I'm an only child with a small family, so no matter where I am - working or travelling - I always go home for the holidays. This year, I got back to Vancouver just in time for my parents' Christmas party with their friends and neighbors. I took to my usual post in the kitchen, which is helping with the turkey and stuffing. Afterwards, I stuffed my face with delicious food throughout the night.

I love the familiarity and the quietness of being home for Christmas. It lets me relax and prepare for the craziness of the new year.

Happy Holidays!

As Google would suggest, 2011 has been an eventful year around the globe. Looking back on all the worldwide events also made me reflect on my own life. These last 12 months have been more than fulfilling. For one, I began to embrace my new found love for travelling, which I discovered in 2010. Thus, with fond nostalgia for the past and eager excitement for the future, I bring you: 11 travel photographs of (my) 2011. 

Despite the chilly February air, I had planned a full day of sightseeing in Budapest and was determined to check off every activity on my list. It was my first solo trip in Europe. I had travelled alone on a day trip to Luxembourg before and spent a few weekends by myself in London, but this was a 14-day journey across Hungary, Austria, Slovakia, and Czech Republic. It required 2 flights, 3 trains, and 13 nights of sleeping in hostel dorm rooms. I viewed it as the ultimate challenge to my courage and independence. It was my European coming-of-age adventure, and Budapest was my first stop.

The morning had started off with a 2-hour walking tour around the Buda area. My tour guide, a Budapest local in her late 30s, was full of knowledge. I was very satisfied with her history and architecture lessons and strolled happily toward the subway station, towards my next destination.



As I turned the corner onto a busy sidewalk, I bumped into a slim man in his 40s, with light brown hair and a tanned complexion.

“Sorry.” The Canadian in me instinctively responds.

“Do you know how to get to the shopping street?” He spoke English with a hint of accent, but not strong enough to give his true nationality away.

“What's that?”

“Do you know where the shopping street is?” He stepped towards me. I did a mental check of my belongings, concerned that this conversation was a coy for pick pocketing.

“Um…” Although I was slightly worried, I still wanted to be helpful. Plus, I was pretty certain that we passed by the shopping area on the walking tour. “Go to the intersection and turn right.” I pointed in the direction I came from.

“Thank you” He smiled, planting a kiss on the top of my right hand before walking away.

I hurried away in slight surprise. As I waited on the subway platform, with all of my belongings safely in my purse, I wondered if it was custom in Hungarian culture to thank a female stranger by kissing her hand. I also hoped that I had given him the right directions.

When I returned to my hostel that night and proudly announced to Alex, the hostel owner, that I had given someone directions on my first day in town, it was him who pointed out the peculiarity in a European-looking man asking for directions from an Asian girl, especially in a homogenous country like Hungary. When I revealed that he kissed my hand as a gesture of thanks, Alex announced that I had been duped - the man was likely a local who simply wanted to chat up an ethnic girl and kiss her hand.



I can’t deny the likely truth in that conclusion, and I can’t say I wouldn’t feel a little used if that were indeed true. Having grown up in a richly diverse country like Canada, I've learned to see everyone as similar in some ways yet unique in others, but I sometimes forget that while I’m accustomed to being surrounded by different ethnicities, others might not be.

Today, nearly 8 months later, I’ve come to view the incident as a reminder that traveling is an exchange of cultures: sometimes, the very people we want to learn about are just as interested in us. 

After a late night in New York, it was about noon when I got out of bed. The first order of business had been determined at the suggestions of a friend who spent a summer living in Manhattan. So, with high expectations, I strolled into Shake Shack.

A delicious guilty indulgence later, I was ready to hit the town. It was a struggle to get around 5^th Avenue as New Yorkers and tourists swarmed the high-end stores. Perhaps folks were just eager to start with their Christmas shopping, but I’m also convinced that the endless sea of 5^th Ave. shoppers is a trademark of the city.

After walking 30 blocks to Central Park, I was glad to finally sit down and catch some free Wi-Fi courtesy of the Apple Store. The day eventually ended at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, one attraction on my NYC must-do list that I finally managed to cross off after 4 trips to the vibrant city. I went to a lot of museums when I lived in Europe yet the MET still managed to impress me with its beautifully curated Asian and Egyptian Exhibits. Somewhere between the Monet and Picasso galleries, for a brief moment, I forgot that I was in New York. Instead, I was transported back to this exact time last year, when I stood in front of paintings by the same artists in Musée D’Orsay in Paris.

I definitely miss Europe and hope to go back soon, but in the mean time, I’ll keep myself busy with more weekend travels like this one. 

