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Category: Travel Journal (Page 8 of 15)

A Tale of Two Museums

August 6, 2020 / / 0 Comments
Trinity College in Dublin

Travel Journal, 74

I have been to several museums in my life—some interesting, some not. In fact, I very much enjoy a good museum. I don’t even mind the occasional modern art exhibit (although much of it is completely lost on me). But two museums stand out clearly in my mind.

Early in my marriage, an exhibit of the Dead Sea Scrolls made its way to the Science Museum of Minnesota. Even if you are not a Christian and if you don’t even believe in the God of the Bible, the Dead Sea Scrolls are undoubtably the most important manuscript discovery in modern time. They are a collection of manuscripts of Biblical and secular texts from before the time of Christ—over 2000 years ago. Stunningly, these scrolls were discovered by a shepherd boy in the 40’s. As he walked near the Dead Sea in modern day Palestine, he threw a rock into a nearby cave. A shattering noise caught his attention. Inside the cave sat several clay pots filled with old scrolls. Over the next decade, archeologists unearthed numerous manuscripts, hidden in a total of 12 caves.

My wife and I walked through the exhibit, holding the electronic “tour guide” to our ears. The monotoned voice regaled us with countless details. Row after row of tools lay under glass display cases. Shepherd outfits hung here. Large murals of caves hung there. Everything led to a small room with low lights—only a few were allowed in at a time. We stood hovering over the glass encapsulated scroll. A ragged piece of parchment, written in ancient Hebrew was described in an English translation adjacent to the display:

I love you, O Lord, my strength. The Lord is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer, my God, my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.

Psalm 18. It astounded me. Here sat one of the oldest copies of God’s Word. And it showed a perfect truth—God is my strength and the One who holds me with His powerful hand.

Just last year, my wife and I attended another museum. The Trinity College Library in Dublin, Ireland, hosts (in my opinion, humble or otherwise) the greatest treasure of the Middle Ages—the Book of Kells.

During the fabled “Dark Ages,” monks in Ireland, Scotland, and Modern-day England created an exquisitely and ornately decorated copy of the four Gospels. The nearly 700-page collection dates from the 8th and 9th centuries. The Latin words form a decorative tapestry on each page. And Celtic knots and pictures line the margins. Bright Irish colors jump out at the reader.

We walked through this exhibit much like we had done several years ago at the Dead Sea Scrolls exhibit. Quill pens lay on ancient desks. A replica of the book sat on a glass case. And a translated poem about the difficulties of writing spoke of hand cramps in the name of biblical preservation. But soon we walked into a dark room with two of the books on display.

They were open to the Gospels of Luke and John. I gazed at the Latin words, then over to the translation. It spoke of Jesus—the same God who swore to be my strength and fortress and shield.

My salvation. My Love.

The two museums make me think of a little song I used to sing as a child while attending Sunday School:

The Bible stands like a rock, undaunted amid the raging storms of time. Its pages burn with the truth eternal. And they glow with a light sublime.

anthony forrest

Turkish Coffee

July 16, 2020 / / 0 Comments
Not the coffee shop in Jerusalum. This was actually taken in Bethlehem. The good 'Ol Stars and Bucks.

Travel Journal, 73

My wife and I walked together in the Jewish Quarter of Jerusalem, several years ago. The stone streets led us through beautiful and ancient pathways, revealing one of the most important and stunning cities we have ever visited. When people ask me where to go if they had only one trip left in their life, I tell them, Jerusalem. You’ll never find a place more eclectic, stunning, historical, rewarding, fun, delicious, and mysterious.

We were on our second day in Israel, after taking a bus from Tel Aviv. I could feel that Grim-Reaper-like presence of jet lag creeping in. It always seems like we’re only one step ahead.

But we stopped at a café in the Jewish Quarter for some falafel (tasty pita wrap made from chic peas), and I found a stand nearby selling coffee.

