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Typical Countryside Residence

EY Travel Tips: MONGOLIA

Why visit Mongolia?

Well there’re just about a million reasons. For starters the world’s second largest landlocked country (Nearby Kazakhstan ranks first) houses geographic diversity that rivals pretty much anywhere. There’s the snow capped mountains and Kazakh eagle hunters to the west; the vast Gobi Desert and great Central Asian Steppe in the south; reindeer herders in the Siberian forests of the north and the grasslands populated by native gazelle or Oryx to the east. Writing this, I’m wondering why I’m not there right now.

A successful population of the critically endangered Wild Asian or Przewalski’s Horse resides in Mongolia, as does 2-million year old Lake Khovsgul, which itself holds half-a-percent of the world’s potable water. Famed naturalist Roy Chapman Andrews—sometimes credited as the proto-Indiana Jones—discovered dino eggs in the Gobi and Genghis Khan launched an empire that linked Beijing to Baghdad to Babenberg, Austria. With the end of Soviet communism and institution of a capitalist democracy, Mongolia experienced incredible socio-economic change over two decades, but step a mile outside the capital, Ulaanbaatar, and enter a world where the felt tents and herders carry traditions held by the Mongols for millennia.

Now that you’re convinced, here are five tips for your trip.

1.       Dress Warm. Nuh-uh. Warmer

Mark Twain famously said the coldest winter he ever spent was a summer in San Francisco. Frankly, Mark Twain is a liar and moreover he’s never even been to Mongolia. The average temperature in Ulaanbaatar is freezing, meaning when you ask what’s the temperature, at any time of year, it’s quite probably freezing. Ulaanbaatar’s the coldest capital in the world. That means Reykjavík, that city in a land which, from my understanding, is literally made of ice, is warmer. When visiting Mongolia in winter, prepare like you would for a polar expedition: long underwear, solid winter jacket, winter gloves and liners and probably some sort of heat trapping mask. Summer days are warm, but like San Francisco, it can get nippy, especially at night, so bring clothes for hot and cold.

2.       Sunscreen

In addition to being one of the planet’s colder nations, Mongolia paradoxically ranks as one of the sunniest spots in the world. It’s generally accepted that the country gets over 250 cloudless days per year without a cloud in the sky, more sun than Yuma, Arizona. So for those afternoons out on the wide-open steppe when it’s just you, the Great Blue Sky, and the really hot, bright sun, UV protection makes the awe-inspiringness of nature less blistery and painful. You can buy some in UB, but selection may be limited, so consider bringing some from home.

3.       Make room for mutton.

There’s a good chance you will be offered a lot of mutton in Mongolia. “What’s on the menu?” you ask. Well, there’s mutton. Mutton with flour. Mutton with onions. Mutton with a side of mutton. There can be more—Ulaanbaatar has everything from Korean to vegetarian restaurants to fried chicken joints—but outside of the city your options are generally limited, so you may want to accustom the palate to boiled sheep meat. Unusual dairy products like dry curdled sheep milk to fermented horse milk is everywhere, so bring lactase tablets if you have difficulty digesting milk and want to sample the traditional food. Fun fact: Mongolian BBQ is as Mongolian as McDonalds is Scottish. The closest thing to barbecue in Mongolia is Boodog: goat or marmot cooked by placing hot rocks in its stomach. Less fun fact: marmot meat can carry bubonic plague. I recommend the goat.

4.       Be kind to the Khan.

Mongolians have a deserved reputation for hospitality and generosity and while pick pocketing does occur in the capital, it’s generally a pretty safe place. Mongolia is a peaceful democracy that’s managed to maintain good relations with both North Korea and the United States, but the heart of the nation is still ruled with an iron fist by Genghis Khan. In the wrong company, a bad word about national hero Genghis Khan is considered a fighting word. Yes, by some estimates he killed 10 percent of the world’s population in his day, but he was also brilliantly innovative and remarkably tolerant of the freedom of his subjects given the time period. Mongolians view him as a Goergebraham Roosevelt, the embodiment of everything great about the nation, a one-man Mount Rushmore. After being barred from revering their national hero under Soviet rule, the adoration has returned in force. His name appears on everything, from the airport to hair salons, so the temptation to bring him up is everywhere. If you’re at a bar, keep it positive.

