Worldwide Ace

The gate of Dachau reads, “ARBEIT MACHT FREI.” It means, “work will set you free.”
For more pictures of Dachau and Germany, click here.

“Not yet. Not yet, Ben,” I tell myself. I can feel the tears welling up. “You’ve still got more to see.”

Only 20 minutes ago did I walk through the gate marked Arbeit Macht Frei, those heinous words that marked the entryway to Dachau. It hasn’t been long enough for me to be crying yet. The tears subside.

Up ahead is a barbed wire fence, a trench, a guard tower and gate that defined the boundary of Dachau. Occasionally it was known as the “suicide zone” because people who couldn’t take the life anymore would walk into the kill zone that marked the edge of the camp.

But after a few steps, I’m not paying attention to the brutal area I’m about to walk into. I’m thinking about why I didn’t want to cry. If anything is worthy of my tears, the death and mistreatment of millions is. I cried when I visited the Holocaust Museum in Washington D.C. as a child. Why not now? Why not as I walk the same ground in which over 200,000 Jews, Catholics, Poles, Russians, and prisoners of a political sense were systematically broken, tortured, or killed?

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Matt says the 1st Athens hip hop festival is number 1. Or it will be when it happens.
For more A-number 1 photo enforcing in Greece, click here.

“If we’re lucky,” I say, “the lines at the Agora will be small in comparison to the Acropolis and save us some time.” It’s the first full sentence I’ve said in a half hour. It’s innocuous, without implication. It’s politically savvy, since everything I say seems to piss off Matt right now.

“Yes,” he responds. Internally, I’m sighing with relief.

When we got off the ferry this morning, the sun wasn’t up and my sleep deprivation had reached a low I didn’t think possible. Matt was chipper, upbeat and excited. I was pissed, tired, and wanted nothing more than a good night’s sleep. But this is our chance to see Athens. I tried to apologize for my behavior, but apologies apparently weren’t good enough.

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The sleepy town of Sitia glows in the dusk light from our hotel window.
For more wispy photos of Greece, click here.

My bag rattles on the cobbled streets of Sitia, a sleepy town on Eastern Crete. Matt’s told me he finds the sound annoying and, to be honest, I do too. One of my favorite things about my bag is that I can convert into a backpack, something I’ve done several times this trip. Currently, though, I’m carrying too much weight. My laptop case is easily 25-30 kilos, my suitcase about the same.

We find our way to a hotel. Tourist information said it’s the second cheapest in town and much closer to the city center than the cheapest. The owner quotes us a price of 35-40€ for the night. I ask for a student discount. He says that is the young persons’ discount. After we check in, the sticker on the back of our room door confirms this.

Our view is stunning. The balcony overlooks the rooftops and from here I can see the other side of the bay. A beach runs along the front, lined by restaurant, café, and pub tents so that patrons can sit along the waterfront. Sitia itself really only has 8 blocks worth of things to see. There’s a castle further up the hill, but we aren’t here for castles. This is our fourth city in four days. Tomorrow we go to Iraklion, the capital of Crete, and catch an overnight ferry to Athens. That will be six cities in six days. Today, we relax.

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The Palace of the Grand Masters towers over Rhodes Town as the sun goes down.
For more medieval pictures of Greece, click here.

I feel a rap on my shoulder. I’m suddenly aware that it must be the second or third that Matt’s applied.

“Come on. We’re here.”

I can’t tell the difference between being moving and stationary.

At this time yesterday, we were sitting at a small café in Göreme, the heart of Cappadocia. Two bus rides, a day near the beach, and an hour and half long ferry ride later, we’re standing in line for passport control on the Greek island of ΡΟΔΟΣ (Rhodes). Going between Turkey and Greece on the water, Rhodes is the best way to go.

The sun is glinting off the water across the port, the medieval city walls glowing gold in the perfect light. Rhodes, former home of the Colossus and the empire of the Rhodians, is the largest and most popular of Dodecanese, one of three major chains of Greek islands. The line of people is long. I get in the shortest line, figuring it’ll go the fastest. I’m tempted to go take pictures of the bay, but I want to get through customs. I’ve already had to wait multiple hours to get on to the ferry.

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Fairy Chimneys, the quintessential Cappadocian feature, stand starkly against the clear sky.
The entire region was volcanic basalt, and, over centuries, wind and rain eroded these structures.
For more geolocial pictures of Turkey, click here.

During our journey through Cappadocia, we stumbled upon this odd manuscript that, in many ways, paralleled our own travels. I was really hoping to find some of the other chapters, but unfortunately, this was the only fragment. We got one of our hosts to translate it for me, though I’ve adjusted the words to fix the grammar and the names to protect the innocent.

