Baedeker Fall 2013

BAEDEKER FALL 2013

A guiding beacon since 1827, the original Baedeker was one of the world’s first travel guides. Our Fall 2013 issue continues this and looks to transport you around the globe—whether just a few states away, or somewhere you haven’t yet discovered. Within these pages, find inspiration to take the road less traveled and explore the world outside of your comfort zone.

Yet no matter where you go, there is nothing quite like the adventure of traveling. There are so many streets begging to be walked and delicacies to be tasted.

This semester we’ve updated the magazine to cover not just NYU’s abroad sites, but the world in its entirety. We also worked hard adjusting the format and made the magazine full color. We hope you enjoy the new Baedeker Magazine as much as we do!

Safe travels, bon voyage, buen viaje, selamat jalan, 一 路平安 Carolyn Balk & Stephanie Eckardt (editors-in-chief) Lu Li (executive editor) Alex Braverman (secretary) Celeste Zhou (treasurer)

Section Editors

Africa: Kara Norton & Aubrey Martinson Asia: Marsha Ho Down Under: Kathleen Wong Europe: Lucy Beni, Erica Korieocha & Chandler West Latin America: Hannah Bava & Vivian Bi Middle East: Soraya Batmanghelidj North America: Kendall French-Kazen & Lillian Maizx

Layout Team

Ward Pettibone, Miranda Burham, Aubrey Martinson, & Kavi Sonde

Schloss Hohenschwangau in Hohenschwangau, Germany by Lu Li Cover photo: Mostar, Bosnia and Herzegovina by Carolyn Balk Following page from top to bottom: Neuschwanstein Castle in Schwangau, Germany by Lu Li; vegetable market in Yangon, Myanmar by Carolyn Balk; Teatro Colón in Buenos Aires, Argentina by Mary Margaret Kilkenny.

If you’re interested in joining BAEDEKER, e-mail us at nyubaedeker@gmail.com! We are always looking for submissions and photos from abroad. Also, check out our blog at http://nyubaedeker.tumblr.com/

TABLE OF CONTENTS AFRICA A Wild Ride by Aubrey Martinson How Nigerians See Marriage by Kara Norton

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ASIA Not Too Spicy by Carolyn Balk Scaling Mount Fuji by Naomi Pallas

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DOWN UNDER Nothern Territory by Jonathan Bademian The Long Way by Kari O’Hara

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EUROPE Ghosts of Teufelsberg by Haley Houseman Exploring the Islands of Burano by Faustina Lim Black in Italy by Nicole Phillip Milovice, Czech Republic by Callum Voge ¿Cómo se dice...? by Rupeshi Shah Monoliths and Mazes by Samuel Dibella

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LATIN AMERICA Buenos Aires’ Walls Say Everything by Alais Diop Prime Meridian by Michael Ryan Secrets of Santiago by Carolyn Balk El Cotorro’s Paladares by Michael Perez

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MIDDLE EAST Underneath Istanbul by Chandler West

Top Ten Phrases to Know in Farsi by Soraya Batmanghelidj The United Arab Emirates by Bailey Theado Mint Tea Musings in Marrakech by Sherina Motwani

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NORTH AMERICA The Golden Gate Bridge by Kara Norton Lanakai Pillboxes by Kathleen Wong A Road Trip in the South by Michael Ryan Welwyn Nature Preserve by Mari Haraldsson

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A Wild Ride

Safari in Botswana and Zambia story and photos by AUBREY MARTINSON

Being one sudden move away from death is perhaps the most terrifyingly incredible experience I have ever endured.

My mother and I spent two hours with Gordon, our safari guide, in the brush of Botswana watching a pride of lions interact and play from the comfort of our Jeep. Soon, the sun began to set and it was time to go. But our Jeep would not start up, and we realized that we were in a bit of trouble. Luckily, there was another Jeep nearby—we just had to cross over to it. This meant being out in the wild without the protection of a vehicle. The sun was quickly setting, and we had no choice but to venture out…One by one, breath held, we tiptoed over to the next car as if our lives depended on it, because really, they did. Leaving the stalled Jeep and our troubles behind, we safely drove off to enjoy the sunset at the campsite. What a day!

I do not mean to scare you, but to excite you. I spent a week on safari and it was the most incredible seven days of my life. Without Internet service, I was completely disconnected from our modern, hyper-technologized world and was able to get lost in this gorgeous landscape surrounded by untamed wildlife.

Every day brings about a new, wild, and spectacular sight—just when you cannot believe it can get any better than it already is. We got particularly lucky on the third day of our trip when we came across a pack of African Wild Dogs. Their scientific name, Lycaon pictus, means “painted wolf,” very appropriate because they have the most stunning marbled coats of white, black, and tan. Just like your common household dog, these pups are incredibly playful. They have the most interesting bark, more of a high-pitched yip which, when in synchrony, sounds like a mix between a hyena’s laugh and a bird’s chirp. Unfortunately, these creatures are endangered and move around frequently, so they are hard to find on safari. We were very fortunate to see them.

Do not be surprised when the animals want in on the fun. The showers remained cold for a day when a curious hippopotamus knocked into the heater on his way to the water. Almost every afternoon, the troop of baboons that lived nearby our camp would come to hang out on the porches. Sometimes, they even managed to swipe 4

Africa some of the sugar or fruit left in the outdoor dining area. Although you do not want to be near these guys (they can be dangerous), baboons are wildly entertaining to watch when you see them interact and play right outside your window.

Although I spent my time in Botswana and Zambia on safari, safari is not what these countries are all about—there’s more than just lions and elephants. That being said, the diverse wildlife, beautiful sunrises and sunsets, and thrilling stories are waiting for you to discover. To go on safari is an awe-inspiring experience, and I cannot wait to return in the future.

A leopard rests in a tree

How Nigerians See Marriage story by KARA NORTON

Last Christmas, I had the opportunity to visit my college roommate’s family in Lagos, Nigeria, and I thought why not? I had never been there before and it seemed like a great way to learn more about day-to-day life in an African country. Before visiting, what usually came to mind when I thought of Africa were the horrifying images of famine and ethnic conflict that I would see on CNN. Yet when you are only exposed to limited information about a group of people or set of countries, you have no concept of what individuals’ lives are like, and you lose all of the engaging details that make up their existence.

Lanu’s family is just like my family—we fight over who is going to do the dishes, who is going to use which car on what night, who borrowed so-and-so’s clothing—but most importantly, at the end of the day, we forgive and support each other through everything. I know this sounds cliché, but it’s important to remember when comparing this to the images the media bombard you with.

This past Christmas, Lanu’s oldest sister Lande was planning her wedding, and this event dominated the three weeks of the time that I was there. A Nigerian wedding is a great undertaking: it requires time, organization, and enough money to accommodate thousands of guests. Lande actually wanted to keep it small and intimate—so she drew the line at just over 600 people. For the privileged of Nigeria, it is a representation of pride and honor that a family can afford so much for one occasion. That being said, a crux of privilege in Nigeria is that there are so few people with this standard of living.

On my third day in Nigeria, Lande organized the younger generation to go to her cousin Mode’s house for marriage counseling.

My head was still spinning from the six-hour time difference, but I went anyway because it made Lande happy, and Lanu had stressed that this was a matter of importance not just for Nigerians, but for foreigners as well. When I asked Lande why she had organized this private marriage counseling session—even though none of us were married—she said that it was because she thought we all needed guidance in our relationships.

Usually when my family gets together for Christmas, we eat a lot of good food, take people on tours of San Francisco (where I am from), play scrabble, and watch football by the fire. It’s not that we couldn’t have deep conversations on the future of marriage in America, but the thought had just never occurred to us before.

The pastor began by asking us what marriage means to the young people of Nigeria, and what it should realistically be about.

Rather than relying solely on the Bible, the pastor referenced his own life and his belief that marriage is an expression of love and trust, rather than financial security or childrearing. However, he said that for prior generations of Nigerians, the sole purpose of marriage had been to produce children, rather than trying to cultivate a relationship between two people. Many different ideas were thrown around about what constituted the perfect marriage, but among the male cousins there was a general consensus that in marriage there should be boundaries, and wives were not always concerned for their husbands’ best interests. The pastor responded to this by sharing his growing fear about the youth culture of Lagos. He argued that many young people were more attracted to materialistic relationships than genuine ones, hence why they ended up distrusting their spouses.

He stipulated that when a person can truly trust someone else, they

do not have to differentiate between what belongs to one person and what does not, because they are partners.

Another point of contention among the cousins was a woman’s ability to bear children. The male cousins vehemently believed that if a woman could not bear children, then they should be able to divorce her in favor of someone else who could. However, the female cousins completely disagreed with this, saying that if the relationship was based on love, having kids should be irrelevant. The pastor moderated the spirited debate in saying that it was the job of both men and women to broach difficult topics with their partners before getting married. He raised important and personal questions that are not easily brought up in day-to-day conversation—Do you want kids? Is it possible for you to have children? Will you stay with me if I cannot? What are your expectations for marriage in general?

Although these questions may be uncomfortable, the pastor said in his experience they make and break marriages all the time. Yet. they rarely get asked because of an ironic fear in case the question ends the relationship.