5.       A little Mongolian goes a long way.

Sain Bainuu (hello) and Bayarlaa (thank you) are good to know. Mongolians are very responsive, and sometimes amused, when foreigners speak to them in Mongolian. When you’ve been in town for a bit Zuun, Chigiree, Baruun Tiish, the words for left, straight and right turn respectively, can be very handy for getting around. Street names aren’t commonly used in the country, so directions are often given in a series of turns. For transportation, licensed taxis are rare (although word is this may be improving)  and while nearly every car in the capital is willing to serve as an unofficial cab, they may not know where you’re asking them to go.  Provided you know where you’re going, you can help them.

~Will~

A world traveler hailing originally from the hills of California, William Kennedy currently resides in London, England.  His time spent living in Mongolia left many lasting impressions. 

“Did you know?

That the number of livestock in Mongolia is 20 times more than the country population? Number of livestock is 42 million and the population number is 2.9 million people.

That Ulaanbaatar is a True Nomad? The city changed its locations 29 times before settling in its present day location.”

For more tidbits visit the Official Tourism Website of Mongolia

Tri biking

Crazy – Part 2: Race Day

Trying a Triathlon, Part 2: Race Day

(Cont’d from Part 1) The morning of the race was clear and cool. Since it was August, the race started at a pleasant 8 AM. I was up at 4:45, already chugging water to stay hydrated. The night before, a friend had helped me clean up my bike, greased the gears and pedals, pumped up the tires, even adjusted the stem. Its beautiful drop-down handlebars were freshly wrapped. I felt like a jockey before a big race, patting my trusty mount.

When I arrived at the race area, I got my race number (25! A good, solid number, I told myself) written in black permanent marker on my arm, thigh and shin, so I could be identified both in the water and on land. I quickly realized I never wanted to wash that number off again. I jogged around to warm up, shakily swigging water, my stomach fluttering.

As one of the younger participants in the race, I was in the first wave of swimmers. About fifty other women and I lined up on the beach in our red swim caps (“free” race swag!). The gun went off. And so did we!

Swimming in a pool is one thing. Swimming in a lake surrounded by bodies while being kicked in the face is another.

Months earlier, when some of my female coworkers heard I was doing an all-women’s triathlon, they thought it was so neat. “Oh, it’ll just be so nice, having other women there to support you as you go along,” they told me over our microwaved lunches. I nodded politely. It was nice, wasn’t it?

That was not the attitude I decided to take. I’d dropped nearly half a grand to get to this race. I wasn’t here to hold hands and braid each other’s hair, thankyouverymuch. Anytime someone kicked me, I pushed back, jostling for space, and, as people began to feel the swim halfway in, I began picking off the enemy, one by one.

With a final stroke, the swim portion was done. We lurched out onto the sand, ran past the lines of screaming fans (screaming, I tell you!), and up into the Transition Area.

The Transition Area in a triathlon is hallowed ground. Only tri participants can go in or out; spectators are banned. Each racer is assigned to one lane, and that lane consists of a metal sawhorse of sorts, on which you prop your bike, and a very small area near to it, where you put your shoes and socks, towel, and water bottle. Transitions between the races count toward your total time, so the name of the game is speed. I’d practiced transitioning a bit in my backyard, aware of how silly I must look to the neighbor cats who watched me from their window perches, and now was my moment. I ran in, dropped my goggles and cap, shakily got on my socks and shoes, threw on my helmet and away I went. Transition 1, done.

Next was the bike portion. This was by far the biggest part of the race at 15 miles in length. I let Ol’ Blue stretch out her legs and we were off.

The bike portion was along the Mississippi River, on both the Minneapolis and St. Paul sides. Since I lived nearby, I’d spent many Sundays biking the course and beyond.  My main concern for this part of the race was the no-drafting rule. Drafting is when you follow closely behind a biker, using that person’s slipstream to your advantage. There was a strict no-drafting rule, which meant you had to stay a minimum of three bike lengths behind a biker. If you wanted to pass, you must do so in 15 seconds or risk a time penalty.

I’m not sure how seriously the rest of the women interrupted this rule, but for me that meant that, if I were at all able to, I needed to pass anyone in front of me as quickly as I could, every time I saw her, or risk breaking the rules, something I’ve been afraid to do basically since birth. Midway into the bike race and my legs were shaking. Perhaps I’d gone a bit too hard. Perhaps this rule wasn’t meant to harm me.

