Matador Network's Blog, page 2185

Why Canadians must stop apologizing

Photo: Bob Prosser

That one Canadian stereotype might be the truest of them all — most of us are damned good at saying “sorry.” Does it necessarily mean we’re apologizing? Not always. For some, it’s a reflex. But for the most part we are genuinely polite, even when it isn’t necessary.

1. When someone bumps into YOU on the street

You’re standing there minding your own business, and then somebody slams into you with the force of a charging bison. “Oh I’m so sorry I was innocently standing here in your direct trajectory, and that you didn’t have the foresight to stop yourself from making full body contact.” I literally do this ALL the time. The worst part is that I’m entirely sincere about it. “I’m so sorry I was in your way!”

2. When you don’t hold the door for someone who’s not immediately behind you

I see this all the time: at my gym, at the mall, at the grocery store. Someone will be MILES ahead of me, but they’ll see me coming and will wait there for 10 years, if that’s what it takes to let me through. It always inevitably leads to me speeding up my pace. The same goes for when I accidentally let go of the door too soon. “Sorry!” I’ll sing out to the victim, as the door slowly swings shut. It’s not like the door ever actually slams into his or her face, and it’s not like he or she don’t have the strength to nudge the door open.

3. When you’re talking on your cell and someone is trying to get your attention

The scenario: you’re very obviously engrossed in a serious conversation about the benefits of the acai berry or kale shakes, and a stranger comes up to you and starts asking a question. I mean, they’ll quite rudely interrupt, but you’ll apologize to the person you’re chatting with on the cell phone. “Sorry, just a second,” you’ll say to your friend, and then you’ll address the interrupter with complete and perfect charm. Likely with another “sorry,” too. “Sorry I was talking to my friend and not providing my attention to you! What can I do to make your life easier?”

4. When you’re asking a stranger a question

Maybe I want to ask somebody the time. Instead of saying, “Excuse me?” I’ll try very hard not to invade their space, and then I’ll apologize for doing so. “Sorry — do you have the time?” I mean really, it’s no inconvenience. I doubt I’ve ever had somebody get angry with me for asking a question that takes three seconds to respond to.

Asking for directions is another necessary evil. When I’m travelling, it’s always an indicator of how Canadian I am. I remember being in Kotor’s Old Town in Montenegro, and needing directions to my hostel. I asked a bored waiter standing outside a café about how to get there. “Sorry, can you tell me how to get to the Backpackers Hostel?” His face broke into a grin. “Are you Canadian?” he asked. He led me directly through the maze of streets and to my hostel.

More like this 11 things you should never say to a Canadian


5. When you’re literally helping someone else out

Maybe you’re walking down the street, behind a person just minding his or her own business. And then a piece of paper, or a wallet, or something insignificant drops out of their pocket. You retrieve it quickly from the ground, rush up to the person, and say: “Sorry mister, you dropped your wallet!” As if you need to apologize for not robbing them blind or simply ignoring the dropped object, lest it be a trap.

I’m always amused when this happens. One day many years ago, I was standing at a crosswalk on my way to work. A woman crept up behind me and whispered in my ear: “Sorry, but did you know there is a hole in your skirt?” My eyes grew wide. “Can you see anything?” I asked. “Everything,” she said before darting across the street. I was mortified, but mostly amused she apologized for not letting me walk around for the remainder of the day with my ass hanging out.

6. When the inconvenience is such a minor one, it hardly warrants a reaction at all

You’re at a crowded bus stop. Someone stands up from the bench, and you move in.

“Sorry, is this seat available?”

“No, I’m just stretching my legs.”

“Oh, sorry.”

How terribly inconvenient of you, to pose a harmless question! To be fair, most people seem to appreciate it. Politeness is hard to come by sometimes, after all.

7. When you’re just stepping around someone in a crowded place

How many times have I sidestepped someone at the grocery store, while mumbling an apology? Too many to count. On the other hand, it’s easy to forget you’re pushing along a monster cart that takes up most of the aisle. We do it all the time at concerts and festivals, too. As if the crowds are unexpected, or as if nobody else in the entire venue is doing the exact same thing. You can’t know how exhausting it is to say “sorry” over and over again when you’re squeezing through hordes of people partying and being generally oblivious to your plight. And then you might face the dreaded double apology, when you’re squeezing through and mumbling “sorry” and then someone else is trying to squeeze past YOU and you have to say “sorry” again. It’s exhausting.

15 dead giveaways you're from NZ

Photo: Gregory Bodnar

1. You can pronounce Whakapapa or Whakatane correctly.

Awkwardly, though, the correct pronunciation of “wh” is “f.”

2. You’re prepared to argue to the death that New Zealand — not Australia — invented the pavlova.

This is just one of our many arguments with Australia. The pavlova, or pav, was invented in honor of Russian ballet dancer Anna Pavlova during her tour of NZ and Australia in the 1920s. After much debate about who invented the meringue dessert, it’s been discovered that NZ was, in fact, the country that created it.

3. That being said, you can list all the things Australia stole from you. And you do list them. Often.

Phar Lap and pineapple lumps to name a few! To say there’s a rivalry between NZ and Australia is an understatement. Being stuck at the bottom of the world means we spend a lot of time in each other’s backyards, arguing about who’s better.

4. You can accurately predict an earthquake’s Richter-scale size.

New Zealand sits on two tectonic plates and can have several earthquakes a day. After the initial Canterbury earthquakes, there were tens of thousands of aftershocks. So we’re pretty good at calling a quake size.