I sat through the session mostly listening, connecting with what the pastor was saying because it wasn’t a sermon idealizing marriage. He talked about himself, people he saw everyday, and the community. It was probably the most unorthodox counseling session I could think of, but it got all of us thinking about finding transparency in our relationships and the forethought to ask difficult questions even if their outcome is undesirable. Half a world away from home in a country that was not my own, I felt like the divide between us shrunk immeasurably through this social dialogue I was fortunate enough to be a part of.

A rooster invades an outdoor kitchen in Ghana by Emily McDermott

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Asia Not Too Spicy story and photos by CAROLYN BALK

In January 2012, I went with NYU Gallatin to southern India, specifically to Bangalore and its surrounding areas. I absolutely loved the countryside and the food, but the city’s smog and ubiquitous KFCs and Dominos (thanks to heavy globalization in Bangalore, dubbed “India’s Silicone Valley”) not as much. The overall experience was immense, and only enhanced by my Gallatin class, “Development, Culture, and Globalization in India.”

The countryside we visited was an eight-hour drive north of Bangalore: a small town called Anegundi, along with its neighboring and more famous town Hampi. Hampi holds many ancient temples and was just recently declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site— something that has created much controversy. There is a binary view of heritage: “old” heritage vs. “new” or “living” heritage. Which one takes precedence? Is one more valued, whether by local people or tourists, than the other? For the Indian government (and indirectly UNESCO), the “old” heritage won, and the active homes surrounding Hampi’s main temple (a temple still in function) were bulldozed in November 2011 in order for the temple and surrounding area to have a more “classic” or “traditional” look and feel (see next page for photo). Although the homes are gone, hawkers still congregate daily to sell tourists trinkets and bananas to feed to the temple’s resident monkeys and chained-up elephant. Amidst India’s lush rice paddies, beautiful sunrises, 20 cent young coconut water, and chai tea drinking monkeys (I’m not kidding), was a country brewing with controversy over how to define “heritage” and what it means for locals as well as visitors.

You always hear that a country’s food is not the same as it is in the U.S., and let me tell you: this is all too true for India. Although BasCover photo: Jelebi with silver leaf on top at a restaruant in Bangalore. Right: Everly pungent durian fruit for sale in Melaka, Malaysia by Carolyn Balk

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mati rice is a staple at any of New York’s Indian restaurants, we had Basmati rice only once in our time in southern India. I recognized many of the names of dishes, for example my favorite Saag Paneer (a spinach cheese dish), but the spice factor and the fresh taste factor in India were ten times more apparent than any bowl I’ve had in the U.S. I like spicy food, but even I had to ask for the dishes to not be spicy at all in order to get a spice tame enough that I could handle.

This is not your average Chipotle hot sauce spice—it’s in a different league. And then there were the desserts. My favorite was jalebi, or as I called it, “honey fried goodness,” because it was like hot, liquid honey and fried dough with a cream sauce all in one bite. Many vendors sell brightly colored fresh fruit—think magenta guava and golden star fruit—along the street, but unfortunately if the fruit is peeled and sitting out in the open, you are not supposed to eat it due to India’s poor water quality and disease carrying flies. Bottom line:

MTR’s dosas (MTR is a restaurant and also a prepackaged food brand) in the heart of Bangalore city puts the Dosa Man on the southwest corner of Washington Square Park to shame.

Bangalore proper was very, very different from any city I have been to. The city bounds spread greatly, and each year the city grows and acquires small towns surrounding what used to be the city’s outskirts. In terms of population, the metropolis multiplies yearly, especially as more and more Indians move from the countryside into the city looking for work and a better life away from farming. Because of this, shantytowns made of metal A makeshift house behind the rubble of a recently bulldozed house outside of the main gate to Hampi Temple sheeting stand right next to large, gated houses, and cows roam the streets next to BMWs. This mul- that takes meticulous and scrupulous practice. Also, be prepared to tiplying effect also leads to poor city planning, making it a hassle to cover your mouth with a scarf in order to breathe through the smog get from one end of the city to another. and dust. Having been to Southeast Asia before, I expected this, but Luckily, you can hail an auto-rickshaw (an open-air taxi) to India took it to a whole new level. It almost goes without saying that take you just about anywhere—just be prepared for some heavy bar- if Bangalore implemented New York’s $300 fine for honking, the city gaining. Some of the rickshaw drivers I had didn’t speak English, but would be rich. those that did loved to have conversations using any and all English Simply put: visiting India was an amazing experience, filled they knew. The traffic is crazy—many drivers do not pay attention with interesting fusions and contradictions and of course, lots and to the yellow line in the middle of the road, and motorbikes zig- lots of spice. zag between cars and trucks. Crossing the street is a true art form

Scaling Mount Fuji story and photos by NAOMI PALLAS

Day 1, 2:15 PM — Your ears pop as the bus carries you higher, panting its way up the ever-steepening slope of the mountain. The black eyes of a deer watch you from the woods outside your window.

3:00 PM — Tour buses cough exhaust into the crowds of hikers.

“Don’t forget to buy an oxygen tank,” the signs say, “and a T-shirt, too!” This is Station 5 Kawaguchi-ko, halfway up the mountain.

A sign declares, “Mt. Fuji summit, 6.0 km.” The end is invisible as clouds blanket the top half of the mountain. You pose for a photo and follow the other hikers vanishing into the fog.

3:43 PM — Forest gives way to scattered shrubs across brick-colored volcanic ash. The river of hikers flows towards the hazy outline of Station 7’s small wooden huts; you have reached your first destination.

5:26 PM — You sit with your group around the fire pit inside the hut. Your backpacks are sprawled along the bottom bunk of a long bed meant to sleep 60 people at a time. Three other groups arrive and pile into their slots on the communal beds. You squeeze between one friend and one stranger and fall asleep within minutes.

8:59 PM — The rustle of jackets and the thump of feet on the wooden floors drag you from your slumber. You switch on your headlamp

Hikers commence the climb up Mount Fuji

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and pull every layer out of your backpack and over your head. The air is damp and rain taps impatiently against the door as you file past it into the glow of the 4,000 other hikers’ flashlights. The night is quiet except for the rain on the dirt, the ringing of bells atop wooden walking sticks, and the occasional voice: “It’s cold, isn’t it?”

10:28 PM — You remove your gloves and grip the slippery boulders with cold fingers. Half of your group is just in front of you, and you look back to see that the others are no longer in your stead. You stop to scan the hikers below you, but each is identical in the night.

Already your friends have disappeared into the crowds above you.

You have 2,100 meters to go.

11:46 PM — Station 8.5. You wonder if you should buy oxygen. The rain has stopped, and you look to the dark sky. The stars blink back at you in immeasurable harmony.

Day 2, 12:48 AM — Soft rain wraps around you like gauze. All you can see with your headlamp is a fuzzy yellow haze. You have passed the main groups and hear only the faint clink of a walking stick somewhere on the trail above you. With a gloved hand, you grip the rope on the side of the trail and feel your way higher 1:20 AM — The path is steeper now and snakes slowly upward from right to left. The air is thin. Exhausted, you crouch beside the wooden pole of a Tori gate (a traditional Japanese gate). The rain has stopped and you see a misty glow in the distance. Clumsily, you rise and trek toward it against the icy wind.

1:29 AM — At first, they look like corpses, slumped against the outer wall of an empty hut and lying beneath foil blankets on the

ground. Dark eyes stare out of pale faces. But then you recognize the early half of your group, huddled beneath the hut’s window. The glow was a vending machine selling hot chocolate and coffee, and you buy two cans to keep in your pockets for warmth. You join the shivering group on the ground, close your eyes, and bury your face in your friend’s trembling shoulder.

3:00 AM — The second half of your group arrives. Against the night sky, an orange sliver of the moon flickers behind the clouds.

4:32 AM — You see the crowds that have formed along the summit’s edges for the best view, though the sky is still dark. Stiff, you stand up and migrate with your friends opposite the volcano’s crater.

5:26 AM — The last of the stars disappear from the lavender sky above motionless clouds that sprawl like fields over the world below.

5:49 AM — At last the sun peeks at you like a sleepy eye between lids of clouds and the sky, slowly strengthening...and then exploding across the clouds. The last fragments of the night shy away to reveal the rocky ground where you huddled and trembled for hours. The dirt is as red as fire and as purple as your frozen fingertips. As the sun fully releases itself from the clouds, the mountain erupts with cheers of, “Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!” Mount Fuji is alive.

6:05 AM — You forget the cold, the exhaustion. At 3,776 meters, you are on top of the world. The sun is high in the sky already and you enter a hut and sip a steaming cup of tea, thawing. You imagine that this is somewhere between the troposphere and stratosphere, a world where only the summit and the sky exist. But now the cold has returned, and you following the other hikers downstream.

Tips for Climbing Mount Fuji

1. Although climbing Japan’s tallest mountain may seem daunting, you do not need a tour. It is only open to the public for a few weeks during the summer, so thousands of hikers gather to climb while they can.

You can easily follow the crowds and the already marked trail—all you have to do is book a bus and a station (found at different points on the trail) where you can sleep.

2. Be prepared for all weather. The higher you climb up Mount Fuji, the colder it gets, and the mountain frequently experiences thunderstorms and strong winds. Bring layers and a waterproof jacket.

3. Pace yourself. Though at times it may seem slow, if you move with the other hikers, you won’t get stuck waiting for hours at the summit.

4. Bring coins. The higher the elevation, the more expensive the public bathrooms become. And having enough money for a bowl of ramen or a chocolate bar when the summit’s hut opens will be well worth it.

