Sofia: It's almost as if we speak Bulgarian!

Before Sarah and I left the US, we generally avoided McDonald’s.  Admittedly, we sampled its wares and enjoyed some of them. (Sarah can even plot from memory the price distribution of its frozen yogurt throughout Manhattan – cone cost ranges from $0.90 in Columbia Heights to $1.62 in Times Square. However, most other foods under the golden arches made our stomachs churn.

Kandersteg: McDonald's adorable Swiss relation McDoris.

Perhaps this decidedly un-American abstention from Mickey D’s stemmed from our father, who has boycotted the restaurant since the age of 17, when he noticed that a golden arch had sprung up by a favorite beach.  Surveying the greasy red and yellow blemish on the smooth face of the sand, he vowed never to set foot in a McDonald’s as long as he lived.

Belgrade: McD's changes things up with some Mediterranean flavor - looks like fish sticks.

Such a vow was easier kept in 1968.  Over the past year, Ronald McDonald beamed at Sarah and me throughout our treks in Europe, Northern Africa and Asia.  His was the consistent friendly face in 23 of the 25 countries we visited.  As for Laos and Cambodia, where the big M was MIA, we probably weren’t looking hard enough.

Prague: Stylish al fresco seating in which to enjoy a sloppy, juicy burger.

Our perception of the food chain began to transform five weeks into our travels. On one Italian afternoon, the Sisters Bailey and our buddy Bogdan sweltered for over an hour on the side of the highway to Pompeii.  The egg-frying July heat drew sweat as we stared collectively towards the horizon, aching to spot our bus in the distance. No bus arrived.  Taxis and public transportation were far beyond reach. The only thing in sight was a pair of golden arches.

“If the sun sets and the mafia comes out, we can stay at the American embassy,” Bogdan concluded.  He indicated the McDonald’s.

Berlin: Rock and roll art suits this young city. McDonald's keeps a higher standard of decor in Europe.

Suddenly, the giant M shone as a welcome beacon of familiarity.  We embraced it. For the rest of our journey, the chain’s boldly colored huts provided us with WiFi, English speaking employees, and recognizable edibles.  On lucky days, we found outposts that kept soft American cookies baking on hot plates behind the counter.

We salute McDonald’s for its backpacker comforts, in addition to its sumptuous one dollar/euro/pound/lira frozen yogurt.

Istanbul: Kahvalti or Egg McMuffin - a rose by any other name...

Turkey's take off on McDonald's, Burger Turk, suggests that super-sizing is a transnational impulse.

London: 200 seats?! Almost spacious enough for a Royal Wedding after-party.

Vienna: You know a city is posh when McDonald's is housed in a Park Avenue-ready townhouse.

En route to the Blue Lagoon, a swimmable Icelandic lake, I hardened myself for a polar bear dip.  I envisioned daredevil bathers darting through arctic air, sporting bikinis and speedos in lieu of parkas.  A character-building frigid dip would follow, and survivors would then bask in the cool aura of victory. And the hot embrace of pneumonia.

However, as Dave and I neared the snowy enclave I noticed people of all shapes and ages wading leisurely through the opal waters.  These would-be polar bear dynamos looked just tough enough to survive a thumb-wrestling match with Winnie the Poo.

As it turns out, hot springs and geysers surrounding the lagoon provide phenomenal insulation.  Moreover, steam and low-hanging mist create privacy.  The viscous, salty water glows opaque turquoise and buoys swimmers.  Under the surface, a white clay lake floor rubs and squishes satisfyingly between the toes.  I’d sooner expect such a well-administered spa experience from a $200 Brookestone device.

Visit for serenity, romance and pruney but fresh skin.

Famous Geysir, namesake of all geysers: 23 meters deep and 120 degrees Celcius. Kabaam!

The Golden Circle acts as a taser, jolting Dave and me out of hibernation.  The circuit gallivants through Geysir zone, a geyser minefield the size of an airport; Gullfoss waterfall, a two-tiered glacial cataract and natural wonder; and Þingvelli national park, the only place in the world where you can easily see tectonic plates move.

I must first confess: we took a coach bus.  Of course I wouldn’t normally stoop to travel means that provide comfort and convenience.  If locals employ idiosyncratic vehicles or smelly animals, I say, grab jumper cables and stirrups and follow suit!

That said, Reykjavik chill alarms principles into remission.  Here, I hunt radiators with a crazed fervor normally reserved for pursuing chocolate.  My scientific comparison proves that tourist coaches emit more heat than the hotel sauna.  No glacier mobile for me.

