughter who took me to an arts and crafts market. I grilled her about how blended she really thought the various ethnicities within Soweto really were. I was pleasantly surprised when she gave several anecdotes of intermarriage and cited her own ability to speak 3 of the African languages. When she went to work in the afternoon, one my host’s friends from the neighborhood took me to Mandela’s house (the whole street has been taken over by merchants and attractions). As my flight grew near he offered to take me to the airport if I would fill his tank up with gas. I gladly obliged and we talked about perceptions and actuality of race relations in the US and SA as he drove me 75 minutes around the Johannesburg beltway to the OR Tambo International airport.

The Shanties of Soweto

As with all great trips that you can't hawk your ride at the end, this one had to turn circular. We left Swaziland and headed north toward Johannesburg. We arrived early intent on spending the day exploring the Soweto section of town before Bodds and Kulsum had evening flights. I would get to spend an extra day for some solo exploration. I was very excited for that.

Our return plan was imprecise:

Step 1: Find Soweto on a Map
Step 2: Go there

After a few stumbles, we managed to execute our plan. Our maps lacked some of the details that would have made short work of the journey.

Soweto is a bit like the South African Harlem. It is here where close quarters and poverty catalyzed a cultural Renaissance that impacted art, the social construct and ultimately helped empower Mandela  and others to overthrow the apartheid government. We rolled up to a vast yellow brick city square advertised as the central hub. We were surprised though at the apparent lack of activity. It was deserted. In search of a tour guide or accommodations for me, we ducked into a nearby affluent-looking hotel. The prices were prohibitive, but the receptionist knew a local tour guide that would be able to show us around for a couple dollars. Once our tour guide arrived, we were escorted into the shanty towns the surrounded the central square.

We really lucked out by having a tour guide so in tune with the community. He ushered us through an orphanage and to the local water spigot (one of two that serviced the surrounding 10 blocks). We also met several of the local residents who taught us about the nine African nations that live in Soweto each with their own language. We experienced drank some homemade white African beer and shared the warmth of a barrel fire. As Bodds and Kulsum were preparing to go to the airport, I once again needed to address the issue of a place to stay. Our tour guide was able to make a few calls and find space at an elderly woman's guest house on the outskirts of the Shantytown. She prepared dinner and provided a lavish place to stay for a 30 dollar cost that made the hotel from early look ridiculous. It was quite interesting given my swanky accommodations and the proximity to the shantytown though. I thought two or three times about the queen bed I was being provided compared to the orphanage I visited earlier in the day.

Execution Rock

Ah the joys of monarchy! I'm not sure I've ever visited one save for Jordan. There are smiling portraits of the slightly rotund King Mswati III all about the country. The more I dwell on it though, I probably see a similar number of Obama stateside particularly as I frequent government installations for my job. King Mswati III clearly has Obama beat on wife and children count though. Right now, he's got a cool 15 wives and 24 next gens.

In two days in Swaziland, we completed two relatively easy hikes. The first was to a recently scorched  mountain top an hour and a half's walk from our hostel. There are wildfires burning in just about every direction you look. I guess the grasses that are burning are so light that the fire never really gets hot enough to ignite trees (although every trunk bares the mark of fire). The plant life near houses is well manicured so that the fires don't get too close to people's houses. None the less, I can't really be sure of the source of all the fires (it is dry season, but I haven't seen any lightning that would have started these things) or their purpose (they are burning on hilltops and over rocky crags, not fields for slash and burn farming). By far the best thing about the burning is just looking up at the lines fire crisscrossing the mountains at night.

Our second hike took us to a more storied summit, the fabled 1110 meter high Execution Rock (what's up Table mountain?). Kings of old used to force criminals and witches to walk off the edge of the cliff at spear point. It was my favorite of the two hikes because it covered a little more diverse landscape, walked us right through a group of 10 zebras, and was a bit more strenuous. We refueled after the hike in a fashion that proved we were back in the orbit of South Africa. Grilled meats galore! Of course to up the ante, Swaziland had no reservations in throwing impala and African bison into our meat baskets.

Execution Rock

Summit of the first hike

Our nights in Swaziland might be characterized by a lapse in our usually sound moral judgement. First, we headed to a local hot springs called the Cuddle Puddle. What we thought might have been a clever and somewhat tongue in cheek name though turned out to be a little closer to the truth than we would have liked. In every corner of the mood lit pool there were couples getting handsy. Kulsum was deterred from using the the woman's locker room by a couple advocating a name change. The romp swamp, lay bay, or shag quag would have been more accurate based on what had occurred inside the changing room. With our first evening plans thwarted, we made another suspect decision and headed to the local casino. It was fun to throw bills marked in the hundreds down on the table. I went up 80 dollars playing blackjack but with the words of Semion Bezrukov sounding in my head I decided it was time to win big or not at all. In my final act of the evening I walked over to the roulette table and put 40 dollars on black and 40 dollars on 13. Red 23 came up and I broke even for the night.