When planning this trip, I was told by a few people that they thought I’d love Vienna. I’ve heard many people say that, while cities like Paris and London are wonderfully cosmopolitan and chockablock with culture, and while the Spanish and Italian cities are amazing for their food or art or nightlife, Vienna is a city that you can see yourself living in.

Vienna is, of course, rich in history. One guidebook calls it a “head without a body” — it is the former capital of the uber powerful Hapsburg Empire, yet is the seat of a small country with little military might or global sway today. Its former glory is evident no matter where in the city you go, however; as is its past as the center of several revolutionary intellectual and artistic movements (see Mozart, Schubert, Brahms, Freud, etc. etc. etc.) There’s enormous palaces to be seen, the largest collections of Klimt and Schiele in the world far as I can tell (including The Kiss), beautiful, monumental statues celebrating Hapsburg greatness, a zillion monuments to various famous dead white bearded guys (see Mozart, Schubert, Brahms, Freud, etc. etc. etc.), and much like Prague every corner brings a new architectural gem. (The statue above is from the Belvedere Palace, a “summer home” built by Prince Eugene in the 1700s — if by “summer home” you mean two colossal mansions linked by sprawling Versailles-esque gardens. It’s now most famous as being home to Klimt’s The Kiss.)

But who cares about all that history stuff right? Some white guys plus Maria Theresa did some stuff, blah blah blah, built some stuff, blah blah blah.

Those people who told me I’d love Vienna? They were probably talking about the food. Scratch food. The coffee. And the cakes. Above all, Viennese seem to value the importance of plopping down in a beautifully appointed cafe, ordering a melange and a Sachertorte, unrolling today’s paper and then staying there for, oh, anywhere from an hour to a half-day. Why move? The waiters don’t rush you out, they’re happy to let you sit there all day. If you finish your Sachertorte, then you order an apfelstrudel.

THIS is what I’m talking about:

Those are the cakes on offer at Oberlaa, a chocolatier and torte maker in the Naschmarkt.

Here is the Sachertorte I sampled at the Cafe Drechsler. It was very good, though a bit too sweet for me:

This chocolate and sour cherry torte at the cafe Milo in Museumsquartier was Delicious. My favorte food on the trip so far:

Here in Prague, it’ s much the same. Most people speak English, and it’s not necessary to even try to speak in Czech. Still, it seems unfair that it’s so easy for us English speakers to travel everywhere without even having to learn hello and goodbye, so I’ve given it a shot. But pronouncing Czech words is definitely just as difficult as Vietnamese words were. I mean, this is what I’m dealing with:

Na Phkope
Pstrossova
Na Perstyne
Vysehradska
(all street names)

You get the gist. And that’s without all the crazy accents. Navigating our way through the city — yelling out absurd, totally illogical pronunciations of street names while gesturing at nothing in particular — has made for quite a scene.

The Czech language is beautiful, though. It has the same rich chunkiness as German but with the elegant lilt of French or Italian. And thankfully the most important word is easy for even the most linguistically challenged among us to pronounce:

Pivo
(beer)

In three days, we’ve managed to see quite a bit: the castle, a tour of all the synagogues in the Jewish quarter, a driving tour of much of the rest of Old Town and some of New Town, a few museum visits, and some fancy lunches and dinners.

But of course, you can read about tourist destinations in Prague anywhere. Here are some of the most interesting things I’ve noted in my time:

• You can buy little bottles of Absinthe on the street. In cute little bodega-esque stands:



• Prague is no longer the budget travel destination it once was. My brother told me that just seven years ago, you could get 40 koruna per dollar. Today it’s about 14 koruna to the dollar. Yeah, that’s a big Ouch.
• And that’s only partly because of how poorly the dollar is doing today. The Czech economy is apparently booming, and the tourist industry is certainly big-time booming, even for what is technically considered off season. Old Town, where we are staying, is packed with tourists all day long to the point where it becomes difficult to push yourself down the street through the mangle of Italian college students and Japanese families.
• It’s true: You don’t come to Prague for the food. Now, I have yet to go to Kampa Park, supposedly the best restaurant in the city; and I spent much of yesterday sick in bed with a sore throat. But I was expecting street carts with sausages and sauerkraut piled on top of random dishes, and at least a few dishes per menu that end in -wurst. Haven’t had a real -wurst yet.
• They really hate the Communists here. Given the history, that’s not especially surprising, but Prague’s history is filled with torment, persecution and corrupt governing. Our guide told us the story about how the walls in the New-Old Synagogue ran red with blood after the Catholics (I think it was the Catholics, but it’s hard to remember given how many groups persecuted the Jews in Prague over the years) killed off 90% of Prague’s Jewish population and how those red stains are still visible today underneath the synagogue’s white paint. But nearly every guide we’ve had or local we’ve spoken with somehow manages to get in a hard word or two about the Communists.
• Speaking of the Communists, they built some darned ugly buildings in a city known for its beautiful facades. We happen to be staying in one of the Communists’ crowning architectural achievements (photos and comparison of Non-Communist Pretty vs. Communist Ugly architecture to come).

We got snow last week, as you can see in this adorable photo of Taylor in front of our building, wearing his hand warmers. He was very excited to get to wear hand warmers. This is what winter in New York is all about, right? Snowflakes dotting the shoulders of your coat; lightly dusted sidewalks and tree branches; building lobbies aglow; periwinkle blue sky. Something like this:

Here’s the thing. All that urban winter wonderland stuff? This is what it quickly deteriorates into:

Yeah that’s not so pretty is it? Snow in New York City has some unfortunate aftereffects: the sidewalks turn into slippery channels of sludge; immense pools of black ice water collect at street corners and all the snow that started off so wonderland-esque gets molded into grotesque forms along the sidewalks, black with dirt and yellow with dog urine. Like the ugliest snow sculptures you’ve ever seen. Anyone who’s lived through a snow storm here knows this.

So why am I getting all Grinchy on what was, in fact, a minor little snow storm that did not in fact leave any such disgustingness behind? I guess it’s because I’m a little bit freaked at how mild this winter has been thus far. Where’s the nasty stuff and bitter cold I hyped all last Fall? I’ve barely suffered at all this winter. Maybe in part I’m getting more used to it (perish the thought). Maybe it’s global warming coming to get us. Probably it’s global warming coming to get us. But I can feel the weather gods out there, just taunting me with all this mild and 40-degrees business. What are they gearing up for? Is it possible that we’ll get through this winter without a major snow storm or prolonged period of blistering cold?

(Thanks Meg for the belated Valentine) 

But it’s almost the New Year and I figured it would be best to wrap this whole thing up.

So how did it go? Upon reflection, I struggled around Day 15 — boredom with the routine, feeling tired, etc. But around Day 18 or so, I pulled ahead of that and the race to the finish line felt great. I began to feel shifts in my practice — a small shift in my posture here, a slight increase in flexibility there. Little things that made the class as a whole feel fresher and more invigorating.

I’m back to five/six days a week now, and I’ve noticed those shifts slipping away. But every month can’t be a 30-Day Challenge and as many of my instructors would no doubt say, practicing balance in life is just as important as practicing dedication.

And I got my T-shirt. Boo-ya:

How Much Is Too Much Sweat?

No such thing as too much sweat to a Bikram yogi. On most days, I’ll sweat through all my yoga clothing and walk out with a totally soaked-through head of hair. We lay down towels on top of our mats to prevent slippage and keep it all a little more clean, and on a good day — when the temperature and humidity is just right and the teacher has been consistent but not overly leniant with letting in fresh air — those are usually about 75% soaked.

Yes, It Smells

The smell is one of the first things that turn people off of Bikram. As soon as you step in the studio, it hits you and some people, well, they can’t take it. Me, I think it really just smells like a musty, poorly ventilated room but I have heard it described as a cross between moldy carpet and B.O. I’ll admit that’s not entirely inaccurate, particularly in an older studio that hasn’t replaced its rug in forever. But you know, you just get used to it.

