As most of you who actually read this have probably figured out, I (Jenna) actually write most of the stuff on here. But, Chris recently sent out a long, informative and funny email to some family and friends, so I thought I'd post it here (with some additional comments by me where I couldn't resist) so you could read about our life - and mainly our travels this summer - from his perspective....Oh, and most of the pictures in here (or at least the best ... meaning guts and speedos ... ones) were taken by our friend Matt. We can't take credit for those genius shots!

Merhaba, Zdravei, Salut, Sziasztok, Zivjo, Ahoj, Guten tag, Bok and finally Hello,

After a summer of travel and mangling the above versions of hello, I hope this missive finds you all well and enjoying life. All is good on this end, particularly so now that I (we) am finally out of the dreaded long distance relationship, as Jenna decided to move over in June. After a nearly three month holiday spent recovering from the ravages of money management and its ubiquitous 2 week vacation she has moved into the education field working with the little guys (3-8) at a progressive after-school program. Anyhow we are enjoying the process of learning how to live together and thus far successfully navigating the delicate "lifestyle" issues that inevitably arise ie. dishes, underwear and the dreaded socks. (ie. Jenna is messy) (False. False false false. Anyone who knows me knows that!) In commemoration of the move and the fact that at the end of the year I didn't want to look at another child again, I took the whole summer off for the first time and traveled. Jenna and I began our cohabitation with consecutive visits from our respective families. While probably not the easiest segue, we had a fantastic time showing them how wonderful Turkey is when you get away from the rich people's children. We headed out with a large group of friends to Cappadocia, which has to be one of the most amazing landscapes in all the world. Here is a great article on it. After that we headed down to the coast for what is called a blue cruise which roughly translates into lots of beautiful scenery, swimming and lounging on a traditional Turkish boat. Here is a recent NYT article about it: After that we met Jenna's parents in Bodrum, which is something akin to a cross between South Beach and a quaint Turkish village.

After returning to Istanbul we had a day to recover before Scott, a college friend, arrived. After showing him the city, he and I took off for a road trip out to Cappadocia while Jenna headed to Bar-tha-lona to visit a friend. I couldn't believe she turned down driving around, hot and sunny, southern Turkey in a small, Turkish built, French car with no A/C and two stinky dudes whilst camping. It was really great to get back out on the road with Scott. Check out Scott's blog here: http://roadtripturkey.blogspot.com/

The Road Trip Begins....Of Clown Cars and Border Crossings

Close on the heels of Scott leaving, the next crew, Matt, Scott #2 (Dubbed "The short Scott" for expediency) and Will, arrived for the big question mark of the summer. The plan was to drive my previously mentioned small car (see photos, note the wheel well when fully occupied) full of 4 guys and there respective baggage from Istanbul to Prague and back again. Mind you that I'm by far the smallest at 6'1" 160, needless to say it was a tight fit, so much so that we felt kindred spirits to the poor fellows who make their living piling into small cars with face paint. After a few days of traipsing around Istanbul we hit the road bound for Bulgaria. Thankfully sans face paint as it would have melted off from our sweat, obscuring a beautiful drive through the sun and sunflower soaked countryside. Quick math side note; 4 guys = 750 lbs, 4 guys gear = 160 lbs, snacks = 2.854 lbs = Total = 912.854 lbs ¸ 1.2 liter manual transmission equals what an elementary physicist would regard as a mathematical impossibility. A 1.2 liter engine generates roughly 73 horsepower giving each of us 18.25 horsepower to get our asses to Prague and back. Chaos theory would indicate that something was bound to go wrong. Chaos theory was wrong, or at least for awhile.