5. You know all the words to the “Ka Mate” haka.

It’s the most recognized war dance of the NZ All Blacks, our national rugby team. We also have another version, but it’s a tad more controversial.

6. The Goodnight Kiwi tells you to go to bed.

And you listen. The Goodnight Kiwi was a cartoon that came on TVNZ every night to let kids know it was time for bed. You can remember him climbing to the top of his TV tower with his pet cat to go to bed in the dish.

7. The ‘underarm bowling’ incident of 1981 is still fresh in your mind.

You know things are getting serious in an argument between an Aussie and a Kiwi when the ‘underarm incident’ is mentioned. New Zealand and Australia were playing a game of cricket. To prevent us from trying to tie the score, the Aussie captain instructed the bowler to bowl underarm — which is “just not cricket!”

The bowler did as he was instructed and controversy ensued, even though technically it was a legal bowl.

8. Christmas means four things to you: barbecues, beaches, chilly bins, and jandals.

Christmas in NZ lands in the summertime. So every true Kiwi spends their Christmas holiday on the beach.

9. You can say “Keep cool till after school” in sign language.

Olly Ohlson would always end The After School Show by signing this phrase.

10. You call everyone “bro” or “cuz.”

Usually heard in Maori and Polynesian circles, it doesn’t mean you’re related.

11. You spend your vacations at your “bach.”

Pronounced “batch,” the bach is a holiday home or beach house. They’re small abodes. Some might not even have electricity or running water.

12. You probably have a photo with the giant L&P bottle.

Lemon & Paeroa is a lemony soft drink, which is “world famous in New Zealand.” It uses carbonated mineral water that comes from the small North Island town of Paeroa. It’s customary — even for locals — to stop and have your photo taken with it when you’re passing through.

13. You respond to most questions with “Yeah-nah.”

Despite the contradiction of the phrase, “yeah-nah” basically means “no.” For example “Do you want to go to the pub?” “Yeah-nah.” Translation: “No, thank you!”

14. You’ve been on a few too many “tiki tours.”

This is basically when you take the scenic route, except now you’re lost and just driving around trying to find your way again.

15. You say “JAFA” a lot.

Yes, this is a derogatory term. Basically, it means “just another f**ken Aucklander.” (Though it can be used for Australians too.)

7 signs you need to get out of Dodge

Photo: Michał Koralewski

Maybe you know how it feels. Maybe you don’t. It’s a good bet you eventually will.

Humans are like sharks — in the words of Woody Allen — if they don’t move, they die. Dodge can be anything, anywhere. The love of your life has become the bore of your life. The country that held nothing but mystery now just holds nothing. That road trip that was going to be the beginning of the rest of your life has ended with you on wifi in some small-town library, surfing Facebook. The job that you busted your ass for is still busting your ass.

But, maybe — maybe you and your ex-love can talk it out. Maybe you need to ride your bike a little harder, climb a little higher, swim out into the rip-tide. Maybe there will be a message from that alluring stranger who has asked to be your “friend.” Maybe that promotion will finally come through — after all, it’s been five years. Before you mire yourself further, check out the signs that a good thing has gone nowhere.

1. You’re stuck in your own head.

You can’t stop thinking about what isn’t working. You lie awake until 3am conjuring plans to make things better. When you try to think about something else, your brain says, “No way, pal. We’ve got to figure this out.”

2. All you want to do is get high, loaded, laid.

You might want that normally, but now there’s a new urgency. You tell yourself you need to change your perspective — and what better way to do that than smoke a few bowls, slam a few beers, surf a new body. Next morning you’re burned out, hungover, and wishing only for the new person next to you to go away.

3. You’re having imaginary conversations with who / what is driving you up a wall.

You figure out exactly what you’ll say to fire up the love affair; show your boss that you and s/he should swap places; persuade the internet stranger you’re the answer to everything. You lie awake trying to decide whether or not to hit yourself in the head with a brick to stop the nattering voices.

4. You can’t stop taking inventory of every flaw in Dodge.

You know your discontent can’t be about you. After all, six months ago you loved everything there was to love about your brave new world. It’s simple: If only s/he would/wouldn’t…; the guy in the next cubicle wouldn’t pick his nose; a new face would show up at the hostel communal dinner. Worst case: What’s outside you changes and you still feel trapped in a compost pile.

5. The Glory Days have begun to seem incredibly glorious; Home Sweet Home glows with a divine light.

How could you have left the perfect lover before this no-longer perfect love? What was so bad about Phoenix? (You know you’re in real trouble when you start thinking that.) And the swell times with Jennifer, Manuel, and Dark Dave working the counter at Mickey D’s — how could you have wanted to get the hell out of there?

6. You can’t think of one single thing that would be exciting — in New Zealand, in your hip little job, in bed.

Googling the Maori is more exciting than watching the haka. The guy in the cubicle next to you has stopped picking his nose. Now he’s just snuffling the boogers into his throat. Bed? Bed? Beds are for sleeping. And alone would be preferable.

7. You clicked on this piece as soon as you saw it.

You’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. You’ve been waiting — without knowing it — for somebody to ask you how you feel. You’re sick of thinking in clichés, except for this one: It’s time to get the hell out of Dodge.

College life in the UK vs the US

Image by College Degrees 360

FOR ALL OF OUR SIMILARITIES and for all of our shared history, the United Kingdom and the United States are extremely different places. Culturally we owe a lot to each other, but we’re also very distinct. You’ve heard the broad stereotypes for each of the countries before: The British are quiet, sarcastic, and stiff upper lipped, while Americans are gregarious, friendly, casual. There’s a good amount of truth to both of these stereotypes, but they don’t really do the complexities justice.

