Trans-Siberian Railway Part 1: Moscow to Irkutsk

December 13, 2017 by Shan Li in Grub, Etc.

Riding the Trans-Siberian Railway is one of those classic adventure dreams, like climbing Mt. Everest or driving cross-country. I blame my obsession with railroad travel on too many Hitchcock movies and Agatha Christie mysteries as a kid -- several were set on trains stacked with exotic locales, glamorously dressed passengers, restaurant cars with real tablecloths, and of course, intrigue and murder.

During my own journey, alas, no platinum blonde in a beaded evening gown fell through the doorway to warn about impending doom. Instead, I got a glimpse at the birch forests of Siberia, colorful Russian towns, the flat expanse of the Gobi Desert and stunning rivers and lakes all along the way. If you do it in one go, the trip spans 4,740 miles, and takes five days and six nights. Most tourists get off at least once; I disembarked twice, in Siberia and in Mongolia.

There are 1st, 2nd and 3rd class accommodations. I booked tickets the whole way through in 2nd-class 4-berth (or bed) compartments called kupé. The other options are 1st class 2-berth compartments, called spalny wagon, and 3rd-class bunks called platskartny (essentially open-floor cars stacked with two rows of bunks. It's important to keep in mind that if you buy a 3rd-class ticket for an upper berth, you will be unable to fully set up in bed, unless you are a child or have an extremely short torso).

Also, only 1st- and 2nd-class have compartments that come with locking doors, which is reflected in the price. I booked through Real Russia, a reputable travel agency, and paid $735 for all three legs.

Below is an account of the first leg of the journey from Moscow to Irkutsk in Siberia.

Train 4, which leaves from Moscow every Tuesday close to midnight, departs from Yaroslavskiy Railway Station. It's fairly easy to reach by metro, although leave plenty of room for error because Yaroslavkiy is located right next to Leningradskiy Railway Station and across the square from Kazanskiy Railway Station. I spent a good 20 minutes wandering around trying to figure out which station was which. Once there, you can stock up on water or snacks.

Eventually, the right train popped up on the electronic boards, listed with its number and corresponding track. Passengers hustled along with luggage in the dark of night. We stood in line as the attendant for each car checked everyone's ticket and passport.

Both 1st and 2nd class cars have sliding doors that open into private compartments. There is a bathroom on either ends of the car, which come equipped with a toilet and a sink. Depending on the train, the hallways may have a few power outlets to charge up phones and tablets.

Each bed comes with a mattress pad, a sheet, a pillow, a pillowcase, a comforter and a duvet cover. If possible, book a lower berth so you can use the table (comes with a tablecloth!). I didn't know, but the travel agency thankfully nabbed lower-berth tickets for me for the entire way. The lower bed opens up to reveal a storage space underneath that's perfect for luggage.

The swaying of the train has an almost hypnotic effect on people, akin to a rocking cradle. Many travelers whiled away the time napping, reading or watching movies. I was sick with a cold when I first got on, and within two days all that enforced rest had cured what ailed me.

Food

The first leg comes with a restaurant car serving Russian cuisine (which is switched out in Mongolia for one offering Mongolian food, and again in China for a Chinese restaurant car). The restaurant wasn't quite what I had in mind -- granted, I probably would have been disappointed with nothing less than white linen, candles and diners in full evening wear.

But the menu was extensive, serving soups, appetizers, entrees and drinks. Think standard Russian fare, heavy on the meat and potatoes. Prices ranged from about $10 (for appetizers) to $30.

Most passengers, however, will only go to the dining car for a snack or a drink. Each car is equipped with a hot water samovar that the attendant keeps full. So many people bring aboard their own food, such as instant noodles, bread, sausage, apples, coffee and tea. (This is what I brought as well, without consulting any guides. They just seemed like the most logical foods).

Stops

A short stop at Perm, a city in Russia near the Ural Mountains.

The train made stops once every few hours, to reload on coal and pick up and drop off travelers. Many of the stops last for only 10 to 20 minutes, although we have stopped for nearly an hour sometimes. And all bets are off at the border -- it took many hours to cross from Russia to Mongolia, and again from Mongolia into China.

