We recently did a massive road trip across the motherland of America. Here are the absolute highlights for over a month on the road.

• Bear Baiting in Big Bay
• Niagra Fall, in Canada
• Mount Washington Resort, in New Hampshire
• The Freedom Trail, in Boston
• Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell, in Philadelphia
• The Capital on a lazy Sunday, in DC
• Carmen, in Winston-Salem, NC
• The Ocean on Halloween, in Wilmington, NC
• Drinking PBR during the day in Nashville, TN
• Seeing Al Green, in Memphis
• The flatlands of Oklahoma after seeing Oklahoma!
• The world’s creepiest wasteland, outside of Las Vegas, New Mexico
• Singing with Hippies, in Boulder, CO
• Touring Vail by Moonlight
• The Columbia River Highway, through OR
• The beautiful rainforest drive on I-5N

By Al Green we do in fact mean the amazing, talented and smooth creator of “Let’s Stay Together” and “Love and Happiness.” He is one of gospel and soul’s biggest names and he recently went on tour. Sadly, we missed it. But we did hear that he was the reverend at the Tabernacle Church in Memphis, so we got up at the crack of dawn on Sunday and headed for Memphis, leaving lovely Nashville in our rearview mirror.

We drove by Elvis Presley’s Graceland, and were surprised at how rundown the area was, and how kitschy the place looked. I know it’s Graceland and it’s meant to be kitschy but wow! Not far from where tours leave for Graceland you’ll find the Reverend Al Green’s church.

We pulled into the parking lot and saw several people heading inside. We followed them in and opened the doors to the sanctuary to reveal that we were one of about eight white folks in the room. They were already well into the service (which started at 11am) when we arrived at 30 minutes after the hour. We took seats near the back in case our infant started to howl.

The music was amazing! Al Green wasn’t there yet, but his choir and choir leaders were stellar. They sang almost on improve and the live band was equally astonishing. You could tell they loved what they were doing. They sang their prayers.

At noon Al Green came out in white gloves and a black reverend smock. He swayed with the music and received applause and turned all the applause upward. He was very humble and deflecting of attention. His mother led the announcements, and his nephew gave the sermon. Al Green was the greeter, occasional singer and commentator. As we gave tithe he asked us where we were from. Mike said “Chicago” and he started singing “hello Chicago!” as we walked by. Nice guy, and a very friendly congregation. He even made a “Love and Happiness” reference. Nice.

We left Memphis after church. Driving around downtown proved that the city itself has a lot to be desired, especially after the beauty of downtown Nashville.

Arriving in Nashville is like driving into a time warp. The downtown area is crowded with hole-in-the-wall bars where musicians are playing live music starting early in the morning. We were there on a Friday with Lauren’s uncle. He took us to Tootsie’s, the most famous of the local bars, where a cowboy and his cowgirl crooned into rusty microphones over a rowdy crowd. It was 2pm and the beers were flowing and the crowd was hopping. We sat with a couple from New York who were fleeing Hurricane Sandy in search of fairer weather and cheerier sights. They couldn’t get over the $5 PBR cans.

Down the street at Layla’s we got PBR cans for $1 and watched an authentic hill cowboy and a lovely lady on bass really bring country music to life. They were no joke, and at 3pm in the afternoon they had a lively audience of diehards, cowboys and tourists.

You can buy cowboy boots and outfits for cheap downtown. Some boots sell three pair for the price of one. We looked but didn’t buy, and continued on down the way for the mid-afternoon bar crawl with our infant baby. Don’t worry, they still can’t smoke inside and Gwen loved the music. She stood on my lap and cooed along with the best of them. And she wasn’t the only toothless lady in the bar.

Nashville has a great dining scene. We were introduced to more southern BBQ at several restaurants and adored every delectable bite. It’s hard not to overeat when the food tastes like ambrosia.

Out on the streets you’ll find wildly talented people playing handmade instruments, dancing or playing guitar. There is so much talent in the city that it overflows into the streets. Record labels sign big named there, like Taylor Swift, and music celebrities mingle with regular folk without putting on airs.

We were lucky enough to have family in Nashville to stay with, and enjoyed a lovely birthday party for my cousin while we were in town. A great visit, an amazing family and a lovely city. I’d live in Nashville if I could. I’ve never been anywhere else where music was loved so much.

Winston-Salem isn’t a hotbed of tourism, and that’s great because it’s a well kept secret. It’s only a few hours to the mountains and only a few more to the beach, so it’s location is perfect for the weekend warrior vacationer. You’ll find a decent amount of trees in the area, in fact it’s the largest selection of diverse trees in the USA. For that reason, it’s also the hub for furniture in the country, and you’ll notice all kinds of furniture stores and outlets along the highways. Golfing is a big activity in the area, and loads of snowbirds flock south from the frigid tundra up north to enjoy mild winters in NC.

Of all the attractions in NC, our favorite was visiting with family. We were able to see a whole lot of family all at once. A fun, crazy, wild ride that included a trip to the mountains with one uncle and a trip to the beech with my mother. We also went to see Carmen in downtown W-S with one aunt, and were lucky to be able to stay with another aunt in her lovely downtown apartment. We visited friends in Wilmington, and had a party at another uncle’s place. We even got to see my aunt’s new restaurant outside of town. And of course visiting with my amazing grandparents was a joy. We got to enjoy so much family; it was a treat for us and for Gwen, who was, as always, the belle of the ball.

If you happen to find yourself in ol’ W-S don’t skip the historic old Salem area. This was pretty neat and included old structures from the original town that have been converted into nice shops. Downtown (the new part) was also thriving, and we enjoyed an amazing dinner at District, dancing at 6th and Vine and deep fried pickles at Finnegan’s Wake. W-S is great for food, and the finer things in life.

In terms of food, we ate so much southern cooking we put on several pounds in the month we were in North Carolina. We discovered Dickies southern style BBQ, the best BBQ on the planet perhaps. We also fell in love with Darel’s, more BBQ. And of course we loved Bo Jangles and all the chicken. I don’t know how anyone with constant access to this food remains slim.

We were very sad to eventually leave North Carolina and the fifty or so family members who live there. But the road is long, and we have miles to put on the car.

One of the best times to see DC is on a Sunday. Especially on a Sunday when there isn’t a big activity downtown. Here’s how we saw DC.

We drove right past the pentagon and around the bend into down town. We rolled into town without encountering any traffic around 10am. Downtown, there was virtually no traffic and all the lights seemed to turn green as we approached. We drove by the capital building, headed around the White House and drove past a few of the beautiful museums.

Granted, we had very limited time in the city and many miles to cover by nightfall, so we didn’t end up walking around. Instead, we drove all through down, winding up and down streets and passing by the city’s top attractions. We decided that DC is a city that deserves more time. However, if you have the time, free parking on weekends was available and spaces were readily available. I think so many people in the area are terrified of the traffic that they never even attempt to drive into town. If you’re of this mindset the park-and-ride is a great option but takes about half an hour from outside of town.

We also learned that you now have to apply to see the White House several months in advance and get early screening approval before you can show up. If you want to plan a trip to DC perhaps apply first and buy your airline tickets once your approval comes through.

Being surrounded by history isn’t something we’re new to. We’ve lived in China’s historic hutong alleys for the past few years. But being around America’s old history is new to us, and really cool. After our trip down Freedom Trail in Boston, we hit the road for Philadelphia without knowing what we’d see or do while in town. Turns out you need a few days to see all of Phily.