5. Talk to the other hikers. Because everyone is there for the same reason, Mount Fuji is an extremely social mountain. The trek is difficult and tiring, so make some international friends and encourage each other along the way!

The sun beginning to rise over Mount Fuji

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Down Under Northern Territory story and photo by JONATHAN BADEMIAN

It can be very exciting getting on a massive plane and travel- Australians call a “swag.” ing to the wonderful scenic and faraway land of Australia. Although We cooked our meals as a group, eating more meat than I ever many travellers choose to combine New Zealand and Australia in have before in my entire life, and bonded over beers at night—what one trip, I wanted mine to be all about Australia. Seeing the Out- I’d venture to call a truly Australian experience. Upon reflection of back was important to me, especially as I had heard the sights and the many things I saw and the fascinating people I met, I have to say sounds of the Northern Territory are the type that stick with you for that a trip to Oz is not complete without seeing the country’s cena lifetime. ter and its incredible scenery. I know I’ll never see that many stars I was not old enough to have done this trip self-guided, but again, that much is for sure. even if I were, the number of fun, nerdy facts you get on multi-day tours make them well worth the price. (Plus, with gas and fees, the price is not story by KARI O’HARA much more than if done self-guided.) My group Slick rocks formed a footpath to the base of the waterfall. We climbed to get close to the and I did our research and chose a fun and quirky cascading water, turning to smile at iPhones and digital cameras catching the moment. company—and then we were off.

We paused only a few minutes from our guided tour of the Blue Mountains, named The first thing we did under the beating sun for the azure haze cast over the range by Eucalyptus trees, but it was a few minutes too of the southern hemisphere was explore the unlong for our guide. real Kakadu National Park with our tour guide, a When we climbed back to the trail, there was no sign of our khaki-clad leader. We curly-haired ginger who loved Doctor Who. One continued downward, unaware that we were supposed to have turned around at the of the largest National Parks around, it is home to waterfall, which the guide had done, taking with him only about a quarter of the group. many thrilling dangers and beautiful views I still There was some grumbling at first, but soon we were just appreciating the view. picture vividly on a regular basis. Getting to see Our trail took us under outcroppings of the summit, where roots dangled inches overCrocodile Dundee hotspots was a welcomed surhead, and to gaps revealing the enormous expanse of the surrounding mountains. prise as well.

By the time we completed the loop and emerged from the trail at the visitors After three days at the park, we spent three center, we were sweaty and tired, relieved to be back with our group but proud to have days roadtripping down the middle of that vast, taken the long way and made it to the end. central desert with a driver who called himself Perhaps as an apology for abandoning us, our guide took us to a wildlife sanctuary “Sauce.” I’ve never felt smaller than when I was in on our way home where kangaroos, wallabies, emus, and koalas walked in the open, the flat expanse of the desert. These three days of suffering 40 people petting and posing with them. Even the saltiest among our lost skeezy pubs and backyard zoos with overly excitcrew forgot about their tired feet when they got to hold a koala. ed kangaroos led us to the center city of Australia, But that was Australia—you have to enjoy the walk. In New York, we rush to our Alice Springs. destinations, our gridded streets allowing for quick routes to where we need to be. But From there, the tour took us to many of the in Sydney, the neighborhoods huddle together, with their own sprawls of streets. With iconic natural landmarks, like the big, red rock only four months to experience Australia with NYU Sydney, we had to take in the laidknown as Uluru (pictured above) and King’s Canback Australia at a New York pace. It wasn’t a destination or a route we were aiming for, yon, Australia’s rival to the Grand Canyon. That it was just being out there, actively taking in the view on tired feet. night, we slept outside in a portable bedroll bag

The Long Way

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Europe Ghosts of Teufelsberg Unearthing Berlin’s Cold War Ruins story and photos by HALEY HOUSEMAN

We arrive at the gate, sweating and swearing, as a girl locks it from the inside. She senses our desperation, wavers, and lets us in.

Euros and pleas buy us some time and a short tour of the abandoned Teufelsberg, found on the outskirts of Berlin.

Teufelsberg, which translates from German as “the Devil’s Mountain,” is an abandoned American and British spy station from the Cold War. The site was an island of Allied power behind the Iron Curtain and now remains, in limbo, for visitors to explore.

After World War II, the U.S. National Security Agency constructed a mountain of rubble over the top of an underground Nazi technical college. The elevation provided a perfect position from which to collect intelligence. The first units were positioned atop the hill in July of 1961. The tallest of the towers is over 80 meters high, offering the best views overlooking Berlin to those willing to climb it. The hill itself reaches nearly 115 meters above sea level, made from an estimated 12 million cubic meters of war rubble piled in the northern Grunewald forest in West Berlin.

Our tour guide, reluctant to give her name but happy to take our money, leads the way through the roads and ruins. The sun is setting over Berlin, and the hope is to see the view from the top tower before nightfall. Skeletons of buildings are around every corner, covered in graffiti and street art murals that sometimes stretch over entire walls. These half-finished and half-demolished buildings screen the listening towers, bathed in the orange-pink glow of the sunset. We hasten toward the towers, passing doorway after doorway and long shadows enshrouding adventures.

She leads us up the pathways, yet remains ambiguous about her role at Teufelsberg. She has a set of keys and explains that she gives tours with a few others, with the permission of the current “tenants” leasing the property. She stands in front of a makeshift bar outside the buildings, and there are empty bottles in piles all around. When asked if the site is used to throw parties, she grins and says, “I can’t tell you that!” A sign with a list of drink prices hangs just to her left, along with a short, artistic manifesto. Even the art seems like a secret—she describes efforts to turn the space into an art venue but 10

cites issues of safety and sustainability as preventing anything more organized than the organic street and mural art that have appeared over the years. As we rush toward the tower, we are racing the sun, and so the conversation is cut short.

We wind through the pathways, and the Listening Station complex is revealed: three globes, two radomes perched atop buildings three-stories high, and another sitting a further six-stories higher.

Each radome, or globe encasing a radar antenna, contained massive 12-meter satellite dishes and the most sophisticated spying equipment for the time, enabling Americans to intercept satellite signals, radio waves, microwave links and other transmissions.

After the station was shut down, the derelict buildings and radomes remained.

Without tour guides, curious explorers hop the fence or find a gap.

Now each stands empty and grafittied, the fabric covers torn and flapping in the wind. Once home to one of the largest and highly classified listening stations in the world, these globes picked up Soviet, East German and other countries’ communications. The site was rumored to be a part of the global ECHELON intelligence gathering network, key during the Cold War. Our tour guide’s reluctance to share personal information is perhaps indicative of the site’s history. The station operated until the fall of East Germany and the Berlin Wall, and was eventually abandoned in 1992. Rumors abound, and many facts from the Cold War are still classified. Some claim that tunnels exist beneath the spy complex. The site’s exact facilities are still unknown, despite the work of amateur sleuths and documentarians.

After the station was shut down and the equipment removed, the derelict buildings and radomes remained. The perimeter is Cover photo: Paris in the snow by Metin Fejzula

including our guide, claims to be protecting the already damaged buildings from vandals and promoting Teufelsberg as an art space.

In 1996, the site was sold to developers with plans to build apartments, a hotel, a restaurant, and a spy museum. After millions of Euros in debts, the project was left unfinished.

The property was declared part of the Grunewald forest in 2004, which prohibits new buildings from being constructed. Historical preservation groups such as the Field Station Berlin Veterans Group are interested in documentation and possible rehabilitation of the site.

A manifesto of sorts posted by the graffiti artists who have taken over the ruins Up in the tower, the closed off by barbed wire fences and occasionally by security guards. tour guides light cigarettes and chat with their friends. The guitar Without tour guides, curious explorers hop the fence or find a gap. is unpacked and tuned. Everyone falls silent as someone begins to The buildings themselves are not maintained, making exploration play, and another sings melodies of folk and blues in a scratchy tenrisky with holes in the floors and walls. or. The only light comes through the small window, casting deep Entering the main operations building and ascending toward shadows on the concrete covered in bright, tropical colors. The voicthe main radome tower, each floor is covered in sets of unrelated es blend and echo inside the globe, so that what was supposed to be and complex murals. The stairwell and the outside walls are cov- a short tour turns into an impromptu concert in the fading light. ered in stencil art and graffiti. Each level exposes more art, and a Hours later, we descend into the night and the gate locks behind us. better vantage point over the city. The roof terrace, still a few floors Back in the radome, our tour guide plays her guitar alone to the below the top radome, features two busted globes. We are allowed ghosts of Teufelsberg. to ramble across the roof and into the globes, which are also covered in colorful scrawl and open to the air.

The wind whistles around the radome covering, the fabric turning orange in the sunset. There are 10 or 15 people milling around the roof, most of whom appear to be friends with our guide, who I realize has a guitar slung around her back. A second guide appears and borrows the guitar. He does not offer a name either, or more explanation.

He gestures instead to the tower and tells us to follow him into the pitch black stairs that wind upward. More art and increasingly beautiful views of Berlin appear with each floor.

We are led up to the top tower into complete darkness.

The group emerges into a perfect sphere, with a low window on one side, peering out toward the sunset over Berlin. The acoustics are perfect, and a few brave souls sound a note. There is less graffiti here, and most notable is a cryptic message that running along the full perimeter of the globe: “If you kick the demon out of the temple, seven ghosts will come‌â€?

