Matador Network's Blog, page 2295

On the pleasures of a dull vacation

Photo: Chad Weisser

AS WE WALKED UP the steep, winding roads of Italy’s Amalfi Coast a touch past midnight, my friend Lauren and I tucked close to the crumbling cliffside railing to dodge the speedy Fiats and Vespas that whizzed their way down the unlit hill. It was a familiar trek, and we were always salty and crisped from a day of swimming or kayaking or reading on the beach.

The late-summer trip had us staying in Italy for only four days. During the day we went exploring, getting lost in the backstreets of nearby hamlets, or simply stuck to the beach. Evenings called for night swimming, the moon playing spotlight. But the long weekend was quiet, loosely planned, relaxing — that is, we didn’t do all that much. And as an extrovert, there are few things more frustrating.

As far as vacation preferences, on a scale of one to Ibiza, I’m about a Mykonos — looking to discover restaurants and bars and make a friend or two while taking in the area’s beauty. Nothing horribly crazy, but a little more than staring into waves for four days.

The southern Italian towns of Sorrento and Ravello slid over to the other side of the spectrum, their utter calmness daunting. Sure, locals are talkative and trying to speak with them starts a fun game of “listen up for language cognates,” but the lack of a bustling city center or a variety of restaurants or bars makes for a lonely existence. It’s a beautiful vacation spot, but there’s no hiding that it’s dull.

As a young person, there’s a certain social cachet in exhilarating vacations. Whether you’re reading about it in Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night or are there yourself, the South of France is the kind of place where holidays are never dull. Fitzgerald’s vision of the chic getaway, expressed through his increasingly complicated characters, Dick Diver and Rosemary Hoyt, shows the South of France as a hotspot of subtle social cues and hinted desires — a sexy, buzzing milieu.

At a friend’s apartment in Cagnes-sur-Mer last summer, a handful of close friends and I took a five-minute train ride over to Cannes most evenings. Between the well-tanned, Louis Vuitton-toting boardwalk fashionistas and the scene-y beachside restaurants and clubs they frequented, Cannes is a place to see and be seen. It’s a city built for Instagram “likes,” and when looking to induce travel envy there are few better places to holiday.

Yet often, it seems as if you’re constantly being played — that when vacationing in these popular cities, you’re paying almost solely for a vain, intangible privilege to show off.

You may not meet any homewrecking actresses like Rosemary or any too-good-to-be-true socialites like Dick on a “dull-cation.” But places like the Amalfi Coast at least let you put your guard down and truly relax. It’s tough to feel like you’re on holiday when you’re donning shiny shoes and a spiffy blazer every night, putting forward whatever image you’ve attempted to craft for yourself.

But should vacations be about feigning interest in a pretty woman’s summer reading list at a noisy club or snapping photos of parties?

Seemingly everyone, from the waiters to the boat captains to the maître d’hôtels, seemed relaxed in Italy, happy to just be in such a beautiful part of the world. I love the South of France and other socially buzzing destinations, but sometimes these places come at too high a price — you can’t actually relax, constantly wearing your veneer even thicker than usual (whether or not you realize you have one).

On our trip, we often came across Italians so at ease they deemed you innocent even after proving you guilty. If at first it was shocking to holiday in a place full of such chilled out, modest, genuinely kind human beings, my mind was changed by their humorously laissez-faire attitude.

On our second day in Italy, as we walked back from the beach to our hotel to eat dinner on the terrace, we spotted a placid infinity pool resting at the base of a nearby hotel. The hotel resembled a castle’s turret, and the pool held a panoramic view of Ravello’s beach-dotted coastline. It looked splendid. Fresh water, no crowds, and an elevated view. Non male.

Knowing it was a private pool, Lauren and I followed the piscina signs down the rocky steps, had a look around for a guard on duty, and cautiously dove in. After some swimming and poolside reading, a fit, middle-aged man clad in a white polo strolled confidently down the steps. He noticed us almost immediately and headed poolside to speak to us.

“Room number, please,” he asked earnestly.

I looked up, guilty. “Oh, we’re so sorry, is this a private pool?”

“Sì,” he replied.

“Oh sorry…we’re staying in a different hotel.”

“Please, do not feel bad. It is no problem.”

He smiled, apologetic for having had to ask us to leave his pool and his expensive hotel. Then he left. And we stayed in the pool a little longer.

The next day, at a different beach, we lay on the sunbeds placed right up against the water. We passed on the 15-euro ticket and spent nearly an hour before a beach boy came by asking us for our proof of payment. “Oh, we have to have a ticket?” I said. “Sì.” But then he waved his arm and left without another word, leaving us to lounge sans ticket.

Even later that evening, as we headed down to our hotel’s beach to swim beneath the stars and without the crowds, I locked eyes with the receptionist, my swimming shorts on and towel in hand. The beach had officially closed five hours prior, but she said nothing, flashing a smile before going back to her paperwork. (Quick comparison: On Long Beach in New York, there is a massive fence encircling the entirety of the beach, and everyone must pay the $25 entrance fee, entering only during official opening times.)