Upon arriving at the Turkish border our car was forced into a concrete lined queue, as the Turkish people as a whole don't understand the concept of queuing, that forcing was a good thing. However, throughout this 2 hour process of advancing in the queue, we watched repeated attempts by doggedly stupid peoples to bypass our place in line. These others, upon arriving at the border and finding an empty line between two very long lines would go right to the front and begin honking their horn. They apparently believed that they had been granted this good fortune due to the grace of god as opposed to the line being closed. Upon this stark realization, resultant to being yelled at by the various authorities, each of them would then begin the lengthy process of asking why this line was closed. This in turn would slow down our line, further angering the many others who had gone through this same exact process many hours before. All in all quite funny when you have moved beyond getting frustrated with the utter lack of efficiency. Once to the gate we exchanged a few pleasantries and were allowed to pass. Evidently from here we were to park the car and get into another queue, although this time a human one, meaning there were no concrete barriers to keep people in place. This is where the real fun started. Upon entering the queue we became witnesses to a scene of Byzantine comedy. Evidently this wealthy German family in (actually, out of and yelling) their perfect Mercedes wagon, had discovered upon returning from their trip to Turkey, that their passports didn't have the proper stamps. They had evidently passed through this border 2 weeks prior thinking all was good. Upon arrival at the border the guards told them that they didn't have the proper paper work and were thus "working on it". . . all day. They were not finding their predicament in the least bit funny. It's strange what happens to people when all you want to do is get through a border. My regard for fellow man disintegrated into a wish that this guy would stop yelling and I could get through this god forsaken no mans land. I and my fellow line mates should have risen up and made the guards acknowledge the arcane stupidity of the Turkish government and their place in it and demand that they let this family through instantly but we quietly bowed our heads and physically pushed the guy next to us who was trying to take our spot as we thought about the right thing to do. Shockingly we got through this line in about an hour leaving the poor family to their bribe negotiations and were sent on our merry way, or at least until the next booth. Here we were met by a man who demanded our passports again. Upon typing my passport number into the computer he began saying something to me in Turkish. When his words were met with a black stare and acknowledgment that I speak very little Turkish he became highly agitated. From here he began hitting the top of my car yelling, KOMputer problem. KOMputer problem. When this didn't phase us and the blank stares remained, he left the booth and continued gesturing and striking the car for us to go back while yelling KOMputer problem. A quick u-turn and telling of the guy at the computer that there was a "KOMputer problem" and we were back to our final hurdle. This time however the guy quickly put the passport number in and we were on our way with a high five that much resembled Borat's failed attempts at connecting to western culture. Our border crossings would be relatively easy and peaceful from here, aside from the 1 1/2 hour work-over the car received going into Romania and some troubles in Croatia. Now, you can tell me by looking at the photos, but I don't think we, in the least, resemble drug runners but the earnest Romanian authorities gave our car, henceforth referred to as The Spring (early 90's Renault make), a full body cavity search, while letting all other cars pass with nothing more than a nod. After getting under, looking through the engine compartment and trunk, removing seats that weren't removable and making us unpack every bit of our belongings, they gave an understated OK and we were into Romania.