It's a chance to get out, stretch your legs, and buy more food and drink from the local stands or inside the station itself. The stations are also good people-watching, as passengers from all over the world disembark to get a break from the rocking train.

The Sights

The three days and four nights it takes to get to Irkutsk are spent passing through Siberia, full of birch forests and little towns full of wooden homes painted vibrant shades of purple, blue and red. (I did have trouble capturing the scenery outside through the smudged windows!). It was a beautiful sight, but became a bit monotonous after the first day.

On Saturday morning, four days after coming aboard in Moscow, I disembarked in Irkutsk, just a few hours away from Lake Baikal, the largest freshwater lake in the world. More to come on that!

Horses, yurts and a cat: A stopover in Mongolia

Gorkhi-Terelj National Park

December 05, 2017 by Shan Li in Etc.

On the Trans-Siberian Railway, it takes six days to chug from Moscow all the way to Beijing. That's if you decide to do the whole journey in one go.

Some people choose to do this: Those who want the undiluted train experience, or are going on business, or have small children in tow. One couple, traveling with their four young kids, told me just the thought of unloading and reloading their bags more than once gave them heart palpitations. I get that.

But if you have the time, definitely opt for at least one layover. That breaks up the monotony and allows for a couple of real baths (Only first-class passengers have showers in their train compartments. Everyone else makes do with wipes or whatever ablutions can be performed at a sink on a swaying train. We all pretend to lose our sense of smell).

I stopped twice -- the first in Siberia in the city of Irkutsk, and the second in Ulan Bator, Mongolia. I was especially excited about Mongolia -- it doesn't rank high on many must-visit lists, but its national parks are reputed to be stunningly beautiful.

On a Tuesday in October, I disembarked at the Ulan Bator train station. Bobby, the owner of the guesthouse I stayed in, picked me up and gave me a brief tour of the city.

Ulan Bator is chock full of Soviet-era style buildings, interspersed occasionally with a modern high-rise or Buddhist temple. Nearly half of Mongolia's three million people have squeezed into the capital city. A lot of young people are choosing to leave the nomadic life behind, Bobby said, in search of modernity and fortune (That's led to a growing homeless and housing crisis).

There are plenty of sights and restaurants there to visit. My absolute favorite was the International Intellectual Museum (no photos allowed inside, unfortunately).

It's a privately-owned museum dedicated to showcasing Mongolia's deep history of games and puzzles. Thousands of toys, puzzles and playthings are on display, either made or collected by its founder, toy maker Zandraa Tumen Ulzii. A tour guide leads visitors through floors full of traditional Mongolian games using ankle bones or interlocking wooden pieces, and encourages people to try their hand at solving a few simple ones. The museum also has dozens of elaborate chess sets carved out of wood, bone and stone (most made by Ulzii). The most intricate puzzle requires over 56,000 moves.

The museum is a sheer delight -- go, spend a few hours, you won't regret it.

But first, Genghis Khan

But my main purpose in stopping in Mongolia was to get out of the city and sleep in a ger, or the traditional Mongolian felt yurt.

Through my guesthouse, I signed up for a two-day stay at Gorkhi-Terelj National Park, which is about 35 miles northeast of Ulan Bator. The trip, including a driver, food and an overnight stay, came out to $60 (the entrance fee into the park is 3,000 Mongolian tugriks, or roughly $1.25). I was paired with two other guests, Matt and Pete; together, we set off early in the morning.

First, we made a pit-stop at an enormous statue of Genghis Khan riding on horseback.

Erected in 2008, the statue stands 130 feet tall and is reportedly made from 250 tons of stainless steel. You can dine at the restaurant inside and ride the elevator up to the horse's head to take in the view. The main complex is surrounded by gers and more statues.

The statue is an interesting sight to behold, but not incredibly historic or spell-binding in any way. If you are crunched for time, I'd recommend skipping this.