Chapter Seven: The Land of Pretty Horses

The sun shone pale through the thin veil of cloth, casting an ashen light on the crumbling walls of the cavern. Despite being sore from the steady diet of adventures they had encountered on their quest, Squire Benjamin rose from his bedroll, splashed some water on his face, and pulled aside the flimsy barrier keeping the day at bay. Light broke through the opening like a falcon diving for its prey.

“Arise, Sir Matthew,” called Squire Benjamin. “We have ever so far to go today and morning has already captured Göreme.”

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A desert Rose blooms outside of Derinkuyu, the largest underground city in Cappadocia.
For more delicate pictures of Turkey, click here.

“So you’re fasting?”

“Yes,” she replies.

“For Ramadan?”

“Yes.”

“Do you do anything special to break the fast?” I ask. Sure, it’s a little bit of a set up, but I’m also curious. All my Muslim friends over the years have been liberal enough not to tweak my curiosity. Besides, I’m a Jew who’s not Judaic, which puts me in much the same boat. I may know a lot more than your average Joe about Judaism, but I pale in comparison to your average Shlomo.

“No, nothing special. I just eat.”

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A cat perches in a ruined wall in Ankara, staring as some stray dogs further down the hill.
For more feline photos of Turkey, click here.

“This reminds me a lot of Eastern Europe,” I comment to Matt as another vintage car spills down the busy streets of Ankara. The capital of Turkey wasn’t really supposed to be a destination in our journey, but with Egypt ruled out due to issues with the Cyprian border, we’ve got time to spare. Soon enough, we’ll journey onward to Cappadocia and its incredible old world cities dug into the ground. For now, though, Ankara feels like a piece of the former Soviet bloc even if the USSR’s influence didn’t actually reach here.

“Why do you say that?” Matt asks.

“Well, so many things seem indicative of Eastern European culture: the babushkas, the old 80s cars, the styles and faces… though I’ve never actually been to Eastern Europe that I remember.”

“Aha!” says Matt, smiling. “I actually feel the same way, but it’s all based on movies, video games, and the general picture of Eastern Europe propagated in the media.”

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The Blue Mosque is silhouetted along the Istanbul skyline at sunset.
For more golden photos of Turkey, click here.

“I think I’m falling in love,” I whisper to Matt, the breeze from the Bosphorus blowing cool droplets of water across our faces.

“I haven’t even seen you attempt to talk to a girl this trip,” Matt says, one eyebrow rising with a playful smirk.

“Hey, there were the German girls on the bus, and the Punjab lady at the café, and that’s just since we’ve been traveling together!”

“You didn’t even get the German girls’ names, and the Punjab lady approached all of us and it was hardly a conversation.” I scowl at him. This entire train of conversation wasn’t where I was headed.

“Anyway,” I say, trying my best to transition away from Matt’s deconstruction of my lack of confidence, “I meant that I think I’m falling in love with this city.” There’s a spark in Matt’s eyes and we’re on the same page. He turns back to the river.

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An old sign adorns a shop’s window in Connaught Place, Delhi.
For more electrifying pictures of India, click here.

The explosion echoes from Connaught Place. We all turn, our heads craned at awkward angles due to the way we’re crammed into our auto rickshaw.

“Whoa,” says Gina.

“It’s probably just fireworks,” responds Emilie. “They set off fireworks all year in India. I was woken up in Jaipur once thinking it was bombs, but it was just fireworks.”

“Why do they do that?” I ask, thinking nothing of the booming echo now faded beneath the honking horns of Delhi’s dense traffic.

“I don’t know.”

“It could’ve been a bomb,” says Gina. “There were bombings in Jaipur before Emilie got here.”

“Yeah,” agrees Emilie. “There were 60 killed shortly before I got there. A bunch more after. They hit Ahmedabad, Bangalore, and some in Surrah, but they were diffused before they went off.”

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The sun crests over the Jaisalmer Fort as the city begins to wake up.
For more stunning pictures of India, click here.

It’s 5 AM in Jaisalmer and I’m up too early. A half hour ago, my alarm went off as I dozed on the cool rooftop. Despite being in the middle of desert, the nights never quite get cold here, dropping from dry and painful 100 degree days only 15 degrees to a balmy upper 80s at night. If only we had known, we might have shelled out for the air conditioned room. Instead, we’ve been climbing to the roof and sleeping in the crook of the stone parapets, wrapped in nothing but the desert breeze.

I stumbled downstairs after peeling myself from my chosen parapet, my alarm quickly silenced to allow the others up top to keep sleeping. Though a voice in the back of my head told me to forget my plan and go back to sleep, I headed for the front door. It was locked.

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