Traveling somewhere that’s void of pretension is worth far more than the few Instagram “likes” you might accrue elsewhere. “Dull” should not be equated with “bad” when traveling. I’m all for an exciting trip every so often, but taking a break from all the social jockeying, the see-and-be-seen circus, is worth far more than it’s given credit for.

On our last day on the Amalfi Coast, Lauren and I got lost hiking up to another village — our gelato long since melted. Tired from the long walk, we sat down on the stone steps.

On our left, through open window shutters, a young girl set the table for her family and called them to dinner by ringing a glass with a fork. We heard the family pulling out their wooden chairs to sit down, and we turned and looked out from the steps, realizing just how high we had walked. The Mediterranean slowly ebbed in the distance, and the colorful rooftops sprinkled the hill below us.

“What should we do now?” I asked

“Let’s just sit here for a moment,” Lauren replied.

And so we did.

We sat on the stones and listened to the ambient noise of Italian dinner conversation we didn’t understand and watched the deep blue water sitting calmly in the distance. That’s to say, we did nothing, joyously.

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A midwinter meditation on climbing

Bouldering close to home. Photo: Michael Pang

Deep into our flight to New York, my head hit the tray table as I jarred awake, startled from my dream. I had just fallen for the 30th+ time on the last crux move of Picos Pardos, a route I had been climbing on for the previous three weeks. As my vision came into focus, I could make out the stewardess passing a customs form to the man sitting next to me. Our five-month trip to Spain to explore its limestone in places like Picos de Europa, La Hermida, Rodellar, and Oliana had finally ended, and we were heading back to California.

As I adjusted to my reality, I was a little relieved to be on the plane heading home rather than coming to rest at the end of my rope again. And yet even though I felt relief, I also felt empty, like I had a hole in my heart or like I’d just been dumped.

Katie Lambert on Picos Pardos. Photo: Tara Reynvaan

My husband was asleep in his seat. Two days before we boarded our plane, he had achieved a personal best in his climbing by making a successful ascent of the 55-meter overhanging route called Fish Eye — an aesthetic line of incut crimps that ascends the very center of the crag on gold and blue limestone at Oliana. And while this was a big deal for him, no one on this plane knew or would even care.

Climbing mountains in Europe. Photo: Ben Ditto

I was excited for him and thankful for the time we had just spent together and the experiences we’d had, but I was downright depressed. Why had I spent so much time and effort trying something only to leave not having completed it, having fallen time and time again in the same spot? What was I doing with my life? I could see the doors of an existential crisis opening before me.

I am getting older. The sun and the wind define the lines on my face more with each passing day. What was a hobby in my teenage years has turned into a whole life, a passion I cannot ignore. Endless days have been spent amongst the rocks in places both near and far — from the alpine terrain of the Northwest Territories, to the granite monoliths of Yosemite, the sandstone towers in Utah, the sketchy crags in Mexico, the impeccable rock found throughout Europe.

Holidays have been missed, birthdays come and gone. I missed home — my grandmother’s hands, my mom’s voice, our traditional Lebanese foods, and the slow Southern accents. I missed my dad and his jokes and his sense of style.

My best friend was in California, a man who has devoted his whole life to climbing. His climbing resume is impressive to say the least. He is respected by many, has many acquaintances, and is involved in some great youth work. But he is single and lives alone, and I wondered if he hadn’t indirectly isolated himself from others by having chosen a life of climbing. Even though I was with my husband, I felt very lonely.

I knew it would be possible for me to climb Picos Pardos successfully — I had done all the moves, I had linked through the hard part but had fallen higher. I just needed another chance or two or five or who knows how many. I also knew I might not make it before we left, and I’d been telling myself it didn’t matter, that it was all just practice anyway.

But when I fell on my last try on our last day, it was hard to decipher the wave of emotions spreading over me. I wondered if it had all been in vain — if I had been fooling myself the whole time — and as I sat on the plane feeling sad, I wondered what was the point if in the end and in between we feel lost and lonely and empty?

Yosemite granite. Photo: Ben Ditto

By the time we were landing at JFK, the hole was filling with sad relief. I could move on, try something else, be released from my self-imposed prison. We tell ourselves, “We can do it,” because we have to convince ourselves it could be possible despite all odds — despite gravity, despite reach, despite conditions, despite any other external factor in the world — because we want to see what’s possible and what it takes to make the dream a reality. And many times we succeed. But more often than not, it’s these times that we don’t where we really learn about ourselves.

The post A midwinter meditation on climbing appeared first on Matador Network.

How to seduce your way to fluency

Photo: Kainet

The Turks have a wonderfully poetic phrase that translates as, “Languages cannot be learned without tongues touching.” I’d wager most travelers would agree with this sentiment, although they’re usually more focused on the tongues touching part than language acquisition.