Gers inside the park

When we finally made it to Gorkhi-Terelj National Park, I spent a few hours simply admiring the magnificent view. The season was tipping into autumn, and the mountain ranges were already covered with golden trees, like blonde whiskers on chins. Cattle meandered about, and a couple of muscular camels trotted by later that day. Clusters of gers dotted the sides of the dirt road that wound through the park.

I was in heaven. The scenery was so gorgeous, the air smelled so clean (Ulan Bator is extremely polluted) and the whole ger/sleeping situation was so thrillingly new.

And let's not forget the horses.

Later that afternoon, the three of us rode horses, guided by an older gentleman, who said he originally hailed from Russia. None of us were terribly confident at riding, so it took a good hour before our horses would listen to us. We rode through fields of trees and over hills, and occasionally hung on for dear life when the horses decided to canter and gallop instead of amble along.

Three hours in, we stretched our legs by hiking up to the Aryabal Meditation Temple located inside the park. Getting there required crossing a bridge and climbing many steps. The inside of the temple was beautiful. The view was spectacular.

By dusk, the temperature had plunged, and our host came by to light the wood-fired stove. We dined on some veggies and beef (which I suspect was freshly slaughtered that day), and then hit the sack.

The gers are giant puzzles. The underlying wooden frame is made up of pieces that slide in together, with a felt cover on top. The exposed ceiling latticework inside was painted a bright orange. Each ger is quite roomy; ours held four twin beds, along with a table, a loveseat and the stove.

We rotated fire-stoking duties throughout the night, which is VERY important. If the fire dies, the gers only offer lukewarm protection against the cold mountain night.

The next day we lounged around and befriended our host family's extremely affectionate and shaggy cat. After several rounds of belly rubs, we packed up and headed back to Ulan Bator in the early afternoon. On the way back, we all agreed that coming back and seeing more of Mongolia had become a priority.

The Rice Field, by Ilya and Emilia Kabakov, at the Echigo-Tsumari Art Field.

Serendipity and the art of Japanese country driving

Tokamachi, Japan

November 24, 2017 by Shan Li in Etc.

Driving in a foreign country is a gamble highly dependent on nerves, skill and how closely locals adhere to speed limits.

On one hand, you have my friend Abby, who navigated the terrifying stew of Beirut traffic like a female James Bond -- overtaking slower cars, zig-zagging through congestion and charming directions out of children in flawless Arabic. She would make a great getaway driver in a bank heist.

On the other, you have David and me. We have been known to circle the same restaurant four or five times before realizing that the GPS was saying to turn right, not left. Both of us have driven into Mexico by mistake (on separate occasions).

So when David, my travel buddy for Japan and South Korea, proposed renting a car to visit some museums out in the Japanese countryside, I had doubts. Just imagine the scene below, but replace Gozilla with us in a vehicle.

Overall, the road trip was completely doable. Okay yes, we almost hit a man within an hour of getting behind the wheel (he was fine). And yes, we did almost slam into a car at a red light (the car was fine). The stress of driving on the other side of the road, combined with following directions in kilometers and handling a new car, definitely took some adjustment.

However. Not only did we scrape through with no damage to either humans or property, those two days were the standouts of the entire Japanese journey. We got a peek into the rural side of the country, away from the technicolor frenzy of its cities.

*A tip for those who decide to do the same: Make sure to reserve a car early. It was extremely difficult, nearly impossible, to book one just a day in advance. We would have been completely lost without my friend Raena, who already speaks an impressive amount of Japanese after only a year in Tokyo (she would disagree, but I was in awe). She called at least half a dozen rental agencies in the general area we were planning to visit before finding a single car available in Nagaoka, a city in Niigata Prefecture. People in Japan tend to make travel plans well in advance, Raena said, and once they make a reservation, they keep them.

On an early weekday morning in October, we left Tokyo on a Shinkansen bullet train. The ride took about an hour and a half. Once we got to Nagaoka, we picked up our cute Mazda Flair hybrid. David was at the wheel (he was the one with an international driver's license), while I navigated and programmed the GPS. We drove about an hour south to the city of Tokamachi.

