If you think about it, the International Date Line is an arbitrary human creation; an imaginary line running down the planet where we as a species have decided “the day starts here.” It’s still difficult for me to visualize, but I think of it as the spot where time slips into the world, only to forever slip away once it completes its circumnavigation.

However arbitrary it may be, and however equally arbitrary is our measuring of years, they hold significance to us, and rituals have sprung up surrounding them. Back in the Northern Hemisphere, however, New Year’s Eve has always struck me as something of a contrivance, a bogus reason to celebrate in the middle of winter, as if to hold on to those lingering embers of Christmas that much longer.

But here on the other side of the globe, New Years coincides with the arrival of summer; and given where the Date Line is positioned, smack dab in the middle of the Pacific, New Zealand and Australia are the first large populated regions to greet the New Year. All those factors have made the holiday something of a big deal in these parts — a fact popularized during the turn-of-the-millennium celebrations, when those awesome fireworks shooting off the Harbour Bridge first made me say “I need to see that!”

Trouble is, I wasn’t the only one. The holiday’s big business here, with primo-view tickets for parties at the Opera House asking around $1000. Even the party at moderately-close Darling Harbour that two friends of Mikey’s were attending went for north of $100 – and it was sold out.

We got a further whiff of the scale of it all as we met Sarah during the day on December 31st at the Art Gallery of New South Wales for a Picasso exhibit they were having on loan from the namesake museum in Paris; as it was one of the City of Light’s attractions I’d missed on my spin through there two-and-a-half years ago, I figured this would make for a pleasant daytime diversion.

As we walked to the red sandstone museum, we dodged security guards and long, snaking lines. No, they weren’t here for the art; these folks were queued up before noon to see fireworks that were still twelve hours away. Yikes. We took in the artistic retrospective – a pretty comprehensive showing of the iconic artist whose career seemed to drag on for the entire twentieth century.

After a bit of lunch we went on a reconnoiter, filling in a few more gaps in my explorations of central Sydney. We walked down the Finger Wharf of Woolloomooloo, peeking into the former industrial building now converted to condos and a luxury hotel. Conveyor belts that used to carry ship cargo stood forever frozen amid high-tone bars and offices on the ground floor. As with so many once-derelict industrial spots in prime harborfront locales, this is yet another example of the ambivalence I feel about the continuing creep of gentrification.

We passed the diminutive naval base nearby – I’m struck by how this small facility fits in so nicely with the urban surrounds, cool gray ships and masts comingling with Sydney Victorians. In America such bases are typically isolated and monolithic, a by-product of the nation’s massive imperial military and post 9/11 security tightening. Here some crowds were gathered as well in anticipation of the night’s fireworks – and it was here, just up the hill amid the quiet, leafy streets of Potts Point, that we discovered a decent viewing spot for the night’s festivities: close in enough to see the bridge and the water, but not so close as to require multi-hour waiting.

As it grew dark we returned to this spot, walking down from Oxford Street in Darlinghurst through Kings Cross and on to Potts Point. Sydney’s in-town neighborhoods are pretty compact: this amble totaled maybe twenty minutes. Our earlier reconnoiter proved a good choice: the crowds at the end of Victoria Street were substantial but not overwhelming, more local folk headed out for their annual fireworks viewing. Sydney’s big show is so popular they now have two rounds of it, one at 9 o’clock for families before the (literal) big blowout at midnight when the clock strikes next year. Even at their earlier showing, with a view blocked by a few trees, the event impressed: a coordinated series of volleys across multiple spots around the Harbour, capped off with – this is something I hadn’t seen before – additional bursts from nearby downtown office buildings.

We were going to hang around for the midnight fireworks, but then Mikey received a text from one of his friends: a mutual pal of theirs was having a party at their high-rise apartment nearby with a view of the Harbour. Would we be interested to join? I was hesitent to give up my hard-won view spot for what could simply be another party, but I acquiesced and figured I’d see where the night took me.

I’ve long since discovered, in my travels, the virtues of serendipity – something that doesn’t always come easily to an uber-planner/organizer like myself. But when we showed up at this New Years party, on the fifteenth floor of a swank Sydney condominium, my belief in the unexpected took a new turn.

We walked in to a two-story place with floor-to-ceiling windows. A broad, white modern sectional sofa was flanked by a kitchen on one side and a narrow terrace on the other. Outside the windows the view was phenomenal, tracing a broad arc from Sydney’s CBD on one end to Kings Cross, Darlinghurst, and the eastern beach suburbs beyond.

Although a ways off in the distance, the fireworks were nonetheless stellar as they went off at midnight. Mikey and I shared a sweet New Years kiss; I mused on the upsy-downsy year that 2011 had been. Hopefully 2012 will be ever smoother… definitely can’t complain about how it started out.

We didn’t get to bed too late, so the next morning, with the weather having turned spectacular (sunny, high-seventies), I opted to pick up where’d I’d left off almost nine years ago: back then I’d taken the cliff walk from Bondi to Bronte; this time, I aimed to head the other way, northward from Coogee to Bronte along the jagged, sandstone cliffs bounding the blue sea.

The walk in this direction was even more spectacular than the trek down from Bondi, at least if memory serves: from the expansive sandy arc of Coogee Beach I ascended a grassy incline topping white sandstone cliffs. The erosion patterns on the rocks formed perfect, even rows, as if some carver had gone through with a giant steel comb. The ocean here is a magnificent, iridescent blue – the sort you see in tourist brochures and think “Photoshop.”

Passing Clovelly Beach, I came upon a graveyard sloping gently toward the cliffs over the sea; I think I now know where I want to be buried. And, finally, Bronte, wher the crowds were thick on this New Years afternoon.

It’s become standard to me that travel is a means of learning about oneself, and walks like this one definitely feed the brain. So what grand new revelations did this trek portend? Nothing earthshattering, though a part of me sometimes wonders if I’ve been running in place in the nine years since I hiked these cliffs. I’m still doing the same work (albeit with better pay and better working conditions overall); I’m again a relatively-recent homeowner; I’m still finding my place in the social sphere and continue to feel like a bit of an outsider everywhere I go; and I’ve got a few more scars nine years on – some of them literal.

But still, much forward movement: six wonderful nieces and nephews; enjoyable work and home life; a respectable circle of friends; and now a nice little mini-side-occupation as writer and world traveler. Yeah, life’s okay from my perch here at Bronte Beach.