That said, hooking up with the local flavor is beneficial for both reasons. Dating a local brings about stomach butterflies along with a bonus shot of excitement given by their fundamentally different upbringing. But the cultural and linguistic disparity is more than simply exciting — as the Turks already know, it’s the single best way to learn a language.

What are the ingredients of the perfect language-learning disciple? Let’s break it down:

Practices the language often and actively works to improve
Identifies mistakes, and knows why they’re wrong
Looks for cultural context within each new word, for better retention and understanding

Now think about what happens when you’re dating someone who speaks a different language. Just as in any other romantic relationship, you think about this person all the time and are constantly brainstorming ways to get closer to them physically and emotionally. The best thing you can do to easily get closer to them? Study their language! A relationship without communication isn’t much of a relationship, and when the communication is in an unfamiliar tongue, you’d better believe you’ll get much better at that tongue, and quickly.

Learning a language normally requires immense amounts of personal discipline, even if you have a material goal like an upcoming trip. But carrying on a relationship doesn’t demand discipline — it’s a textbook case of the heart winning out over the head. The beauty here is roping in that desire and tying it to the language-acquisition process. Every word learned and verb conjugated is a step closer towards the person you can’t get out of your head, which means you’re going to practice them with the same diligence Casanova put into his conquests. It’s very hard to learn something you don’t want to, but here, it’s aligned with the one person you want the most. That’s #1 down.

It makes the approach and asking for digits way easier. Nobody can reject the harmless plea to “practice conversation over dinner.”

Assuming this person returns your affections, they’re likely to become the most patient personal tutor you’ve ever had. They’ll gladly spend half an hour helping you frame your mouth exactly the right way to rid the word of that pesky accent, partly because they love the adorable way you mangle it every time. And you’re spending hours upon end with this person, which means lots of practice time. Every hour together results in at least one new word, phrase, or understanding. That’s #2.

When I was in Spain, the new language lessons came so fast I had to write them down. I created a note on my iPhone titled “Corey no sabe nada” (Corey doesn’t know anything), which the señoritas were delighted to help me fill out. It was like my teacher was doing my homework for me — all I had to do was sit back and let it soak in.

This list grew longer and longer, including quirky words and phrases unlikely to be taught in the classroom, like “dar cosquillas” (tickle), “mimar” (to pamper), and “consultar con la almohada” (to sleep on it, or literally, to consult with the pillow). Which brings me to perhaps the most compelling bonus of learning from a lover: You get a first-person perspective of the culture, which is #3.

Most language programs try to immerse you in the local culture in one way or another. You learn about the local dishes and traditions, often dividing into groups and presenting them to the rest of the class. But these colorful phenomena fade in vibrancy when dissected in a sterile classroom filled entirely with people who treat it as nothing but another school subject. With a boy/girlfriend, these cultural idiosyncrasies expose themselves organically, cementing them into your mind within a vivid web of context that no classroom can provide.

How could I ever forget the meaning of the phrase “Te echaré de menos” (I will miss you) when it was first uttered to me by a Brasilena as she entered the taxi that carried her towards a trans-Pacific flight and out of my life for the foreseeable future? No matter how many times I write that phrase on the board, it’s not going to stick in my mind as permanently as it does when associated with such an intense flashbulb memory. You end up speaking a language with words that are forever tied to specific faces and memories — now I’m reminded of her every time I hear “te echo de menos.” The language evolves from a tool for communication into a built-in mnemonic device, in a way that your mother tongue never could. Past lovers and friends leave indelible marks on your understanding of the very method you use to talk with other people. What could be more romantic than that?

So maybe amorous travelers are really killing three birds with one stone: meeting locals, assuaging their libido, and picking up language. Plus, it makes the approach and asking for digits way easier. Nobody can reject the harmless plea to “practice conversation over dinner” — now it’s an act of education rather than romantic interest.

So to the legions of backpacking Don Juan wannabes, keep doing what you’re doing. Just try not to break any hearts in your quest for fluency.

The post How to seduce your way to fluency in a foreign language appeared first on Matador Network.

The strangers I can’t stop thinking about

Photo: IDF Spokesperson's Unit

I walk to Bethlehem in my sleep, across the shadows of its hills, revisiting the unfinished interactions and the strangers I can’t stop thinking about. I see the same checkpoint, the same soldier leaning against a wall. He sees the headlights and walks across the road.

The hill has been cleared for security purposes. There is no dry rustle of olive trees, only the wind catching at the sand. The moon casts long shadows, spiraling silhouettes of barbed wire. There is a dark stain at the elbow of his uniform, a scar underneath his eye. He flips through my passport one page at a time. “You are from California,” he says and lowers his hands. We stare at the road as it stretches and then drops into the darkness of the wadi. I lean my head against the seat, the Taybeh beer festival still buzzing in my ears.

The soldier begins to sing.

“Hotel California.” It is always “Hotel California.”