A geyser minefield: water water everywhere, and not a drop to drink

Coach drivers obligingly warm vehicles to simulate Jamaican heatstroke.  As windows steam, tourists press noses against heating vents like pink lichen.  Sighs resonate as airways defrost.  Dave catches sunburn.  I scan for a cabana boy with palm frond.

Here we go...

We arrive at Geysir geothermal region.  This could easily be where NASA took its pictures of “Mars.”  I’m no conspiracy theorist, but I can recognize the barren, steaming and craterous horizon when I see it.

“Hold your breath,” Dave advises.  The mammoth geyser two meters ahead of us explodes.  Water launches upwards and I launch with it: shock jolts me three feet into the air.  Geyser explosions, which can send boiling water up to 70m high, are now among the coolest things I have ever seen.  The vat burps and discharges again.  It thunders through the white sky like an inverted waterfall.

Woooow

That accomplished, the geyser simmers.  The hot spring churns and bubbles like a bewitched cauldron.  The crowd stares hypnotically.  Surely I’m not the only one humming the Macbeth witch chant,

“Bubble bubble, toil and trouble, Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”

I do hear some (fellow Americans, probably) cheer the geyser like it’s the home team,

“Spray baby, spray!  This is the big one!”

A five-year old boy throws an ice block towards the geyser and I chuck a volcanic rock.  We miss, likely because we’re nervous about seeing these objects regurgitated at top speed.

Several explosions later, the cold ushers the group back to our heated chariot.

If your hat blows into the Gullfoss waterfall, try a more Muslim look.

We move to Gullfoss, the Golden Waterfall.  Captain Ahab’s jaw would drop at this watery confusion.  Thundering reverberations press my ears as the glacial river plummets 32 feet into a narrow 70-foot deep canyon.

My eyes squeeze shut.  Between a tangible rumble and icy rain, I imagine the otherworldly falls crashing at my fingertips.  I reopen my eyes on the hill over fifty meters away.

We head to our next stop, but brake for wild horses.  Icelandic horses are a unique breed: Law prohibits the import of any steed onto the island, and once a horse leaves the country it may never return.

These horses are the only animals in the country to spend the winter outdoors. Their 4-inch thick coats inspire mass jealousy in tourists.

Our group approaches and all eight horses in site glide forth to nuzzle.  If they expect food, they politely refrain from showing so.  A universal “Awww” sounds as our fingers submerge knuckle deep into downy fur, and a mother house allows me to pet her foal for five whole minutes before tactfully nibbling me away.

Rifts, like this battle scar from a tectonic plate clash, identify the treasured national park.

Finally we arrive at Þingvelli park.  We stand on the European tectonic plate and eye the American one.  It’s the most I’ve seen in America in awhile, and I wave with the enthusiasm of, well, Miss America.

Other visitors coo over the spot because it’s where the oldest existing parliament, Alþing, formed.  Alþing started the party in 930AD and only moved to Reykjavik in 1881, when shifting tectonic plates proved unsettling

One manifestation of the northern lights. (Photo courtesy of Flickr.)

Night falls and Dave and I seek a grand finale.  At 10pm we drive into the uninhabited country in search for the Northern Lights.  Unfortunately, a grey sheet seals the sky.  A gathering of tourists stares up like parrots in a covered cage.

What Iceland's northern lights can look like on a clear night. (Courtesy of bethlikes.com.)

Wee background on the lights, from Wikipedia: These are a ‘natural light display in the sky, caused by the collision of charged particles directed by the Earth’s magnetic field… commonly visible between 60 and 72°s north and south latitudes…In northern latitudes, the effect is known as the aurora borealis (or the northern lights), named after the Roman goddess of dawn, Aurora, and the Greek name for the north wind, Boreas…The Cree call this phenomenon the “Dance of the Spirits”.’

In truth, even when the northern lights are off, Iceland’s environment performs majestically.  Bum numbing freeze; sulfuric and fishy aromas; bellowing waterfalls and ear-shocking silences; salmon delicious enough to corrupt a vegan; and landscapes as silver and jagged as a steel knife: They involve even the most oblivious passer-through.  Such stimulation makes New York coffee look like anesthesia.

Not that I’m giving up coffee.  My fingers need something toasty to grip once the bus driver pries me off the heating vent.

A mohawk trendbender even Lady Gaga would appreciate. (Would anyone be surprised if Gaga performed in an Icelandic horse suit at some point?)

The afternoon heat of tropical Iceland.

