tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25715918506329251412011-12-24T09:05:30.091-08:00One writer. One backpack. One big world.Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.comBlogger1011100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-68065644953976704892010-04-16T16:44:00.000-07:002010-04-22T11:50:13.809-07:00

Worry consumed the cabbie on the April afternoon last year. As his beat-up car wove through traffic on a highway into Bangkok, the radio blared updates on Thailand's latest wave of political unrest. A major anti-government demonstration loomed. Rumors filled the newspapers, like the Bangkok Post's report of the Royal Thai Army's 2nd Calvary Division moving toward the capitol to quash unrest.

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-19804512774561470582009-07-19T16:24:00.000-07:002010-03-09T19:32:55.262-08:00

Few places in the world are stranger than Djibouti. Earlier notes detail my journey there, though a suffocating land infested with flies, dust and, of course, khat. That's the leaf-like drug most of the East African country is addicted to. It's an unnerving, eye-opening experience to walk through a city that's collectively stoned each afternoon after the daily khat shipment arrives from Ethiopia.

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-71710245641952922502009-05-24T21:33:00.000-07:002009-06-12T14:52:11.162-07:00

The signs litter Ko Jum on dead-end dirt roads, isolated stretches of beach, palm groves and rubber plantations, with milky latex trickling down tree trunks into small buckets. They warn in English and Thai that the island sits in a tsunami hazard zone. That's like saying "the sky is blue" or "jellyfish sting."No one pays them any attention.The signs came after the sea devastated the island and

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-32405275491386500602009-05-01T18:27:00.000-07:002009-06-12T14:55:26.775-07:00

By day, the Bamboo Bar wasn't much to look at.An open air shack made of coconut wood fronted a desolate stretch of beach on Ko Jum. Signs hawked longtail trips to Krabi and Ko Phi Phi and scuba diving. Ratty blankets and candle holders covered the sand in front of the bar. No one stirred, inside or out.But darkness transformed the place. Candles flickered in the sand, throwing shadows around palm

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-74979593594478078242009-04-22T16:21:00.000-07:002009-06-12T14:56:23.472-07:00

Sometimes you want to disappear. From being connected, 24-hour news cycles, e-mail, cell phones, television, the Internet and the hundred other things that scream for attention. And the messages they bring each day turn your stomach. Factories closing. Layoffs. Pensions wiped out. Banks failing. Foreclosures. Whole industries dying. Markets in free-fall. Countries on the verge of collapse.

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-52754308689560923052009-04-18T13:26:00.001-07:002009-06-12T14:56:46.714-07:00

Ko Jum.Bangkok.Bangkok.Three-fourths of the gang, Bangkok.Ko Jum.

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-49416418722050965072009-04-14T21:29:00.000-07:002009-06-12T14:57:06.260-07:00

Longtail, off Ko Jum.Ko Jum.Phuket.Bangkok.Uninhabited island, Andaman Sea.

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-16027107740753546332009-04-05T03:18:00.001-07:002009-06-12T14:57:24.020-07:00

Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-83402274873419982402009-04-02T21:49:00.001-07:002009-06-12T14:57:51.925-07:00

Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-44401416671886955032009-04-01T21:08:00.000-07:002009-06-12T14:58:19.539-07:00

Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-71125860332352440652009-03-31T01:38:00.001-07:002010-04-29T18:50:13.526-07:00

In Thailand. Will resurface with new stories and adventures in a week or two. Stay tuned. Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-5066678234648735112009-03-14T18:31:00.000-07:002009-06-12T14:59:37.420-07:00

The black Moleskine notebooks travel everywhere I do. They matter more than my passport or wads of Tanzanian shillings or blister packs of Malarone. They hold the stories of the previous 13 months of my life, the journeys from China to Djibouti to the United Arab Emirates and a hundred points in between.The edges are worn. Airline ticket stubs are crammed between pages. There are

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-82268423962741682202009-03-04T17:44:00.000-08:002009-06-12T15:00:38.228-07:00

The Seattle afternoon is dark and dreary through the coffee shop's windows. The $1.70 cup of drip I order each day has been empty for hours, but the baristas behind the marble bar don't care. Like the orange walls covered with blown-up photos of books, I'm part of the scenery here.My thoughts, as usual, are thousands of miles away. This time, I'm transported to an evening last April on Hvar

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-22209539118482246262009-02-25T17:19:00.000-08:002009-06-12T15:14:55.502-07:00

One of the stranger experiences of the last year was detailed in the previous post. That included watching a half-dozen Maasai count 19.3 million shillings in a law firm's opulent compound on the edge of Arusha. In a place where there is so little -at least materially - to sit in the middle of something that resembles a resort as the air is filled with the sound of counting shillings is bizarre,

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-39689638143446962742009-02-18T15:23:00.000-08:002009-06-12T15:15:31.107-07:00

The lawyer's compound was on the edge of Arusha, but in another world. Down the road sticky with tar from the afternoon sun, by the murky pool in a field filled with splashing children, past two checkpoints manned by Warrior Security and into the sanctum of shiny SUVs, flawless English and Dolce and Gabbana outfits.And, as usual, the village chief was late. He rolled up in a battered taxi two