Not the actual one we rented. I was too concerned about driving into a ditch to remember to take a photo.

Echigo-Tsumari Art Field

Our primary goal was to see the Echigo-Tsumari Art Field, an area with about 160 works of art scattered among the farmlands and backroads around Tokamachi. The region's reputation as an art cluster got its start in 2000, when Japanese curator Fram Kitagawa created an arts festival there in an effort to revive its economy (he also had a hand in turning the island of Naoshima into a haven for modern art). Now, the Echigo-Tsumari Art Triennial is held every three years.

My favorite among the crop was the House of Light, a two-story house designed by California artist James Turrell.

It features a lot of traditional Japanese architecture, including shoji screens, along with his signature manipulations of light: a bath illuminated by fiber optic cables, doorways lit in mesmerizing ways and a retractable roof that reveals a skyspace, with an automatic light program at sunset and sunrise. The house is even available to rent, although you'll have to book well in advance. Prices start at 4,000 yen a person (about $35) per night; everyone also splits a facilities charge of 20,000 yen (or about $180). I would definitely come back to Japan just for a night in this house.

The outside of House of Light by James Turrell.

Our guide standing outside an illuminated doorway.

To be honest, aside from the Turrell house and a few pieces at the Satoyama Museum of Contemporary Art, the art itself was the least interesting part of the trip. Some of the most promising works were closed for the season.

The outdoor installations that are available year-round were --- the best description I can come up with is goofy as hell. I'll let the pictures explain themselves.

Yes, this was a whole passel of frogs, encouraging people to "rise."

These were called "Sounds of Music." The swings have bells attached to the very top of the rope; they do sort of clank together when you sit on the swing.

I did find these statues delightfully absurd.

Serendipity and soba

Driving in the countryside itself was the highlight. Motoring around Tokamachi, you'll encounter lush green fields of vegetables and small towns chock full of buildings with barrel roofs, built so snow can slide right off during the winter. The drive from one museum to the next usually took 30 to 40 minutes, and we spent that time admiring the scenery and architecture.

Our favorite stop was definitely not on the original itinerary. The Satoyama art museum's ground floor is essentially an open-air plaza that hosts events throughout the year. When we were there, the woman manning the front desk mentioned that a soba festival was being held there the next day. We deliberated for about three seconds before deciding that we had to come back. That day, we even caught a few of the soba masters at work rolling out dough and cutting noodles in preparation for the festival.

Guys, the soba festival was fantastic. A few dozen local restaurants had set up stalls selling both hot and cold soba. Many were offering the local specialty, hegi soba noodles, which is made from seaweed. A bowl cost about $3. I also sampled the most fantastic tempura of my life, a mouth-watering mix of sweet potatoes and carrots that was crisp and chewy at the same time.

All I can say is, rent a car and just drive out into rural Japan. You don't need a schedule or definite plans. That is the best part of travel -- what you find when you get there.

P.S. Japanese drivers are also extremely law-abiding and generally cautious, so it's really the safest place to try driving outside of your home country.

Green onions and other extras for noodles.

Conference buildings straddle the demarcation line between North and South Korea.

Between Two Koreas: A Visit to the Demilitarized Zone

November 08, 2017 by Shan Li in Etc.

1. No the color has faded or the hole jeans. (Regular jeans are OK).

2. No training wear, Military style.

3. No short pants, mini skirt

4. No open tied shoes, flip-flops. Sandals, slippers, any open toe shoes or open heel shoes are not allowed.

5. No sleeveless and leather pants.

-- Dress code for visiting the DMZ

With tension at a hair-trigger point between North Korea and the world, visiting the demilitarized zone that separates the two Koreas may not seem like the brightest move.

The DMZ is what Bill Clinton once described as the "scariest place on Earth." And that was before North Korea successfully carried out multiple nuclear weapons tests, and before our current president threatened North Korea with "fire and fury."