Kicking the Sh!@ Out of Your Body **

Part of what brings about so many of the health benefits associated with yoga in general is the “release of toxins.” The bad stuff that builds up in your body gets jostled out of its hiding places and sweated out… or released in some other way that does not happen in the room. Now I’m not a doctor so don’t get all medical on me. The exact physiology of this escapes me. But it does make sense that as you twist and contort your body, you are contorting and stretching your organs and damming and releasing the flow of blood. And this helps with better circulation and better digestion. And That, my friends, is what keeps the doctor away.

Getting Out the Way of Other People’s Sh!@

All of that releasing of toxins feels great. But what isn’t so great is that the other people around you are also releasing their toxins. In less-crowded classes, you can cop a whole swatch of rug to yourself and go an entire class undisturbed by other people’s smells and sweating. But come on this is New York not [fill in a middle of America city here, I don't want to offend any one constituency] and Bikram Yoga — despite all this gross stuff! — is really popular. Most classes are crowded and the thing is, there’s much better energy when we’re packed in like sardines:

Anyway, crowded classes can mean that there’s only a few inches of space between your mat and the dude next to you. And the dude next to you might be A Smelly One.

To be honest, at this point nothing really bothers me anymore, but I have learned to spot A Smelly One from across the room. The usual suspects: old men in loose-fitting, bathing-suit material shorts (the shorts get bunchy and don’t flick off sweat the way more spandexy things do; nothing against old men doing yoga, they’re just the ones who typically sport those kinds of trunks); men or women with especially thick hair and/or dreadlocks; and women in makeup (if you’re wearing makeup to yoga, you’re generally wearing perfume, too, and pefume can be just as bad as other smells).

It’s Just Sweat

And this leads me to the Number One Ick Factor for a lot of people, which is that when you take Bikram Yoga, the likelihood is that you will get sweated on by someone else. Guy next to you does a particularly vigorous sit-up, and you get a sweat spray. Teacher walks by and adjusts your posture, with his or her sweaty hands. Class ends and people start filing out while you’re trying to chill in savasana, and drip, drip drip. The class is intended to be a 90-minute moving meditation, and the sweat — yours and not-yours — is simply a discomfort you learn to overcome.

So there’s my basic take on the gross stuff about Bikram. The amazing thing is that you come to love all of these things about the practice. When I was at Bikram headquarters in Los Angeles, I read this on a poster there: “You have to go through hell to get to heaven.” In Bikram-speak that just means: “Suck it up you wuss. This is worth it.”

30-Day Challenge Status: 10 classes down, 20 to go.

** A note on my non-use of the s-word. I don’t know why. New York Magazine uses it. But the Journal doesn’t, of course, and I guess Paul Martin really has gotten that far into my head.

About two-and-a-half years ago I found my own personal version of faith, which is to say Yoga. Specifically, Bikram Yoga, a series of 26 postures done in a heated room. I started going once a week, then two to three times a week. Within six months I was going four times a week and these days I try to take five to six classes a week. At that level of practice, it sometimes feels that the yoga has taken over my life. I don’t have time for other hobbies. I have to carefully schedule lunches. And as annoyingly New Agey as it may sound, the yoga begins to seep into your consciousness. Your life outside of the room begins to reflect class inside the room. The room becomes like home. As a teacher once told me, you begin to realize that who you are on the mat is who you are off the mat. All that kinda crap starts to take on real meaning. Some of my friends say it’s like I joined a cult. I prefer to think of it as having joined a community.

And the first major rite of passage in this community is to complete the 30-Day Challenge — 30 classes in 30 days. You can skip a day, but must make up for it by doing a double (two classes in one day) and you can only do this twice. Given I’m already accustomed to a six-day practice, stepping it up a notch to seven days seems like a downright attainable goal.

I’m pretty darned excited about finally carving out the time to do this. No doubt many people out there are wondering: good god, why? Why spend 90 minutes a day sweating profusely in a 105-degree room with a teacher yelling at you to lock out your leg? First, because it feels amazing, and only those who have tried can understand that part. Second, it changes your body. The idea is that pretty soon I’ll look like this:

Oh, and also: When I finish the 30-Day Challenge, I get a t-shirt.