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-24518052208865690662009-02-15T16:12:00.000-08:002009-06-12T15:16:01.497-07:00

The money appeared in a paper bag, escorted by a sleepy-looking guard cradling an AK-47.Behind the barred window of the Western Union office in Arusha, the clerk pretended not to notice as 15 million Tanzanian shillings were dumped on the counter, quickly counted and shoved into a black backpack in wads of a million secured with rubber bands.The three Americans I was with needed the money to make

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-51385065051604101292009-02-07T20:34:00.000-08:002009-06-12T15:17:42.760-07:00

Many thanks to my good friend over at Squawking VFR for the kind mention of my blog and assorted globetrotting adventures. Mr. VFR hits one of the secrets of good writing: It should make you feel something. Being able to do that through stories from the road has been one of my great joys of the past year.Also, the folks over at Hoopraker, a blog covering Big Ten basketball, tracked down my

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-25438203384794772892009-02-03T22:40:00.000-08:002010-08-09T15:57:09.086-07:00

What was different, the place or the person? Day after day the question assailed me, as I struggled to make sense of my return to Tanzania. The intensity of my summer in country was gone, the two-month whirlwind of climbing Mount Kilimanjaro, mistaking an elephant for a boulder, junking the rest of my globetrotting to stay longer, being jumped twice and finding myself in the middle of a

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-66116119805929264942009-01-30T17:07:00.000-08:002010-03-09T20:02:58.395-08:00

A kerosene lamp threw shadows across the concrete walls of the half-finished home. Every few seconds the flickering light caught Godson Stella's face and illuminated the smile that never seemed to leave. You couldn't see the uncontrollable tremors that shook his right hand and leg. They had grown worse since I first met Godson over the summer. Back then, Godson tried to hide the trembling by

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-82905623240432731982009-01-28T13:55:00.000-08:002010-03-09T19:45:22.818-08:00

The remnants of my former life stalk me. Reminders of that time as a sports reporter with The Ann Arbor News are everywhere, none more than the continuing fallout from my last six months on the job. My attention wasn't on the usual duties, covering the University of Michigan's basketball team. Instead, I spent those final six months, along with three other reporters, consumed with an

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-64782316412069518912009-01-26T16:09:00.000-08:002009-06-12T14:51:25.649-07:00

They emerged from the sunlight and dust and into the ramshackle church. They came in twos and threes, with dog-eared bibles, intricate hairdos, bright kangas, fraying blazers and sandals made from old tires. Fifty-nine people, old and young, jammed into a single room with a naked light bulb that didn't work, bare concrete floor and corrugated iron roof dotted with half-inflated purple and white

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-41158533740956144852009-01-21T18:39:00.000-08:002010-08-09T15:56:38.982-07:00

In the last year, I haven't held the monopoly on stepping into the unknown. My good friend Jim Carty, the former sports columnist for The Ann Arbor News who has won enough national awards to start a trophy shop, gave up his job a few months back to pursue law school. But Jim can't stop writing. He authors a popular blog chronicling his transition to law school, the spiraling newspaper industry,

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-71231107722731969942009-01-20T12:36:00.000-08:002010-08-09T15:57:52.860-07:00

You go to Africa and images are burned into your mind. These are things you can't erase, no matter how uncomfortable, no matter the effort. Like the disabled man crawling on his hands and knees through a street choked with garbage, dust and goat dung in a Tanzanian village. No one looked at him, much less helped. That is part of the beauty and heartache of Africa. You see life as it is. There are

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-91438301411820753862009-01-17T15:02:00.000-08:002009-06-12T15:33:17.455-07:00

Little of Dubai felt authentic, more giant construction zone meets boom town. The dhow wharf was different. It's gritty, real and filled with the forgotten people whose backs Dubai is being built on.

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-85279176964811807662009-01-14T15:30:00.000-08:002009-06-12T15:33:40.835-07:00

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-63165459523099109702009-01-13T16:59:00.001-08:002009-06-12T15:34:19.657-07:00

Christmas, Djibouti-style.Sunset and spray, skiff back from Musha Island.Don't even think about it.Kempinski Djibouti Palace lobby, not the real Africa.Kempinski, spot the U.S. Senator and bodyguard.

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-36987073629874866772009-01-06T11:50:00.001-08:002009-06-12T15:38:23.311-07:00

The furniture shop sits off the deeply-rutted main drag in Ngaramtoni that is choked with dust, burning garbage and, of course, goats. The place is easy to miss - with a couple of unfinished bedframes and stools out front - but the owner isn't.Mohamad Laicier is pushing 73 years old, with his stomach bulging out of a dirty, half-buttoned striped shirt, socks paired with flip-flops and a black and

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-7809290042690772262009-01-05T01:18:00.001-08:002009-06-12T15:38:45.443-07:00

Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-9210639920918564152009-01-04T11:40:00.001-08:002010-03-09T20:11:05.674-08:00

The daladala ride wasn't unusual: I was crammed in a corner, hit my head against the ceiling a half-dozen times and my legs were on the verge of falling asleep from being in a position so awkward it made me yearn for the wide open spaces of coach seats on Northwest Airlines. The minibus rattled, reeked of unwashed bodies and every pothole and bump (Tanzanian roads seem to consist entirely of such