“It doesn’t matter!” I egged myself on, sipping my Gatorade-water mixture to help me through.

The second half of the bike race proved to be a bit harder than the first half, mostly because the wind had picked up. Dramatically. We made it over the bridge near the Transition Area all but wobbling on our bikes in the gusts. I dismounted and ran my bike over to my lane. Propping my bike up on the sawhorse and throwing down my helmet, I jogged off in a minute flat. Transition 2, done. Now only 5k left to go!

There is a phrase in triathlon-speak called “bricking.” Bricking happens when you get off your bike and try running immediately afterward. It feels, appropriately, like your thighs are made of heavy bricks. Try (tri!) as you might, you can barely lift them. I’d practiced doing this, too, some that summer, but my quads were screaming from the bike race as I started out around the lake.

“Go go go!” my fans shouted at me. I lugged my body along, wind whipping my hair.

I was a mile in to the five kilometers when my shoe came untied. I ignored it. I was hardcore. I was a racer. I was doing a triathlon. A little untied shoe was not enough to make me stop!

A half a mile later and it was all I could do to keep running. It wasn’t that I was feeling sick or tired, at least not so tired that I couldn’t continue. It was that I had never had to pee so badly. Ever. All that hydration, all morning, all during the bike portion, and at each transition…all of it had backfired, big time. I willed myself to just…go…as I kept running. My shorts were black; no one would notice! And I could just jump in the lake right afterward. No big deal! But, like rule-breaking, peeing on command has never been something I’ve been good at. I was doomed. It was all I could think of, with a mile and a half left into my race, the race I’d been training for for months, when I should be thinking about picking it up, picking off people one by one, as the minutes clicked away on my time. All I could think of instead was…water.

I rounded a curve in the path. A water stop was up ahead. I was definitely not interested. But just beyond it…What was that there? Could it be…? Yes! A port-a-potty! I was saved!

And yet: Should I risk my victory for this pit stop? Was I such a fool? I looked around. The race was so spread out it was impossible to tell who was my competition and who had started minutes after me (the swim waves were staggered) and was therefore so far ahead of me, time-wise, that there was no way I’d beat them.

I stopped at the port-a potty, anything for some relief. An older couple out on a morning walk had stopped just ahead of me. I bounced around impatiently as the woman used the toilet. Breaking all rules of Midwestern propriety, I pleaded to the gentleman to let me go before him.

“I’m running a race,” I explained, pointing unnecessarily at my race number. “And I really have to go!” I hopped from foot to foot.

He rather begrudgingly agreed to let me cut, and, once his wife eased her way out of the stall, I bolted in. I relieved myself, tied my shoe, and, liters lighter, zoomed off after my opponents.

A mile left. My feet pounded on the pavement.

Then half a mile.  My lungs ached. Now was my time to go, this was it. This was it. I rallied, willing my legs to turn over faster. They shouted in protest, reminding me of the fifteen miles I’d just biked, and all a bit quicker than they’d been promised.

A third of a mile.

I could see the finish. Just around a curve, down the stretch, and I’d be there.

A quarter of a mile.

There were other women ahead of me, exhausted from the morning, like me. We could all just jog in together, nice and easy…

300 meters.

“Now!” said a voice in my head. “Now’s your time! Think of all the workouts, all the sweat, all the pain it’s taken to get here. Now go go GO!”

200 meters.

I lifted up my head, picked up my legs and pumped my arms down the last stretch. And when I crossed that finish line, I became, officially, a triathlete.

I can’t wait to do another one.

~Megan~

Megan has just returned stateside after a year of living and teaching in China.  Any guesses whether there’s a Triathlon in her future?

The symbol for triathlon in the Olympics

You Don’t Have To Be Crazy But…

Trying a Triathlon: Part 1: Preparation and Training

The symbol for triathlon in the Olympics

I decided to start training for a triathlon in my rather dusty office cubicle in February of 2010. My office was in St. Paul, MN, at a public university, where I worked as an Americorps VISTA volunteer, helping expand the nursing programs to increase healthcare access to low-income patients, including setting up a community clinic. That last venture had completely stalled in contract negotiations with the local community center, and, since it was to be the vast majority of my job, I was bored. Underutilized, and bored. Left to my own devices, I spent a lot of time trolling the Internet, looking for random healthcare funding (that my school inevitably didn’t qualify for) and reading articles about healthcare on the New York Times webpage (that’s work, right?).