Some call those who have taken charge of Teufelsberg opportunists, taking advantage of the ongoing uncertainty by leasing the land and charging visitors admission. Our tour guides are deliberately vague with us about their relaOne of the top radomes, whose canvas has been destroyed and graffittied, at sunset tionship to the site, and the people who lease it. The group, 11

Exploring the Islands of Burano story and photo by FAUSTINA LIM

Setting foot onto Burano is almost like stepping into a rain- opportunity. Old men watch the world go by through smoke rings bow. A new world unfurls, where vivid hues of color exploded and from their comfortable spots in cafés, well-chewed cigarettes danwrapped a delicious candy coating around the island’s boldly paint- gling from their fingertips. Fierce-looking grandmas who appear as ed houses. Deemed Europe’s most colorful islands (there’s four con- though they could hold their own in a fight cluster on chairs in their nected by bridges), Burano lies in the Mediterranean Sea slightly tiny world around the entrance to shops and alleys, chatting and under the average tourist’s radar and 40 minutes from Venice by gossiping in rapid-fire Italian that dares anyone to interrupt. water bus.

I found myself lost in one of the alleys that stopped and twistA narrow passageway that can accommodate only three tour- ed at every other corner. I would have respected my distance from ists side by side opens past rows of shops selling souvenirs and fa- them, were I not desperate to reach the port San Mauro. Gingerly mous lace products into the canal that snakes through Burano. At approaching the group of old women, I broached a scusi, only to first glance, Burano looks simply like the colorful cousin of Ven- receive a glare as I cut one of them off in mid-sentence. “Come anice you may expect, with long, winding canals, tiny boats bobbing dare al porto San Mauro?” I tested out the little Italian I remembered rhythmically on the water’s surface, and bridges that link the four from class and stabbed at the spot on my fraying map, one that was islands into one brightly wrapped Christmas present. creased and wrinkled as if it had aged 50 years from the countless Meandering along unfolding and refolding I the river, two-storied had done while navigathouses stand in neat ing Burano. rows on both sides of the Four pairs of squinty canal, their paint lookglares scoured the map ing fresh despite years of for the spot before one wind and rain, in diverse of them with papery-thin colors straight out of a wrinkled skin looked remodeling fantasy catup and barked, “Non so.” alogue. Laundry hangs With those words, I don’t outside grilled windows, know, my heart sank. I and I can imagine each was running out of time piece telling the personto meet my boat. Was I alities and life stories to be trapped in the same of their owners. A fadspace with these granded pasta stain here, an mas whose bites look iron-scorched hole there. worse than their barks?

Some have led a colorful Turning around anlife in their past before other corner, two boys countless washes; others were playing with their have seen more optimisskate-scooters. “Scusi,” I tic days. said. They looked at me Venturing furshyly and a little curither to the edge of one ously, as if the sight of an of the four islands, the Asian face—much less glittering sea beckons. one who could commuWaves roll around gently nicate in their language— Burano is made up of four islands, whose shores are lined with candy-colored houses and lap lightly at stone was rare in the neighborbreaches, so that it’s hard to believe this place might suffer the same hood. I asked the same question and the younger boy wisecracked, underwater fate as Venice in less than half a century. Out in the sea, “In Venezia.” The older boy cuffed him on the head and explained not far from the town, a gondola rocks on the water. Two men stand the directions, “Il Porto San Mauro? Avanti, ci sono...” swaying on it, patiently finding their balance on the waves with their Soon, I found my way out of the maze that is Burano and back oars cutting through the water in sync. Elsewhere in the town, men to the port. As the boat beat forward to Venice, I could not help get into their boats in preparation for a day’s catch out at sea. looking back upon the archipelago as I stood swaying at the side On this archipelago of around 3,000 inhabitants, lifestyle is of the boat. I wondered what would be my memory of this place. distinctly Italian. Everyone from residents to tourists strolls under Would it be the fierce-glaring grandmas, or the rows of M&M colthe fiery Italian sun and nearly cloudless sky as if time were an un- ored houses? Or would it be the mesmerizing sight of boats of diflimited luxury. Shopkeepers relax behind their counters with only a ferent sizes lined up neatly along the canal like cars in parking lots? nod and a buongiorno to acknowledge tourists entering and leaving Or the various life stories of laundry that flapped in the wind under their shops, unlike their counterparts in many cities who turn into the clear Italian sky? All of these images stick with me today when shrewd, relentless salesmen every time they spot a walking business I think of Burano.

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Black in Italy

story by NICOLE PHILLIP and photos by CAROLYN BALK

How do you define progress? All of our technology: the smart phones, hybrid cars, and HD televisions? If you base the progression of the world primarily on how far we’ve come since the creation of the wheel, then we are on the fast track to true enlightenment.

However, let’s say for a minute that we live in a world where true development is measured by the advancement of ideologies and mindsets. Then, a world in which a woman can be manhandled and called a “disgusting black woman” on a beach full of mute bystanders is most definitely stagnant. Now, let’s say this situation used to describe the hypothetAbove: a view of Cinque Terre from the top of a hill. Below: Italian homes and rooftops spotted while walking ical measurement of “progress” actually happened— through Cinque Terre’s five towns because it did. black girl? Would people have jumped in then to defend the “poor”, On a beach on the coast of Monterosso, one of the islands of Italian man that just wanted a clean beach? What if it was two CauCinque Terre in Italy, my friends and I were harassed by a man that casian females instead, would people have jumped to their side? I’m insisted that we must pick up trash that was not ours because as unsure of the answers. “dirty Americans,” we enjoy leaving a mess in other countries. After It was at that point that something hit me. Are people still so we insisted that the trash was not ours, the man began to throw beer ignorant that they would be bold enough to use brute force and call at us. The majority of our group was far enough away to get only a someone a derogatory term to their face? It’s 2013—how can this still sprinkle, but myself, and my (black) friend Lele, got the full force of be the case? Then again, I guess I can’t expect much from a country his warm Corona on our faces. One by one he splashed us back and with politicians that include blatant racist remarks in speeches and forth. We were too shocked to move. We didn’t think anyone could where even my Italian Politics professor at NYU Florence glossed be that disrespectful. By the third dousing, I didn’t know what to do, over race. so I started to walk away. Lele, on the other hand, was not having I have to admit that a lot of his anger may have been geared that. Lele went up to this man and told him how disrespectful it towards the fact that we were Americans first and foremost (yes, is to throw beer on a woman. He then grabbed her, and jerked her we have a terrible reputation overseas­—especially in Europe), but around, later bruising her fingers. Everyone on the beach just stared. the racist remarks still sparked something in me. Maybe the world I wanted to punch him, but I couldn’t. I wanted to curse at him, hasn’t progressed as much as I had thought. but I couldn’t. I wanted to tackle him to the ground, but I couldn’t.

Immigration to Italy from Africa en masse is fairly new, so genI had never felt weaker. The only thing I had the courage to do was erally Italians’ only references for black people are the jobless immistand by Lele and try to pull her away. Eventually I hit the man in grants and the American media’s poor representations of black culthe forearm hard enough to get him to loosen his grip. As we turned ture (except for Beyoncé, but she can’t save us all). In fact, I recently away he called us “disgusting black women”, and of course, throughwalked past a store in Florence called “African American Influence” out all of this, no one—American or Italian—said a word. that sold only “thug style” clothing inspired by the hip hop industry.

I had so many questions. What would have happened if I Is that the view of African Americans outside of America: sagging fought back? Would I just have looked like a belligerent, “ghetto,” pants and triple-XL shirts with graffiti logos?

My experience at NYU Florence was eye-opening.

Although the United States has its problems with racism, I had never experienced racism like I did in Italy. This is not to say that extreme racism is an Italian-centric problem, because I now know that it is not. Martin Luther King Junior’s job is far from over as long as we still have people boldly throwing racial slurs while the rest of us stand and watch.

13

Milovice,

Czech Republic photo story by CALLUM VOGE

Milovice, a town located about an hour away from Prague, was once home to a huge Soviet base. Today, the entire complex is deserted and unrestricted, making it possible for civilians to go in for a look at the decaying architecture.

My two friends and I first entered the building nearest to the train station, not really knowing what we were doing. Inside we found a vast, crumbling warehouse covered in graffiti.

To get to Milovice, buy a ticket from Masarykovo Nádraží. The ticket costs 50 Crowns ($2.50) for a round trip. You will have to transfer once.

As we went inside, an elderly Czech homeless lady intercepted us. With my limited understanding of Czech I gathered that she wanted 30 Crowns to buy bread for her dinner. We explored the building and then helped her out a bit. Above is a picture of the shanty house she had set up for herself in the building’s ruins. She also had a side room that she had closed off from the elements using plastic tarp.

After wandering around that building, we followed the old railroad tracks and checked out an old apartment complex, pictured above. Coincidentally, this is where the hilarious Bratislava scene from Eurotrip was filmed, though it looks like it’s been cleaned it up a lot since.

Milovice was the most interesting side trip I took while in Prague. If you go, you will most likely be the only person there, and will have a sense of real adventure.

It’s a must do.

14

As the sun was about to set. we ventured out into the forest and discovered more abandoned check points. Most disturbingly, we found a house filled with disintegrating clothes and luggage.

¿Cómo se dice…?

story by RUPESHI SHAH and photos by CAROLYN BALK

As the rosy, 70-something-year-old woman chatted away, I shut my eyes, fighting back tears. I was to live in her house for the next six weeks, and I didn’t understand a word she was saying.

