1) You don't have to convert money, ever.  The entire economy is based on dollars, oh sure they have reils but at 4,200 reils per dollar, they are used more like pennies and dimes - when you have to return change for less than a dollar.   When you get money out of the ATM it automatically gives you dollars.  So you don’t have to do that constant calculation/translation of prices in your head which makes bargaining easy peasy. Now naturally this is only great for people from the USA but, after all, this is MY list of reasons I love Cambodia!




2) You don't need a towel, ever. Yes, we are here in the rainy season, and yes this means we get caught in the rain probably once a day.  Quite often the rain is so intense umbrellas and rain coats are essentially worthless and we get drenched.  But two minutes after the rain stops, we are completely dry.  Obviously the same is true for when we are at the beach. Two minutes after we step out of the Bay of Thailand we are dry as toast. No need to shlep along boring, oversized beach towels.




3) Your total shoe wardrobe consists of one pair of flip flops.  There is no need for sneakers since apparently the Khmer can do everything from trekking to cave climbing in nothing but plastic flip flops. And no restaurant or hotel, even in the capital Phnom Penh would ever be so fancy that you would feel out of place in $2 sandals. 




4) In fact, the most important item in your wardrobe is a sarong.  You need this as a beach cover up, towel, pillow, picnic blanket, rain cover, blanket, makeshift skirt or dress, etc, etc.  It’s uses are infinite and it is put into use once a day in this country.




5) Beer only costs a dollar here so I don't feel bad when I only finish half a bottle, since I generally don’t drink too much.  Personally I love Asian beer - Angor beer, Singha beer, Tiger beer - because they are very light.  If you are a fan of dark beer then maybe you won’t be so happy, but in any event you would only be out a dollar.




6) Cambodia coffee is the best in Southeast Asia.  Frankly all the coffee in Southeast Asia is better than western coffee.  Much smoother and richer than Italian, it has a full body that is perfect on its own.  But marry it with condensed milk and pour it over ice and you have something like dessert in a glass, it is so yummy. The bit that makes Khmer coffee better than Balinese or Vietnamese (also strong contenders) is that hint  of chocolate swirling through it.  I may have to leave behind everything in my suitcase and just fill it up with coffee beans on the way home. 




7) The food! This is asian fusion before there was such a name, The Cambodians’ classic dishes are based on recipes that spring from before chili peppers were brought to Asia so they are not as spicy as other countries in this area. They also conquered and were conquered by neighboring Thailand and Vietnam ad nauseum, seamlessly incorporating bits and pieces of those cuisines over the years. I would have to say fish amok and pepper crab are my very favorite dishes in the whole region. This trip I have picked up not one but three different Cambodian cookbooks. It is also the country I have finally discovered how to cook perfect sticky rice. 




8) Of course before you can have food you must pick the ingredients and Cambodian markets are some of the best in Asia - full of life (like live chickens), color and commotion.  Scooters edge past haggling customers in the cramped aisles; while wandering among the fruit, vegetable and meat or fish option one can also pick up a fresh squeezed juice drink or bowl of noodle soup, a new pair of flip flops or set of PJ’s, or uncut rubies. 




9) Then, of course, there are the delicious pastries and breads that beckon from the countless coffeeshops and bakeries on every corner.  You can blame the french all you want for colonizing this whole area and getting us (the US) into the bloody Vietnam war but they left behind damn good pastry chefs.  The croissants and baguettes here are consistently as light and flakey as any you find in Paris. And the desserts! Traditional asian desserts are normally on the gluey, sticky bland side so this is one area I am glad to find perfect approximations of western eclairs, madeleines and mousse.




10) Finally, (in terms of food), my favorite fruits in the world are available here - mangosteen, rambutan, dragon fruit, jackfruit, passionfruit, coconut, pomelo, longan, and tiny three inch long bananas. Just walking through a market and seeing mounds and mounds of glowingly beautiful fruit in all the colors of the rainbow makes me happy. Moreover they are available everywhere blended into delicious icy shakes. I think the passionfruit/watermelon shake alone is worth the price of an airplane ticket.  Personally I am not crazy about durian but I love that the Khmer are so in love with a fruit that smells like a dirty toilet. The sheer weirdness of durian flavored ice cream is simultaneously attractive and atrocious. 




11) Cambodia is the most amazing place for motorbikes. They are my favorite mode of transport when on my own and I love that you can hop on the back of one for a dollar to go across town.  It may not be the safest mode of family transport but one has to admit their ability to safely maneuver whilst encumbered with babies, groceries and bags of who knows what else is a testament to mom or dad’s skill. Now wondering if scooters serve as form of planned parenthood since, reasonably speaking, you can fit - at most - two parents and three small kids onto a single bike.




12) Of course we have to include the Khmer people themselves in any list of great things about Cambodia.  So kind, so generous and so patient, they never at any point failed to deliver service over and above what could be expected.  It is one of the reasons it is so easy to travel in this country.  As soon as you have a question -  how can we get a bus ticket? When does the boat to the island leave? Is there a cooking class we can take? - it is somehow instantly taken care of and you have the ticket in your hand or are being transported to your destination. Besides, there are the monks.  I do love the monks.




13) Despite this level of service Cambodia is still cheap as chips. Six dollar dinners, three dollar coconut shakes, ten dollar massages, kayaks renting for $4 an hour; it is a country you can indulge your taste for luxury without much pain. 




14) I love traveling by boat and Cambodia is a lovely country for boats.  The trip from Seam Reap to Battambang past the floating villages is one of the loveliest ways to get from point A to point B. But the best is taking a boat to cross the border into Vietnam or Laos. This is, needless to say, so much more preferable to flying, driving or even the train. Instead of cramped buses or security lines you are floating down a river with fresh air, comfy seats and flat, calm water. Paradise!




