I’ve always liked this quote about travel. Only now I come to search for its origin I can’t get the language precise enough to find its author. Maybe it’s just a much quoted sentiment. It’s true, anyway. For me never so plainly as in the first hours of arrival. Here’s what we saw:
We dress casually. Like, all the time. We might dress up to go to work, or for a special event, but not to go to the airport, or shopping.
There is a higher rate of shorts wearing per capita, per degree of temperature than anywhere else in the world. Seriously, it’s not that hot.
There is a strong (and inverse) correlation between a woman’s age and her hair length. I would wager the majority under forty have hair below their shoulders, and the majority over don’t.
We’re courteous to strangers. Everyone apologises for meager bumps of luggage trollies.
When the pilots on our domestic hop offered some commentary on the sights we could see below it was a simultaneous reminder of a) how note-worthily beautiful New Zealand can be and b) it is worth celebrating every time the weather is cloud free enough to provide for a decent view.
Other airport signs might say “trolleys not permitted/authorised/allowed…” Auckland’s say “no trolleys through here” like some neighbour is yelling at kids to get off of their lawn.
We guessed Colombia was the country where we’d spend the most time. And on that front we were right.
We guessed we’d be gone for two years – a kind of halfway between the scenario of a year’s travel and a year’s travel plus a couple of years working overseas. Our arrival card shows we were officially away from New Zealand for eleven months and twenty four days, but also that we’re leaving again in one month and three days. The official purpose of our return is visiting, not living.
My arrival card also shows my high level of exhaustion, and related poor reading comprehension, when I said the last place I had lived for twelve months was non-applicable. Actually it was New Zealand, but that was twelve months ago. It just seems an awful lot longer than that.
This isn’t the end of this blog. There’s a good couple of weeks worth of posts about Japan and Spain to fill in, posts about pictures and separatist movements and my ongoing fear of sushi. The blog may even have a life after that.
But for now I wanted to confirm that we are home safe, enjoying the sunshine and looking forward to Christmas with our families.
This is Leti, her pet shop and her parrot. Fi made friends with Leti when she spent a year studying in Spain, and with the parrot when we visited the town she lived in out of Madrid. Leti started her store there about a year ago. She and her brother breed parrots, contract in doggie hair dressers and run an impressive collection of programmes that teach kids to take care of pets.
Anyone investing in their ideas and starting a new business is brave. But doubly so in Spain at the moment when the economy is in the doldrums, unemployment is around 20% and more than double that for those under thirty. In that context you might think that government would be going out of its way to support young entrepreneurs and innovators. Not so, in fact, arguably the opposite.
This payment is in lieu of paying a proportion of income into superannuation and unemployment insurance funds. A flat fee, it seems especially unfair when ordinary employees pay a proportion of their income, and the value of unemployment and superannuation benefits are a function of income too. I’m assuming the payment is flat because it is easy for the self-employed to hide income, but that is little consolation for those who have little income to hide.
Frustrations about the fees are widespread. When Leti shared hers we were having tapas with friends. Everyone was sympathetic. Everyone had a friend, or an aunt or a mother who was struggling with them. There are whole forums that talk about frustrations with the system. Apparently some freelance teachers (think those who give piano or English lessons) de-register for the summer months to avoid paying the fees, but they have to do so for a full month at a time, and forgo single days or work as a result.
New Zealand consistently ranks amongst the easiest countries in the world in which to do business. And I was always like, “yea the companies office website is quite good, but that can’t explain it…” Now I get it a little more. My sense is that if you had a well conceived idea for a new business in NZ you’d be more likely to get money from the government, than be asked to give more than you might if you worked for someone else.
We’re delighted to say that our inter-continental job hunt is complete, with jobs secured and our home for 2015 and beyond confirmed: we’re moving to Melbourne.
At times it felt a long and winding road but in the end we were super lucky to receive offers for jobs we are super excited about within the same hour for not just the same city, but a city that will be great to live in.
Fiona is joining the Victorian Department of Premier and Cabinet. She’ll be working in the education team, an area the newly elected Labor government has signaled as a key priority.
Joe is joining dandolopartners, a boutique policy and strategy consultancy which provides high quality advice to government or clients that work with government.
Strangely enough, neither of us has ever actually visited Melbourne. But every friend, relation and acquaintance that has raves about it. Plus it is, you know, objectively the most liveable city in the world. As our travels have worn on we’ve increasingly been seeking some cultural familiarity in our next home. Melbourne will certainly provide that, but still be different from New Zealand. For one thing, it houses almost as many people within its municipal bounds. Continue reading We’re Melbourne bound for 2015 and beyond→
Vodafone has sponsored one of Madrid’s metro lines, and received naming rights to its central station as a result. What was Sol is now Vodafone Sol and on many maps it is represented only by the Voda logo. I’m sure some historical purists are a bit irked by this but in a world where, like stadia, metro systems are generally highly subsidised, I’m all for them attracting corporate sponsorship like stadia too.