For my last night in Sydney, we opted for something fun: a showing of the new Muppets movie at an outdoor, night-time screening in Centennial Park.

Mikey and I met Sarah and her fourteen-year-old son Huwey at the entrance gate. While Sarah had indicated this summertime event (they have numerous screenings from December to March – still weird for me to call that “summer”) has been struggling with low attendance due to inclement weather, on the warm evening of January 1, 2012 that was hardly the problem: a line of moviegoers curled around the entrance gate. We’d planned to hold off on eating, preferring to purchase something at the event much like I’d done at Chicago’s Ravinia Festival this past summer.

Alas, the fates were not so forgiving: the organizers of Moonlight Cinema obviously hadn’t banked on this level of attendence, and after Soviet-style lines for ordering and paying, they ran out of food midway through. We tried even ordering a pizza (we were all famished), but nothing was open on this holiday (curse you, non-American countries with stricter closing laws!). Finally we settled for a pile of orders of chips and another pile of, er, chips (the Aussies call both French fried potatoes and potato chips “chips”).

For the final day, I showed all those hearty Aussies who’d been teasing me for refusing to go in the not-terribly warm water: yup, I literally took the plunge at Coogee Beach, did some killer bodysurfing, and generally enjoyed the stellar weather. With that, a stop at the iconic QVB Building for a bit of shopping, then a farewell to Mikey and to Sydney for my next great adventure in this, well, land of adventure: up to Cairns, the tropics, and the Great Barrier Reef.

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For all my world travels, it’s been ages since I took a bona fide two-week break over the Christmas/New Years period… in fact, other than the big trip itself, the last time I did so was back in my college days.

Continuing to make good on my pledge to nibble at the edges of my world travels on shorter trips, and to maintain that global spiderweb of connections I’d formed on my journey — oh, yeah, plus that modest pileup of Frequent Flyer miles burning a hole in my pocket — I opted for a far-flung destination where I still had a few adventures on my wishlist:

Australia.

After a wonderful first Christmas with my baby nephew and the family down in L.A., I had my posse drop me off at LAX  on Christmas night. In order to get Hunter to bed early I got to the airport with some time to spare. No bother: somewhere along the line I’d been gifted a one-day pass at one of the airport’s Business Class lounges.

After checking into for my Qantas flight I hoofed it over to the next terminal and availed myself of drinks and nibblies in the cavernous, comfy, and mostly empty lounge space. Through the tall glass-and-steel wall of windows I spotted it: the oddly chunky beast bearing the “QANTAS” logo plastered all over it. This was to be my first time flying the double-decked A380, the largest passenger plane in the world.

Bigger planes mean more people, and although it was generally pretty good for steerage class (kudos to Qantas for those netted footrests), more people also translated into… more little ones in tow. I’m still of two minds about infants on planes: I think it’s great that people are getting out there and taking their kids along for the ride; at the same time, sitting two rows behind three crying babies made what could have been a moderately-restful fifteen hours, well… not so restful at all. I consider my siblings, who’ve all gone through or are going through the tribulations as mothers of under-one-year-olds; I can’t imagine any of them subjecting their kids at that age to a journey of this length.

Still, it was worth it: a wonderful, warm Sydney greeting awaited me on the other side, this one from Sarah, my compadre from round-the-world days. Sarah served a pivotal role in my then-unsettled life (check out Wander the Rainbow‘s Sydney chapter for more); our reunion proved, once again, that impromptu soulmates really can be found all over.

Sarah wound her mother’s red Peugot around the Sydney motorways away from the airport and into Sydney’s beach cities. The city sprawls for quite a ways in all directions, but its central core is fairly dense and compact, and fairly close to the city’s beaches. Coupled with cleaner, bluer, and (slightly) warmer Pacific waters than what’s to be found even in the southernmost of SoCal cities translates into a vibrant beach culture more remniscient of Florida or the Caribbean back home – but with a city the size and sophistication of a San Francisco.

The day was a bit moody – Sydney’s been having a relatively cool, rainy summer to date – as we pulled up the hilly, winding road by Bronte Beach. The sand was uncrowded and the waves were temptestuous as we enjoyed a bit of lunch al fresco – I reacquainted myself with my favorite British-cum-Aussie delicacy, Barramundi fish & chips. Afterward, we went on a drive around Sydney’s northernmost south-side beach suburbs: North Bondi, Watsons Bay, Vaucluse. Streets curve over hills both greener and gentler than San Francisco slopes, and are dotted with elegant homes. Though not too elegant: Sydney may be pricey (and with my weak Yankee dollar, as much so as London or Paris), but Australia seems more like Canada than the States vis-a-vis its income divide.

Sarah dropped us off at a pleasantly run-down, rambling beach shack a block from the surf at Coogee Beach. Echoing timber-framed brethren across the great ocean in Venice, California, this onetime summer cottage is home to Mikey, the fellow who I was staying with, and three other housemates: two gay guys, both named Kieran, and a lesbian named Loz (short for Lauren — the Aussies have abbreviations for everything, I’ve come to learn).

That evening we hopped the bus into the city. Call me a city-planning nerd, but Sydney’s transport network continues to impress: spotless, mint-condition, air-conditioned vehicles ply across the city at speed – in our case, rambling through the beach suburbs, across the wooded expanse of Centennial Park, and up Flinders Street into Darlinghurst, Sydney’s gay mecca. We were headed for an evening at Midnight Shift, one of the town’s gay spots, for their midweek trivia night, hosted (of course) by one of the city’s famed drag queens, Miss Summer Salt. I can’t say I’m an expert at Aussie trivia, but I was proud of myself when Miss Summer handed me a purple-colored marker and I was able to toss in a line from Priscilla in context: “it’s lavender!”

Next morning, a meander with Mikey around the city. This was my third visit to Sydney, so I was nominally familiar with the place, but nothing quite beats having a local as one’s tour guide. We meandered through The Domain,  then on through the city’s Botanic Gardens toward Mrs. Macquarie’s Chair, a spot at the tip of one of the city’s many fingers of land protruding into the drowned river valley that is Sydney Harbour. Biggest achievement: I finally learned what those odd-looking birds I’d seen here on previous voyages are: Australian ibises.

“Rats with beaks,” Mikey remarked. Pestilential to Sydneysiders, for me they give the city an exotic feel to my North American eyes. But then, it’s all relative, right?

“I felt that way about squirrels in your country,” Mikey added.

