Around the world in 50 days

The Discreet Traveler and companion are going around the world in 50 days. It would not normally be discreet of me to publish in advance that I’m going, but in this case, we have someone staying to look after our house (no, really) and you don't want to mess with her. Do you know the expression "shoot you soon as look at you"?

This is mainly a trip to Australia, which The Discreet Traveler has never visited before. It is Round-the-World in the sense that there are five main flight legs: from Europe to the Middle East (just changing planes), to southeast Asia, to Australia, to the west coast of North America, and finally back to Europe. It's a long way to go, which is partly why we're breaking it up; but don't be put off. Just in the past couple of weeks I've heard of two different women over 80 years old having a jaunt out to Australia, and that's from Britain, a brutal distance away. Let me remind you: If you have an opportunity, take it. Don't think you'll come back and get it later. Man, I'm still mourning a laptop case on that principle...

So: Day 0-1: London to Singapore via Dubai

This morning The Discreet Traveler was further east than I had ever been before. In British pronunciation Dubai sounds like "Jew-bai," which is ironic, because Jews are banned from the United Arab Emirates. Oh wait--so are homosexuals. We had to change planes there because Qantas, the Australian airline, has sold its soul to Emirates, so we got out of Dubai airport as fast as we could, consoling ourselves with the reputation of Emirates as a first-class airline. Nothing special about it at all, in fact. I haven't been served so little food and drink since the lately departed "Ted," United's "express" airline that would fly you three hours across the U.S.A. with nothing. There were metal utensils and real napkins, though, and an actual glass on Qantas, which did remind me of a more civilized era of air travel.

The flight from London was a reminder of just how small Europe is, as we crossed almost all of it in a couple of hours. Belgium, Germany, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, and Romania, then across the Black Sea, Turkey and Iraq. Having made our connection, we breathed a sigh of relief as we crossed the Gulf of Oman and over to India, and down the Strait of Malacca between Malaysia and the Indonesian island of Sumatra. This is also TDT's first visit to Asia, and, while male homosexuality is still illegal in Singapore, female is not even acknowledged (both a British Empire legacy). It was a bit of a throwback to the 1980s coming out to the front desk clerk; fortunately, Singapore hoteliers are as discreet as the traveler!

I don't know about Judaism, either, but the other major world religions are well represented in Singapore, with mosques, Hindu and Buddhist temples, and various churches all cheek by jowl (in fact I saw a Catholic church that could have been a mosque for its white minarets--you could only tell by the small crosses rather than crescents). I have never gotten through an airport so quickly and efficiently as at Changi, even much smaller ones; nor have I seen more Christmas decorations anywhere. Singapore is Malay, Indian, Chinese, and English, and the reindeer and ornaments together with palm trees and orchids make for a rather surreal tropical combination.

Could not complain about the trip, other than jet lag, but enjoyed a local meal at Pin Wei Xuan, involving chili crab and something called "God Bless You," which I think was a play on its three main ingredients in Chinese. Potato, capsicums, and what I only told T. later was eggplant (aubergine), once she'd safely enjoyed it!

The very old donkey, and other tales of Greek islands

There are two harbors in Rhodes: the commercial harbour (where you can easily walk on and off the ship) and Mandriki Harbor, which is where the Colossus of Rhodes, one of the seven wonders of the ancient world, once stood. In case it was not clear from my last post, I recommend Rhodes. If you want history, there is St. Paul’s Gate and the Square of the Hebrew Martyrs; if you want gelato, I had the best frozen yogurt of my life, with honey and nuts. If you want to be out on a boat, really feeling the waves and the cool sea breeze, 6 euros will get you a glass-bottomed boat tour (ignore the glass bottom) and half an hour around the harbors, with views of the best-preserved inhabited medieval city. Our boat guy was playing Bob Marley the whole time and rolling a cigarette; we half wondered if it was a spliff and he’d be passing it around!