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-46597681748711586212009-01-03T00:52:00.001-08:002009-06-12T15:44:55.253-07:00

Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-64741324735719328092009-01-02T10:59:00.001-08:002010-03-09T20:12:21.883-08:00

The call to prayer from the mosque in Ngaramtoni, Tanzania, floats over the dusty and dark fields and groves of banana plants. Mount Meru looms in the distance, nothing more than a blue outline after the sun sank away. The mosque stops and the only sounds are crickets and occasional daladala honk. Then evening prayers from the sisters at the Medical Missionaries of Mary compound start, sweet

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-69704535206953777652009-01-01T23:09:00.000-08:002009-06-12T16:02:00.476-07:00

Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-12214397345990711542009-01-01T10:55:00.001-08:002010-03-09T20:14:10.316-08:00

The Hotel Assamo in Djibouti is not a quiet place. Lay on the mattress covered with stains and burn marks in the tiny room with peeling yellow paint on the walls and you're surrounded by mayhem. This is a bit of a step down from the Kempinski - all for $38 per night. I spent a week here. Shouts. Honks. Barking dogs. Screeches. Rattles. Screams. Slams. All drifting into a sticky and stuffy box

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-31744838558724141782008-12-28T11:43:00.000-08:002011-12-24T09:05:30.096-08:00

So, about the time an enraged taxi driver drunk and high on khat tried to run me down in the middle of the night, it occurred to me that this wasn't a normal Christmas. Not close. Not in this strange sliver of the world. Start with diving into the town's market Christmas Eve, in a maze-like web of streets you could barely fit through because of stands selling everything from spices to knockoff

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-62757774812633648532008-12-24T07:43:00.001-08:002009-06-17T17:52:27.598-07:00

Deep water frightens me. Always has. If I can't see the bottom, I don't much want to get in. So, it made perfect sense to jump into the ocean off Djibouti and into the middle of six-foot swells and dozens of sharks churning just below the surface. Yes, sharks. Twenty-ton whale sharks that, thankfully, eat plankton instead of people. Still, I wondered if I had lost my mind. First, we had to

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-14672920992536322092008-12-23T09:55:00.001-08:002010-03-09T20:27:55.863-08:00

The Djibouti Palace Kempinski Hotel is not reality. Sure, the five-star place is jammed with marble, two infinity edge pools, manicured lawns, wrought iron, fountains, dark wood, beds you melt into and an over-the-top spa. But this is not the real East Africa. Not close. This is an escape from the trash-strewn streets and poverty and shacks made of garbage outside the tall gates and palm trees

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-41867258673558163832008-12-22T11:22:00.001-08:002010-03-09T20:32:57.535-08:00

Swarms of flies, the stench of burning garbage and a passport officer who refused to believe I wasn't U.S. military greeted me as I stepped off the plane in Djibouti. The officer demanded an identity card I didn't possess, relenting only after a barrage of high school French and thirty dollars convinced the baffled man I was un touriste. The air conditioning that never works in the summer was

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-3496410502774653032008-12-19T22:12:00.000-08:002009-06-12T16:35:43.127-07:00

I'm in Djibouti and am saddened to report this post-apocalyptic city is without data coverage for my Blackberry. Well, Djibouti is without a lot of things, like basic infrastructure. This place is wild and unpredictable and I love that. But blog posts could be spotty for the next week or so, depending on the Internet situation.Keep reading. The stories from this sun-baked chunk of rock and sand

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-7373204141770715752008-12-19T04:10:00.001-08:002009-06-12T16:37:05.135-07:00

Walk six or seven miles through Dubai and you feel as if you've hardly moved. Vast portions of the city remain nothing more than hazy promises on the horizon. Dubai sprawls on and on. It doesn't take long for the city to feel impersonal, nothing more than a jungle of cranes and skyscrapers and malls and neon signs. It's like an upscale Disneyland, complete with indoor skiing, the region's most

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-39181104308363295872008-12-18T08:42:00.001-08:002009-06-12T16:38:25.382-07:00

The stub of plane ticket is stuck between the pages of my notebook. It's from June 27, on a Precision Air flight from Dar es Salaam to Arusha. That day I was supposed to leave Tanzania and fly to Dubai. Instead, I jumped off the plane in Dar, canceled my ticket and flew back to Arusha. I stayed in Africa for another month, days that shook how I viewed the world, writing, travel and my role in all

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-84484605369497128972008-12-17T22:40:00.001-08:002009-06-12T16:38:57.032-07:00

People still read newspapers in Dubai. Forget about the turmoil roiling my former industry in the U.S. Out here, newspapers are booming and, quaintly, still printed each day on paper. They also have advertisements. Lots of them. It's all very strange.The papers, like the United Arab Emirates-based Gulf News, are also entertaining. And I'm not talking about the incessant stories about Dubai

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-86541214195763251462008-12-16T10:22:00.001-08:002009-06-12T16:39:44.939-07:00