He waves us through. The van dips into the darkness, following the narrow pathway of its headlights. In the rearview mirror I watch him standing in the center of the road, his gun hanging across his body.

I scrutinize the soldiers, staring into their faces, wondering if I would recognize him. I don’t.

Two days later the song is still stuck in my head. I hum it while making coffee, between interviews, tapping my pencil against the counter. My coworkers are perpetually smoking. I move my desk downstairs. When they come to talk to me, they lean their heads in and keep one arm outstretched into the hallway, fingers balancing one Marlboro Red after another. Someone printed out the sign from Berlin and hung it above my desk. “You are entering the American sector,” it says. Everyone laughs.

I can’t stop thinking about the soldier who sang to me. At every checkpoint, I scrutinize the soldiers, staring into their faces, wondering if I would recognize him. I don’t.

* * *

The long corridor of Checkpoint 300 spits me out into Bethlehem. Men sell produce out of the back of their trucks. Bags of cactus fruit and grapes, stacks of watermelon split in half. I’m not in the mood to go home.

The separation barrier runs alongside a graveyard, past the marbled tablets with black looping Arabic script and the keffiyeh hanging at the edge of one grave. It casts a shadow across the plastic flowers and laminated photos, a teddy bear with a missing eye. The wall is a mural of political graffiti; twelve ounces of yellow spray paint can tell the saddest story.

A pebble lands near my feet. A soldier hangs out the window of the control tower, waving. “Shalom,” he shouts.

He is young, smiling through the shadows that fall across his face.

“Where are you from?” he asks.

“Amerikai,” I shout back. “Ani Amerikai.”

I blew him a kiss as I walked away. I don’t know why. A moment of spontaneity cracked through my reserve.

We stare at each other. Aida Refugee Camp is buttressed against a five-star hotel. The tourists turn away from its narrow dirt roads and ramshackle houses. The heat is unbearable. Just beyond the entrance to the camp, there is a corner store vibrating with the hum of a refrigerator. The afternoon wind kicks up. He shifts his weight, leaning further out the window.

“I love you,” he says.

I walk slowly back to my apartment. The sunset is pale purple melting into grey. Sitting on the roof, peeling the label off a lukewarm Taybeh beer, I watch the traffic jam below, a shepherd with a dozen sheep blocking the road. “I love you,” he said, from a tower looking down. I blew him a kiss as I walked away. I don’t know why. A moment of spontaneity cracked through my reserve.

* * *

On the bus to Eilat, a soldier stretches out at my feet. There aren’t any seats. He reclines in the aisle with an arm tucked behind his head, one hand resting against his neck. He is reading Catcher in the Rye, his foot pressed hard against mine. He catches me staring at him, smiling as he turns the page. I fall asleep, rolling into the shoulder of the woman beside me, enveloped in the smell of Pond’s night cream and the security of her head against mine.

It’s 4am when the bus pulls into the gravel lot. The soldier is gone. The book is sitting next to my foot.

I cross into Egypt. It’s too early for the bus to Dahab. Taxi drivers crowd around me; someone pushes a cup of tea into my hand. I think about the soldiers, those strange snapshots that will never leave me. They’ve commandeered my culture. “Hotel California” has an Israeli accent; Catcher in the Rye is the press of a soldier’s boot.

But I wish I’d told them everything. I wish I’d made their stories mine.

I don’t have the hundreds of Egyptian pounds the taxi driver wants. I tell him I’ll wait for the bus. There is a low wall running along the road, leading to nowhere in particular. I think about the soldier and wonder where’s he from and why he left the book. I flip through the pages, looking for a note. There is none. Only the last sentence underlined on page 214. “Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.”

I don’t feel comforted. The sun is rising. The cover of the book is torn. I think of all the passing strangers, all those fleeting moments. I never said anything to anybody, kept my cards pressed hard against my chest. I still miss everybody. I miss the things we could’ve said, the stories I never heard and the ones I never told.

Instinctively, I followed Salinger’s warning to the nostalgic, the overly sentimental, the ones who miss the things that never were.

But I wish I’d told them everything. I wish I’d made their stories mine. And then I wouldn’t have to toss and turn, revisiting every interaction, crossing deserts in my sleep, wondering why our lives were intertwined.

It’s the not knowing that gets me. Every single time. [image error]

The post The strangers I can’t stop thinking about appeared first on Matador Network.

Hunting the Northern Lights, Alaska

2014 marks the peak of an 11-year solar cycle that’s bringing an increased amount of Northern Lights activity here on planet Earth.

I’ve had a love/hate relationship with the Northern Lights for a few years now. I’ve traveled several times to various ends of this planet to see them, and every time I’ve gotten skunked. Clouds, snow, ice storms, low solar activity — you name it and it’s probably prevented me from seeing the aurora.

So when a last-minute opportunity came up to travel with Jared and the folks at Gondwana Ecotours up to Fairbanks to try and see this light show, I was all in. The trip was epic and adventure-filled, but the lights didn’t want to show themselves. After eight days, I thought I was going to miss them once again, until a miracle happened…

Scott’s trip was hosted by Gondwana Ecotours. All photos by author.