Upon arrival at Iceland’s airport, an attendant bestows upon Dave and me a Reykjavik Excursions brochure.

The viking interpretation of the bull differs greatly from the chic rendering on my old Wall Street doorstep.

The front features a pale sky, which a graffiti artist must have vandalized with streaks of streetlight-green aerosol.  Fog envelopes jagged volcanic boulders below.  The Land Before Time, which illustrates dinosaurs confronting extinction in an earthquake-ridden desert, portrays more hospitality than Iceland’s tourist brochure.

The back features a coat ad that reads, “This is Dyrafjordur.  The sea temperature is 5°C.  On a good day.”

How did we manage to vacation somewhere with worse weather than Britain?

Dave and I cling together - if one of us slips, we're going down together.

______________________________________________
Later that day…

“How long is the walk to center city?”

Dave and I smile eagerly at the Hilton receptionist.  The blond Amazon, Inka, retrieves a map.

“10 minutes by taxi,” she replies. “Walking…” She shrugs.

The city looks close, so Dave and I stroll out the door and wave off the cabs at the entryway.  We step blithely onto the sidewalk and slide 5 meters on black ice.  Clutching each other, we experiment with walking the way toddlers might, by cantilevering off one another and rolling across passing surfaces such as parked cars, bushes, and a friendly fire hydrant.

By the time we make it 5 more meters, the sky opens an ambush of ice darts.  Chunks of sleet billow through the wind at a right angle, rebounding off of our noses and forcing into our mouths.  A grey-white sheet covers the sky, blending with the white ground.  The Icelandic gods have enclosed us in a village-size igloo.

While Dave pioneers the sidewalk, I home-base slide back through the revolving door.

I regard Inka through frozen hair, which has restyled itself in a face-shrouding Cousin It fashion.  I can finally relate to Boris Johnson, mayor of London, who styles his hair each morning by inserting a wet finger into an electrical socket.  Melting ice chunks run down my eyebrows, imbuing my wet face with what is, I am confident, a becoming glow.

“You look like a frozen mop,” Inka observes gently.

Truthfully, what she says is, “How can I help you?” But it carries the same sentiment.

“Where can we find a taxi?”  I query.  Inka, ready for this, lifts the phone and a fresh batch of taxis appears in 60 seconds.

At the other end of the cab ride Dave and I breakfast in the local market: a warehouse of fish and fur products.  Not surprisingly, the thick odor of dead animal permeates the air.

It's hip to be square in Central Reykjavik. (*Photo courtesy of www.Photographersdirect.com.)

Two donuts later, we slide into center city Reykjavik.  Row upon row of ascetic, identical brown houses rises to meet us.  The architect must have drawn inspiration from a cardboard box.  This is surely Walmart’s house warehouse.  Dave labeled the buildings “Communist”; but to be fair, what designer would want to stay outdoors long enough to embellish?

Actually, the locals strut casually through hail wearing rolled-up sleeves, shorts with stockings and jewelry.  As if the apocalypse were a time for self-adornment!

Icelanders demonstrate the same imperviousness to snow that the British show towards rain.  It blows my mind to watch suited Londoners mill about dripping like porpoises, reading molting copies of The Financial Times as if the umbrella were never invented.  These cultures have evolved a native resistance to falling sky.

Tourists, however, bundle so comprehensively that only dewy eyes betray the presence of people within ski gear.  I myself fantasize about thermal gear enveloping me like a hot dog bun.  When the words “English pub” appear through the mist, we dash at it.

Inside, solidly built locals stare in our direction.  The beverages on tap include Tuborg, Gull and Vodkashot.  Inexplicably, we’ve avoided the tourist scene.

Luck runs short in the evening, and Reykjavik Excursions cancels our Northern Lights tour due to blizzard conditions.

Tomorrow, Day 2: Things look up as we probe geysers and reckon with furry native species of the wild wild north.

By Perrin

A crafty tuk tuk chauffeur repurposes CD's as tail lights.

Long boats, windowless buses and wooden train tracks rumble through Southeast Asia. These vehicles entered this world with the baby boomers, and these days they run about as quickly as a toddler taking its first steps.

Head of the transportation monarchy.

Obstacles inherent to local roads make the ride even bumpier: during a 10-minute trip it is possible to skid over both a mattresses-size pothole and a pot-size monkey.  Dirt and exhaust pepper the air like teargas.  Passengers launch skywards like popcorn kernels and baggage and children topple overboard.  Luckily, locals are used to being ejected from vehicles, and they swing back aboard with the practiced finesse of John Wayne straddling a horse.

