MONTE CARLO: WHAT’S ALL THE FUSS ABOUT?

            When I was younger, Monte Carlo was known as the place where rich people go for gambling and luxury accommodations. Only the classy, the wealthy and the serious gamblers went to Monte Carlo. James Bond spent his time there, for goodness’ sake. Monte Carlo was a world above Las Vegas. Las Vegas was the place where those into neon and cheap buffets and hookers spent their time. So, I was thrilled when I decided to spend a day in Monte Carlo as part of our self-imposed European itinerary.

            Boy, have times changed. Vegas has gone from the city of tackiness to the city of high end décor, accommodations, shopping and eating. Let me make this clear: Monte Carlo doesn’t hold a candle to Vegas. In fact, Monte Carlo is more akin to Atlantic City, back in the days when Atlantic City had only a couple of casinos. The Monte Carlo casino was undoubtedly considered opulent decades ago, but it isn’t in the same league with the casinos at the Wynn, the Venetian, the Bellagio or myriad other Vegas venues. I went there on a Saturday afternoon. There was only one black jack table operating. And only two gaming tables total were open. (There weren’t that many tables available even to be used when the casino was busy.) The slot machines were limited in number and type as well. Most of the people there were tourists who just wanted to watch people play, having paid 10 Euros just to get into the place. (Of course, my review might be slightly jaded by the fact that there was a moron from Indianapolis who chastised me for playing the odds in blackjack. But even if the experience had been universally positive, I would not have been impressed. I had dinner at the casino restaurant and it was mediocre, at best (though the prices were certainly gargantuan).

            Independent of the gambling, is Monte Carlo a nice place? Well, it’s certainly an attractive coastal city, with a lot of nice buildings built into the side of the mountains/hills that abut the ocean. The luxury hotels reveal that the rich still come to this city in droves. But frankly, I found Monte Carlo to be no-better looking or more impressive than numerous cities on the California coast that feature essentially the same or similar configurations. Take Laguna Beach and Laguna Niguel, for instance, which, IMHO, have better looking beaches, cliffs, homes and businesses.

            The one positive I gained from the trip is that I have a newfound respect for the French. While Monte Carlo is technically in Monaco, the people there are, for all practical purposes, French. They speak French. The last time I went to France was in the year 1996. I was universally treated badly then. I was yelled at in the first club I entered, I was ignored or abused by service personnel at every restaurant I patronized and I was mugged twice in two days. I had a much better experience this time, with people going out of their way to show me respect and kindness. One obviously well-to-do lady actually walked me with her dog several blocks to my hotel when I got lost. I have learned a few French phrases and will continue to learn the language. I think it helps if you make an effort to speak French. The French can be understandably irritated (if overly reactive) to the fact that Americans tend to arrogantly believe everyone should know English, even in countries where English is not the dominant language. Serena Williams has gone from being booed 13 years ago to being the darling of the French Open Tennis Tournament. While part of that has to do with her longevity (i.e., she’s old, by tennis standards, and still the best player in the world), the fact that she now speaks French fluently (she owns a flat in Paris), and gives all her interviews at the tournament in French, seems to have a major impact.

            The bottom line? I can say I went to Monte Carlo. I’m sure there are places in Monte Carlo I could have visited that would have been impressive. But Monte Carlo is known most for its gambling. In the age of the revised Vegas, the gambling aspect has become obsolete. I doubt I’ll be back, though I may try other places in the south of France that travelers on this trip have said were great.

            (Note: photos on my blog are now public photos I have appropriated. I have lost my phone and thus lost the photos I took. Ugh!)

MARVELOUS MILAN: IT’S NOT JUST ABOUT FASHIONS

            When Bill Chalmers announced during our last night in Abu Dhabi that our next stop was Milan, I was excited -- for disparate reasons. First, I hadn’t been to Italy in almost 20 years, and in the past, had only been to Rome. So, I was eager to see how Milan would be. Second, I knew Milan is the capital of the fashion world and I secretly hoped I would bump into either or both Domenico Dolce and Stefano Gabbana so I could verbally chastise them with as large an audience on hand as possible before some security guard hauled me away. The very idea of two gay men – who were once romantic partners – condemning surrogate parenting is nothing short of outrageous. I agree with Elton John – both their ideas and their fashions are outdated. But, as usual, I digress.