I received my undergraduate degree (a BA in Journalism) from Penn State University in the United States. Penn State is located in State College, Pennsylvania, the quintessential college town, and is known for football, agriculture, and one ugly scandal. My graduate degree (an MSc in Human Rights) came from the London School of Economics and Political Science. LSE is located in the dead center of London, the quintessential cosmopolitan city, and is known for Nobel Prizes, the social sciences, and one ugly scandal.

The schools, like the countries they reside in, are incredibly different. Here are some of the differences between attending college in the US vs the UK.

1. Professors aren’t concerned with teaching to your career in the UK.

After two months of studying only theory in my master’s classes, I went to my professor and asked when we were going to start learning some real-world skills.

“Never,” she said.

“How are we supposed to learn career skills then?” I asked.

“You’re supposed to learn them on the job,” she responded. “We’re more interested in giving you a theoretical groundwork. The practical stuff is for the practical world, not a university.”

I was annoyed at the time, but it has since appeared that my professor was right. I haven’t really used any of the “career skills” I learned in my undergraduate degree, but I’ve absolutely used the theoretical knowledge I gained in my master’s. In this sense, my UK education was far more effective.

2. UK students hang out in pubs, glorious pubs.

Drinking culture is a huge part of American college life, but because most college students are below the drinking age, a lot of it exists underground — whether that be at house parties, frats, fields, or through the use of fake IDs. This makes a bigger difference than you’d think. In the UK, students can drink at 18. While the British are just as sloppy drunk as a lot of American students, it also means that a pub is a place that one can casually, legally go to. Pubs, for Americans who don’t know, are basically the same as most American bars, but they do not ever double as clubs, and they rarely blast music so loud you can’t hear yourself talk.

I found that after classes at LSE, students often went to the bar and talked about the lecture or the course. This served as a sort of second education with the students playing as much of a teaching role as the professors. In short, I learned a lot more in my time at LSE, in part because, yes, I was a master’s student and not a shitty undergrad, but also in part because pub culture allows for long chats between friends.

3. Red Solo cups are a topic of conversation.

No one in the United States thinks red Solo cups are interesting. We know them best as the shitty plastic cups that we need to spend half of the morning after a party cleaning up. We also know of them as the ideal beer pong receptacle. But because they are so ubiquitous at our parties, they have made it into the movies. And because American college movies are watched everywhere, red Solo cups are now “a thing” abroad.

This is a photo of an “American Party” in Amsterdam:

Red Solo cups — easily the least interesting thing about US college — was one of the things I was most frequently asked about in the UK.

4. Quizzes? What are quizzes?

Self-discipline is way more important in the UK. Professors in the US are more or less willing to hold your hand, because they have an incentive in you getting good grades as well. Throughout the semester, they will give out projects and pop quizzes and tiny little daily assignments to make sure you’re following the material.

Not so in the UK. For the most part, the professor will give their lecture, assign their reading, and then basically ignore you. Three of my six final exams were for 100% of the total grade, and the other three — which may have had midterms or major projects — had finals that accounted for, at the very least, 50% of our grade. There was way less room to fuck up in the UK.

5. The British grading scale puts you in your place.

Grade inflation is a thing in the UK, but it has reached less epidemic levels than it has in the US. Regardless, though, the British character is one that is much less focused on individual self-esteem, and one of the side effects of that can be seen in the grading system. In the US, grades are simple, running through A, B, C, D, F in descending order. Only F is a failure.

In the UK, at master’s level, it is as follows, again from highest to lowest:

Distinction – 70-75%

Merit – 60-69%

Pass – 50-59%

Fail – Below 50%

Bad Fail – When fail just isn’t strong enough.

That might not seem interesting, but think about that for a second — there are two levels of failure in the UK. You might have failed, but the professors might not think that was adequate enough. You need another kick while you’re down.

The second thing is that the top score stops at 75%. I asked one of my professors if it was possible to get 100% and he said, “No.” I said, “Well how high can it get?” He said, “I’ve never seen higher than 80%.” This is a man who has taught future Nobel laureates. This is a system you will never be good enough for.

6 lies: Volunteering off the grid

Photo: Frontierofficial

1. You’re becoming one with nature.

Before you leave for the field, you’ll have this Bear Grylls-style idea of what you’re about to become. You’ll picture yourself growing sleek and tough — foraging for food, stealthily tracking your study animal, expertly whittling axe heads in your spare time.

You’ll decide you don’t need imported, DEET-filled, environment-destroying bug spray, and that you’re going to bathe exclusively with camp soap to protect the local ecosystem. Once you get to your site, you’ll try to toughen yourself up by doing everything the locals do: eating the food, drinking the water, getting to know the area.

A few weeks in, you’ll realize nature is actively trying to take you out. You’ll try to silently sneak up on an animal, only to scare the shit out of it with your high-pitched shrieks as thorns the length of pencils shred your soft, pasty, indoor-person flesh. Amoebas wait in your food like tiny intestinal grenades, ready to destroy your GI tract and mutilate your dignity. The hundreds of mosquito bites on your ankles will swell and fester, throbbing with every step. Your hair will become a greasy, disgusting mop.

Mother Earth is not a nice lady.

2. You’re going to be fluent in a new language by the end of this.

The fact that I managed to spend two months in Ethiopia surrounded by Amharic speakers yet learned virtually no Amharic is testament to my extreme ineptitude at foreign languages. Some people are great at actively learning the language, but most get distracted with work and never seem to give it enough time.