Equally captivating to me were some bulb-shaped creatures hanging from the tall trees: Sydney’s got its resident population of bats, who sleep (yes) upside-down in the trees before taking wing at dusk over the city.

“To fight crime, no doubt,” I offered up as their raison d’etre. Dork, was the look I got in response. That’ll learn me to provoke a comic-book nut (Mikey’s collection borders on the encyclopedic.)

We continued over to the iconic Opera House, adding to my ludicrously bloated stash of photos of the structure; I maintain it’s one of the grandest works of modern architecture, and possibly one of humankind’s greatest buildings ever (forget it; I’m not adding another picture of it here). Just as we were completing our circuit at Circular Quay’s Overseas Passenger Terminal, and right after I asked if the building is still in fact used for such a purpose, my question answered itself: a beefy white vessel sailed under the Harbour Bridge.

It’s my third visit to Sydney, and I still haven’t been to the Blue Mountains. Next morning came time to remedy that as we hopped on a bus and a train to the country town of Katoomba, a couple hours west of the city.

Most of Australia’s population lives to the east of the Great Dividing Range, a spine of mountains running vertically down the country’s east from the northern tropics to the southern state of Victoria. They’re not enormous by any standard: no peaks exceed eight thousand feet.  Nevertheless, as I remarked on my world tour when driving up north through Nimbin (yes, weed-lovers, you can guess why I went there), they felt, to me, like a craggier variant of America’s Appalachians: green and forested, but more sheer and dramatic than the rolling hill country of America’s East.

A fairly full train ride on the city’s beat-up but very functional exurban train system dropped us smack in the middle of Katoomba. The crowds bore evidence that this was a touristy spot, and I was hoping that the natural attractions would overshadow the visiting hordes – much as, say, Niagara Falls does back home. A quick bus trip to the rock formation known as the Three Sisters revealed more touristic mobs – but the majestic views of the monument and the Jamison Valley beyond proved my working mantra true yet again: some spots become tourist traps for good reason.

We figured a short hike would dodge the crowds, so we followed signs to “GREAT STAIRCASE”  that looked to get ever closer to the Sisters. The steps were narrow, steep, and pretty crowded (though a trio of surprisingly loud and astonishingly fetching French guys in tank-tops made it worthwhile). Meanwhile, the hike was proving not so short: the steps continued down, and down, and down… no way we’re hiking this back up, I mused. At least the crowds thinned out, and by the time we reached the flat trail about halfway down the valley through the woods, we had the place to ourselves

We soon figured out why: we’d missed whatever signage there may have been for the 25-minute hike… and soon found out we were on the three-hour circuit. Though I was skeptical when examining the mileage: 2.5 km on a mostly level trail shouldn’t take more than 45 minutes for we fit walkers… assuming no further surprises were in store.

Luckily, none were, and we enjoyed a splendid hike through lush foliage. As expected, about three-quarters of an hour later we reached a couple of motorized conveyances to get us back to the top; we picked the closest one, an inclined railway that bills itself as the world’s steepest funicular. Something of a slo-mo roller coaster in reverse, I don’t doubt the claim.

Up at the top, at the once-again crowded and even touristier Scenic World facility, we stopped for some ice cream… and it was here, as I mentioned favoring less sweet ice cream flavors as I got on in years, that Mikey popped the question:

“So, how old are you?”

We’d met over San Francisco Gay Pride on one of those dating sites, and, in our talks about sci-fi and movies, and other, ahem, shared interests, the subject had never come up. Happily, my still-youthful looks confounded him. It made for a good chuckle over ice cream as he fingered my driver’s license and agreed the photo made me look like one of the 9/11 hijackers (all of whom, I think, were younger at the time than I am now — admittedly a dubious distinction.)

Back home, I got changed to meet Sarah and a friend of hers at a fab drinks & dinner spot back in Darlinghurst: the Victoria Room. Echoing the British Raj, the joint serves up a colorful array of drinks care of a friendly, attractive waitstaff. As we enjoyed Tiki-style drinks out of retro-ridiculous drinkware, a lively conversation ensued on unconventional relationships; with Sarah herself divorced, and with Sarah’s friend embroiled in relationship concerns, the ladies offered up a perspective different than mine on the open-type relationships I’ve had in my past.

“I just don’t think they work,” Sarah said. She counts herself as one who finds herself stung when she learns a potential paramour is into such arrangements.

“But think about it,” I offered. “If all people who decided they weren’t into traditional monogamy were free and open to choose it without stigma, then the truly monogamous wouldn’t have to worry about somebody lying to them or cheating behind their back.”

At least that’s my hope, if we ever come to live in a world more honest about what each of us really wants. I mean, heck, if we can’t all agree on a type of Tiki beverage to enjoy, who says all our relationships need to fit into a single mold?

Food for thought among the Tikis.

In my next entry: the real reason I came to Australia (sort-of) — Sydney’s New Years fireworks!

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Wander the Rainbow is back on the book fair circuit… this Sunday, October 2, catch us at the Distant Lands booth at the West Hollywood Book Fair. Now in its tenth anniversary, the book fair this year coincides with the opening of the brand-new West Hollywood Library. The new facility features a GLBT literature section, where I’m sure you’ll be able to catch Wander the Rainbow in the near future. But don’t wait until then: I’ll be at the Distant Lands booth from around 1 to 3 p.m., with official signings slated at around 2.

Look forward to seeing you all at the fair!

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One year ago, Wander the Rainbow broke new ground by becoming the first-ever travel book-length first-person account of a gay man traveling solo around the world.

Over the past year, the book has repeatedly hit bestseller status in its Amazon category, received wide-ranging media attention, gone on tour around North America… and most recently, was the gold medal winner of an Independent Publisher award for Gay/Lesbian Non-Fiction (item 43 here).

So what’s on the agenda for Year Two? Plenty!

Over the summer we will be releasing an updated printing of the book with a new Afterward recounting the follow-on trip I took to Europe last month. As with my previous blog/book arrangement, the book will feature memoir-style writing with no holds barred or punches pulled… which means you’ll all get to find out what really went on with those 18-year-old gay porn stars on my last night in Copenhagen. Stay tuned…

There will also be more media coverage, possibly more book events at some spots that were missed in the original tour… and even the prospect of a movie version as there’s been some interest from the folks down in Southern California of turning this sprawling memoir into a “coming of age gay road movie” (no, I will not be playing myself, but younger, hotter versions of me are encouraged to apply.)

Wander on, everyone!