Our next island was Santorini—named after St. Irene by the Italians, but called Thira by the Greeks. A funny thing happened waiting for the cable car at the top: we befriended a couple from Tasmania and, by the time we reached the harbor a couple of minutes later, we were invited to their pub at the end of the Sydney–Hobart boat race (a future post, perhaps?) The friendliness of people on this trip, in fact, is unrivaled in my recent experience; I lost track of all the places in Canada and the U.S.A. folks came from, but one woman had been, like me, a Paralympics volunteer—sledge hockey, Vancouver 2010 Winter Games.

Pointed across the Sea of Crete at Santorini, it occurred to me that every day I saw something more beautiful than the day before. Took a “pirate boat” to two uninhabited volcanic islands in the middle of the submerged caldera (collapsed volcano). We hiked the first, Nea Kameni, seeing the smoking sulfur holes and feeling the heat within. Then we sailed to Palia (Old) Kameni, where I had to fulfil a bet I’d made. I’d been working out, you see (delighted when some big man left a weight machine and I didn’t have to adjust the weight), and said that if T. came to the gym I would jump into the sea. So, at Palia Kameni I jumped off the boat and swam to the thermal springs area. 

Pretty much the entire journey, T. had been talking about how awful it was to ride a donkey up to the top of Santorini thirty years before. What do you suppose she wanted to do the moment we arrived at Fira? “If it’s good enough for the Holy Mother, it’s good enough for me,” T. said, and proceeded to clamber onto, she swore, the same donkey that had tried to throw her off all the way up in the 1980s! “You would have hated every minute of it!” she assured me joyfully.

I certainly recommend the clifftop town, which has truly breathtaking views, but I can testify that the cable car does just as well. And it’s much faster, so I waited at the top with a lady from West Virginia, whose granddaughters had made the donkey decision too. I saw her again…

If possible, an even more stunning view is the starry sky at night. I grew up in the country, yet have never seen stars so numerous and bright, ever.

The southern coast of Crete is as close to Libya as the northern coast is to mainland Greece. The history is sobering too: after more than two thousand years on the island, the Jewish community of Crete was finally obliterated when the last surviving Cretan Jews, some two hundred people, died on a German boat—sunk by the British. That’s war for you.

The Mediterranean was more peaceful where we were swimming, at Costa Costa Beach. I’ve never walked on such soft sand. The town, Hania on the northwest coast, has Byzantine buildings, a Venetian lighthouse, and a mosque that has been closed since the Turks were “relocated” in 1923. You can’t get away from history in this region. Even Paul had another cameo here, where, in the Acts of the Apostles, he warned his ship’s crew of the shipwreck to come on Malta.

What impressed me most about this journey was the cleanliness and friendliness of everyone, beginning from Rome. In the Mediterranean, we were treated like adults, instead of constantly being regulated. The contrast with life under the nanny state is hard to miss. We can choose to swim, dive, hike, etc. and take our own risks. Even ride an obstreperous donkey that should have long since retired.

The L Word

I said "girlfriend" recently, as in "my girlfriend." It was full of affection, but I was corrected by a gay man. Surely I didn't mean girlfriend, he said. Implicit in this was the assumption--to me, a straight assumption--that a girlfriend is not a significant other. For that, he wanted the W word.

Whereas I like girlfriend. Girlfriend isn't insignificant; it means we're still dating, still having fun! Wow, haven't politics changed.

Twenty-five years ago, Betty Berzon published Permanent Partners. She wrote about the daring and fortitude of gay and lesbian couples who lived in committed relationships for years. They did so, not only without any legal recognition (even “domestic partnerships” were rare then), but often without social recognition. Their families of choice might be supportive, but in the larger world, the relationships were closeted. Even many gay people tended to assume, in those days, that relationships didn’t last, and to ask “Are you and X still together?” when they would not have asked this of a heterosexual wife or husband.

Fast forward to 2013 and a growing number of the United States have same-sex marriage. Gays and lesbians have the option (not the obligation) to commit to the same legal rights and responsibilities as any other couple. Many have embraced an equivalence to heterosexual marriage that was undreamed of in Betty Berzon’s world. Commitment ceremonies, yes, but not weddings. And would a gay or lesbian person ever refer to their “husband” or “wife”?

