In the US, when you complain and send back food in restaurant, you can expect (at best) a meal discount, or (at worst) a disgruntled waitress spitting in your replacement entree. In Shanghai, it can lead to a shouting match.

On our last night in Shanghai, my boyfriend and I stopped in restaurant near the train station serving Shanghainese and Hangzhou cuisine. We were famished, and ordered a wide assortment from the glossy picture menu: fish in vinegar, sliced pork, braised mushrooms with greens. There was also an odd section for Japanese food at the end of the menu, and my boyfriend started salivating over a picture of the “fresh sushi platter”, piled high with gleaming sashimi. Without thinking, we committed a cardinal sin: ordering Japanese food at a Chinese restaurant.

The dishes came out one by one. The appetizer was good. The fish was tasty. The pork was juicy. Then came the sushi platter, arranged on a tiered tray as though the fish were wedding hor d’ouevres. From afar, it looked great. Upclose, I saw little icicles on the salmon and tuna. The other fish were equally rock hard. It seemed that the kitchen had simply taken the fish out of the freezer and plopped it on the platter without even bringing it to room temperature. So much for “fresh.”

I called the waiter over and, in shaky Mandarin, told him that the fish wasn’t fresh, and asked if we could please send it back and choose something else.

“What do you mean it isn’t fresh?” he countered. “This fish isn’t fresh,” I said. “It’s been frozen, and is still so frozen it’s inedible.”

The waiter called a more senior waiter over. I repeated myself. The second waiter shrugged and said there was nothing he could do. I asked to see the manager. Both waiters disappeared. We waited for 15 minutes, staring at our pile of frozen fish and picking at our other entrees, before the manager made his way over.

I repeated myself for a third time, saying that we could either return the entree or switch it for another.

“Our fish is fresh,” the manager assured me. “We received it freshly frozen from Japan.”

I tried to make it clear that if something is frozen, that means it’s not fresh. Either way, we couldn’t eat sashimi that still had icicles on it. Could we please have it taken off the bill?

“No,” grunted the manager. “This fish is still fresh, so we can’t take it back.”

I raised my voice. He raised his voice. Other diners stopped eating and stared. We went back and forth debating the semantics of “fresh,” until he raised his hands, and grumbled something in his Walkie-Talkie. He carried the platter into the kitchen, and came back with the same platter, the icicle fish removed but the other fish remaining, which had now congealed into a mushy mess. He also gave us the bill, which took off about 10% to reflect the fish that was removed. “There. All fixed,” the manager said proudly.

We gave up, paid, and left. I resolved to never to do 3 things again: 1. Get into a shouting match over $15. 2. Forget that the Chinese, more than most people, absolutely hate to lose face. 3. Think that the definition for “fresh” is universal.

- by Diana Kuan of Indietrekker fame

I hadn’t planned on going to Tombouctou. My goal was to get to Dogon Country and maximize my time there. But when I found myself in Mopti with extra days and my stomach recovered from ‘Les Galettes de Dogon,’ I figured I probably wouldn’t get a better chance. Now or never.

I could fly, in which case I’d have a day there, or I could hire a 4WD and a driver and stay as long as I want. The bus takes 2-4 days, depending on weather and breakdowns. The boat takes 3 days. The 4WD takes 7.5 hours with a normal driver, but 7 hours flat if you go with Cargo, the Mopti driving machine. I should say 7 hours, including the flat tire we got. Also, with a driver, you don’t have to pull over to the side of the road to pray, as you do with the buses here.

We sped North to Tombouctou on Wednesday, virtually floating over the dusty red washboard hardpack, passing Pelle cowherders, who walk with their cows and drink their milk. Aside from a few days every couple months in town to sell their cows, these people walk and sleep with their herd, and cows milk as their only food. They wear cone-shaped hats that make them easy to identify, but they don’t make these hats. We passed by the village of another tribe that makes the hats for them. It’s similar to the shoe situation. Everyone in Africa wears either Flip Flops or leather shoes of some kind, and you would think there would be shoe factories here, but those are in China. I even saw a pair of NIKEs for sale in Bamako.

Cargo got his name from riding on top of his father’s truck all over Northern Mali as a kid. His right foot is 5” shorter than his left – everyone can recognize him at a distance. He seems to know everyone in every town and always has a smile on his face. We talked in French on the drive. I’m fond of telling people about the Earth, stars, the Universe, and evolution – things they know nothing about. I told Cargo the Earth was 4 billion years old, and he thought about that for a while. Then he said, “That means, next year the Earth will be 4 billion and one?”