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Just as it did two years ago, I chose Copenhagen as my capping-off city to my time in Europe — and once again, it proved a worthy choice.

Getting here was an already-planned full-day affair; with airfares in normally-competitive Europe on the Budapest-to-Copenhagen route sky-high on my intended travel day, I sought out cheaper alternatives that would enable me to indulge in one of my favorite travel pastimes on the Continent: riding its legendary network of rail links.

I’d scored a (relatively) budget-y fare on a flight from Vienna to Copenhagen, leaving me with the need to span the gap between the two former Austro-Hungarian capitals by other means. No trouble: Austrian Railways had recently introduced the Railjet, a high-speed-ish, ultra-modern link, that spanned the 150 or so land miles in around 2 ½ hours. I’d booked myself on this knowing that my connection in Vienna would be adequate: roughly two hours from when my train was slated to arrive to when my flight was about to depart.

I arrived at Budapest’s Keleti station with my lingering sniffles nearly vanquished. The Railjet, in the traditional red livery of Austrian Railways with oversized lettering denoting the brand plastered along the side, slumbered in the grand old station, sparkling and new next to the rusting blue exteriors of some local rolling stock. Onboard, the cabin was even better: sharp, comfy gray-leather seats in ones and twos crisp and awaiting their occupants. Yep, Mr. Flashpacker here had booked First Class again, at a cost of about $30 more in exchange for tremendous legroom, AC power ports, and yummy in-seat dining. A noisome tour group of Brits occupied the front half of my train car, while next to me sat a sixtyish American couple with whom I soon struck up a lively conversation: Joyce and Mike were fellow Jewish Californians, hailing from sunny San Diego by way of New York City. We instantly had much to compare about our journeys – as retirees, they’re enjoying a longer getaway, visiting some Central Europe spots before jumping off from Venice on a Balkan cruise. Oh, the pangs of envy!

The train pulled out a few minutes behind schedule and remained that way for the entire journey. This made for a less-than-relaxing journey as I wondered if this would hose me on the other end… last time I had a similar issue with my lengthy overnighter from Copenhagen to Frankfurt to connect with a short flight; golly, what is it with me and rail in normally-punctual-to-a-fault German lands? That Murphy fellow must be cackling.

The train remained a few minutes behind schedule for the rest of its run – though interestingly, the medium for determining this itself indicated the conveyance’s overall fabulousness: TV screens throughout the train cars displayed a digital map and time to arrival, much as in some aircraft.

The first part of the Vienna connection went great: I arrived at the station, then – symphonically almost – as I walked out onto the street, a sparkling, gold-colored Vienna AirportLines bus rolled up. I’d now have over an hour to spare before my fight assuming no further hitches in the estimated half-hour ride out to the airport – which seemed generous considering it was only five or so miles away.

Well, I should’ve known why: it was around 4:30 on a Friday afternoon, and even mid-sized Vienna (population around two million) isn’t immune to rush-hour congestion. We crawled through two skinny lanes of traffic as we struggled to leave Vienna’s old city center behind. Instead of marveling at architectural splendor, the density here was stressing me out. Tick-tock, tick-tock, I thought, as it grew closer to our anticipated arrival time and still no airport in sight. Why do I do this to myself? In my zeal to travel creatively, scenically and unconventionally (today’s journey would involve a metro to a metro to a train to a bus to a plane to an airport train on the other end – assuming I made it), sometimes I don’t anticipate the cascading pitfalls of unanticipated delays.

I needn’t have worried, however: soon I saw the familiar round, hulking brick-brown shapes of Vienna’s old gasometers, a sign we were heading out of the city. We were soon on one of the region’s efficient highways and arrived at the airport practically on schedule. A quick check-in and on board the discount-airline Niki (one of Europe’s many discount carriers), and soon I was riding the rails on the airport train from Copenhagen’s tidy Kastrup airport to the center of town.

Copenhagen’s new budget-boutique hotel, the Wakeup, could not have been more different than the previous spot I’d stayed in Budapest: a clean, simple, ultramodern Scandinavian affair (at twice the price, natch) in a once-industrial area redeveloped so recently its Scandinavian-modern buildings post-date even my last visit. I was soon comfortably ensconced in a compact but incredibly efficient room. Best part: a bathroom straight out of a spaceship in a sci-fi film.

It was Friday night, so after a short nap I opted to head out on the town. I wended my way past the forest of bicycles parked near the train station — I’d forgotten about Scandinavia’s fondness for two-wheelers: all throughout the city’s major streets I had to remember to avoid the so-named “Copenhagen lanes,” slightly elevated dedicated bicycle lanes between the sidewalk and the street; I can only imagine Americans giving up their precious SUV-wide automobile-dependent roads for something as hippie-dippie as a bike.

Even though it was past midnight, the city’s compact core was abuzz, almost as much as London’s party spots were last weekend. It still impresses me how Europe pulls this off: American cities the size of Copenhagen such as Denver, San Diego or Portland – all fairly liberal bastions and respectable party towns in their own right – have nothing on Denmark’s urban hub. I stayed out late, catching up with my friend Anna, a fellow pal of Renaissance Man care of a shared childhood with parents who did the “hippie missionary” circuit. As I walked back to my hotel, the sun was already coming up – oh, it wasn’t that late, but this being high-latitude Northern Europe, in mid-May first light happened before four in the morning.

The next day, I strolled the city’s downtown pedestrian shopping district, Strøget, in search of kiddie gifts for my nephews and nieces (the Lego store was a particular delight – a still-going-strong Danish-made wonder from my youth). Best part: a nicely-rendered Lego model of Nyhavn, the pretty inland canal I’d visited last time I was here.

After a splendid dinner at Anna’s flat in trendy Vesterbro, I headed out for another night on the town; since I’d already been to Copenhagen once before I was able to focus on this town’s more social delights and friends I’d made here. Plus I had an ulterior motive: late nights in Europe meant less jetlag when returning home.

Saturday was at least as ebullient a night as Friday as I headed to the place to see and be seen, Club Christopher. More of an alterna-vibe than many gay nightspots, with a far more motley assortment of gays than one would find back home in one place. I liked that; I’m not one of those fashion police types who demand that people conform to a certain look, and I found the general blending among gays and straights here, along with the mix of outfits, to be refreshing.  I spent the night chatting with a preppy straight boy who comfortably claimed to play around with guys, along with some of his pals from the unpronounceable city of Aarhus who were in town for the weekend. They were staying in a hostel dorm room, and even in fab-hostel Copenhagen their reaction was telling.