Romania. Just like Connecticut. But with Speedos and Beauty Queens

Romania was and is strange, and made all the stranger when a few kilometers into the country we spotted a Connecticut license plate ahead of us. Not wanting to miss this opportunity to figure out why there was a car with a Connecticut license plate on the border of Bulgaria and Romania I put the pedal to the floor and made those 73 horsepower earn their keep. Upon waving down the driver of the late 70's MG, top down, full of little kids, we met Vern. (check out Chris and Scott's faces in this picture, politely pretending not to notice that one of the men they were chatting with- not Vern, incidentally, he is on the far right - was wearing a speedo and boots) Vern, evidently, was born and raised in Wethersfield but due to "economic and political" circumstances had decided to move to the Black Sea coast of Romania. Whence there he had his car shipped, 10 years prior mind you, and failed to register the car with the Romanian government. Vern began by telling us a bit about his life in Romania, "ahh man this place is paradise, especially that little hippy town you just passed a mile back. The place is heaven, I found it about 8 years ago and I've been spending my summers down here, just everybody hanging out and having fun . . . so many ladies." During this time there were two young boys who were bouncing around the car and when the attention shifted to them Vern introduced us to "these guys, they're my kids and I'm heading home to put them to bed before heading out, well I should show you around, you know take you out, I don't see many folks from CT but I have a date, actually a double date, you know two ladies". Upon the double date clarification, with its requisite wink, the distinct impression began to overtake me that we were looking at a modern day 70's style swinger. Equipped with the requisite hairy gut and back, he fit the bill, only his swinging lifestyle had obviously hit a few bumps, actually two, sitting in the back of his car ready to be put to sleep. A quick examination of Dictionary.com yields a number of definitions for the word "Swinger" but the one that I find most humorous and apropos of Vern and his historical place in Romania is; A person who actively seeks excitement and moves with the latest trends. Romania is most definitely experiencing its fair share of excitement and massive influx of access to the latest of trends. It was fascinating to witness how those changes are evincing themselves. On one hand you have a country of gypsies who live in dirt poor villages straight out of the middle ages (in fact, the Borat village scenes are shot there), horse carts taking up the road (WHICH ARE TINY and are also full of large trucks that are carrying the goods that are partly responsible for the changes) and on the other you have a country that is coming into the EU this year. It all leads to a very odd, disjointed access to and hunger for foreign cultures. Everybody seemed to pick a look and take it to the n'th degree but were perfectly willing to hang out with everybody. As America has had many years for their distinctive individual sub-cultures and looks to solidify, Eastern Europe has not and nowhere was more emblematic of this cultural egalitarianism than in the aforementioned "hippy town" of Vama Vece. After the glowing recommendation of swinging Vern we had to check it out. What we were met with was something akin to the dirt Main Street's of the Old West, only every store was a saloon or beer and liquor laced bodega. What was sold as a hippy town looked, from people to architecture, distinctly like some sort of post apocalyptic Ozz cum Warped Fest. Goths, metal heads, square guys, bohemians, punks everywhere. Where was the summer of love, people with flowers in their hair and freedom from commercial convention? After finding a place to crash, I won't dub it a hotel, although it dubbed itself the "punk hotel", we hit the town. Finding the place initially sadly bizarre we decided to head down to the beach. What we found were huge sound systems, open air bars, hundreds of tents and thousands of people dancing to everything from 50's Chuck Berry to Nine Inch Nails. Literally every major sub-cultural look in America was represented and all of them were hanging out and dancing to Britney, Abba and Queen. There is something strange in watching a pierced and tattooed punk singing his lungs off to Mrs. (I'm sorry, Miss. now) Spears. As the night wore on and we tried to get away from the large mosh pit full of naked hippies, punks and metal heads we found ourselves dancing next to a group of seeming supermodels who began trying to talk to us. We, 4 white guys without one iota of rhythm, are by no means good dancers but must have "had it going on", at least comparatively, to the naked mosh pit guys. As it turned out they were in town for the Romanian Diaspora Beauty Pageant and this was their one night off from pageant festivities. While they seemed younger than us, we thought they were 21, maybe 22 but when one of them said in seeming anticipation of the interview portion of the event, "When I graduate from high school I want to see the world and make it a better place." We decided that after a photo for posterity we should move on. If you're interested, check out the link http://www.missdiaspora.ro/main.htm. We danced with the winner! From there we headed to Bucharest, where I can confidently say I wish to never return. Aside from the second largest building in the world, built by Ceausescu, which took 3 shifts a day of 20,000 workers and 700 architects, 5 years to build, it's a typically crummy communist city filled with little joy. Seriously, no one smiles, it may just be their affect but its makes you want to get out of there as fast as you can and that's what we did.

Having seen what communism has wrought throughout Bulgaria and Romania I can't help but see the striking corollary between the following quote from the great Samuel Johnson and what we witnessed from Bulgaria to the Hungarian border (although I'm told that we just missed the same in Hungary, Czech Republic and Germany). "I look upon it, that he who does not mind his belly, will hardly mind anything else." Having forced the people to suffer through communism they gave them the gut. It, the gut, fueled by bad food and booze, allows them to overlook all else, from the horrific housing and infrastructure to the poverty and alcoholism, the men and women seem comfortable in their skin and their place in the world. As you can see from the accompanying pictures of guts and speedos (sometimes together. YUCK!) there is far to much skin

being shown. For the first time in my life I, or at least my eyes and stomach, were wishing for a little more Christian conservatism or Islamic fundamentalism. Oh the humanity. After the dermal overdose of Bulgaria and Romania it was good to get to the cold and wet weather of Hungary. Budapest is a lovely city that, at this point, is much more Western Europe than Eastern or at least when they're not rioting due to the incompetent, albeit democratically elected government (not unlike a certain other government we know...)