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Our home-away-from-home was A Taste of Alaska, situated on 280 natural wooded acres just outside of Fairbanks. There was plenty of open space, and then this wonderful cozy vibe throughout the entire lodge.



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A common scene in the morning—I’d find myself sipping coffee and watching moose make their way across the field directly in front of the lodge.





Intermission





Memories of summer in Alaska





10 experiences you can only have in the Guianas





In the shadow of volcanoes: 18 images of Guatemala










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A Taste of Alaska was also home to some rather eclectic art, such as this little piece.



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The forested areas nearby had everyone out and about snowshoeing nearly every day.



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You’ve got to be on the lookout for moose in Alaska, because they are all over the place (and are probably the most dangerous animal you can encounter in the wild).



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One of our snowshoeing trails



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The Chena Hot Springs and Aurora Ice Museum are Fairbanks attractions open year-round, with a bar inside and some insanely beautiful ice sculptures.






Intermission





11 snapshots of one Alaskan valley





20 pics to make you wish you were heli-skiing Alaska





It’s an entirely different world on this Great Barrier Reef island [pics]










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Here’s a view of the interior. The bar is off to the left—I can recommend the ice cold appletinis.



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Or possibly you were interested in playing a xylophone carved out of ice? Or seeing a rose frozen in ice? You name it and it’s probably been created by 15-time world champion ice carver Steve Brice and his wife Heather, a six-time world champion, whose work is featured in the museum.



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One of the most impressive aspects of the Chena Hot Springs is their greenhouse. Alaska imports close to 98% of their food, which is no easy task when you think about its geographic location. This is the alternative. Although it was -10 out, the lettuce was nice and toasty as the temp was in the mid-70s in the greenhouse.



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The hot springs themselves are a good place to unwind after a long day. It’s a bizarre feeling climbing into a giant jacuzzi surrounded by snow and ice-covered boulders, but boy is it soothing.



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Night after night, Jared and I would take turns heading outside to check for the aurora. Night after night, it never showed up. We waited and waited, and the best thing we saw was this moon halo. Pretty…but no Northern Lights.



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The activities continued with different excursions, such as this day where we got to go hiking with reindeer.





Intermission





4 ways to splurge in southcentral Alaska





Coastal Brown Bears of Katmai National Park, Alaska [pics]





Warning: Ronn Murray’s aurora photos are addictive










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What’s the difference between horns and antlers? Any idea? Antlers fall off.



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On a few of the mornings, Mt. McKinley was visible on the horizon…a gorgeous way to start off the day.



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Another highlight of the trip was getting the chance to go dogsledding. We spent the morning at Paws for Adventure, taking part in a true mushing experience.



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The dogs didn't seem to mind the cold, but I was struggling.



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These dogs were beautiful creatures, and a few of them had the most exquisite eye color I’ve ever seen.



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Jared jumping into Alaska’s finest steak.



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Gotta have some king crab while in Alaska. This is a before-and-after scene—there's no clean way to eat crab legs.



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Shinji, who was visiting from Japan, took quite an interest in the Alaskan pipeline.



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Downtown Fairbanks, where you can always hydrate at the Mecca Bar.



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We even made a stop at the Fairbanks Curling Club…



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…where we hung out with the locals…



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…and found out once and for all how you actually play curling. It’s a rather relaxed game that requires a high amount of finesse along with a delicate touch. I may have to look into joining a club now that I'm back home.



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As our last day was winding down, I had come to grips with the fact that, once again, Lady Aurora had evaded me. My third attempt with nothing to show for it. I was beginning to think I was bad luck…but that’s when my luck changed. An unexpected solar storm started to show on the satellite readings, and the KP index began to rise. As the evening approached and I continued to watch every single solar chart I could find, I saw a report that the aurora was visible in Fairbanks.



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I rushed out of our hotel, and this is what I saw—the aurora borealis dancing around the sky.



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I couldn’t believe it—I changed my flight to stay for another day, and we spent the entire night driving around greater Fairbanks photographing one of the most incredible shows I’ve ever seen Mother Nature put on.



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The Northern Lights can’t be described in words—watching it dance and unveil itself like bright ribbons in the sky must leave even the most seasoned veteran speechless.



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At times there were moments of pink and magenta that could be seen on top of the green.



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The evening scene at the Cleary Summit parking lot…one to remember.



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This guy, although he was probably pretty cold, was definitely enjoying the show.



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No matter where in the sky you looked, the aurora was coming down in sheets.



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One last shot, from a night where you couldn’t have slapped the smile off my face…a long wait but one that was definitely worth it. [image error]

The post Hunting the Northern Lights in Fairbanks, Alaska appeared first on Matador Network.