The roof of this caravan looks like a yard sale. Dibs on the fan!

We rate longboats the smoothest ride in the Mekong region.

After one month of nerve-numbing transport, Anne and I hopped a plane.  We flew uneventfully from Vientiene, Laos to Siem Reap.  It was wonderful.

Unfortunately, when our plane deposited us at the airport – which makes a phone booth look like a spacious facility – there was only one thing in sight: ground transportation service.

The service manager informed us, “Taxi $10.”

$10 for a taxi?  Parked before us was a collection of local cabs, usually referred to as “tuk tuks.”  Cable cars are a trademark of San Francisco; yellow-top taxis are linked to New York; and tuk tuks are a cornerstone of daily life in SE Asia.

A colorful Bangkok tuk tuk awaits.

A tuk tuk, for those who have not yet encountered one, is essentially a motorcycle dragging a 3-wheeled golf cart.  Carved buddhas swing from the roofs and embroidered elephants decorate the upholstery.  Windows and doors lack covering, which can be unnerving, but this does accommodate panoramic views.

Anne and I began negotiations with the tuk tuk drivers.  To our chagrin, the drivers had formed a cartel and the fee stuck at $10.  The priciest tuks of Bangkok had never charged us over $5, so we defiantly left the airport and began walking towards town.

A driver followed.  He quietly explained, “Outside airport, tuk tuk only $4.”  Not surprised, we hopped aboard.

The drivers – not just their vehicles – can throw travelers for a loop.  But as with any old engine, knowing their tricks smooths the ride.

All aboard the Thai limousine!

This we can get used to: the boat from Sihanoukville to Ko Russei, Cambodia.

This Berlin sign says it all.

1. To signal that you seek the porcelain throne, cross your legs and wince. 2. To find the loo, scan for a stick figures. It’s universal!

A number of venues when beyond the call of duty, and showed real lavatory flair. A sampling is below.

Siem Reap's public powder rooms prohibit smoking, standing on the toilet, washing shoes and/or showering. (Sorry to ruin your plans.)

Pee and pray zone in the Fez train station.

Even the crapper emits mood lighting in this dim Barcelona salsa club.

Budapest suggests that you can meet singles anywhere! Who needs Match.com?

Moorish flourish brightens les toilettes in Marrakech.

Alice's trippiest mushroom yet: a 'shroom bathroom in Edinburgh.

Laos ladies are curious aren't they?

We know how you feel! Animated potty people at an Istanbul cafe.

Former sultans' stone throne in Istanbul's Topaki Palace.

If you think Czech models are risque, you haven't seen the woman behind Stall #1!

An London loo. Brits always carry umbrellas.

Befriending my neighbor the guardian demon.

I love a room with a view. Imagine my excitement at waking on sun-soaked sheets in the capital of Laos, waltzing to the hotel window humming Celine Dion and throwing the curtains open — to face two toothy gremlins grinning back at me.  They resembled Keebler elves dipped in pond scum.  I screamed.

It’s possible that Laos’s lush landscape escapes further development because its architects have been banished.

But Vientiane deserves credit for obliterating building boredom.  The ostentation serves a purpose: 1. Bright colors keep tourists on their toes.  2. House-size Buddhas attract attention from even the most oblivious lost souls.  Religious buildings and sculptures are the loud ones, and the town certainly remembers to pray.

Some of my favorite structures are below.

BUDDHA PARK

Omm on the Mekong River

The aptly named Buddha Park hosts over 200 Buddhist and Hindu sculptures. The only question is, is that enough?

PATUXAI (“Victory Gate”)

Concrete monster belittles Anne (locate girl in red dress).

Oh, the irony! America provided concrete and funding for an airfield during the Vietnam War. Lao architects built Patuxai instead. Locals jokingly refer to it as the Vertical Runway.

The monument, which celebrates Laos’s 1949 coup of French occupation, resembles Paris’s Arc de Triumphe.

Look closely: each tile of the arch contains a happy Buddha.

Bird woman Kinnai, unique to Laos mythology, flutters across the ceiling.

WAT MIXAY

Sedans not admitted.

Can you imagine speculating with friends as this gate went up? The conversation may have gone something like this:

“The guard’s not the handsomest frog in the pond, but he does look dignified in grey plaster.”
“They’re painting him shades of mucus.”
“At least there’s only one.”
“His twin just rolled in. Hide your children.”