3. Everyone will think you’re bad-ass when you get home.

Some people will think you’re pretty impressive. Some will think you’re nuts. Either way, as time goes by and you keep talking about your wild field experience, it can get a little old.

4. You’re becoming best friends with your coworkers.

If you’re working in a remote location, you’re stuck with whoever else was crazy enough to consider this a reasonable line of work, and they’re unfortunately stuck with you. In addition to being your only source of socialization, they’ll usually be your major pipeline to things like food, water, and medical care.

You will get weirdly close with one other person, telling him all kinds of embarrassing and overly personal things about yourself. He’ll turn into a humanized journal, listening to how

much you miss your best friend, your ideas for your PhD research, and line-by-line descriptions of all the genius inventions you’ve been meaning to patent. You’ll listen to his odd adventures in online dating in small-town Australia and get into long, overly involved discussions about which baboon in the study group is your favorite.

Then enough time will go by, and you’ll start to get thoroughly sick of each other. Particularly if you’re somewhere a little unsafe, there is literally nowhere to go for alone time, and so you’ll both plaster over your irritation and force a surface level of cooperation. But don’t be fooled; no one is happy about you using up all the toilet paper, your leg ulcers are nasty, and if you tell that story about karaoke night in Stockholm one more time, you’re getting “accidentally” pushed off a cliff.

5. You’ll be able to keep up this lifestyle when you get back.

Being without internet, television, fast food, and a desk job can do wonders for your quality of life. Without electricity, you’ll go to bed when the sun goes down and wake up when it rises. You’ll eat sparingly and healthily, and spend most of your day walking. You’ll discover natural pauses in your work where you can read a book, write, or relax. You’ll be blown away by the fact that removing luxuries has allowed you to reach this zenith of mental and physical health.

While you’re still in the field, it will seem so easy to implement these changes when you go back home. You’ll cancel internet service in your apartment! You’ll walk to work! You’ll eat more vegetables! When you get home, you’ll be surprised by how quickly you fall back into old patterns.

6. Nothing has changed back home.

You’ll try to picture what your family is doing in real-time and fail. When I was in Ethiopia, the only mental pictures of my parents that I could conjure up involved them sitting out on their back porch, sipping beers in the late-afternoon summer sun. I was in Ethiopia in February, and my parents live in Boston, so this made absolutely no sense. I was in such a remote, new place, with so little access to the outside world, that I felt like I’d stepped into an alternate universe. Everything outside of my immediate vicinity took on an ethereal, unreal quality.

Far from being a sad thing, this often imbues your thoughts about loved ones with an unusually rosy glow. Your boyfriend may be rekindling the romance with his old girlfriend, but you don’t know about that. All you’ve got to go on is a catalog of memories about him, and so you’ll choose the best ones, replaying them over and over in your mind.

24 hour photo mission: Tokyo

“One hundred hearings are not as good as one viewing.”

– Japanese proverb

Editor’s note: Tokyo. The capital of Japan and one of the most populous cities you will ever visit. If you’re a photographer, you care less about where the tourists are going to watch sumo and more about making the most of your memory card. When visiting a city with more than 30 million people, it’s impossible to document the entire place in one visit, or even one lifetime, but that doesn’t mean you can’t give it a run for it’s money.

Here’s what MatadorU photography student Cassandra O’Leary did with just 24 hours in iconic Tokyo.

All photos by author.

1

5am

Awaken. Whether you're just pulling in from the airport, or cursing your alarm clock in your hotel room, it's time to hit the pavement. The city is less crowded right now, and the morning light doesn't last long. Depending on your hotel, you just might have a viewpoint from your room—many are high rises. If not, step outside, and look up—you're here. The day is just beginning.

2

5:30am

Coffee. Get it if you need it. After you've done what it takes to gather yourself, head out from wherever you spent the night. It doesn't matter where—just go and watch the city wake up. Look for beautiful light falling on beautiful things—even simple things, like laundry on a line. Smell the air. Say good morning to people—"Ohayoo!" Move slowly, and enjoy the moment.

3

6am

Things are quiet. They won't be for long. Take the opportunity to capture scenes with no people in them, and then head to a major street and watch folks heading to work, preparing for their day, already awake, and in motion. Follow the morning light as far as it will take you.

Intermission




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4

7am

Don't forget the details. Japan is full of sights you might not see anywhere else, right down to the smallest things. Simplify your compositions.

5

8am

People. People are all around you, starting their day. Approach them; be humble and curious; be polite. But don't hesitate, or you'll regret it. They'll be gone as fast as they appeared. More than a portrait, it's a chance to meet people and hear stories. There is a human language that isn't spoken with words; it starts with a smile, a nod, a flash of the eyes, a gentle motion to come inside. You never know where it could take you. If they offer tea, water, food, anything, accept. Always accept.

6

10am

Oberservatory at the Mori Tower, 53rd floor. This viewpoint doesn't open until 10am, but be the first one up to have some peace while you shoot. Place your lens close to the glass to avoid reflections (or, if you have a hood, let it actually touch the glass). Depending on the time of year, you might see Mount Fuji. Wide-angle lenses are welcome here, but if Fuji is in view, grab that zoom. Depending on where the sun is, you might want a polarizer to cut glare and bring colour back to the sky.

7

11am

Sky Deck. Even higher than the observatory and with no glass. Don't look down. Secure your camera to your body somehow, especially if tilting for crazy downward angles. Inject a midday kick of caffeine at the Starbucks on the ground floor.

