You’re all excited for your big night out in Sydney. You put on your favorite t-shirt, check your hair in the mirror, and cab it down to King’s Cross for an epic Saturday night. You beat the queue, march up to the bar and order your drink, only to be handed…a plastic cup? What kind of place is this?

You see, it has just passed midnight, and the Australian government has made it compulsory for pubs to serve alcohol in plastic cups after that hour. Why? With something in the neighborhood of 1,000 “glassings” (an attack using glass as a weapon) each year, drunken, John Wayne Western-style violence has become a black cloud over the country’s social scene. 

Australia is attempting to make it harder for John Wayne impersonators after midnight

As the majority of these attacks have occurred between midnight and 3am, the government is hoping to play its part in eliminating these attacks. Much like the gun-law debate in America, however, there is much contention over whether taking away one weapon will eliminate the violence, or if another approach should be considered.

For now, though, you fine wine connoisseurs may want to enjoy that expensive bottle before midnight, because it all may taste the same in red plastic cup!

This is what you take to and from the airport!

Traditional mate gourd

So you finally made it to Buenos Aires, and you want to fit in among us, huh? While you may have brushed up on your wine tasting, cuts of beef and a few Spanish phrases, what you really need to learn is what mate is, and how to drink it!

See, while we definitely produce plenty of wine, this is what we really drink on a daily basis. I guess you can say it’s like tea, since it’s made from Yerba Mate tree leaves. But we like to think of it as something special, and our very own (although of course one may debate that its origins stem from Paraguay or Uruguay as well, but we’ll never agree to such nonsense).

A little bit of mate in your everyday diet will wake you up, lessen your appetite a bit (which is a good thing considering the copious amounts of red meat cheaply available here), and the doctors even say it is good for your blood pressure, immune system and pretty much every other part of your body.

Ready to join us?

Seven Dont’s of Drinking Mate

1. Don’t be Selfish: Sure, we all crave our mate in a pinch when we’re looking for some energy to get moving. But mate is really about sharing time with those we love to be around. We may even argue that the health benefits of some healthy camaraderie and conversation are just as real as whatever those doctors say mate helps with.

2. Don’t be Polite: Kidding, of course! But really, while your inclination may be to thank the server upon receiving your fill, in our culture, saying “gracias” means that you will be having your last pour of the session. So make sure you don’t thank the server until you’re ready to check out.

3. Don’t Touch the Straw: As you can see in the picture, mate is served with a straw-like device called a bombilla. Since the server is responsible for the flavor of the mate and will deliver it to the best of his or her ability, you may be offending someone by messing with it.

4. Don’t Ask for Sugar: While some parts of South America serve their mate with sugar (“dulce”), you probably don’t want to ask unless it’s offered. If you find the mate bitter at first, it will become a bit more mild as it is passed around. Hang in there.

5. Don’t be Reckless: You should be able to feel how hot the gourd is before you drink it. Just make sure to be cautious at first, as it may be scorching hot. Drink with caution!

6. Don’t Jump Right In: If you want to become a real mate drinker and buy your own gourd, don’t drink from it immediately. The first time you use yours, fill it will yerba leaves and pour in hot water. Leave it for a day, then rinse it out and you should be good to go.

7. Don’t Clean It with Soap: And for goodness’ sake, never use soap to clean your gourd! You’ll forever ruin the flavor. Unless you plan on spitting up all over it (which you shouldn’t), just rinse after each use and have another round!

Having traversed nearly 50 countries and explored countless metropolises along the way, I never feel more alive than I do while I’m experiencing New York City’s very own Union Square. While Central Park, Times Square and the Statue of Liberty attract most of the tourist interest in this world-class city, Union Square is where one can truly feel its pulse.

Spend an hour sitting on the rounded steps facing 14th Street on any summer evening, and you’ll be consumed in the creativity, diversity, energy and sheer talent on display. The four kids breakdancing in front of you, showcasing their incredible strength and body control, will be performing on Broadway in a few weeks’ time. On your left, an aging man from Brooklyn just beat an immigrant from Russia in chess, while his friend from Botswana waits patiently for his crack at the champ. The paintings for sale on your right look like they were stolen from a gallery Uptown, yet the artist who created them continues to churn out masterpieces in front of your eyes, explaining his inspiration in the process. And that language you hear being spoken behind you, well, that surely wasn’t taught in any of the schools you attended.