Czech Republic...Where the Beer Was Cheaper Than Water (it's true!)

After picking up Jenna and sending Matt and Scott on their way back to the States, we decided to hightail it to the Czech Republic to begin the beer tour. A few days prior to his flight, Will found a Wall Steet Journal article (I tried to link to it but the cheapskates at WSJ require a password. If you can get it, read it, it's a good article!) about beer tourism in Czech (oddly followed by a different article on the exact. same. subject in the New York Times (who, seemingly, are not as cheap as the Journal) the next week and we figured it wasn't a bad way to see a country. What with beer goggles making most everything else attractive it couldn't be the worst approach to travel. As all we had was a general 1 by 2 inch map of the country with various dots and no roads marked we decided to drive to what looked like the location and begin asking around. Shockingly our first stop, Stramberk, proved quite difficult to find. Evidently Stramberk is the Czech equivalent of Springfield. After debating which one to head to with the wonderful woman at the local tourist office, we struck off to what would prove to be the correct place. What we ended up finding was an absolutely gorgeous little village and the brewery the WSJ author claimed to brew the "best beer [he'd] ever tasted" nestled between steep hills overlooked by a castle tower. After exploring the brewery and its underground stone labyrinth of nooks and crannies we settled in for the first pint on the communal outdoor tables that overlooked the town square. The brewery would indeed prove to hold the best beer any one of us had ever tasted (as beer is highly subjective I am loath to call it the best beer in the world but it's as damn close as you can safely get) and as we settled in for an evening of beer and Boggle (we became addicted to the game) we noticed the locals eying us relentlessly. Evidently the town sees very little tourism and what it does see comes from Poland and Czech Republic. So as we sat in the fading summer sun we struck up a conversation with the highly drunk and boisterous table next to us. They were in town, having ridden their bicycles from the surrounding countryside, some up to 50 km away, to celebrate their friend Vidus's birthday. As the Czech Republic ranks number one in per capita beer consumption at 160 liters for every man, woman and child I sensed that this crew was and would do more of its fair share. As the night wore on and they felt safe that we were anti-Bush they opened up telling us about their impressions of America today and how they contrasted with their impressions before the curtain fell. How they felt Bush was destroying their and the world's perception of America. How different their lives have been since the Velvet Revolution and what an exciting time it is to be Czech or at least that is what I remember before my brain was fully submerged and swimming gloriously in the local brew. As the night wore down one of the guys went off to try and unlock their bikes. After much discussion and laughing they revealed that they had forgotten the code and were therefore preparing to sleep in the park. After laughing about how in the hell you forget the code to the bike lock you've been using for years I suggested that I may be able to cut it with my leatherman, you know, McGyver style. Knowing that the leatherman fears nothing I plunged in headlong. While it wasn't easy I can now say that it is possible to cut a bike lock with a medium sized leatherman. I don't know if that's a compliment to leatherman or a reflection of post-Soviet bike lock manufacturing. As they unevenly and unsafely rode off into the night I prayed for any one of the various Gods to see them home safely. I know that if I had to get on a bike and ride anywhere from 20-50 km I would most assuredly kill myself. The next day we ended up having dinner with Zuzanna (a local fluent in English, living in Rome, doing Czech to Italian translations for the Czech consulate) and her mother who eased our fears by telling us that everyone had gotten home safely.