15) Last but not least - tuk tuks. I LOVE tuk tuks. These little scooter taxis just make me happy.  So comfy, so small. Just right for two or three passengers but if necessary the driver can cram in six people and all their luggage. I’ve seen entire gamelan orchestras transported via tuk tuk. They have took tuks in other asian countries but Cambodian ones are the best.  They are like fine victorian carriages, often with carved black wooden sides and plush red seats.  Some are fancy enough for a royal procession. But even the humblest are consistently cool with a breeze blowing your hair back as the side covers snugly protect you from rain. Tuk tuks are reason enough to live here.

We just went to a wedding of a friend whom we originally met in New York who is from Mexico, marrying an Australian and moving to Brazil. Their entire courtship is based on traveling around between different countries and time zones.  They commute between Argentina, Brazil, Russia, Australia, the USA and Mexico like stops on the Septa train here on the main line. Which made me wonder - how does one become such global a citizen?

Clearly language is a requirement. Being deftly bilingual offers entry into any number of jobs and opportunities. Spanish and english alone unlock whole continents.  Chinese is spoken pretty often as well so that would be another good one.  Any language beyond one automatically bridges gaps and makes connections.

But how do you get to the point where you think not only of moving from New York to Connecticut but maybe London or Dubai as equally viable? That mental shift, that comfort level with immersing yourself completely into another culture is fairly unusual among Americans.  There is a sub culture of American expats working for American companies around the world like my brother who has worked for Chevron in Africa, China and now Kuwait.  But this primarily entails living in little American enclaves, having your kids go to American style International schools and shopping at American style supermarkets. You keep to your bubble, socializing with other workers in your assignment. Going out on your own is a whole ‘nother level.

My sister certainly went in that direction - she moved to London for graduate school and never left, in fact is still there 35 years later with a career, husband and children - all with proper British accents. That is immersion!

But I still don’t think that shows the flexiblity of these amazing newlyweds.  She left one country and put down deep roots in another; they float between countries like ballet dancers, amassing friends, mentors, projects, job opportunities.  They know completely different neighborhoods via living in them, having a favorite restaurant or coffee shop they can go back to in any number of countries.  Have special and separate traditions or rituals for when they are in Sidney, Los Angeles or Mexico City. This fluidity is remarkable and I am just a touch amazed by it.

For all my love of travel my husband is the one who is closer to this spirit than I.  He after all is the one who left Ireland at 21 and moved to France to live for the next 16 years.  Then for some reason he married me and left all that behind and moved to the US.  Just now he was trying to convince me to pick up and move to the charming Mexican town the wedding was held in! I think I suffer more from the isolationism that inflects almost all Americans, more or less.  Our country is so big, moving from NY to California, or Florida to Texas is enough of a shock and enough of a pain for family get togethers and lifestyle re-arrangements. Why throw a totally different culture and language into the mix? Scary.

I am being seduced by the neighbors around me who live just down the road from their parents and siblings. Grandparents help out with babysitting, cousins pitch in for pot lucks, everyone gets together for shares at the beach house. This is very tempting. Would I like for my family to stay within walking distance of each other for as long as I am alive?  I definitely, definitely would. 

But there is that whole wide world out there and I so want my kids to know it, to swim in it, down to knowing minutia like how to hail a taxi in Quito (arm up, palm down) versus NYC (hand straight up in the air) versus Paris (go to a taxi stand). I want them to feel equally comfortable traveling by Tuk Tuks as trains, have no compunction about eating street food ever and never be a snob about where they sleep. So we travel. And maybe, maybe they will edge me into being as global, as cosmopolitan and as comfortable in the world as Lourdes and Jules. 

I think one of the first things that halts people in their tracks when envisioning a long trip is the idea of booking hotels for the entire time they are away.  You have to have someplace to sleep, right?  And, especially with kids, you can’t just leave it to chance.  

It took us months into our RTW trip to let go of this attitude and ease into a more relaxed mindset.  Today, with google and the whole internet you are never, ever without a place to stay.  If you happen to be somewhere so remote you cannot look up a website that means you just need to stroll down the street and see what is available. In an entire year there was only one time where it was slightly questionable if we were going to find a place to sleep and that was because all the planes in Borneo had been benched for “safety inspections” at the same time thus throwing us in with every connecting flight who had never intended to spend three whole days in a town with two tiny hotels.  However, even then, we managed to find a place. 

Although we did sleep overnight on trains and boats and buses in Asia and South America, we never strayed that much off the tried and true shelter options.  Sometimes we slept a bit rough while on a long trek but in the main it was guest houses and hotels. This time however, we were a whole month into our journey from Estonia to Mongolia before we spent one night in a hotel and that was only because of an emergency.  

Just as we boarded our longest train journey into deepest Siberia, a minor jaunt between Yekaterinburg and Irkurst, I noticed an email on my iphone from the apartment we had booked for our arrival.  Alarmingly, it started with four capitalized “WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!” notices and then went on to state that due to city construction all water in the building, both hot and cold, had been turned off and accordingly our reservation was now canceled.  Or more accurately, “To avoid not comfortable stay we cancel your reservation, and ask you select a possible hotel, as a solution to this problem does not depend on us!”.  As I processed this, our train rolled out of the station and all internet and cell phone capability went dead. There is no wifi on these trains and Siberian cell phone towers outside of towns are few and far between.  Accordingly, when we finally arrived three days later at the train station in Irkurst, I booked the first hotel that answered my now active phone. 

But other than this one night stay, we completely avoided hotels in Russia, mostly by finding rental apartments in the big cities and couch surfing in the small ones.  Of course, several nights were spent sleeping (very comfortably) on the trans Siberian trains themsleves. This post will just cover the apartments, the next one will deal with couch surfing.