8

11:30am

Head to the subway, take the Toei Ōedo Line to Yoyogi Station, and make your way to the famous Meiji Shrine. With more than 100,000 trees, it offers nice coverage from the harsh afternoon light and a change of pace from the monstrous skyline. You may want a wide-angle, or mid-range zoom, something like a 24-70mm, depending on if you're after just the temple, or the people wandering through the park too. If it's June, the irises will be in bloom.

9

Noon

You'll find workers, commuters, students, and the elderly all taking in the fresh air and cool shade. Consider the details beyond the temple, such as the communal water troughs with traditional ladles. Details like this are unique to Japan—don't overlook them. Wander, observe, capture. Sit a while. Ponder the wonderful fact that you're in Tokyo.

Intermission




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10

1pm

Hangry. It's not advisable to shoot while hangry so cure that problem while the midday light remains unforgiving (unless you're fortunate and it's overcast, in which case, eat fast and get back to work). Head from Meiji Shrine to the main road, Omotesandō. Many restaurants will be full, given that it's a city of 30 million, so expect to queue. Take that time to review your images so far, both enjoying and critiquing them. Consider what other kinds of shots you might want in the second half of the day. Eat. Lunch is cheaper than dinner so indulge if you're in the mood. Recommended: noodles and nihonshu (sake). Not too much sake, since you're hauling expensive camera gear around an unfamiliar city.

11

1:30pm

Sit by a window and people watch, prepping your creative side for some street photography. Maybe even take some shots through the glass. Life goes by quickly in this city, and to an outsider, all of it is fascinating. You can even use the window as a natural frame for the shot. Instagram your lunch, then hit the pavement.

12

2pm

If the light is still harsh, head underground at Omotesandō Station to document a well-known presence in Japan: the railways. You can capture the essence of efficient chaos in Tokyo: speeding trains, suits, briefcases, cell phones, motion, waves of students, a sea of bodies. Bring your tripod, raise your f-stop, and try different shutter speeds to capture all that motion (best if one thing is not moving, to anchor the shot). Nearly four million people use the rails every day. Try to capture that.

13

2:30pm

When you're done, take the Ginza Line to Asakusa. It's street photography time. Be patient for scenes to unfold; practice the lost art of seeing. Look for interesting characters, details that are distinctly Japanese, or simply watch for good compositions. There are shrines and temples in the area as well, such as the namesake Asakusa shrine. Watch for colours, textures, movement.

14

3pm

Wander. Maybe even get lost. Maybe even get lost on purpose. Watch the changing light, and follow it. Ditch the wide angle if you've been clinging to it all morning and go for a mid-range lens (24-70mm) or a zoom (70-200mm). If you're attempting to get the whole street scene, keep your edges clean and your f-stop around 9. If you want to single out signs, people, details, drop that f-stop to f/2.8. If you're really confident, or to be a bit safer in terms of focal range, go to f/4.

15

5pm

From Asakusa take the Ginza Line to Shimbashi, and from there switch to the Yurikamome Line and head off to Odaiba. This will take you across the famous Rainbow Bridge. Odaiba is a great place to wander some more, for both people and landscapes, as the light continues to soften. When you start to sense sunset, head to the water near the Rainbow Bridge. This is a prime spot for sunset and long exposures. Set up your tripod and compose around the bridge, probably with a wide angle. If you have a neutral-density filter, you can start even earlier with the long exposures. (A long exposure will smooth the water.) You might need to bracket (multiple exposures) to capture both the sunset and the city line, and combine them later. Alas, our cameras are not as good as our eyes (yet). Breathe in the salty air. Look to the horizon. Remember—you are here.

Intermission




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16

6:30pm

Blue hour is still an excellent time to shoot the skyline. You can go for longer exposures, and pull in that royal-blue sky before it goes black. If you're not used to landscapes, be sure to place something interesting in the foreground—such as a replica of the Statue of Liberty. Why not?

17

7pm

When the last light starts to fade, head to Shibuya for night photography. Back at the station, take the Yurikamome Line to Shimbashi, and switch to the Yamanote Line to Shibuya. You're here. Break out the tripod and play with all sorts of exposures and shutter speeds. Capture the wall of people, or go long and get just the blur of humanity passing by massive billboards and skyscrapers.

18

8pm

If you wrap up Shibuya with time to spare, you can try more shots at Ginza, with an even bigger road that's lit up at night. Don't forget to try vertical, and maybe even f/22 if you want that starburst effect for the street lamps. Splurge and take a taxi, since you've spent much of the day underground. Let the neon lights slide over your face as you gaze out the window.

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9pm

Hangry, part 2. You've done an awesome job and it's been a hell of a long day. By now, your feet and back hurt. Pack up your bag with pride and treat yourself to dinner and more sake. Tokyo has a reputation for being safe after dark so don't worry much about hauling your gear around with the sun down. Sit by a window. Watch. Later, be sure to back up all your images. Twice. Introduce yourself to a stranger, and say "gahn-pie!" (cheers!) or if you're really feeling the gusto, "banzai!" (to live 10,000 years). Appropriate. Check the time zone back home, find wifi, push those Instagrams out, and tell the world you're here. Because you are. And now you have the photos to prove it.

The man who cycled the world

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Adventurer and filmmaker Felix Starck cycled 18,000km through 22 countries and four continents in one year. Untrained, with 55kg of baggage and camera equipment, he cycled into the unknown.