I don’t miss inequality or persecution. I have as much fun at a wedding as anybody else. Sometimes I even call what we had a “wedding,” because other people do and, well, it’s just easier. They mean well. They are being supportive, saying that my relationship is equal to a traditional marriage. And I love them for that.

But what really lights my fire is the radical, the dissenting voice. The different. The self-determining. And for this, nothing beats lover for me.

Roberts’ Rules of Lesbian Living states: “The word lover is always more than straight people really want to know.” Not apologizing for that is part of being different. Lover means something different to straight people; but it was our word. It is sexual, liberated. Queer.

To some extent, partner works this way in the U.S.A. If an American has a “partner,” that tends to mean a same-sex partner. But this is not true in other countries. You can buy a “Happy birthday to my partner” card in Britain, but it isn’t a gay card. It isn’t there to make us feel included. Most “partners” in this country are long-term heterosexual couples, who just don’t choose to get married.

Betty Berzon thought that partner was an imperfect term, and I agree. I still think it sounds like we opened a dry-cleaning business together. The thing about America, though, is that same-sex marriage is important there because marriage is important there. America is essentially a conservative country, and marriage is a conservative institution.

In the U.S., it still is not typical to have a “partner” if you are of the opposite sex. It somehow is not real enough, committed enough, until you marry that person. No wonder same-sex marriage has become the be-all and end-all of equality in that country.

I believe everyone should have that choice, no doubt about it, but I am troubled by the belief that marriage is what proves we have arrived as equal citizens. Gay and lesbian Americans can still be fired, lose their homes or custody of their children for being who they are. Gays and lesbians who are not in a relationship, or not interested in getting married, are also our community. We can dance at your wedding without ever acquiring a wife.

So hats (and other things) off to lovers, people. I love lover, for the very reason it is too much information for some. It is our word. We chose it. Just as we chose our lovers, and the way we built relationships with them, piece by piece, without the wholesale support of society or law.

Ruins

This past June The Discreet Traveler was fortunate enough to travel to various parts of Greece and several ancient sites including Efes--the biblical Ephesus--in Turkey. I went along on the lofty pretext of discovering places where the apostle Paul had voyaged, according to the New Testament. Things started off badly, though, in a pub quiz the night before we docked at Piraeus, when the questions were of this "guess what it stands for" type: 39 BOTOT. Imagine my horror when I didn't get this answer--39 Books Of The Old Testament. Some pilgrim I was! 

I was traveling in the company of three companions who have all traveled more widely than I have, been in these parts of the world before, and decades ago. So they have been regaling me, in Italy and Greece, with stories about how much better Europe was in the 1970s, when of course I wasn't there. "You used to be able to walk right up to St. Peter's in Rome," they say, "no lines." "Oh man, I remember when I was first here, you could walk right up and break pieces off the Parthenon! Must be why it's roped off now!" This happened at ruin after ruin, and I could only be grateful that they were roped off, or we'd be in the position of Mark Twain in The Innocents Abroad, watching his devout companions hack bits off every biblical site they visited. 

I was suitably impressed by the Acropolis, the ancient Agora, Hadrian's Arch, and the Temple of Olympian Zeus; I wish I'd had more time in Athens and would love to use it as a future base for visiting more of mainland Greece. What I couldn't find an answer for was why there were dogs everywhere. I mean everywhere, even portraits of dogs (dressed up in clothes) on the walls of a café. They were as ubiquitous as the cats in the Upper Barraka Gardens of Malta. We were touring Athens on our own, but there was a guide on the bus and I asked her about the dogs. She said not to worry about them, they are the responsibility of the municipality and I should see the cats on the Greek Islands! Or, as it turned out, in Turkey.

Turkey was different, not least because the ruins were just there, for anyone to see and walk through. Unlike the Parthenon, people must not have started breaking chunks off the ruins of Ephesus yet, so it is possible to walk down the Curetes Way, a complete Roman street through an entire ruined city, see the Library of Celsus, and walk into the Great Theatre where Paul preached in the Book of Acts. In other words, it was the way everyone kept telling me Greece and Rome used to be, because the nomadic Turks didn't build over the ancient sites, leaving them there. We also went to Milet (Miletus), where Paul gave his farewell speech, and Magnesia, a ruin so newly dug up we appeared to be doing it a favor by visiting it. 