Strange moments seem to stalk me around the globe. If my flight isn't delayed because the president of Tanzania is boarding, I'm getting into a daladala wreck on an impassable mountain road, hit by an SUV on Zanzibar, in the room when a cop pulls a loaded pistol or answering the door of my guest house room with a knife in the middle of the night as someone tries to break in. The year has been

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-57292113874165056002008-12-15T12:39:00.001-08:002010-03-09T20:39:47.752-08:00

Indian music clangs through the frigid business class cabin on the Northwest Airlines jet, but I don't care. Simply being able to stretch my legs and back is enough. I'm sore. For all the near calamities I've had on the road this year, I didn't need a passport to finally be knocked silly. That came six days ago, as a driver rear-ended my brother and I at 30 mph. Sure, I emerged unscathed from a

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-74183152264378876752008-12-03T13:14:00.000-08:002010-08-09T15:59:12.100-07:00

So much is the same. The streets outside Sweetwaters Cafe in Ann Arbor are dusted with snow and chunks of salt and ice. Inside, jazz drifts around a dozen conversations and weathered brick walls and the white tin ceiling. Clear Christmas lights dangle in the windows, adding bits of warmth to the desolation of a Midwestern winter and landscape stripped of color. Each time the door opens, frigid

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-20578802886637126352008-10-22T14:32:00.000-07:002009-06-12T16:42:17.962-07:00

Here are another series of photos from a sunrise over the Indian Ocean in Jambiani, Zanzibar. The light is completely different than the previous day's sunrise, as a storm rolled in. The effect was haunting.

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-74477589490593604532008-10-17T16:15:00.000-07:002009-06-12T16:42:37.154-07:00

Few things can rouse me from bed early in the morning. A sunrise in Africa is one of them. Sunrises here are not subtle affairs. The entire sky is aflame, with an intensity and succession of colors that quickly rob you of words. These photos are part of a 50-shot series I started at 5 a.m. in Jambiani, Zanzibar, kept company by a couple of early rising fisherman, the sticky breeze and the dull

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-66983025254796978072008-10-05T22:51:00.000-07:002010-04-29T18:35:17.791-07:00

Step on a plane out of Africa and you think the journey is finished. That the chaos and emotion and unpredictability and beauty and heartbreak of life there are left behind the moment you slide into the seat on the KLM 777. Africa couldn't follow someone home, right? No other trip has stalked me, not Russia or China or years of meanderings across Europe. They're dusty photos and

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-56027666580385703742008-09-23T20:57:00.000-07:002009-06-12T16:44:41.667-07:00

Admit it: You've always wanted to know what a Tanzanian arrest warrant looks like. Well, here are two. Seriously. Hand-written scraps of paper. These innocent-looking pieces of paper got two folks rung up for assault, fraud and theft. But that's a much longer story that will be told another day.So, I'm back from Africa. For now. No more Malarone. No incessant daladala honking to wake me at 5 a.m.

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-76149575859375820802008-09-03T16:51:00.000-07:002009-06-12T16:45:06.148-07:00

Stone Town is crumbling, a ruined maze that used to be one of East Africa's jewels. Now parts of the former home to sultans and slave traders and spice merchants resemble a post-apocalyptic movie set, with crumbling palaces and mansions and piles of rubble and buildings with names - like the House of Wonders - that are grander than their exteriors.But Stone Town is too busy to notice.Like the

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-46945868361559803832008-08-31T19:31:00.000-07:002009-06-12T16:45:29.463-07:00

Lake Manyara.Jambiani.Lake Manyara.Kilimanjaro, day five.Jambiani.

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-86395753465232557142008-08-28T16:35:00.001-07:002009-06-12T16:46:01.657-07:00

A lone trumpet cried through the radio in Casa del Mar's thatch-roofed restaurant. Warm wind rustled the surrounding palm trees and waves crashed against the reef two miles out, leaving a dull roar that never subsided. Three couples lingered over large plates of fish and fries and rice on polished wood tables. Nobody talked much.Candles flickered and threw shadows around. A black cat lurked in

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-88316051307868501732008-08-24T19:23:00.000-07:002010-04-29T19:03:41.159-07:00

There was one mistake in Tanzania I wasn't going to make twice: The Flying Horse ferry to Zanzibar. The "Crawling" Horse is notorious as the slowest way to the island, outside of hiring a leaky dhow, swimming or building your own raft. All the ferry was missing was handing an oar to each passenger. What should be an hour-and-a-half trip turns into a four-hour (or more) stomach-turning ordeal. Of

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-69569575240561868252008-08-18T16:06:00.000-07:002009-06-12T16:47:16.330-07:00

A few shots from the villages of Ngaramtoni and Olevolos - about 15 minutes north of Arusha - where I spent three and a half weeks.Ngaramtoni, next to the police station.Olevolos village council.Olevolos, in the foothills of Mount Meru.Olevolos.Olevolos, among the banana plants.