I needed direction, in or outside of the office, it didn’t matter. Having graduated from college the previous spring, 2010 was the first time in my life that I didn’t have any direction, didn’t have a clear syllabus with assignments carefully outlined. I found I missed it.

Since my cardiovascular-heavy semester in Eastern Europe (See Running 5 Polish Miles), I’d maintained an okay workout regimen of five days a week running, biking or swimming. Yet I just didn’t feel any spark in any of my workouts. I’d slog off a handful of miles on a treadmill or sweat away on a stationary bike while watching re-runs of Top Chef at the gym after work, then shower up and go eat dinner. Who cared.

And then it struck me: Since I was already running, biking and swimming, why not combine all three? Swim + bike + run = A triathlon! Hey! That was something!

I began cruising the Internet with a purpose. The length of these races was incredibly daunting at first, even the so-called “sprint tris,” which quickly became the only ones I was looking at. Sure, I could run 5 km or bike 15 miles or swim however many laps but combined? Um…

The second thing that concerned me was the price. Triathlons are no picnic to organize, I’m sure. They have to block off roads and beaches and parking lots. They have to hire lifeguards, police officers, and medical teams, and all the myriad of other things that goes into planning not one, but three races. And all that costs money, honey. As was quickly obvious by the registration fee for most of the tris I was finding: between $75 and $125. For one (three-in-one) race. Oi.

Let’s pause here for a moment to review a few facts. 1) I’m a recent college grad (two words: student. loans.) 2) In 2010, our country was—and still is today—recovering from the greatest economic recession we’ve had in years. 3) At the time, I was an Americorps volunteer. This last point is the most important, because Americorps volunteers get paid a very measly living stipend…a figure that puts them at the poverty line of wherever they’re serving…a figure so small I qualified for (and used) food stamps (A fact I always thought my alma mater probably wouldn’t be too eager to include in their latest admissions brochure: “Come to our college! When you graduate, you can get on food stamps only a few months later!”). Basically, it boiled down to $100 for a registration fee being a bit nuts for my monthly budget.

I sat on the idea.

Work stalled. Working out stalled.

Spring rolled around. I couldn’t take it anymore. Encouraged by my boss, a recent fitness convert (Don’t you love when someone can so utterly transform their lives, right in front of your eyes over the course of one short year? That was my boss during my year of Americorps service.), I looked up triathlon races again. The price had gone up.

I looked at my bank account balance, bit my lip, and went for it. A few minutes later, the confirmation email swept into my inbox. I was officially signed up for the YWCA Minneapolis Women’s Triathlon  on August 15, 2010.

The spring and early summer went by in a blur. Suddenly bent with purpose, I increased my workouts to six days a week. I ran around a track in blistering heat, swam between buoys at the lake nearby, and biked for miles on my old purple mountain bike, which dated all the way back to my junior high years.  I felt awesome! I was training for something! I was an athlete!  And yet…

That bike was going to be a problem. In all of my visions of triathlon glory, of me flying through the water like Michael Phelps and peddling the course at, like, 500 miles an hour, and leading the pack—no, breaking ahead of the pack!—during the road race, the bike was not in them. Its clunky gears, its thick and gawky wheels, its upright handlebars, its too-small frame…none of them were synonymous with my sure victory.

It had to go. Now bikes, as many of you may already know (and as I did not at the time), are really expensive. What’re a few gears and some rubber tires doing costing hundreds upon hundreds of dollars? I ask you. New bike, out. Used bike, in! I found one, a women’s Schwinn road bike that’s probably older than I am, at a used bike store in south St. Paul. I broke up with my purple mountain bike on the spot, and biked the blue one home.

Next stop, race day!

~Megan~

The Red Dirt Highlands of Western Kenya

Where Dreams Don’t Fade

In the red-dirt highlands of western Kenya, 200 miles from the capital, Nairobi, rests the 4,000-person town of Iten. Remotely situated among the peaks and basins of the Great Rift Valley, the settlement’s 2,400-meter elevation and female mayor distinguish it from many Kenyan towns, but it’s truly extraordinary for another reason. Iten, as well as nearby Eldoret, form the epicenter of Kenyan running culture. Today hundreds of athletes—some aspiring, some well-established—train in these towns at camps founded by former and current champions.