My initial interactions with other madrileños (people from Madrid) went similarly. I took Spanish in high school, but my transcript should really say “Spanglish” instead—emphasis on the [En]glish. And now here I was, studying abroad with NYU in Madrid, marking my first trip to Europe.

It felt as though all of Spain had gotten together and played a trick on me—a giant one that everyone except the foreigner was in on. They’d talk in this language that I wasn’t able to communicate in, and then watch as I grew more and more uncomfortable.

Otherwise, I had prepped for it all. Lost passport? American embassy on speed dial. Lost debit card? Emergency funds in another bank. But lost for words? Errrrrrrrr…¿qué?

So I reacted in the way that seemed most logical to me: I refused to speak in Spanish. It made no sense. It still makes no sense. With any madrileño, I stuck to my English. I thought, “If they can’t understand me, well then, it’s their loss.”

But it was actually my loss, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to make it a whole six weeks like that. Nothing could have prepared me for that culture shock. What did I think, that I was just going sip some café con leche on an airline called Iberia, and *bam* I’d be fluent in Spanish? No, it was going to be way more work than that.

Slowly, I stopped. It began with an egoistic ¿Habla inglés?, and soon became a warmer Hola, ¿como está? that sparked many conversations with the friendliest of shopkeepers and Menú del día, a sign for lunch in Madrid waiters.

Every morning, I was greeted by the neighborhood fruit vendor with a loving ¡Buenos días, pequeña!, and we’d chat before school. In the afternoons, my señora and I would eat lunch and watch nature

Above: A plaza in Madrid on a sunny day. Below: Casa de Valazquez

documentaries on Discovery en Español, sharing mutual concerns about polar ice caps melting.

There was no giant trick that the Spanish were playing on me.

Rather, they had all gotten together and decided to be really nice and help me learn the language. It wasn’t them that needed to adapt, it was me.

I think of Spanish now not just as a language with cute words or phrases like mochila (“backpack”) and me gusta (“I like”) that I can throw into English. I had chosen to study in Madrid for the purpose of learning Spanish, but I chickened out at the first sign of difficulty.

I didn’t prepare for the challenge, but I’m glad I ended up taking it in with eyes and mind wide open.

Monoliths and Mazes story by SAMUEL DIBELLA and photos by LU LI

Sometimes, beyond intention and design, places speak to one another across the distances that separate them, in tones inaudible to the ear, but perceptible to the eye. They are linked by experience and their pull on their surroundings.

In Berlin, one block south of the Brandenburg gate, stands a plaza holding the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe, constructed in 2004 and designed by American architect Peter Eisenman. Thousands of stone monoliths, arranged into a precise grid, gradually slope up towards the center of the plaza. People lounge about the memorial, sitting on the shortest and most peripheral

pedestals and gazing into the cavernous interior. The stelae are unmarked.

People wander in rough lines into the monoliths, which rise smoothly on either side, and they sink with the ground as they go forward. A single path straight ahead leads to an escape, where the shadows of the pillars do not reach. The slates press down, smooth and unmarked. The sound of laughter and speech from within the maze can be heard throughout. Within the monoliths, peripheral vision catches a new avenue at each intersection, perhaps the blurred shadow of someone walking along a parallel path. Blind collisions 15

depths of the warehouse.

Whispers and strange music lead them on their way, until their sight is restored in a small closet with a door marked by a slot. The coin clunks pleasantly in, allowing the entrance to be pushed open. In an instant, all sense of orientation is lost. The halls go every possible direction. Dark mirrored passages lead through two small doors and down slanted stairways. The path forks in the darkness. One turn shrinks—the travelers must crouch, then crawl, until they see the end in a tiny room, no larger than a fist. The non-Euclidean space loops upon itself, leading back to the same egg-shaped room lined in iron rebar. The travelers meet each other again, but hurry apart to seek the prize of solitude.

A passage paved with fluff and stuffed animals opens into a white room of halogen light and sound. A wooden slope leads to a room with a ceiling too low for standing, containing a single, small chair, and an exit that leads downwards into utter darkness. Strangers seem part of the exhibit as they mutely sulk past in opposite directions. One woman stands still in a cramped corridor and does nothing but smile. Over the bellows and through the church pews, the exit is perched on a set of steps, and in an instant each person is transported back to a world where the doorways are parallel and the light is clear.

Each hiding its spatial secrets in its own way, these two giants glare at one another across Berlin, waiting for the other to move.

Exploring the maze, you may feel lost and isolated

occur as paths intersect. The groups disperse into the matrices and reunite with joy, only to disintegrate again, in unwitting games of hide and seek. Sitting on the peak of one stelae, one can see the sun touching the tops of the cyclopean ruins.

The memorial contains no writing, no images, no mention of the “Murdered Jews of Europe.” Nothing is asked of the visitor. The public has repurposed the ominous rows with their laughing presence, but at the center, where the towering stones block the sun, it is still dark.

After waiting in nervous silence by the table, one by one are blindfolded and taken from their friends into the depths of the warehouse.

At night in the Ostkreuz district, the Salon Zur Wilden Renate bar crouches on an unremarkable street corner, with a sign marked “Peristal Singum,” the only reminder of the arcane art group “Karmanoia.” Inside, old photographs hang upon torn wallpaper. In the back room, a single man sits upon a small stage playing an unrecognizable string instrument, part harmonica and part accordion. A woman standing in the shadows hands out heavy gold coins to those who ask for them. After waiting in nervous silence by the table, one by one they are blindfolded and taken from their friends into the 16

The towers hover you as you wander the monoliths

Latin America Buenos Aires’ Walls Say Everything story and photos by ALAIS DIOP

One of the most amazing—and free—attractions that Buenos Aires has to offer is the street art scene that envelops its neighborhoods, each with its own unique personality and history, such as Colegiales and Palermo Soho. The themes expressed in the street art illustrate the social and political contexts that shaped the country throughout the years. Graffiti enables people to raise their voice in front of the government, and was especially popular after the “Dirty War” and dictatorship from 1976 to 1983, during which an estimated 30,000 Argentines “disappeared.”

In the trendy neighborhood Colegiales, much of the graffiti is used as a way to deliver a note to someone special. From love messages to lost ones and birthday wishes, to political propaganda and shouts for democracy, graffiti is the most effective and creative process that people use as a means to express their feelings and keep their marks indelible throughout the years.

In Palermo, another artistically distinctive neighborhood, the graffiti is just as impressive. Among them, artist Jaz’s striking drawing of two bulls fighting, with the names “Teta” and “Salta” inscribed on top of their heads. Jaz is one of the most recognized graffiti artist in the city. He uses ancient Italian techniques for his drawings with

very structured and precise lines, giving them a powerful appearance. This particular piece with the bulls serves as an homage to two of his friends who got killed by the police during a fight.

Murals are the other famous kind of street art found around Buenos Aires, on houses’ walls, shopping avenues, and even around children’s playgrounds. And there are tons of them. Messages such as “Sos parte del cambio” (“You are part of the change”) are displayed next to imaginary, oppressed-looking creature, skulls, and/or animals with sharp red eyes per haps representing threat and insecurity. On the lower left of a vast mural by the artist Ice appears a grey bank with the inscription “Occupy the mushrooms!”

At times street art can be ephemeral art pieces that are erased or drawn over, yet it is clear that many of these works are still intact today because people respect and consider them part of the city’s history. When it comes to graffiti, porteños (people who live in Buenos Aires) feel a great amount of admiration and pride. By mixing contemporary references to much older ones, graffiti and mural artists give color to the Buenos Aires’ walls, enabling everyone to express their emotions or be a spectator of this new addition to the city’s liveliness.

Above: a mural depicting Chairman Mao. Left: a man walks by a wall of graffiti. Cover photo: Salt plains at sunset outside of San Pedro de Atacama in northern Chile by Carolyn Balk.

17

Colonial architecture lines the streets of Merida

Prime Meridian

A summer stroll in the Yucatán capital story and photos by MICHAEL RYAN

Many tourists who visit Mexico’s Yucatán state fight for crowded spots on the beach and spend inordinate amounts of money on overpriced tequila in Cancún. The more savvy travelers, however, head to Yucatán’s capital city Merida to experience true Yucatanean culture. The area was originally settled by the Mayans, but in the sixteenth century, Spanish conquerors came and resettled the area (and, in doing so, violently toppled the Mayan’s pyramids, using the stones for Roman Catholic cathedrals).

A fitting starting point for exploring Merida is the Plaza Grande, a sprawling square that lies at the center of the historic district. Merida Cathedral, one of the oldest churches in the Americas, overlooks the square. Hotels, museums, market vendors, and musicians call the bustling plaza home.

Further north along Paseo de Montejo, you get a sense of Merida’s multi-layered history. This wide boulevard was laid out in the 19th century to be the fashionable address for the city’s elite, who owned haciendas (plantations) in the surrounding countryside.

Decadent mansions in various states of disrepair compose a beautiful yet haunting site along the tree-lined avenue. Meridians pack onto the boulevard and watch the performers that line the street all the way into the center of town. On Sunday mornings, Paseo de Montejo is closed to traffic in order to accommodate pedestrians and bikers.