At Didyma, I stood in the ruins of the Temple of Apollo, magnificently pagan, and listened to the muezzin's call to prayer from the mosque across the street. I cannot say what the rest of Turkey is like, but I would love to go back and see for myself.

The Greek island of Rhodes is closer to Turkey than it is to mainland Greece. Rhodes has had layer upon layer of cultures: the mosque of Suleyman the Magnificent, the Church of Our Lady of the Verge, and the new synagogue, rebuilt by survivors, are all within a short distance of each other within the old walled city. The Jewish quarter makes a somber impression, because during wartime occupation, two thousand Jews were deported to Nazi camps; only fifty survived. 

Except for the glorious weather (in Greek mythology, Rodos was the bride of Helios, the sun), there could not have been a greater contrast with the island of Mykonos. We spent a hedonistic day at gay- and family-friendly Elia Beach. It may be possible to get over the blues of the Aegean Sea or the joy of swimming in it, but I wasn't able to. There was a mom--in her 80s--and her five grown daughters along for the trip, and she and one daughter were the very first to whip their tops off and plunge into the cold water. That's what I want to be like when I grow up.

The mark of a good vacation: I wrote in my journal, "I hardly ever think about work, England, or even e-mail, and when I do I don't give a damn."

The eleventh tip

Thanks to reader M. for pointing out an additional tip for The Discreet Traveler. If you are a person of color, or your name or origin suggests "global south," I am sure this is not news to you:

11. Racial profiling is very, very real. It does not matter what passport you hold or who you're traveling with. If you look or have a name that might belong to a certain nationality or region of the world, expect to be marked for searches wherever you go.

Sad, but true.

Through no merit of my own, I have the privilege of not experiencing this sort of profiling, but on a much lower level, I can sympathize. I have often run up against a disbelief in, even contempt for, acquired nationality. Today, for instance, yet another British person told me "You're not really Canadian," meaning I was born and grew up somewhere else.

I am not quite sure why it is so important to some people to pigeonhole me as one nationality or the other, the way people need to know if a baby is a boy or a girl. Does this person deny the Canadianness of the woman upstairs, who was born in Romania and still sounds Romanian? But this woman and I have Toronto and Canada Day in common, even both took classes from George Brown College.

I said, Well I was Canadian when I moved to the United Kingdom and registered to vote. Commonwealth citizens who live in the UK can vote in elections here; Americans cannot. And I was Canadian when I exchanged my Ontario driver's license for a UK one, something I couldn't have done with a U. S. license.

I was even Canadian during the 2002 Winter Olympics in Salt Lake City, when, like other Torontonians from all over the world, I cheered Canada's hockey teams (women's and men's) to gold medal victories. I wasn't a citizen yet. I didn't have a Canadian passport. But I had pride in a country that I had chosen, and the only country that has ever chosen me.

So yes, some people will question who or what you are, no matter how hard you have worked to achieve it. I guess they don't realize that someone who has gone through a lot to become American or Canadian--maybe even British--may value their new country more than many do who just happen to have been born some place.

Whether you are African-American, Syrian-Canadian, or Pakistani-British, the Discreet Traveler is sorry that the world is this way. Tip: Let's make it better.

Top 10: Crossing borders

UK colleague, approaching U.S. immigration officer with her then-fiancé.
IO: What is the purpose of your visit to the United States?
UK: For a holiday, plus, we're getting married while we're here.
IO: Do you have any intention of staying longer than you're allowed to?
UK (looking at him like he is a nutjob): And pay for health care?!
IO: Good point. Next!

This same colleague, on another occasion, was asked by the U.S. IO what she did back in the UK. She was a bank manager. I guess the IO decided someone who was a bank manager in the UK was unlikely to harbor secret ambitions to work in her cousin’s gas station in America.