People from all over Kenya and the world trek like pilgrims to the region for training; this year my friend Martin Mudry and his one-time cross country teammate, Alex Nichols, made the journey, but not just to run. They’re making Where Dreams Don’t Fade, a documentary about three Kenyan runners and the sprit that drives the world’s most decorated running nation.

In many ways, Iten represents the ideal place to capture the essence of great running. For pure saturation of speed, few if any place can rival the town and the surrounding area, where the Kalenjiin tribe have lived and trained on their way to winning more international medals in 800-meter to marathon races than anyone. Not every Kenyan blazes on the track or trails, but Alex said, “The percentage of people in Kenya we would consider runners has to be so much higher than it is in the US.”

Martin and Alex both enjoyed running success in the United States. A year after a 2007 trip to a running camp in Ngong—just southwest of Nairobi—hosted by Olympic Silver Medalist Wilson Boit Kipketer, Martin finished second in the Minnesota Athletic Conference cross country championship. Alex has top-five finishes in major trail races, including the grueling Pikes Peak Ascent; but now they’re shooting film while living and training beside world record holders.

Kenya, Martin says, is a place where many people are literally the best or “believe they can be the best runner.” To an unaccustomed observer, therefore, the camps can seem surreal. “It’s like a lot of amateur basketball players being invited to train with LeBron James, and then stay in his pool house,” he said.

While approaching “King” James about documenting his life and shooting some hoops with his entourage might sound intimidating, the attitude of Kenya’s future and current greats made the two filmmaker’s initial job easy, and bolstered their running confidence at the same time.

“They make you feel welcome,” Alex said. “It doesn’t feel like a big deal that they’re the best in the world.”

The great runners, Martin added, “the guys that are superfast, they’re not going to avoid you because you have a slow personal record. Everyone’s allowed to run together and it’s always encouraged, and that makes you feel like you can run a 2:10 marathon—maybe it’s not true, but you feel that way.”

The unflappable belief and determination of Kenyan runners constitutes the core of Where Dreams Don’t Fade. The film specifically documents three Kenyan runners in various stages of chasing their goals: Robert, a talented runner in high school, who aggravated back injuries in the military and started a family and business while waiting to train again; Virginia, a college graduate trying to get a job so she can afford to train full-time in Iten, so she can make money and get a Masters; and Alex, the brother of a Bronze Medalist at the Track and Field World Championships, who is training at the camp in the hopes of attracting a full-time manager.

Martin and Alex, who currently live at the camp of James Kwalia, himself a Bronze Medalists at the World Championships in 5000m, chose the trio because of their on-screen charisma and the nature of their stories. Like many Kenyans, Martin said, “they’re pursuing running in the face of many challenges, but what’s more unique is that all three are going after these running dreams even though they don’t have to or even though they could be pursuing other things.”

Capturing the paths of three distinct lives on film has its share of rewards, but also challenges, largely from a scheduling point of view. After making the important creative decisions in the first month, Alex and Martin set to logging the dozens of hours of footage they’ll likely need, but progress isn’t nearly as fast as the morning training sessions they attend.

Miscommunications happen, meetings get missed, and “people don’t always know where they’re going to be in two hours,” Alex said. “They think they’re going to have lunch, but maybe they decide to go on a long run.”

For people making a running documentary in Kenya, however, runs serve more often as sources of amazement than of frustration. “There are so many people at such a high level here, you can see a world record holder being beaten in a workout by some person you’ve never heard of,” Alex said. “It’s just exciting you can be a part of it.”

As for their own goals, Martin and Alex look toward September, when they hope to have Dreams edited in time for a submission to the Sundance Film Festival.

~Will~

Where Dreams Don’t Fade is now available for purchase on DVD

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Prague

TIED FOR SECOND PLACE – RUNNING IN PRAGUE

Run for the Czech Republic. Run for Yourself. Run for Free Beer.