We found a wide variety in both comfort and support among the apartments we stayed in.  In retrospect, the best stay on this trip was our very first stop in Tallinn, the capital of Estonia.  Here we found a two bedroom apartment right in the heart of the UNESCO Old Town, an adorably quaint maze of cobblestone streets and centuries old churches.  Ironically, given that we had come to visit an Estonian friend, this was the place with most amount of support.  There was both an on site receptionist who gave us maps and information about directions and a hot breakfast provided everyday. Contrast this with the apartment in Moscow, a notoriously user unfriendly town which had nobody to greet us, let alone fix a broken light in the bedroom or the defunct washing machine. Most of the places fell in between. They are usually happy to arrange a taxi to and from the train station or airport but it is up to you to sort out the neighborhood.

In Russia, we gave up fancy lobbies and bell hops for dingy stairwells and a complete absence of elevators. I have read soviet era novels but this was literally stepping inside one. On the other side of the door however, times had changed and instead of a shared cold water flat we had two bedrooms, a living room and a fully equipped kitchen all to ourselves. Vive la capitalism!  One of the nicest things about an apartment versus a hotel is that it forces you to be independent.  You figure out how to work the three types of door keys and randomly press buttons on the washing machine until it turns on and suddenly you learn more about what it truly feels like to live in Russia then a dozen visits to the Hermitage.

The need to find milk and cereal for breakfast or a sim card for your phone forces you to live like a local and you find yourself wandering, lost, down tiny little streets you never would have chanced upon if you were not in need of laundry detergent (yes, I have 4 kids, laundry figures prominently in our travels). 

Personally, I love wandering into local grocery stores and markets and seeing what is on offer.  We have found everything from instant mashed potato dispensed like slushies in Singapore to taffy pullers stretching soft candy in the aisles in China. The first thing I look for is the local flavor of potato chips - in Russia they seem especially fond of bacon flavor chips, though crab is popular as well.  Our apartment in St. Petersburg was just a couple of blocks away from a really nice market with local produce and it soon became a habit to drop in daily to pick up a cabbage salad or pickled chicken for lunch.  We bought honey for our tea from a lady who got it from bees in “the mountains” where ever that was. Who could resist the babushkas selling their handpicked mushrooms or berries from the forest.  This is where we tasted fresh cloud berries for the first time. 

One of the most elegant grocery stores we stepped into was the "Eliseevsky" on Tverskaya St.  in Moscow.  Opened only 16 years before the revolution, it retains its Tsarist gold sconces, crystal chandeliers and hand carved wooden counters. Yet, the prices were no more than any other store.  This could not be said for its sister pastry shop in St. Petersburg whose ornately decorated eclairs and light as air cupcakes commanded appropriately exorbitant prices but really, how often so you find chandeliers hanging from a larger than life palm tree in the middle of a bakery? 

Being tucked into a “normal” residential area rather than tourist central gave us access to quirky bits and pieces of daily life. Not being able to speak the language or read the signs is a little bit like being deaf - you move in a self contained bubble.  As a tourist, it is all too easy to move seamlessly from hotel to taxi to museum or restaurant and back again. Being in an apartment flat, you see kids fly up the stair after school while their parents trudge up heavy laden with groceries.  You may or may not be struck by the elaborate braids wound around the little girls heads or the sky high heels worn by their mothers as I was but there will be some other little insight into the culture that you may remember long after the waxen face of Lenin has faded into the dim mist.

The websites to check for short term apartment rentals are - flipkey.com, 
tripadvisor.com/VacationRentals
vrbo.com (vacation rental by owner)
airbnb.com
homeaway.com 

Thanks to Mongolia, we might become a camping family.  Keep in mind, this is coming from someone born and bred in the most urban of environments - New York City. Never have I ever been remotely tempted to “rough it” in the wild.  No amount of roasted marshmallows or even smores was worth a night out in the woods. During our travels we have slept on trains, planes and boats, in everything from a storage hut to a shaman's home, several times on floors but never in a tent. 

That all changed in Mongolia, which might beat Bolivia's claim to the country with the least developed infrastructure for tourists. Hotels as Westerners would recognize them are thin on the ground outside of the capital city. Even if you find a concrete structure with multiple rooms advertised as such, the pillows are filled with pebbles and the shower is a thin drizzle of cold water. The few Ger camps set up for tourists that we stayed at are admirably authentic in retaining the hard as rocks, thin mattresses and pit toilets of the nomad herders. One camp had a very picturesque location right by a creek and, even better, a supremely friendly little girl who despite a complete language barrier immediately initiated a game of tag with the girls. Unfortunately as the evening wore on all the various guides and drivers drifted together into the Ger next to us for an all night, vodka fueled sing along. After that I decided we were better off camping.

Fortunately, Mongolia is the ideal place to camp.  The entire population is nomadic, so there is never any question of being able to set up tents whenever and wherever you like. The water is so pure you can refill your water bottles from the streams and creeks as you cross them and you can take your pick of parking spots - lakeside, cliffside, next to sacred ovoos, sometimes just being a single speck in the vast open steppes. The only time we were in a less than scenic spot was when we stopped on the edge of a mining town. Tuya insisted that instead of camping on the soft grass, we hunker down in the construction zone between a family’s Ger and the house they were in the process of building. This was because the workers in the mine get so drunk they are known to drive manically in circles chasing after each other, so camping anywhere in the open was dangerous.  Fortunately that night must not have been payday and we heard nothing.

I admit it, I have succumbed to camping’s charm.  Our pop open tents are a snap to set up and with mats and blankets we are cosy and warm.  My favorite moment of the day was been waking up and zipping open the front flap. Usually it is just to see the glorious vista but you never know what will be out there.  We have woken up surrounded by cows, camels and horses, their guardian having nonchalantly wandered over to investigate, bringing his entire herd with him. They look at us, we look at them. Once we emerged in the midst of a herd of tiny goats all but climbing on top of the tents in their search for something to nibble on. Another time two giant hairy Yaks were having a difference of opinion just steps from our door.