“We hate it,” one of them said. They were sharing a room with four others and quickly discovered that the backpacker way isn’t for them. Perhaps in a few years, when their income catches up, I shall introduce them to flashpacking.

Next day was another catch-up day with old friends, in this case my old college chum Cindy, her husband Jonathan, and their two kids (only one of whom was around last time), Thomas and James. Islands Brygge, their district, lay right across the water from the Wakeup and is in a sense a mirror image of where I was staying: also reclaimed industrial land, now lined with those clean, simple, ultra-modern mid-rise steel-and-glass structures for which Scandinavia has become legendary.

A couple of Cindy and Jonathan’s friends and their two kids soon join us for this little party for James’ second birthday. Thomas has grown and blossomed from the slightly shy kid I remember two years back (he insists on my photographing the tall towers of block-like toys he builds, asking solicitously in a mixed Danish-and-British accent straight out of Oliver Twist to my Yankee ears). But James, who wasn’t around yet on my last visit, is something of a bruiser, the sort of kid who bashes into things on purpose just to see what’ll happen. He demolishes his older brother’s constructs with abandon – though on the whole the two adorable little blonde kids play well together. Thomas may still look more like Jacob, my nephew who’s about the same age, but James possesses Jakie’s feisty persona. It still amazes me how the template of one’s personality begins to shine through so early.

I opted to stay out late again on Sunday night, my last in the city, again to ward off future jetlag. It proved worthwhile: even though the city was much sleepier than it was the two weekend nights, I still managed to have some fun at another couple of gay spots, where I struck up a conversation with — of all people! — a couple of dyed-blonde 18-year-olds who claimed to be twins and — wait for it — porn stars. A suitable farewell, I suppose, for my last night in Europe. After taking my leave of the boys and their mates, it was time for a checkout at the hotel, a trip back to the airport, and a long, long flight home with many new memories made back here on the Continent.

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Budapest ranks near the top of “ones that got away” in my tour of Europe’s great cities more than two years ago – which made it a natural as my one “new place to visit” on this minitrip, sandwiched in between those more familiar locales that would bookend the journey.

Alas, it began with one hiccup – or more accurately, a sore throat. Sickness is the bane of every traveler; this goes double for shorter escapes where a nasty bug might span much of a journey. My near-nonstop socializing in London was good fun, but by toward the end of my time there I felt a dispiritingly familiar tingle in my throat – and not simply from vocal (or other) oral exertions. Soon after came the familiar sniffles and such, and for the first time in my overseas travels, I had a bit of a cold.

Aside from that, though, travel was smooth: an early-morning departure from Renaissance Man’s flat, a tube ride to Paddington Station, a train ride to Heathrow, and a quick flight across the Continent. England’s tidy hedgerows and farms gave way to the undulating shoreline of the English Channel and the fields of northern France. The weather, as has been the case my entire time here so far, was glorious.

A smooth flight across the Channel and Continent, then a drop-off care of an airport shuttle at my guesthouse, a gay-owned joint I’d found online located on the third floor of a respectably-maintained Art Nouveau structure. At first I was trepidatious: the building’s ancient, creaky little elevator and no signage indicating my accommodations made me wonder… is this a scam? But I found it, and within moments was greeted by Shandor, middle-aged co-owner of the KM Saga and at least as solicitous and helpful as any official guide. In addition to the usual tourist brochures he also handed me the town’s gay nightlife guide. While Budapest isn’t quite the Central European party spot that is Prague, it apparently always boasted a gay scene – even in Communism’s heyday – and remains the region’s second-biggest such spot after the Czech capital.

The guesthouse itself, meanwhile, was a charmer in its own way: overstuffed period furnishings, themed rooms named after composers (mine was the “Beethoven,” complete with stern bust of Ludwig Van glowering over my bedside), gold-leafed chandeliers, and random knickknacks and doodads that straddled the line between classical elegance and high kitsch. Best part: a king-size bed emerging out of a headboard settee. I loved it immediately.

Thank heavens for such comforts (at a steal of a price, natch – Budapest accommodations are still cheap by Euro standards): deciding to play it safe with my lingering “bubons” (as Jon Stewart terms it anytime he gets sick), I napped and headed out after dark to Raday utca, a nearby pedestrian street, for a bite of dinner. A respectable – and eminently filling – dose of chicken paprikash.

Hungary’s development since the fall of Communism has been alright, though not quite as ebullient as Poland, Latvia, or the Czech Republic. The place still feels like a work in progress, with rundown and smartly-restored Art Nouveau buildings running down long, straight streets. Or so it felt as I wandered through Pest, the mostly flat half of this city on the eastern bank of the Danube.

A glance at the history books tells why: like most of Europe, the town’s had tremendous turmoil through the centuries, though in its case some of it lingers into the present. It’s one of the Continent’s oldest settlements, with evidence of human habitation dating back deep into prehistory. It was a Roman garrison – Aquincum – on the Empire’s northeastern frontier along the Danube. Occupying a similar transitional zone as, say, the Levant, this bridge between East and West was fought over continuously: Christians, Ottoman Turks, Austrian Habsburgs, German Nazis, and Soviet Russians came and went through the ages.

As with Vienna, Austria-Hungary’s western center, the city’s real heyday was in the latter half of the 19^th Century, when many of its belle epoque edifices went up and bridges were built across the Danube.

A relaxing meander around City Park then a stroll down leafy Andrássy útca, the city’s answer to the Champs-Élysées, proved a worthy tonic to my sinus congestion and sniffles. I wasn’t really in a museum mood, but one otherwise-handsome building on the wide, tree-lined boulevard caught my eye: the House of Terror. Its pretty façade is lined by a jutting rooftop metal canopy spelling the words TERROR in mirror-backward writing, so the the sun’s rays shine the letters onto the building itself right-side up.

Once the headquarters for Hungary’s Nazi-leaning Arrow Cross, then later used by the repressive Communists as a dungeon and Ministry of Love-ish prison, the place effectively recounts the bad old days of dictatorship and repression. It’s all very well done, with padded cell-style corridors, TVs blaring black-and-white interviews of former political prisoners, and a giant tank standing guard in the central courtyard. The actual dungeons – in the basement of the building – are as squalid and horrific as any concentration camp: dank arching stone walls, hard wooden barracks, rusty commodes, grimy translucent barred windows. I don’t know why I’m so fascinated by such places – in Prague, Riga, and Moscow I also made sure to visit relics of and memorials to former totalitarian regimes – but I leave here equally edified and spooked.