Setbacks such as pneumonia, separation from his travel partner, a robbery in Cambodia, and the death of his grandfather made the journey tortuous at times. But he maintained his drive to complete the journey and was rewarded with incredible hospitality from people around the world. He had his share of surreal moments as well: wild elephants in the jungle, New Year’s Eve in Bangkok, geysers in New Zealand, Times Square in New York.

Bottom line: He discovered the world on his own terms.

* * *

AZ: Who were you before your journey?

FS: Actually, everything was perfect — but something was missing. The meaning of life? Perhaps. I’ve always been an adventurer, but this was really my first big trip.

What made you decide to just go?

I’ve always wanted to travel the world and break out of the system for a while, but I didn’t like the usual backpacking way so I thought of something else. In the beginning I was joking around with my friends and nobody was serious about it — the day after I woke up and wanted to know if I would be able to actually do this. So I started to plan this trip and three months after I was on the road heading east towards Turkey.

Now I ask myself a lot: Why did I do this? To meet people and get to know different cultures in this world — I definitely did that! It was the best decision of my life.

Did you plan the trip ahead or was most of it spontaneous?

At first I wanted to be on the road for two years, but after a few days I realized planning a trip like that in advance is absolute nonsense. Strangely, you feel much more relaxed if you do not know where you will be in the going in the next few days. Of course you need a direction in which to go, but I just went where I felt like, and if I liked it, I stayed for a while. The journey is the reward. Filmmaker Casey Neistat said, “The adventure doesn’t begin until something goes wrong.” I totally agree.

What were the most difficult things you had to deal with?

Being alone for such a long time wasn’t easy at all. I had company now and then from my family and some friends, but only for a short periods. I learned on this trip, that I’m not the guy who can travel solo, but I still wanted to finish it and that’s what made me stronger.

Asian countries are pretty tough to cycle because of the crazy weather and bad traffic. One day I cycled in the north of Cambodia when it was 44 degrees Celsius in the shade. But I was under the sun and had to endure over 60 degrees Celsius heat! I drank over 18 liters of water that day and almost collapsed.

Most truck drivers in Cambodia barely sleep because they need to make money to survive. They take drugs to keep themselves awake. This is when it gets too dangerous for a cyclist like me. Sometimes I didn’t even hear them coming because of the loud headwind. Suddenly without any warning, this huge truck just passes you at 100km/h and only about 20cm distance. Sometimes I’d fall off the bike because of the wind it generates. Really not a great area to cycle in, but those moments made it unforgettable.

I was also robbed by the police in Cambodia once. I stopped at a police station to ask If I’m allowed to sleep here and they agreed. I kind of had a weird feeling about the situation but put up my mosquito net and just slept. Next morning five cops came and wanted all of my cash — $400 total. They took it, threw my wallet in the sand, and told me to get lost. They even said “Thank you.” It is important to not lose trust in the nation after an incident such as this, because there are idiots everywhere.

But I had so many good experiences that I barely think about the hard ones.

What were the best realizations or lessons you’ve learned?

There were so many, but after all I gotta say the kindness of strangers everywhere in this world. I got invitations countless times and this was the reason that kept me going. First day I left home, an elderly woman saw me setting up my tent and stopped me. She invited me to her guest room, made dinner and breakfast for me and we are still in contact. I had a hundred other cases like this. Unbelievable how kind our species is.

I always try to enjoy the moment. This trip made me the man I am today — more relaxed, joyful and generous than I was before. There is so much misery in this world, especially in countries like Macedonia, Serbia, Laos or Cambodia, but the people there are still happy and smile at you and wave when you pass them on the bike. Here in Germany, most people are career-oriented and everyone lives in a system where it’s more about what you have than what you are, but I can’t live that life anymore — not after such a trip!

Did you find what you were looking for?

Definitely — I’m sure I wouldn’t have found it if I stuck to my “normal life”!

The 70-minute documentary captures his epic journey and will be available soon as a DVD and as a download at www.pedal-the-world.com. The trip was completely funded by Felix, and he has pledged to donate all profits to the World Wildlife Foundation.

Signs your mom is Ecuadorian

Photo: Roberto Corralo

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1. You were constantly reminded about the sad reality of hunger and poverty in the world.

Every time you disliked mom’s food, she reminded you, “So many kids are starving and here you are, being melindroso.” Feeling terribly sad about those kids, you would then make an effort to swallow the bean soup with way too much cauliflower and cabbage. Truth to be told, many other times you would feel grateful for mom cooking your favorite dish.

2. You are an expert in conflict management.

The best way to end a fight between your siblings and yourself was mom acting as a mediator. “I don’t care who started it, but it ends NOW.” Indeed, it was over.

3. You quickly understood why you have a first and a second name.

If you have ever wondered why you have two names, it’s so you know mom is definitely bravísima. Whenever she uses your two names — “Lorena Fernanda!” or “José Andrés!” — you know it’s time to start praying.

4. You always enter a room and greet people properly.

If you ever dared to run into auntie’s home and go straight to play with your cousins, mom forced you to come back and properly greet everyone. With a KISS.

5. You learned you need a good reason to cry.

Mothers might be a little “morelias” from time to time. However, whenever you cried because the ice-cream ended up on the floor or a toy got broken, mom taught you not everything deserves our tears. The lesson boiled down to: “When I die, then you can cry.”

Let’s not even mention whims and moods. You attempted to cry that time your parents didn’t buy what you wanted or you fell from the tree. But the “Now I might even give you an actual reason to cry” threat was enough to wipe away the tears and acknowledge it was not the end of the world.