The night we camped up on a hill I woke up to find Miriam and Leontine tumbled into a heap, barely contained by the bottom edge of the tent but still sleeping peacefully. When we were in the desert I could poke my head out the opening and look at a sky filled with the brightest, closest stars I had ever seen. The most dramatic setting was definitely the edge of the flaming Cliffs. There I insisted everybody pee before bed and zip up tightly to prevent sleep walking! 

These are the cliffs where the very first Dinosaur eggs were found. No one even knew dinosaurs laid eggs till the American archeologist Roy Chapman Andrews got lost on the Mongolian Steppes and stumbled across an entire fossilized nest.  Chapman’s swashbuckling persona, by the way, was the inspiration for Indiana Jones. He eventually made his way back to make stunning discoveries of complete dinosaur skeletons some of whom were named after him. The surprising thing you find when you actually walk these cliffs is they are not hard stone, more like gigantic sand castles barely held together by their own weight. A good monsoon would wash them all away. I had a huge desire to grab a spoon and just start digging.

Occasionally we did stay in Gers with nomad families which had its own charms, mostly centered around animals. No matter how thin the mattresses, inevitably there are baby goats or lambs or maybe an adorably frisky puppy.  The best however were the chubby cheeked human babies. The Chinese call Gers “Mongolian dumplings” because they are small and round. Eminently practical and movable they have changed little since the days of Chinggis Khan, though these days they are likely to be transported from the winter pastures to the summer ones folded up in the back of a truck rather then by horseback. Tho plain, they are cosy with rugs hanging on the wall. Small painted chests are the only furniture besides the beds which serve as sofas during the day.  One side is designated male which is where the horse saddles and paraphernalia are stashed and the other side is female, holding the stove and kitchen equipment.

 Each and every time you enter a Ger you are welcomed with a bowl of salted milky tea and a plate of hard cheese.  It almost makes sense that there would be no hotels outside of the biggest towns since if you need a bed for the night you can just hunker down with any family you run into.  Unfailingly polite, they are remarkably unconcerned with us as visitors.  After the initial “where are you from?” they ask where we drove from and where we are going but more in a “how are the roads” kind of way rather than any real curiosity about where we are originally from.  After ten minutes everyone drifts back to daily life, the mom to preparing cheese or yogurt, the dad to branding goats and sheep, the kids to whatever they were doing before we stopped by.  These are hardworking people who are completely unfazed by complete strangers stopping by for a meal or a night’s rest. Wandering strangers are par for the course.

We generally do not take them up on their hospitality, preferring just to visit and then go off to our tents. We do occasionally take advantage of their out house - not the most glamorous of WCs but at least there is a door versus the open vista of the steppes. Grotty enough during the day it is slightly terrifying at night, first to find it in the pitch blackness, then to balance on the two wobbly boards above the drop. Maybe they move  so often because the latrine gets too stinky rather than because the goats have eaten all the grass?

Sometimes in life, reality teeters into unreality. Most of the Gobi desert is just vague, unfertile scrub land but we finally arrive at vast heaps of sand. They look like a long line of whipped cream separating green grass from blue sky. The beige waves cresting over the Mongolian steppes looks almost totally fake.  In this age of green screens and photo shop it was difficult to believe we were really, actually present in front of such an iconic scene. On camels, no less.

Once we get climbing however, reality bites back. David Evan, a typical teenage boy, tests his mettle by taking the hard way, scrambling and scrabbling straight up the mountain of windswept sand. The rest of us try to find a gentler route but zig zagging is really the only alternative and not a whole lot better. About half way up I decide I’ve climbed enough sand dunes in my life time and sit down to enjoy the view. Vincent and the girls keep heading up after David Evan who has completely disappeared. 

After a bit, envisioning sandvalances, we yell and call to him but the dips and valleys of the soft peaks smother our voices and we hear no response. Swearing profusely, Vincent struggles upward till finally we hear a yell and see a tiny green speck racing down the hill towards us.  He made it to the top and is on his way back. Thank god, now we can all leave. The girls and I whoop and holler as we run down the sand, first because it’s fun, then faster, because our feet are burning up. We had left our sandals, at the bottom, so far away, too far to make it in one go. By the end I am carrying one girl ten feet, dropping her in a huddle and returning for the other, repeat ad infinitum.  Vincent, also barefoot, is too far behind to help but we finally make it to the shoes. And the camels.

  Why the camels, those “ships of the desert”, couldn’t have carried us over the dunes is an unexplained mystery.  I have no idea what the Mongolian herders think of western tourists flirting with heart attacks and sun stroke stumbling around on their mammoth sand dunes but they have clearly decided that is not worth risking their animals.  So the deal is, the camels bring you to the hills and take you back but right when the going gets tough, you are on your own. 

This of course is the famous Bactrian, two humped camel, the one that looks like a Dr. Seus concoction rather than the sleeker and much more common, one humped Dromedary camel. If you had a pillow to put behind your back (which we did not) they would be as comfortable as an armchair. These softer, smaller beasts were far less intimidating than their taller, crankier Indian cousins. They were definitely much fuzzier and furrier than any camel we rode in India and seemed positively sweet as opposed to always vaguely annoyed. They are so comfy in fact, I could envision months and months of travel transporting my valuable spices along the ancient silk road. On the other hand, a 4 wheel drive is pretty comfy too so it’s a transportation toss up (not). 

One of the many astonishing things about this corner of the world is the sheer scale of the countryside. On no day did we drive less than 6 hours to get from place to place with very little in between. This was, remember, taking it easy, purposely stretching out what would normally be a one day trip into two. Mongolians think nothing of driving 18 hours at a clip. And what are they driving on?  Outside of the three or four big cities there are no roads in Mongolia, just tire tracks scratched across the steppes.