We crossed the Niger river on the ferry and arrived Tombouctou by 4pm. Cargo got me a Tuareg guide, who took me on an evening camel (Dromedary, actually) ride into the Sahara to visit some Tuaregs. I kept expecting to see Omar Sharif ride up on his camel. I sat and had tea with the Tuareg family. They had many questions about my watch, which has a GPS. They hadn’t heard of GPS, so I explained how it worked, and they were amazed. They told me about the salt caravans to the desert and how they navigate by the stars, but also by the smell of the sand.

My friend John landed in Japan yesterday (or today, depending on how much you believe in the conspiracy of time zones). After working for a certain financial firm for over five years, he was finally sent to Tokyo on his first business trip. I would be very happy for him, if I wasn’t so busy being jealous.

When other kids were growing up dreaming of being sports stars and fighter pilots, I dreamt of being a powerful businessman. This was long before I knew what business was or that capitalism was a term of questionable integrity. All I knew from watching TWA commercials and primetime television shows was that there existed a profession in which well dressed men got flown all over the world for free. They even sat in a different part of the plane, and while I wasn’t exactly sure what they did with all the women they met at the hotel bars, I assumed it was fun.

Unfortunately, my life took a different direction. Somewhere between “I like to read; I’ll major in English” and “You want me to be at work how early?” I made a wrong move. Or several. I settled into a small law firm where I learned to appreciate traveling to such exotic places as Midtown and, once, Staten Island. I got to take a ferry there. It was a pathetically exciting day.

I don’t regret any of my choices, but part of me still longs for the opportunity to use the phrase “in town on business” – to show up in a city you’ve never been to before, to meet people you normally wouldn’t meet, and do the same thing you’ve done every other day of your normal office life only with everyone around you going about their normal office life. It is a type of travel unlike any other – not for education or relaxation or celebration, but for a purpose. Where perhaps in other circumstances you might feel compelled to linger in front of David, when you are in town on business you cast only a sideways glance. You are busy, and have no time for the distractions provided by a change of scenery.

In a way, it is the most pure form of exploration – not a contrived trip to a museum or guided tour of an ancient battleground, but a rapid absorption of a new and strange place simply by being yourself. To not go out in search of the place, but to let the place come to you. And, of course, to get paid to do it.

- by Dan Murphy of [redacted] fame

I’m a big fan of massages, though I rarely get them. I think I like them as much as 50 Cent thinks fat kids like cake. So when I went to Thailand, a place that is known for said pleasure for a fraction of the cost, I was thrilled. And after lugging myself around Bangkok for a few days with the extreme heat and crowding that makes New York City look like uncharted territory, I was ready for a rubdown.

The thing was, I didn’t need all my muscles to be attended to. So my two friends and I began our mission to find an authentic Thai massage, free of happy endings. We were told if the place was legit, it wouldn’t be down a back alley. It ended up taking us three frustrating hours to find somewhere that would not leave us with the parting gift of an STD. Finally we were all led to a clean, good-sized room and told to strip down and put on our robes.

We lay down on our mats and three miniature Thai women entered, chatting away with each other. With little more then a smile in our direction, they got to work molding our backs to their whim, never stopping their chatter. And it was a good thing they kept talking because they drowned out our moans of happiness. When I was turned over on my back and the woman started walking to the very top of my inner thigh, I learned I was tense in places I hadn’t even thought about. It was intimate enough that I felt like we should share an after-massage cigarette and take a nap together.

By the time the women were done, the three of us were puddles of relaxation. It literally took everything we had to get dressed. And while the experience was a bit odd, it wasn’t nearly as strange as an Indian ayurvedic massage a friend told me about. Apparently for that experience you’re completely naked, they lube you up with so much baby oil that the person giving the massage hangs from a rope, and then they massage you with their feet. When the masseuse started massaging her breasts with her well-worn hooves, the girl slid right off the table and out the door faster then you can say Kamasutra.

I guess there’s something to be said for an authentic, foreign massage, but the cost of getting out there without being emotionally scarred, well, that’s priceless.

- by Emily Epstein of b’scuse me? fame.

When you live in Manhattan, it is only natural to crave space. On weekends, residents flock to Central Park like it is Vermont. I’ve been in “huge” New York city stores that would fit in the remote corner of a Target parking lot. It’s reflexive – if humans really do want that which we can’t have, then forget happiness, I want square footage.

Which is why when I travel I typically prefer open-air settings over just another version of my own cramped hometown. So when my family and I decided to go to Italy, instead of a hotel near the Duomo in Florence or outside the Vatican in Rome, we chose to stay in rural Tuscany.