We started by checking out the Christ Church Cemetery, where Benjamin Franklin and a few other signers of the Declaration of Independence rest. This was a beautiful spot to call home for eternity. Aside form the throngs of tourists tossing coins on your headstone, that is.

From there we walked to the Liberty Bell. When I was a child I saw the bell in the middle of the commons, but now it is housed in a glass building surrounded by helpful signs explaining Philadelphia’s history and it’s position as the home of the American government. My favorite moment was when a Chinese man in line behind us commented in Mandarin on how inappropriate it was that there was a large poster of the Dali Lama making the peace sign in front of the Liberty Bell. Priceless.

We joined one of the tours through Independence Hall. You can’t go in without being tied to a tour, luckily though they are free. A friendly tour guide explained the historical significance of the structures to our group of around thirty as we strolled through the main building. Independence Hall is home to the room where our brave forefathers drafted the constitution. This is cool because it was literally a group of regular guys deciding what kind of nation we’d become. The room wasn’t preserved well, but it has since been recreated to look like it did at the time. Despite it being October, it was hotter than hell in the room. This made me appreciate the hard work of the creators of the Constitution even more. I can’t imagine being so optimistic in such a hot room.

I had to stop on the lawn where our nation’s freedom was announced to change a dirty diaper. Afterwards we grabbed the customary Phil-cheese steak sandwich for an outrageous $7 and headed to the oldest continually dwelt-upon street in the USA. It’s quaint and adorable and normal people live there, despite the constant string of tourists. It reminded me of our home on Nanluoguxiang, in Beijing, right smack on a historical lane.

Philadelphia was a great city and, perhaps because it was such a beautiful day and a beautiful, history-rich city we were tempted to just stay put. But there was more to see…..

Our road trip began in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Why does Michigan own the U.P? We don’t know. It borders Wisconsin- but they can’t have it, and it borders Canada- but they can’t have it. Alternatively it doesn’t touch Michigan at all and they had to construct a giant bridge to even get over to the U.P—but they can and do have it. Odd. I bet there is an interesting story there.

We drove along the length of the U.P heading east and stopped along Lake Michigan for fresh air and a wee leg stretch. Our tiny tot Gwen was eager to watch the waves and of course vomited profusely on herself when she was returned to her car seat.

From the U.P we drove to this magical connection bridge. In Michigan everyone who lives south of the bridge is called a “Troll,” while everyone who lives above the bridge is called a” Yooper.” Residents of both areas take an odd portion of pride in this. After crossing the bridge and paying the troll our $4.00 toll we found ourselves in surprisingly dull territory.

The scenery looked almost identical to the mind-numbing drabness that is the American Midwest. Dead fields, dead trees and a sprinkling of depressing farm houses facing mega highways and signs for fireworks and casions. The bridge into Canada from Michigan boasts one of the single most depressing views of a lake I’ve ever seen. Dozens of factories lined Lake St. Clare spewing foam, smoke and foul aromas into the air and sea. Not a good billboard for tourism to either area.

Entering Ontario was east. It’s always easier to get into Canada than out. Drivers in Canada must really fear the Mounties, because they don’t speed. It’s odd because I doubt a horse with a burly Canadian on it’s back could catch my car, especially the way I drive.

We learned that the Canadians are not the most creative town namers. We hit London, Paris, St. Thomas and Waterloo, and that’s just in the tiny peninsula of Ontario between Michigan and New York. And while I’m on the topic, Buffalo isn’t the most creative city name, either. Eh, Canada?

Some of the major highways in Canada close for construction at night. That means major detours for lost Americans whose GPS systems don’t have Canadian maps. Yup, that was us. We were detoured more than an hour out of the way, with ill-marked signs and of course following the world’s slowest truckers. Still, at least the detour wasn’t for a major accident, and that’s always a plus.

Niagra Falls is a unique city. It’s both the name of the falls and the city on the Canadian side, and it’s situated in a cozy and industrially convenient location. More on Niagra Falls later. For now, we leave you with this advice: Don’t travel in Canada at night. Who knows when the roads shut down for the evening.

A lot of people don’t advise learning to scuba dive in a third world country. It can be a dangerous sport, and saving a few bucks isn’t worth the brain damage if your tank isn’t carrying the right mixture of gasses to sustain you underwater. And then, of course, a myriad of horrors could occur on the bottom that your guide or trainer may not be equipped to deal with. So, before you undertake a project like getting diver certified, make sure your instructor isn’t a wack job. That’s exactly what I did recently with my first every scuba dive with SinoScuba, a great organization in Beijing run by a guy named Steven (image right) from New Jersey.

We were diving in The Blue Zoo aquarium, in the shark tank. It was Shark Week in the USA, and that meant, for Steven, that people were once again thinking about sharks as the killers of the sea. “That’s just not true,” he told me. “Humans are the real killers of the sea, no sharks.” To show people just how safe they are, Steven was launching a dive to introduce people to diving and also to the friendly creatures with the bad rep.

I donned by skin-tight (read: painful) wet suit and slipped on a weight belt. My flippers were translucent and made my feet look blurry and retro. I was taught how to breath in a regulator and, for the first few breaths, had to talk myself into not throwing up. I put on a suction-cup mask, feeling my eyes pull slightly out of the sockets, and then I waddled up to the tank full of sharks and nearly threw up again.

Once in the icy water everything changed. I wasn’t afraid of the beasts, I was curious. As soon as I got in the water I released the air in my buoyancy vest and slipped like a stone down to the bottom of the tank. What was odd was that it was a tank with a tunnel through the middle for spectators, and there I saw hundreds of Chinese school kids banging on the glass and waving. Was I in the zoo or were they?– because they looked blurry and hilarious from underwater. I waved, I did the pharaoh dance, I tried to do Thriller but two problems instantly emerged: A) I don’t know the dance and B) movements underwater are too slow. It looked, I’m sure, like I was suffering a slow seizure. Eventually I turned around and watched the other divers fall to the bottom and try walking around. They looked like baby camels when they try to take their first steps.

Right away we were swarmed with cool fish. Tropical ones like from The Little Mermaid. You can toss sand up in the water and the fish think it’s food and swarm you. Even after about five minutes of this the fish kept trying for the ‘food.’ Dumb little creatures, but good for amusement. We swam around the giant, giant tank. It was so big you could get turned around and lost. There is even a sunken pirate ship in the tank, which was awesome. My first wreak dive!

We swam right up to a shark, a giant grey thing with beady little eyes that never stopped watching us. The instructor showed us how to pet a shark. Basically, the same way you’d pet a cat, but with a million times more fear of random retaliation. He told us before we went underwater that we were 95% safe and while 95% is high, when it comes to sharks sometimes I wonder if it’s high enough. Still, I pet the shark, played with his fin, shook his little fish paw and smiled into my respirator so he’d know I was a nice human. Now I was the dumb fish who didn’t get the hint, I kept playing with the shark long after the curiosity left his eyes and they squinted into little slits. He was either bored or angry. That’s me in the center of the picture above, petting aforementioned shark.

There were about seven big sharks over two meters long in the tank, and one evil-looking shark whose characteristics I didn’t notice past it’s giant freaking teeth. Once you spot something like that underwater you realize just how slow you move. If the teeth-creature turned hungry or angry or bored or whatever other array of human emotions I’m attributing to it, he could easily catch and bite off my arms and legs like a Monty Python sketch before I could even turn around. But, our instructor really knew his stuff and he waved at the fish and then pulled our attention on to what he considered a cooler attraction. It isn’t an easy think to turn around and pay attention to something else when a shark is behind you.