The autumn leaves may have fallen but the Christmas lights have definitely been put up. With Christmas songs softly bringing me in and out of sleep, I flew into New York City with festive spirits.

I’m a lucky girl to get to experience the city that never sleeps just a few weeks before Christmas. Manhattan is always buzzing but the city’s energy level is turned up 10 notches around the Holidays. With the stores busier than ever and window displays that look like they came out of a Christmas morning special on TV, December is truly a magical month in New York.

My time there began in the evening, after a lovely dinner at Spice Market in Chelsea Market, NY. After a delicious dinner and a round of drinks at a nearby pub, I headed to the Christmas tree and ice-skating rink at the Rockefeller Center. The rest of the night was spent admiring the decorations adorning the shops on 5^th Avenue. When my friends and I tired of that, we lingered beneath bright billboards in Time Square until midnight hunger pains prompted us to visit the nearest Chicken and Rice food stand. Although it was 2am when I returned to the hotel, the night was still young in New York City.

I believe I’ve created a false impression on this blog.

Despite my attempt at cheerful travel writing, traveling to foreign countires is not always rainbows and butterflies. Not everything city is young and vibrant. Not every journey is smooth and worry-free. And the weather doesn’t always cooperate.

In a hasty photo-essay during October of last year, I posted pictures from my time in Geneva, Interlaken, and Zurich, Switzerland. I didn’t write this at the time but, while Geneva was politically insightful and Zurich was architecturally beautiful, the Swiss Alps were, unfortunately, disappointing.

Locals at the Alps live by the everchanging weather there. When the weather is bad (read rainy, cloudy, and foggy), it can spoil your entire trip. It was my bad luck and forgetting to check the weather beforehand that it poured every single day I was there. I spent my entire time at the Alps trapped inside the hostel, glued to the weather channel on TV, and praying that the viewing cameras would show just a glimpse of the snowy peaks I had travelled so far to see.

Instead, a thick white smog covered the sky for three days.




I had travelled to the Alps on what I thought would be the single most amazing trip of my entire European journey. The Alps had other plans.

It was frustrating and disappointing all at once. But what can you do when something out of your control stood to ruin your time in a supposedly amazing place?

I snuggled up in bed with lots of hot chocolate and a good book; I got to know my roommates, an engaged American couple who were backpacking across Europe; and I read up on the history of Switzerland.

When it was time to leave Interlaken, I was confronted by my mixed feelings. I was excited to discover the more amazing journeys ahead of me, yet, in an unexpected way, I felt attached to the warm shelter I had called home for the last three days. Perhaps leaving the Alps empty-handed also left me with a strange connection to the place.

Switzerland, I’ll be back for you.

When I began my summer job this past June, I was asked to reveal a fun fact about myself.  I proudly responded, “I once hitch-hiked across the French-Spanish border." Truthfully, hitchhiking with 2 of my friends was one of the crazier things I’ve ever done. I am also fully aware that my risk-averse self would probably never have the chance to do it again.

Last November, during yet another brutal French railroad strike, my friends and I booked a trip from Paris to Barcelona. That was probably our first mistake. Although common knowledge to locals, I was not expecting the strike to interrupt almost 50% of all train travels. Instead of a direct train ride from one European capital to another, my train stopped in Perpignan, a small town south-east of Toulouse. There, the train conductor kindly told everybody, in French first, then in English, that due to the strike, no train would be going to Spain. The passengers exploded in frustration. In the midst of the complaints, the conductor gestured towards a replacement bus that was scheduled to pick up all the passengers and drive us toward the border instead.

Having already spent the last 6 hours traveling, I was herded onto the replacement bus with the rest of the passengers. We drove, underneath the mid-afternoon sun, on bumpy narrow roads along the French coast. The scenery almost made up for my exhaustion, until I started to feel nauseous from the ride.

Two hours later, I was thankful to be left off the bus in a small town on the French border. The driver pointed to a hill 100 meters in front us. Spain was on the other side.

“The taxis here” the driver instructed, “can take you across the border to the nearest train station in Spain. It is in 8 miles, a 20 minute ride.”

Unbeknownst to the passengers when we boarded the bus, the driver was not permitted to drive across the border. A few passengers joined forces to bribe him to take us across, but alas, he drove off in the direction from which we came.

20 minutes, I thought, that’s manageable. When the first taxi arrived and left with the first four people in line, another problem revealed itself - the town was so small that only one taxi operated there.

Within seconds, my 2 friends, finance and math majors, alerted me that at the current rate, with a crowd of people that originally fit on a train, we would not make it to the nearest Spanish town in time to catch the last train for Barcelona. They presented the problem calmly; after a long day of endless difficulties, they were concerned that this last piece of bad news would push me over edge. Having been a thorough planner my entire life, I was certainly beginning to feel devastated.