One of the key goals of The Discreet Traveler is to visit different countries, as easily as possible. The first step in doing this is usually “immigration”—the officers who are in charge of letting people into their country, or not. These officers are called various things depending on where they are in the world. For the purposes of this post, immigration officer (IO) refers to them.

If you’re a typical traveler, you’re just planning to visit a different country from where you live, not “immigrate” there. So it may not make sense to think of going through “immigration.” The first step of your trip, though, is getting into that other country, and these are the guys (and gals) who will let you in, or have the power to keep you out of it. Since many different rules and unwritten understandings govern the way IOs do their job, and your goal is to get past them quickly and lawfully, it will save you much time and heartache to think the way they do.

If you’ve traveled a lot, and had many different experiences at many different borders, some of them are bound to have been less pleasant than others. You may have developed views about IOs in general, or those of one country in particular, that are less than positive. You may even believe that many of the laws and regulations of international travel are ridiculous, that people should be freer to travel than we currently are—and The Discreet Traveler has sympathy for these views. Nonetheless, thinking like an IO, no matter how contrary to your personal opinions, will make your life easier. It is for that reason that I have these tips for you here—not because I necessarily agree with them.

An IO thinks in a certain way because it is his or her job. IOs have a great deal of individual discretion to let you into a country, or not. Having a visa, or a visa waiver, or a passport from a particular country does not guarantee that the country you’re visiting will let you in—only the IO can decide this. You can think this system is fair or not. The point is, make your life easier by acknowledging the way IOs do their job.

They are called immigration officers because their default position is to assume that you are immigrating. Again, you may think this is ridiculous—you have a perfectly nice country to go home to, do they really think everyone in the world wants to immigrate to their country, etc. Nonetheless, it is up to you to convince the IO that you are not immigrating (unless, of course, you are, and have the proper visa for that) Take a deep breath, and look at your situation the way the IO does. How do you look to him or her?

The other thing to remember is that The Discreet Traveler recommends discretion—not dishonesty. Answering the questions the IO asks, and not volunteering all sorts of other information, will save both of you time. Answering a question less than truthfully could, if the truth is uncovered later, get you in more trouble than the original answer. Of course it is none of the IO’s business, but that’s the point—they can ask you anything; you have no rights at their border. 

Top 10 tips:

1. Assume that those around you, unless they have gone through immigration themselves, do not know correct information about their country and its policies. Expect to have to research this yourself, from official sources. Expect your friends to be surprised when they learn of your experiences.

2. Assume that it will be harder to get into a country than you think. Expect to have to apply for something, or pay for something, ahead of time. Expect to have to provide evidence, and pack it in your hand luggage. Be pleasantly surprised if it turns out you don’t need this.

3. Be prepared, and therefore relaxed. Even though you might be tired from a long trip, relax and be pleasant to the IO. There is always the chance s/he will reciprocate. A tense or confrontational person is the most likely to get grilled, regardless if you have any bad intentions or anything to hide.

4. Countries are different. U.S. and Canadian passport holders rarely attract any attention at all from European IOs, except for the United Kingdom, which pays a great deal of attention to people at the border. The U.S. reserves the right to give everybody a hard time, including its own citizens. Other countries may have legal and cultural aspects, for example on homosexuality, that require extra care or may even deter you from traveling there. Think these things through and decide in advance how to approach the IO (lawfully and honestly). Don’t just turn up at a border and grandstand, unless your purpose is not to get into the country (ever), but rather to publicize something politically.

5. Every experience is different. Every IO has discretion to do his/her job differently from the next person. You will stand in one line one time, fill out different forms different times, etc. Sometimes you will be made to feel welcome in a country you’ve never visited before, and sometimes your own country (or one of them) will treat you rudely. Just keep breathing and treat it as part of the adventure. Your only objective is to get in, and if the IO happens to be friendly and make it a pleasant experience, that is a bonus.

6. Satisfy the IO that you can enter the country. If you need a visa, have it, and open your passport to that page. If you need a visa waiver, get it in advance and carry a printed copy just in case. If your passport allows visa-free travel, know that—and appreciate it! Some nationalities rarely get that opportunity.