Still, what he was showing us was a giant sea turtle. He grabbed it by the shell and tossed it at me. I caught it like a giant Frisbee and pet the shell (like I said, it’s hard to tell who the dumb one is when playing with fish) and then shook his fin/hand thing and then poked his funny skin and tale and stuff until the instructor waved for me to toss it to the next diver. I felt bad doing all this, but who passes up the chance to poke a giant turtle? Not me.

We swam down to another sleeping shark and pet that one as well. A lot more petting goes on in the oceans than you’d think. For those of you rational enough never to have pet a shark let me describe some odd things that surprised me. 1) the skin is like old human skin, it isn’t like a fish’s. It’s rougher than human skin, but still bendy and taught and with some little hairs or something on it (how lucky you are to have this professional analysis of shark skin!) 2) You can feel their bones, and that reminds you that the rib cage is big enough for you to be curled up inside as you are digested. 3) the shark fin doesn’t look like a good ingredient for soup. I wish people wouldn’t eat it. 4) Shark eyes are tiny, but what’s more crazy is that they disappear when they shut their eyes so you can’t tell where they are. This is the creepiest part since they aren’t where the head indents at all, suddenly an eye just opens where a nose should be. It’s disarming and I think this is where Picasso got some of his first inspiration.

I survived my first dive, and got to the surface with only minor scraped and bruises (all self induced from scraping on coral or from throwing my head back and hitting it against the tank). I’m the person in the back, in the picture above.

Now that I’ve done it once I feel I’m hooked and I can’t wait to dive again!

As many of you know, we moved into a Beijing hutong– a traditional single-story home in a traditional maze of houses that makes up a close-knit community. Anyways, its been a bumpy and rewarding ride. I recently painted the interior of the hutong, spending a bit of my own cash to fix up the place. Here are some before and after pictures, which I know everyone loves.

The Office:

Before

Middle

After

The Living Room:

Before

After (same view)

Bedroom:

Before

After

Anyways, life in a hutong has been a bit of a rewarding challenge:

The upside:

• Culturally relevant
• Close to Beijing’s unique culture
• Large and relatively affordable

The downside:

• Vacant and dismissive landlord
• Shoddy construction, ongoing problems
• Expensive utilities

Many of the reasons we decided to live in a hutong include the upsides listed above, but more importantly, the hutong homes in Beijing are so unique and beautiful that they really inspire a sense of living in another time. You can walk through the hutong alleyways at night, when the streets are void of sweet potato salesmen, street sweepers and thousands of meandering elderly folks, and it feels like you have time warped back a generation. Thats the number one reason we live in a hutong, the sense of time lapse and the feeling of being 100% in Beijing, and nowhere else.

In 2008 we lived in Shanghai and had the amazing opportunity to stay in the city over the Spring Festival (the Chinese lunar New Year). Since so many migrant workers and others had fled the city for the holiday (which is akin to Thanksgiving where everyone goes to their home state for the festivities) we thought nothing big would happen. It was freezing, it was deserted, and we didn’t expect much.

In the end, nearly ever remaining resident in the city came outside at midnight to blow something up. There were fireworks covering every inch of the sky! Old ladies wheeled themselves outside in their wheelchairs to light off fireworks and then, giggling, rolled back inside. You could buy fireworks at the 7/11, you could buy them from old ladies with carts full, they were everywhere. At midnight on the first day of the new year, the city erupted and it seemed to linger in a state of haze and loud bangs for several days.

Now its the start of the Spring Festival 2011 and we are in Beijing. It is the year of the rabbit, and thus a fortuitous year for many. The festivities were to start on midnight of the 2nd of February, 2011. We had the same concerns as we did in Shanghai several years ago as we watched nearly every shop around our hutong home put up shutters and hang signs saying “will return on the 7th.” The city was growing empty, like the set of a zombie movie. The once busy streets were now barren save for a few random cars and the poor bus drivers, whose massive slug-like machines trolled the streets in vain for people.

It was hard to find fireworks in Beijing, at least compared to Shanghai where they were everywhere. Now there were well maintained booths with knowledgeable sales staff. Prices were printed on the fireworks and fire extinguishers lined the sidewalks behind the stalls. Something massive had changed since the haphazard array in 2008. We bought a bag full of random fireworks and, when the second of February arrived, we strolled down deserted streets with a lighter in one hand and a bag of fun in the other.

We wandered for a while, a small group of us with our bags of fun, before settling on Hou Hai Lake as our destination of choice. We set off a few simple fireworks with limited competition. The police watched but didn’t say anything, just leaning on their police cars watching the fireworks against the dark sky. At midnight, the story changed entirely. The city erupted in a magnanimous and otherworldly explosion that shook water out of the lake like nudging a cup of coffee too hard. Fireworks exploded from every corner of vision, and the booms were so close together that it was essential one giant BOOM for half an hour. We set off our remaining fireworks and walked around the lake, dodging fountains of fire, escalating rockets and other projectiles at high speeds. We saw a few small fires break out as piles of debris started to reach ankle level.

Around 1:00am we headed towards home on foot. Walking down the main street we passed a restaurant that must have had a very handsome year because they had a pile of debris that reached up to the doorway. The staff were pulling out huge boxes and stringing them together. For half an hour we watched with half a hundred others as they lit box after box of fireworks. These boxes cost around one hundred USD each and contain about 30-45 individual pipes and fireworks that, in the USA, would be large enough for a city-wide display. They went through about 20 boxes while we were there, and then they draped strings of smaller fireworks over ropes strung between trees and lit them simultaneously, creating so many flashes it felt like we were inside a video game.

This year I was prepared. In 2008 I had only my point and shoot. This time I didn’t bother with the camera at all but brought out the big guns- the video camera. I walked around and, by 2:00am, I had almost 45 minutes of fireworks shows on tape, including fireworks bouncing off cars, hitting apartment complexes and ricocheting off extremely old and valuable cultural structures.The video here is not mine, which I haven’t uploaded yet, but are a prime example of what we experienced.

The fireworks and shows will go from the 2nd of February at midnight until the middle of February, and as I type this, the explosions have not diminished by much.

We recently did a visa run. As with many people who live in China, we have to leave the country every 60 or 90 days to reactivate our 1-year visas. We recently decided to try the Beijing-Erlian visa run rather than the traditional Beijing to Hong Kong run. Here are a few details on how to make your visa run a quick success:

1) There are loads of buses that go to Erlian, you can leave from any one of the stations, and it is easy to call ahead of time if you speak even a little Chinese to ensure the buses leave on your scheduled day. Here are the Beijing Long Distance Bus Options.Or, a few other options on how to get to Mongolia.

2) Once you arrive (and if you take the bus you’ll arrive at 3 or 4:00am) you may need to stay at a hotel for a few hours until the border opens. It opens at 8:00am. If you arrive at the bus station you can easily find a driver to take you to a local hotel. Bargain, but you should be able to get the ride and the hotel for under $12 USD. Prices should be in Chinese. The hotels are not great, ours was heated by a stove and had wooden beds and a squat hallway toilet, but we only stayed a few hours and it was much-needed rest after 11 hours on a sleeper bus.