Around the world via solar airplane

All images courtesy of Solar Impulse SOLAR IMPULSE

The last year has been a very busy one for the Swiss-based project known as Solar Impulse. Apart from successfully completing a two-month mission to fly across the US using a 100% solar-powered airplane — the first of its kind (able to fly through the night) — they’ve also been building a new and improved prototype plane.

Bertrand Piccard, a doctor, psychiatrist, and aeronaut, is perhaps best known for being the first person to fly around the world nonstop in an aerial balloon. André Borschberg is an engineer and professional airplane and helicopter pilot who flew in the Swiss Air Force. Both Piccard and Borschberg take turns piloting the aircraft, which has a cockpit that only fits one. The success of Solar Impulse in flying a zero-emissions airplane is an encouraging step in the direction toward a movement of clean energy technology and being less dependent on fossil fuels.

I caught up with Piccard and Borschberg to ask them more about Solar Impulse and their upcoming plans.

* * *

TL: First of all, congratulations on the ongoing success of this revolutionary endeavor! How did it all start, and when?

Piccard and Borschberg

BP: The Solar Impulse program started off with the aim of building an airplane capable of flying night and day without fuel, propelled solely by solar energy. After the success of the first historical 26-hour flight in 2010 and the crossing of the USA in 2013, our goal is to fly around the world in 2015.

Our success, however, will not only come from completing a round-the-world tour without fuel, but will also motivate everyone to implement the necessary measures to reduce our dependence on fossil fuels.

Can you tell us a bit about the plane you use? How is it different from other solar-powered aircraft that have been developed in the past?

AB: The airplane captures all the energy it needs from solar cells. These cells convert the sun’s rays into electricity to be able to simultaneously power the engines and recharge the batteries so that the plane can fly throughout the night. The amount of energy collected is relatively modest, and we had to carry out a lot of research to minimize consumption. The project is therefore primarily a demonstration of energy saving that can be achieved with currently available technologies.

How long can the plane be flown before running out of energy?

AB: Solar Impulse has been designed and built to collect enough energy in the batteries during the day in order to fly through the night on this energy until the next sunrise, when the pilot will be able to switch on the solar generator to produce energy and continue the flight. Each flight is well prepared by our team in order to never run out of energy! The plane is capable of flying several days and nights in a row without fuel, thus making the concept of perpetual flight more realistic.

Solar Impulse is more than just an airplane, isn’t it? Bertrand, you have said that: “Our airplane is not designed to carry passengers, but to carry a message.” Can you explain what that means?

BP: Our message highlights the importance of a pioneering and innovative spirit, especially in the domain of clean technologies. Nowadays, the technological solutions that allow Solar Impulse to fly both day and night are accessible to all and are replicable in everyday life. These are not secret, futuristic technologies. If they were used routinely in our society, we would be able to save 50% of our consumption of fossil energies and to produce half of the rest with renewable energies.

Solar Impulse wants to emphasize the energy solutions as well as the environmental and political solutions from a decidedly constructive angle in order to engender enthusiasm and the necessary motivation to leave behind this pervading fatalism. Aviation makes you dream, feeds your passions. A plane that flies without fuel and achieves something everyone imagined impossible will fire our imaginations.

You are currently building a new aircraft, the HB-SIB. What does this stand for, and how will this prototype improve upon the existing model — the HB-SIA?

AB: Mainly four things:

Firstly, we want improved performance — that is to say, we want to reduce our energy consumption and have more reserves.
Then, we’re modifying the cockpit to improve ergonomics.
In addition, we need a more reliable aircraft with redundant safety systems and leak-proof electrical circuits in order to fly in humid conditions.
Finally, we will have a form of autopilot, that we call Stability Augmentation System (SAS) which will maintain flight attitude and a directional heading so that the pilot will be allowed to rest.

How will the around-the-world flight in 2015 be done?

BP: The World Tour will take place over several stages with 2-3 day flights over the continents and 4-6 days over the oceans. We will take turns at each stop. The route is not fully defined yet. It is now studied using simulation models developed by our partner Altran and our meteorologists. The main stages will include Europe, a country in the Gulf, India, China, Hawaii, and the USA returning via Europe or North Africa.

In what ways are you preparing for this?

AB: We both took up the challenge of staying at the controls of the flight simulator for an uninterrupted period of 72 hours needed for a virtual crossing of the Atlantic. To draw all the lessons from this experiment and measure our mental and physical condition in real time, a whole battery of tests was performed by the Solar Impulse team in cooperation with experts in every field. Fatigue, cockpit ergonomics, nutrition, use of the toilets, exercises to prevent thrombosis, vigilance, and the ability to pilot the aircraft in a state of sleep deprivation were all assessed.

This preparation will be followed by a program of test flights and training around Payerne airfield (Switzerland) in order to learn how to fly the new airplane. Due to its immense size and extreme lightness, Solar Impulse 2 is very sensitive to turbulence and wind during takeoff and landing. This spring, we will also realize a virtual round-the-world flight through simulation, in order to know if we will be able to maintain the aircraft in good weather conditions.