7. Satisfy the IO that while you’re visiting, you will behave consistently with the terms of a visitor’s visa (or whatever you have). Unless you have a work permit, the IO wants to know that you will not be undertaking work of any kind, not online, not even volunteer (check the immigration laws of the country in advance). If you’re traveling on business, make sure it covers whatever training or meetings you’re going to do. If you’re visiting friends, know where they live, and be honest about your relationship with them. The IO doesn’t really care, but if you don’t know anything about these “friends,” you might be suspected of making them up.

8. Satisfy the IO that you’ll leave when you’re supposed to. A return or onward ticket is extremely helpful to have (printed out), though not always possible. A home, job, family to go back to is useful to be able to demonstrate. If you can’t point to anything that ties you to another country, the IO may decide you are a risk to overstay, especially if you do have ties to the country you’re visiting—a girlfriend or boyfriend, for example.

9. All these tips assume that you do intend to abide by the laws of the country you are visiting (even if you disagree with them), and leave when you are supposed to, and that you are telling the IO the truth. If you choose not to do any of these things, please know that it is not recommended. Not only from an honesty point of view, but pragmatically. You are more likely to have problems, both now and in the future, if an IO thinks you have lied.

10. When, as will happen, you learn better and some other traveler makes a naïve mistake that could have been easily avoided if s/he had known in advance what you know, be compassionate to those travelers. Their intentions may have been honorable and they have had a bad experience. Try to help them for the next time, not blame them for their previous mistakes.

The good citizen

I came across an obituary in the Toronto Star. It was for L. Col. Paul Tuz, a member of the Order of Canada. I met Paul Tuz when he presided over my citizenship ceremony in 2005. He'd served in HM Forces, as the President of the Better Business Bureau, and as the Hon Consul General of Mali.

It is because of Paul Tuz that I'm a Canadian today. Not literally because he swore me in, but because of what he told us about citizenship.

Photo courtesy of P. J. Radley

Paul Tuz was not born a Canadian citizen either. He was born in Austria in 1929. When Hitler annexed his birthplace nine years later, Austria decided that citizenship was a right that could be taken away. At least, from those who, like Paul Tuz, had Jewish ancestors.

But he left Austria behind, surviving the war and making his life in Canada. "You're lucky," he told us new Canadians. "Canada doesn't require you to give up your original citizenship. My daughter, for example, was born in the United States, so she's an American and a Canadian citizen."

It felt good, at the very hour I became Canadian, to be reminded of my own situation. It felt good that Paul Tuz acknowledged both my citizenships as an example.

He carried a diplomatic passport from Mali in his service to that country. And he, like us, had become Canadian. His wife was originally from Mexico. One country could not contain Paul Tuz!

Austria didn't come up again until one of his children, seeking the opportunity to live and work in the European Union, asked about getting an Austrian passport. It was while looking into this that he discovered Austria had never restored his citizenship.

"Are you serious?" he said to the Austrian official. "All these years after the Nazi era, and I'm still not an Austrian citizen? I'm calling Time magazine and telling them Hitler is alive and well in Austria today!"

He left in anger, only to be called by his wife. She told him there was a message on the phone in German, which she didn't understand.

"Herr Tuz," the message said, "this is the Austrian consulate. Please come back right away--your passport is ready!"

After Paul Tuz's story, we pledged our loyalty to our new country and sang "O Canada." I attempted it in French, since the opening lines, "O Canada! Land of our forefathers," is more accurate than the English "Our home and native land." I wasn't born in Canada, but my great-great-grandfather was. I am Canadian–American.

Then we had our picture taken with the maple leaf flag and Paul Tuz CM. Because 2005 was the Year of the Veteran (Année de l'ancien combattant), we also got pins with a poppy on them, in memory of the Second World War ending sixty years before.

Citizenship is about service. Maybe where we're born, maybe where we serve in the armed forces or the business community or the diplomatic corps. On that day, I learned a new meaning of citizenship--wherever we serve.