3) Crossing the border takes patience. You have to get a cab to the gate. Make sure they use the meter, as they’ll try to charge triple what the meter would have. The cab drops you off at the border, then you have to negotiate with a jeep driver to take you across the no-man’s-land to the actual Chinese immigration building. No walking allowed!

4) You use the same jeep to get all the way to the Mongolian immigration side and then through that to the first town across the Mongolian border. Your jeep should cost about 50RMB or less. We negotiated hard and paid only 30RMB, but we also went all out and even included one of the Chinese border guards, who was extremely helpful.

5) If you want, you can easily get your jeep driver to drop you off at the city square, otherwise you can simply turn around without leaving the Mongolian border zone and negotiate with a new jeep driver to take you back to the Chinese side. Getting back to the Chinese side is cheaper and easier as most Jeep drivers have limited loads.

6) Once back in Erlian, you can take a cab from the bus station in Erliain to Beijing for around 200RMB a person. The bus is 200RMB as well, so if you want to save some time, the cab ride is 7 hours while the bus ride is a grueling 11. I prefer the bus as its a sleeper unit so you can relax, sleep and even read.

7) Your visa will need to be registered once you get back to China. Good luck!

Having finished the official aspects of the rally our convoy of nine set about enjoying the lovely city of Ulaan Bataar, which ralliers refer to as UB. While on our previous visit in 2007 to Mongolia we thought UB was a dust-covered wasteland that looked more like a Russian prison camp than a city. By 2010 the city had taken on new charm and was decorated in bright, flashing lights and paved sidewalks, with only the occasional dust storm. Buildings being demolished in 2007 had made way for newer, safer looking structures and even a 5 star hotel. We were impressed with the upgrades.

The convoy, having enjoyed its finish line party until late, was led by yours truly to the only hotel that would accept nine drunk ralliers at 3:00am without a deposit, the Miami Hotel. This was conveniently located near the finish line bar, so a parade of dirty ralliers stumbled from the bar to the Miami, singing and cheering their own accomplishments on the rally. We settled into the hotel and, in the morning, discovered it wasn’t a hotel but a brothel. I talked with the reception personal in a mix of Russian and Chinese to discover they didn’t particularly want us shutting down business, which our presence apparently was. We packed up that morning and spent a few hours wandering around with our luggage looking for a hotel. None were to be had, UB was booked. We returned to the brothel for another evening and, despite their looks of dismay, the 90 year old receptionist allowed us our previous rooms.

After securing accommodation for the night we set about securing food for our desperately hungry bellies. A Chinese restaurant around the corner had peaked our interest, so we spent a few hours gorging ourselves until even the Irish were unable to eat another bite. We shopped, dined and then, heading back to Miami, we got ready to hit the town for an epic Saturday evening.

We returned to the Finish Line party to meet more ralliers who were streaming into the city daily. We ran into some of the same teams we’d been bumping into across the steppe. An ambulance we thought had died 200 miles back appeared in the parking lot that evening, with all of the occupants alive and well– a surprise to many of us. One lad did injure himself trying to do fire walking while drunk, but aside from that their injuries were only psychological. It was a great sense of finality and completion to be at the Finish line while other teams came in, to hear their amazing stories and to see their dust-covered faces and starved stomaches as they smiles from ear-to-ear and cheered their arrival at the finish line.

We went to the car auction downtown to see what became of our donated rally cars. We discovered that the cars are auctioned in ‘as-is’ status to the highest bidder in a public arena. Pictures of the cars and their basic facts are put on a powerpoint slide and displayed to a throng of bidders. Most cars were selling for anywhere between $1,000 USD – $1,500 USD, despite the fact that most cars were also in a dire state of disarray. We learned that cars are one of Mongolia’s chief imports and sell for much higher than they would in the US or Europe. We don’t know, yet, what our little Citroen Saxo sold for, or if it was sold at all. Some cars apparently become the property of the owners of the various drop-off points. We found this out by visiting several of the drop-offs and seeing cars from the ’08 and ’09 rallies sitting, stripped of parts, in the parking areas. It was sad to see some rally cars cast off like that, knowing the epic adventures people went through to get them to Mongolia.

We spent the next several days shopping for gifts for family and supporting sponsors, as well as taking pictures, enjoying our last days as a convoy family, and preparing to head in our own separate directions. It was sad when the first of our group had to depart, the convoy felt broken and at a loss. It was hardest to say goodbye to the Norwegians who had so heroically saved several teams from demise by allowing them (and all their gear) to be loaded into the Fiat and carried to UB, despite the fact that they risked not finishing at all by carrying so much weight in their car for everyone else. We’ll miss Aslan and Bear! It was also hard to say goodbye to the two Irish. One from the north, and opinionated like a radio talk show host, the other from the south and as vocal and witty as a salesman. It was rough leaving the Aussie giant as well, who had grown close to Mike and developed a great giant-chiwawa relationship. Slowly, the convoy drifted in different directions towards Europe while Mike and I drifted towards China and Bill caught a flight back to the USA.

Despite the horrible past few days, we were determined to enjoy Mongolia as much as possible and to return to having fun on the rally. We drove carefully along the Mongolian roads, which cannot be fairly called roads at all, but are more like a suggested path through the Steppe. Often the road would end at a giant bolder and we’d go around it, or up a giant hill we’d have to make it up in first gear. The roads were mud or gravel, but not cement. We edged the car along doing 20 mph on a good stretch. Suddenly we were aware that we wouldn’t be making the final party on Saturday the 4th. There was no way on roads like this! That night we pulled into the first town, Ogli, by 6:00pm. We didn’t feel like stopping yet, but at the same time we needed a shower, a real meal, and if we drove on we could lose the main road and get lost on the Steppe in the dark. Since there are no road signs, you are pretty much guessing when you come to a fork in the dirt road.

We found a small ger camp with advertised hot showers for $10 a ger. We confirmed the price with the lady in the office after hearing it from a tourists who had been living in the ger for a few days. We threw our stuff in the ger, put the car in an ancient garage behind back, and set off looking for food. We found a Turkish restaurant other ralliers had recommended, and dined on lamb and salads with fanta. Not bad for the middle of nowhere. Back in the ger, we settled in and I took a shower. It was, perhaps, the coldest shower I’ve ever been in. It had slivers of ice in the water, which only came out of the spout but not the shower head so that you had to bend down and stick your head covered in shampoo under the tap of ice water. I was shivering profusely when I got back in the ger and climbed under all the blankets. I couldn’t stop shaking for over an hour. We hung out, Mike and Bill had a beer while I stayed warm, the shivers subsiding. Around 10:30 there was a knock at the door and two young women came in and demanded money. We asked what for, bored already by the game they were trying to play.

They wanted $10 a person for the ger. We were rightly outraged. We even had it written on a piece of paper that it was $10 a ger. After the past two days, this was too much. The two tiny girls tried to throw us out of the ger, but we were, obviously, too big to be thrown. They called their boss, who refused to listen and said he had lots of expenses and needed the money. I told him the shower was ice water, and unusable, and the ger was not insulated. He didn’t care or listen but demanded we pay the girls or leave. He hung up on us. We didn’t budge. After over an hour, we agreed to pay $5 a person or else. The boss man agreed, but not after a huge scene with the girls. I paid them, but wouldn’t let my hand go of the bill until the other girl brought exact change. They were furious, but also, you don’t’ barge into someone’s room late at night demanding they pay. What kind of hospitality or businesses sense is that? We were already sick of Mongolia, and we’d only been in the country three days. We fell asleep and in the morning got started around 10:00am since our car was blocked in by other rally team cars. We drove off, hoping to make it to the next town that night.