Mainly, I suspected this meant the European leg of the trip would involve Italy, France and Spain. The way the European part of this event works is as follows: We fly into one city and are then told we’re on our own for three to four days and will meet in a nearby city, usually a couple of countries away. Scavenges for points are offered for all adjacent countries. And the truly serious two-person team competitors (here, the Sydney Sisters, Buns & Bird, Lawyers Without Borders, the Savvy Scavengers and the Tatakau Brothers) will probably visit all or most of these countries (likely three or four different countries) in the four-day period. I admire their tenacity, dedication, commitment and hard work. They are driven people. But I am not. At least, not when it comes to play. I’m on vacation. I am competitive, driven and tenacious when I’m at work. When I’m on holiday, I want to relax. So, I want to see the world, but not all of it. I want to savor what I do.

The most special event in Milan to me demonstrates my mentality. I saw some amazing historical places in the city, but the highlight of my one day there involved none of this. Rather, it involved a simple but wonderful dinner I had with four new friends on this event the night we were together in the city. All of the participants become close during this trip, as you can imagine. We spend countless hours together in airports, on airplanes, in hotel lobbies and bumping into each other on the scavenge trail. I’ve known and worked with Lawyers Without Borders for over a decade and I’ve known Zoe’s kids, the Tatakau Brothers, since they were prepubescent (I’m sure they’d love reading that). But I have also become close to the teams I didn’t really know before this trip. The Savvy Scavengers are kind and delightful, as are Buns & Bird, who are here on their honeymoon. The Sydney Sisters are a riot – hilarious Aussies who couldn’t be more fun to be around, even if they are running around like chickens with their heads cut off (after all, they’re in first place). But the folks with whom I’ve become closest are Jim, Betty, Michael and Nita. Their team names escape me at the moment because our friendship has transcended such formality.

We had dinner together Friday night at a small trattoria that the concierge at the hotel had recommended. We wanted authentic Italian food. The restaurant was a quaint but unassuming place. The food was delicious. Our waiter, who looked as though he stepped out of the pages of International Male magazine, was attentive and kept the food (and for some, the wine) flowing. We talked. We laughed -- constantly. We learned a lot about each other. We learned that we share the same political leanings (no, we won’t be voting for any of the dozens of seemingly deranged Presidential candidates from a particular political party that will remain nameless). We told stories. We reminisced, praised and lamented over our trip experiences. And we became even closer during that dinner than we had been before.

Isn’t it amazing that it sometimes takes traveling halfway around the world to develop important relationships with people who reside within your own country’s borders? I would not have met any of these wonderful people outside this event and quite frankly, if the trip had been a wash in every respect (and it has actually been wonderful in every respect), just developing the association with these individuals would have been well worth the cost. Ironically, Bill and Pamela Chalmers, the event directors, aim for us to interact with people from different cultures. That is why the scavenges cannot be accomplished with use of technology, tour guides, hired drivers or anything other than input from locals and public transportation. But for me, the interactions that have mattered most are those with the people participating in this very event. And I’ve had no trouble communicating with them at all.

This is not to say I spent the whole day eating. The five of us visited three extraordinary places before the lunch hour had even arrived. One was the refectory of the Convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie. Now, why would I want to visit such a place? You know I’m not religious, I don’t generally care for nuns (who used to beat my mother’s hands with a ruler in parochial school), I don’t care for Catholicism (I couldn’t even pass an exam in CCD since I had no interest whatsoever in the fiction). Well, this refectory contains the wall where Leonardo di Vinci (I almost said “DiCaprio,” which shows you what a Philistine I really am) painted “The Last Supper.” This is the famous painting depicting Jesus and the apostles all sitting on one side of the table (which is odd, since we know they weren’t watching a movie back then). The moment di Vinci purports to capture is the moment Jesus announces that one of those present was about to betray him. The painting is beautiful. It has deteriorated. It is historical. I was in awe, primarily because of the historical significance of the event – not the Last Supper, which I don’t even know ever occurred. But I was in awe of di Vinci’s painting, which is considered one of the greatest works of art. I can’t provide photos because we were forbidden to take any. But here is a general one from the internet:

We also visited Teatro alla Scalla, the world’s most famous opera house. The place where the opera greats throughout history performed. I’m not a huge opera buff, by any means, but again, this place creates historical awe. More importantly, I am fascinated by sheer brilliance of the design. Beyond a small number of what we might call “orchestra seats,” the venue consists almost entirely of box seats. That was apparently due to the fact that in prior centuries, the boxes were used for “socializing” that often occurred while shows were occurring (one might infer that a bit of debauchery went on behind closed curtains). Eventually, the place became a true listening center. Frankly, I didn’t see a bad seat in the house. The royal box itself is located in an area that might be deemed the balcony in an American theater. But this place is so well-designed that the royal box in the back of the theater was arguably the best venue in the building.

We also visited one of the most incredibly detailed cathedrals I’ve seen in some time – the Duomo. It was utterly awe-inspiring.

And walking through the gorgeous galleria of shops adjacent to the cathedral was nice as well.

But honestly, is it really necessary for McDonald’s to contaminate the great historical sites of all time by locating one of their grotesque fast food dumps – serving the worse grub known to humankind – worse even than any other fast food restaurant – thereby giving people a horrible impression of American cuisine and what kind of food Americans enjoy – right smack in the middle of a great historical site? When I asked the tour director about this, she noted that McDonald’s used to be on the main road of the Galleria rather than the corner to which it is now relegated. She said some people were disappointed by the move because McDonald’s was the only place where you could use the restroom for free. Ultimately, I suppose she’s right. McDonald’s doesn’t offer anything cultural and certainly provides nothing in the way of edible cuisine. It is probably best viewed as a public toilet.

We visited a magnificent castle, too, but frankly, castles are a dime a dozen in Europe. (The comedian, Eddie Izzard once remarked during his first American show: “I’m from Europe. You know, where the history is from?”). So, I won’t go into detail on that. (Now you know just how much of a Philistine I am.)

The bottom line? The highlight of this leg of the trip was the marvelous dinner with my newfound friends.

YABBA ABU DHABI!

            Rest assured, Fred Flintstone would find nothing prehistoric in this modern mecca of obscene opulence. Anyone who thinks that Muslims all live in desert tents with nothing more than a camel, a prayer rug and some explosives has never been to the United Arab Emirates (and watches way too much Fox News). Like Dubai on last year’s trip, and Doha, Qatar on the trip the year before, Abu Dhabi is a schizophrenic place. A city that can’t decide whether to retain its Muslim values or succumb to Western influence. And is it any wonder? Religious fundamentalism thrives in poverty, not wealth. When your life consists of little more than throwing rocks at tanks or scavenging for enough food to meet your family’s needs that day, it is very easy to succumb to the demands of a mythology – any mythology – that promises utopia in an afterlife – something so much better than what you have right now. It becomes, after all, your only hope. But when your life is already pretty damned good, it’s hard to surrender to the nonsense. The men of Abu Dhabi are too busy wrapping up business deals and deciding where their summer home should be to heed any calls for a fatwah.

            Note I say “the men.” Therein lies part of the schizophrenia. In terms of infrastructure, architecture and living standards, Abu Dhabi tops any American city. But its poor treatment of women – indeed, the poor treatment of women throughout the UAE and much of the Arab world – rivals even that proposed by the most militant Tea Party politicians. Women are deemed subservient to men. Even the property of men. They do not sit with men, converse with men and certainly don’t compete with men on any level. Surrounded by their black burkas, they are to be neither seen nor heard. Yes, the burka is still a regular sight – even the full, bee-keeper version. But most Arab women I saw at least had their faces uncovered. And in Abu Dhabi, there are perhaps as many Western women (who wouldn’t dream of wearing such an oppressive outfit) as there are Arab women. For every burka, I saw a pair of shorts and a t-shirt on women. Nevertheless, the women in our group were advised that the key to avoid risking an incident was to keep their knees and shoulders covered. (Because, after all, think of all those kinky websites that cater to those pervasive knee and shoulder fetishes.)