Our driver does not like following another car and on the rare occasions we meet up with another car he inevitably speeds up to pass, at one time barely avoiding a massive ditch hidden by the bus he was trying to overtake.  Generally speaking, however, there are so few cars this is, fortunately, not really an issue.

GPS is the bane of Tuya’s existence since tourists keep google mapping where they want to go and can’t understand that the drivers know there are no Straight Lines in Mongolia.  Often they have to drive miles out of the way to go around hills or avoid ravines. The ground itself is both rocky and muddy so the slightest rainfall slows even 4WD jeeps to a crawl. 

Whenever two vehicles meet, both drivers immediately confer over road conditions. This was particularly important for us since the rains had just begun and they could wreck havoc.”How is back where you came from?”  “very deep mud, stay to the east, it is less washed out” or “pretty good but don’t try and ford the river, it is already too high”, etc. Of course, new tracks detouring around obstacles would criss cross with the old tracks and even seasoned drivers were constantly faced with figuring out new routes.  You could think you were taking a detour around a herd of camels and end up driving up to someone's winter Ger

So a lot of the discussions were frankly asking where we were and how to get to where we were going. On both driver’s sides.  A couple of days into our trek, Tuya pulled out a very detailed geographic map with lots little squiggly lines.  When I asked what they were she said, "those are roads".  Roads? Permanent roads?  No, she explained, they were just suggestions of where roads used to be or were likely to be, more like clues to a road map than an actual functioning road map. Lest you think I am exaggerating - this photo is not an example of off roading, this was an actual road.  A road so well used and so ordinary it was one of the larger lines on the map!

In Mongolia it is considered it very bad luck to ask “how long till we get there?” You get there when you get there. This did not matter so much to us. We had plenty of time and carrying our own food and tents we were not that much different from the nomads and herders bedding down where ever they found themselves at night. But I can’t imagine the tourist industry getting much more developed if tour agents cannot guarantee their clients that they will be delivered to some sort of rest spot and/or meal at the end of each day.

After the nightmarish hassle of getting here. We decided Vincent and David Evan needed an extra day in UB to recuperate. Though mostly spent catching up on sleep, we did take them to a brief visit the last Bogd Kahn’s Winter Palace. Ironically, though Mongolia has spent the twentieth century tossed between the Soviet Union and the People's Republic of China - two governments dedicated to abolishing both religion and monarchies - its first independent leader was a revered Buddhist king.  Kublai Khan decreed in the 11th century that his people would follow Tibetan Buddhism, and ever since then its ruler, like the Dalai Lama, was considered one of the three Living Buddhas. Little known fact - it was a Mongol Khan who bestowed upon a Tibetan monk in the 16th century the title of Dalai Lama thus creating the line which has continued to today's 14th Dalai Lama. 

Sadly he may be the last of all three lines. When the Bogd Khan died in 1924 the, by now sovietized government declared an end to Mahayana Buddhism and refused to allow another Priest King, so the line died out. Technically there is a Panchen Lama of China but since he was selected not by religious leaders but rather by government officials his legitimacy is in doubt. Which leaves only the Dali Lama, now in exile from Tibet as the last recognized reincarnation of Buddha. Sadly, the atheist government of Mongolia went on to destroy all but a handful of the once 750 monasteries and killed 18,000 lamas. Today the Khan's once magnificent Winter Palace stands forlornly at the edge of town, overgrown with weeds and looking a bit woebegone.

Among the exhibits of his (and his wife's) throne and bedchamber are historical bits like Mongolia's Declaration of Independence from China in 1911. One rather surprising discovery was an entire room filled with stuffed wild animals. Some of them came from his personal zoo, others were gifts. I don't know why but I found this somewhat unexpected, not to say, disconcerting for a Holy Being, and a Buddhist to boot.  

The second day we met up with our guide, Tuya, who was going to be taking us around the country. She is a charming, ambitious young woman who, along with her husband moved from working as a translator in a mining company to starting her own business as a tour guide. She will prove to be endlessly patient with us, responding to almost every request with a firm “possible, yes, is possible.” Since we have a spare day, as a special treat she offers to teach us Mongolian archery.  

Each year in July, Mongolia holds its national competition of Nadaam, showcasing the three “Manly Sports” of horse racing, wrestling and archery. A mongolian foltktale tells of a woman who once slipped into the wrestling competition and humiliated the men by beating them all roundly. After that they changed the wrestling outfit to an openfronted vest (basically just two sleeves held together in the back) in order to ensure THAT wouldn’t happen again.  Women are allowed to compete in archery however and the horses are ridden by children as young as five. Teenagers are considered too big and bulky for these open field, long distance races.  

So, wrong sex for wrestling, too old for racing we found archery to be just right. We took a bus to the actual field used for Naadam where, despite the drizzle, we are kitted out with bows and arrows and speed coached through the complex Mongolian scoring system. I don’t pay much attention to this part since anything beyond “aim for the target” is clearly not going to be important for me. 

I can barely pull the string on the normal, non competition bow -  no high tech carbon steel or super light weight frames here. I can’t begin to imagine how they did it, shooting while at a full gallop, but this was the weapon the nomads used to conquer two thirds of the known world. Besides the usual, they liked to shoot flaming ones and, for fun, arrows that whistled and howled, just to terrify their enemies.

Considering the bow is bigger than they are, the girls do quite well. David Evan is the one who turns out to be a natural and Tuya quickly graduates him to a much heavier  bow like the ones used in competition. I prefer to think that he is a gifted athlete but his pose and costume sure look a lot like the hit man in the TV show Arrow.

Vincent is a photographer and he travels a lot. He has been to India, South Africa, Prague, Argentina and Europe too many times to count for shoots. He is also Irish and thus endowed with a god given ability to charm the pants off people. Ergo, when he shows up to catch a plane he is almost always upgraded to business class or at the very least allowed to fly with three times the luggage limit.  His biggest coup was flying to France despite showing up at the airport without his passport. Even pre 9/11, that required smooth talking.