If you haven’t noticed by now, I love coffee in its varied and delightful forms. And in the United States, finding coffee, and quality coffee at that, proves quite easy. Many people are on the hunt for the perfect cup. But there is one form of coffee which is pretty rare to find. Sure, if you look closely you may discover it on a menu at a middle eastern or Mediterranean restaurant. But even then, it’s not a very popular drink.

I’m talking about Turkish Coffee.

Why is this drink so unpopular and unknown? I have a theory: it is very strong, and far from sweet. In a world of tall, sweet, iced, chocolaty, creamy, blended, caramelized, and rich, Turkish Coffee only vaguely resembles a distant cousin. Turkish Coffee possesses all of the recessive genes: short, hot, highly spiced, only a couple of ounces, very strong, and almost pungent.

But don’t be frightened. Fortune favors the bold.

I took a sip at that café in Jerusalem and almost fell off my stool. The coffee stand worker noticed my mistake and rushed to tell me to wait to drink it. I had taken in mostly fine and bitter grounds.

Turkish coffee consists of a finely ground coffee and various spices, such as cardamom. It is also served with sugar. The coffee is typically served with only a few ounces of boiling water. The server will scoop the grounds, spice, and sugar into a small copper pot with a small handle and heat it to boiling several times. After it has met with his satisfaction, the coffee slurry is poured into cup. The drinker then waits for the grounds to settle to the bottom of the cup, hence most Turkish coffees are served in glass.

Though even after the grounds settled to the bottom, the drink still nearly floored me. Turkish Coffee remains one of my favorite coffee drinks in the world. But word to the wise, it will put hair on your chest.

anthony forrest

Favorite Trips: Not Cheap

July 9, 2020 / / 1 Comment

Once a month, I will post a favorite story from the year prior.

Travel Journal, 72

A dull throbbing cut through my worn-out running shoes and seeped into the pads of my feet. The ancient stone floor wasn’t helping. Jet lagged and bedraggled, there we stood—occasionally. After short intervals of standing, a hallow voice asked us to be seated. And so the pattern continued. Stand, sit, stand, sit.

Every once and a while I smelled smoke and wax. Burning candles glowed on tables and shelves and stone and glass. But the aroma implied so much more than just a burning candle. It hinted at old candles, new candles, forgotten candles. It was the aroma of candles continuously burning—maybe for centuries. Out of the smoke and silence rose a voice; many voices. Soon the Choir of Westminster Abbey all sang together. They had started so quietly that I hardly knew when they had begun. Perhaps the choir had always been singing. Was I not listening?

My feet still hurt. But the intoxicating cold stone, smoke, and music gently eased the ache. We had walked all over London—Piccadilly circus, Parliament, London Tower, new roads, old roads, iconic ally-ways, ect. The day culminated at the Westminster Abbey for evensong. Nearly every day, the old church hosts an evening worship service comprised of Biblical readings and ethereal choral music. The day began to close as we made our way to the church. As we waited in line, I turned to read a nearby sign.

“No Pictures. No Mobile Phones.”

I begrudgingly stuffed my eager phone (already 9 months pregnant with travel photos) back into my pocket. But as we shuffled quietly into the building, all desire to take pictures fell away. We found our spot in folding chairs on the old stone floor. Then it all began. And our tired bodies and minds vulnerably soaked up the experience like a dry rag.

After an hour, it was over and we shuffled back out toward the door. Nearby, a not-so-sneaky tourist held up a cellphone and snapped a photo. Out from behind him, a vicar began verbally berating the man for taking a photo.

Only an hour ago that was me. But now I was as appalled as the irritated Church leader. How could he take a picture after something like that? Did we not have the same experience?

Pictures have their place. And I am still trying to find all those places. But I long for the places where picture taking seems inappropriate. Places like Westminster Abbey tend to make cell phones feel cheap and indecent. I want to see those places. I want to experience places of awe and dignity where trivial things like pain and jet lag melt away.

A picture may say a thousand words, but it turns out that I don’t really care. The smell of smoke and wax burns my mind. The music haunts my nights. And an experience like that cannot be cheaply manufactured (or even recalled) by any technology.