The cool evenings, even in the humid, rainy season of August when I was there, are the best time to enjoy a drink in Merida. The cantinas (Mexican saloons) generally close at 10 PM, while the clubs welcome revelers until 3 AM. After sipping Mezcal cocktails at popular joints like La Fundacion Mezcaleria and Casa Pompidou, cool off from the crowd by strolling on Merida’s subtly illuminated stone streets. While wandering the stone-paved streets at dusk, you’ll notice the soft undertone lights the city installed to showcase its elegant colonial architecture.

The mix of luxuriously restored townhouses and century-old colonial mansions crumbling into the street is enchanting. Many of the brightly colored mansions abandoned by former owners are slowly being restored by a burgeoning ex-patriot community.

There is a carefree spirit to the historic district’s few nightlife spots. The city is also home to several LGBT- and gay-friendly ven18

A black cat guards a set of wooden doors

ues. Drag shows are popular among Meridians and the charismatic Latin divas provide some of the best entertainment in town. Although Merida is a staunchly conservative Roman Catholic town with strong familial culture, Yucatán state began permitting gay marriage very recently in August 2013.

Merida’s best dining options are usually found on aimless strolls in the most unassuming places. Hole in the wall taco joints serve fresh shrimp and fish tacos that any budget—and appetite— can enjoy. For more upscale dining experiences, many establishments around Paseo de Montejo or Plaza Grande serve Yucatanean cuisine peppered with European influences. Merida is a captivating colonial city teeming with sites, food, and history—making it ripe for exploration.

Secrets of Santiago story by CAROLYN BALK

Often overlooked for its neighboring party-centric sister Buenos Aires, Santiago, Chile offers the same perks of a capital city, albeit on a smaller scale. Santiago is also less touristy than Buenos Aires, making for a relaxing break. Santiago is set against a beautiful backdrop of snowcapped Andes Mountains and wine vineyards boasting some of the best Cabernet Sauvignon in the world are less than an hour away by bus. The vineyards make for easy afternoon excursions—just remember that the harvest season is opposite the Northern Hemisphere’s, and you’ll see fall-like colors in April!

Santiago’s hippest neighborhood, Barrio Bellavista, teems with vibrant graffiti (similar to Buenos Aires) and mosaics on nearly every block. At night, Bellavista turns into a cosmopolitan bar and restaurant scene great for a night out on the town. But you can go out anywhere in the world—let’s talk gelato.

During the day, stop by Emporio La Rosa gelato parlor, featuring funky flavors such as albalico chocolate (chocolate basil) and the native pepino dulce fruit (with a unique taste most akin to honeydew rather than its direct translation to “sweet cucumber.”) This is no take-away venue; you are encouraged to sit down at one of the beautiful wooden tables in the parlor decorated with kitsch vintage plates on the walls. Yes, Emporio La Rosa serves sandwiches as well, but...get the gelato.

El Cotorro’s Paladares story by MICHAEL PEREZ and photos by CAROLYN BALK

The moment I stepped off the plane, I was met with delightful wisps of sea breeze dancing across my skin. As I disembarked, I could see the bold lettering on the building in front of me: JOSÉ MARTÍ-LA HABANA. After a short 45-minute plane ride from Miami, I’d made it to the tropical island of Cuba. I picked up my luggage, and made my way out of the airport with my mother to her brother-in-law waiting to pick us up in in his 1953 Bel Air car.

Cars this old are extremely common in Cuba due to the U.S. Embargo, which forbids formal trade of objects containing 10% or more American parts, and add a certain sort of charm to the otherwise haphazard roads with little to no policing and potholes aplenty. That being said, the bumpy rides and latent sense of danger add a layer of adventure to being in Cuba—you never know quite what you will see or what will happen.

As we drove down to El Cotorro, the small town where my mother was born, we passed by a number of interesting scenes: local farmers with herds of sheep alongside the expansive highways, wagons drawn by horses noisily trotting down the unpaved roads, and hordes of people awaiting the arrival of buses. Once we made it to my mother’s old home, which her sister’s family now inhabits, we unpacked our bags and decided it was time to get something to eat.

We ended up going to one of the various local paladares, or small restaurants that are part of someone’s house. Sometimes they’re on a back porch, or even inside a home. Fancier paladares are entire extensions made to the back or side of a house. They’ve become extremely popular in Cuba as a source of income for many families, and provide an intriguing variety of perspectives on traditional Cuban food. This specific spot specialized in seafood, and I had a fantastic breaded tilapia with plátanos maduros (fried plantains) and some rice. Paladares are unique in that they are not government-run, allowing for a much wider variety of food than the staple and government-rationed rice and beans.

The next day consisted of running various errands around town, visiting old family friends, and, of course, visiting several other paladares. We drove to the outskirts of town for lunch and ended up in what seemed like the middle of nowhere. Fields stretched out for as far as I could see, except for a modest sized-house ahead in

Above: a farmer’s market in Havana Below: old cars lined up in Havana’s Plaza de la Revolución

the distance. As we got closer, I was utterly impressed by the quality of the dining area in this paladar. With an expansive bar lining the side of their house, and massive grills a little off to the side, it was certainly a treat. Large, sturdy wooden tables with luxurious cloths stood in the center of the dining area, and all of the waiters, presumably the family that lived in the home adjacent to the paladar, wore well-tailored uniforms. I enjoyed a variety of grilled meats while my family opted for the paella.

On my last day in Cuba, we decided to get brunch at yet another paladar. It was only a few blocks from my aunt’s house, and it was one of the absolute best dining experiences I’ve had to date.

I felt as if I had walked into a ‘60s diner, complete with checkered floors, shiny metal tables, and gingham-patterned tablecloths. We enjoyed a massive stack of pancakes—IHOP cannot hold a candle to these homemade delicacies—along with omelets boasting a myriad of meats, such as chorizo, ham, bacon, and countless other delicious bits (the mushrooms were excellent). Freshly made watermelon, orange, and apple juice accompanied our meal, as well as a traditional brew of Cuban coffee. Though I never imagined food would be the highlight of my trip—as they say, the Cuban food in Miami is better than in Cuba—the eclectic paladares made for an unforgettable experience.

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Middle East Underneath Istanbul story by CHANDLER WEST and photo by MISHA SESAR

Istanbul, called Constantinople during the days of the Otto- supporting high, arched ceilings. Asena explained that people man Empire, is divided into two sides by the Bosphorus—a channel stored water there long ago for the different structure which stood connecting the Black Sea and the Marmaro. The Western side of the above it throughout history, from basilicas to palaces. I learned after Bosphorus is considered a part of Europe, and the Eastern side is that the place was originally built by Emperor Constantine I, and considered a part of Asia. When I went to Istanbul I stayed with my later rebuilt and expanded by Emperor Justinian I. The room was friend Asena, who I met when we were both exchange students in now filled with only a few feet of water, and we walked through on a Italy. I didn’t know much about her city before I went there. Asena raised pathway, with carp swimming below us. lives on the Asian side, in a part called Üsküdar. On my second day “Sometimes the water evaporates up, then drips down,” Asena we ventured into the European side and the historical center. We whispered to me, “so don’t be surprised if you get splashed. We say saw many of Istanbul’s star tourist attractions that day: the Hagia the droplets are good luck.” There was no real reason to be whisperSophia, the Blue Mosque, the Grand Bazaar, and, my favorite, the ing, but it seemed right somehow. The cistern demanded a certain spellbinding Basilica Cistern. reverence. The beauty of the place combined with the low lighting Though we tried in English and in Italian, Asena couldn’t seem for an effect that was haunting and eerie—even mystical. to explain to me exactly what it was we were going to see. I couldn’t The marble columns that surrounded us were of all different get a clear idea of what to expect. “You’ll just have to see it for your- types, with Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian elements. Some were made self,” she told me as we waited in line. of granite and some were made of marble. The mixed up and ilI had to stay silent as we neared the ticket counter. Turkish logical organization seemed cryptic and strange. At the same time, students get free entrance, and Asena knew that if I let her do the in a way it felt right—Istanbul is a mixed up city, darting back and talking, the man behind the desk would assume I was Turkish too and wouldn’t charge me. I kept my lips sealed until we were well past the counter, tickets and pamphlets in hand, and descending a staircase.

It was dark and cool, and smelled a little damp. Asena asked me if I was ready and I said yes, although I didn’t know what I was ready for, since there wasn’t enough light to make out the words on the pamphlet. We were headed underground.

The Turkish name for the cistern, Yerebatan Sarayi, directly translates to “Sunken Palace,” which is an apt description of what it looked like. It was a huge expanse The fish market from Galata Bridge in Istanbul of columns that stretched far back, Cover photo: rolling sand dunes on the outskirts of Abu Dhabi by Billy Vintzileos 20

forth between European and Asiatic influences. I learned later that the way the columns mirrored the city was due to a process called spoliation: parts were salvaged from the ruins of older buildings and used in the construction of newer ones.

Asena showed me one particular column with a bizarre story.

It had teardrop shaped designs going all the way down, as if it were crying. She explained that this was called the Column of Tears and it was erected in memory of all the workers who drowned during the construction of the cistern. She said there had been hundreds of casualties among the thousands of slaves involved in the construction. As I looked at the column’s stone tears, the empty space above and around me seemed to fill up with the swimming ghosts of the drowned. It sent a shiver down my spine.

At the very back corner, there was another eerie sight. At the base of two of the columns were two meticulously carved Medusa heads, one placed sideways and the other upside-down. I asked Ase-

na why they were there, since the cistern’s intended use was to store water, so they would have been submerged and unseen when the cistern was functioning. She told me that their purpose was a mystery, but their placement was for superstitious reasons. “They’re situated that way to keep you from turning to stone,” she said. Medusa has this power, but only if her eyes are met straight on.