We rented a villa with nine bedrooms and five bathrooms (seven if you count the two in the one-bedroom pool house, which is bigger than my entire apartment), which cost us less than a three star hotel in a major city would cost. The villa was located outside the small town of Cetona, which boasted three restaurants, four gelato cafes and a host of other small shops that, taking riposo (the Italian “siesta”) into account, were open for about two hours a day. But if you managed to get to the food store a stock up on food and wine (which is hard because portions are about one-quarter the size of American portions), then holing yourself up in the house with a bottle of Chianti (or, at 3 euro per, a case) was the best you could hope for out of an Italian vacation.

When I first heard that Andrew Speaker, a 31-year-old Atlanta personal injury lawyer, had brought a particularly strong strain of Tuberculosis into the United States with him when crossing the Canadian border, my first thought was, “How ballsy of him…”

I mean, back in college when I went to Montreal with a few friends of mine, I smuggled some Cuban cigars back home with me and thought I was the next Pablo Escobar. But even contraband from a politically sanctioned Communist nation is nothing compared to a deadly infectious disease.

Although I actually know someone who brought back their own infectious disease from Guatemala. She was there working with a non-profit organization to help the children of poor families gain access to American colleges and universities. Unfortunately, she got typhoid (which is why I always say that charity work doesn’t pay).

She didn’t know it at the time, but as she started to feel worse she decided to fly back to Boston. By the time she got to the hospital, she was convinced that she had typhoid. (It was a topic of discussion amongst the locals where she was living.) When she told this to the doctor, he replied quizzically, “Typhoid, hmm?” He proceeded to look it up in some medical books and on the internet, explaining, “We don’t see much typhoid around here.” Finally, a call was placed to a doctor who was off that day. Apparently, he was old enough to know how to diagnose typhoid. When he arrived at the hospital at 2:00AM, grumpy and in his sweats, he took one look at my friend and said, “Where have you been?”

“Guatemala,” she replied
“That’s too bad. You have typhoid,” he said.

If you find yourself in Cambodia and wanting for English conversation with the locals, just head to the nearest temple and find yourself a novice monk. If of course they don’t find you first, which most likely they will.

When backpacking in Cambodia several years ago, I found the novice monks – often in their late teens or early twenties – the most outgoing and curious people. And most of them speak English amazingly well.

Wherever I traveled in Cambodia, there were monks. And I began to think of them as the unofficial symbols of the country – more relevant, more alive than the image of Angkor Wat emblazoned on the national flag. All I would have to do was wander into a temple complex to admire the Khmer architecture, and sure enough a novice monk in his bright orange or dark maroon robe would appear and address me in English.

Walking back from the Russian Market in Phnom Penh one evening, I caught a glimpse of an elaborately tiled temple, Wat Tuol Tom Pong, hidden behind a tall gate. As I maneuvered my camera between the bars to snap a photo, a monk approached me from the street. Buddhist etiquette varies from country to country, and in Cambodia, although monks aren’t allowed to touch women – even to shake hands – they are permitted to speak with females. In surprisingly fluent English, the monk introduced himself as Bunsinat and offered to show me around the temple grounds.

After the tour, he led me to a classroom in an austere building near the pagoda, where he introduced me to his English teacher, who invited me to stay as a guest instructor. For the next hour, I fielded students’ questions, most of which involved life in America and what I
thought of Cambodia. Most students seemed to be studying English so they could get jobs in tourism, which is second only to the garment industry in Cambodia.

Bunsinat, one of two monks in the class, was no exception. “Many monks, like me, they come from the countryside to the temple in the city to learn English. For the monk the English class is free,” he said. Other students pay about $5 per month.

“For many years I will study the life of the Buddha, but later I want to find a job in a hotel or a bank,” he continued, “I want to make a lot of money.”

One student asked me, “Do people plow the fields for work in your country too?” He meant with water buffalo, not machinery. Although I was the teacher – the so-called wise Westerner – I am quite sure that I am the one who learned the most that day.

- by Terry Ward

I take the N and it’s always fast, clean and on time. I don’t know what Diana is talking about (see stage 1)... – cb

I caught subway envy in Washington D.C.

As a New Yorker, I had gotten used to the Metro’s shortfalls: frequent delays, unannounced service changes, dilapidated stations, foul smells, and mysterious stains on seats that are best left unquestioned. It’s dirty, inefficient and bustling. New Yorkers complain about the subway, but we tolerate it, since it’s our primary mode of transportation from point A to point B (except for those lucky few with a bottomless cab fund). Newcomers may experience culture shock getting jostled by beggars making their way through cars, or seeing their first foot-long rat run across some platform. But pretty soon we all get used to it. C’est la vie.

This complacent attitude is jolted when New Yorkers travel to other cities with public transportation. In Washington D.C., the subway reminded me of cleanliness I thought was only possible in foreign cities like Hong Kong, Tokyo, and Singapore. The modernist arched ceilings in all the stations screamed of a city that placed aesthetics on a pedastal. And electronic counters that showed the minutes until the next arriving train? Priceless.