            So, while the people of Abu Dhabi tolerate the “excesses” of Western visitors, they have yet to surrender the fundamental precepts of their own religion. Let me give you an example of what I observed at our hotel, the over-the-top Jumeirah at Etihad Towers. (As just an example of the hotel’s surreal elegance, the walls of every elevator consist of different shades of Jasper or granite marble. These were the views from my roomJ

There is a large shopping mall of high end stores – the top names in every field – in the hotel. But on the bottom floor, there is also a supermarket. That is, a grocery store, with flour, sugar, rice, beans, toilet paper and the like. I had left a bag of toiletries in a prior hotel room, so I went to the market to pick up a few things. There was a meat section with beef, chicken and lamb – and a closed door off to the side of the section with a sign that said “Pork – For Non-Muslims Only.” You had to activate the door electronically to enter, but when you did, you entered a room full of every pork product imaginable. So, the place was willing to sell pork to non-Muslims but made a point of concealing the presence of the pork from the Muslims – not the fact of its sale but just the vision of the meat.

            The bottom line is that the UAE makes its money off Westerners and strives to achieve everything we have and more. How else do you explain ATM-type machines that literally spit out gold ingots instead of paper cash? How else do you explain a country that consistently achieves top status in uniquely Western endeavors? Indeed, last I heard, the Guinness Book of World Records was opening an office in the UAE because of the number of records the nation holds. I saw the tallest building in the world last year in Dubai. And the only purported seven-star hotel. And this year, I rode the fastest roller coaster in the world in Abu Dhabi. (Almost instantly, the Formula Rossa reaches 149 miles per hour.)

Catering to Westerners can even conflict with the citizens’ own practice of religion. The Grand Mosque is only of the most ornate (and frankly ostentatious) cathedrals/places of worship I’ve ever seen.

Every column is inlaid with semi-precious stones.

The temple had to cost countless millions to construct, let alone maintain. It is supposedly a sacred place where Muslims worship every day. But that doesn’t prevent the place from holding guided tours for Westerners who want to get a glimpse of how the other half lives. As long as folks are willing to don a robe (when otherwise dressed inappropriately) and remove their shoes, they can invade the “sacred” province of the temple where people worship.

Frankly, I am unimpressed by the beautiful mosques in the Middle East, the gorgeous cathedrals in Europe, the Vatican in Rome and the enormous churches in some U.S. cities. At least in the Christian faith, Jesus supposedly told His followers they should pray in private and not in public as the hypocrites do. (Matthew 6:5) He also admonished us to care for the poor, sick and needy. Surely, there are corollaries in other faiths. And is God/Jehovah/Allah/Spaghetti Monster so insecure that he needs to be surrounded by marble columns and gemstones when people ask Him for stuff? If we took all the money spent on these ornate “holy places” and gave it to farmers, medical researchers, hospitals and the like, we could probably wipe out most social ills. And people could still pray – just not surrounded by the material things that aren’t supposed to mean anything anyway.

            If I sound a bit cynical about Abu Dhabi, let me make clear that I had a wonderful time there (I could have stayed at the hotel and had a wonderful time, frankly). And it is a beautiful, wondrous place. But I will have difficulty heaping much praise on any Middle East venue until the day comes when they start treating women as something other than chattel. 

MELBOURNE AND BALI

MELBOURNE AND BALI

           

Now, those are two words that do not belong in the same subject line. Granted, they represent places in the same hemisphere. And some folks from Melbourne undoubtedly visit Bali. But otherwise, the places are night and day. Melbourne is as urban and modern as any city. I don’t know how Aussies will take this, but the sheer looks of the place make it indistinguishable from a major city in America. Bali, by contrast, is rural, with largely undisturbed landscape, and those not working in the tourist industry (the island’s number one commodity by far) are engaged in largely agrarian lives like rice farming. So, why have I combined these places?