What safety precautions do you take when piloting the plane? Do you wear a parachute?

BP: We always embark with a parachute, a life raft, and a survival vest with military standard equipment. We need to be prepared in case we face an emergency situation with no other option but for the pilot to exit the aircraft.

How do you deal with the weather?

AB: To avoid turbulence caused by thermals, the aircraft must take off and land early in the morning or late in the afternoon. The surface wind must be less than 10 knots (~11.5mph) and the crosswind 4 knots (~4.6mph).

To guide us and choose the best weather window we have a mission team, composed most importantly of Altran engineers who are highly specialized in trajectory simulations, and two brilliant meteorologists from the Royal Institute of Meteorology: Luc Trullemans and Wim De Troyer. Luc has already guided Bertrand during his round-the-world balloon flight; he is an exceptional router. They will guide the pilot during turbulence, find favorable winds, good altitudes, and sunny areas. The entire team will play a key role in completing the world tour.

What are some inconveniences of solo-piloting the plane for so many hours that people might not think of? How do you go to the bathroom??

BP: The resting strategy and the vigilance are very challenging. There will be no sleep over populated areas, and we have developed techniques for resting our bodies while remaining awake. I personally use self-hypnosis techniques, whereas André uses yoga techniques. Above the oceans, sleep will be allowed in short naps of a maximum of 20 minutes since the second plane, planned for the world tour, will be equipped with a form of autopilot that we call Stability Augmentation System, and will allow us to keep flight attitude and a heading.

In case of emergency, like if turbulence were to destabilize the plane, vibrating sleeves will wake up the pilot by showing him the direction and the tilt to correct. Regarding bathroom, we have toilets integrated in the seat.

Do you think that solar-powered planes will be the future of commercial air travel?

BP: We will surely see small solar seater planes soon. We do not foresee solar-powered commercial aircraft in the near future, but we must remember the past. In 1903, when the Wright brothers succeeded in flying their airplane over a distance of 200m, could they imagine that 24 years later, Lindbergh would cross the Atlantic Ocean solo? And 30 years later, airliners would carry 200 passengers, completing the same journey in eight hours, while two men walked on the moon! [image error]

For more information on Solar Impulse, and to keep updated on their 2015 around-the-world preparations, check out their website: solarimpulse.com.

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Reaction of man being tricked

I WAS PRETTY pissed when I first listened to MagicofRahat’s plan to give a losing lottery ticket to a homeless man. It seemed like an episode of Punk’d gone horribly wrong. However you feel about the homeless, no one deserves to be treated in such an inhumane way.

What actually happens in this video not only surprised me, but also made me cry into my cup of Japanese Sencha. Sometimes, it’s easy to forget how privileged I am; it’s time to be more grateful for the things we have, because we might not have them tomorrow.

The post The reaction of this homeless man after being ‘tricked’ will blow you away appeared first on Matador Network.

This is the ultimate language quiz

Photo: danorbit.

Learning to ask for beer in a foreign language is the modern traveler’s adult equivalent of their first “dada.” Usually belched from an early post-diapered understanding that this language thing was going to be important.

And, as it turns out, you were right. Whether it’s haggling in markets or talking to the police, language can make a huge difference when you’re out there brushing up against all the strange folk of the world. That said, there are a lot more actual languages than you’ll ever have the time or inclination to learn. Languages with clicks, languages that sound angry, languages that make you sound like a snake. And languages that appear to have no vowels whatsoever.

So even if you can’t understand what’s being said, would you be able to identify the language being spoken around you in the lift? On the bus? In an Eastern European forest dance festival?

The Great Language Game gives you a chance to find out. [image error]

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What to expect from a dancefloor in Madrid

When I’m abroad, in between the jet-lag and the general desire to get acquainted with a new place, the first thing I tend to do is take a peek at the nightlife. That experience always seems to go as follows.

In my hippest attire, I set out to the nearest club expecting:

(via)

But I arrive to find:

(via)

And instead of bumping something like this:

They’re playing:

Whoops.

Having made my fair share of these mistakes (such as wandering unknowingly into my first “psytrance party” expecting a rave in New York, and a swinger’s lounge expecting a popular nightclub in Portland), I’ve learned the hard way that even a little research pays off before club hopping, or committing to going out in the first place.

With that in mind, here’s what you can expect from a dancefloor in Madrid.

* * *

First and foremost, it’s no secret that Spain is one of the premier nightlife hubs in the world, and this directly impacts the everyday. Lunches, for example, are often in the mid-afternoon, dinner is seldom before 10pm, and 2am signals the time to start partying.