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-57849448389141462692008-08-14T16:54:00.000-07:002009-06-12T16:48:25.646-07:00

One thing is true about the Dar Express bus line: It goes to Dar es Salaam. The express part? Not so much.Sure, the bus doesn't have the sweat-drenched charm of the daladalas. Or the thrill of the Coaster mini-buses barreling down the Arusha-Moshi highway, reputed to be the country's most dangerous. Think bigger daladalas, with more people and chickens to die when they crumple. The Rough Guide to

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-51716349249403556372008-08-12T16:38:00.000-07:002009-06-12T16:50:39.935-07:00

Since everyone's buzzing about the Olympics (well, unless your country is being overrun by the Russians and various separatist factions), here are a few photos from my swing through China in February.Later this month, I'll share some thoughts from my time there.Shanghai.Nanchang.Shanghai.Mao.One solution to the energy crisis.Not what you think.

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-21108574758604673862008-08-06T15:35:00.000-07:002009-06-12T16:51:06.901-07:00

There is a simple method to find good local food in Tanzania: If there are white people (wazungu in Swahili) at the establishment, don’t eat there. You won’t find any wazungu in Ngaramtoni, a 20-minute daladala ride from Arusha, much less at the New Sahara Café.The café sits at the village’s center, next to a dirt road where the deep ruts are filled with rotting orange peels and maize husks and

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-55192055518911232212008-07-31T13:22:00.000-07:002009-06-12T16:51:40.567-07:00

Sure, I could put up with the blitzkrieg of cockroaches at the Meru House Inn in Arusha.Or the swarm of daladalas outside that started honking at 5 a.m.Or the television in the courtyard that blared Dolph Lundgren action flicks into the early morning, bouncing sounds of gunfire and explosions off the concrete walls of the guest house.Or the persistent, if not dense, operatives at Victoria

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-559872929406063942008-07-28T22:28:00.000-07:002009-06-12T16:52:34.233-07:00

“Just keep smiling. Maybe they’ll think we’re with National Geographic.”- Jewel of the NileAfrica is unpredictable. Take stomach trouble. Imagine playing Russian Roulette with samosas and chai and avocado salad. You never know what bite of food will suddenly make you feel as if you’ve downed a pint of Tabasco and a couple of live snapping turtles.There are inconvenient times for this to happen,

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-43488008398883693572008-07-27T15:18:00.002-07:002009-06-12T16:52:54.443-07:00

Stone Town, Zanzibar.Lake Manyara.Olevolos.Jambiani, Zanzibar.Lake Manyara.Jambiani, Zanzibar.

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-7906108236076964092008-07-25T14:23:00.000-07:002009-06-12T16:53:41.465-07:00

Rongai route trailhead with Andipas.Mawenzi peak.Kibo, from cave three.Descent on Marangu route.Our crew, day six.

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-13999740560181733272008-07-22T13:13:00.001-07:002010-03-17T15:11:31.416-07:00

Step into a daladala - the decrepit and dangerously overloaded Toyota minivans with near-suicidal drivers that fill Tanzania's streets - and adventure usually ensues. Of course, something the U.S. State Department warns against riding is something I can't stay away from, never mind the routine catastrophic accidents, rank odors and good chance the wild-eyed teenager at the wheel is stoned.

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-49741328564646597652008-07-21T12:30:00.000-07:002010-04-29T18:43:13.717-07:00

This time, there were no dramatics. No flight to Dar es Salaam to change an airline ticket. No wild cab ride. No unexpected stop in Zanzibar. Just five minutes in the KLM office in Arusha to junk my trip to stay in Tanzania the rest of the month. I was scheduled to fly to Dubai tomorrow after delaying my departure last week. But there's no other place on the globe I'd rather be right now than

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-17775350001986096092008-07-18T13:18:00.000-07:002010-03-17T15:25:46.235-07:00

Yesterday I was supposed to leave Africa, with three flights taking me from Arusha, Tanzania, to Dubai. I made it as far as Dar es Salaam (with a stop in Zanzibar), before admitting I wasn't ready to leave. Perhaps it should've been a clue that I awoke at 5 a.m. in Arusha after a fitful night of sleep hoping for canceled flights, the airport shuttle bus not showing, bad weather, a coup, malaria,

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-89226757038826173162008-07-12T10:47:00.000-07:002010-03-17T16:03:14.672-07:00

After climbing up Kilimanjaro, the small matter of descending remained. Twelve hours of sleep at Horombo Hut - cold wind buffeting the tent and noisy porters playing cards a few yards away late into the night - didn't do much to revive my exhausted body. Then all that separated me from a hot shower was the five-hour hike down the Marangu route. So, Paul and I decided to run back. The guides

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-60731686613228935362008-07-10T14:06:00.000-07:002010-03-17T15:36:50.733-07:00

Life seemed to disappear with each step, as we climbed four hours to 15,600 feet and Kibo Hut. Winding through dry creeks and river beds, nothing moved, aside from the breeze against a few ragged bushes in this wasteland. Buffalo tracks in deep dust near the end of the climb were the only clue we weren't alone. The altitude left us gasping and exhausted when we arrived at Kibo Hut at noon. From

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-71444580037000546922008-07-06T13:05:00.000-07:002010-03-17T15:39:40.019-07:00