The next town was Khovd. Outside of town we saw a poster for a ger camp that was catering to ralliers. This could go either way, but we wanted to see who was there. Inside the ger camp we found five teams having dinner and talking about camping outside of town for free but using the warm gers now. Seemed sensible. We drove out of town to set up, but on the way met a team of 2 Norwegians who had picked up a stray Canadian and lost Irishman. They were towing a broken-down car with a giant Aussie and a disgruntled Irishman in it. They asked if we had room to carry one of them, but with our car weight already exceeding the max and nowhere for the person to sit, we had to decline. They were dropping off the Aussie’s car at the drop-off point (only one in each major town sponsored by the rally) and were then going back to the ger camps. We followed them there and had a great night getting to know the boys and hearing about their broken car. In the morning, we agreed to set off together in convoy after picking up a few more tires.

That morning proved the biggest scare of the trip for our team. The Saxo refused to go into first or second gear! The gear linkages had been falling out intermittently, but this was a first. We took it to a shop where it was magically fixed and we put on a new tire. Other teams were swapping tires at the drop-off point and after a few hours we were all ready to roll together. It would be nice to be in convoy again.

Before leaving Tashkent I spent several hours pouring over countless maps of Kazakhstan and Russia, trying to work out the best route to Mongolia. Since we rested a week in Tashkent, we had the added benefit of being able to read other team’s reports online, and the reports on road conditions in Kazakhstan were not favorable. One report in particular, from a team called Yak to the Future, told us that the roads straight North-East from Uzbekistan were so bad that it was actually easier and better for the car to just drive off-road. With some 1,500k to cover in Kazakhstan, our little Saxo would not be able to handle the abuse. Already, the car’s frame was cracking, the back tires rubbed noisily on the wheel wells, and the gear linkage popped out freely over big bumps. Our car simply carried too much weight over imperfect roads. We couldn’t take that risk. So, I continued to look at maps.

Eventually an alternative plan emerged. I decided to take our team some 700k out of the way on good roads, which would save the car and only cost us the additional gas money. Since fuel in Kazakhstan is relatively cheap, it was a good trade off. We would avoid Almaty and head towards Astana, cutting east before the city and bearing south-east and then north to Russia. It was a hell of a long way out of the way, but after hours of online research about the road conditions, I discovered that in 2007 the road I had chosen was refinished, making it a much, much smarter bet than the ancient panel-style cement roads that cut straight towards Russia.

We set off on our new route on the morning of the 23rd, with plans to make the Mongolian border in less than 5 days, with over 2,000k to travel across rough terrain with three border crossings. We were feeling optimistic. The road we chose turned out to be a good decision. We were essentially on highway for three days, with only intermittent dinosaur-sized pot holes. The worn ridges from semis on the roads remained, so that you were driving on the crest of two cement waves for the duration of Kazakhstan.

We easily crossed into Russia after a few days of non-stop driving, camping at night, and eating limited camp food at night. It was more work than play to cover that kind of distance. The Russian border, though we had heard it would be difficult and the guards had already acquired a reputation for demanding bribes, turned out to be a breeze for us. The only snag was that with his beard, the guards did not think Mike was the same boy from his passport pictures. After several minutes of laughing with them and threatening to shave on the spot, they let us pass. We looked at the map and made a snap decision. It was still early and we had made it through the border, we stopped in the first town to eat and take a short break, refill on groceries and water, and hit the road. We ran into another team that was aiming for the Mongolian border some 1000k away by nightfall.

The Mongolian border closes on weekends. We suddenly realized it was Thursday. If we drove until we arrived at the border we might, just might, make it through before closing time on Friday. We revved up the 1.1 liter engine and drove through the night, arriving at the Russian border at 4am. A team from Belfast was in front of us in line, we slept in the car for a few hours and at ten am we again greeted Russian border guards, but this would be the last time we’d see Russians in a long while, so we endeavored to enjoy the experience.

Stalingrad Warrior

Seemingly small from a distance, the Battle of Stalingrad monument is absolutely massive.  It takes a few minutes to realize the tiny dots walking around the base are people.  The long stretch of stairs heading towards the statue are surrounded by battle scene frescoes, memorial plaques, and even sounds and music.  Each step up, sets the mood and almost brings you back to to the battle.  By the time we reached the eternal flame, we were all covered in sweat as it was mid-July.  Everyone was complaining and walking through the sprinklers that happened to be running at noon.

Russian Volgograd Guards

Once we reached the flame room however, everyone’s face straightened in awe at the size of the room.  There were two guards standing in front of the flame – a fist wrapped around a torch.  As you spiral around the room counter-clockwise, the walls next to you are covered with the names of all the officers who died in the Battle for Stalingrad. By the time we reached the top of the stairs, no one was complaining about the heat anymore as there were two more guards standing at the exit, unmoving, as a blanket of sunlight enveloped them.  Beads of sweat were rolling down the guard’s face as he stood silently in his Class As.  The lead guard made his rounds and upon seeing his fellow comrade sweating profusely, we walked over to him, removed his cap, and slowly wiped the sweat from his brow.  I managed to snap a few photos of this as it happened, but we also got a lot of video – which we haven’t converted electronically yet.

The next section of the monument was covered with gardens and more officer monuments as we approached ‘The Lady of Stalingrad.’  From the top of the hill, the lady looks down at the Volga River where the Germans and Russians clashed and dug in for nearly seven months as the battle raged.  Stalingrad was vital to both sides, not only because it was a main transport hub on the Volga River for coal and oil to fuel Stalin’s Armies, but it would also be an ideological victory for the Germans to take a city with the Soviet leader’s name and provided access to the Caucuses via the Caspian Sea.

Stalingrad Eternal Flame

The Stalingrad War Memorial in Volgograd was one of the best Communist War memorials I have seen.  I am glad we took a 500 KM detour, along with several other ralliers, to make the trip to see it as I can’t imagine to many more opportunities in my life to be that close to the city.  After the memorial, we quickly headed out of town to drive to Kazakhstan.  Our convoy would be ending soon as we turned South for Uzbekistan and the rest went due East across the whole of Kazakhstan.

Imagine you have just jumped out of a hot shower on an extremely hot day, and then you plug in the hair dryer on high heat and point it right at your face. This is the closest parallel I can think of to explain the unending and abusive heat we felt on the road to Volgograd from inside the Russian border. Perhaps, once your hair is dry, turn the oven on max and pull a chair up and open the door. Waves of heat so powerful they make your eyes water (well, until you run out of eye moisture that is) spilled into our tiny cars. Naturally, we had no air conditioning and having the windows open only made the heat pour in more quickly. We closed the windows and sat in our mini car sauna as we sped along roads that were literally melting from the heat.

Eventually, and it did feel at some points like we might not make it through the waves of heat, we arrived in Volgograd. Having spent several previous evenings in other towns running around lost in the city looking for a cheap hostel or hotel, we decided not to deal with the hassle this time. Mike, Bill and I left the hostel finding up to our trusty convoy mates, and we three purchased ice cold beers and sat outside on a park bench, playing the ukulele (no one threw money in my Mongol Rally fund for the free music, I’ll add) and hanging out. Over the next several hours we consumed a few more ice beers and with every passing hour more ralliers joined our park bench party. By late evening, we had roughly fifteen ralliers from several convoys. It was a relaxing and pleasant evening, but we still had no place to stay. Mike jogged off in search of a hostel and came back with news of a hotel for $45 a room. Not cheap, by any means, but we took it, showered and cleaned up from so many days on the road and all met at the bench an hour later for dinner.

