Sharp Right
1:30am, somewhere in the middle of PA, out of cell phone range, on a route that was anything but direct (thanks, Google).
Matt Feldman PhotographyInspiring you to get out there, in the distance, and see it for yourself.
Matt Feldman Photography
1:30am, somewhere in the middle of PA, out of cell phone range, on a route that was anything but direct (thanks, Google).
The tilt-shift technique of faux-miniaturization has seen a lot of use in the past year, with amazing still subjects and short films like The Sandpit. So while my wheels…
Along I-76, in the western part of Pennsylvania, is the Allegheny Mountain Tunnel. I’ve tried to photograph it before (while driving), but this is the first time I’ve…
The runways at the San Diego airport push right up against traffic lanes, sidewalks and buildings. This was taken from the sidewalk during busy evening approaches. I had…
I awake to long blasts of the ship’s horn. Figuring the ferry is pulling into one of the first stops, I grab my camera and head above deck. Expecting to see Ios or Naxos, I instead recognize the rock walls and caldera of Santorini, the last stop. Passengers are pulling luggage through the halls and toward their cars on the vehicle deck. A family is applying suncreen at the stairs to the exit. It’s not yet 8 am but I’m not the only one salivating for gyros on shore.
By noon, the gears of travel finally begin to grind. I head to the airport, but with a brief stop at the FedEx terminal to retrieve the new camera lens that had arrived this morning. With an uncharacteristic smoothness in my travel plans, I arrive at gate C8. I think – maybe – that I might even have brought everything I intended. It hasn’t happened yet in eight years, but without any glaring packing errors, I consider the possibility.
A monstrous day of travel brought me from the Sahara desert oasis town of Tozeur back to the Mediterranean’s capital of apathy and pissedoffedness: Athens, Greece.
In the interest of space and internet cafe time, I’m going to leave this one out. But suffice to say that a train ride aboard a beast called The Red Lizard, into a place where there are no roads, was one of the most amazing rail trips I’ve ever taken.
Things have been, surprisingly, rather free from catastrophe as of late. But there will be much less to say after this email — I’m packing it in and heading home early. Plans for the Czech Republic and Italy have been abandoned and Poland had to be curtailed.
With apologies to They Might Be Giants, I’ve been spoiled by Morocco. Again. In Istanbul, I was hoping for, and indeed expecting, a city teetering on the edge of two worlds. Straddling Europe and Asia, on the edge of the Middle East (Turkey’s neighbor to the east is Iraq), I expected crazy.
It’s awful. Really. So impossible looking is this, well, thing, that seeing it in person has served to shatter the mythical tales of its triumphant use.The legendary Trojan Horse is probably the most ridiculous looking thing I have ever seen.
Geographically speaking, that is. The aquatic edition of Planes, Trains and Automobiles has brought me to the third continent of my trip. From Santorini, Greece, I spent 18 hours sailing eastward to Asia. Well, I’m in Turkey, but technically it’s still Asia.
Santorini was meant to be a one-night stand: a quick reunion with an island I loved my last time in Greece, while en route to the uncharted territory of Crete and Rhodes. My first visit to Santorini sold me on a place with fabulous volcanic beaches (take your pick of red, black or white sand).
Winning the prize for Most Stunningly Modern and Attractive Metro System is Athens, an achievement that would normally be fabulous. Except in Athens, it is a subway system designed to deliver passengers around a disgustingly rancid hellholeish cesspool of a city.
Death was imminent. I was sure of it. It was so humid that the word “air” could be used only sparingly. And it was so hot that there may as well have been an onion on my head and a tomato in my mouth: I was being roasted alive. The thermometer pegged the temperature at 72oC (162oF).
The first bombs fell about 10 pm. Their arrival was no surprise — journalists left the city two days prior. Residents gathered in Cold War-era shelters as the air raid sirens wailed and radio reports warned of the need for gas masks. The state-run television station blinked out. Explosions erupted around the city and the lights went black.
Welcome to Cannes, where the idle rich luxuriate and vaporize large sums of their money, all in shocking disregard for struggling backpackers. While beach chairs and umbrellas rent for €30 outside the Cannes Inter-Continental (€400 and above per night), the sand on the free slice of beach, with the backpacking, pasta-and-sauce eating, tap-water-drinking proletariat, is every bit as nice.
From Barcelona, Samy and I head to Perpignan, France, to stay with his aunt and their family. It is an exciting three nights of cultural immersion, culminating in the highly enriching experience of an elegant night of fine French cinema at its intellectual best: The Punisher (in French).
Morocco has been officially rocked. Aboard the ferry to Spain, I spent my last Dirhams on insanely cheap Smirnoff and candy bars. It was quite a way to go out.
Set against the crashing waves of the Atlantic, the walled city of Essaouira is a fascinating look at a fishing and hashish (need there be more?), but we arrive just ahead of the international jazz festival.
I was in the line to visit the ship’s Moroccan immigration officers when I noticed the guy in the line beside me. He looked, well, Moroccan. And in his hand was a Canadian passport. After reading wild tales of hucksters and scam artists, I was keen to know if the ship’s currency exchange rate was decent.
Despite the theft of my wallet and the ensuing hassle that caused, Lisbon (are its residents called “Lisbians”?) was nice. Any city moves up in my rankings when it can offer me an enormous meal of a whole fish, soup, potatoes and vegetables for less than five dollars.
Probably the same way you say “Stupid Tourist.” I would like to say it was a dark and stormy night, as if that was some kind of excuse. But it was the middle of the afternoon. And I had no excuse.
Driving more than 2500 km around New Zealand is an endeavour filled with hazards. But winding roads and falling rocks and monsoon rains are to be expected. It’s the bridges I’m not prepared for. Constructing highways through challenging landscapes has led to bridge designs that are rather shocking by North American standards.
The road from the Purple Cow Hostel in Wanaka to the glaciers of the west coast takes us past Puzzle Town and it’s massive 3-D maze (open on Christmas day!). We push on through amazing mountain vistas toward Haast and through Mount Aspiring National Park and the Blue Pools. Weird mailboxes. Abandoned and dilapidated shacks.
Two hours from Christchurch, through low, grass-covered hills, we swing around a bend. The road stretches out across a massive plain of grass and flowers and sparse trees, sliced in two by the grey road — a straight shot that stretches out until it disappears at the base of the Southern Alps.
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