As I stepped off the plane in Prague, Czech Republic my buddy Max tapped my shoulder and pointed to a big billboard in the airport terminal. “RUN FOR THE CZECH REPUBLIC. RUN FOR YOURSELF. RUN FOR FREE BEER” it read in all capital letters. “We have to do that!” Max said with a smile on his face.

The advertisement was for a half marathon only three days away and it conveniently overlapped with our schedule in Prague. Why not? I thought to myself. If Max, a tubby baseball player from New York City feels confident about this, I can definitely run a half marathon. “What do you think that means when it says ‘run for free beer’?” Max asked. I shrugged in equal confusion. Having never run any more than 5-6 miles, I excitedly agreed, unaware of what we were getting ourselves into.

The following morning after leaving our hostel we ventured into downtown Prague and walked into the blow-up tent to register for the race. With the translation help of a kind Czech teenager we were able to sign up for the race smoothly. We left the tent with a t-shirt, a timer to strap around our ankles, and a number to pin onto our shirts. “Nice we’re actually going to do this!” I said to Max enthusiastically. The next two days we continued with our plans as scheduled, which included touring the magnificent cathedrals, walking down old cobbled streets, and eating kurtos kalacs (a wonderfully delicious Czech pastry).  The night before the race, I ate a big plate of pasta fettuccine as instructed by a friend who advised feasting on carbohydrates.

It was a cold morning in Prague when we woke up, so I wore a long-sleeved shirt and shorts for the run. We meandered over to the start of the race after a light breakfast and congregated by the changing room (which was in fact just a large outdoor tent with some drapes over the side). It was before the race had even begun; yet the stench of body odor could have suffocated a small child. I could not believe the smells of so many men could produce something so pungent. The “bathroom” was a line of urinals in broad daylight offering no privacy. We walked across the street passing one of Prague’s most famous landmarks, the Charles Bridge, and waited for the race to begin. A group of five men (based on our stereotypes, we could only assume were Kenyan) jogged in the middle of the street and the dense crowd parted for them just how I imagined Moses’ parting of the Red Sea.

There was an announcement that the race was starting momentarily and that everyone should get ready behind the start line. Max and I nervously looked at each other secretly hoping the other would flake out to give us an excuse not to actually follow through with this crazy idea. Neither of us wanted to bail so we did our stretches out and took off in a jog once the whistle was blown. Max pushed ahead of me within 5 minutes, and it was the last time I saw him for the whole race. Giant balloons were pinned to the jerseys of trained professionals each running at different time intervals for the benefit of the runners.

After the first few miles I started to get thirsty and saw an upcoming table with a plethora of cups, and I decided it was a good time to hydrate myself. As I approached the table, I scanned all of the cups and noticed they were each filled with a dark brown liquid that was foaming at the top. There is no way this is beer. I thought to myself. I took a sip to quench my thirst and sure enough, it was beer. Is this what it meant when the billboard said “RUN FOR FREE BEER?” Do Czechs actually like beer so much that they drink it during a half marathon? I gulped down the cup, laughing to myself as I kept running. Maybe a particular beer company is sponsoring this table? I didn’t have time to reflect for too long so I kept moving, eager for the next table to give a liquid that could actually hydrate me. Another few miles went by and a new table appeared off in the distance. As I got closer I noticed that once again all the cups were filled with the same brown liquid! Eager to drink something, I gulped down another beer. This happened three more times during the race, as each table continued to hand out beer to the runners, despite my constant hopes for a cool cup of H20.

As the race came to a close, amazed by my ability to have kept up with the red balloon runner indicating the 2-hour half marathon, I counted the number of beers I drank. It was five. In two hours, I drank five beers, all in an effort to guzzle any liquid, and truthfully to optimize on the free beer that was advertised so widely (despite that it likely slowed down my race).  When I eventually met up with Max at the end, we avoided the changing room for fear of what monstrous odor would be coming out of it after the race. We made sure to get our free 30-second massages from two chubby middle-aged Czech women who slapped our legs around (one on each leg) and we laughed at the hilarity of the day. I mocked Max for finishing thirty minutes after me, but in truth we felt accomplished for our victories. When we woke up the next morning, unable to bend our legs, go up stairs, or walk long distances, we were no longer laughing at the hilarity of the previous day.  The joke was on us. The real laughter came three days later when we could freely move again, without keeling over in leg pain.