 

anthony forrest

Hover Hole and The Hoop of Hope

July 2, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Foreign Bathroom Series, Chapter 6

Travel Journal, 71

 

As always in this series, names of those involved have been removed or redacted to protect the (possibly) innocent and (definitely) embarrassed. 

 

Deep in the Peruvian Jungle, our medical mission team set out on a river boat destined for several small villages. Our task for the week required us to travel a great distance into the jungle. The first day alone we spent over 10 hours in an 80 foot-long, flat-back river canoe with a huge engine. We saw a few settlements along the way. And, needless to say, we didn’t have a chance to stop at a luxurious rest area, complete with running water and cold Pepsi machines. No, in fact, we stopped only once or twice during that 10-hour trip.

But alas, mankind must eat.

Mankind must drink.

And what goes in must come out.

The two boat stops granted relief for any…er…major business. But what about the rest of the time?

For the lads, a curious leaning and balancing act off the back of the boat does the trick. And it comes so naturally. Boys will be boys, right?

But what about the lady folk?

I give you: The Hoop of Hope.

One luxurious item brought aboard was a camping/chemical toilet. The tiny box completes the bathroom objective easily. Though the real trick is not the toilet. It’s privacy. One genius mind concocted the idea to hang a shower curtain around a hula hoop. And, since the female of the species tends to go to the restroom in herds, the three-foot diameter hoop can be upheld by lady friends and used one at a time.

The Hoop of Hope.

When the boat arrived at the various locals on our mission, The Hoop of Hope was no longer required. Each settlement has a bathroom. Although, I use that term in its loosest form.

Not too far from huts and hammocks sits a tiny shack. It appears to be hastily assembled with ill-fitting boards and a partial Brazil Nut bag for a “door.” Enter and look down.

May I introduce to you: The Hover Hole—the one foreign bathroom experience that always gives newcomers a challenge.

The name gives away its purpose. When first venturing out into hover hole territory, one must consider tactics and strategy. Two boards line a hole in the ground. Stand on these when using the Hover Hole. Balance is key. Touching the ground for stability is fraught with consequences.  Bring your own toilet paper, but take care not to set it down anywhere (for the same reason you don’t want to touch the ground). Accidents can and will happen, though. One of the kids traveling with us lost his sandal down a hover hole. But don’t worry, somebody retrieved it for him. Not long after (perhaps not long enough?), I saw him wearing it.

It may be a new experience, but I assure you, many parts of the world utilize this form of toiletry. And when pressed, mankind can adapt to most forms of bathroom use.

Though the one form that was entirely new to me was the sparkling brilliance of the well-crafted Hoop of Hope. May is give hopeful relief to boat travelers for years to come.

anthony forrest

Check out the other chapters to this fun series:

Part 1: Bidet

Part 2: The Lav

Part 3: Floor Towel

Part 4: 20p Toilet

Part 5: Dutch Hostel

 

Hitchhiking

June 25, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 70

It is my personal belief that every person in the world should hitchhike at least once in their life. I also believe each person should pick up a hitchhiker at least once in their life.

Americans used to hitch a ride all the time. I have spoken with many people who thumbed it back in the sixties and seventies. If they did not own a car, hitchhiking was a simple and easy solution to getting from place to place. But someplace in the late seventies and eighties, the attitude toward the free ride changed drastically. Was it due to a rash of hitchhiking murders? Perhaps the cinema cashed in on the fear and made hitchhiking horror movies. Did newspapers tout the antics of serial killers out on the road? Soon every hitchhiker looked like a villain. Was any of this true? Who knows? I wasn’t around and can’t verify any of this.

But I will say that in most parts of South America, hitchhiking is not only common, but a legitimate option for getting around. I met a young man in Bolivia one time, who, between busses and hitchhiking, traveled from Montana to Bolivia over the course of a few months. (He apparently ran into a little trouble with the military police in Panama, at one point though.)

Could hitchhiking be dangerous? Sure, but everything is dangerous. I think it really depends on how bad you need a ride. In America, the people hitchhiking are far more likely to be desperate.