So it was with a certain amount of shock to find out that my husband and son had been turned away at the airport when they tried to join us in Mongolia.  Apparently Irish people require a visa - moreover, it is something the country is strict about.  Worse, in order to get a visa, someone in Mongolia has to actually invite you to visit. Who knew!?

I could say, maybe someone who traveled as much as he did would google Mongolian visa requirements more than ten minutes before arriving at the airport. He could say, you organized the Chinese and Russian visas, why didn’t you get the Mongolian ones?  Well, I would answer, Americans don’t need visas to enter that country and after 15 years of marriage I forgot he wasn’t American. Mind you, never once in all the countries we visited last year did we come across one that had separate visa requirements for each of us. Sometimes the fees were different, but there were no countries that required a visa for him and not for me or vice versa.

In any event, the question now became - how MUCH did he want to fly to Mongolia? He was just coming off of four transatlantic flights for work, not to mention driving 4 hours in each direction to pick up David Evan from camp.  One would think he would jump at the chance to skip a 14 hour flight and go home for a well deserved nap.  David Evan certainly wouldn’t mind an extra day of being reunited with his beloved electronics. But no, he immediately decided he could reschedule their flights to the next day thinking he could quickly pick up the missing visa and still make the flight out that evening.

He had only about 12 hours to get together all his documents before the embassy opened in the morning.  Mongolia, naturally, asks the standard requirements - passport, greencard, photos, proof of onward travel and cash for the visa fee so Vincent needed to get an official photo taken and stop at the bank for a certified check before the embassy opened at 9 am.  But Mongolia also has a couple extra requirements, namely a letter of invitation or “LOI”, plus a letter from your employer stating what you are doing while in that country and finally a detailed description of where you will be while in said country. The guide organizing our trek across the Gobi sent over a day by day itinerary and his agent wrote up an employment letter which left only the LOI.  Fortunately with the time difference, Mongolia was just waking up while NY was going to sleep so the kids and I headed out.

We had met a Danish couple on the train into Mongolia who had mentioned their hostel had helped them secure their visas so we decided to start there. We rustled the manager out of breakfast and explained our predicament. Normally, he told us, they only write up letters for people staying with them but never underestimate the power of a ten year old.  One look at the girls’ woebegone faces and he whipped up an extremely official looking document complete with stamps and signatures.  So, armed with letters, documents, photos and fees, Vincent showed up at the embassy only to find - nothing. The  consulate official responsible for visas was away until Aug 1.  All the papers for visas were locked in his safe so even if anyone wanted to, it was impossible to hand out a visa in his absence.

It was at this point that I suggested to Vincent that he just pack it in and take the three days to rest up from his non stop traveling before embarking on a month long trek around the Mongolian countryside. But no, by the time I said this he was already in a taxi heading for Laquardia to catch a flight to the embassy located in Washington DC. Once there he jumped into a taxi and raced like the wind only to arrive and twiddle his thumbs waiting for someone, anyone, to return from lunch. Ten minutes after they officially opened, he had his visa and was back in a taxi on the way to Dulles airport. But, as he was looking up flights, he realized he had missed his return flight to NYC and the only other option was to fly out of Regan airport, ironically only ten minutes from the embassy but now thirty minutes in the opposite direction. He just made the plane and then had to sit fuming while it was delayed at the gate.

In the mean time, he had left frantic directions for my oldest daughter to look after David Evan who was at the hotel, without a phone, completely oblivious to his father's whirling dervish imitation.  She however was deep in the basement at work digging through old records, cut off from all comunication.  Fortunately, she returned to her desk and phone in time to drop everything, pick up David Evan and head to the airport.

Arriving on Laquardia, Vincent tore thru the airport and swept past the sixty people standing at the taxi stand shouting "my son is all alone at JFK!"  And arrived, by dint of his Bagladeshi driver swerving madly through rush hour, at JFK, swooped up David Evan and made it to the checkin counter exactly two minutes before they closed the flight at 6 pm.  They made it through check in, security and reached the plane just as they called for final boarding.

Which meant that after a simple 8 hour flight to Moscow, an 8 hour layover there and a final 4 hour flight to Ulan  Baatar, they arrived.  And were much appreciated.

One of the great things about traveling with kids is that you quite often get to see local attractions that most tourists don’t bother with.  When we were in Russia, we spent one whole day visiting the Divo Ostrov amusement park just outside of St. Petersburg.  While bumper cars may not be as “must see” on the guidebook trail as, say, the Hermitage, from my ten year old daughters’ point of view there was no comparison.

Besides just having a fun day, we also learned a bit about the local culture.  I had been marveling at Russian women’s ability to stride along in 4 inch heels but was really amazed when I saw they don't even take them off when chasing their toddlers through the park. That is serious commitment to fashion. Clearly my trekking sandals were completely declasse.  Mostly though I was just grateful that my girls had each other so I was exempt from the truly scary rides like the mile high swings. To the complete despair of my kids I now find even Ferris wheels too edgy. Fortunately, they are in that sweet spot where they are old enough to go on the rides themselves but young enough to still want me to watch them.

So after that Best Day Ever at Divo Ostrov it was a complete no brainer to add the Ulan Baatar amusement park to our international list. Taking a leisurely walk from our hotel down to the edge of town we passed by acres of the scruffy, unmowed and neglected “Children’s Park” where clearly no children had frolicked in many a year.  Despite the entrance sign saying the park opened at 10 am, there were no signs of movement at noon. However we and about two other families were free to wander about while they leisurely started winding up the rides. If this was what it was like in high season, how many tickets could they be selling during the subzero winter season?