Mixay exemplifies the electric yellow wats that illuminate Southeast Asia.

Ever expect a pink bike to be so terrifying?

Anne and I fritter 3 languid days in the postage-stamp sized town of Luang Prabang, Laos. We sample the local brew, which is advertised as, “Any beer you want, as long as it’s Beer Lao!” We experiment with discreet execution of food sickness. We observe locals washing laundry, without success, in the chocolate-colored river.

These activities exhausted, our pores seethe with the suppressed impishness of Doc Brown in Back to the Future. When a motorbike shop materializes in our path, we scurry inside to hire a bike for the following day.

Morning comes. Anne, regretting our impetuous rental, reviews our route to Kuang Si Falls with all 3 bike-shop employees and acquires 3 maps. The map features a single road. Anne finally boards vehicle.

The hot pink Hello Kitty motorbike inspires a quick photo shoot. [Photos to be submitted to Harley Davidson should it develop a Girly line.] We spend 5 minutes attempting to flip on the motor, and another 5 practicing our steering and singing the theme from Top Gun.

The salesman, once cavalier, now sweats and reaches out gingerly as if to say, “Don’t go.”

I turn the handle, which doubles as an accelerator: Blast off!

Don

At 10 minutes, we exhale and switch drivers.

“This is not like a regular bicycle,” I warn as I hand over the wheel. Anne looks like she’d been tasered.

“No shit Sherlock,” she responds.

At 15 minutes, we remember the gas tank and return to town to fill it. Further along our route, we spot 4 gas-deprived drivers sucking their thumbs on the roadside. Apparently, it would be absurd to sell gas on a 100 km road.

Finally Kuang Si Falls rises before us.

Bear hugs greet us at the entrance to Kuang Si Falls.

The main waterfall of Kuang Si.

The falls offer the first clean water we’ve seen in the country. It’s a good thing, because I immediately slip on a muddy patch and brown my bikini in an unfortunate way. The rest of the day, we rope-swing into the natural pools and shower under waterfalls .

A good samaritan helps with the rope swing.

Anne lets me drive the whole way home.  I warm up to the motorbike, it warms up to me, and we take the road at double our original speed (approximately the pace of a sprinting dog).  Two boys whizz by laughing.

I shout, “Here we, here we, here we go!” and light the jets. Anne clutches me like an overly affectionate Kuala bear.

“You’re afraid to swing on a rope, but you’re not afraid to race locals?” she wheezes. But we’re winning.

Another bend in the beautiful road.

Fresh air cools our sun-speckled checks, and the peripheral foliage throws an earthy must into the breeze.  We began the day as cab-hailing yuppies. But Kuang Si Falls – or the road to and from it – baptized us as rural cowgirls. The reigns rumble comfortably in my hands.

At the day’s end, our bike glides gracefully into the shop.

Anne and I tip our helmets, turn on our heels, and strut into the sunset.

Sometimes, being an older sister feels like a weight-bearing exercise. Erin and Anne on Newport Beach, California.

“The Sisters Kircher” doesn’t quite have the same ring as “The Sisters Bailey”, but my sister Erin and I are a lot like Sarah and Perrin: we talk so quickly to each other that only experienced listeners can follow, we are both (intelligent) blondes, and we both adore traveling.

Luckily, we’ve matured past our childhood family road trips, where Erin, four and a half years my junior, fiercely defended her “special spot” – littered with crumbled animal crackers and sticky from spilled juice – against my attacks of launching Gushers fruit snacks at her from the back seat of our mini van.

Anne, Erin and Brother Kircher Scott, brought (close) together by a car trip

Now she’s my partner in crime.  Two summers ago, we traveled through England and Scotland with our parents. The trip brought us closer together as we bonded over insane jet lag, great English street names  (Cockfosters, Balls’ Pond Road… see a theme?), and, after 3 weeks abroad, our intense craving for McDonald’s. She was also essential in helping me keep sane whenever our parents accidentally lapsed into treating us like 8 year olds – we could at least commiserate with each other.

College visits are far more fun when you're 1) traveling abroad with your sister and 2) not trying to get in. Erin and Anne on an Oxford quad.

When I came home from my recent travels with Perrin in Southeast Asia, full of tales wildly different from our SoCal upbringing, it inspired Erin to do more traveling of her own. I convinced her to apply to ACLE, to give her a chance to experience Italy and backpack through Europe this summer. And that’s the other benefit of having a sister: going to visit her will be a great excuse to go on another trip!

Anne and Erin above and beyond Oxford University