~Eli~

This story was submitted by Eli Zach Terris.  Eli is currently a graduating senior at Brandeis University in Boston.   He tells EY: “Since I love writing stories, running (and coincidentally am in need of new running shoes!)  I decided to give it a go.  It was fun to relive these stories while writing them.”  This Czech Republic Running Story is one of two stories that Eli submitted.  Czech back – oops – we mean check back to see where else Eli has been.

will & bijani on train

Highlands, Low Budget — Scotland: Part I

Part I

London to Inverness

Things started poorly.   Beneath a gloomy London sky at King’s Cross Station, my fiancée and I (see our Engagement Story Parts 1 & 2) boarded the Caledonia Sleeper  for Inverness, the Scottish Highlands’ largest city. Bijani had mapped a triangular tour of the region by train and bus, incorporating Loch Ness, the United Kingdom’s tallest mountain and many, many things Harry Potter.

Fun? Sure. Affordable? Probably not.

Early on there was tension: if nine years together had demonstrated anything, it would be the futility of lobbying me to “splurge” on a sleeping berth, and she didn’t even try. But my future wife clearly wasn’t keen on the half-empty railcar and reclining chairs we settled into, premade salami sandwiches in hand.

The situation didn’t improve. Near the end of our journey I awoke to a man shouting at his phone, “Yeah, Mate. I’ve been sitting next to a convicted murderer since Perth. Just introduced himself. Had his daughter with him. He was all right, but…”

I closed my eyes. When seats don’t actually recline and railcar temperatures fluctuate between steam-room sweaty and walk-in-freezer, murder seems less disturbing. For nine hours I’d questioned the wisdom of saving $20 to the point where my core beliefs faltered.

Then the brand new light unveiled our first real view of Scotland: fresh green pastures; sheep, cloud-like in their fluffiness; friendly white cottages economically trimmed with red.

As the train rambled into the unofficial Highland capital, I prepared for a wonderful time in Scotland, home of my ancestors, at whatever price—within reason.

*** INVERNESS***

A city by population, Inverness (meaning “Mouth of the River Ness”) charms like a slightly stern European village. Inverness Castle, the modern day incarnation of a former Pictish stronghold, overlooks the city center from a small hill, while the Ness’ clean, industrious waters divide a picturesque downtown. Its main thoroughfares are appealingly cluttered with church steeples and stone buildings, many of which border an idyllic pedestrian mall.

Our guidebook compared the city’s High Street to London’s frenetic Oxford Street, just less crowded and with a kilt store instead of Dolce and Gabbana; a dollar store instead of a Gap, and instead of a Virgin Megastore, a dollar store.

The guidebook also noted Scots, perhaps by undue reputation, are notorious penny pinchers.

This was my kind of place.

“Does my Scotch ancestry explain why I’m so cheap?” I asked as we walked the empty mall toward our hostel.

“I don’t think there’s any question.”

“Oh good, it’s genetic.”

She laughed, though some resentment lingered in her voice. She’s still upset we’ve seen every breath in our London apartment this winter because I insist layers are more cost effective than heating, microwaves are luxury items for the upper classes and an authentic Dickensian experience will advance her literature studies.

Working back toward her good graces, I requested a private room at the BazPackers Inn,  a cozy site across from Inverness Castle, for $10 extra. Seated on a warm bed, we unloaded our stuff, took inventory and prepared for a full day of exploration.

…To Be Continued in Part II: Inverness to Loch Ness

   -Will-

The Polo Fields in Cleveland's Metroparks

Sunny Spot: Cleveland, Ohio

 
 

The Polo Fields in Cleveland's Metroparks

SHOUT OUT to our fans in CLEVELAND, OHIO.  This week you have the highest number of hits on the EntertainingYourself.com website.  We LOVE it and we wanted to find out what’s happening in your town so we did a little digging.  First – your weather for Wednesday, 12/22/10 – 32 degrees & partly SUNNY, partly cloudy, with a chance of snow flurries!  OK – so a little chillier than our usual Sunny Spots, but great for outdoor activities OR last minute Christmas shopping.  Fun Fact – You are surrounded by the Emerald Necklace, a ring of 16 parks circling this major US city, which span across 22,000 acres.  The parks include hundreds of miles of walking, bicycle, and horse trails, woods, picnic areas, beaches, five nature education centers, seven golf courses, rivers & lakes for fishing and the Cleveland Metropark Zoo. And, if that is not enough, you are right next to the Cuyahoga Valley National Park and Lake Erie – one of the USA’s 5 Great Lakes (the largest group of freshwater lakes on Earth).  You also boast an amazing array of museums, including the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame.  One other little fact, you are home to the Great Lakes Brewing Company, Ohio’s first microbrewery, famous for their Burning River and Christmas Ale.   Thanks for stopping by our site.  We look forward to hearing more about how you are Entertaining Yourselves in Cleveland!