Though Madrid ranks third (just behind its cousin Barcelona, in turn behind the infamous Ibiza) as a world nightlife destination, all that means is the clubs will be marginally less crowded and touristy. They’re still going to be crowded and touristy, and that’s probably “what to expect” #1. Though, despite the fact that the drinks will be egregiously overpriced (what to expect #2), it should actually come as something of a comfort to be in the mix with a herd of people from around the world having fun, as opposed to being the only foreigner in a locals’ club, trying to figure out how everyone else seems to look like this:

(via)

While you feel like you look like this:

(via)

So, let’s look at a couple of the most popular big name clubs in Madrid, where you can still get a taste of la noche with the training-wheels on:

Teatro Kapital

(via)

Now, when I said training wheels, I meant it relatively. When it comes to partying, the seven-floor multi-genre megaclub Kapital ain’t messin’ around. Armed with 20 TECNARE LA208 arrays as well as SW215 subwoofers, the house sound system ensures you will have no problem finding the club, since you’ll be able to hear the beats from several blocks away.

Yes, it’ll probably cost you about 20 euros to get in, but once inside, you’ll find yourself right in the middle of a scene like this:

Or, if you’re lucky, a scene like this:

You’ll be subject to the absolute cutting edge of techno, RnB / hip hop, and electro / tech / progressive house. In fact, it’ll probably sound an awful lot like this:

Or anything from the club’s own SoundCloud:

If you’re like me, you’ll immediately wade through the fog of sweat and aerosolized deodorant and make a beeline for any of the three bars surrounding the main dancefloor. Sadly, the cocktail and beer offerings are pretty standard fare, and Kapital doesn’t have a signature drink (though if you pre-gamed with some Spanish sangria at dinner, you probably only need a vodka-Red Bull to keep the buzz going and the night alive).

Club Fabrik

(via)

King of world-renowned house, techno, and trance acts, the 10,000-person-capacity, two-hangar Club Fabrik (complete with a three-tiered main stage) is bound to be hosting a huge party with artist names you may even recognize. It’s ranked the fourth best club in the world, complete with six dance areas, 15 bars, and a pulsing 60kW sound system (so you can expect to feel the bass rattle your ribcage, and walk away with tinnitus as a souvenir from your night out).

Another 20 euros and you’re in the club, which is bound to look like this:

(That pillar of smoke coming down in the middle of the dancefloor is actually cooling water vapor from the venue’s many ice machines, which they blast periodically throughout the evening.)

With a large space and an even larger following, the club appeals to a wide variety of tastes, depending on the night — so be sure to check the flyers before dropping in:

The beats tend to be a little heavier at Fabrik than at Kapital, with hard techno acts ranking as some of the most popular events.

Those would sound a bit like:

Again, it never hurts to visit the club’s SoundCloud:

With no signature drink, it’s in your best interest to pregame elsewhere, as the drinks are as expensive as they are generic.

Charada

(via)

Fine, you want to take the training wheels off, you are the more adventurous, hip, and authentic clubgoer, and for that we’ll look at Charada. A relatively new, exceedingly hip(ster), and considerably smaller club, Charada is the place for electro house and funk music in their “Redbox” and “Blackbox” dance halls. On Wednesday and Saturday nights, the extremely fashionable clubhopping elite head to Charada for their Boombox, Zombie, and Pantera events.

After dropping another 15-20 euros to get in, you’ll find that Charada bumps like this:

And sounds like this:

How to dance

As for dancing at any of these locations, you’ll easily get away with the club classics — “jumping-up-and-down-fist-pumping” and/or grinding (partner permitting) — but you might just catch some of the kids dropping into their Spanish-style shuffling:

Note: Shuffling originated from hardstyle culture, and was flung forcibly into public consciousness thanks to the unfortunate global virality of this:

It’s now a worldwide and genre-nonspecific phenomenon. The US has over six different distinct styles, ranging from “classic” (or Melbourne, very tight and technique heavy) to “Cali style” (loose and wide, with a bit more b-boy top-rock flair). The differences are subtle, but what seems to characterize the Spanish style is a harder stomp, less out-flair, and a lot more jumping, as opposed to the glide-heavy and wide American Melbourne.

At 7am most of these clubs finally close, and if you did it right you might feel a bit like:

(via)

And need a pick-me-up like:

(via)

But walking back to your hostel, it’ll be just early / late enough to catch this:

(via)

The post What to expect from a dancefloor in Madrid appeared first on Matador Network.

Michoacan

THE STATE OF MICHOACAN, MEXICO has always seemed to have a bad rap. Even back when I first traveled there in 2001, people said to watch out for banditos, and indeed when I first arrived in the tiny village of La Ticla, there was a military truck full of Federales apparently as some kind of deterrent. Anyway, while the pacific coast there has long been explored by surfers, the inland areas are largely untouched as far as exploration by paddlers. Even right there at La Ticla was a beautiful canyon upstream that I wondered about. Had anyone ever paddled it?

Next week, Red Bull will be dropping Michoacan: First Descent, which follows a crew led by Dane Jackson and Rafa Ortiz that finally explores the area. They definitely still play up the inseguridad as a hook (as did I in the title of this post), but what I’m stoked on is just getting a chance to see some of these rivers for the first time. [image error]

Feature image via Redbull.

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