Unemployment in Spain in horrific. It currently sits at 23.6%, a number that is high by any standard but has recently been celebrated as the lowest since 2011. Young Spaniards we talk to find it totally implausible that we left jobs at home to travel for a year. Here, if you have a job you hang on to it as hard as you can.
One strategy firms are using to avoid further redundancies here is to reduce employee’s hours so that they don’t return after their lunch break. It’s like a more drastic version of the ‘nine day fortnight’ some employers in New Zealand used at the peak of the economic crisis.
Largely a response to a history of violence from Basque separatist group ETA, Spain has some of the most draconian ant-terror laws in the world. In many countries free speech is illegal if you use it to incite violence. In Spain praising terrorists can land you in jail too. Julen Orbe has recently been convicted for writing an article marking the twenty fifth anniversary of an ETA fighter who died in a car bomb malfunction. This New Republic account of his case, and the issues that surround it, is excellent.
Two weeks in Spain seems like the perfect dietary antidote to three months in the Muslim world. Pork is everywhere here. Between the jamon serrano (cured ham) legs that adorn every Spanish bench-top, the chorizo, bacon, ribs and chops, pork is easily the most consumed meat. I’ve seen at least half a dozen bars in Madrid each claiming to be the ‘Museum of Ham’.
A friend who made the trip down from Paris to see us for a Madrid weekend wondered how this porky prevalence came about when most of Spain was under the rule of Moorish Muslims for centuries. Then I wondered too, and set about finding out:
Spanish pork consumption predated the Moorish invasion. Dried ham was Spain’s main export to the rest of the Roman Empire.
Eventually the Moorish invaders were pushed back by Christian armies. The Christians would force feed pork to Muslims who refused to denounce their faith. In 1504 a Moorish Mufti pronounced that it wasn’t un-Islamic to eat pork if under duress.
As the Moors lost power, Muslims fearing persecution would lead double lives, eating pork in public, but preserving their religion in private (they also apparently accepted baptism, but then doused themselves with hot water to annul the ritual).
And so the Spanish pork-gobbling tradition survived the period of Moorish occupation just as its Christian institutions did, and when our San Sebastian-Madrid bus pulls over I can be confident I’ll find a bocadillo (baguette sandwich) filled to the brim with delicious cured ham. Praise be for that.
(As an aside, I found some interesting factoids when researching this post. Pork is the most eaten meat in the world, but the most widely eaten meat – included in the diet of 70% of the world’s population – is neither pork, nor chicken, nor beef, but goat.)
It’s as if the Spanish watch a different clock, so dramatically different is the organisation of their day. Work begins about eight thirty, possibly preceded by breakfast, probably cake, then breaks for 2-3 hours mid-afternoon. Most people still go home. They eat lunch, (three courses, the main meal of the day) have a rest (but probably not a nap), and might watch the main news bulletin at 3pm. Shops commonly close for this period too, though restaurants bustle.
It’s still ‘afternoon’ when the work day finishes about 7.30 or 8pm. As darkness falls the streets fill for the main time to socialise until afternoon finally becomes evening and a light dinner is eaten about 11pm. Bedtime is midnight or later for toddlers, grown ups and everyone in between. Going out late on the weekend means staying up until sunrise.
You might reasonably imagine that this kind of schedule is a product of Spain’s stiflingly hot summers, and the respite farm workers might seek from it around the middle of the day. But that just doesn’t seem to be the case. The siesta schedule has apparently only developed in the last century. And it has never been adopted by Portugal and Italy, who share virtually the same weather.
For tourists like us the siesta schedule poses some challenges. Set meal lunches are great value (about $15 for three courses and drinks) but they tend to floor us for the afternoon, especially as a half litre of wine per person is standard. If we really want to experience the movida (or movement) of the city, we need to wait up for it. And I still have to suppress a giggle when someone says good afternoon at 8pm.
There are, however, much bigger implications for Spin than for our ill-adjusted body clocks.
Carbon emissions are air pollution are pumped up by ‘double commute’ – the trip home at lunchtime.
The need to prepare a main meal in the middle of the day makes it harder to have two working parents, entrenching the expectation that fathers alone work.
There’s less sleep to go round. The afternoon ‘siesta’ rarely involves a nap. Dinner and bedtime are late. The Spanish average forty minutes less sleep per day than other Europeans.
Maybe most significantly, Spain’s work hours are among the longest in Europe, but its productivity among the lowest. At least that’s the claim of the dramatically named Association for the Rationalisation of Spanish Work Hours. They’re one of several groups contributing to a serious government investigation into how the Spanish structure their days. The group’s working proposal is to change the Spanish timezone, and institute standardised hours of 9am-6pm with a forty minute lunch break.