If you happen to look at a map you’ll notice we went out of our way to get to Volgograd. Once there, however, we found it a bit of an irritating place to travel. The roads are congested and of poor quality. The people are not especially helpful, but are a bit appreciative of our attempts at speaking in Russian. We discovered we needed to register within three days of entering Russia at a hotel. This, we found out, was not easy to do if you decided not to stay at a hotel. Bill slept on the floor in another team’s hotel room, so in the morning we had a bit of a run around trying to get a hotel to ‘register’ him without him paying. Eventually our hotel did it because they confused Bill with me as the second person in the room. Jackpot.

That morning we all went to the fancy hotel where the other rally teams were staying and ate at their continental breakfast. They didn’t catch on that we hadn’t paid to stay there. We used the internet to send our families messages of arriving in Russia, and then jointly decided that since we were in Volgograd, a trip to the Stalingrad monument was in order.

We anticipated a bit of hassle crossing the Ukrainian border into Russia, but we in no way were prepared for the events that transpired when we finally reached the Ukrainian departure point and the Russian entry border. It was 6:30pm when we pulled into a line of cars to exit Ukraine, the line stretched from the gates ahead of us which were barely visible, to well behind us only minutes after our arrival. We got out of the car, as did members of the Mongol Schumachers and the Face Race team. When we needed to move forward in line we all pushed our cars in neutral—making quite a scene for the bored Ukrainians milling about drinking beer and waiting their turn in line.

Finally reaching the front, we were given the royal treatment. Out three cars were pulled over to a special spot while we filled out our customs forms. Bugs were out in full force and it was still over 90 degrees. We were all drenched in sweat, and, having not found a shower for the past three days we were not exactly an eye-pleasing sight. It was no wonder, then, that the border guards gave us wary looks as we scribbled our information down and collapsed on the hood of the car. We got our passports stamped and, headed to the next window. Three guards asked me for a present. I said I didn’t understand and flashed my best ‘don’t I look like Drew Berrymore’ smile. They smiled back and said, “You know, Thomas Jefferson is my friend. All the presidents are my friend.” I smiled and said they were my friends too. What a creative way to ask for money, really. I wasn’t unimpressed. The guard held up a small Ukrainian coin and said “Thomas Mark, you have?” Bill and Mike, having come up behind me, interpreted this to mean he was a coin collector. Someone rushed to the car and found a nikle that had been rolling around the back seat for the past two weeks. The guard took it, laughing, and then asked for a coin from the British team behind us. Perhaps he really was a coin collector. So, after about 2 hours, we were officially out of Ukraine! Does a nickel count as a bribe? I’m going to say no on that.

We drove off, it was dark now so we rounded a corner and were confronted with an unwelcoming sight. The line for the Russian border was as long as the Ukrainian one had been. We got out of our cars and snacked on food found in the truck or between seat cushions. We played games, told stories and all the while we pushed our car down the line. Finally at the front, we got stamped into Russia and we piled back into our car, shocked at how easy the crossing was. We had heard it would be the hardest border yet, and one that no one could make it through without paying a bribe. As we sped the car up we exchanged smiles and then, when a customs official jumped in front of the car with a waving flashlight, we watched each other’s smiles turn into straight lines.

We were instructed to pull the car into a dark parking lot with no cameras or lighting. A dog was in a nearby cage barking at the stray cats that strolled by tauntingly. Bill, who has the car in his name, was sent to talk with the guards alone. We waited….and waited….. we played with the cats and dogs, we counted stars, we exchanged life stories with members from the other two rally cars, and we even got to the point of collapsing on the hood of our cars again, preparing to nap. Finally, Bill returned having paid no bribe but having purchased our auto insurance for Russia. Two guards accompanied him to the car with flashlights. “Here it comes.” I thought. I knew we have booze in the trunk (what respectable rallier doesn’t?) as well as a few strange items like a hatchet and pocket knives which I was concerned might raise questions. But, the guards were our age and very jovial. They asked if we had a present for them, and we said we didn’t. They asked for a small bottle of booze, so we offered them cigarettes, which they didn’t want. They saw a bottle of beer we had picked up in Romania for free, and the younger of the two officers stuck it in his pocket and said, “this is gift for me.” Since it was a skunky beer that had been in a heated trunk for 4 days we were happy to have it disposed of, and smiled as we shook hands and said our farewells. Does a beer count as a bribe?

We rolled into Odessa quite late in the evening, having been held up at the border a bit longer than anticipated. Odessa came highly recommended by our Ukrainian friends in Minnesota, as well as by a friend whose father lives in the Crimea. Apparently during the cold war, Odessa was infamous for its webs of spies from both sides fighting for information and control. I was intrigued and when doing the initial route planning from the States we simply could not imagine going any other way but through Odessa.

We spent the first hour and a half driving around looking for a place to spend the night. We checked several hostels found on hostel world only to discover they were abandoned apartment complexes or simply a field or parking lot. Eventually we found a cheap hotel, but the advertised prices were off by a dozen Euro so we simply didn’t want to pay it. We asked at the hotel if we could park our cars in their protected parking area for a Euro, they said “sure!” so we positioned are cars near several other rally cars in the parking lot and decided to sleep in the cars to save money. But first, it was time to meet the other ralliers and find out what the latest gossip was.

We found a nearby pub and, not surprisingly, about twenty ralliers. They had been in a caravan of eight cars, which meant extremely slow progress. Nevertheless, they had beat us there, which doesn’t say a lot for our speed. We introduced ourselves and soon were engulfed in great conversations with amazing people from all over the world.

As the night wore on people began to drift off to find a place to sleep. We all moved our cars towards the water a bit and several teams through up their tents right by the side of the road. Mike and I slept in the Face Race car while Bill reclined in our ATC car. The Face Race crew have an instant pop-up tent so they threw that up near the road. Surprisingly, the police did not kick us out.

In the morning we all felt a bit gross having spent the night drinking and then sleeping in hot, disgusting-smelling cars. Mike, Bill and I walked down to the Black Sea to take a quick dip. I decided not to get in, but once we had walked all the way down the hill to the water I changed my mind and jumped in fully clothed. It was the closest thing to a shower in several days, and it was wonderful. We swam out a ways and just enjoyed the feeling of being cool for a change rather than dripping sweat. When we had been in long enough, we walked back to the cars and brushed our teeth and got cleaned up (as well as one can on the side of the road).

Everyone was milling about, so we made plans to head to the Steps of Odessa, a famous and beautiful area a bit north of our current position. We set off, the Face Race team in tow, and a new car joined our mini convoy, the Mongol Schumachers. We hit the steps within the hour, and found all manner of strange sights before us.

One man had a pet alligator and parrot, another had an owl and a monkey. For a few bucks you could play with the exotic creatures and have your picture taken. We opted against it for sanitation reasons, and bounded up the steps to do the happy dance from Rocky. Classic.

Back at the cars, I met an amazing gentlemen who is friends with Charlie Boreman (who rides with Ewan McGregor and co-wrote Long Way Round, and several other books). This guy was extremely interesting, and was going on yet another round-the-world bike trip. You never know who you’ll meet in strange places, but you can guarantee they will be much more interesting than the folks you meet back home.