There is plenty of time to talk when climbing a mountain - if you have the breath - and those conversations meander to strange places. Like explaining the corrosive properties of Coca-Cola to Andipas. A fire department Paul worked for used Coca-Cola to remove blood from pavement. The news so shocked Andipas that he jerked to a stop with his face twisted in astonishment in the middle of a vast

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-39137632029444221502008-06-30T11:42:00.000-07:002010-03-17T15:50:55.509-07:00

Leaving behind the circus of hundreds of porters at the first camp site, we hiked four hours in the morning and crossed 11,000 feet. We were above the layer of clouds covering Kenya. When I turned around, it felt as if the edge of the world unfolded below. But those thoughts faded away as we climbed through the moorlands, filled with shoulder-high scrub, occasional trees and discrete channels

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-72546040031024138192008-06-27T11:02:00.001-07:002010-03-17T15:53:13.588-07:00

One by one, the guides and porters - all six of them - crammed into the Land Cruiser. Each gave Paul and I an elaborate handshake, then wedged themselves among sacks of gear and provisions. People hopped off daldalas and danced in the mud streets of the tiny village we were parked in, as music blared from the Again Central Bar. One daldala with three people hanging off the side sped through. The

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-33348283708171832202008-06-24T10:51:00.000-07:002010-03-17T15:57:07.252-07:00

"Aren't you scared of what doesn't scare or frighten you?" - The Who The day before I started up Kilimanjaro, we had no outfitter, guides, porters or permits. Most people, the sane ones at least, plan every detail of this trek months in advance. We had only a 6 a.m. flight from Dar es Salaam to Kilimanjaro International Airport, a 40-minute bus ride to Moshi and a few leads scribbled in a

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-79630595097682203632008-06-21T08:58:00.001-07:002009-06-12T16:55:06.471-07:00

Made it to Gillman's Point on top of Kilimanjaro at 5 a.m. yesterday after starting at midnight. I began to traverse the massive crater, but made it only 50 meters before my body was ravaged by altitude sickness and I headed down. As the sun rose over Africa, I sat in the middle of the trail at about 17,000 feet vomiting for all I was worth. Somehow I made it back to base camp at Kibo Hut under

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-15276617466495568282008-06-15T12:35:00.001-07:002010-03-17T16:02:05.616-07:00

The creaking of a fan that sounds as if it's about to explode is the only sound in my hotel room in Moshi. Tomorrow I start a six-day trek up Mt. Kilimanjaro and this is the last bed, the last shower, the last toilet I'll see for the week. My hands and legs tingle after my first dose of Diamox - a drug that speeds acclimatization - and my mind is restless under a billowing mosquito net. I've been

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-82224511855478285852008-06-12T01:23:00.000-07:002009-06-12T17:03:35.083-07:00

Never have I felt more alone and out of place than when I walked out of the airport in Dar es Salaam and into the sun, exhausted and dazed, into a swarm of touts and hard-bargaining taxi drivers. I didn't speak a word of Swahili and didn't have one Tanzanian shilling in my pocket.It reminded me of the first time I walked into a big league locker room at Safeco Field before a Dodgers-Mariners game

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-78842681434964974262008-06-10T11:59:00.001-07:002010-03-17T16:05:08.692-07:00

Spend much time in Europe and you'll notice a disturbing return to 1980s fashion (leg warmers anyone?), Eminem wannabes with ballcaps askew, mullets, Goths and enough dubbed television reruns - from "MacGyver" to "Step by Step" - to bring on a headache. Something is usually lost in translation as American pop culture works its way across the Atlantic and, after walking past the tenth kid with

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-12944924328459569172008-06-09T13:47:00.000-07:002009-06-12T17:09:41.088-07:00

The De Halve Maan Brewery hides off a tiny square in Bruges, Belgium. There are no signs or advertisments; you could easily become lost in the swirl of cafes and shops selling chocolate and lace and comic books and never know a brewery lurks behind the unassuming brick walls.The quirky, family-run place has been around since 1856, smells of hops and takes beer seriously. Sort of. Think Willy

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-91052964795353973862008-06-07T14:17:00.001-07:002010-03-17T16:08:07.273-07:00

Getting lost is a specialty of mine, whether I'm in Moscow or Minneapolis. So it wasn't a surprise when a succession of wrong turns in Amsterdam on a muggy afternoon landed me in the middle of the Red Light District instead of the grocery I sought. Of course, I was oblivious to this at first. I simply thought it strange for so many sex shops and coffeehouses to be mixed in with tranquil

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-11629232020025829462008-06-05T14:02:00.000-07:002010-03-17T16:09:34.267-07:00

Two hours after arriving in the Netherlands, I felt like I was in a trance. And it had nothing to do with the clouds of marijuana smoke surrounding the ubiquitous coffeehouses. I had slept four hours in the previous two days and my throat hurt so bad I could hardly swallow, the remnants of a weeklong bout with the flu. The streets of Haarlem dissolved into a haze of canals and row houses and

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-56309514561873455882008-06-03T09:27:00.000-07:002009-06-12T17:11:07.581-07:00

So I'm diving into the second chapter of my travels, the one where the $400 worth of immunizations at my friendly neighborhood travel clinic and stockpile of Malarone will come in handy. However invincible I now am to Yellow fever and polio and just about everything this side of Dengue fever, the shots didn't prevent me from dropping my pack on a previously injured toe (dramatic household