Today was my first class. Only 29 more to go. I was going to download a countdown plugin to my blog, but technical difficulties are preventing me from doing so. So while I work on that, this will have to do:

29 classes remain.

Favorite Place I Visited:

This is a hard one to call, since we hit bad weather and suffered mishaps that were no one’s fault in various locations. And, of course, weather can totally taint my perception of a place. Despite that, I am going to say Hoi An was my favored destination. Two of our three days there it poured buckets, but it was I think the friendliest place we visited and I found it the most charming. I found things to enjoy about every place we stayed, though: Singapore’s food and diversity; Ha Noi’s colonial mystique; the beach at Nha Trang; the big-city-bustle of Ho Chi Minh City.

Best Meal in Singapore:
A tie between the fried oyster omelette and lobster laksa. The laksa wins based on taste alone, but the oyster omelette was like nothing I’ve ever eaten before, truly.

Best Meal in Vietnam:
On our last night in Ha Noi, we ventured to a divey place called Restaurant 1,2,3, where we were the only non-locals. We were served two heaping, steaming plates of yummy food and three beers for 80,000 dong — five dollars! Plus, we got to watch a Vietnamese variety show on television, which the waitresses couldn’t pull their eyes off of and which seemed to be a cross between a war-era USO show and American Idol.

Best I-Can’t-Believe-I’m-That-Annoying-Tourist Experience:

Halong Bay. There were hundreds and hundreds of tourist boats docked in Halong Bay and when we first arrived, we wondered how they possibly filled them all. Fifteen minutes later, the entire place was swarming with tourists from every imaginable country and of every imaginable ilk. The process of getting aboard was nightmarish, but totally worth it once we were sailing the emerald water on our sienna yellow boat.

Weirdest Observed Cultural Difference:
Indian men holding hands in Singapore’s Little India. Apparently, it’s common for men from India and I believe Pakistan to hold hands with their colleagues while walking the streets and so on. It’s something that would certainly not be seen anywhere in New York and I would venture the United States. (Interestingly, I also read that these men are rarely seen showing such affection for their family and friends.)

Biggest Wow-I’m-on-the-Other-Side-of-the-World Moment:

The traffic in Vietnam. It stunned us in Ha Noi and we continued to marvel at the sheer number and power of the motorbikes in the street. And everyone’s — pedestrians, drivers and passengers — total absence of fear or caution as they swarm the streets.

Scariest Moment:
This was, surprisingly, not the flight out of Da Nang mid-typhoon but our descent into Ho Chi Minh City. On the way down, a sudden storm came through the city and made visibility terrible. Because of that, our pilot misaligned the landing and had to abort, pull the aircraft back up into the air, circle around and give it another go. Thankfully, the weather had partially cleared by that time and he got it right on the second try. But, really, there’s nothing like watching the land approach, approach, approach and then — whoopsies, just kidding! — pull back up, up and away into the dark and cloudy sky.
It was less dramatic than that, really, but I was still pretty much convinced for a few minutes there that our pilot was drunk/incompetent and we were all goners. Taylor was, of course, nonplussed by the entire thing.

Moment When I Most Felt on Vacation:
Not crossing the street in Ha Noi or HCMC, let me tell you. It was certainly while blissing out on Jungle Beach. There’s really nothing like having an entire beach — and I mean miles and miles of sand, here — to yourself. I highly recommend it.

I don’t know what part of Changi we were in the two previous times we came through, but we missed the heart and soul of this airport. Which, being Singapore, is all about food and shopping: the Transit Mall — a large, 24-hour collection of shops and food stalls. There are designer shops, pods where people can play videogames, bars, stores selling Singaporean food and — mother of all that is good — Free Internet. And everything is clean, and nice smelling and handsomely laid out.

I have a whole thing written about the highlights of my trip, but it’ll have to wait until I get to Frankfurt, or possibly New York. I have more important things to do right now. Like track down some kaya toast and kopi. My travels have come full circle.

To my New Yorkers: I’ll be back on the Upper West Side Sunday morning.