I was desperate in Texas.

The greyhound bus that started in Dallas could only take me as far as the small town of Clyde. I was still a lot of miles short of Abilene—which isn’t a luxurious of fun location to begin with. (On a side note, the Greyhound Bus station in Dallas has the worst public bathroom I’ve ever seen in the US, but I digress.)

So, I stuck out my thumb and began to walk. If you are in need of some humility, I would suggest this course of action. There is nothing more humbling than trying to get a ride on a busy freeway. Car after car passed me. Two hours later, a car pulled over.

A Honda Civic full of college students from Zimbabwe kicked open the door, and I stuffed my backpack into the back with two other guys. We laughed and talked for the remainder of my ride.

And guess what?

I didn’t die.

In fact, I am still Facebook friends with those boys that gave me a ride all those years ago.

anthony forrest

Penang

June 18, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 69

I’ve heard travelers and friends call Penang the Pearl of the Orient. And it certainly is a pearl. It sits brightly on the west side of Malaysia, just south of Thailand. Between a large population of Chinese, Indian, and Indonesian peoples, Malaysia also has massive colonial influences. Penang seems to be the center of it all. And when all these people came to Malaysia, they brought their food.

When it comes to excellent food, if you want it, Penang’s got it.

We step out of the cab onto the busy street, ducking into a side-alley. Although only mid-morning, the heat already grew oppressive—but it’s almost always like this, so close to the equator. We had been promised excellent noodles. I found this to be a bold promise. Everywhere I turned in Malaysia, there seemed to be excellent noodles.

I sit down in a plastic chair under a tin-roof awning. A busy Chinese woman greets us in passing. It hardly matters where you find yourself in the world, you can always find the equivalent of a rushed diner waitress, pen behind ear, placing short orders. Since I know neither her name nor how it would be pronounced, let’s call her Ethel.

She questions us.

I say, “good morning.” It’s the only thing I know how to say in this language. It’s a hobby, I’m a short-term collector of “good mornings.”

My friend knows all the right words. He orders for us. And he knows exactly what I want first.

Coffee.

Ethel scoops coffee grounds into a metal pitcher and pours in boiling water. She then slings it back and forth, pouring the slurry into kind of fabric bag, allowing the coffee to sieve through into a cup. She does this a dozen or more times, back and forth.

While I’m mesmerized by this very foreign coffee-production process, my friend spots somebody eating a variety of steamed buns at another table.

We definitely need some of those. He slips away to find the vendor.

But just now, Ethel shows up with the coffee. Street coffee in Malaysia comes in a plethora of forms. I couldn’t even begin to broach the topic of coffee varieties in this part of the world. But this coffee, like many here, is sweetened with condensed milk. I stir it with a Chinese soup spoon and take a sip. It’s not translucent, mildly viscous, and definitely strong. Just what the doctor ordered.

And when I set my cup down, I see my friend has returned with a couple of large steamed buns—one with meat and one with some kind of sweet substance. We tuck into our coffee and buns.

Presently, Ethel places two heaping bowls of noodle soup in front of us. It’s a beautiful broth with several types of noodles and meats. I see pork, chicken, and what is probably a type of blood pudding. It’s spicy and probably the best soup I’ve had.

Food in this part of the world is dangerous. It gets in your blood like an infection. There is no cure, only disease management. Frequent transfusions of coffee and noodle soups is the only way to manage symptoms.

The first time I ever ate really good food in Asia, I felt like had been living in a the dark up until that point. Sure, I had a flashlight, but as soon as the first sip of broth hit my lips, and I plucked up that first dumpling, my eyes were opened. I could see in the dark.

Yes, I know I’ve mixed a couple of metaphors here. Call it night vision, call it a disease, call it anything you’d like—food here changes you.

Food in southeast Asia, shared with a friend, makes for a fine memory. And what are memories but stories of our life?

Recently, I heard British chef Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall say that, “the best food is food with a good story.”

anthony forrest

 

Favorite Trips: The Mirror

June 11, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Once a month, I will post a favorite story from the year prior.