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-8950241368514031642008-06-02T13:11:00.001-07:002010-03-17T16:12:15.923-07:00

The rain scoured the pavement in Paris, with sharp cracks of thunder over the Place de Republique trapping drenched shoppers under meager canopies and motorbike riders in near-flooded streets. The sky wept and I wanted to, as well. Paris is an awful city to be melancholy in, even on the stormiest of days. Everywhere is bustle and beauty and life. But I was just another shadow in the city of

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-75423198902111877432008-05-28T14:30:00.000-07:002009-06-12T17:13:19.997-07:00

The other day I was in Mojo’s Sandwich Café in Chamonix, France, where you can get a chicken curry sandwich for five euros and they need English speakers to work for the summer.Most of the trails in the mountains towering above town were still covered in waist-deep snow, which proved difficult to navigate despite my best efforts. Avalanches rumbled through the valley and the skies threatened rain

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-90226357143748840732008-05-27T19:20:00.000-07:002010-03-17T16:14:54.985-07:00

After a few days in Gimmelwald, some things become ordinary. Like Ernest, who appears at the hostel’s bar at 9 a.m. every day and silently downs three double shots of Jagermeister as fast as they’re poured. Then he trudges to the field below the hostel in his mud-and-manure covered boots to tend his cattle. Ernest looks 65 or 70. He’s only 55. A half-dozen cows stampeded one morning, galloping

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-77131480409133498142008-05-26T15:33:00.000-07:002010-03-17T16:17:06.714-07:00

Midnight approached in the village no roads lead to in the Swiss Alps. The only sounds were the tinkling bells on cows and goats and sheep in the steep fields surrounding Gimmelwald, perched on a cliff 2,000 feet above the Lauterbrunnen Valley. And, from across the narrow valley, was the dull roar of waterfalls plunging thousands of feet down the Black Monk rock face and the rumble of distant

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-19221558607533289752008-05-21T20:35:00.000-07:002009-06-12T17:15:06.868-07:00

There are some conversations you don’t expect to have in a tiny lakefront village in the middle of Austria.Like in sleepy Hallstatt, surrounded by mountains and sitting on the edge of the Hallstatter See. Just 946 people live here, but the Hallstatt is far from a secret. I realized that as soon as a man from South Korea walked up and introduced himself as a sat on a bench eating cookies and

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-60784995379200312792008-05-20T19:00:00.000-07:002009-06-12T17:15:45.567-07:00

Milos, Greece.Munich.Perissa, Greece.Salzburg.

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-37941495374112803582008-05-19T22:32:00.001-07:002010-04-29T19:02:27.900-07:00

Amidst the bustle of Salzburg’s Saturday market was a disturbing sight: Grown men wearing lederhosen, apparently of their own volition. Mind you, this wasn’t as disconcerting as the plague of mullets and rat tails sweeping across Europe. But it felt as if I had parachuted into some twisted, quasi-modern remake of The Sound of Music. The only thing missing was Julie Andrews and a platoon of

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-77827268927344588882008-05-19T16:40:00.000-07:002009-06-12T17:17:04.900-07:00

Milos, Greece.Athens.Hvar Town, Croatia.Pollonia, Greece.Bay of Kotor, Montenegro.

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-26364195602163691082008-05-17T01:59:00.001-07:002010-08-09T15:58:21.446-07:00

The place was filled with noise: Birds chirping, children tossing stones into a small creek, Carmelite nuns softly chanting, a screeching cell phone, the never-ending clicking of cameras, the monotone prattle of tour guides in heavily-accented English. But the sounds that mattered were gone, of the untold thousands that walked into the Dachau concentration camp under the sign "Work will set you

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-8241518608649345712008-05-15T15:25:00.001-07:002010-04-29T18:36:19.245-07:00

The clocked crept past 2300 as I sat in a tiny Salzburg bar, with wood paneling, music pounding and enough Stiegl Bier on tap to quench the thirst of a small country. Patches from fire departments around the world were tacked above the bar and soccer played silently on television. I was full of currywurst from the vendor down the street, had a liter of Stiegel in front of me and listened to

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-87595860506421499882008-05-13T14:52:00.001-07:002010-03-17T16:22:22.312-07:00

Carlos' story is inked on his body, an explosion of color and pictures and letters that winds from his face to feet. A cross on his Adam's apple, with flames covering the rest of his throat. 'Texas' on the back of his neck in cursive. 'Aces high' across his fingers. And dozens more. Carlos and his wife, Brooke, were on the 15-hour ferry from Hvar Island, Croatia, to Rijeka. We lounged next to a

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-34116488756758561952008-05-09T15:00:00.001-07:002009-06-12T17:20:00.661-07:00

As Creedence Clearwater Revival blared, Paul and I crammed in the outdoor kitchen at Luka's, gutted two kilos of fish and dodged vodka spilling from three giggling German girls on the balcony above.Yes, this was an odd night.The night before, Luka grilled sardines and mackerel for his family in the middle of a monsoon-like storm. Cloaked in Gore Tex, we cooked pasta with unidentified meat and