When Asena and I finished our exploration of the cistern and emerged back into the sunlight of Istanbul, I had to squint my eyes until they adjusted to the brightness. The motor sounds of passing cars and loud cries of vendors selling pomegranates, roasted corn, and other snacks were shocking after the reverent silence and softly echoing dripping sounds underground. I couldn’t stop thinking of the Basilica Cistern for the rest of that day. It is amazing to know what secrets and mysteries await underground, beneath the bustle of cities known and loved.

Top Ten Phrases to Know in Farsi story by SORAYA BATMANGHELIDJ and photo by BILLY VINTZILEOS

Sheikh Zayed Mosque in Abu Dhabi

1

Haletoon chetoreh? – How are you?

2

Sobh Be kheyr – Good morning

Esme shoma che hast? – What is your name?

6

Khoda Hafez – Goodbye

7

Maan eik jujeh kebab mekham – I would like one chicken kebab

8

3

Gheymatesh chand ast? – How much is this?

4

Kheily mamnoon - Thank you very much

Dashtshooi kojast? – Where is the bathroom?

9

5

Maan komak lazem daram – I need help

Shooma mojarad hasteed? – Are you single?

10 21

The United Arab Emirates

photo story by BAILEY THEADO

The UAE had a reputation in my mind for holding only skyscrapers and malls, until I discovered its many interesting pockets of culture. At times, my experiences there as a student felt mismatched, as if they happened in two very different places. It is exactly this juxtaposition that makes the country such a fascinating place to photograph and experience as an artist and traveler. When I first arrived, I would get lost walking because each street looked the same to me, but soon I was motivated to look closer at what was around me and recognize what was unique.

A couple takes photos of the Burj Khalifa, the world’s tallest building.

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Everyday, local boys in Abu Dhabi would gather outside of this juice shop and play cricket.

A mosque in the area of Fujairah near the Omani border. Away from the chrome and lights of Dubai, Fujairah is dotted with palm tree farms woven into jagged and rocky mountain ranges. (bottom left) At the ‘heritage village’ of Abu Dhabi, tourists try to get a sense of what the UAE used to be through ‘heritage’ demonstrations in pottery, ship building, pear diving, dagger carving, and weaving. (bottom right) A local artisan who makes furniture out of palm trees has created an overnight camping experience in the mountains of Fujairah to show tourists another side of the UAE.

Seeing the giant aquarium in the Dubai mall, I was at first in admiration, but quickly remembered how much the UAE suffers from water insecurity. Seeing the indoor ski lift in Dubai and the outdoor surfing wave pool in Al Ain magnified this juxtapostion even more.

Mint Tea Musings in Marrakech story and photo by SHERINA MOTWANI

“Come smell. Please do smell. This is of the best quality, the freshest ingredients. Made of gunpowder green tea leaves, you will not find such fresh leaves anywhere else in the world. Come smell.

Please do smell.”

I smiled at the urgency in the shopkeeper’s voice, a new addition to the culture shock that I had been experiencing ever since I first set foot on Moroccan soil. The strong aroma of spices in the air, the inescapable whiff of something cooking in the distance. The silky smooth texture of a patterned scarf that is impeccably soft to the touch. The whirling and twirling of the most vivid of colors: emerald greens and ruby reds and sunset oranges. The hustle and bustle of the Souks at large, as eager vendors call out to merchants against a rumbling soundtrack of motorcycle engines. Marrakech unapologetically engulfs every sense, overwhelming visitors as they navigate the maze of the city. However, I learnt that it offers tourists and locals alike a single calming solitude in the form of sharp but refreshing mint tea, tried with a little sugar to taste.

My roommate, Elizabeth, rolled her eyes and walked on, but I called out for her to wait, needing to stop out of a curious mix of politeness and surprise. I was used to the sharp Cantonese cries of “Siu je! Missy, here, only looking,” in Hong Kong market stalls, as fake branded watches were thrust under my nose and I desperately plotted my escape. The shopkeepers never hesitated to rip off tourists, capitalizing on their naiveté like a spider waiting to trap a juicy fly. This young boy’s gentle eagerness was refreshing.

He introduced himself as Youssef, and sat us down on rickety stools as he pulled out box after box of dark tea leaves, each one differing subtly but undeniably in smell and texture from the last. Suddenly, he stopped and smacked his hand to his forehead, mumbling something in Arabic as he disappeared into the backroom.

A few moments later, he reappeared with a silver tray holding what appeared to be three steaming shot glasses filled with a thick, nectar-like concoction, a small tin container and a meticulously crafted teapot. Elizabeth flashed me a warning look—what if he intended to drug us? I shrugged as the syrupy, musky smell trickled out of the glasses and hit my nostrils. I wanted to trust him. Immediately, I felt myself subside to the tranquil nature of the solution, and I had yet to even take my first sip.

As we sat enjoying the mint tea (hot, with a cool aftertaste), Youssef gave us a quick tour of his magical spice shop, offering whiffs of amber perfume, showing off clay pots that transformed into deep plum lipstick when moistened, and pouring softening oils into our awaiting palms. When we appeared more overwhelmed than impressed, he honed back in on his original advertisement—the tea leaves, which were every bit as delectable as he had initially claimed.

“You like the tea? You can add more sugar, look.”

He lifted the lid on the ornate tin container to reveal substantially sized sugar cubes to add to the already sweetened substance.

Both the formality that accompanies customer service and the discomfort that sometimes comes with cultural differences were masked by the delicious mind-numbing sugariness, paired with the crisp tang of the mint infused into the green tea.

As the three of us sipped, Youssef abruptly halted his sales pitch, instead asking us about our lives and the reason for our stay in Marrakech. He carefully listened and responded to our questions

Lampshades for sale in the souks

about his trilingual (Arabic, French and English) upbringing. This exchange was followed by a period of complete silence, as discussion became secondary to the consumption of the heavenly mixture.

Social cohesion was created by our mint tea in the same way as alcohol in many other countries—except this drink did not blur the lines of reality, but propelled every one of my senses into a blissful state of relaxation. In conservative Marrakech, alcohol is kept hidden behind closed doors, for the exclusive consumption of men at home and tourists in five star hotels. Mint tea, on the other hand, is available in abundance, as a complimentary offering to guests and customers, and, as we soon learnt, a symbol of friendship.

As Youssef cleared away the silver tray, I felt a pang of disappointment—I had really been enjoying myself. When he returned, he found me stood next to a large, clear jar, with a determined expression on my face.

“I’ll take half a bag of the mint, please,” I said. Youssef grinned as he generously filled a bag well above the halfway mark, and threw in one of the claypot lipsticks for free. Although he had not pressed the matter of us purchasing the tea further, his silence had been more effective than any combination of words.

“The best souvenir from Morocco,” he promised, bright-eyed as he handed me the bag. “You will see. Whenever you pass by again, join me for another pot. I like you girls.” It was the simplest of invitations, but one of the most sincere.

Sadly in the Souks, you rarely happen across the same stall twice. Each little store holds the same goods as the previous, and each stall keeper is as entertaining as the last. We never saw Youssef again, but drank many more cups of mint tea during our stay. Yes, we bought harem pants and postcards, and allowed a Moroccan lady to persuade us that we could not leave the city without a henna tattoo, but the tea leaves were my favorite purchase. Although I would love to savor the taste of Morocco for as long as possible, I know that I will finish them soon. After all, as Youssef taught us, there is no special occasion necessary to consume them—every day is a good day for tea.

23

North America

The Golden Gate Bridge story by KARA NORTON and photo by CAROLYN BALK

The Larkspur Landing Ferry Building is a transit hub for commuters and tourists alike looking to get to San Francisco. The stark white ferry terminal has a shelter-like roof held up by impressive, intersecting white beams, resembling a large, steel jungle gym.

There is a hodgepodge of people taking the ferry today. There are people traveling to California for the first time, newlyweds on honeymoon, couples wearing matching shirts, and foreigners with Nikons slung around their necks. Two Golden Gate ferries bob in the water, overwhelming the barnacle-encrusted dock.

When it is time to embark, the ferry engine roars to life and the smell of diesel permeates the air. A sea of people rushes forward, but I go straight to the back deck, away from the lingering eyes of commuters and tourists. I lean my elbows against the railing and sigh heavily, finally letting the warm tears bathe my cheeks. I relish the cold slap of the combatant wind as it fights for dominion over the bay. I hadn’t really been looking at the water before, I was too engrossed in my own thoughts. It was unreal. The lush green mountains, the salt marshes, the stony cliffs, remind me more of a foreign, European seacoast than of California.

The ferry chugs along, and I can see the green hills of the Tiburon peninsula, adorned with Mediterranean-style houses and quaint hotels built into every existing space along the water. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply. The smell of the acrid perfume of the bay and the feeling of the cold sea spray on my face strike a chord somewhere deep in my soul. It reminds me of my childhood—a time when I lived in the moment as an adventurer, when something as simple as a smile or my mom tucking my hair behind my ear could heal anything. I feel sunrays on my eyelids, and open them just as the sun is breaking through the omnipresent fog, highlighting the peacock-colored tones of the water. Finally, the Golden Gate appears over my left shoulder.