And thus began the 5 Stages of Subway Envy:

1. Denial – I don’t see any electronic counters.
2. Anger – We had a billion dollar surplus last year! Why don’t we have those for our trains?!
3. Bargaining – I wonder how much apartments are in D.C.
4. Depression – But moving is such a pain.
5. Acceptance – When the bus back from D.C. pulled into Port Authority at 1 a.m., I was exhausted, cold, and had $2 in my pockets. Home was 110 blocks away. I was glad for any train that ran at 1 a.m. on a Sunday night, smells and stains and all.

- by Diana Kuan of Indietrekker fame

You really need a car to get around in this part of the world. I eventually returned my Eurailpass unused because there basically are no trains running in the Balkans. I walked across the border from Romania to Bulgaria, hoping to find a guy on the other side who would take me to civilization for a reasonable price and not leave my lifeless body in a ditch somewhere, even though he didn’t speak any English. Remarkably, I did, and soon I was in Varna at the bus station looking at my map and guide book trying to figure out where to go next. A college kid sat down next to me and suggested Veliko Tarnovo, and it turned out that the next bus was leaving soon, so I got on it.

I was somewhat relieved to see that Bulgaria is trying hard to join the Western world. Bulgaria is not a land of peasants and scammers. Bulgaria has fashion and industry. People seem to be working and pulling ahead. There are miles and miles of sunflowers, all with their heads turned in the same direction.

Veliko Tarnovo is a nice little town where no one speaks a word of English except the real-estate agents, who have been selling apartments and farms to the Brits in the past few years. Real Estate is booming as more Brits arrive and make the locals rich by paying 10,000 pounds for an apartment. Next year it will be twice that.

In Bulgaria, everyone over the age of 14 must smoke cigarettes. I was lucky they didn’t throw me in jail for not smoking. Even though smoking is not allowed on the buses, the driver of my bus to Sofia smoked five cigarettes in three hours, and the tour guide woman smoked two. Fortunately, no one else smoked on the bus. Sofia is a complete write-off. Can’t imagine why anyone would go there. But I think the Bulgarians might make it into the EU – I think they have the entrepreneurial drive and the social desire to go forward, not back. So far, so good – I had been spending most of my time in interesting tourist places, not in the big ugly cities. I took a bus to Skopje and found myself in the middle of Macedonia…

- by David Siegel

Step 1. Find a girlfriend whose aunt has a condo she is not using in West Palm Beach. (Note: A boyfriend would work here as well, depending on sexual preference, availability of condo, etc.)

Step 2. Plan on what dates you would like to go. Leave ample time for planning. For example, in February, plan on going the first weekend in April.

Step 3. A week before your set date, begin preparations. Realize that you have left yourself no time for the planning stage. Convince your girlfriend that this is part of the plan and that Florida is more fun in May. Then actually begin preparations.

Step 4. Buy the flight first. Allot approximately two days for the process. Begin by opening four internet browsers, one for each discount travel website. Start searching for the cheapest weekend to go. Do not develop a system or create any sort of organizational charts. Simply plunk in information at random while rotating through the sites with increasing frustration. Jot down numbers on Post-It notes which will mean nothing to you when you reference them later.

Step 5. Gather all the information into your memory. Write a vague, imprecise email to your girlfriend asking for her opinion. Act more confident than you are. This is not considered deception because you are paying. When she writes back, “Whatever you think is best,” resist the urge to reply, “Blow me.”

Step 6. Wonder how people got anything done before the internet.

Step 7. Realize that you have now spent three hours trying to save $40. Feel ridiculous, but not so much that it compels you to quit searching. Try utilizing different departing or arriving airports even though doing so will add immeasurable inconvenience. Curse.

Step 8. Take a break from searching for flights by going to Priceline to name your own price for a rental car. Try to score a convertible for $30 a day even though the computer, a machine with no logical capabilities, tells you this will not work. After two more unsuccessful tries at $33 and $36, settle on a compact – one step above an economy, because you are classy. So classy that you have a rental car 1,000 miles away and no way to get to it.

Step 9. Renew your search for plane tickets. Go to JetBlue as a last resort. Be utterly entranced by the simplicity of the website, the narrow-mindedness of the pricing and the little televisions in the back of the seats. Book your flights even though it is probably more expensive.

Step 10. Quell the urge to feel nostalgic for times before the internet when people placed orders for goods and services with other people; when they wrote down dates and confirmation numbers on paper with ink. Email your girlfriend and tell her all the plans are set. Pack up your bag, shut off your computer and leave work with a glowing sense of accomplishment. Drink as needed.

- by Dan Murphy of [redacted] fame