Have you ever been in an amusement park while they are still testing out the equipment? It is a fifty/fifty whether you are more relieved they are actually checking them or horrified that they are clearly held together with duct tape and sealing wax. Fortunately for my peace of mind, both the big, big roller coaster and the giant Ferris wheel seemed to be permanently out of commission. That left only about 3 or 4 creaky rides that were above toddler age. Even that was confusing because - at one ticket per ride - we had to figure out which ride we wanted to go on, return to the central ticket kiosk and ascertain from the long list of mongolian script which ride we were buying a ticket for.  Each ride had a different price and there were no helpful pictures to tell which was which! We finally just decided to point to the more expensive tickets and hope for the best which seemed to work. 

Wandering around the nearly empty park with weeds pushing up between the cracks with the occasional ride whining in the background was an eerie experience. I’m not sure not having to wait in line was compensation enough. Though it was bright daylight, it still had the spooky feel of a soon to be horror movie.

All became sunshine and light though when we got to the artificial lake with the huge swan boats. Naturally, every amusement park, even nearly defunct ones in Outer Mongolia, needs to come equipped with a Disney castle.

Well, we can now say we have DONE the Hermitage and, I have to say, it wasn’t half bad. That is - the lines, the crowds, the waits were not near as bad as I had dreaded given that we are visiting smack in the middle of the summer high season with cruise ships funneling platoon boats worth of tourists into pre-booked tours. The art, of course, was glorious.

Everyone and every guide book stresses the importance of getting there early, preferably, if you could manage it, with a private guide who can sneak you in before the museum actually opens to the hoi polloi.  But since I had no concierge to organize a secrete tour I decided to take the opposite tack.  After all, if everybody was listening to that advice there would be a huge bottle neck when the museum opened and just a little trickle at the entrance later on, right?  This would also allow us to fuel up with a picnic right before going in (hugely important - one might also need to top up with chocolate cake after leaving the museum).

Unfortunately when we strolled up at 1 pm there was still a gigantic line at the door.  It would be at least an hour or more’s wait.  Which is when I discovered something very strange.  I had noticed something that looked like a ticket kiosk just behind the loooong line of people waiting to buy tickets at the door.  I went over to check and indeed it was a place to buy tickets and appeared to be completely functional but nobody was using it.  Eh, what the heck.  I put in my money and out popped a ticket!  I took the girls hands and resolutely walked to the head of the loooong line and handed my ticket to the guard who glanced at it and nodded me through the door.  What was wrong with those other people!?  Had that kiosk just popped into place behind them without their noticing?  I had even bought the voucher that allowed taking photos!  Something which, by the way, is completely unnecessary since Leontine, Miriam and I were all snapping away like insane turtles and nobody ever asked to check our permit (do make sure you turn off the flash however or you will get a right bollocking). 

It was so easy that when we found out that Catherine the Great’s amazing mechanical peacock is wound up and fans out its tail once a week on a Wednesday at 7 pm the girls actually agreed to go again. And this is when we discovered the real trick - go on Wednesdays!  The museum is open until 9 pm and this time when we arrived at 4 there was literally nobody at the entrance. So we bought our tickets at the regular cash desk, this time getting the required tickets for the girls.  Kids under 17 are free but supposedly need their own paper tickets for the turnstiles to scan, not that it mattered yesterday when we all squeezed through on my one ticket (though “maybe” the guard was distracted while talking to a friend?). 

The worst time to go is between 12 -2 pm which is when the museum guides lead their huge caravans of people, the Russian tourists crashing into the english tourists, crashing into the Japanese ones, etc. We just caught the end of this period and it was amazing how much the museum cleared out afterwards. I was not impressed by the bits I overheard either, though I was by some of the private guides so that probably is worth doing if you are truly interested in learning about art history. There is a new thing where each person is given individual ear pieces and the guide speaks into a headpiece to everybody via wireless (I think? non techno geek here).  On the one hand this means the guide no longer has to shout and each person can hear her lecture perfectly (I assume since we never joined any of the groups).  On the other hand it means even more crowds can jostle up against each other since they don't have to worry about shouting.

It is enough just to absorb the spectacular art and be amazed.  I insisted on taking photos of the girls in front of the Leonardo, the Rembrandt, the Greco, the Picasso and the Matisse because when they are studying these exact paintings in college (and I know they will!) they will be able to prove to their teacher that they did in fact see them in the flesh. 

And, really, two days was plenty of time.  The first day we stayed almost 4 hours and saw most of the art highlights - from the Italian renaissance to the French impressionists via the Dutch and Flemish masters.  The next day we were there roughly 3 hours and this time saw the palace rooms.  We also had time to go back and visit with the big guns like Michelangelo and Raphael, this time with nobody else in the room but us. 

At 6:30 we moved into the Peacock Pavillion and found a spot.  Good thing too because by 7 pm every other person in the building had come to see the show. This Peacock automaton was made by t the Englishman James Cox, the most celebrated Clock maker of all time. And furthermore it is the only large 18th century mechanism to have survived unaltered and in a functioning condition.  One reason it is only wound up once a week is to spare its two hundred year old gears.  As I said to the girls, imagine being the person winding that clock and hearing a “clunk!”. Fortunately, it went off without a hitch - the peacock spread its tail, the owl turned in its cage, the rooster crowed his heart out and the crowd oohed and aahed. 

Well, having done the Hermitage (twice!), it was time for BUMPER CARS!


The girls definitely deserved some kid time so we spent one entire day at the Divo Ostrov Amusement Park. I do believe they have covered that day in their blogs.  Personally I just like any amusement park - with roller coasters - that you can reach via a metro.

Can I just say, I truly admire the Russian women's ability to maneuver on 6 inch heels and I have seen them do so on cobblestones, metro escalators, in grocery stores and museums and more without tottering or limping.  But really, is there no place to draw the line?  Are these really the shoes you choose for day at an amusement park!?