Okay, then. As compensation for brutality, some grandeur and delight. As much as Vienna, Budapest was once home to a thriving café culture. Many closed over the decades or were replaced by establishments of the more modern, Starbucks-ian variety (though, interestingly, I spotted nary a trace of the American coffee chain the entire time I was in the city). But a few remain: Lukács Café’s chandeliers and white-and-gold-leaf trim proved a worthy place to enjoy a tasty (but pricey) cappuccino and delectable chocolate cake (what else?)

Ambling on toward the river, I came upon the hulking, wedding-cake Parliament building, all domed and spired and wedding-cake grand as befits a grand old European capital. Turning the corner onto the riverwalk of the (mostly) blue Danube, I observed something the Magyar capital has over its Austrian cousin: while both lie nominally on the great European waterway, in Vienna the river proper flows a ways out of the city center. But in Budapest, the river runs through it better than old Robert Redford could have imagined: the city is in fact a portemanteau of two formerly separate towns (Buda and Pest), each hugging the broad waterway (and it is broad – one of Europe’s bigger ones, I’d say).

Having meandered the Pest side one day, I opted for Buda the next. The two towns, although separated by nothing more than a river, feel as different as, say, Detroit and Windsor back home (albeit far, far more beautiful than both): Pest’s 19^th Century broad, straight streets contrast with Buda’s steep hillsides and curvy byways. To get there I opted for the scenic route, crossing on foot via the Chain Bridge, one of the world’s first suspension bridges dating back to the 1840s. It’s an adorable little structure, a Disney-sized variant of, say, the Brooklyn Bridge, which it predates by half a century. On the bridge, the city’s set-pieces were on show: a couple smooched under one of the bridge’s towers; more dispiritingly, an elderly Gypsy woman begged for change – practically the only such character I saw in my time here (yes, Budapest has fewer homeless than wealthy San Francisco). On the other side, past a florally-festooned traffic circle, lay the funicular to the top of Castle Hill. Here’s where the local flavor vanished and the touristic took over: I heard English spoken widely for the first time, most especially by a surprisingly rotund and rowdy gang from Toronto.

“Pretend this car is full, or it’ll be a sweat box!” said one camera-toter as we clambered into one compartment of the diminutive funicular.

“I can’t believe it’s not air conditioned!”

Oh, dude. Really? It was a warmish day but the splendid ride up the peak lasted maybe two minutes. At the top, predictably grand views across the river, toward Pest. On one side lay the city’s Royal Palace and on the other, the former “commoners” homes of the winding, medieval town – far simpler sloped roofs, and none of the Art Nouveau adornments found across the river. Adjacent the castle, some walled ruins – although Aquincum is a bit north of medieval (and present-day) Buda, these could have been contemporaneous but were more likely later – this place has had many masters, and like Middle Eastern spots such as Jerusalem or Megiddo, one set of invaders sacked, then rebuilt, often on the same spot.

A sci-fi and spookiness-obsessed friend had insisted I visit the underground cave network running beneath the castle. The so-named Labyrinth, which opened onto the street from a run-of-the-mill building on a town street, at first looked like another cheesy tourist trap: hordes of screaming schoolchildren at the entrance didn’t bode so well. But the dank, damp cavern beckoned, and I forked over the moderate-but-not-usurious entry fee to have a look.

Having done precious little travel in my youth, on my grand world tour I found myself more often than not treading the road more traveled. But rather than playing the jaded backpacker, I sought to learn, wherever possible, if the touristic is indeed a waste of time and coin, or if it continues to offer transcendence. Yes, I found disappointment – aggressive touting at the Great Pyramid and the rice terraces of Bali; obnoxious Spring Breaker-style youth on Koh Phangan; overpriced meals and crowds in Venice. But I also found amazing stuff – I thought the Mona Lisa was marvellous; Tokyo’s electronics heavenly (for a techno-geek like me); the Full Moon party a delight.

I’m happy to say Buda’s Labyrinth fit in the latter category. The schoolkids were on their way out, and, as I entered the warren of passageways, found I had the kilometer-long maze almost to myself.

Formed by natural hot springs that bubble up under the city, these tunnels have been occupied by humans since prehistory – a fact driven home by replicas of the Lascaux cave paintings etched into the walls. Haunting medieval-style chants wafted over speakers in the caverns lit only by dim, dim lights. I was transfixed, almost in religious rapture at the dim memory of hunter-gatherers huddling in these grottoes eons ago.

As I passed through the tunnels dedicated to their occupation in historic times, I came upon a pagan-style altar straight out of Tolkien; a “wine fountain” replete with vines and stinking of fermented grapes (signage warns the visitor not to drink the liquid, though I wonder if that’s just to keep tipplers at bay); and a mammoth, partly-submerged head also straight out of Fantasyland’s central casting. Oh sure, Disney and his Imagineers conjure up stuff like this in their sleep… but nothing in the Americas possesses these caverns’ aura of authenticity.

And then, as quickly as the feeling had come, it vanished: the last bit of the attraction, labeled “the End of History,” claimed that ancient fossils had been found – dating back tens of millions of years, it was said – of suspiciously modern-looking shoeprints and computer keypads. High-tech Flintstones co-existing with dinosaurs? Fun for the kiddies, I’m sure, but for me the effect was cloying. So too the last bit, a cavern of “personal discovery” – a pitch-dark mini-maze that could have been fun but for some annoying youths cackling and howling like ghouls and witches.

A quick stop at a touristy (yet reasonably-priced) café nearby, then on to the city’s main attraction: the UNESCO World Heritage-listed Buda Castle.

Although I’d been in the city more than a day, and on this side of the Atlantic for the better part of a week, this felt like the first bona fide “Eurosightseeing” I’d done so far. Unlike its counterparts in Vienna or Prague, however, this one saw combat and destruction as recently as 1944: in addition to the bridges across the Danube, the retreating wehrmacht damaged it significantly. Happily, it’s been fully restored and is now once again a hodgepodge of styles and structures from many different eras: grand 17^th Century monumentality contrasting with medieval stone walls – think The Name of the Rose meets Dangerous Liaisons. The city’s History Museum, one of several in this sprawling complex, really rams home this place’s uber-long history even in a continent overflowing with the old: from the skull of a cave bear tens of thousands of years old to scenes of Second World War combat.