6. You learned nothing is lost; everything is transformed.

“Waste” is not a word in mom’s dictionary. Everything can be reused or repaired; nothing is discarded. Yesterday’s leftovers make a wonderful arroz relleno or creamy vegetable soup today.

A needle and thread is all mom needs to work her magic: holes disappear, clothes shrink, and grandma’s old dress turns into the newest fashion in just-about-your size.

7. You realized Jesus learned how to multiply food from his mother.

The Ecuadorian mom might get annoyed when you show up with friends for dinner without previous notice. But in the end, she won’t worry too much. Donde comen dos, comen tres. Miraculously, everyone has a meal of mom’s homemade delicacies and ends up with a full belly.

8. You fear nothing.

We have all been exposed to “espanto,” or the “Evil Eye.” As a baby you carried a red bracelet, you went through a “limpia,” they rolled an egg on you, or they spit alcohol on you. Perhaps you slept with a branch of rue under your pillow.

And whenever you had nightmares and the darkness was scary, mom’s arms were the best shelter in the world. Sleeping by her side was the greatest therapy for fear.

9. Your house was a sort of alternative medicine repository.

There is a combination of natural herbs for each condition and only moms know which is which. An egg’s inner membrane heals scars; a 50-cent coin cures bumps; menthol cream applied to the back and chest alleviates a cough; a cold lock (after leaving it outside at night) will treat a sty; alcohol compresses help fight a fever; plus, thousands of other herbs, teas, and beverages you never managed to identify or name, yet found themselves in your medicine cabinet. All had to be taken without complaints, sin respirar y sin chistar.

10. You discovered no artificial flavoring masks the taste of cod liver oil.

Ecuadorian moms are certain cod liver oil is “everything a child needs to grow up strong and healthy, due to its high vitamins and minerals content.”

Mom tried different tactics for you to drink it without noticing it, including the orange, tropical fruit, and cherry versions. But nothing masked the unmistakable fishy flavor. Of course, there was no room for complaints. Later, mom would make you that smoothie you loved so much to wash away the previous traumatic and unpleasant experience.

11. You know everything has its own rightful place or it ceases to exist.

“Cosa que encuentre en el piso, cosa que boto a la basura” (whatever I find on the floor will be thrown away). So you grew up with the eternal fear of loosing the toys you did not place back on the shelf.

12. Your best memories include carb-rich foods and grandma’s recipes.

Mom has the best recipe for every occasion. She knows what we need when we feel unwell, such as a light noodle-and-potato soup or an angel-hair pasta soup. As grannie used to say, “The sick who eat well do not die” (“enfermo que come, no muere”). She has also taught us ceviche and encebollado are the best treatments for hangovers (chuchaqui). Hot coco with cheese for cold afternoons, or bolones and coffee in the morning guarantee you’ll be smiling.

Mothers know how to make life sweet: cocadas, figs with cheese and the nutritious chapo are always ready — just in time. Add to that delicious recipes prepared on holidays — inherited generation after generation, like the colada morada con guaguas de pan in finados for The Day of the Dead, or fanesca during Easter.

These are the secret formula for a child to grow healthy, handsome and red-cheeked. For you, “full belly, happy heart” (“barriga llena, corazón contento”) is the ultimate truth.

13. You have come to accept mom is clairvoyant, always “told you so,” and “you will only understand things over time.”

Mom always knows how things end —

“You’ll fall!”

“It’s going to hurt.”

“You’ll get burnt!”

“It bites!”

“You’ll end up crying.”

And boy did you got sick of hearing “I told you so,” and “Only when you have your own children will you understand me.” In the end, you don’t need to understand it all. You just need to know mom wants the best for you.

Beauty and age will always be relative, because you’ll always be the most wonderful baby on the face of the Earth. As a matter of fact, she will remind you and everyone around her that is the case.

And you, even when you are wearing gray hairs, will call her “mi mamita.”

Searching for home after travel

Photo: -DiMiTRi-

I’VE LIVED IN COLORADO for one year, four months, three weeks, and two days. I’ve watched each day pass, waiting for my restlessness to return. But it hasn’t. People tell me it’s brave to go, but I know it’s harder to stay.

When I crossed the Colorado state line, I sat still because I was too exhausted to move, and then I stayed because I fell in love with the mountains, because I met a man who introduced me to a version of myself I’d never been able to see. This isn’t a love story. I wish it were. It’s not.

There is nothing remotely interesting about the way we met. But I missed Israel and he’s Israeli, and we could talk about that. We sat together on a chairlift, swinging our skis, listening to the man next to us as he recommended we enroll our kids in the Eldora ski program. He assumed we were married. We laughed at the idea of us and kids, but I couldn’t let go of how easily my heart accepted this suggestion, how easy it was to imagine a life in Colorado bundling up toddlers and sending them off to learn how to ski.

Months passed. For the first time, I started looking at houses, imagining attic offices and wood floors, wraparound porches and kitchen islands. I fell in love with him, with the quiet way he has of shifting my gaze, with his smile and the way it pushes all of the shadows out of my head. But I kept my heart to myself, imagined houses instead.

It was coincidence that we ended up back in Israel at the same time, but he invited me to stay with his family and I trailed him like a shadow, sitting at his elbow as he caught up with friends and family he hadn’t seen in months. We stood on a balcony watching the Mediterranean and the patchwork pools of a nearby fishery, balancing cups of coffee on the balcony’s edge as he talked about his childhood.