From there we headed to Prague with its tourist clogged streets, and would suggest visiting out of season. It's as beautiful as they say though if you can deal with the hoards. After a few days we decided we had had enough with city life and headed back to the country or more specifically to a beer spa. That's right, a spa that is based on the healing properties of . . . err, beer. While they offered the usual massages and wraps, the reason people go is for the beer baths. This entails lying in a large metal bathtub full of a stout-like beer while drinking more of the same. It's a kind of internal and external cleansing that sure as hell beats your run of the mill heath club scene. Admittedly, my skin had never felt softer so there must be something to it. Add to this a 12th century fermentation cave turned into a restaurant that serves the most garlicky soup in the world and you have yourself a perfect vacation destination that both sexes can agree on. After our paradigm shifting "de-tox" it was time to re-tox so we headed down to Cesky Krumlov and its Eggenberg brewery. Situated on a large oxbow of the Vltava River, over-looked by a requisite castle, it's one of the most picturesque towns in Europe. Jenna says to make sure and do the tubing. (ha, ha. I nearly was lost forever to the Vltava River. In the rain. it was fun) From here we headed west to Munich for a few days before Jenna and I turned south (back towards work) and Will headed to Copenhagen. Crossing Austria in a hurricane like deluge on constant aquaplane (yeah, the car might look good but isn't the best in the rain) we crossed into Slovenia as the clouds were parting. Due to time constraints and the fact that we couldn't pronounce it, we skipped Ljubljana and instead headed for Bled. Suffice it to say, Bled is all the tour books make it out to be, a picturesque town on a mountain lake with good pizza. At this point we were getting antsy to get to our next destination of Croatia and getting a few days of hiking in before heading back to Istanbul.

Croatia would turn out to be a land of many troubles, from the 20 minute, highly sketchy, closed door interrogation I received at the border for being a "drug smuggler" to the inability of finding a hotel room in Rovinj and subsequent night of NO sleep in an old lady's "extra room", to signs stating "Do Not Enter LAND MINES" along a road to the largest national park, to the car breaking down, we may have been the first people happy to see the Welcome to Serbia sign. We did end up getting some hiking in and it's a beautiful country, I just suggest going out of season as it was a mad house.

Speaking of land mines and other such horrors of war. . . Serbia. What can I say about Serbia, well, it's about as nice as Bucharest. It was fascinating to enter a city only 7 years out from a NATO aerial bombardment. Still having major bombed out city center buildings laying in various states of disrepair, its not your run of the mill vacation spot. Its got a long way to go but you could see rebuilding everywhere, sadly I suppose the people are used to this as the city has been destroyed and rebuilt 40 times in its 2300 year history. Another humorous, very much in hindsight, aspect of Serbia, is the fact that currency exchange businesses at the border don't even take the currency. This proved to be a problem when all we had were Serbian dinars at the Bulgarian border. After telling each and every currency exchange place what I thought of them and their mothers I found and then pleaded with a guy, buying 5 cartons of cigarettes at duty free, heading to Serbia, who was willing to give me 10 euros for 16 euros in dinar. All to pay the Bulgarian border patrol, who only accept euro to "disinfect" my car. Freaking Balkans.

After an all out assault on the Bulgarian motorways, we got to the Turkish border in a few hours. After the uniform brusqueness of the Eastern European border patrol, what would ensue at the Turkish border was a sight to behold. As I have mentioned in previous emails the Turkish people have to be the most hospitable on earth and this story is just the icing on the cake. As the border guard was inspecting our passports I asked him in my broken Turkish where Jenna (cough: illegal) could get a new visa. He pointed us to a booth off to the side and said we could park the car and walk over to it. After rustling up the visa official, who was asleep, we were back to the first booth. After exchanging the usual pleasantries he asked us if we would like to have tea with him. Not being asked this at any of our many other border crossings, we accepted. At this point he left his booth, effectively closing the border, to take us off to the guard shack, to have a drink with he and his coworkers. So as we stood in the no mans land of the Bulgarian-Turkish border, drinking our hot tea, the head lights began to pile up. Jenna and I gave each other a few looks wondering if they noticed or cared. Obviously they didn't because they drank and chatted with us for 20 minutes before returning to their posts, gracious hosts to the end. So here we are back in Istanbul adjusting relatively seamlessly to cohabitation and our respective new jobs. I am teaching younger kids than last year and am enjoying it while Jenna is having a great time with her kids. Who can argue with a job where your coworkers order a bunch of chicken wings so that you can bury them in the garden and the kids can dig them up as archaeologists. I hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving and have a little turkey for me (surprisingly its very hard to get here). Chris