But a DMZ visit was a must do for me and David, my travel buddy (and former editor!). When else would we get a chance to peek inside North Korea and stand at the border between two countries that have technically been at war since the 1950s?

A number of agencies run tours there, but only the ones sanctioned by the United Nations are allowed to go inside the Joint Security Area (or JSA) at Panmunjom -- this is the one area along the border where soldiers from North and South can actually stand face to face. Our agency, Tour DMZ, charged 85,000 won, or about $75, including a restaurant lunch of bulgogi or bibimbap.

Before we departed, Tour DMZ sent everyone an email with the dress code listed above, a reminder to bring passports, and also a warning that tours could be unexpectedly canceled because of an "unexpected military situation."

The group met on a Saturday at 11:30 am and departed on a very comfortable bus from the Hotel President in Seoul.

Our guide, Mr. Kim (That Mr. Kim's brother, he joked), told us that we would transfer to a UN bus once we approached the DMZ, and a US soldier would be assigned to act as both guide and protector. Mr. Kim also explained why ripped jeans are banned at the border -- North Korea has previously used images of poorly dressed tourists as propaganda to prove that Westerners can't afford proper pants.

Driving to the DMZ

The drive took about an hour. We stopped first at Imjingak Park, built so Koreans born on both sides of the conflict could have a place to remember and commemorate their loved ones. The Bridge of Freedom, which lies here, is where soldiers crossed to return south after the Korean War. There were loads of South Koreans here enjoying themselves, lounging under the sun and dining at the restaurants, including a Popeyes.

As we continued north, the road grew more deserted. Barbed wire lined one side, and we saw an occasional billboard-like concrete slab as the bus drove by. If war ever breaks out, we were told, those slabs could be blown up and used to block the invading North Korea forces.

We finally arrive at Camp Bonifas, the United Nations Command military post just south of the DMZ. The camp was named after U.S. Army Captain Arthur Bonifas, who was killed, along with another American officer, in a dispute over trimming a tree inside the DMZ in 1976 (it's now called the Axe Murder Incident).

Our escort for the day, Pfc. Rana, started off with a primer about North Korea, and jokingly (but not really) asked if anyone felt like defecting over the border that day. He also cautioned us to avoid waving, pointing or engaging in any abnormal behavior once we got to the border (This was taken very seriously. Later that day, David stooped down to tie his shoes. Pfc. Rana zoomed over and asked, very earnestly, if he could tie David's shoes for him).

The briefing finally concluded with everyone signing a visitor declaration, UNC Regulation 551-5. We agreed, among other things, that we understood a visit to the JSA "will entail entrance into a hostile area and the possibility of injury or death as a direct result of enemy action."

A quick overview of the three generation of the Kim family to rule North Korea.

Visitors to the JSA must sign this agreement and refrain from "abnormal action."

The JSA and the border

Everyone piled into a UN bus at this point to head to the JSA. We drive past Daeseong-dong, or Freedom Village, which was set up a few years after the 1953 armistice when both sides decided to build model villages. The civilians who live in Freedom Village are mostly farmers; they earn an average of $80,000 a year per household, and are exempt from paying taxes or mandatory military service. Women are allowed to marry into the village, but men are not.

North Korea's version, Kijong-dong, is not inhabited, according to Pfc. Rana. It is now known as Propaganda Village because of the nationalist songs piped over loudspeakers there.

We finally arrived at the JSA, which is essentially a plot of land within the DMZ containing some buildings straddling the border intended for talks between the two sides. First, we walked through Freedom House, built but never used as a site for reunions between families separated by the war. Once we walked out the other end, we were yards from the border and looking into North Korea.

There was a palpable feeling of tension and watchfulness. Everyone was quiet, except when Pfc. Rana sternly told one guy in our group to refrain from accidental pointing.

Below, a watchtower on the North Korean side. They supposedly record all visitors to the border (notice the cameras).

The bright blue buildings, which stretch over both sides, are conference centers intended for discussions between north and south. That concrete bumper-looking line at the bottom right corner of the picture is the actual demarcation line. South Korean soldiers stand at the ready.