NOAA Map of US for 12.13.10

Sunny Spot: MIDWEST, USA

 

NOAA Map of US for 12.13.10

SHOUT OUT to our fans in the MIDWEST, USA.   First let us say that  in the world of EntertainingYourself.com, a Sunny Spot is really a state of mind.  Therefore, not every Sunny Spot is necessarily warm, or even sunny for that matter!  In the Midwest this week, you are in the midst of a Winter Wonderland! Perfect for Entertaining Yourself indoors and out!  With so many flights cancelled, traffic delays, school and business closings, not to mention really chilly temperatures (friends in South Dakota reported wind chills of minus 35degrees F) it makes sense that many of you would be snuggling up inside, sipping hot chocolate and what else?  Surfing the web of course!    

Then there are the brave souls that are willing to bundle up and get outside.  We’ve heard tales of 7 -10 ft drifts in places like Wisconsin and Minnesota, with snow quickly piling up in the Dakotas, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Michigan and Ohio too!   

 

 If you dare, it is the perfect weather for hiking, snowshoeing, cross country and downhill skiing, snowboarding, tobogganing, sledding, snowmobiling, skating and the old standby’s: building snowmen and waging snow ball fights!   

Once you’ve had a chance to warm up again, we’d love to hear from you.  What’s your favorite way of entertaining yourself on a cold snowy day? 

-EY Staff 

ps:  Over the coming weeks and months, EntertainingYourself.com will showcase indoor, as well as outdoor, recreational activities and hobbies.  Look for articles ranging from Brewing Beer to playing indoor Hockey (both ice and field)!  Stay tuned… 

 

Organ Pipe Cactus

Sunny Spot: Scottsdale, Arizona

Organ Pipe Cactus

SHOUT OUT to our fans in Scottsdale, Arizona.  Thanks for checking out EntertainingYourself.com – now we want to check out what you’re up to.  So far, it’s clear that you are a Mecca for outdoor enthusiasts.  #1 – SUNSHINE!  For this first week of December you’ll be SUNNY (mostly) with temperatures in the 70’s.  Nice!   #2 - Amazing Parks.  You’re known for having the largest urban wilderness area – with over 60 miles of trails!   The 3rd Annual McDowell Sonoran Challenge  which will include Mountain Biking (30K course), Running (15K) and Hiking (9 miles) will take place on January 29, 2011 (on the McDowell Sonoran Preserve – almost 14,000 acres of open land).   Sounds like an awesome way of Entertaining Yourself in the new year!   They tell us that the premiere trailhead, their “Gateway to the Preserve,” is located at 18333 North Thompson Peak Parkway.  #3 – World Class Golf Courses.  The International Association of Golf Tour Operators voted Scottsdale 2010’s Top North American Golf Destination!  #4 – (if the other 3 are not enough) Scottsdale is just a 4 hour drive from The Grand Canyon.   So tell us  – what is your favorite way of Entertaining Yourself in Scottsdale?

Great Falls Park, VA

Sunny Spot: Reston, VA

Great Falls Park, VA

SHOUT OUT to our fans in Reston, Virginia You’ve been loyal followers of EntertainingYourself.com website since we first went live.  We LOVE it and wanted to find out what you’re up to there! Today’s weather (11/24/10):  Sunny and 53 degrees.  Perfect for the countless outdoor activities within and surrounding your community.  Other Fun Facts:  You are just minutes from Great Falls Park on the Potomac River and less than 20 miles from our Nation’s Capital.  Seems like you have everything you need for Entertaining Yourselves right at your fingertips:  history, museums, outdoor recreation and lots of shops, to name a few.  So Reston, what are your favorite ways of Entertaining Yourselves?