Travel Journal, 68

Another rough night in the airport. I balanced my toothbrush on the counter ledge while I splashed my face with water. I know I shouldn’t complain about travel. God has blessed my wife and I with the ability and opportunity to see, learn, share, and discover unmeasured blessings during our travels. But each time I sleep on an airport floor, I get a little broken—little more bent over, like an old man having lived an old life. But fresh clothes, toothbrush, and face-splash of motion activated sink water were slowly injecting life back into my soul.

Glasses back on, I look up to survey the damage.

Not too bad.

I turned to walk out of the bathroom and spotted something out of the corner of my eye. Etched into the mirror were these words,

“forgive yourself.”

I’ve seen these words before. They’re all over social media, self-help books and blogs, and on the lips of many popular Christian speakers.

Standing there, I wonder what this person has done. He has gotten himself into trouble, and now he’s looking for answers. He wants to be forgiven. But he looks to himself for answers. He seeks in vain. How can any of us expect to save ourselves from ourselves?

There is but One who has promised forgiveness. God grants it—freely. Though our sins are like scarlet, He makes us whiter than snow. He pardons with a smile. So look not into the mirror seeking answers within yourself.

 

Stand and peer

Into mirror

To seek to

Know your soul

 

Turn and look

Read like a book

The narrative

Of your heart

 

Tune your ears

And listen with tears

To a song

You do not know

 

Rest in peace

For His love will not cease

God’s knowledge of you

Is enough

 

anthony forrest

Mosque

June 4, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 67

Though the point of this story is not to decry Islam and uplift Christianity, I will say that my experiences around Islam have only helped set my heart concretely on Christ.  I offer now a picture of my visit to a Mosque.

We rounded the corner and the tower came into view. It climbed high into the sunny Malaysian sky and peered down with it’s white gaze. I had heard the call to prayer several times a day in the week I had been in the country. If there is something so drastically apposed to American culture, it is a call to prayer over enormous loud speakers. The aspects of this new and oh-so foreign culture had been building in my head all week. Each call to prayer added, little by little, to my limited views of Islam. As a devout Christian, this had been something quite new to me. But now that I stood before a Mosque, my mind went from a clinical intake of information to a surreal moment.

“This is really happening. I am standing at a Mosque in Malaysia.”

These thoughts bounced around in my mind. My friend and I went to the entrance labeled for men only. We took off our sandals and walked light-footedly on the sun-seared stone walkway. Perfect white stones lined the walls. Everything was either marble or stone.

An ornate walkway opened up to what seemed like acres of bright red and decorated carpet. The short tufts felt like walking on a giant toothbrush. Several pillars ran up and down the large auditorium. A small stage sat at the end. But I could tell easily that this room was meant for bowing.

And indeed, there were several men bowing. In another room, similar to this one, and not so adjacent, there was undoubtedly women bowing on a similar carpet floor. But men and women are segregated here. Some men lay on their faces, some kneel on both knees and bow to their noses. Most recite and chant unknown recitations. Silence abounded.

We walked out a side door to behold a large fountain gurgling quietly. Here men ritually cleanse their feet and hands. This is not the first time I had experienced this. Several religious cultures practice washing. In Japan, travelers will find people washing their hands at a Shinto Shrine. In fact, some Christian traditions practice washing each other’s feet.

Ornate structures and severely old books sat about the Mosque. So many aspects of the experience were so foreign to me. Despite my Christian beliefs, I believe it to be an important decision to visit another’s religious site, be it Mosque, Temple, or Cathedral.

anthony forrest

 

Memphis Overnight

May 28, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 66

One trip that my wife and I often talk about with smiles, was a short overnight in Memphis, Tennessee. Sure, global jaunts from one continent are exciting. But one cannot always ignore their own country. In fact, this place is pretty great. So many aspects of American culture don’t always stand out to me, probably because I grew up with American culture. I’m used to it. It is easy to take it for granted.