As valiant as these efforts to increase productivity might be, it’s hard to imagine a government decree in changing such a significant cultural practice. It’s not like you’re just asking people to wear seat-belts; this is a massive change to the fabric of their lives. It also seems at odds with the admirable project in other countries to make working hours less, rather than more, fixed, to support different family work configurations and work-life balance.
There is some organic movement towards siesta-less working hours. In Madrid we’re staying with a friend who chooses to work 9-6, with short breaks to breakfast and lunch. This kind of voluntary change strikes me as more sustainable. Maybe requiring employers to allow these hours, rather than requiring employees to work them, is a better way to go.
But my bigger thing is this. I reckon there’s a decent chance that Spain’s reduced productivity is not explained by work hours but sleep hours. I honestly don’t know how the folk that dine at 11pm, sleep at 1am and rise for their commute at 6am each day do it. Except to say that if I tried I am confident ‘d be a less productive, and frankly a much grumpier worker. I’m not sure that an end to long lunches is going to create earlier bedtimes. And failing some kind of draconian curfew or 10pm internet switch off, I can’t really see what government can do about it.
It’s been twelve days since I last posted on this blog, the single longest hiatus in a full year of traveling. I’ve been juggling full time touristing and a particularly full on time in our job search. The former takes up time, and the latter the kind of energy I would normally spend on blogs. But the most intense has likely passed so it is time to get back on the horse.
As a way to catch up this single post contains all the many things I wanted to blog about in an enormously condensed form. Click each photo to read the associated caption and get the gist of the last fortnight.
We’re approaching the end of our scheduled travels and therefore our project to chart the fast food development of each and every country to visit. But there are still some data points to gather, and Turkey is an interesting example.
Home-grown Turkish fast food is outstanding. Kebabs are the core of a Turkish cuisine that has been exported around the world, and peddled generously to the late night reveller and hungover. A simple durum, or wrap, might set you back about $3NZD here. Maybe slightly more if you opt for an offal filling, but why on earth would you?
Traditional snacks like this are so widely available; they seem to crowding out of Western fast food brands. There haven’t been as many global franchises as we might have expected, certainly not provincial capital level cities. Interestingly, though not hugely germane to our fundamental question, BK would outnumber McDs at least two to one. There’s virtually no KFC, and Italian style pizza very much plays second fiddle to Turkey’s own pide.
When travel in Turkey is mostly about half the cost of in New Zealand, a Burger King combo will hover around the three quarters mark. In another single of its status as a prestige product, there’s no cheap menu with single items (like a $2 cheeseburger) and advertising doesn’t mention price. One Burger King sat between an Armani boutique and a fancy marina in Cesme, and didn’t seem wholly out of place.
All this adds up to stage three: western fast food is an aspirational product, and it is available in big towns, but not small ones. There’s a case to be made it is actually stage two because availability is genuinely limited. But pricing is very much accessible to the middle class, at least as a treat. My sense, though, is that Turkey might stay stage three longer than most as its wealth increases. The local alternatives are simply too cheap, and too delicious.
Big belly development
Our project compares fast food development across countries, but not times. Fiona’s uncle gave us some insight into how things have changed in the twenty years he has been living in and around Turkey. When he arrived there were virtually no western fast food brands. His observation is that their introduction has increased the girth of the Turkish population significantly. It’s a hypothesis, but we can offer some supporting observations.
Our rough observation would be that Turks in villages, and out East where we started our journey, tend to be slimmer than those in the bigger cities, and, as in the western world, the richer someone appears the slimmer they are likely to be too. Maybe it is confirmation bias, but it seems to match our intuitions that western fast food is basically the preserve of the urban middle classes.
When New Zealand set about becoming a tourist destination in the nineteenth century the pink and white terraces were counted as its most famous attraction, and argued as the eighth wonder of the world. Then, in 1886, Mt Tarawera came along, erupted all over them and hid them from the world forever.
But there’s been no volcano to demolish the Pamukkale’s travertine terraces. They’re just white, and not pink, but the effect is much the same. And it is very impressive.
A collection of hot springs brig highly calcified water to the surface. The calcium from the water solidifies into terraced formations. It’s like how calcium junk builds up in kettles of cities with ‘hard water’, but on a massive scale. As the water keeps flowing it erodes away the rock, filling up pools and then pouring over the edge in an effect that is startlingly similar to an infinity pool.
Visiting the travertines is a strongly tactile experience. To protect the rock you need to go bare foot, and then you suck the surroundings in through your toes. It’s chilly in Turkey these days. The rocks look like a big moguly ski slope, or glacier, so you’re anticipating cold and slippery. But actually they’re a solid and surprisingly grippy. The cold comes when you cross the ice blue pools. At the bottom the water within them is frigid. It gets pleasantly warmer as you climb towards its thermal source and then paddling through pools is more relief than challenge.
To cap it off, there’s a significant ruined Roman city standing at the top. They came to take in the thermal waters too.