We chatted with the bikers for a while before hitting the road. The goal was to make it to the Russian border, but as the goal was entirely unrealistic we thought we’d see how far we could get.

Rumors are not always proven true, and that was the case for us in Moldova. We had heard it was the most corrupt and difficult place to travel in, and many other rally teams were stopped and forced to pay bribes at the Moldovan border. Nevertheless, we wanted to see the countryside and the vineyards that are so famous in Moldova, and decided to risk the hassle to see the sights.

Moldova was the first real border crossing for us on the rally thus far. Most EU countries don’t even stop, let alone slow down the cars when they cross the borders. Romania pulled us aside for a few moments to stamp our passports and look in the back windows, but only in Moldova had we encountered any real hassle or search. Pulling into the border area we immediately began hiding our expensive gear and money in case they decided to search the car thoroughly. Our team decided that Lauren should carry the money and do the talking, as people are less likely to try to extort from a woman. This theory proved correct. Lauren walked into the office with a smile and handed over the passports and car registration. The guards demanded something and stuck their palms out. She smiled and eventually they moved their chair over and asked her to sit down. They even turned on the air conditioning and asked if she wanted anything to drink. She typed their information into the computer system (which was entirely in English) and registered us herself, the border guards having so much trouble reading our documents in English that it ended up saving precious hours.

Next, a guard approached the car, but with Bill and Mike still seated inside it gave the impression there was no room for anything else in the car, which is in fact mostly true. Eventually they tired of our tireless smiles and waved us through the border. We waited out of the line of sight for the Face Race team to catch up with us. They had to purchase road insurance at the border, while our European insurance covered us.

Moldova, in the southern separatist region we visited, was entirely countryside. We drove through two small towns, stopping once to ask directions. Everyone was friendly and calm, and waved at our silly cars as we passed through their remote townships. The countryside itself was entirely filled with vineyards and rolling green hills. The roads were decent quality, and someone had planted trees along the main routes for shade.

Reaching the opposite southern border crossing into Ukraine, we were decidedly tired of dealing with customs officials. Despite our tired looks and exhausted expressions the guards managed to do a once-over on the car and of course check our passports and car registration yet again. We had signed into the country on computer three hours earlier and now signed ourselves out of Moldova, problem and bribe free. Great success! Now let’s see how Ukraine goes….

Driving up to Dracula’s castle in a rally car takes away some of the Transylvania mystique that we so associate with the place. We did learn, sadly, that Bran Castle is not actually Dracula’s, as Dracula is a fictional character. He is based off of an actual regional tyrant named Vlad the Impailer, so called because he liked to punish people by impaling them on a sharp stake so that it took them days to die, very publicly and painfully. We learned, also to our dismay, that Vlad only used Bran Castle once on a short vacation, so the actual reason Bran Castle is so famous eludes us. Nevertheless, we ventured forward.

Pulling into Bran, we discovered no screaming people run through with sharp sticks, instead we found a tourist trap of epic proportions. There was every manner of vampire merchandise (save for the horrid Twilight Saga stuff). T-shirts with blood dripping off of them, wigs, fangs, crosses, and strangely, lots of lace. We perused the small tourist shops watching groups of Japanese tourists in matching tour hats scoop up Dracula souvenirs.

Eventually we tired of the balking tourists and screaming merchants so we snapped a few pictures of the outside of Bran Castle and jumped back in our trusty Citroen Saxo. Another castle was perched on a hillside a few miles back down the road, so we decided to visit the less busy, less touristy castle and actually climb up inside it.

We had split off from our convoy earlier that day, with the Face Race team heading to Bucharest, Romania to drop off a team mate. We had a few hours to kill before we caught up with them that evening near the border with Moldova, so we decided that we had plenty of time to see another castle. One hardly ever tires of castles, I’ve found.

Finding parking was easy, so we walked up the hill to Rasnov Castle, which was apparently past business hours at six in the afternoon. We walked through the main gates and up into the chambers of the castle. Much of Rasnov is in ruins, but a panoramic view from the top of what must have been a look-out tower or platform gave us one of the best views in Romania. We walked around admiring the old structures (many of which were under construction) and finally walked back down to the car. We had a lot of miles to cover that night before re-uniting with our convoy and heading into Moldova.

If you haven’t seen the British TV show “Top Gear” then you probably aren’t alone. I haven’t seen it either. But, apparently everyone on the rally is in love with the show, which features a few men who take on auto-related challenges around the globe in seemingly anything with an engine and a few wheels.

All the Brits were raving about a special road featured in Top Gear and was made famous from car commercials and other car-related things. This road was called The Transfagaran Pass, so we stuck the nose of our car in that direction. It was not far from the camp ground but we still managed to get lost, a daily occurrence for our tiny convoy. Eventually we found the right road and discovered it was a winding narrow road up the side of a mountain. Motorcycles were buzzing past us and faster cars passed us as if we were not on an incline at all. We stayed in first gear the whole time. Finally, we reached the part of the road that made it famous, a hillside with switchbacks going all the way to the summit, where a small lake awaits. We gunned it at an insane 20 mph, finally reaching the top without having anyone puke in the car. The view was breathtaking, and well worth the drive. We drove on through a tunnel, where our convoy began honking at one another, and all the locals joined in filling the tunnel with honking and cheering.

It began to rain, and since our tires are as smooth as a baby’s bottom we decided t head down rather than take the road the entire length towards Bucharest. Oly and Oli had to drop Rikki off at the airport, as he had to fly back to the UK for work. We said our goodbyes on top of the mountain and waved as they went back through the tunnel and we headed down the hill towards Bran.

Gypsies, it turns out, do not have a very good reputation in Romania. Having driven from Budapest, we were exhausted by the time we reached the border. The scenery was beautiful, with mountains speckled throughout the landscape that our tiny car wound up and down and small speeds. Oradea was the first town across the border and we arrived on schedule around noon. Finding parking was easy, but the safety of our cars was definitely in question. The aforementioned gypsies flocked around the park nearby and asked for money from our small group at tedium. We took everything off the roof rack and put it into the car before setting off to view Oradea’s sights.

Two main plazas sit in central Oradea, one on either side of the river that bisects the town. We walked in the mid-day heat to the first and snapped a few pictures but because of the extreme temperatures no one was really in the mood to stare at more architecture. Several people were holding their stomachs in hunger while everyone else dashed into every passing quick-mart to buy a drink.  Hydration was key. We crept slowly across the river and halted for ice cream at a street-side vendor before exploring the opposing square and city center. For a small town on the border, Oradea is surprisingly beautiful and with a wealth of cafes, restaurants and bars. A long pedestrian street lay ahead, so we walked down it, enjoying the city and the rich atmosphere.

We had heard somewhere that there was a vegetarian restaurant in town that made celery schnitzel. When you hear a menu item like that you simply have to go check it out in person. Apparently it is the only vegetarian place in Romania, which made the allure all the greater. We spent quite a bit of time looking for it and finally discovered it was near our parked cars (which were still there, thankfully!). We sat inside, enjoying the air conditioning for several minutes while examining the menu. A curious thing happens in Eastern Europe, Central Asia and Asia. When a menu item runs out, they simply put an X in -front of  it. This menu was entirely composed of Xs, with only a few remaining items. We waited….and waited….and waited. Eventually we lost interest in waiting and decided to leave, having regained some humanity thanks to the air conditioners. We strolled across the street and had gyros for a fraction of the price.