            Because I’m lazy. For one thing, I’m behind in my blogs. I came on this trip with a bunch of work to do and deadlines that are smack in the middle of travel. For another, I really didn’t do much in Melbourne. We were there for just over a day, though we spent two nights at The Langham, a truly magnificent hotel (as are all the hotels in which we stay on these trips). Unfortunately, the room was a bit too comfortable, and I wound up committing the cardinal sin that Bill Chalmers, who organizes these trips, constantly warns us not to commit. I decided to lie down during the day. After we met in the morning of the one full day we had, I went back to my room to take a very brief snooze. I woke up late in the afternoon and missed a lot of time. I wound up enjoying the nightlife of Melbourne instead of the performing the suggested activities. In fact, I stayed out all night long. Actually, I was probably out in Melbourne as much as any of the other trip participants, though my “scavenges” were definitely not on Bill’s list and I doubt among the activities in which other travelers participated.  But I had a great time. Of course, I’m too old to participate in the fetes myself, but you’re never too old to observe younger folks tripping the light fantastic or to reminisce. I won’t go into detail on where I went, but suffice it to say that the people of Melbourne like to have fun and have an active nightlife for people who, in a couple of months, will have the right to marry in all 50 American states.

            So, on to Bali. I love this place. I had been there once before. The villa in which our group stayed the first time was on the opposite side of the island from the airport, so we had the opportunity to see much of the unparalleled magnificence of landscape. The countryside is the most beautiful of anywhere I’ve been. The rice paddies alone are practically works of art, appearing as though they were sculpted by a master. And there is no place I have been with more beautiful mountains or lush green countryside. So much of the land is untouched, despite the plethora of tourists, making Bali practically paradise. In fact, if religious folks could assure me that heaven would resemble Bali, I might start to believe in…well, let me stop before I get carried away.

             We stayed in a town called Ubud, which is a wonderful village full of small, boutique hotels, small restaurants with wonderful food and lots of shops. It is not Jakarta, the town of giant resort hotels. But Ubud has a lot more personality. As do the magnanimous and charming people. We stayed at the Komaneka Rosa Sayang, which was a beautiful little inn. The rooms were gorgeous and spacious, each with a large terrace. Significantly, the place was just a five-minute walk from one of my two favorite places in Bali, the Monkey Park. The monkey park is a giant sanctuary for long-tailed macaques. For a modest admission price, you enter the park and interact with the monkeys, who are everywhere. No cages. No gates. No fences. They wonder the sidewalks just as you do. They swing in the trees right above your head. And if you, like me, buy huge bunches of bananas with which to feed them, they will come right up to you and demand a handout. Most of them, especially the older ones, simply reach out their hands and grab the fruit from you. Some of the younger ones ambush you from behind, jump onto your shoulders and grab for the whole bunch. You have to be careful because, these are wild animals, and if they bit you, a whole cadre of medical tests would be mandatory. But generally, they’re harmless – so long as you surrender the bananas. At one point, I had a couple of them straddling me, but they were kind and settled for the food.

            My other favorite place is the Elephant Safari. This is a beautiful reserve for elephants that are well-trained to entertain. You can ride the elephants or just feed them. Either way, they will show great affection, wrapping their trunks around your body and pulling you close. If they see you’re carrying fruit, they will open their mouths and encourage you to put the food right onto their tongues. They perform impressive tricks. And each has its own trainer who seems to adore the elephant. Some of the trainers have worked with the same elephants for over a decade. I’m sure activists have some objection to the park, but frankly, I have no idea what that would be.

            There are many other activities in Bali. You can, for instance, visit the coffee plantation where they process the beans that have been ingested and subsequently defecated by a cat-like creature called the luwak – a process that apparently turns them into fine coffee. (I generally eschew the scatological, even when praised by gourmets.) There are beautiful temples as well. And the beaches are spectacular, with the surrounding waters perfect for snorkeling and scuba diving. I preferred to walk the streets, watching the people, perusing the shops and, of course, sampling the food. But mainly, I enjoyed playing with the elephants and monkeys. The monkeys engage in so many human-like rituals. I love the way the older mates show their affection toward one another by picking the fleas off their partners’ backs. Or the way the mothers are so protective of their babies, clinging them to their bodies even when they are grabbing for bananas from park patrons or swinging from trees. Amazingly, right-wing conservatives continue to deny evolution. Perhaps they have a point. The monkeys I saw are substantially more advanced than most Tea Partiers I’ve met.       