The most international city on the planet, New York is a place people all around the world dream about. Union Square is the place where they come together, creating the trends and styles of tomorrow that help New York City sustain its place among the world’s greatest cities.

I’m not sure exactly what it is that made me find my comfort zone in Rio so quickly, on a bus rolling through downtown past Praça da República, but when I first set my eyes upon the shores of Ipanema, it’s hard to understand how I was ever nervous in the first place. Children playing,stunning bodies laying, and green trees swaying amidst turquoise waters under the watchful gaze ofPedra da Gávea…it seems such a contradiction to the chaos I was pre-conditioned to expect.

And that’s what I couldn’t get my mind off of the entire time I was there.

How can a place this beautiful, this festive…this free (because yes, the beach is public)…be so full of discontent? How can people turn a setting like this into a war zone? Especially when I feel so comfortable here?

I couldn’t get these thoughts out of my mind the entire time I was there. It was like although I was enjoying the scenery immensely, there was an element of awe with every person I walked by…

“I wonder if she lives in Rocinha?,” I’d find myself thinking.

“I wonder if he’s ever been in a gun fight?”

When I went to the Centro Cultural Banco do Brasil to see an exhibit of M.C. Escher’s work, I noticed a photo documentary of Rocinha (which is the largest favela in Brasil, and one of the most notorious for its violent reputation) in the bookstore. It was a striking image of a boy, no more than 7 or 8 years old, guarding a stash house with a Glock in his hand, staring into the camera. It was this image I just couldn’t shake from my mind with every step I took in the seeming paradise just a kilometer or two from the hills of Rocinha.

Ipanema Beach under the gaze of Pedra da Gávea

Naturally, this is what I’d want to learn about from every native of Ipanema or neighboring Leblon, and I learned something interesting. Firstly, that element of fear. Quite simply, it’s reality. You learn to live with it. And become conditioned to being able to go about your business, live your life, and enjoy the stunning beauty of the scene in front of you even if you did get mugged yesterday, or even if you did know someone who was robbed in a traffic jam last week and left for dead. You just don’t dwell on thoughts like these.

Vidigal favela looking down on Ipanema

Number two, how this came to be. Apparently, the influx of mass quantities into the favelas ramped up in the 1950s and 1960s, when hordes of people would come from small villages throughout the country in hopes of cashing in on the economic opportunities the big city provided.  Because they couldn’t afford proper housing, they would squat illegally on the public lands that surrounded small villages that had already been formed, and over the years, those villages grew and grew. No property was bought, nor taxed. The land was taken because the newcomers had nowhere else to go. Politicians didn’t want to stop the growth for fear of losing those votes, and a few decades later, Rocinha had grown to its estimated 250,000 residents—all squeezed into an area of about .86km².  Introduce drugs into the community and not only did addiction set in, but it created a multi-million dollar industry amidst the dead-end career options that existed, and drug dealers have been controlling most of the favelas since. With the World Cup coming in 2014 and the Summer Olympics in 2016, this may be set to change…but for how long? Stay tuned.

Vidigal lit up at night on the mountainside

Today’s post comes courtesy of Val, who runs a really funny blog I found called Faking Fabulous. It hasn’t been updated lately, but Val details some of her escapades living in Italy, and although today’s post was originally written in 2009, it holds oh so true today! I am just going to paste what she wrote on that day, as it makes a point far better than I could do so myself.

“The Thing about Italian Men”

(credit: Faking Fabulous: 16 December 2009)

WARNING, WARNING! This blog contains sexually related content. Do not read if you are one of my brothers, my nephew, or my Dad as it may embarrass you! The rest of you may proceed.

Before I came to Italy I was warned about Italian men. “Don’t look them in the eye and don’t smile at them,” I was told repeatedly. “In Italian culture eye contact and smiling is a signal you are interested and it’s okay for them to approach you. Italian men are quite forward. And all they think about is sex.”

“Well, that’s inconvenient!” I thought to myself. In business and in self defense women are taught to walk with confidence and purpose, to keep our heads held high and look people directly in the eye. And how am I supposed to not smile? It’s all I do! “Okay, okay,” I told myself. “No looking at men in the eye.”