Climbing back into the hot cars went against every natural survival instinct, but that’s exactly what we did. We hit the road going fast, anything to cool down the cars. In the back seat, Mike was dripping sweat as he looked out the window. Bill was wiping his face with a cloth and I was blinking rapidly to stop the burning heat from drying my eyes. We didn’t have far to go to reach our next destination, so we all set our jaws and forged ahead.

Budapest has received a lot of fan fare in recent years for its bohemian settings and casual expat culture. We got to experience a bit of this for the few brief days we were in Budapest. First, the city is divided in half and together Buda and Pest comprise the metropolis of Budapest, the river dividing them neatly in half. Beautiful bridges connect the two townships, making them one.

The older part of town and, incidentally, the side most tourists visit is Buda. In Buda you’ll find the old town citadel and the famous labyrinths that run beneath it. A sign informed us that the catacomb labyrinths beneath us were one of the seven underground wonders of the world. God knows what the other six are. We toured around the cathedral and admired the view from atop the hill in Buda, looking over the river and the steady development in Pest. Strolling around, Buda could be any beautiful city in Europe, with fashionably clad women and business-minded men briskly going about their day.

Budapest boasts one of the oldest metro systems in Europe. We decided to take the subway to check it out. Leather straps dangled from metal plates inside the cabins on the subway, while real glass windows let passengers look out into the beautifully crafted subway platforms of tile and mosaic. It was extremely impressive, and efficient. The subway connects travelers with bus and above ground train stations so that mobility in the city is easy.

Pest, where the city’s modernity begins to shine through, is where we stayed. Naturally, prices are cheaper in the peak season in Pest, and our campground was only a few Euro a night and nestled neatly into the middle of a public park. We jumped on the tram heading north to take a tour of the Budapest Torture Museum. Obviously not my idea, but I was along for the ride. I’m glad we ended up going, as I learned a great deal and someone has invested a large amount in the facility, making it one of the most in-depth museums I’ve ever visited. It happened to be free for people under 26 the day we arrived, so I got in for free while Mike, having forgotten his ID, decided to wait outside. Bill paid for his ticket (old man!) and we made our way up a flight of stairs to view a real Soviet tank in a small room that was comprised entirely of pictures of deceased Hungarians. The tour would only become more sobering as we went on. In all, we saw the cells where prisoners lived, the gallows where they died, the torture chambers, and several videos made from victims who calmly explained what went on in the building. Finally, we emerged from the building into the sunlight with a lot of information about the Soviet invasion of Hungary, and what that meant for the people of Budapest. I’d highly recommend the museum, but plan to be shocked. There is no “politically correct” concept when it comes to displaying text and images.

Back at the campground we managed to do a bit of laundry, stringing a line from the car to a nearby fence. We cleaned out the car (which was much in need of attention) and Bill did a once-over on the car checking the wheels, engine and poking his head around under the belly of the beast. All was in order, so we set off the following morning for Romania.

We arrived in Bratislava that evening after leaving Vienna. We heard it would be cheaper in Slovakia than Austria, but a quick consultation with Hostel World proved otherwise. We did manage to discover that there was a large camp ground near the city. We asked for directions and followed them….almost. Somehow we overshot the campground by over 30km! We turned around and headed back towards Bratislava. Before we could get far at all, however, angry clouds to the south started to swirl and bark. Having grown up in the Midwest, Mike recognized all the signs of a tornado about to touch down. Cool and warm wind whipped the side of the car and our pirate flag was whipping so wildly we thought it would rip right off and fly up into the black clouds. Slowly, a funnel formed from the largest cloud and it arched its way down to earth.  Our cars were racing along the highway back towards town but the sky was growing dark so fast and so suddenly that many of the locals were pulling off the road to wait it out. Recognizing that waiting in the path of a tornado was a bad idea, we forged on at full speed.

I pulled out the video camera and started filming just as the rain started to fall hard against the car. There is no sound on earth quite like heavy rain on metal, it comes down like bullets and lands with a thud for each drop. I yelled into the camera but the rain and wind was too much to be heard. I turned the camera around to the car behind us and although I knew it was right behind us, it was not visible.

Everyone was pulling over. Our radio walki-talkie buzzed and the Face Race team said they were pulling over. We kept on ahead for several more minutes, eying the clouds. The funnel had touched earth and played around in the field as if just interested in picking sunflowers and swallowing them whole. Not being a meteorologist, I’m not sure why the tornado retracted back into the cloud when it did, but we watched it retract its fingers full of flowers and disappear. The rain continued for several more minutes and then abruptly stopped. Once it was clear again we easily saw the sign for the campground (we had zoomed right past it!)

We bought one bungalow for all 6 of us and then we all headed towards the showers. There are few things more wonderful than a shower after a long stint of camping. My joy was cut short as the water was ice cold and lasted less than one minute. With shampoo in my hair, I pushed the button and nothing happened. I kept pushing it and eventually a small stream of water trickled out. I rinsed off as best I could then went back to announce the lack of water to the group. Groans went up from the masses of angry, dirty ralliers so we grabbed a few coins and headed to the bar. At one Euro a beer, these were the cheapest prices we’d seen yet. We grabbed a few drinks and a meal on the camping compound and it turned out to be a very nice evening.

In the morning, we packed up and headed east towards Budapest. But on the way out of town we saw something that caused our two car convoy to screech to a halt. A giant wooden chair sat on the side of the road, no signage or explanation. We, of course, tried to climb on it and failed. In case you were ever wondering, we think Bratislava holds the record for world’s largest chair.

With our small caravan, we made progress slowly. Having stopped for food, for water and for gas and bathroom breaks (all at separate times for some reason) we eventually lost one of the cars in our convoy, the Back flips and Summersaults team, which had farther to go that evening and wanted to make haste. That left our team and the Face Race team, which sped things up a bit. We reached Austria as it was growing dark and decided to pull over and camp.

We were on a major highway with sunflower fields on either side as far as the eye could see. A dirt road up ahead was all we needed, and at the first sign of one we jumped off the road and drove several kilometers away, weaving around fields as we went. Eventually we settled on a place that was on a hill, but relatively lower than the high ground around us. We set up our tents and pulled the cars into the field. The Face Race team, being British, pulled out a soccer ball and set about in a small game which we eagerly joined in on. We cooked dinner and hung out into the evening. The day before in Prague another team had given me a strange toy. It was a piano with a drum set mounted on it and a techno beat player. We set that up and took turns playing DJ on the strange device. It took up so much room in the car, but it was too funny not to keep.

In the morning, we packed up and had a light breakfast before hitting the highway towards Vienna. We easily found the center of town and paid for parking. Walking off into the labyrinth that is Vienna, we quickly stumbled into the center square with the cathedral. It had been a while since our last Breakfast Beer, so we ordered up a round and sat outside the church watching horse-drawn carriages pull tourists around the city as they snapped pictures and consulted their guide books. We enjoyed the respite and although the waitress eyed our dusty group with a wary eye we all paid and walked off to find food.

The hunt for food turned out to be epic. Finally, King Rikki (so called because of his love for fine things) found us an affordable place to have schnitzel and fries. I hadn’t had that since my youth, so it was a nice treat. We walked around town a bit more before heading back to our cars. A wave of relief hit us as we turned the corner to find our cars still there, everything on the roof rack still in place. Another day without any major problems! Perfect. The two Olis and Rikki boarded their car and we did likewise, pointing it east to Bratislava.