FABULOUS FIJI: FLORA, FAUNA OR FOLK?

            OK. Perhaps I cheated a bit on the title, for the sake of alliteration. Fiji is certainly known for its gorgeous plant life and amazing animals, many of which are on the endangered species list and are friends you’d never otherwise see (particularly if you have an affinity for reptiles and birds), but people don’t fly from the U.S. (or Europe) to Fiji to examine the eco-diversity of the islands (unless, of course, they’re fans of Greenpeace or the “Big Bang Theory”).

They come for this!

People come here for the ocean, the beaches, the tide, the coral reefs (which facilitate wonderful surfing, scuba-diving and snorkeling).

But that is not why I have fallen in love with Fiji. Set aside the notion that I’m biased because I don’t surf, scuba-dive or snorkel. Focus on the fact that I, as an old fogie, nevertheless love this place. It’s not just filled with unsurpassed natural beauty. Far more significantly, it contains residents who, without exception, seem to have embraced a theory of life that is beautiful, innocent, healthy and in tune with the cultures that Bill and Pamela Chalmers (the program directors) have striven to ensure we see on all of these trips, since I began taking them three years (well, three trips) ago, and that are totally alien to my ordinary life.

What I mean by that is that the people here seem to live for life. They don’t live to work. Rather, they work to live. Work is a means to the end of living comfortably. Not the other way around. (And “comfortably” means a lot less to them than us.) Yesterday, I drove through a significant part of this amazing island with a gentleman who waved to almost every passerby on the road. And the walkers uniformly waved back. And they smiled! (How often to do you get that in the States, even after bumping into people who just saw a Broadway show that even Ben Brantley has praised?

I saw the rich, the middle class and poor yesterday. And they all had a positive attitude. They enjoy life, notwithstanding the trials and tribulations they may (or may not) have experienced. Everyone is positive and pleasant. By way of example, I visited an extremely poor village where everyone greeted me with a smile and a handshake. The village consisted of various buildings, each of which housed numerous people in the same rooms. There is no real privacy much less glamour associated with this. Yet, there didn’t appear to be a single malcontent among the bunch. And unless this was a government conspiracy (which seems unlikely, given my insignificance to the world), this was rather extraordinary. The men perform various jobs for a living. The women make pottery. When I arrived, they sat me on a bench in a small building that ordinarily might house several families. They had me drink Cabo (an intoxicating mix of ground root mixed with water that is supposed to relax you for the remainder of the presentation – I’m such an alcoholic, it seemed to me like nothing more than half an aperitif). The women then danced for me. Then, they had me dance with them. Then, they showed me their pottery. Then (not surprisingly), they asked for a donation for their children’s school, which I promptly gave. (No one, worldwide, is beyond asking for help for their children, and why should they be? I would frankly be rather suspicious of people who didn’t seek help with their children’s education when they didn’t have the means to pay for it themselves. Rest assured, I will never be a Republican.)

They had me dance with them

                                                       

So, what did I get from Fiji? What made me fall in love with it? Not what you think. Not the beaches. They are magnificent, of course. Not the surf. It is great, needless to say. And the 300-plus islands surrounding the main one have even better beaches and surf, as I understand it. (As do the remainder of the 500-plus islands, when the tide is low.) It’s all beautiful. But we have beautiful beaches in North America. Numerous towns in Southern California sport white sand and clear water. So do places in both the western and eastern sides of Mexico. And the southern coasts of Europe. And, of course, all the tropical islands of the Caribbean. Is there a reason to like this place more? Yes. The people. They are happy. That are thriving. They are content. They are kind. They are generous in spirit. And yet, many seem to have next to nothing. They are happy for each other, and us, and their kids and their health – all the things we should adore but are too busy working to really think about.

“Bula!” That’s what all the people I met said, as they grinned widely in my direction.