Across from Freedom House is Panmungak, North Korea's three-story concrete building. At least one North Korean soldier stands guard at all times.

We were allowed to go inside one of the United Nations Command conference buildings. Since it falls on both sides, it is the only time we could safely go inside North Korea (just don't walk out the door on the other side).

Two South Korean soldiers stood guard in modified taekwondo poses, which they can supposedly hold for up to 12 hours at a time. This guy below had pore-less clear skin (I refrained from trying to ask what his skincare regimen was).

We had a few minutes for photos, as long as we kept a little distance away from the soldiers (Pfc. Rana also kindly asked that we not kiss them).

David and I stood technically inside North Korea. Walking through the door behind us would lead you well and truly into the north (and also spark an international incident).

A few more photos, and everyone jumped back into the bus. We returned to Camp Bonifas and browsed the gift shop (of course, doesn't every tour end with a gift shop?) full of DMZ-related souvenirs and some local crafts. Then we headed on back to Seoul.

I haven't been to this lounge at the Wellington International Airport in New Zealand yet. But it's on the list (Phillip Capper).

An Ode to Airport Lounges

October 28, 2017 by Shan Li in Etc., Grub

For years, I was like 99% of the world's flying population, dreading the hours wasted between passing through security and boarding a plane. That dread fossilized into hatred in May, when I decided that a 19-hour layover at the Johannesburg airport was a trifling hardship compared to saving $100 on a ticket.

It was a decision I deeply regretted ten hours later, after I had piled on every piece of clothing in my backpack and sprinted around the terminal like a deranged racehorse on the last leg of the Kentucky Derby. Hell is cold, and probably resembles an airport at 3 o'clock in the morning.

Then I got a lounge membership, for free, through my Chase Sapphire Reserve credit card (this is not an ad, by the way).

I grew up in a family that stayed exclusively at motels with numbers in their name, with a father who suffered unimaginable deprivation during China's Great Leap Forward. I believed in the old saw that suffering built character, and part of suffering involved flying as economically as possible while still getting to your final destination (also that Spam is a perfectly acceptable picnic food, but that's a story for another time).

I'm not sorry to say that those principles melted in the first hour of my very first visit to a lounge inside Terminal 2 of the Cairo International Airport.

Friends, that hour was a warm embrace into a secret club. The kind that serves you piles of ham sandwiches, a pyramid of croissants, and occasionally comes by to offer a juice pack of orange or apple, take your pick. Travelers lounged on comfy, garishly colored leather chairs, silently wolfing down free pastries and fruit. I was one of them.

Since then, waiting to fly out has turned into pure joy. I downloaded the app that accompanies my membership, and eagerly plot out the best lounges to hit in the limited amount of time I have. I will even rush to the airport hours early, just to kick back and enjoy the over-salted soup. In Beijing, I snacked on shrimp shumai. In Beirut, I silently cheered a delayed flight, which allowed me to go back to the lounge and indulge in unlimited beers.

In September, I had another long layover, this time about 11 hours at the Domodedovo International Airport in Moscow. Instead of curling up on a skeletal bench, I pushed together two squishy armchairs and drifted off to sleep, awakening occasionally to enjoy a frothy cappuccino and smoked salmon sandwiches.

My membership expires next April. I would actually consider plunking down money to renew it, when the dreaded day comes.

Almost wandered into the prayer room in a comatose state.

Quiet rooms at the Doha airport: Best invention ever?

May 03, 2017 by Shan Li in Etc.

I had grand plans to write an ode to the psychedelic joys of the Hamad International Airport in Doha, but guys -- reliable WiFi is a serious problem. I'm currently in Harare, Zimbabwe squatting almost on top of the router at a local guesthouse. The Internet keeps cutting in and out, and a guy from Malawi sitting nearby is in the middle of a long monologue on the perils of being interrogated by incompetent border officials while passing through various African nations.

So I'll keep this short.