Riding a tram along the river, I alighted at the foot of Gellért Hill, the higher of Buda’s peaks immediately facing Pest. Leafy and treescaped, with a soaring victory monument at the top and stairs beckoning for a climb, I resisted the urge as my strength was starting to give out. Hoping for something of the more therapeutic variety, I stopped in at the Gellért Baths – the city’s trove of hot springs has made it a spa town for generations, and the century-plus-old Gellért is reputed to be the granddaddy of them all. Alas, fate was not on my side: although I’d arrived in plenty of time before closing, the spa was booked for a private party. Such is the way of travel, as I’d learned in my seven-month odyssey of occasional missed connections and misadventures (though for the most part my trip moved smoother than a Swiss watch).

As I strolled across the fin de siecle cantilever-style Independence Bridge after a bout of dinner in the Gellért district – unlike touristy Castle Hill, this felt like a more bona fide lived-in district of Buda – I mused some more on this place: unlike spotless Scandinavia or orderly Germany (and its satellites Austria and the Netherlands), Budapest is still in transition. In a way, this echoed my physical state while visiting this town, but more deeply, it echoes the soul of the traveler, the wanderer, in any circumstance. And so too our lives overall, which, if you think about it, are always works in progress. Hopefully, as has been Budapest’s fate in recent years, we manage to build more than we destroy.

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I said I’d return someday, and now I’m making good.

I boarded my early-evening flight with a whiff of excitement harkening back to boyhood, when sleepless, eager nights preceded overseas journeys. Even the debut of my round-the-world adventure, two years ago, mired as it was in melodrama and angst, could not equal my feelings as I tromped aboard this stately, lumbering 747–400 onto my first eastbound overseas flight from San Francisco, my adopted hometown.

I knew that any follow-on overseas journey to my grand world tour would — at least if I wanted to do it anytime in the near-ish future — involve a shorter jaunt. So I made a pledge: I’d confine big, expansive journeys to utterly new locales – the Mediterranean, sub-Saharan Africa, Brazil. Shorter trips overseas would, by contrast, mirror my domestic trips in one way: I’d use them as an opportunity to visit friends, to revisit favorite locales, and maybe – just maybe – see a smattering of new spots I may have missed on the last go-round.

A silky-smooth arrival into Heathrow boded well for this visit:  a reasonably quick trip through Customs (albeit with an immigration officer as gruff as any in the States), effortless “baggage reclaim,” then off to the Way Out and onto the Heathrow Express. Clean, speedy, and festooned with TV monitors pleasantly delivering a mix of information and events — I learned the origins of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament in my fifteen-minute ride.

Arriving in Paddington Station, I felt it: I’m back, baby! The cavernous arched canopy of the trainshed covering the sleek conveyances may be a banality to the crowds hurrying to and fro… but for me it was a spectacle worthy of reverance. Ditto the cute statue of a childhood pleasure, the eponymous Paddington Bear.

Fatigue and jetlag notwithstanding, I was determined to give this town’s legendary nightlife a nod. Hopping back on the Tube across town to Notting Hill, I met Renaissance Man — my London pal and host both this visit and last — and a couple of his mates at an outdoor pub table. I’d wandered through this area in my last visit to the city, but strolling the tranquil streets of whitewashed townhomes this time truly made me gasp: London’s sprawling hodgepodge of districts makes for a less perfectly-wrought a city than, say, Paris, but the backstreets of Notting Hill are, in my estimation, as majestic as anything on the rives of the Seine. And at least as pricey: “freehold” townhomes list for three-and-a-half million pounds according to the neatly-framed listings in a realtor’s shop window off the high street.

At our comfy, narrow outdoor bar table, Renaissance Man embraced me warmly as he recounted to his chums the circumstances of our meeting: Calling himself a “male fag-hag,” he told of how he’d gotten up the gumption to talk to an attractive young lady out with her gay pals some years back at (of all places) a gay nightspot in Soho some years back. The lady in question was my sister, who in her sisterly way made sure to link me up with this fellow with the crazy name and an equally crazy background living in London’s trendy Ground Zero.

New York may bill itself as the city that never sleeps, but for my money the once-staid British capital has it (and practically everywhere else in the U.S.) beat by a country mile. On every commercial street of any size, at all hours of the day or night, I saw hordes enjoying the evening (the weather was gloriously warm, as Europe’s been enjoying a magnificent spring); while I’d already remarked on my last visit how Londoners are able to tipple outdoors, I was doubly bowled over, this time around, by the sheer volume of late-night places: it was past midnight when I arrived to a carnival atmosphere on the medieval-wide amble of gay Soho. I didn’t stay out too late as fatigue overtook me, but the crowds and vibe were intoxication enough for one night.

Ten more hours of sleep later, I again met up with Renaissance Man and some friends in Regent’s Park for “a bit of spliff and mellow hanging out,” at a European-themed folk festival. Alighting from the Tube at bustling, over-touristed Piccadilly Circus, I strolled up curvy Regent Street, festooned with shops and endless hordes and classical buildings wrapping around the curve of the street like life-size parentheses. Then, as the park approached, the crowds vanished, to be replaced by quiet, townhome-dense structures bearing colleges and embassies.

We parked ourselves under a broad shade tree a bit of a distance from the small festival, taking place just outside the park’s historic carousel. With jugglers, kids, teenage folk-dancing troupes, and all manner of euro quick-serve fare (fries – ahem, “chips” – with mayonnaise… blech), the place looked like a near-cartoon version of a Saturday in a park, something Renoir might have painted more than a century ago.

“New candidates for the Ministry of Silly Walks,” said another of Renaissance Man’s friends, motioning to two guys on the nearby walking trail doing lunges with Pythonesque absurdity.

After all this we headed out of the park toward the Baker Street tube station. The Sherlock Holmes Museum, at the not-really-but-who’s counting 221B Baker Street, offers up the usual touristy kitsch; we skip it and instead – thanks to one of Renaissance Man’s friends being a photographer – snap some creative poses in front of the London Underground’s Lost & Found office. Some truly remarkable specimens in the window, including mobile phones from the late-1980s that were anything but mobile. Inside the tube station, we continue the fun, as I played dead on a bench like a Holmesian character.