After 10 minutes of debate, our only other choice became very clear - we would have to walk the 8 miles. I was raised by two parents who grew up in communist regimes. They taught me to respect authority, work hard, put the needs of the group before my own, and most importantly,  they taught me to never complain. So I didn’t. Instead, I shrugged as we trekked toward the foot of the hill with our backpacks. The three of us began to discuss our favorite travel destinations to make the miles seem shorter. Half jokingly, one of my friends stuck out his thumb as we began to climb the hill. All three of us chuckled. It had been a tough day of traveling, but at least the three of us were still bound together by good spirits.

Within 20 seconds up the hill, a car pulled over in front of us. A young woman stepped out from the passenger side, “Do you have your passports?”

The three of us exchanged bewildered looks before we ran towards the vehicle. “Yeah, yeah, we do!”

Her husband was driving and nodded toward us as we climbed into the car.

With the three of us were happily squished together in the backseat, we thanked them profusely for stopping. “No problem,” the lady smiled graciously, “it’s common here; there’s only 1 taxi!”

We laughed in unison. As the vehicle climbed to the top of the hill, I could see the sun begin to set over the border. It was a beautiful 20 minutes to Spain. 

The city flooded when I was there exactly a year ago. Locals say it happens every autumn with the heavy rainfall.

I don’t remember why I didn't write about Venice after my trip across Europe, but I do remember thinking that the city was sinking, and wondering what would happen if the flooding never stopped.

I remember walking down the slippery steps of the train station and standing in front of a city on water. I remember the flood reaching my knees. I remember prepared locals who went about their business in rain boots around St. Mark’s Square while tourists struggled to walk on make-shift catwalks hoisted above the water by bricks. I remember the crisp feel of winter in the air.

I remember trying to find my hostel within the narrow alleys that twisted, turned, and intersected. I remember walking on bridges big and small and just about tossing the map into the canal in despair. I remember eavesdropping on one American couple asking for directions at a restaurant and laughing at the waiter’s instructions that repeated “left, right, left, bridge; left, right, left, bridge”.

I remember counting the number of garbage boats that floated by on the canal and marveling at the Venetian version of waste control. I remember window-shopping outside of tiny storefronts with glistening Venetian masks hanging in the windows. I remember spying on tourists in gondolas as the oarsmen steered them around the lagoon. Even though the striped shirts of the gondoliers were all for show, I remember thinking how timeliness it seemed.

I remember eating pizza next to a middle-aged couple who held hands across the table as they dined. I remember sitting behind a group of Italian friends on the vaporetto - the water bus -  as they pointed out historical buildings to each other.

Despite the rain, I remember Venice in vivid colours. I also remember wishing that I didn’t have to leave so soon.

Prior to leaving for Montreal, I polled my friends and canvassed  Twitter for must-do suggestions. What I received was a long list of restaurants and dining selections, which suggested that I'd better prepare my stomach for a weekend of endless eating. Boy oh boy, I was not disappointed!

Schwartz's

My first meal in the city was, on the recommendation of friends, at the Schwartz's deli down the street from where I was staying. The line-up that stretched two storefronts outside assured me that this was a hot spot for visitors. A designated tourism location by more several travel guides, the place was packed wall to wall with customers, most of whom were eagerly waiting on the deli's infamous smoked meat sandwich. I only had the audacity to eat half a smoked meat sandwich, which was probably a good 2 pounds by itself. It was the most meat I had ever consumed at 3pm in the afternoon, and a darn good smoked meat sandwich at that.

Poutine

The sandwich from Schwartz's filled me up past dinner, but by 9:30pm, I was craving for more deliciousness. Like all late-night cravings, I was in the mood for something fast, filling and incredibly unhealthy. After turning down several streets of high end French restaurants, I stumbled upon Frite Alors and immediately found what I was looking for - poutine. Not just any poutine, Montreal poutine. I got a little carried away with the order and ended up with a large dish of poutine and a even larger topping that included bacon. Talk about heart attack on a plate!! Nevertheless, I still made it through the unhealthy yet satisfying fries to blog about it today.

Crepes

I was full from the poutine for the rest of the trip (that's 2 whole days!) and don't remember eating much else after that, but I made sure that I didn't leave Montreal without having some crepes. On my last morning in the city, I visited a cozy cafe called Laika for Sunday brunch and ordered the most delicious crepes I've ever had, that's including all the crepes I ate during the four months I spent living in France. I would go back to Montreal just for that!