No American airport I've ever seen comes even close to the capitalist fever dream that is the airport in Doha. I really think you could buy pretty much anything your travel-weary soul could desire here -- designer shades, caviar, fancy abayas, apology jewelry. Around 3 am. when I was boarding the plane for Cape Town, almost all the stores were still open for business.

But the best feature of this labyrinth, no contest, were the quiet rooms.

These were spaces full of leather lounge chairs that could function as makeshift beds for a quick snooze or, as the woman in the picture below ingeniously demonstrated, as a crawlspace for a more serious hibernation (That lady really was underneath her chair for a long time. I almost poked her to make sure she was okay).

The airport provides both co-ed rooms and separate ones for men and women, with the female rooms obscured by frosted glass. It is the best airport invention possibly of all time. The only improvement would be to darken the rooms, to hide all the drooling and snoring.

The female-only quiet room. I did take a bunch of photos of the men's side, but they all looked like poorly lit stalker pictures.

The 23-foot-tall teddy bear sculpture that was sold at auction for $6.8 million.

You can shop to your heart's content at 2 o'clock in the morning.

A kitschy restaurant across the street from my hostel.

First week in Cape Town, and the kindness of strangers

April 19, 2017 by Shan Li in Etc.

So where to start?

The journey began last Wednesday, with a flight from Houston that stopped in Doha, Qatar for a 10-hour layover (more to come on that airport, which is basically a vast casino-like shopping mall that just happens to have airplanes. At least that's how it appears when you're a sleep-deprived zombie desperately lumbering around for a dark place to hibernate). Roughly 34 hours later, I landed in Cape Town and made my way to the hostel located in a stretch of the city center that is lined with restaurants (see above and below photos), cafes, bookstores and souvenir shops.

Several people have told me that they consider Cape Town to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world. They weren't lying. The beaches are velvety white surrounded by intensely blue waters, and the mountains that hug part of the city are majestic and dramatic as hell. After a chilly and windy first day, the weather has also warmed up considerably. I've mostly been running around doing touristy things, like visiting Nelson Mandela's prison island, hiking partway around Table Mountain and walking along the waterfront.

A view of Cape Town from atop Table Mountain.

Found some Protea, the national flower of South Africa, on Table Mountain. The giant variety kind of looks like half a pineapple from the side.

As for where I am staying -- the biggest surprise is how little hostels have changed in the years since college. In just the last week, I've had a rotating roster of roommates, including a French girl headed to the South African equivalent of Burning Man, a couple of Peace Corps volunteers on holiday, and an older British guy who said he's lived in South America, Thailand and all over Europe (What does he do for a living? My reporting skills failed me there. His primary occupation, whatever the location, is drinking beer, he said). That's what I've always liked about hostels -- they truly are way stations for adventurers, idealists, wayward souls and malcontents from around the world. There is no telling who will wash up.

I've only run into one hairy situation, and it was entirely my own fault. Before heading to Johannesburg tomorrow, I really wanted to get a taste of South African barbecue, which the locals call braai (if I could only eat one food for the rest of my life, it would be barbecue. Or fried chicken. Impossible to choose, like picking your favorite child).

I bused it over to a highly recommended restaurant, and decided to keep going even after the sun began setting. As soon as I stepped off the bus, I realized it was a dodgy neighborhood. Lots of men were loitering up and down the street. Many stood in doorways, just staring. Not good. I walked across the street to wait for the return bus.

Only it never arrived. The guy sitting next to me eventually got up and told me he had been waiting for over an hour, and planned to walk to his grandma's house instead. By then, I was getting alarmed and darted after him and asked if he would wait while I called a taxi.

To make a long story short, he and his friend ended up walking me to a gas station a few blocks away and finding a taxi for me. On the brief walk over, the guy said that the local residents would "stab you for your phone." His friend called him "a prophet of doom," but then admitted that while she loved Cape Town, it was definitely a dangerous place.

So now I'm back in my hostel safe and sound, listening to my (new) roommate snoring. Lessons learned: Never walk around at night by yourself, and strangers can be kind anywhere in the world.