Next day, Sunday, was Lightmans day. This now-sprawling clan of de facto family inhabiting various parts of London’s northwest had graciously scheduled in for a full day of meals and catching up: I began the morning at Joy and Bertie’s, my hosts for part of my last visit. Their adorable daughter Bella, now five-and-a-HALF (as she told me, emphasis on the fraction), played with stickers and such while Joy, Bertie and I catch up on events in both our lives; as an interracial couple they’ve got lots to say about the U.S. presidential situation. Closer to home, Bertie’s had some surgery on both his legs, prompting much discussion of the health care situation on either side of the Atlantic. Happily, he’s doing well.

But first, off to see more of the family: David & Kate and their three kids, ranging in age from 20-year-old Nathan to tween-aged Noa. She at first forgot who I was from last visit, when she posed endlessly for my camera, but a quick chat about America and Justin Bieber (“he’s from Canada, you know!” she says breathlessly) and all is remembered.

After that it was off to eldest sibling Susan and her husband Richard, a soft-spoken fellow also in the technology business. I spent a glorious afternoon in their back garden with some fellow friends of their from Susan’s days at the London School of Economics, and here I felt right at home: smart, savvy academic types doing interesting work in a range of sectors.

As the day wore on, family patriarch Sidney — 87 and still sharp as a tack — comes to get me for a dinner of more Indian food. His wife Ray, in more up-and-down health, remains sharper than I’d expected but as a heavyset diabetic, mobility is necessarily an issue. Still, she’s of reasonably good cheer about it all, and her devoted husband’s caring for her borders on the heroic.

The following day, my last full one in the city, saw me meet another fellow certain to become another pal in my ever-growing roster of friends in the city: Rob’s a techie who lived in San Francisco for nearly ten years before his series of visas ran out and he was forced to return home (he hails from England’s northeast). A former co-worker of a current colleague of mine (also named Rob), this Rob and I compared notes on the IT scene in both cities.

“You’re either in the financial sector, or not in the financial sector,” was how he summed it up. Yep, as I suspected, London’s much like New York or Chicago in that way: there are a scattering of startups and such, but a lot of the work is in the money business, and his friends and colleagues in it report some of the same mixed experiences that I had in that business. And salaries in pricey London aren’t quite as good as in San Fran. He’d only planned to stay here a year before returning to the States, but three years have gone by and he’s still here and for the most part enjoying it.

Heading off the next morning, I mused why I love visiting this town: London, for me as a visitor offers people whose company I adore, coupled with a pulsating, vibrant scene that seems unmatched in the American scheme of things. Although I’m once more settled in San Francisco, the nagging “would I live here?” question always bubbles up in my mind. Not at the moment, I’d say, but if the right opportunity arose, I’d do it in a New York – nay, a London – minute.

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The book tour is done. Wander the Rainbow is selling steadily (your support is always appreciated!)… and now it’s time for only one thing:

Generate some more travel experiences to write about!

The scale this time is smaller, but the spirit is the same: An eleven-day journey to Europe, to revisit some old destinations and friends, and pay a visit to one place that I didn’t manage to hit last time around.

Specifically, London, Copenhagen, and (the new spot) Budapest.

I’ll be blogging about my experiences, and, if what happens is as fascinating and merit-worthy as my previous travels, it might make it into a revised edition of Wander the Rainbow, perhaps as an epilogue.

See you on the road!

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This weekend marked a new milestone in Wander the Rainbow history: the last stop on a book tour that’s spanned eight months and as many cities.

The locale this time was the Los Angeles area, America’s second-largest metro area — though the event in particular was held, perhaps appropriately for a travel book, at a store in Old Town Pasadena, one of the region’s oldest districts, dating back to the 1880s (practically Paleozoic for the American Southwest).

Only a couple of weeks separated this event from my last one in America’s largest city, New York, and the contrast between these two urban behemoths on opposite coasts could not be greater: in New York I braved snow and cold, while in SoCal I strolled with one of my friends (and her adorable pug, Hans) on a beach in Malibu this past Sunday. The sun was resplendent, the sea a sparkling blue, and the weather an L.A.-perfect 70something degrees.

For me, however, L.A. holds different significance than New York; I know the place a lot better, having lived there myself a number of years back. Still, its rep as a not-so-literary movie company town made me almost as nervous about this event as I was about my last one in publishing’s imperial capital. Once again, that nagging fear: would anyone show up?

Answer: yes! Distant Lands, the travel bookstore-cum-outfitter, has a crowd of regulars who file in for their biweekly Monday lectures. The place is done up with classic living room furniture and old maps. Guidebooks and travel works pepper the shelves, while the rest of the store contains items that make the travel-obsessed salivate: packing cubes, backpacks, bug repellent… if you’re going overseas and live in Southern California, this place is a definite must-visit.

To further enhance the event, I demoed some of their wares as part of my presentation: from wheeled backpacks to — arguably the most useful item I took with me on my travels — lightweight, easy-wash, quick-drying underwear. Yes, it is possible to traverse the globe on three pairs of undies if these are the ones in your luggage.

With this pleasant finale event out of the way, Wander the Rainbow is headed in new directions: we’ll continue to book speaking engagements for groups, associations, travel meetups, and the like. Check our events page to see where we’re going next.

However, for you prospective, on-the-fence e-book buyers, we have something even better in store to celebrate eight months in print and the conclusion of our official tour:

All Wander the Rainbow e-books for Amazon Kindle, Apple iBookstore, and Barnes & Noble NOOK are now priced at $2.99!

Now you can travel around the world for the price of a cappuccino back home.

For all of you who attended our events, a hearty thanks; we hope to continue to build our base of fans… and I for one hope to start working on my next book for you to enjoy.

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Watching the images on the news these past few days, it’s hard to believe it’s been barely two years since I strolled down Cairo’s gargantuan main city plaza, Midan Tahrir. Back then, it was the middle of Eid-al-Adha, a Muslim holiday akin to our Thanksgiving or Christmas. The streets were alive with revelers, as were brightly-lit party boats cruising the Nile. But still, touring the city and its historic sights for a few days, I couldn’t help but notice the frustration that lay beneath:

I stare out at the monstrous city, a liquid expanse of lights stretching to the horizon, and ponder the paradox: on the one hand, the cafes, street life, and urban chemistry make it one of the most exciting places on Earth — in many respects, it could be London, Paris or New York with a cultural and climatic twist. And yet… it’s hobbled, a great beast weakened by time and circumstance. Economically the country has been stagnant for decades, with many residents complaining that resurgent religious extremism threatens to de-cosmopolitanize the city. I hope not. It feels as if Cairo is just lying in wait for Egypt to rise again, so it may once more take its place as one of the great centers of the world.

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