Tallinn is the capital of Estonia and it also happens to be a Unesco World Monument.  At least the Old town is - one of the best examples of a Medieval fortified town to be found in Europe. Still bounded by its original city walls, this section has been given over completely to history with maidens dressed in 11th century garb selling you drinks or souvenirs. 

All of which is wonderful if you happen to have a history buff on your hands who will appreciate the original pulleys on the front of houses used to winch up items for storage.  Or maybe a teenager who would like to visit the House of Blackheads (an unfortunately named medieval guild for bachelor and/or visiting craftsmen).

Speaking of names, it takes an older child to grasp the absurd title of one of the town's oldest medieval towers - Kiek in de Kok.  One would think that a translation would confer dignity but it seems to be old German for "Peeking in the Windows" since bored soldiers could amuse themselves by looking into the town houses below them.  I'm sure the neighboring maidens appreciated that.  

However, Tallinn offers much more than pretty houses and cobblestone streets for kids.  It is a small and very doable town where even the smallest legs can walk from site to site. Here are 10 tips to make it even easier.

1. Rent an apartment instead of a hotel - you have a kitchen so you can make breakfast at 4 am if that is when jet lag wakes you up. You have your own coffee pot so you can down as many cups of coffee as it takes to get you out of the house or deal with a toddler who does not understand the concept of sleeping according to the clock outside his own body. You also have a washing machine, ‘nough said.  We rented one of the Romeo Family apartments right in Old Town so we could walk to everything and it was a great decision. Bring some eye masks though to deal with the late summer sun which hardly sets at all. 

2. Get dinner in the supermarket - Its not just a way of saving money but you can see how Estonians eat at home by shopping where they shop. There is a lot of liverwurst! There is also a spice they sprinkle on their potatoes that is quite simply addicting.  Conveniently for you, this country is famous for it’s delicious savory pastries.  These light and flakey concoctions can be cheesy, stippled with bacon or filled with vegetables but they all make a perfect light dinner or quick snack in the middle of the night when you are still turned around time wise.

3. Get outside the Old Town and see some green at Kadriorg Park. You could spend a whole day at this lovely, large green park.  It is an easy 10 minute ride on Tram #1 or 3, both of which can be found right at the edge of the Old Town. Once there, you can visit the sumptuous Kadriorg Palace, the humble cottage of Peter the Great or, if ambitious, meander through the modern art museum smack in the middle of the park.

 But you don’t even have to go into any of the attractions to make a trip here worth while. There are trees to climb, grass to picnic on, a maze to race through and rose gardens to smell. It is ideal for a small child. since there is an interactive Kids Museum complete with swinging hammocks right next to an playground filled with sand and seesaws. If you forgot to pack a lunch and are visiting after June 26 you can have lunch in a cafe next to the elegant lake.

4. Museums - For a small town, Tallinn has a huge number of museums.  I was amazed at how many my kids (10 yrs old) and our friend’s son (4 yrs old) willingly entered into. However if you want to keep it short and sweet, the two best for kids are the Museum of Occupation and the Maritime Museum.  Best to explain before hand that “occupation” in this case means invasion not jobs.  Otherwise your child will be as confused as mine was. The big draw is the recreation of shelters used by the “Forest Brothers”, Estonia’s resistance fighters during WWII.  There is one water pail hanging on a hook riddled with bullet holes, particularly tragic given than not one of these soldiers survived the Germans and then the Soviets. 

5. The Maritime Museum is simpler - just the tools of the trade for a country living on the edge of the Baltic Sea. Bryan particularly enjoyed the chance to sit and draw at a table set up for kids. We went to the old Maritime Museum right at Fat Margaret Tower (seriously, who comes up with these names!?).  There is apparently another, more modern Maritime museum down at the coast which we would definitely check out next time.

6. The Open Air Museum - The best thing about this “museum” is that is all outdoors. This is a giant park where they have brought together a bunch of houses, barns and other kinds of shelters to demonstrate the various forms of habitations found throughout Estonian history. There are people dressed in traditional clothes scattered throughout, generally engaged in some kind of traditional handicraft like embroidering cloth shoes or tatting lace. They don’t speak much English though so don’t expect them to explain much. 

As the area is quite large, it is a really good idea to rent the bikes available (5 euros for 2 hours) and use them to get around.  They have kid size as well as adults. No child seats but kids too small for their own bikes can sit on the back and hold on to mom or dad. Bring a picnic and make a day of it.  There is a cafe on hand serving traditional Estonian fare. Also horse drawn carriage rides. 

7.  Visit the Zoo - If you have the energy you can combine a visit to the Open air Museum with a trip to the Tallinn Zoo or if you have time you could split it into two days.  It is a short (15 min) walk from one to the other. This zoo is clearly trying hard to improve the grounds for their animals. There are signs saying the large animals will be moved out of their cramped, concrete enclosures soon.  They have updated the enclosures for the smaller animals however and it is amazing how close kids can get to the monkeys!  The highlight was by far the tiny marmosets, zinging from branch to branch.

8. One of the BEST things to do with kids in Tallinn is teach them how to make Marzipan figures.  It is just like molding playdough, but with sugar, how much more kid friendly can one get than that? A sweet little marzipan shop at 40 Pikk Street is set up with kid size tables set out with dough, edible paint and already made examples for kids to follow. For 3.50 euros a teacher will guide them (and you) through the process.  Our four year old made a lovely frog and the girls made a lady bug and a lion.  All of which apparently now have to make it through another 2 months of hard travel without getting squished since they are too beautiful to eat.

9. Take a toy train ride.  What little kid can resist this bright blue little train that winds around the Old Town?  What parent can resist the temptation to sit down while still seeing the sights?  Perfect combination.

10. Last but not least - if you have had enough of culture then its time to feed the ducks. There is a little park right across the road from the train station that happens to have adorable baby ducks right now, but probably always has a fairly stable population of the water birds.  Another advantage of this park is the wonderful statue of a giant sinking into the earth for a nap.