There is no doubt in my mind why the Golden Gate Bridge is considered one of the great marvels of the world. Its vermillion towers are like two great triumphal Roman arches, testaments to human ingenuity. But I cannot fully appreciate the splendor of the bridge when I think about the number of people that have lost their lives to its fatal beauty. This includes a senior at my high school who 24

took her life my freshman year. Three weeks into the first semester, she drove her car to the Golden Gate Bridge Visitor’s Center before school, wrote a letter to her friends and family, and left this world. It is a 250-foot drop from the walkway of the bridge to the bay below, and nearly 700 feet from either tower—facts you can’t seem to forget when you imagine someone falling. When I stare at the bridge, I am reminded how beautiful and fragile life can be. It is revered around the world for its timeless beauty, but for so many others it is also seen as their only way out of a hopeless situation.

I decide that today I will live for Casey, I will take her with me, and we will see what she could not in her life. I rush inside, past the rows of cross-legged professionals who have to wear suits at 9 AM. I dodge tourists with their obnoxiously large camera lenses and a gaggle of children, and reach the front deck of the ferry. As I tear through the door and scrambled towards the bow, the San Francisco skyline begins to appear through the fog. For the first time in what feels like too long, I have a huge smile plastered across my face, feeling a childlike giddiness. I start to see the hallmarks of the city, the granite and marble of downtown, but also the fixtures of architectural non-conformity like the colorful Victorian homes that dot both Telegraph and Russian Hills. The very nature of the city, it seems, is unconventional. There are, of course, the tax collectors, the corporate executives, and the other professionals found in every city. But then there are the street painters, the gold rush peddlers, the sea lion performers, the food truck runners, and the organic fusion tea sellers that make the city what it is.

When I was just discovering impressionism, it occured to me that had Claude Monet been an architect as well as a painter, he would have been the mastermind behind San Francisco. I look on in wonder at this city that looks more like a façade or a painting, with blobs of crème, grey, turquoise and pink rising from the waves. I feel like I am seeing some foreign land for the first time.

Casey left this life hopefully seeing what I see, yet I am acutely aware of the fact that she sadly will never again be able to smell the sea lions’ musk, the sticky sweetness of caramel-covered apples, or the aroma of fresh circus popcorn that greet me as the boat docks at the Embarcadero.

Lanikai Pillboxes story and photo by KATHLEEN WONG

Growing up in Hawai’i means seeing the world through an unfiltered, raw lens, focused on appreciating nature, good weather, and ohana (family.) Childhood is different here: paradisiacal beaches and moist, green ridges are automatically our playgrounds, and gentle sun and warm waters are the backsplash to daily life. In our pickup trucks with radios blaring, we casually cruise over to what tourists travel thousands of miles to find.

Sometimes a few friends and I drive across the lush and winding Pali Highway towards the quaint and picturesque town of Kailua. It’s a small beach town on the windward side of the island of O’ahu. Small surf shops and restaurants line Old Kailua Road, and if there’s time we stop inside the local grocery store, Foodland, to grab some grub. Our goto meal is ice cold coconut water and a poke bowl. Poke is a local staple of raw, cubed, and marinated ahi tuna over a bed of fresh rice— perfect to eat on the beach.

We pass Kailua and enter world famous Lanikai, home to sweet air and some of the most beautiful beaches in Hawai’i. At Lanikai beach, the sand is so soft and fine that it stays with you even after you’re completely dry, making its way into the miniscule crooks of your car seat. It’s a sweet white, and touching it is like raking your hands through fine white sugar. The water meets the sand in a frothy foam on the shore, then extends into shocking shades of clear turquoise. It’s cold for just a second as you make your way into the water--and then you dive under, letting your hand scrape the pillowy soft sand at the bottom. You pass various baby tropical fish and realize you might not ever muster up the will to leave. The cold is gone. “The Mokes” serve as a background to the beach—two little islands sitting about eight miles off the coast. They happily oblige picture takers and kayakers alike, and remind you that Hawai’i is not just one island, but a series.

But today we’re passing by Lanikai. We’re going to hike the Lanikai Pillboxes, two old World War II bomb shelters. Now aban-

A Road Trip in the South

doned and covered with brightly graffitied names and colors, they serve as elevated seats for admiring sunrises and sunsets.

We make a sudden right turn away from the beach and park on a hillside. We slip into the trees between the houses and make the steep climb up the mountain. It’s dusty and the dirt is loose but we’re locals, we’re wearing slippers (what you may know as flip flops.) We race up the side, grabbing the ropes to catch us when we slide. Once we exit the scattered trees, we’re on a thin ledge with green ridges of the jungle on our right and the vast ocean on our left. The air is fresh and the breeze is chilly. The hike is short, and we get on our hands and knees to climb the rocks and avoid falling backwards over the

The view from atop of a pillbox

edge. We’re climbing and we look up to see a concrete square hut: the first pillbox. We continue climbing up into the second pillbox, getting comfortable and swinging our legs over the edge of a steep cliff. The view is breathtaking: endless brush strokes of blue water and white, scattered sand; inland, swooping ridges, tickled ever so slightly by misty clouds. Lanikai may be below us, but it feels like the whole island at our feet.

To the Lowcountry with Frank Lloyd Wright, James Brown, and a disappearing island story and photo by MICHAEL RYAN

To the casual traveler, U.S. HWY 278 is a stretch of lonely pavement, apparently devoid of any points of interest. Yet it is possible to peer through the Spanish moss and catch a glimpse of the old American South that, with each new Starbucks outpost, is quickly disappearing.

To be sure, this part of 278 has no Starbucks. Caffeinate instead at the New Moon Café, which is charmingly situated in the stately downtown of our starting point: Augusta, Georgia. Driving east along Broad Street, Augusta’s main drag, it’s easy to notice the city’s unique blend of Old and New South. In Broad Street’s landscaped median alone, you’ll see a bronze statue of hometown

hero James Brown, a monolithic Confederate monument, and internationally renowned architect I. M. Pei’s spidery Chamber of Commerce building.

Leaving Augusta, you’ll pass through the swampy lowlands of the Savannah River and cross into South Carolina. The first settlement across the wide border river is Beech Island, the last home of the “Godfather of Soul.” James Brown’s former estate sits on a sprawling 62 acres at 430 Douglas Avenue. His family is in a deadlocked feud over turning the mansion into a Graceland-like museum.

Ominous road signs begin appearing on either side of the narrow highway as you continue, warning of the impending Savannah 25

River Site. The “SRS” was built in 1950 on land ceded from three surrounding counties to stockpile America’s Cold War nuclear arsenal. The historic town of Ellenton—including its 6,000 inhabitants—was condemned and relocated.

About halfway through 278’s journey through the site, you’ll find the only place travelers are permitted to pause while driving through the heavily guarded federal property: a monument to “the patriotic men and women” of Ellenton who moved from their homes at the command of President Truman nearly 64 years ago.

The federal property now behind you, brightly colored red and green flags signal that you are entering an entirely different land: watermelon country. Hampton is home to the state’s oldest continuing festivity: the Watermelon Festival. Stop for a summertime treat at one of the town’s roadside stands.

Stray off 278 for a shortcut just after passing through the small town of Yemassee. Follow the aptly named Old Sheldon Church Ruins Road until you encounter its namesake on your left. Sheldon Church was burned by the British during the Revolutionary War and rebuilt by locals, only to be destroyed again during the Civil War. The stone ruins now sit silently amidst colossal, Spanish-mossadorned live oaks, surrounded by an elaborate 18th century cemetery.

A bit north of Sheldon Church, an unusual metal fence lines the left side of the road. Sharp, angular buildings dot the landscape, and an eccentric sign designates the entrance to Auldbrass, a working plantation designed in 1941 by Frank Lloyd Wright. Recently restored by Hollywood producer Joel Silver, the architectural oddity opens for a tour every October.

Rejoining 278, you’ll find yourself headed towards one of the South’s most picturesque waterfronts: Beaufort, South Carolina. The historic port city has served as the setting for many films including The Prince of Tides and The Jungle Book. Enjoy the elegant mansions and sweeping marshes, or better yet, linger on Bay Street for a

Welwyn Nature Preserve photos by MARI HARALDSSON

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Hunting Island, captured by a disposable camera

hearty serving of shrimp and grits.

The journey from Beaufort to the coast will take you across the Sea Islands, home to modern beach resorts and the Gullah people (a unique group of formerly enslaved Africans). The community of Frogmore, situated along Sea Island Parkway, is also home to the famous Lowcountry dish Frogmore stew, a sumptuous blend of well-seasoned shrimp, sausage, and corn. Local artisans line the highway, peddling intricately weaved sweet grass baskets alongside, if one knows what to ask for, medicinal roots used by voodoo practitioners.

The journey comes to an abrupt halt at Hunting Island, a state park whose thick palmettos and salty bogs passed for Vietnam in the war scenes in Forrest Gump. The island’s beachfront is quickly eroding, and the ocean has penetrated Hunting’s forest, uprooting massive trees in the process. Even the island’s lighthouse bowed to the power of the sea and was relocated over a mile inland. The spiraling two-toned lighthouse is open to climb for a few bucks. It makes a fitting terminus for a peculiar journey through the Lowcountry, one of America’s most distinct landscapes.

Only an hour away from New York City, Long Island’s Welwyn Preserve is perfect for an afternoon away.

BAEDEKER IS THE STUDENT TRAVEL MAGAZINE OF NEW YORK UNIVERSITY. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © 2013