We spent the afternoon at the beach, flying kites and wading into the surf. “This must have been a good place to grow up,” I said. I didn’t think he’d heard me, but he started pointing out memorials for people he’d known, friends who had been killed in combat. I was only thinking of latchkeys and moving trucks, wondering what it was like to grow up without ever experiencing those things.

I tried to explain my misplaced jealousy, how all I really wanted was to know what it’s like to have a place to return to, a place where your entire childhood is housed and your mom can laugh with the neighbors about the time you climbed out the window at the age of three and wandered down the street to play with your friends.

A place where you can point to new housing developments, squint into the sunlight pulling back memories of bare hills and undisturbed forests. A place where your childhood nickname trails you long into your 30s, where you can run along the same paths you ran along as a child, a teenager, a young adult. A place where you can revisit all those versions of yourself at any given time.

Sitting in his old room with a closet full of discarded clothes, childhood paintings hanging on the walls, I understood the disquiet of my envy. I’ve been sitting alone at a window seat on my way to visit someone, somewhere for as long as I can remember. My family is scattered across three continents, four countries, and six states.

I tried to count how many times I’ve moved, but we started when I was three and now I’ve lost track. I went to a different school every year until the age of 11; we moved again when I was 16. I hit the road with a suitcase when I was 17. I don’t know where the last 13 years went; I tucked them away in cities and corners around the world, and now I can’t remember which years went with which corners.

My childhood is splintered across an entire continent; I’ve called so many places home that the word “home” is a patchwork quilt of houses and cities, an entire spectrum of places and the people who belong to them. I never did.

I’ve stared out so many windows watching clouds and landscape sweep out from under my feet. I’ve seen Rome, Berlin, Paris, Istanbul, Jerusalem, Amman, Casablanca, and Kampala. I’ve run through the French Alps, the Atlas Mountains, the Jordan Valley. I’ve explored Uganda and Egypt, taken photos of the lengthening shadows of camels in Wadi Rum. I’ve been welcomed into so many homes along the way, but I’ve never had one of my own.

So now I am impatient to live in a house on a quiet street in a place where neighbors wander in and take whatever they need out of the fridge. I want friends coming over unexpectedly with nothing to say; I want the intimacy that grows in that space.

There are still doubts, versions of my life I won’t have time to live, places I will have to leave unexplored, but I’m ready to exchange my suitcase for a house with a door that’s never locked, a view of the mountains, a pile of dishes in the sink, muddy paw prints on wood floors.

I will find a place to plant a garden and stay long enough to watch it grow. I will hang pictures on walls, accumulate recipes for overzealous tomato plants, reorganize the mudroom and refurbish those old rocking chairs so I can sit with the dog at my feet and look up from my book to stare at the trees along the road.

I used to be so afraid to be tethered to a job, a house, a man, a pet, a tomato plant. I felt the weight of those commitments settling like stones in my stomach; the thought of it made it hard to breathe. “I couldn’t live like that,” I thought.

But I’m finding I can live like that; I’m finding that to live like that is what I wanted all along.

7 signs your girlfriend is French

Photo: Alain Bachellier

1. You cheek kiss like a pro.

Beard rash is never something you expected to experience as an adult male. But after your French girlfriend introduces you to her male family members, it will become a reality. Initially taken aback by this, you are now accustomed to the cheek-to-cheek hello amongst family. Accidentally breaking into that habit at a work function, however, can be a little awkward.

2. You are now part of very intense toasts.

The dinner ends and the glasses are raised to toast the host and draw attention to whatever occasion has brought you all together. For each glass gently tapping off another there is a set of eyes fixed back at you. In France, a cheers without eye contact is seven years of bad sex. Whether that’s just between you and the person you’re with, or across the board, isn’t known, but no one runs the risk.

3. You undress her like you peel an onion.

No, this is not a commentary on French peoples’ personal hygiene, but instead their approach to dressing. Layers upon layers of very small garments topped off with the non-season-specific scarf (apparently, a legal requirement in France) create the traditionally stylish French look.

More like this 10 signs you were born and raised in France


4. You have an iron stomach.

Unimpressed with what most people consider a traditional meal, the French like to stretch their seven-course Sunday lunch over several hours. A plate of crudités followed by a small portion of soup starts the feast. This is followed by a pheasant’s egg steamed in the hair of an orphaned barn mouse accompanied with the marinated thyroid gland of albino grouse, coq au vin, and then the main course arrives. Just your typical French Sunday meal. As a newcomer to this, it’s important to pace yourself. Just because you didn’t think it could be consumed by humans doesn’t mean the French (your girlfriend included) haven’t been eating it for years.

5. You love the French and they love you back. Well, almost.

The traditional rude manner of the French (I’m allowed to say that, my girlfriend agrees) is no longer a problem, but that only goes for family. Welcomed with smiles and plied with wine and cheese, you will soon be dismissing the rude stereotype as a horrible misunderstanding. At least until you try to order something in a restaurant using your rudimentary French.

6. You dread Sundays.

In France the shops are only open for about two hours on a Sunday, so a shopping trip with your French girlfriend can quickly turn into a survival drama (have you seen the movie Alive?) if proper provisions aren’t made. A Sunday morning sleep-in could spell disaster, and cobbling together the last scraps of yesterday’s dinner is an unfortunately common scene.

7. Trying to buy wine makes you cry.

After a week in France, every wine purchase will be tainted with a certain level of resentment. The rule of thumb is three euros is too little and four is too much. In most countries that’s not enough for the cork, never mind the whole bottle. Wine sales will forever act as a mockery to the French experience.