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-87923155265744851582008-05-08T11:23:00.001-07:002010-03-17T16:23:41.792-07:00

Spend a few moments with Luka Viscovic and you're going to have his life story, books about Hvar Island (hey, its been bombarded by the Russians, occupied by the Italians, controlled by the Venetians and Austrians and attacked by the Turks, for starters), the address of his barber, even a plastic water bottle filled with a half liter of olive oil from his family's farm. He's run a red and white

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-61129991389863725762008-05-06T15:01:00.001-07:002010-03-17T16:25:00.020-07:00

Dubrovnik was a blur. Teal seas and red roofs mixed with food poisoning (thanks, pastry with mystery filling) and unrelenting crowds of package tourists, off the cruise ship in the harbor with huge cameras hung around their necks and black socks pulled up to their knees and hats and T-shirts and ballcaps touting the places they've visited (Rotterdam! Venice! The ship's lounge!) nametags,

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-57180196976892168622008-05-03T08:35:00.000-07:002010-04-29T18:47:39.805-07:00

The last bus of the day to Croatia from Herceg Novi, Montenegro, had left a half-hour before. So, we started walking. The border was 15 or 20 km away. Maybe. At first, the sun blazed in the late afternoon and we were next to the shimmering Adriatic and my pack didn´t seem to weigh a thing. We kept walking, as the sun slipped toward the mountains that grew larger around us, through tiny towns and

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-31230629726123187992008-05-01T12:09:00.001-07:002009-06-12T17:22:24.056-07:00

Sometimes when traveling, you grow so accustomed to a succession of new, more spectacular sights and adventures each day that the beauty around you becomes routine and expected. Then you stumble into a place like Kotor, Montenegro, and the awe returns.The tiny walled town sits on the Bay of Kotor, with the clearest water I've ever seen. Lush mountains plunge down to the bay, with small villages

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-26227995446839539572008-04-29T04:34:00.000-07:002009-06-12T17:23:12.953-07:00

The plan looked simple enough on a map: Travel overland (and a bit of sea) from Santorini, Greece, to Kotor, Montenegro. Maybe it would take a day. And I'd get to experience Albania, the mysterious, formerly reclusive slice of land on the Adriatic, boasting more bunkers per captia than any other country on the block.Mention Albania to other travelers and you usually get a baffled, sour look that

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-27715628646964813092008-04-27T05:34:00.001-07:002009-06-12T17:23:39.365-07:00

The old man sat at a cafe on Santorini, smoking a cigarette and wearing army fatigues and a Massachusetts State Patrol cap as he stared at the water.Bob, he calls himself, since his Greek name is too difficult to pronounce. He was born on Santorini and is Kosta's cousin, but has lived in Boston for the last 35 years and owns the South Boston House of Pizza. Every year he spends a month or two on

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-75800643175861351172008-04-27T04:02:00.001-07:002009-06-12T17:24:11.821-07:00

Couldn't get a data signal with my Blackberry for a few days, along with some wacky travel issues. So, I have a backlog of posts to get up over the next couple days - including Amazing Race Albania, the most beautiful town you've never heard of, getting into Croatia the hard way and Igor, the awesome border guard. Stay tuned.Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-20825644200030070582008-04-24T03:27:00.000-07:002009-06-12T17:24:44.000-07:00

Huge billows of dust swirled in front of me as I stepped off ferry's ramp and onto Santorini a few minutes past 4 a.m. Strings of lights hanging from the ferry threw ghostly shadows over this tiny scab of land at the base of towering cliffs. It's called Athenios, the island's main port, but consists of nothing more than a few places to rent cars and scooters, travel agencies, two closed cafes and

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-35437531358253126122008-04-21T12:08:00.001-07:002009-06-12T17:25:25.944-07:00

Two and a half hours remain before our night ferry leaves Milos for Santorini. So, I'm sitting in the main square in Adamas that is strung with white Christmas lights and filled with locals doing evening laps around the whitewashed buildings, the sound of waves from Milos Bay lapping against the fishing boats and the shore and the buzzing of mosquitoes. A car rolls past, thumping "Ice, Ice Baby"

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-48886539655732555472008-04-20T06:57:00.001-07:002009-06-12T17:26:01.195-07:00

I'm on a deserted beach on Milos, a horsehoe-shaped island in the Cyclades with more goats and sheep than people. The only sound is the surf's methodical pounding, with red cliffs and rolling green hills behind me. The warm air smells like flowers. Right now the ordinary feels like nothing more than a vague memory. We arrived last night from Athens (I'm traveling with my friends Paul and Kylie

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2571591850632925141.post-38321086502059351322008-04-18T11:02:00.000-07:002009-06-12T17:27:03.194-07:00

A deeply tanned man in torn jeans and a white T-shirt sat next to me as the flight from Seattle to Amsterdam was about to depart Thursday. The flight attendants saw him and immediately started buzzing."You're back," one said. "Are you going to see her?"The man, David, grinned. "I have a ring in my bag," he said.He takes the flight every couple of weeks on the way to Rome to see his fiance."Well,"

Nathan Fennonoreply@blogger.com0