I was also warned that Italian women are very jealous and if they catch you looking at “their man,” be prepared because they will have words with you about it. “It’s best just to keep your head down when walking and if you bump into someone don’t bother saying scuzi because no one does.” Great! I get to go to one of the most beautiful destinations in the world, never talk to anyone, and the only thing I’m going to see is the pavement!

For the first month and I half I followed this advice. I averted my eyes at all costs. I mostly kept my head down and walked the “city walk.” This is not easy to do by the way, when you have no idea where you are going and you have to look up to the side of a building to discover what street you are on! It’s definitely an acquired skill.

During the month of November, Rome experienced an indian summer. Winter coats were not necessary until the very end of the month. One night, when I was in a particularly good mood, I decided to head out to the City Center for dinner on my own. This required a 25 minute walk from my apartment. I was enjoying the warm Mediterranean air and had a bounce to my step. About 15 minutes into my walk I saw a gorgeous Italian man walking my way with a motorcycle helmet in his hand.

He was distinctively tall for an Italian (6 feet 2 inches) and had the quintessential thick, wavy brown hair and olive skin. He truly was the picture of male Italian beauty! I could not help myself. I did a double take when I passed him. That was when it happened. His eyes connected with mine and I held the gaze for only a second before remembering the rules of Italian mating.

“OH CRAP!” I thought to myself, and swiftly looked down and continued walking. But it was too late. The ritual had begun. He jumped on his motorcycle and followed me down the road. When I crossed the street he followed me. When I cut down to the next street he followed me. He parked his bike, took off his helmet, and signaled for me to come over. I did, and promptly said to him in Italian that I could not speak Italian. I asked him in Italian if he could speak English. He said he could… a little. He asked me for my number. “Why do you want my number if you cannot speak English?” I asked. “Language exchange,” He replied.

Language exchange is a pretty common thing in Italy. Many legitimate people are interested in meeting native English speakers to improve their English and learn the slang that is not taught in foreign language courses.

Naively, I gave him my number and we agreed to meet the next day at a public place and at an early hour to have a language exchange. Honestly, I knew it wasn’t all innocent, but I thought there may be some fun flirting and I’d get to hang around with a really good looking Italian guy for a while. To spare you all from the uncomfortable and (only after some time has passed) “funny” story of how I almost got date raped, let me just summarize it like this; apparently language exchange in Italian really means fluid exchange.

Even though I was warned about Italian men, I was really surprised about how aggressive this guy was. Did he really think I was going to sleep with him on the first night? I mean, you know, without him even buying me dinner! A girl’s got to have her standards you know! ;-) Anyway, this event was a good reminder that I was in a different country and didn’t know the rules here.

Since then, I have been approached on the street several times without me accidentally initiating it. Italian men are definitely not shy about going after what they want!  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have the “don’t even try it” scowl on my face anymore like I did when I first got to Italy, but I am definitely not giving the, “Hey, come talk to me,” signal either. I’m just walking, head up, no smile. Just walking.

Now that I am finally meeting some English speaking friends in Florence, I’ve been asking about this trait in Italian men. “Why are these guys so horney?” I inquired. The new group of girls I met last week had many thoughts on this topic and they were happy to share, as most of them have Italian boyfriends.

One woman shared something with us that her Italian boyfriend told her when she asked him the same question. What he explained was this. Look around Florence. Look around most of Italy. We are surrounded by beauty 24 hours a day; beauty in architecture; beauty in landscape; beauty in food and beauty in the human form. We are surrounded by naked statues or paintings of physical perfection. At every corner there is a scantily clad statue of some man or woman posing suggestively with an exposed breast or a perfectly proportioned penis proudly displayed for all see. Sensuality and sex are in the air here. It permeates our thoughts without us even realizing it. It is not shameful; it’s beauty.

I thought about this explanation for a few days, and as I walked through the city and through the Uffizi Art Gallery, I realized this man was absolutely correct. Florence is the birthplace of the Renaissance; the time of reborn appreciation for beauty in all things. Sex and sensuality ARE everywhere in Italy. Without realizing it, being here heightens your sexual senses. It makes you see things in a different way. It helps you see beauty in all things; even in that which is not particularly beautiful.