But you’d be hard pressed to find a better location for Americana than Memphis, Tennessee. It’s the home of Elvis, for crying out loud. Johnny Cash recorded music here. Memphis has a great zoo. And it was an integral part of the Civil Rights Movement—Dr. King was assassinated at the Lorraine Motel, which now serves as the National Civil Rights Museum.

Whether it’s music or history, Memphis has it all—barbeque notwithstanding.

We only had a short amount of time, an overnight. But we wanted barbeque. My wife and I walked down to the hotel lobby and found out from the receptionist that Memphis is home of some fantastic food. Right next to Graceland is Marlowe’s Ribs and Restaurant. It’s been around for over 45 years. The King of Rock and Roll himself ate there. And it has been featured on numerous TV shows.

“They’ll even pick you up,” said the hotel lobby receptionist, “for free!”

Ride to and from a barbeque place for free?

“Perfect!” I said.

Ten minutes later, we looked out the window to see a bright, Pepto-Bismol colored, pink limousine pulling into the parking lot.

That’s right, Marlowe’s Ribs and Restaurant will pick you up in a pink limo. And though it was a little rickety and a 1984 Cadillac, we still like were riding in style.

The walls at Marlowe’s are covered in Elvis posters. And the tables are covered in ribs. We ate our fill that day, of ribs, cornbread, slaw, and all the sweet tea we could handle.

Though we only had one night, even a short jaunt to this classic Americana city was well worth it.

anthony forrest

An Important Place

May 21, 2020 / / 0 Comments

Travel Journal, 65

One of the most memorable (dare I say, best?) international trips that my wife and I have experienced was actually our first.

Though both my wife and I had ventured outside of the United States border before we were married, we did not take our first trip together until December of 2014. The plan to begin traveling around the world was not really a conscious decision. It happened naturally. We both settled into careers and found that we had the opportunity, means, and gumption to explore more of God’s Green Earth.

So, for a long weekend, we boarded a flight to Amsterdam in The Netherlands.

Unfortunately, Amsterdam gets a bad rap. When mentioning a trip to the Dutch city, many people will reference partying, legal (or at least easily accessed) drugs of all sorts, and the ever evil red-light district. But don’t sell Amsterdam short. Though the aforementioned frivolities prevail, Amsterdam boasts a deep culture and exciting history. Miles of canals coarse through the streets, like watery veins. The sheer number of bicycles will astound you. Great food and smiling faces await. The coffee scene shocks. And the architecture delights.

And though I’ve been to Amsterdam itself on other occasions, our first trip was to the smaller borough of Haarlem. It’s only a mere 30-minute train ride. We stayed at a lovely inn with a typical Dutch breakfast: assorted meats, cheeses, breads, muesli, yogurt, and, of course, coffee. We attempted to get some sleep, adjusting from a long flight, though we slept little.

But the next day, we had an appointment. Most people know Anne Frank. She and her family housed Jewish nationals who were persecuted by Nazi Germany in the early ‘40s. But the lesser known story is of a Christian watchmaker named Corrie Ten Boom drew us to Haarlem. Her family hid, housed, and trafficked Jews through their home and out of the country. Her home is now a museum.

I had emailed the Corrie Ten Boom house and asked for an English tour. To our delight, they accommodated. We spent three hours wandering the old home. She and her family had a false wall in the upper bedroom of the home. A little door popped out and they could fit six people inside this “hiding place.” If that were not enough, they procured fake IDs and papers, supplied food, and worked with the underground resistance to secure exit-passage for the persecuted people. The work eventually caught up with them. Their whole family was arrested and placed in Ravensbruck concentration camp—but not before they were able to save some 800 lives. Some of her family members died at the camp. But Corrie lived and was released.

Our time there was very memorable, to say the least. I think some of the best travels that a person can make is to a place of great importance. Whether it’s Ground Zero in New York City, the Alamo, the Great Wall of China, or a simple home with a false wall—the meaningful places stick with you, maybe even change you. The hiding place is definitely an important place.

If you have not read The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom, please click below to get a copy. As I write this, the ebook is only $1.99. I promise it won’t disappoint. 

anthony forrest

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