It all makes perfect sense to me now!

Huh… Maybe this is why I keep having erotic dreams about a man named David.

The last thing I intend to do with this post is to mock Nelson Mandela’s autobiography of the same title, but forgive me, I just couldn’t come up with any words that capture the moment better.  This is a little story of a night out in Amsterdam.

Now, let me preface by admitting that I’m as guilty as the next man when it comes to skirting by for free every now and then.  Nothing major, but little things, like hopping the train, for instance.  I mean, does anybody pay for the Metro in Rome, or the trams in Melbourne?  Maybe things have changed since my last visit, but as a struggling 22-year-old, my 150 cents was going to some kind of bread or a bottle of water instead.

That said, the Netherlands is not the kind of place where I was going to test the honor system—intentionally anyway.  For whatever reason, maybe through my dealings with the Dutch in the workplace, I just had a feeling that this is a very serious society whose consequences I’d want no part of.  As I walked out of my hotel in Den Haag and caught Tram 9 down to Hollands Spoor station for the 45-minute trip into Amsterdam, the thought of trying to cheat Nederlandse Spoorwegen (Dutch Rail, or “NS”) out of their 8-some Euros never even crossed my mind.

Fast forward about 6 hours.  After my couple of hours meandering away from Centraal Station, after my dinner at De Peper, and probably most significantly to this story, after my visit to Hunter’s Coffeeshop.  Now, I’m sure you’ve been to a coffee shop before that allows smoking.  And I’m sure you’ve been to one that doesn’t allow tobacco.  But…both?

Go figure.

So, naturally in the mood for dessert after a scrumptious meal, I elected the chocolate brownie, so creatively called a “space cake”.  Feeling satisfied that my hand-sized brownie was 4 Euros well spent, I ever-so-coherently continued my exploration of Amsterdam’s back alleys, until I decided to pack it in and retreat to Centraal three hours later, around midnight.  Disappointed that I still didn’t feel any of that Amsterdam “charm”, I concluded that I was either: a) immune to the effects of marijuana, not being much of a smoker to begin with; b) a master of maintaining composure even under adverse chemical effects; or c) a sucker for buying a really, really weak brownie, thinking I should have realized that four Euros doesn’t go very far…and proceeded to buy my ticket back to Den Haag.

Or so I thought.

About halfway through the 45-minute journey home, somewhere amidst the distant, rolling lights peering out of the dark night, I was awoken by an NS conductor, asking to see my ticket.  Startled, I wiped the grog out of my eyes and began searching every pocket on me…only to find my wallet (which I craftily avoided revealing) and some lint.  After watching me struggle for a good 45 seconds, and me signaling to him that I ‘surely’ have it…he continued down the car inspecting tickets and said he’d return shortly.  At the exact moment I realized that I didn’t have the ticket I had sworn I purchased anywhere on me, I was able to decipher two solid facts out of the otherwise blurry world Hunter had introduced me to: 1) the stoic conductor was making his way back towards my section of the car, and 2) we were just reaching a complete stop at Den Haag HS (station).  Somehow thinking quickly, I lowered my knit cap over my head, looked straight at the ground, stood up, and took the most direct route possible to the exit—of course the opposite exit from which he was coming.  Straining with everything in me to walk fast and straight, I stepped onto the platform, snuck down the first bank of stairs, hung a right and continued my brisk walk straight out of the station’s main gate and onto the awaiting Tram 9 (which I ironically enough didn’t pay for this time).

I still don’t know if that conductor even noticed me sneak out or tried to stop me, and I don’t care.  I just remember time slowing down as I made my way out of HS Station, hearing crowds coming from the clouds cheering me on like it was a slow motion replay of the 15^th round of Rocky vs. Apollo Creed.  I walked briskly and purposefully into the first tram waiting, and when I saw that it was No. 9, I probably would have thrown my arms up in jubilation as the doors closed with me inside had it not been for discerning glare of a bald elderly man and the jolt of the tram’s movement shoving me down into a seat, as if to tell me to get a grip and stop looking like an idiot….

I should have just paid the fare…

Nighttime reflections off the window of the train…

I finally made it home…